by Steven Brust
The Consort’s bedroom was large and furnished mostly in white, with an imperial-size canopied bed, a white couch, and enough chairs for her attending maids. In the back of the room was the door which permitted access to the balcony to which we have felt obliged to call the reader’s attention. Khaavren was, in fact, setting his hand to the doorknob when he was caught up short by the sound of the Consort’s voice, speaking in tones that were severe and left no doubt about the seriousness of the matter under discussion.
“Oh ho,” said Khaavren to himself. “Her Majesty is upbraiding one of her maids of honor. Perhaps, then, this would be a poor time to ask her for clemency, and it would be best to leave them alone and wait for Her Majesty’s disposition to improve. And yet, one cannot help but be curious about the subject of Her Majesty’s anger, for there is no doubt that what makes someone, be it Consort or courtesan, angry, tells us as much about her, or him for that matter, as what brings her pleasure. Let us, then, listen for a moment, and then we will steal away as silently as we have arrived, wealthier in knowledge and richer in experience.”
As Khaavren listened, then, so shall we, and we will hear the Consort speaking in these terms: “Daro,” she said, addressing a maid of honor whom Khaavren remembered as an elegant and haughty Lyorn, “you take liberties. I warn you that your position at court is in doubt if you continue speaking and behaving in this manner.”
“Come, that’s not badly said,” murmured Khaavren. “What will be the reply?”
The reply, delivered in a feminine voice both strong and melodic, took this form: “Madam, I do take liberties, for which I hope Your Majesty can forgive me, yet my self-love speaks louder to me than my love of pelf, and if I must sacrifice one, why, there is hardly a choice. Your Majesty contemplates an injustice; I cannot remain quiet—”
“An injustice!” cried the Consort. “How, you are weeping for this poor, helpless, defenseless girl, who happens to be a Dragonlord, and, moreover, daughter of the Dragon Heir to the Throne? If you hate injustice, you might look to the injustices committed daily against those who have fewer means of defense than Aliera e’Kieron!”
“Ah, ah,” said Khaavren. “What is this? They are talking of the very subject that interests me! Come now, this is fortunate; we must listen more closely than ever, that not a single note of this concert should escape our critical judgment.”
“Madam,” said Daro, “What Your Majesty does me the honor to say is full of justice. Nevertheless—”
“Yes? Nevertheless?”
“Weak or powerful, she is still a woman, which means she is human, which means she is able to feel pain, and Your Majesty has already subjected her to the humiliation of having her rooms searched, and this only for the crime of attracting attention that has previously gone to Your Majesty. Now Your Majesty contemplates crushing her beneath the weight of Imperial displeasure by bringing to bear all the weapons of the law—”
“The law she has broken!” cried the Consort, whose voice was beginning to sound shrill.
“—upon her head. Yes, madam, she has broken the law. An ancient law. A law some feel is unjust, and a law some feel is useless, but, nevertheless, a law. But I beg leave to point out to Your Majesty that it is a law no more ancient than those unwritten laws which regulate honorable behavior and use of power—laws designed to protect—”
“You are in danger, Countess,” cried the Consort. “I warn you, take care!”
“Madam, I have Your Majesty’s interests at heart, believe me. That which Your Majesty contemplates can result in nothing good for you, as well as those of us who have the honor to belong to you. I cannot stand by idly when Your Majesty engages in acts which cast shame upon you and on the court.”
“How dare you speak to me thus?”
“I dare not keep silent.”
“I believe I am condescending to dispute with you, Countess! Can you somehow have contrived to forget your rank, as well as my own?”
“You dispute not with me, but with Fairness and Justice, madam—two entities who know no rank.”
“Shards and splinters,” said Khaavren to himself. “It is a shame this girl is a Lyorn, for I declare that if she were a Tiassa I should marry her in an instant, and then I should convince His Majesty to give me back the lands of Khaavren and we should have a fine daughter to rule my estate as Marchioness and a pretty son to rule hers as Count, after which we would retire together to Mount Bli’aard and let the Empire fall to whatever ruin it desires while we watched the golden lights dance off Redface in the morning.”
If Khaavren was impressed with Daro’s rejoinder, we can only say that the Consort was less so. She said, in a voice at once high and cold, “Countess, I think it is time for you to return to your estates, which, I suspect, stand in need of your firm and, no doubt, just hand to guide them.”
“As Your Majesty wishes,” came the answer, still in a strong voice. “Yet, madam, I have not surrendered. I assure Your Majesty that, before leaving, I intend to make certain that everyone at court knows—”
“You will do nothing of the kind!” cried the Consort in tones of outrage. “You will speak to no one; you will say nothing. You will be gone from here within the hour. If you fail in any way to do exactly what I have just said—that is, if you disobey a direct order of your sovereign—you will be arrested for treason at that moment and you can spend the rest of your life in prison, remembering this day and all it has brought you. And if I were less merciful, I should not give you this choice, for you have hardly earned it. Now go!”
“Madam, I will follow your orders to the letter, yet I beg you to consider—”
“Go!” cried the Consort.
