by Steven Brust
“Ah, yes, that is true,” said Khaavren, remembering their old antagonist Garland and how he had communicated with Seodra. “Hang me, but I had forgotten it.”
“It is exactly as this lady,” here Sethra bowed to Tazendra, “has said. It is something a skilled sorcerer can sometimes do, although it works best when aided by a device, or between two people who know each other’s minds very well indeed—such as a father and a daughter.”
“Well,” said Khaavren, “there are times when such a skill would be useful indeed. This may indeed be such a time for the Lady Aliera, as I perceive from her countenance that she is communicating on a matter of no small importance”.
As he said this, Aliera’s eyes suddenly focused on Khaavren—it was evident that the communication had ended. She bowed to her host and said, “I must leave at once. I have an errand that will not wait.”
“Very well,” said Khaavren. “We will, no doubt, see you again.”
“No doubt,” said Aliera over her shoulder as she left the room. An instant later the door was heard to open and close with a force that testified to the urgency of the Dragonlord’s errand.
Khaavren drew a breath, then sat down. Sethra seated herself as well. Mica came in with klava; he had been standing in the doorway, afraid to enter, during the latter part of this conversation. Now he entered with some hesitation and poured klava from Khaavren’s silver pot.
“Does this mean,” said Tazendra to Sethra, “that you aren’t going to fight?”
“Not at the moment, in any event,” said Sethra, smiling a little.
“Well,” said Tazendra, sounding disappointed, “perhaps it is for the best.”
Aerich shrugged.
“You were explaining,” said Khaavren, “that you have, in fact, been able to determine little about the spells used in the murder?”
“For my part,” she said, “I am convinced that they were prepared by a Jhereg.”
Khaavren frowned. “You are convinced of this?”
“Yes, I am.”
“But then, why did you—”
“Irritate the Lady Aliera? Because I enjoyed it.” She accompanied these words with a smile that made the hair on the back of Khaavren’s neck wake up and stretch.
He cleared his throat to hide his confusion, and said, “I will take this information, then, and see what I can learn of the matter. I will say that I am nearly certain the murders are related to the riot yester-eve, though it is nothing more than instinct which tells me so.”
Sethra nodded. “It is not hard to believe,” she said. “It is clear that there is a conspiracy at work—a conspiracy that has laid its plans deep and subtle.”
“Like a Yendi,” murmured Aerich.
“Where is Pel?” said Tazendra.
“Who?” said Sethra.
“A friend of ours from long ago,” said Khaavren. “He is a Yendi, and he now studies the art of Discretion. It was he who warned us of the attempt on Adron’s life.”
“Hmmm,” said Sethra. “Could he be involved?”
Aerich shook his head. “If Pel were involved, we should not suspect a Yendi.”
Tazendra frowned, as if trying to make sense of this, while, at the same time, Sethra frowned, shrugged, and rose once more to her feet. “Well, I have told you what I agreed to tell you. I will now continue my investigations, and do you do the same, and we will speak more of what we have found. Come, do you think my plan a good one?”
Aerich raised his eyebrows and shrugged at the word, “plan” while Khaavren said, “Entirely.” Lyorn and Tiassa rose and bowed to Sethra, while Khaavren added, “For my part, I shall attempt to discover—”
He was interrupted by the rattle of the door clapper. Khaavren looked at Sethra, at Aerich, and at Tazendra, then watched the doorway. Presently, Mica came in and said, “A messenger from His Majesty has arrived, and desires Lord Khaavren to accompany him back to the Palace.”
“Indeed,” said Khaavren.
Srahi appeared behind Mica and said, “I’ll fetch your sword and your uniform, Lord.”
Khaavren began to ask why she wished to do this, but then changed his mind and simply nodded.
“What do you think His Majesty wants you for?” said Tazendra.
Said Khaavren, “Some trivial matter.”
Chapter the Fourteenth
Which Treats of the Arrest
Of a Superintendent.
