Sethra Lavode

by Steven Brust

  "Ah, yes! That is right. I had forgotten. You perceive, Fentor did most of the work."

  "Well, but now I wish you to take active command, although, to be sure, you may have him on your staff, or in any other position you choose."

  "My dear Sethra, I should be honored, to be sure. Only—"

  "Well?"

  "Why?"

  "You ask why?"

  "Yes. That is to say, why am I chosen for this honor?"

  "Oh, I did not select you for the honor, my friend, but rather for the duty. Such honor as there may be falls naturally with it, but, I assure you, had there been no honor at all, I should have chosen you just the same."

  "You perceive, my dear Sethra, that this answer, gratifying as it is, merely begs the question to be asked again, wherefore I do so. That is to say, why have you chosen me? You must know a score, a hundred, a thousand officers with more experience and knowledge of the military arts and sciences."

  "As to that, a thousand may be over-stating the case."

  "Well."

  "But the simple fact is, my friend, that, while there is truth in what you say, there are other aspects to the matter. I will be precise, because I know you value precision."

  "Yes, that is true."

  "If you were to be called upon to make a complex attack—a double envelopment, for example, or a grand flanking maneuver such as we used so effectively in the campaign that culminated at Brownstone Creek, I should wish for a commander with experience. If the intention was to have an independent campaign to coincide with my own, then I should require a general with great knowledge of how to maintain lines of communication and retreat. But you are to hold a position, or, at most, lead a countercharge at some point. And I have no commanders whose troops look at them, and speak about them, in the same that way the yours do."

  Morrolan frowned. "Madam, I confess that I do not understand what you do me the honor of telling me."

  "That does not startle me, good Morrolan. It may be because of your sword, or it may be an accident of manner that is inherent in your character, or it may have to do with your history. Perhaps it is something of all of these. But, although you may not be aware of it, you are the sort of commander that a soldier would follow over Deathgate Falls, or for whom he would defend a line against an army made up of the demons of Se'haganthú."

  "How, I am?"

  "You are, I promise you."

  "I had not been aware of this fact."

  "Perhaps I have erred in informing you of it. The knowledge may be of help to you, or it may hinder you. I believe it will do no harm, however, or I should not have told you."

  Morrolan shook his head, still endeavoring to comprehend what Sethra had done him the honor to explain. At length he said, "Well, I must consider this."

  "Assuredly. But, will you agree?"

  "Agree to what, madam?"

  "Why to command the division, as I have asked you to?"

  "Oh, yes. I had forgotten that matter."

  "And yet, it is rather too important to forget, don't you think?"

  "Oh, assuredly."

  "And then?"

  "Why, now I recall."

  "Certainly, but do you agree?"

  "Oh, that is your question?"

  "Indeed, my lord; it seems I have now done myself the honor of putting it to you several times."

  "But of course I agree, my dear Sethra. How, had you ever doubted it?"

  "In point of fact, my lord, I had not. May I depend on seeing you, in two hours' time, at Dzur Mountain?"

  "If you wish me to be there, madam, then I, will be there."

  "I do indeed. There I will outline the general plans for the defense."

  "You may depend upon me, Warlord."

  After the Warlord had taken her leave of him, Morrolan took himself out of doors to the courtyard of his castle, where there were some thirty or thirty-five guardsmen on duty in various towers. This time he was aware of certain subtle changes that came over these worthies, Dragonlords all, when he appeared. He remained there for some few moments, reflecting on this, before turning and going back to his castle. However, instead of returning to the library, he brought himself to his apartment, where he took down his sword from where it hung by its sheath on his wall from a single hook. He drew it, letting the peculiar and powerful sensations fill his thoughts, suffusing, if we may be poetic, his very soul with its energy and personality. "Is it you," he asked it, holding the blade up before his eyes. "Is it you, or is it I? If it is both of us, my black wand, then, where do you leave off, and where do I begin? Do you miss the excitement of battle, my friend? Well, so do I."

