The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha)

by Steven Brust

  Piro sighed. “Another journey we cannot make.”

  “That is too bad,” said Kytraan.

  “I believe,” remarked Zerika, “that it is going to rain.”

  Tazendra said, “Well, I regret to say that I have learned no weather magic.”

  “In that case,” said Zerika, shrugging, “well, we will get wet.”

  “It seems likely,” agreed Kytraan. “Mica, did we remember tents?”

  “My lord, we have oiled blankets, and we have poles, and we have rope, and we have spikes.”

  “Well, then it seems to me that we have tents.”

  And they did get wet, and, what is more, they stayed wet for several days, as spring in Luatha is not a dry season; yet they continued, and eventually the rains ceased.

  “Eventually,” said Zerika, “the rain will always cease.”

  “Well,” said Tazendra, “but then, soon or late, there will be rain again.”

  “That is just as well,” said Kytraan, “or the whole world would be a desert.”

  Mica turned to Lar and said, “They are becoming philosophical.”

  Lar nodded. “It may amuse you know that my master accused me of being a philosopher.”

  “How, he did?”

  “I give you my word on it.”

  “Well, being a philosopher is not so bad.”

  “You think it is not?”

  “At any rate, it keeps the mind active during drudgery.”

  “Well, I am acquainted with drudgery.”

  “Oh, as to drudgery, I could tell you stories.”

  “You will forgive me if I suggest that these stories might not be entertaining.”

  “Doubtless you are right, my friend, wherefore I will refrain.”

  “That is kind of you.”

  “Do you think so? Well—but what is that?”

  “Horsemen, or I am blind.”

  “I agree.”

  “And a good number of them.”

  “At least ten, or I’m no arithmetist.”

  “And they seem to be approaching us.”

  “Well, I nearly think you are right.”

  “Brigands, do you think?”

  “I have my bar-stool near to hand, if they are. And yet—”

  “Well, and yet?”

  “They appear to all be Dragonlords.”

  “Are there no brigands who are Dragonlords? I tell you plainly there must be, and the proof is that I knew some.”

  “And yet, I have never heard of an entire band of them.”

  “Well, that is true. Perhaps you are right.”

  “Nevertheless, as I have said, I have my bar-stool ready, and, you perceive, my mistress rolled her shoulders.”

  “Well, and is there meaning to this rolling of shoulders?”

  “Oh, I give you my word, it is full of significance.”

  “But then, what does it mean?”

  “It means, my dear Lar, that she wishes to be certain her sword is correctly hanging behind her back in a good position to be drawn quickly if it is required.”

  “Well, but then she fears we may be involved in a discussion?”

  “Bah! What is it you say? My mistress fears nothing.”

  “No, no; I only meant—”

  “Hush, they are speaking.”

  “Then let us listen.”

  To Piro’s eye, the most remarkable aspect to the appearance of the knobby, sinewy, dark-complexioned Dragonlord before them was that, unlike Piro and his companions, he showed no signs of having been traveling: that is, his uniform was clean, and even showed signs of sharp creases, such as are made by a one who engages in cleaning and pressing of uniforms as a profession. When the Dragonlord spoke, it was to Tazendra, and he said, “I give you a good day, my lady.”

  Tazendra bowed from her horse, which horse, Piro noted, was rather larger than the Dragonlord’s, and said, “And to you, my dear Dragonlord. I am called Tazendra Lavode. Have you observed that the rain has stopped?”

  “Lavode?” said the Dragonlord.

  Tazendra bowed.

  “Well, Tazendra Lavode, I am Ryunac e’Terics, and this”—here he indicated the gentleman near her right hand—“is my sergeant, Magra e’Lanya. I am in command of this detachment of the Imperial Army of His Majesty Kana the First, Emperor of Dragaera, Prince of Kanefthali, Duke of Kâna, Count of Skinter, Whiteside, and—”

  “Yes, yes,” said Tazendra. “I do not doubt he has many titles. I, myself, am Baroness of Daavya, and, well, I have certain other titles as well. But I believe I asked you a question, my dear Ryunac.”

