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  Kragar returned about two hours later.

  “Well?”

  “I’m not sure if I learned anything useful or not, Vlad. He doesn’t have any idea where Laris is, but he’s willing to tell us if he finds out. He was pretty nervous about meeting me, but that’s understandable. Well, not nervous, exactly. Surprised, maybe, and caught off guard. Anyway, he hadn’t heard anything that struck me as useful.”

  “Hmmmm. Did you get any feel for whether there might be others like him?”

  Kragar shook his head.

  “Okay,” I admitted, “I guess that didn’t get us anywhere. How about our other sources? Have we found anyone else who works for Laris?”

  “A couple. But we can’t do anything about them until we have more funds. Paying for ‘work’ would break us right now.”

  “Just two days until Endweek. Maybe we’ll be able to do something then. Leave me alone for a while now. I want to think.”

  He made an exit. I leaned back, closed my eyes, and was interrupted again.

  “Milord?”

  “What is it, Fentor?”

  “We found out part of it. The flats had belonged to a Dragonlord who died, and they’ve been sort of kicking around since then.”

  “How long ago did he die?”

  “About two years ago, milord.”

  “I see. And you can’t find out who got possession after that?”

  “Not yet, milord.”

  “Keep working on it. Who was the Dragon, by the way?”

  “A powerful sorcerer, lord. He was called Baritt.”

  Well now . . . By all the Lords of Judgment, how was I going to fit this into my thinking? Coincidence came to mind, was thrown away, and kept coming back. How could it be coincidence? How could it not be coincidence?

  “Milord?”

  “Fentor, find out everything you can about that, right away. Put more people on it. Break into Imperial records, bribe recordsmiths, whatever you have to, but find out.”

  “Yes, milord.”

  Baritt . . . Baritt . . .

  A powerful sorcerer, a wizard, a Dragonlord. He was old when he died, and had made such a name for himself that he was no longer referred to by his lineage. Rather, his descendants referred to themselves as “e’Baritt.” He had died only two years ago, and his monument, near Deathsgate Falls, had been the site of the bloodiest battle since the Interregnum.

  Baritt.

  It was easy enough to imagine him involved in some sort of conspiracy within the House of the Dragon, but what could he have to do with the Jhereg? Could he be Laris’s patron? Or could one of his descendants be? If so, why?

  What’s more, if there was a relationship between my problem with Laris and Norathar’s problem with Baritt, that meant a deep intrigue of some kind, and Dragonlords simply aren’t intriguers—with the possible exception of Aliera, and then only within a limited sphere.

  Was I really going to have to visit Deathsgate Falls and the Paths of the Dead again? I shuddered. Remembering my last visit, I knew that those who dwell there would not take my coming again at all kindly. Would it do any good if I did? Probably not; Baritt had certainly not been well disposed toward me last time.

  But it couldn’t be coincidence. His name turning up like that, owning the very flats that had been used by Laris. Why hadn’t they merely passed to his heirs? Because someone had played with the records? Maybe, which would explain why Fentor was having so much trouble tracking down the ownership. But then, who? Why?

  I reached out for contact with Morrolan.

  “Yes, Vlad?”

  “Tell me about Baritt.”

  “Hmmph.”

  “I already knew that.”

  “Precisely what do you wish to know, Vlad?”

  “How did he die?”

  “Eh? You don’t know?”

  “If I knew—no, I don’t know.”

  “He was assassinated.”

  Oh. That at least explained some of the remarks he’d made to me.

  “I see. How was it done? I’m surprised a sorcerer as skilled as Baritt would allow himself to be cut down.”

  “Hmmm. As I recall, Vlad, there is a saying among you Jhereg . . . ”

  “Ah. Yes. ‘No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style.’ ”

  “Yes.”

  “So it was a Jhereg?”

  “What other assassins do you know of?”

  “There are plenty of amateurs who’ll knife anyone for five gold. A Jhereg will hardly ever ‘work’on anyone who isn’t in the House; there usually isn’t any need to, unless someone is threatening to go to the Empire about something, or—”

  I stopped dead.

