by Steven Brust
Late one evening, after they had been on the road nearly two weeks, and Piro was scarcely noticing his muscles, as they were about to make camp, they saw the flickering of another light, a few hundred meters away; and by mutual consent they turned their horses toward this light. They stopped just inside the ring of illumination given off by what proved to be a campfire, so that whoever it was whose camp they were visiting could see their number and their faces. For an instant, there was a stillness; Piro could hear nothing save his own breathing, Kytraan’s, and the jingle of the harness of Piro’s horse, which horse, we should add, gave Piro a quick look as if it wondered why they had stopped, before abruptly shaking its head, stamping its right forefoot, and snorting.
This silence, or near-silence, was broken at last by Kytraan, who said, “I give you good evening, stranger. We are travelers, and wonder if you would do us the honor of sharing your fire for the evening. We have wine, bread, cheese, and certain salted meats which we have but lately tested and found good, and we are more than willing to share them.”
The reply came after only an instant. “Come, then,” said the stranger, a woman from the sound of her voice. “I have boiled coffee, dried fruits, salt, and biscuits, and I am, like yourselves, entirely willing to share.”
They dismounted, hobbled their horses, and approached the fire, where sat a woman who, though it was difficult to see in the flickering of the fire, seemed to be about eight or nine hundred years old. It was impossible to guess her House, but she had, at any rate, a noble’s point, which seemed sufficient for the moment.
“I am Kytraan e’Lanya of the North Pinewood Hold. This is my companion, Piro, the Viscount of Adrilankha.”
“I give you good evening. I am called Orlaan, and I am not a traveler at all, but, rather, I live here.”
“How, you live here?”
“Exactly. I am attempting the study of sorcery, and the control of certain forces, and, you perceive, such matters are best performed where there is no one around, in case of a miscalculation.”
“Well, I understand,” said Piro. “And permit me to wish you well in your studies.”
“You are courteous,” said Orlaan, “and I wish you a safe and pleasant journey. But come, your servant appears to have nearly finished laying out the food; let us then eat together, after which you will no doubt wish to rest.”
“An excellent plan,” said Kytraan.
This being agreed upon, they carried it out at once, and for some time there was little speech, mouths being occupied with exploring such concepts as goat cheese on bread with slices of dried apple, and how this might compare to the same cheese with salted kethna on a savory biscuit. During this time, Piro took the opportunity to study their host; yet he could learn little. Her clothing was the darr skin and leather of a traveler, and her face, seen only through the flickering light of the fire, revealed little save narrow but bright eyes, rather fair hair and skin, and a few small scars such as one might expect on someone who lived in the wilderness. As they ate, Piro began to grow uncomfortable, because it seemed to him that Orlaan kept sneaking glances at him. This naturally made him curious, but he refrained from asking any questions. Orlaan, however, did not refrain, but rather proved that Piro had not been imagining her interest, because she said, “You are the Viscount, you say, of Adrilankha?”
“I have that honor,” said Piro.
“Adrilankha is a large city along the coast, is it not? It used to be a port, if I am not mistaken.”
“You are correct. It is in the county of Whitecrest”
“Ah. And your father, then, is Whitecrest?”
“My mother, the Lady Daro.”
“Daro,” she repeated, as if she had heard the name pronounced before, and was trying to collect it. “And is your father still living?”
“He is,” said Piro. “I am, you perceive, one of the fortunate ones.”
“Indeed,” said Orlaan. “My own father was in Dragaera at the time of the Disaster.”
“I am sorry.”
“The Cycle turns,” said Orlaan. “Or, at any rate, it did,” she amended. “And might again.”
“The gods may know,” agreed Piro. “But come, what of your studies? I have heard that some are trying to learn once more the art of sorcery as it was practiced before the dawn of history, when there was no Orb. Is this not dangerous?”
“Dangerous? Yes, it is dangerous. And yet, we have an advantage that the sorcerers of those bygone days did not.”
“And that is? For you perceive I am curious.”
“What young man is not curious? To answer your question, our advantage is this: We know it can be done.”
“Ah. That is true. We know, for example, that a device can be built to control the power of amorphia.”
“Exactly. And it is toward this end that we direct our efforts.”
“In hopes of restoring the Empire?”
“Perhaps, someday. Or of creating a new one. Or, often, merely of learning.”
“And yet, to enter the amorphia without the intercession of the Orb, well, the thought frightens me.”
“And well it should, young man, for it is nothing to be entered upon lightly. And, you perceive, I have put several thousands of miles of distance between me and the sea of amorphia, as a precaution, so I am not entirely foolhardy, as some are.”
“As some are?”
“Why, yes. There are those who venture to the very shores to work, and even, I am told, some who have entered the sea bodily, there to work with the stuff of chaos itself.”
“How, entered the sea?”
“Yes, entered the sea itself, although—”
“Yes?”
