Five Hundred Years After

by Steven Brust

  The messenger accepted the note and the instructions, bowed, and said, "Am I to await a reply before I return?"

  Rollondar shook his head. "You will not be returning," he said. "Instead, you will bless me each day of your life, thanking me that you, and not another, had this errand of me. Now lose not a moment—you are to be there before dawn tomorrow day."

  Chapter The Twenty-Third

  Which Treats of the Uses of Repetition

  And of the Nature of Heroics;

  With Implied Comments on the Heroism

  To Be Found in the Lower Classes,

  As Compared to Those of the Very Highest.

  The power of repetition is well well known and highly respected among jongleurs, sorcerers, playwrights, and physickers, to name but a few; that is, it has long been known that frequent repetition of words or actions can elicit laughter, focus concentration, illuminate themes, or induce the painful and disabling Malady of the Tingling Hand. The author of these words is not unaware that repetition occurs in literature as well, yet he would be saddened if readers believed that he was using the repetition of words, or, indeed, events, as a device to either entertain or enlighten—in fact, recurrences are so much a part of history in general, and Khaavren's history in particular, that it would be the most vulgar sort of dishonesty to leave out a vital exchange or interaction simply because something similar, or something reflective, had been earlier presented in the narrative. Should the reader choose to look for meaning, or, indeed, amusement in this repetition, we are powerless to prevent it (nor, indeed, would we wish to), but he is cautioned that such is in no wise our intention.

  This being said, we may go on to explain that, as full darkness came upon the city, and as the carriage containing our brave but senseless Captain pulled up to the house on the Street of the Glass Cutters and, with the help of the coachman and a Palace servant, disgorged our ailing Tiassa, there was yet another attempt on his life.

  It came about in this way: the carriage arrived, as we have already said, just as full dusk had fallen. The coachman, who had felt a great sense of urgency because of the money he had been given and because of the tones in which his orders had been expressed, did not even pause to light his lamps, but rather leapt down from his seat and opened the door to assist the servant in carrying our Tiassa to the door of his house, whose location the coachman had been given in explicit detail by the selfsame subaltern of the Guard who had transmitted His Majesty's orders in terms so clear and precise.

  The coachman took one of Khaavren's arms, the servant took the other, and, with only that help Khaavren was able to render in his condition—which was, as we have said, on the edge of consciousness (or, if the reader prefer, the edge of unconsciousness)—they led the Captain two steps closer to the door, at which point the coachman let go of the arm he had been holding. Upon noticing this, the Teckla said, "My dear sir, I assure you that I cannot carry this gentlemen unassisted, wherefore I urge you to take the arm again before he falls to the ground and my back is called to answer for the failure of his legs."

  The coachman did not answer, and the servant, upon attempting to discover why, saw that his companion was stretched out full length upon the ground and that, moreover, there appeared, in the uneven light cast by the nearest glowbulb, still some distance away, a stream of blood flowing from a not inconsiderable gash in his forehead.

  Now this Teckla (whose name, we should add for the sake of completeness, if not euphony, was Klorynderata), had worked in the Imperial Palace for nearly all of his nine hundred years, and had often been assigned duties in the Dragon Wing of cleaning or carrying or fetching, and, hence, had heard no few stories featuring war, battle, blood, and death as either central themes or recurring motifs—yet he had never before encountered violence in such a close, and, we might add, intimate way. He responded, then, in a manner that ought to surprise no one: He loosed his hold on Khaavren's shoulder and bolted down the street as fast as he could, leaving Khaavren to fall helpless next to the prostrate coachman, who, being either dead or rapidly dying, could be of no assistance to him whatsoever. The horses stamped and shifted as if aware that something was wrong, and this sound, along with the jingling of their harnesses, was all that could be heard in the street.

