Five Hundred Years After

by Steven Brust

  "Which appears to be everyone," agreed Tazendra. "But who are they? Was that, indeed, Khaavren's voice?"

  "It is I," said Khaavren. "But why am I on the ground? And—"

  "Questions later, my dear," said Pel.

  "Who else is here?" said Tazendra, looking around.

  "I am, Baroness my master," said Mica.

  "Mica, is that you?"

  "Most of him," said Mica.

  "How, most of him? What then is missing?"

  "Just about a foot," said the servant. "I hope I will not be less useful to you on that account, however."

  "Well, well, we shall see. Who is this?"

  "I do not know, but he was killed by sorcery from that woman whose head you have just parted like a ripe melon."

  "I see," said Tazendra.

  "No doubt the coachman," said Pel. "But who is this? Could it be Srahi?"

  The reader will note that the above conversation had taken only two minutes, yet this was time enough for Srahi to have recovered sufficiently to say, "Who else might it be, do you think? Here, after saving my brave master from the Gods know what sort of violence, and him helpless, are we thanked? Are we even assisted indoors? No! The good Mica lies bleeding and freezing on the cold street, and—"

  "By the Gods," said Pel. "It is Srahi."

  "It could be no one else," agreed Tazendra.

  "Let us bring them all inside, Khaavren first of all."

  "Cha!" said Khaavren. "I am the healthiest present, save for you late arrivals. Attend to the Countess, then send for a physicker."

  "Ought we," said Pel, "to move her at all before the physicker arrives?"

  In answer, Tazendra at once bent over and conducted a brief but thorough inspection of her wound. She then, using bits of cloth from Laral's costume, stanched the bleeding as best she could and said, "We must be careful, but we ought to move her at once to a place where she can be kept warm; I cannot tell what damage this weapon has done, yet I fear… come, Pel, help me bring her inside."

  The Countess was too weak from pain and shock to object to this plan, and allowed Pel and Tazendra to carry her inside. When she had been set on the sofa, they returned to find Khaavren standing up, and even assisting Srahi with Mica, who still had his bar-stool clenched in his hand. They replaced both Khaavren and Srahi, and sent the latter off to find a physicker, which she claimed she could do in two minutes. Mica seemed unhappy at seeing her leave, but he bore his loss, like the pain of his wound, as an old campaigner.

  Soon they were all settled in the parlor in this fashion: Daro lay on the couch with cloth all about the knife which was still in her stomach, and with her head near the grey armchair, upon which, we should add, was Khaavren, his feet propped up before him and his head tilted back. On the floor near him was Mica, sitting on several spare blankets, and using his master's pillow, while Pel and Tazendra occupied two of the chairs (that is, one each). Even as Tazendra stretched out her legs, tossed her hair, and opened her mouth to make a pronouncement on some subject or another, Srahi came in.

  "Well?" said Tazendra. "And the physicker?"

  "He is behind me," said Srahi, "and will be here before you can draw a breath—he stopped only to pick up those supplies, he pretends he might need." She then seated herself before Mica, with her legs crossed netmaker-fashion and her face set in a stern, forbidding look that discouraged questions about the physicker, requests for potables, or discussion of any other sort.

  The physicker, a resolutely cheerful Chreotha with a Serioli name that was all but unpronounceable (wherefore we shall refer to him as "the physicker," trusting our readers will not object), did, in fact, arrive in scarcely more than the time Srahi had mentioned—at any rate, few breaths were drawn and no more conversation took place before he arrived. Srahi sent an imperious glance around the room, but said nothing except for giving the briefest greeting to the physicker (whose name she massacred without apparent embarrassment), to which he responded by affable nods to all present, and after which he went around the room inspecting the patients, beginning with Daro, then Khaavren, and lastly Mica. No one spoke while he made his examinations, but, rather, everyone watched his face, hoping for a clue to the condition of the patient in question. No such clues were, however, forthcoming—he remained cheerful, and said nothing until he had examined all three, then, without consultation (which consultation would necessarily have produced an argument) he began his treatment first with Mica, saying, "There is no question, my friend, but that you must lose that foot and a portion of the leg, but we shall certainly save the knee, which ought to be a comfort to you."

