Steven Brust - Hawk

There was terror, of course, like I said.

And anger right next to it-at the Jhereg for killing me, and at myself for getting caught, and, stupidly, at Morrolan for having had the means whereby I was set up.

And, most peculiarly, a sense of calm that was so strong it washed over everything else, and seemed as if it came from a place inside of me that I’d never been aware of before. I had time to feel a certain relaxation steal over me before-

The stupid little blade-a longsword in form, but tiny in essence-is rushing at me, its greed and hunger a wave of red, but the change to the pale green of fear is so abrupt I’m tempted to laugh, though of course I do not. I brush it away and for a long, long quarter of a second I fasten myself around its metaphorical throat, just to show it what I can do. There is a shapeless, pulsing mass of life behind it, and I admit to myself that it tempts me-I am still weak from my recent exertions-but HE was upset the last time, so I let the hunger pass over and through me and I move just a little, and a coolness washes over me; I feel good about what I have done, and what I have refrained from doing.

And time holds still; time doesn’t breathe. There is no motion, no sound-everything is holding, there is a waiting time as if waiting were the only existence, as if the universe itself were nothing but the space between events, and would last forever that way. And in this waiting time there is an adjustment that is not physical, or emotional, or spiritual; it is an adjustment in mood and in the way sensations might be experienced. The timeless time re-forms itself, and I am here and there, and HE is there and here, and we are forever separate, unique, apart-and one being at a level too profound to express. It is our very inseparability that makes us forever distinct; the uniqueness of our beings that keeps us together. And with that realization, motion starts up again, slowly, grinding, unsure of where to go.

At that moment, a thought forms, as if in words; directionless, though the mind behind the voice is an old friend: Sethra sends her regards, it says, and pleasure washes through me that I have not been forgotten.

I swung Lady Teldra to point to the sorceress who stood, frozen, behind and over the body that still clutched the Morganti longsword in its lifeless hands.

“What foul sorcery is this?” she said.

“Pretty standard foul sorcery; nothing special.”

“Okay,” she said. “Just checking.”

“There’s blood on my boots,” I said. “Do you know how much I hate blood on my boots? It really, really pisses me off. Scrub, scrub, scrub, that’s what I’ll be doing. Or I’ll just have to get new boots. Days waiting for them. You just had to get blood on my boots, didn’t you? Oh, and did I mention that I hate getting blood on my boots?”

“You picked the wrong line of work then,” she said. “Are you going to use that thing, or just keep it in my face for the next week?”

“I’m still deciding,” I said.

Okay, I admit it: I was impressed. Acting brave when someone might be about to kill you takes something. The same act when someone is holding a Morganti blade takes a lot more. And to pull it off when staring down the pointy end of a Great Weapon is, well, I couldn’t do it.

Okay, maybe I kind of did it once, but I was really mad that time. In any case, I was impressed.

“What’s your name?”

“Disaka.”

“Was this what it seemed? You were hired by the meat? A straight-up business deal?”

She nodded.

“When?”

“Apparently they took a shot at you a few days ago that didn’t work. After that.”

“How did you do it?”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, glanced at Lady Teldra, then shrugged. “He told me about Morrolan’s windows, so I set up a necromantic illusion, and redirected the energy for the transfer spell to myself.”

“Must have been a hell of an illusion.”

“It’s why I had to be here to maintain it.”

“You were just waiting for the windows to activate?”

“Yes. For the last two days.”

“What did he pay you?”

“A lot.”

“Where are we? I mean, physically.”

Her brows furrowed for a moment; the “windows” vanished, replaced by dark wooden walls, full of knots. The room narrowed, and there was a table pushed against the far wall, chairs stacked beside it. “It seems familiar,” I said.

“Back room of the Blue Flame.”

“Ah, right.”

She stared down the length of Lady Teldra. My arm was getting tired, at which point I realized that she had shaped herself as a significantly heavier weapon than I usually use. I lowered her. “All right, go,” I said.

She nodded, and managed to keep the relief off her face, and even to turn her back to me as she left the room. If she was anything like me, she’d go off somewhere private and have a good, long breakdown. She was certainly entitled.

I sheathed Lady Teldra.

“Boss.”

“Yeah?”

“That was scary.”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“What did it look like to you?”

“Like you moved faster than it is possible for anyone to move. Like the sword was drawing your arm. How did it seem to you, Boss?”

“Like-I don’t know. Like I was someone else. Like I went somewhere else.”

“You did, Boss. For a minute there, I couldn’t find you. I didn’t much care for it. Can you not do that anymore?”

“I can’t promise that, Loiosh. I was me and talking to me, and I was her.”

“Her? Who her?”

“Lady Teldra. The one who used to be a person. The one who was killed.”

I opened the door. Rocza flew out, then back to me. I walked through the Blue Flame, ignoring the stares from patrons and staff. At the door, Loiosh and Rocza both flew out, and, on their word, I stepped out and walked back toward Kragar’s office.

“So, do we try again, Boss?”

“Yeah, I think we should-”

I stopped, right there, and leaned against a wall. I didn’t lose my last meal, but I felt like I was about to. Then I started shaking. Then I cursed, silently but with great sincerity, about standing there out on the street unable to move.

I felt Loiosh, on full alert.

I knew from experience that the more I tried to rush through the shaking horrors, the longer they’d last. I stood there on the street and waited it out, trusting to luck and Loiosh. People-that is, Dragaerans-walked around me, carefully not looking at me.

After what felt like longer than it probably was, I was able to walk again. I got back to Kragar’s office, keeping my pace steady and my face expressionless as I made it back into the space set aside for me, then collapsed against a wall, sat on the floor, and did some more shaking.

You know. Like you do.

It went on for a while. Then I walked out, found Deragar, and asked after Kragar. He was mending. As we were talking, someone I didn’t know came up and said, “Lord Taltos, there’s a Dragonlord requesting to speak with you.”

“A … did he give a name?”

“Morrolan.”

“All right. Invite him up.”

“I did. He declined.”

I nodded. “Of course he did. He’d never walk into a Jhereg office. Unless he felt like it. All right. I’ll go down.”

“Boss, are you sure it’s really Morrolan?”

“Yes. Lady Teldra recognizes Blackwand.”

“Lady … all right.”

I headed down before Loiosh could think of questions I wouldn’t be able to answer.

“I waited for you, Vlad,” were the first words out of his mouth. I suddenly wanted to laugh, but I fought it down, because once I started I’d probably become hysterical.