Steven Brust - Taltos

Oh, yeah: money. Crap.

“You okay, boss?”

“I’ll live, Loiosh. You?”

“I think I’ll live.”

“Good.”

First step is getting the door open. Loraan may not be able to detect it when someone uses witchcraft within his keep, but I’m not going to bet my life on it; at least not unless I have to.

So I pulled a vial of oil from within my cloak, opened it, smeared its contents on the hinges, and tested the door. No, it wasn’t locked, and yes, it opened silently. I put the oil away, sealing it carefully. Kiera had taught me that. This, you understand, is how assassins are able to sneak around so quietly: we cheat.

There was no light in the hall, and there shouldn’t be any random boxes, either, according to Kragar’s source. My favorite kind of door (an unlocked one) guarded the room where I chose to spend the remaining hours until the early morning hour I had selected. More oil, and I was inside. There was about a ten-to-one chance against anyone disturbing me in this room. If anyone did, Loiosh would wake me up and I’d kill the intruder. No sweat. Assuming no trouble, Loiosh would keep track of time for me and wake me at the right hour. I spread out my cloak, closed my eyes, and rested. Eventually I slept.

The city of Adrilankha is most of County Whitecrest, which is a thin strip of land along the southern seacoast. The name “Adrilankha” means “bird of prey” in the secret language of the House of the Orca, which no one speaks anymore. The story is that the mariners who first sighted the area along the red cliffs thought it looked like such a bird, with bright red wings held high, head down at the sea level where the Sunset River cut through the land.

The low area around the river is where the docks were built, and the city grew up from it, until now most of the city is high above the docks and a long way inland. The two “wings” of the bird don’t look much like wings anymore, since the northern wing, called Kieron’s Watch, collapsed into the sea a few hundred years ago.

The southern wing has many good places from which to watch the waves crashing, and ships coming and going, and like that. I remember sitting there doing that sort of watching and not thinking about anything in particular when a Dragaeran—an Orca and probably a seaman—came staggering up next to me.

I turned and looked him over and decided he was drunk. He was pretty old, I think. At least, his face had turned into a prune, which doesn’t usually happen to Orcas until they’re at least a couple thousand years old.

As he came up, his eyes fell on me and I backed up a couple of steps from the cliff edge out of an instinctive mistrust of Dragaerans. He noticed this and laughed. “So, whiskers, you don’t want to go swimming today?”

When I didn’t say anything, he said, “Answer me. You want to go swimming or not?” I couldn’t think of anything to say so I remained quiet, watching him. He snarled and said, “Maybe you ought to just leave, whiskers, before I send you for a swim whether you want one or not.”

I don’t know for sure why I didn’t leave. Certainly I was frightened—this man was much older than the punks I usually had to deal with, and he looked tougher, too. But I just stood there, watching him. He took a step toward me, perhaps just to frighten me away. I took my lepip from my pants and held it at my side. He stared at it, then laughed.

“You think you’re going to hit me with that, is that it? Here, I’ll show you how to use one of those things.” And he came at me with his hand out, to take it away.

What I remember most vividly is the cold thrill in my stomach as I realized I wasn’t going to let him take my weapon. This wasn’t a bunch of kids out to have a lark and vent their frustration at whatever it was they were frustrated about—this was a grown man. I knew I was committing myself to something that would have far-reaching effects, though I couldn’t have put it that way then.

Anyway, as soon as he was in reach I cracked him one on the side of the head. He stumbled and fell to his knees. He looked up at me, and I saw in his eyes that there wasn’t a beating at stake anymore; that he’d kill me if he had the chance. He started to stand up and I went for him with the lepip. I missed, but he fell over backward, rolled, and came to his knees again.

His back was to the cliff, about two steps behind him. The next time he tried to stand up, I stepped up and very deliberately shoved him backward with the lepip.

He screamed all the way down, and I couldn’t hear the splash over the sound of the waves crashing against the cliff.

I put my lepip back in my pants and walked straight home, wondering if I should be feeling something.

“... C’mon, boss, time to get up. There are six Dragon warriors here, and they all want to duel with you. Let’s go! There’s a Dzur hero knocking on the door asking about his daughter, better get up. Okay boss, wake up! The Great Sea of Chaos has just moved into the next bedroom and it insists that you have a better view. Wakey wakey.”

Waking up in the middle of the night, in a damp storage closet, wedged between dried kethna ribs and a tub of lard, with a wise-ass jhereg thundering smart remarks in your mind, has little to recommend it.

“All right, stuff it, Loiosh.”

I got up and stretched, worrying about the sound my joints were making, though that was silly. I buckled on this and checked that. I moved over to the door and spent a few minutes listening to make sure there was no one out there. I opened the door, which was still lubricated. Then left down the hall, eighteen paces, oil the door, open it.

I was in the back of the kitchen. The morning cook wouldn’t be started for another couple of hours, and there were no guards here. I moved across the kitchen and found the door I wanted. Oil, open, walk. If the bastard had been a little poorer, he would have had leather hinges on his doors, which are easier to deal with. Or even empty doorways with curtains. Oil, open, walk. First checkpoint.

This door led down into the sublevels, and there were a pair of Dragaeran guards here, in addition to sorcerous alarms. The sorcery was simple and straightforward; mostly token, and I had what the Left Hand of the Jhereg calls a “device” and an Eastern witch would call a “charm” for dealing with it. The guards would be more difficult. They were more or less facing me and, unfortunately, awake.

I kill people for money; I don’t like doing it when I don’t have to. But sometimes there just isn’t any other way. I studied the guards standing there and tried to think of a way to avoid killing them.

I did not succeed.

Some time before this I had assassinated a certain moneylender who, it turned out, had been skimming more than his share out of the profits. His employer had been very upset and wanted me to “make a example outta the sonufa-bitch.” The boss arranged to meet the guy in a big, crowded inn at the busiest time. The boss didn’t show; instead, I did. When my target sat down, I walked straight up to him, put a dagger into his left eye, and walked out of the place.

One thing I remember about that is the wave of reaction that followed me out the door, as the patrons of the inn noticed the blood, the body, the event. None of them were able to describe me, though many of them saw me. What I’m getting at is the advantage of surprise—of the attack that comes with no warning whatsoever. One moment all is peaceful, the next there is an Easterner in your face, knives flashing.

I hauled the bodies of the guards into the kitchen so they wouldn’t be quite so obvious, then I picked the lock and headed down into the dungeon.

I guess it was my grandfather who really helped keep me going after my father died. It was funny how he did it. I mean, I’ve always hated being alone, but my grandfather felt that, at fourteen, I had to be independent, so he never responded to my hints that I could move in with him. Instead, he spent even more hours teaching me witchcraft and fencing, to give me something to do in my spare time.