Issola (Vlad Taltos) Page 9

It hung at my hip, that thing. I had avoided studying it, or really looking at it, but I did so now. It had a shiny black polished hilt, with a simple silver crosspiece, knobbed on the ends. The pommel was also silver: a round ball that would hurt like a bitch if I cracked it on someone’s head. The hilt was a bit smaller than usual with Dragaeran weapons, but that was okay, because my hands are small, too. It was very smooth and cool to the touch, I remembered. The blade, which I hadn’t yet seen, would be of that ugly, dull, grey-black metal that Morganti blades always have, and might have a blood-groove in it; I didn’t take it out to look. It was long for a knife and short for a sword. Impractical in every way, and was probably not even balanced all that well, most likely being a bit blade-heavy. This, of course, was useful for chopping away in battle—military-issue swords are often blade-heavy—but chopping away in battle was not something I did much of.

  And it was very strong. I could feel it, even through the sheath—a sort of presence in the back of my mind, whispering its hunger. It wanted to kill, and couldn’t care a copper penny who or what it killed; as vicious as a Dragon in the heat of rage, as heartless as a Dzur on a spree; as cold as an Orca closing a deal.

  I hated it.

  I had used Morganti weapons before, but I had never liked them, never had any interest in being near them. Once, I had had to stand in a room with more of them than I could count; I still sometimes have bad dreams that I can trace to that experience. And this one really was damned powerful. I had taken it along only because I feared the Jenoine might be observing me, and if I didn’t have it along, they might have stopped me from traveling to Verra. I no longer wanted it, but didn’t feel comfortable just throwing it into a corner of the room, either. I mentally cursed it, and wished that it and all its siblings would get lost somewhere.

  I turned my eyes and my mind away from the weapon at my hip, and back to Morrolan and Aliera, who shared some traits with the thing, but at least had a few redeeming virtues. I stood over them, and, in an effort to think about something else, returned to studying, yet again, the manacles, the chains, the spot where they joined the wall, and all the rest. The slightly sweet, slightly bitter taste of the air reminded me that I had to keep my breathing shallow.

  “You’re scowling,” said Morrolan.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You do it better, but you’ve had longer to practice.”

  I knelt down for yet another, closer look, convinced that if I kept staring I’d see something. Years ago I wore an assassin’s cloak with all sorts of goodies in it, including a bit of oil which might have allowed me to slide the manacles off. But I didn’t carry those things anymore.

  “It probably wouldn’t have worked anyway without breaking her hand.”

  “Aliera,” I said, “do you mind if I break your hand?”

  “If that is the only way to get me out of these,” she said, “no, I don’t.”

  I hadn’t expected that answer, although I should have.

  “That goes for us both,” said Morrolan.

  Of course it does, I thought but didn’t say.

  I had killed people without examining them this closely. The manacles were fairly tight, but there was a bit of room between iron and skin.

  “What are you thinking, Vlad?” said Morrolan.

  “I’m meditating on helplessness as a way of life, and captivity as an expression of artistic fulfillment.”

  “What are you thinking, Vlad?” he repeated patiently.

  I shrugged. “I’m wondering how much time we have. I assume the Jenoine know I’ve returned. But they never seem to be in much of a hurry. They don’t behave the way I expect captors to behave. That confuses me.”

  Morrolan shrugged. “Have you ever been held captive?”

  “Yes.”

  “I mean, have you ever been held captive by someone other than the Empire?”

  “Yes,” I said, and didn’t elaborate. To avoid dwelling on a memory that wasn’t entirely pleasant, featuring, as it did, far too much potato soup, I considered what the Goddess had told me. She had said I’d be able to … Okay, maybe. It’s hard to argue with one’s Goddess.

  During this interval, I had continued to study wall, chains, manacles, and wrists; and, I suppose, I had continued to scowl.

  “You have an idea, don’t you?” said Aliera.

  I grunted. “I don’t know how much fun it will be for you.”

  “Do it,” she said.

