by Steven Brust
“Yes,” said Khaavren. “For there is a matter that will not wait.”
He turned to his escort and pointed to one of them. “You will return at once to the guard-station on Narrows. You must run as fast as you can. You will have them send everyone at the station to this spot at once, and you will inform the sergeant on duty that I will break him if he fails to do so. You will then have a messenger sent to the Palace with orders for Baroness Stonemover to send three hundred horsemen to this spot. Emphasize, at all times, that haste is everything—an hour may well be too late. Lord Rollondar must be informed of what is happening so that he may put the Imperial Army on alert, in case our first efforts fail. Finally, you must reserve a hundred guardsmen to protect Their Majesties; these must be called up and Their Majesties taken to the Lower Square. Do you understand all of that?”
“You will judge, Captain: Return to Narrows, send everyone here; a messenger to the Palace for Thack to send three hundred horsemen; Lord Rollondar to be informed and his army put on alert; Their Majesties to be taken to the Lower Square and guarded by a hundred troops.”
“That is it. Here is my ring in case anyone questions you. Give me your sword, it will slow you down and you have no time to fight in any case. Think only of speed. Now go!”
The guardsman left without another word. Allow us add, lest the reader wonder, that Khaavren had briefly considered alerting Lord Adron, but realized that bringing in the famous hero of the Battle of Briartown could enrage the populace even more than an intervention by the Imperial Army, and that, moreover, the Breath of Fire Battalion was but ill-suited—whatever His Majesty’s opinion—to battles against insurgent Teckla. In any case, having now completed what he felt to be the most important part of his duty, the Captain turned toward the issue at hand—that is, the onslaught against his guardsmen. He raised his sword and cried, “Charge!”
We should remark that Khaavren’s nerve was, in point of fact, at least a little shaken by what he saw; this must be so, for how else can account for the fact that, when Khaavren had covered the distance to the melee, he was holding two swords in his hands without being aware of it? Yet, upon realizing this, he took the opportunity to throw the sword in his left hand at one of his opponents, which startled this opponent long enough for Khaavren to use his other sword to good effect. In the meantime, Tazendra, at his side, was using her sword in her accustomed manner—flailing it about as if she had no control over its direction, yet making each stroke bite with deadly efficiency. Aerich, for his part, had lost none of his old skill, and, like the Lyorn warrior he was, used his hands, vambraces, elbows, feet, and knees as if they were bladed weapons. The two remaining guardsmen, we can be sure, comported themselves as befit their rank.
The result was that, in a matter of a few seconds, all of their foes had either fled or fallen, and they—four guardsmen, Khaavren, Aerich, and Tazendra—held the field. “That was bravely done,” cried Tazendra, who, even in the dim light, seemed flushed with pleasure.
“You think so?” said Khaavren. “Well, we must form ranks, for the night has just begun, and it promises to be a long one, and full of hot work.”
“How, you think they will be back?” said Tazendra.
“I more than think it,” said Khaavren. “I am sure of it.”
“Pah! Such rabble!”
“We will see,” said Khaavren.
He returned to the guardsman they had first seen, a man Khaavren did not recognize. He seemed to have taken a wound in the face and another high in the side, but he still lived, although the Captain, who had some experience with wounds, thought nothing good of his chances to survive the night.
Nevertheless, one of the guardsmen bound his wounds as best he could, using material from the wounded man’s blouse, while another attended to the other wounded guardsman in a similar manner.
We should apologize to our readers if too many of these men and women who served so well remain nameless and faceless, being referred to only as this or that guardsman; where their names have come down to us, we do not hesitate to supply them, but we are absolutely unwilling to fabricate names when we do not, in fact, know them.
Of the three who had been the victims of the ambuscade, then, one was severely injured, one slightly less so, and the third was completely unscathed. Khaavren turned to this man and said, “Come now, tell me what happened.”
“Captain, that is easily explained,” he was answered. “We were patrolling the market and surrounding streets, for that was our duty this evening as determined by our commander.”
“Yes, I understand that. Go on.”
“As we walked, I was—”
“Well?”
The guardsman, whose name was Tivor, seemed embarrassed, but finally said, “I was struck in the head, Captain.”
“By what?” said Khaavren.
“By … that is to … by vegetable matter.”
“I see.”
“Well, Captain, we looked around, and spotted some young persons, who appeared to be taunting us.”
“Ah. And you chased them?”
Tivo looked down and nodded.
“Well?” prompted Khaavren, who felt the need to understand what had happened, and determined that questions of discipline could be addressed later.
“Well, Captain, we chased them to this point, when Kyu was struck in the side by a bolt shot from we know not where. We drew the bolt, and were attempting to staunch the bleeding as best we could when we were attacked by the horde you saw, who came from two sides. Kyu, though severely injured, attempted to give battle but fell at once. We retreated to the wall, and, Captain, I will say that things would have gone ill for us if you had not appeared.”
“There is no certainty,” said Khaavren, “that things will not go ill yet, for everything you say confirms what I had thought from the first.”
“Then you think—?” interrupted Tazendra.
Khaavren shook his head, and indicated where those who made up his small force should stand. He said, “Tazendra, have you any flashstones?”
