Five Hundred Years After

by Steven Brust

  "How, you bring a bar-stool with you?"

  "Certainly. Have you not marked it, sitting in the corner by the door."

  "Ah—ah! My dear Mica, I have done a terrible thing!"

  Mica frowned. "What is it, my dear? Come you must tell me, for I perceive you are agitated, and I grow more so as you look at me with your countenance growing pale."

  "I did not realize what it was, I thought it was only refuse from your journey, and in cleaning I—"

  "Yes?"

  "I threw it away!"

  Mica, in his turn, became pale. "How, you threw it away?"

  "Yes, onto the rubbish heap, to be removed every alternate week by those who are paid by the Empire to perform this service."

  "Oh," said Mica, miserably.

  "Will you ever forgive me?"

  Mica swallowed, but, after several moments, he attempted, and managed, a pale smile. "Well, but it is only a bar-stool, after all. There must be others—"

  "Bide," she said, suddenly sitting upright in her chair.

  "Yes?"

  "Something has occurred to me."

  "And that is? I beg you to tell, for you perceive that I am most anxious to hear."

  "The refuse will not be removed from its pile until tomorrow morning."

  "Which means—"

  "Unless someone has seen it, and decided to remove it—"

  "It will still be there!"

  "Exactly."

  "Come, I will pay for our repast by leaving the exact amount required here on the table where they cannot fail to find it, and we will help our digestion by hurrying to the trash-heap."

  "Which is, in fact, by the side of house, just outside of the kitchen window."

  "Then, allow me to finish this last glass of wine—"

  "And I, the same."

  "And we are away. Give me your arm."

  "Here it is."

  His Majesty, meanwhile, had decided that, worried as he was about his Captain of the Guard, he must nevertheless come to a decision about Adron, and to this end he had Jurabin and Rollondar e'Drien brought to him in the Seven Room. By the time they were seated, the Orb had assumed a light, placid green. His Majesty gave them a brief summary of Adron's rebellion. While he did so, we should add, Jurabin remarked to himself (as, no doubt the reader has already remarked) upon the abrupt change in His Majesty's character in little more than a week: His Majesty, as he faced his councilors, appeared to be truly an Emperor, as if, whatever his responsibilities in allowing matters to reach this crisis, he was determined to see it through at all costs.

  Jurabin wondered how it had happened that, in the blink of an eye, as it were, he, the Prime Minister, had become merely an adviser to the throne, whereas he had before been the true power and mover behind all decisions of the Empire (with the exception, of course, of those decisions affecting only His Majesty's personal life).

  Does the reader wonder as well? If so, we are only too happy to be able to say, as proudly and humbly as those great philosophers of antiquity, Prince Tapman and Lady Tersa of Haynels, "Allow us to lay before you our theory on this question." We will not pretend to be philosophers such as those we have mentioned, yet, we too have a theory, and we hope our readers will allow us to lay it humbly at their respective and collective feet.

  His Majesty, as we have already mentioned, had, over the course of his reign, become whimsical and morose, these alternating moods interrupted by occasional flurries of interest in the Empire of which he was the nominal ruler. The reader ought especially to note our use of the word flurries, as it forms an essential part of the theory we now have the honor to submit.

  What, we wish to ask, is a flurry, except a mild rain-shower which encounters icy wind, and so freezes as it descends? Well, as the shower is to the flurry, so, then, is the downpour to the blizzard; in the same way, the occasional flurry of interest which we have just mentioned had become a blizzard of truly prodigious proportions.

  For His Majesty the downpour was a combination of several factors, these being the disruption of his court by the entrance of Adron's daughter, the fears of financial collapse because of enmity and confusion in the Council of Princes (of whom Adron figured as a prominent member), and, above all, by Adron's rebellion. In simpler terms: by Adron e'Kieron.

