Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)

by Steven Brust

  “Yes? And yet?”

  “If it is a matter of confidence in his troops, well, I do myself the honor to believe that we have today somewhat shaken this confidence.”

  “Yes, I believe you are right.” The Emperor considered for another moment, then said, “You are exactly right about one thing at least, my Captain. He will not be allowed to engage in such blatant rebellion while I still have the power to bring him to Imperial Justice.”

  The Emperor waved to a servant, who attended him at once. “Find Jurabin and Rollondar, and have them meet me and Lord Khaavren in the Seven Room in an hour.”

  The servant bowed and hurried off on his errand. The Emperor turned to his wife and said, “My dear, I’m afraid—”

  “Your Majesty need say no more,” said the Consort. “I understand entirely, and I shall not look for you until you have appeared.”

  The Emperor pressed her hand, after which she departed down the corridor. As she left, His Majesty looked at Khaavren, frowned, and said, “But, Captain, are you in any condition to sit through such a discussion as we must have? You are wounded, are you not?”

  “Yes, Sire, though not grievously. If I may have leave to find something to eat, I believe I will recover sufficient strength to survive two words of conversation on so vital a matter as we are facing, for, if we are to plan a campaign, there are things I must say that will not wait.”

  “Let it be so,” said His Majesty.

  Khaavren bowed, and hurried off as quickly as his condition permitted to find victuals with which to repair his long abstinence. He made his way to His Majesty’s kitchen, a prodigious affair taking up three floors in back of the Imperial Wing. Here, after searching for only a few minutes, he found a servant, and, after making a few discreet inquiries, Khaavren was shown where to find bread and cheese, of which he availed himself with a fine passion.

  “The bread,” he remarked after swallowing the first bite, “is famous, warm as it is, though I admit that the color surprises me, and the cheese produces a sting upon the back of the tongue that I find quite pleasing.”

  “I am glad the food pleases you, my lord,” said the pastry chef, who had done himself the honor of serving Khaavren personally, “for the bread is of my own fashioning, and uses, in proportions which are my particular secret, rednuts which have been ground to a powder mixed with the wheat flour; it is these that account for the color, as well as for the texture. As to the cheese, I can claim no credit save for selecting it. It comes from the vassals of Lord Dunn, and—my lord? Are you well? You seem pale and are pitching most alarmingly, and I beg you to—hullo? My lord? Help, someone! Help! The Captain has been taken ill!”

  We cannot but think that the reader’s imagination will adequately supply the confusion and consternation caused by Khaavren’s unceremonious collapse—the running of messengers in search of His Majesty’s physicker, the excitement in Khaavren’s offices caused by subordinates desperate to learn their Captain’s condition, the annoyance of His Majesty who had counted upon the Tiassa’s cool head and long experience in deciding how best to face the crisis brought about by Adron’s abrupt rebellion. We will not, therefore, dwell on these matters, but will, instead, turn the reader’s attention to certain events of which he must otherwise remain ignorant—that is, to our old friend Pel, who was, just as Khaavren was being carried to a chamber commanded by the physicker, emerging from the Underside in the company of Tazendra.

  “And yet,” said Tazendra as they walked toward the Palace at a speed that seemed entirely out of character for Pel, who was dressed again in his cavalier’s costume, “I do not comprehend why our errand has such urgency.”

  “How, you do not?” said Pel, glancing at her in surprise without breaking stride.

  “None in the world, I assure you.”

  “And yet, you were standing next to me when we entered the murchin-shop—”

  “How, a murchin-shop? Is that what it was?”

  “What you had thought it was, Tazendra?”

  “Why, I hadn’t any of my own thoughts; it was not, you perceive, my shop.”

  “Well, that is true,” said Pel. “Nevertheless, you were there—”

  “Oh, I do not deny that.”

  “—and you stood next to me while the shopmaster explained about the deceased assassin, whose name appears to have been Chalar—”

  “Certainly, I heard that.”

  “—and where he might be found—”

  “That puzzled me, because, he being dead—”

  “—you perceive we followed on his trail—”

  “—it follows that where he was could not be of interest to us—”

  “—finding at last a place he has been known to frequent—”

  “—and, in fact, we never did find him—”

  “—where we also learned with whom he has been seen—”

  “—which is just as well, for I have seen corpses, and have never enjoyed looking at them—”

  “—and we received, eventually, very good descriptions of his cronies—”

  “—so that I do not comprehend why we even went to those places—”

  “—and learned that two of them were Jhereg—”

  “—and spoke with Jhereg about I know not what—”

  “—after which we spoke with certain acquaintances of mine—”

  “—although you seemed to be on good terms with them, which I wonder at—”

  “—and gave these descriptions to them—”

  “—and then they said two words about each—”

  “—and when we learned that they were both known assassins—”

  “—after which we set off at this furious pace—”

  “—we set off as fast as we could, because there is no doubt—”

  “—with you claiming—”

  “—that Khaavren’s life is in danger—”

  “—that Khaavren’s life is in danger—”

  “—and you still do not comprehend why?”

  “—and! I still do not comprehend why.”

  “Tazendra, were you listening to me?”

