Steven Brust - Yendi

“Huh,” I said. “But what did you do to her?”

She gave me a dreamy kind of half-smile. “I believe I found a suitable punishment for her. I made her explain the entire affair to me, then—”

“Oh? What did she say?”

“Nothing surprising. She wished to conquer the East, and complained to the Sorceress in Green, who was her friend, that when Lord K’laiyer became Emperor, he wouldn’t authorize an invasion of the East. The sorceress came up with a scheme to make sure Adron became the Dragon Heir because they knew Adron would appoint Baritt to be Warlord, and Baritt was sympathetic to the invasion idea. Baritt agreed, mostly because he thought Adron would be a better Emperor than K’laiyer—sorry, Norathar.”

Norathar shrugged. Sethra continued.

“After Adron’s Disaster, they just let things lie. When Zerika took the throne and things got going again, Morrolan proved to be the heir. They arranged for Sethra the Younger to become friendly with Morrolan and found that he wouldn’t object to an invasion, so they relaxed. When Aliera showed up out of nowhere and became the heir, they went back to work again. They came up with the idea of discrediting Aliera and Morrolan, using your friendship with Vlad. They already knew Laris, because he’d done some of the dirty work in arranging the fake genetic scan. When Baritt refused to cooperate, they had Laris kill him. Then they used that as a threat to make Laris attack you. Apparently he was perfectly willing to take over your territory, Vlad, but had to be convinced not to kill you right away. They told him he could have you after their plans were complete. You know the rest, I think.”

I nodded. “Okay. Now, about Sethra the Younger . . . ”

“Oh, yes. I had the Necromancer gate her to another Plane. Similar to Dragaera, but time runs at a different rate there.”

“And she’s stuck?” It seemed rather harsh to me—better to kill her. Besides, I wasn’t nearly as upset with her as I was with the Sorceress in Green.

But, “No,” said Sethra. “She can come back when her task is finished. It shouldn’t take more than a week of our time.”

“Task?”

“Yes.” Once more, Sethra gave us her dreamy little smile. “I put her in the desert, with plenty of food, water, shelter, and a stick. And I set her to writing, ‘I will not interfere with the Dragon Council,’ in the sand, eighty-three thousand, five hundred and twenty-one times.”

Picture an old man—an Easterner, almost seventy years old, which is a very impressive age for our race. But he’s in good condition for his age. He is poor, but not destitute. He has raised a family in the midst of the Dragaeran Empire and done it well. He has buried (an Eastern term for “outlived”; I’m not sure why) a wife, a sister, a daughter, and two sons. The only surviving descendant is one grandson, who nearly gets himself killed every few weeks or so.

He is almost completely bald, with only a fringe of white hair. He is a large, portly man, yet his fingers are still nimble enough with the rapier to give a good battle to a younger man, and to shock the sorcery out of any Dragaeran who doesn’t understand Eastern-style fencing.

He lives in the Eastern ghetto, on the south side of Adrilankha. He ekes out a living as a witch, because he refuses to let his grandson support him. He worries about his grandson, but doesn’t let it show. He’ll help, but he won’t live through his children, and he won’t live their lives for them. When one of his sons tried to make himself into an imitation Dragaeran, he was saddened and felt his son was doomed to disappointment, but he never offered a word of criticism.

I went to see this old gentleman the day after Laris’s death. Walking through the filth in the streets made me want to retch, but I hid it. Anyway, we all know Easterners are filthy, right? Look at how they live. Never mind that they can’t use sorcery to keep their neighborhoods clean the way Dragaerans do. If they want to use sorcery, they can become citizens of the Empire by moving into the country and becoming Teckla, or buying titles in the Jhereg. Don’t want to be serfs? They’re stubborn, too, aren’t they? Don’t have the money to buy titles? Of course not! Who’d give them a good job, seeing how filthy they are?

I tried not to let it bother me. Cawti tried too, but I could see the strain around the comers of her eyes and feel it in the purposeful way she walked. I should have felt good about coming back here—successful Easterner boy walks through the old neighborhood. I should have, but I didn’t. I only felt sick.

There was no sign above my grandfather’s shop, and nothing on display. Everyone in the neighborhood knew who he was and what he did, and he didn’t care about anyone outside it. Dragaerans had stopped using witchcraft when the Interregnum ended and sorcery worked again.

As I walked under the doorway (no door), my head brushed a set of chimes and set them ringing. His back was to me, but I could see that he was making candles. He turned around and his face lit up in an almost toothless grin.

“Vladimir!” he said. He looked at me, smiled at Cawti, and stood looking at me again. He and I could communicate psionically (he had taught me how), but he refused to do so unless it was necessary. He considered psionic communication something too precious to use casually—though, as was his custom, he never criticized me for using psionics as I do. So we traveled when we wanted to speak with each other. And, since we had to pass through areas where Easterners walking alone are in danger, and since he refused to be teleported, he seldom left the area.

“Vladimir,” he said again. “And who is this?”

Loiosh flew over, as if the question had been about him, and happily accepted some neck scratching.

“Noish-pa,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Cawti.”

She gave him a curtsy, and he positively beamed.

“Cawti,” he repeated. “Do you have a patronymic?”

“Not anymore,” she said. I bit my lip. Someday I’d ask her what that meant, but not now.

He gave her a kindly smile, then looked at me, his eyes twinkling and a thin, white eyebrow climbing a broad forehead.

“We’d like to get married,” I said. “We want your blessing.”

He came forward and hugged her, and kissed both cheeks. Then he hugged me. When he pulled back, I saw tears at the comers of his eyes.

“I’m happy for you,” he said. Then his brows furrowed, for just a moment, but I knew what he was asking.

“She knows,” I said. “She’s in the same line of work herself.”

He sighed. “Oh, Vladimir, Vladimir. Be careful.”

“I will, Noish-pa. Things are looking better for me. I almost lost everything a while ago, but I’m all right now.”

“Good,” he said. “But how did you come to almost lose everything? That isn’t good.”

“I know, Noish-pa. For a while, the shadows were distracting me so I couldn’t see the target.”

He nodded. “But come in, have something to eat.”

“Thank you, Noish-pa.”

Cawti said, timidly (I think it was the only time in her life she’s been timid about anything), “Thank you . . . Noish-pa.”

And his grin became even wider as he led us inside.

The next day I moved into Laris’s old office and set up business. I met with Toronnan, and set about trying to take control of the area Laris had been running—but that really belongs to a different tale. Besides, as I speak these words, I don’t know how it’s going to turn out, so I may not be telling you about it after all. I’ve still got word out for Wyrn and Miraf’n, and money to pay for their heads, so I expect that very soon I’ll be seeing them—after a fashion.