by Steven Brust
About two miles farther along, the road split, one side going directly to the market, the other leading toward the town of Junglebrook. This latter road, some distance before reaching the village we have just had the honor to mention, passed before a small travelers’ rest where, more often than not, could be found whichever pair of Phoenix Guards was, on this day, responsible for this region. Insofar as Dyfon hoped to find just such a pair, he was not disappointed; they sat in the far corner of the tavern, the man nursing a stout, the woman sipping a porter, both of them obvious by the gold half-cloaks draped over the backs of their chairs.
After a brief moment spent gathering his nerve as if it were grains of sand to be pulled into a pile, he approached them and bowed so deeply that his forehead positively touched the floor. The man glanced at the woman, rather than Dyfon, and said, “Good Nill, I nearly think our dull patrol has become interesting.”
“Well, Farind, and so do I. For not only would a Teckla never speak to us save under unusual circumstances—”
“Which conclusion I had also come to.”
“—But, moreover, there is blood upon both of his sleeves.”
“Blood which, you perceive, is not his own.”
“Therefore, we are about to learn of a dead or injured person.”
“Who is not a Teckla.”
“Not a Teckla? More than not a Teckla; who is not human!”
“Ah, there you have me. How have you deduced this?”
“You wish me to tell you?”
“If you would, for I am always eager to gain experience in the art of deductive reasoning, so vital if I am to rise to higher rank in the Phoenix Guards.”
“Well then, good Farind, it is this: As you have already concluded, were it animal blood, there would be nothing to tell. Were it a conflict among Teckla, they’d not have told us.”
“Exactly.”
“But if it were of any other House, he should be paralyzed with fear lest we accuse him of harming the noble, or failing to report it quickly enough, or lying, or any of the other thousand things Teckla fear us for.” At this point, she turned to the Teckla, addressing him for the first time. “Is the Easterner still living?”
Dyfon was unable to speak, but did manage to nod, at which time the two Dragonlords rose. “Then guide us to him,” said Farind. “For I find my partner’s logic completely convincing.”
Dyfon, in response to this, tried again to speak, but then merely bowed and turned away, looking over his shoulder to see that the two Phoenix Guards were following him. This they were doing, donning their uniform cloaks as they did so. Once outside, they retrieved their horses from the stable, had them saddled, and mounted with practiced ease. As they did this, Dyfon went to his cart.
“No,” said the guardsman called Nill. “Leave that. It will slow us down.”
“On the contrary,” said Farind. “Bring it. It will make it easier to bring the body.”
Dyfon opened his mouth, closed it, then did the same with his hands. Farind observed this and said, “You may give this to your master in lieu of the supplies you were unable to get; he should be sufficiently understanding.” With this he tossed a silver coin to the Teckla, who dropped it and then recovered it.
“Thank you, my lord,” he managed. Farind carefully noted the expenditure in a note-book he carried for the purpose, after which he nodded to Dyfon to indicate that it was time to go.
Dyfon began to lead the way, driving the ox at his usual steady pace. He wondered if the Easterner might have died while he was gone, or, to the left, have recovered and walked off. He hoped fervently, should either be the case, that he would not be held responsible by the two Dragonlords. From this we can conclude that a Teckla is no less capable of hope than anyone else; indeed, if there is any trait that is universal, it must be hope, or, rather, the capacity for hope. It may well be that even Easterners are possessed of this capability.
Dyfon guided them well, and, as it chanced, the Easterner was not only there, but still breathing. The two Dragonlords dismounted and gave him a cursory inspection. Nill glanced up and chuckled. “I’m sorry, my friends, but you will miss this meal.” Dyfon, following her gaze, saw a pair of jhereg circling overhead and shuddered.
“Interesting,” said Farind. “You perceive he carries a scabbard for a sword, and a dagger in his sleeve?”
“And charms about his neck.”
“Shall we bring him to a physicker?”
“Let us see what else he carries. I suspect he may be of the House of the Jhereg, for else how would he dare carry a weapon openly?”
“And yet,” said Farind, “he does not wear the colors.”
“So I had observed.”
“And then?”
“What is this?”
“An Imperial signet! An Easterner with an Imperial title!”
“Well,” said Nill, “this is an enigma wrapped in, ah…”
“Another enigma?”
“Precisely.”
“I suggest we bring him to headquarters. There they can decide if he should be given to the care of a physicker.”
“And yet, should he die on the journey, and prove to be important in some way, then headquarters would be required to consider the expense of a revivification.”
“Well, and if they are?”
“Should they then decide we were culpable, we might be charged for it.”
“Ah, I should mislike that.”
“As should I.”
“And then?”
“Let us examine his wounds, and attempt to determine how quickly this decision ought to be made.”
“Very well, I agree with this plan.”
