Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)

by Steven Brust

  “Do you wish it to happen quickly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Less than the drawing of a breath, then.”

  “Very well.”

  “It will fill with fog, and each particle of this fog will be charged with immense power, which will do nothing, and everyone within the circle will be bathed in power, which will do nothing, although,” she frowned, “it may feel a trifle odd, I don’t know. In any case, after eight seconds, the power and the fog will dissipate, and nothing will have changed.”

  “Good. That is what I wish. Apropos the fog—”

  “Yes?”

  “Can it be made thick, so that a person might hide in it?”

  “That is easily done. It can be made so thick you will not be able to see your hand, though it be six inches in front of your eyes.”

  “Perfect.”

  Cariss shook her head, as though resigning herself to remaining mystified. “When do you need it?”

  “When can I have it?”

  “You can have it in an hour.”

  “Then that is when I need it.”

  “It will be ready.”

  “I will wait here.”

  “Very well. Oh, have you a preference for the mist?”

  “A preference in what way?”

  “Its color. Black, or red, or grey, or—”

  “Grey,” said Mario. “The color of death. Let it be grey.”

  “It shall be grey,” said the sorceress.

  Chapter the Thirtieth

  Which Treats of Dawn

  On the Day of Battle.

  THE MORNING OF THE SEVENTEENTH day of the month of the Vallista of the 532nd year of the Reign of Tortaalik the First was cool if one considered it to be late summer, but warm if one thought of it as early autumn. Even before dawn, while the Dragon Gate, with its high stone walls and strong iron bars, stood open to the world, there was a promise of a breeze from the east, bringing with it the sweet aroma the last of the blossoming late-apples, and a promise, as well, of that perfect weather where one is comfortable in a heavy cloak if one is standing still, in a lighter cloak for those walking about, or in a simple jerkin for those engaged in heavy exercise.

  Should the reader realize with sudden dismay or annoyance that the weather has been all but ignored by the historian, we will point out that, according to our almanac, the weather had remained, with the least variation, slightly warm, but not forbiddingly so, with a little wind, and only a sprinkle of rain upon one or two of the nine days which comprise our history; there has been, in a word, little of interest about the weather, and therefore no reason to take up our reader’s valuable time by describing it.

  Indeed, the only reason for mentioning it upon this occasion is, as the astute reader has no doubt realized, by way of making an ironic contrast between the conditions of the day and the events destined to take place upon it—a comparison that may be unnecessary in a strictly historical sense, but which, because of its appropriateness, the historian finds irresistible. Moreover, as great events are about to unfold, we consider it a pleasing device to begin with facts which are, in essence, unimportant—that is, to turn our reader’s attention to matters unrelated to our history, after which, the reader may be assured, we will gradually begin to reveal those momentous events, as well as the no less interesting personal events, the reader’s interest in which has, no doubt, caused him to remain with us to this point in our history.

  The Dragon Gate, as we have already said, was built of iron and stone; the stone was in the form of a pair of towers which were built as part of the city wall itself; the iron consisted of bars three-quarters of a meter in thickness and separated by half a meter. It was, we should add, very difficult to see through these bars when the gate was closed. Should it happen that the Warlord wished to close the gate, this could be accomplished by releasing the single massive rope that worked an intricate series of wheels, gears, and pulleys which held the grid poised above the gateway. Dragons’ heads adorned each tower (or, rather, a sculptor’s rendering of such heads—to use real dragons’ heads would have been disrespectful).

  Some few hours before the first light of morning filtered through the overcast the streets had emptied themselves of citizens—all of those who wished to leave had either done so, or realized, now that the Warlord had had the gates of the city closed against the expected attack of His Highness, they would be unable to do so; and those who remained tucked themselves into their homes where they hoped they would be safe. Daro, the Countess of Whitecrest, was, in fact, among the last to leave. We should add, as an aside, that this, while true for the district near the Dragon Gate, where we have placed ourselves, was not true everywhere—the Underside, for example, was quite active, and many historians place the beginning of the Uprising as during the night we have just skipped over; to be sure, there were isolated fires, and some shops had been broken into.

