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Authors: Steven Brust

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“Rollondar e’Drien,” came the muffled answer through the door, “in company with Lord Khaavren.” At the same time as this welcome response was heard, a guardsman looked through the peephole, then turned back to Thack and nodded.

“Sire,” began Thack, “It is—”

“Yes, yes. Let them in at once.”

“Yes, Sire.”

The bolts were shot, the bars drawn back, and the door was opened to admit the Warlord, looking grim and dusty, along with Khaavren, who brought with him both the dirt and the smell of the Underside, along with rents and tears in his garb and numerous scratches and cuts on his person—his boots were scuffed and his shoulder-length hair flew wildly about, save for one spot in the front where it was matted down to his forehead by dried blood. If the Warlord, as we have had the honor to say, looked grim, Khaavren had the appearance of one who had been fighting for his life and would be ready to do so again, and woe to any who challenged him.

Khaavren resolutely forced his eyes away from the assembled and unanimously beautiful maids of honor, and dropped to his knee before the Emperor at the same time as Rollondar, executing a deep bow, said, “We can now report, Sire.”

“Good,” said His Majesty, making a gesture to Khaavren that he should rise. “Let me sit and listen to what you have to say, for, you understand, there is much that I wish to hear. I perceive that you have come directly from the streets.”

“Your Majesty is perspicacious,” said Khaavren.

Rollondar gave Khaavren a quick glance, but His Majesty chose to ignore the irony.

The Emperor sat down, then, with the two soldiers standing before him in attitudes of respectful ease. At his side was Her Majesty, who also listened
attentively, a certain amount of disquiet apparent on her countenance. Behind them stood Jurabin, and around them clustered the courtiers and the maids of honor.

When everyone was settled, His Majesty said, without further preamble, “What is the state of the city?”

Khaavren looked at the Warlord, who said, “For now, Sire, order has been restored.”

His Majesty visibly relaxed, then said, “I wish to hear the details.”

“Very well, Sire,” said Rollondar, and nodded to Khaavren. “You ought to begin,” he told the Captain, “for I was only called in, later, and, come to that, at your orders.”

“Very well. I can tell Your Majesty what happened,” said Khaavren.

“Then I beg you to do so, and at once,” said the Emperor.

“I will.”

“I await you.”

“Well, this is it. At the eleventh hour of last night, in the Underside, some children began to taunt some of my guardsmen.”

“How, taunt them?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“But your guardsmen did not respond, I hope. I should dislike to think that your discipline could be broken by children.”

“At first, Sire, they did not respond.”

“At first?”

“But the taunts turned into attacks—certain missiles were thrown at them.”

“Ah, I see. And so they gave chase?”

“Exactly, Sire. They gave chase—into an ambuscade.”

“An ambuscade?”

“Yes, Sire. Of the three, one was killed, another wounded.”

“Hmmm.”

“I arrived as the ambuscade was taking place, along with additional guardsmen and certain friends—friends you may recall from some years ago, during the Pepperfield affair.”

“Yes,” said the Emperor. “I remember them. They were involved, you say?”

“Sire, it was with their help that we—my guardsmen and I—succeeded in driving off the attackers.”

“You drove them off, you say?”

“Yes, Sire. That is to say, we killed several, wounded several more, and the rest fled.”

“How many were there?”

“Oh, a tolerable round number, I assure Your Majesty. A dozen, perhaps. Less than a score, at all events.”

“So it was hot work, then, Captain?”

“Oh, yes Sire,” said Khaavren, laughing shortly and pulling his chin. “It was no cooler than a summer in Suntra, yet no hotter than the forges of the Serioli smiths.” This speech was greeted by admiring gasps from the maids of honor, and a tiny shudder on the part of Her Majesty; Jurabin’s face seemed set in stone, if we may make use of such a phrase, and the courtiers watched Khaavren carefully, not without a few traces of jealousy visible here and there, either because of the attention he was receiving from His Majesty, or the attention he was receiving from the maids of honor.

“Well, go on,” said His Majesty, looking at Khaavren with respect and pleasure, for Tortaalik was enamored of all accounts of war and fighting, and the coolness of the Captain in recounting the battle pleased him.

“Sire, as I have had the honor to say, we drove them off, but we knew they would be back.”

“You knew? How?”

“Sire, it was an ambuscade, hence part of a greater scheme, though I did not know—and still do not know—exactly what the scheme was. But we knew there must be more forces prepared.”

