Steven Brust: Dragon

"All right," I said. "Do whatever you have to do."

"It's done," he said.

"I believe him, Boss. Something happened."

I graced Kragar with another look. In case I've failed to communicate it, I wasn't entirely comfortable with how things had worked themselves out, and Kragar presented an easy and not unreasonable target; he accepted the role with good grace.

Loiosh said, "Don't worry, Boss; it'll all work perfectly. No, really."

I turned to Daymar. "How does it work?"

"If any of those weapons are moved from this room, I'll receive a psychic impression of whoever moved it."

"Then what?"

"Whatever you want. I can put you in touch with him, or get a location—"

"You can? You can?"

"Why, yes," he said, looking slightly startled. "Is something amiss?"

I don't know why I should have thought we'd be done with him. Wishful thinking, I suppose.

"All right," I said. "I think we can say we've done all we have to here. Let's go."

"Where are we going?" asked Daymar.

I started to answer, bit it off, gave Kragar a pleading look, and made my escape. Whatever Kragar said must have worked; at least Daymar didn't follow us back to the office.

That day, I was prepared to call even that a victory.

3—On Stolen Swords and Borrowed Books

We had closed a good share of the distance between us before they broke into a run. I'd thought (insofar, that is, as I'd been thinking at all) that they were going to stop, take a defensive position, and wait for our attack, as we'd done when they'd charged us, and on reflection, they probably should have. They had spears, and if they'd just held steady and stuck them out, it would have been ugly for us. But that wasn't how they played it—they came right at us, maybe hoping we'd back down, turn, and run. Strategically a bad move, psychologically sound. Or, to put it another way, seeing them coming at us scared the shit out of me, a feeling mitigated only by the nasty pleasure of knowing how it felt to charge up a hill.

But there was no way we could stop, you see; the juice-drum was rattling around us, we were already moving, and we'd become a juggernaut, plowing forward, bristling with points, and at a certain stage I stopped feeling fear. I stopped feeling anything. I just went ahead and did it because there was nothing else to do. Even my own mission, my private plans and intentions, went out of my head, and the means became the end: I was advancing because my company was advancing, and when we met them we'd destroy them because that was what we did. It was never my job, but for a while, as I said, that didn't occur to me.

It was all different. I don't mean this battle in particular, but battle in general. I still wasn't used to it. Did anyone ever get used to it? If so, how? Except someone like Napper, and he was nuts.

I'd known battle would be different from assassination, and even different from the street brawls I'd been forced into from time to time, but knowing it and living it are not the same. I'm used to cold, but battle is hot; I'm used to precision, but war is chaos; I'm used to trying to kill, but this kind of fighting involved trying to stay alive.

The sound of footsteps, my own and my comrades', blended with the juice-drum, then overpowered it and became a rhythm that I picked up in my head to the echo of "Why? Why? Why? Why?" which was far too philosophical for the moment. We hardened soldiers, you see, are philosophical in camp, but very practical in the field. That was something else I learned. In camp, you have to be philosophical, or crazy, or funny, or nasty, or something, just to keep yourself from going out of your head while you're waiting for another chance to be a hero. It's a means of passing the time. That is one similarity between Dragons and Jhereg I can't deny: we know how to wait.

Another is that we don't like waiting. For my part, if something is going to happen, I'd just as soon that it happened quickly. With that in mind, I suppose you could say I got lucky way back at the beginning of all this, when I tried to carry out Morrolan's mission: I didn't have to wait. We heard from Daymar the very morning after we set the psychic trap.

I was just settling into my chair and enjoying the rare pleasure of an empty desk; if there's something on the desk, it usually means there is something I ought to be doing. I was about to have my secretary bring me some klava when Kragar, whom I had not noticed enter my office, said, "Someone stole one of the weapons, Vlad."

"Melestav!" I called. "Please bring me some klava."

"Right away, Boss," he answered from the next room.

Kragar began again, "Vlad—"

"I heard you. I'm going to pretend I didn't. I'm going to have some klava. Then you can tell me about it."

"If you want it directly, I could have Daymar—"

"No."

"Let me see if I understand. Do I take it you don't want Daymar to—"

"Kragar, shut up and let me drink my klava. Then you can be funny. If you try to be funny before I've had my klava, I will probably have to kill you, and then I'll be sad."

"Ah. Well. I wouldn't want you to be sad."

I squeezed my eyes tightly shut. When I opened them Kragar was gone. A little later Melestav tiptoed in, set a steaming cup in front of me, and tiptoed out again.

"Well, we're in some kind of mood today, aren't we, Boss?"

"I was fine when I got here."

I drank my klava slowly. There is a perfect way to position the lips on the cup to take in just the right amount of klava to avoid burning yourself. Everything comes with practice. I reflected on practice and on annoyance and I drank my klava and then I called for Kragar.

"Okay," I said. "Let's have it."

"I got word from Daymar this morning that his psychic alarm had been tripped sometime last night. He says it failed to wake him, for which he sends his apologies—"

"Apologies? I didn't think he did that."

"—and suggests that the thief must be quite accomplished."

"All right. We'd best head over and see what was taken."

"He knows what was taken: one greatsword, very large, not terribly potent. Plain cross-guard with brass knobs, leather grips, sharp on one edge and part of the other, enough of a point for stabbing."

I tried to call up a memory of that weapon, failed, but Loiosh managed—he put the picture into my mind. I saw it leaning against a wall along with several cousins. I hadn't noticed it; it had been utterly undistinctive and, for a Morganti blade, not even very well constructed.

"So, just as a guess, Kragar, I'd say it was a test, rather than that blade they were after. What do you think?"

"Possible. Or there's something about it we don't know. History, enchantments, something like that."

"Could be that, too. Any suggestions about what we do next?"

"You could always hire Kiera to steal it back."

"Letting whoever it is know that we know, for which we'd get a probably useless weapon. Any useful suggestions?"

"Whatever we do, we have to find whoever it was who took it. I presume Daymar will be able to find out."

"Right. See to it."

"Me?"

"Yes. I designate you Speaker to Daymar."

"Thank you so much."

"I pride myself on knowing my subordinates and matching tasks to their skills."

"Don't start, Vlad."

There was actually a bit of truth in that remark—though only a bit. Since I'd been in control of the area, one of the things I was learning was what I could delegate and what I had to do myself. In fact, a little later I ran into a situation where—but never mind. That's another story.

Kragar left; I stared off into space. Loiosh said, "You worried, Boss?"

"I'm a worrier, chum."

Unfortunately, there was nothing much to do that day, so I got to be pensive. I wanted to get up and pace, wander around the office, sit back down, and do all the things one does when one is nervous. But it's just no damn good letting your subordinates think you're easy to shake, so I sat at my desk, cooked some meals in my mind, remembered past lovers, and exchanged banter with Loiosh.