by Steven Brust
“Well,” said Khaavren. “Come, let us hear. You were able to find them, I take it?”
“Nearly,” said Kytraan. “That is, we were nearly as close to Grita as I am to—”
“Grita?” said Khaavren, glancing quickly at Aerich, then at Pel. “Grita was there?”
“We saw her speaking with them some days ago.”
“That is true, but I had not known she was still with them.”
The Yendi nodded. “She is. I recognized her from a distance away—you perceive, she has a distinctive posture.”
“And so you went closer?”
“Closer?” said Kytraan. “He walked up to the camp as if he were invisible, and there were no danger of being seen, or, if there was, then no harm could come to us if they saw us.”
“There were certain obstacles to their line of sight,” said Pel. “It was possible to get very close without being seen. Their watch was lax.”
Kytraan looked at Pel as if about to question this analysis, but, in the end, said nothing. Khaavren understood exactly, however, and said, “Tell us what was said, then.”
Pel permitted a thin smile to cross his countenance. “You pretend I would listen in on a private conversation?”
“I believe you might,” said Khaavren. “And I am nearly convinced that you did.”
“Well, you are not far wrong.”
“And then?”
“Grita explained to the young lieutenant that what she called the ‘main army’ was only ten or eleven miles away, and, moreover, that there was only one small garrison between them and Dzur Mountain.”
“A garrison?”
“So Grita explained.”
“What do we know of this garrison?”
“Grita said it numbered a few scant thousands, and had only the barest of defensive fortifications.”
“Then it will not delay the main army for long,” said Khaavren, “if the main army is, indeed, worthy of the name. Is there more?”
“There is indeed.”
“Let us hear it, then.”
“They spoke of us.”
“Did they?” said Khaavren. “I am not startled. I ought to have noticed the back of my neck itching. My mother always said that if the back of your neck itches, someone is speaking ill of you.”
“Yes?” said Kytraan. “I had not heard this. What if the back of your neck, rather than itching, hurts?”
“That means someone has stuck a knife into your neck.” Kytraan looked carefully at the captain, wondering if he were being made sport of; but Khaavren’s attention was once more on Pel, who was saying, “Grita wants very much to do us harm, my friend.”
“Well, that we had already known. But does she now have a plan for how to go about it?”
“Oh, that one is never without a plan. It is in the blood.”
“Ah. The oven says the candle is hot? But go on, my friend. Let us hear this famous plan, for I have no doubt you crept close enough and stayed long enough to hear every detail.”
“You are not far wrong,” said Pel, permitting himself a thin smile.
As he spoke, the others gathered close to listen. Zerika frowned, as if considering whether this should be permitted, but in the end said nothing. Pel, for his part, quickly noted the audience, then turned his attention once more to the Empress and Khaavren.
“She wishes,” said Pel without further preamble, “to have us caught between themselves and the army with whom we are all presently closing.”
“Was that the plan?” said Kytraan, a look of astonishment crossing his countenance.
“Without question,” said Pel.
“And yet, I heard no such thing.”
“You heard, my friend,” said Pel coolly. “However, you did not listen.”
“How, I did not listen? Yet, I give you my word, my attention was concentrated upon nothing else in the world.”
“Nevertheless, when Grita made that reference to being a hammer, what did you imagine she meant?”
“Why, I didn’t know.”
“And then, when that lieutenant remarked that the anvil had more pressing business?”
“Well—”
“And Grita spoke about waiting until the anvil was secure before striking?”
“Upon my word,” murmured Zerika, “I believe I am beginning to understand, myself.”
“Pel has remarkably good hearing,” said Khaavren, also in a low murmur. “I have had occasion to make this observation before.”
“But then,” continued Kytraan, “did they say when and where?”
“They did indeed,” said Pel, “and in terms that left no room for misunderstanding.”
“Bah!” said Kytraan. “Impossible!”
“Not the least in the world,” said Pel.
“And yet—”
“Listen, my young friend, and learn.”
“Very well, I listen.”
“As we sat—”
“Sat!”
“Very well, crouched then.”
“I did not believe a man could be made to occupy such a small amount of space.”
“Oh, it can be done, believe me—and, you perceive, we were not seen.”
“That is true, nor heard—though I confess that, at the time, I was convinced the entire encampment would hear my heart pounding before they even discovered the gentleman whom we left sleeping at his post.”
“Bah. There was no danger.”
“So you have convinced me. But go on, then. As we were crouching while Grita and the lieutenant, Tseranok, were—”
“Tsanaali,” corrected Pel gently.
“Yes, Tsanaali, were speaking.”
“Exactly,” said Pel.
“And I listened to what they said to each other.”
“Bah!”
“Very well, then, I heard what they said.”
“Yes, that I accept.”
“And while I believe what you say about hammers and anvils—”
“And you are right to do so.”
“—I give you my word they never mentioned times, or dates, or places.”
“No, but they did speak of horses.”
“Horses?”
“Yes, don’t you recall?”
“Well, I remember Grita said something about horses, but she spoke of horses in general, not of specific horses.”
“What is a specific horse but one of the general class of horse?”
