Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)

by Steven Brust

  I should be saddened to learn [he resumed] that anything ill had befallen that good fellow. If you can learn something of this, please tell me what you can, and I shall be grateful. You may be amused to know that I have just killed a man who clapped at my door. He ascertained my identity, and then attempted to discharge a flashstone at me—perhaps writing letters is not as harmless an activity as I would have thought. Wherefore, prudence, as well as the lateness of the hour, dictates that I stop now, in addition to which I have just realized that I am bleeding, and I ought to do something about this, because replacing stained clothing is, as you may remember, difficult on a guardsman’s income.

  I remain, my dear Aerich, always your devoted friend, Khaavren

  At this point, we might venture to guess that our readers are, on the one hand, wondering how Aerich will react when he reads about this singular event, and, on the other, are themselves curious about any details Khaavren may have omitted. As for the first question, we must beg our readers’ pardon, but it will be some time before the answer to this question reveals itself. We hope our readers will be satisfied if, at this time, we answer only the second of these supposed questions.

  We can, in point of fact, reveal a little more than what Khaavren wrote to his friend. Upon arriving at the stairway, Khaavren had opened the door and seen there a gentleman in Imperial livery, holding a roll of parchment in his hand—parchment upon which an Imperial seal could nearly be made out by the luminescence from the lamp Khaavren had lighted on his way to the door.

  The visitor had made a respectful courtesy and said, “Do I have the honor of addressing Khaavren, Ensign of the Imperial Guard?”

  Khaavren saw nothing unusual about the visitor: it was by the merest chance that his naked sword was conceled behind the door, for Khaavren had, in fact, not thought of hiding it—it was only concealed because Khaavren was carrying it in his right hand and the door opened inward to the right. As it happened, however, it was a good thing, for when Khaavren admitted his identity, the visitor dropped the paper and revealed, in the palm of his hand, a smooth, flat stone—the sort of stone Khaavren recognized from having used them himself on more than one occasion.

  The Tiassa wasted no time, then, in putting a solid object between himself and the flashstone—the nearest solid object being the door, which he interposed by slamming it shut, after which he took a step back, let go of the lamp (which by chance neither spilled nor broke, which would have undoubtedly proved an annoyance) and assumed a guard position with his blade directly in front of his face and at a forty-five-degree angle to the sky. The assassin—for so we may call him—made the mistake of attempting to gain entry by charging into the door shoulder-first. The assassin was strong enough that this would have worked had the door been latched with the usual thin steel that kept it closed when the iron bolt was not in use. The door, however, had not been latched at all, but merely shut, and so it opened at once and the assassin stumbled through, his flashstone raised, and a dagger revealed in the other hand.

  Khaavren had positioned himself so well that the discharge of the flashstone only grazed his cheek slightly while he, Khaavren, brought the edge of his sword down smartly onto the assassin’s forehead, thus ending the assassin’s attack and life, and leaving Khaavren to regret that he had not been able to leave the fellow alive for questioning. He did drag the body into the hall, however, and exchanged a few terse words with Srahi, who had been awakened by the discharge of the flashstone, to the effect that she need not consider removal of the body as part of her cleaning duties the next day. After that thoughtful remark, Khaavren cleaned his blade and went back upstairs to finish his letter.

  This being done, in the manner we have already described, Khaavren quickly removed his shirt and set it soaking in a tub of water into which he poured a small quantity of lye, then set a cloth against his cheek, which was still bleeding slightly, after which operation he prepared the letter for the post, himself for sleep and got into bed.

  And yet, to his surprise, he found himself unable to sleep. Those who have spent several hundred years in uniform will be able to grasp at once how unusual it is for a soldier to have difficulty sleeping, yet Khaavren could not keep from wondering about the assassin whose corpse occupied a spot on the floor of his house. (We should note in passing that Srahi, the servant, had trouble sleeping for much the same reason, but in her case this is more readily understood.)