  “It might be painful.”

  “Do it,” said Morrolan.

  “It might be dangerous.”

  “Do it,” said Aliera.

  “You may not survive.”

  “Do it,” said Morrolan.

  “It might mean the end of civilization as we know it.”

  Aliera gave me a disgusted look.

  I shrugged. “Just wondering how far you’d go.”

  “Do it,” he repeated.

  I was convinced. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard Morrolan and Aliera agree on anything; how could I fail to go along?

  “If they agree, Boss, it must mean it’s a bad idea.”

  “Probably true.”

  I pulled off my jerkin. The room was suddenly chilly. Morrolan and Aliera looked away from my bare chest, which seemed a bit funny. I took a knife from my belt, and began cutting strips of leather from what had been a shirt only seconds before, but was now merely a supply of fabric. Funny how quickly things can change, isn’t it?

  “What are you doing, Vlad?” asked Aliera.

  I didn’t answer. Not answering Aliera when she asks questions like that is one of the pleasures that I had missed since I’d been away.

  When I had four strips cut off, I worked them around Aliera’s and Morrolan’s wrists, between manacle and skin. Aliera was easy; Morrolan had thicker wrists and it took me a while, but I managed. I probably hurt him a little while I was doing it, but, of course, he wouldn’t give me the satisfaction of letting me know if I had.

  When I was done, there turned out to be enough of a jerkin left to do some good, so I put the remainder back on; it made my stomach seem even colder than it had been.

  I sat down cross-legged in front of and between Morrolan and Aliera. I really wanted this to work. Not only was it necessary to accomplish my mission and save the world or whatever the hell I was trying to save, and very possibly the only way for me to get out of this alive, but, more important, if I managed to rescue Aliera and Morrolan it would be something I would never let them forget; the pleasure would be almost too sweet. On the other hand, if I accidentally amputated both of their hands, I’d feel bad. And that was, in fact, a possibility, even though the Goddess hadn’t seemed to doubt that I could pull it off; hence the addition of the strips of leather; for one thing, they were symbolically important as barriers, and symbols are very important in witchcraft. And for another, well, maybe, if all else failed, the leather would give their wrists some protection from what I was about to do to them.

  “Morrolan,” I said, “give me your right hand. Aliera, your left.” They did so, clanking. Crazily, it entered my head to wonder what my friend Aibynn, who was a musician, would have said about the note the chains gave off—I mention this as an example of how one’s mind works at such moments. Or maybe as an example of how whacked my friend Aibynn is, I don’t know.

  Teldra said, “Is there anything useful I can do?”

  “No, but thanks for asking. Just stay out of my line of vision so you don’t distract me.” She obligingly backed up a couple of steps.

  “Okay, Loiosh. Help me out.”

  “Sure you know what you’re doing, Boss?”

  “Of course not. Now help me out.”

  “Okay.”

  I started to get light-headed again, and reminded myself to take shallow breaths; that actually had seemed to help, now that I thought about it. Getting dizzy in the middle of this spell would not be in any of our best interest.

  “I’ll keep track of your breathing, Boss.”

&nbs
p; “Good. Let’s start, then.”

  Connecting to them came easily; I knew them well by now.

  “Energy” is a term that I can’t define, at least as I’m using it now: it is uncomfortably vague, and can be twisted into all sorts of bizarre meanings. I’ve heard it used by sorcerers in a very precise, no-nonsense way, as something they could measure and portion out in precise increments; they even have a word for an increment, though I can’t recall it at the moment. I’ve also heard “energy” used in casual conversation as a way of making something vague and meaningless sound precise and full of significance: “I knew she was mine when I felt the energy pass between us.” I’ve heard natural philosophers use the word much the way sorcerers do, and fools of various flavors use it the way lovers do.

  But, whatever it means, energy lies at the heart of witchcraft.

