“How long ago did he die?”
“About two years ago, milord.”
“I see. And you can’t find out who got possession after that?”
“Not yet, milord.”
“Keep working on it. Who was the Dragon, by the way?”
“A powerful sorcerer, lord. He was called Baritt.”
Well now . . . By all the Lords of Judgment, how was I going to fit this into my thinking? Coincidence came to mind, was thrown away, and kept coming back. How could it be coincidence? How could it not be coincidence?
“Milord?”
“Fentor, find out everything you can about that, right away. Put more people on it. Break into Imperial records, bribe recordsmiths, whatever you have to, but find out.”
“Yes, milord.”
Baritt . . . Baritt . . .
A powerful sorcerer, a wizard, a Dragonlord. He was old when he died, and had made such a name for himself that he was no longer referred to by his lineage. Rather, his descendants referred to themselves as “e’Baritt.” He had died only two years ago, and his monument, near Deathsgate Falls, had been the site of the bloodiest battle since the Interregnum.
Baritt.
It was easy enough to imagine him involved in some sort of conspiracy within the House of the Dragon, but what could he have to do with the Jhereg? Could he be Laris’s patron? Or could one of his descendants be? If so, why?
What’s more, if there was a relationship between my problem with Laris and Norathar’s problem with Baritt, that meant a deep intrigue of some kind, and Dragonlords simply aren’t intriguers—with the possible exception of Aliera, and then only within a limited sphere.
Was I really going to have to visit Deathsgate Falls and the Paths of the Dead again? I shuddered. Remembering my last visit, I knew that those who dwell there would not take my coming again at all kindly. Would it do any good if I did? Probably not; Baritt had certainly not been well disposed toward me last time.
But it couldn’t be coincidence. His name turning up like that, owning the very flats that had been used by Laris. Why hadn’t they merely passed to his heirs? Because someone had played with the records? Maybe, which would explain why Fentor was having so much trouble tracking down the ownership. But then, who? Why?
I reached out for contact with Morrolan.
“Yes, Vlad?”
“Tell me about Baritt.”
“Hmmph.”
“I already knew that.”
“Precisely what do you wish to know, Vlad?”
“How did he die?”
“Eh? You don’t know?”
“If I knew—no, I don’t know.”
“He was assassinated.”
Oh. That at least explained some of the remarks he’d made to me.
“I see. How was it done? I’m surprised a sorcerer as skilled as Baritt would allow himself to be cut down.”
“Hmmm. As I recall, Vlad, there is a saying among you Jhereg . . . ”
“Ah. Yes. ‘No matter how subtle the wizard, a knife between the shoulder blades will seriously cramp his style.’ ”
“Yes.”
“So it was a Jhereg?”
“What other assassins do you know of?”
“There are plenty of amateurs who’ll knife anyone for five gold. A Jhereg will hardly ever ‘work’on anyone who isn’t in the House; there usually isn’t any need to, unless someone is threatening to go to the Empire about something, or—”
I stopped dead.
Morrolan said, “Yes, Vlad? Or . . . ?”
I let him hang there. Or, I had been about to say, unless it’s done as a special favor, set up by a Jhereg, for a friend from another House. Which meant that maybe, maybe it hadn’t been Baritt behind the whole thing, after all. Maybe he’d been working with whoever it was, and this other person then needed Baritt taken out. And this other person was Laris’s patron. And, since Laris had helped out with Baritt, his patron was ready to help Laris get rid of me. A simple exchange of favors.
“Vlad?”
“Sorry, Morrolan, I’m trying to figure something out. Bide a moment, please.”
“Very well.”
So Laris’s patron was someone who had been working with Baritt about two years ago. Yes. Who would know?
“Morrolan, who would be likely to know someone who was working with Baritt shortly before his death?”
“I’m not sure, Vlad. I don’t know, myself. We never had much to do with each other while he was alive. Perhaps you should show up at Castle Black and ask around.”
“Yes . . . perhaps I’ll do that. Well, thank you. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Certainly, Vlad.”
Well, well, and well.
At the very least, Laris was in it with someone else, and this someone else, presumably a Dragonlord, was helping him against me. If I could find out who he was, I might be able to nullify him simply by threatening to expose him; Dragons don’t think highly of their own kind helping out Jhereg.
Finding him involved discovering who had owned those flats. Hmmm. I reached out for—
“Fentor.”
“Yes, milord?”
“Make a list of every currently living descendant of Baritt. Have it ready in an hour.”
“An hour, milord?”
“Yes.”
“But—yes, milord.”
I broke the link, and opened another one.
“Who is it?”
“Hello, Sethra.”
“Oh, Vlad. Good evening. What can I do for you?”
“Is it still necessary to hold Norathar and Cawti prisoner?”
“I was just discussing that with Aliera. Why?”
“It would be helpful if Cawti were free this evening.”
“I see.” There was a pause, then: “Very well, Vlad. Neither Aliera nor Morrolan objects.”
“You’ll release both of them?”
“The Easterner was the only one in doubt. Norathar, as far as we’re concerned, is a Dragon.”
“I see. Well, thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll tell them at once.”
“Make it five minutes from now, all right?”
“If you wish.”
“Thank you.”
Then I took a deep breath and began concentrating on Cawti, whom I didn’t really know all that well. But I thought about her face, her voice, her—
“Vladimir!”
“Got it on the first guess. What are you doing tonight?”
“What am I—? What do you suppose I’m doing? Your friends still haven’t allowed us to leave.”
“I think that can be arranged. If so, would the lady be so kind as to allow me to escort her to a small gathering this evening?”