by Steven Brust
“Look at the item below it.”
Pel quickly read the indicated paragraph, then he frowned, looked up at Khaavren, and said, “Ah.”
“Then you, too, see what I see?”
“Yes. The humor is coarse and the language execrable, but the implication is that Her Majesty is conspiring with merchants to rob the people.”
“Exactly.”
“It is the first such implication I have seen.”
“And you think—?”
“As you do, Khaavren. It is a bad sign.”
“And yet, to suppress it—”
“Exactly. Would only make it worse.”
Khaavren nodded. “We may be in for difficult times, Pel.”
“Indeed. I do not envy you your job.”
Khaavren sighed. “Perhaps it will blow over.”
“Perhaps,” said Pel. “And yet, when the people whisper of conspiracies by the merchants and the aristocracy—”
“Yes. They are facing harder times than I had thought, and it may be that disorder will follow.”
“Well, there is nothing to be done on that score,” said Pel.
“Indeed, that is true. And yet, there is something that remains to be done right now, for the evening is not over. Although we must get an early start to-morrow, yet there is still something we must do to-night.”
“Is there?” said Pel. “Then tell me what it is, and if I can help you, I will do so.”
“Oh, indeed,” said Khaavren. “I can think of no one who will be of more help than you.”
“Then I am listening.”
“Here it is, then. Earlier to-day, I had a discussion with a Teckla who gave me certain information. I promised him that I would go out and drink his health. Now this is something that, it seems to me, would be better done in company, and I can think of no company I would prefer. So, if you are willing, we will drink to the health of this nameless Teckla, and then—cha! we will drink to each other’s health as well. Come, what do you think of this plan?”
“My dear Tiassa, I can find no flaw in it.”
“In that case, my dear Yendi, let us find the Hammerhead Inn, which still stands, and which brings back such pleasant memories, and put our plan into operation at once, with the intention of being as successful with this one as with the one we will initiate on the morrow.”
“After you,” said Pel.
“I am leading,” said Khaavren.
And they made their way out the door, where they acted on Khaavren’s plan with all the enthusiasm two old friends could bring to such endeavors, and where they met with no small success.
Chapter the Sixteenth
Which Treats of a Busy Night
In Dragaera City,
As Greycat Unfolds His Plans,
And Adron e’Kieron Struggles
To Control His Temper.
WHILE HIS MAJESTY, AND, INDEED, most of the population of the city slept, there was a great deal of activity taking place, as it were, beneath the surface. This was to be one of those nights with which history is here and there dotted; a night when plans, discussions, and ideas were first planted: plans, discussions, and ideas whose fruit would not emerge on the tree of history until after some as yet undetermined springtime should arrive to melt the snows of apparent quiescence and somnolence and awaken every mind to the light of day, open every eye to witness the passing of the season, and cause every heart to leap, in joy or terror according to its nature, at the wonder of the sudden blossoming of new growth which would appear, fully ripe, in the hazy dawn of a new era of history. This literal and metaphorical night, then, though passing unnoticed by all but a few, was pregnant with a day that would literally and metaphorically shake the Empire itself upon its birth.
We will attempt, therefore, to insure that the reader will remain cognizant of every seed that is sown on this night—the night following the 14th day of the month of the Vallista in the 532nd year of Tortaalik’s reign. We hope that we have fulfilled our duties in keeping the reader informed of every significant development in our history up to the present point, and, with the Gods to guide our pen, we shall do our utmost to continue as we have begun.
As the reader might expect, our next stop on this journey through times and places, via the medium of the printed word, one of the most effective means of travel yet devised, is to a tavern. But it is not, in fact, to the tavern to which our friends Khaavren and Pel are directing their attention, for at the same moment they are off to renew their old friendship, there is a far more sinister gathering in an entirely different part of town—in fact, in the Underside, in the same cabaret to which our duties as historian have brought us on two previous occasions, and to which our duties may, we are forced to admit, bring us again before our tale is told.
On this occasion, there were three conspirators present, these being Greycat, Laral, and Dunaan. They sat in the same back room, and spoke quietly.
Laral said, “I have learned something of interest.”
“Well?” said Greycat.
“You recall that His Highness, the Duke of Eastmanswatch, did not appear for his two appointments—that is, his appointment with the public, and his appointment with me—at the Pavilion of Kieron.”
“I remember very well,” said Greycat. “Do you now know the reason?”
“I do indeed,” said Laral. “And, if you wish, I will tell you.”
“That is exactly what I wish,” said Greycat. “Why did he not appear?”
“Because he was warned,” she said.
Dunaan seemed surprised, and looked an inquiry at her.
“Warned?” said Greycat.
“Exactly.”
“By whom?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Greycat frowned. “If someone has learned that an attempt was to be made on his life, we may all be in danger.”
Laral nodded.
“We must find out how he came to be warned.”
“I will attempt to do so.”
“Very well.”
Dunaan said, “I am pleased to report, at any rate, that Countess Bellor has taken up residence in the Imperial prisons, and His Majesty is, at present, without a Superintendent of Finance.”
“Excellent,” said Greycat.
