by Steven Brust
The messenger who arrived from the Palace at around the seventh hour after noon, having ridden by the fastest post, was, therefore, watched eagerly and assisted even more eagerly; and when he was admitted to Adron’s tent, the tent was itself then watched with the greatest possible eagerness, in hopes of learning somewhat from Lord Adron’s countenance whenever he should emerge.
Within the tent itself, Aerich, who had been conversing with His Highness when the message arrived, watched Adron, who was staring at the yellow parchment in his hand as if willing it to burn—although he could not really be doing so, because had he actually so willed, it would have. One might say that, rather than the note, it was the Lyorn who burned—who burned, that is, to know what was written upon it that had caused His Highness to at first pale, and then flush, and now merely stare fixedly at the parchment, reading it over and over again. Aerich, though uncharacteristically impatient to know what it contained, would certainly not ask.
At last Adron looked up at him, and at first it seemed that he had mastered his emotions, but, on a closer look, Aerich saw that this was not the case. The reader may be familiar with the peculiar smelters that fill some of the towns along the Twindle River with their stenches; these smelters use a method of generating heat that requires an attendant to regulate the air flow into the furnace in such a way that the fires do not become so hot as to melt the furnace, which would cause a general conflagration, and yet enough air is let out so that the entire furnace does not explode from the heated air trapped within. In the parlance of that profession, this is called, “stroking the vent,” and requires a gentle touch combined with nerves that resemble the exact sort of high-grade steel the furnaces produce. We mention this because it seemed to Aerich that this was exactly what His Highness was doing—attempting to release enough of his anger so that he would not erupt into irrationality, yet not so much as to unleash the very fires he sought to control. In this context, we hope the metaphor, striking as it was to Aerich, is also sufficiently clear to the reader.
Adron, without a word, handed the note to Aerich. The note took this form: “Your Highness is informed that Aliera e’Kieron has today been arrested for High Treason, and is confined to the Imperial Prisons in the Iorich Wing to await trial.” That was all, except for the signature, which was the mark of Liseter, the Court Scribe, and contained the appendix: “By the wishes of His Majesty, Tortaalik the First, Emperor of Dragaera.”
Aerich wordlessly handed the note back to His Highness, unable to find anything to say.
“Well, Duke?” said His Highness.
Aerich said, “I should wish, above all, Highness, to learn the details.”
“And so I shall, Duke,” said Adron. “I shall go to His Majesty and inquire after particulars. But I shall bring my army with me.”
“Your Highness—”
“For now, I will give orders that the spell wagon be loaded with the argument I have prepared for His Majesty.”
“Sire—”
“The army will set out in the morning. The city will be mine in the afternoon. The Orb will revolve around my head before nightfall.”
“Then Your Highness has made up his mind?”
“Irrevocably.”
Aerich bowed. “Your Highness perceives, no doubt, that I cannot remain.”
Adron nodded. “May the best of fortune be yours, Duke.”
“And Your Highness’s as well.”
“Perhaps we shall meet again.”
“Perhaps we shall,” said Aerich. And so it was Aerich, not Adron, who emerged at last from the tent. At first, this was disappointing, for nothing could be learned from the Lyorn’s countenance; yet, in only a short time, he and his servant were mounted, and were departing the encampment at a good speed, which led to endless speculation: Some believed that Aerich was a diplomatist, attempting to reconcile His Highness with the court; of these, a few believed his departure signaled success, but most were convinced that he had failed. Still others believed that Aerich was a powerful sorcerer, who would be in advance of the battalion when the attack was launched. A few maintained that he had offered His Highness an army to help them against the Imperial Army. Some suggested that he was a close friend of His Highness’s, but that, being a Lyorn, he would not take arms against His Majesty (these last were, we should add, essentially correct).
In any case, speculation ended just a few minutes later when Lord Adron emerged and ordered his spell-wagon prepared. It was not his custom to announce his decisions, or even to let his troops know that action was planned, but, from the orders he gave, and from the meeting he held with his officers far into the night, there could be no possible doubt this time.
Adron informed Fawnd that they would be leaving at once and traveling quickly; such was the Lyorn’s expression, communicated by voice and gesture, that his servant, although just lately recovered from the first such journey, and although dreading another as he dreaded fire, allowed neither whimper nor sigh to escape his lips, and allowed neither frown nor scowl to cross his countenance.
Adron and Fawnd rode fast and hard, using the Imperial posts, Fawnd keeping up the rugged pace of the journey without complaint; and so they reached the Dragon Gate shortly after dark. Aerich wasted no time by stopping at the house on the Street of the Glass Cutters, but, rather, gave certain explicit instructions to Fawnd, after which he turned at once toward the Imperial Palace.
Fawnd was warmly greeted by Srahi and Mica, who were speaking in low tones near the fire that Srahi had built, pretending that Mica’s injury required warmth; she was also making certain that he drank Covaath cider in great quantities, both to ease his pain and to help him gain strength. Neither of these treatments, we should say, had been particularly recommended by the physicker, but Srahi insisted upon them, claiming that they had been used by her family for generations and had never failed. Mica, for his part, had no thought of resisting her ministrations, although he was careful not to allow the cider to intoxicate him.
