by Steven Brust
“The artifact—the mysterious silver tiassa. Has Your Majesty learned any more concerning it?”
“Nothing but the rumors we heard at the time—rumors I am personally convinced were fabricated.”
Khaavren nodded. “I do myself the honor to share this opinion with Your Majesty.”
“That is good. What is your next question?”
Khaavren cleared his throat. “Is Your Majesty prepared for the risk that, by discovering what happened to Szurke, and tracing the silver tiassa, information will come to light that could have consequences, and require action?”
“I answered that when I gave you leave to have Special Tasks pursue the matter, Brigadier. What I wish to avoid is indiscriminate violence among the Houses. Should we learn of an individual—or several individuals—who are responsible for a crime, well, that is a different matter, is it not?”
“I do myself the honor to be in complete accord with Your Majesty.”
“So much the better. What is your next question?”
“That is all, Majesty.”
“How, all?”
“I can think of no others.”
“You startle me.”
“Do I? That is not my intention.”
“Nevertheless, I expected more questions.”
“Would Your Majesty condescend to tell me what questions you expected?”
“I had expected, Brigadier, that you would ask why you were never told of these things.”
“Your Majesty expected that?”
“I did.”
“Such a question might hint of reproach.”
“It might.”
Khaavren shrugged. “Majesty, it may be that the captain can be offended when it appears his sovereign does not trust him; but the brigadier knows very well that some matters must be kept between Empress and Orb—an expression I use literally in this case.”
“I am answered. But do you not also wish to know if I expressed a wish to Madam the Countess that she not speak of this matter, even to you?”
Khaavren made no effort to conceal how startled he was by this question. “Your Majesty, I have no need to ask that; the Countess already told me of it.”
“Ah. Well, I understand. So, there is no more you wish to ask?”
“Nothing else, Majesty. And permit me to say that I am grateful for your kindness in permitting me to put these questions.”
“My Lord Khaavren.”
“Majesty?”
“I cannot go into detail, but Count Szurke—that is to say, Lord Taltos—performed a great service for the Empire at the time of the latest difficulties with Elde Island. In doing so, he made a bitter enemy of the Jhereg. There is nothing I can do about that. But recently he was beaten, and it is obviously not the Jhereg. There is something behind this, and it is big. I want it to be found, and the Empire protected.”
“And Szurke?”
“If you can protect him as well, I would be gratified.”
“I understand, Majesty. Only—”
“Yes?”
“Suppose it is not big?”
“What do you say?”
“Majesty, I am beginning to suspect that this entire matter is small, trivial, unimportant.”
“If true, so much the better!”
“And?”
“Then it would be good if Szurke were protected anyway.”
“Your Majesty, everything is now perfectly clear to me.”
“Very good, Brigadier. That will be all, then.”
Khaavren bowed deeply and took his leave of the Empress. He returned to his offices, where he caused bread and cheese and wine to be brought to him. He ate slowly as he considered what he had learned.
“Well,” he said at last, speaking to the empty room, “it doesn’t matter. It is Her Majesty’s wish; it is therefore, to me, a command. If it weren’t, I’d be holding the wrong position. Or, rather, the wrong two positions.”
This settled, he put what, for another, would have been a moral dilemma out of his mind and continued with his duties.
The next day, Dinaand reported that Lady Saruchka had accepted the engagement. Khaavren replied, confirming (for the third time) the time, date, and location when the bard had promised to appear.
“That is good,” observed Khaavren to himself. “Now we know where it will happen, and when it will happen. All we do not know is what will happen.”
That night, he spent an evening quietly at home with the Countess, playing quoins-of-four, and later reading together; the Countess preferring re-tellings of folktales, while Khaavren spent time with his favorite poets of antiquity; occasionally they would read each other a passage or stanza.
At one point, the Countess said, “My lord, I know this mood you are in—a little smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth, and sometimes your eye narrows as if choosing to do so for its own reasons.”
Khaavren looked up from his book and said, smiling, “Well, and what do you conclude from these statistics?”
“That you have solved a mystery, or finished the preparations for an operation, or both.”
“The preparations are complete; the mystery is still to be solved.”
“I have no doubt you will solve it.”
“Your confidence inspires me, madam.”
“So much the better.”
“It will take another week to see the end of the matter, but to-morrow everything will be arranged.”
“And you will achieve results.”
“And be glad to have them, for this matter causes me some confusion.”
“I look forward to hearing the answers, my lord.”
“And I, madam,” said Khaavren, “look forward to explaining them.”
With that, by mutual consent, they returned to their books.
By two minutes after the ninth hour of the next morning, Pel arrived at Khaavren’s office, and was admitted at once. Khaavren motioned him to sit, which he did. Pel said, “Would you be kind enough to tell me your plan for next Marketday?”
“If you wish to know, I will gladly tell you.”
“Good, I am listening.”
“This is it, then: I will arrive three hours before the time the musicians are expected to start, and take up a position at a wheelwright’s across the street from the Owl’s Feet. There I will be able to watch whoever arrives.”
