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  “Don’t be an idiot,” said Norathar. “We are so beyond that.”

  Dathaani sighed again and nodded. “True. All right, yes. That’s what it was about.”

  Whitecrest said, “Now what do we do, Highness?”

  “This is your show, Countess. You tell us.”

  “We bring him back to the Palace and turn him over to the Guard, I think.”

  “What will happen to him?”

  “I don’t know the law. It may count as treason, in which case he’ll be starred. Or it might simply be considered a nuisance on a grand scale, in which case a whipping will suffice. In either case, there won’t be action taken against the Jhereg, for which he’ll be held responsible.”

  “That’s acceptable to me,” said Norathar. “You?”

  “I didn’t think I had a choice,” said Dathaani.

  “You don’t. I was asking my partner.”

  Dathaani chuckled grimly.

  “We’re done with the part I care about,” said Cawti. “I’m indifferent toward the rest.”

  “I knew that,” said Norathar. “But I had to ask.”

  Cawti nodded. Norathar noted, as she had before, that Cawti had the gift of perfect control of her muscles; when she moved her head, there was not a hint of movement of the point of either dagger. Still not turning her head, she said, “Very well, Countess. If you wish him arrested, then so be it.”

  “Good,” said Whitecrest. “And you, Lord Dathaani. If you are arrested, will you make a full confession?”

  “I will tell you everything but the names of the others who were involved,” he said.

  “And did the man who hired you know that you were going to create anarchy, panic, and disorder throughout the city by your method?”

  “No,” said Dathaani.

  “Will you so testify under the Orb?”

  “No,” said Dathaani.

  Daro was quiet for a moment; then she said, “I think that will do.” Then she called loudly, “Come!” and Norathar, hearing the door open, turned her head and saw a pair of Dragonlords come into the room, both of them wearing the gold half-cloak of the Phoenix Guard.

  When Norathar turned back, Dathaani was rising, his hands well clear of his body, palms out. He unbuckled his sword belt and put it on the table, then a pair of daggers followed it.

  “Arrest that man,” said Whitecrest. “I’m not sure of the exact charge, but a suitable one will be found.”

  The guards moved in and flanked Dathaani, one of them taking his arm above the elbow. They escorted him out the door.

  Norathar said, “Astonishing that they just happened to be there, Countess.”

  Whitecrest smiled a little.

  Cawti moved up to stand beside Norathar, sheathing her daggers. Norathar returned her sword to her scabbard. “How long have you known, Countess?”

  “Known what, Your Highness?”

  “That it was all an elaborate attack on Lord Taltos.”

  “Oh. When I saw your partner’s reaction.”

  “What did that tell you?”

  “That she knew something I didn’t, is all. After that, it was a matter of paying attention and putting the pieces together.”

  “So then,” said Norathar slowly, “you could have stopped the alarms days ago?”

  “No. Until I found out who was behind it, I had no way of knowing if the Jhereg had created the threat, or were just using it.”

  “I see. How did you find Dathaani?”

  “I was following you from outside the Palace, when you hired the coach.”

  “Oh,” said Norathar.

  She looked at Cawti, who shrugged. “We’ve been played.”

  “No,” said Whitecrest. “I don’t see it that way. That man,” she gestured toward the door, “tried to play us all. We stopped him.”

  “It was,” said Norathar, “an impressive move. Not something I’d have looked for. He thinks big. I respect that.”

  “Be certain to mention that at his trial,” said Whitecrest.

  “Can we keep this quiet? That is, see that it stops with him?”

  “Yes,” said Whitecrest. “It wasn’t, in fact, the entire Jhereg behind it, was it?”

  “No.”

  “Then if one or two others are getting away, it isn’t the worst injustice the Empire has ever seen.”

  “No,” said Cawti, “it isn’t.”

  “Then we’re done here, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please give my warmest regards to your son.”

  “Thank you. I shall.”

  Norathar bowed to Whitecrest. “It has been a pleasure.”

  “Thank you, Highness.”

  Whitecrest bowed to each of them in turn, then walked out the door.

  “Are you going to tell Vlad?” said Norathar.

  Cawti shook her head. “He doesn’t need to know. What’s important is that I know.”

  Norathar nodded. “I wish this place was open,” she said. “I could use a drink.”

  “There’s Kokra’s place.”

  “Good idea.”

  “It’s going to be odd drinking after a job without using the client’s money.”

  “I’ll put it in as part of my royal expenses, and charge it to the Empire. Just on principle.”

  “Good principle,” said Cawti, and the two of them headed out to the waiting coach.

  CONCEPTION

  (An Interlude)

  “I have an idea,” said the goddess.

  “Which one is it?” asked the god.

  “Which one? You’re saying I only have two ideas?”

  “Two kinds. The kind that frighten me, and the kind that annoy me.”

  “Oh.” She considered. “It might be both.”

  “Right, that kind. All right, let’s hear it.”

  “I want a grandchild.”

  “That,” said the god called Barlen, “isn’t an idea. It’s a desire.”

  “You figured that out on your own?” said Verra.

  “You’re adorable when you’re sarcastic.”

  Verra sniffed.

