by Steven Brust
"Apropos, sir."
"Well?"
"Do you think I will meet her?"
"It seems you may. And if you do, you must not fail to present my respectful greetings."
"I will do so, sir."
Neither spoke then, for a moment, until the Viscount said, "My lord?"
"Yes, Viscount?"
"You wish you were going, don't you, instead of I?"
Khaavren sighed. "I am in no condition to go, Viscount. I could perhaps still lift my old sword, but I could neither cut nor parry. And my old bones do not allow me to sit astride a horse for more than a few hours. And if this mission is what I suspect it is, it requires someone who…"
"Yes, sir? It requires someone who…?"
Khaavren shook his head. "No, you will go forth, and do what must be done. That is all of it."
"Yes, sir. I will not disgrace you."
"No, Viscount, I am certain that you will not. And you will bid a fond farewell to the Countess before you go?"
"I will visit her in her chambers as soon as I have left you, sir."
"Good." They sat once more without speaking; then Khaavren said, "What do you think of your lackey?"
"He pleases me, sir, for he seems to have some courage, and his conversation amuses me."
"That is best. A lackey can sometimes be almost a friend, you know, and I will tell you that, to this day, I wonder what has become of my old servant, Srahi, and I hope that she is happy with her companion, whose name was Mica, and who serves my friend Tazendra of whom I have told you so much."
"I will not fail to attend to Lar, sir."
Khaavren nodded, and then, with an effort, he rose. Piro did the same. "Come, Viscount, embrace me, and then take your leave of your mother."
"Gladly, sir," said the young man, and embraced his father with enthusiasm and affection, after which, with a last tender salute, he re-entered the manor. Khaavren, for his part, sat down once more and continued looking out over the ocean, where none could see the glistening in his eyes.
Chapter the Eleventh
How the Duke of Galstan,
Whom the Reader May Remember as Pel,
Has Acquired New Responsibilities;
And a Brief Discussion of What
These Responsibilities May Entail
Early the next morning, if one were able to look out over the broad expanse of terrain that had once been the Empire, one would have found, in fact, that almost nothing worth our notice was occurring. To be sure, the western half was still covered in darkest night, but even in that portion upon which we have turned our attention, that is, on Whitecrest Manor in Adrilankha, all the observer might have observed was this: Three figures, those being Piro, Kytraan, and Lar, walked to the stables, secured their provisions and supplies on a pack animal, mounted horses, and began riding slowly east.
In some sense, this may be considered a momentous occasion, because of all the later events set in motion by this simple departure; yet it is a startling truth that simply because an event has historical importance, that does not necessarily make it interesting; and as the reader has the right to demand that everything in a romance be both significant to the unfolding of events and absorbing in its own right, the author has no choice but to leave these three individuals to find their own way onward, while the reader is guided toward matters by which his imagination and sympathy may be evoked.
At the moment, then, when our three friends are setting out, we must look hard for any activity of both interest and significance to our story; much of the land is asleep, and, of those who are awake, nearly all are involved merely in the day-to-day life that takes up most of the time and energy of the aristocrat, the tradesman, the peasant, and, if truth be known, even the historian. The exception could be found, if one looked, in the far northwestern portion of the continent, on a peak called Kâna, in the Kanefthali Mountains, where a certain Dragonlord with the same name as the peak to which we have just alluded and his cousin have, since we last saw them, achieved an expansion that is certainly worthy of note.
Much (indeed, in the opinion of this historian, most) of Kâna's success can be attributed to his ability and determination to find the most talented individuals in different areas of expertise and recruit them into his project. By the time a half century had elapsed from the Disaster, he had fought, subdued, and killed or recruited all of the smaller warlords in the area around the mountains; by the end of the first century he had established communication, intelligence, and transport lines to the Ocean-sea in the south and west, and nearly to the desert in the East. Over the next century, he bargained and traded with those larger holdings near the mountains, and then, one by one, swallowed them, until, by the time of which we have the honor to write, that is, near the middle of the third century of Interregnum, he controlled almost a third of the land that had once been the Empire, and his influence was felt over another third.
We should mention in passing, by the way, that, some fifty years previously, his agents had learned of Khaavren, and had considered recruiting him, but had decided against it upon learning of his general demoralization and weakness of body and spirit. Should they have attempted to add him to their number, it is impossible to say if they would have succeeded, or how history might have unfolded differently.
But if Kâna (or, more precisely, Habil acting through Kâna) missed Khaavren, there is another of our acquaintances who was not missed, that being Pel, who gravitated toward the gathering of power as naturally and inevitably as an orca will swim toward a place in the water where blood has been spilled. Pel had, a hundred years before, been a minor and almost accidental pawn in Kâna's vast information network; but in the manner of the Yendi that he was, he had learned more on his end of the "wire," as it was called, than Kâna had learned from his assistance, and Pel had soon grown more and more important in this organization, showing a talent for not only the gathering of facts, but for making almost uncannily correct deductions from the fewest threads of information until, for the half century leading up to the time of which we have the honor to write, he had, in fact, been in charge of the operation of what Kâna still called spies and Habil called observers and Pel only referred to as his "friends."
