by Steven Brust
“—murchin—”
“Highly addictive, eventually fatal.”
“—luck drops—”
“A fire hazard in the preparation.”
“—wine—”
“Clouds judgment.”
“—bear’s teeth—”
“Causes madness. The Gods, my friend! That such a thing should never have occurred to us!”
“Well, can you answer for the approval of the Jhereg?”
“Answer for it? I nearly think I can!”
“Well, then, you know the entirety of my scheme; what do you think of it?”
Dunaan, his eyes dripping gold, said, “It is an excellent plan; I’ve never heard a better.”
“Well then, nothing more need be said. Commence the entertainment we have arranged for His Majesty, dispatch our annoying Tiassa, then make contact with those in the Jhereg with whom we must treat.”
“Yes, yes,” said Dunaan, speaking as if in a dream. “The Emperor, the Tiassa, the Jhereg.”
“Exactly. I will see you soon.”
Dunaan stood up, still appearing to be in a daze, and walked out of the cabaret without another word. When he had gone, Greycat stood and retired to the private room, where he sat down and said, “Well?”
“I heard,” said Grita from the shadows.
“And?”
“There are times when I am ashamed to know you.”
“How, you refer to my plan to appease the Jhereg?”
“No.”
“Then you refer—”
“Yes.”
“I had not known you cared.”
“I do not.”
“Well, then?”
“Nevertheless, that you would use—”
“I have not asked for your opinion.”
Grita laughed—a laugh in which there was little humor, and no humanity—and stepped out of the shadows. The two of them looked at each other, as opposing commanders will study each other for weaknesses. At last, by some means which would have been unfathomable to anyone else, they seemed to agree that the contest, if so it was, could be ended without resolution.
Grita spoke as if nothing had passed between them, saying, “I attempted to carry out the mission you assigned me.”
“And?”
“I was able to gain entrance, but the battalion moved out before I could strike, and I was unable to match their pace. Therefore I returned, and, from what I have just heard, you are even pleased that Adron still lives.”
“It is true, I am.”
“I did learn something, however.”
“Oh, and what is that?”
“He has a guest.”
“That being?”
“The Duke of Arylle.”
Greycat’s eyes narrowed, and he said, “Indeed. You saw him?”
“With these eyes.”
“Well, well.” He paused to consider, then said, “I do not see that this changes anything—on the contrary, it may simplify certain matters in the future. But for now, though it is good to know, there is nothing that needs to be done as far as Adron or his guest are concerned.”
“Well, what then?”
“Can you arrange another riot for the evening of the day after to-morrow?”
“Perhaps.”
“How, perhaps?”
“It may be that I can.”
“And yet, on the last occasion, there was no uncertainty.”
“That was before.”
“Something has, then, changed?”
“You are perspicacious.”
“Your irony is useless. What has changed?”
“Before it was a question of starting a riot at a certain time—now it is a question of preventing an uprising from breaking out beforehand.”
“I see. Then you think—”
“The entire city but awaits a spark, and who knows when it will come?”
“Hmmm. Well then, if it comes early, so much the better. If nothing has happened before the time I have named—”
“Then I shall provide the spark.”
“Excellent. Then, I believe, there is nothing more to be said.”
“On the contrary,” said Grita. “There is a great deal to be said, but I do not believe we will say any of it. I have no wish to, at all events. Have you?”
By way of answering her, Greycat stood and walked out of the room and out of the cabaret, where he studied the street and the faces that seemed, for a moment, to float above it, unattached to any bodies. He watched the crowds, who seemed to be running about faster and in greater numbers even than usual. After a moment, he realized that many of these were people who had chosen this moment to take a journey away from the city, as if afraid what they might find if they woke up here to-morrow. Yes, Grita might very well be right, he decided. It could be that the city was close to detonating—he could almost see it himself.
But that was of no moment; indeed, it might work to his advantage; everything appeared to be working to his advantage. He permitted himself a small chuckle and walked easily about the Underside, which had almost become home to him; he wondered if he would miss it after he began dwelling in the Imperial Palace.
Chapter the Twenty-sixth
Which Treats of Dzurlords.
SO THIS, THEN, WAS HOW matters stood at the Imperial Palace: Sethra returned to the Dragon Wing to take possession of the chambers left vacant by Gyorg Lavode; Aliera accompanied her. His Majesty, still seething, sat upon his throne biting his lips until they bled and waiting for the hour of relaxation, which would allow him a certain respite—which hour, we should add, had still some few minutes before it began. Khaavren stood at His Majesty’s elbow, considering the several problems that faced him, with the disharmony in the city, the rebellion of Adron, and the evident conspiracies within and around the court. Jurabin stood on the other side of the throne, unable to speak, and wishing desperately for a pretext to leave. Unfortunately for the Prime Minister, he was stuck in his spot as thoroughly as a jhegaala in a chreotha’s net—as, in fact, were His Majesty, Khaavren, and those few courtiers who had chosen to make an appearance in the Portrait Room that day.