  Mica closed his eyes tightly and did not seem especially comforted.

  By chance, the physicker was not entirely unskilled, and had brought along dreamgrass oil to ease pain, which he carefully measured out and administered on thin wafers. After urging two of these on the poor Teckla, who was so frightened he could scarcely swallow and had to be assisted with long draughts of water, most of which he spilled, the physicker commanded that a room be set aside for his surgery, with clean sheets and a bucket ready. By the time the room was ready, the dreamgrass had taken effect.

  It is not our intention to pander to those of our readers who delight in blood; moreover, it is the belief of the author that there has been enough blood already in this chapter of our history to satisfy all but most depraved of readers; we will, then, content ourselves with saying that the remainder of Mica's foot and ankle were removed without mishap, and after the stump was neatly tied, the physicker checked all of the Teckla's vital signs and pronounced him out of danger.

  Daro's wound, though shallow, was, as Tazendra had observed, the most dangerous, because the knife had come near to cutting open her intestines, which must surely have resulted in death unless extreme measures were taken. But fortunately, after examining her, the physicker announced that, in fact, no serious damage had been done, and after dosing her with dreamgrass, he drew forth the knife in one easy motion; then, after cleaning the wound, he quickly closed it with five stitches, which Daro bore quite complacently, the dreamgrass having done its work.

  After giving Khaavren a quick inspection, and announcing that he required nothing more than rest, the physicker collected his fee, which was generously contributed by Tazendra, and departed. By the time he left, all three patients had been moved back to the parlor, and all of them were able to speak without moaning, although, to be sure, two of them—by which we mean Daro and Mica—at times had to struggle to concentrate on what they or their companions were saying.

  Khaavren, upon hearing the door close, wasted no time in asking what had happened, with the result that several voices attempted to answer him at once. After some few moments of this, he asked for and received silence, and required the stories to be told simply, clearly, and one at a time. The next several hours, then, were taken up in sorting through what had happened and attempting to reconstruct it and put it into some kind of coherent order, beginning with an account from Pel and Tazendra of their recent activities (with which the reader is already familiar, except to say that, upon reaching the Imperial Palace, they discovered that Khaavren had been taken ill and sent home, and they had hastened there as quickly as they could), including Srahi's explanation of how she and Mica came to be there at that time (which, likewise, the reader has already heard except for certain portions which we are confident the reader can fill in himself), and concluding with an effort on all sides to piece together exactly who had been wounded how and when, and, in turn, who had done exactly what to the assassin (whose body, we should add, still remained on the sidewalk, next to that of the coachman, because Khaavren felt too weak to subject it to his usual scrutiny). In all, these activities continued (with, we should add some measure of success) far into the night.

  "Well," said Khaavren, when at last he understood the sequence of events, "it seems that, once again, I've been saved by the arrival of my friends—in this case several of them. Moreover, this time there can be no d
oubt that the true heroes are Mica and Srahi."

  "For my part," said Tazendra, giving Mica a fond glance, "I could not agree more."

  "Bah," said Mica, blushing and wondering if he could contrive to be killed for both Khaavren and his master at the same time and resolving to do so as soon as a means could be found, "we were only too happy to be of any small service we could, were we not?" He addressed this last to Srahi, who sniffed disdainfully, but also smiled—a task to which the muscles of her face seemed unaccustomed.

  Khaavren suggested they allow the servants a glass of wine, and, moreover, offered to drink to the health of the two of them, and this proposal was promptly put into action—they were honored the more in that it was Pel who went to fetch the wine and Tazendra who poured it into the cups, waiting upon the servants, as it happened.

  After draining his glass, Khaavren said, "And now, my friends, I must sleep, for I can scarcely keep my eyes open, and to-morrow promises to be a day of unusual interest."

  "What of to-morrow?" said Pel.

  "Indeed," said Khaavren, who sounded (and was feeling) more than a little drowsy. "What of to-morrow?"

