Steven Brust - Hawk

He nodded. “How do I reach you?”

“Deragar, the guy who set this meet up, will be around. Get him a message and it’ll get to me.”

“Where?”

“Do you know the Blue Flame?”

“The place where they make the pepper sausage?”

It was almost enough to make me like him. “Yeah,” I said. “He’ll be there.”

“All right. Anything else?”

“No. Want me to leave first?”

He nodded. I stood up and, my shoulder blades only twitching a little, I opened the door and walked out. I made myself walk slowly, both to reassure his people, and because, well, you know, you just don’t let on that your shoulder blades are twitching.

Loiosh flew onto my shoulder, and Deragar, Nesci and the other guy, whose name I never learned, flanked me.

“Rocza says we’re clear, Boss.”

We stepped out the door, and turned back toward Kragar’s office. The return was scarier than getting there, I suppose because I had less to think about. We took the secret way in, in spite of my discomfort at letting others in on it; I just didn’t feel like walking back into the front of the office was a good career move at that moment.

As soon as we were back, I told Deragar he needed to head to the Blue Flame and wait until he got a message.

“It’s a good place,” he said.

I nodded. “Yeah, and order something good. On me.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he said.

“Don’t get killed,” I told him.

He nodded and left. Not even a smart remark; where was Kragar finding these people? Speaking of Kragar, once Deragar was gone I asked about him. I was told he was doing all right. I asked if he was out of danger, and was told, “probably.” I loved that.

“So, what do you think, Loiosh?”

“About?”

“Will he go through with it, or is he setting me up?”

“Fifty-fifty, Boss.”

“I think we’re a little ahead of that. Not much, maybe. But he wants the area, and this is his chance to get it.”

“If he can trust you enough.”

“Yeah.”

I retreated to my corner and sharpened my knives, just to be doing something. I suggested we eat something, and Loiosh, shockingly, agreed. That “shockingly” part was a joke. One of Kragar’s people went down the street and came back with goose soup. I mean, it was called soup, but there wasn’t much broth in it-mostly goose and vegetables and some really sharp spices and noodles that stayed crisp in spite of the liquid. Loiosh expressed strong approval, although he let me know that Rocza was a bit uncertain about the spicing. I said she was just weak, but I don’t think Loiosh passed that on.

I finished the soup and fought off the desire to take a nap. It became easier when Deragar came back.

“All right,” he said. “It’s set.”

I nodded. “What do I need to know?”

“Do you know the corner of Undauntra and Paved Road?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a place there, on Paved, second door in from Undauntra. It’s a brickstone building with a cherrywood facade. Two flats. In the lower one, on Farmdays, there’s a low-stakes Shereba game he likes.”

“I remember. Isn’t there a big range on when he shows up?”

“After the seventh hour, before the tenth.”

“That’s a pretty wide window.”

“I know.”

“And he doesn’t always go.”

“He’ll be there tonight.”

“All right. I know the area. It could be better, but I think it’ll do. It won’t be crowded, anyway.”

“I checked over the place. Alley next to it, alley across the street, the building to the north is tall and there’s a big cistern in front of it. Big enough to hide behind. The alley is eight paces from the door, the alley across the street is twenty, the cistern is twelve.”

“Your paces or mine?”

“Yours.”

I mentally increased the amount I was going to pay him.

“What color is the cistern?”

“Sort of a dull silver.”

“Good,” I said.

“Lord Taltos, do you want me to do this?”

I hesitated, considered. Then I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I’ve got it.”

I hoped I had it. I’d put a lot of shines on a lot of sons-of-bitches over the years, but this one was going to be different.

I stretched my legs out, tried to relax, and thought about it, considering this, that, and the other. In a few hours, I was going to-finally-get that asshole Terion out of my life, either by killing him, or by, well, no longer having a life. The good news was that, unless he was carrying a Morganti weapon, losing my life would also be cheating the Jhereg.

Although there had been an appalling number of Morganti weapons around of late. The Empire should really do something about that. I considered writing a letter to the Empress and filling it with threats and obscenity. Maybe next week I’d see how that worked out for me.

We went out the secret exit and took a slightly circuitous route, so it was around the fifth hour when Loiosh, Rocza, and I got there-I’d declined Deragar’s offer of company, because some things I just feel are personal. I looked around. Deragar’s description had been good, except that he hadn’t mentioned how exposed the closer alley was-it was more like a narrow street than an alley, and there was nothing in it. The building was made of that horrid stuff where they carve rocks to look like bricks, and someone had stuck some wood in front to make it look better. There was nothing there to hide behind, though. But the cistern was there-taller than me, wider than me, pump and spigot on the street side. I stood behind it and eyeballed the distance I’d have to cross. Loiosh and Rocza flew in gradually widening circles overhead.

There was some street traffic, but not a great deal, and I can blend in pretty well. The grayish color wasn’t necessary, but it didn’t make things harder.

Usually, I liked to have days or even weeks to put things together; to pick an exact time and place, decide on the weapon, and have the approach and escape down precisely. This time, it would need to be half improvised, and I didn’t care for it.

But I’ll tell you something. One reason you go to all the extra trouble, pay so much attention to detail, and plan everything so carefully is that, every once in a while, there’s a situation where you’ll have to just do the best you can, and all the extra work you did the other times makes it a little easier and more natural to make the right move. It’s like a catchback player who uses perfect form on the easy balls: He’s the one more likely to make those sensational unlikely catches that make bookies scream and tear their hair out.

The weapon up my left sleeve was about my favorite for this sort of work: a long, slim stiletto. Remember when I was talking about how hard it is to kill someone with a stab wound? Well, it’s another matter if you know how-if you can get to the guy’s heart in one shot like the guy who nailed Kragar did; or get to his brain in one shot, like I can.

I drew the knife and studied it, then swore under my breath because I hadn’t coated it with anything to reduce the glare. I resheathed it. Then I realized that getting him in one shot was unlikely. I just didn’t have the level of detail I usually need to be able to find an exact place, an exact angle of attack. Too much was unknown. I didn’t know if there would still be daylight when he showed, and, if not, what the lighting around here would be like. I knew almost nothing. The idea of taking him with one perfect shot went from seeming unworkable, to plain ridiculous. I was going to take this on like an Orca thug earning ten imperials from a guy he met over wine at a dockside tavern.