  “A question? Ah, well, to answer your question, yes, I have observed that it is no longer raining. But now, I would like to know who your companions are, and what are you doing here.”

  “In fact,” said Zerika, “you have no interest in what we are doing here, my dear Ryunac. My name is Zerika, of the House of the Phoenix, and I claim no title whatsoever, and I believe your only interest is in knowing where we stand on Lord Skinter’s pretensions. Come, is that not true?”

  Ryunac frowned. “Which of you is in command?”

  Zerika shrugged. “I should imagine I am, if anyone is. And, as to my question?”

  Ryunac nodded, “Yes, you are perspicacious. That is what I wish to know.”

  “Then I will tell you.”

  “I will be most gratified if you do, my lady.”

  “The answer is, that we consider him an upstart warlord, like a thousand others, and we reject his claims utterly.” Zerika accompanied these words with a bow of the utmost courtesy.

  Ryunac, notwithstanding the bow, appeared unhappy with the answer. “You perceive,” he said, “that this answer is not likely to make me love you.”

  “Well, but it is the truth, and I have been told that the truth has always some value.”

  “Indeed it has value. So much so, that it should not be squandered uselessly; especially when doing so can be dangerous.”

  He said this in a tone sufficiently full of menace, but Zerika said, “Dangerous? To us?” She looked around elaborately. “How, are there more of you that I cannot see?”

  “Come,” said Tazendra softly to Kytraan. “That was well spoken. There is something to be said for this little Phoenix.”

  Once again, Ryunac did not seem pleased with the answer. So unhappy was he, in fact, that he at once drew his sword and held it pointed at Zerika’s breast. The other ten soldiers in his command, not to be outdone, also drew their weapons.

  Piro felt his heart begin to hammer within his breast, yet, and we say this to his credit, even while he wondered how he would acquit himself in what looked to be his first fight, and hoped he would not prove craven in the event, his sword was already in his hand. It need hardly be added that Kytraan had also drawn his. Tazendra, for her part, had not drawn. Instead she turned to Zerika and said, “Have you any instructions?”

  Now Zerika herself carried a blade that was, notwithstanding its slimness, of good steel, and of tolerable length. She drew in a smooth motion as of one who knows what she is doing and said, “Instructions?”

  “Yes. That is to say, do you require any of them left alive as prisoners?”

  “Ah. No, that will not be necessary.”

  “Very well,” said Tazendra coolly, and reached over her shoulder for her sword, got a good grip on it, and drew it, with which motion she continued, and, at the same time spurred her horse forward in a cavalry maneuver that was as old as mounted warriors, so that with no warning she closed with Ryunac and she brought the edge of her blade straight down onto Ryunac’s head. Ryunac, caught entirely unprepared, responded without an instant’s hesitation by falling from his horse, stone dead.

  “Would you care to order a charge?” said Tazendra.

  “That would be useless,” said Zerika.

  Piro, we should say, had at first felt a strange sensation come over him. Strange, we add, because it was in not especially a concern for his own epidermis, but, rather, a sudden c
onfusion regarding Zivra, or rather, Zerika. He had always felt a great affection for her, but had, somehow, never considered the possibility that, in a situation where steel was to be set against steel, she would be holding a weapon in her hand as if perfectly conversant with such arguments. It was as if she were suddenly a stranger, and this disconcerted him.

  At the same time, the prospect of action—that is, of being involved in a conversation of steel against steel, with issues of mortality at stake—made the blood pound in his head and the fire of battle burn behind his eyes. Then, upon seeing Tazendra’s action, Piro, without thinking, set his heels hard against the flank of his horse, which sent him forward at full speed. He was not, in point of fact, entirely certain what he should do, but he knew that going forward was the right way to begin; and when he saw an armed enemy in front of him, albeit one who was confused about what had just happened so quickly, Piro wasted no time in making a good cut, which happened to catch this individual on his right side. Piro was uncertain as to the effect this blow had had, but before he could learn, his horse had taken him entirely past the battle, and so he had to pull the beast up sharply and turn around in order to determine what he ought to do next.