  He studied its length carefully, the dull grey-black metal giving off no hint of reflection, as if, instead, it were absorbing the light that struck it. "Well," he continued, "if there is to be an attack, then we shall both see action, and be all the happier for it. Indeed, perhaps I shall endeavor in this battle to use some of the sorcerous skill I have been studying with such diligence that, I fear, I have neglected you. Will you mind if I kill with sorcery instead of letting you feast, as you so much desire, on the blood of an enemy? If, perhaps, I draw a certain amount of energy from the Orb and then send it out in some direction, spewing destract—"

  He broke off, at this point, because even as the thought had formed in his mind, a sort of black light (if the reader can imagine such a thing) had left the tip of his weapon and, traveling upwards, carved a narrow hole through the ceiling, the rock of the next story, its roof, and so out into the sky. This event, as might well be imagined, so startled the Dragonlord that for some few moments he was unable to formulate a thought.

  "Remarkable," he murmured at last. Then, after reflecting for a while, "I must directly find some workmen to repair the damage; it would not do at all to have a hole running right through the middle of my home." And then, "I do hope no one was in the way."

  Morrolan had just time to communicate the need for repairs before the time indicated by Sethra had been reached, and so, walking out to the middle of his courtyard (for reasons we will explain on another occasion) he, with great care, not wishing to embed himself into a solid piece of rock, nor to scatter himself to the six winds, bethought himself of an image of the door leading into Dzur Mountain that he had first seen, closing his eyes until he was convinced he could see with all the clarity that he would have if he had been standing in front of it; then, drawing exactly enough energy, he executed the teleport, becoming, in effect, non-existent for some few seconds while he was in two places at once, and then, casting loose of his now tenuous grip on his position at Castle Black, permitted himself, not without a certain disorienting shift, to exist in the place he had seen with his mind's eye; he emerged, therefore, outside of a particular door into Dzur Mountain. The teleport was complete.

  He adjusted his cloak (Morrolan, even then, favored the full, flowing, ankle-length black cloak in which he is usually pictured today), ran a hand through his hair, made certain the ties on his doublet were in a neat and ordered line, and stepped up to the door. He was just considering whether he ought to clap, when it opened before him. On observing that there was no one there to open it, he reflected, "I must have one of those doors," and stepped into Dzur Mountain.

  Alas, having once set foot into the dim corridors of the mountain, he lost not only his way, but his exact punctuality (the latter being a direct consequence of the former), it taking him some fifteen or twenty minutes of making the exact wrong turnings and so avoiding both the correct corridor, and the industrious Tukko who had been sent to look for him.

  Eventually, however, he was found and escorted to the room where were seated Sethra Lavode, Sethra the Younger, the Sorceress in Green, Khaavren, the Necromancer, Lord Brimford—that is, the Warlock—and a few Dragonlords he did not then recognize. Morrolan mumbled an apology which was politely brushed aside, and he took his place at the long, smooth, brightly polished table made of stone that looked as if it, like much of the rest of Sethra's home, had once b
een part of the mountain.

  "We had not gotten very far," said Sethra. She pointed to a large map of Adrilankha that hung on the nearest wall, and said, "I was merely pointing out the positions from which I intend to defend the city."

  "Very good," said Morrolan. "I shall give you my whole attention, I promise."

  Sethra took a moment to introduce Morrolan to those of her staff officers whom he had not yet had the honor of meeting, after which she outlined her plans for engaging the enemy. "Once we know for certain where he intends the attack," she said, "we will, of course, move forces there as quickly as possible. If you study the thin lines on the map, you will observe that they indicate the best routes from one position to another. You must memorize those roads, and even journey along them once or twice, so that there will be no mistakes if you need to move your divisions. I have already arranged with Khaavren, Captain of the Phoenix Guards, for small patrols to keep those routes empty. For my part, I will make my headquarters in the field, where-ever I feel I am most needed. But I caution you all to be prepared for the unexpected."

  "Do you know," observed Khaavren, "I have often heard that one ought to be prepared for the unexpected, but I am not entirely certain of how to do so."