  Then it seemed as if a formless shadow grew from the larger shadow of the house and approached Khaavren's senseless body. A closer look would have revealed, in the figure's hand, a dull black rod, about a meter in length, of the type often used by sorcerers to concentrate, or even contain, particularly potent spells. A still closer look would have shown that the figure was, in fact, Laral, who quickly walked up to Khaavren, holding the rod aloft. There can be no question that all would have been up for Khaavren at that moment, except that, just then, the stillness was broken by Srahi, who cried out in her shrill, piercing, and abrasive voice, "What is this, a robbery in front of my master's door? Hey, you, what is it you are doing? Get away from there!"

  Srahi had come around the corner, in the company of Mica, and seen just enough to know that there was a crime taking place on the street outside of her house. Now Srahi was no stranger to crimes of one sort or another—in fact, if truth be told, she had, before being hired by Khaavren, herself engaged in activities of dubious legality; she had no thought whatsoever of passing judgment in any moral sense. But she also understood that the space in front of her master's house was no place for criminal action, or violent crime in any case, and he Captain of His Majesty's Guard!

  A sense of outrage not only filled her, but it positively carried her straight up to the amazed Laral, who could not believe that a Teckla would be so foolish, not to mention insolent, as to interfere with Jhereg business. We should add that, for her part, Srahi had no notion that this was a Jhereg before her, and whether she would have behaved differently if she had known we cannot say.

  Locked up in the rod in Laral's hand was the embodiment of that spell called The Quick Road by those in the Jhereg who practiced assassination through sorcery—the spell was so named because it was reputed to be one of the quickest known paths to the afterlife: It acted by instantly freezing all of the liquids within the fairly small radius of the spell's effect, wherefore it was only necessary to direct it at the victim's heart for death to follow almost before the victim could be aware. For just the briefest of moments, it was directed at Srahi's heart, but Laral realized that it would be ludicrous to use the spell she had carefully prepared for Khaavren on a mere Teckla, who could hardly threaten her in any case. At the same time, however, she realized that this Teckla may have glimpsed her face, and thus had to die, and that without any delay. Her solution to this problem was to bring forth a simple flashstone which she had concealed in a convenient pocket, raise it, and discharge it fully into Srahi's face—a solution which she put into practice at once.

  It happened, however, that instead of discharging it into Srahi's face, she rather discharged it into the space Srahi's face had occupied a moment before, for, just at that moment, Mica, who had seen such devices in action often enough to recognize one at once, pushed his own body into Srahi's in such a way that she was thrown to the side and the flashstone went off into the air above Mica's head—Mica having, fortunately, the presence of mind to duck at the same time that he pushed. The horses, already made nervous by the commotion and the smell of blood, took this moment to bolt, and, with no coachman to direct them, hurtled down the street (for the sake of completeness, we ought to explain what became of the coach, but, in point of fact, we have not been able to learn of it).

  After ducking the murderous power of the stone, Mica straightened up and, doing his best to imitate the tones his mistress was wont to use on such occasions, addressed Srahi in these terms: "Now, my dear, you shall see the use to which I can put a good bar-stool, and we will both be grateful that we were able to find it in the trash-heap—it is true that it now smells of klava leavings, the peelings of vegetables, and the guts and heads of fish, but, what of that? The refuse before m
e will only feel more at home therefrom."

  To Laral, he said, "Now then, you, defend yourself, for I am well acquainted with this weapon I bear, and if you are not at least equally familiar with your own, then, Shards and Splinters! I think you are a dead woman!"

  Laral, for her part, felt no need to engage in conversation; moreover, she was far too angry to attempt words—the very idea of two Teckla happening by and ruining her careful plan filled her with outrage. But she was a sorcerer both powerful and subtle, as well as being a killer both fierce and heartless. She knew that, if she were to have any chance of completing her mission, she could waste no time with these Teckla; they had to be dispatched at once. She also knew that, with her flashstone having already sent its sharp, penetrating crack through the neighborhood, there was no longer any reason to be quiet, wherefore, with no hesitation, she now aimed her flashstone a second time.

