by Steven Brust
After ducking the murderous power of the stone, Mica straightened up and, doing his best to imitate the tones his mistress was wont to use on such occasions, addressed Srahi in these terms: “Now, my dear, you shall see the use to which I can put a good bar-stool, and we will both be grateful that we were able to find it in the trash-heap—it is true that it now smells of klava leavings, the peelings of vegetables, and the guts and heads of fish, but, what of that? The refuse before me will only feel more at home therefrom.”
To Laral, he said, “Now then, you, defend yourself, for I am well acquainted with this weapon I bear, and if you are not at least equally familiar with your own, then, Shards and Splinters! I think you are a dead woman!”
Laral, for her part, felt no need to engage in conversation; moreover, she was far too angry to attempt words—the very idea of two Teckla happening by and ruining her careful plan filled her with outrage. But she was a sorcerer both powerful and subtle, as well as being a killer both fierce and heartless. She knew that, if she were to have any chance of completing her mission, she could waste no time with these Teckla; they had to be dispatched at once. She also knew that, with her flashstone having already sent its sharp, penetrating crack through the neighborhood, there was no longer any reason to be quiet, wherefore, with no hesitation, she now aimed her flashstone a second time.
Mica, looking at the flat surface of the stone only inches from his nose, realized, in the first place, that it must have been prepared with a second charge—he knew such things were possible because he had assisted his Master, Tazendra, in preparing such devices several score of times—and, in the second place, he knew that he was a dead man.
Or, to be more precise, we ought to say he thought he was a dead man, for he had reckoned without Srahi who, though weaponless, had no intention of standing by while Mica, who was well on the way to becoming her lover, and who had, moreover, just saved her life, suffered the very fate from which he had lately preserved her. Srahi let go an enraged cry that vied with the flashstone itself for volume, and threw herself on the arm of Mica’s assailant.
This time when the stone discharged, however, it was not without effect; Mica, who had once been kicked in the left shin by one of his master’s colts, with whom he had been disagreeing about the proper direction to move through the corral, felt for a moment as if this same colt had kicked him in the right shin; indeed, the crack of the flashstone even sounded in his ears very much as the crack of breaking bone had on that occasion, and the shock to the limb—that particular shock which resembles numbness but which promises pain to follow in short order—was nearly identical except that, on this occasion, it was accompanied by a searing heat which promised even more extreme pain and, half an instant later, by the smell of cooking meat—had he paused to consider that this smell came from his own tortured flesh, he may well have been so discomfited that he would have been unable to respond.
In the event, however, Mica did not pause to consider this, nor did he even pause to consider that he had been hurt, perhaps disabled, and that both he and his mistress might soon be left helpless before their unknown assailant; rather, the instant he felt the blow and the accompanying heat, he swung his faithful bar-stool with grim purpose and deadly aim. He was rewarded by the solid, satisfying feel of a good stroke well placed; Laral fell back three steps with a hiss of pain or annoyance at the same instant that Mica gave a scream that was, in fact, the loudest sound yet to ring out through that night, after which he fell, nearly senseless himself, next to Khaavren who slept, and the coachman who would never wake.
Laral, though stunned, was by no means finished; she dropped the now-useless flashstone and drew from her side a long, slim dagger, and, with this in one hand (the other, the reader ought to remember, still held that rod containing the spell with which she was determined to dispatch Khaavren) she advanced on Srahi with the intention of quickly finishing her, and then completing her business with the fallen Captain. Srahi looked at the dagger, at the cold, heartless eyes behind the dagger, at her fallen lover, and felt a trembling in her knees and a weakness in her bowels the like of which she had never imagined, and realized, in her turn, that she was about to die.
And die she certainly would have, had not Daro, Countess of Whitecrest, aroused by the sounds of battle coming from outside of the house, emerged at that moment, dressed in a housecoat of brilliant Lyorn-red and holding a naked sword in her hand. The Countess, attempting as best she could to see through the darkness and the shadows, said, “What is this? Who are you to threaten an unarmed Teckla with a knife? And who are these people who lie, dead, dying, sleeping, or stricken, all about the doorstep of this good house?”