“And then?”
“And then, once everyone is gathered, I will go in.”
“Once you are inside, what will you do?”
“I will confront those from whom I wish to get answers.”
“Just you?”
“Who else is needed?”
“But, you say, confront them?”
“Yes. And, with everyone there, it will be strange if I cannot learn who is doing what, and why.”
“And once you have learned?”
“I will take whatever action seems appropriate.”
Pel shook his head. “This is not what I had expected, my friend.”
Khaavren shrugged. “When we last spoke, it is not what I had expected either.”
“And so?”
“What do you want, Pel?”
“Whatever is best for the Empire, of course.”
Khaavren laughed. “I forget sometimes that you are without ambition, my lord the Prime Minister.”
“I have had ambition, Khaavren, as you well know. But I have found that, having gratified it, my goal now must be to prove myself worthy of the position to which my ambition led me.”
“My friend, you have never had to justify yourself to me, and we have strayed from the topic of our conversation.”
“Not in the least, Khaavren.”
“How, we have not?”
Pel sighed. “No, for this matter concerns the good of the Empire.”
“My dear Pel, if there was something you had wished me to do, you ought to have told me what it was, then I could have done it.”
“Not to do, my friend. To discover.”
“It se
ems to me that we ought to discover what is going on, once all of those concerned are brought together.”
“You think so?”
“The Horse! I hope so!”
“And yet—”
“Pel, what did you want to learn that you didn’t tell me about before?”
The Yendi sighed. “There are times that I regret—but I suppose there is no point in complaining, is there?”
“None that I can see.”
“My old friend, are you laughing at me?”
“Without malice, good Pel.”
“I accept that, then.”
“May I do myself the honor to repeat my question? What did you want to learn that you didn’t tell me about?”
“Khaavren, I know that you remember the false Jenoine invasion.”
“Of course.”
“And, no doubt, you remember the real one of a few years before, by the Lesser Sea.”
“I was not there.”
“No, but someone else was.”
“Sethra Lavode.”
“Well, yes. But that is not who I meant.”
“The Warlord?”
“She was also there, and yet—”
“Pel, do not make me guess.”
“Count Szurke.”
“What do you tell me?”
“I tell you that this Szurke—Lord Taltos the Jhereg—was first present at the Lesser Sea when the Jenoine attempted to break through, and then was the object of a false invasion a few years ago. And now he appears once more. I want to know what this Easterner is doing, and why he is doing it. I want to know his plans and intentions. He cannot be arrested, because he has made a friend of Her Majesty. But he is a mystery, and this disturbs me.”
“And so you wished me to find out—?”
“Everything about him.”
“And you didn’t ask me because—?”
“Her Majesty would not have approved of the investigation, your duty would have required you to inform her, and you, my friend, have the unfortunate habit of carrying out your duty.”
“It is true, I have acquired that habit.”
“And so?”
“Well, I understand.”
“I am gratified that you do.”
“Moreover—”
“Yes?”
“I give you my word that if I learn anything of interest to you, I will not hesitate to inform you, and that I will even make what effort I can to discover as much as possible about this Easterner and his intentions.”
“Thank you, Khaavren. The Empire thanks you.”
“Oh, the Empire is not in the habit of thanking anyone, save now and again through one who represents it; but I will accept your gratitude with pleasure.”
“You have it as a gift.”
“And one I will treasure, I assure you.”
Pel rose, bowed, and took his leave. Khaavren remained where he was for a moment, lost in old recollections. Then, with a shake of his head and a smile, he returned to his duties.
CHAPTER THE SIXTH
How Events Unfolded at the
Sign of the Owl’s Feet
Khaavren, who had planned to arrive three hours early on that Marketday, was, in fact, at his post five hours before the appointed time. The post, in this case, was full of wood, wood-working equipment, and the distinctive smells of wood and the various oils and potions used to treat it—a smell which brought back pleasant associations for Khaavren from when, as a child, he had spent time with his father’s carpenter, a pleasant, older Chreotha who was full of stories and was marvelously skilled with his hands.
Khaavren exchanged a few words with the wheelwright, a young Jhegaala full of new ideas that were, perhaps, not as interesting to Khaavren as they would have been to another wheelwright. Fortunately, the brigadier was not in a hurry on this occasion; he was perfectly willing to make sounds associated with interest until, at length, he was able to work the conversation around to those matters of more interest to himself—to wit, how, for a few coins, the proprietor would be willing to let Khaavren remain quietly in his shop. The proprietor, though disappointed at losing what he had hoped would be a customer, found solace in the coins. Khaavren carefully noted the expense in his note-book, and set about his task.