WAS THE MATTER UPON WHICH Khaavren was summoned trivial in fact? This is not a judgment the historian is willing to make. The reader need not, of course, be reminded of the “Tale of the Smudged Letter,” in which a drop of water causes the sinking of an island; and there can be no doubt of its basic, though apocryphal, truth: history is, for the most part, a recitation of paltry insignificant deeds that, taken together, or in sequence, reveal the complex workings of Man and how he came to the place he occupies. We cannot say if the single event for which Khaavren was ordered back to the Palace (which was, to be sure, of more moment than a love-letter to a cobbler’s servant) was a vital link in the chain of events that we have chosen to narrate; we can only narrate it, and allow the reader to make this decision for himself.
Yet it behooves the historian, as one who has taken upon himself the task of relating historical fact and revealing causality and logic in the interrelationships of these facts, to consider the following: how poorly must this letter have been worded, that one drop of water could change its meaning so completely? How ignorant must have been the boatman to be unaware of the currents in a river he crossed every day? How foolish must have been the seer to mistake a broken oar for a sign from the Gods? How foolhardy must have been the wizard to exchange runes in a spell without testing the results? And so we may continue down the sequence of events related in the tale.
The lesson of the fable—which is, as much as anything else, to keep one’s roof always in repair—is certainly a good lesson for those whose dispositions incline them toward laziness. Yet it would be a poor historian who would accept the mere relation of such a series of events as being good and sufficient explanation.
So, then—was the matter upon which Khaavren was summoned to the Palace trivial? This, we repeat, is not a judgment we are prepared to make. Nor, for that matter, did Khaavren make any such judgment; his only concern was whether it fell within his province as Captain of the Phoenix Guards, and it was to answer this question that, upon arriving at the Imperial Wing, Khaavren went at once in search of His Majesty.
While Khaavren had been speaking with his friends, an entire day had passed at the Palace (and Khaavren’s absence, while noticed, had not impaired the functioning of the offices or ceremonies of the court in any way), so that when our worthy Tiassa—that is to say, Khaavren—arrived, His Majesty was at supper with the Consort.
Khaavren caused himself to be announced, and prepared himself to endure Her Majesty’s stony glare while Imperial matters were transacted at supper for the second time within a week. However, he was not brought into the room—instead he was given a note with the Imperial seal.
He frowned, broke the seal, and, standing just where he was—without the Hall of Windows—read it. It was short and left no room for questions or interpretations: “Order for Khaavren, Captain of the Imperial Guards, to arrest the Countess Bellor, Superintendent of Finance, and confine her in my prison in the lorich Wing of the Imperial Palace.” It was signed by Tortaalik.
“Well now,” murmured Khaavren, recalling his words of just a few hours before. “I spoke better than I thought if it has really come to this.”
He addressed the servant who had handed him the message, saying, “How are His Majesty’s spirits today?”
“His spirits, My Lord?” said the servant, a young Teckla with a clear eye and large ears.
“Yes. His spirits. Is he angry, distracted, cheerful?”
“Well, My Lord, it seems to me that he has had a sour disposition for the entire day.”
“Ah, ah! And do you know anything tha
t might be the cause of His Majesty’s unhappiness?”
“My Lord, I know that he spent some time closeted with Jurabin, yet he seemed to be in an ill humor even before this occurred.”
Khaavren shrugged. “I would be in a sour mood if I knew I would be forced to spend time with Jurabin,” he thought to himself, “but I suspect there is more to it than that. But, still, no doubt the minister gave him news that displeased him, and the blame fell on poor Bellor, and that is the whole story.” Aloud he said, “Tell me, if you would, did anything unusual happen at court today?”
“Unusual?” said the Teckla, frowning. “Well, My Lord, there was the fish discovered in the bathing pool. No one yet knows who put it there, yet the gentlemen of the court all laugh whenever—”
“What else?”