It could not but be a trial for the reader to sit with these persons until the longed-for stroke of the bell should signal that all present might take their ease; we shall, therefore, leave them, confident that they will be doing nothing that could excite our interest; instead we will follow Sethra and Aliera through the Dragon Wing and toward the room where Sethra had chosen to take her quarters. They had not, in fact, gone far into the wing when they saw two familiar figures coming the other way and perforce stopped to greet them.
In order to explain how these figures, who were none other than Pel and Tazendra, came to be at the Palace at that time, we must go backward in time a few hours, trusting the reader to recall the warning we have just recently advanced regarding our willingness to engage in such time-hopping whenever the appropriate occasion shall arise.
Tazendra, then, upon rising, had been rather surprised to discover that Khaavren was not at home. Upon questioning Srahi (who resented the questioning, but submitted to it under urging from Mica) she learned that the Tiassa, when he had appeared an hour ago, had seemed to be in a great hurry, and had rushed out the door, yelling for a coach.
“I am pleased, at any rate, that he took a coach,” said Tazendra.
“And yet he was rushing,” said Pel.
“What of it?” said Tazendra. “He has duties. You remember that he mentioned last night—”
“I remember that he said he would arise early and leave for the Palace.”
“Well?”
“Well, he did not, as it happened, leave early, but rather late; which indicates that he still felt some fatigue. In truth, I did not think he would leave at all—I had thought he would be overcome by his wounds, and must therefore sleep.”
“Bah! And yet you have known him these five hundred years.”
“That is true.”
“I do not see any re
ason to worry.”
“And yet, he has been wounded.”
“Well, that is true, he has been wounded.”
“I am worried about him.”
“Bah! You were worried yester-day.”
“Well, and was I wrong to be?”
“Come to think of it, Pel, you were not. Do you fear another attack?”
“Not so soon, I think. But, considering his health, I should be glad to see him, and glad, too, to return to the Palace and learn what is afoot there.”
“And, no doubt, to return to your normal attire.”
“Bah, as you would say. I find I am well suited to the garb I am now affecting. The robes of a Discreet are too constricting in their looseness; I prefer something that binds tighter in its freedom. And besides, why listen to another’s gossip, when one can become gossip?”
“I do not comprehend—”
“It is unimportant, my dear Tazendra. I was speaking in hyperbole.”
“Ah! Well, that explains it, for I have never had a head for foreign tongues.”
“But you agree, at any rate, that we ought to check on our friend?”
“Oh, entirely. But what of the Countess?” The Countess, we ought to add, had not yet risen.
“What of her?”
“Might she also wish to know what has become of Khaavren? Perhaps you did not notice—”
“I noticed, my dear Tazendra.”
“Well, then—
“You must know, however, that she is banned from the Palace.”
“How, banned from the Palace? I’ve never heard of such a thing! Oh, do you mean barred from the Imperial Wing? For, if so—”
“No, I mean, in fact, that she has been exiled from the city.”
“How, exiled from the city? Impossible!”
“Not in the least.”
“Why was she exiled?”
“She was one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor, and quarreled with her mistress over some issue or another.”
“Come, how can you know all of this?”
“Tazendra, you know that I hear many things.”
“Well, that is true.”
“Then believe me.”
“Very well, I believe you.”
“We will, in any case, write her a note in which we will explain that we have gone off to visit Khaavren, which will ease her mind.”
“You are very thoughtful,” said Tazendra.
“Then let us be off, my good friend, for time waits for no one.”
After this profound reckoning, then, Pel wrote a carefully worded note for Daro which he entrusted to Srahi’s care, after which he and Tazendra walked out to the Street of the Dragon, hailed a coach which happened to be passing by, and directed the coachman to bring them to the Dragon Wing, where they expected to find Khaavren in his offices and where they could, therefore, reassure themselves as to the state of his health.
The coach delivered them to the Sub-wing of the Imperial Guard, where they were admitted at once upon claiming business with the Captain, but they discovered, to their surprise, that not only was Khaavren absent, but he had not yet been seen that morning. As the reader can imagine, this filled our friends with worry, although the reader is well aware that Khaavren is entirely safe, and standing comfortably, if nervously, at the elbow of His Majesty.
“Where can he have gone?” said Tazendra as they stood in the hall once more.
“Perhaps,” said Pel, “his business did not take him to the Palace. Or perhaps it took him directly to His Majesty.”
“Well, then, what should we do?”
“It would seem to me,” said Pel, “that if we were to go to the Imperial Wing, we might inquire of the guardsmen on duty if they have seen their Captain, and we should be almost assured of an answer, for there cannot be any reason for them to dissemble to us.”
“Well thought, my dear friend,” said Tazendra.
Without another word, then, they set off for the Imperial Wing, and had nearly reached it when they were confronted by two familiar figures—which familiar figure of speech ought to alert the reader that we are now, albeit from the opposite direction, returned to the very time and place from which we departed when we left Sethra and Aliera.
“Well met,” said Sethra, bowing, “clever Pel and brave Tazendra.”
“And well met to you,” said Pel, returning her courtesy, “wise Sethra and noble Aliera.”