“Why, I have three left, for you perceive that I used one at the pavilion.”
“Well, I have one myself, that is four.”
“I was issued one,” said Kyu, who had regained consciousness and was propped against the wall.
“Five, then,” said Khaavren. “We must use them sparingly.”
“And yet,” said Tazendra, “I do not see—”
“Be patient,” said Aerich, who, like Khaavren, well understood what was about to happen.
And, indeed, it was scarcely a minute later that they became aware of a distant clamor, as of voices shouting, doors being broken down, and other sounds they could not identify save as being part of a general disorder; at the same time, they saw people running in small groups, gathering together and then dispersing, or breaking down doors with heavy instruments.
Tivor said, “Captain—”
“Be patient,” said Khaavren.
And, at that moment, they heard tramping, shouting, and clashing that indicated a large body of armed citizens were making their way toward them.
As Khaavren prepared to face an angry populace (albeit a populace that had, as he had already determined, been aroused in accordance with the plot or scheme of parties unknown, rather than erupting spontaneously) in the streets of the Underside, we must turn our attention elsewhither, for there was a meeting taking place scarcely a league distant. This meeting is, in point of fact, taking place at the same cabaret and even in the same back room at which we overheard the last meeting of certain conspirators, wherefore is should not surprise the reader to learn that some of these same conspirators, most particularly the one called Greycat, are again present. The other is the lady called Laral, and Greycat sat perfectly still as she stood before him and spoke.
“Chaler failed,” said Laral. “He is dead.”
Greycat allowed a hint of emotion to appear briefly on his countenance. “How, dead?”
“The T
iassa had some friends with him.”
“I see.”
“A professional would have noticed them.”
Greycat stared at her. “Has the professional seen to Lord Adron?”
She stared back. “No.”
“Well?”
“He canceled his appearance at the pavilion.”
Greycat shrugged, as if to say, “These details are unimportant to me.”
“I do not,” said Laral, “go blundering about with the idea of striking anywhere that looks convenient. That is the way to fail. And the proof is, that is what happened to Chalar.”
“What will you do?”
“You will see.”
“Very well.”
“Is there anything else?”
“No. Have you anything else to say?”
“Yes. Be careful. There appears to be some sort of disturbance beginning some little distance away; the whole Underside may be burning by morning.”
“Indeed,” said Greycat. “It may.”
“Then that is all.”
“Remember that we are to meet again to-morrow night.”
“I will not forget.”
Laral rose and made her way to the door in a sinister stream of black and grey. She stopped there and said, “For your sake, I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“For your sake,” said Greycat, “I hope so, too.”
Laral nodded and left.
Grita emerged from the shadows and placed herself opposite Greycat. “So,” she said without preamble, “you perceive that it has begun.”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, now we can only wait.”
“You may also wish to reach a place of safety.”
“I carry a place of safety with me at all times,” said Greycat.
“Very well,” said Grita. “If you will excuse me, I must be on my way.”
“You wish to see how your riot is developing?”
“Not in the least. I wish to be out of the way in case the blaze becomes a conflagration; I do not have faith in my own invulnerability, and I know very well what sort of forces may be let loose to-night.”
Greycat nodded, and Grita left the room. Greycat remained where he was, frowning, and wondering what the Underside, even the city, would look like in the light of day. While he was doing so, some small distance away, in the Imperial Palace, the Consort was frowning in almost exactly the same manner. If Greycat had known of the coincidence of expression, he would have been amused; Her Majesty would have been outraged.
But, if their expression were the same, we need hardly add that their thoughts were entirely different, saving only that the word on their lips was the same—in fact, it was the same word that was on Khaavren’s lips, and is perhaps on the lips of the readers as well, that word being—who. The reader, perhaps, is wondering “Who is Greycat and what does he want?” Khaavren, at this same time, is wondering, “Who instigated this disturbance and why?” Greycat, meanwhile, is wondering, “Who will attempt to respond to the riot and how?” Her Majesty, at this same instant, is wondering, “Who is this Aliera person, and why does everyone find her so attractive?”
We are aware that this transition—from worries about fire, death, and destruction in the city to the secret thoughts of the Consort—is abrupt. We are also fully aware that our readers are, in all probability, most anxious to learn about the former, and do not understand why they are being pulled against their will to the latter, while the city, not to mention the lives of people in whom we hope our readers have some interest, hangs in the balance. In our defense, we can only say that these thoughts (or thoughts very much like them) were, in fact, going through the Consort’s mind at this time, and, as they are important to our history, we cannot fail to provide them to the reader in good season.
She stood, then, in her chambers, with her maids of honor in the next room and with her back to the glass, resolutely refusing to look into it—for she had the dignity of the House of the Phoenix, and in some matters she could not relax this dignity even in private.
“It has been two days,” she said to herself, “since this Dragonlord has appeared, and in that time all heads have been turned to her—and from me. It is an aggravation. And yet, am I truly so bereft of pride, and, moreover, so frightened, that I allow such trivia to affect me? For beauty is trivial—it is a surface, and inasmuch as the surface is a reflection of essence, that only applies to such matters as countenance, dress, and toilet; and I daresay mine are impeccable. It scarcely applies to those accidents of form which were provided by capricious nature. And if—say it now, Noima—nature has granted her a pleasingness of face and form greater than my own, well, it is unworthy of me to allow the barest hint of distress over such a trifle to enter my deepest thoughts.
