Issola by Steven Brust

silver: a round ball that would hurt like a bitch if I cracked it on someone's head. The hilt was a bit smaller than usual with Dragaeran weapons, but that was okay, because my hands are small, too. It was very smooth and cool to the touch, I remembered. The blade, which I hadn't yet seen would be of that ugly, dull, grey-black metal that Morganti blades always have, and might have a blood-groove in it; I didn't take it out to look. It was long for a knife and short for a sword. Impractical in every way, and was probably not even balanced all that well, most likely being a bit bladeheavy. This, of course, was useful for chopping away in battle - military-issue swords are often blade-heavy - but chopping away in battle was not something I did much of.
    And it was very strong. I could feel it, even through the sheath - a sort of presence in the back of my mind, whispering its hunger. It wanted to kill, and couldn't care a copper penny who or what it killed; as vicious as a Dragon in the heat of rage, as heartless as a Dzur on a spree; as cold as an Orca closing a deal. I hated it.
    I had used Morganti weapons before, but I had never liked them, never had any interest in being near them. Once, I had had to stand in a room with more of them than I could count; Istill sometimes have bad dreams that I can trace to that experience. And this one really was damned powerful. I had taken it along only because I feared the Jenoine might be observing me, and if I didn't have it along, they might have stopped me from traveling to Verra. I no longer wanted it, but didn't feel comfortable just throwing it into a corner of the room, either. I mentally cursed it, and wished that it and all its siblings would get lost somewhere.
    I turned my eyes and my mind away from the weapon at my hip, and back to Morrolan and Aliera, who shared some traits with the thing, but at least had a few redeeming virtues. I stood over them, and, in an effort to think about something else, returned to studying, yet again, the manacles, the chains, the spot where they joined the wall, and all the rest. The slightly sweet, slightly bitter taste of the air reminded me that I had to keep my breathing shallow.
    "You're scowling," said Morrolan.
    "Yeah," I said. "You do it better, but you've had longer to practice." I knelt down for yet another, closer look, convinced that if kept staring I'd see something. Years ago I wore an assassin's cloak with all sorts of goodies in it, including a bit of oil which might have allowed me to slide the manacles off. But I didn't carry those things anymore.
    "It probably wouldn't have worked anyway without breatking her hand.”
    "Aliera," I said, "do you mind if I break your hand?”
    "If that is the only way to get me out of these," she said, "no, I don't." I hadn't expected that answer, although I should have.
    "That goes for us both," said Morrolan.
    Of course it does, I thought but didn't say.
    I had killed people without examining them this closely. The manacles were fairly tight, but there was a bit of room between iron and skin.
    "What are you thinking, Vlad?" said Morrolan.
    "I'm meditating on helplessness as a way of life, and captivity as an expression of artistic fulfillment."
    "What are you thinking, Vlad?" he repeated patiently.
    I shrugged. "I'm wondering how much time we have. I assume the Jenoine know I've returned. But they never seem to be in much of a hurry. They don't behave the way I expect captors to behave. That confuses me." Morrolan shrugged. "Have you ever been held captive?"
    "Yes."
    "I mean, have you ever been held captive by someone other than the Empire?"
    "Yes," I said, and didn't elaborate. To avoid dwelling on a memory that wasn't entirely pleasant, featuring, as it did, far too much potato soup, I considered what the Goddess had told me. She had said I'd be able to... Okay, maybe. It's hard to argue with one's Goddess.
    During this interval, I had continued to study wall, chains, manacles, and wrists;