  Mica, looking at the flat surface of the stone only inches from his nose, realized, in the first place, that it must have been prepared with a second charge—he knew such things were possible because he had assisted his Master, Tazendra, in preparing such devices several score of times—and, in the second place, he knew that he was a dead man.

  Or, to be more precise, we ought to say he thought he was a dead man, for he had reckoned without Srahi who, though weaponless, had no intention of standing by while Mica, who was well on the way to becoming her lover, and who had, moreover, just saved her life, suffered the very fate from which he had lately preserved her. Srahi let go an enraged cry that vied with the flashstone itself for volume, and threw herself on the arm of Mica's assailant.

  This time when the stone discharged, however, it was not without effect; Mica, who had once been kicked in the left shin by one of his master's colts, with whom he had been disagreeing about the proper direction to move through the corral, felt for a moment as if this same colt had kicked him in the right shin; indeed, the crack of the flashstone even sounded in his ears very much as the crack of breaking bone had on that occasion, and the shock to the limb—that particular shock which resembles numbness but which promises pain to follow in short order—was nearly identical except that, on this occasion, it was accompanied by a searing heat which promised even more extreme pain and, half an instant later, by the smell of cooking meat—had he paused to consider that this smell came from his own tortured flesh, he may well have been so discomfited that he would have been unable to respond.

  In the event, however, Mica did not pause to consider this, nor did he even pause to consider that he had been hurt, perhaps disabled, and that both he and his mistress might soon be left helpless before their unknown assailant; rather, the instant he felt the blow and the accompanying heat, he swung his faithful bar-stool with grim purpose and deadly aim. He, was rewarded by the solid, satisfying feel of a good stroke well placed; Laral fell back three steps with a hiss of pain or annoyance at the same instant that Mica gave a scream that was, in fact, the loudest sound yet to ring out through that night, after which he fell, nearly senseless himself, next to Khaavren who slept, and the coachman who would never wake.

  Laral, though stunned, was by no means finished; she dropped the now-useless flashstone and drew from her side a long, slim dagger, and, with this in one hand (the other, the reader ought to remember, still held that rod containing the spell with which she was determined to dispatch Khaavren) she advanced on Srahi with the intention of quickly finishing her, and then completing her business with the fallen Captain.

  Srahi looked at the dagger, at the cold, heartless eyes behind the dagger, at her fallen lover, and felt a trembling in her knees and a weakness in her bowels the like of which she had never imagined, and realized, in her turn, that she was about to die.

  And die she certainly would have, had not Daro, Countess of Whitecrest, aroused by the sounds of battle coming from outside of the house, emerged at that moment, dressed in a housecoat of brilliant Lyorn-red and holding a naked sword in her hand. The Countess, attempting as best she could to see through the darkness and the shadows, said, "What is this? Who are you to threaten an unarmed Teckla with a knife? And who are these people who lie, dead, dying, sleeping, or stricken, all about the doorstep of this good house?"

  As Laral turned, Srahi gave a small sigh and sank to her knees. It is true that one might fault her for not having chosen that moment, when her assailant's back was turned, to launch an attack, but one ought to remember, in the first place, that she was weaponless, in the second that she was frightened out of her wits, and, in the third, that, when she had earlier launched herself at Laral's arm, even as the Jhereg was about to strike down her lover, she had already been far, far braver than one ought to expect of any Teckla. It is the judgment of the historian that Srahi be allowed a moment's collapse in relief at her delivery, without censure from the reader.

  In any case, Laral did not hesitate, but threw her knife at this new intruder with careful aim and a strong arm. Daro had fought her share of duels, been involved in a few melees of one sort or another, and, on one occasion, had even been involved in what could only be called a battle (although, had Her Majesty known of this battle and the part the Countess had played therein, it is doubtful whether Daro would have been allowed any position whatever at court, much less that of maid of honor), but she had never fought with anyone who could use a knife in the way Laral did—that is, by throwing it. Daro had no means of repelling such an attack, and the knife struck her full in the body. Daro gasped and, like Srahi had the instant before, sank to her knees.