It was a warm day, with the enclouding so thin that shadows could be seen spreading out from buildings and walking in lockstep with passers-by. Khaavren leaned against the doorway, folded his arms, and settled in to wait. From this position, he watched the coming and going of the patrons of the Owl’s Feet. He made the guess that there were more than twenty patrons there. This was not surprising, as the Owl’s Feet dated back to before the Interregnum, and was known far and wide as a place with good food, better wine, and still better music. It was a two-story stone structure, marked by a sign showing the head of an owl above the feet of this bird; why it came to be called the Owl’s Feet rather than the Owl’s Head was something no one knew.
As Khaavren continued to watch, a group of eight arrived together, all of them in the green and white of the House of the Issola.
“Ah,” said Khaavren, and permitted himself a small smile. “Her Majesty will be disappointed, and, most likely, so will Pel.” This observation made, he checked to make certain his sword was loose in his scabbard, folded his arms, and resumed his vigil.
He recognized Lady Saruchka with no trouble when she arrived, some three-quarters of an hour before she was scheduled to play, which Khaavren had expected, Dinaand having told him that musicians customarily arrived early in order to prepare themselves and their instruments. At nearly the same time, two others arrived whom Khaavren guessed to be musicians, as they both carried cases that might contain instruments. Khaavren looked at them closely, because he was not unaware that these could be Jhereg, and the cases could conceal weapons. As he watched them, however, he decided that they were no more than they appeared to be.
In point of fact, an unexpected appearance by the Jhereg was his greatest worry. But Khaavren had been a Phoenix Guard too long to be easily deceived by a disguised Jhereg, and so he watched and studied. Khaavren’s other worry was that he would miss the arrival of Count Szurke, should the Easterner choose to disguise himself, or to arrive by some unexpected route. In the event, he need not have worried—Khaavren recognized him at once, in the same nondescript leather garments he had affected earlier, with a light brown cloak that revealed the hilt of a sword. Szurke walked up to the door as if he had no reason in the world not to, paused, turned, nodded to Khaavren, then opened the door and entered.
How did he know I was here? was Khaavren’s first thought. Why did he want me to know he knew? was his second. He remembered, then, what Timmer had told him about the Easterner using a pair of jhereg to spy for him, which, he concluded, might answer the first question.
There was no point in waiting further, both because everyone had arrived, and because the musicians were scheduled to begin performing in only a very few minutes, and Khaavren knew that, however unlikely, it was possible the musicians could begin near to the time when they said they would. Khaavren waited patiently while a mule-drawn cart filled with firewood passed by, then quickly crossed the street and entered the Owl’s Feet.
Khaavren waited by the door while his eyes adjusted to the dimness of the inn after the brightness of the street. The bar ran along the far end of the room; across from it, to Khaavren’s left, was a small stage area raised about half a foot higher than the floor; no doubt where the performers would place themselves so they could be seen over a press of bodies and heard over a rumble of conversation. There were doors at each end of the bar, one, Khaavren knew, leading to a storage area, the other to a hallway with private rooms, and thence to another door to the outside.
When his eyes had adjusted, he glanced over the rest of the room. The Issola were all seated close to the stage, four each at two tables. They were seated in front of and beside the tables; none behind them—that is to say, they were all in good position to rise and draw in
the shortest possible time. At that point, he realized that Count Szurke was, to all appearances, nowhere in the room.
Khaavren mentally shrugged. He had no doubt the Easterner would appear soon enough. It was now past the time when the musicians had been scheduled to begin, and the audience was becoming restless; it was simply a matter of waiting. He leaned against the wall near the door and waited.
Adham and Dav-Hoel were the first up; Adham stepping onto the stage with a twirl of his lant over his head; Dav-Hoel merely stepping up, moving to the back of the stage, and fixing his gaze on the far end of the room.
Then, holding a reed-pipe, Lady Saruchka emerged, dressed in narrow pants of green and a tight-fitting white blouse. She smiled warmly at the audience as she stepped onto the stage.
And it was at this moment that the eight Issola all stood, as one, reaching for their weapons.
Khaavren wasn’t certain where he came from, but, somehow, the Easterner, Count Szurke, was standing in front of the stage. A light-weight sword was in his hand, and two jhereg were on his shoulders.
It seemed to Khaavren that it might be a reenactment, as it were, of the fight by the river.
The Issola charged.
The pair of jhereg leapt from Szurke’s shoulders, flying into the face of two of them.
There was a flash as something left the Easterner’s left hand, and one of the Issola stopped, staring down at a knife that had somehow appeared in his chest.
After that, however, it no longer resembled the battle by the river; Khaavren placed himself to the Easterner’s left, his sword out and ready.
It is possible Szurke would have made some observation about this remarkable event, but, in fact, he had no time; Issola, though not, perhaps, as inclined to violence as certain others, are known to not waste time when the moment for action arises. These eight certainly did not.
That the reader may have a clear understanding of events as they unfolded, it is absolutely necessary, at this time, to say two words about the positions of the significant individuals. (We use the qualifier “significant” to make it clear to the reader that we will not, at this time, be describing the position or action of the host or of those accidental patrons who do not figure in the calisthenics about to take place.)