Five Hundred Years After

by Steven Brust

  "Yes, and a plot that you uncovered, and a treaty that you arranged with an army of Easterners."

  Khaavren bowed.

  "And since then," continued his Majesty, "you have been involved in some eight or ten campaigns for us, have you not? Including the retreat from Watcher's Lake, where you distinguished yourself during the holding action?"

  "Distinguished myself, Sire? I was not aware—"

  "—That anyone had seen your actions after Brigadier G'aereth was wounded? But the brigadier saw, and he was pleased to tell me, in glowing terms, of the marvelous stratagem you devised which allowed him to reach the safety of… of…"

  "Brickerstown, Sire."

  "Yes, of Brickerstown. But I know of these things, Ensign, and of others, believe me."

  "Sire, I am—"

  "And, now that G'aereth is less and less able to fulfill his duties, it becomes my lot to consider a replacement. What do you say to that, Ensign?"

  "Sire, I don't know what to say." Khaavren delivered this remark—as he had each remark since the inception of the conversation—with little inflection, no emphasis, and less emotion.

  "What you should say, Ensign, is to answer my questions. I assure you, it will do you no harm."

  "Questions, Sire?"

  "Come, walk beside me."

  Khaavren bowed, and they began strolling toward the Hall of Windows, an extension of the Imperial Wing that looked out of the Palace on five sides (including above and below), and where His Majesty was accustomed to dine on informal occasions. As they strolled, the Emperor said, "You are a military man, are you not, Sir Khaavren?"

  "I have that honor, Sire."

  "As a military man, what do you think of the state of the Empire, and of this Meeting of the Principalities that is to happen within the month?"

  "What do I think, Sire, of the state of the Empire and the Meeting of the Principalities?"

  "Yes, that is what I wish to know."

  "What do I think, Sire?"

  "That is, indeed, the very question I ask of you."

  "Sire, we can arrest them all."

  His Majesty stopped and stared at Khaavren, dumbfounded. Then he resumed his walk and said, "Do you, then, seriously advise me to arrest all of the Heirs and Deputies—that is, the Prince of each House—and the Deputies?"

  "I, Sire? Not the least in the world."

  "But then, I am certain I heard you say so."

  "I beg Your Majesty's pardon, but I had no such intention."

  "Well then, what did you mean when you said we could arrest them?"

  "Only that, Sire. We are able to do it; and, at that, with little trouble. The Duke of Eastmanswatch will present a certain difficulty, but I am certain—"

  "Sir, I still fail to understand. If you are not counseling me to arrest them, what are you doing?"

  "Sire? I am answering Your Majesty's question. Your Majesty did me the honor to ask what I, as a military man, thought of the impending meeting. As a military man, which were Your Majesty's words, my thoughts at once fall to military questions. Now, as I recall, Your Majesty has, on one occasion, arrested one of them at least, and I doubt I am mistaken, for I believe it was I who had the honor to carry out the arrest of Her Highness the Princess of Bendbrook, of the House of the Tiassa—"

  "Author of a play in which I am portrayed as a buffoon! She is fortunate I showed clemency, or she'd not have her head today, much less be free to attend this meeting."

  "Yes, Sire, that is the lady to whom I refer. And you have caused to be burned certain pamphlets written by Lord Haymel, one of the Deputies of the House of the Hawk—"

  "Yes, by the Orb! And I'd do it again! He not only proposed an end to the sales of judgeships, a not unreasonable suggestion, but that each House provide its own judges, which would have caused no less than rebellion from the Iorich, and then he went on to suggest unanimous approval for these judges by—me? No, of course not! By the Council of Princes! As if the authority of the Empire were not enough! He, too, is lucky he isn't a head shorter!"

  "Yes, Sire. And then there is Lady Ironn, Deputy of the House of the Orca, whom you caused to be arrested some years ago on the occasion when she—"

  "Publicly discussed matters of my personal history in terms that no gentleman could be asked to endure, then declined to apologize, and would not fight! Ah, then I missed old Lord Garland indeed, for he would have tracked her down and extracted either a recantation or her liver, instead of forcing me to use the powers of the state, which power ought, by rights, to have led her to the Executioner's Star."