“What else? Two Teckla demanded to see His Majesty at different times during the day, which is, My Lord, the first time I have known two to appear on the same day.”
“And was His Majesty disturbed?”
“Oh, not in the least, My Lord; Dinb was able to discourage both of them with no trouble. But it is unusual that, in one day—”
“Yes, yes. Pass on. What else of moment happened to-day?”
“Well, there was a petition from the Academy of Discretion, but I do not know its substance, for it was delivered in private.”
“Ah, ah,” said Khaavren. “A request for funds, no doubt.”
“That is possible,” said the servant. “And even likely. For immediately after the petition was presented, Countess Bellor was sent for.”
“Indeed,” said Khaavren. “Well then, perhaps that goes some way toward explaining things.”
“Explaining things?” said the servant.
“Nothing, nothing,” said Khaavren. “It doesn’t matter. I am wondering aloud. Thank you for the information you have given me, my dear fellow. Here, take this to drink my health, and I will take another and drink yours.”
“Willingly, My Lord,” said the servant, pocketing the coin, bowing, and going about his business.
Khaavren spent a few more minutes thinking over what he had learned, then he shrugged philosophically, knowing that he might never know the full and exact reason for the order, and that knowing it made no difference to the execution of his duty. Khaavren, like a good officer, was rarely more content than when he had a clear, unambiguous order to carry out, and an order, moreover, that he knew to be within his powers to fulfill. Hence he put the letter into his belt next to his gloves, adjusted his sword-belt, and set off for the offices of the Superintendent of Finance.
The Superintendent had, in fact, two offices. The first was on the fourth floor of the Imperial Wing. It was large, elegantly appointed, lavishly furnished, and never used except for entertaining official visitors. The second, to which Khaavren at once took himself, was in the Phoenix Wing, on the first floor but far, far back, nearly abutting the Imperial Wing (although, except for any secret passages of which Khaavren was unaware, there was no direct route). Khaavren had no need to ask directions, and he found himself in front of the door, at which he clapped twice, strongly.
A clerk, a Lyorn Khaavren had never seen before, opened the door, peered out, then opened the door wider, at the same time blocking it.
“My Lord,” said the clerk. “May I perform some service for you? If you are here concerning pretended arrears in pay, I assure you that no one can help you until to-morrow, when you must present yourself between the twelfth hour after midnight and the third hour after noon, and you must, moreover, bring with you papers indicating—”
“Is the Countess Bellor within?”
“Why yes, My Lord. She is indeed. And yet, I am sorry to say that matters relating to arrears in pay, or,” here the clerk looked at him shrewdly, “advances, are not to be addressed at all except—”
“Then if you will be pleased to announce to her that Khaavren, Captain of His Majesty’s Guard, wishes to pay her a visit, I will be grateful to you.”
“Nevertheless, My Lord, I must insist that—”
“A visit, I should add, on Imperial business.”
The clerk hesitated.
“You will do well not to waste His Majesty’s time,” said Khaavren.
The clerk blanched at the cool, official voice of the Captain; he licked his lips, hesitated for another instant, then nodded and said, “My Lord, I will be honored to announce you at once.”
“That would be just as well,” agreed Khaavren pleasantly.
The Countess Bellor appeared with almost no delay, an expression of curiosity on her sharp-featured face. She wore purple and red of the finest silk, with gold over all, and had painted a red streak down the middle of her hair. She carried herself with the air of one accustomed to being polite out of duty, who knows herself to hold one of the highest posts in the Empire. She did not, in either dress or countenance, have the look of quiet skill and intelligence that Khaavren had always thought should mark the Superintendent of Finance for the Empire. Khaavren shrugged off these thoughts, for, he admitted to himself, he had never had Tazendra’s knowledge of fashion, Pel’s impeccable taste, or Aerich’s ability to wrap himself in such dignity that whatever garb he affected appeared to be the height of elegance.
He bowed deeply to the Phoenix noble and said, “Countess Bellor, I am here on behalf of His Majesty.”
