by Steven Brust
“And to you,” said the aged Jhereg. “Is there something you wish?”
“Certainly, for you perceive I am on duty.”
“Of that there can be no question. Come, what do you wish to know?”
“Simply this: Were all of your horses stolen during last night’s festivities?”
Tukko smiled. “I am a Jhereg,” he replied.
“So I had thought. But have they been used?”
“Not all of them; I still have six that I have been holding back against my own desire to escape or someone so rich and so desperate to leave that one horse might mean my fortune.”
“Ah, I knew I could count on you.”
“What, then? Does His Majesty require a horse?”
“Four of them,” said the Captain. “I will return them when I can.”
“The Imperial treasury, I have heard, is in dire straits; nevertheless, I am convinced it can withstand the cost of four horses, should it come to that.”
“Indeed it can,” said Khaavren.
“Very well, then.”
Khaavren gave the Jhereg an imperial for his trouble and repaired to the stables, where he found that Aerich, as skilled as any groom, was just completing, with help from Pel, Tazendra, and the stable-boy, the work of equipping the horses. Khaavren tossed the stable-boy an orb.
As they mounted, Khaavren addressed Tazendra, saying, “This reminds me—”
“Well?”
“I have here two flashstones; do you have any similar arguments? And have you any for Pel and Aerich?”
“I have one,” said Pel.
“I have three,” said Tazendra.
Aerich shrugged, and accepted one from Tazendra, which he put into his pocket.
“And then?” said Tazendra.
“Let us ride,” said Khaavren, and they rode from the inn as if the Breath of Fire Battalion were behind, rather than before them.
As they rode, Pel said, “Have you a plan?”
“But, didn’t I tell you my plan? And did you not agree to it?”
“Not in the least,” said Pel. “You told me an intention, and I agreed to it. But have you a plan for carrying out your intention?”
“Ah, you argue like a casuist.”
“’Tis true, I mark things into discrete categories.”
“A touch,” said Khaavren.
“Well?”
“No, I have no plan.”
“Ah.”
“Does that worry you?”
“A little, perhaps,” said Pel.
“You, Tazendra?”
“Oh, if you wish to have a plan, well, I do not mind.”
“Aerich?”
The Lyorn shrugged.
Pel said, “Consider that we are, after all, about to, in essence, attack Adron’s army—just the four of us; I do not think that a plan would do us any harm.”
“Well, I agree. Have you one to offer?”
“As it happens, I do not.”
“Then let us get as far as the Gate of the Seven Flags, past it, and see how matters stand; then we can discuss plans.”
“With this, I agree,” said Pel.
“Bother,” said Tazendra suddenly.
“What is it, my dear?” said Khaavren.
“The battle has begun without us and I am vexed at it.”
“How, it has begun?” said Khaavren, straining his eyes toward the Dragon Gate, which was obstructed by buildings and distance. “Do you think so?”
“Well, look you. Do you not see the smoke?”
“Why no, in fact, I do not.”
“Bah, you do not? But look, there it is! No, where I am pointing.”
“I see it now.”
“I am glad you do.”
“But, Tazendra, that is not the battle.”
“How, it is not?”
“No, the Dragon Gate is that way.”
“But, what is that way?”
“The Imperial Palace, the Underside, the Morning Green, the—”
“How, you mean, the city?”
“Exactly.”
“But, then, why is it burning?”
“I believe the citizens are rioting, Tazendra.”
Tazendra’s eyes grew wide. “The Horse! Are they?”
“So it would seem. Do you not agree, Pel?”
“Entirely, my dear Khaavren.”
“And you, Aerich?”
Aerich looked sad, and nodded.
“But, what should we do?” said Tazendra.
“Continue,” said Khaavren. “And hope, if we defeat Adron, that there is still a house to return to. Or, for that matter, a Palace.”
They continued further, and discovered that either they had reached the Uprising, or the Uprising had caught up with them, for they found themselves among gangs of Teckla and merchants of various Houses, who were busying themselves in the most destructive of ways—the few glass windows in the area were soon all smashed, and two or three buildings were burning; indeed, the entire area would certainly have gone up in flames (as, to be sure, certain other areas did) had there not been a good amount of stonework that would not burn.
Khaavren’s uniform, to be sure, attracted a certain amount of attention from the angry populace, but his martial air and his calm demeanor made those who looked upon him think that perhaps there would be better targets upon which to vent their frustration. And moreover, there rode next to him a woman with a large sword slung over her back, and the colors of a Dzurlord in her clothing, and with a haughty, challenging gleam in her eye; as well as a man wearing the costume as well as the cool countenance of a Lyorn warrior; and a cavalier upon whose fierce, angry eye none could look—in other words, they were not set upon as they rode through the crowd.
It was, nevertheless, a crowd, and they were on horseback, so it took them some time to reach the Toehold Bridge, although after they had passed it there were no more delays, and soon they arrived at the Gate of the Seven Flags, which was built of thick mortar and had a single tower from which the gate could be worked—which gate, we should add, was, in fact, three separate slabs of hard, lacquered wood, each one eight or nine centimeters thick. And which gate was, as Tazendra had predicted, closed.
