The Phoenix Guards

by Steven Brust

  The Tiassa turned back to his task then, and drew his sword. He found a spot to make the corner, and lowered his blade to begin drawing the line. He was interrupted, then, by a low, soft voice near him: “No, not your sword.”

  He looked up and saw the Lyorn standing near his elbow.

  “No?” he inquired.

  “Use your knife,” said the Lyorn.

  “Why?” asked Khaavren.

  The Lyorn smiled sadly. “Name?”

  “Khaavren of Castlerock.”

  “Aerich,” said the other, accompanying the word with a gesture to indicate himself.

  “But,” said Khaavren, “about the sword—”

  Aerich gestured at the weapon’s point. “This is your honor,” he said. “It must never touch the ground. Use your knife.”

  Khaavren looked at Aerich for a moment, trying to decide if the Lyorn were jesting. But then, he thought, Aerich was the judge. He sheathed his sword, took out his dagger, and drew a line across the width of the street, then one along the side, twice seventeen paces in length, then crossed the street again, and back to where he had begun to complete the rectangle. He straightened his back with some relief and looked up at Aerich, who nodded solemnly.

  Aerich turned and gestured to the combatants, indicating where they ought to stand. The Dzurlord removed her doublet and folded it carefully, setting it on the street outside of the circle. She drew her sword from behind her back. The weapon seemed close to her own height, yet she had no apparent trouble wielding it. The Hawk had a short broadsword, and a dagger in the other hand. Aerich looked at the Hawklord’s second.

  “Terms,” he said.

  The other Hawk frowned. “We have agreed—”

  “State them aloud, please,” said Aerich.

  The Hawk nodded. “Plain steel weapons, sword and dagger, to first blood, no healer present, but a healer may be summoned at once upon conclusion.”

  Aerich looked an inquiry at the Dzurlord, who seemed disgusted, but nodded. The Lyorn stood between them, so they were each separated from him by five paces, and from each other by ten. He raised his hand.

  “As your chosen Imperial intermediary, in accordance with the laws of the Empire, I ask if you will not be reconciled.” His tone of voice indicated a certain lack of interest in the answer.

  “No.”

  “No.”

  “Very well,” he said, and lowered his hand in a motion that was at once graceful and sudden.

  Both Hawk and Dzur seemed to be startled but the Dzur recovered first. With a yell, she sprang at her enemy, her blade visible only as a blur. The Hawklord barely had time to assume a defensive posture, and at once there was the ringing sound of steel on steel, which sent a thrill through Khaavren’s heart.

  The Hawk stepped back, and swung his blade wildly—and from so far away that Khaavren could see it was a useless gesture. The Dzur smiled contemptuously and stepped in, and, to Khaavren’s inexperienced but expert eye, she moved with a grace and fluidity that would have made her a worthy opponent of his own sword-master.

  With her next step, she beat aside the Hawklord’s sword and, with the same motion, gave him a good cut across his right shoulder and down to his chest. The sound that came from his throat was more squeak than moan as he fell over backward, the point of her sword still lodged in his chest, breaking two ribs and nearly cutting open his lungs.

  The Hawklord’s weapons fell from his hands as he lay on the ground, staring upward in horror as the Dzur pulled her sword free and raised it for the killing stroke.

  “Lady!” called Aerich, in a tone that was far sharper than Khaavren would have suspected possible from the quiet gentleman. It was used to good effect, too, as the Dzurlord stopped, looked at him, then sighed and nodded.

  “Ah, yes,” she said, with a hint of contempt in her voice. “First blood.”

  Then, turning her back on the fallen Hawklord, she walked back into the inn, stopping only to clean her blade and retrieve her doublet. The Hawk’s second approached his principal and dropped to his knee, looking at the wound.

  “A healer!” he cried.

  The village healer, such as he was, was sent for, and Khaavren returned to the inn, following Aerich back to the same corner he had occupied earlier. They sat down next to the Dzur, who had already resumed her place with an air which indicated that the battle in which she had just been victorious was not even worth the trouble to discuss. Aerich picked up the three copper pieces they had been playing with, threw them into the air, looked at the result, and carelessly set out two silver orbs.

  “With only two players?” asked the Dzur, who was gathering the Hawklord’s winnings over to her side of the table. Khaavren studied her for the first time. Her hair and eyes were quite black, the hair hanging straight down to well below her shoulders without evidence of a curl. Her cheekbones were high, and she had the upward tilting eyes of the House of the Dzur. She was fully as tall as he, with a dark complexion. Her nose was long and straight, her chin strong. She wore a black doublet of finely woven linen, which came to just below her waist. The collar was high, but she had no ruff. The sleeves were nearly as puffed as Khaavren’s own, with a bit of white lace at the cuff. The buttons on the doublet seemed to be of gold, and had inlay work that looked to be Serioli in style. Her belt of black leather was wide with brass buttons. He couldn’t see her legs, but his memory told him that her hose were of silk, and finely knit. She wore gleaming black boots with cuffs just below the knee. Around her neck was a pendant on a silver chain, with the face of a dzur pictured on it.

  Aerich shrugged and looked an inquiry at Khaavren. The latter felt himself blushing. “Lord Aerich,” he said, “I do not play.”

  Aerich studied him, then wordlessly drew several coins from in front of him and set them in front of Khaavren.