  "Will you be able to rise in the morning?"

  "I must," said Khaavren. "There is something I must do. It is very important and, wounded or not, I must go at once to the Palace."

  "What is it?" said Pel and Tazendra together.

  "I do not remember," said Khaavren, "although, no doubt, I will when I wake up. For now, I believe that I can hold my eyes open no longer. Good night to you, my friends, and to you, Countess."

  They all, in turn, expressed their wishes that Khaavren would sleep well and comfortably, except for Daro, whose eyes were closed and who was breathing evenly and deeply, and Srahi, who was audibly wondering who was going to clean up the blood that had soaked into the floor, the sofa, three good sheets, and, it would seem, every towel in the house.

  We must, at this point, apologize to the reader, for we are not unaware that this would be a good time, with everyone drifting off to sleep, to end this chapter of our history; yet it is our desire to inform the reader of all of the significant events before allowing the next day to begin with our next chapter, wherefore we must go back in time to when Khaavren was unceremoniously leaving the Palace, which was at just about the same moment that His Majesty was ceremoniously closing up the Palace, by which, be it clearly understood, we mean that he was doing the rounds, after which he retired to his bedchamber, which he did at about the same time that Khaavren and his friends were being placed in chairs and sofas about the house, and settling in for the evening's conversation which we have already had the honor of summarizing for our reader. His Majesty, too, was settling in for an evening's conversation, but, there being no one there to converse with, he perforce spoke to himself.

  "It is not," he began, lying on his side, "as bad as it seems. Though there is rebellion, there is also an Imperial Army. Although there are conspiracies about the court, there is Jurabin. Although my Captain is injured, the good Navier believes he will recover fully, and soon at that. Moreover, I have my health, and my hand is strong upon the tiller of the Empire, and I have Noima, my Consort, a consolation in time of trouble—although, in fact, I really ought to see about a replacement for old Wellborn; I am unused to being without a Discreet.

  "But leave that—let us dwell on what we have, rather than what we do not have, for that way lies contentment, and the other way lies unhappiness. Yet, to the left, among the possessions we have been pleased to enumerate we must included an admirable memory, which reminds us that Wellborn was wont to speak of contentment in the most disparaging of terms, pretending that contentment was stagnation, and that it was the lot of Man to struggle ever higher.

  "All of which is well enough, but what, then, ought I to be struggling against? The rebel Prince, certainly; but I have done all I can as far as he goes. What else?

  "Bah! What an occupation for a grown man, and an Emperor no less! To lie awake attempting to find something to worry about! Next I shall come to mistrust the Warlord and the Captain, than which there are no more loyal souls in the Empire, even as I mistrust Jurabin, who…"

  He stopped in the midst of this soliloquy, shifted onto his back, locked his hands behind his head, and repeated this last phrase to himself. "What have I said? I mistrust Jurabin? Now, how did that thought come to take root? I have always trusted him before. Well, but there can be no question but that he has changed, although I cannot fathom precisely in what manner he has changed."

  He folded his hands on his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. "No, now that I think, I do know in manner he has changed—he is no longer so devoted to Noima as he was. It is, to be sure, an odd thing for a husband to consider (for I am a husband as well an Emperor), yet, after those devotions which, long years ago, gave me a certain unease (and of which I was once so jealous that I spent an entire day with Wellborn speaking of nothing else), to now be disturbed that those small attentions—which I was never certain existed—are now entirely absent.

  "And what of Noima herself? Has she noticed the change? Of course she has—why else would she be so angered at the Lady Aliera? This, then, is the answer to that mystery. But the first question still confronts us, and in as forceful a manner as ever: Can Jurabin still be trusted?