“And so what did you do, Captain?”

“Sire, I dispatched a messenger to alert the nearest guard-post, and, moreover, to bring word back to the Palace; then we drew up what battle lines we could, and we waited.”

“Well?”

“Well, Sire, the hottest work was ahead of us. We were not waiting a quarter of an hour before they attacked us—mostly Teckla, Sire, but Teckla armed with shovels and knives, and with leaders who knew what they were about. Indeed, we should not have survived were it not for my friend Aerich, who knew how to fight, and my friend Tazendra, who knew when to discharge a flashstone. I also have the honor to inform Your Majesty that my guardsman, Tivor, comported himself with great skill and courage.”

“I shall remember that name, Captain, and he will be rewarded.”

Khaavren bowed.

“But, come, what happened next?”

“Next? Well, Sire, we were holding our own, and inflicting certain damage on the enemy—”

“Damage?”

“We killed several, Sire.”

Her Majesty allowed certain emotions to cross her countenance at the Captain’s easy manner of discussing death. The Emperor, who had eyes only for Khaavren, said, “And your own losses?”

“Sire, another of my guardsman was killed, and yet another wounded severely, so that I do not know if he will live out the night.”

“Well, go on.”

“Sire, we managed to hold our position until we were reinforced by a detachment of some fifty or sixty guardsmen of the White Sash Battalion from the station on Narrows, under the command of Corporal Keen.”

“You were reinforced, you say?”

“Exactly, Sire.”

“And did that quell the disturbance, Captain?”

“Hardly, Sire.”

“Well?”

“By this time, Sire, the planned disturbance had touched off a spontaneous riot, that threatened to grow in both length and breadth, and that in no great short time.”

“Hmmm,” said His Majesty. Her Majesty turned slightly pale, but strengthened her resolve as she recalled her duties as Consort, and that the Warlord had already said that the danger was in the past.

“Even with the reinforcements,” continued the Captain, “there was little to be effected save containment, Sire, and so I broke what forces I had into groups of six or eight, and sent them around the edges of the disturbance, in the hopes that we could contain the amount of damage until the arrival of the army.”

“And did this work?”

“I believe it did, Sire. It was thirsty work, and busy; yet when His Excellency Lord Rollondar,”—he bowed to the Warlord—“arrived, the riot had not spread beyond the ability of his forces—and forces most skillfully deployed, I should add—to quell.”

His Majesty looked at Rollondar.

“Sire,” said the latter, “When I arrived, Sir Khaavren,”—here he bowed to the Captain—“explained the situation in terms most precise and explicit. Upon consultation with him—in fact, upon his suggestion—we moved his forces to an area some half a league further into the Underside, while, with half of my forces—that is, with some three hundred troops—we drove the rabble into the arms of Sir Khaavren’s command.”

“Half of your troops, Warlord?”

“Yes, Sire. The other half remained back, and conducted a house-to-house search, to be sure we had missed none of the culprits.”

“Ah, ah! I see. Well, and the results of this effort?”

“Sire, in two hours we had quelled the riot, and those responsible are now dead or imprisoned.”

“How, all of them?”

“That is to say, Sire, if a dozen of them lived and are at large to escape Your Majesty’s justice, well, I shall be surprised.”

His Majesty beamed. “A complete victory!” he cried.

“That’s my opinion,” said Rollondar.

“And yours?” said the Emperor, addressing Khaavren.

“I am in all ways in agreement with the Warlord, save for one thing.”

“And that is?”

“I am convinced that those responsible were not involved in the uprising, and thus are still at large.”

“Hmmmm, hmmmm,” said His Majesty. “Why are you so convinced that it was planned, Captain?”

“Why, Sire? Well, in the first place, there was the ambuscade.”

“Well, yes.”

“In the second, Sire, because of the pamphlets.”

“How, the pamphlets?”

“Yes, Sire. As part of my duties, I keep track of the subversive material that is circulated within the city in general and the Underside in particular.”

“Well, and of what does this material consist?”

Khaavren flushed slightly, stammered for a moment, glanced at the Consort, and said, “Sire, there is no need for Your Majesty to know the details.”

“I see.”

“But it is, for the most part, uh, humorous in intent.”

“Humorous?”

“Yes, Sire. That is, these sheets poke fun at the court, and the edicts, and uh …”

“And me?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“Well?”