  But where was the icy wind that changes water into its light, flaky, crystalline equivalent? Wind is a more elusive element, blowing as it does hither and yon, leaving no tracks for the hunter to follow, and having no lair at whose mouth the hunter might wait; the wind is known only by its passing—that is, by its effects. The hunter—by which we mean the historian—then, must listen to the hissing leaves of rumor, look at the bent trees of letters and documents, and recall the lessons of the past winds as described by previous historians in order to judge the quarter, strength, and temperature of his particular quarry.

  Let us consider that the court was disrupted, not so much by Aliera, but by the changes in the alliances of power and intrigue initiated by Aliera's arrival, and that most of these alliances revolved around—the Consort.

  Let us consider that many, if not most, of the excesses so deplored by and worrisome to the various Heirs sprang from whims of—the Consort.

  Let us consider that Adron's rebellion was instigated by an insult to his daughter and that this insult was delivered at the request of—the Consort.

  In the opinion of this historian, then, although His Majesty didn't know it, it was the Consort herself who provided the blast of frigid air that turned the torrent of rain into a blizzard of snow, or, to abandon our metaphor before we ignominiously slip on it, that motivated the Emperor into assuming personal control of the affairs of the Empire.

  We cannot know how much of this Jurabin knew, suspected, or felt instinctively, but to the extent that His Majesty was in control of himself and of the Empire, so, to that extent, was Jurabin puzzled and even put out by this change in his master's attitude.

  Rollondar e'Drien, as it happened, knew little or nothing of any of this. He had been a soldier for nearly all of his one thousand and one hundred years, and matters military were his profession, passion, and recreation. He had married a few hundred years earlier the woman who had defeated him in a skirmish during the Shallow Valley Revolt, before he had been made Warlord, and there was no end of humor in the barracks about how the two of them spent their leisure hours—humor which we feel obliged to mention, but of which nothing could induce us to supply examples.

  Rollondar sat stiffly at the table waiting for His Majesty to speak. The change we have mentioned in Tortaalik's character, so disconcerting to Jurabin, was of so little importance to Rollondar that, as we have said, he scarcely noted it at all, and would not have cared even had he noticed—Rollondar waited for the problem to be put before him so that he could suggest solutions.

  As for His Majesty, he gave no thought to his own character, but only to the problem they now confronted. He had chosen to have only three advisers present: the one, Jurabin, who understood the political situation in the Empire; another, Rollondar, because any military action would necessarily fall under Rollondar's province; and the third, Khaavren, who was now under the care of His Majesty's physicker, but whom Tortaalik admired for his good common sense, clear vision, and occasional inspired suggestion. He was annoyed, then, that Khaavren was absent (and, to his credit, he was also worried about the health of his Captain), but, having made up his mind not to brook the insult offered him by the Duke of Eastmanswatch, he knew that no good could be accomplished by delaying.

  "My Lords," he therefore began, "I have determined to punish the insolence of His Highness Adron e'Kieron, Duke of Eastmanswatch and Dragon Heir to the Throne. You should know that his Breath of Fire Battalion is within striking distance of the Palace, and we cannot be certain he will not carry his rebellion so far as to attack the Palace itself, in hopes of bringing about the turn of the cycle—which, as you are no doubt aware, would turn his action from rebellion to merely the working-out o
f destiny. It is not my intention to allow destiny to work out in this way at this time. We must, therefore, protect the city, and in particular the Palace, while attending to the capture of the Duke.

  "Excellency, what is your opinion?"

  "Sire," said the Dragonlord, "the Breath of Fire Battalion is known for speed as well as skill and ferocity in open battle."

  "Well?"

  "Well, they have neither the forces nor the skill to beat down walls."

  "And therefore?"

  "If all of the city gates are shut, and detachments of guardsmen are posted to watch for treachery, that should secure the city, and allow the Imperial Troops to concentrate on bringing in the rebel."

  "Very well. Jurabin?"

  "Sire?"

  "Have you anything to say?"

  "I have, Sire."

  "Then I am listening."

  "There are clear signs of a plot of some sort, against your Majesty, or the Empire itself. I refer to the assassinations of recent days, and to disruptions in finance, and—"

  "Well, of these things I am aware."

