I had them bring me some food. There was klava—good klava—and some hen’s eggs partly boiled with salt, and bread with a luxurious amount of butter. They charged too much, but here and there were compensations.
Loiosh reported conversations that were only remarkable in their triviality—the best markets, who had become pregnant, whose uncle had taken sick. Sometimes he identified the voices as male, sometimes female, sometimes mixed. At one point, two women who spoke with an accent that Loiosh remembered as being from some Eastern kingdom got into a conversation that made me blush when Loiosh repeated it. And I don’t blush easy.
By the evening, I was starting to wonder if the whole thing were a put-up job—if someone knew I was listening and was staging the conversations for my benefit. But then, I reminded myself that most of these people worked eighteen hours a day or so, many of them at the slaughter houses, so I wouldn’t expect to hear anything of substance until the evening.
And, indeed, in the evening I started hearing things that were more interesting: Loiosh reported a male voice saying, “They should be arriving within the half hour, we should set the chairs up.”
I sent down for another meal to prepare myself; this one a whole fowl done in a sweet wine sauce. I don’t actually care much for sweet sauces, but it wasn’t bad.
“Pounding sounds, Boss. Doors. People coming in. Voices.”
“What are the voices saying, Loiosh?”
“No idea. They’re all talking at once. Greetings, I think.”
“Any Eastern accents?”
“One or two, maybe. It’s hard to say.”
“All right.”
About half an hour later he said, “They’re quieting down. Someone’s talking. Dragaeran, or at least no accent I can hear.”
“What’s he saying?”
“She. Blah blah blah the Empire blah blah blah Tirma blah blah blah organize blah blah—”
“Loiosh.”
“Boss, when she actually says anything, I’ll tell you, okay? This having voices in my head is really weird.”
“You should be used to it. I am.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Okay.”
About half an hour later, he said, “They’re going to be having some sort of meeting tomorrow.”
“How thrilling.”
“With an Imperial Representative.”
“Oh. If it turns out to be Desaniek, this will suddenly be too easy.”
“No idea who it is.”
“Guess I’d better find out.”
“They’re still talking, Boss. Something about meeting before the meeting with the Representative, to, I don’t know, I couldn’t hear. Something about unity.”
“Where’s the meeting?”
“Which?”
“Both.”
“The one with the Representative will be at Speaker’s Hall at the fifth hour of the afternoon. The earlier one will be noon, at the cottage.”
“A meeting before the meeting. Okay. Got it. I may have a bit of an idea, but I first need to make sure that it is Desaniek going to that meeting.”
“What if it isn’t?”
“Then I’ll—”
I didn’t have to answer the question, because a clap outside the door interrupted me.
“Who?”
“No one I know, Boss. Just one, though.”
I stirred myself. I had forgotten about the damned rib and sat up directly, instead of turning on my side first. I resolved not to do that again. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to defend myself, because I just wasn’t in any shape to. Nevertheless, I let a knife fall into my right hand, held it behind the door, and opened the door carefully.
My, my, my.
I didn’t recognize her, but I knew what she was. She had a face like a knife’s edge, hair swept back and tied, and wore black and gray and rings on every finger including both thumbs.
I stepped back. “Well,” I said. “This is unexpected. Please come in.”
“Vladimir Taltos?”
“Something like that,” I said. “And you are?”
“A messenger.” She made no move to come in; the hallway behind her was empty.
“I can guess from whom.”
“You have a deal with us,” she said. “We have a project working you know something about. If you interfere with the project, the deal is off.”
Then she turned and walked down the hall.
I shut the door and put the knife away.
“Well,” I said after a moment. “I guess I’ve been warned.”
“I guess so. What are you going to do?”
“Just what I was planning to do.”
“Now?”
“Might as well.”
Loiosh and Rocza flew out of the door ahead of me, and announced that things looked good. I made my way to the Palace. I still walked as if nothing hurt, and I still knew it wouldn’t make any difference. As we walked, Loiosh said, “Can I stop listening now?”
“Soon. Not yet.”
“It’s just more of the same, Boss.”
“Sorry. We’ll be done with this soon.”
Who would know? Well, the Empress, of course, and I’d try again to see her if I had to, but one doesn’t simply barge in on the Empress to get a simple question answered if one has any choice, so I took myself to the Dragon Wing to see if the temporary acting Warlord and Dragon Heir to the throne happened to have a spare moment. Start small, that’s what I always say.
I climbed the stairs to the tiny room that was almost becoming familiar—yea, Vlad Taltos, ex-assassin, ex–crime boss, wanted by both sides of the law (that last isn’t true, but it sounded good, didn’t it?), walked into the inner sanctum of Imperial law enforcement. I clapped.
“Who by the fecal matter of the Seven Wizards is it now and what do you want that can’t wait half an hour?” came the cheerful reply from within.
“It’s Vlad,” I said.
“Enter, then.” I did. “My day is now perfect,” she suggested.
“Who from the Empire is going to meet with that group of Easterners and Teckla?” As I’ve said, I’m big on small talk.
Her eyes narrowed and her lips pressed together. “Cawti?” she said.
“No. My own sources. Who will it be?”
“Why should I tell you?”
There were a number of reasons, but I cut to the simplest one. “If it’s Desaniek, she’s going to be assassinated there.”
That made an impression of some sort, but I couldn’t judge what it was. “It isn’t,” she said at last. I’m not sure if I felt relieved or disappointed. It was too pat, anyway. Norathar continued, “It’s Caltho.”
“Who is that?”
“Iorich. Desaniek’s chief investigator.”
“I see.” Then. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
“What would happen if he were killed at that meeting?”
She blinked. “At that meeting? By an Easterner or a Teckla?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t . . .” Her voice trailed off as she considered it. “It wouldn’t be good,” she said finally. “What are your reasons for thinking it will happen?”
“You know about the Jhereg, Left Hand, and Orca pressure on Zerika.”
“On Her Majesty,” she corrected absently.
“An honest investigation would be ugly, but would take away their leverage. An attempt on the part of rebel Teckla to stop the investigation would sabotage it, or at least delay it, and the pressure would be back on.”
She frowned. “I don’t know. That isn’t how the Jhereg operates.”