They made a quick examination and deduced that, thanks to the Teckla’s stockings, the Easterner would most likely survive being moved. This decision made, they loaded him onto the oxcart, where he suffered through a bumpy ride with significantly less discomfort than he would have experienced had he been awake.
While it is the case that the headquarters of the Phoenix Guards was located in the Dragon Wing of the Palace, the reader should be aware that, when Farind and Nill spoke of headquarters, this was not the place to which they referred. Instead, on Old Quarry Road, not far from the market that had been Dyfon’s original destination, was the North Central Guard Station, a two-story building of baked brick painted a particularly hideous shade of orange. It was to this station that our Dragonlords referred when they spoke of headquarters, and it was, therefore, to this station that the Easterner was accordingly brought.
Upon their arrival, a messenger was at once dispatched for a physicker. Nill and Farind asked Dyfon for his name and lord, which information Dyfon gave for the simple reason that he was too frightened not to; and they also took down what little information he had, after which they went in to see their ensign. Dyfon, for his part, returned to his task and his life. To our regret, we must now bid him farewell, as he no longer forms any part of the history we have taken upon ourselves to relate.
Upon presenting themselves to the ensign, whose name was Shirip, they saluted and, in the brief and business-like manner she required, they explained what had brought them back early from their patrol. The ensign listened until they explained about finding the signet in his purse, at which time her eyebrows rose and she made a noise which Farind and Nill interpreted as surprise.
“I believe,” said the ensign after some consideration, “that you did the right thing. For an Imperial noble to be permitted to die would reflect poorly on our ability to protect our citizens. And yet—”
“Well?” said Nill.
“An Easterner with an Imperial title. It is exceptional. More than exceptional, in fact, it is unusual.”
“And then?” said Farind. “Shall we question him when the physicker has finished?”
“No,” said the ensign. “While I have no fear of battle, nor of crossing swords with anyone you might name, still do I confess that there are things I fear. Rather than risking giving offense to a
n Imperial lord by questioning him, or annoying my superior officers by letting him go, I will inform the Wing of what has happened, and await instructions.”
Nill said, “If I may speak, Commander.”
“Yes?”
“This seems wise to me, only—”
“Well?”
“What if he should wake up before we have heard from the Wing?”
“Oh, in that case—”
“Well?”
“As the Vallista say, we will burn that house when we enter it.”
Farind frowned, as he was not, in fact, certain that the Vallista said this; but he and Nill comprehended her meaning, and at once nodded and said, “We understand, Ensign. Shall we then return to our duty?”
“Yes, do you do that. I will see that word of this matter reaches the proper ears.”
Nill and Farind bowed and took their leave. The ensign, true to her word, at once wrote out a message to what the guardsmen called the Wing, but was, in fact, the actual headquarters of the Phoenix Guards. She made the decision that the message was not of sufficient urgency to require psychic transmission, and so, upon completing the message, dispatched a messenger, who, thanks to possessing, first, a good pair of legs, and, second, the willingness to use them, less than half an hour later reached the Offices of the Captain of the Phoenix Guard in the Dragon Wing of the Palace.
Once there, he wasted no time in pleasantries, but put the message at once into the hand of Lord Raanev, the personal secretary to the captain (not to be confused with the captain’s confidential servant, whom we shall meet presently). This worthy received the message with the greatest aplomb, glanced at it, and at once replied with a single word: “Interesting.”
The messenger, who had heard this flavor of comment before from the worthy Dragonlord, bowed and said, “Yes, m’lord. Is there an answer?”
“Remain nigh,” said Raanev. “I will pass the message along, and, well, we will learn if there is a reply.”
“I shall not stray from this room,” promised the messenger.
“And you will be right not to,” agreed the secretary.
With this reassurance, the messenger took a seat and began to wait. Waiting, we should add, was something he was especially skilled at, having had some thirty or thirty-five years’ practice since the time he had first received this employment. What his thoughts were, or what methods he might have had to combat ennui, we cannot tell; but for the purposes of this history, we should add, such information would not be useful, and we therefore have no need to take up the reader’s valuable time with it.
Even as the messenger—whom we have chosen to leave nameless as an indication of his unimportance both to history in general and to our history in particular—was taking a seat, Raanev opened a door located in the back corner of his office, and, passing through the doorway, stood before his superior, who was none other than Khaavren of Castle Rock, with whom the reader may, perhaps, be familiar from our earlier histories. For the benefit of the reader who is, for lack of opportunity or for some other reason, unacquainted with these histories, we will say two words about Khaavren, who at this time was Captain of Her Majesty’s Guard.
He was, then, well into his middle years, being somewhat more than eleven hundred years of age, and if he had lost some of his youthful flexibility, both in body and in spirit, he had gained in strength. His eyes were as sharp as ever and still glinted with the same quick intelligence; and if his mouth only rarely curved into the spontaneous smiles as before, his chin nevertheless showed the same determination. Beyond this, his wrist was as firm and supple as it ever was, and his ears, which had once been honored by winning the attention of an Emperor, had lost none of their cleverness.