  Morrolan said, “Yes, Vlad? Or . . . ?”

  I let him hang there. Or, I had been about to say, unless it’s done as a special favor, set up by a Jhereg, for a friend from another House. Which meant that maybe, maybe it hadn’t been Baritt behind the whole thing, after all. Maybe he’d been working with whoever it was, and this other person then needed Baritt taken out. And this other person was Laris’s patron. And, since Laris had helped out with Baritt, his patron was ready to help Laris get rid of me. A simple exchange of favors.

  “Vlad?”

  “Sorry, Morrolan, I’m trying to figure something out. Bide a moment, please.”

  “Very well.”

  So Laris’s patron was someone who had been working with Baritt about two years ago. Yes. Who would know?

  “Morrolan, who would be likely to know someone who was working with Baritt shortly before his death?”

  “I’m not sure, Vlad. I don’t know, myself. We never had much to do with each other while he was alive. Perhaps you should show up at Castle Black and ask around.”

  “Yes . . . perhaps I’ll do that. Well, thank you. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “Certainly, Vlad.”

  Well, well, and well.

  At the very least, Laris was in it with someone else, and this someone else, presumably a Dragonlord, was helping him against me. If I could find out who he was, I might be able to nullify him simply by threatening to expose him; Dragons don’t think highly of their own kind helping out Jhereg.

  Finding him involved discovering who had owned those flats. Hmmm. I reached out for—

  “Fentor.”

  “Yes, milord?”

  “Make a list of every currently living descendant of Baritt. Have it ready in an hour.”

  “An hour, milord?”

  “Yes.”

  “But—yes, milord.”

  I broke the link, and opened another one.

  “Who is it?”

  “Hello, Sethra.”

  “Oh, Vlad. Good evening. What can I do for you?”

  “Is it still necessary to hold Norathar and Cawti prisoner?”

  “I was just discussing that with Aliera. Why?”

  “It would be helpful if Cawti were free this evening.”

  “I see.” There was a pause, then: “Very well, Vlad. Neither Aliera nor Morrolan objects.”

  “You’ll release both of them?”

  “The Easterner was the only one in doubt. Norathar, as far as we’re concerned, is a Dragon.”

  “I see. Well, thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll tell them at once.”

  “Make it five minutes from now, all right?”

  “If you wish.”

  “Thank you.”

  Then I took a deep breath and began concentrating on Cawti, whom I didn’t really know all that well. But I thought about her face, her voice, her—

  “Vladimir!”

  “Got it on the first guess. What are you doing tonight?”

  “What am I—? What do you suppose I’m doing? Your friends still haven’t allowed us to leave.”

  “I think that can be arranged. If so, would the lady be so kind as to allow me to escort her to a small gathering this evening?”

  “I should be h
onored, most gracious lord.”

  “Excellent. Then I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

  I broke the contact and yelled for my bodyguards to escort me home, so I could get properly dressed for the occasion. It doesn’t do to underdress for Castle Black.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Friendly, isn’t she?”

  Two teleports after leaving home I was at Castle Black with Cawti and an unsteady stomach. Cawti was dressed to kill in long trousers of light gray, a blouse of the same color, and a gray cloak with black trim. I wore my good trousers, my good jerkin, and my cloak. We looked like a matched set.

  Lady Teldra admitted us, greeted Cawti by name, and bade us visit the banquet hall. We must have been quite a sight: a pair of Easterners, both in Jhereg colors, with Loiosh on my left shoulder, putting him between us.

  No one particularly noticed us.

  I reached Fentor and told him where I was. He showed up, found me, and surreptitiously handed me a slip of paper. After he left, Cawti and I wandered around for a bit, seeing people and studying Morrolan’s “dining room,” and being casually insulted by passersby. After a while, I introduced her to the Necromancer.