On the occasion of which we now write—that is, some time before dawn on the day Piro set out from Adrilankha—Pel, who is actually the Duke of Galstan, had arrived at the same library in which, two centuries before, the plans for the campaign were first laid. At this time Pel, if time had added more than two centuries to those which had already passed beneath his feet, showed them no more than he had when last we saw him, still being dark of hair and eye, fine of skin, and graceful of gesture. In the library already were Kâna and Habil, who were leaning over a detailed and skillfully drawn map of the desert of Suntra. Pel, upon entering, made a respectful bow.
"Good day to you, Galstan," said Kâna, "You have something to report?"
"I do," said Pel, "if you wish to hear it."
"I wish to of all things," said Kâna. "My cousin and I were engaged in debating the virtues of attempting to take the western portion of the desert of Suntra, compared to the advantages of working around it to the south. We are, as yet, undecided, and if you have any information that will make our decision easier, well, we should like nothing better than to hear it."
"On that subject," said Pel, "I do have certain things to say."
"Well?" said Habil.
"I have heard from my friends that a certain warlord, named Fwynn, has been gathering strength for the past score of years, anticipating an effort on your part to take the western portion of Suntra. His base of strength seems to be to the north of the desert, where he can call on some six thousands of trained and organized warriors, while he has a garrison of some four thousands at this point, all of whom are mounted and ready to move at a moment's notice."
"Then perhaps," said Kâna, "if we go north, rather than south, we can cut the forces off from each other."
"Rather," said Habil, "
we are likely to be caught between them; we have only eleven thousands available to us, and it will take some little time to move more into position."
"Can our eleven thousands take the garrison, do you think?" asked Kâna of Pel.
"If they can arrive without being seen," said Pel, "then it could be managed. For that, however, an attack from the far north is indicated, because they are not watching from that direction. If Your Venerance wishes, a detailed report of the roads and watering spots can be ready by morning."
Habil and Kâna consulted each other by look, then both nodded. "Is there anything else?" said Habil.
"There is, Marchioness."
"Well?"
"You know where our chief danger lies in the future, do you not?"
"You have told us," said Kâna, "that Dzur Mountain must be taken into account."
"Exactly," said Pel.
"Well?"
"I have, therefore, kept a constant watch on Dzur Mountain, and even had followed all of those who have left it on errands of one sort or another."
"And that is well done, I think," remarked Habil.
Pel bowed.
"But then," said Kâna, "has something happened?"
"Exactly," said Pel. "And, if you wish, I will tell you what it is."
"Do so," said Habil. "You perceive we are both listening avidly to your every word."
"Yes," said Kâna, "what has the Enchantress been doing?"
"She has," said Pel, "been sending out messengers. And moreover—"
"Yes?"
"She has been summoning people to her."
"Troops?" said Kâna.
"Not troops," said Pel, "but individuals."
"What individuals?" said Habil.
"I don't yet know all of them, but one, at least, I know, and that is the Viscount of Adrilankha, who I have learned, thanks to the sorcerous communications methods you have given me access to, just a few hours ago set out in the company of the messenger from Sethra."
"Exactly who is this Viscount?" said Kâna.
"The son of an old acquaintance of mine," said Pel; "that is, the son of Lord Khaavren, who commanded the Phoenix Guards until the Disaster."
"Ah, I have heard of him," said Kâna. "He was not to be trifled with when he was in his prime."
"Exactly," said Pel. "Nor is his son, if the blood flows true."
"And, is there something you recommend we do?"
"No, only be aware of it. Sethra Lavode is preparing a stroke, whether against us or in some other direction I cannot yet say, but I would caution Your Venerance to remain aware of her. And for my part, I intend to redouble our vigilance on Dzur Mountain and environs."
"Very well," said Kâna. "What else?"
Pel sighed. "I fear Sethra Lavode," he said. "We cannot storm Dzur Mountain, we cannot counteract her sorcery, we cannot undermine her diplomacies, all because, in the first place, she is skilled and powerful, and, in the second place, we know so little about her. What is the source of her power? What is her nature? What is her age? We know none of these things, but have only speculations."
"Perhaps," said Kâna, "she is powerless since the fall of the Empire. Is it not true that she has not left Dzur Mountain in all that time?"
"It may be true," said Pel. "To be sure, we do not know that she left. But how can we tell? She hasn't been tested."
"How then," said Habil, "can we test her without committing ourselves?"
"There may be a way," said Pel. "There are young Dzurlords, and even Dragonlords, who may be convinced to stand against her, which would give us some indication of how much we need fear her."
"You can arrange this?" said Kâna.
Pel bowed. "But there is still another consideration."
"And that is?" said Habil.
"It may be that we need not fear her, but, rather, we can enlist her."
