Steven Brust - Phoenix

"I guess I'm distracted."

"Well, who is she?"

I shook my head and went back to brooding, being a little more careful this time. Morrolan read, Aliera stroked a grey cat who had set up shop in the library. I finished the wine and refused a second glass.

"Tell me," I said aloud, "where the gods come from."

Morrolan and Aliera looked at me, then at each other. Morrolan cleared his throat and said, "It varies. Some are actually Jenoine who survived the creation of the Great Sea of Chaos. Others are servants of theirs who managed to adapt when it occurred and use its energy, either while it was happening or during the millennia that followed."

"Some," added Aliera, "are simply wizards who have become immortal, and acquired the power to exist on more than one plane at the same time."

"Well, then," I said, "how are they different from demons?"

"A matter of interpretation only," said Morrolan. "Demons can be summoned and controlled, gods cannot."

"Even by other gods?"

"Correct."

"So if a god were to control another god, that god would become a demon?"

"That is correct. If we were to learn of it, we would begin to refer to that god as a demon."

"It seems pretty arbitrary."

"It is," said Aliera. "But it's still significant. If a god is just a force with a personality, it makes a big difference whether it can be controlled, don't you think?"

"What about the Lords of Judgment?"

"What about them?"

"How do they get there?"

"War," said Morrolan, "or bribery, or from friendship with other gods."

"Why do they want to?"

"I don't know," said Morrolan. "Do you, Aliera?"

She shook her head. "Why all the questions?"

"Something to talk about," I lied.

"Do you wish to become a god?" asked Morrolan. "Not particularly," I said. "Do you?"; "No. I don't care for the responsibility."

I snorted. "To whom are they responsible?" "To themselves, to each other." "Your Demon Goddess doesn't seem particularly responsible." Aliera jerked upright, almost stood, and her hand almost went for Pathfinder. I drew back. "Sorry," I said. "I didn't think you'd take it personally."

She glowered at me for a moment, then shrugged, Morrolan looked at Aliera, then turned back to me and said, "She is responsible, though. She's unpredictable, and capricious, but she rewards loyalty, and she won't cause a servant to act in a way that will harm him."

"What if she makes a mistake?"

He looked at me closely. "There's always that danger, of course."

I said no more, but considered what I'd been told. It still felt just a bit scandalous to be speaking of my patron goddess this way, as if she were a mutual acquaintance whose strengths and weaknesses of character we might bandy about for amusement. But if what they'd told me was true, then either she had some sort of plot going which would, perhaps accidentally, make everything come out all right, or else something had screwed up at, let's say, a very high level.

Or Morrolan and Aliera were wrong, of course.

Lady Teldra appeared at the door and announced the Princess Norathar: Duchess of Ninerocks, Countess of Haewind, et cetera, et cetera, and Dragon Heir to the Throne. Not as tall as Morrolan, not as strong-looking as Sethra, yet she had a grace about her movements.

Ex-assassin was left out of the list, but as an assassin, she had worked with Cawti as part of one of the most sought-after teams of killers in the Jhereg, hard as that was to believe listening to either one of them now. I knew something about her skills as a fighter; she'd killed me once.

Norathar walked over to the tray of strong liquors, found a brownish one that she liked, and poured herself a tumbler full. She took a good third of it off the top and stood facing us. She said, "The Empress has given leave for the Lady Taltos to be released. The Lady Taltos has refused."

She sat down then and had some more of her drink. Loiosh, on my right shoulder, squeezed with his talons.

"Refused?" I said at last, in what I think was a steady voice.

"Yes," said Norathar. "She explained that she would wait with her companions until they were all free." I could now hear the strain of her voice, as she worked to speak clearly and calmly. She was a Dragonlord down to her toes, like Morrolan and Aliera, and in the time since she'd been made the Heir, she had changed, so these days she seemed more tightly controlled than either of them. But now this control was frightening, as if it only barely held in check a rage that could destroy Castle Black.

I noticed all of this with the back of my mind, as I concentrated on keeping my own temper in check, at least until I could decide at whom it should be directed.

Then, suddenly, I realized who that should be, and I said, "Lord Morrolan, you have a room, high up in a tower, with many windows in it. I would like to visit that place."

He looked at me for a long moment before he said, "Yes. Go, Vlad, with my blessing."

Left out the door, down the hallway to the wide, black marble stairway leading to the Front Hall. Down the stairs, out of the Hall toward the South Wing, then up, jog past the lower dining room, past the southern guest rooms, up a half-flight, turn around, around, through a heavy door that opens to my command, since I work for Morrolan and helped set up the spells that guard it.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, boss?" "Of course not. Don't ask stupid questions." "Sorry."

A room all in black, lit by candles made from tallow from fat rendered from the hindquarters of a virgin with wicks made from the roots of the neverlost vine, whole scented with cradleberry, so the room smelled lik the last dregs of a sweet wine just starting to turn to vinegar. Four of them were lit, and they danced to celebrate my arrival.

Artifacts of Morrolan's experiments in witchcraft littered small and large tables, and his stone altar, black against black, was just barely discernible at the far end. Here I had lain helpless while Morrolan battled a demon that had taken his own sword from him. Here I had parlayed with spirits from my ancestral home for the release of the Necromancer's soul. Here I had battled with my own likeness, come to take me to that land from which none return.

But never mind, never mind. I stepped onto the narrow, metal stairway, which twisted around and brought me at last into the Tower of Windows, where I had once tortured a sorceress into releasing the spells that prevented Morrolan's revivification. That was pretty recent, and the taste of the experience was still in my mouth. But never mind that, either.

The surest way to achieve communion with Verra, the Demon Goddess, involves human sacrifice, which my grandfather had made me swear never to do. Yet I believe that if I had had the means at hand, I would have done so then. I looked about the tower, filled with windows which did not look upon the courtyard below, some of which did not look upon the world I knew, some of which did not look upon reality as I understood it. I tried to prepare my mind for what I was about to do.

I arbitrarily picked a window, a low wide one, and sat down before it. It looked out upon dense fog, swirling, through which I saw trees and tall shrubs, as well as quick movements that were probably small animals. I had no way of knowing if I was seeing my own world or some other, nor did it matter.

Loiosh settled onto my shoulder, and his mind merged more fully with my own. I went back to my earliest memories concerning the Demon Goddess, instructions from my grandfather in the proper rituals, tales of battles with other gods, especially Barlen, her enemy and lover. I remembered seeing her in the Paths of the Dead, her strange voice, and her multi-jointed fingers, and her eyes that seemed to see past me and into me at the same time. I remembered her when she had commissioned me to kill the King of Greenaere; was it only days ago?