  Cawti bowed from the neck, which is subtly different than bowing the head. The Necromancer seemed uninterested, but returned the bow. The Necromancer didn’t care whether you were a Dragaeran or an Easterner, a Jhereg or a Dragon. To her, you were either living or dead, and she got along better with you if you were dead.

  I asked her, “Did you know Baritt?”

  She nodded absently.

  “Do you know if he was working with anyone shortly before his death?”

  She shook her head, just as absently.

  “Well, uh, thanks,” I said, and moved on.

  “Vladimir,” said Cawti, “what’s this business with Baritt all about?”

  “I think someone is backing up Laris—someone big, probably in the House of the Dragon. I think whoever it is was working with Baritt at some point. I’m trying to find out who.”

  I took her to a corner and pulled out the list Fentor had handed me. There were seven names on it. None of them meant anything to me.

  “Recognize any of the names?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “Descendants of Baritt. I’m going to have to check them out, I think.”

  “Why?”

  I gave her a rundown on the story of the riot. Her beautiful face drew up into an ugly sneer. She said, “If I’d known what he had in mind—”

  “Laris?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Why take it so hard?” I asked her.

  She stared at me. “Why take it so hard? He’s using our people. That’s us, Easterners, being set up to be beaten and killed just to manipulate a few guards. What do you mean, why take it so hard?”

  “How long have you lived in the Empire, Cawti?”

  “All my life.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess I’m used to it, that’s all. I expect things like that.”

  She looked at me coldly. “It doesn’t bother you anymore, eh?”

  I opened and shut my mouth a couple of times. “It still bothers me, I guess, but . . . Deathsgate, Cawti. You know what kind of people live in those areas. I got out of it, and you got out of it. Any of them—”

  “Crap. Don’t start on that. You sound like a pimp. ‘I don’t use ‘em any more than they want to be used. They can do something else if they want. They like working for me.’ Crap. I suppose you feel the same way about slaves, right? They must like it or they’d run away.”

  To be honest, it had never occurred to me to think about it. But Cawti was looking at me with rage in her lovely brown eyes. I felt a sudden flash of anger and said, “Look, damn it, I’ve never ‘worked’ on an Easterner, remember, so don’t give me any—”

  “Don’t throw that up at me,” she snapped. “We’ve been over it once. I’m sorry. But it was a job, all right? That has nothing to do with your not caring about what happens to our own people.” She kept glaring at me. I’ve been glared at by experts, but this was different. I opened my mouth to say something about what it had to do with, but I couldn’t. It suddenly hit me that I could lose her, right now. It was like walking into a tavern where you’re going to finalize someone, and realizing that the guy’s bodyguards might be better than you. Except then, all you’re liable to lose is your life. As I stood there, I realized what I was on the verge of losing.

  “Cawti,” I started to say, but my voice cracked. She turned away. We stood like that, in a corner of Morrolan’s dining room, with multitudes of Dragaerans around us, but we might as well have been in our own universe.

  How long we stood there I don’t know. Finally, she turned back to me and said, “Forget it, Vlad. Let’s just enjoy the party.”

  I shook my head. “Wait.”

  “Yes?”

  I took both of her hands, turned her around, and led her into a small alcove off to the side of the main room. Then I took both of her hands again and said, “Cawti, my father ran a restaurant. The only people who came in were Teckla and Jhereg, because no one else would associate with us. My father, may the Lords of Judgment damn his soul for a thousand years, wouldn’t let me associate with Easterners because he wanted to be accepted as Dragaeran. You, maybe, got a title after you’d made some money, so you could get a link to the Orb. I was given a title through my father, who spent our life savings on it, because he wanted to be accepted as Dragaeran.

  “My father tried to make me learn Dragaeran swordsmanship, because he wanted to be accepted as Dragaeran. He tried to prevent me from studying witchcraft, because he wanted to be accepted as Dragaeran. I could go on for an hour. Do you think we were ever accepted as Dragaeran? Crap. They treated us like teckla droppings. The ones that didn’t despise us because we were Easterners hated us because we were Jhereg. They used to catch me, when I went on errands, and bash me around until—never mind.”

