by Steven Brust
Pel frowned and bit his lip, but said nothing.
“I assure you,” said Lysek, “that my attention is fully concentrated upon the words you are about to speak.”
“You are, then, listening?”
“To nothing else.”
“Well, then, it seems to me that there may be a way for you to meet the Lady Aliera.”
Lysek nodded his head—perhaps unwilling to trust himself to speak, but he watched Erna’s mouth with the intensity of a hound watching the soup bone in his master’s hand.
“If you should leave by the Gate of the Dragon, and continue on that road for half a league, you will come to wide road leading to the south and slightly east. If you take that road for two leagues, or perhaps a little less, you will see on your right a small house marked by a whitish stone, like a tusk, sticking out of the ground. Bear to the east, then, on a horse-path through the grove of trees you will see, and soon you will come upon the encampment of the Duke of Eastmanswatch, where you can, if you wish, ask for Aliera.”
Lysek bowed his head, and, without another word, turned toward the door. He was, it should be noted, nearly running by the time he reached it. Pel seated himself in the chair the Jhagaala had lately occupied and steepled his hands, assuming an air of contemplation. Erna said, “Well, you disapprove?”
Pel blinked and focused on her. “I? It is hardly my place to approve or disapprove of Your Discretion’s actions.”
“That is true, Galstan; I am pleased that you remember it.”
“I could never forget, Discretion.”
“We did well with the poor fool, Galstan.”
“Yes, Your Discretion, we were successful once more.”
“Once more, Galstan? You say that as if there were some doubt.”
“It is a risky game, Discretion.”
“But worth the risk, Galstan.”
“As Your Discretion says.”
She fell silent, then nodded brusquely, as if having reached a conclusion. “It is good you called me, Galstan, for this is certainly worthwhile to know.”
“You think so?”
“Yes. Do you agree?”
“I more than agree, I concur. Yet I wonder what what be the correct steps to take.”
“You need not concern yourself; I will consider the matter, and decide what is to be done about this forthcoming riot.”
“Riot?”
Erna looked sharply at the Yendi. “Yes, riot. What, did you not hear him?”
“Yes, yes, I heard him. If Your Discretion will pardon my lapse, my mind was wandering.”
“And?”
“And I assure Your Discretion I will not concern myself with this riot, but leave all matters pertaining to it entirely in Your Discretion’s hands.”
“That would be best,” said Erna. “Leave me now, for I must consider the matter.”
Pel rose, and bowed in the manner of his Order, with fists pressed together before his breast. Erna nodded briefly, and Pel left Erna’s chamber and took the familiar route to his own—which in appearance and furnishing was nearly identical to Erna’s, save for three factors: In the first place it was somewhat smaller; in the second place there was only one window, and that looked out upon the private garden of the Institute; and in the third place there was, in addition to the symbol of the Institute which graced one wall, a long rapier hanging by pegs on another.
Pel wasted no time, but sat down at the writing table, the twin to the one in Erna’s room, and set before himself paper, quill, ink-pot, and blotter. With these he set to work composing two letters, the texts of which we are fortunate to be able to reproduce in full.
For the first, he wrote in a broad, careful hand, as of one accustomed to making sure that, above all, not a character will be lost. At the top, he wrote the date: “The twelfth day of the Month of the Vallista, in the 532nd year of the Glorious Reign of his Majesty Tortaalik I.” We mention this because the reader may not remember that it was, in fact, only the eleventh day of the month.
This done, Pel continued in this fashion:
Lord Adron e’Kieron
Duke of Eastmanswatch
Dragon Heir, etc. etc.
Your Highness:
My Master, Calvor of Drem, has been informed that you are to be among those who will speak at the ceremony to open the Pavilion of Kieron tomorrow. My Master wishes you to understand that he feels greatly honored to be allowed to appear before you, and that, in your honor, he intends to read from his most recent poem, “Morning in the Mountains,” which has been so well received here in the city.