“Sire, it is my judgment that, before a true explosion can occur, these circulars will lose their humor, and take on a tone of anger.”

“Ah. And you, Warlord. What do you think?”

Rollondar bowed. “I am entirely of the Captain’s opinion.”

“I see. Then tell me, Captain, why is it these pamphlets are permitted to circulate?”

“Sire? Well, for two reasons.”

“Two reasons? Let us see. What are they?”

“In the first place, because they would simply re-emerge elsewhere, and
might be better concealed; hence we might not know when they began speaking with voices of anger rather than irony.”

“That is not a bad reason. What else?”

“Because, Sire, to suppress them might well cause them to change their tone at once.”

“Hmmm. Then you believe we should let them continue?”

“I am convinced of it, Sire.”

His Majesty sighed. “Very well. Go on, then.”

“Sire,” said Khaavren, “there is little that I can add to what Lord Rollondar will tell Your Majesty of these things, and, moreover, I am overcome with fatigue.”

“Ah, ah, good Captain. Yes, you must go and get your rest—you have well earned it.”

Khaavren bowed, first to His Majesty, then to Her Majesty, then to the Warlord, after which he took his leave and, stopping only to give the necessary orders to his guardsmen for escorting Their Majesties back to their chambers, he made his way through the respectful looks of the courtiers and the admiring glances of the maids of honor, and so up into the Palace proper, out into the streets, and at last toward home.

Chapter the Thirteenth

Which Treats of Khaavren’s Return Home
For Conversation with His Friends,
His Decision to Absent Himself
From the Palace for a Day
,
And the Arrival of Guests.

I
N THE EARLY HOURS OF the morning, with the weight of darkness pressing silence onto the streets of Dragaera, which darkness was broken only by the occasional glowbulb or lantern outside a public house and which silence was broken only by the occasional lone footstep or call of the Watch, Khaavren made his tired way back home, his thoughts filled with scattered images drawn from the last several hours as he had experienced them; indeed, the Tiassa seemed to be in a waking dream, where hot faces and cold steel rose in ceaseless waves before him and carried with them all of the emotions—fear, anger, excitement, and even satisfaction—that, in the fury of the event, he had been too busy to feel. It was, then, with considerable relief that he came at last to his door, and it was with delight that he determined, from the low murmur of voices he heard as he opened it, that at least some of his friends were still awake, and so he need not face the loneliness of his bed just yet, while the emotions to which we have just alluded—the emotions of battle, and at times, it had seemed, hopeless battle—were still fresh in his memory.

Tazendra, who happened to be facing the hallway, was the first to see him. She rose from her chair with a broad smile and gleaming eyes, crying, “Khaavren! Ah, but it was fine bit of play to-night, was it not? Come, sit and drink a glass of wine with us, and help us as we tell the tale to our old friend Srahi. But come, you remember Mica, do you not? And this is Fawnd, who is Aerich’s lackey.”

Tazendra, and, for that matter, Aerich, who sat in the chair he had always preferred, still appeared to be awake and alert—a circumstance that amazed the Tiassa, knowing, as he did, that they had ridden for thirty hours and then fought for ten or twelve more. Mica appeared also to be rested and well, although the thin Teckla called Fawnd seemed, to Khaavren’s experienced eye, to be stiff and in a certain amount of pain.

As it happened, Tazendra’s enthusiasm was exactly the physick required by Khaavren’s nerves, and, before he was aware of it, he was seated in his favorite chair, a glass of wine in his hand, laughing as Tazendra acted out in exaggerated detail a misadventure on the part of one of their antagonists of the battle; sang an old campaign song that mocked the exploits of certain generals who, though once of great repute, were now almost unknown; and recollected particulars of their past adventures.

Mica sat at the end of the couch, blushing with pleasure when Tazendra told how his famous bar-stool had been put to such good use during the ambuscade near The Painted Sign, which the reader may recall from our previous history. Khaavren observed with interest and amusement that, as this story was related, Mica made occasional shy glances at Srahi, who ignored him with such determination that there could be no doubt Mica’s notice was returned.

“Well,” said Tazendra, when she had for the moment run out of anecdotes, “but what of you, Khaavren? Was His Majesty pleased with your report on the night’s work?”

“Pleased?” said Khaavren. “I nearly think he was. At least, he smiled his most gracious smile, and had nothing but compliments to make us.”

