The Book of Taltos Read online

  I had another drink after she left and, just to prove Loiosh wrong, stopped at two. I called on my link to the Orb once more, and found I still had a couple of hours before I had to be back at the office. I paid the host, told him I’d be back sometime, and headed for home.

  MY GRANDFATHER HAS A white cat named Ambrus, who is the most intelligent cat I’ve ever met, as well as the oldest. I never actually played with him, the way people usually play with cats, but sometimes, when a child, I would sit and talk to him while my father and grandfather were in the other room, talking. I used to pretend that he could understand me, and either he really could, or my memory is playing tricks on me, because a normal cat couldn’t have responded the way Ambrus did: meowing exactly in answer to questions, purring when I told him I liked him, and extending his claws and swiping at the air behind him when I’d point that way and say, “Look out, a dragon.”

  Knowing what I know now, I don’t think my memory is playing tricks on me.

  In any case, one day when I was, I don’t know, maybe seven, my father saw me talking to him and scowled.

  I said, “You don’t like cats, papa?”

  He said, “It isn’t that. Never mind.”

  I think I remember seeing Noish-pa standing behind him, watching the scene, and maybe smiling just a little.

  HUMANS DO WITCHCRAFT, DRAGAERANS do sorcery. I do both, which is unusual, so I’m in a good position to compare them. The one difference that keeps hitting me is that witchcraft is more fun. If a witch could teleport (a thing that seems impossible, but I could be wrong), it would involve hours of preparation, rituals, chanting, and filling all the senses with the desired result until the spell would work in a blinding explosion of emotional fulfillment.

  Narvane, one of my enforcers and an excellent sorcerer, just said, “Ready?”

  I said, “Yeah.”

  He casually raised his hand, the office vanished around me, and I felt a lurch in my gut.

  THERE WAS A DAY when I did something, I don’t remember what, and my father slapped me for it. I probably deserved it. It wasn’t the first time he’d slapped me, but this occasion I recall specifically. I think I must have been about seven or eight.

  What I remember is that I looked up at him curiously and shook my head. His eyes grew wide, and maybe a little fearful, and he stood there staring at me for a moment before turning and walking into the other room. I guess he wanted to ask about the look on my face, but he didn’t, and I didn’t say anything. You must understand, I was very young, so I’m reconstructing a lot of this from memory, but I retain the impression that my reaction frightened or puzzled him a little. But what was going through my mind was something like, “You call that hitting someone? That hardly hurt. I get beat worse than that every time you send me to the market for bay leaves.”

  I DIDN’T NOTICE WHERE I was at first, because I was too busy feeling sick to my stomach. Dragaerans don’t have this reaction to teleports but I do, and every other human I know does, too.

  I kept my eyes closed and resolved not to throw up. Maybe the brandy had been a mistake. I risked a quick look and saw that I was in an open courtyard; then I realized that I was standing on air and closed my eyes again. Whatever was holding me up felt solid. I took a deep breath and opened my eyes again.

  The great double doors of the castle were about fifty yards in front of me. High, high walls were all around. Why did Morrolan have walls around a castle that floated? I risked a look down and saw orange-red clouds. Above me was more of the same. There was a cool breeze on my face bringing a faint smoky smell. I saw no one else in the courtyard.

  I glanced around the walls and saw towers placed at the corners. Towers, walls, and the castle itself were of the same black stone—obsidian, I think—much of it carved into figures battling or hunting or just lounging on the walls.

  Pretentious bastard.

  I saw a pair of guards in one tower. They both wore the black and silver of the House of the Dragon. One carried a spear, the other a staff.

  Wizards, employed as guards.

  Well, he’d certainly convinced me that he was rich, if nothing else. The guard with the spear saw me looking at him and saluted. I nodded back, wishing Loiosh were with me, and started walking toward the great double doors of Castle Black.

