by Steven Brust
My Dear Aerich [he wrote]: I thank you for your inquiry after my health and activities. My health, thanks to the Gods and the physicians (or, perhaps, thanks to the fact that I have intercourse with neither) is excellent. As for my activities—you may rest assured that they have in no wise changed from the last time you did me the honor to ask concerning them. I set the guards, I stand watch, and I hope for the diversion of battle, which seems unlikely, as His Majesty (whom the Gods preserve) has little interest, it seems, in assuming the personal command that is his right, but would rather trust Rollondar e'Drien, who, as you may know, became Warlord early this past century. Lord Rollondar is an easy enough master, if only because he has no interest in the Guards, and so leaves them to the Captain, who, in turn, leaves them to me. This is an arrangement that keeps me busy, and being busy keeps me happy, so there is no reason to be concerned on that score.
As for your own affairs, my dear Aerich, I am pleased to hear that everything is well. I had feared that rearrangement of the Imperial assessments might have created difficulties for you. We hear, now and then, murmurings of armed resistance, but, I am sorry to say, there has been nothing of an organized nature. Some days ago, His Majesty did me the honor to ask if I feared the people. I reminded him that I had been on duty in the two hundred and sixth year of his reign, during the food riots, and I had seen an angry populace, and an organized populace; and this one, for all their clamor, is neither. He seemed satisfied with the answer. I have no doubt, Aerich, that, if you were here, you would agree with me.
As for Pel, I can tell you little, save that I have recently seen him, and he is unchanged—secretive, mysterious, and always with one scheme or another running through his mind. I must confess that he hurt my feelings, Aerich, because he pretended, in order to get certain knowledge from me, to an ignorance that I know is impossible. Yet, that is only his way, and I forgive him for the sake of our old friendship.
And, speaking of friendship, I heard, some thirty years ago, from our old friend, Kathana e'Marish'Chala. She has married a Dragonlord of the e'Lanya line, whose name escapes me. I was invited to the ceremony, but was unable to obtain leave. Did you hear? Were you invited and able to attend?
While on the subject of friends, what of good Tazendra? I was pleased to learn that she was able to escape unscathed from the explosion at her home. I hope she has learned from this, and will temper her studies with care. What of her servant, Mica? Was he injured? I should be saddened to learn—
Khaavren stopped, hearing a rattle over his head that indicated that someone had pulled the door-clapper. He carefully blotted the last few words he had written, then prepared to go down to see who was at the door. The route to the stairway took him past the small window he was accustomed to leave ajar to allow in the breezes—he had, in fact, become adept at regulating the temperature in his room by gauging the opening on this window and the vent of his small stove. The reason we feel obliged to bring this window to the reader's attention is because through it Khaavren realized that night had quite fallen; he had spent more time writing to Aerich than he had at first realized. With this thought, he also realized that he was tired, and that his bed was calling to him.
However, the door was also calling, and that more urgently.
Upon discovering, then, that it was in fact quite late at night, he arrested his movements long enough to take his sword from its sheath, which was, in turn, on its peg at the top of the stairs, and bring it (that is, the sword, not the peg) with him in order to be prepared in the event that at the door might be one or more members of the Army of the Thorny Rose—a battalion of mercenaries whose quarters were further down the street, and who were not fond of guardsmen, nor of officers, and all of whom were known to drink heavily.
Some three minutes after Khaavren went down to answer the door, he returned to his room, returned his sword to its place by the stairway, and returned his attention to composition.
I should be saddened to learn [he resumed] that anything ill had befallen that good fellow. If you can learn something of this, please tell me what you can, and I shall be grateful. You may be amused to know that I have just killed a man who clapped at my door. He ascertained my identity, and then attempted to discharge a flashstone at me—perhaps writing letters is not as harmless an activity as I would have thought. Wherefore, prudence, as well as the lateness of the hour, dictates that I stop now, in addition to which I have just realized that I am bleeding, and I ought to do something about this, because replacing stained clothing is, as you may remember, difficult on a guardsman's income.
I remain, my dear Aerich, always your devoted friend,
Khaavren
At this point, we might venture to guess that our readers are, on the one hand, wondering how Aerich will react when he reads about this singular event, and, on the other, are themselves curious about any details Khaavren may have omitted. As for the first question, we must beg our readers' pardon, but it will be some time before the answer to this question reveals itself. We hope our readers will be satisfied if, at this time, we answer only the second of these supposed questions.
We can, in point of fact, reveal a little more than what Khaavren wrote to his friend. Upon arriving at the stairway, Khaavren had opened the door and seen there a gentleman in Imperial livery, holding a roll of parchment in his hand—parchment upon which an Imperial seal could nearly be made out by the luminescence from the lamp Khaavren had lighted on his way to the door.
The visitor had made a respectful courtesy and said, "Do I have the honor of addressing Khaavren, Ensign of the Imperial Guard?"
Khaavren saw nothing unusual about the visitor: It was by the merest chance that his naked sword was concealed behind the door, for Khaavren had, in fact, not thought of hiding it—it was only concealed because Khaavren was carrying it in his right hand and the door opened inward to the right. As it happened, however, it was a good thing, for when Khaavren admitted his identity, the visitor dropped the paper and revealed, in the palm of his hand, a smooth, flat stone—the sort of stone Khaavren recognized from having used them himself on more than one occasion.
