by Steven Brust
The toast being done, they set about, as they had so often before, engaging in conversation. “Well,” said Shant, “has anyone anything to report that concerns the Society? That is, has anything of interest to any of the members happened since we last gathered? I can say, for my part, that it has been a pleasant enough week, but nothing has happened that is worth reporting.” In fact, it was rare indeed for anything to have “happened,” yet this usually served as an effective gambit for opening the conversation that was the meat and bread of the Society’s meetings.
On this occasion, Zivra shifted in her chair, as if she would speak, but didn’t. This was noticed by Lewchin, but she decided that, if Zivra preferred to wait before giving her news, then Lewchin would respect this preference. Piro, on the other hand, said, “I do not know the significance of it, but I can report that a messenger has arrived and put the manor into something of an uproar.”
“How, an uproar?” said Lewchin.
“Well, that is, a subdued uproar.”
“What precisely,” Shant inquired, “is a subdued uproar? For you perceive I desire precision of all things.”
“I will describe it as best I can,” said Piro.
“I await your description with all eagerness,” said Shant.
“Here it is, then: A messenger arrived some four days ago, that is, the day after we last met.”
“Well?” said Lewchin. “Whence came this messenger?”
“That I cannot tell you, only—”
“Yes?”
“He was a Teckla, and he wore the livery of the House of the Dragon.”
“There is nothing remarkable in that,” said Shant. “Dragonlords often hire peasants to run errands, and it is only proper that they wear the Dragon livery under such circumstances.”
“Oh, I agree, there is nothing remarkable in that. Only—”
“Well?”
“His message:”
“What was it?”
“I assure you, I haven’t the least idea in the world.”
“How,” said Zivra. “You have no idea?”
“None at all, on my word of honor.”
“And then?” said Shant.
“All I know is this: The messenger spoke to the Count my father and Countess my mother for some time, and then departed, and after he left—”
“Well?” said Shant. “After he left?”
“There were unmistakable signs of agitation in the behavior of the countess and the count.”
“And yet,” said Lewchin, “they gave no indication of the cause of this agitation?”
“Exactly. Indeed, far from giving a reason for it, they made every effort to hide it.”
“The Horse!” said Shant. “It is a regular mystery.”
“So it seems to me, my dear friend,” said Piro.
“But,” said Zivra, “what could the explanation be?”
“I could not guess,” said Piro. “Only—”
“Well?” said Lewchin.
“I intend to attempt to discover it.”
“You have not yet done so?” inquired Zivra.
“I have tried, but I have not yet succeeded.”
“Well,” said Zivra under her breath, “there are mysteries abounding these days.”
“I will,” said Piro, “certainly inform the Society when I have learned something.”
“And you will be right to do so,” said Shant.
“Perhaps it is an impending invasion by the Islanders, or news that roving bands of Easterners have made it this far. Or, yet, it may be news of bandits nearby, or even of another onset of the Plague.”
“Speaking of the Plague,” remarked Shant.
“I would rather not,” said Zivra, with a grimace.
“Refusing to speak of it,” said Shant sternly, “will not cause it to vanish, any more than refusing to speak of the marauders from the sea or the reavers from the East will prevent them from appearing.”
“And, therefore?” said Zivra.
“Therefore, I propose to speak of the plague.”
“Well,” said Piro. “Let us speak of it, then.”
“I have heard of a marvelous preventive.”
“Ah, have you then?” said Piro, sitting back with the attitude of one prepared to listen to something either interesting or amusing, and not yet certain which it was to be. Lewchin glanced quickly at Shant, something like a smile apparent from the crinkling around the corners of her eyes. Zivra raised her graceful eyebrows slightly and gave no other sign.
“Indeed,” said Shant. “And I will share it, if you like.”
“Well, do so then,” said Piro.
“This is it: The first symptom of the Plague is that one begins to feel tired, is it not so? First, the victim finds himself sleeping a great deal. This is followed by a reddening of the features, a dryness of the mouth, a shortness of the breath, a fever, delirium and then either the fever will break, or death will follow soon after.”
“Well, this is all true,” said Piro. “And then?”
“You will agree, I think, that these symptoms follow in a regular order.”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Well then, if one was able to stop the disease in its early stages, it would never reach the latter stages.”
“That is but logical.”
“Well then, I have learned of an herb that, when chewed, will prevent sleep.”
“And so you believe—”
“Well, if, as we have agreed, the first symptom is prevented—”
“Then the poor fellow will simply remain awake until lack of sleep sends him out of his senses.”
“Well, what of it?”
“For my part,” said Piro. “I should rather have a clean death than lose my mind.”
“Pah! Brain fever can be cured. Death cannot.”
“You cannot mean you would prefer madness to death.”
“You cannot mean you would prefer death to madness.”
“Absurd!”
“Impossible!”
“They are,” quietly observed Zivra to Lewchin, “beginning once more.”
“I nearly think they are,” agreed Lewchin. “And quickly, too.”