As Laral turned, Srahi gave a small sigh and sank to her knees. It is true that one might fault her for not having chosen that moment, when her assailant’s back was turned, to launch an attack, but one ought to remember, in the first place, that she was weaponless, in the second that she was frightened out of her wits, and, in the third, that, when she had earlier launched herself at Laral’s arm, even as the Jhereg was about to strike down her lover, she had already been far, far braver than one ought to expect of any Teckla. It is the judgment of the historian that Srahi be allowed a moment’s collapse in relief at her delivery, without censure from the reader.
In any case, Laral did not hesitate, but threw her knife at this new intruder with careful aim and a strong arm. Daro had fought her share of duels, been involved in a few melees of one sort or another, and, on one occasion, had even been involved in what could only be called a battle (although, had Her Majesty known of this battle and the part the Countess had played therein, it is doubtful whether Daro would have been allowed any position whatever at court, much less that of maid of honor), but she had never fought with anyone who could use a knife in the way Laral did—that is, by throwing it. Daro had no means of repelling such an attack, and the knife struck her full in the body. Daro gasped and, like Srahi had the instant before, sank to her knees.
Her sword fell to the ground with a clang, and she stared, gasping, at the knife which appeared to grow from her stomach—nearly four inches of blade had penetrated, testifying to Laral’s skill and strength. The assassin, however, did not pause to congratulate herself on the skill and strength to which we have just alluded; she knew very well that time, a most valuable commodity to an assassin, was quickly slipping away, and she must act at once if she were to complete her mission—or, indeed, if she were even to herself attempt the very thing that time was doing—that is, slipping away.
And so, once more, for the last time, she turned back to the prostrate Tiassa, raising the black rod in her hand; and once more, for the last time, she was interrupted, this time by Tazendra, who cried, “What is this, a massacre on Khaavren’s very doorstep?”
“An assassination, more like,” said Pel through clenched teeth.
“How! Do you think so?”
“I am convinced of it, my dear Baroness. And if we are too late, then, by all the gods of the Paths, someone will pay dearly for our tardiness.”
Laral turned at these voices, and seeing two warlike figures silhouetted against the light from the slowly approaching glowbulb, decided that there was no longer time for saving anything, but, rather, she must use her most potent weapons at once, and hope only to escape with her life. She therefore raised the rod, directed it at the larger of the two, which looked to be a woman (and was, in fact, Tazendra), and cast the spell, while simultaneously drawing a rapier with which she intended to quickly dispatch the smaller (whom the reader will realize is Pel), after which she hoped to cut the throats of everyone present—certainty more of a bloodletting than she would have preferred; but, she decided, she had no choice.
Unfortunately for our Jhereg, Tazendra and Pel each had other ideas. Although Tazendra was not quick to comprehend the subtleties of intrigue, or the nuances of communication, or the feints and deceptions behind the schemes of a Yendi, she knew very well what the rod signified, and
quickly cast a rune of protection over her and her friend, and such was her skill in the magical sciences that, although she felt a momentary chill, there was no other effect of the enchantment. Similarly, Pel had never in his life allowed anyone to pierce his skin with anything sharp if he could at all prevent it; in this case, he prevented it by drawing his own sword and neatly deflecting Laral’s hurried lunge, a maneuver he followed at once with a riposte that cut her wrist, causing her to drop her sword.
We should say in Tazendra’s defense that, had she noticed that the unknown sorcerer was weaponless, she (by which we mean Tazendra) would have held up on her own attack, but events proved too quick in the unfolding, and the light proved too dim in the shadows, so that Tazendra’s massive sword was in her hand, and, indeed, the blade was embedded in Laral’s skull, before the sound of Laral’s own sword striking the ground had reached Tazendra’s ears.
