Hawk (Vlad) (6 page)

“Boss, I’ve been with you all along, remember? You just barely
have
a sense of self-preservation.”

“Shut up.”

I threw the blankets onto the hard floor, stretched out, and shook for a little while. When I was done with that, I closed my eyes. Sleep didn’t come, but I didn’t mind so much; it was good just to lie there. I did nothing for, I don’t know, maybe a couple of hours, and I think I dozed off for a bit in there.

I sat up, my back to the wall, legs stretched out.

“Boss?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m bored. Rocza is bored.”

“Get used to it. Remember when I was in jail?”

“Which time?”

“The first time. It was a lot like this.”

“Tedious?”

“Exactly.”

“How much longer?”

“Loiosh, don’t start counting the hours. It’ll make it worse.”

“What then?”

“I’ll get the door. You two head out. Fly around. Eat dead things. I’m going to stay here.”

“Just leave you here?”

“Loiosh, all I want to do for a while is nothing. There isn’t any good reason for you two to do nothing. The whole idea is for nothing to happen.”

“I know that’s the idea, Boss.”

“Go.”

I walked down the hall, opened the door, and let them out.

“And be careful,”
I said.

“You telling me that is pretty funny,”
he said.

I went back to the room, stretched out on the blankets, closed my eyes, and did nothing for a while.

Oh, relax. I’m not going to make you listen to how I did nothing for two days. It was hard enough to make myself go through it once; I have no interest in living it again. I did the things you do when your life involves sitting around and waiting. That my prison term was self-imposed helped a little; I always knew I could walk out if I wanted to.

The next day she came back with my clothing. I felt less helpless wearing clothes, although I know how stupid that is. While I dressed, I said, “Why can I still speak with my familiar, when I can’t send or receive psychic messages, or perform witchcraft?”

“You think I’m an expert on Phoenix Stone?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I’m not.”

“So it was just a wild guess when you identified it so quickly.”

She glowered for a moment. Then she said, “You are bonded with your familiar.”

“Yes.”

Her face twitched, and I realized she was trying to find words to describe something that words weren’t good for. “If you removed the amulet, I could show you,” she said.

“I think I’ll pass.”

She nodded. She frowned, then said, “When you communicate with your familiar, it is more like speaking with your own arm than it is like psychic communication.”

“I don’t use words when I speak with my arm.”

“I’m surprised you can use words at all.”

Okay, I asked for that.

She said, “Psychic messages for the elfs can come through their device—the Orb—to make it easier for them. Or directly, mind-to-mind the way we do. Either way, it is a question of attuning your mind to resonate with the mind of the other.”

I was right, she knew something about this stuff. It would be amusing—on several levels—to hear a conversation between her and Daymar. Alas, I was denied that pleasure.

“I think I’m with you,” I said.

“The Phoenix Stone interferes with and changes how your mind emits the vibrations on the psychic levels, so none can hear you, and, at the same time, you cannot reach out.”

“And when I communicate with Loiosh?”

“He does not receive the vibrations of psychic energy. He is part of what emits them.”

I spent some time trying to make sense of that. Then I said, “All right, so knowing someone well enough to reach him psychically means knowing how his mind works well enough to permit your mind to be in sync with it, whereas you’re bound to your familiar in such a way that he is almost thinking your thoughts with you.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why he can help with spells.”

“Yes. For a witch, the training is the opposite.”

“I don’t—”

“Hush. When communicating with another, you must learn to alter your brain’s emissions enough to adjust to another. When communicating with your familiar, you must learn to separate your thought from his enough to hear and send words.”

“I understand,” I said. “Well, I don’t, but I understand more than I did. Thank you.”

She sniffed, nodded, and went back upstairs.

She came back a few more times and we had a few more conversations. Some of them were interesting, but that is the only one that had any effect on the matters we’re discussing today, so I’m afraid you must go the rest of your life without learning what they are. If that bothers you, feel free to write a letter. Fill it with threats and obscenity and send it to Sethra Lavode, Dzur Mountain. Let me know how that works out for you.