“Well,” said the Countess. “You are then doubly welcome. Please come in, and tell me at once how I can make myself agreeable to His Majesty my cousin.”
Khaavren took a step into the room and bowed once more. “You can make yourself agreeable, Madame, by doing me the honor of putting your sword into my hand.”
“Your pardon,” said Bellor. “You wish for my sword?”
“Yes, madam, you have understood me exactly.”
“I am to give you my sword?”
Khaavren, who was used to having his speech, normally so clear and precise, questioned at such times, merely nodded gravely.
“But, what use could you have for my sword?”
“None, in point of fact,” said the Captain conversationally. “Nevertheless, I must have it.”
Bellor stared. “How, am I arrested, then?”
“Yes,” said Khaavren, bowing slightly. “That is it exactly. You are arrested.”
There was a slight commotion behind Khaavren, but, when he looked around, he discovered it was caused by the clerk who had first admitted him, and who, upon hearing the word arrest, had sat down suddenly and without first being certain of the location of his chair.
Bellor, who seemed oblivious to her clerk’s discomfiture (being, no doubt, too concerned with her own), said, “His Majesty has ordered my arrest?”
“Your arrest, madam, and even your confinement.”
“My confinement? In prison?”
“Yes, Countess. Your confinement in prison. I am, in fact, to escort you there at once, as soon as you have surrendered to me your sword.”
“But … but this is impossible!”
“How, impossible, madam? Not in the least. I assure you that I have carried out such orders before, and they are entirely possible. In fact, only rarely do they present any difficulty. I would hope that you shall not be one of those who present such difficulties, for you perceive it could only be unpleasant for us both, and the result will be no better than if you had remained agreeable.”
Bellor stared openmouthed at Khaavren, so that her costume, which had appeared to him silly before, now, stripped of its wearer’s confidence in herself and (hence) her appearance, seemed positively absurd.
“Come, madam,” said Khaavren. “You perceive there is no reason to delay.”
She looked at him as if he were a sort of impossible and inconceivable animal, then said, “May I be permitted time to write a short note to His Majesty?”
“You may,” said Khaavren. “And, moreover, I will undertake to deliver it into his own hand, if you wish.”
“I assure you, you will make a friend for
life if you do so.”
Khaavren shrugged. This was not the first time he had made a friend for life of one he was escorting to the Iorich Wing.
“And,” she continued, “may I be allowed to change my clothing? For I am hardly wearing appropriate garb for prison.”
“Better than that,” said Khaavren, “you may take time to pack a small valise, so you will have some choice of what to wear while you are confined. However, I must watch you pack, to ensure that no papers are accidentally taken or destroyed, as sometimes happens when one packs in a hurry.”
Rather than being insulted by this insinuation, Bellor gave a distracted nod as if she could not understand how any papers she possessed could matter to anyone. “Come, then,” she said, “and we will fetch my sword.”
“I ask nothing better.”
She led the way past several plain desks at which sat clerks and intendants, all of whom wished to give the appearance of being hard at work and oblivious to the drama taking place. They went back into her office, which was filled almost to overflowing with pictures on the walls, chairs on the floor, and jewelry suspended from the ceiling, and in which a small desk covered with dust and documents was hidden in a far corner. After searching for some little time, she found a bejeweled rapier in an even more bejeweled scabbard. Khaavren took this weapon with a bow, hiding his distaste as well as he could. He need not, in fact, have troubled himself, for Bellor was entirely oblivious to everything except the shock she had just received.
Khaavren did her the courtesy of turning his back while she changed into a pair of white breeks and a blouse that was also white and decorated only with a bit of gold lace, along with simple, comfortable brown boots. When she announced that she had finished changing her dress, Khaavren escorted her up a stairway in back which led to her quarters, and watched while she summoned a servant to pack a valise and to carry it for her. This operation took some little time, during which the Countess asked if Khaavren knew anything of why she was being arrested.