by Steven Brust
“Sanctimonious, Majesty?”
A pale smile crossed Her Majesty’s countenance. “Exactly.”
“Oh, Your Majesty! It is yet another mark of greatness to be able to do so. I know, because of how far beyond my powers it is.”
“How, you? I cannot imagine you being sanctimonious, Captain.”
“You did not hear how I spoke to my son, Majesty.”
The Empress nodded. “Then it would appear that, as your Empress, I must provide a good example. Rise, Captain. Go and send your friend to me; I wish to speak to him.”
“Your Majesty, before I go, dare I make one last impertinent request?”
“What is it, Captain?”
“May I kiss Your Majesty’s hand?”
Zerika smiled slightly and held out her perfect, white arm. “Here it is, Captain. Now go and bring me your friend.”
Khaavren reverently touched his lips to the proffered hand, then rose, bowed, backed away, and left the room without ever raising his eyes to meet Her Majesty’s. Outside of the door he put his hat on his head once more and, coming to the dining room, said, “Pel, I believe that Her Majesty wishes to say two words to you.”
Pel glanced at Khaavren, reading something of the ordeal through which he had just passed in the expression on his countenance, and pressed the Tiassa’s hand.
“My friend—” he began.
“No, no. See Her Majesty. And Pel: there is goodness in her, and I believe greatness as well.”
“I know that, Khaavren; I have seen it myself.”
Without another word, then, Pel took himself to the waiting room, where he was at once admitted by Brudik. He approached Her Majesty and bowed.
“Your Discretion,” she said. “My conscience stabs me; I have been unjust to a loyal servant.”
“I will bind the wounds, Sire,” said Pel, bowing once more, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
And it was in this way that the Duke of Galstan, in spite of the plans and enmity of Kâna, Grita, Habil, and Illista, remained at Whitecrest Manor as Kâna’s troops approached the capital.
Chapter the Eighty-Fourth
How the Warlord Prepared
The Defense of Adrilankha,
And Morrolan Acquired a Mission
We have not hitherto mentioned Kiraamoni e’Baritt, nor, in point of fact, do we intend to spend any considerable time with her; but it is only fair, after having previously mentioned the emergency fortifications created by Fentor around what would become Castle Black, to note that it was this worthy, one of the truly great military engineers of the age, who directed the construction of the fortifications around Adrilankha. While Kiraamoni had, it is true, both more manpower and material with which to work, it is also undeniable that she had considerably less time.
Her work was nothing short of astonishing, the more-so in that it was conducted without the awareness on the part of the citizens of Adrilankha that the purpose of this sudden construction was either military or immediate—the Countess of Whitecrest and the Empress were both very much aware of the danger of a panic in the city, and the degree to which such a panic would do Kâna’s work for him—indeed, there is some reason to believe that the instigation of confusion and social unrest was a part of his plan.
It is sad that so many of those who study military history (and shameful that so many of those who write it) give insufficient weight to efficiency. If every battle that had ever been lost because of clumsy staff work, slow communications, and sloppy logistics had been won, we should be living in such a different world that we could scarcely recognize the very hills and rivers. But if aficionados of military history are unaware of this, we can be grateful that Sethra Lavode, for one, was not, and it was, without fail, a quality she looked for in staff officers: Kiraamoni arranged for supplies, manpower, and subsidiary design work with such a cool efficiency that within three hours of receiving her instructions, wagons had been gathered, horses rounded up, shovels, hammers, nails, and lumber requisitioned, plans laid, and the wagonloads of supplies were rolling briskly to the points designated, while construction battalions, shovels in hand, were beginning to work.
The three roads that Sethra considered the most likely to face attack were the Old West Road (also called the Hartre Pike), Lower Kieron Road, and the Northgate Ferry Way. Along each of these roads, within the astonishing time of fifty-two hours from when the order was given by the Warlord, there appeared two small, low, wooden, but perfectly serviceable fortresses. Each of these fortresses was well supplied with javelins and troops who knew how to use them, as well as food, water, latrines, and stabling and fodder for the horses of the (admittedly scanty) cavalry corps of the Empire. It is worthwhile to note in passing that one of these fortresses is, in a substantially modified form, it is true, still standing: and should anyone visit the Fortress Inn on the Old West Road he will now understand something of why it has the peculiar form that it has.
