Sethra Lavode (Viscount of Adrilankha)

by Steven Brust

  “Very well,” said Tsanaali. “It is time.”

  They drew their swords, opened the door, and entered. The affray was short and furious—the two guardsmen within, armed with pikes, falling instantly to the five swords that charged them out of nowhere; they did not even have time to raise an alarm.

  As they fell, the other squads began arriving, and with such timing that, in less than a minute, all of them were assembled in the hallway.

  “Very well, gentlemen,” said Tsanaali. “Down this corridor will be six or eight more guards; we must strike quickly. Beyond that is an antechamber with a single guard. Beyond that, a covered terrace where we will find Her Majesty, holding an inert Orb. Let us go.”

  The small troop moved down the corridor toward the Orb.

  Chapter the Ninetieth

  How Piro Carried Out

  Grassfog’s Last Wishes

  And Learned a Little of

  His Family History

  We must now, with some trepidation, back up just a few short hours, because, while we are not insensible to the reader’s desire to know what is to become of our friends in Adrilankha, at this point our history absolutely requires that we look in on Piro, who, as the reader may recall, had been given an errand by a dying friend; and as everyone knows, few obligations are more sacred than those given by a dying friend. This conclusion, which we daresay is inarguable, brought Piro to a small village on the northern slopes of South Mountain. The village, to remind the reader, was called Six Horses, as it was founded by a lady of the House of the Tsalmoth who boasted this as her wealth. Like most mountain villages, there was little enough there: three small private cottages, a Speaker’s house, a community spring house, and a sort of general merchandise store that performed double duty as the inn. Nowhere else in the area could wine or liquor be purchased, and so quite naturally this store became the community gathering place, especially on Marketday, which was the only time there was any sort of population in the village.

  On this occasion, it being a Farmday, the village seemed to Piro to be all but deserted—in fact, it might be observed that the arrival of the small company that included Piro, Ibronka, Kytraan, Röaana, Iatha, Belly, Ritt, Mica, and Clari caused the population of Six Horses to effectively double. Indeed, their arrival would have created something of a sensation had there been a sufficient populace for a sensation to have anything to work with.

  In the event, they stopped outside of the general store to which we have just referred, recognizing by its wide front and swinging door that it was a place of some importance. Leaving their horses in the care of Lar and Clari, the rest of them entered hoping to find wine with which to wash down the dust of traveling. They all went directly to the long shelf propped up by two barrels which served as a bar, except for Piro, who carried out an inspection of the store.

  The proprietor was a Tsalmoth called Marel—indeed, the descendant of the very lady who had founded the village. Instead of horses, however, whose company he had never found agreeable, he had a store that did a brisk business on Marketdays, and provided him with sufficient wine and foodstuffs to satisfy his own needs on the other days. In addition to those items usual in such a store—milled flour from the plains below, nails and hammers from the blacksmith to the west, and wine from the local vines—there was a considerable number of furs hanging from nails along the back wall, and cloaks and coats made from this fur prominently displayed in front. The most numerous were made of the fur of the norska, but there were also fox, wolf, and even a few lyorn skins.

  Piro spent a few moments studying these—both the furs, and the items that had been made from them—while Marel studied Piro. Marel’s study was very precise after the manner of his class: that is, he was able to estimate to the copper penny with whom he was dealing, and, moreover, make shrewd guesses as to how best to treat with him in order to wring the most possible good—that is to say, money—out of their acquaintance. Accordingly, Marel said nothing, barely even nodding a good day, and concealed his study, waiting until the Tiassa should speak first. This was easier to do as, for some time, he was very much involved in serving Piro’s friends.

  Eventually Piro spoke, saying, “My dear merchant—”

  “My lord,” said Marel with a slight bow. He had actually considered, “My lord highwayman,” as a form of address, but rejected it.

  Piro continued, “These furs.”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “They are very fine indeed.”

  Marel bowed again. “This region is known for only two things, my lord. One is the quality of the fur from the norska who dwell nearby.”

  “Very well, I can see that. And the other?”

  “The drafish from our streams. Nowhere else in the Empire, my lord, can be found—”

  “I have no doubt that is true, good merchant. But at this moment, you perceive, I have no interest in fish. Whereas, in fact, considering norska fur—”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “I have considerable interest.”

  “And you are right to be interested, my lord. In addition to the brown and white coloring, which is not unattractive, and the obvious ability of such fur to keep one warm even in the winter of the mountains, many do not realize that these furs repel water.”

  “How, they do?”

  “Assuredly. And even more-so when they are treated with a certain oil of my own development, and upon which I have made exhaustive tests.”

  “Tell me, if you please, where these furs come from?”

  Marel frowned. “My lord? Excuse me, but, they come from norska.”

  “Cha! I know that! I mean, who brings them in?”

  “Ah. I beg Your Lordship’s pardon. Trappers, my lord.”

  “Are there many such?”

  “Enough, my lord, especially in this region.”

  “And do you know one called Tsira?”

  “Tsira? Why, certainly, yes!”