The Tiassa wasted no time, then, in putting a solid object between himself and the flashstone—the nearest solid object being the door, which he interposed by slamming it shut, after which he took a step back, let go of the lamp (which by chance neither spilled nor broke, which would have undoubtedly proved an annoyance) and assumed a guard position with his blade directly in front of his face and at a forty-five-degree angle to the sky. The assassin—for so we may call him—made the mistake of attempting to gain entry by charging into the door shoulder-first. The assassin was strong enough that this would have worked had the door been latched with the usual thin steel that kept it closed when the iron bolt was not in use. The door, however, had not been latched at all, but merely shut, and so it opened at once and the assassin stumbled through, his flashstone raised, and a dagger revealed in the other hand.
Khaavren had positioned himself so well that the discharge of the flashstone only grazed his cheek slightly while he, Khaavren, brought the edge of his sword down smartly onto the assassin's forehead, thus ending the assassin's attack and life, and leaving Khaavren to regret that he had not been able to leave the fellow alive for questioning. He did drag the body into the hall, however, and exchanged a few terse words with Srahi, who had been awakened by the discharge of the flashstone, to the effect that she need not consider removal of the body as part of her cleaning duties the next day. After that thoughtful remark, Khaavren cleaned his blade and went back upstairs to finish his letter.
This being done, in the manner we have already described, Khaavren quickly removed his shirt and set it soaking in a tub of water into which he poured a small quantity of lye, then set a cloth against his cheek, which was still bleeding slightly, after which operation he prepared the letter for the post, himself for sleep, and got into bed.
And yet, to his surprise, he found himself unable to sleep. Th
ose who have spent several hundred years in uniform will be able to grasp at once how unusual it is for a soldier to have difficulty sleeping, yet Khaavren could not keep from wondering about the assassin whose corpse occupied a spot on the floor of his house. (We should note in passing that Srahi, the servant, had trouble sleeping for much the same reason, but in her case this is more readily understood.)
"Why," he asked himself, "would someone want to kill me? I have done nothing to make myself a special target for revenge, nor do I hold a position of any particular importance—at least, it seems to me that I could be replaced tomorrow by any of a dozen good soldiers and no one would notice the difference. Nor have I any possessions of special merit. It is, without question, decidedly odd." With these thoughts going through Khaavren's mind, the reader will readily understand why it took him over an hour to fall asleep.
Chapter The Fourth
Which Treats of Several Others,
All of Who May Have Been Engaged
In Dangerous Correspondence.
Khaavren awoke with the same question on his mind that had occupied his thoughts before sleeping, and felt himself no closer to an answer. Srahi was still asleep, so he decided to break his fast at the Palace. He removed his shirt from the water on realizing that the shirt was soaking wet, and, opening up the single cabinet that contained his clothing, brought out his other shirt, and, at the same time his old blue tunic, which, though the weather was too warm for such heavy wool to be comfortable, he hoped would cover the places on the shirt where the fabric had become thin.
He buckled on his sword, clasped his uniform cloak around his neck, examined himself in the full-length glass which he had had installed in the hall upon being made an ensign, and decided that his appearance would do. He then picked up the body of his visitor and slung it over his shoulder, took the letter to Aerich into his hand, and so encumbered, set off for the Palace. We can only speculate on the sight presented by this officer of the Guard carrying a corpse along the Street of the Dragon; if there were any remarks made, Khaavren either didn't hear them, or chose not to hear them. In any case, there were no incidents.
Upon reaching the outer gate of the Palace, Khaavren gave the letter into the care of an officer of the post who promised to see the missive delivered with all dispatch, after which, in due time, Khaavren reached the sub-wing of the Imperial Guard.
He was greeted there by his corporal, Thack, who queried Khaavren with a raised eyebrow. We should add the reader might also raise an eyebrow upon recalling that Thack, when we met him in our previous history, was not one to inspire confidence; the reader might even be wondering how he came to occupy a position of trust under the command of our brave Tiassa. We do not propose to answer this question at any length, for the simple reason that our history does not require it; so, to put the reader's mind at ease on this question, we will say only that Thack, after transferring to G'aereth's command some eighty or eighty-five years after the close of the events related in The Phoenix Guards, had undergone sufficient transformation in character that Khaavren believed he could be depended upon. We will not take it upon ourselves to dispute with the worthy ensign on such a matter, and moreover, there is nowhere any evidence that the good Thack at any time proved himself less than completely deserving of Khaavren *s trust.
Khaavren set his burden down in the antechamber and said, "My compliments to Gyorg Lavode, and I should be honored if he would grant me a brief meeting at his convenience."
"Yes, Ensign."
"Has the guard been posted?"
"Yes, Ensign."
"Then, I will assume my station, stopping on the way for a bit of bread and cheese."
"Yes, Ensign. And—"
"Yes?"
Thack cleared his throat, and dropped his eyes eloquently toward the corpse.
