by Steven Brust
“Shards!” said Aliera. “That is the very subject about which we spoke to him!”
“And?” said Pel.
“He denied any such intention,” said Aliera.
Pel nodded. “I feared as much.”
“How,” said Sethra. “You feared it?”
“Exactly.”
“Can you now,” said Aliera, “explain why we have no time to spare?”
“It is simple enough,” said Pel. “You must, without delay, return to your father and explain to him that, in just a very few moments, Khaavren will be arriving to arrest him in the name of the Emperor.”
Chapter the Twenty-first
Which Treats of Khaavren’s Mission
And How He Carried It Out,
And of a Conversation with a Noble
Of the House of the Phoenix;
With Notes Pertaining to
The Composition of Orchestras.
KHAAVREN SPENT A FEW MOMENTS explaining to Thack the gist of his orders regarding the placement of troops, the calling up of reserves, the reinforcement of Guard detachments at the Iorich Wing, and the other measures he thought would be helpful. Then he put into Thack’s hand these same orders, written out in more detail and signed, after which he called for a horse to be brought round to the door.
Though he was not happy about the delays forced on him by the interruptions and by the need to write out and deliver the orders to which we have just alluded, our Tiassa was not the sort of man to allow himself to tangle his belt over what was unavoidable. Nevertheless, he was keenly aware that time was continuing to flow at a rate of sixty minutes each hour, and so, without wasting a single one of these precious minutes, he mounted upon the roan mare that had been brought for him, and set off at a good speed for the Gate of the Dragon.
As always, it was difficult to negotiate some of the streets, but his urgency helped to clear the way—he charged groups of pedestrians as if he had no care about running them down, wherefore the pedestrians, somehow aware of this even when they were looking in another direction, hastened to give room to the galloping horse whose rider, head bent over his horse’s neck, glared ahead with such a fierce expression.
Once past the gate and on the open road, Khaavren gave the mare her head, determined to reach Adron’s encampment as soon as he could, even if it meant killing his horse. As it happened, his horse, though foaming and sweating, was alive when it reached the road to the camp. This was a long, narrow path, and at the midpoint, Khaavren remembered, Adron had set up his guard post. In fact, Khaavren’s sharp eyes could distinguish three figures waiting there. With gentle pressure of his knees, he caused his horse to slow just the least bit, while he considered what it meant that there were three soldiers, instead of the two he had observed on his previous visit. He caused his horse to slow still more as he approached and considered. Though he arrived at no certain answer to his question, it did make him alert and watchful as he drew rein before the three Dragonlords in the uniforms of the Breath of Fire Battalion.
“I give you good day in the name of the Emperor,” said Khaavren.
“And we give you good day as well,” said one of the Dragonlords, a woman with short hair and sharply hooked nose, “in the name of the Emperor, and in the name of His Highness, Adron e’Kieron, Duke of Eastmanswatch, at whose camp you are now arrived.”
“This is the camp of Lord Adron?” said Khaavren.
“None other,” said the Dragonlord.
“Well, this camp is then just what I have been seeking, for I have an errand to His Highness that trembles with impatience and bites its lips with frustration at any delay; wherefore, good soldier, I ask that you let me by so that I and my errand can come to an understanding with each other. I am called Khaavren of Castlerock, and I have the honor to be Captain of His Majesty’s Imperial Guard, and it is on His Majesty’s behalf that I and my errand are come.”
The soldier bowed, “I would like nothing more than to give you and your errand a good welcome, but, alas! His Highness has forbidden errands of any sort upon the site of our camp, and my companions and I fear that you would have some trouble leaving your errand behind, wherefore we hope that you will take no offense if we cannot give way before you.”
Khaavren looked at her, and at her two companions, one being a tall woman who reminded Khaavren of Tazendra and had a short sword at either hip, the other a great, burly man like a small mountain, with a sword as tall as Khaavren himself. The Captain then looked behind them, at the encampment half a kilometer further down the road, and he could not fail to notice, even at that distance, that the camp was being struck, and preparations were being made for the entire battalion to move, and quickly at that. He also noticed that, stretching out to both sides as far as he could see, was a tall, sharp-edged wire fence, of the sort that could be set up in mere moments, and which effectively prevented him from riding around the check-post—he would have to go through this place, which meant through these three determined Dragonlords.
“Nevertheless,” said Khaavren, “I must have words with His Highness.”
“I am sorry,” said soldier. “My orders absolutely forbid it.”
“Well, I understand orders.”
“That is well.”
“I have some, too.”
“That doesn’t startle me.”
“Mine require that I pass.”
“Ours require us to bar your way.”
“Then we shall have to fight.”
“Of that, there can be no doubt. Yet, before we do so—”
“Yes? Before we do?”
“I have been instructed to give you a message.”
“To hear, or to bear to another?”
“To bear to another.”
“You wish me to have a second errand before I have completed my first?”
The Dragonlord shrugged. “It is hard, I know.”
“Well, what is this message?”
“It is to His Majesty.”