Tazendra and Aliera also added their own greetings, and they spent a few moments in polite conversation, discussing the exodus from the city and other such matters, until Pel, who had not for an instant forgotten his mission, said, “You appear to have come from the Imperial Wing.”
“Well, that is true.”
“Have you, then, seen our dear Khaavren? He has been wounded, you know, and we are concerned for him.”
“Khaavren, wounded?” said Sethra.
“Indeed,” said Aliera, “he was there with His Majesty, with whom we have just concluded a visit, but the Captain seemed entirely healthy so far as we could see.”
“So much the better,” said Tazendra.
“How did he come to be wounded?” said Sethra. “Has there been another attempt on his life?”
“That is to say, yes and no,” said Tazendra.
“How, yes and no?” said Sethra.
“There was an attempt on his life,” said Pel.
“But that is not how he came to be wounded,” added Tazendra.
“It would seem,” said Aliera, “that there is a tale to be told.”
“Indeed,” said Pel. “And one that, in fact, I am surprised that you do not know, for, at the time he was wounded, you could not have been two steps away.”
“I?” said Aliera.
“Indeed,” said Pel.
“Is there a hint of reprobation in your words, my good Discreet?”
“Not in the least,” said Pel. “If you would hear all of the details, you may come with me while I look in on my friend Khaavren, and I will explain it to you—I give you my word that I hold you blameless in the affair.”
“I should like nothing better,” said Aliera, a certain tension going out of her voice. “But I have just seen Khaavren in the audience chamber with His Majesty, and I should not care to make another appearance there—if for no other reason,” she added, laughing slightly, “because it would soften the impact of a truly grand exit.” She bowed to Sethra as she made this remark, then added, “I will, however, walk with you as far as the doors, if you will have it so, and listen to your story—and then I can tell you of our interview with His Majesty, which I promise will amuse you.”
“Nothing would please me more,” said the Yendi.
“Sethra, I shall meet up with you later, no doubt, either in your new quarters, or elsewhere.”
“Very well,” said Sethra. “If you, my dear Dzur, would be so good as to accompany me, perhaps you could inform me of these circumstances even as Pel is explaining to Aliera.”
“I will do my best,” said Tazendra, who was, in fact, doing her best not to be intimidated at the thought of a one-to-one conversation with the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain. “Although I am not good at explanations.”
“I am certain that we will get along together splendidly,” said Sethra.
“Come then,” said Aliera, taking Pel’s arm. “Sethra and Tazendra, until later.”
“Until later,” said Tazendra and Sethra.
In the event, it took Tazendra very little time to explain, with the help of Sethra’s astute and precise questions, what had befallen Khaavren. Sethra appeared to be saddened by the events, but before she had a chance to make any comment, if indeed, there were a comment on her mind, they had reached the third-floor room where Gyorg Lavode had had his quarters. The first thing Sethra did upon opening the door was to stop on the threshold and slowly exhale.
Tazendra said carefully, “Had you thought it would already have been emptied of his possessions?”
“No,” said Sethra in
an unnaturally harsh voice. “I had thought that I would not mind so much.” She entered the room; Tazendra held back for a moment out of respect either for Sethra’s feelings or for the dead man she had not known. Sethra did not speak, but rather looked around the room, carefully studying the decorations, possessions, and artifacts that had remained undisturbed since his death.
Tazendra cleared her throat and, said, “My lady, would you like to tell me about him?”
Sethra turned and studied the Dzurlord, noting the discomfort on her countenance, and noting as well the sympathy that lay beneath it. “No,” said Sethra. “Come, you tell me about him.”
Tazendra opened her mouth, closed it, and said, “My lady, comprehension is not—”
“There has never been a stupid sorcerer who has lived past his five hundredth year. Come in.”
Tazendra obediently stepped into the room, where she said, “I don’t—”
“Look,” said Sethra with an intensity that Tazendra found surprising, intriguing, and even disturbing. “Look about you,” she said. “Who was he?”
Tazendra gave a bemused glance about the room, filled as it was with various articles of black clothing in discreet piles as if plugging up holes in the floor; occasional works of art depicting outdoor scenes and done in soft colors; scribbled notes stuck up on walls with such notations as, “too far frwrd mks r slid off end,” or, “12 factd crstl not engh, try 16 and cvr w/ gel—WATCH FOR FLASH!!!;” three potted plants near the window, all of which seemed to have been dead for years; and a disheveled bed with pale yellow sheets which were still stained with blood. Once again she started to speak, stopped, and instead walked slowly through the chamber, occasionally stopping to look more closely at something that caught her eye.
Presently, Tazendra realized that she was crying.
“What is it?” Sethra asked softly.
Despite her tears, Tazendra spoke in an even, unbroken voice. “It is the watering pail beside the flowerpots.”
“What of it?”
“There is still water in it, yet the plants—”
“Yes,” said Sethra Lavode. “What else?”
Tazendra gestured with her chin toward the bedside table, upon which rested a notepad, quill, ink and blotter; on the notebook were scrawled several lines, unevenly, as if written when coming out of sleep. “He was not …”