“And yet—”
“So if one were to say something that is true of all horses, it follows, does it not, that this must be true of a specific horse?”
“Well, that is true,” said Kytraan. Tazendra, though she looked doubtful at this proposition, did not venture to comment upon it.
“What,” prompted Pel, “did she say of horses?”
“Why, very little. Only that they needed water.”
“Exactly! She said that horses need water! By the Orb, there is nothing wrong with your ears!”
“You think not? That is good, then. I feel better in regards to my ears.”
“And you are right to, for they function admirably.”
“But, there may be a deficiency between them.”
“You think so?”
“It is possible. Because, even though we agree about what my ears heard, well—”
“Yes?”
“I cannot conceive how the mention of horses requiring water—which the Gods know is true, because they were not built like clidogs to live for days without water, any more than clidogs were built like horses to be ridden—I cannot conceive of how this wisdom brings us any closer to knowing when and where they plan to bring us to battle.”
“And yet,” said Pel, “to me it explains everything.”
“Impossible!”
“Nonsense.”
“But then—”
“Come, Khaavren. Does it explain everything to you?”
“Nearly,” said Khaavren. “That is, I could now point to the spot on the map where the attack is to tak
e place, and name the precise hour at which it is to occur.”
Kytraan now stared at Khaavren as if he were a specter emerging from Deathgate Falls. “And yet, I do not see—”
“That is all right,” said Pel. “Our worthy Tazendra does not understand either, and yet she is our close friend.”
“In fact,” said Tazendra complacently, “I do not, but matters like this no longer disturb my peace of mind.”
“They do not?” said Kytraan.
“No, because soon Pel will tire of his game, and point me at someone to fight, and then, well, I will fight, and all of this careful contemplation will be forgotten, and only the fight, and its results, will be remembered.”
Kytraan now looked at Tazendra in wonder. “Do you know, I would never have thought a Dzur could have so well explained the heart of a Dragon.”
Tazendra bowed, accepting this as the compliment it was. Kytraan bowed back, then turned toward Pel, who, if truth be told, was himself rather astonished at the exchange he had just witnessed. After a moment, however, he remembered the discussion in which he had been engaged and said, “It is not so difficult, my young friend. Consider, we have horses, do we not?”
“My mind is nearly convinced that we do,” said Kytraan. “And there are other parts of me that have no doubt at all.”
“Well then, as Grita pointed out, we must water them.”
“Well, yes, that is but natural.”
“Where, then, are we to do so?”
“I would imagine at a stream or a river.”
“Those are few in this region.”
“And yet, are we not at one now?”
“We are. And that is why we picked this place to rest for the day, even though it was not quite dark.”
“Yes, and therefore?”
“Therefore, a careful examination of a good map will tell us where we must arrive at to-morrow, where the enemy army must be—for they also have horses, and where Tsanaali and Grita must be, for they have horses as well. And, as we are moving faster than the army, and, moreover, as we know that Tsanaali wishes to converge with them—”
“Ah! I comprehend. But, have we a map? I confess that I have not seen one.”
“My dear,” said Pel, “we have all the maps that have ever been made.”
“How, we do?”
“Nearly. We have the Orb.”
A look of wonder crossed Kytraan’s countenance. “I had not thought of that,” said Kytraan. He turned suddenly to Piro. “Had you understood?”
“In fact,” said Piro, smiling, “were I not ashamed to admit it in front of the Count my father, well, I should have to confess to being as astonished as you.”
Khaavren, for his part, permitted himself another smile, and, bowing, turned to Zerika. “If Your Majesty will condescend to draw us a map of the region, well, we will soon enough know where they plan their attack—or their ambuscade, if it please you.”
Zerika, who had a fair hand, quickly sketched out a map (after causing the Orb to glow enough to see by—for it was becoming quite dark), and, as promised, they were soon able to determine that they would be likely to meet up with their enemies at a small stream called Lostoar near the southern border of a duchy called Southmoor.
“In the late afternoon, the day after to-morrow,” said Pel.
“Or, rather, the morning of the day after; because I believe, knowing what we know, we may wish to delay the attack until the morning.”
“That may be,” said Pel, “only—”
“Yes?”
“What will we do for water for the horses if we stop short of Lostoar?”
“We will come near a small town, here, in the middle of the day to-morrow. There we will purchase casks and a wagon, and we will use the wagon to haul the casks, and we will fill the casks with water either in town, or—” He pointed at the map again. “—here, at this brook.” As he said this, he looked at Zerika, who nodded her approval of the plan.
“If I may,” said Aerich, speaking for the first time.
“Yes?” said Khaavren.
The Lyorn pointed one of his long, graceful fingers at a spot on the map. “Let us arrive here, to the south of the place they plan the engagement, so that, at least, we may arrive from an unexpected direction.”
The others at once agreed with this plan, and, this decision made, they at last settled in for the night. As quiet settled over the camp, Piro, who had set up his pallet near Kytraan, said, “My dear friend, you seem agitated.”
“Do I?”
“So it seems.”
“Well, I confess I am disturbed.”