“Ought we to do something?”
“Yes, perhaps we should.”
“And have you an idea?”
“I have.”
“Well?”
“I believe,” said Lewchin, “that we should have another glass of wine, for yours is quite empty, and mine is no better.”
“An admirable plan,” said Zivra, and poured. Shant and Piro, meanwhile, had raised their voices and begun pounding on the furniture in order to emphasize certain points in their dispute. After some few minutes, however, Zivra and Lewchin, through an exchange of looks, decided that the conversation could be stopped without risk of an inordinate amount of knowledge or understanding being forever lost to the world.
“Gentlemen,” said Zivra, in a sweet voice with which she somehow contrived to penetrate the sounds of controversy. “I beg you to leave off for a moment.”
They stopped, glanced at Lewchin and Zivra, then at each other, after which they adopted abashed expressions. “Well?” said Piro.
“I have something to say,” said Zivra. She pronounced these words with no particular expression; in fact, she used the same tone of voice in which she might have announced that the coffee was roasted and seasoned and ground and ready to be brewed (for she was, in fact, adept at this craft, though such mastery had grown rare after the Disaster), yet in some indefinable way, everyone understood that Zivra was about to say something of importance; consequently, no one spoke, but rather everyone waited for her to continue, which she did at once and in this fashion: “My guardians have informed me that I am to be leaving for some destination for some length of time.”
“How, leaving?” said Piro.
“Precisely,” said Zivra.
“Do you mean, leaving Adrilankha?” said Shant.
“Yes, that is it.”
> “For some destination?” said Piro.
“For an unknown destination.”
“Then, you do not know where you are going?” said Lewchin.
“You have understood me exactly.”
“But,” said Piro. “Your guardians must have at least given you a reason.”
“Not the least in the world, I assure you,” said Zivra.
“But, when will you be leaving?” asked Shant.
“To-morrow,” said Zivra.
“To-morrow!”
“Early in the morning.”
“The Horse!” said Piro. “So soon?”
“Nearly,” said Zivra.
“But, then, has something happened?” said Shant. “For to be told that one must pack up and leave, with only a day to prepare, well, there must be a cause for it.”
“That may be,” said Zivra. “Yet, if so, I assure you I know nothing about it.”
“And will you be returning?” said Lewchin.
“Ah.”
“Well?”
“I know nothing about that, either.”
“But,” said Piro, “did you not interrogate them?”
“How, interrogate my guardians?”
“Yes.”
“Not the least in the world. They made the announcement, and I—”
“Yes, and you?”
“Well, I submitted. It seemed to be a matter of grave urgency, and a matter, moreover, about which strict secrecy must be observed, for otherwise they would have answered those questions they knew I had before I should ask them.”
“And therefore,” said Shant, “you didn’t ask them?”
“Exactly.”
“You must write to us,” said Piro.
“And often,” added Shant.
“I will,” said Zivra.
“It is a shame,” said Piro, “that the Orb is lost, for with sorcery we could communicate directly, mind to mind, as they did in the old days.”
“Sorcery is not required,” said Shant. “There are those who can so communicate without it.”
“Oh, indeed?” said Piro. “Well then, do so now.”
“That I have not learned this art,” said Shant, “is no proof—”
“Gentlemen,” said Lewchin. “If you please, let us not start this again.”
“I must confess,” said Zivra, “that I shall miss even the arguments on natural and magical philosophy.”
“Well,” said Lewchin. “I will take notes, and then send them to you with my letters.”
“Ah! I anticipate much pleasure in their perusal.”
Lewchin frowned and pursed her lips, studying her friend, and then said, “There is more, isn’t there?”
“How, more?”
“You know or suspect something you have not yet told us.”
“Ah,” said Zivra, and smiled. “Well, I ought to have known I could not fool you.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I only suspect—”
“That is,” put in Shant, “you fear.”
“Well, yes, I fear. I have been told that I am to meet someone.”
“How, meet someone?” said Piro.
“Exactly.”
“Then you fear—”
“That I am to be married.”
“But your guardians wouldn’t do that!” cried Lewchin.
“Alas,” said Zivra. “I don’t know. They will tell me nothing, only that I am to go, and that I will meet someone, and all will be explained.”
“I confess,” said Piro, “that it sounds, well, I do not like how it sounds.”
“Nor I,” said Shant.
“Nor I,” said Lewchin.
“But it is a mystery,” added Piro. “That much is clear.”
“If it is a mystery,” said Shant, “then it is not clear.”
“I meant—”
“Well, but what can be done?” said Zivra quickly.
“We will carry you off ourselves!” said Piro.
“How, carry me off?”
“Exactly,” said Shant.
“To where?”
“Well,” said Piro, “to, that is—”
“Anywhere,” said Shant. “The jungle.”
“Neither of you,” said Lewchin, “is being sensible. Consider—”
“Well?” said Shant and Piro.
“We do not know that marriage is contemplated, we only suspect.”