“Well?” she said.
Khaavren shrugged. “Open the gate,” he called.
There were ten or twelve soldiers on duty, as well as a mounted messenger who remained on the alert to run for help in the case of trouble. “How, open the gate?” they called back. “Impossible.”
Khaavren shrugged and rode forward so that, when he spoke, they could not fail to hear him. “I am,” he said in a conversational tone, “Khaavren of Castlerock and, by His Majesty’s will, Captain of the Imperial Guard, Redboot Battalion. Some of you should recognize me. My friends and I are required to pass through this gate on Imperial business. If, therefore, this gate is not open in one minute, I will open it myself, treating any who oppose me however I must. Those who survive will be reported to His Majesty, with what results I am certain your imagination will tell you. The minute,” he concluded, “begins now.”
It took perhaps twenty seconds to open the gate. They rode through and heard it close behind them.
“The Dragon Gate,” remarked Khaavren, “is this way.”
“I hope the battle has not yet started,” remarked Tazendra.
“Well, in fact,” said Khaavren, “though perhaps for a different reason, so do I.”
It was twenty minutes past the eighth hour of the morning as Greycat, standing before his score of cutthroats, remarked, “I had no idea they would attempt to take horses through the throng of soldiery.”
“Well,” said Grita, “but they did, and we have lost them.”
“Unless,” said Greycat, “we can determine whither they are bound, in which case, you perceive, it matters not in the least if we are following them or not, for we will nevertheless be able to arrive where they are.”
“But can you make this determination?”
“Perhaps. Conside
r, they are not going toward the Palace.”
“Well, that is true, they are not going toward the Palace.”
“And neither are they going toward where the Uprising is at its peak.”
“That is also true. What then?”
“Well, where else could they be going?”
“Only to the battle.”
“Exactly.”
“But—”
“Yes?” said Greycat.
“The battle, when it begins, and if it has not already begun, will be at the Dragon Gate, and we saw them riding away from the Dragon Gate.”
“That is only natural; they could not have ridden horses through the infantryman assembled on the street.”
“Well, but what then?”
“They must have another means of arriving at the battle.”
“What means is that?”
“I do not know. Perhaps they think to arrive by way of the Gate of the Seven Flags.”
Grita shrugged. “It is near to the Dragon Gate, but it will be closed, or Rollondar is a fool.”
“It will not be closed to the Captain of the Guard.”
“Maybe,” admitted Grita. “And yet, even if they open it to him, well, we have no Captain of the Guard with us.”
“But do you agree that that is how they have gone?”
“It seems not unlikely.”
“Then we know that they have gone, for some reason, to the battle, perhaps to assist the Warlord. So much the better for us.”
“How?”
“Because, should his throat be cut in the midst of battle, no one will think anything of it.”
“Well, that is true. But how do we get there? The gate they are using, as I’ve said, must be closed, and the Gate of the Dragon is filled with soldiery.”
“Ah, that is a question. Let me think.”
Greycat considered for some few moments, then called, “This way!” His troop, if it may be dignified by such a term, followed him, although they did not do so in anything like a military fashion. Still, they followed.
After a time, Grita said, “We seem to be approaching the Gate of the Seven Flags.”
“Your are perspicacious.”
“And yet, it is closed.”
“I will convince them to open it.”
“How?”
“You will see.”
When they reached the gate, which had been closed behind our friends, Greycat paused some distance away to study the situation. He turned to Grita and said, “Do you see the fellow on the horse?”
“Well?”
“Kill him.”
Grita shrugged. “Very well,” she said.
She walked over to him, calling out, “My dear sir, a moment of your time please, for there is trouble in the city and I am worried.”
As he turned to consider her, Greycat turned to his band and said, “Take the tower.”
The brigands charged the tower. The soldier on the horse turned, startled, and then was startled yet again as Grita grasped his saddle and, using it as a handhold, vaulted up and neatly cut his throat.
The battle at the tower lasted scarcely longer than it had taken them to open the gate to Khaavren’s command. A few more minutes, and the gate stood open.
Grita said, “Should we not close it behind us?”
“A good idea,” Greycat acknowledged, and gave the order. The rope was cut by one of the band who was skilled at scaling walls, after which he rejoined them.
“What now?” said Grita.
“We have just sealed ourselves out of the city,” said Greycat. “And yet, I confess this does not worry me overmuch, for soon I will be able to send to His Majesty to bring me an escort to the Palace. But first—”
“Yes,” said Grita. “First we must kill the Tiassa.”
“This way,” said Greycat.
It yet lacked a few minutes of the ninth hour of the morning.
Chapter the Thirty-second
Which Treats of the Meeting
of Kbaavren and Greycat,
And the Discussion Which Took Place
Between Them.
KHAAVREN DREW REIN AT THE top of Flag Hill and looked down at the scene spread out below.
“They are not attacking,” remarked Tazendra.
“Who?” said Khaavren.
“Why, neither of them are attacking,” explained Tazendra.
“That is true,” said Khaavren. “But I wondered which of them you had expected to attack.”
“Ah. I see.” She frowned. “Both of them, I should think.”