  When you have understood the piece of the world you want to change, and aligned your will with the world as it actually is, then and only then can you begin to change it; not to hit the point too hard, but I suppose this is true even in what one does with one’s more mundane abilities. The difference is that, when practicing the art of the witch, one can actually feel the alignment, feel the changes taking place. I call this feeling energy, because I can’t think of a better term for it; inside of myself, it comes with a quickening of the heartbeat, a sense of being, for a while, a little more alive, and a sureness of one’s convictions. Outside of myself, well, stuff starts happening.

  So, yes, connecting to Morrolan and Aliera came easily, and the energy began to build.

  Every skill—certainly every physical skill—really consists of learning which muscles ought to be tense, and which relaxed, and when. Increased skill comes with strengthening certain muscles, and, even more, with achieving finer control of the particular muscles used. In the Eastern science of defense, for example, one must learn to keep the proper amount of tension in the thumb, fingers, and wrist, so that the point of the weapon stays in line: too little tension and the weapon can be knocked out of your hand, which is embarrassing; too much and one responds too slowly, which is equally embarrassing. In fact, to show you how picky it can be, your first step in actually mastering the art is when you get control of your ring finger. Later, one learns the proper amount of tension for the forward knee and the rear foot, and so on. It is a training of mind and of muscle, which in the novice are constantly at odds with each other, and in the expert are so strongly united that it is impossible to separate conscious decisions from those made by trained muscles. This state is what we talk about when we refer to “reflexes,” which can tell you a lot about yourself.

  I say this to make the obvious point that the art of the witch is very similar, except that the “muscles” in question all exist within the mind of the witch. With the simplest spells, all that is needed is the concentration of power; with the more complex spells, a subtlety and flexibility of mind is required. Typically, a witch will use all sort of tools, herbs, and amulets, because these help to focus the mind onto the required path; but when necessary, the swordsman forgets about proper form and technique, and takes the opening that desperation requires and opportunity presents.

  Now that I think about it, most of my life has consisted of taking the opening that desperation required and opportunity presented.

  I did without tools, herbs, and amulets; instead I built them as metaphors in my mind. I imagined the manacles as four burning pyres, with visible heat patterns emerging from them that I then turned into strips of cloth—not to be confused with the actual strips of leather, which were metaphorically walls keeping the heat from their arms, which were, oh, never mind. I took hold of the metaphorical cloth, not the real leather, and I pulled, throwing it carelessly to my metaphorical side. Fortunately, there was no one in the metaphorical way.

  “Loiosh, look to their wrists; make sure I don’t hurt them.”

  “Got it, Boss.”

  I pulled, and pulled, and it seemed as if I were pulling fabric from an endless spool. Somewhere far, far away, there was conversation; I imagine Morrolan or Aliera or both were making comments or asking questions, but none of it registered—fortunately for all of us. Morrolan, at least, ought to have understood that conversation was a bad idea; that I needed to concentrate or Bad Things would happen. This was a thought I had later; at the time, I was, well, concentrating.

  Eventually it became harder to pull, and the flames from the pyres were almost extinguished. I continued because I didn’t know just how far I’d have to go.

  “Boss, I can’t keep it all away from them.”

  “Are they being hurt?”

  “A little.”

  “A little more, then,” I said, and kept going, though it was now pretty tough, and slow, and I realized I was becoming exhausted. It was what they call the point of diminishing returns when they want to sound all fancy and technical; to me it was a signal that I was about done.

  “Boss—”

  “Okay,” I said. “That will have to do,” and I pulled out of my metaphors and symbols and use of energy as a precise vagueness, and came back to the world; whatever world it was, at any rate.

  “ … very cold,” Aliera was saying. She and Morrolan looked to be all right, so I just grunted at her, thought about using Spellbreaker, but didn’t know if it might have some additional effects, and I didn’t want any additional effects just then. I pulled from behind my back a knife with a particularly strong, heavy hilt. I flipped the knife, caught the blade, and raised it over my head, then got a good hold on Aliera’s left arm.

