The Lord of Castle Black: Book Two of the Viscount of Adrilankha

by Steven Brust

  But, as the reader is, no doubt, aware from experience with his own projects, be they as great as excavating a castle or as small as rearranging the furnishings in a favorite room, one problem cannot be solved without two more appearing in its place. In Morrolan’s case, the next problem to appear before him came when Teldra felt obliged to point out to him that his funds would not last for-ever—in fact, they would scarcely last a year at the rate at which they were being expended, and, as is well known, for-ever is much longer than a year, however it may seem to an individual who is awaiting a lover’s return from a long journey.

  “Well, then,” said Morrolan, “I must find a way to gain the funds I need. Can you think of any?”

  “Certainly, my lord. As rightful lord of these domains, you may legally exact tribute from all who live here.”

  “I may?”

  “Yes, provided you have the means to enforce your decree.”

  “Oh, as to that, well, I must consider the matter. I do not believe I would care to go, myself, from place to place with my hand out. It, well, it would not feel right.”

  “No, it would not.”

  “And then?”

  “You must hire tax collectors to do this for you.”

  “Well, but then I must pay the tax collectors.”

  “You will pay them with a portion of what they collect.”

  “Will they not rob me?”

  “Certainly. But this has, nevertheless, the advantage that you will gain income without needing to take it into your own hands, and, in addition, the people’s hatred will be directed against the tax collectors, rather than against you.”

  “I see. And, well, where might I find these tax collectors?”

  “That is easily done, my lord. Simply look in Nacine for those who seem least likely to be able to pay tribute, and set them to collecting it.”

  Morrolan found nothing wrong with this plan and wasted little time putting it into practice, with the result that, although there was some grumbling about the tribute, it was very little, because Morrolan’s demands were not excessive, and because the oldest representatives of the local population, although they would not admit it, were actually glad to see some semblance of order returning to the district, and the collection of tribute represented order. And what annoyance was occasioned by the collection was most often directed at the collectors, rather than at Morrolan.

  The temple progressed quickly once the coinage began to flow into Morrolan’s coffers—in part because no time was wasted in planning it: Morrolan wanted a structure that resembled what he had known in Blackchapel, and so he would point and say, “Put that block there, on top of that one.” The broken blocks were fitted together by cunning and industrious Vallista—whom he began to employ more and more around this time—and the temple grew. As an afterthought, he added a small section in back for himself and his companions to sleep in, and certain alcoves that Arra, as priestess, said would be indispensable for private consultations. A basement was dug beneath, and rudely completed, some of which would be used for storage, but most of it intended as the living and working quarters for Morrolan’s Circle of Witches (which Circle, at this time, continued to arrive in small groups, and to meet, and to send eastward signals that they hoped would draw other witches in their direction). When at length a roof was placed over the temple, Morrolan felt as if he had accomplished a great deal indeed.

  He spoke with Arra about the temple, considering what to use for an altar. “I have been considering returning to Blackchapel to take that altar. Have you any opinions on the idea?”

  “My lord,” said Arra, “is that the only reason you wish to return there?”

  “You know it is not,” said Morrolan. “There are other matters to attend to.” As he said this, he touched the hilt of his sword.

  Arra nodded. “My lord, I must beg leave to doubt the wisdom of returning to give battle; I do not believe you are ready yet. And, as to the altar, it is my opinion that it should remain where it is.”

  “Very well, then,” said Morrolan, accepting her judgment. “But, nevertheless, I must find something to use as an altar.”

  “With this I agree,” said the priestess.

  “And then? How am I to find it?”

  Arra frowned. “I will consider this matter. I will ask the Goddess, and perhaps she will send one of us a dream.”

  “That would be like her,” agreed Morrolan. “She has done so before. And, as to the other matter—”

  “Well?”

  “More witches for the Circle have already begun arriving. You perceive, there are nearly an additional score here already. Soon there will be more.”

  “That is inarguable, my lord.”

  “Well, I shall use them.”

  “Use them? In what way, my lord?”

  “You must devise a way to use the power of the Circle to help me begin to gather an army.”

  Arra considered this for a moment, then said, “Yes, my lord. It shall be as you wish.”

  Morrolan nodded.

  The Circle at once began its new task, and, within a few days, strangers began drifting into the little village, having heard somehow that an army was forming, and these being persons who had nothing to sell except their sword arms. The growth of Morrolan’s army was slow, but steady; in a month he had gathered together thirty or thirty-five men-at-arms, and had been fortunate enough to find a Dragonlord named Fentor e’Mondaar.

  Fentor had been born some two hundred years before Adron’s Disaster to a family which had fallen on hard times. Upon reaching sufficient age, he had, in order to aid his family, enlisted in a small mercenary army. This army, identified by a symbol of three crossed spears, set out from Dragaera City on a long campaign in the service of a certain Dzurlord who sent them west to the city of Thalew in the Pushta. We have said that the campaign was a long one; in fact, it reached such proportions that additional troops, many of them Teckla, were required to be enlisted and trained. Fentor had, it seemed, a certain aptitude in the training and drilling of raw troops, and so this became his duty, along with his secondary duty, which involved sorting and classifying such intelligence reports as might come in from time to time.

