The Book of Taltos (8 page)

I laughed shortly. “And you think I do?”

“You weren’t listening,” said Morrolan. “His spells detect human beings—not Easterners.”

“Oh,” I said. Then, “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” said Sethra. “And we also know that he has sufficient confidence in these alarms that he has little else that could detect you.”

I said, “Do you know what the place looks like on the inside?”

“No. But I’m sure you have the resources—”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Sethra continued. “Morrolan will be ready to aid you once you are inside.”

A voice inside my head pointed out that Sethra appeared to be assuming I was going to do this crazy thing, and that she might be irritated when she learned I wanted no part of it. But I was curious; perhaps fascinated would be a better word.

Morrolan said, “Well?”

I said, “Well what?”

“Will you do it?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I’m not a thief. As I said, I’d just bungle it.”

“You could manage,” said Morrolan.

“Sure.”

“You are an Easterner.”

I paused to look over my body, feet, and hands. “No. Really? Gosh.”

Sethra Lavode said, “The individual whose soul lives in that staff is a friend of ours.”

“That’s fine,” I said. “But it doesn’t—”

“Seven thousand gold imperials,” she said.

“Oh,” I said after a moment. “A
good
friend of yours, eh?”

Her smile met my own.

“In advance,” I said.

M
Y GRANDFATHER IS RELIGIOUS
, though he never pressed the issue. My father rejected the Eastern gods as he rejected everything else Eastern. Naturally, then, I spent a great deal of time asking my grandfather about the Eastern gods.

“But Noish-pa, some Dragaerans also worship Verra.”

“Don’t call her that, Vladimir. She should be called the Demon Goddess.”

“Why?”

“If you speak her name, she may become offended.”

“She doesn’t get angry at the Dragaerans.”

“We aren’t elfs. They don’t worship as we do. Many of them know of her, but think she is only a person with skills and power. They do not understand the concept of a goddess the way we do.”

“What if they’re right and we’re wrong?”

“Vladimir, it isn’t a right and a wrong. It is a difference between those of our blood and those of the blood of Faerie—and those of the blood of gods.”

I thought about that, but couldn’t make it make sense. I said, “But what is she like?”

“She is changeable in her moods, but responds to loyalty. She may protect you when you are in danger.”

“Is she like Barlan?”

“No, Barlan is her opposite in all ways.”

“But they are lovers.”

“Who told you that?”

“Some Dragaerans.”

“Well, perhaps it is true, but it is not my concern or yours.”

“Why do you worship Ver—the Demon Goddess and not Barlan?”

“Because she is the patron of our land.”

“Is it true that she likes blood sacrifice? The Dragaerans told me that.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, then he said, “There are other ways to worship her and to attract her attention. In our family, we do not commit blood sacrifice. Do you understand this?”

“Yes, Noish-pa.”

“You will never sacrifice a soul to her, or to any other god.”

“All right, Noish-pa. I promise.”

“You swear on this, on your powers as a witch and on your blood as my grandson?”

“Yes, Noish-pa. I swear.”

“Good, Vladimir.”

“But why?”

He shook his head. “Someday you will understand.”

That was one of the few things about which my grandfather was wrong; I never have understood.

T
HE TELEPORT BACK TO
my office was no more fun than any of the others. It was early evening, and the shereba game in the room between the fake storefront and real office was in full swing. Melestav had left, so I thought the office was empty until I noticed Kragar sitting behind Melestav’s desk. Loiosh flew onto my shoulder and rubbed his head against my ear.

“You okay, boss?”

“Well . . .”

“What is it?”

“It’s hard to explain, Loiosh. Want to become a thief?”

“How’d it go, Vlad?”

“The good news is that no one hurt me.”

“And?”

“And Sethra Lavode is certainly real.”

He stared at me but said nothing.

“Well, what happened, boss?”

“I’ll get to it, Loiosh.”

“Kragar,” I said, “this is going to get complicated.” I paused and considered. “All right, sit back and relax; I’ll tell you about it.”

I
T WOULD BE NICE
if I could identify the point when I stopped fearing Dragaerans and started fighting back, but I can’t. It certainly was before my father died, and that happened when I was fourteen. He’d been wasting away for quite a while, so it was no surprise, and, in fact, it didn’t really bother me. He’d picked up some sort of disease and wouldn’t let my grandfather perform the cures, because that was witchcraft and he wanted to be Dragaeran. He’d bought a title in the Jhereg, hadn’t he?

Crap.

Anyway, I can’t really pinpoint when I started hating Dragaerans more than I feared them, but I do remember one time—I think I was twelve or thirteen—when I was walking around with a lepip concealed in my pants. Lepip? It’s a hard stick or piece of metal covered with leather. The leather keeps it from cutting; it’s for those occasions when you don’t want to leave scars, you just want
to hurt someone. I could have used a rapier effectively, but my grandfather insisted that I not carry it. He said it was asking for trouble, and that drawing it would signal a fight to the death when otherwise someone would only be hurt. He seemed to feel that life should never be taken unless necessary, not even that of an animal.

In any case, I remember that on this occasion I deliberately walked through some areas where toughs of the House of Orca liked to hang out, and yeah, they started harassing me, and, yeah, I creamed them. I think they just didn’t expect an Easterner to fight back, and a heavy stick can make a big difference in a fight.

But that wasn’t the first time, so I don’t know. What’s the difference, anyway?

I
LEANED BACK IN
my chair and said, “Kragar, I have another research project for you.”

He rolled his eyes skyward. “Great. Now what?”

“There is a wizard named Loraan, of the House of the Athyra.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Get busy then. I need a complete drawing of his keep, including a floor plan, and a guess as to where he’d do his work.”

“Floor plan? Of an Athyra wizard’s keep? How am I supposed to get that?”

“You never let me in on your methods, Kragar; how should I know?”

“Vlad, why is it that whenever you get greedy, I have to risk my hide?”

“Because, in this case, you get ten percent.”

“Of what?”

“Lots and lots.”

“Say, that’s even more than ‘quite a bit,’ isn’t it?”

“Don’t be flippant.”

“Who, me? Okay, when do you want it? And if you say ‘yesterday,’ I’ll—”

“Yesterday.”

“—have to hurry. Spending limit?”

“None.”

“I thought it might be one of those. I’ll get back to you.”

I
DON’TREALLY KNOW
when I killed a Dragaeran for the first time. When I’d fight them I was pretty casual about where and how hard I’d hit them, and I know that, more than once, there would be one or two of them stretched out on the ground when we were done. Thinking back on times I’d crack them on the top of the head with my lepip, I’d be surprised if none of them died. But I never found out for sure.

Every once in a while that bothers me. I mean, there’s something frightening, in retrospect, in not knowing whether you killed someone. I think of some of those fights, and I remember most of them quite clearly, and I wonder where those people are today, if anywhere. I don’t spend a lot of time wondering, though. What the hell.

The first time I knew that I had killed someone was when I was thirteen years old.

T
HERE IS AN INTERESTING
story in how Kragar managed to get the information I wanted, but I’ll leave it to him to tell. He has peculiar friends. In the two days it took, I finished closing a deal on a gambling operation I’d been hungry for, convinced someone who owed money to a friend of mine that paying it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and turned down a lucrative proposal that would have taken three weeks and a Morganti dagger.