“What was your method?” said Laral.
“I have friends in the Academy of Discretion,” said Dunaan.
Laral nodded.
“For my part,” said Greycat, “the riot went off as planned, although it was ended sooner than I had hoped. Still, it accomplished what it was intended to accomplish.”
“Which was?” said Dunaan.
Greycat shook his head but didn’t answer. He then turned to Laral and said, “Now I must ask you a question.”
“Very well, ask.”
“Knowing that you had not succeeded in removing Eastmanswatch, did you then attempt to remove him in a different way?”
Laral frowned. “Speak more plainly,” she said. “For you perceive that I don’t understand your question.”
“An effort was made to discredit His Highness, through his daughter, Aliera. This is not what I wish. It would be better if—”
“That was no doing of mine,” said Laral.
Greycat sighed. “I was afraid you would tell me that. It means there are other players in the game.”
“Does that startle you?” said Dunaan, smiling a little.
“Just what is the game?” said Laral.
Greycat hesitated, then shrugged. “I am attempting to gain a position at court,” he said, “as well as a certain measure of revenge, although that is secondary.” He smiled slightly. “You two will not, I take it, object to having an influential friend at court?”
The two Jhereg matched his smile and saw no need to otherwise answer the question.
“How do you hope to accomplish this objective?” said Dunaan.
“By creating a crisis which I will be able to solve.”
“A good plan,” said Laral. “If it ca
n be done.”
“In spite of certain setbacks,” said Greycat, “it is progressing satisfactorily.”
Dunaan shrugged. “What needs to be done now?”
Greycat considered. “We must not make another attempt on the life of His Highness. If he suspects, then it will be too dangerous.”
Laral started to object, but Greycat held up his hand. “No, we must concentrate on other things. If all goes well, there will be ways to make certain he is put out of the way.”
“Does the same apply to the Tiassa?” said Laral.
“No,” said Greycat. As he spoke, there was a certain narrowing of his eyes and curling of his lip that suggested that, to Greycat, Khaavren was more than an impediment to his schemes.
“Well?” said Dunaan.
“No,” said Greycat, answering the Jhereg’s implied question. “Laral will take care of the problem, since we are going to leave His Highness alone.”
“I will do so,” said Laral in a tone of finality that spoke nothing good about Khaavren’s future.
“And I?” said Dunaan. “Toward what task ought I to set myself? For I assume you have something in mind for me.”
“I do,” said Greycat. “You are to find me an assassin.”
The Jhereg frowned, then looked significantly, first at Laral, then down at his hands; then he sent Greycat a look of inquiry.
Greycat smiled and shook his head. “An expendable assassin.”
“Ah.”
“One who is skilled, and who will follow orders, and who is either stupid or naïve.”
“How,” said Laral. “A stupid assassin? A naive assassin? It is unlikely.”
“I am forced to agree,” said Dunaan.
“Are you certain? Is there no one you can find who is skilled, yet not wise in the ways of deceit?”
Dunaan said, “Then you plan—?”
“Let us not discuss it.”
“I see.”
“Can you find one?”
He thought for a moment, then abruptly nodded. “I believe so.”
“Good. Then there is no more to say.”
“On the contrary,” said Laral. “There is, indeed, more to say.”
Greycat questioned her with a look.
“The riot.”
“Yes, what of the riot?”
“Exactly what was that intended to accomplish?”
“That is my affair,” said Greycat.
“No, it is now all of our affair, for, not only have you revealed much of your plan, but you must perceive that Dunaan and I are now far too involved to escape any repercussions of this plan should it fail.”
Greycat looked at Dunaan, who, notwithstanding his apparent dislike of Laral, said, “I am forced to agree. I, too, wish to know, and you ought to tell us.”
Greycat shrugged. “Very well,” he said. “It was intended to make the court fearful of the people, and to heighten to the crisis.”
Laral nodded. “Are you aware that it did more than that?”
“To what do you refer?”
“You may have convinced the court that it was a genuine riot, or you may not. But you have certainly convinced the people. There are whispers of revolt in the streets.”
“Let them whisper,” said Greycat. “Let them, in fact, shout if they choose. They are rabble, which you know as well as I. What can they do?”
“They can send the Empire up in flames if you aren’t careful,” said Laral. “Then where will you be?”
Greycat smiled in a way that only he could smile—a peculiar, feral expression. He said, “I will then be exactly where I wish to be. For, because I create the unrest, I can quell it the same way.”
Laral watched him for a moment, then said, “For your sake, as well as for ours, I hope so.”
Dunaan nodded, silently echoing her sentiments.
Greycat shrugged. “Let us review, then.”
“For my part,” said Laral, “I am to kill the Tiassa, Khaavren, and also to learn how Prince Adron was warned about the attempt, and, furthermore, how much the Prince knows, and how much is known by whomever warned him.”
“That is it,” said Greycat.
Dunaan said, “I am to arrange for you to meet an assassin who is either foolish or naive, but who is, nevertheless, a skilled assassin.”
“Precisely,” said Greycat.
“Then,” said Laral, “there is now no more to be said; I will be about my business.”