  “I beg your pardon, my dear Pel, I was muttering to myself, for I am still tolerably confused. Attend—.”

  “Well, it is of no moment; you must trust me. Khaavren is in great danger.”

  “Bah! He? Impossible!”

  Pel shook his head and gave up on the notion of attempting to convince his friend; on Tazendra’s part, she knew, in spite of her protestations to Pel, that the Yendi had a subtle and clever imagination, and could see into deep matters that would baffle ordinary minds, wherefore she matched him step for step as they raced toward the Imperial Palace.

  At the same time, some distance away, were taking place events that were not as unrelated to all of these other matters as the reader might, at first, suspect. In the Hammerhead Inn—which, as the reader may recall from certain events which occurred there in our earlier volume, was located quite close to Khaavren’s house—the next step in a romance was being played out: To wit, Mica, after taking careful account of his personal treasury, was buying a good dinner for himself and for Srahi, to whose company he had grown more and more attached as the days went by.

  Mica’s generosity extended to roasted fowl, dripping with fat and positively smothered with mushrooms, short-grain bread baked with sweet peppers and half-garlic, and a bottle of sweet white wine; all of which were treated by Srahi with the reverence they deserved, both for their intrinsic quality and for what they cost (for, as the reader is doubtless aware, cost is not absolute, but relative—this same dinner, at the same price, would have been a mere trifle for Tazendra, yet it was nearly a fortune for poor Mica, who habitually lived on the leavings from his master’s plate).

  To complete the satisfaction provided by this veritable feast, Srahi endeavored to make pleasant conversation. We use the word endeavored because at first she had to make an effort to do so, yet we should add that, very quickly, because of the natural a
greement in the character of these two individuals, no effort was required, but, rather, the conversation proceeded across the table as smoothly as the victuals proceeded in the opposite direction.

  It is not our intention to weary our readers with details of this conversation—it is sufficient to say that it befit two worthy Teckla who were discovering, amid pleasant surroundings, how agreeable they found one another’s company (far more agreeable, we should add, than the servants of the Hammerhead found their presence, for it is an invariable law that the most unpleasant sorts of patrons to an inn are, in the first place, those with so much wealth and power that they believe everyone ought to answer to their least whim, and, second, those who are so poor that they believe, as they are spending so much of their hard-won money on their repast, that it ought to be as important to the servants as it is to them).

  As they neared the end of the meal, discussing their masters, those tasks they found most annoying as well as those they found most agreeable, the interesting color of each other’s eyes and hair (all four samples of which were, in fact, a nearly identical nondescript brown), the value of white meat versus dark meat and the importance, in the case of the former, of insuring it was sufficiently moist, and so on, Mica gave a loud, imperious call for bread, with which he intended to soak the remaining juice from the broad, wooden platter upon which the fowl had been presented. A servant brought a loaf of coarse black bread, and accompanied it with such a resentful look that Mica could not help but notice.

  “Bah!” he said. “Did you mark the servant, and his ill-favored countenance.

  “I did,” said Srahi. “Cha! What manners they have!”

  “Had I my bar-stool, well, I assure you I should have words with him.”

  Srahi gave him a puzzled look. “Had you your what?”

  “My bar-stool. Surely you recall the stories good Lord Khaavren told, of—”

  “Ah, yes! Indeed, I do recall. I was merely startled, for I had not realized that you still thought of such implements as weapons.”

  “Well, I do not in general, but my own is different, for I am so used to it. Indeed, I assure you that, whenever I venture out upon a campaign, I would not think to leave it behind—it is, after all, the weapon with which I am most familiar.”

  “How, you bring a bar-stool with you?”

  “Certainly. Have you not marked it, sitting in the corner by the door.”

  “Ah—ah! My dear Mica, I have done a terrible thing!”

  Mica frowned. “What is it, my dear? Come you must tell me, for I perceive you are agitated, and I grow more so as you look at me with your countenance growing pale.”

  “I did not realize what it was, I thought it was only refuse from your journey, and in cleaning I—”

  “Yes?”

  “I threw it away!”

  Mica, in his turn, became pale. “How, you threw it away?”

  “Yes, onto the rubbish heap, to be removed every alternate week by those who are paid by the Empire to perform this service.”

  “Oh,” said Mica, miserably.

  “Will you ever forgive me?”

  Mica swallowed, but, after several moments, he attempted, and managed, a pale smile. “Well, but it is only a bar-stool, after all. There must be others—”

  “Bide,” she said, suddenly sitting upright in her chair.

  “Yes?”

  “Something has occurred to me.”

  “And that is? I beg you to tell, for you perceive that I am most anxious to hear.”

  “The refuse will not be removed from its pile until to-morrow morning.”

  “Which means—”

  “Unless someone has seen it, and decided to remove it—”

  “It will still be there!”

  “Exactly.”

  “Come, I will pay for our repast by leaving the exact amount required here on the table where they cannot fail to find it, and we will help our digestion by hurrying to the trash-heap.”

  “Which is, in fact, by the side of house, just outside of the kitchen window.”

  “Then, allow me to finish this last glass of wine—”

  “And I, the same.”