Khaavren suddenly realized his peril, and positively sprinted for the door, which he reached safely even as he heard the inner door open. He walked quickly past the guards, thinking to be out of sight before either the Consort or the Countess could see him. But then, on a sudden thought, he stopped where he was, in the Consort’s sitting room, turned, leaned casually against the wall in the attitude of one who had been there for some time, and waited.
Daro appeared in an instant, her face flushed, but her eyes dry and appearing calm. She wore a floor-length dress of Lyorn-red, gathered down the back, with puffed sleeves tapering to the wrist and a train that was also red save for a bit of tasteful gold embroidery. Her brown hair fell straight and plain to her shoulders, yet caught the light as if it had been brushed the legendary five thousand strokes. She appeared about to go straight past Khaavren as if she hadn’t seen him, but he cleared his throat, bowed, and said, “Countess—”
She stopped, frowned, and said, “What is it, Captain? I am in a hurry.”
“Well,” he said phlegmatically.
“Yes?”
“If you will allow me to escort you whither you are going, I assure you I would look upon it as a great favor, and even as an honor.”
Her eyes widened. “Surely I am not arrested!” Then she added in a low voice, as if to herself, “No, it would be impossible so soon.”
“Arrested, madam? Not the least in the world, I promise you. Rather I am arrested. But that is neither one place nor another. No, there is no talk of arrest, merely a desire to escort you, for no reason other than the pleasure of doing so, for, if the words, however heartfelt, of a mere soldier can touch you, than be assured that you have interested me. Will you allow me the honor of escorting you?”
She laughed, though it seemed to Khaavren that she felt no great amusement. “What, Captain, after all these years have you become a courtier?”
“Ah, you wound me, madam. I—”
“Captain, I assure you that, as I said before, I am in a great hurry. I must see to my business with no delay. If you wish to accompany me, well, I have no objection to make, yet we must be about it at once. In fact, Captain, for reasons I dare not mention, it would ease my mind to have a strong arm to lean on just now, though perhaps it would be best for you if it were not yours.”
“How, best for me? Yet—”
“No, do not ask why, and do not speak, merely allow me to take your arm, and let us proceed at once.”
Khaavren bowed and held out his arm, which Daro took, and they walked down the corridor. Now we would not be faithful to our duty as historian if we did not admit that our Tiassa found himself confused by the tremor he felt in his arm when she took it, for he had been a soldier for five hundred years, and, after the heartbreak of his first love, had treated dalliance as the game that, alas! many soldiers do—forced to by the nature of their calling. Those who live with violence too often find that its opposite—love, becomes a matter as casual, and worth as little consideration, as swordplay. That is, to commit violence because duty requires it is to find one’s self simulating hatred (for the best soldiers feel no real hatred for the opponent fate has placed before them); in the same way, then, it is all too easy to treat the acts of love—kisses, caresses, soft words—as mere simulation of love. One goes through the motions, and, indeed, takes certain pleasures from doing so, yet the touching of soul to soul that love brings to those who are blessed by it is denied by the very emotions that allow the soldier to take sword in hand, day after day, and commit acts which to most of us only accompany the most extreme passion.
In fairness, we must add that not all soldiers have this experience with love. Indeed, many of them, sickened by being constantly surrounded by thoughts of death, fall into love as an escape from the horror that surrounds them every day. Whether this is better or worse, we do not feel it our place to say, being merely the mirror upon which truth is, however imperfectly, reflected.
Khaavren had, alas, fallen into the trap we have described, though he had never realized it. But now, when a gentle but brave hand was laid upon his arm, he became suddenly aware that he was not immune to such tender thoughts, and shooting through his soul were lances both of the pleasure that unselfish love brings, and the pain that comes with the awakening of emotions long asleep. Needless to say, he felt great confusion in his mind even as he felt a beating in his heart and a trembling in his limbs. Thoughts flitted through his mind too fast for his awareness to fasten on and pin down, yet they left their impressions in his clouded brow and shallow breath.
For her part, we should say that for years Daro had seen the Captain, and admired him from a distance—both his form and his character, insofar as she could see that he held himself apart from the intrigues and petty maneuvers of the court, and always carried himself with the relaxed confidence of a warrior, and had, moreover, a smile that, though rare, brightened his countenance, and made her think how pleasant it might be to cause the smile to appear. While she had never entertained serious thoughts in his direction, to find him there, a strong arm when she felt her strength exhausted, and a kind glance when she felt surrounded by malice, made her see him in a new way, and she was almost overwhelmed with bitterness at the thought that she had truly met him only now, when her life was ruined and she was to be ignominiously driven away. In addition, Khaavren had revealed a side of himself hitherto hidden—he had shown that he had a heart, and one that could be touched, and could open up to another in need.
The Countess endeavored to keep these thoughts concealed, and to recover herself as she walked, yet a part of herself cried out to reveal them, and so, as will sometimes happen when two souls develop a sudden sympathy, hints of her ideas communicated themselves to Khaavren via the hand upon his arm, which, in turn, accounted in part for the reactions that she felt from him.
By the time they reached the set of chambers where the maids of honor slept and kept their clothing, the Countess had recovered herself, and put up once more the barriers that prevent deep emotion from revealing itself too soon, before the heart is convinced that opening will not simply bring a fresh onslaught of pain without any likelihood of reward.