  “Why,” he asked himself, “would someone want to kill me? I have done nothing to make myself a special target for revenge, nor do I hold a position of any particular importance—at least, it seems to me that I could be replaced tomorrow by any of a dozen good soldiers and no one would notice the difference. Nor have I any possessions of special merit. It is, without question, decidedly odd.” With these thoughts going through Khaavren mind, the reader will readily understand why it took him over an hour to fall asleep.

  Chapter the Fourth

  Which Treats of Several Others,

  All of Who May Have Been Engaged

  In Dangerous Correspondence.

  KHAAVREN AWOKE WITH THE SAME question on his mind that had occupied his thoughts before sleeping, and felt himself no closer to an answer. Srahi was still asleep, so he decided to break his fast at the Palace. He removed his shirt from the water, scowled on realizing that the shirt was soaking wet, and, opening up the single cabinet that contained his clothing, brought out his other shirt, and, at the same time, his old blue tunic, which, though the weather was too warm for such heavy wool to be comfortable, he hoped would cover the places on the shirt where the fabric had become thin.

  He buckled on his sword, clasped his uniform cloak around his neck, examined himself in the full-length glass which he had had installed in the hall upon being made an ensign, and decided that his appearance would do. He then picked up the body of his visitor and slung it over his shoulder, took the letter to Aerich into his hand, and so encumbered, set off for the Palace. We can only speculate on the sight presented by this officer of the Guard carrying a corpse along the Street of the Dragon; if there were any remarks made, Khaavren either didn’t hear them, or chose not to hear them. In any case, there were no incidents.

  Upon reaching the outer gate of the Palace, Khaavren gave the letter into the care of an officer of the post who promised to see the missive delivered with all dispatch, after which, in due time, Khaavren reached the sub-wing of the Imperial Guard.

  He was greeted there by his corporal, Thack, who queried Khaavren with a raised eyebrow. We should add the reader might also raise an eyebrow upon recalling that Thack, when we met him in our previous history, was not one to inspire confidence; the reader might even be wondering how he came to occupy a position of trust under the command of our brave Tiassa. We do not propose to answer this question at any length, for the simple reason that our history does not require it; so, to put the reader’s mind at ease on this question, we will say only that Thack, after transferring to G’aereth’s command some eighty or eighty-five years after the close of the events related in The Phoenix Guards, had undergone sufficient transformation in character that Khaavren believed he could be depended upon. We will not take it upon ourselves to dispute with the worthy ensign on such a matter, and moreover, there is nowhere any evidence that the good Thack at any time proved himself less than completely deserving of Khaavren’s trust.

  Khaavren set his burden down in the antechamber and said, “My compliments to Gyorg Lavode, and I should be honored if he would grant me a brief meeting at his convenience.”

  “Yes, Ensign.”

  “Has the guard been posted?”

  “Yes, Ensign.”

  “Then, I will assume my station, stopping on the way for a bit of bread and cheese.”

  “Yes, Ensign. And—”

  “Yes?”

  Thack cleared his throat, and dropped his eyes eloquently toward the corpse.

  “Ah,” said Khaavren. “Yes, you may leave him there. I do not believe he
will be doing anything.”

  “Yes, Ensign.”

  Khaavren then set out, as he had nearly every day for the past five hundred and thirty years, through the corridors of the Dragon Wing toward the short ramp and the great doors which never closed that marked the beginning of the Imperial Wing (which was, the reader ought to understand, not a wing at all, but the innermost portion of the labyrinthine Palace). Yet he had not gone far before he was interrupted by a young gentleman whose costume indicated that he was a page and whose colors indicated that he was of the House of the Phoenix. This young man said, “My Lord Ensign Khaavren?”

  “Yes, that is I,” said Khaavren, arresting his motion.

  “His Majesty is desirous of seeing you at your earliest convenience.”

  Khaavren frowned. “Well, you may inform His Majesty that I will be there directly. But, to do so, you must move quickly, or I shall be there before you arrive, and your message will be useless.”

  “I shall do so, my lord,” said the page, and dashed back the way he had come, leaving Khaavren alone with his frown.

