The Book of Taltos by Steven Brust Read Free Book Online Page A

out of there alive was cooperation. If they wanted me for something, they at least weren’t going to kill me out of hand. I let out my breath and said, “Business, then. You have business in mind. Tell me about it.”
    “Yes.” She sent Morrolan a glance that was impossible to read, then turned back to me. “There is a thing we’d like you to do.”
    I waited.
    She said, “This is going to take some explanation.”

    D URING MY ENTIRE TENTH year it was almost impossible to keep me away from my grandfather’s. I felt my father’s growing dislike of this, and ignored it. Noish-pa was delighted at my interest in witchcraft. He taught me to draw things that I only saw in his mind, and gave me tours of his memories of his homeland. I still remember how it felt to see clear blue sky, with white puffy clouds and a sun so bright I couldn’t look directly at it, even through the eyes of his memory. And I remember the stars as vividly as if I were there. And the mountains, and the rivers.
    Finally my father, in an effort to distract me, hired a sorcerer to teach me. He was a snide young Jhegaala whom I hated and who didn’t like me, but he taught me anyway and I learned anyway. I hate to think of what that cost my father. It was interesting, and I did learn something, but I resented it, so I didn’t work as hard as I could have. In fact, I think I was working not to like it. But, on the other hand, I enjoyed the closeness with my grandfather much more than I enjoyed making pretty flashing lights in the palm of my hand.
    This process continued for quite some time—until my father died, in fact. My grandfather had started teaching me fencing, in the one-handed, side-stance Eastern rapier style. When my father learned of it, he hired a Dragaeran sword teacher to show me the full-forward cut and slash sword and dagger method, which turned out to be a fiasco since I hadn’t the strength to use even the practice sword of the Dragaerans.
    The funny thing is, I suspect that if my father had ever actually told Noish-pato stop, he would have. But my father never did; he only glowered and sometimes complained. I think he was so convinced that everything Dragaeran was better than everything Eastern, he expected me to be convinced of it, too.
    Poor fool.

    S ETHRA L AVODE STUDIED THE floor, and the expression on her face was the one I wear when I’m trying to figure out a delicate way to say something. Then she nodded, almost imperceptibly, and looked up. “Do you know the difference between a wizard and a sorcerer?”
    I said, “I think so.”
    “There aren’t many who can achieve the skill in sorcery, necromancy, and other disciplines to combine them effectively. Most wizards are of the House of the Athyra or the House of the Dzur. Loraan is an Athyra.”
    “What was the name?”
    “Loraan.”
    “I’ve never heard of him.”
    “No. You wouldn’t have. He’s never done anything remarkable, really. He is a researcher of magic, as are most Athyra wizards. If it means anything to you, he discovered the means by which the last thoughts of the dying may be preserved temporarily in fluids. He was attempting to find more reliable means of communicating with the dead by introducing a means of . . .”
    After a few minutes of getting lost in a description of strange sorcery that I’ll never need to know, I interrupted. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s just say he’s good at what he does. What do you want from me?”
    She smiled a little. Her lips were very thin and pale. She said, “He has in his possession a certain staff or wand, containing a necromantic oddity—the soul of a being who is neither alive nor dead, unable to reach the Plane of Waiting Souls, unable to reach the Paths of the Dead, unable to—”
    “Fine,” I said. “A staff with a soul in it. Go on.”
    Morrolan shifted and I saw his jaw working. He was staring at me hard but I guess exercising restraint. It occurred to me for the first time that they wanted