by Steven Brust
The room was nearly empty as we look in on it; only one booth was occupied. This booth contained two Dragonlords and a Dzurlord, none of whom, we should point out, are those whom we have especially intended to look in on, and all of whom were sipping sweet wine and indulging in certain light, puffy confections which were one of Wensil’s most renowned dishes. As they ate and drank, they engaged in conversation which, if it has no direct bearing on the events we have come here to witness, will, we are convinced, nevertheless be of interest to our readers. One of them, the sharp-featured Baroness of Clover, remarked to her companions, “I speak only for myself, for I am neither Prince nor Deputy, yet I should not give the Orb a penny.”
“How then?” said the wiry Baroness of Newhouse. “You would bankrupt the court?”
“And why not?” shrugged Clover. “There is not only the Whitecrest Uprising, for which we received nothing, but there is this latest insult to Lord Adron. Moreover—”
“Yes? Moreover?”
“If we have any wish to preserve the integrity of the Empire—and I do not say of the Imperium, for I feel the cycle must turn soon—we will be needed again, and that with all our forces.”
“Indeed?” said Newhouse. “Where do you pretend we will be needed?”
The third member of the trio was the Dzurlord, a tall, handsome man known as the Count of Tree-by-the-Sea, but whom we will call by his given name, Jaan, because his title is so unwieldy. He now spoke for the first time, saying, “In the streets of Dragaera, my dear.”
Clover nodded, and felt pleased that Jaan agreed with her, for she found him not unattractive and was considering ways of arranging a liaison with him. “That is it exactly. The Underside is worse than ever, and the Teckla are grumbling in a way I have never seen before. Two of them pulled their ears at me today, and ran off into a side street. I am convinced that, if I had followed, they would have attempted an ambuscade.”
“How, you didn’t chase them?” said Newhouse.
Clover shrugged. “It would have meant abandoning my horse, which could not have negotiated the street, and I do not consider insults from Teckla worth responding to.”
“Well, there is something in that,” said Newhouse.
“And,” added Jaan, “when Teckla dare to insult Dragonlords, there are dark currents in the stream.”
“Exactly my thought,” said Clover, looking at Jaan fondly.
“But,” said Newhouse, who found Clover rather more attractive than Jaan, “what is the cause of their discontent?”
“What is the cause?” said Clover, startled. “Where have you been that you do not know? I have received word from my steward that fifty Teckla had to be driven off my estate, where they had come from the city because there is no bread there. The highways are filled with brigands, and an appalling number of them are desperate Teckla who have left the city. After thousands of years of the city getting bigger and bigger, Newhouse, now the Teckla are moving away from it, because they cannot afford bread. And whose fault is this, except His Majesty’s, who taxes everything to buy diamonds and—”
“Ah,” said Jaan. “There I must disagree.”
“How, His Majesty is not fond of diamonds?”
“Oh, to be sure, he is. But he has spent far less on this passion than many believe. I know this, because my cousin is in the Guard, and he has a close friend whose niece, also a guardsman, has spent a great deal of time stationed outside the offices of the intendant, Smaller, who has been killed, and this niece both spoke with him and overheard his discussions with his clerks. There can be no doubt that only the tiniest fraction of the Imperial Funds have ever gone to indulge His Majesty’s whims.”
“Well then,” said Clover, who had no answer to this direct evidence, “what is the cause then?”
“As to that, dearest lady, I suspect a number of things at once. But if you will not think me a mystic, then I would say it means just what you have already suggested—it is time for the cycle to turn, and no more need be said. Lord Adron ought to do something, and if he were here, I would tell him so directly. He must act before it is too late.”
“Yes, yes, I agree completely,” said Clover, delighted at being called “dearest lady.”
“And there is more,” said Jaan. “My cousin spoke of the blockades set at the gates, where all wagons are searched. He said that they found that a wagon, which appeared to be full of Teckla entering the city, actually contained, in a hidden compartment, several sacks of grain.”
“Indeed?” said Newhouse and Clover together.
“The Teckla were hanged at once,” said Jaan. “But consider how desperate they must be to risk death to sneak grain past the tax collectors, not even considering what they must have done to acquire it.” He shook his head, as if to say that there was nothing good to look forward to in the city, and, indeed, the Empire.
“And yet,” said Newhouse, “if what you say is true, it would seem to be exactly the wrong time to bankrupt the Imperium.”
Clover shrugged, as a pair of well-dressed Jhereg entered the room. “Let others supply the funds—we will have our work cut out for us.” As she said others her eyes strayed significantly to the Jhereg we have just mentioned, and whom we will now, abandoning the Dragonlords, follow to the last booth in the room. One of these, the reader will recognize instantly as our old acquaintance, Dunaan. The other was a young, small, quiet-looking Jhereg, with regular, handsome features and nothing to distinguish him save for his countenance, which was marked by bright, sparkling eyes, and a peculiar expression resembling a faint smile that seemed to be permanently fixed on his features.
