Steven Brust - Yendi

Yendi

By Steven Brust

Book 2

1

of the Adventures of Vlad Taltos

Introduction

When I was young, I was taught that every citizen of the Dragaeran Empire was born into one of the seventeen Great Houses, each named for an animal. I was taught that humans, or “Easterners,” such as I, were worthless scum. I was taught that the only choices we had, if we wished to amount to anything, were to swear fealty to some lord and become part of the peasant clans in the House of the Teckla, or, as my father did, buy Orders of Nobility in the House of the Jhereg.

Later, I found a wild jhereg, and trained him, and set about to leave my mark on Dragaeran society.

When I was older, I learned that most of what I had been taught were lies.

Table of Contents

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

next

Book 2 by publishing order,

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internal series chronology.

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One

“Stay out of sight, in case they get rude.”

Kragar says that life is like an onion, but he doesn’t mean the same thing by it that I do.

He talks about peeling it, and how you can go deeper and deeper, until finally you get to the center and nothing is there. I suppose there’s truth in that, but in the years when my father ran a restaurant, I never peeled an onion, I chopped them; Kragar’s analogy doesn’t do much for me.

When I say that life is like an onion, I mean this: if you don’t do anything with it, it goes rotten. So far, that’s no different from other vegetables. But when an onion goes bad, it can do it from either the inside, or the outside. So sometimes you get one that looks good, but the core is rotten. Other times, you can see a bad spot on it, but if you cut that out, the rest is fine. Tastes sharp, but that’s what you paid for, isn’t it?

Dzurlords like to fancy themselves as pantry chefs who go around cutting the rotten parts out of onions. Trouble is, they generally can’t tell the good from the bad. Dragonlords are good at finding bad spots, but when they find one they like to throw out the whole barrelful. A Hawklord will find a bad spot every time. He’ll watch you cook the thing, and eat it, and he’ll nod sagaciously when you spit it out again. If you ask why he didn’t tell you about it, he’ll look startled and say, “You didn’t ask.”

I could go on, but what’s the point? In the House Jhereg, we don’t care teckla droppings about bad spots. We’re just here to sell onions.

But sometimes someone will pay me to remove a bad spot. This had earned me thirty-two hundred gold Imperials that day, and to let the tension drain out I visited the more or less permanent party at the keep of the Lord Morrolan. I was sort of on his staff, as a security consultant, which gave me a standing invitation.

Lady Teldra let me in as I recovered from the teleport and I made my way to the banquet hall. I studied the mass of humanity (I use the term loosely) from the doorway, looking for familiar faces, and soon spotted the tall form of Morrolan himself.

Guests who didn’t know me watched as I moved toward him; some made remarks intended for me to overhear. I always attract attention at Morrolan’s parties—because I’m the only Jhereg there; because I’m the only “Easterner” (read: “human”) there; or because I walk in with my jhereg familiar, Loiosh, riding on my shoulder.

“Nice party,” I told Morrolan.

“ Where are the trays of dead teckla, then? ” said Loiosh psionically.

“Thank you, Vlad. It pleases me that you are here.”

Morrolan always talks like that. I think he can’t help it.

We wandered over to a table where one of his servants was pouring out small draughts of various wines, commenting on them as he did. I got a glass of red Darloscha and sipped it. Nice and dry, but it would have been better chilled. Dragaerans don’t understand wine.

“Good evening Vlad; Morrolan.”

I turned and bowed low to Aliera e’Kieron, Morrolan’s cousin and Dragon Heir to the Throne. Morrolan bowed and squeezed her hand. I smiled. “Good evening, Aliera. Any duels, yet?”

“Why yes,” she said. “Did you hear?”

“As a matter of fact, no; I was being facetious. You really do have a duel lined up?”

“Yes, for tomorrow. Some teckla of a Dzurlord noticed how I walk and made remarks.”

I shook my head and tsked. “What’s his name?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ll find out tomorrow. Morrolan, have you seen Sethra?”

“No. I assume she is at Dzur Mountain. Perhaps she will show up later. Is it important?”

“Not really. I think I’ve isolated a new e’Mondaar recessive. It’ll wait.”

“I am interested,” said Morrolan. “Would you be pleased to tell me of it?”

“I’m not sure what it is yet . . . ” said Aliera. The two of them walked off. Well, Morrolan walked. Aliera, who was the shortest Dragaeran I’ve ever met, levitated, her long, silver-blue dress running along the ground to hide the fact. Aliera had golden hair and green eyes—usually. Although she wasn’t carrying it now, she also had a sword that was longer than she was. She had taken the sword from the hand of Kieron the Conquerer, the head of her line, in the Paths of the Dead. There’s a story in there, too, but never mind.

Anyway, they walked away, and I drew on my link with the Imperial Orb, did a small sorcery spell, and chilled the wine. I sipped it again. Much better.

“ The problem for tonight, Loiosh, is: how am I going to get laid? ”

“ Boss, sometimes you disgust me. ”

“ Tell me about it. ”

“ Aside from that, if you own four brothels— ”

“ I’ve decided I don’t like visiting brothels. ”

“ Eh? Why not? ”

“ You wouldn’t understand. ”

“ Try me. ”

“ All right. Put it this way: sex with Dragaerans feels more than half like bestiality, anyway. With whores, it feels like paying the . . . whatever. ”

“ Go on, boss. Finish the sentence. Now I’m curious. ”

“ Oh, shut up. ”

“ What is it about killing someone that makes you so horny, anyway? ”

“ Got me. ”

“ You need a wife. ”

“ Go to Deathsgate. ”

“ We did that once, remember? ”

“ Yeah. And I remember how you felt about the giant jhereg there. ”

“ Don’t start on that, boss. ”

“ Then shut up about my sex life. ”

“ You brought it up. ”

There was nothing to say to that, so I let it drop. I sipped my wine again, and felt that peculiar, nagging sensation of there’s-something-I-ought-to-be-thinking-about that heralds someone trying to reach me psionically. I quickly found a quiet corner and opened up my mind for contact.

“ How ’ s the party, boss? ”

“ Not bad, Kragar. What ’ s up that can ’ t wait for morning? ”

“ Your bootblack is here. He ’ s going to be made Issola Heir to the Throne tomorrow, so he ’ s finishing up his calls. ”