  “Can you tell me where to find her?”

  Meral sighed. “Then Your Lordship does not care to buy furs?”

  “On the contrary, my good merchant. I shall buy three of them.”

  The Tsalmoth brightened considerably, and said, “Pick them out, by all means.”

  “These three,” said Piro carelessly.

  “And would Your Lordship wish for any of the oil?”

  “No, but I will pay you for a bottle anyway. Now then, about Tsira. I give you my word, you have no cause to fear that I am her enemy. On the contrary, I was a friend of her brother, and bring her, alas, news of his death and a small bequest for her.”

  “Ah, so much the worse! She often spoke of her brother. He was, then, one of your band?”

  “My band, good sir? I do not understand what you do me the honor to say.”

  The merchant’s face became quite red, and he said, “That is to say, she spoke of her brother as, well—”

  “Never mind, good merchant.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “But then, to find her?”

  “If you take the road to the west, in half a league, you will come to an elbow. Continue there as if there were no bend, and you will find a small path. When you reach a stream, follow it to the left for two leagues, and you will come to a cottage built into the side of the mountain, and that is where she lives.”

  “I thank you, my friend. Here is for the furs, and the oil—which you may keep—and this is for six bottles of wine to keep us warm against the chill, and this is a thanks for your help.”

  “Your Lordship is generous.”

  “Not at all,” said Piro. Then, turning to his friends, who had remained silent up until this time, he said, “Come, let us go and complete this errand.”

  Taking their recent purchases—those, at any rate, that they had not already consumed—they mounted their horses and, following the directions from the complaisant Tsalmoth, found themselves, two hours later, looking at a small cottage next to a brook and surrounded by siju trees, whose oblong leaves all
but concealed the cottage.

  “All right,” said Piro, “let us now—”

  “Stay exactly where you are,” said someone whose words—sufficiently imperative as they were—were emphasized by a javelin which struck a tree some few inches from Piro’s head, with a hollow “thunk.” It remained in the tree, vibrating directly before Piro’s eyes.

  “Let us,” suggested Piro, “remain where we are. Consider that, even if it were not for the threat implied by the sudden appearance of the weapon—a tolerably palpable threat, I think—bear in mind that we are not here for the purpose of antagonizing anyone, but, on the contrary, to perform a service for a lady who is, unless my guess is wrong, the very one who has just communicated to us in this particularly engaging way.”

  After these remarks, he addressed the cottage, saying, “If your name is Tsira, I would beg for two minutes of your time. And, if it is not, well, we may as well have some conversation just the same, because I give you my word, I should prefer speaking with you to exchanging javelins—the more-so as I did not bring any.”

  After a moment, they heard the voice again. “I beg your pardon for my greeting, but, you perceive, I rarely receive visitors here, and, when I do, well, they sometimes come in bands with the thought of larceny. And, in truth, you look not unlike larcenists yourselves.”

  Piro, on impulse, got down from his horse and took two steps toward the cottage. “In fact, we are what you have named us. But I give you my word, so far are we from taking anything from you, that, on the contrary, we are here to give you something without asking anything in return.”

  A woman then emerged from a corner of the cottage, where she had been concealed in the shadows. One glance at her was sufficient to convince Piro that this was, indeed, Grassfog’s sister—indeed, there were such considerable similarities in features and lines of the face, and even in the set of the shoulders and carriage of the head, that he might well have identified them as siblings even if he had not been, as it were, looking for the resemblance. She was dressed in norska fur in a complex arrangement such that it was difficult to identify the specific garments, with the exception of a wide leather belt, from which hung a short sword and a heavy knife, and a pair of darr-skin boots decorated with red and yellow beads. She bowed to Piro and said, “As you have said, my name is Tsira. How is it that you are looking for me? And what is your name?”

  “Piro, madam,” he said.

  “Piro? How, the same Piro with whom my brother rides? He has mentioned your name in letters.”

  “That is I.”

  “Then, if you are here, and he is not, I fear you have brought me disagreeable news.”

  “Alas, madam, we are here to do exactly that, at his wishes.” As he said this, handed her the pendant, accompanying this with a respectful bow and the the words “He desired you to have this.”

  Tsira looked at it, looked away as if to prevent her emotions from being displayed before a stranger, then, looking at Piro once more, said in a very low voice, “Did he die well?”

  “Extremely well. I will relate the entire history, if you wish.”

  “I should like that, if you please. You perceive, my brother and I were close, so that I am interested in all that concerned his ending.”

  “Then I will tell you of the entire affair.”

  “Yes. Have your band dismount, and I will bring out a jug of the spirit we distill here, which is not dissimilar to the Eastern oushka, and will be a fitting accompaniment to the story—in the mountains, we find that our grief is at once lessened and increased by being washed in strong drink. It is something like a custom, and one of which my brother would have approved, and even expected.”

  “Very well,” said Piro. “I should never consider encouraging you to break a custom at such a time.”

