by Steven Brust
“Trouble!” cried his Majesty. “Trouble! A fire is trouble; so is a flood; so is a windstorm. A thousand Teckla burning down a hundred buildings is trouble; so are ten Teckla burning down one building. An armed uprising is trouble; and so is a drunken brawl that has gotten out of hand. Which of these is it? How serious? What is being done?”
In point of fact, we should say that his Majesty could have used the magical properties of the Orb to reach out and question his Captain of the Imperial Guard. He could have, but he also knew that, if his Captain were in the midst of some critical operation, such contact could have the most disastrous consequences. So, with difficulty, His Majesty refrained and paced.
His disposition, to be sure, improved when the Consort arrived with her maids of honor, for he could then devote his energies to calming her fears—nothing relieves anxiety as much as helping relieve another’s, just as wounds of the heart are best salved by helping another whose heart is wounded—for man has always lived best among his own kind, rather than alone, and there can be no doubt that when man was first forged, the need to help his fellow was mixed into the very alloy that went into his shaping.
So His Majesty sat with Her Majesty—Emperor with Consort, husband with wife—and they spoke together in low tones and awaited further news. The Orb rotated about them, a pale green, as the courtiers remarked in whispers that Their Majesties appeared to have achieved domestic harmony, and spoke in general terms of the usefulness of a crisis to show what was truly important and to help lovers past the trying times that they all faced now and then (although, in truth, none of these courtiers seemed inclined to give any details about any difficulties or tensions between Their Majesties of late, because, in fact no such difficulties or tensions existed, saving only a recent spat about interruptions at the supper table).
The courtiers began playing three-copper-mud, except for Jurabin who had brought a set of s’yang stones (made of ivory, in fact, with a board of cherry wood; the grooves were all hand-carved, and by a hand that knew its business), and became involved in a contest with Lady Ingera, who loved the game as much as he; the “tic” of the flat stones alternating with the deep rolling of the round ones were the loudest sounds in the room.
This was the state of things, at any rate, until there came a much louder sound—this being the rattling and knocking of wood from the next room. It is safe to say that everyone present was, to one degree or another, startled—His Majesty jumped, Her Majesty gave out a tiny screech, Jurabin missed his throw, several gamblers dropped their cards, and all of the guardsmen reached for their weapons. This was followed by an exchange of sheepish looks, when they realized that what they heard was only the sound they had been expecting—someone had pulled the clapper, announcing his presence at the door.
His Majesty drew himself up and walked toward it, as Thack, the senior guardsman on duty, called out, “Who is it?”
“Rollondar e’Drien,” came the muffled answer through the door, “in company with Lord Khaavren.” At the same time as this welcome response was heard, a guardsman looked through the peephole, then turned back to Thack and nodded.
“Sire,” began Thack, “It is—”
“Yes, yes. Let them in at once.”
“Yes, Sire.”
The bolts were shot, the bars drawn back, and the door was opened to admit the Warlord, looking grim and dusty, along with Khaavren, who brought with him both the dirt and the smell of the Underside, along with rents and tears in his garb and numerous scratches and cuts on his person—his boots were scuffed and his shoulder-length hair flew wildly about, save for one spot in the front where it was matted down to his forehead by dried blood. If the Warlord, as we have had the honor to say, looked grim, Khaavren had the appearance of one who had been fighting for his life and would be ready to do so again, and woe to any who challenged him.
Khaavren resolutely forced his eyes away from the assembled and unanimously beautiful maids of honor, and dropped to his knee before the Emperor at the same time as Rollondar, executing a deep bow, said, “We can now report, Sire.”
“Good,” said His Majesty, making a gesture to Khaavren that he should rise. “Let me sit and listen to what you have to say, for, you understand, there is much that I wish to hear. I perceive that you have come directly from the streets.”
“Your Majesty is perspicacious,” said Khaavren.
Rollondar gave Khaavren a quick glance, but His Majesty chose to ignore the irony.
The Emperor sat down, then, with the two soldiers standing before him in attitudes of respectful ease. At his side was Her Majesty, who also listened attentively, a certain amount of disquiet apparent on her countenance. Behind them stood Jurabin, and around them clustered the courtiers and the maids of honor.
When everyone was settled, His Majesty said, without further preamble, “What is the state of the city?”
Khaavren looked at the Warlord, who said, “For now, Sire, order has been restored.”
His Majesty visibly relaxed, then said, “I wish to hear the details.”
“Very well, Sire,” said Rollondar, and nodded to Khaavren. “You ought to begin,” he told the Captain, “for I was only called in, later, and, come to that, at your orders.”
“Very well. I can tell Your Majesty what happened,” said Khaavren.
“Then I beg you to do so, and at once,” said the Emperor.
“I will.”
“I await you.”
“Well, this is it. At the eleventh hour of last night, in the Underside, some children began to taunt some of my guardsmen.”
“How, taunt them?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“But your guardsmen did not respond, I hope. I should dislike to think that your discipline could be broken by children.”
“At first, Sire, they did not respond.”
“At first?”
“But the taunts turned into attacks—certain missiles were thrown at them.”