“Yes. And the text?”
“His Highness will submit to arrest—”
“Ah!”
“—upon receiving an apology from His Majesty for His Majesty’s lack of respect toward His Highness’s daughter.”
This time Khaavren shrugged. “What is your name,” he said.
“I am Geb, and these are my companions, Dohert and Eftaan.”
“Very well, my dear Geb. I hear your message, and will certainly undertake to deliver it, yet I can assure His Highness (and I will so assure him in person after you and I have finished our discussion), that His Majesty will not take kindly to being spoken to in such terms.”
“You perceive,” said Geb, “that, having done my duty, I have no concern for such matters.”
“I understand.”
“Well, in that case, unless you have more messages—”
“No, that was all.”
“Nothing remains to be done, except for you and your cohorts to stand aside.”
“It is impossible.”
“Out of my way, in the name of the Emperor,” said Khaavren. “You must stand aside at once or be ridden down!”
“Stand aside? Never in the world, my love. You perceive we were not ordered here so that we would step aside the first time we were asked.”
“You will not be asked again,” said Khaavren, preparing to spur his horse directly into them.
“So much the better,” remarked the other women, the one called Dohert, and as she spoke, she threw a short javelin into Khaavren’s horse, which reared, stumbled and fell. When the horse reared, Khaavren slid off its back and, after rolling once, came to his feet.
“I regret having to slaughter your horse,” remarked Dohert.
“You will come to regret it more,” said Khaavren, drawing his sword with his right hand while taking a flashstone into his left.
All three soldiers drew, but they had not even placed themselves on their guard before Khaavren discharged the stone into the face of the man called Eftaan,
who was half a step ahead of his companions. He screamed and fell backward, and began moaning. At the same time as Khaavren discharged the stone, he also delivered a good cut at Dohert, forcing her to take a backward step.
Geb thrust for Khaavren’s head in an attack so quick that Khaavren was only able to duck it in part—the point scraped along his temple, and for a moment his vision failed. He stepped back, crying, “If you are acting under orders, this is high treason, if not, it is low rebellion. Think of what you are doing!”
“It’s all the same to me,” said Geb, as she stepped in again, striking Khaavren’s sword so hard that it was carried far out of line, as well as making his grip falter so that he nearly dropped the weapon.
“It is as well for me that my flashstone has a second charge,” remarked Khaavren, as he set it off once more. Geb gave a sharp cry and then fell both backward and silent. The woman called Dohert, however, was now charging, and Khaavren, who had not yet managed to get a good grip on his sword, could think of nothing to do except throw the stone at her head.
She ducked, and, at the same time, gave Khaavren a good cut in his side, which he answered with a cut that nearly severed her sword arm. She stepped back once more, showing no sign of discomfort, but, rather, grinning at him as if she liked nothing better in the world than such a bloody battle, and said, “You ought to have brought along some help—in truth, my Lord Adron expected you to.” As she spoke, she also dropped the sword from her right hand, though she still held the other in her left.
“Then he expected you and your friends to be killed?”
“We volunteered,” she said. “And now, prepare yourself, for I am about to have the honor to charge you.”
“Well,” said Khaavren laconically.
She did, indeed, charge; Khaavren parried a vicious cut at his neck, but discovered that his legs felt weak, no doubt from the blow to his head, so that he was obliged to take a step backward. Dohert stepped in again, but Khaavren abruptly moved forward to meet her as she was preparing another cut, and found her unprepared for the sudden changes in distance and timing; he passed his sword through her body.
“Oh, well struck,” she said admiringly, and cut once more for his head.
Again he ducked, and again it was too late: he felt a sick, horrid contact with the side of his head. Fortunately, his opponent was already falling, and, in falling, her arm twisted, so that only the flat of the blade struck Khaavren. Still, for a time he saw only darkness and was certain that he had reached the end of the time allotted him by the fates for this incarnation—he thought of Daro, and the thought brought him more pain than his wounds, until he realized that all of his foes were fallen, and that he was master of the field.
He sat down on the ground, breathing heavily. “I must bind my wounds,” he told himself. “To die now, after surviving the battle, would be inconvenient. I must cut strips from my cloak, and … but what is this? The ground against my face? Rise, Khaavren, rise! Has time slipped by? Is it dark night already? And what sounds are these that bend my ears, so like the din of battle? Have I died in truth, and does Deathgate Falls sound like steel as it crashes? Are these smooth hands my friends and family, sending me over the Falls to my fate? I cannot recall my past lives, as one is supposed to in the River of Sleep.
“Ah, but surely these are the visions of paradise, for here, before my eyes, is my own beloved Daro, though stained with blood. Daro, Daro, if this be sleep, let me never waken, but let this vision remain before my eyes for eternity!”
“Hush, good Captain, and do not stir so.”
“Daro! What? You? Here? Are you real, and not some phantasm conjured by my poor, wounded body and poor, weakened mind?”
“Yes, my dear Captain, it is I, and I am real, and you must not move so much, for you have lost nearly all of your blood, and, alas, I have not the skill of a physicker.”