“Well, I have heard of none who have emerged after doing so.”
“I wish you well in your studies; for it seems to me that these studies may be of great benefit to us all.”
“So I hope, young man,” said Orlaan. For an instant, Piro thought he saw a peculiar gleam in her eye, but then he decided it had been a trick of the firelight.
There was no more speech that night, as everyone felt the need for sleep, and when they awoke the next morning, they found that their companion of the night before had left.
“For my part,” opined Lar, “I am just as glad. Did you mark the peculiar look in her eye? I wish I had been able to see her more clearly.”
Piro merely shrugged, and permitted Lar to assist him, and then Kytraan, onto their horses. This being done, they turned the head of these horses and, without another word, resumed their journey toward Dzur Mountain.
Chapter the Thirteenth
How Khaavren Received an
Unexpected Visitor
At very nearly the same hour that Piro and Kytraan were mounting their horses, Piro’s father, that is to say, Khaavren, was standing in his study at Whitecrest Manor, where, careless of the cold, he had thrown open the window in the eastern end of the room and was looking out over, or rather past, the city of Adrilankha, as if his eyes could span the leagues and pick out the form of his son now lost in the distance and the terrain. He had been standing in this way for some few hours, and might well have been standing so even longer had not Daro, guessing his mind, come to the study and found him, whereupon she stood next to him for perhaps a quarter of an hour, not speaking, after which he stirred and said, “Do you suppose we would feel it if something were to happen to him?”
“I think we would,” said Daro.
Khaavren nodded, and at that moment came a faint booming, as the great door clapper was pulled down below. “Hmmm,” said Khaavren. “We hire a servant, and he is gone almost at once.”
“That was the intention, was it not?”
“Yes,” said Khaavren, “that is true.”
“Perhaps Cook will answer it.”
“Or perhaps not,” said Khaavren. “And it is the front door, from which we may deduce that our visitor has pretensions to nobility, and ought not to be kept waiting. I will, therefore, personally endeavor to see wh
o has come to visit us, and, in thus bestirring myself, I will engage in more activity than I have in longer than I care to consider.” He accompanied these words with a smile, from which Daro was to understand that his self-mockery was meant in jest; she, however, knew him well, and understood the meaning behind words and countenance. Khaavren walked down the stairs, trudging, yet with a hint of his old martial step still remaining in his gait.
He was on the stairs between the first floor and the main when he met Cook, who had, in fact, answered the door, and after doing so was now on her way up. Upon seeing Khaavren, she stopped and made a bow. “My lord—” she said.
“Well?”
“There is a gentleman to see you.”
“A gentleman?”
“Yes, lord.”
“Well, has he a name?”
“Indeed he has, my lord. In point of fact, he has two of them.”
“How, two names?”
“Exactly. In case, he said, one should be insufficient to identify him.”
“Well, and what are these famous names?
“My lord, he said that he is called Galstan, and adds that, should this identification be insufficient, he is also called—”
“Pel!” cried Khaavren, nearly bowling over the poor cook in his haste to arrive at the bottom of the stairs and behold his friend once more.
“—Pel,” concluded the cook as she nimbly stepped to the side of the stairway, which was, fortunately, rather wide.
“Pel!” cried Khaavren again, before he had even reached the entry-way. “Come in, come in and be welcome.”
Pel, evidently hearing him, came forward, and they met in the corridor outside of the parlor, where they embraced fervently and said nothing, except for Khaavren, who murmured, “Ah, Pel, Pel.”
At length, Galstan pulled back slightly and said, “Yes, my friend, it is I. But come, what state have I found you in?”
“Not good, my old comrade, not good. Come in, though, come in. My wine-cellar, thanks to the gods of the vine, is not entirely depleted, and you shall have the best there is. This way. You remember the Countess, do you not?” This last, we should add, was said of Daro, who had come down from the study and was now waiting in the parlor.
“Of course,” said Pel, bowing and kissing her hand. “Madam, I am, as always, enchanted.”
“The pleasure is entirely mine,” said the Countess, “and I hope you do not begrudge it, for in no way am I so selfish as in my desire to have good friends around, wherefore I hope you will do us the honor of staying with us for a long time; I know that I speak for my husband the Count as well as for myself in saying that the longer you will be here, the more we will be pleased.”
“Bah,” said Pel with a smile. “What have you married, my dear Khaavren? A Tiassa who looks like a Lyorn and speaks like an Issola.”
Pel handed his coat to the cook, who was, as the reader may have noticed, taking the role of butler; the cook then proceeded to open, decant, and pour the wine. “Ah Pel,” remarked Khaavren, “it is good to see you! Have you had a long journey?”
“Tolerably long,” said Pel. “Six days ago I was in the Kanefthali Mountains.”
“Six days!” cried Khaavren. “Impossible! How could you have arrived so quickly? It is a fifteen hundred miles and more!”
“The post,” said Pel.
