Hawk (Vlad) (29 page)

No. My time sense came back. It had been maybe a second since I crushed the egg. All was well—in a scary, head full of power, surrounded by enemies, hoping I’d outguessed or outplanned everyone because if not I was dead, kind of way. But I’m sure you’ve been there, too.

I picked up the euphonium, my hand still smeared in egg goo, and, without preamble, blew into it. I started moving my fingers, too, and then I wasn’t controlling my fingers at all, or my breath, and music started happening. It was surprising—for an instant, I almost panicked again, and the whole spell nearly slipped. I hadn’t been able to practice this part, and of course, it’s the thing you can’t practice that screws you up, no matter how much other preparation you’ve done.

But I got through it. I kept playing; or, rather, the instrument kept playing, using my mouth and my gooey fingers, leaving my mind free. And the only way I can think to describe it is that I focused my thoughts as if they were external and sent them out through the instrument. There’s no better way to put it than that, and if you’ve done something like it you know what I mean, and if you haven’t, well, try it. I knew the
what
of what I wanted to do; the instrument turned it into
how
and my power-soaked brain supplied the energy. You’re doing it, and watching yourself do it, and then it’s like you let your mind wander, only you direct where you want it to wander to. I guess it isn’t wandering but it feels like it’s flowing out of the instrument, floating, and watchingguidingwaiting and the notes of the music turn purple and the spell is going into each finger and out like it’s all in your hands and—

It’s a lot easier to do than it is to talk about. The magic part, the technique, was being handled for me; all I had to do was focus my thoughts, and, at the same time, keep my mind open and alert for contact. That’s all. Yeah.

I made sure my breathing was slow and even—in through the nose, out through the mouth, not how you play an instrument, but like when practicing witchcraft. After all, witchcraft is nothing more than a means of controlling psychic energy the way sorcery is means of controlling amorphia. But then, sometimes you blend them, and strange things happen. I’ve seen that happen before—if you hang around people like Morrolan, you see that sort of thing.

That was the principle underlying the whole thing, really—sometimes if you’re expecting someone to use one skill or another, and he comes back with a combination …

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

At the time, I stood in front of three Jhereg mucky-mucks and three sorcerers, controlling powerful psychic and sorcerous forces, and tried to keep my mind open and relaxed. And I managed, and, except for being a bit shaky at the beginning, I even made it look easy. Pretty impressive, don’t you think?

Just don’t ask me about that middle part, because I’m still not sure what happened.

I lost sight of what those in the room were doing; the amulet was off, Loiosh was outside, and I wasn’t even paying attention to what was going on around me. Kragar’s words about being over-trusting clapped at the door, and I told them firmly that I wasn’t home. Which was pretty much true.

Loiosh tried to tell me something, then, but I had no concentration to spare for him.

And I felt it—a hint, like a whispering. I willed it to become clearer, like when you can almost hear something and you strain to hear it better and it doesn’t work; only this did. That’s what I like about magic—things like straining to hear better actually work. And somewhere in the distance, the euphonium changed its tune; began to play something soft and soothing. What had it been playing before? I have no idea, I’d had no attention to spare. Didn’t now, either, really—but I’m giving it to you as I recall it, which I’m sure bears at least some relationship to what happened.

Don’t demand too much, all right?

Look, let’s make this short: It worked. As I stood there, I felt the stirring in my brain as of someone reaching me, only, well, it wasn’t someone reaching me. It was just there. Like a voice without a voice, if you will. Somewhere, I became aware that there was an odd silence, and realized I’d stopped playing.

I put the instrument down and looked at the Demon. “The orchard on the west side of your home, my lord, has room for three more trees, if they’re placed carefully.”

His face devoid of emotion, he nodded.

I took a deep breath. I only had so long until the effects of the egg wore off. “Who’s next?” I said.

“Do you need to know?” asked Illitra.

I nodded. “I have to focus on someone; I’m not receiving every piece of psychic communication in the Empire. That would be a bit tiring, I think.”

“When you’re—”

“This isn’t going to last long,” I said. “I mean, using the egg is a cheat, because I’m neither a psychic expert nor a sorcery expert, so I need to get this done in a hurry. Let me finish, then I’ll answer your questions. Who’s next?”