“Well, that is not unreasonable.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“What now?” said Pel.
“In fact,” said Khaavren, “I am uncertain. Aerich?”
“The Tiassa asks the Lyorn for an idea?” said Aerich with a smile. Then he shrugged. “We must find Adron. He is, no doubt in the battle-wagon.”
“Spell-wagon,” said Tazendra.
The others looked at her.
“What is the difference?” said Khaavren.
“A spell-wagon carries spells into a battle,” said Tazendra.
“Well,” said Khaavren. “And a battle-wagon carries battles into spells?”
“Not in the least,” said Tazendra patiently. “A battle-wagon carries spells intended to be used in battle against the enemy, whereas a spell-wagon may carry any sort of spell whatsoever; that is, a battle-wagon is necessarily a spell-wagon, while the reverse is not true. Do you see?”
“In truth,” said Khaavren, “I do not; the difference appears to be trivial.”
“Perhaps it is,” said Tazendra doubtfully. “And yet, it seems to me—”
“I beg your pardon,” said Aerich. “Tazendra is right; it is an important difference, and one we ought to bear in mind.”
“How, do you mean it?”
“I have never been more serious.”
“And yet—”
“Were that—” said Aerich, indicating the large wagon below, “a battle-wagon, it would hold sorcerers and artifacts and would be used against Lord Rollondar’s troops.”
“Well?”
“Well, I can say little more, for some of what I know was told to me in confidence.”
“But,” said Pel softly, “you, Tazendra, say the spells in the wagon are not to be used against the Imperial Army?”
“Oh,” said Tazendra, confident now that she had unexpectedly been supported by the Lyorn. “I don’t say that at all.”
“But then, what are you saying?” said Khaavren with some exasperation.
“That we don’t know what spells it contain, and that, therefore, we ought not assume—”
“Ah,” said Pel. “I begin to comprehend the difference. Should we attack with the notion that it is a battle-wagon, then we might—”
“Yes, yes,” said Khaavren impatiently. “I understand.” He looked down at it, and, moreover, at the grim warriors who stood around it. “In any case, we must climb onto the wagon, and enter the tent, for there can be no doubt that Adron is there.” He sighed. “Why do they not attack?” he murmured.
“Who?” said Tazendra.
Some hundreds of yards away, Rollondar said, for the seventeenth time, “Why do they not attack?”
Lady Glass, who stood next to him, shrugged. “He wishes to fight a defensive battle, that is all; he wants you to attack, so that he can use his greater mobility.”
Rollondar shook his head. “What is your opinion?” he asked Roila.
“I haven’t one,” said the Lavode, but she was frowning and looking out at the neatly formed lines of the Breath of Fire Battalion.
Nyleth appeared at the moment, returning from the front ranks. “Well?” snapped the Warlord.
Nyleth shook his head, “I can tell you nothing,” he said, smiling as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
“How, nothing?”
“Exactly. Counter-spells, illusions, blinders, cloaks, baffles—whatever it is, if it is anything, more
work has gone into concealing it than I have seen go into the actuality of most spells.”
At this moment, a messenger, wearing the livery of the Imperial Army, rode up the Warlord, saluted, and said, “Your Excellency.”
“Well?”
“There has been a massacre at the Gate of the Seven Flags.”
“How, a massacre?”
“No one is guarding it, Excellency.”
“Is it open or closed?”
“Closed.”
Rollondar nodded grimly, then frowned. “A clever maneuver, but why does he not take advantage of it by storming the city through that gate?”
The messenger said, “Excellency, it may be that he had nothing to do with it. The streets—”
“Well?”
“The streets are filled with rioters.”
“Rioters?”
“Everywhere, Excellency.”
“Then there are no longer clear paths to the other gates?”
“I fear there are not—certainly the streets between here and the Gate of the Seven Flags is not clear.”
Rollondar stared once more through the Dragon Gate, as if trying to find his enemy and read his mind. “So,” he said, as if to himself. “His spell is either a bluff or not, and he is either behind the rioting or not, and he either intends to assault another gate or not.”
“This lack of intelligence is insupportable.”
Rollondar fell silent, scowled, and took counsel with himself. After a moment he then straightened up. “I must gamble, it seems,” he said. “It is an elaborate bluff, or a profound threat. If it is a bluff, it is intended to make us attack him and leave the gate undefended. If a threat, he wants time to prepare it. I believe the threat is real, and so I make my throw. But I will hedge in these ways: First, I will send a brigade of infantry to each of the other gates, who will sweep aside any opposition on the way; second, because our forces are thus reduced, we will not attempt to surround them, but will attack on three sides, and Lookfor will hold a division ready to defend the gate should Adron charge it. Oraani,” he added, addressing his commander of infantry, “attend to the gates as I have said.”
This order was acknowledged, and Rollondar continued looking forward, but his countenance was clear and strong, and there was even something like a smile upon his lips, now that the waiting was over and the time for action had arrived. “We attack at once,” he said. “Glass, prepare to charge them. Tross, pike-men behind. Lookfor, you will guard both flanks as well as the gate behind us when it clears. Lavodes, go with Nyleth, break through, and destroy Adron’s spell.”