“But what brings you here? And, for all that, where is here?”
“You lie amid the slain, outside of the city.”
“Adron’s encampment? Then I am still here?”
“You are here, but there is no encampment. In truth, there are signs that a good troop was quartered here not long ago, but now we are alone, save for a few corpses.”
“Three, are there not, and all Dragonlords?”
“All Dragonlords indeed, my Captain, but they number closer to five than to three.”
“Five? Five? And yet I remember—”
“Hush now. Three of them are the work of your hand, the other two I will claim credit for.”
“You? Two of them?”
“Bah. It was nothing. One at a time.”
“Yet they were Lord Adron’s picked men!”
“Well, what of that? I am a Tiassa.”
“So you are, my sweet one. I had thought myself dead, and now I find—”
“Your wounds are bound as well as I can bind them; now we must see if you can stand, and then if you can sit in a saddle. To be sure, I will sit in front of you, and you need only hold onto me, and we will attempt to bring you back to the city, where you can be physicked.”
“And yet, I still do not understand how you came to be here.”
“You do not understand, my friend? Well, no more do I. Only, as I sat in your house, so charmingly filled with trinkets that called you to mind and allowed me to read ever more deeply of your character, well, it came to me that you were in danger, and that I should borrow a horse without delay.”
“But how did you find me?”
“In the same way—I took the path that seemed right to me, and I found you at its end. And when I found you—up now, that’s right. Here, let me … that is good. Now you must hold me about the waist, just so. When I found you, there was a Dragonlord standing over your body, as if he were wondering what to do with you. I called upon him to move, and we had a discussion, after which I began to bind your wounds, stopping only to attend to another Dragonlord who wished to converse with me as I worked.”
“Then, I owe you my life.”
“Oh, as to that—”
“Well?”
“Not in the least. Dragonlords do not murder their wounded enemies.”
“Perhaps. But neither can they be relied upon to bind their wounds. And if, as I suspect, they knew why I was there, they—”
“We will speak of it another time. Is the motion of the horse uncomfortable?”
“Not in the least. In truth, I cannot have lost much blood after all; I suspect I was only stunned by the blow to my head, for I feel better with each passing minute.”
“That may be, and yet, the ground around you, as you lay, was covered—”
“Cha! Let us speak of it, as you say, another time.”
“Then of what ought we to speak?”
“Of you, my dear Countess.”
“There is little to say on that score, my brave Captain.”
“Whatever the score, let us play it, for I wish to hear every note.”
“Even if the melody is wearying?”
“What matters the melody? Melody is but the means whereby the soul of the musician is expressed.”
“And if the musician is only average?”
“The means are always an average.”
“Ah, you are pleased to jest.”
“You object to jests?”
“Not in the least; to make the patient happy is the desire of the physicker, and jests, which can lead the patient to a more cheerful and complaisant disposition, are often instrumental in that regard.”
“There, you perceive that, having mentioned instruments, we are discussing music once more.”
“If you like. But the instrument is not as important as the player.”
“You think not?”
“I am convinced of it. An unskilled player—”
“Such an instrument as yours could bring forth no sounds but the most harmonious, and no themes but the most enduring.”
“Yet, what is harmonious to one is dissonant to the nex
t, and a theme you find enduring, another might consider trite and overused.”
“What could be more enduring than love? Yet name a theme more trite. It is all in the rendering and orchestration.”
“Well, and how would you have me orchestrate this theme?”
“Why, madam, you are the orchestra, as I will demonstrate, if you will allow me.”
“Certainly, sir. You may attempt to prove your case, and I will listen closely to your reasoning, though I warn you that I will accept no shoddy logic.”
“My logic will be as sharp as the sword with which you have lately delivered me from danger.”
“We had agreed not to speak of that.”
“Very well.”
“Then begin.”
“Listen: Your lips, first of all.”
“My lips? Why do you mention my lips?”
“Because they are part of the orchestra.”
“I perceive you are serious about this.”
“Entirely.”
“Very well, then, my lips. What part will they take?”
“They will be the reed pipes, with the humming of your voice as the reeds themselves.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am certain of it.”
“Then I accept my lips as the reed pipes, since you insist upon it. But is there a chanter-pipe in this orchestra, as well as the reed pipes?”
“There are chanter-pipes, reed-pipes, wood-pipes, and brass-pipes.”
“What, then, are the chanter-pipes?”
“What could they be but your own sweet bosom, with the delicate, steady pulsing of each breath that so occupies my thoughts?”
“Did you learn such speech in the service of His Majesty? Well, what, then, of the wood-pipes?”
“Your eyes, my only. They flutter and trill the high notes, yet have a full, warm, deep timbre.”
“I did not know you knew so much of music, Captain. What, then, are the brass-pipes?”
“The set of your chin and the lines of your face provide the music with its power, and make the forceful statements without which the sweet refrains would be insipid, but against which they are played with such beauty that all eyes moisten when the ears are so treated.”