  She started to say something, but I cut her off. “I don’t doubt that you could tell me stories just as bad; that isn’t the point.” My voice dropped to a whisper. “I hate them,” I said, squeezing her hands until she winced. “I joined the organization as muscle so I could get paid for beating them up, and I started ‘working’ so I could get paid for killing them. Now I’m working my way up the organization so I can have the power to do what I want, by my own rules, and maybe show a few of them what happens when they underrate Easterners.

  “There are exceptions—Morrolan, Aliera, Sethra, a few others. For you, maybe Norathar. But they don’t matter. Even when I work with my own employees, I have to ignore how much I despise them. I have to make myself pretend I don’t want to see every one of them torn apart. Those friends I mentioned—the other day, they were discussing conquering the East, right in front of me, as if I wouldn’t care.”

  I paused and took a deep breath.

  “So I have to not care. I have to convince myself that I don’t care. That’s the only way I can stay sane; I do what I have to do. And there’s precious little pleasure in this life, except the satisfaction of setting a goal, worthwhile or not, and meeting it.

  “How many people can you trust, Cawti? I don’t mean trust not to stab you in the back, I mean trust—trust with your soul? How many? Up until now, Loiosh has been the only one I could share things with. Without him, I’d have gone out of my head, but we can’t really talk as equals. Finding you has . . . I don’t know, Cawti. I don’t want to lose you, that’s all. And not for something as stupid as this.”

  I took another deep breath.

  “I talk too much,” I said. “That’s all I wanted to say.”

  While I’d been speaking, her face had relaxed, the rage draining out of it. When I finished, she came into my arms and held me, rocking me gently.

  “I love you, Vladimir,” she said softly.

  I buried my face in her neck and let the tears come.

 
Loiosh nuzzled my neck. I felt Cawti scratching his head.

  * * * *

  A bit later, after I’d recovered, Cawti brushed my face with her hands and Loiosh licked my ear. We walked back to face the multitude. Cawti placed her hand on my left arm as we walked; I covered it with my right hand and squeezed.

  I noticed the Sorceress in Green, but avoided her, not feeling like a confrontation just then. I looked for Morrolan, but didn’t see him. I noticed the Necromancer talking to a tall, dark-haired Dragaeran woman. The latter turned for a moment, and I was suddenly struck by her resemblance to Sethra Lavode. I wondered—

  “Excuse me,” I said, approaching them. They broke off and looked at me. I bowed to the stranger. “I am Vladimir Taltos, House Jhereg. This is the Dagger of the Jhereg. May I ask whom I have the honor of addressing?”

  “You may,” she said.

  I waited. Then I smiled and said, “Whom do I have the honor of addressing?”

  “I am Sethra,” she said. Bingo!

  “I have heard much of you from your namesake,” I told her.

  “No doubt. If that is all you wish to say, I am engaged just at the moment.”

  “I see,” I said politely. “As a matter of fact, if you can spare a few moments—”

  “My dear Easterner,” she said, “I am aware that Sethra Lavode, for reasons best known to herself, chooses to tolerate your presence, but I am no longer apprenticed to her, so I see no reason why I should. I have no time for Easterners, and no time for Jhereg. Is all of this clear to you?”

  “Quite.” I bowed once more; Cawti did the same. Loiosh hissed at her as we turned away.

  “Friendly, isn’t she?”

  “Quite,” said Cawti.

  At that moment Morrolan came in, escorting Norathar. She was dressed in black and silver, the colors of the House of the Dragon. I looked at Cawti; her face was expressionless. We approached them, fighting our way through the crowd.

  Norathar and Cawti locked eyes, and I couldn’t see what was passing between them. But then they smiled, and Cawti said, aloud, “The colors are most fetching. You wear them well.”

  “Thank you,” said Norathar softly. I noticed that there was a ring on the little finger of her right hand. On its face was a dragon, with two red eyes.

  I turned to Morrolan. “Is it official?”