by Steven Brust
"Yes, yes. You are always right. Only—"
"Yes?"
"When I spoke of wanting to learn what you knew, I was not thinking about the secrets of Discretion."
"But, my dear Tazendra, what else could I, locked away in this tower, know? I assure you, it has been my whole life. No, no, don't answer yet. For I assure you that I desire nothing more than conversation with you, so let us find a place where we can sit comfortably while we speak. Here, turn this corner, and now this one, and so through this portal. Here, you perceive, is a room that is empty save for some chairs, and one that has, moreover, good, thick walls. Now, of what do you pretend I have knowledge?"
"Well, of the assassination attempt on Lord Adron."
"Ah! I admit that I had some concerns on that score, but they seem to have been misplaced."
"Not at all."
"How, not at all? Was an attempt made?"
"Yes, only—"
"Well?"
Tazendra dropped her voice. "They made a mistake, and attempted to kill Khaavren instead."
"How, Khaavren?" cried Pel, amazed.
"Yes. And they might have succeeded, except that, thanks to your warning, Aerich and I were there, and I was able to discharge a flashstone which, thanks to the Gods, did not miss its mark."
"Your flashstones rarely miss their mark," said Pel.
"You are kind to say so," said Tazendra magnanimously.
"Yet," said Pel slowly, "I cannot believe they would have made such a mistake."
"Oh, they did, although, to be sure, neither Khaavren nor Aerich seem to think it was a mistake."
"What do they think?"
"They think it was an attempt on Khaavren. But that would mean that you had erred in thinking that Adron was in danger, and I do not think—"
"When was an attempt made?"
"It was the evening of the riot. We had a hand in that, too, I should add. I mean, we helped to stop it; we did nothing to start it, I assure you."
Pel seemed to be considering matters deeply. "You say an attempt was made on Khaavren?"
"No, no. On Adron. Only—"
"An attempt was made, was it not, Tazendra?"
"Yes."
"And Khaavren was its intended victim?"
"Without question."
"Then that is enough for now."
Tazendra shrugged as if she, having done her best to open his eyes, would waste no more time pointing out the obvious. For his part. Pel did not seem distraught by this. He said, "Do you know who made the attempt?"
Tazendra frowned. "I must confess something," said Tazendra.
"Well, as a Discreet, at least in training, there are few to whom you could more safely make a confession."
"Listen, then."
"I am listening."
"I cannot remember what they said."
"What, who said, my dear Tazendra?"
"Khaavren and Aerich. They spoke at some length about the assassin, as if they knew him. Yet all I can remember is that he was from the Underside. You remember the Underside, Pel? We went in there one day, the two of us, when there was a disturbance in a private home, where eight or nine rogues seemed determined to plunder it. When we arrived, they were holding the residents hostage, and we had to—"
"Yes, yes, I recall, but—"
"Ah, that was hot work, that night! Some steel sang, and some blood was let!"
"Yes, yes, Tazendra. It was a fine night. Only—"
"Do you recall, after we had rescued the victims, they gave me a pewter goblet, with a ruby on the base?"
"I had forgotten that circumstance."
"I still have it, you know. I keep it on the mantel, near the dagger I broke when Khaavren and I were set upon by—"
"Your pardon, Tazendra my dear, but I must ask you this: You say Khaavren and Aerich knew the assassin?"
"No, no, Pel. They only seemed to. They spoke of his habits, and his House, and—"
"Well then, we need only ask Khaavren or Aerich who he is, and then we will know."
"Well, that is true. But what then?"
"What then? Why then, we will see if this information will help us track down those who are attempting to kill Lord Adron."
"Oh, I should love to get my hands on whoever hired the assassin!"
"Let us find Khaavren or Aerich, then, and perhaps you will get your wish."
"An excellent plan, Pel. You always have good plans."
Pel bowed to this compliment and said, "Where, then, is Aerich?"
"Do you mean, at this moment?"
"Yes, exactly. At this moment."