  As Piro had been making his gallant and not-uneffective charge, the others had not been idle. Tazendra, not satisfied with having dispatched Ryunac, spurred her horse toward the nearest soldier and treated him in a very similar manner, striking such a blow upon his neck that he was very nearly decapitated. Zerika, at the same time, urged her horse forward while holding her sword fully extended, using it, in fact, more as a lance than as a sabre, with the effect that the Dragonlord thus addressed, in his haste to avoid being spitted, tumbled from his saddle, after which he was trodden on by his own horse in the animal’s sudden panic. Kytraan, who knew something of sword-work from a mounted position, and who, moreover, had the advantage of charging a foe who was caught off-guard, gave one of the enemy a good cut high upon her sword arm, and then turned and struck at another who, after a couple of passes, and seeing his comrades falling left and right, caused his horse to back up a couple of steps after which he turned and bolted out of the contest, riding west as fast as his horse could be convinced to carry him.

  As for the lackeys, Mica charged as bravely as Kytraan, holding his trusty bar-stool by one leg and swinging it like a mad-man. It is true that this bar-stool came so close to Lar that only a quick duck by Piro’s lackey saved him from a nasty head wound; but what is more important is that one of the soldiers failed to duck in time, and took a blow from this heavy piece of wood directly in the face, breaking his nose and several teeth, knocking him from his horse, and producing a copious amount of blood.

  Lar, of them all, as he had no weapon, struck no blow; but at least charged through the melee in good style, giving out a high-pitched scream that he had learned of the band of brigands with whom he had been associated, and from whom he had learned the efficacy of such loud cries in frightening an enemy.

  All of this, or, rather, the results of all of this, were what Piro saw when he turned around. More than this, however, he saw that those of the enemy who were unwounded and still mounted were utterly demoralized—so much so, in fact, that as if of one mind they turned and followed the late opponent of Kytraan who had left the engagement so precipitately, with the result that Piro and his friends were now in sole possession of the field of battle.

  Tazendra guided her horse next to Zerika and said, “Shall we pursue?”

  “No, my dear. Let them run.”

  “Very well,” said the Dzurlord, who appeared disappointed by the answer. She then said, “What of the wounded?,” by whom she meant Mica’s opponent, who was rolling around on the ground holding his face, and Zerika’s opponent, who was lying quite still, having been stepped on by a horse, but was still breathing.

  Zerika said, “Let us set them on their horses and send them after the others.”

  “Very well,” said Tazendra, and gestured to the two lackeys that they were to have the honor of carrying out this order. As this was being done, Tazendra turned to Kytraan and said, “Well done, my dear Dragon; you seem to have acquitted yourself very well.”

  Kytraan bowed to acknowledge the compliment.

  “And you, my good Viscount,” she continued. “Did you kill your man?”

  “No,” said Piro. “I wounded him, but I am certain I did not kill him.”

  “That is too bad,” said Tazendra. “But do not let it disturb you; you will certainly have another chance.”

  “Well,” said Piro.

  “They know some of our names,” observed Kytraan.

  “And then?” said Tazendra.

  “They know our names, and that we have killed some of their friends. They will be looking for us.”

  “So much the better,” said Tazendra.

  “We are not here to fight,” said Zerika firmly. “Come, let us increase the pace. I do not wish to be delayed by more discussions.”

  To this they all agreed, and so they at once turned their horses toward the north again.

  As they traveled, they began, now and then, to pass enclaves of Easterners, some clearly migratory, and having stopped for only a day or a week; whereas others had fashioned slovenly rows of hovels into a sort of village. As none of the Easterners appeared inclined to interfere with Zerika and her friends, the Easterners were ignored in their turn.

  “I knew,” said Kytraan, “that they had come west, but I did not know they were building cities.”

  “How, you didn’t know that?” said Piro. “You didn’t know that there are thousands of them in Adrilankha?”