Daro’s room was, by chance, unoccupied. She let go of Khaavren’s arm with a bow, opened her wardrobe, removed a tall valise, and began filling it with her clothing.
“Tell me, Captain,” she said as she haphazardly threw her clothing into the valise (charmingly, thought Khaavren), “what brought you to Her Majesty’s room? For it could not have been for the pleasure of seeing me.”
“And why could it not?” said Khaavren. “Shards! I can think of few better reasons to walk a few paces, or even a hundred leagues.”
She laughed. “You are becoming a courtier. But it could not be, because you could not have known I would be there.”
“Well, that is a reason, at any rate, with which I cannot argue.”
“Well then?”
“Madam, I came to see the Consort.”
“Ah. Well, why did you not?”
“Because I saw you instead, and—”
“Flatterer!” she cried, although she did not seem displeased. “You said, ‘and’?”
“And I heard you as well.”
Daro stopped what she was doing, turned, and frowned. “You say you heard?”
“Every word, Madam.”
“I see. And therefore—?”
“I wished to pay you a thousand compliments, for I am a soldier, and soldiers know what courage is.”
For the first time, Daro blushed, turning bright red for a moment and looking down. “Thank you, Captain. But you perceive, if you heard our conversation, that I have no time. And that is why it might be best for you not to be seen with me lest your light be stolen by my shadow. Indeed, I should not, for your sake, have allowed you to walk with me, but I was weak, and needed your arm. Forgive me.”
“Cha,” said Khaavren. “I will be seen with you whenever I can, madam, and hold myself honored.”
She gave him a gentle smile and extended a soft hand, upon which Khaavren placed a reverent kiss. “You are kind, Captain. But it is the case that I am ruined, and your compliments, as well as the whisperings of my heart, are as nothing before the whims of the Consort.”
“The whisperings of your heart, did you say?” cried Khaavren, falling to his knees. “Ah, do not say aloud what your heart whispers, because if it speaks as mine, then, by the Halls of Judgment, I will cast every curse I know at the fates which decreed that I should be a Tiassa while you are a Lyorn!”
Has the reader ever found himself wondering, as he was engaged in some activity or another, “What else is happening in the world?” Or perhaps, upon hearing of some momentous event, has the reader ever wondered, “What was I doing at the exact moment when that occurred?” It is, without doubt, one of the charms of the historical account that these questions can be answered, at least for some people at some times.
By way of example, we will mention that shortly after the third hour after noon, a week and a day nearly to the minute from when we opened this history with a messenger asking to see His Majesty, another messenger was asking for the same favor, this messenger coming from none other than Adron e’Kieron.
At this same moment, the Consort, having positively run from her rooms after the interview with her maid of honor that we, as well as Khaavren, have just overheard, was closeted with His Majesty, and was begging of him certain boons.
Tazendra, who had been wandering the labyrinthine Palace for some hours, had at last managed to locate the Academy of Discretion, and was asking after Pel.
Aliera and Sethra, who had been closeted with Jurabin for most of the day, were at last emerging, having learned what they wished to know, but still uncertain what to do with the knowledge.
Aerich was contemplating the Duke of Eastmanswatch while, at the same time, the Duke was contemplating his mosaic of purple stones and dreaming of inflicting countless humiliations on the Emperor in vengeance for those His Majesty had inflicted upon Aliera.
And, at this same time, Daro said, “How, a Lyorn? Not in the least, my friend. I merely chose these colors because they suit me, and I will not be bound by silly traditions. No, no, do you see my eyes, the shape of my ears, the form on this signet? I am as much a Tiassa as you, good Captain.”
BOOK Two
Chapter the Eighteenth
Which Treats of Several Persons
Who, for Various Reasons,
Decide They Ought to Speak at Once
To Our Friend, the Captain.
HISTORY IS NOT WHAT MEN could have done, or should have done, but, rather, what they did. It is unquestionably the case that, had the author chosen to write a romance, the ending of the last chapter would have been a rude and unpleasant shock to the reader. That is, the requisite element of classic romance—lovers of different houses finding each other at court but knowing their love is doomed—appeared, only to be set aside in a single, hasty moment of revelation, devoid of the intricacies of plot and counter-plot through which the author would cleverly prevent his characters from learning the truth about each other until either the last moment before the tragedy, or at the first moment after it was too late, depending on whether the author was of the romantic school of Lord Wrenchilde or the more ironic disposition of Lady Hopston.
But if history, though containing, we believe, enough true drama to satisfy anyone’s cravings, rarely follows the formulae outlined by the subscribers to this or that school of history, still less, then, is she willing to follow anyone’s notion of literature. She is a piece of wood afloat in the tide, and will go where the winds and waves bring her, caring nothing for the artist who stands, crayon poised, to draw her from the shore. Should he study her image as it is, she may be willing to fetch up near him long enough to allow some of the secrets of her form to be revealed by an honest canvas; if he insists she conform to his preconceived artistic laws, his work will never enfold her, and truth will always run before him, a step out of reach for ever, like the chreotha in Lady Neloy’s fable.