I sat, rested, recovered. I let things play out in my mind, things like how they’d found me, and what I might have to do to keep them from finding me again. I started to go through the list of enemies I’d made, but it was too long and just made me feel hopeless. And a stupid part of me—the part that had never grown older than six, I suppose—cried out that it wasn’t fair.

Fairness matters to me. I’ve heard Eastern rebels speak of equality; I’ve heard Iorich advocates speak of justice. I’m not sure if I understand either of those concepts; they seem, I don’t know, too far from my experience to grasp, or else I just don’t have the sort of mind that can work with them. But I’ve always been concerned with fair. In a sense, that’s why I could do what I did for so long—it might not be justice to kill some poor son-of-a-bitch who was skimming from his boss; and it certainly made him and the boss unequal. But it always seemed fair to me. He knew the rules, he knew the risks.

And, yeah, I’d broken the rules: I’d threatened the Imperial representative of the Jhereg and I’d testified to the Empire. But the fact is, I’d had no choice. Cawti was threatened. And I was scared and I was furious. I don’t know, it looks different from the perspective of years, but I still don’t see what else I could have done.

So, yeah, there was that voice inside loudly howling that it wasn’t fair. Usually, I was too busy—or maybe I tried to keep myself too busy—to pay attention to it. But there, in that basement, staring at walls, it rolled over me from time to time.

Oh, skip it; you don’t need to hear about it. I do apologize; my intention isn’t to make you listen to me complain. I know how wearying that is. But I’m also trying to tell you what happened, the whole thing, the why as well as the how; and that’s a piece of it, all right?

I also considered the information I’d gotten about Lady Teldra. I mean, was I starving her by not letting her destroy souls? Should I, I don’t know, just go out and do that? I didn’t think I could. I didn’t think she’d want me to. It certainly explained why I wasn’t feeling better, though; I mean, why she’d only partly healed me. I’d drained her. I got the image in my head of one of those water-pulleys you see in the North: once the water has emptied out of them, they can’t lift any more until you fill them. I had never imagined Lady Teldra like that, but maybe she was.

Which meant that I might need her to do something sometime, and she’d be unable to do it. That was not a comforting thought.

I fell asleep and dreamed I was operating a water-pulley, then that I was in one. Dreams are stupid.

My hostess brought bread and cheese from time to time, and once some tough peppery sausages, and more red mushrooms, which made me very happy (although my mouth raised some objections). Most of the time I did nothing, and tried very hard not to think. Loiosh spent a lot of the time just flying around the city; he was happier than he wanted to admit to know that, at least for a little while, I was pretty safe. I know I liked that part of it. No friends, no enemies, no gods; just four blank walls and the sound of my own breathing.

Did it help? Yeah, I guess some. It seems like sometimes, if your body is wasted, ruined, falling apart, your mind is a bit more willing to accept doing nothing without going crazy. At least, sometimes. I think that’s what made it tolerable.

What I wanted to do was take Lady Teldra, find as many high-up Jhereg as I could, and kill as many of them as possible before they got me. I wanted to do that very, very much. And there were certainly advantages to the idea: it was unlikely, if I made things that bloody, that they’d actually be able to nail me with a Morganti weapon; and just dying might be considered a win.

Is it sad when dying is a win?

The problem was Cawti and the boy; if I did that, then I had no doubt the Jhereg would go after them—before they got me, as a threat, or afterward, as revenge.

I couldn’t do it.

I sat in the room, relaxed, tense, angry, calm.

So, what is it that sparked the idea? Was it frustration? Boredom? Anger? Dreams of water-pulleys? Half-conscious musing on fairness?

I don’t know. Doesn’t much matter, I suppose. I’d like to say I dreamed it because there would be a certain charm in that, but I didn’t. I was doing a lot of sleeping, a lot of resting, a lot of nothing. I wasn’t even thinking that much about my predicament; or, rather, it would be more accurate to say I was doing everything I could not to think about it, just for a while. I’d been there two days, and it was getting close to time to be on my way, which meant making a decision I wasn’t any closer to making. The knowledge that I was going to leave the place was stirring up a combination of anticipation and fear. Yeah, it would be good to be out, but. You know.