  "Yes, Sire. And that is how I understood Your Majesty's question."

  The Emperor walked in silence for a while, and the Orb, which had been a foreboding red, cooled down. His Majesty said, "That is not, in fact, what I meant."

  "Sire?"

  "Sir Khaavren, Jurabin speaks of the state of the treasury and the correlation of the Houses; Countess Bellor tells me many things about the state of our treasury; the Princess Loudin, who watches over the interests of the House, speaks of the "humor of the Empire" as if there were only one; the Duchess of Pronfir, Trustee of Shipping, has much to say concerning the fall in trade; Brigadier G'aereth tells me of matters military; and Nyleth speaks of—or, rather, cackles about—matters arcane. There is not a one of them who agrees with another. And to me, whatever my inclinations, fall all of the decisions. Well, Ensign, I am asking for your opinion—what do you think I should do? Or, if you positively will not answer, then: To whom should I listen?"

  Khaavren paused, and appeared to reflect for a space of time that lasted long enough for them to traverse the corridor that rose from the West Terrace to the Hall of Ferns, after which he said, "Sire, I think Your Majesty ought, without delay, find a Discreet to take the place of the Duke of Wellborn, now that he has retired."

  His Majesty stopped, and looked at the guardsman, who returned his gaze with an expression of innocence. The Orb went through a rapid series of changes—beginning with a dull yellow of mild confusion, turning then to the orange of beginning anger, followed by the pale blue of anger contained, then mutating to a light green of consideration. At this point His Majesty began walking once more.

  "I am most anxious," said the Emperor, "to learn why you make this suggestion."

  "You wish to know the reason, Sire?"

  "I more than wish to, I demand to."

  "Well, then, Sire, it is because, if His Discretion were still here, and still practicing his trade, Your Majesty would have no need to confide in a humble ensign of the Imperial guard."

  Together, they climbed the winding stairway up to the Hall of Windows, one next to the other, as if they were old friends engaged in pleasant remembrances. His Majesty broke the silence by saying, "You seemed uninterested in the advancement in rank which I did you the honor to mention."

  "Sire, I am without ambition."

  "How, a Tiassa without ambition? That is unusual. In fact, it is more than unusual—it is strange."

  "Strange it may be, Sire, but it is true that I have none."

  "Then you have, in fact, no interest at all in what I am offering?"

  "Offering, Sire? I heard no offer. If Your Majesty were to do me the honor of assigning me new duties, of any form, I would certainly attempt to perform them with all the skill and energy at my disposal. But I heard no offer; I only heard that Your Majesty deigned to discuss certain matters of Imperial Policy—matters far too complex for Your Majesty's humble servant."

  "My Majesty's humble servant," said the Emperor, "is not, I think, as humble as he pretends."

  "That may be, Sire; yet I beg Your Majesty to believe that I have nothing useful to say, nor any opinions, about matters as far above my head as the complexities of Empire to which Your Majesty does me the honor to refer."

  His Majesty seemed about to answer this, but they were arrived at the Hall of Windows, and Khaavren had to attend to his duty of inspecting the hall—a duty he carried out with a few quick glances a
t the half-dozen servers; the Consort Noima; His Highness the Prince of Ninehills, Tsalmoth Heir and Their Majesties' guest; and the two guardsmen. This being done, he bowed respectfully, and took his leave.

  With our readers' permission, we will undertake to follow him; as he is an old friend, and one who has just had a conversation worthy of some remark, his path, and his thoughts, cannot fail to be of interest.

  If, over the years, Khaavren had become positively taciturn, he had not lost his habit of carrying on lengthy conversations with himself; on the contrary, this feature of his character had, if anything, grown as if to make up for the decrease in his intercourse with others. And so as he strolled (strolled, be it understood, at a good martial clip) back to the Dragon Wing, he began to address himself on the subject of his recent discourse with the Emperor.