They seated themselves, and asked the obsequious waiter to bring them a good red wine, a dish of kethna sauteed with green onions, mushrooms, and sage, and a bowl of fruit. Then they sat quietly, speaking only of such innocuous subjects as fashion and the weather, until the plates of food arrived, and the waiter departed. As they began eating, Dunaan said, “You have, Mario, acquired a certain reputation.”
“Have I?” the one addressed replied mildly. “I had not been aware of it.”
“It is, nevertheless, true.”
“Well I hope, then, that it is a good one.”
“I think so. It is, in all events, the reason I wish to speak to you.”
Mario stabbed a piece of kethna with his skewer in a motion precise and graceful, acquiring both an onion and a mushroom at the same time. He lifted these to his mouth and nodded for Dunaan to continue.
“We have a task for which we believe you are qualified. I should warn you at once that it will not be easy.”
Mario, having finished the piece of kethna, bit into a whitefruit, somehow contriving to eat it without, as usually happens to victims of this fruit, finding that it has exploded into his face or down his chin. He chewed thoughtfully, brought his napkin up to his lips and expelled a few seeds, then swallowed. “Very well,” he said. “I understand. It will not be easy.”
“In fact, it will be very difficult.”
“It will be very difficult; I am warned.”
“We wish you to kill someone.”
“Well,” said Mario phlegmatically.
“We are offering a fee that is, I daresay, more than anyone has ever been offered before.”
Mario’s forehead twitched in a peculiar manner, but he made no rejoinder.
“Yes,” said Dunaan, nodding. “This is a very serious matter, and there is no question of joking. Our aim is high—very high, and we mean to hit what we aim at. Will you be our weapon?”
“How high?” said Mario.
“Very high,” said Dunaan.
“Could you be speaking of a minister?”
“Higher.”
“Of a Prince?”
“Still higher.”
“Of the—?”
“Exactly.”
“I see,” said Mario.
“Well?”
“Yes, I perceive that there is no question of joking.”
“Have you an
y interest?”
“Have you any assurance that such a thing is possible?”
“Anything is possible,” said Dunaan.
“That is not assurance.”
“What troubles you? The Guard?”
“I can elude guards, and I can strike before they are aware, and I can be gone before they can recover.”
“Well then?”
“The Orb.”
“Ah, the Orb.”
“Exactly. Will it not act to save the life of the Emperor?”
“Not if the cycle has turned.”
Mario considered this, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You need only convince me that the cycle has turned, and no more need be said.”
“Oh, as to that …”
“Yes?”
“I may not be able to convince you.”
“Well, then—”
“But I can do something as good.”
Mario nodded and waited patiently for Dunaan to continue.
Dunaan set a velvet pouch on the table before him, between a wineglass and a scrap-boat. Mario took the pouch, opened it, and a large pearl fell into his hand. He considered it, and, realizing that, though worth a great deal, it was still less than he should demand for killing His Majesty, turned a look of inquiry upon Dunaan.
“Bring it into the presence of the Orb, and crush it beneath your foot. For the next few minutes, the Orb will not act to save His Majesty’s life.”
Mario frowned. “How can this be?”
“The Orb will, for some minutes, believe that the cycle has turned.”
“Shards!” said Mario, showing emotion for the first time. “This pearl you have shown me, when crushed, can deceive the Orb itself?”
“Exactly.”
“How can this be?”
“How was the Orb made?” said Dunaan.
“I am neither scientist nor historian.”
“And yet, you know that some are.”
“Yes.”
“The work of scientists and historians has gone into the design of this object, as well as the work of skilled sorcerers in producing it. How it was done, I know no more than you.”
“But you are certain it will work?”
“I am convinced.”
“Yet I must be convinced, too.”
“Consider,” said Dunaan, “that if it fails, you will fail. If you fail, the Phoenix Guards will almost certainly attempt to capture you alive; if they succeed in this, the Orb will be used to interrogate you, and if the Orb is used to interrogate you, you will, without doubt, reveal everything, including my name, appearance, and such other information as will allow the Phoenix Guard to find me. I am, therefore, staking my life as well as your own.”
“That is sufficient,” said Mario after considering this argument.
“As to the fee …”
“Well?”
Dunaan named a prodigious amount of gold, and stated that half should be rendered as soon as he, Mario, should agree to do what was asked of him, the other half when the mission had been completed.
Dunaan said, “Do you need time to consider this proposal which I have had the honor of making you?”
“A few moments only,” said Mario. “A few moments that I will spend boiling these rednuts in this liqueur before spooning them onto the cold fruit, and eating them before the temperatures have evened out. I suggest, My Lord, you busy yourself in the same way, and, before the bowl of nuts has exhausted itself, well, I believe I will have an answer for you.”
This plan was instantly adopted, and Dunaan applied his full attention to the rednuts, the liqueur, and the iced fruit, while Mario thought matters over.
We should explain that Mario, though he had scarcely seen his hundredth year, had already acquired a reputation within those hidden, illegal circles to which we have been forced to introduce our readers. We should add that, in these circles, reputation was of supreme importance, and it was rare indeed for the rumors of one’s character or abilities to be incorrect. Mario was, by all accounts, as skilled in his trade as anyone could desire.