"How, enlist her?" said Kâna.
"Exactly. If she believes that we are the best hope for the Empire, why, then it may be that she will aid us, rather than thwarting us."
"How, then, are we to determine this?" said Habil.
"That is the question," said Pel. "That is what we must consider."
"Would it be safe," said Kâna, "for us to send an envoy?"
"How, ask her directly?" said Pel. "I had not considered that."
Habil chuckled. "I am not astonished by that, my good Yendi. Yet what do you think of it?"
"It may be the best solution," admitted Pel.
"We must carefully consider who to send," said Kâna.
"I have an idea," said Habil.
"I should be glad to hear it," said Kâna.
"I believe I can think of someone who is polite, subtle, observant, discreet, courageous, and intelligent. Someone who is able to follow orders, yet able to exceed these orders, or change them, if circumstances require it. Someone who, in short, has all of the virtues needed for this mission."
"I agree with your list of needed virtues," said Pel. "It remains only for you to give us the name that goes with the list."
Habil, instead of answering, merely smiled, and continued looking at Pel. His eyes widened slightly when he realized what was being said, but then, after an instant's consideration, he bowed.
Chapter the Twelfth
How the Author, Forced Against His Will
To Write of the Viscount's Travels,
Attempts, for the Sake of the Reader,
To Make Travel Interesting
It has long been known by those who take up the pen and write for a populace greedy for distraction, that among the most difficult tasks of the writer are those caused by circumstances in which the characters whom the reader has been following must go from one place to another. The author must somehow account for the journey, and to merely say, "They traveled; they arrived," often leaves the reader with the feeling that something important has been missed; yet to actually describe the passage of one day after another, each filled with nothing more than the routine of the traveler, is, more often than not, to invite ennui; that is, in a word, to bore the reader.
To be sure, those who write pure history are sometimes able to escape this dilemma under the guise of pretending that, as nothing of significance happened, nothing need be said. Alternatively, the historian may be so fortunate as to have history provide a good supply of incidents with which to keep the reader amused; some historians, notably the witty and erudite Cropperwell, seem to specialize in historical events that feature exactly this sort of circumstance.
As for the writer of the popular romance, each has sought after methods of treating this difficulty, with more or less success. The fabulist will invent adventures of the most absurd variety; the minutist will describe the scenery through which characters and readers are passing to the tiniest detail; the summarist will omit the journey, contenting himself with the assertion that it has occurred; while to the metaphorist the journey becomes the reason for the story itself; and then there are those, such as the delightful Madam Payor with her "Greentide Romances," who invent characters who are, for one reason or another, incapable of traveling; or the clever Tremmel of Brock, who uses as a device actions that center on a certain specific location and brings all the events to the characters who dwell there; thus escaping the problem entirely. Any of these choices, and of others we have not troubled to mention, are reasonable and proper if carried out with sufficient skill and dexterity, yet it seems to us that what is most significant to the reader ought to be that which is most significant to the characters who occupy the reader's attention, and this is doubly true in the case of die historical romance, where we are not at liberty to invent incidents, but must rather be content with those events with which history has provided us, and then fulfill our task of casting them in an entertaining as well as an informative light.
For this reason, then, it has been our approach, which has met with a certain success, to direct the attention of the reader toward events which have caused significant changes in the personality, or,
at any rate, the disposition of those whose actions have attracted our interest; that is, if the struggles of the journey itself, or the conversation among the travelers, or certain incidents have had a profound and lasting effect, that is where we will ask the reader to lend us his attention, so that we, in turn, may repay him by providing him with a deeper understanding of those characters, and with whatever degree of entertainment is naturally afforded by the incidents we are called upon to reveal.
All of which brings us to a time exactly a week into the journey, to a small fire where Piro, Kytraan, and Lar sat in order to feel simultaneously warm and protected. The jungle around them was alive with night noises, the loudest being the nickering of their own horses, who were themselves rather close to the fire, as if entirely uncertain about what sorts of animals might live nearby and what these various species might think about horse as a delicacy. With these noises the crackle of the fire competed, as if to assert the continuing drama of man's invasion of wilderness; yet together these sounds—the jungle noises of nature, and the sound of the burning of nature's artifacts by man—produced a certain music, or at least a backdrop of sound, against which the soft conversation of Piro and Kytraan harmonized in its own way, while providing, should the reader choose, another, deeper metaphor concerning man and nature, but one of which the author will eschew the explicit drawing.
As we make our study, we will find Piro saying, "But, my dear Kytraan, you must have had your share of adventures."
To this, the worthy Dragon said, "Perhaps, but not as many, nor as adventurous, as you might suppose. To have one's sword blooded for the first time in order to prevent one's skin from being punctured is an adventure, or feels like an adventure at the time, even if one's attacker is an innocent beast and hardly a threat."
"Well, I understand that," said Piro, thinking suddenly of Porker Poker and feeling unaccountably homesick, albeit just for an instant. "And then?"