  "For that matter, though it pains me to even ask the question, can Noima be trusted? Not her heart, of which I have never had cause to doubt, but her judgment? If not, and I fear that to ask the question is to answer it, I must be less hasty in agreeing to her wishes—my own words to her, in which I counterposed the needs of Empire to the desires of the husband, were prophetic. No, I must do what is best for the Empire, and Jurabin certainly will agree; indeed, it was he who argued against the arrest of Aliera, which would have solved the domestic problem, at the cost of—"

  His Majesty broke off abruptly, sat up in his bed, and cried, "The Gods! Of course Jurabin argued against Aliera's arrest! He is in love with her, and this is coloring all of his decisions, as, indeed, his reaction is coloring all of Noima's! What, then—is the court nothing more than a playground of romance, and the policies of Empire nothing more than tools of intrigue? This cannot be allowed. I will not allow it. If I have to dismiss every councilor in the Chambers and live like a celibate, I will not allow it. I will not. Whatever pain I condemn myself or even my loved ones to, I will not."

  And repeating this phrase over and over to himself, he lay down once more, turned over onto his side, and at last, and at much the same time as those in Khaavren's house, drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter The Twenty-Fourth

  Which Treats of the Philosophy of Conquest,

  The Conquest of Philosophy,

  And Several Instances of Pride.

  By this time, we do not doubt, the reader is beginning to wonder about Aliera and Sethra, who were last seen in the Imperial Palace, where they learned that Khaavren had been ordered to arrest Adron. The reader might presume that, in fact, they reached Adron, warned him, and that Adron had therefore broken camp at once, leaving a patrol of three warriors to either stop Khaavren should he appear alone, or give warning should he appear in force. The reader who does make these presumptions is, we should say at once, correct on all counts. And, as it is well known that the Breath of Fire Battalion was famous, above all, for its speed, it should come as no surprise that, as red dawn broke over Dragaera, the battalion should be found encamped a good forty leagues from the city, having covered this distance in a single night and still had time, after making camp according to Adron's particular code, to get a good night's sleep (except for those who had guard duty, which was, under the circumstances, a fair number).

  Aerich was awakened at dawn, and Fawnd, a good servant, woke even before his master and hastened to help him dress, while making certain that klava was available and determining if any messages had arrived during the night. On this occasion, in fact, one had, and Fawnd hastened to present it to the good Lyorn, who read it at o
nce, frowned, and said to himself, "I am to breakfast with His Highness this morning, as well as certain others to whom he refers as guests—I assume these will include his daughter Aliera and, no doubt, Sethra Lavode; therefore I ought to present myself in a fashion that will show the esteem in which I hold them."

  To Fawnd, then, he said, "Ribbons for the belt, silver medallion, vambraces."

  "Yes, Venerance," said the servant, and immediately set out the named items.

  Aerich was not easily deceived, nor was he on this occasion—he arrived in Adron's tent to find Adron and Aliera already awaiting him; Sethra appeared even as Aerich was greeting the first two.

  We must, in all conscience, pause for a moment to utter yet another brief apology to our reader; during what follows, which, we give our word, is entirely necessary to our history, we shall be spending time with four persons, three of whom, we admit to our sorrow, have names which begin with the same sound and are, moreover, of roughly similar length, and even contain similar sounds within. We are not insensitive to the difficulty it may cause some readers to keep track of when a passing symbol refers to Adron, when to Aliera, and when to Aerich. We shall, of course, do our best to help the reader by making reference, from time to time, to some characteristic by which the individual may be told from the others: "His Highness," for example, or "the Lyorn," or "Adron's daughter." Yet, it cannot be denied that a certain amount of confusion is inevitable under these circumstances, and we therefore tender our apologies, offering as our only justification that, in the event, these people were there, and to change their names for them would be to take liberties which no historian could justify, and for which those involved, some of whom live even as we write these words, would hardly thank us.

  This said, let us pass on to consider the breakfast to which His Highness had determined to treat his daughter, the Lyorn, and the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain.

  It was not large, as such breakfasts go—it was Adron's opinion that he, and, by extension, his troops, would fight better if not weighed down by a large meal, although some sustenance was certainly required. Hence, each guest was given warmed bread and butter, a ration of potatoes, a piece of dried whitefruit, and a slice of roasted kethna. There was also blood-tea in good quantity (Adron, being superstitious about the name, had forced himself to enjoy the acrid tang) and klava.