“But of course, that is not all there is to it. I am a simple woman, in fact, only wishing to take from life those pleasures and comforts it provides in the greatest possible measure; and, in truth, was I born and bred for anything else? I, who knew I would be Consort from when I was eight years old? No. And, is it not also the case that, because of my position, I can only get what I want through the good will of others? Surely, there is no one in the Empire with less power than I have, if power be the facility to apply one’s will directly to cause change. No, my power is only power through those I can influence—my husband’s first of all, then those over whom I hold sway.
“And now this woman appears, and, by her appearing, my sway is weakened, my power is reduced, my position is threatened. No, the sting to my vanity, though as real as it is ignoble, is not the issue here; what is at stake is my position, which now trembles each time Jurabin’s eyes turn to this Aliera, where two days ago they had fixed on me.
“I must consider what to do. I have no wish to harm this Dragonlord, who has never sought to hurt me, yet I must protect myself. Perhaps I can win her friendship. Perhaps. But how? What is it she wants? She is a Dragonlord, and they are unpredictable; furthermore, she is Lord Adron’s daughter, and he is thrice unpredictable. I shall have to—but what is that?”
Her thoughts were interrupted by a rustle of fabric and footsteps in the next room (for so quiet was the Consort’s part of the Palace that one of her maids of honor moving to open a door could be heard quite clearly). She heard the door in the next room open, and someone she didn’t recognize said, “I must speak with Her Majesty at once.”
“How?” cried one of her maids, a Tiassa named Daro. “At such an hour, my lady?”
“You may perceive by this pike,” came the muffled voice from the next room, “that I am on duty. You may assure yourself that nothing less than strictest necessity could cause me to disturb Her Majesty at such an hour. Go, then, and inform Her Majesty that a guardsmen has come on an errand that will not wait, but that concerns nothing less than her safety.”
“How, Her Majesty’s safety?”
“Exactly.”
“Well,” said Daro, who sounded either hesitant or suspicious, “if it is so urgent as that—”
“I give you my word that it is.”
“—I will inform Her Majesty that you are here.”
“And you will be right to do so.”
The Consort, who was wearing a white fur night-robe with a tall, gold-trimmed collar, came out and said, “I am here. What is it?”
“Your Majesty, I am Ailib of the Red Boot Battalion of the Imperial Guard, and I beg you to come along with me without delay.”
The Consort stared at the tall Dragonlord, who held a pike so naturally in her hand, and said, “How is that? Come with you? And for what reason?”
“Your Majesty, there is a disturbance in the city, and it is His Majesty’s wish that you be conducted at once to a place within the Palace that can be more readily defended.”
At these words, there a simultaneous gasp from all of the Her Majesty’s maids of honor (there were nine of them), and even the Consort herself felt slightly giddy, and put her hand to her chest, a
s if she were suddenly short of breath. “A disturbance?” she said.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Where is this disturbance?”
“In the Underside, Your Majesty. But we do not know how widespread it is, nor how fast it is growing, and so—”
“But the Guards!”
“Yes, they have been called out, and are, we dare to hope, restoring order. Nevertheless—”
“Yes, yes, of course. Come, ladies,” she said, addressing her maids. “There is not a moment to be lost.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” they said, and prepared to follow the cool guardsman wherever she might lead.
Where she was leading them, in fact, was to a place called the Lower Square, which was far below the main level of the Palace, beneath the Imperial Wing, and consisted of eight or nine well-appointed rooms. It had been built under orders of the Empress Undauntra, who anticipated (wrongly, as it happened) the need to withstand a siege or an attack, and so had wanted at least one place in the palace that could be defended, and that had, moreover, its own access to the outside world, which is why each of the rooms had a concealed exit leading into a labyrinth of tunnels.
The exact plan of the tunnels was known only to Undauntra, and thus to the Orb, and it had remained one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Imperium—Undauntra had passed an edict making it high treason to even ask about the labyrinth, ensuring that no one but the legitimate ruler would know its secrets. We should add that, although there are many stories that concern this labyrinth, it is our opinion that these stories exist because it is no more possible for a labyrinth to exist without attendant stories than it is possible for a flashstone to be introduced in the theater without, at some point in the production, its being discharged—in other words, to the best of our knowledge, there is no truth in any of the tales set within these tunnels, saving only the matter of Undauntra’s whistle, which we will forgo discussing, as it has nothing to do with the history we have the honor to relate.
It was in this suite of rooms, then, that along with Jurabin, Countess Bellor, various advisors, companions, and a company of guardsmen, His Majesty abided, eschewing the comfortable if plain furnishings of the room set aside for his use, preferring to pace back and forth while awaiting word on the disturbances that had erupted in the very heart of his Empire. A hundred times he questioned Thack about what the messenger had said was going on, and a hundred times Thack had answered that the messenger had brought only orders, no information, except that there was trouble in the Underside.