  IF I LOOK BACK on my life as if it were that of a stranger, I’d have to say that I grew up around violence. That sounds peculiar to me, because I’ve never really thought of it that way, but as far back as I can remember I had a fear of Dragaerans. Home was above father’s restaurant, which was in an area where Easterners—humans—didn’t live. I spent most of my time in the restaurant even before I started helping around the place. And I can still remember the thrill of fear every time I left it, and long chases through alleys, and beatings at the hands of Dragaerans who didn’t like humans, or other humans who thought we were getting above ourselves. This latter—being beaten up by other Easterners—didn’t happen often. The first time I think I was about eight. My father presented me with an outfit in the colors of House Jhereg. I remember that day because it was one of the few times I can recall seeing my father happy. I picked up his mood and went strutting around in my new clothes and was found by a few human kids about my own age who, well, you can guess. I’ll spare you the details.

  The funny thing is that I remember feeling sorry for them, because I’d been beaten by Dragaerans, and was thinking that these poor, puny Easterners couldn’t even beat me up as well as Dragaerans could.

  MY BOOTS WENT CLACK clack against thin air, which was a bit unnerving. Things became even more unnerving as I got closer to the doors and recognized marks around them as witchcraft symbols. I licked my lips.

  I was about ten feet away when both doors swung open with great, silent majesty. They didn’t even squeak. This was very unnerving. I immediately ran one hand through my hair and adjusted the clasp of my cloak with the other. This allowed my arms to brush over various goodies that I conceal about my person because it’s better to give than to receive surprises.

  But I didn’t spend much time thinking about the doors, as there was someone standing in the doorway, framed like a picture by the tall arch. She had the fine, fair skin of the House of the Issola, and wore the white and green of that House in the form of a half gown, half sari. Her eyes were clear blue, her hair a light brown, and she was beautiful even by human standards.

  Her voice was low and sweet. “Greetings, noble Jhereg,” she said (apparently deciding the term was less insulting than “Easterner”), “to Castle Black. I am Teldra. We have been awaiting you, and it is our hope that you will allow us to make your stay pleasant. I hope the teleport was not too discomforting?”

  As she finished this amazing speech, she bowed in the manner of the Issola. I said, “Ummm, no, it was fine.”

  She smiled as if that actually mattered to her. In fact, I really think it did. She said, “Please, come in at once, and I’ll send for the Lord Morrolan.” She extended her hand for my cloak, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t almost give it to her, just out of reflex.

  My reflexes don’t generally work that way.

  “Ummm, that’s all right,” I said. “I’ll keep it.”

  “Of course,” she said, smiling. “Please follow me.”

  It crossed my mind then that she hadn’t called me by name, which probably meant she didn’t know how to pronounce my patronymic, which meant that Morrolan probably didn’t know a lot about me. That was most likely good.

  I crossed the threshold of Castle Black. I was in a vast hall, with white marble stairways curling up to my right and left, a large arched exit before me, smaller ones to the sides, balconies above me, and a few landscape paintings—no psiprints—on the walls. At least everything wasn’t done in black.

  Then one of the landscapes caught my attention. It had a huge yellow sun at the upper right and the wisp of white clouds in the sky. I’d seen such sights before, through my grandfather’s eyes. It was a scene done
in the East.

  Teldra escorted me through the tall arched doorway in the center, down about twenty paces of wide, unadorned but well-lit hallway into what was clearly a sitting room. The predominant color here was pale yellow, and the room was filled with overstuffed chairs, buffets, liquor cabinets, and tables. I gave up looking for potential traps in the first ten seconds. I wished Loiosh were with me.

  Teldra indicated a chair that looked comfortable and afforded a view of the door. I sat down. She said, “The Lord Morrolan is expected in a moment. Would you allow me to serve you wine?”

  “Um, yeah,” I said. “Thanks.”

  She brought a bucket of ice with a bottle in it, which told me something else; it is the Easterners who serve wine chilled. She removed the bottle, took the wine tongs from the coals, expertly circumscribed the neck, dipped the feather in the ice, and lifted off the top of the neck. All of her movements were fluid and graceful, as if she were dancing with her hands. She poured and I drank. It was really very good, which was another surprise. I studied the bottle, but didn’t recognize the label.