  "Sire, I wonder if it could not be the case that, as we earlier suspected, Lord Adron is behind it."

  Rollondar drew in his breath sharply, seemed about to speak, but said nothing.

  "It is possible," said His Majesty. "What then?"

  "Sire, steps must be taken to guard us against attacks from within, as well as from without. Lord Adron has, by all accounts, a powerful and subtle mind, and I am not ashamed to confess to Your Majesty that I fear him."

  The Emperor frowned. "What is your opinion of this, Rollondar?"

  The Warlord shrugged, as if to say that this was an area, outside of his knowledge and interest. Then he said, "I do not believe Adron is involved in any conspiracy, Sire. But, if Your Majesty is at all worried about it, the solution is simple and easily had, at little cost."

  "These are the sorts of solutions I like best, Warlord. Please explain."

  "I will do so, Sire."

  "I am listening."

  "In the first place, do not let it be generally known that His Highness has taken arms against the Empire; this will delay the execution of any plot intended to coincide with the actual rebellion. Second, call out the reserve Guard; double or treble them in all vital areas. If the Lord Khaavren is healthy, so much the better; he has shown his skill in such matters. If not, his second-in-command will act as best as he can."

  The Emperor nodded and said, "Jurabin?"

  "I agree with the second, Sire. We can and should mount additional guards to secure the city and the Palace, and such other strategic points as the Warlord and the Captain might conceive of. As to the first, I doubt it is possible. The city is too large, and rumors fly too freely. It will be general knowledge within the day, if it is not already, that Lord Adron rebels against the throne. We must keep a sharp eye all around us, Sire, for I confess that, until we know who was behind the assassinations, and why, I will not sleep easily."

  Rollondar bowed his head. The Emperor nodded slowly. "You are right, Jurabin, and we thank you for calling it to our attention."

  Jurabin bowed.

  The Emperor said, "Excellency."

  "Sire?" said the Warlord.

  "How long until you can field an army sufficient to destroy Lord Adron?"

  "Sire, the Breath of Fire Battalion numbers about two thousand soldiers, all of whom are mounted, and all of whom are highly trained Dragonlords."

  "I trust your intelligence," said His Majesty. Rollondar bowed his head. "What then?"

  "Then," continued the Warlord, "To be certain of victory, I should require some eight thousand foot soldiers, most of whom can be Teckla, and another three thousand mounted, who must all be skilled warriors."

  "Well?"

  "Sire, Your Majesty need but give the word, and they can be gathered by to-morrow, and be ready to march against His Highness before dawn the day after."

  "'They can set off in two days, then?"

  "If that is Your Majesty's wish."

  "Well then, Rollondar, tell me frankly what you think of this plan."

  The Warlord considered. "Sire, the more time Lord Adron is given, the more time he will have to bring the horses that provide the basis of his tactics into better positions, wherefore I believe that not a day—not an hour—should be lost in setting out after him. And, moreover—"

  "Yes?"

  "I intend to be careful in constructing a snare through which he cannot slip, and this must needs mean I will move slower than I should otherwise wish; thus, even more, we ought to hurry in setting out, to make up for the necessary delays in the forming of the attack. This is a case where, above all. speed is our ally, and we must treat with her with all the diplomacy we can muster."

  "Then you favor gathering our forces this very night?"

  "Yes, Sire."

  "Let it be so," said the Emperor.

  Rollondar bowed his head.

  His Majesty continued, "We will see how fares the Lord Khaavren. If possible, he ought to give his orders for the protection of the city, but set out with you, Warlord, for it is his mission to arrest Lord Adron, and none but he should carry it out."

  "Very well, Sire," said the Warlord. "Have you anything to add, Jurabin?"

  "Nothing, Sire."

  "Then that is all."

  Warlord and Minister took respectful leave of His Majesty, who sat alone in the Seven Room, reflecting. There was no doubt in his mind that he was doing what was necessary, and moreover, what was right—yet he regretted extremely the words of Khaavren, his wise Captain, and, moreover, His Majesty wondered if he had failed to account for something to which he ought to have paid attention.