"Ah," said Khaavren. "Yes, you may leave him there. I do not believe he will be doing anything."
"Yes, Ensign."
Khaavren then set out, as he had nearly every day for the past five hundred and thirty years, through the corridors of the Dragon Wing toward the short ramp and the great doors which never closed that marked the beginning of the Imperial Wing (which was, the reader ought to understand, not a wing at all, but the innermost portion of the labyrinthine Palace). Yet he had not gone far before he was interrupted by a young gentleman whose costume indicated that he was a page and whose colors indicated that he was of the House of the Phoenix. This young man said, "My Lord Ensign Khaavren?"
"Yes, that is I," said Khaavren, arresting his motion.
"His Majesty is desirous of seeing you at your earliest convenience."
Khaavren frowned. "Well, you may inform His Majesty that I will be there directly. But, to do so, you must move quickly, or I shall be there before you arrive, and your message will be useless."
"I shall do so, my lord," said the page, and dashed back the way he had come, leaving Khaavren alone with his frown.
"Well," said Khaavren to himself. "This is no small matter. It has passed the seventh hour after midnight, and, in twenty minutes. I will be at the door of His Majesty's chambers, where I am at the same time every morning, in order to conduct His Majesty through the ritual that we are pleased to call 'Opening the Palace,' although the Palace is never closed His Majesty has, I think, been awake for twenty minutes, and is still engaged in completing his morning toilet; and, at forty minutes past the seventh hour, I am always there. Why, then, does His Majesty feel compelled to instruct me to do something I have done for half a millennium?
"The only explanation is that something has happened to cause His Majesty so much distress that he is no longer thinking of patterns or habits, but wishes to see me about something extraordinary. In light of yester-day's conversation, and last night's events, this morning promises to be interesting indeed. Come, Khaavren, your master calls, and this is no time to hesitate. Breakfast must, alas, await a more opportune moment."
With these words sternly spoken to himself, he resumed his military walk, only this time putting himself out to arrive at the Imperial Bedchamber in ten minutes, rather than the usual fifteen. Upon arriving, he was greeted by a most remarkable sight. Two guardsmen stood outside the door, as usual, and saluted their ensign, and His Majesty, wearing his normal morning costume of rich gold silk and diamonds, was sitting in the chair next to a large, canopied bed, next to which was the tray which His Majesty's morning klava; but the Orb, which circled His Majesty's head, was showing a deep, lurid yellow, which indicated that His Majesty was both worried and upset. Furthermore, there were, also in the room, two figures Khaavren was unaccustomed to seeing there, these being Jurabin, and His Excellency Rollondar e'Drien, the Warlord.
Jurabin we have already met, and the reader, we believe, would rather learn the answers to Khaavren's questions than to waste his time learning about the Warlord, wherefore we will only say that Rollondar e'Drien was a very thin man of about eleven hundred years with straight black hair in a military cut, parted at his noble's point. Upon seeing him, Khaavren's first thought was, "Are we at war then?" But he said nothing, merely bowing to His Majesty and awaiting orders.
"My compliments, Captain, and you have arrived in a very timely fashion."
"My thanks—excuse me, Sire, but did Your Majesty address me as Captain?"
"I did. I have chosen to promote you, due to the death of Brigadier G'aereth, which occurred sometime last night."
"I see," said Khaavren, feeling—to his credit—a pang of sorrow more acute than the pride in his promotion. "I am honored, Sire, and I thank Your Majesty deeply."
"That is not, however," his Majesty added, "the reason for my summons, any more than it is the reason why these gentlemen are here."
"Yes, Sire?"
The Emperor cleared his throat. "You should know, for these gentlemen do, that, however old Brigadier G'aereth was, he did not die of natural causes."
"Sire?"
"He was poniarded as he returned from a ball given by the Count of
Westbreeze."
Khaavren felt his eyes widen. "Sire! Who would wish to kill—"
"We don't know," said his Majesty, glancing at Jurabin and Rollondar, who shrugged. "And that isn't all," he added.
"What, there is more, Sire?"
"Yes, there was another murder last night, about which I was informed upon awakening."
"Yes, Sire?"
"A certain Smaller, an intendant of finance."
Khaavren frowned. "Yes, Sire, I believe I have seen him."
"Judging from the look on Lady Bellor's face, he was one of her ablest clerks."
"I can attest to that as well, Sire," said Jurabin.
"Sire, how did he—"
"He was found dead in his box at the Theater of the Orb, after a performance of The Song of Vinburra. We might never have known that his death was murder, save for His Excellency the Warlord, who grew suspicious of all the deaths, and thought to bring in a wizard to look for sorcery."
"It was a sorcerous murder?"
"Yes. His heart was stopped."
"I see. But, Sire, did not Your Majesty pronounce the words, 'all the deaths'?"
"I did."
"Were there others, then, Sire?"
"One other," His Majesty sighed. "Gyorg Lavode. He was in his bed, sleeping, when his throat was cut."
"What does Your Majesty tell me?" cried Khaavren. "The Captain of the Lavodes?"
"Himself," said the Emperor grimly.
Khaavren's mind fairly reeled with the news. "In that case, my message will, I suspect, not be delivered."