“As will I,” said Dunaan.
Greycat nodded, but did not otherwise move as they departed the room and the cabaret.
When they had gone, Grita, her dzur-like eyes narrowed and her hair sleeked back like a veritable tsalmoth, emerged once more from the shadows. “Well?” she said.
“Well?” said Greycat.
“I think the lady from the Jhereg speaks with more wisdom than you. I, too, wonder if you can put out the fire you are so willing to start.”
“You are not privy to all of my plans, nor to all of my secrets,” said Greycat.
“Enough of them,” said Grita, catching his eye.
Greycat turned away.
“Have you a task to assign me?” she said after a moment. Her tone, we should add, contained a certain amount of irony, as if she thought it amusing that he should give her instructions.
He either didn’t notice or chose to ignore the tone, simply saying, “Yes.”
“Well?”
“Make your way into Adron’s encampment, however you can, and—”
“However I can?”
“That is correct.”
She laughed humorlessly. “You know, I take it, what you are implying I should do?”
Though still facing the wall, he blanched, as if he could not bear the look she gave him, even though he could not see the expression on her face. “I imply nothing,” he said.
“Hypocrite.”
He turned back to her suddenly. “You—you of all people will not address me in such terms. You know better than anyone what I am doing and why. And don’t forget what you stand to gain from this. As for your scruples—if you have any—they are your concern. You are welcome now, or at any time, to back out of the entire affair. But until you do, and as long as you ask me how you can be useful, I will tell you. The details are hardly my concern.”
She laughed, but did not otherwise answer him. “And once I have entered His Highness’s encampment, what then?”
“Then you will stay with him, as close as you can, watching everything he does. Do nothing for the moment, but be prepared for anything.”
“And yet, you are aware that my talents are best employed in the city, among those you call rabble?”
“I know,” he said.
“Without me, how will you control this rabble, and set them off when and how you wish?”
“I have made arrangements.”
“Ah! So I am no longer needed. Is that what you tell me?”
“As I said before, you do not know all my secrets, nor are you privy to all my plans.”
Grita made him an elaborate courtesy. “Very well. I will go to join a host of Dragonlords.”
“Good.”
“Until later, then—Greycat.” She laughed as she pronounced this name, as if she thought it funny; if so, she was surely the only citizen of the Underside who thought so. When he did not respond to her baiting, she turned without another word and walked out of the room, leaving Greycat alone with his thoughts, where we will also leave him, but only after, with the reader’s permission, saying two words about Greycat as he appears on these pages.
We have endeavored to remain true to history regarding both the appearance, character, and intentions of this fascinating if distasteful figure. We are not unaware that there may appear to be a certain mystery about him—in fact, we should go so far as to say that if there is no mystery about him, we have failed in our duty as historian. Yet it has come to our attention that some readers may wonder if the historian is, as it were, playing games—and
that Greycat may, in fact, be the alias for an entirely different person—Jurabin, for example, or even Pel.
This is a point on which we must insist: we are endeavoring to relate historical fact, and, in the course of doing so, to entertain and enlighten the reader, but only insofar as we can entertain and enlighten without compromising our integrity as an historian. We now give the reader our word that, in general, if we are withholding information, it is only because that information was not then available to any of these through whose eyes we are witnessing the unfolding of this history; and in specific, Greycat has not and will not appear anywhere in these pages under another guise.
With this firmly established, let us now move on. It is hardly coincidental that our next stop is identical to Grita’s—that is, the encampment of the Duke of Eastmanswatch and his Breath of Fire Battalion, located outside of the city. Here we will catch up with several of our friends at once; for not only is the Duke Adron himself present, but so is his daughter, Aliera; as well as Sethra Lavode, the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain; and, lo and behold, our missing friends, Aerich and Tazendra. Mica, we should add, was outside of the tent, near the entrance, sitting on his faithful bar-stool and awaiting the end of the discussion within. Fawnd, who had still not entirely recovered from the journey on horseback, had been given permission to retire for the evening, and was sound asleep not far from the tent.
These five were gathered, as beneath a dark, threatening sky, within the large tent that was Adron’s home while he was with his battalion. In the back of the tent—which was big enough to hold a meeting of fifty captains—was the board covered with the peculiar mosaic of purple stones that we observed earlier, only it was, at this moment, entirely covered by a cloth, so that nothing of its nature could be divined. There was a small table off to one side, covered with the papers Adron had been perusing when the visitors arrived, and there were cushions thrown about the tent, on which cushions were seated four of our friends—that is, all of them except Adron himself, who walked back and forth, back and forth, between the table and the covered board.
Of the others, Tazendra appeared determined to remain plussed in spite of any vicissitudes in her environment, though her eye strayed constantly between those two giants of history, Adron and Sethra. Aerich, though he watched Adron closely, maintained his natural and habitual calm. Sethra was seated facing Adron, and the expression on her countenance was troubled, as if she heard the thunder and understood the lightning. Aliera seemed grim, as if she were determined to remain standing in spite of the ferocity of the wind. Thus we see that, to judge by at least four of those present, there was something disturbing at issue.