  After some few moments, he rose and, attended by the guardsman called Sergeant, went to look in on his Captain of the Guards, who was being attended in one of the spare bedchambers of the Imperial Wing. Attending him, we should add, was Navier, of the House of the Hawk, who was His Majesty's personal physicker.

  His Majesty was announced, and then entered the chamber where Khaavren appeared to sleep peacefully, while Lady Navier stood above him, holding out her fingers for him to breathe on and then rubbing her fingers together with a thoughtful expression on her face. She was a woman of nine hundred or a thousand years, whose hair was the color of the Redbrick Inn (by which, lest the reader never have seen this structure, we mean dark brown); she had an unusually dark complexion for Hawklords, so that her face, blending in with her hair, was often concealed when her hair fell forward as she worked, and she had, moreover, the sharp angular face that Hawklords share with Dragonlords. She had studied blood-work directly under Burdeen, who wrote the famous monograph published by Pamlar University during the last Teckla Republic, had studied sorcery with the Athrya Lady Waxen, and had, in addition, worked with Lord Clir on his monumental and definitive work on anatomy, all of which, taken together, made her qualified as none other could be to be His Majesty's physicker.

  Now she looked up and said in a whisper, "I beg Your Majesty to speak softly; above all else, he requires rest, and I fear to wake him."

  "Very well," His Majesty whispered back. "What is his condition?"

  "Sire, he has lost a great deal of blood, and, moreover, has received a sharp knock on the head. He is strong, however, and I have made him drink fortified wine to encourage his blood to replace itself as well as to help him sleep. Moreover, there are certain spells which I have made use of to ensure that the new blood is clean and in harmony with the old, so there need be no fear on that score. Of course, the wound in his side is nothing, for no organs were touched, nor even any ribs, and I have sewn it up and placed an enchantment to cause the skin to grow—it will itch like seven demons when he wakes, but it will knit with scarcely a scar."

  "Well, but what of his head?"

  "Sire, I have studied this wound, and I believe that there is no danger. His pupils do not seem to have changed size, and, in the few words we had while he was conscious, he did not
complain of nausea."

  The Emperor gave forth a sigh of relief and said, "Navier, you relieve my mind. When can I speak with him? For there are matters of state that make consultation with him urgent, though I would not willingly risk his health."

  "Sire, I think Your Majesty ought to send him home in a coach—and a good one, mind—and allow him a night's sleep in familiar surroundings. Then, if he feels himself able to report for duty to-morrow, there is no reason why he should not be able to assume it, provided he regularly doses himself with the draught I am preparing for him."

  "All will be as you say, Navier."

  The physicker bowed.

  Tortaalik made his way out of the room, and resumed his interrupted walk to the Imperial Baths. As he walked, he reflected once again on his discussion with his councilors, and now he wished Lord Khaavren could have been there. He resolved to speak with him as soon as could be on the morrow.

  Khaavren, for his part, was aware of little of this. He was in sort of daze, and through this confusion he was dimly aware that he was being sent home, but not why, nor yet that he had succumbed to his wounds—in fact, he did not remember being wounded. He did remember that there was something he had attempted to do at which he had failed, and even in his semiconscious state this grieved him; yet he was also aware that he would soon be seeing Daro, which cheered him.

  And beneath it all there was the notion that there was something he ought to have done, or be doing, or have someone do, but he could neither concentrate his attention sufficiently to think of what it was, nor, had he been able to, had he the ability to wake enough for coherent speech.

  He felt himself being placed in the coach that had been ordered for him, and by chance it was a good one, so that the rocking motion soon pitched him fully into a deep, restful sleep. At this same time, the Warlord of the Empire stood in his offices contemplating the maps of the terrain around the city, but thinking, instead, about Adron e'Kieron, about His Majesty, and about a thousand other matters that came to his mind. After some few minutes of this, he sat down, took out a good, sharp pen, and wrote a hasty note to his wife, which he lost no time in putting into the hand of a messenger, with instructions to use the fastest posts His Majesty had.