  "Well now, my good Khaavren," he said, for he was in the habit of referring to himself in this ironic manner. "What do we have? His Majesty condescends to ask you for advice on the management of the Empire? Cha! Here we learn what happens to victims of fiscal irresponsibility! Come, Khaavren, we must look to our own accounts, if for no other reason than to make certain that we do not begin to show such signs if our needs become so much greater than our income. If they did, what would we do—find a silver polisher, and ask him how to manage the drilling of a corps? And, now that I reflect, why shouldn't I do so? Perhaps such a fellow would tell me how to make all of our cloaks flash so prettily that the Consort will notice, and cause me to be made Captain.

  "But, no, hasn't His Majesty made just this offer? Well, what can this mean? Steady, Khaavren! What offer did His Majesty make? Why, none whatsoever. His Majesty said that with the Captain (Khaavren, out of habit, still thought of G'aereth as 'the Captain') become infirm, his duties must be assumed by another. Well, now this, as a piece of intelligence, is not worth the price of a cup of wine, even if it be the slop they serve to strangers at the Soup Kettle. But was there an offer, a promise, a guarantee? Not the least in the world. And if the promise of an Emperor—and this Emperor above all—is to be looked at as skeptically as Tazendra used to look at reasoned argument, then His Majesty's failure to give even a promise must have all the substance of the air.

  "So, he has offered me the air. While I should not like to be without air, as it is reputed to be important to breathing, I seem to have enough of it, and it would therefore be ill-advised to risk life and limb in the pursuit of it. No, if His Majesty wants something of Khaavren, he must make, an offer worthy of Khaavren. Or, failing that, give a simple order—it amounts to the same thing, after everything to be said is said and everything to be done is done.

  "Still, even two hundred years ago I might have made an effort to discover what His Majesty wanted of me, from curiosity if for no other reason. Well, we have lost our curiosity. We feel no lighter for its loss, nor weaker nor slower in body or mind. Therefore, whatever it is, we have no need for it, and have let it go the way the yendi leaves its excess skin to blend among the desert sands in order to frighten those whose eyes are sharp but whose comprehension is not clever. We didn't find out, and it is done, and there's an end to it.

  "Or nearly an end to it. There are still, it seems, some tattered shreds of curiosity left to me, or I should not be asking myself what His Majesty might want of an ensign of the Guard that would have anything to do with the tangle of policy and finance of the Dragon and the Athyra, and alliances of the Teckla with the Orca, or whatever Jurabin was pleased to tell His Majesty. Cha! It's a wonder I didn't get the same headache His Majesty did, just from overhearing it all. And a pity that I didn't, for that should have made us equals for a time, and that would indeed be something to tell my children, should the cycle turn in such a way that I have any.

  "No children, Khaavren, no promotion, and no curiosity. And, for that, no friends—at least, none that I can see. If they were around, would that conversation have gone differently? Would I have admitted to overhearing everything, whereupon His Majesty would have had me brought to the Executioner's Star, there to have removed those ears he was kind enough to notice, along with the head that supports them? Very likely. No children, no promotion, no curiosity, no friends, but, in exchange, a head, a pair of ears, and perhaps a touch of wisdom—which is the name we give prudence when we have become settled into our life with no hope or ambition."

  With this thought, Khaavren had, after having passed into the Dragon Wing, and, in turn, the Sub-wing of the Imperial Guard, entered the antechamber of the Red Boot Battalion, to be greeted by the corporal on duty there. They exchanged no words, as it was Khaavren's opinion that words were unnecessary unless there was something to say, and he had instilled this tenet in all who served under him. On this occasion, as nothing unusual had occurred, the corporal saluted and Khaavren, nodding to acknowledge the salute, continued through the antechamber to his own office, where he sat down in the very chair that Captain G'aereth had occupied on that occasion when Khaavren and his friends had been questioned about their desire to join the Imperial Guard. Though he had sat in that chair thousands of times, it never failed to bring back memories, which were often accompanied by a fond smile.

