Issola
Vlad Taltos, Book 9
Steven Brust
BOOKS BY STEVEN BRUST, P. J, F.
The Khaavren Romances
The Phoenix Guards
Five Hundred Years After
The Viscount of Adrilankha
Volume One: The Paths of the Dead
Volume Two: The Lord of Castle Black
Volume Three: Sethra Lavode
The Vlad Taltos Novels
Jhereg
Yendi
Teckla
Taltos
Phoenix
Athyra
Orca
Dragon
Issola
Other Novels
To Reign in Hell
Brokedown Palace
The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars
Cowboy Feng’s Space Bar and Grille
The Gypsy (with Megan Lindholm)
Agyar
Freedom and Necessity (with Emma Bull)
Prologue
I’ve heard it said that manners are more complex in primitive societies—that it is easier to give accidental offense in, for example, the Island kingdoms of Elde or Greenaere, or among the Serioli, or the Jenoine, or the various kingdoms of my own Eastern people, than among the more civilized Dragaerans.
You must allow me to observe that it is invariably Dragaerans who point this out. One can imagine finding a Dragaeran who will not insist that the Empire has achieved the highest imaginable pinnacle of civilization; but then, one can imagine the Emperor presenting one with the Imperial Treasury, too, if one’s imagination is active enough.
Yet even among the Seventeen Great Houses of the Empire, there are differences in what is considered proper behavior in various circumstances, and it is worth noting that, if you look hard enough, you will find that there are always very practical reasons for some phrase or action being considered polite or rude under certain circumstances. To pick an obvious example, among my own people, when arriving at the home of an acquaintance, one is expected to pound upon the door with one’s fist, whereas among the Dragaerans, this is considered rude. I will not insult you by explaining why, in a culture rich in sorcery and steeped in paranoia, it is a bad idea to touch the door of someone’s home. The practical has become a matter of courtesy.
In the Jhereg, the House to which I belong (and the criminal Organization for which I used to work), it is considered rude, when asking to meet with a superior or an equal, to arrive at the meeting first, whereas among the Dragons it is rude not to be first if you’ve done the inviting. The Dzur remain seated when greeting new arrivals to their tables at public or private houses; the Lyorn invariably rise. Except that the Dzur meeting the Lyorn might rise, knowing the Lyorn custom, whereas the Lyorn ... well, you get the idea.
It is all very confusing.
As an Easterner, and, in several different ways, an outcast, I have had the opportunity to observe many of these customs and considerations of proper behavior, and so, on the assumption that you might one day have the chance to visit some of these fascinating and delightful people (okay, then, these irritating and obnoxious jerks), I herewith submit a small treatise on manners in the Dragaeran Empire. I hope you find it useful. But, in case I made an error somewhere, and you inadvertently commit a minor breach of etiquette, please, don’t tell me about it; I have my own problems. 1. Adapting Behavior to Environment
Just because they really are out to get you doesn’t mean you aren’t paranoid. If they’ve been after you long enough, paranoia can become a reflex.
Interesting things, reflexes: if you pay attention to them, you’ll stand to learn some interesting things about yourself. This is one reason I avoid paying attention to my reflexes.
But sometimes I can’t help it.
Let me pick an example at random:
I awoke almost instantly from a sound sleep to active stillness, and before reaching for a weapon, or dodging from a possible attack, or even opening my eyes, I reached out, mentally, psychically, for contact with my familiar. My mind to his, I said, “What’s going on, Loiosh?” At that instant, all I knew was that something had happened to wake me up. I didn’t even remember where I was, though one patch of ground in the wilderness is much like another, and that’s where I’d been sleeping lately.
My first real clue that there might be a problem came when he didn’t make any wisecracks. Instead there was a moment of mental silence, if you’ll excuse the expression, and then Loiosh said, “We may have been hunted down, Boss.”
“Well,” I said. “That wouldn’t be good.” Pretending to be calm to my familiar helps me to actually be calm. Loiosh accepts this as part of his job, and doesn’t give me grief about it, much. In the meantime, without any conscious decision on my part, I was holding a neat, slim stiletto in my hand. Reflexes again.
I remained still, counting on Loiosh to tell me if and when I ought to move. While I waited, I contemplated my circumstances—in particular, the sharp, nasty stone that had insinuated itself onto the ground between my shoulder blades. I had a thick layer of darr skin between me and the ground, and a thin layer of chreotha fur between me and the sky.
“Brigands, do you think, Loiosh?”
“Brigands come in bands, Boss. Whoever this is, there’s only one of him.”
“So the Jhereg is more likely.”
“Or something else entirely.”
I heard Rocza shift, caught the faint psychic whispers of Loiosh telling her to stay still. Just to fill you in on the basics, in case we haven’t met before, Rocza is Loiosh’s mate, which I’m sure must answer every question you have.
“Coming closer, Boss.”
“Do I have a target, yet?”
“No.”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“No. But I’m not worried, Boss. I’m sure you’ll come up with a plan.”
Reptiles are cold-blooded; a reptilian sense of humor will naturally display the same characteristics. This, in spite of being hunted and hounded by a massive and murderous criminal society that wants nothing less than the destruction of my soul, is probably the greatest burden I carry.
“All right,” I said, ignoring his remark. “Fly as silently as you can away from whoever it is, and circle around. As soon as you see—”
I was interrupted by the ostentatious clearing of a throat, followed by someone saying, “I beg your pardon for disturbing you at such an hour, Lord Taltos, but I’m certain you must be awake by now, and I’m afraid if I come any closer you might do something I’d regret.”
I sat up, the knife poised for throwing. “You can’t be who you sound like,” I said.
“I am, though.”
“It’s not polite to lie.”
She laughed. “Nor to accuse a friend of lying.”
“You can’t be—”
“It is, Boss.”
“Well,” I said after a long moment. “I’ll be skinned for a norska.”
“Probably,” said Loiosh. “But not by her.”
I heard her come a little closer; Loiosh could now see her, but I can’t see as well at night as he can.