My Master anticipates a splendid evening of entertainment, and looks forward to the chance to meet you in person.
Until then, Your Highness,
I Remain,
Your Servant,
Dri, Scribe of Calvor,
Poet of the Streets.
This done, Pel sealed the letter and addressed it, then set it aside to await the morrow; after this, Pel sat down once more, with yet another sheet of paper. This time, when he wrote, it was in a hand small, fine, and elegant. And, to be sure, he used the actual date.
My Dear Temma [wrote Pel]: There can be no doubt that our old friend, Adron, stands in danger of imminent assassination. My reasons for believing this are sufficient to convince me, and my conviction will, I dare to hope, be sufficient to convince you; yet I do not believe these reasons are enough to convince the authorities (including, I must confess, our old friend Khaavren, who is involved in investigating certain conspiracies and assassinations which have lately erupted about the Palace).
I am considering the question of appealing directly to Adron, yet Dragonlords are often stubborn and foolish with regard to their own lives, and, moreover, I have no clue about how or when the attempt is to be made. Or, to be more precise, I believe I have already foiled one attempt, but there can be no doubt that there will be another, and I am entirely ignorant of the form it will take.
In short, then, I am at a loss. And you should know, my friend Aerich (for so I continue think of you) that whenever my thoughts are confused, I still, as I used, look about to see where you might be, for a word of advice from you is more valuable than all the tomes in the Zerika Library. Thus I write once more, hoping you will be able, from a distance, to give me the counsel that will allow me to see clearly what I ought to do.
I remain, old friend, your affectionate Galstan (Pel)
When he had completed the letter, he read it over carefully, then, with equal care, folded it, sealed it, and put Aerich’s address on the outside, after which he summoned a page to deliver it to the post with instructions that it be sent to the Duke of Arylle with as little delay as possible, accompanying his request with a quantity of silver, and the promise of a like amount if an answer were returned within three days.
Then, convinced that he had done everything possible, he sat down in his chair, and thought deeply about the many things he had learned that day.
Chapter the Eighth
Which Treats of Sethra Lavode,
The Enchantress of Dzur Mountain,
On the Occasion of Her Arrival
At the Imperial Palace.
ONE MIGHT THINK THAT HIS Majesty, after the meeting with Adron e’Kieron, deserved an interval of peace, quiet and relaxation to recover from the ordeal; His Majesty was certainly of this opinion. Tortaalik was, then, not inclined to be gracious when Khaavren suddenly appeared before him near the end of his lunch and whispered, “Your presence is required, Sire.” In fact, the Emperor was so distraught that he let go with a string of oaths sufficient to fill Khaavren, who had dwelt for five hundred years among troopers, with admiration.
When His Majesty’s utterance of invective had reached its end, rather as a desert wash, after a sudden storm has spent itself, at last surrenders its torrent into the arid ground, he said wearily, “Well, what is it, then?”
“Sethra Lavode desires to be announced, Sire.”
“What, here?” cried His Majesty,
while the Orb, which had just begun to fade from its deep red, became positively purple.
“That is to say, yes and no, Sire. If by ‘here’ Your Majesty means this very dining room, then no. But if Your Majesty indicates with this word the Imperial Palace, then I am forced to say that she is, indeed, here.”
“Impossible!”
“Sire?”
“The message can hardly have reached her yet.”
“That may be, Sire; nevertheless, she is here.”
His Majesty looked down at his plate, where a few lonely fish bones were floating in a sea of butter and lemon. He then wiped his lips on his sleeve and said, “I must change my dress.”
“Of a certainty, Sire.”
“Where is Dimma?”
“I am here, Sire,” said the obsequious Teckla. “I have both your Afternoon Military and your Afternoon Imperial, with belt and scarf but no robe.”
