Steven Brust: Dragon

Those veneers can be important when you're marching down toward rows of nasty pointy things.

Baritt died, that's what started it all. And Morrolan convinced me to set up a trap to find out who would be likely to steal what I preferred not to come anywhere near. Kragar, my lieutenant in the organization, looked worried when I told him about it, but I'm sure even he, who knew Dragons better than I ever would, had no clue how it would end up.

"What if someone does steal one, and you find out who," he said, "and it turns out to be someone you don't want to mess with?"

"That, of course, is the question. But it seems unlikely to be a Jhereg behind it."

"No, Vlad, it will be a Dragon. That's the problem."

Well, he was a Dragon; he should know. No, he wasn't a Dragon, he was a Jhereg, but he should still know. He had once been a Dragon, which meant—what?

I studied Kragar. I knew him better than I knew anyone I didn't know at all. We'd worked together as enforcers when I first entered the Jhereg, and we'd been working together ever since. He was the only Dragaeran I didn't hate, except maybe Kiera. Come to think of it, I didn't understand her, either.

Kragar was courageous, and timid, warmhearted, and vicious, and easygoing, and dedicated, and friendly, and utterly ruthless; as well as having the strange ability, or shortcoming, to blend into the woodwork so completely one could be staring right at him without realizing he was there.

I couldn't remember a single idea of mine that he hadn't thrown cold water on, nor a single one that he hadn't backed me on to the hilt—literally, in some cases.

"What is it?" he said.

"I was ruminating."

"Shouldn't you do that in private?"

"Oh, is someone here?"

"You're a riot, Vlad."

"In any case," I said, picking up the conversation from where it was lying in the middle of the floor, "there's a lot of money in it."

Kragar made a sound I won't attempt to describe. I could sense Loiosh holding back several remarks. It seems I surround myself with people who think I'm an idiot, which probably says something deep and profound about me.

"So," I said, "who do we put on it?"

"I don't know. We should probably go over there ourselves and look things over."

"I was afraid you'd say that."

He gave me a puzzled glance that went away quickly. There are matters on which Dragaerans and humans will never understand one another, and soul-killing weapons are, evidently, one of those. I mean, they hate them as much as or more than we do; but Dragaerans don't usually have the sort of overwhelming dread that such weapons inspire in a human. I don't know why that is.

"How do we get there?"

"I'll hire a coach."

Baritt had lived in a square, grey stone building on the outskirts of Adrilankha, in the hills to the west. He probably called it a castle. I could call my tunic a chair if I wanted to. It had three stories, a large front door, a couple of servants' entrances, a few glass windows, and a sharply sloped roof. His estate struck me as too rocky, and the soil too sandy, to be good for much. There was peasant activity, but not a great deal. There were a pair of guards in front of the main door, in the livery of the House of the Dragon. As Kragar and I approached, I saw one was wearing the same emblem that Morrolan's people sported; the other had a badge I didn't recognize.

I rehearsed the conversation I was about to have with them. I won't share it with you because the actual conversation disrupted my plans.

"Baronet Taltos?" said the one wearing Morrolan's badge.

I nodded.

"Please enter."

Trust me: The conversation I'd been prepared for would have been much more fun to relate. But there was compensation. The guard said, "Wait—who is he?" noticing Kragar for the first time.

"My associate," I said, keeping my chuckle on the inside.

"Very well," he said.

I glanced at the other guard, who was busy being expressionless. I wondered who he worked for.

Kragar and I passed within.

Rarely upon crossing a threshold have I been struck by such a sensation of entering a different world—I mean it felt as if between one step and another I had left Dragaera and entered a place at least as foreign as my Eastern ancestral homeland. The first surprise was that, after passing by the stone entryway of the stone house, you reached a foyer that was full of blown glass—vases, candelabra, empty decanters, and other glasswork were displayed on dark wooden pedestals or in cabinets. The walls were painted some color that managed to squeak in between white and yellow where no color ought to live, making everything seem bright and cheery and entirely at odds with any Dragonlord I'd ever met or heard of—and certainly with the Baritt I'd met in the Paths of the Dead.

My reverie was interrupted by Kragar saying, "Uh … Boss? Where are we going?"

"Good question." Most sorcerers would work either in a basement, where it's most reasonable to put any heavy objects they might need, or up in a tower, where there is less risk of wiping out the whole house if something goes wrong. In Baritt's case, probably some random room in a random place because it was convenient.

Loiosh moved nervously on my shoulder. We left the foyer and entered a sitting room of some sort, with more blown glass and decanters just like the others except full. On the wall to my left was a large oil of Baritt, looking imposing and dignified. There was a small door at the far end that should have led to the kitchen, and hallways heading off to the right and the left; one would presumably lead up a set of stairs to the bedchambers, the other to the rest of this floor. We took the one to the right and found a wide, straight stairway of polished white stone. We went back and tried the other hall, which looked more promising.

"Hey, Boss."

"Yeah, Loiosh?"

"There's something funny. I'm getting a feeling. It's like—"

"We're being watched, Vlad," said Kragar.

"Not really surprising," I said.

"I noticed first."

"Shut up."

"Ignore it, I think," I told Kragar. "It would be odd if no one had any surveillance spells. Should we try that door?"

"The big ironbound one with the rune carved on it, barred by a pair of Dragonlords with spears crossed in front of it? Why should it be that one?"

"You're funny, Kragar. Shut up, Kragar."

"Who are you, and what is your business?" said one of the guards, standing like a statue, her spear not moving from its position in front of the door.

"You know both answers," I told her.

She twitched a smile, which made me like her. "Yeah, but I have to ask. And you have to answer. Or you could leave. Or I could kill you."

"Baronet Taltos, House Jhereg, on an errand from Lord Morrolan, and for a minute there I liked you."

"I'm crushed," she said. Her spear snapped to her side; her companion's also moved, and the way was clear. She said, "Be informed that there is a teleport block in place around the house in general, and that it has been strengthened for that room."

"Is that a polite way of telling me not to try to steal anything?"

"I hadn't intended to be polite," she said.

I said, "Let's go."

"After you," said Kragar. Both guards twitched and then looked at him, as if they hadn't noticed him before, which they probably hadn't. Then they pretended they'd seen him all along, because to do anything else would have been undignified.

There didn't seem to be any way out of it, so I pulled back the bolt and opened the door.

There's a story, probably apocryphal but who cares, about Lishni, the inventor of the fire-ram. It seems he invented it out of desperation, having no other way for his flotilla of six cutters to escape a fleet of eight brigs and two ships of the line that had cut him off during what started as a minor action in one of the wars with Elde. As the story goes, after arming his cutters with his new invention, he went out, sank seven of the ten ships and damaged the other three, then, in another moment of inspiration, took his crews ashore, captured the Palace, and forced an unconditional surrender that ended the war right there. As he walked out of the Palace with the signed surrender in his hand, one of his subordinates supposedly asked him how he felt. "Fine," he said.