  All of which is not to say that the streets near the Dragon Gate were empty—we were careful above to say the streets were empty of citizens; in fact, had we wished to indulge in low humor, we might have made a remark to the effect that there was a veritable army of people within the Gate, the supposed humor being found, of course, in the fact there was an army within the Gate—to wit, the Imperial Army, which flooded the square to overflowing with the regiment of the Calivor Pike-men led by Lord Tross, followed by the cavalry regiment of Sorett, led by Lady Glass, which was almost contained in the square, and filling the streets around the square on both sides was the cavalry brigade of Lookfor, still commanded by the Duke of Lookfor who had founded it. In the streets behind them, awaiting their command to move into place, were remaining infantry divisions too numerous to mention.

  The Warlord was mounted in the middle of the Sorett Regiment; on one side of him was Lady Glass, on the other was Nyleth who commanded the Wizards of the Imperial Army. Other soldiers and wizards had manned the towers, awaiting the command, should it come, to lower the gate, and waiting as well to give word that Adron’s army had been sighted.

  “Upon you,” said Rollondar to Nyleth, “falls the chief burden. You must, first of all, evaluate the threat contained by this spell-wagon he is reported to have; you must determine if it is a real threat. You perceive, if it is a bluff, I will close the gate and we will defend it, while I disperse the troops to the other gates of the city, and we will fight defensively. If the threat is real, we must make destroying it the center of our strategy, wherefore we will leave the gate open and attack them through it, with the intention of leading you and your assistants against the spell-wagon.”

  “I understand,” said Nyleth, an Athyra with large, brilliant eyes and a perpetual smile, giving him the appearance of a madman, which some thought he was. “But what if Lord Adron appears at another gate?”

  “He will not,” said Rollondar. “Oh, he may end by attacking another gate if it looks best to him, but the Breath of Fire Battalion will appear first at the Dragon Gate—Adron would die rather than miss an opportunity for such theatrics. I give you my word that he hopes to give battle here and enter beneath this arch.”

  “I understand, my lord.”

  “Do you then, my good Nyleth, understand what your task is to be?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But?”

  Nyleth continued smiling, as he leaned forward; Rollondar resolutely reminded himself that, mad or not, the Athyra had proven himself in a score of battles. The wizard said, “If the threat does prove real—and, my lord, if there is elder sorcery involved it is almost certainly real—I will need a guard of fighters to help reach the spell-wagon.”

  “You will have one,” said Rollondar, “for, should it prove necessary, and should nothing else present itself, I will send my personal guard to aid you against those who guard the spell-wagon.”

  Nyleth looked around him at Rollondar’s legion of grim, powerful fighters, and his smile grew broader. “That will certainly do, my lord.”

  “You understand, then?”r />
  “Entirely.”

  “Very well. Then no more need be said; now we await Lord Adron’s pleasure.” He did not seem entirely happy as he said it, for one rarely enjoys time spent waiting for another’s pleasure—certainly Greycat did not, as he paced the floor of the cabaret in the Underside, occasionally stopping to look outside to see if the one for whom he was waiting was arriving, or if violence had yet erupted in the streets. By chance, in that area, there had been as yet neither looting nor burning, and so Greycat returned to his pacing.

  The cabaret was nominally closed, but one would not have guessed it to look upon it, for it appeared to have a sizable contingent of patrons—no fewer than a score of men and women were there, sitting, drinking, talking quietly, and occasionally glancing at Greycat with expressions of trust and confidence. They all of them affected garb that would have been appropriate in the mountains, and they all of them had the look of those who spend a great deal of time out of doors; for these were none other than the advance guard of the army of brigands of whom Greycat had earlier spoken to Dunaan; they had arrived the day before, and been told to meet at the cabaret in the early hours of the morning. Now they were here, armed head to toe, and they awaited Greycat’s orders, while he waited for someone who, unaccountably, was late.

