by Steven Brust
As he approached the table, both of the women began to rise, but, with a gesture, he bade them remain seated. The woman in the hood spoke first, saying, "I am glad you have arrived without mishap, cousin. I was worried to learn that you traveled with no escort."
"The roads are tolerably safe, Habil," replied Kâna. "Especially for a poor man who appears to have nothing with him worth the effort to steal."
"Would Your Majesty care for wine?" asked the other.
"Yes, and I thank you, Illista. Wine would be most welcome after the journey. But do not address me as Your Majesty. It is useless to be overheard."
"As Your—that is to say, as you wish. But we shall hardly be heard over the singing."
Kâna sipped his wine and said, without further preamble, "Have we received word from Udaar?"
"Only that he arrived safely, and has been promised an audience."
"That is progress, then."
"Yes. But I do not anticipate learning the results of his mission for some days."
"Very well. Let us assume that his mission will be completed successfully, because, you perceive, there is no point in going on if he fails."
"Then," said Illista, "you believe that everything depends on his success, so that, if his mission should fail, all of our efforts come to nothing?"
"Not precisely," said Kâna. "But, should he fail, then, at the least, we will have to nearly start over from the beginning. But there is little that will keep me from making every effort—indeed, if it comes to it, I will, myself, march on Whitecrest Manor, where this Phoenix now holds court, and fight until I fall."
"Let us hope," said Habil, "that it will not come to that."
"I agree. And, moreover, let us hope Udaar is successful, and make our plans accordingly."
"Yes, let us do so," said the others.
"To begin, then," continued Kâna, "there is that baron—what was his name?"
"Loraan."
"Exactly. What of him?"
"He is ours, body and soul. You should have seen his gratitude when I placed the artifact into his hand. He would die for us."
"Excellent."
"If I may—" said Illista.
"By all means, if you have a question, now is the time to ask it."
"Then I will do so," said the Phoenix. "Have you heard from our friend the bastard?"
"Grita?" said Habil. "Yes. She says that her arrangements are complete as far as the Dzurlord goes, and that this will, necessarily, see to the Lyorn as well."
"Very good. What about the Tiassa?"
"She has found a way to separate him from the court, and, once this separation is made, he will be vulnerable in any number of ways."
"I agree. And the Yendi?"
"Grita says that he is the trickiest, and she is taking care with him."
"Well, that is good, so far as it goes. But has she found an avenue of approach?"
"He has become Imperial Discreet."
"So you have told me."
"And then?"
"Well, then he can be attacked that way."
"Precisely. And, moreover—"
"Well?"
"Without his friends, he becomes far less of a threat."
"Yes, I understand."
"Then," said His Majesty, "that leaves us with one remaining problem."
Habil nodded. "The influence of witchcraft in general, and that warlock in particular."
"You understand exactly, my dear cousin."
"Well, we discussed what needed to be done in that regard."
"Yes, we did, and we made an attempt, and our efforts came to nothing."
"We chose the wrong god, that is all."
"So you have said."
"Well, do you see another way?"
Kâna shook his head. "I do not. Do you, cousin?"
"None."
"Well, for my part, I am prepared."
"Then let us be about it."
"I see no reason to delay," said Habil. She rose, and, bowing to Illista, said, "Madam, I trust you will remain here?"
"I will."
"Good. Then I look forward exceedingly to speaking with you again, when we have something else to report."
"And I," she said, "of course wish you all the best of luck."
Kâna rose as well, bowed, and escorted Habil out of the inn. Illista, for her part, remained and listened to the music.
Kâna and his cousin took themselves to the same rooming house in which Illista had procured lodgings, where they entered a ground-floor suite that had the luxury of a private entrance. Upon entering, they first searched the three rooms that composed the suite—two bedrooms and a small parlor—to be certain that no one else was there. When they were satisfied, Kâna said, "You know what must be done?"
"I have studied the matter carefully, my dear cousin, and I am convinced that I will be able to give you precise instructions at every step."
"Very well, then. What is the first?"
"First, you must cleanse yourself. I have prepared this water with a mild soap and various herb's, and this sponge which is as fresh from the sea as could be found. After you are clean, you must dry yourself with equal care—here is a towel—after which you will apply this oil to your entire body."
"Oil?"
"It is very much like embalming oil."
"You perceive, this is not a thought that pleases me."
"It has a scent that is not unpleasant."
"That will help. This will be a lengthy process, I perceive."
"Tolerably long, and arduous. Perhaps you should have eaten."
"I had bread and cheese on the way. I believe I am sufficiently fortified."
"Very well."
After completing this ritual, Kâna stood naked in the middle of the room. "Well, what now?"
Habil produced a pot of blue paint and a brush, as well as a sheaf of paper on which she had written notes.
"Next, you must be decorated."
"In blue, for all love?"
"So I am informed."
"With what am I being decorated, then?"
"Various symbols about your body. This, upon your chest. Here, on your right buttock. This, upon your belly."
"There are a tolerably large number of them, all told."
"Yes, much of you is to be covered, and I am drawing small."