  “All right, so what’s your plan to acquire one?”

  “I was thinking I could get my grandchild to arrange it.”

  “Verra, if you are going to play with time again, I beg you to remember that there are laws about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do we have the laws? If I recall, you were the one who first proposed them, when we started to understand—”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You said something about paradox causing the utter destruction of all of time.”

  “You have a good memory.”

  “Unfortunately, I do.”

  “So then, why should I worry about it when no such risk applies?”

  “And how can you be certain there is no such risk?”

  “Because if I find my grandchild, then it clearly works, and there is no paradox.”

  Barlen stared at her. Eventually he said, “I don’t even know how to begin to respond to that.”

  “Well, you might ask me how I intend to find my grandchild.”

  “All right. How do you intend to find your grandchild?”

  “That will take some explanation.”

  “This is bound to be good,” said Barlen.

  * * *

  Aliera lowered herself into a white chair in a white room. She picked up the white goblet from the white table and drank. The wine was red, which she was sure was intended as a joke.

  “Hello, Aliera.”

  She turned her head. A chair that hadn’t been there before was occupied.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  “You don’t seem excited to see me, dear.”

  “I don’t yet know what scheme you need me for, Mother.”

  “Maybe I just want some family time.”

  “That seems unlikely.”

  “But it’s true.”

  Aliera’s eyes narrowed and she tilted her head. “Family time?”
>
  “Yes. In a manner of speaking.”

  “Ah,” said Aliera. “In exactly what manner of speaking?”

  “Have you ever thought about having a child?”

  “Not seriously. Eventually, when I meet someone worthy.”

  “You haven’t met anyone worthy? Ever?”

  “Not worthy to father a child with me. Well, once, I suppose. But—”

  “Ah.”

  Aliera stared at her. “You do not mean that.”

  “Oh, but I do.”

  “Mother, this is meddling beyond all reason and propriety.”

  “Now, now. I’m just giving you the opportunity. Whether you take it is up to you.”

  “I can’t believe you’re serious about this.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “Aside from everything else, he’s, well, dead.”

  “Trifles.”

  “Mother!”

  “Care to take a walk with me? Oh, stop looking so suspicious.”

  “Is suspicion unreasonable?”

  “Oh, no. It’s entirely reasonable. And justified. I just don’t like the look. Come.”

  Aliera rose without another word and followed the goddess into the suddenly appearing swirling mists that filled the room, and then her lungs, and then her mind, so she was no longer walking through mist, but she was mist, and she didn’t move, but was pulled by the vacuum like a black funnel ahead of her, moving always forward, though Aliera knew that direction didn’t mean what it felt like here.

  As much to see if she could as for any other reason, she formed the thought, Mother, where are we going?

  Through you, dear.

  Through—I don’t understand.

  We are traveling through your essence, your past, what makes you who you are.

  My genes?

  Must you be so prosaic?

  How are we traveling through my genes?

  In large part, metaphorically. Physically, insofar as that means anything, we are adjacent to the Paths of the Dead.

  Adjacent?

  Close enough that I can play with time until I find—ah! There! It’s a girl.

  What—

  I’m sorry, dear, I must cut off your senses for a moment; you two can’t meet yet. I need to ask someone who doesn’t exist for an impossible favor.

  This is bound to be good, thought Aliera.

  * * *

  And so the goddess, outside of time, planted something like a thought in the mind of one who did not exist, thus to bring her into being. Gods can do that. They shouldn’t, but they can.

  This done, she called in a favor from one who, though not a goddess, held power that even the gods might fear; and had certain other skills as well.

  “What is that?” said Tukko, staring at the paper spread out on the table.

  “A rendering of Kieron’s bower,” said Sethra.

  “Bower?”

  “His home, if you will.”

  “In the Paths?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have this because…?”

  “We need to duplicate it.”

  “We?”

  “The Necromancer and I.”

  “Why?”

  Sethra gestured at the small silver object on the table. “To plant that under the bed.”

  Tukko started to ask why, but evidently thought better of it. He took the artifact, held it up, and studied it from every angle.

  “Please be careful,” said Sethra Lavode. “Delicacy is not your strength, and if something happens to it, I’ll have to make an explanation I’d rather not.”

  “To whom?” said the other. “The Easterner? What can he do?”

  “No, to Verra.”

  Tukko shrugged and set the item back on the table. “I don’t fear the gods.”

  “It isn’t about fear,” said the Enchantress. “It’s about trust.”

  “I don’t trust the gods, either.”

  “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. I always know what you mean. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Use it, then return it to Vlad.”

  Tukko snorted. “What will he do with it?”

  “I’ve no idea. But it’s his, at least for now.”

  “I suppose. What are you going to use it for?”

  “Verra has asked for a favor.”

  “And in return?”

  “A favor, not a bargain.”

  “I don’t trust the gods.”

  “We share a common enemy,” said Sethra.

  Tukko didn’t answer. Sethra stood up and took the silver tiassa from the table.

  “That isn’t much. What is all this supposed to accomplish, anyway?”

  “Let me explain.”

  “This is bound to be good,” said Tukko.