  After Adron’s Disaster, the Army of the Three Spears disbanded, and, while many of them set up as road agents, Fentor was able to procure employment with a warlord who hoped to expand his holdings much as Kâna was doing in the west. This employment sharpened his skills in the drilling of troops as well as in intelligence gathering, and, in addition, gave him some experience in commanding small units in battle.

  This continued until the warlord with whom he had allied himself was defeated by the army under the command of Suura. Fentor escaped from this defeat, and might have taken service with Kâna except that, as he was considering doing so, he had a dream in which he was traveling south toward a mountain of gold. While not the most superstitious of Dragonlords, neither was Fentor the least, and so he determined to follow this dream, which became stronger each day, until, after several weeks, he wandered into Morrolan’s encampment. After a brief discussion with Morrolan, to whom he explained his experience and abilities, he was put in charge of the training of Morrolan’s slowly growing army.

  While this was going on, Morrolan also purchased a great amount of black paint, which he used on the temple, having the opinion that if the last temple to Verra had been black, then this one should be as well. We should also add—because it is the truth—that Morrolan also spent some time drilling as if he were merely a private soldier. If Fentor felt any discomfort in treating Morrolan as he treated all of the other recruits, we can only say that he hid this discomfort entirely; Morrolan received the same instructions and the same treatment—as harsh, rigorous, and unyielding as it was—as anyone else during this process.

  The Circle of Witches, the temple, and the army all gradually increased in size during this period, until a day came when a particular man came into the collection of tents that we have already had the hono
r of comparing to a small village. Now this man did not, in appearance, seem any different from any of the others who had come before him—a Teckla with all the appearance of having been a road agent for a time. And in this, we must say appearances did not deceive: in and of himself, apart from all of the multitude of individual characteristics that makes each of us unique, he was not, in fact, a terribly distinctive individual. What makes him of interest to our history is not who he was, but, rather, what he brought. And what he brought was that most valuable, most priceless of articles in any time of doubt and uncertainty: information.

  He arrived and introduced himself to the first soldier he met, and asked what was required to sign up. He was directed to the tent that Fentor (who was doing duty as recruiter, as well as drillmaster) made his day-quarters, and, when facing this worthy, repeated his question.

  “You wish, then to become part of the Lord Morrolan’s private army?”

  The newcomer (whose name, alas, has not come down to us) nodded as assent.

  “You understand that this is not a mercenary army, but, rather, the standing army of a Dragonlord anxious to protect his rightful properties?”

  The other signified that this fine distinction held no interest for him.

  “You heard, then, that you will be paid three pennies each day, as well as food that is, if not imaginative, at least plentiful, and a bed that is, if not comfortable, at least warm?”

  The Teckla bowed.

  “And a daily ration of wine amounting to three pints?”

  The Teckla smiled.

  “And that is sufficient?”

  “It is, my lord.”

  “Sergeant. Call me Sergeant.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “What brought you here?”

  The Teckla shrugged. “It was a choice of you or Kâna, and he only pays two pennies a day, and the daily ration of wine is not so generous.”

  Fentor frowned. “Who?”

  “Kâna, my lord. That is to say, Sergeant.”

  “From Kanefthali?”

  “Exactly, Sergeant.”

  “He is recruiting?”

  The Teckla nodded.

  “He is recruiting around here?”

  “Oh no, Sergeant. Not here.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Stable Point.”

  “How, Stable Point? You idiot, that is scarcely fifty leagues from here!”

  “That is true, Sergeant.”

  Fentor glared at the Teckla, then said, “Corporal, sign this man in. I must find the Lord Morrolan at once.”

  The corporal arrived even as Fentor left, the latter going at once in search of Morrolan. Morrolan, for his part, was at this time holding conference with Arra about another extension onto the temple to permit a fixed location for a lockable supply area for the wine stores of the gathering army. In the midst of this discussion, Fentor presented himself, bowed, and said, “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  “What is it, Sergeant?” said Morrolan, giving the soldier all of his attention, aware that for Fentor to have interrupted his conversation it must be for a good reason.

  Fentor bowed and said, “My lord, I have just learned that Kâna is approaching this region.”

  “How, coming here?”

  “Yes, my lord. I came to you at once.”

  “And you were right to do so!” said Morrolan. “Come with me, and we will talk.”

  “I am at Your Lordship’s service.”

  Morrolan led him away from everyone else, and, still walking, said, “Come, my dear Sergeant, I perceive there is no question of joking.”

  “None, my lord.”

  “Then you are quite certain that Kâna is approaching?”

  “There can be no doubt of it, my lord.”

  “Well then. But there are certain things I must know.”

  “Very well, I will answer, if I can.”

  “I ask for no more. My first question is this—”

  “Well?”

  “Who is Kâna?”

  “How, Your Lordship doesn’t know?”

  “Not the least in the world, I assure you. If I had known, you must believe I would not have asked.”

  “Well, that is true.”

  “And then?”

  “He is a warlord who believes he is re-creating the Empire, with himself as Emperor. He comes from the Kanefthali Mountains. There have been many such, but he has swallowed most of them, including, most recently, the warlord with whom I had taken employment before I had the extraordinary good fortune to find you, my lord.”