"This smacks of heathen worship."
"Raise your arms so that I can reach your sides."
"They are raised."
"Perhaps it does smack of heathen worship, cousin, but each god must be spoken to in his own language, and if we achieve the effect we wish, that is all that matters. There, you may lower your arms now."
"With this I agree. Those symbols," observed Kâna, dropping his arms, eyes, and dignity, "appear to be Serioli."
"Yes. They spell out his name in the peculiar alphabet of the Serioli, where each symbol indicates one sound, or what is, to us, part of a sound. And, moreover, should these symbols be played as musical notes—for the symbols that the Serioli use to denote sounds also represent musical notes, and we have taken their system in this regard—they will describe a certain melody that is sacred to this god."
"I know that melody. Am I to hum it?"
"Later. There, now you are prepared."
"I hope the paint will come off."
"It will. One advantage to covering you so thickly in oil is to lay the paint on it, rather than directly on your skin. It will wash off easily enough."
"I am heartily glad of that. What now?"
"Now we must plunge ourselves into darkness."
"The god, is, then, bashful?"
"Perhaps. Or it may be to remove distractions from your mind."
"I hope it is not that, because I give you my word the darkness is more distracting than anything I might see."
Habil put out all of the lamps, and using black naval cloth procured for the purpose, made certain no light could penetrate through the edges of the door or the single shuttered window. When the room
was entirely dark, so that not even his own hand, passed back and forth in front of his eyes, made any perceptible difference, Kâna said, "What now, cousin?"
"Do you recall his name?"
"I do."
"And can you pronounce it?"
"The long version, or the short?"
"The long."
"Tristangrascalaticrunagore."
"Very good. I perceive you have been practicing it."
"It occupied my mind during the journey, along with humming that tune of which we have spoken."
"Did you also recall the symbol associated with his name?"
"It is a circle, and within the circle there is an arrow, pointing to the center, and an asymmetrical mark with four branches, a tetrahedron, and a crescent."
"I see you have done your work as well, cousin."
"What of this symbol?"
"You must hold the name firmly in your mind while you draw the symbol, and you must say it, very softly, over and over again."
"How large am I to draw it?"
"Large enough to stand fully within it."
"Very well. How am I to draw it when I cannot see?"
"Do the best you can. It may be that it is the act of drawing the symbol, not the actual representation, that matters."
"Perhaps that is the case. I shall, as you say, do the best I can. What shall I draw it with?"
"Your own blood."
"Very well. Then I shall require a knife."
"Here it is."
"Where?"
"Here."
"I cannot see—ouch."
"Are you hurt?"
"Not severely. I now have blood to draw it with."
"Very good. As you draw it—"
"Yes, as I draw it?"
"You must hold the name within your mind, and repeat it softly."
"So you have said. Very well. Shall I begin?"
"Yes, do so."
Habil listened carefully to the sound of her cousin drawing a complex symbol on the floor of the room, using his finger as a stylus and his own blood as the ink, and she heard him, as well, saying the god's name over and over as he worked. This took a certain length of time, which Habil filled by shifting from one foot to the other and hoping she was doing nothing wrong. At length, he said, very softly, "It is done. What next?"
"Now stand in the middle of the symbol you have drawn—"
"I am already doing so, insofar as I can tell in this darkness."
"You must hum or sing that melody of which we have spoken."
"Very well."
"And while you are doing so—are you still holding the knife?"
"Yes, in my left hand."
"Well, reach out with your other hand. Do not move; do not step outside of the symbol. I will move—there."
"What have you given me? It seems to be moving."
"It is a norska."
"What of it?"
"As you hum the melody, cut the norska's throat."
"The blood will necessarily blot out much of the symbol I have drawn."
"It doesn't matter."
"Very well. I am about to begin."
"May the god appear," said Habil.
"What if he does not?"
"That means our effort failed."
"And then?"
"Then we must try again."
"May the god appear," said Kâna fervently.
Chapter the Sixty-Eighth
How the Gods Puzzled
Over Some of Kâna's Actions
In that hazy, dim, and confusing place where the minds of mortals lose all sense of what is real and what is dream, and where the Gods judge the fate of man in general and men in particular, and where time itself is a concept so dubious that its very existence becomes subject to reasonable dispute, that is, in the Halls of Judgment, the Gods considered the progress of the affairs of what they hoped would become, once more, the Dragaeran Empire.
Here the darkness seemed to have texture, and might ripple from one of the Gods to another in response to that deity's regard, and the occasional flicker of real light, from outside of the grand circle that made up the halls, might appear to flutter about the chamber, as if it were a living spark, searching for a way out before fading entirely; and so, in this place, a product of dreams from the minds of beings who pass our understanding, the conversation, as it turned to matters of the Empire, became general, absorbing the interest of all, or nearly all, of those present, even as a small figure, that of a little girl, slipped down from Verra's lap and quietly ran off, as will a child who knows that the adult conversation about to begin cannot but be wearisome.
"Your Phoenix has done nothing with the Orb," observed Ordwynac, "except play games. She and her companions flit hither and yon, and make pretty lights, and are no closer to closing our world from the Makers."