And yet, to be sure, he was also young, and coincident with youth is inexperience. His head was not turned by the amount of money, nor, indeed, was it turned by anything like the idea of glory (for glory is an unknown concept in the world-behind-the-world of a criminal organization), but he was susceptible to challenges, and his extraordinary reflexes, his ability to make quick decisions, to pay attention to every detail, and to carry out his plans with no hesitation or scruple made him, he knew, one of very few who might have a chance to carry out such a mission. He was well aware that the Orb had never before been defeated, but Dunaan’s arguments were persuasive—at the very least, persuasive of Dunaan’s faith in the magic of the pearl. And Dunaan had a reputation for being careful and not easily fooled.
It was, reflected Mario, the greatest challenge that was ever likely to fall in his way, and he knew that, if he passed it by, he would always wonder if he would have been able to carry it out.
So he was, we perceive, careful, thoughtful, and skilled well beyond his years—and inexperienced in the ways of the world, and even in the ways of the Jhereg.
That Dunaan was deliberately betraying him never entered his thoughts.
“Very well,” he said. “I will do it.”
Chapter the Twentieth
Which Treats of the Translation of Orders
By Teckla and by Captains,
And the Translation of Looks and Phrases
By Ingenious Yendi.
IT WAS STILL THE MIDDLE of the afternoon when Khaavren took his leave of Daro, with soft words on both sides and a promise from the Countess that she would not leave for her estates before the evening at the earliest, but would, in fact, arrive at the house on the Street of the Glass Cutters to continue the conversations with the Captain that had provided them both with such great and unexpected pleasure. This established, she resumed her packing, which she finished with extraordinary speed. When each gown, petticoat, manteau, housecoat, scarf, wrap, glove, muff, boot, shoe, bonnet, hat, and various items we will not offend our readers’ sensibilities by naming was stowed, or, more precisely, deposited in the appropriate satchel or portmanteau (there were no more than three all told), she caused servants to bring them to the Waterspout Door of the Phoenix Wing, where she came herself to wait until the carriage arrived. This it did in due time, and she gave the address of the house on the Street of the Glass Cutters.
She was, fortunately, preceded in her arrival at Khaavren’s house by a messenger who handed Srahi a note, which we will hasten to divulge to our readers:
“Daro, Countess of Whitecrest, has condescended to honor our house with a visit. The terrace room ought to be suitable. You may expect me at the usual time, if His Majesty’s orders do not interfere. Convey my respectful courtesy to the Countess upon her arrival, and be kind enough to convey to her also my welcome to our home.” It was carefully signed, “Khaavren, Captain of the Guard.”
Now Srahi, though a Teckla, was, at any rate, sharp enough to cut dry wool, as the saying is. The first thing she noticed was that Khaavren did her the honor to sign his message with his title, and she knew that this indicated something of the importance he attached to this visitor. Furthermore, the phrase, “ought to be suitable” was significant, because there could be no question that this room, which had once been Pel’s, would suit a guest; the only question was, would the room be ready. Khaavren, then, was informing her that, in brief, it had better be.
His remarks about being home at the same time as he was always home would seem to be wasted words, and Khaavren, as we have established, was not accustomed to wasting words in speech, and still less was he accustomed to wasting words on paper. This was an indication to Srahi that, when he returned, he would be looking at the state of the room in which this Countess was staying, and that he would tolerate no slovenliness in this case—this notion was underscored by the mention of His Majesty’s orders, indicating that Khaa
vren expected his own orders to be obeyed as if they came from the Orb itself.
As a whole, then, the letter showed that this guest was important to Khaavren, and that this was one of those occasions when Srahi ought to spare no effort to see to it that his wishes were carried out.
Because of the excellence of her translation, and perhaps, because of the improvement in Srahi’s disposition since the arrival of Mica, and, indeed, because Srahi had Mica’s cheerful help in all the preparations, Daro, upon her arrival, was treated with smiling courtesy as well as efficiency. She settled into these rooms with the ease of a woman used to sudden changes in her situation, and, we ought to add, with the energy and joy of a woman suddenly and unexpectedly in love.
Speaking of those suddenly and unexpectedly in love, Khaavren, after sending this message, returned to those areas of the Palace to which his duty called him, and where he was immediately spotted by a page sent by His Majesty (it will hardly surprise our readers that, of those searching for Khaavren, it was His Majesty who found him first).
The Orb, when Khaavren saw it circling His Majesty’s head in the Portrait Room, was a dark, brooding red; Khaavren thus prepared himself for his master’s displeasure. He anticipated correctly, for, as the Captain made his way through the courtiers, Tortaalik’s eyes fell upon him angrily, and he said, “I perceive you are here at last, Captain.”
Khaavren bowed. “Yes, Sire; I have just received your message.”
“You have been damnably hard to find to-day.”
“I am sorry,” said the Captain, “that Your Majesty has had trouble locating me.”