  “Is there anything else I can get for you, my lord?”

  “No, no,” I said. “I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “Until later, then, my lord.”

  I rose as she left, although I wasn’t sure if it was proper. Teldra nodded as if it was, but I suspect that if I’d remained seated, that would have been proper, too.

  Dragonlords don’t use poison; I drank some more wine. Presently, unannounced save by the rap-rap sound of his footfalls, the Lord Morrolan entered the room.

  He was tall and dressed in black, with bits of silver lace on his blouse and on the epaulettes that peeked out under the full cloak he wore thrown back. His hand rested on the hilt of a longsword. His face had the angularity of the House of the Dragon. His forehead was high, and his hair was very dark, straight, and long enough to cover his ears. I gave the sword a second look and realized, even though it was sheathed, that it was a Morganti blade, and powerful. I repressed a shudder as I felt it ringing in my mind.

  It was only as an afterthought that it hit me: Why was he wearing a blade—and a Morganti blade at that—to greet a guest inside his home? Could he be afraid of me? Could it be the custom of Dragonlords to go wandering around armed in their own homes, or when greeting guests?

  Or was he planning to just haul off and kill me?

  You can believe what you like about the existence of the soul, or the Dragaeran’s faith in reincarnation. But even if you don’t believe any of that, there is no question that if I were killed by a Morganti weapon, that was it for me. I froze for a moment, then realized that I ought to acknowledge his presence, since he, at least, hadn’t attacked me yet.

  I rose and gave him a half bow. “Lord Morrolan, I am Vladimir Taltos. I am honored that you should consent to see me.” I’m a good liar.

  He nodded coolly and indicated with his head that I should sit. Teldra returned and poured him a glass of wine as he sat opposite me. As she left, he said, “Thank you, Lady Teldra.” Lady? I wondered at their relationship. Meanwhile, Morrolan was appraising me as I’d appraise a jewel. His eyes never left me as he drank. I returned the favor. His complexion was fairly dark, though lighter than a Hawk’s or a Vallista’s. His hair was black and shoulder-length and curly and just a bit neglected. He sat rather stiffly, as if he were wound too tight. The movements of his head were quick, feral.

  Eventually he set his glass down and said, “Well, Jhereg” (apparently deciding the term was more insulting than “Easterner”), “do you know why you are here?”

  I licked my lips. “I thought I did. I may have been deceived, of course.”

  “It is likely,” said Morrolan.

  “That being the case,” I said, falling into his speech patterns, “perhaps you would be so kind as to enlighten me.”

  “I intend to,” he said. He studied me some more, and I began to get the impression that he was doing that just to irritate me, or perhaps to test me—which works out to the same thing.

  If you’re a Jhereg and an Easterner, you have to expect to be insulted from time to time. If you want to live, you have to learn not to take offense at every slur and sneer. But this was beginning to get annoying. I said, “It seems to me, most noble Dragon, that you were about to tell me something.”

  A corner of his mouth twitched. “Yes.” Then, “A certain employee of yours was traced to Dzur Mountain. You have learned that, some time ago, he paid me a visit as part of negotiating a small land transaction. You are anxious as to his whereabouts. It seems he has run off with the family silver, as the saying goes.”

  “It turns out,” I said, “that I knew that much already.”

  “Quite. Now, however, you wish to find him to kill him. You can find no one willing to travel to Dzur Mountain, so you thought to visit me, perhaps to learn what I know of the truth behind the legends of Sethra Lavode.”

  I was beginning to get downright irritated, as well as frightened, by how close his guesses were. I mean, what a pompous, supercilious jongleur. But the thought came to me that he was a pompous, supercilious jongleur with a very powerful Morganti blade, and he was a sorcerer, and I was in his keep. I resolved to stay polite. I said, “It is certainly the case that I am curious about Dzur Mountain, and I would appreciate any information you can give me on it, and its inhabitants.”