"More than that," observed Kelchor. "In the northwest, a dying man was saved."
"What of that?" said Ordwynac.
"He was so close to death that, even in the days of the old Empire, he would have been called a dead man. His heart had stopped, and there was little activity in his brain. Yet, an Athyra sorcerer—"
"So then," said Ordwynac, "the purification and enhancement of the Orb was successful. You perceive, this brings us no closer to our own goal, that of a functioning Empire which has the strength to bar the Makers."
"The demon," observed Kelchor, "has proven efficacious."
"And Kâna has proven desperate," said Moranthë.
"Desperate?" said Ordwynac.
"I think so."
"What has he done?"
"He has attempted to speak direct with me, desiring me to manifest. Presumably, he wished to bargain with me for my help—my help against myself, had he but realized it I was half tempted to do so, and settle him at that moment."
"Why didn't you, sister?" asked Verra. "It would seem to be a remarkable opportunity."
"It would have ended him, but not his cousin, nor his organization. Indeed, it would have let them know that the Gods oppose them."
"And," said Nyssa, "if they knew this, might it not be sufficient to convince them to engage in other pursuits?"
"I think, in the case of his cousin," said Moranthë, "it would only have made her more cautious and more careful. The entire structure of the organization built up by Kâna must be dismantled, or else taken over; that is my opinion. The death of this Dragon by itself will not do."
"Yes," said Verra. "On reflection, I am inclined to agree with you."
"There is something to be said," observed Ordwynac, "for this Kâna. He is determined Perhaps we should have supported his pretensions, rather than those of the Phoenix."
"And the Cycle," said Barlen. "What of that? Do we abandon it? For, I promise you, it will not abandon us. That is to say, it will continue to turn whether we approve of it or not."
Ordwynac sighed. "Yes, you are right, old god."
"As for taking it over," said Barlen, "the Phoenix has done exactly that as far as the post is concerned, or at least much of it. Many of the best elements of Empire created by Kâna are now in the Empress's hands, and she is working steadily to gain more. And the defection of the Duke of Galstan has crippled the Dragon's intelligence service; that was a heavy blow."
"Has he defected?" said Ordwynac.
"You didn't know?" said Verra.
"Well, that is good, I think."
"Oh, certainly."
Kéurana spoke, then, saying, "Moranthë, my love."
"Yes, dear sister?"
"You say that this Kâna desired you to manifest?"
"Certainly. And he had one of the older rituals, as well, and performed it admirably. I heard him call my name as clearly as I hear your words to me now."
"I understand that, but—"
"Yes?"
"Why would he have called you?"
"I should imagine," said Moranthë, "that he felt the assistance of a God would do him no harm. Perhaps I could have feigned to give him my assistance,
and then betrayed him; but you know how difficult that is."
"Truly. But that is not my question."
"Well?"
"Why you of all of us?"
"Why not me? Am I not a goddess? Are you jealous at all, my love?"
"Not on this occasion, dearest one, though I have in the past been jealous of your beauty and skill; but who would not be?"
"Ah, you are kind."
"But on this occasion, I am curious. What attribute, that is to say, which of the many skills and talents that you possess, might he have wished for, so that he desired you of all of us?"
"Now that you ask, dearest of siblings, I begin to wonder myself. Most of my worshipers are in the East. Indeed," she said, addressing herself to Verra, "I was nearly hurt that you made a pact with that little Dragon of yours, as he was raised in the East, and studied the Eastern magical arts, which I am known to favor."
"Because, adored sister," said Verra, "I knew that he would go from the Eastern arts to those of the Empire—" Here she nodded at Kéurana. "—and that he will, someday, pass beyond those to the oldest of the magical arts, which are my province."
"And yet," observed Kéurana, "he has not the bloodlines to use such powers fully."
"As to that," said Verra, "we shall see."
"But," insisted Kéurana, "I say again, why you, Moranthë? What is he after?"
"I cannot guess," said the goddess after a moment's reflection. "And yet, since you introduce the subject—"
"Well?"
"I should very much like to know."
Afterword
A Book Review, Issued in the Form
of a Circulating Document, Amplified
and Enhanced with Observations from
Life and Several Precepts for the
Wise By Ilen, a Magian
The material from the University Press which accompanies A Mighty Thundering of Wisdom, Not One Word of Which Can Be Gainsaid: An Examination of the Failings, Ethical, Moral, Literary, Historical, Grammatical, Intellectual and Otherwise of the Work and Person of Paarfi of Roundwood, Formerly of this University—a Perfunctory Summary makes it clear that, while the University Press has rushed this six-volume tome into print at the same time as the printing of the second volume of The Viscount of Adrilankha, it in no wise feels that such a book can or should be seen as a sad case of acidulated fruit; for, it points out, within the space of a mere 3,700 pages are gathered together over a dozen of Paarfi's former colleagues: professors of history, of literature, of viticulture, of folklore, of manners, and of several other disciplines, with one objective and one only, that being to demonstrate the failings of Paarfi of Roundwood.