“The post? Cha! There has been no post for two hundred and fifty years.”
“And yet,” said Pel, “there is again, and the proof is that I am sitting here before you, when a week and a day ago I was, in fact, more than five hundred leagues away, as we measured leagues in the city in the old days.”
“But, then, who has put together a post that covers that distance?”
“Oh, you wish to know that, do you?” said Pel, smiling.
“I more than wish to know,” said Khaavren. “I think I even ask.”
Pel smiled and waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. “Then we will speak of it, in due time. But first, I will claim my right as a guest to question you.”
“You wish to question me? My dear friend, I recognize you so well in that! Always questioning, always wanting to know, always with some plan or another. But this time, star me if I can imagine what I might know that could interest you.”
“How, you cannot guess?”
“Not for the life of me.”
“Then I will tell you.”
“I ask for nothing better.”
“This is it then: I wish to question you, my good friend, about your health, and about your doings, and about your happiness, and about all that concerns you; in short, about everything a friend might wish to know about another friend, when they have not seen each other for two hundred and fifty years.”
“Ah, Pel. There is nothing to say. I exist, my friend, nothing more. I exist, and am content with my family, my estate, my books, and my memories.”
“Your family, good Khaavren?”
“Why yes. The Countess you know, and I have a son, as well.”
“Ah! A son!”
“Very much so. He is near his first century, and as fine a boy as I could wish for.”
“And do you tell him so?” said Pel with a smile.
Khaavren sighed. “I’m afraid I do, Pel. I have become the doting father, and I cannot conceal from him how I feel, yet it seems to have done him little harm.”
“Well, well. And when will I have the honor of meeting him?”
Daro said, “Oh, as to that—”
“Yes?”
“I’m afraid he is not here.”
“Not here?” said Pel, looking from one of his hosts to the other. “Well, when will he return?”
“I cannot say,” said Khaavren. “He is on a mission, you see.”
“How, a mission?”
“Exactly. Just as, in the old days, you and I would set off on missions for His Majesty, whom the Lords of Judgment receive”—Pel bowed his head briefly and touched his breast as Khaavren spoke these words—“and as, I daresay, you still do from time to time.”
“Who, I? You think I still go on missions?”
Khaavren gave a brief laugh. “Hang me if I don’t think you are on a mission now, my old friend.”
“Oh, but what of you, Khaavren? Surely you have not given up missions?”
“I? Entirely. I am a broken-down mill, or an old suit of clothing, and no one would offer me a mission, nor would I accept one if offered.”
As he spoke, a certain shade passed over Daro’s countenance, but she did not comment. Pel, for his part, did comment, and in the following terms: “Bah!”
“I tell you the truth, Pel,” said Khaavren. “Two hundred years ago the Islanders attempted to invade, and I ran back and forth all along the lines of defense, it was very nearly with my own hand that the invaders were pushed back; and I think I accounted for six or seven of them myself.”
“Nine,” put in the Countess.
Khaavren smiled, and resumed his argument. “Well,” he said, “if the Islanders were to attack again to-day—”
“Yes? If they were to attack?”
“Then I should make my contribution by turning command over to someone who might be able to lead, for I could not Oh, I might consult on tactics, if I were asked to, but nothing more.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Cha! If you saw what an effort it was for me to so much as lift my sword, well, you would be convinced. And so, when missions come, they go to my son.”
“Well, but what is this famous mission?”
“Ah, as to that, I cannot say, except—”
“Yes?”
“It was our old friend, Sethra, who sent for him.”
“Ah! But you don’t know what the Enchantress wanted with him?”
“Not the least in the world, on my honor.”
“Hmmm,” said Pel.
“But tell me,” said Khaavren, “what is this about a post working once more?”
“Oh, you wish to know that?”
“Well, that is true.”
“So, then, will you explain?”
“I should be glad to do so, and this instant, if you wish.”
“I wish for nothing else in the world.”
“This is it, then: Someone has, on his own initiative, put together a post.”
“Well, and for what reason?”
“For what reason?”
“Yes.”
“Why, to aid in communication and travel.”
“Well, that much is clear, only—”
“Yes?”
Khaavren frowned and considered. “What aren’t you telling me, Pel?”
Pel laughed. “Ah, it is good to see you once more, my friend. Yes, yes. His name is Kâna, his domain is large, and his ambition is boundless.”
“Kâna,” said Daro, as if, taken by the feeling the this name might become important, she wished to commit it to memory.
“Kâna,” said Khaavren. “Yes, that name has come to my ears.”
“Well?”
“Well,” said Khaavren, “I have heard little enough. What more can you tell me?”
“Nothing, my friend. I have told you what I may.”
“There must be more than that, if his posts extend all the way from Kana to the Coast, and you are able to use them.”
“Well, that is true, but, you perceive, I am not allowed to tell all I know, even to you.”
“But there must be one thing you can tell me.”