  The door opened, but it was Grita who walked in. She glanced at the assembled brigands, appeared to dismiss them with a glance, and said, “We must speak.”

  “Well, speak,” said Greycat, who, though surprised to see her, did not wish to acknowledge this fact.

  “In private.”

  “Very well. In back?”

  “Outside.”

  “If that is your desire,” said Greycat, shrugging.

  “I will.”

  “Here we are, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what have you to say?”

  “He for whom you are waiting will not appear.”

  “How, Dunaan will not appear?”

  “That is correct.”

  “What could keep him? He knows that I but await word of his mission’s success before going to His Majesty.”

  “His mission did not succeed.”

  “What? The Jhereg refused?”

  Grita frowned. “I know nothing of any Jhereg refusing anything.”

  “But then, of what do you speak?”

  “I assumed he was to kill the annoying Tiassa.”

  “Yes, yes. And then, afterwards, he was to go to the Jhereg and—”

  “There was no afterwards.”

  Greycat stared. “How, he failed to kill the Tiassa?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Are the Gods protecting this guardsman?” Greycat, we should add, pronounced the word guardsman in a tone of utmost contempt.

  Grita shrugged. “In this case, it seems an assassin was protecting him; or, at least, that is how it seems from what I was able to learn.”

  “An assassin? Do you mean—”

  “Yes. Dunaan is dead.”

  “Dead!”

  “Killed by a Jhereg assassin.”

  “And the Tiassa yet lives!”

  “Exactly.”

  For the first time, Greycat’s eyes now held doubt and confusion.

  “Well?” said Grita. “Do we continue?”

  “How, you mean continue to His Majesty? Not for the world! We can do nothing until we have killed the Tiassa.”

  “But still, one man—”

  “He will denounce me to His Majesty.”

  “Well, but does not His Majesty know you already?”

  “I know how to play to His Majesty’s weaknesses; I cannot do so while the Tiassa lives, for he has His Majesty’s ear.”

  Grita shrugged. “What then?”

  “We must kill him ourselves.”

  “What, you and me?”

  “You and me, and our friends in there.” He gestured toward the cabaret where his band of cutthroats waited.

  “Do you think there are enough of us?”

  “Do not jest; it is no laughing matter. Yes, I think there are enough of us.”

  “Then let us be about it.”

  “We must find him, first.”

  “That is taken care of,” said Grita with a peculiar smile.

  “Taken care of? How?”

  “He is at home, and I have set spies there; when he leaves, we will be informed.”

  Greycat smiled for the first time—a smile reminiscent of Grita’s. “Excellent. Then we must return to waiting, but now, at least, I know why I am waiting.”

  “Shall we go inside?”

  “By all means.”

  “After you.”

  “I am leading.”

  The first haze of morning light, so deceptive and ambiguous, had still, perhaps, not quite touched the Palace walls when Sethra stood in the hall which had once borne her name but which was now, after the Lavode Scandal, called the North Room, high in the Dragon Wing. The hall was not overly large, being crowded when more than a hundred were present, and the hearth, which filled most of the west wall, seemed almost absurd for such a small room. There was now a fire upon it, however, and the two score or so assembled there were grateful for it; the furnaces which heated the Palace had not yet been tested for the season, and none were ignited—and the high reaches of the Dragon Wing were but ill-heated at the best of times.

  All of those assembled, including Sethra, affected black garb without a speck of color anywhere, save for the chance gleam, here and there, of a weapon’s hilt, or a red or blue jewel that might glitter from a sheath or a belt. There were hard wooden chairs in the room, set in a large circle, and every chair was occupied. Sethra’s voice was not loud, but it was penetrating. “Our task,” she said, “is the protection of the Imperial Wing, and especially of His Majesty. We will be aiding the Red Boot Battalion, but not working with them. I have chosen this course because, while it may be that the Imperial Guard have the skill to protect His Majesty from throngs of rioting citizens, we cannot depend on them to protect His Majesty from well-formed and -trained Dragon warriors; furthermore, while I cannot support the rebellion, neither do I wish to attack Lord Adron, and, so far as I can see, duty requires no such attack. Has anyone anything to say?”