  “How, is that true?” said Tazendra. “Bah! It is insupportable! Easterners on Kieron’s Watch!”

  “Oh, as to that, you needn’t worry,” said Piro.

  “Why is that?” said Tazendra. “You perceive, I am very curious.”

  “Because,” said Piro, “though few knew it, it seems that Kieron’s Watch—by which I refer to the shelf jutting out from the cliffs—required sorcery to preserve its stability, and so, at the time of Adron’s Disaster—”

  “The Horse!” cried Tazendra,. “Do you mean that Kieron’s Watch has collapsed?”

  “Into the sea,” said Piro. “In fact, before I was born. I know of it because my mother has often pointed out the place where it used to be. Therefore, you perceive, there will be no Easterners on Kieron’s Watch.”

  “For my part,” said Zerika, “I do not mind Easterners.”

  “How, you don’t mind them?” said Kytraan.

  “Not in the least,” said Zerika. “I used to pass through their district when visiting Nine Stones, where I had certain acquaintances, and never had the least trouble, and, indeed, often had pleasant conversations.”

  Kytraan and Tazendra looked doubtful, but Piro, who had the greatest respect for Zerika, and who had, moreover, heard her say this sort of thing before, said nothing, but resolved that he would henceforth attempt to curb his prejudice. That he had made this resolution numerous times before and had failed in it did nothing to change this resolve.

  Tazendra on the other hand, said, “You may believe what you like, my dear Phoenix, but it is well known that they are filthy, ignorant, clumsy—”

  “Let us speak of something else,” said Zerika.

  “Very well,” said Tazendra, shrugging.

  In softer tones, so as not to be overheard by the Phoenix, Lar leaned over toward Mica and said, “And you, my friend? What is your opinion?”

  “Of Easterners?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Well, that is an easy question to answer.”

  “Then you will answer it?”

  “Yes, and at once.”

  “Do so, then, I am listening.”

  “My opinion is that, if there were no Easterners, you and I should have no one over whom to feel superior, and feeling superior to someone is, I believe, as necessary as breathing and eating.”

  “You think so?”
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br />   “I am convinced of it.”

  “Perhaps you are right.”

  “Certainly I am right. Why else would Fortune have created us to be so different were it not so that we could feel superior to one another? And that is the excellence of the Cycle, because each of the Noble Houses can, at one time or another, feel superior to the others, except for us, and we, well, we can feel superior to the Easterners.”

  “But, to whom can the Easterners feel superior?”

  Mica frowned as he considered this question, and, after some thought, he said, “Perhaps the Serioli.”

  “Well, but then, to whom can the Serioli feel superior?”

  “Oh, as to that, the Serioli feel they are superior to everyone.”

  “How, do they?”

  “So I have heard, my dear Lar.”

  “Well, perhaps it is true, then, if you say so.”

  “I am convinced it is.”

  “And yet, there is another subject which concerns me even more than Easterners.”

  “Well, if there is a subject that concerns you, I should be only too glad to hear what it is.”

  “It is this: We have been making five leagues a day, have we not?”

  “And if we have?”

  “Only this: The Lady Zerika, who seems to be leading our expedition, pretends we can now make ten leagues a day.”

  “Yes, my friend, so I have understood.”

  “It seems like a great deal.”

  “Does it? Well, in the old days, we made ten leagues a day without fail; and, you perceive, that was without using the posts.”

  “So you believe we can do this without killing ourselves, or, at any rate, our horses?”

  “Feathers! I am certain of it.”

  “Then I will say no more about it.”

  As to the question of the nature of the Easterners, and their status as a people, the historian will offer no opinion; but as to the good Mica’s conviction that it was possible to travel ten leagues a day without injury to themselves or their horses, well, this was proved entirely correct, because they did, in fact, do just that as they passed through Luatha and continued northward, looking forward to their first sight of the Eastern Mountains, still far ahead; and, at their northern tip, some fifteen hundred miles away, Deathgate Falls and the Paths of the Dead.