Raanev placed himself before this worthy and bowed. “My captain,” he said, “we have received word of an Easterner, found wounded near the river.”
“Well?” said Khaavren, as if uncertain about how this intelligence could have anything to do with him.
“Moreover,” said Raanev.
“Yes, moreover?”
“According to a signet upon his person, he holds an Imperial title.”
“An Easterner with an Imperial title.”
“A wounded Easterner with an Imperial title.”
“Tell me, Raanev. Which seems to you more likely: an Easterner with an Imperial title, or an Easterner who has, for reasons of his own, stolen a signet?”
“Oh, it is obvious which is more likely, only—”
“Yes?”
“I have heard no report of such a signet being stolen.”
Khaavren frowned, struck by the extreme justice of this observation. “Nor have I heard such a report,” admitted the captain, “and you are right to point this out.”
“I am pleased that my captain thinks so.”
“Oh, I do. And not only that—”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I believe we should reflect on this situation.”
“I have no argument to make with such reflection.”
“But in order to reflect, more information is required.”
“I agree with the captain that, when reflecting, having information upon which to reflect is often useful.”
“Is the messenger still waiting?”
“He is, Captain.”
“Then have him return to Ensign Shirip. Instruct her to investigate this Easterner, then report to me here.”
From this, the reader may deduce that Khaavren, who had been wont to run out to learn what he could, now had others to do this work, and had such information as they acquired brought to him; whether this was a result of his increased responsibility, or increased age, we must leave to the reader to decide. Raanev, for his part, had no occasion to speculate, but merely carried out the orders of his superior officer.
The messenger, who had been waiting for just such an occurrence, also carried out his orders; and did so with such effectiveness that in a short time Ensign Shirip had received the message with as much accuracy and precision as if she’d heard it from Khaavren’s own lips. For her part, she understood that, when given an order by the captain, there was no question of joking, and so she at once carried out an inspection of the Easterner, and spoke at some length with the physicker attending him.
This done, she called for a coach and driver and, leaving a subordinate in charge, made her way to the Imperial Palace. Once there, she found the suite of the captain, where a servant named Borteliff, of whom we will learn more later, admitted her to Khaavren’s private office.
Now this office was, first of all, spacious, as befit the Captain of the Phoenix Guards, who was, among other things, responsible for the safety of Her Majesty. In addition to the door by which first Raanev and now Shirip had entered, there were four others. One of these, in the far back, led via a short tunnel to the outside, and it was used by the captain for his own comings and goings. The one to the left (that is, Shirip’s left as she entered) communicated with a large hallway that was the quickest way to reach the Iorich Wing (although the reader must understand that the quickest way was not, in point of fact, quick). A third door, next to the one in back, led to a wide, heavily guarded area where teleports were permitted both in and out, and, beyond that, to certain council chambers where the captain could meet privately with anyone with whom he wished to consult. The final door, on the right, led by as direct a route as possible to the throne room in the Imperial Wing.
In addition to the doors there was a small alcove where the captain might hang his hat and cloak and also his sword. The rest of the room was dominated by a large walnut desk—a desk that the captain kept clean by the simple expedient of making others do his paperwork whenever possible. In addition to the desk, there were five chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of it. Each of these chairs was, we should add, quite comfortable, featuring arm-rests and cushions; because with his present elevated rank, he was now visited by those who deserved better treatment than was generally afforded even an officer of the gua
rd. Khaavren’s own chair was not unlike him: it was simple and without padding or ornament, firm, and gave the appearance of being entirely functional.
It was in this office, and, more precisely, in this chair that Khaavren sat and, with a nod, greeted Ensign Shirip.
“Captain,” she said, saluting. “I have inspected the Easterner, as you ordered.”
“And you were right to do so. Is he conscious?”
“Not yet, but the physicker is hopeful.”
“How was he injured? By he, you understand,” added Khaavren, who was always careful to avoid confusion, “I refer to the Easterner, not the physicker.”
“I understand all the better, Captain, because the physicker is a she.”
“Ah, then there can be no ambiguity.”
“Exactly.”
“So then you will tell me of his injuries?”
“I will do so this very instant.”
“Excellent. I am listening.”
“Four cuts and two stab wounds, Captain. All but one cut and one stab are shallow and insignificant. He is cut on the right shoulder and elbow, and the right leg above the knee, as well as a significant gash on the left side, just above the hip. There is a shallow puncture wound in the left shoulder, as well as a serious one low on his right chest, only just missing the lung.”
“How many weapons caused the wounds?”
“Three.”
“So, unless one of them fought with two weapons, there were at least four attackers.”
“Four, Captain? And yet—”
Khaavren brushed it aside. “A tolerably skillful player. Other than his wounds, what did you observe?”