“Ah, I see. And so they gave chase?”
“Exactly, Sire. They gave chase—into an ambuscade.”
“An ambuscade?”
“Yes, Sire. Of the three, one was killed, another wounded.”
“Hmmm.”
“I arrived as the ambuscade was taking place, along with additional guardsmen and certain friends—friends you may recall from some years ago, during the Pepperfield affair.”
“Yes,” said the Emperor. “I remember them. They were involved, you say?”
“Sire, it was with their help that we—my guardsmen and I—succeeded in driving off the attackers.”
“You drove them off, you say?”
“Yes, Sire. That is to say, we killed several, wounded several more, and the rest fled.”
“How many were there?”
“Oh, a tolerable round number, I assure Your Majesty. A dozen, perhaps. Less than a score, at all events.”
“So it was hot work, then, Captain?”
“Oh, yes Sire,” said Khaavren, laughing shortly and pulling his chin. “It was no cooler than a summer in Suntra, yet no hotter than the forges of the Serioli smiths.” This speech was greeted by admiring gasps from the maids of honor, and a tiny shudder on the part of Her Majesty; Jurabin’s face seemed set in stone, if we may make use of such a phrase, and the courtiers watched Khaavren carefully, not without a few traces of jealousy visible here and there, either because of the attention he was receiving from His Majesty, or the attention he was receiving from the maids of honor.
“Well, go on,” said His Majesty, looking at Khaavren with respect and pleasure, for Tortaalik was enamored of all accounts of war and fighting, and the coolness of the Captain in recounting the battle pleased him.
“Sire, as I have had the honor to say, we drove them off, but we knew they would be back.”
“You knew? How?”
“Sire, it was an ambuscade, hence part of a greater scheme, though I did not know—and still do not know—exactly what the scheme was. But we knew the
re must be more forces prepared.”
“And so what did you do, Captain?”
“Sire, I dispatched a messenger to alert the nearest guard-post, and, moreover, to bring word back to the Palace; then we drew up what battle lines we could, and we waited.”
“Well?”
“Well, Sire, the hottest work was ahead of us. We were not waiting a quarter of an hour before they attacked us—mostly Teckla, Sire, but Teckla armed with shovels and knives, and with leaders who knew what they were about. Indeed, we should not have survived were it not for my friend Aerich, who knew how to fight, and my friend Tazendra, who knew when to discharge a flashstone. I also have the honor to inform Your Majesty that my guardsman, Tivor, comported himself with great skill and courage.”
“I shall remember that name, Captain, and he will be rewarded.”
Khaavren bowed.
“But, come, what happened next?”
“Next? Well, Sire, we were holding our own, and inflicting certain damage on the enemy—”
“Damage?”
“We killed several, Sire.”
Her Majesty allowed certain emotions to cross her countenance at the Captain’s easy manner of discussing death. The Emperor, who had eyes only for Khaavren, said, “And your own losses?”
“Sire, another of my guardsman was killed, and yet another wounded severely, so that I do not know if he will live out the night.”
“Well, go on.”
“Sire, we managed to hold our position until we were reinforced by a detachment of some fifty or sixty guardsmen of the White Sash Battalion from the station on Narrows, under the command of Corporal Keen.”
“You were reinforced, you say?”
“Exactly, Sire.”
“And did that quell the disturbance, Captain?”
“Hardly, Sire.”
“Well?”
“By this time, Sire, the planned disturbance had touched off a spontaneous riot, that threatened to grow in both length and breadth, and that in no great short time.”
“Hmmm,” said His Majesty. Her Majesty turned slightly pale, but strengthened her resolve as she recalled her duties as Consort, and that the Warlord had already said that the danger was in the past.
“Even with the reinforcements,” continued the Captain, “there was little to be effected save containment, Sire, and so I broke what forces I had into groups of six or eight, and sent them around the edges of the disturbance, in the hopes that we could contain the amount of damage until the arrival of the army.”
“And did this work?”
“I believe it did, Sire. It was thirsty work, and busy; yet when His Excellency Lord Rollondar,”—he bowed to the Warlord—“arrived, the riot had not spread beyond the ability of his forces—and forces most skillfully deployed, I should add—to quell.”
His Majesty looked at Rollondar.
“Sire,” said the latter, “When I arrived, Sir Khaavren,”—here he bowed to the Captain—“explained the situation in terms most precise and explicit. Upon consultation with him—in fact, upon his suggestion—we moved his forces to an area some half a league further into the Underside, while, with half of my forces—that is, with some three hundred troops—we drove the rabble into the arms of Sir Khaavren’s command.”
“Half of your troops, Warlord?”
“Yes, Sire. The other half remained back, and conducted a house-to-house search, to be sure we had missed none of the culprits.”
“Ah, ah! I see. Well, and the results of this effort?”
“Sire, in two hours we had quelled the riot, and those responsible are now dead or imprisoned.”
“How, all of them?”
“That is to say, Sire, if a dozen of them lived and are at large to escape Your Majesty’s justice, well, I shall be surprised.”
His Majesty beamed. “A complete victory!” he cried.