  “And we are away. Give me your arm.”

  “Here it is.”

  His Majesty, meanwhile, had decided that, worried as he was about his Captain of the Guard, he must nevertheless come to a decision about Adron, and to this end he had Jurabin and Rollondar e’Drien brought to him in the Seven Room. By the time they were seated, the Orb had assumed a light, placid green. His Majesty gave them a brief summary of Adron’s rebellion. While he did so, we should add, Jurabin remarked to himself (as, no doubt the reader has already remarked) upon the abrupt change in His Majesty’s character in little more than a week: His Majesty, as he faced his councilors, appeared to be truly an Emperor, as if, whatever his responsibilities in allowing matters to reach this crisis, he was determined to see it through at all costs.

  Jurabin wondered how it had happened that, in the blink of an eye, as it were, he, the Prime Minister, had become merely an adviser to the throne, whereas he had before been the true power and mover behind all decisions of the Empire (with the exception, of course, of those decisions affecting only His Majesty’s personal life).

  Does the reader wonder as well? If so, we are only too happy to be able to say, as proudly and humbly as those great philosophers of antiquity, Prince Tapman and Lady Tersa of Haynels, “Allow us to lay before you our theory on this question.” We will not pretend to be philosophers such as those we have mentioned, yet, we too have a theory, and we hope our readers will allow us to lay it humbly at their respective and collective feet.

  His Majesty, as we have already mentioned, had, over the course of his reign, become whimsical and morose, these alternating moods interrupted by occasional flurries of interest in the Empire of which he was the nominal ruler. The reader ought especially to note our use of the word flurries, as it forms an essential part of the theory we now have the honor to submit.

  What, we wish to ask, is a flurry, except a mild rain-shower which encounters icy wind, and so freezes as it descends? Well, as the shower is to the flurry, so, then, is the downpour to the blizzard; in the same way, the occasional flurry of interest which we have just mentioned had become a blizzard of truly prodigious proportions.

  For His Majesty the downpour was a combination of several factors, these being the disruption of his court by the entrance of Adron’s daughter, the fears of financial collapse because of enmity and confusion in the Council of Princes (of whom Adron figured as a prominent member), and, above all, by Adron’s rebellion. In simpler terms: by Adron e’Kieron.

  But where was the icy wind that changes water into its light, flaky, crystalline equivalent? Wind is a more elusive element, blowing as it does hither and yon, leaving no tracks for the hunter to follow, and having no lair at whose mouth the hunter might wait; the wind is known only by its passing—that is, by its effects. The hunter—by which we mean the historian—then, must listen to the hissing leaves of rumor, look at the bent trees of letters and documents, and recall the lessons of the past winds as described by previous historians in order to judge the quarter, strength, and temperature of his particular quarry.

  Let us consider that the court was disrupted, not so much by Aliera, but by the changes in the alliances of power and intrigue initiated by Aliera’s arrival, and that most of these alliances revolved around—the Consort.

  Let us consider that many, if not most, of the excesses so deplored by and worrisome to the various Heirs sprang from whims of—the Consort.

  Let us consider that Adron’s rebellion was instigated by an insult to his daughter and that this insult was delivered at the request of—the Consort.

  In the opinion of this historian, then, although His Majesty didn’t know it, it was the Consort herself who provided the blast of frigid air that turned the torrent of rain into a blizzard of snow, or, to abandon our metaphor before we ignominiously slip on it, t
hat motivated the Emperor into assuming personal control of the affairs of the Empire.

  We cannot know how much of this Jurabin knew, suspected, or felt instinctively, but to the extent that His Majesty was in control of himself and of the Empire, so, to that extent, was Jurabin puzzled and even put out by this change in his master’s attitude.

  Rollondar e’Drien, as it happened, knew little or nothing of any of this. He had been a soldier for nearly all of his one thousand and one hundred years, and matters military were his profession, passion, and recreation. He had married a few hundred years earlier the woman who had defeated him in a skirmish during the Shallow Valley Revolt, before he had been made Warlord, and there was no end of humor in the barracks about how the two of them spent their leisure hours—humor which we feel obliged to mention, but of which nothing could induce us to supply examples.

  Rollondar sat stiffly at the table waiting for His Majesty to speak. The change we have mentioned in Tortaalik’s character, so disconcerting to Jurabin, was of so little importance to Rollondar that, as we have said, he scarcely noted it at all, and would not have cared even had he noticed—Rollondar waited for the problem to be put before him so that he could suggest solutions.

  As for His Majesty, he gave no thought to his own character, but only to the problem they now confronted. He had chosen to have only three advisers present: the one, Jurabin, who understood the political situation in the Empire; another, Rollondar, because any military action would necessarily fall under Rollondar’s province; and the third, Khaavren, who was now under the care of His Majesty’s physicker, but whom Tortaalik admired for his good common sense, clear vision, and occasional inspired suggestion. He was annoyed, then, that Khaavren was absent (and, to his credit, he was also worried about the health of his Captain), but, having made up his mind not to brook the insult offered him by the Duke of Eastmanswatch, he knew that no good could be accomplished by delaying.