“Tell me what troubles you, then, and perhaps together we will be able to ease your mind.”
“Very well, I shall do as you suggest. This is it, then.”
“I am listening.”
“Pel sneaked into the enemy camp, and overheard Grita’s conversation with Tsifalli.”
“Tsanaali, my dear.”
“Yes. Well, Pel overheard her—”
“As did you, in fact.”
“—and, before that—”
“Yes? Before?”
“Grita, herself, it seems, approached our camp and succeeded in overhearing our plans.”
“Well, I agree, I believe she did so, the wretch!”
“There, then. We have heard her plans, and she has heard ours.”
“Yes, and then?”
“How do we know she has not overheard our plans this time?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it seems to me we have seen a great deal of this sneaking around and listening to people.”
“But, Kytraan, we have guards.”
“So did they, Piro. I know this, because it fell to me to knock one soundly on the head to prevent him from raising an alarm.”
“There, you see? We have guards, and they have not been knocked on the head.”
“Therefore?”
“Therefore, no one has been sneaking about listening to us.”
Kytraan considered this for a moment, then said dubiously, “If you are convinced of it.”
“Oh, I am, I assure you.”
“Very well, that is good enough for me, then.”
“I am glad it is.”
“Thank you. I shall sleep the more soundly for our conversation.”
“And you will be right to do so.”
With this, Kytraan at once fell into a sound sleep. Some ten or fifteen minutes later, Piro rose and went to seek out his father.
BOOK FOUR
In Which the Ninth (or Tenth)
Battle of Dzur Mountain Is Fought
With Some Discussion of Its Results
Chapter the Fifty-Second
How Those Unable to Think
The Thoughts of Others Are
Content to Think Their Own
We must now turn our attention to a place we have never before visited—a place outside of the confines of the Empire (although, to be strictly accurate, there was a period of thirty or thirty-five years in the Ninth Dragon Reign when the Empire claimed it)—a place that can be found some twenty-five miles off the coast to the southwest.
It is, as the reader is well aware, the Island of Elde: some seventeen hundred square miles of rich, fertile plain in the central and southeastern area; rocky coastline to make fishing a challenge to the east, and a few modest mountains inhabited by a particularly bad-tempered species of goat across the neck of the northern “staffhead,” which effectively makes the northernmost section its own country, although politically part of the Kingdom of Elde.
This northern region, about two hundred miles across and ninety or ninety-five miles from the mountains to the coast, has only two cities of any consequence. The first of these is the port of Salute, named, we are told, from an ancient custom of waving flags at the Imperial ships in the channel in a gesture of respect. The other city is called Kripna, which, we are informed, means “dry spot” in a language of the island that is no longer used except on
ceremonial occasions. Kripna is placed at the inner bend of a river (named Cideen, which means “river”) that runs from the mountains to Salute.
Kripna is a respectably sized city, boasting some eight or nine thousands of permanent residents, as well as a considerable number of peasants who work the nearby land, bargemen who facilitate trade between the mountains and the coast, and a certain number of freshwater fishermen who work the river and are constant rivals of their coastal counterparts.
No doubt, there was a great deal to be said on both sides—that is, while the clams and culls of the northern coast of Elde (or the southern coast of the Empire) are justly famed, the longfish from the Cideen have a reputation extending across the channel—a reputation only bolstered by the number of shipments of this delicacy that fail to reach their destination because of “accidents” to the transport ships embarking from Salute.
There are as many ways to prepare the longfish as there are villages in the staffhead, from the spit-roasting common in the upper reaches to spicy stews of the lower river—but perhaps the best is the simplest: quick frying in butter with a bit of garlic, a few of the local sweet onions, slivered, and the merest hint of juice from the bitternut, the whole accompanied by goslingroot just barely steamed and the delicate white Roolina wine from the mountains. It was, in the event, this very meal that was being served at this moment by an inn, some ten or twelve miles from Kripna, marked by the sign of the silver goblet.
The individual serving it was a certain Carnaro, a man of about one thousand and three hundred years, with thin hair, a long face, and a slight paunch—a testimony, perhaps, to the quality of his comestibles. He had inherited the inn through a fortunate marriage, after discovering that the hauling and lifting required as part of working a river barge was not to his liking. The Silver Goblet had been founded some two thousand years before, upon the discovery of a way to distill liquor from the pea. The idea of the original founder was that his pea-liquor, which was in some ways similar to the oushka of the Easterners, would spread far and wide, and make him both rich and renowned, and that he would reveal his recipe only on his deathbed and to his chosen offspring.
In fact, it turned out that no one sampling this drink ever asked for a second sample, and so, unable to live on the sales from his drink, he ended up opening a hostelry and, fortunately, employed as a cook someone more skilled in the culinary arts than he himself was a distiller. But there was, nevertheless, always a jug or two of the pea-liquor under the counter, to be used for cleaning or for practicing upon strangers who asked to sample the specialties of the region. Those who generally patronized the Goblet (which, in fact, had no silver goblets anywhere within) generally made do with the wine to which we have already had the honor to refer, or to the heavy, dark stout that was brewed in the winter.