In the silence that followed the clang of the sword onto the stone walkway before Khaavren’s house, followed, as it was, by the muffled sound of the assassin’s body falling next to her own sword, Daro stared up at the two unknowns, grateful for their presence but wondering who they were. Pel stepped out of the way of the glowbulb, thus allowing the light to fall on the Countess’s face, after which he said, “Well, my dear Whitecrest, our arrival seems to have been timely.”
“I am convinced I have heard that before, too,” murmured Tazendra.
“How, you know me?” said Daro.
“Indeed,” said Pel, and turned so the light fell on his face (the glowbulb, we should add, was only now moving into place above the ensemble, so quick had been all of the action). “You are without doubt one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor, and are called Daro, are you not?”
“Indeed, and I recall your face, yet I cannot think where I have seen you.”
“I have been at court,” said Pel, “though in other garb than this. Perhaps—”
“Ohhhhhhh,” moaned Srahi.
“Help,” suggested Mica.
“Countess, is that your voice I hear, or am I dreaming?” said the Captain. “And why is it so cold?”
“Perhaps,” said Pel, “we ought to bring everyone inside, and tend to that unfortunate length of steel which seems to have embedded itself in your stomach, Countess, and attend, as well, to anyone else who is wounded.”
“Which appears to be everyone,” agreed Tazendra. “But who are they? Was that, indeed, Khaavren’s voice?”
“It is I,” said Khaavren. “But why am I on the ground? And—”
“Questions later, my dear,” said Pel.
“Who else is here?” said Tazendra, looking around.
“I am, Baroness my master,” said Mica.
“Mica, is that you?”
“Most of him,” said Mica.
“How, most of him? What then is missing?”
“Just about a foot,” said the servant. “I hope I will not be less useful to you on that account, however.”
“Well, well, we shall see. Who is this?”
“I do not know, but he was killed by sorcery from that woman whose head you have just parted like a ripe melon.”
“I see,” said Tazendra.
“No doubt the coachman,” said Pel. “But who is this? Could it be Srahi?”
The reader will note that the above conversation had taken only two minutes, yet this was time enough for Srahi to have recovered sufficiently to say, “Who else might it be, do you think? Here, after saving my brave master from the Gods know what sort of violence, and him helpless, are we thanked? Are we even assisted indoors? No! The good Mica lies bleeding and freezing on the cold street, and—”
“By the Gods,” said Pel. “It is Srahi.
“It could be no one else,” agreed Tazendra.
“Let us bring them all inside, Khaavren first of all.”
“Cha!” said Khaavren. “I am the healthiest present, save for you late arrivals. Attend to the Countess, then send for a physicker.”
“Ought we,” said Pel, “to move her at all before the physicker arrives?”
In answer, Tazendra at once bent over and conducted a brief but thorough inspection of her wound. She then, using bits of cloth from Laral’s costume, stanched the bleeding as best she could and said, “We must be careful, but we ought to move her at once to a place where she can be kept warm; I cannot tell what damage this weapon has done, yet I fear … come, Pel, help me bring her inside.”
The Countess was too weak from pain and shock to object to this plan, and allowed Pel and Tazendra to carry her inside. When she had been set on the sofa, they returned to find Khaavren standing up, and even assisting Srahi with Mica, who still had his bar-stool clenched in his hand. They replaced both Khaavren and Srahi, and sent the latter off to find a physicker, which she claimed she could do in two minutes. Mica seemed unhappy at seeing her leave, but he bore his loss, like the pain of his wound, as an old campaigner.
Soon they were all settled in the parlor in this fashion: Daro lay on the couch with cloth all about the knife which was still in her stomach, and with her head near the grey armchair, upon which, we should add, was Khaavren, his feet propped up before him and his head tilted back. On the floor near him was Mica, sitting on several spare blankets, and using his master’s pillow, while Pel and Tazendra occupied two of the chairs (that is, one each). Even as Tazendra stretched out her legs, tossed her hair, and opened her mouth to make a pronouncement on some subject or another, Srahi came in.
“Well?” said Tazendra. “And the physicker?”
