by Steven Brust
“Oh, I agree that each has the room, but does each have the soldiers?”
“Certainly. Why else should they be covered? Gentlemen!” he called. “If you please, it is time.”
The covers on the carts were thrown back, and, indeed, each cart held a pair of warriors, each of whom now stood up, leapt to the ground, drew, and placed himself on his guard.
“Now then,” continued the officer. “If my reckoning is correct, twice five is ten.”
“It is,” said Piro, who was endeavoring to overcome his astonishment at the contents of carts which he had assumed carried only goods to be traded.
“Well, and ten and seven is, let us see, seventeen, is it not?”
“Oh, I have already said that I cannot dispute with you as to figures.”
“So then, it appears, our numbers are seventeen to eight, and—”
“Yes, and?”
“Then there are those who appear to be merchants.”
“Ah, you say, ‘appear to be.’ ”
“Well, yes.”
“So then, they are not in fact?”
“Not in the least.”
As he said this, the five supposed merchants pushed aside their robes, revealing that each had a sword, which he now drew in good style.
“So then,” continued the captain, who, we should add, no longer appeared to be as tired as he had, any more than the “merchants” appeared to be pale, “seventeen and five is twenty-two, is it not?”
“You calculate soldiers the way a merchant counts coins—that is to say, without a flaw.”
“So then, it seems we have twenty-two against your eight, and so—”
“Yes, and so?”
“It only remains for me to beg you to surrender.”
“Oh!”
“Well?”
“That word! ‘Surrender’!”
“Is it not a perfectly good word?”
“I confess, I do not like how it sounds in my ears.”
“And yet, consider that, to resist, well, I believe you, yourself, used the word ‘slaughter.’ ”
“That is true.”
“And so?”
“Will you permit me to put to you a question?”
“It seems to me that you were sufficiently complaisant to permit a question from me; how can I do any less? What, then, is this famous question?”
“Did you, in fact, set out to-day with the intention of setting a trap for me?”
“How, you don’t know?”
“Oh, I suspect; nevertheless, I should like to hear if my suspicion is correct.”
“Sir Blue Fox, you must know that you are not popular among the merchants.”
“Well,” said Piro, shrugging.
“To answer your question, yes. We set out to-day to capture you.”
“I am honored.”
“I am glad you take it that way, sir.”
“How else?”
“Some might disdain us for our choice of industry.”
“Perhaps, but I would not be one to do so. You are procuring your bread with your sword arm, as soldiers have always done, and, moreover, as we do ourselves.”
“You are very gracious, sir.”
“It is nothing. Only—”
“Well?”
“It is a shame that, from time to time, such gentlemen as ourselves must cross swords. But then, if we did not, why, what reason would we have to exist?”
“Do you truly mean to resist?”
“Cha! Can you doubt it?”
“But, what of your friends?”
“Well, if you will give me a moment, I will ask them.”
“Take as much time as you need; the day is young, and contrary to an earlier remark I may have made, we have nowhere we need to be.”
“You are very kind. Well, my friends? Do any of you wish to surrender?”
This produced an immediate, emphatic, and unanimous denial, followed by Ibronka saying, “My dear Blue Fox, are we to begin the dance soon? I am beginning to feel a certain ennui.”
Piro returned his attention to the captain and shrugged. “You see how it is?”
“Then, there is nothing that remains but to play it out.”
“One thing first, sir.”
“And that is?”
“I believe that, in an instant, I am going to do my very best to pass my sword through your body; I anticipate you attempting to be just as polite with regard to me. Therefore, I should very much like to know your name.”
“That is only just, but—”
“Well?”
“I only know you as the Blue Fox, which I am certain is not your real name.”
“So then?”
“If you give me your actual name, well, then I shall give you mine.”
“But consider, sir, that, as I live outside the law, well, I have good reason for not wishing my name to be known.”
“Oh, I do not dispute your reasons.”
“So that, if I were to tell you my name, it would follow that I would have to kill you in order to keep my secret.”
“That is but natural.”
“You are sanguine about this?”
“Perfectly.”
“Very well, then.” And dropping his voice, he said, “I am called Piro, the Viscount of Adrilankha.”
The other bowed and said, “I am Noarwa e’Tennith.”
“Honored.”
“The same.”
“Would you prefer to give the charge, or receive it?”
“Oh, on that subject, I am utterly indifferent.”
“Very well then,” said Piro, at last drawing his sword, “we are about to have the honor of charging you.”
“Very well.”
“Charge!” cried Piro, and lunged up at the one called Noarwa. The Dragonlord parried the attack, using his knees to direct his horse to the side; but that is exactly where Grassfog was, and the latter, also striking upward, caught Noarwa with a thrust that entered under his rib cage and penetrated very nearly as far as his right shoulder. It is probable that this would have killed him in any case, but Piro, wishing to take no chances with his identity, made certain by severing the Dragonlord’s throat as he slid off his horse.
