Liavek 4 Read online

  "Here," she said, "you have only to call her as I have done on numerous occasions in order to speak with her. Just say her name: Erina." The light from the artifact burst over them like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, casting an enormous shadow of Dashif that hung vulturously over him.

  From the artifact a susurrant voice spoke. "Who calls? Who calls me back?"

  "No!" Dashif cried. He flung himself away into the layers of thin material that hung across the doorway; the cloth seemed to wind around him with intent and he struggled wildly to escape it, tugging his way out into the safety of the misty morning light.

  Jolesha said, "No one calls now, Erina. Go back. I'll speak with Klefti...in a moment." She set down the artifact. The light it threw began to dim as the spirit of Erina retreated from the border between worlds. Klefti had brought her to speak with Jolesha the first time; the dead knew unfathomable secrets. The dead knew, perhaps, everything.

  Pushing back the entrance curtains, Jolesha emerged, veiled once again, to hear Dashif order his men away. She called his name, saw him stiffen before he turned, a waxy smile on his face. She went toward him. "Here," she said and held out her hand.

  Dashif flinched and put up one hand to fend her off. For a moment she could not understand; then, just as quickly, she saw what he saw: he thought she was pushing the artifact upon him again, instead of his leather gloves that he had left lying on her table.

  His expression of fear blossomed momentarily into anger. Jolesha turned away before he could threaten her with words. She sensed that he had not finished with her, that he would try some other way to get to her and to destroy the artifact—now because it could destroy him.

  The sound of the soldiers' horses regaining the road followed her into the tent, where she dropped the curtains on the murky day and stood with just the light of the dead and the weight of her aloneness in the world of the living.

  "An Act of Trust" by Steven Brust

  AS THE SCION of the county once called Dashforth walked along the Levar's Way toward the palace, he became aware that he was being followed.

  He did not reach for the documents he carried inside his scarlet cloak—documents recently stolen from a Tichenese agent in Hrothvek—but he thought about them. He didn't know exactly what they were, except that they involved a goodwill gesture from Ka Zhir, and that they had had to be removed from Tichenese hands before causing what His Scarlet Eminence called "an incident."

  Dashif had taken them from the agent, and was now only a few score paces from returning them to his master; mission accomplished.

  And he became aware that he was being followed.

  It is not difficult to follow someone if he doesn't know he is being followed. Avoid standing out too much in a crowd, and if the person being followed doesn't go places that are too deserted, he will probably never notice.

  On the other hand, if one suspects one is being followed, it is almost impossible for the person doing the following to remain hidden. Dashif always half wondered if he were being followed. And, certainly, he was. He was followed by the ghost of Erina, the lover he had betrayed and later slain; he was followed by the memories of all he had done in the service of His Scarlet Eminence, the Regent of Liavek; and he was followed by the fearful looks, almost tangible, of all who beheld him and stepped aside, some because they knew him and some even though they did not.

  On this occasion, however, he became convinced that he was being followed by someone real, corporeal, and able to be questioned. He dealt with ghosts by denying their existence; he dealt with memories by denying their validity; he dealt with others' fear by ignoring it. He dealt with the individual following him by stepping into an alley, drawing and cocking one of his double-barreled flintlock pistols, and waiting.

  At that, he almost missed her.

  It was one of those chilly mornings that Liavek manufactured in the fall, with patches of fog hiding behind the corners of buildings as if to pounce upon unsuspecting travelers, or sometimes moving with a stray wind to embrace the pedestrian and keep him company for a few paces on his errands. When she emerged from a fog-patch his grappling hand and his pistol hand were too high, as she barely came up to his chest. But she was more surprised than he was.

  That part of his mind that he allowed to control his actions at such moments took over and told him that fear would suffice. He grabbed her throat, pulled her into the alley, swung her against the hard, graying brick of the empty hotel that had once boasted a view that no one had wanted.