  * * *

  In the place between land and sea, between truth and legend, between the mundane and the divine—that is, in the place called the Paths of the Dead—there are four stone steps leading down to nothing. It’s probably symbolic—most things are in those climes.

  A few paces to the right of the stairway to nowhere is what looks like an impossible geologic occurrence: in a clear meadow there is a circle of obsidian, taller than a man, some fifteen feet in diameter, broken only by a three-foot opening facing to the west—insofar as “west” has any meaning there.

  Of course, it only appears to be natural, it was fabricated to look natural, perhaps because its designer believed the products of nature to be more aesthetically pleasing than the works of Man. Men often believe nature to have a better artistic sense; nature has no opinion on the matter.

  Within the circle is nothing except a low, wide bed. As we look, there are two people on the bed, lying on their backs in a tangle of blankets, arms, and legs.

  “Do you know,” said Aliera as she recovered her breath, “there are some who would call this incest.”

  “Not to my face,” said Kieron.

  “Nor to mine. But still—”

  “How many generations separate us?”

  “I’ve no idea. Hundreds.”

  “And do you remember me, from then?”

  “No. I’ve heard about you, of course. I’ve read. But I don’t remember. I’d like to.” She frowned. “Well, perhaps, now, I wouldn’t.”

  “The point is anyone who calls this incest is being an idiot. And in any case, I’m more interested in how you managed it.”

  “Managed what?”

  “This place.”

  “Oh. The Necromancer fabricated it. She said something about correspondence.”

  “Who?”

  “The Necromancer. A demon. I’m not sure from where. She created a place that matched yours then sent the one and pulled the other.”

  “So, where are we?”

  “Right here,” said Aliera, running her hand up Kieron’s chest.

  “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean. I don’t know. Does it matter? We can be together.”

  “It’s just that I feel different.”

  “Different how?”

  Kieron hesitated, then said, “Alive.”

  “Oh,” said Aliera. “That, um, that isn’t because of the place.”

  “What, then?”

  “Let me explain,” said Aliera.

  “This is bound to be good,” said the Father of the Empire.

  SPECIAL

  TASKS

  CHAPTER THE FIRST

  How an Easterner Was Discovered

  Under Unusual Circumstances,

  Causing Some Degree of Consternation

  Among the Authorities

  It is well known among those who live to the north of the city of Adrilankha that as the great river makes its penultimate southward turn it creates pools, bars, eddies, and shoals. Moreover, as it makes this turn, it will often choose these pools, bars, eddies, and shoals as places to deposit any stray floating items it may have collected during its long journey from the far north. This flotsam may include an
oar dropped by a boatman, a cake of soap dropped by a bather, a toy soldier dropped by a child, some spinnerweed flowers dropped by nature, or even, perhaps, a body.

  The reader will, we trust, forgive the perhaps overly histrionic revelation of the particular object with which our attention is concerned. We hope, at any rate, that a life has not become such an unimportant thing as to render a small measure of drama inappropriate to the revelation of its end.

  The body, we should say, was floating face upward, and turning in a slow circle in a channel separated from the rest of the river by a short, barren sandbar. It was seen first by a Teckla who was driving an oxcart toward Favintoe Market. This Teckla worked land that abutted the river a quarter of a mile from the sandbar; thus the Teckla, whose name proved to be Dyfon, passed by it every day. In the past, he had found an intricately carved doll, the tin cap of an ornate oil lamp, three feet of chreotha-web rope that he had thought at first was a pale yellow snake, a walking stick, and more than forty particularly interesting samples of driftwood, some of which he was able to sell. This, however, was his first body, and so he wasn’t entirely certain what he should do. After some few moments of contemplation he decided to pull it to shore—his work with hogs and poultry having left him without any special distaste for handling the dead.

  Dyfon waded a few steps into the shallow water, grabbed the nearest boot, and pulled. Then he frowned and remarked, “Well now, it seems this fellow is alive.” The ox, we should add, had no immediate reaction to this statistic.

  Having come to the conclusion that the fellow at his feet was a living rather than a dead man, Dyfon went on to make further inspections, followed by their attendant observations. “An Easterner, or I’ll be planted,” he said. “Complete with hair ’neath his nose. And looks to be bleeding as well.”

  Dyfon finished pulling the Easterner to the shore, then considered, not wishing to make a hasty decision which he might have cause to regret. The reader will of course understand that Dyfon had never before had the experience of pulling a body from the river, still less a living body, and an Easterner, and one that was bleeding; so for these reasons, it is our opinion that he may be forgiven a few moments of consideration.

  At the end of this time, which was not, to be sure, as long as one might think, he came to a certain decision, and being a practical man as Teckla so often are, he at once put this decision into action. He sat down and removed his boots, and then his stockings—they being, as it happened, his second pair—and put these (that is to say, the stockings) over the two biggest wounds, the one being a slash low on the Easterner’s side, the other a stab wound in the shoulder a scant few inches above the heart. He pushed the stockings, which, though not without holes, were of thick wool, as hard against the wounds as he could. Having done this in a workmanlike manner, he replaced his boots and set off with his ox to see if he could find help.