“I’m ready,” said the one called Diyann.

“Good then,” I said. “Remember the ten-count, please.”

Diyann concentrated a bit, then nodded. I set mouth and fingers to the euphonium and started playing a tune. At least, I suppose it was a tune. I wasn’t exactly listening, and I certainly wasn’t controlling it. I knew Diyann even less than I knew the Demon, which made it a better test, but, you know, a bit harder. I had to keep my eyes open, to watch him, to stare at him, to imagine myself inside his head.

I didn’t know him; I didn’t have to know him. For that matter, I didn’t want to know him. I just had to focus on him. The music knew him—the spell wove through the air, my lungs, through the instrument, out to him, wrapping itself around him, testing, touching; he wouldn’t know, he wouldn’t feel it; and he wouldn’t like it, later, when he learned what I was doing, how close I came to seeing his thoughts. I’d told the truth, but still, it’s a near-run thing, and no one likes to have his mind read by a stranger.

I’d once almost put a knife into Daymar’s eye for doing that to one of my people, back when I had people. Back when killing was easier.

Never mind, never mind. If this worked, I’d be glad I left him breathing.

Focus. Concentrate. Music, music, almost seeing it, wrapping around his head, getting into his skin drawing invisible lines me to him to somewhere else to me; open. Must be open, don’t
make
it happen;
let
it happen.

And, yes, there it was.

Again, I stopped. One thing I hadn’t expected was how quickly it would become tiring. I took a couple of breaths and said, “The new exhibit of psiprints by Rusco is disappointing, but it’s good to see that he’s still taking chances, even so.”

The Jhereg grunted, nodded, and even smiled a little. “I always enjoying seeing someone push himself,” he said. “Very good.”

The sorceress named Radfall glanced at him and they exchanged a nod. Then she went back to glaring at Illitra. I realized later how comical it was; at the time I was too busy concentrating on other things.

“All right, then,” I said, looking at Poletra. “If you’re ready—”

“No,” he said. “It isn’t necessary. I’m convinced.”

“In that case,” I said, “I can—”

That’s as far as I got before the door burst open. Then things, as they say, happened fast.

16

M
AKING
T
ESTS
OR
M
AKING
E
NEMIES

I reached for Lady Teldra, but Illitra made the smallest gesture at me, and my head lolled forward as I pretended I’d suddenly fallen asleep. All part of the plan, you see; something in the back of my mind went, “Ha! Called it!”

Not that hard; there were, after all, only four possibilities: a quick Morganti strike, for which I’d been watching; chains; paralysis; or a sleep spell. They’d gone for the sleep spell. I was fine with that.

But I guess Illitra was of the type who used both a clasp and a pin, because he wasn’t done.

I couldn’t move my arms. Or my legs. The euphonium fell to the floor with a kind of chirrupy ringing sound that, just for a crazy instant, made me wish my friend Aibynn were there to hear it. I really hoped I hadn’t put a dent in Sara’s instrument. I’d feel awful about that. But I could have been paralyzed holding it, which wouldn’t have been any fun either.

My heart could move—it was pounding so loud I could hear it in my ears. I remember that. Sleep, yes; the obvious spell. But a paralysis spell too—they were taking no chance. They wanted me Morganti, and if the only way to ensure that was to nail me while I was sleeping and paralyzed, well, that’s just what they’d do.

I could talk, too—I suspect deliberately. “And here I trusted you,” I said. Pretending to be asleep, at this point, didn’t gain me much. And besides, I’d been so startled by the paralysis, my eyes had opened on their own.

The Demon glanced at me, but he didn’t reply. He sat back and watched. I concluded he was probably the one who decided on both spells. He knew me too well, that one. I should really put something sharp into some vital portion of his anatomy. Assuming I had the chance.

I remained motionless, because I had no choice in the matter, and my mind raced. I know something of sorcery. I know it isn’t easy to keep someone paralyzed. It takes concentration, and you have to maintain it or the guy’ll slip out.