"He is with Lord Adron, protecting him."
"That is good. His Highness could not be in better hands."
"That is my opinion," said Tazendra.
"But what of Khaavren?"
"Oh, Khaavren would also protect His Highness, only he is not there."
"Yes, but, where is he?"
"Where is he? Where else but here, in the Palace?"
"With His Majesty, do you think?"
"There, yes. There or elsewhere."
Pel shrugged like Aerich. "In that case, let us go find him."
"Yes, let's. Only, I do not know this part of the Palace. I am not entirely sure how I got here, and I do not, therefore, know how to get back."
"But I do," said Pel.
"Well then, you lead."
"I am doing so."
And so, with this, Pel and Tazendra set off to find Khaavren. While they are thus engaged, we will take the opportunity to discover something of how His Majesty has been engaged.
The Emperor had been in jovial spirits for most of the day. He noticed the absence of his Captain, but assumed that Khaavren was involved, along with Sethra Lavode, in the investigations associated with the assassinations. His day went by as usual until, in the middle of the afternoon, he was interrupted by the Consort, who urgently requested a private audience with him, an audience he granted at once. They repaired, therefore, to the Seven Room, with Corporal Thack stationed outside of the door.
Need we dwell on the conversation? Can the reader not, from the information previously given and from his own imagination, supply the words, gestures, tears, and entreaties that fell, at first like flakes of snow, then like the floodwaters of the swollen Breaking River in spring, from Consort to Emperor, in an effort to see Aliera arrested and imprisoned? We can assure the reader that, for a least the first minutes of the conversation, there would be little deviation between the reader's hypothesis and the actuality.
Eventually, however, His Majesty ventured to say, "Madam, you have my entire sympathy, and yet—"
"Yes? And yet?" said the Consort, looking at him with reddened eyes.
"Surely, you must understand, there are reasons of state that make her arrest—"
"Reasons of state?" she cried. For a moment, she seemed about to launch an assault on his premise—that is, that reasons of state could take precedence over her desires. But then she calmed herself and said, "Well, then, Sire, let us look at these reasons of state which are so important they permit a dangerous criminal to walk free, and to laugh at the laws of the Empire to which all save Your Majesty are bound."
"Yes, yes," said Tortaalik quickly, for he had cringed when he thought she was about to lose her temper, and was grateful that she was willing to discuss the matter rationally. "Yes, let us look at these reasons of state."
"Well, what are they?"
"In the first place—"
"Yes, Sire, in the first place?"
"There is her father."
"What about him?"
"What about him? Well, he is the Dragon Heir."
"Very well, he is the Dragon Heir."
"A proud, arrogant, and powerful man."
"I dispute none of these things."
"A man with considerable support among the Princes and Deputies who are gathering to determine the Imperial Tax."
"I begin to see your argument, Sire."
"Do you? Then I a
m gratified."
"Well, Sire, go on."
"Very well. We have the issue of the Imperial Tax, upon which depends the stability of the Empire, not to mention our comfort."
"Yes, yes, I understand that."
"So much, then, for the question of Adron."
"Yes, I now comprehend the situation with Adron and the Imperial tax."
"Next, there is the matter of Aliera's friendship with Sethra Lavode."
"What is this?"
"I am told that they have become fast friends. And, you perceive—"
"Fast friends? And yet, Sire, I am told that they have threatened to murder one another no less often than once each day since they have met."
The Emperor shrugged. "Well? They are Dragonlords; wherefore does this means they are not friends?"
"Well, go on."
"Yes. Well, it is clear that there is some sort of conspiracy at work, which has resulted in G'aereth's murder, the assassination of Smaller, the—"
"Yes, Sire, there is a conspiracy."
"Sethra is helping to investigate it. Should we offend Sethra—"
"Then she will no longer help in the investigation."
"Exactly."
"I understand, Sire."
"Not to mention any other ways in which Sethra Lavode could exercise her influence to our detriment."
