“Me, too. Why do you think you might not be?”
“Working for the Jhereg can be dangerous.”
“I beat up Dragaerans anyway, every chance I get. Why not get paid for it?”
She studied my face. “Do you hate us so much?”
“Them, not you.”
“I am Dragaeran.”
“You still aren’t one of them.”
“Perhaps not.”
“In any case, I need to make money if I’m going to stay out of the Easterners’ ghetto.”
“I know.” I saw the flash of her teeth. “It wouldn’t be proper for you to live there. You are a nobleman, after all.” I smiled back.
She said, “There are things I can teach you that will help.”
“I’d like that,” I said. “You’re very kind.”
“I like you.” She’d said that before. I often wondered why. I wondered how old she was, too. But these were questions I didn’t ask.
I said, “Well, wish me luck.”
“Yes. There are a few things I should tell you now, though.”
I was anxious to get going, but I’m not stupid. Kiera the Thief doesn’t waste words. I said, “All right.”
“The important thing is this, Vlad: Don’t let your anger get the best of you. Dead men can’t pay, and you won’t earn if you don’t deliver. And if you can get what you want without hurting someone, your employer will appreciate it. You may not realize it, but every time a Jhereg has to use violence, he’s taking chances. They don’t like that. Okay?”
“Okay.” As she spoke, it struck me that in less than an hour, probably, I was going to be facing down and perhaps attacking someone I’d never met before. It seemed awfully cold-blooded. But, well, tough. I said, “What else?”
“Do you know anything about the Left Hand of the Jhereg?”
“Ummm ... the what?”
“You don’t, then. Okay. The Organization as you know it makes its money by providing goods and services that are either illegal or highly taxed, right?”
“I guess so. I’d never thought of it that way, but sure.”
“Think of it that way. Now, the one exception is sorcery. There are sorcerous activities that are, as you know, illegal. Sorcerously aiding another illegal act, bending someone’s will, and so forth.” She spread her palms. “As the Demon says, ‘Whenever they make a new law, they create a new business.’”
“Who said that?”
“The Demon.”
“Who’s he?”
“Never mind. In any case, the Left Hand of the Jhereg is mostly made up of women—I’m not sure why. They deal in illegal magic.”
“I see.”
“Stay away from them. You aren’t up to fighting them, and you don’t know enough to protect yourself from their machinations.”
I said, “Yeah. I’ll remember. Thanks, Kiera.”
Her cowl nodded. She peered at me from within, then said, “Good luck, Vlad.” She merged with the shadow of the building and was gone.
How ought one to prepare for a journey to the land of the dead?
I mean, I know how to get ready to go out on the town, and I know how to get ready to kill someone, and I even have some idea of how to prepare for a night spent in the jungle. But if you’re going to visit the shades of the once living, the servitors of the dead, and the gods, what do you want to bring with you? How ought you to dress?
I wore my Jhereg colors, with a stylized jhereg on the back of the grey cloak I wear when I want to carry concealed this and that with me, and black Eastern riding boots that are comfortable, even if I wasn’t going to be doing any riding—which was just as well. I’ve been on horseback before and if I never am again, that’ll be fine. Just don’t tell my grandfather I said that. He thinks Fenarians are supposed to be naturally great horsemen.
I wondered at Morrolan’s agreement to accompany me. From everything I understood, his chances of emerging alive were worse than mine, and mine didn’t seem to be all that good. I mean, Sethra had never actually said I’d be safe from the gods.
The gods. This was silly. I had occasionally joined my grandfather in our private family rituals, asking for the protection of Verra, the Demon Goddess, but I’d never been more than half convinced of her existence. Many Easterners I knew believed in one or more of the gods, and even those who didn’t dropped their voices when naming them. But all Dragaerans seemed to believe in them, and spoke about them in such matter-of-fact tones that I wondered if, to a Dragaeran, the term “god” was all but meaningless. Someday, I decided, I’d have to investigate this.
Or perhaps I was going to find out during this journey. Which thought reminded me that I ought to be preparing. Morrolan had said the journey there should only take a few days, as we would teleport to a point fairly close to Deathgate Falls. Water would be available as we walked, as would food. The weather was unpredictable, but my cloak was fairly warm when pulled around me, fairly cool when thrown back, and, waterproof.
“Any thoughts about what I should bring along?”
“An enchanted dagger, boss. Just in case.”
“I always carry one. What else?”
“That chain thing.”
“Hmmm. Yeah. Good idea.”
“Witch supplies?”
“I don’t know. That’s what I’m asking you.”
“No, I mean, are you going to bring supplies for spells? “
“Oh. I guess so.”
So I got these things together, threw in some eddiberries in case I needed to sleep, some kelsch leaves in case I needed to stay awake, then reached out for contact with Morrolan. It took quite a while since I didn’t know him terribly well, but at last we were in touch.
“I’ll be ready in an hour,” I told him.
“That will be fine,” he said. “Where should we meet?”
I thought about this, then told him, “There’s this tavern called Ferenk’s in South Adrilankha.”
Every time I visit a shoemaker I’m given to wonder how anyone’s shoes can come out well. That is, I’ve never seen a shoemaker’s place that wasn’t as dark as Verra’s Hell, nor a shoemaker who didn’t squint as if he were half blind.
The remains of the clothing on this particular shoemaker claimed him for the House of the Chreotha, as did his longish face and stubby fingers. The amount of grime under his nails would have been sufficient for a garden. The hair on his head was thin and grey; his eyebrows were thick and dark. The room smelled heavily of leather and various oils and I can’t say what it looked like save that it was dark and gloomy.
The Chreotha gave me a silent grunt (I can’t describe it any better that that) and indicated a spot of gloom that turned out to contain a chair made of pieces of leather stretched across a wooden frame. I sat down in it carefully, but it didn’t seem about to collapse, so I relaxed. It was a bit small for a Dragaeran, which was pleasant since Dragaerans are taller than humans and it’s annoying to sit in a chair designed for someone larger.
The shoemaker shuffled out of the room, presumably to let Nielar know I was there. Nielar was the guy who had hired me, after an unpleasant introduction involving a game of shereba that ran in the back of his building. Kiera had, I had gathered, intervened on my behalf, so I was showing up to work for him. I was also supposed to be meeting a partner.
“You must be Vlad Taltos,” he said.
I jumped and almost drew the dagger from my sleeve.
“Mama?”
“It’s all right, Loiosh.”
He was sitting right across from me, and I’d somehow missed him in the dim light. He had a bit of a smirk on his face, probably from seeing me jump, but I resolved not to hate him right away. “Yes,” I said. “I believe your name is Kragar?”
“I believe so, also. Since we both believe it, we might as well assume it’s true.”
“Ummm ... right.”
He watched me, still with the same sardonic expression. I wondered if he was trying to make me mad enough to attack him, to see if I could control myself. If so, I resented being tested. If not, he was just a jerk.