  "Ah," he said to himself on this occasion. "What would Aerich have said of the matter were he here? That is easy; he should have looked at me with that expression of sorrow, reproach, and affection, and said, 'My dear Khaavren, if His Majesty wishes something of a gentleman, what more is needed?' That is Aerich. And Tazendra, well, she would not have hesitated, she would have found the quest—for, to her, anything and everything was a quest—and charged out without another thought, hoping only that it was difficult. That is Tazendra. And what would our friend Pel have said? Well, that is, certainly, a mystery of the first order. Pel is a Yendi. One never knows what Pel might say, what he might do, what he might say he has done, or, above all, why he would say or do what he said or did. Still, one might have asked him. And, Cracks in the Orb, at this moment he is, no doubt, somewhere within this same labyrinth of Palace through which I have been walking, and yet I have hardly seen him five times in five hundred years, nor exchanged five words with him on each of those occasions.

  "Such is the nature of friendship," he concluded morosely, at which point a corporal stuck her head in to announce, "You have a visitor, Ensign."

  "How," said Khaavren, started out of his reverie, "a visitor? And who might this be?"

  "He gives his name as Galstan."

  "A Dragonlord?"

  "I'm not certain, Ensign, yet I fancy not, for I do not see a sword. Perhaps he is an Athyra or an Iorich, for he wears the robes of a monk or a judge. He claims to be here on a personal errand."

  "Indeed?" said Khaavren, trying to recollect the last duel he had fought, and realizing, with some surprise, that it had been more than a century ago. "Well, send him in, and we will see what he wishes."

  The corporal nodded, and, shortly thereafter, a man, hooded and robed, entered, bowing. While it was hard to tell beneath the folds of heavy dark-brown fabric, he seemed to be small, and there was something athletic in his carriage. As the door closed, Khaavren studied his visitor, for there was something familiar about the way he stood and about the gleam of the dark eyes that peered out from the hood.

  "Pel!" cried Khaavren suddenly, springing to his feet.

  His visitor pulled the hood back and bowed once more, while Khaavren stared. If five hundred years can pass without a mark, then they had done so where Pel was concerned. He still had, or nearly had, the unlined face of youth, with the dark eyes we have already had occasion to mention, and the fine, noble chin and high brow, surrounded by black curls which made the color of his eyes all the more vivid. In other words, as far as Khaavren could see, he had lost none of the beauty of face that he had traded on so heavily years before. Khaavren stared, remembering how the Yendi had been accustomed to sorcerously change the color of his eyes from apparent whim, and change his opinions the same way, and how one could never know if there were a reason behind a
ny of these changes. And yet, at the same time, he remembered a score of battles in which Pel's irrepressible blade and fierce humor had been instrumental in saving them all.

  Khaavren stared at his visitor as these thoughts and their accompanying emotions flitted through his mind and heart, then he repeated softly, "Pel. And here I was, this very instant, thinking to myself… Pel."

  "Most of him," agreed the other.

  "How, most of him?" said Khaavren. "What, then is missing?"

  "Why, the sword," said Pel, smiling inscrutably.

  "Cha! You no longer carry one?"

  Pel held his arms up, to show that he was, in fact, weaponless. Khaavren laughed. "Well, it is clear, then, that at least you do not come here to fight."

  Pel's eyebrows rose. "You thought I came to fight?"

  "My good Pel, when an unknown is announced as desiring to see one on a personal matter while one is on duty, well, has it been so long that you no longer remember what that is likely to mean?"

  "I assure you, my dear Khaavren, that I had all but forgotten those days, and I thank you for recalling them to me. But when did I become an unknown to you?"

  "Cha! When you entered by a name I have never before heard pronounced."

  "What, you pretend you never heard my name?"

  "Not in this life, my friend. But, come, what is this? I am leaving you standing. Sit, my good Pel, which name I use from familiarity and because curse me if at this moment I can remember the other."

  Pel smiled easily and sat, without apparent discomfort, on one of the stiff, military stools that faced Khaavren's over his small writing table. "Galstan," said Pel coolly.

  Khaavren shook his head. "The Duchy of Galstan," he said. "I confess, it escapes me."

  "Escapes you? But, my dear Ensign, it is not running from you. Nor, for that matter, am I. Rather, I am coming to see you. In fact, I am here."

  "Now this circumstance I had noticed, and even remarked upon, albeit only to myself."

  "And, no doubt, you wish to know the reason for my visit, because, now that you are older, it would not occur to you that I might come to see you purely from friendship."