"Well then, I understand the arguments about Adron and Sethra. What next?"
"Next, the people."
"The people?"
"Exactly."
"You perceive, Sire, that I fail to see what the people have to do with this."
"Ah, then you have not been informed of Aliera's influence among the people? How they formed an attachment to her after the incident of the bakery?"
"The incident of the bakery, Sire?"
"Yes, exactly."
"But I know nothing of this incident."
"Then I shall tell you of it."
"Go on, then. I await you."
"This is it: Two days ago she saw a crowd outside of a large bakery on the Street of Six Fences. She became curious, and attempted to discover the reason behind the gathering."
"Well?"
"Well, the crowd had become angry because the baker had raised the price for bread, pretending that the new tax imposed on wheat entering the city had raised his costs. The crowd was debating breaking down the doors of the bakery and taking the bread."
The Consort frowned. "Were they serious about this, Sire?"
"As I am informed, madam, the only remaining question was whether, after taking the bread, they should hang the baker, or merely let him go with a beating."
"Rabble!" cried the Consort. "That an honest merchant should be treated so! Where were the Guard?"
"They had been sent for, but they were, as yet, some distance away."
"What happened, Sire?"
"You wish to know what happened, madam?"
"The Gods! It is an hour since I asked anything else!"
"Aliera, upon hearing the story, approached the baker and purchased his business."
"How, she purchased it?"
"On the spot."
"For a good price?"
"So I am informed."
"Well, and then?"
"And then she gave the bread away until it was gone."
The Consort shrugged. "It is a solution for a day only."
"Not at all."
"Well?"
"She then gave the bakery back to the baker, on the condition that he return his prices to what they had been."
"And so?"
"And so the story has spread, and, no doubt, been exaggerated. The people love Aliera, and, if we should arrest her—"
"Bah! What can the people do, Sire?"
"What can the people do? And would you ask a sailor what the ocean can do?"
"No, for the ocean cannot be controlled."
"Ah, but it can, unless there is a storm."
"And you fear a storm?"
"A storm, or a flood, yes, madam. I am not ashamed to say that I fear it."
"Well, perhaps you are right to."
"So let us review."
"Yes, yes. Let us act like careful intendants, and be certain our accounts are in order."
"We have, then, first of all, Lord Adron, and the Princes and Deputies. Next, we have Sethra Lavode. Third, we have the people. All of these argue strongly that Aliera must not be arrested except under the most pressing of circumstances."
"I perceive, Sire, that you have been carefully advised."
"Yes, madam, and by Jurabin, whose business it is to know and understand these matters."
"Ah! By Jurabin."
"Yes, madam, exactly."
"Well then, I have no more to say about matters of state."
"Then you understand my position?"
"Entirely. Only—"
"Yes?"
"You might weigh these matters of state against personal matters."
"Personal matters, madam?"
"Exactly."
"I confess that I don't understand."
"Shall I explain, Sire?"
"If you would be so good."
"By personal matters I mean that, if you allow yourself to be moved by fear of the people, by fear of Sethra, and by fear of Adron, well, there are those who will think you a coward."
His Majesty frowned. "Do you think so?"
"Sire, I am convinced of it."
"And yet, if I do not, there are those who will think me a fool, and I will be the first of these."
"Then being thought a coward does not disturb Your Majesty?"
"Well, I would not say that it does not disturb me, madam. Yet ever since I was a child, I have—"
We do not know how His Majesty intended to complete this intriguing sentence; he was interrupted by a clap at the door, to which he responded—gratefully, to judge by the look on his countenance and the slight lightening of the Orb—by calling out, "Who is there?"
"Sire," said Thack from the other side of the door, "there is a messenger here who begs leave to speak with Your Majesty on a matter of some urgency."
"A messenger?" said the Emperor. "And for whom does he message?"
"His Highness, Lord Adron e'Kieron," said Thack.
His Majesty stared, half rose to feet, sat down again, and said, "Bid him enter."