  Fear, erupting from her eyes and stifling her scream, fed into him as he held the pistol up to her head. "What is your name'!" he asked quickly, before she could decide what not to tell him.

  "Kal—" She stopped, fear having closed the mouth that shock had opened.

  "The rest." He gave his voice no special emphasis, for he needed none.

  "Kaloo," she said.

  "Kaloo," he repeated. "Why are you—" And then it came back to him.

  It was shortly after the Massacre of the Gold Priests that he had received an anonymous gift, a pair of jade and gold earrings wrapped in hair that was apparently from the head of a Farlander. It could have been an attempt at an assassination under the guise of an assignation, or a signal he hadn't been told to expect, or a mistake on the part of someone's agent, or a trick, or, possibly, legitimate.

  He had chosen to gamble, and worn the earrings in public exactly once. On that occasion, walking through the Market, he had been the victim of some sort of massive unbinding spell. The earrings had fallen from him. One had been snatched up by a scurrying squirrel or something, the other by a small, dark girl who had locked eyes with him for a moment before being lost in the crowd.

  Now he locked eyes with her again.

  He smiled.

  "Well. I've been looking forward to meeting you."

  She stared at him like a fish lying in the bottom of a boat after it has stopped flopping but before it has stopped trying to breathe. "Perhaps," he said, "we should go somewhere comfortable to talk. We aren't far from the palace. Have you ever seen the palace? There are many things I'd like to ask you."

  He released the hammers of the pistol, put it in his belt. He gripped the girl firmly around her skinny arm and propelled her out of the alley. He had just stepped out when he heard a voice behind him. "Hello, Count Dashif."

  Keeping his grip on the girl, he spun around. "And goodbye," continued the voice, and he threw himself one way and the girl the other. He heard something go wheet past his ear just as he heard the shhk-chuk of a crossbow releasing a bolt. He had a glimpse of a woman dressed in green holding a crossbow, about forty yards down the alley, but she was gone before he had his pistol out and leveled. He did, however, have enough time to recognize her, and cursed.

  The girl, Kaloo, was gone, too, even her footsteps having faded.

  Whoever the urchin was, she was quick. Dashif wondered if the girl and the woman could be working together. He thought about Kaloo as he considered it. She had a pleasant face. It reminded him of someone. He stood up and brushed away the thought with the dirt on his cloak; he didn't believe in ghosts. And now that he had her name, it was only a matter of time before he found her again.

  He resumed his walk to the Palace.

  •

  The Eminent Pitullio, tall, cheerful, and talkative, leaned back in his chair so its two front legs were off the floor. Dashif had been waiting for years for him to break his chair and fall in a sprawling heap, but he hadn't yet. Pitullio was, perhaps, the only man in the city to see His Scarlet Eminence, the Regent, on a daily basis. Dashif supposed cheerfulness to be the only way to survive the Regent's morose abruptness.

  Dashif gave him the documents.

  "He'll be pleased," said Pitullio. "Everything went smoothly, I take it?"

  "Smoothly enough," said Dashif. "It seems I should have killed the agent, though. She followed me back here and almost caught me with a crossbow on my way to the Palace."

  "Why didn't y
ou? Kill her, I mean."

  Dashif chose not to answer, though he wondered, briefly, himself. Why? Because there was no need to. But then, when had that stopped him before? He put the question out of his mind.

  "I'll give these to him," said Pitullio. "And how is the great search coming?"

  Great search? Oh, the waif who had the White priests' artifact. Dashif looked up at him and looked away. He debated not answering, just to be perverse. But then, His Eminence probably wanted to know, and Pitullio was easier to deal with than the Regent. "We'll have her in a few days. She has been working as a spirit medium. claiming to communicate with the dead."

  Pitullio laughed. "I imagine a more successful one than most. He"—Pitullio gestured with his head toward the other side of the wall—"was having fits for a while, when it looked as if someone might get the artifact to the Levar. He'd be more than a little embarrassed if the Levar was able to speak to the spirit of his predecessor."