  “I do,” said a thin woman who, to look at her, one would think too retiring to ever speak in a gathering of more than three; yet her voice was strong and confident.

  “What is, it, Dreen?”

  “My sympathies, such as they are, are with Lord Adron; this Emperor is a fool, as I think we all know, and he is only reaping what he has sown, as the Teckla say. Why do we not support him entirely?”

  “For my part, Sethra,” said an older man named Tuvo, “I agree with Dreen. I have no respect for His Majesty; why should we defend him?”

  There were nods around the room, and some looks of doubt. Sethra said, “Good questions, to be sure. The reason is that Lord Adron has been studying elder sorcery—studying it deeply, and, more than studying it, has been working with it. To my knowledge, he is prepared to invoke powers that threaten the Empire, even the Cycle itself. This causes me some unease, but it would cause me more to consider him as Emperor. He would make a gifted Warlord, but I cannot countenance him as Emperor—not a man who would use such means either to gain the throne or to gain revenge—or, indeed, for any other reason.”

  “And yet,” said a short, attractive woman with curly dark hair, “you will not directly oppose him?”

  “I cannot, Roila Lavode,” said Sethra. “He is too close a friend.”

  “Well,” said Tuvo, “then do you, Sethra, remain here and defend His Majesty; the rest of us, under some captain upon whom we will agree, will go find His Highness and attack him on the spot. Come, what do you think of my plan?”

  “For my part,” said Roila, “I am entirely in accord with Tuvo; if there is a chance His Highness may employ elder sorcery against the Orb—”

  “He may indeed,” said Sethra.

  “Then who bett
er to face him than us?”

  “There is a great deal of truth in what you say, Roila, and your plan is good, Tuvo, but I will not stay behind. If the will of the Lavodes is to attack Adron, well, my place will be to lead the attack.”

  “Not in the least,” said a woman called Nett. “Why should you be asked to do battle against a friend? We all know what that means—and, in truth, it is to have the choice to refuse such battles that many of us, who desired military service, have accepted the black garments of our corps. Moreover, Sethra, there is no need for you to be there. Consider that His Majesty does, indeed, require protection, and who better to supply it than you? And consider that, though it may be that your presence on the field could be decisive, it is just as likely that your presence in the Palace could save His Majesty’s life—unlike Dreen and Tuvo, I should like to see His Majesty preserved if possible, for the continuity of the Orb; I do not feel the Cycle has turned. No, Sethra Lavode, follow your heart, and we will follow ours; you to the Palace and His Majesty’s side, we to the gate and His Highness’s flank.”

  There were murmurs of “well spoken” about the room, and Sethra nodded. “If that is will of the Lavodes,” she said, “so be it. I recommend Roila to lead you into battle; does anyone object?”

  There were no objections.

  “Very well,” said Sethra standing. “If you are to reach the gate before the battle commences, there is no time to lose. Go with the Favor, and I hope to see you all again this side of the Falls.”

  The Lavodes stood as one, presented their compliments to their Captain, filed out of the room and, stopping only to secure their weapons and tools, out of the Palace and so out along the Street of the Dragon toward the gate.

  They arrived as the first, tentative, very faint light began to drape the city in morning. They worked their way to the gate itself (annoying no few of Lady Glass’s cavalry) in time to hear, “A rider!”

  The rider, who was in fact a lookout placed by Rollondar to watch Adron’s movements, came to the gate in good time, and a path was opened to the Warlord. Roila Lavode, while too far away to hear the report, was able to determine that Lord Adron had been spotted and would soon be over the hill. She worked her way close to Rollondar, and said, “Warlord, the Lavodes are ready to help you.”