  "Well, sir," said the Warlord at once, "that is because there is no good way to accomplish this. But the caution must nevertheless be given, for the simple reason that if is not, and something unexpected happens, I should not look nearly so wise had I not made the remark."

  There were a few chuckles over this display of wit, and Khaavren, for his part, nodded to show that he held himself answered.

  "However," continued the Enchantress, looking carefully at everyone present in turn, so that each should realize that, in what she was about to say, there would be no question of joking, "however much I may, and, indeed, do insist upon a regular military plan in order to fight off this invasion, I cannot help but believe that there will be a great deal more to this battle than we expect. That is why the warlock Brimford," here she indicated the Easterner, "is preparing, as he did before, to see that the enemy is attacked by whatever wildlife can be pulled from the surrounding jungles and forests. It is why the Necromancer—" here she nodded to the pale demon, "—intends to re-animate any of the enemy who should be killed in the battle. It is why I intend to make as great a use of sorcery as ever we can manage. There will be much that must necessarily be left to decisions made in the moment, because of how little we know; we ought, therefore, to be as certain as we can about what is ours to control, and that, above all, includes our military forces."

  "For all the good they will do," observed Sethra the Younger, shrugging.

  Morrolan looked at her, then at the Warlord.

  "My apprentice," explained the Enchantress in answer to Morrolan's look, "is convinced that the battle will be decided entirely by how we respond to whatever schemes our enemy may have concocted. In this I believe she may well be right but, as I have said, that is no reason to ignore the direct, simple forces that are about to attack us."

  "How," said Morrolan, "you agree with her?"

  "I have believed for some time that Kâna has certain plans and stratagems with which he hopes and expects to overcome our advantages. I have had no reason to change my mind—indeed, I have reason now to think so more than ever."

  "Well, but—" He stopped then, and a certain flush rose to his face as he looked at the others at the table.

  "No, go on, my friend," said the Warlord. "Now is the time to speak freely. To-morrow morning, unless I am much mistaken, it will be time for you to follow orders without question."

  "Well then, I was merely about to express my curiosity about what these new reasons are."

  "Oh, as to that. Well, I have some small indication that Kâna may have enlisted the aid of a certain Tri'nagore, one of the Lords of—"

  "Tri'nagore!" cried Morrolan.

  "How, you know of him?"

  "Nearly."

  "Well, come then. Tell us what you know."

  "You wish to hear about Tri'nagore?" asked Morrolan, obviously agitated to a greater degree than any of them had seen before.

  "Certainly," said Sethra Lavode. "And at once, if you please."

  "He is worshiped by barbarians near Blackchapel—that is, near the village where I lived before coming here. Near, but not too near—a day's ride, perhaps."

  "Barbarians?" said Sethra Lavode, as if unsure how he was using the term.

  "Barbarians?" echoed Sethra the Younger, as if wondering how this could be true of some Easterners more than others.

  Morrolan continued speaking, with barely contained fury. "They attacked my village for no reason, except, perhaps, to appease this fetid-breathed evil-eyed cat-eating mucklord of a god they worship as who should say kethna worship the filth of the farmyard. Not for gold, nor food, nor wine, nor even desperation for congress, but only for blood did they fall upon us, while I was meditating, and unaware until it was over and saw what had been done by the hand of this… Tri'nagore."

  He uttered this last name as if it were a stronger curse than any he had used leading up to it, after which he fell silent, as did everyone else at the table, until, after some period of time, the Warlord said, "My goodness."

  Morrolan shrugged and glowered at the table in front of him.

  "And yet," ventured Sethra the Younger after another moment, "I had thought that Tri'nagore desired sacrifices from his own followers, not those of others."

  "Bah. He doesn't care. He desires blood, that is all. These barbarians live in villages that always run with blood—human, animal, they don't care. In one of the villages is an altar where they raise his presence—they drench it with blood to appease him. They raid and plunder because their god tells them to, and so they worship a god who tells them to plunder instead of raising food as man was intended to do."

  "I thought you said," remarked someone, "that they didn't steal food."