In any case, that’s when it hit me. That’s when everything changed. Because if you are at the point where things are intolerable, and then suddenly you see a way to fix them, there isn’t a lot of question about trying it, no matter how crazy it seems.

I was lying on my back, fingers clasped behind my head, staring at the rough texture of the ceiling, and then I drifted off, and then I remembered what Daymar had said on that long-ago evening. It wasn’t like I dreamed it, it was more like the memory woke me up. Does that make sense?

Suddenly it was there, and then I paced the halls and pieces of a plan started falling into place. When enough of them were in place, I told Loiosh to find Daymar.

*   *   *

This was going to be difficult, tricky, probably futile, and certainly unpleasant. But all in all, not bad if you use cutting your own throat as the standard of comparison.

I was pretty sure I could do the part that ought to be impossible.

I was pretty sure I could sell the part I had to sell.

But the issue, as it always seemed to be, was: repercussions. How could I protect myself and expose myself at the same time, when I didn’t know who exactly I’d be protecting myself from? And, if that turned out to be impossible, how could I find out who I needed to protect myself from?

My grandfather, in teaching me the human style of swordsmanship, had said over and over that there was no way to control what your opponent did—that you had to be prepared for the guy to make any decision available to him, and be ready to respond. He was trying to make me understand the importance of being adaptable to changing circumstances. But the point is, he would repeat that there is no way to control your opponent’s actions. And then one time he added, “Except one.”

“What’s that?”

“Give him a perfect shot at your heart.”

“But then I’ll be dead, Noish-pa.”

“Yes, Vladimir. That’s why we don’t do it.”

Well, okay, then. If you can’t control where the attack comes from, limit where the attack goes, right? Create your own opening, so that you’ve made your preparations for whoever charges into it. That might be feasible, if I were careful.

It would take bringing some high-powered Jhereg together, and then running a game on them. There would certainly be sorcery. How to work around it? The amulet? No. Lady Teldra? Not the greatest sorcerer of all the weapons I’ve heard of, but still able to hold her own when needed.

Only, yeah. I had to assume she wouldn’t be available. Was there any way to—yeah. It is much more difficult to enchant a living thing than a dead object—that’s why objects were teleported before they figured out how to do people, right? So that meant I could maybe find a way to do
that
.

Or, wait. Hold it. Whole different idea. Castle Black? There would be a certain elegance in, just at the right moment, getting to Castle Black where the Jhereg wouldn’t dare touch me, or else put someone else in exactly the position I’d been in so many years before. Elegant and amusing, but no; there was another piece to it: Morrolan. I couldn’t put him in that position. At least, not if there was another way that had a reasonable chance of working.

And there was a way. And it did have a chance of working. Maybe even a reasonable chance. If I could just figure out …

Resources. I was going to need a lot of resources. Both the kind you hold in your hand, and the kind that walk and talk. The latter are always trickier. Who to call on? Cawti? No, I couldn’t drag her into this without also dragging in the boy, and that wasn’t going to happen.

Kiera or Kragar, or both. Two old friends; two people still willing to help me in spite of the Jhereg, and with contacts deep enough that maybe—maybe one or the other of them could get what I needed.

The idea, you see, fell into two distinct pieces: Part one, convince the Jhereg they didn’t want to kill me. Part two, stay alive while completing part one. Tricky, because, even if this worked, word would get out—word had to get out—what I was doing. And a lot of Jhereg were very, very unhappy with me. All of which meant that there was bound to be someone—someone or someones—who was just flat-out not going to let me get away with it, no matter what. I’d made too many Jhereg too mad.

So, while I was pretty sure I had the first part figured out, the second part was going to be harder. After pacing for a while, I became convinced that I just couldn’t figure out the second until I’d spoken with Kragar or Kiera.