“Hmph. Military.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Khaavren stepped out of the room for the few moments it took His Majesty to alter his appearance. When the Emperor emerged, he wore knee-length shiny black boots, black hose, a dress sword hanging from a belt of gold chain, burgundy-colored split shirt with ridges forming a long “V” from collar to mid-chest, and a gold scarf around his neck. Such dress, while hiding his handsome calves, accented his graceful neck and proud head, and thus suited the Emperor admirably—garbed in this manner there were few cavaliers who could contend with His Majesty in appearance.
The change of costume seemed, as it often did, to have restored His Majesty’s humor. He nodded to Khaavren and said, “It is too early to return to the Portrait Room, and I will not throw my schedule into more confusion than necessary. Dimma, cause her to be brought to me in the West Fireside room.”
“Yes, Sire. Shall we light the fire?”
“No.”
“Refreshment?”
“Wine. Something full and red.” His face twitched into a brief smile. “Make it a Khaav’n,” he said, “in honor of our Captain.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Khaavren listened to this discourse without changing expression, then followed His Majesty down to the level of the Portrait Room, past the Hall of Flowers, and so into the West Fireside room. On the way, he caught the eye of a passing guardsman, and without a word being exchanged, the latter fell into step with Khaavren. When they reached the Fireside room, the guardsman, whose name was Menia, found a pike in a storage room nearby (one change Khaavren had made when he took charge of the Guards had been to place pikes at various points around the Palace, so there need be no delay for a guardsman assuming his station), and took up a position just outside the door, to one side, while Khaavren stood in the relaxed pose of attention by which the experienced soldier distinguishes himself. His Majesty, meanwhile, entered the room and seated himself in a cushioned chair facing a small stool, and in view of the cold fire. The Orb, Khaavren noticed, had calmed itself to the point where it was emitting a serene rose.
They had been waiting only a very few minutes when Khaavren heard the soft, tentative footfalls he had come to recognize as belonging to Dimma. Khaavren glanced at Menia—giving her a look that she, from experience, was able to translate as: Something unusual is about to happen, do not make me ashamed of you. Menia almost nodded and fixed her eyes straight ahead as Dimma turned the corner and appeared before them, leading the way (unnecessarily, in fact) for the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain, Sethra Lavode.
To understand the effect Sethra’s arrival had on those of the court who beheld her—and, in fact, the reason for Khaavren’s subtle warning to Menia—we must look beyond her physical manifestation, for her appearance was not, we know from several sources, unduly prepossessing. She was not exceptionally tall; she was neither remarkably handsome nor unusually grotesque. Her complexion was one of extreme pallor, her hair was dark, fine, straight, and, on this occasion, pulled into a tight knot on the back of her head, bringing her noble’s point into sharp relief. She had the Dragon chin, slanted eyes and ears like a Dzurlord’s, an angular jaw supporting a small mouth and thin lips, and a nose with a very slight hook. She moved with athletic confidence and, in soft lyornskin boots, without a sound. She wore the uniform of the Lavodes—black pants pulled tight around the boots, a sharp-collared black shirt tucked into the pants, and a wide leather belt with only a small pouch hanging from it—she had, presumed Khaavren, known that she could not appear before His Majesty armed.
So there was, in short, excepting only her unusually pale complexion, nothing about her that would cause her to be remarked in a public place, unless one knew who she was. And yet, who is there who has not heard of Sethra Lavode? She stands out in history, in mythology, and in folklore throughout the Empire and beyond. When one hears the word “enchantress” used in any context, one’s mind immediately leaps to The Enchantress. No children’s story is complete without an evil sorceress who is older than she looks and lives in a mountain fortress. And who can count the tales that speak of her either by name or by implication (the latter among those who believe—even to this day—that to name her is to summon her)? Had she actually done half of the deeds attributed to her, she would have to be as old as the Empire itself, and still could let scarcely a day go by without being involved in one or another battle, sorcery, or intrigue.
There are places, such as Moot County in Greenbough, where, in one town she is known as the wicked Enchantress, while five leagues away, in the next town, she is the hero who defeats whatever evil the storyteller creates for the delight of his audience.