Ibronka took the word “charge” in its most literal sense, and, wielding her longsword in both hands, she stepped forward, striking down from right to left; then, without ever stopping the motion, from left to right, after which she took another step forward and executed a two-handed lunge. The most likely explanation for the results of the first instant of battle is that the warriors had not truly expected to receive a charge; or, if they had, they had not considered that it would occur so quickly. But the fact remains that Ibronka’s first three strokes had removed three of them from combat, one with a slash across his chest and stomach, a second who was missing her sword hand, and a third who had received two feet of steel fully in her chest. Before the others around these three had quite recovered, Ritt and Iatha were next to Ibronka, and furiously dueling—indeed, so furiously that Iatha gave one a cut on his wrist that caused him to drop his weapon from a nerveless hand.
Kytraan, notwithstanding the order to charge, had something of a grasp of tactics in such combat, and so he quickly arranged his small force—that is, himself, Röaana, and Belly—in a sort of triangle facing out, where they endeavored to keep their blades moving continually to avoid any injury to any of them, while simultaneously looking for any openings their enemies might give them. This method was so effective that, although they did not inflict any wounds, neither did they receive any, although they were, in point of fact, holding off nine opponents.
In the meantime, Piro and Grassfog had not been idle. Stepping past Noarwa’s horse, they saw three warriors facing them, and at once charged into them, attempting to attack them before they could separate. In this they were at least partially successful, in that Grassfog struck one through the throat almost at once. Unfortunately, while Piro dueled with another, the third managed to step over the bod
y of his fallen comrade so that Grassfog’s back was, for a moment, exposed to him. He did not waste this opportunity, but, on the contrary, cut viciously, striking Piro’s friend and comrade in the middle of his back with a horizontal stroke.
Grassfog arched his back and moaned, and at the same time thrust his sword blindly behind him, by luck striking his enemy just above the hip. Piro, upon hearing the soft moan, understood what it meant, and, suddenly feeling a terrible fear—for his friend, be it firmly understood—sent his blade flashing around his enemy’s eyes and ears so quickly that the other was bewildered, and Piro then put her down with a good thrust through the shoulder, following it, almost as an afterthought, with a slash across the face so that she did not get any foolish notions about continuing the contest.
Piro turned to Grassfog, who gasped, “Never mind me. The others!” Piro nodded, and stepped forward three steps to where Ibronka, Iatha, and Ritt were dueling with five of the enemy. Piro did not even consider such niceties as whether it was proper to strike from behind; we beg leave to doubt if, under the circumstances, even Aerich would have, so that, in an instant, instead of five of the enemy, there were four; and just as quickly Ibronka found the blade of her enemy and twisted, sending his weapon flying, and Ritt made a sudden stop-cut, striking under his enemy’s shoulder and causing him to stumble backward and fall, after which he quit the contest. The remaining warrior, suddenly realizing that, in this part of the battle, it had suddenly become four against one, decided that the money he had hoped to earn was not worth dying for, especially as he would be unlikely to be able to collect the reward if he were dead and his enemies escaped; so he begged off the remainder of the fight by the simple expedient of taking to his heels.
Then, without another word being spoken, Piro, Ibronka, Iatha, and Ritt charged the nine enemies who had surrounded Kytraan, Röaana, and Belly. None of our friends had been wounded, and the only damage they had yet done to their enemies was a scratch Röaana had inflicted on a forearm that had gone too high and delayed too long before striking.
Ibronka was about to engage, but Piro held up his hand for her to wait. Then he cleared his throat and said, “Gentlemen, may I invite you to retire?”
While some might consider it absurd for seven warriors to make such an offer to nine, the fact that shortly before it had been eight against twenty-two made it appear less preposterous. And, considering that, with such odds, it seemed unlikely that they would be able to bring back enough of the bandits to justify the risk, the question was far more reasonable than it might at first seem. Certainly, that was the opinion of the nine remaining warriors.
“Will you permit us to take our wounded and dead comrades?” said one of them.
“Certainly,” said Piro.
“And our horses and carts?”
“We shall not quarrel over such trifles.”
“Then we will withdraw.”
“Well, but one thing—”
“And that is?”
“Your purses, gentlemen.”
“That is but fair. Here they are.”
“Very good, then.”
“And we bid you a good day.”
As the warriors collected their wounded and dead and loaded them onto the carts, Piro rushed over to Grassfog.
“My friend, are you all right?”
“Ah, Piro. Is it over?”
“Oh, yes. And you are the only casualty.”
“Well, that is good. Twenty-two of them, were there?”
“That, or something close. I did not check his arithmetic.”
“A pretty little victory.”
“But you, are you all right?”
“I confess, there have been times I have felt better.”
“We must find a physicker for you.”
“Useless,” said Grassfog, wincing suddenly.
“What do you tell me?”
“I have no feeling below my waist; I am tolerably certain of what that means. Moreover, my kidneys have been laid open. It was a good stroke.”
“Blood of the Horse! Ah, I led us into a trap! It is my fault!”