  This plan was agreed to at once, and while Tsira went back into her cottage and returned with several jugs, the rest of Piro’s band dismounted and tied their horses to the trees. They seated themselves on the ground and began passing the jugs around, while Piro related in great detail all the circumstances of Grassfog’s death. When this tale was complete, Tsira told various stories of her brother, and was repaid by more stories told by Piro and his band—some of them, told by Iatha, Belly, and Ritt, going back to his time in Wadre’s band before Piro had met him.

  After several hours of this, during which Tsira proved not only her memory, but her capacity for spirits (while each of the others drank more or less of it, according to his tastes, Tsira drank even more than Belly, though she showed no more effects than Piro, who hardly touched the jug to his lips), it happened that everyone except these two—that is to say, Piro and Tsira—were overcome by a combination of spirits and a long journey, and were either asleep or in the sort of daze that is the next thing to it.

  “Would you like to take a walk?” said Tsira. “We can let your friends sleep, and you can see a little of the mountain.”

  “I should like that,” said Piro.

  “Very good then. This way.”

  “I am following.”

  “As we walk,” continued Piro, “tell me, what is that artifact which your brother had us return to you? Is it, as I suspect, a family heirloom?”

  “Oh, it is that, indeed,” said Tsira. “But it is also more.”

  “How, more?”

  “Considerably more. Shall I tell you what it is?”

  “If you please,” said Piro. “I confess that I am curious.”

  “Then I shall explain it at once,” she said.

  “I am listening,” said Piro.

  “Our family,” said Tsira, “has lived in the mountains for as long as we can remember, but not always here. Indeed, it is our tradition that we once lived far in the north, and have been moving south at such a rate that, should it continue, in another ten generations we will be in the ocean-sea, which I, for one, do not think I would care for.”

  “Well, in fact, it does not sound like a pleasant way to live, unless by then you are able to manufacture gills, which, so far as I know, no sorcerer has yet accomplished.”

  “I do myself the honor of being in complete agreement. But then, going the other way—”

  “That is to say, into the past.”

  “Yes, exactly. Going the other way, our traditions have it that we once lived in the far north of this range, in the Round Mountain.”

  “The Round Mountain!” cried Piro.

  “I perceive you know something about it,” said Tsira.

  “Nearly!” said Piro.

  “Well then, you know what is there.”

  “Deathgate Falls!”

  “Exactly. And, although our family, I am told (you must understand this was many, many generations ago) lived lower on the slopes, still, it was not far, as distances go, from the Blood River and that strange place where the world ends and another world begins.”

  “That is true,” observed Piro, “whether you are speaking literally or metaphorically.”

  “Well, as you may imagine, my ancestor who lived there, who was called Yngra, would, from time to time, see processions of people going past to bring the body of a loved one to the Falls, there to cast him over and send him to whatever afterlife might await.”

  “Yes, that is easily enough understood. But, what did your ancestor do?”

  “Oh, much the same as I. He trapped, and hunted, and, in addition, sold embalming oils to those who felt the preservation of the beloved dead was waning, and incense to those who wished to make an offering at the shrine to their particular House—which shrines are located at certain intervals along both banks of the Blood River just before the Falls.”

  “I know,” said Piro laconically.

  “So my ancestor did those things. Or else,” she added, reflectively, “he was a road agent.”

  “What, you don’t know whether he was a trapper or a highwayman?”

  “You must understand that everyone in our family has always done one of these or the other. Except, that is, fo
r an occasional stray younger son who runs a tavern, thus combining both activities. Now my brother served as an apprentice to a physicker for a while, but I knew this could not last. You perceive, it is in the blood.”

  “I understand. Your ancestor was either a trapper or a road agent. Go on, then.”

  “Well, as the story has come down to us, one day a man happened to pass by the cottage—which cottage I have always imagined to be not unlike my own.”

  “And a splendid cabin it is, too.”

  “Do you think so? That is kind of you. I was born in it, you know, and so it has some tradition behind it, and, moreover, I built it with my own hands, and so it is a matter of some pride.”

  “I understand,” said Piro. “But please go on,” he added, not wishing to consider too closely what he had just been told.

  “According to the tradition,” continued Tsira, “one day a man came by.”

  “When would this have been?”

  “During the Tenth Issola Reign.”

  “Very well, then,” said Piro, who knew sufficiently little of history that this told him nothing.

  “So then, one day during the Tenth Issola Reign a man came along on a pilgrimage to Deathgate, there to make certain sacrifices and prayers, and to commune with the spirits that are said to exist there.”

  “He was, then, an Athyra?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Very well, then.”

  “It chanced that he had business with my ancestor.”

  “He bought incense?”

  “No, he was caused to hand over his purse.”

  “So then, this ancestor was, in fact, a road agent?”

  “Well, you must understand, those in my family who engage in robbery, also do some trapping now and then.”

  “It is true, your brother Grassfog did lay an occasional line of snares. And then?”

  “Why, those of us who trap and hunt also work the roads during the lean times.”

  “That sounds to me like an excellent arrangement.”

  “That is kind of you to say.”

  “Well, and so, your ancestor, Inger—”

  “Yngra.”