What is really known of her? What are the drops of truth that intermingle in the cup of myth, legend, and folktale that flow from the Dark Lady of Dzur Mountain like wine from an augured cask? This is no simple question to answer. There have been convocations of historians, bards, and wizards who have gathered for no purpose but to address this question, and yet there is little they have been able to find that is unquestionably true; and we have no wish to add to the list dubious reports and doubtful anecdotes, wherefore we will confine ourselves to the little that is recognized as true by reputable historians.
The earliest authentic records of Sethra predate the founding of the Lavodes, and consist of a rough drawing of her device, which appears to have remained unchanged throughout her life, consisting of white Dragon’s Head and Dzur’s Claw against black—unquestionably the simplest device in use at the time, and the most unadorned on record from any time, saving only the Silver Sword on Black of the most ancient line of Kieron the Conqueror himself. In the oldest drawings of her device, a motto is shown at the top, but not only is the language one which no scholar has penetrated, there are even a few unfamiliar symbols, as if the very alphabet in which it was written were ancient and forgotten. This is certainly possible, and there has been endless speculation on the subject, though to no conclusion. Sethra has, by all reports, been silent on the subject, even to those few who have been close enough to be considered her friends.
Her lineage block, similarly, is in the form of a downward-pointing arrowhead or triangle, entirely self-contained, with no lines either entering or emerging, as if her maternal and paternal ancestor had appeared from nowhere at all, begotten her, and vanished. Lest this lead to uncalled-for speculation, we should note that, before the dawn of history, from which time Sethra almost certainly dates, there were no standards for lineage blocks, and Sethra was free to view and declare her lineage however she chose.
For it is beyond argument that she was (and, for all this historian can answer, may still be) the oldest human being the Empire has ever produced. How old remains a mystery, but there is no question that she was alive and living in Dzur Mountain during the Iorich Reign of the Fourth Cycle, for it is at this time that she appeared at the Imperial Palace and denounced the treacherous Warlord Trichon and was instrumental in turning back the invasion from Elde Island along with Terics e‘Marish’Chala, from whose memoirs we have our first verifiable accounts of her actions.
As for the question of how she achieved her great age, we can speculate that it must have something to do with the nature of Dzur Mountain itself, but we can say no more than this, though we are entirely aware of how unsatisfactory this theory is.
It is also known, thanks to the work of Lyorn historian Taedra, that when she was Warlord during the Dragon Reign in the Fourteenth Cycle she was a living woman, but that when the Lavode Scandal broke, she was in fact undead, and had been for some hundreds of years. How did she die, how was she reanimated, and how did she manage the deceit for so long? These are not questions we can answer.
Allow us, for purposes of illustration, to pick one of the accurate stories to express Sethra’s character. She was Warlord under the Lyorn Emperor Tiska during the Thirteenth Cycle, when rebellion broke out along the coast to the southwest, in response to the combination of wheat shortages from the north and the interdiction on shipping that Tiska had declared in response to piracy from the Longburry Islands. It seemed to Sethra, who was aware of all of the circumstances of the rebellion, that it would certainly continue to spread unless put down at once, so she set out at the head of the army just as it was—without waiting for additional conscripts or negotiating with mercenaries.
This quick mode of acting placed her, some few months later, at the head of some eight hundred cavalry and two thousand foot soldiers, facing seven thousand rebellious, heavily armed, and well-commanded Dragonlords, Orca, and Teckla on Bernen’s Field. Sethra rode up alone to the enemy lines and, in full sight of her own troops, took from her brow the Warlord’s Headdress, which had been the symbol of ultimate command since the First Cycle, and threw it into the enemy’s line. The first reaction, of course, was great joy on the part of the enemy, and despair in Sethra’s own army, but then she returned to her own lines and declaimed, “The enemy seems to have acquired a holy relic of the Empire. We cannot expect them to return it from kindness or duty, wherefore, my loves, I am about to order a charge, and if you care about my honor and the traditions of the Empire, you must not think of holding back or retreating until this relic is in our hands once more.”