"At once, Sire," said Thack, and the door was opened, admitting the messenger. Where the messenger with whom we opened our history was Teckla, this messenger was a Dragonlord. Where the Teckla was dressed in the height of style, the Dragonlord was dressed in simple military fashion. Where the Teckla was called Seb, the Dragonlord was called Molric e'Drien, and was, in fact, Adron's nephew and chainman.
His Majesty directed a look at the Consort, indicating that, this being in the nature of Imperial Business, she ought to quit the room. Her Majesty directed a look at the ceiling, as if studying the intricate floral patterns etched therein, indicating that she preferred to stay and hear whatever communication Lord Adron had for His Majesty. The Emperor frowned, thought about insisting, but in the end simply turned to the messenger and nodded for him to begin.
The messenger bowed and opened his mouth, when he, in turn, was interrupted by sudden footsteps appearing at the door. He turned as His Majesty looked over the messenger's shoulder at the still-open door.
"Ah, Jurabin!" cried His Majesty. "Your arrival is timely."
"Thanks, Sire," said the Prime Minister. "Word reached my ears that a messenger had arrived from His Highness the Dragon Heir."
"Exactly."
"If I may, Sire, I should wish to hear the message."
"You may indeed, Jurabin. Please come in. His Highness's nephew, Lord Molric, was about to begin."
Jurabin entered, bowed respectfully to His Majesty and to the Consort, and seated himself at the far end of the room, where he folded his hands on the table and assumed an attitude of careful attention. Excepting only the bow to which we have just alluded, Jurabin avoided looking
at the Consort entirely—for her part, Jurabin may as well not have existed for all the notice she paid to his presence.
"Now then," said His Majesty, who appeared oblivious to the interaction, or lack of interaction, between Jurabin and Noima. "You, Sir, were about to tell us what His Highness does the honor of communicating to us."
"Yes, Sire," said the Messenger. "Here is the message."
"We are listening."
Molric began to recite the message, as if he had memorized every word, pause, and emphasis, which, we do not doubt, is exactly the case.
He began, "To His Imperial Majesty, Tortaalik, Emperor of Dragaera, from His Highness, Adron e'Kieron, greetings."
"Well," said His Majesty to himself. "He begins well enough. Where he will go from there?"
The messenger continued, "Your Majesty ought to know that malicious gossips are spreading rumors injurious to Your Majesty as well as to me. In particular, Sire, there are those who claim that Your Majesty would so demean himself as to order searched the private chambers of my daughter, Aliera, the Countess of Limterak, on the flimsy pretext that certain outmoded laws may have been violated.
"Sire, I know this is impossible, yet these rumors abound, wherefore I, as a loyal servant of Your Majesty, feel obliged to bring them to Your Majesty's attention. Should Your Majesty wish to discover more details about these rumors, he need but ask his faithful and vigilant servant, Adron e'Kieron, Duke of Eastmanswatch, Dragon Heir to the Throne."
After the messenger, falling silent, had bowed, there was nothing to do except watch as the Orb grew darker and redder, and to speculate upon the nature of His Majesty's outburst. Even Jurabin, who was normally the one who could caution His Majesty against taking intemperate actions without thinking them through, dared not speak. And Her Majesty could think of nothing except that she had been the one who had cajoled and wheedled Tortaalik into having Aliera's rooms searched; she had no desire to call any attention to herself whatsoever.
At last the messenger himself, displaying, indeed, all the courage of a Dragonlord, said, "Sire, is there a reply?"
His Majesty stared at him, the Orb so red it seemed to be burning. "You may tell His Highness," he said at last, "that we have received his message."
Molric bowed low and backed away, taking himself out the Emperor's sight, and, no doubt, thanking his personal deity that none of His Majesty's wrath had been sent in his direction. Meanwhile, Tortaalik struggled in his mind to control the rage he felt. On the one hand were all of the arguments he had just outlined to the Consort, but on the other was a sting to his pride such as he had never felt.