“That’s my opinion,” said Rollondar.
“And yours?” said the Emperor, addressing Khaavren.
“I am in all ways in agreement with the Warlord, save for one thing.”
“And that is?”
“I am convinced that those responsible were not involved in the uprising, and thus are still at large.”
“Hmmmm, hmmmm,” said His Majesty. “Why are you so convinced that it was planned, Captain?”
“Why, Sire? Well, in the first place, there was the ambuscade.”
“Well, yes.”
“In the second, Sire, because of the pamphlets.”
“How, the pamphlets?”
“Yes, Sire. As part of my duties, I keep track of the subversive material that is circulated within the city in general and the Underside in particular.”
“Well, and of what does this material consist?”
Khaavren flushed slightly, stammered for a moment, glanced at the Consort, and said, “Sire, there is no need for Your Majesty to know the details.”
“I see.”
“But it is, for the most part, uh, humorous in intent.”
“Humorous?”
“Yes, Sire. That is, these sheets poke fun at the court, and the edicts, and uh …”
“And me?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Well?”
“Sire, it is my judgment that, before a true explosion can occur, these circulars will lose their humor, and take on a tone of anger.”
“Ah. And you, Warlord. What do you think?”
Rollondar bowed. “I am entirely of the Captain’s opinion.”
“I see. Then tell me, Captain, why is it these pamphlets are permitted to circulate?”
“Sire? Well, for two reasons.”
“Two reasons? Let us see. What are they?”
“In the first place, because they would simply re-emerge elsewhere, and might be better concealed; hence we might not know when they began speaking with voices of anger rather than irony.”
“That is not a bad reason. What else?”
“Because, Sire, to suppress them might well cause them to change their tone at once.”
“Hmmm. Then you believe we should let them continue?”
“I am convinced of it, Sire.”
His Majesty sighed. “Very well. Go on, then.”
“Sire,” said Khaavren, “there is little that I can add to what Lord Rollondar will tell Your Majesty of these things, and, moreover, I am overcome with fatigue.”
“Ah, ah, good Captain. Yes, you must go and get your rest—you have well earned it.”
Khaavren bowed, first to His Majesty, then to Her Majesty, then to the Warlord, after which he took his leave and, stopping only to give the necessary orders to his guardsmen for escorting Their Majesties back to their chambers, he made his way through the respectful looks of the courtiers and the admiring glances of the maids of honor, and so up into the Palace proper, out into the streets, and at last toward home.
Chapter the Thirteenth
Which Treats of Khaavren’s Return Home
For Conversation with His Friends,
His Decision to Absent Himself
From the Palace for a Day,
And the Arrival of Guests.
IN THE EARLY HOURS OF the morning, with the weight of darkness pressing silence onto the streets of Dragaera, which darkness was broken only by the occasional glowbulb or lantern outside a public house and which silence was broken only by the occasional lone footstep or call of the Watch, Khaavren made his tired way back home, his thoughts filled with scattered images drawn from the last several hours as he had experienced them; indeed, the Tiassa seemed to be in a waking dream, where hot faces and cold steel rose in ceaseless waves before him and carried with them all of the emotions—fear, anger, excitement, and even satisfaction—that, in the fury of the event, he had been too busy to feel. It was, then, with considerable relief that he came at last to his door, and it was with delight that he determined, from the low murmur of voices he heard as he opened it, that at least some of his friends were still awake, and so he need n
ot face the loneliness of his bed just yet, while the emotions to which we have just alluded—the emotions of battle, and at times, it had seemed, hopeless battle—were still fresh in his memory.
Tazendra, who happened to be facing the hallway, was the first to see him. She rose from her chair with a broad smile and gleaming eyes, crying, “Khaavren! Ah, but it was fine bit of play to-night, was it not? Come, sit and drink a glass of wine with us, and help us as we tell the tale to our old friend Srahi. But come, you remember Mica, do you not? And this is Fawnd, who is Aerich’s lackey.”
Tazendra, and, for that matter, Aerich, who sat in the chair he had always preferred, still appeared to be awake and alert—a circumstance that amazed the Tiassa, knowing, as he did, that they had ridden for thirty hours and then fought for ten or twelve more. Mica appeared also to be rested and well, although the thin Teckla called Fawnd seemed, to Khaavren’s experienced eye, to be stiff and in a certain amount of pain.
As it happened, Tazendra’s enthusiasm was exactly the physick required by Khaavren’s nerves, and, before he was aware of it, he was seated in his favorite chair, a glass of wine in his hand, laughing as Tazendra acted out in exaggerated detail a misadventure on the part of one of their antagonists of the battle; sang an old campaign song that mocked the exploits of certain generals who, though once of great repute, were now almost unknown; and recollected particulars of their past adventures.
Mica sat at the end of the couch, blushing with pleasure when Tazendra told how his famous bar-stool had been put to such good use during the ambuscade near The Painted Sign, which the reader may recall from our previous history. Khaavren observed with interest and amusement that, as this story was related, Mica made occasional shy glances at Srahi, who ignored him with such determination that there could be no doubt Mica’s notice was returned.