“Before the court?” said Tazendra.

“Indeed, before the court. And I should add that I caused your name, Tazendra, to sound in his ears, as well as yours, Aerich.”

Tazendra beamed at this, while Aerich shrugged as if this were a matter of no concern to him (although, to be sure, Khaavren detected a spark of interest in Fawnd’s eyes; this loyal retainer, it seemed, had more concern for his master’s fame than his master did).

“Well, this is all very well,” said Srahi suddenly, “only it seems that you, Sir Khaavren, must be awake at an early hour indeed, and you have had, if I am not mistaken, a long, hard night already, so that I should think sleep would not be unwelcome to you.”

Khaavren’s first inclination was to speak harshly to her, but then, with that perspicacity with which sensitive and intelligent natures are often endowed, he understood that she was, in her own way, displaying for Mica; and so, suppressing a smile, he simply rose and said, “You have the right of it, Srahi. The rest of you may continue your conversation, but, as for me, my bed is calling in a voice too shrill to be ignored, and I must placate it, and myself, wherefore I bid you all a pleasant evening.”

“Indeed,” said Tazendra; “I cannot deny that I have become weary myself; perhaps I am getting old.”

Aerich shrugged, but he, too, seemed tired—and none too soon, thought Khaavren, wondering briefly if he were the one getting old.

Good nights were exchanged, and Khaavren took himself off to bed, where he slept long and deeply.

He awoke the next morning at his accustomed time, stumbled down to the kitchen, splashed water on his face, consulted with himself, then wrote a quick note, which said,

Sire, I find Myself in need of Rest after yester-day’s Exertions. Should any Emergency arise, Your Majesty knows how to Reach me at Once. In hopes that my Absence does not Displease Your Majesty, I Remain Your Majesty’s Humble Servant—Khaavren

He stepped out of the door, still in his nightclothes, and waited until a pair of guardsmen passed by. He called them over and put the note into their hands, enjoining them to carry it to His Majesty with all dispatch, after which he returned to his bed, where he slept several more hours, enjoying his rest as only an old soldier, who is perpetually short of sleep, can enjoy it.

He awoke the second time suffused with guilt, somehow aware that he should have been at his post. But then he recalled the events of the night before, and acquitted himself of any misdemeanor in allowing himself a day to recover, so he lay back against his pillows in luxuriant sloth until he became aware that the aroma of fresh klava was drifting up from the lower floors of the house, which in turn made him realize that his good friends were, no doubt, still present, and perhaps awake, wherefore he at once took himself from his bed, fairly leapt into his clothes, and dashed down the stairs with an enthusiasm he had not felt in centuries.

Nor was he disappointed; sitting in the parlor were Aerich, Tazendra, Mica, and Srahi, while Fawnd was emerging from the kitchen with a cup of klava, which he respectfully presented to Khaavren.

“Ah, ah!” cried Tazendra. “You have sharp ears, Aerich, for that was, indeed, Khaavren’s step you heard. Good morning, my dear Captain—or, rather, good afternoon. We were just discussing the court, and who better to answer our questions than you? But come, you must, no doubt, first have your klava, which I’m certain will not be unwelcome to you.”

“Far from unwelcome,” said Khaavren, smiling. He sat down once more in his favorite chair, and inhaled of the bittersweet aroma before tasting it. He relaxed further into the chair, sipped again, and said, “But come, Tazendra, how long have you been awake?”

“Oh, not long, not long,” said Tazendra. “An hour, perhaps, since I rose, and Aerich was only drinking his first cup when I emerged.”

“Ah, well, then I have not been so lazy as I might have been. Did you sleep well? And you, Aerich?”

“Oh,” said Tazendra, “I slept tolerably soundly, I assure you—I remember nothing after my head touched the pillow until I smelled the klava that Mica was making, and which pulled me from the bed as if horses were dragging me bodily from it.”

“And I,” added Aerich, “slept all the better for the warm remembrances inspired by this house where we shared so much trouble and happiness.”

Khaavren continued drinking his klava from a large, black ceramic mug upon which his device and name were engraved on a silver plate affixed to the mug—a mug that had been given to him by his command upon the date of the 500
^thanniversary of his promotion to ensign. He noticed that, although Srahi and Mica were not, in fact, sitting together, nevertheless their eyes often strayed toward each other, and that when their eyes met, Srahi would smile and Mica would blush and look at the floor. Khaavren, though tempted by memories of Srahi’s sharp tongue to embarrass her, virtuously resolved to say nothing on the matter. Instead he treated it as a matter of course and addressed Tazendra once more, saying, “I’m afraid, however, that I must disappoint you in regard to your desires.”