  “Well,” said Khaavren to himself. “This is no small matter. It has passed the seventh hour after midnight, and, in twenty minutes, I will be at the door of His Majesty’s chambers, where I am at the same time every morning, in order to conduct His Majesty through the ritual that we are pleased to call ‘Opening the Palace,’ although the Palace is never closed. His Majesty has, I think, been awake for twenty minutes, and is still engaged in completing his morning toilet; and, at forty minutes past the seventh hour, I am always there. Why, then, does His Majesty feel compelled to instruct me to do something I have done for half a millennium?

  “The only explanation is that something has happened to cause His Majesty so much distress that he is no longer thinking of patterns or habits, but wishes to see me about something extraordinary. In light of yester-day’s conversation, and last night’s events, this morning promises to be interesting indeed. Come, Khaavren, your master calls, and this is no time to hesitate. Breakfast must, alas, await a more opportune moment.”

  With these words sternly spoken to himself, he resumed his military walk, only this time putting himself out to arrive at the Imperial Bedchamber in ten minutes, rather than the usual fifteen. Upon arriving, he was greeted by a most remarkable sight. Two guardsmen stood outside the door, as usual, and saluted their ensign, and His Majesty, wearing his normal morning costume of rich gold silk and diamonds, was sitting in the chair next to a large, canopied bed, next to which was the tray which held His Majesty’s morning klava; but the Orb, which circled His Majesty’s head, was showing a deep, lurid yellow, which indicated that His Majesty was both worried and upset. Furthermore, there were, also in the room, two figures Khaavren was unaccustomed to seeing there, these being Jurabin, and His Excellency Rollondar e’Drien, the Warlord.

  Jurabin we have already met, and the reader, we believe, would rather learn the answers to Khaavren’s questions than to waste his time learning about the Warlord, wherefore we will only say that Rollonder e’Drien was a very thin man of about eleven hundred years with straight black hair in a military cut, parted at his noble’s point. Upon seeing him, Khaavren’s first thought was, “Are we at war then?” But he said nothing, merely bowing to His Majesty and awaiting orders.

  “My compliments, Captain, and you have arrived in a very timely fashion.”

  “My thanks—excuse me, Sire, but did Your Majesty address me as Captain?”

  “I did. I have chosen to promote you, due to the death of Brigadier G’aereth, which occurred sometime last night.”

  “I see,” said Khaavren, feeling—to his credit—a pang of sorrow more acute than the pride in his promotion. “I am honored, Sire, and I thank Your Majesty deeply.”

  “That is not, however,” his Majesty added, “the reason for my summons, any more than it is the reason why these gentlemen are here.”

  “Yes, Sire?”

  The Emperor cleared his throat. “You should know, for these gentlemen do, that, however old Brigadier G‘aereth was, he did not die of natural causes.”

  “Sire?”

  “He was poniarded as he returned from a ball given by the Count of Westbreeze.”

  Khaavren felt his eyes widen. “Sire! Who would wish to kill—”

  “We don’t know,” said his Majesty, glancing at Jurabin and Rollondar, who shrugged. “And that isn’t all,” he added.

  “What, there is more, Sire?”

  “Yes, there was another murder last night, about which I was informed upon awakening.”

  “Yes, Sire?”

  “A certain Smaller, an intendant of finance.”

  Khaavren frowned. “Yes, Sire, I believe I have seen him.”

  “Judging from the look on Lady Bellor’s face, he was one of her ablest clerks.”

  “I can attest to that as well, Sire,” said Jurabin.

  “Sire, how did he—”

  “He was found dead in his box at the Theater of the Orb, after a performance of The Song of Vinburra. We might never have known that his death was murder, save for His Excellency the Warlord, who grew suspicious of all the deaths, and thought to bring in a wizard to look for sorcery.”

  “It was a sorcerous murder?”

  “Yes. His heart was stopped.”

  “I see. But, Sire, did not Your Majesty pronounce the words, ‘all the deaths’?”

  “I did.”