  “This Kâna—he is a Dragon?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I see. How large are his forces?”

  “My lord, they are terrifying.”

  “Has he any just claim on the throne?”

  “Only if he succeeds, my lord.”

  “Then, you believe he will attempt to swallow me up, as he has swallowed up the others?”

  “My lord, I am convinced of it.”

  “Well, I shall not permit this to happen.”

  Fentor bowed his head, but said nothing.

  “How,” said Morrolan. “You doubt me?”

  “My lord—”

  “Come, come. You doubt me. Say so at once.”

  “My lord, I do not see how you have the resources to resist an army such as Kâna can bring against you.”

  “Do I not have an army as well, and is it not growing?”

  “Not enough, my lord.”

  “And have I not my Circle of Witches, and is it not growing as well?”

  “Not enough, my lord.”

  “And am I not of the House of the Dragon?”

  “Not enough, my lord.”

  “Bah!”

  “It is as I have the honor to tell you.”

  “Sergeant, I am becoming annoyed with this conversation.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, my lord. But, you perceive, your annoyance will not change the facts, and it is my duty to acquaint you with the facts, however unpleasant they may be, or unwelcome to your ears.”

  Morrolan glared at him, which glare Fentor withstood coolly. At length, Morrolan said, “And then, what will you do?”

  “I, my lord? I will do as I am ordered, until I fall in battle. What Dragonlord could ask for more?”

  “I can, my dear Sergeant. I do not wish us to die gallantly, I wish us to win!”

  “My lord, I beg you to believe that I would like nothing better.”

  “Well, then, tell me what is required for me to do so.”

  “I will consider the matter, my lord.”

  Upon returning to overseeing the construction of the temple, Morrolan spoke to Arra, saying, “What we have is insufficient.”

  “How, insufficient in what way, my lord?”

  “We require a structure that can be defended: hence, we must have a wall, with guard towers. And we must begin to build it at once.”

  “We are to be attacked, my lord?”

  “It is my intention, my dear Arra, to do the attacking. Yet I must consider the possibility that I will not be ready in time, and we therefore must plan to withstand a siege, or an assault, or a combination of both of these circumstances.”

  “It will need to be carefully designed, then, my lord.”

  “Yes.”

  “I will send for a Vallista architect.”

  “Do so at once.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “And we will require more stone than is presently here.”

  “The Vallista will, no doubt, know where to procure it, my lord.”

  “Then let him be found.”

  The Vallista was found, and spent some days in close consultation with Morrolan, Arra, Teldra, and the warlock.

  Chapter the Forty-First

  How Khaavren and Aerich

  Met Each Other Again At Last

  And At Once Got to Work

  Aerich met Khaavren and his traveling companions outside of his front door, and only one who knew
Aerich as well as Khaavren did would have understood how rare was the expression of joy on the old Lyorn’s face. The instant Khaavren had dismounted, they embraced for some few moments. During this time, without a word being spoken, servants came and took the horses away to be groomed and fed.

  “Ah, my dear Khaavren! I should say I was astonished to see you, but I am too old to begin lying now, so instead, I will merely say I am delighted.”

  “No more so than am I, old friend. It makes me feel a hundred years younger just to see you! But, you say you are not astonished?”

  “Not the least in the world, dear Khaavren,” said Aerich, still holding him. “Because I knew you would eventually take a hand in all that is happening, and I suspected that this would bring you, eventually, to my door.”

  “Well, in this you were not incorrect, it seems to me,” said Khaavren, smiling—nay, grinning—as he had seven hundred years before.

  At last they separated, and Aerich said, “You are looking well.”

  “Perhaps,” said Khaavren. “Better, at any rate, than I must have looked a year ago. But what of you? You seem as fit as you were the day we met in that charming little town of—what was it?”

  “Newmarket. But come, who are these young ladies with whom you are traveling?”

  Khaavren performed the introductions. Aerich kissed Röaana’s hand respectfully, then greeted Ibronka in the same way, after which he led the way into the house. Clari, meanwhile, was shown to the kitchen.

  The reader will, we believe, not be astonished to learn that within five minutes of meeting Aerich, both the young Dzur and the young Tiassa—that is to say, Röaana and Ibronka—had been thoroughly captivated by him—his natural charm, his old-fashioned courtesy, his warmth, and his air of nobility—and to such an extent that were Aerich less of a nobleman than he was, we would find ourselves obliged to be writing an entirely different sort of story than that which we have the honor to set before the reader. They sat in the Lyorn’s study, and for three or four hours he and Khaavren spoke quietly of their past experiences, and of their friends, especially Pel and Tazendra. They spoke of their friend Uttrik, who had perished in Adron’s Disaster and whose son now traveled with Piro (much to Aerich’s astonishment and delight), and of Adron himself, and of Sethra Lavode. During this conversation, in which much more was implied than actually stated between the two old friends, the two girls sat and listened, drinking it in, fascinated by the hints of adventure from what seemed to them a lost age, and of great figures out of history whose names were mentioned as casually as those of one’s favorite uncle or closest neighbor.