  "No, I did not," said Morrolan coldly. "I said that was not why they raided. That doesn't mean they do not carry off what they can."

  "But then," said the Dragonlord, "if it were not for the plunder, well, I do not understand." He fell silent.

  Morrolan said, "Well, if truth be known, I do not understand myself. Nor even does Arra, who knows them better than I do."

  "Who is Arra," asked another Dragonlord.

  "My high priestess, and the head of my Circle of Witches."

  "Ah, witches," said the Sorceress in Green contemptuously.

  "And there you have your answer," said the Warlock, speaking for the first time.

  Suddenly all eyes were upon him.

  "Explain yourself, sir," said the Warlord, and if anyone objected to her referring to the Easterner as sir, at least no one thought to correct Sethra Lavode.

  "Tri'nagore," said Brimford, "is a god of witches. If, indeed, Kâna has a made a pact with him, and if, moreover, he has been manifested by these barbarians of whom the Lord Morrolan has done us the honor to speak, well, then we might guess that my arts will be ineffective."

  The Enchantress nodded slowly. "That, then, must be part of the Pretender's plan. Can he also interfere with the Necromancer?"

  The Warlock shrugged. "I would think not, but I know little of the gods, and less of necromancy."

  "What can be done?" asked Khaavren from the far end of the table.

  "Ah, that is easy to answer," said Brimford.

  "Well?"

  "The god must be banished."

  "Very well," said the Sorceress in Green. "I accept that he must be banished."

  "And you are right to," said Brimford.

  "But, how can this be done?"

  "That is not easy to answer," said Brimford.

  Morrolan suddenly rose to his feet and, flipping back his cloak, drew his sword. We need hardly explain the effect on all of those present when this weapon was brought forth—there was a sound as everyone drew in his breath at the same moment, and everyone except Sethra Lavode flinched
. And, lest there be any mistake, Morrolan set it upon the table, where it echoed harsh and loud on meeting the stone, so they could all look upon it, and he said, "As to that—I will banish him."

  "You?" cried the others.

  "I have said so, and I even repeat it. I will banish him."

  Sethra Lavode nodded slowly. "What help do you require?"

  "None," said Morrolan. "Everything that concerns this god I take upon myself."

  "And yet," said the Sorceress in Green, "we expect the dance to begin to-morrow at dawn."

  "In that case," said Morrolan, picking up his sword and sheathing it, "I will nominate Fentor to take my place, and, moreover—"

  "Well?"

  "I should be on my way. Warlord, do I have your leave to attend to this matter?"

  Sethra Lavode studied the young Dragonlord, and appeared to be reflecting. Then she said, "Very well. Your lieutenant will command your troops. You have my leave, and my blessing on your mission."

  Morrolan bowed, and, without another word, walked out of the room.

  Chapter

  the Eighty-Fifth

  how morrolan returned to the east in order to settle an old score

  Morrolan made no particular arrangements before setting off on his mission; indeed, he made no arrangements at all. He walked out of Dzur Mountain and took in great lungful of the clear mountain air in order to settle his mind—he was just calm enough to know that he ought not to attempt a teleport while so furious that he could not focus his thoughts. Bringing himself to a state where he might safely perform this exacting spell took, in fact, rather a long time: as he stood there, doing nothing, he would remember again the attack on Blackchapel, and again he would work himself into a passion. He paced and kicked at stones, sometimes even bending down to pick one up and throw it, hearing the clatter down the slope. Sometimes he would slap his hand onto the smooth, black pommel of his sword. Sometimes he would stand, his arms folded over his chest, and simply fume, letting his rage carry him as it would.

  Eventually, his thoughts drifted to his home—still new enough to give delight—and these thoughts gave him a certain degree of satisfaction. He had not the traditional nobleman's mistrust of anything new, first because he was young, and second because he had been raised far away from the Empire and its traditions, and so had not had the opportunity to learn that older is invariably better. And so he reflected with sincere pleasure on his home, recalling its marble and obsidian, and thinking about improvements he might make.