  “Were there others, then, Sire?”

  “One other,” His Majesty sighed. “Gyorg Lavode. He was in his bed, sleeping, when his throat was cut.”

  “What does Your Majesty tell me?” cried Khaavren. “The Captain of the Lavodes?”

  “Himself,” said the Emperor grimly.

  Khaavren’s mind fairly reeled with the news. “In that case, my message will, I suspect, not be delivered.”

  “Message?” said the Emperor.

  “Yes, Sire. I had, just this morning, requested an audience with him.”

  “For what reason?”

  “To consult with him upon a matter that, it seemed to me, would best be looked into by a skilled wizard who was also a warrior, and, moreover, one who had others of the same sort at his command.”

  “Well,” said the Emperor, “that certainly described Gyorg Lavode. But what was the matter upon which you wished to consult him?”

  “How, does Your Majesty wish me to explain?”

  “Yes, and this very moment.”

  “Well, Sire, last night, an attempt was made upon my life.”

  Rollondar gasped, and Jurabin took a step backward, as if afraid that the odor of death might still cling to Khaavren’s uniform. His Majesty stood up. “But this is infamous!”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “Who was the assassin?”

  “I don’t know, Sire.” said Khaavren. “But I brought his body back with me, which body lies now in my antechamber. I had had the intention of asking Captain Gyorg what he could learn from examination of the corpse, but now …” Khaavren punctuated his sentence with a shrug.

  “But now,” agreed His Majesty. “Now we must decide what to do. It is clear that there is a conspiracy afoot, and that, whatever the object of this conspiracy, the conspirators aim at the very top of the Imperium.” His Majesty looked at those assembled before him. “How do we find them, and where do we look?”

  “We look first,” said Jurabin with a cold glance at the Warlord, “to the House of the Dragon, who may, perhaps, be desirous of seeing the cycle turn precipitately—that is, sooner than, in the natural course of events (if, indeed, any course of events in which men are involved can be called ‘natural’), the cycle might turn.”

  Rollondar e’Drien glared back at him and said, “Dragonlords do not employ assassins.”

  “That may be,” said Jurabin, “but—”

  “Please, gentlemen,” said His Majesty. “You may bicker at a later time. It is clear that we must do something, and soon at that. I am already late for
my rounds, and everything else will of necessity be late therefore, and today is my day for wine-tasting; I will not be pleased if that is delayed. So let us, right now, determine a course of action, and you gentlemen may pursue this course, and I will return to running the Empire.”

  “Sire,” said Jurabin. “We must consider—”

  “You may not consider,” said His Majesty. “I will not have every activity of the day thrown into needless confusion, and have my schedule spoiled. I am willing to do what is necessary. Determine, then, what is must be done and then let us get on with our tasks.”

  Jurabin cleared his throat. “An investigation—” he began.

  “Yes, yes,” said His Majesty. “To be sure, an investigation. But who should investigate?”

  “I will,” said Rollondar.

  “You?” said Jurabin. “Have you the resources—”

  “With the help of the Captain, here,” said Rollondar, indicating Khaavren. “I have no doubt—”

  “Very well,” said His Majesty. “Is that all? You will investigate, and you will tell me what you have learned.”

  “Sire,” said Jurabin, “It seems to me that, at least, the Duke of Eastmanswatch ought to be summoned and questioned. As the Dragon Heir, he is—”

  “Expected in the city within the week, in any case,” said Rollondar coolly. “You forget the Meeting of the Principalities?”

  “Well,” said Jurabin, “that is true, I had forgotten.”

  “Your pardon, gentlemen,” said Khaavren. “But it is clear to me that there is one person who ought to be summoned to aid in the investigation, if for no other reason than because, if we do not invite her, she will investigate anyway, but may not give us the benefit of her discoveries.”

  Rollondar evidently understood, because he suddenly turned pale. “Are you aware of what you are suggesting?” he said.

  “I hope he is,” said His Majesty. “Because I, for one, am not, and yet I am most anxious to be so.”