  Dashif didn't answer, although, in fact, His Scarlet Eminence had as much as admitted the same thing to him.

  "You'll have her soon, then?" said Pitullio.

  "Yes. We know where she has been practically every day for the past month. We know what ship she has arranged to take her to her next destination, where she bought a wagon, and approximately where she is. Another day or two should see it done. I will attend to the conclusion personally."

  "Good. I'll tell him."

  "I need something else."

  Pitullio cocked his head to the side. "Hmmm?"

  "A girl named Kaloo. About twelve or thirteen, with—"

  "Going after the young ones, eh, Dash—"

  That was as far as he got. Dashif crossed the three feet that separated them and took Pitullio by the throat, staring at him. He felt Pitullio tremble and read the fear in his eyes. "Sorry, Dashif," Pitullio said mildly, managing an even voice, and Dashif let go of him and stalked out of the room before he did something irreversible.

  He touched the pair of vertical scars that ran down below his eyes and didn't think about what had just happened.

  •

  Dashif did not, then or ever, wonder why Pitullio's words had so enraged him. To say that there had been a measure of truth in Pitullio's jest would be much too simple. Dashif had, in fact, very little interest in romance of any kind since his wife had left him, and Erina, whom he had deserted to marry the rich vavasor, had contrived to destroy his luck-piece in such a way as to destroy his luck forever, and he had killed her.

  But she, Erina, haunted him. She haunted him, most of all, through other women with smooth, flowing dark hair. He had, in large part, adjusted to this, although the adjustment had once led to the massacre of nine helpless priests and to Dashif's latest scars. He had adjusted so well, in fact, that he wasn't aware of it when he met someone who really did very closely resemble his lost Erina.

  He went about his business.

  •

  A few months before, the priests of the Church of Truth had either discovered or invented an object that allowed one to commune with the dead. Typically, instead of using it, their only thought was to get it to the poor, mad Levar, for whatever damage it could do to the Regent, whom they hated. Dashif had foiled the plan, but the object had disappeared and a great deal of effort had gone into tracking down the girl who had come up with it. He had spent much time and effort on this and now almost had her. He was awaiting only the last few pieces of information to tell him exactly which tent set up along the Saltigos Road contained the right spirit medium.

  This allowed him some time to relax, and his method of relaxing was to wander through the Levar's Park at dusk hoping that the Tichenese agent would make another attempt on his life so he could stop her.

  Just as the morning had been strangely chill, the evening was peculiarly hot. It was a thick, humid heat that brought sweat that refused to evaporate. On impulse, before the sun behind the trees that hid the market from the park, Dashif approached the old woman overflowing an octagonal stool beneath a date tree.

  A woman with braided white hair was speaking to the old woman. The former turned to look at Dashif, scowled, and tap-tapped away.

  "Good evening, Asie."

  Asie Blackfinger stared up at him, her eyes curiously bright through the film of age. "Come for your picture, sweetie? I haven't done you since you got the scars. They're rather fetching, y'know. Just sit down and—"

  "Be still. I need a picture of a girl, about twelve years old. Very dark hair, straight, below her shoulders, parted in the middle. Her face is long and thin, with a cleft chin. No, hollow out the cheeks more...not that much...right. Now..."

  He paid her a levar and went on his way, studying the picture. It shouldn't take long to find her. He continued through the park, staying alert to anyone who might be following him for one reason or another.

  He went through his usual haunts then, showing the picture to various contacts. It was a thing he liked; from the Wall to the docks; from the Market to Mystery Hill.

  He was smiling a little as he began the walk from the Street of Rain to the canals. She had probably taken to her room after this morning's encounter, and hadn't been seen since. But why was she following him? And, speaking of following, was he being followed now, by the Tichenese agent? He listened and looked as he walked, and decided that either he wasn't, or she was very good.

  Well, best give it a try, anyway.