  Morrolan, by this time, was giving me a look that couldn’t decide if it was a mild sneer or an attempted scowl. He said, “Very well, Jhereg, a question: Would you like to find this straying employee of yours?”

  I spent a moment trying to find verbal traps in the question, then gave up and said, “Yes.”

  He said, “Very well. Let us go to him.”

  He stood up. I did the same. He took a step closer to me and seemed to concentrate for just a moment. I realized what he was doing almost at once. I thought about resisting, but made a split-second decision; I might never have another chance. You have to take some risks in any business. I allowed the teleport to take effect. My stomach lurched and the walls vanished around me.

  3

  The knife went near my right hand, various herbs and things went near my left hand. I didn’t yet know precisely which of my supplies I’d pulled out, nor did I want to, but I noted the string with nine knots, the ash twig shaped like a bull’s head, the miniature copper kettle, the toe bone of an elk, the piece of braided leather, and a few other things.

  I wondered what I’d do with them.

  MORROLAN SAID, “WELCOME TO Dzur Mountain.”

  My stomach said, Why do you keep doing this to me?

  My knees felt weak and I braced myself against a damp stone wall. We were on a small landing, surrounded by stone, with a single, narrow stairway leading up. High above me, diffuse light trickled in through a tiny window. There was a torch burning on the wall along the stairway, and the soot on the wall above it was old. This place, then, was not used often, but had been prepared.

  I hid my discomfort as best I could and said, “Charmed.” I did not want to throw up. I repeated this to myself a few times.

  Morrolan set his foot on the lowest stair. “This way,” he said. To gain time, I said, “Sethra Lavode?”

  “She awaits us.”

  “Oh,” I said. I took a couple of deep breaths and began following Morrolan up the stairs, which were deep as well as narrow, designed for Dragaerans rather than humans. There were many steps. The stairway curved gently to our left. At one point we passed a window and I took the opportunity to look out. We were, indeed, high up in the mountains. If I’d had more time, I think I could have enjoyed just looking, as I caught a glimpse of pine trees and a green valley. There was also snow, however, as well as a cold, sharp breeze that struck me through the window. The chill from it continued up the stairs with us. But my stomach was settling down, so I couldn’t complain.

  Morrolan continued two steps ahead of me. I decided he must be pretty trusting to walk with his back to me.
On the other hand, my eyes were on a level with the hilt of his longsword. This kept my tongue in check for some time. Eventually, however, I risked saying, “With all respect, my Lord Morrolan.”

  He stopped and turned. “Yes, my good Jhereg?”

  “Would you mind giving me some idea as to what, by all the Demons of Terlocha, is going on?”

  He smiled an enigmatic smile and resumed his climb. I followed. Over his shoulder, he said, “What do you wish to know, my lord?” There was, I think, a bit of ironic emphasis on the last two words.

  I said, “For instance, why did you agree to see me?”

  I saw rather than heard a chuckle at that. “It would have been foolish not to, after going to all that trouble.”

  I’d be lying if I said this didn’t send shivers down my back. A few steps more and I was able to say, “So you planned to bring me to you.”

  “Of course, if we couldn’t convince you to come directly to Dzur Mountain.”

  “Oh. Of course. Foolish of me.”

  “Yes.”

  I clenched my teeth and said nothing. The hilt of his blade was still before my eyes, and I could feel its hunger. I shivered.

  Then, “All right, Lord Morrolan, you have me here. Why?”

  Over his shoulder he said, “Be patient, my lord. You will know soon.”

  “All right.”

  I said nothing for another turn of the stairs, thinking about Sethra Lavode. In all probability, I would soon be meeting her. Why? These people had no cause to kill me, and they could have done so already if they’d wanted. What were they after?

  I said, “What about Quion, then?”

  “Who?”

  “The button-man—the employee of mine who vanished in Dzur Mountain.”

  “Ah. Yes. He was set up, of course. He came across certain information implying that he could expect sanctuary here. The information was incorrect.”