  “What are you doing, Vlad?” asked Aliera as I brought the knife down as hard as I could on the manacle, being careful not to touch the bitter cold metal with my hand. It shattered with a sound like broken pottery, rather than iron, and her wrist was free. I repeated the process on her other arm and broke the hilt of the knife as well as the manacle, leaving me staring at a blade and a tang, with a bit of bone hilt still clinging to it. Oh, well. I had more knives.

  I pulled another and used it on Morrolan’s right arm, breaking the knife’s hilt and doing nothing to the manacle. I scowled and pulled yet another, wishing I carried as many as I used to, but this one turned out to do the job: there were now four lengths of chain hanging from the wall. Morrolan and Aliera stood up.

  Hot damn.

  “Good work, Vlad,” said Morrolan, alternately rubbing each wrist with the opposite hand. “I’ll take over now.”

  Figured.

  I couldn’t really object; I didn’t have any energy to object with. It wasn’t the sort of exhaustion you get when you’ve just run half a mile; my breathing was easy, and I was even remembering, with occasional nudges from Loiosh, to make my breaths shallow. And it wasn’t sleepiness: I wanted to lie down, but I was nowhere near sleep. No, it was its own thing, the aftermath of a spell. A lethargy that I can only compare to the aftermath of sex, and that is too obvious an analogy, and has been used too often in books on witchcraft, for me to want to push it, so let’s just say I was too tired to object.

  Morrolan rubbed each wrist in turn, as if to warm them up, or to assure himself that they were still there. Then did something quickly with his hands, and he was suddenly holding a thin, black, polished stick in his right hand. It was about five feet long, had rounded ends, a few silver tracings on it, and I’d never seen it before.

  “What is that?” I managed to say.

  “My wizard’s staff,” said Morrolan. “I am a wizard. We have staves, you know. They go with the office.”

  “And I’ve never seen you use it before because … ?”

  “In my own world, Blackwand has pretty much replaced it, but here, there are limits to what Blackwand can do, so I revert to my earlier skills and implements.”

  “I suppose it is immensely powerful and you can do all sorts of amazing things with it.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And you’ve had it with you all along?”

  “I always have it with me.�
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  “Then please explain to me why, by Verra’s skinny ass, couldn’t you have—?”

  “While I was fettered,” he said, “its power was nullified. The Jenoine are rather skilled in counterspells. Now I am unfettered, and, if there are no objections, I propose to use it. You don’t mind, do you, Vlad? Or have you other questions?”

  “If that means you intend to get us out of here,” I said, “then I’m all for it. If you have some other plan, we’ll have to negotiate.”

  “That’s my plan,” said Morrolan.

  “Not, however, theirs,” said Aliera, sweetly. I followed the direction of her gaze, and saw that the two Jenoine were back.

  “So,” I said to no one in particular. “I guess it comes down to negotiation after all.”

  I looked at the Jenoine, then glanced back, and saw, heard, and felt Pathfinder and Blackwand being drawn from their sheaths, Morrolan first transferring the staff to his left hand. Then he set the staff spinning; it seemed very light in his hand. I hoped he was doing more than showing off how good he was at making a stick spin.

  The wizard’s staff was spinning at his side, he held Blackwand in his other hand, and next to him stood Aliera, holding Pathfinder, with its point at the Jenoine’s face. In the Jhereg, we call this “negotiating from a position of strength.” I suspect the Dragons have a similar term.

  I didn’t have a position of strength. I didn’t draw a weapon, because I wasn’t sure what to draw, and because I was in no condition to wield a flyswatter.

  Teldra barked, coughed, grumbled, and chattered at them; one of them replied similarly. I strained to guess the tone of the conversation, then gave it up as hopeless.

  “Any idea, Loiosh?”

  “Sorry, Boss. Not a clue.”

  “I hate sitting around while other people decide what’s going to happen to me.”

  “Well, you can always do something stupid.”

  “No, I think I’m over that, for the moment.”

  “Note down the date.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  Morrolan and Aliera took a step toward the Jenoine; Teldra kept talking.