  He slipped into Fortune Way near Narkaan's Skull, and made another turn into an alley that had only one exit. A thin young man was going through a pile of garbage, but Dashif was otherwise alone. He kept his hand on a pistol.

  When no one showed up, he started to walk out.

  "Don't move, Count Dashif."

  The voice came from above him, behind him, and to his right. He silently cursed himself. Of course she knew her business; she had climbed to a rooftop. On the other hand, she hadn't yet shot him. Without turning, he said, "I don't have the documents anymore."

  She said, "I don't have the trust of my master anymore. Soon, you won't have your life anymore."

  Dashif laughed without humor. "You're going to have to learn not to take these things personally." He heard the hiss of indrawn breath, and wondered what his chances of diving behind a pile of garbage were. Not very good, he decided, but better than no chance at all.

  But she said, "My master was entrusted with those documents by the Ambassador. He trusted me. I take everything personally."

  The garbage-picker was staring back and forth between them, his eyes wide. Dashif turned his head and addressed him. "What do you think? Will she kill me quickly, or a piece at a time?"

  The other stared at Dashif, then shook his head and limped away.

  "Do you suppose we can work something out?"

  "Surely," came the voice from above him. "I'm willing to convey your funerary wishes wherever you'd like."

  'That wasn't what I had—" and he jumped for the garbage pile, twisting and reaching for a pistol. He heard the sound once more, and the smack of the quarrel hitting the building wall. He crouched in the trash heap and cocked the pistol, but she was gone, and the sun had set, and it would soon be too dark to follow her.

  He stood up and began walking back to the Palace. He had no intention of seeking this Kaloo child while smelling of trash.

  •

  Before dawn the next day he received a note giving the location and description of a tent along the Saltigos Road. He allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. The medium had been found—he would soon see the end of this annoyance. He washed himself and donned fresh garments. He adjusted the collar of his white blouse, ran a soft brush over his hair, checked the charges of his pistols, and pulled on his gray gloves.

  He rounded up eight of the Scarlet Guard and procured horses from His Scarlet Eminence's stables. For himself he chose a white mare, picturing himself on her, his red cloak flying in the wind. This was to be the end of a long project, and Dashif wanted to look his best.

/>   As they turned into Widow's Road, with her once-elegant houses now dilapidated but often hidden by new white facades, Dashif wondered if the Tichenese agent was following him.

  There was nothing to be done if she was; Dashif wasn't about to ride through the streets of Liavek looking over his shoulder. It was only after they had passed through Soldier's Gate and left the city behind them that Dashif checked his pistols once more. He felt the soldiers behind him glance at each other. The sun was just rising.

  When they reached the first of the tents set up to exploit those who had come for the End of Wine Festival, the sun had traced only a small fraction of its daily journey. They kept riding until they came to the tent that had been described. There was a wagon a little ways away and a man carrying a chest to it. The wagon might have to be searched later. Dashif dismounted, hobbled the mare, and quickly stationed the guards, save for one he sent to stop the man who was loading her wagon. He walked around the tent once, spotted the rear entrance, and made sure there were two guards there. Then he checked his pistols once more and entered.

  The inside was fairly bright, as the tent was thin. In addition, there was a single brazier which was being tended by a small figure whose back was to Dashif. She turned as he entered. Her face matched the description, if one discounted the makeup. Her gaze seemed to affix itself to the matching scars below his eyes, and she hastily veiled herself.

  She sat down on a stool behind a thin square table rough with knots. He sat on a matching stool opposite her. She dropped her eyes. She held her hands together in her lap, probably to keep them from trembling.

  "What price for a communication?" he asked. He didn't know why he needed to play with her; perhaps only because she had led him so long a chase.

  She stuttered and stumbled and muttered and mumbled, and at last spoke in what she must have thought a good imitation of an old woman's voice. "I'm g-giving none today. I'm l-leaving—"

  "Undoubtedly. However, not before you and I complete," he paused and smiled, "a small transaction."