Steven Brust - Yendi

“ 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 honored, 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.

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.”