“Not in the least. Never worry your heart about it, Blue Fox. Such things are part of the game. Do you imagine I didn’t know how I would end? And, twenty-two against eight, well, that is worth a song.”
“I think so!”
“Piro, you must do something for me.”
“Name it.”
“There is a chain around my neck.”
“I see it.”
“Can you see that my sister gains possession of it? It is a family heirloom of sorts.”
“Of course I will. But, how do I find her?”
“Her name is Tsira.”
“Very well.”
“She lives not far from a village called Six Horses, on the northern slopes of South Mountain.”
“Not far from it?”
“She lives in the mountains, hunting, fishing, and trapping. You may—” Here he stopped and coughed for some period of time, his face growing more pale by the second. At length he continued, “You may have to look for her.”
“Very well. I will do it.”
“Take my hand.”
“Here it is.”
He looked up the others, all of whom were kneeling next to him, and gave them a smile. “Never trouble yourselves, my friends.” He pressed Piro’s hand and the Viscount returned the pressure. Grassfog closed his eyes then, and his breath became more and more shallow. Presently he gave a sort of sigh and his breathing stopped altogether.
Piro, and, indeed, all of them remained there for some few minutes, until at last Piro disengaged his hand, then reached forward and removed the chain from around Grassfog’s neck, putting it around his own. Then he stood up. Ibronka placed her hand in his.
After a moment he looked at the others. “We will burn his body before doing anything else; let us speed him to his next life.”
There were murmurs of agreement with this plan; Grassfog had not been the least liked of the band.
“Come then,” said Piro. “Let us pick him up and hasten to break camp. We must see to his body, and then I wish to be on our way to South Mountain before nightfall.”
Chapter the Eightieth
How Sethra Lavode Attempted
To Relax with a Good Book
One day near the end of winter, as Piro and his band were approaching South Mountain, where they hoped to find Grassfog’s sister, Sethra Lavode emerged from the depths of Dzur Mountain and said, “Find me my apprentice.” She spoke in an even, conversational tone, with no special emphasis; nor was this order at all unusual, as she often had reason to consult with Sethra the Younger; the only thing about her request that is worthy of note is that, to all appearances, there was no one anywhere near her. She added, “Have her meet me in the library,” to the emptiness around her, and continued through narrow hallways, up narrow stairs, to wider hallways and stairs—the latter showing less sign of having been carved out of the stone of the mountain.
This steady, leisurely walk presently brought her to her library, where, after a short time of looking around and considering what she wished to read, she was joined by Sethra the Younger, who said, “Tukko says you wished to see me.”
“Tukko is right.”
“Well, madam?”
“You have studied the gods, have you not?”
“I think so, Enchantress! I seem to remember a good number of years where, at your insistence, I did little else!”
“Yes, only—”
“Well?”
“It seems you have continued your studies beyond what I suggested.”
“Suggested!”
“Well, required then.”
“Yes, I confess, I have become fascinated by what it means, metaphysically, to be a god, and by the duties and responsibilities of the Lords of Judgment, and by the characteristics of some of them. But why do you ask me?”
“Because not long ago I received a piece of intelligence.”
; “Concerning the gods?”
“Exactly.”
“And this intelligence, it has been preying on your mind?”
“Your comprehension is perfect. I find myself disturbed and anxious, and, at length, I came to the decision that perhaps there was something to be concerned about.”
The apprentice bowed. “If there is any knowledge I have that is useful, madam, you must know it is at your disposal.”
“That is good of you, madam.”
“But then, what is this intelligence?”
“I have been told that Tri’nagore has been entirely absent from the Halls of Judgment for some time.”
“Time? And yet, you know as well as I—that is to say, better than I—that time means little enough in the Halls of Judgment.”
“That is true, but there is, necessarily, some relationship.”
“How, is there?”
“Certainly. The gods have an interest—more than an interest—in the Empire. They sent us that demon.”
“The Necromancer.”
“Yes. As you know, she was of great aid in delaying the Jenoine, so that they still have made no effort against us. And she was even of some assistance against the Pretender.”
“This is all true. And then?”
“It proves that there must be a connection, of some kind, between time in the Halls of Judgment, and time as it flows here.”
“Very well, I accept that there is a connection.”
“And so, if Tri’nagore is absenting himself from the Halls, it may mean something.”
“That is possible.”
“And, so, I wish to know what it means.”
“I can tell you what I know of this god, but—”
“That is exactly what I wish.”
“Truly?”
“My dear apprentice, am I in the habit of being jocular?”
“I beg your pardon, Enchantress.”
“Well, go on then.”
“Tri’nagore was one of the servants of the Jenoine, as was Verra, and so he goes back to the beginning. He has, however, always been independent—has rarely had anything to say to the other gods. He dislikes all of them, they dislike him, although, to be sure, he has never failed to do his share against the Jenoine.”
“Well, go on.”
“No one of any consequence has ever made a pact with him, at least, so far as my knowledge extends, and this is probably because he has no especial talents, save some skills in the Eastern magical arts.”