In addition to fortifications, then, communications had been established in a new and efficient manner: next to each brigade-level officer was a specially trained sorcerer who could speak, mind to mind, with at least one other sorcerer, the second belonging to the support unit for the Warlord’s staff. In other words, every brigadier was able to instantly—instantly—send and receive messages to and from the Warlord. To be sure, there were still errand runners at the ready; the Warlord, while happy and even eager to adopt any new method that promised to give an edge in battle, was not willing yet to utterly abandon the systems that had proven reliable for thousands of years.
In retrospect, now that hundreds of battles, large and small, have been fought using this communication system or close variants, it may confound the reader to know that many of the middle-level commanders (by which we mean those between division level and company level) were so resistant to what appears to us as an advancement in military science without drawback; to this, we can only say that stubbornness, obstinacy, and resistance to change are no more unknown in the House of the Dragon than is a tendency toward redundancy, repetition, and reiteration among historians.
This communication system proved its efficacy at once: The Warlord maintained herself at Dzur Mountain, and was not even seen in person during these critical days except by her division commanders and staff officers; at least until the fortifications were complete, at which time, using the ability to teleport, she was able to carry out lightning-fast inspections. We need hardly add that, upon completing these inspections, she had nothing but praise for the worthy Kiraamoni—an important but, sadly, almost forgotten personage in the Battle of Adrilankha.
It was while this construction was occurring that Sethra Lavode paid a visit to Castle Black, where a celebration of the completion of this remarkable structure had been in progress for nearly a year. Morrolan, for his part, was not participating at this moment, having secluded himself in the room he had set aside for a library (mostly consisting of comfortable chairs and empty shelves) in order to continue his study of the sorcerous arts, which had become a passion for him. Upon learning that the Enchantress wished to have a conversation with him, he desired her to be brought to him at once.
Morrolan set his book down and rose to his feet when the Enchantress entered, but, instead of welcoming her to his home, or even saying how happy he was to see her, the words that came from his lips were “Is it true that all matter consists mostly of energy, and that to alter the form of this energy is to change the nature of the matter?”
“I perceive you have been reading Yebro.”
“Exactly.”
“I applaud your decision.”
“You should, madam; you recommended him.”
“Ah. Yes, well, then I applaud your decision to follow my advice.”
“But is what he says true?”
“All matter is mostly empty space, with particles held in certain relationships by bonds of energy, this has been proven beyond all possibility of doubt. To alter those bonds, is, indeed, to change
the nature of that matter.”
“But then—anything can be transformed into anything!”
“In theory, yes.”
“In theory?”
“In practice it is not so simple.”
“But, why is that?”
“Because every detail of each transformation must be held in the mind of the sorcerer, which is nearly impossible; and then the precise amount of energy must be applied in precisely the right way, which can rarely be done at the same time as one is holding all of this information in one’s mind. I hesitate to guess at the number of sorcerers who have destroyed themselves in the attempt to cast or create spells using such methods.”
“Ah. So, it is useless.”
“Nearly, as a practical matter. Although, in fact, there have recently been some very promising experiments in terms of removing salinity from sea-water. But the understanding of the foundation of sorcery, which is Yebro’s actual point, is of inestimable value.”
“Well.”
“Ah, do not look so disappointed, my friend. While you cannot turn a piece of basalt into a dinner for two, well, it was the use of these principles that resulted in the first flashstones, which were tolerably useful at one time. And there are sufficient other uses to prove the importance of the theoretical in the practical. And, indeed, there are certain methods of making dinner for two appear from nothing, or seem to, so even that is not lost.”
“Yes, I understand.”
“I am glad that you do.”
“But come, my dear Sethra—I do not believe you have come to see me in order to be questioned about aspects of magical philosophy, however interesting.”
“Well, that is true, though you know that I am happy to give you what help I can in your pursuit.”
“I know that you have been kindness itself. But in what way may I be of service to you?”
“May I sit down, Lord Morrolan?”
“Oh, my dear Sethra! You perceive, I am most distracted. Of course, please sit. And would you care for wine?”
“Not at all, but I thank you.”
“Come, then. You have my full attention, for I know you could not have come here without some purpose in mind.”
“Oh, you are entirely correct; I did not arrive without a purpose.”
“And then?”
“In a word, the Pretender is preparing an assault on Adrilankha, which we have only discovered at the last moment. That is, the very last moment. We expect his banners to be in sight to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!”
“Exactly.”
“Verra! What is to be done?”
“I wish you to command your division once more.”
“My division?”
“Certainly.”
“But when did I have a division?”
“Why, during Zerika’s march to Adrilankha.”
“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 destruct—”
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.