“How, disappoint me? In what way?”

“There is little, in fact, that I know of the doings of the court.”

“What?” cried Tazendra. “You? Who live all of your life in the pockets of Their Majesties?”

“That is just it,” said Khaavren. “In truth, there is little enough that can be seen from inside a pocket.”

“Bah! So you do not, at this moment, know what gossip and scandal there is?”

“As I told Pel a week ago—splinters! Only a week!—if you wished to find anyone in the Empire who knew less of the gossip of the court, well, you would have a difficult search. When the courtiers gossip, I am on duty and cannot listen. When His Majesty does me the honor to address me, it is a matter of orders, not the reason for the orders. The guardsmen—who, as you recall, are always among the best informed—do not discuss such matters with me because I am an officer, whereas the other officers, such as the Warlord, do not discuss such matters with me because I have His Majesty’s ear.”

“Well,” said Tazendra, who seemed to follow this speech only with difficulty, “that is a shame, for I had hoped to learn much that I could not learn in the duchies. You say you know nothing?”

“Not enough to satisfy you, my dear friend; although, to be sure, I know that these are trying times for many who make their homes at court.”

“Trying times?” said Aerich, raising his eyebrows and putting into his expression an eloquent request for more details.

“Trying times of a certainty,” said Khaavren. “Attend: Do you not know that, when the economy is troubled, intendants are dismissed? And, in addition, when war goes badly, generals are executed?”

“Well, yes,” said Aerich. “That is the usual way of the world.”

“Well, they have been executing intendants.”

“Ah!” said Aerich.

Tazendra said, “But not, I hope, dismissing generals?”

“As to that, I cannot say.”

“Well,” said Tazendra, “so the economy is troubled?”

“Shards!” said Khaavren. “I nearly think so. His Majesty has no more money until the new Imperial Allowance is decided, the Great Houses bicker about how to avoid paying their share, the Teckla prepare to rise against the taxes, the revenue farmers prepare to revolt against the Empire if the Emperor decides to recall their tax-rolls, the mines are shutting down for want of food, ships lie idle in the harbors of Adrilankha and Northport, the armies and the wizards wait for negotiations with financiers before taking action to end the uprisings and droughts—in truth, the problems are better suited to the reign of the Orca than that of the Phoenix.” Khaavren punctuated this speech with an elaborate shrug, as if to say, “What matters any of this to me?”

Aerich gave Khaavren an indulgent smile, as if the Lyorn did not for a moment believe the Tiassa’s protests of unconcern. Tazendra seemed about to speak, but at that moment there came the sound of wood knocking on wood that indicated someone had pulled the door clapper.

Khaavren sighed. “I am needed at the Palace,” said he, “for some trivial matter.”

“How, needed?” said Tazendra.

“How, trivial?” said Aerich.

“Why, yes. Who else could be calling on me but someone from the Palace? And if it were urgent, His Majesty has faster ways of reaching me than sending a messenger.”

“Well, are you going to answer it?”

“Cha! Let Mica answer it. Lackeys are in fashion now; let the messenger think I have one, and that he wears the livery of the House of the Dzur; it will cause gossip and speculation, which will bring me a certain satisfaction in the contemplation, as I do not hear these things.”

Mica rose and went to see who was at the door. From the living room, they could hear the door open, then a murmur of voices, and then silence. Khaavren frowned, suddenly remembering his last unexpected visitor and hoping that he had not put Mica into harm’s way. He was on the point of rising to see when Mica returned, his eyes wide and his face pale.

“Well?” said Khaavren and Tazendra together.

The Teckla opened his mouth, closed it, swallowed, opened it again, and said, “There are visitors, my lord.”

“How, visitors?” said Khaavren. “Well, haven’t they names?”

“Indeed, they have names,” said Mica. “And even, if I may permit myself the honor of expressing an opinion, very good names.”

“Well?” said Tazendra. “What are these names? For you perceive we are waiting for you to tell us.”

“I am about to tell you,” said Mica.

“Do so, ninny!” said Tazendra.

“They are,” said Mica carefully, “Aliera e’Kieron and Sethra Lavode.”