Free Tiassa by Steven Brust Page A

surgical-quality needle, an acrobat who can do both wide-spar and high-rope, a swimmer who is fluent in Serioli, a—”
    “You can stop now, Vlad. I saw that play, too.”
    “Good. I couldn’t remember the other two.”
    “Who do you need?”
    “You. Me. Omlo. Enough muscle to keep me alive during the fun part if things go wrong. Sticks, Shoen, and two others who are reliable.”
    “If we add a couple more, can we keep me alive, too?”
    “We could, but I don’t want to spend that much. Get on it. I have guests arriving soon.”

4
     
    They all arrived on time—a small miracle—and took seats.
    “How are things so far?” asked Foxy.
    “Good. Today we do the swap.”
    He looked at Omlo. “Is he ready?”
    “Omlo, are you?”
    “I think so.”
    “So, what do we do next?” asked Kragar.
    We all looked at him. I cleared my throat and said, “Three of them are practicing their parts. You’re going to run out and bring us back some breakfast. Steamed sweet rolls stuffed with kethna. Make sure they’re hot.”
    “I should have seen that coming,” he said.
    “Don’t forget one for Loiosh.”
    He shook his head and walked out.
    “Boss, you’re the best.”
    “Don’t ever forget it.”
    I went over things with them, then did so again, by which time Kragar was back with breakfast. Everyone enjoyed the food—Blue-guy exceptionally so. I liked that; it’s always a pleasure to introduce someone to a delicacy he hadn’t been aware of.
    We ate, went over things once more, then I said, “All right. Unless there are questions, the Runner and the Dog-man might as well get started.”
    “No questions here,” said Ibronka.
    I studied her. “Sorry,” I said.
    “About what?”
    “The lack of action for you.”
    “Sorry? I assumed you’d done it just to annoy me.”
    “I probably would have, if I’d thought of it.”
    She made a sound somewhere between a sniff and a snort.
    I told Omlo, “You should get into position as well. Good luck.”
    “Yes, m’lord. Thank you, m’lord.”
    They set off. Kragar ate another roll, wiped his fingers, and said, “You know, Vlad, the biggest hole with the plan is that it isn’t a plan, it’s about six.”
    “Four. Depending on how it plays out.”
    “That’s all right, then.”
    “You have about half an hour to round everyone up and get them in position.”
    “Oh, good. I was afraid you were going to rush me.”
    I led the way to the Cups, about three-quarters of a mile south and east of my office. It was as I remembered it—cramped and crowded on the inside, spacious on the outside. The street it faced was narrow and curved; there was a wide market area just out of sight to the north, or right as you faced the street. Directly across the street was a three-story stonework house—the sort of place that held families of Teckla who for some reason worked in the City. On the wall facing me, someone had created quasi-abstract art in which I could, possibly, make out male genitalia, the face of the Empress, and various obscenities.
    It was early evening, and the inside of the Cups was full of Teckla and a few merchants; the outdoor area, mostly taken up with Lyorn and Hawklords, had plenty of empty tables. I took one, and eventually got someone to bring me a pitcher of iced wine.
    And now, for a while, I can only give you a combination of speculation and what I was told or deduced afterward: I was drinking iced wine when all the fun stuff was happening, and since I didn’t get to see it, neither do you. Sorry.
    So, while I was sitting at the Cups, a host at the Flagpole checked one of the coins he’d been given, and, whether by bell, vibration, changing color, or some other way, he learned that the coin had been tagged.
    Maybe he found a kitchen boy to run an errand. Maybe he had a bell that rang sympathetically in the headquarters of the Phoenix Guards. Or they may have had some other means of communication that hasn’t occurred to me. It doesn’t matter;