Fawnd appeared, then, in this domestic scene, and, addressing both of them, said, “Pack.”
They looked at him, understandably startled. “I beg your pardon,” said Mica, imitating Tazendra as best he could. “But I do not understand what you do me the honor of telling me.”
“Pack,” repeated Fawnd.
“Well,” said Mica. “But, pack for what?”
“To leave.”
“How, we are leaving?”
“Yes,” said Fawnd.
Srahi turned a worried look upon Mica, and said, “But you are not fit to travel.”
“Nevertheless,” intoned Fawnd. Then he added to Srahi, “You, too.”
“How me?”
“Yes.”
“By whose orders?”
“My master’s.”
“I—” Srahi stopped before certain words were out of her mouth, remembering, in the first place, how intimidating the Lyorn could be, and second, realizing that, if Mica were to be traveling, there was good reason to be traveling with him.
“But why?” said Mica.
Fawnd shrugged.
At this point, Daro appeared, leaning on the nearest wall, and looking pale, for she, of them all, was in considerable pain, and after having read the message thoughtfully provided by Pel and promptly delivered by Srahi, she had returned to her bed and remained there until this moment. Now she said, “What is this I hear?”
Fawnd bowed low to this woman, who, though he did not know her, and though she was dressed only in a housecoat, was clearly a noblewoman. “My lady,” he said, “I have been instructed by my master to see to it that we—by which I mean Srahi, Mica, and I—leave the house, and the city, and even the district, within the hour.”
“Within the hour!” cried Srahi and Mica together.
“Yes,” said Fawnd.
“But,” said Daro, “who is your master?”
“Duke Arylle,” said Fawnd.
“I do not know him,” said Daro suspiciously.
; Mica said, “My lady, the Lord Khaavren speaks of him as Aerich.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. “I have, indeed, heard him pronounce this name, and that with the greatest respect and affection. But, has he given a reason for these strange orders?”
“No, madam, he has not.”
Daro made her way to a couch and eased herself into it. After breathing deeply for a moment, she said, “Have you, yourself, any guess about why he gave these orders?”
“No, madam.”
“Well.” She pondered for a moment, then said, “Was he at the Palace before issuing these orders?”
“No, madam.”
“But then, where was he?”
“At Lord Adron’s encampment.”
“Oh,” said Daro. “That may explain everything.” She frowned, then, and said, “Well, you had best be about it.”
“And yet,” said Srahi, “if my master returns, and I am not here—”
“I will explain,” said Daro.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“But there is something you must do for me.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“You must pack quickly, and you must, in addition, pack up everything of your master’s which he would want preserved, and that you can put on a wagon in the time you have. Do not waste a moment.”
“I will do so, my lady,” said Srahi, who was beginning to understand that the matter, whatever it was, was entirely serious.
“You,” said Daro. “What is your name?”
“Fawnd, my lady.”
“You must nearly be packed already, for you have come from a journey.”
“That is true, my lady.”
“So you find a wagon—here, take this purse, pay whatever you have to. A wagon with a good team—can any of you drive a team?”
“I can,” said Mica.
“Good. Find a wagon and a team and bring them here at once.”
“My lady,” said Fawnd, “I will do all you ask.”
“Where are we to go?” said Mica.
“Bra-moor,” said Fawnd.
“Which is?” said Daro.
“My master’s estate, near the Collier Hills.”
“Very well,” said Daro. “You had best be about your business, then.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Srahi and Mica. Mica then looked at the heavily bandaged stump of his leg and scowled, but said nothing. Srahi gifted him with a tender look, which he returned in full measure.
“We must,” remarked Srahi, “be certain to bring your bar-stool.”
The reader may be wondering about Tazendra, who was last seen in the company of Sethra, but who did not, in fact, appear in the Portrait Room with the Enchantress. When Sethra had been summoned, Tazendra thought it a good time to attend to certain matters, wherefore she took herself to the Dzur Wing of the Palace—that great, lofty, dark, empty hall where hung oils of only the greatest of the great and which was dominated by the mammoth dzur sculpted in the depths of time by Pitra himself; from there she followed one of the side wings, along the passage where the Lists were kept, stopping, from time to time, to find the name of a relative. On each side of this hall were sitting rooms done each of them in stone, and each featuring a different weapon made famous by some great warrior, and named, in some cases for the warrior, in others for the weapon. Eventually, she chose one that was named for Arylle, who had led the expedition which had discovered, among other things, Tazendra’s homeland; Arylle was also renowned for being the lone survivor of an ill-fated foray against a pirate stronghold on an island in the far west (this was unusual, because, to get one of these rooms in the Dzur Wing named after one, it was generally a requirement that the hero not survive).
Tazendra, after assuring herself that the room was empty, sat in front of the fire, removed the necessary items from her pocket, and began to sharpen her sword, where we will leave her with her sword and her thoughts.
Khaavren, upon receiving Aliera’s sword, made her his accustomed offer—that is, that she might pack a valise.
