Steven Brust - Hawk

I was still doing that when I received word that Daymar had arrived in the office, and would like to see me. I offered up a silent prayer of thanks to Verra and told them to send him in.

Daymar entered, ignoring the various tough guys standing around, and walked up to me. He declined refreshment, and placed a brown egg, mostly round, and about a quarter of the diameter of my palm, on the table in front of me.

“That’s it?” I said.

“No,” said Daymar. “That’s a wood carving of a dragon, actual size.”

“Wow, Boss. Sarcasm from Daymar.”

“I know. My whole view of the world is turned on its head.”

I picked up the egg and studied it. It was warm, reminding me of Loiosh’s egg, so very long ago. It was almost weightless in my hand, and felt fragile; like I might break it if my finger twitched. I set it down again.

“Loiosh, can you feel anything from it?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You can feel a lot of-of whatever it is? Energy? Latent psychic power?”

“Yeah, Boss. A lot.”

“It won’t retain its potency more than a few days,” said Daymar.

“That’ll be enough,” I said. “Um. Any chance you got two? I’d like to practice this spell.”

“How soon?”

“A day?”

He shook his head.

“Okay. It should work. Thanks.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“The wand?”

“I ought to be able to get, uh, to get it by tomorrow. I didn’t forget about it. Is that all?”

I hesitated, wishing I’d remembered to do the spell when I had the amulet off. I could remove the amulet yet again, or I could ask Morrolan to do it.

But Daymar was here, and-

“I’m not sure if this is something you can do,” I said.

He an arched an eyebrow at me.

“I mean,” I said, “that it’s a witch thing. It’s the sort of thing witchcraft is really good at. But I can’t do any because of this amulet.”

“You took it off a few hours ago,” observed Daymar.

“Yeah, I was mad.”

“Oh. Couldn’t you have done this other thing then, since you had it off anyway?”

“No, it would have been an inauspicious time, because of the mystical fields of, well, it’s an Eastern religious thing.”

“I see. Well, what would you like me to do?”

“Exert a subtle influence on someone, without his being aware of it.”

“Ah,” said Daymar. He considered for a moment. “Just invade his mind enough to help him make a decision the way you want?”

“Sort of. To come up with an idea and make him think he thought of it.”

Daymar looked intrigued. “I think I can do that. Who is it you want it done to?”

I reached in my pocket and handed him the handkerchief I’d stolen from the Demon’s desk. He studied it. “What idea do you want him to have?”

“There’s a building right at the point where Kieron’s Watch used to be. It would be the perfect place for him to meet me. Think you can suggest that without alerting him?”

Daymar looked directly at me. “Vlad, I think I can do it, but I’m not sure. I’d really appreciate it if you’d let me try. This is, well, this is exciting.”

I did kind of owe him.

“Of course,” I said.

About two minutes later, Daymar went out the way he’d come in: walking, just like a normal person. I wondered if that annoyed him. I hoped it did, at least a little. Yeah, I’m a bad man.

“All right,” I told Loiosh. “Let’s assume it worked. Time to visit the jeweler.”

I declined the offer of an escort, and took the tunnel. I made sure my rapier was loose, and checked a couple of the unsurprising surprises I keep around me, then waited just a bit longer to let my eyes adjust. Loiosh and Rocza flew out, reported that everything looked all right, and I stepped out once more onto the busy, dirty, terrifying streets of Adrilankha. I cut across a street, down an alley, then left, then right a good distance, and stepped into a storefront shop in the middle of a row of cheap yellow brick rooming houses.

Athek is and always has been a dealer in high-end stolen merchandise, especially jewelry. I know it, the Empire knows it, and I’m sure the dirty kids playing bones-and-muffins on the street outside know it. And he knows me; Kiera introduced us years ago. He wasn’t her favorite fence, but he was close to my office. Which was not, in fact, why I was there today.

“Lord Taltos,” he said, looking nervous enough to confirm that he knew I was marked for a shine. He was a Jhegaala, with a full head of white hair and a permanent squint.

“Close up,” I told him.

He nodded nervously, and walked around the counter to the door, locked it, and went back to the counter, sort of edging past me as if I were a poisonous reptile. Of course, I did have a couple of poisonous reptiles on my shoulders, which might have had something to do with it.

“My lord?” he said.

“I need a plain unadorned, platinum ring.”

“Yes, my lord. I have-”

“No, I need a particular one,” I told him, and watched his expression carefully.

* * *

On the third floor of the Imperial Wing of the Palace is a dusty room in which, by tradition, ancient Imperial relics are stored. Three doors lead out of it. One is the hall; one is a closet where janitor’s tools are stored; the other is to the tiny room where, once a year, the Master of Upper Repositories spreads out the paperwork that corresponds to the relics, and makes sure that it does, in fact, correspond to the relics on hand.

The rest of the time, that room is used by a small group of Imperial operatives. The leader-whose identity is kept strictly secret-reports directly to Her Majesty. The group carries no identification, except that each wears a simple, unadorned platinum ring on the middle finger of his left hand.

The rings have no special magic on them except for a unique, imprinted identification mark. The spell was designed and each ring treated personally by Kosadr. According to the best arcane knowledge, there is no way to duplicate this spell. When I first learned about them-that’s its own story-I asked Sethra, and even she agreed. I don’t know about you, but I find that convincing.

On the first Homeday of the month of the Vallista in the two hundred and fifty-first year of the reign of Zerika the Fourth, Lord Bristoe-Camfor, House of the Dzur, of the Third Floor Relic group, was found dead behind a pawnshop a mile and a half from the Imperial Palace. A dagger had been driven up under his chin into his brain. Other than the wound, he had not been disturbed, except that his ring was missing.

Third Floor Relic carried on its own investigation, as did the Special Tasks group (commanded by a guy nicknamed “Papa Cat,” an old acquaintance who didn’t like me much). As usual with such matters, each group was more worried about the other group finding it than they were about not finding it themselves. It took several weeks, but the trail being followed by Third Floor Relic eventually led to the Jhereg owner of the pawnshop. Fittra of Third Floor Relic knew that it was unheard-of for a Jhereg to knowingly kill an Imperial operative. Furthermore, no Jhereg would ever let a body be found near his own place of business if he had anything to do with it. All of which, taken together, meant that something else was going on. Meanwhile, at this same time, Special Tasks bowed out of the investigation.

Maybe the Jhereg hadn’t known he was an Imperial operative. Maybe someone else had arranged the whole thing, using the Jhereg as a tool. Maybe.

But when one of their own is killed, the Empire is not fussy about who gets hurt during the investigation. In this case, a lot of people were hurt, starting with the owner of the pawnshop.