“Ah. Yes. He was set up, of course. He came acting on certain information implying that he could expect sanctuary here. The information was incorrect.”
“I see.”
Another turn of the stairs. “How much farther up are we going, Lord Morrolan?”
“Not far, I think. Are you getting tired?”
“A bit. But never mind.” He’d said “I think.” I pondered that and said, “So, are you a regular visitor to this place?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Sethra and I see each other often.”
That set me a pretty mystery, with which I was able occupy myself for another turn or two of that endless stairway. Why was he unsure of the length of the stair if he was often at Dzur Mountain? Obviously because he didn’t usually come this way. We passed a heavy wooden door on the side but didn’t stop. Why was he coming this way now? In order to tire me out, or else to size me up, or both.
This realization, which ought to have put me more guard, actually did nothing except make me more angry. But, with some difficulty, I kept my voice even as I came back to an earlier subject of conversation.
“Lord Morrolan, I think I can understand how it was that you knew Quion would come to Dzur Mountain with the gold.”
“I am pleased for you.”
“But what I don’t understand is how you knew he was going to grab the money in the first place.”
“Oh, that part was easy. You see, I am something of a witch. As are you, I believe.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, then, as you know, with witchcraft it is possible to plant an idea in someone’s head. We let it occur to him that it would be a good and safe thing to do, and he did it.”
“You bastard!” This burst out of me before I could stop it. I regretted it at once, but it was too late.
Morrolan stopped and turned toward me. His hand rested easily on the hilt of that sword. He looked down at me, and the expression on his face was not pleasant. He said, “I beg your pardon?”
I watched his eyes and didn’t answer. I allowed my shoulders to relax and mentally fingered my nearest weapon, a stiletto with a four-and-one-eighth-inch blade, located in my left sleeve and set to draw with my right hand. My best chance was to lunge for his throat. I estimated my chance of killing him to be fairly good if I drew first.
On the other hand, looking at the way he stood—the lack of tension in his neck, shoulders, and arms, and the balanced power of his stance—I guessed that he had very good odds of giving me a cut as I nailed him. And, with a Morganti blade, one cut would do the job.
“Let me put it this way,” I said. “If you mess with one of my people again, I’m going to cut your heart out.” I let my breathing relax and watched him.
“Are you really,” he said, making it more a statement than a question. His face took on a sardonic expression, and with no warning he took a step backward, up another step. Damn, he was fast! His blade wasn’t yet drawn, but now I’d have to either try to draw my rapier or throw the knife. Killing someone with a thrown knife, even if you’re as good as I am, is more a matter of chance than skill.
I said nothing, waiting for him to draw. He also waited. His knees were slightly bent and his balance was perfect, left foot on the higher stair, right hand on the hilt of that weapon. I felt the coolness of the dagger’s hilt press against my left wrist and decided it was my only chance. My rapier may as well have been back home; he was faster than me. I continued to wait.
Finally, he smirked and bowed slightly. “All right, my lord Jhereg, we’ll settle this later.” He presented his back to me and continued up the stairs. The idea of nailing him came and went. Even if I got away with it, that would leave me in Dzur Mountain, alone except for a very irate Sethra Lavode, who could probably prevent me from teleporting out.
Besides, there was still the matter of Quion and two thousand gold imperials.
I took a helping of nonchalant and followed him. My knees were steady, which took all of my concentration for the next few moments. We passed a couple more doors on the left, then emerged into a narrow hallway. We followed the hallway through an arch, after which it widened. The walls were black and unadorned save by torches. I didn’t recognize the stone here, but it wasn’t obsidian, in any case. It was rough and seemed to absorb light. Where the black at Morrolan’s keep seemed to work hard to be ominous, the black at Dzur Mountain was naturally gloomy and hinted, almost as an aside, at insidious power and dark strength.
Yes, I know that to a Dragaeran black means sorcery. But to me black is gloomy. Dragaerans are warped; I’ve said so before.
I noted in passing that the torches were placed seventeen feet apart.
Morrolan opened a door, behind which was a tight spiral staircase made of iron. I followed him up into a yet wider hall that seemed to slope upward, and that held more lamps and more ornate doorways. The walls were still black.
At one point I said, “There was no better way of getting me here?”
He said, “We could have kidnapped you.”
He stopped before a large wooden door, upon which a crouching dzur was pictured. Morrolan pushed the door and it swung open.
The room was thirty feet on a side. Candles and torches provided the light. The chairs looked comfortable. All done in black. I’ve stated my opinion on that. Shadows flickered back and forth, making it hard to pick out objects ...
... Someone was in one of the chairs. I took a wild guess as to who she might be. I stared at her. No one moved. She was gaunt, with a smooth, ageless aquiline face with hollowed-out cheeks, framed by straight hair that was black black black. Gods, but I was growing tired of black.
Perhaps she would have looked appealing to a Dragaeran, I don’t know. She was very pale; in fact, it was startling that I hadn’t seen her at once, there was such a contrast between her face and her surroundings. She wore black as well, of course. Her gown had high lace ruffles, coming to her chin. Below it, at her breast, was a large ruby. Her hands were long, and seemed even longer since her nails were done to a point. On the middle finger of her left hand was a ring that held what I think was a very large emerald. She stared at me with eyes that were deep and bright and old.
She stood up, and I saw that there was one splash of blue at her side, which I recognized as a jewel on the hilt of a dagger. Then I felt the dagger and knew it for at least as powerful a weapon as Morrolan’s sword. As she stood, it vanished in a swirl of her cloak, which made her disappear entirely except for the dead white of her face, with those eyes gleaming at me like a wolf’s.
I guess she’d decided to make me feel at home, because as she stood there the room brightened. That was when I saw, on the floor in front of me, face up, the lifeless body of Quion. His throat had been cut and the red of his blood was almost invisible against the black carpet.
“Welcome,” she said in a voice that rolled from her tongue, as smooth as glass and as soft as satin. “I am Sethra.”
No shit.
Among the customs peculiar to Easterners is the one involving the anniversary of one’s birth. To the Easterners, this is a day for the person born to celebrate, rather than for him to honor and thank those who brought him into the world.
I spent my tenth birthday with my grandfather, mostly watching him work and enjoying it. I asked him questions whenever there wasn’t a customer in the place, and learned about the three types of love potions, which herbs the witch should grow himself instead of buying, which incense should be used for which sorts of spells, why to make certain there are no mirrors or reflective surfaces nearby when doing magic, how to ensure an easy labor, cure cramps and headaches, prevent infection, and where to find spell books along with some idea of how to tell worthwhile spells from nonsense.
When he closed up shop, he said, “Come on back, Vladimir. Sit down.” I went into his living area and sat in a big comfortable chair. He pulled up another chair and sat facing me. His cat, Ambrus, jumped onto his shoulder. I could hear it purring.