“That may be,” said Shant. “Yet it is bound to be unpleasant, or they’d have told her what it was. Come, Piro, what do you think?”
“I am entirely in agreement with Shant.”
“And I,” said Zivra, who seemed caught between laughter and tears, “am very much afraid I must subscribe to Lewchin’s opinion. We cannot run off merely on a suspicion. Besides, if it is a marriage, perhaps I will like him.”
“You think so?” said Piro, doubtfully.
“Well—”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Lewchin. “We will not, in fact, be carrying her off.”
“And yet—” began Shant.
“But,” continued Lewchin, “our friend will write to us, and soon we will know, and then—”
“Well?” said Piro. “And then?”
“And then we will do what we must.”
She said this coolly, and with no expression in her voice. The others looked at each other and nodded solemnly.
The rest of the day’s events continued under a certain pall, and with the not-unaccountable feeling of something ending. No one said that the Society was now, in effect, dissolved; yet everyone, in his own way, seemed to feel it. They drank but sparingly, as if none wished to have his memory clouded by wine, and they spoke, even Piro and Shant, in low tones, recalling past adventures and sharing plans, hopes, and dreams for the future, until well into the night.
At one point, Piro said, almost as if speaking to himself although his words were addressed to Zivra, “Do you think that you might at last learn something of your origins?” Then, realizing he’d spoken his thoughts aloud, he held himself very still, an apology on his lips, for this was a subject that had never been spoken of.
Yet Zivra only nodded, as if the question were the most natural one in the world, and said, “I have had that thought. Perhaps I will, but then, perhaps not.”
For years this had never been broached, and now that it was, no one quite knew what to say, until Lewchin said, “Has it troubled you not to know?”
Zivra frowned and said, “You wish to know if it has troubled me?”
“Yes,” said Lewchin, “if you would care to tell me.”
“Well, I will answer your question.”
“And?”
“No, for some reason it has not. It has always seemed to me as if—”
“Yes?” said Shant. “As if?”
“As if there was a reason why the names of my parents and the circumstances—and even the House—of my birth has been hidden from me. I have always known, or seemed to know, that I would find out at the right time.”
Said Piro, “And this, perhaps, is the right time?”
“Perhaps.”
“And,” added Lewchin, “you have never questioned your guardians?”
“Never,” she said.
“But,” put in Shant, “you will tell us if you find out? For you perceive we are curious about everything that affects any member of our Society.”
“Yes, I understand that, and by my faith I will tell you everything I can.”
“That is all we can ask,” said Lewchin, with a look to Shant to make sure he understood to whom these words were, in fact, addressed.
After that, the conversation drifted to other subjects, and continued until at last Zivra announced that she must retire, for the following day would see her busy in completing her preparations for departure in the earliest hours, and in setting out while it was still quite morning.
The reader, who has only just been introduced to these four persons, will not be interested in hearing of the words and tears
which poured fourth as Zivra and Piro took their departure from Lewchin and Shant, so let us pass quickly by with only the statement that there was no shortage of protestations of mutual affection and promises of letters to be exchanged often and visits to be made when possible.
The routes taken by Piro and Zivra ran together for some distance, and so, after mounting their respective horses, they continued together for some time.
“Do you think,” said Piro, “that we will all ever meet again?”
“As to that,” said Zivra, “I cannot say. But at least you will be able to see Lewchin and Shant when you wish.”
“That is true. Do you know, I envy them.”
“Because they have found each other?”
“Yes, that is it exactly.”
“They are fortunate,” said Zivra. “Before the Disaster, they should never have dared to display such an arrangement, one being a Dzur, the other an Issola.”
“Well,” said Piro, shrugging, “at least one good thing, then, has come from the Disaster.”
“You think so?”
“How, you disapprove?”
“Of Lewchin and Shant? Of course not, they are my friends. I shall miss them. And you, as well.”
“It is a new stage of our lives, Zivra. Yours, and mine as well.”
“You are right. And I accept it, only—”
“Well?”
“If it is to be without the friends I love, it will be hard.”
“Yes. But here is the bridge, and this is where we part.”
“I believe—”
“Yes?”
“I believe we will see each other again, Piro.”
“It is my dearest wish, Zivra.”
We ought to say that, upon leaving Piro, Zivra went to a place the reader might not expect, met with a most remarkable person, and had a conversation of considerable interest. The reader may rest assured that we will reveal place, person, and conversation when it is proper to do so. Nevertheless, we believe that we should waste no time in following the principal actor in our history: the Viscount of Adrilankha. He directed his horse through the streets, oblivious, as he always was, of the danger of riding alone through the city at night, until, without incident, he returned to the high cliffs above the sea, and thus to Whitecrest, which was the name of his home, as well as the district in which the city of Adrilankha was situated. There he gave his mare into the care of the night-groom and was about to enter the home, when he observed, in the dim light that came from the windows of the manor, the form of a man, who stood like a statue near the servants’ entrance of the keep.