“I have done so,” she said. “I am ready.”
“We may,” said the Captain, “arrive at the Imperial Prisons by any reasonable route you choose. Have you a preference?”
“Not in the least,” said Aliera. “Everyone will know of my arrest in any case, and I am hardly ashamed of it, so it matters not the least in the world.”
“Very well, then if my lady will follow me.”
“I am at your service, Captain.”
Other than this, there was no conversation between them, for Khaavren was still too angry, and Aliera too proud; as the rest of the walk was conducted in silence, we see no need to inform the reader in any great detail of the hollow sounds their boots made on the Ringway Stairs, or the odors of fresh paint in the Blue Corridor, or the startling, almost painful light that struck their eyes as they passed by the window above the Warding Gate into the Iorich Wing, or any of the other details of their journey. Suffice it to say that, in due time, Aliera was turned over to Guinn and his jailers, and Khaavren returned to tell His Majesty, who was playing at shereba (for, we should add, stakes that were so small as to be only tokens) with certain courtiers, that his mission had been accomplished. His Majesty responded with a simple nod, and Khaavren repaired to his offices to see if anything of moment had happened during his long absence.
He looked through the correspondence that had accumulated during his absence, and had not gotten far when he stood and called for Thack, who presented himself at once, appearing, thanks to a brief nap, to be somewhat refreshed. He bowed upon entering and said, “Yes, Captain? Is there some matter upon which you desire to speak to me?”
“I nearly think so,” said Khaavren.
“What is it, Captain? For you perceive I am entirely at your service.”
“This,” said Khaavren, waving a note about.
“The note, Captain?”
“Yes. Unless my eyes have failed me at last, it has your mark upon the bottom.”
“Why, so it does,” said Thack. “Have I erred in some way? For I observe from your countenance, Captain, that something his displeased you.”
“Never mind that,” said the Captain. “Are you aware of what it says?”
“Yes, Captain, it speaks of a certain movement among the population—”
“Movement! You say, movement?”
“Why, yes, Captain—”
“When every Gate to the city is filled with a constant stream of people—and people of all classes, I might add—desperate to leave the city, so that fights have broken out, and Baroness Stonemover has been forced to activate her reserves, and some citizens have been trampled to death in their urgency to leave, well, you call it movement? And if the entire Palace were on fire—which is not as hard to imagine as you might think—would you then say, ‘there is a certain warmth’?”
“Well, Captain, I—”
“I should very much like to ask why I was not informed of this before, but I cannot, for I know very well why; it is because I have been wounded, and, moreover, because I have been seeing to the aftermath of the attempt against His Majesty.”
“Captain, I—”
“No, I am not blaming you, Thack; it is only that I am annoyed, and now I must decide what action to take.”
“It would seem, Captain, if I may be permitted an opinion, that Baroness Stonemover is doing what has to be done.”
Khaavren shook his head. “Thack, have you spent any time in forests where there are dangerous animals, such as dzur, or tiassa, or bear, or wolves, or even dragons?”
“Why, yes, Captain, I have.”
“Have you ever seen all of the birds fly away suddenly, while the smaller animals are seen scurrying into their holes, or in some other direction?”
“I am familiar with this, yes, Captain.”
“Well, and if you were to make certain that these birds escaped safely, and the small animals reached shelter, well, would you then feel, as you seem to feel about the exodus
from the city, that nothing more needed to be done?”
“I take your meaning, Captain.”
“I am glad you do.”
“But, Captain, have you any orders for me?”
Khaavren sighed. “None yet, my good Thack, for I will not know what to do until I have finished reading all of these cursed reports. But be prepared for anything.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Khaavren read the reports, forcing himself to take his time so as not to miss any detail, and, at the same time, allowing himself to build a picture of the city as it stood; and, more important, to attempt to feel how it was moving. The change in the mood and character of the city even from that morning, when he had come to the Palace, was shocking; and again he cursed his wounds, which had forced him to take a coach—what he would have seen walking, instead of driving by, would have told him a great deal that he could not deduce even from the most accurate of reports.
As he worked, the notion began to grow that, if things were falling out as they seemed to be, there was nothing to be done. If the full force of the Imperial Army were called in, then, perhaps, a semblance of order could be kept in the city; but, failing that, he could find no plan, even one involving all of his forces, Baroness Stonemover’s, and even the Lavodes, providing they could be persuaded to help, that would, in the event of a fully fledged riot, have any chance at all of preventing an equally fully fledged conflagration. His only choice, as he saw it, was to concentrate his forces around the Palace, with the idea of protecting His Majesty, while simultaneously hoping His Majesty would find a way to appease the populace.
He sighed. When word got out that Aliera had been arrested, well, this would not ease the situation.
However, Khaavren had not reached his position because he was one to give up easily; on the contrary, he sat and racked his brains, going over and over the reports, for several hours. He was still thinking when it came time to escort His Majesty on his rounds, which occurred just before the twelfth hour after noon. As they went through the familiar ritual, Khaavren took a certain pleasure in pacing out the path through the quiet Palace, as if the troubles they faced were, at any rate, over for the day.
