Steven Brust - Yendi

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?”

“Not yet,” he said. “Aliera is speaking to the Dragon Council about setting up an inquiry. It may take a few more days.”

I looked back at Norathar and Cawti, who were talking a few paces away from us. Morrolan was silent. It is a very rare skill in a man, and far more rare in an aristocrat, to know when to be still, but Morrolan had it. I shook my head as I watched Cawti. First, I’d become angry with her, then I had poured out my problems at her feet; when all the time her partner of—how long?—at least five years, was on the verge of becoming a Dragonlord.

By the Demon Goddess! What Cawti must have gone through as a child would have been very much like what I went through, or worse. Her friendship with Norathar must have been like my relationship with Loiosh, and she was watching it end. Gods, but I can be an insensitive ass when I try!

I looked at Cawti then, from behind and to the side. I’d never really looked at her before. As any man with the least amount of experience can tell you, looks mean absolutely nothing as far as bedding is concerned. But Cawti would have been attractive by the standards of any human. Her ears were round, not the least bit pointed, and she had no trace of facial hair. (Contrary to some Dragaerans’ belief, only male Easterners have whiskers—I don’t know why.) She was smaller than I, but she had long legs that made her seem taller than she was. A thin face, almost hawklike, and piercing brown eyes. Hair was black, perfectly straight, falling below her shoulders. She obviously paid a fair amount of attention to it, because it glistened in the light and was cut off exactly even.

Her breasts were small, but firm. Her waist, slender. Her buttocks were also small, and her legs slim but well muscled. Most of this, you understand, I was remembering rather than seeing, but as I looked, I decided that, even on this level, I’d done rather well for myself. A crude way of putting it, I suppose, but—

She turned away from Norathar and caught me looking at her. For some reason, this pleased me. I held out my left arm as she came up; she pressed it. I reached for contact with her and it came more easily than last time.

“ Cawti . . . ”

“ It’s all right, Vladimir .”

Norathar came up to us then, and said, “I’d like a word with you, Lord Taltos.”

“Call me ‘Vlad.’ ”

“As you wish. Excuse us,” she said to the others, and we walked a bit away.

Before she could say anything I started in. “If you’re going to give me any of the don’t-you-dare-hurt-her dung, you can forget it.”

She gave me a thin smile. “You seem to know me,” she said. “But why should I forget it? I mean it, you know. If you hurt her needlessly, I’ll kill you. I just feel I should tell you that.”

“The wise falcon hides his claws,” I said, “and it’s the poor assassin who warns his target.”

“Are you trying to make me angry with you, Vlad? I care about Cawti. I care enough to destroy anyone who causes her pain. I feel I should let you know, so you can avoid doing it.”

“How kind of you. What about you? Haven’t you hurt her more than I ever could?”

To my surprise, she didn’t even start to get angry. She said, “It may look that way, and I know I’ve hurt her, but not as badly as you could. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”

I shrugged. “I don’t see that it matters,” I said. “The way things are looking, I’m liable to be dead in a week or two anyway.”