That’s the thing about sorcery, you see: With witchcraft, it’s all about gathering the energy to execute the spell. With sorcery, there’s all the power you could ever want for anything. The question is, how do you handle it? How do you make it work for you, doing what you want, instead of just dissipating into nothing—or, worse, blowing up in your face, maybe taking a few people you like along with your face?

The word “spell” is misleading, or at least ambiguous.

When someone speaks of a witchcraft “spell,” that’s sort of just a fast way of saying a series of actions that will permit you to gather the power you want for a particular use, and simultaneously attuning it to that use. When someone speaks of a sorcery “spell,” that means a series of actions, or words, or even drawn diagrams, that help you concentrate in the right way to produce a certain effect.

Got all that? I hope so. The lecturer will be asking questions about it tomorrow. Heh. And please don’t ask me about wizardry, because, like they say, if you ask five wizards what the word means you’ll get six answers.

Point is, I knew he was going to have to drop the spell, sooner or later. I once saw Morrolan maintain a paralysis spell for half an hour, while drinking wine and discussing the latest discoveries in natural history, but there aren’t all that many Morrolans lying around. This guy was going to have to drop the spell.

And that gave him a problem, you see.

If he dropped it, there was nothing preventing me from sticking a dagger into his eye. Admittedly, I couldn’t draw Lady Teldra, but I still had plenty of hardware. The object with something like this is to get the guy dead, not have a fight. Which meant that the paralysis spell should only have to last long enough to—

Yeah.

One of the bodyguards pulled a knife, and I knew at once that it was Morganti. I noticed, in a sort of distant way, that it was my favorite kind for shining: a long, slim stiletto. I wondered if he intended to stick it into my left eye, as a sort of ironic salute. They’d studied me well enough to know how I like to work, after all. If it had been me, that’s what I’d have done.

But no, he’d been going for the more standard approach, up under the chin. He struck.

But, you see, I had all of this psychic energy flooding my brain, and there was no point in letting it go to waste. Sometimes you get fancy, sometimes you just do the only thing you can, and if it’s a bit inelegant, well, that’s how it goes.

The blade stopped about five inches from my skin.

“Problems?” I said.

The button-man looked at Poletra, which let me know who he worked for. Not that it mattered. Poletra said to the Demon, “You were right.”

“He may have someone coming,” said the Demon.

“Block is in place,” said Farthia. “No teleports in or out.”

“Necromantic gates?” said the Demon. “He knows at least two people who can pull that off.”

“Covered,” said Radfall. “If someone starts trying to break through, I’ll let you know. It won’t be quick.”

“Goodness me,” I observed. “A lot of magic flying around. I hope no one gets hurt.”

They all ignored me. Of course, it’s what I would have done. I was the target. My job was to die. Nothing I had to say could make any difference.

Now me, I had a whole different take on matters. But even if I couldn’t participate in the discussion, I found it interesting.

“All right,” said Poletra. “Let’s kill his beasts, first.”

“They’re gone,” said someone behind me. “Flew away as we were moving in.”

“I see,” said the Demon. He gave me a speculative look. I could see he had questions; he knew he wouldn’t get answers if he asked them. Then he looked at someone over my right shoulder and said, “How long is his shielding spell going to last?”

“Can’t say,” said the sorcerer called Farthia, who had apparently moved to somewhere behind me. “He’s using pure psychic energy, probably from the hawk’s egg. It’s pretty solid. Might be hours.”

“I can’t hold for hours,” said Illitra.

The Demon frowned. “Did anyone,” he said, “think to bring chains?”

“I have some rope,” said Poletra.

“No good,” said the Demon. “He’s carrying too much edged hardware. We need chains, fetters, manacles, locks.”

“I can have a set here in two minutes, if you’ll drop the teleport block.”

“No,” said the Demon.

“How far out does the block extend?”

“Not far. A couple of hundred yards,” said Farthia.

“Ten minutes then.”

“I can hold him for that long,” said Illitra.

Ten minutes. What could I do in ten minutes? Not much, in fact, what with not being able to move and all.

In the past, I’ve pulled off some capers that depended on exact timing. I was always proud of that. This time, I had been pleased that I didn’t need to know exact timing—that I had like half an hour of slack built into the schedule.