  Her sword fell to the ground with a clang, and she stared, gasping, at the knife which appeared to grow from her stomach—nearly four inches of blade had penetrated, testifying to Laral's skill and strength. The assassin, however, did not pause to congratulate herself on the skill and strength to which we have just alluded; she knew very well that time, a most valuable commodity to an assassin, was quickly slipping away, and she must act at once if she were to complete her mission—or, indeed, if she were even to herself attempt the very thing that time was doing—that is, slipping away.

  And so, once more, for the last time, she turned back to the prostrate Tiassa, raising the black rod in her hand; and once more, for the last time, she was interrupted, this time by Tazendra, who cried, "What is this, a massacre on Khaavren's very doorstep?"

  "An assassination, more like," said Pel through clenched teeth.

  "How! Do you think so?"

  "I am convinced of it, my dear Baroness. And if we are too late, then, by all the gods of the Paths, someone will pay dearly for our tardiness."

  Laral turned at these voices, and seeing two warlike figures silhouetted against the light from the slowly approaching glowbulb, decided that there was no longer time for saving anything, but, rather, she must use her most potent weapons at once, and hope only to escape with her life. She therefore raised the rod, directed it at the larger of the two, which looked to be a woman (and was, in fact, Tazendra), and cast the spell, while simultaneously drawing a rapier with which she intended to quickly dispatch the smaller (whom the reader will realize is Pel), after which she hoped to cut the throats of everyone present—certainly more of a bloodletting than she would have preferred; but, she decided, she had no choice.

  Unfortunately for our Jhereg, Tazendra and Pel each had other ideas. Although Tazendra was not quick to comprehend the subtleties of intrigue, or the nuances of communication, or the feints and deceptions behind the schemes of a Yendi, she knew very well what the rod signified, and quickly cast a rune of protection over her and her friend, and such was her skill in the magical sciences that, although she felt a momentary chill, there was no other effect of the enchantment. Similarly, Pel had never in his life allowed anyone to pierce his skin with anything sharp if he could at all prevent it; in this case, he prevented it by drawing his own sword and neatly deflecting Laral's hurried lunge, a maneuver he followed at once with a riposte that cut her wrist, causing her to drop her sword.

 
; We should say in Tazendra's defense that, had she noticed that the unknown sorcerer was weaponless, she (by which we mean Tazendra) would have held up on her own attack, but events proved too quick in the unfolding, and the light proved too dim in the shadows, so that Tazendra's massive sword was in her hand, and, indeed, the blade was embedded in Laral's skull, before the sound of Laral's own sword striking the ground had reached Tazendra's ears.

  In the silence that followed the clang of the sword onto the stone walkway before Khaavren's house, followed, as it was, by the muffled sound of the assassin's body falling next to her own sword, Daro stared up at the two unknowns, grateful for their presence but wondering who they were. Pel stepped out of the way of the glowbulb, thus allowing the light to fall on the Countess's face, after which he said, "Well, my dear Whitecrest, our arrival seems to have been timely."

  "I am convinced I have heard that before, too," murmured Tazendra.

  "How, you know me?" said Daro.

  "Indeed," said Pel, and turned so the light fell on his face (the glowbulb, we should add, was only now moving into place above the ensemble, so quick had been all of the action). "You are without doubt one of Her Majesty's maids of honor, and are called Daro, are you not?"

  "Indeed, and I recall your face, yet I cannot think where I have seen you."

  "I have been at court," said Pel, "though in other garb than this. Perhaps—"

  "Ohhhhhhh," moaned Srahi.

  "Help," suggested Mica.

  "Countess, is that your voice I hear, or am I dreaming?" said the Captain. "And why is it so cold?"

  "Perhaps," said Pel, "we ought to bring everyone inside, and tend to that unfortunate length of steel which seems to have embedded itself in your stomach, Countess, and attend, as well, to anyone else who is wounded."