“He is behind me,” said Srahi, “and will be here before you can draw a breath—he stopped only to pick up those supplies he pretends he might need.” She then seated herself before Mica, with her legs crossed netmaker-fashion and her face set in a stern, forbidding look that discouraged questions about the physicker, requests for potables, or discussion of any other sort.
The physicker, a resolutely cheerful Chreotha with a Serioli name that was all but unpronounceable (wherefore we shall refer to him as “the physicker,” trusting our readers will not object), did, in fact, arrive in scarcely more than the time Srahi had mentioned—at any rate, few breaths were drawn and no more conversation took place before he arrived. Srahi sent an imperious glance around the room, but said nothing except for giving the briefest greeting to the physicker (whose name she massacred without apparent embarrassment), to which he responded by affable nods to all present, and after which he went around the room inspecting the patients, beginning with Daro, then Khaavren, and lastly Mica. No one spoke while he made his examinations, but, rather, everyone watched his face, hoping for a clue to the condition of the patient in question. No such clues were, however, forthcoming—he remained cheerful, and said nothing until he had examined all three, then, without consultation (which consultation would necessarily have produced an argument) he began his treatment first with Mica, saying, “There is no question, my friend, but that you must lose that foot and a portion of the leg, but we shall certainly save the knee, which ought to be a comfort to you.”
Mica closed his eyes tightly and did not seem especially comforted.
By chance, the physicker was not entirely unskilled, and had brought along dreamgrass oil to ease pain, which he carefully measured out and administered on thin wafers. After urging two of these on the poor Teckla, who was so frightened he could scarcely swallow and had to be assisted with long draughts of water, most of which he spilled, the physicker commanded that a room be set aside for his surgery, with clean sheets and a bucket ready. By the time the room was ready, the dreamgrass had taken effect.
It is not our intention to pander to those of our readers who delight in blood; moreover, it is the belief of the author that there has been enough blood already in this chapter of our history to satisfy all but most depraved of readers; we will, then, content ourselves with saying that the remainder of Mica’s foot and ankle were removed without mishap, and after the stump was neatly tied, the physicker checked all o
f the Teckla’s vital signs and pronounced him out of danger.
Daro’s wound, though shallow, was, as Tazendra had observed, the most dangerous, because the knife had come near to cutting open her intestines, which must surely have resulted in death unless extreme measures were taken. But fortunately, after examining her, the physicker announced that, in fact, no serious damage had been done, and after dosing her with dreamgrass, he drew forth the knife in one easy motion; then, after cleaning the wound, he quickly closed it with five stitches, which Daro bore quite complacently, the dreamgrass having done its work.
After giving Khaavren a quick inspection, and announcing that he required nothing more than rest, the physicker collected his fee, which was generously contributed by Tazendra, and departed. By the time he left, all three patients had been moved back to the parlor, and all of them were able to speak without moaning, although, to be sure, two of them—by which we mean Daro and Mica—at times had to struggle to concentrate on what they or their companions were saying.
Khaavren, upon hearing the door close, wasted no time in asking what had happened, with the result that several voices attempted to answer him at once. After some few moments of this, he asked for and received silence, and required the stories to be told simply, clearly, and one at a time. The next several hours, then, were taken up in sorting through what had happened and attempting to reconstruct it and put it into some kind of coherent order, beginning with an account from Pel and Tazendra of their recent activities (with which the reader is already familiar, except to say that, upon reaching the Imperial Palace, they discovered that Khaavren had been taken ill and sent home, and they had hastened there as quickly as they could), including Srahi’s explanation of how she and Mica came to be there at that time (which, likewise, the reader has already heard except for certain portions which we are confident the reader can fill in himself), and concluding with an effort on all sides to piece together exactly who had been wounded how and when, and, in turn, who had done exactly what to the assassin (whose body, we should add, still remained on the sidewalk, next to that of the coachman, because Khaavren felt too weak to subject it to his usual scrutiny). In all, these activities continued (with, we should add some measure of success) far into the night.