  “My lord,” said Khaavren, as he tried to decide if he ought to be offended that his lack of funds had been discovered. “I could not—”

  Aerich cut him off with a smile and a shake of his head. Then he pointed to the three copper coins. “Split high,” he said. He pointed to the coins he had placed in the middle of the table. “Two,” he added.

  Khaavren swallowed, and pushed two silver orbs into the center of the table. The Dzur had already done so. Aerich passed him the coins, and Khaavren gathered them clumsily into his hand. He licked his lips, and tossed the coins half a meter into the air. They hit with the high, tinkling sound of light copper, two of them showing orbs and one showing the throne, the same as Aerich’s.

  The Dzurlord said, “Split high. You match.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Khaavren, struggling to remember the little he knew of the game. “I’ll hold.”

  The Dzurlord threw next, splitting low, leaving her out. Aerich threw and split low. He shrugged, and passed a hand over the table indicating that he would hold.

  Khaavren threw and achieved three thrones. He looked at Aerich, who nodded. Khaavren collected the silver. The Dzur gave him a smile, then called in a loud voice, “Bring us wine, by the Orb! I’ll not be penniless and dry at once, eh?” Then she turned to Khaavren. “What is your name, my friend?”

  He told her. She said, “I am Tazendra.” Aerich gave her, for only an instant, a singular glance, but said nothing. Khaavren noticed this look and wondered.

  The tinkling of coins continued, and the pile of silver that Aerich had given Khaavren began to diminish. Khaavren, it should be noted, was hardly concerned, since the money had not been his to begin with. He had, in his purse, some ten silver orbs, which he had no intention of using in this manner. Thus he could only gain. And, he realized, should fortune smile on him, he’d be able to purchase a horse. This, if it wouldn’t make his journey shorter, would at least make it more comfortable.

  As they played, Khaavren addressed the Dzur, who was by far the more communicative of the two. “Lady Tazendra,” he said, “how do you come to be here?”

  “Eh?” she said. “But I live nearby. My—” she paus
ed, then continued. “My home is only a few leagues away.”

  Khaavren chewed his lip. It seemed to him that she had been about to say something else. “Ah, I see,” he said to himself, remembering the strange look that had passed over Aerich’s features. “You are doubtless the daughter of the lord of these lands, and our Lyorn friend knows it, but you wish to keep it a secret. Very well, we will see if we can discover the reason behind your reticence.”

  Now Khaavren, we should understand, had one of those searching, inquiring minds which, in a more serious or studious person, leads to work in some of the more strange and esoteric branches of magic, and perhaps the discovery of spells that had never been thought of before. But, Tiassa that he was, he had not the disposition for it. Still, he was intrigued, and he resolved to discover what he could about the lady who called herself Tazendra. None of this passed over his countenance, however, as he turned to Aerich and said, “And you, my lord? What brings you here?”

  His sharp eyes noted that Tazendra seemed curious too, from which he deduced that, if Aerich knew about Tazendra, Tazendra didn’t know about Aerich. But the Lyorn only shook his head and said, “Me? Why, I am here—because I am here. It is your throw, my good Marquis.”

  “Yes and—but hold, I believe you have addressed me as ‘Marquis’.”

  “Why, yes, I did,” said Aerich.

  “How did you know?”

  Aerich shrugged, a gesture he seemed to be fond of. “You call yourself Khaavren,” he said.

  “Well, and if I do?”

  “Khaavren is the largest district within the County of Shallowbanks.”

  “And if it is?”

  “The Count of Shallowbanks always gives his eldest son one of his districts and the title of Marquis.”

  “But,” exclaimed Khaavren, “County Shallowbanks was sold back to the Empire nearly a thousand years ago!”

  “Yet,” said Aerich, “it has not been given in fiefdom to another. You perceive, therefore, that you are entitled to the name.”

  Before Khaavren could argue further, Tazendra said, “And whither are you traveling?”

  “Eh? To Dragaera, of course. With a Phoenix on the throne, there will be places in the Guard, and I think I could use such a place.”

  Aerich frowned. Tazendra said, “In the Guard? But why?”

  “It surprises me to hear a Dzur ask,” said Khaavren. “But still, I can hardly live off lands we no longer own, and I must do something. I think my sword is long enough, and I am tolerably well acquainted with its use.”

  “But the pay, I’m told—”

  “It’s bad, I know. However, that is a beginning only. By the Orb! I don’t intend to be a mere man-at-arms all my life.”

  “You will be competing with Dragons, however.”

  “So much the better,” said Khaavren. “They will have many Dragons, but few Tiassa. Therefore, you perceive, I will stand out. Someone will notice me, and I will take the opportunity to distinguish myself, and my career will be made.”

  Tazendra’s eyes grew wide. “Why, now,” she said. “That is hardly a plan with which I can find fault.”

  Aerich nodded, “A career in arms is certainly worthy for one of gentle birth,” he said.

  “There was a young Guardsman here, just yesterday,” said Tazendra. “Was there not, good Aerich?”

  “Not a Tiassa,” exclaimed Khaavren in alarm.

  “I hardly know,” said Tazendra.

  “He was a Yendi,” said Aerich.

  “A Yendi!” said Tazendra.

  “Indeed,” said Aerich.

  “Bah! How could you tell?”

  “By the Phoenix, I think I could tell that he wasn’t a Teckla; noble birth cannot be hidden. And he was not a Jhereg, or I should have smelled it. Every other House may be identified by face and clothing, save the Yendi.”

  “That is well,” said Khaavren. “I have no fear of my place being taken by a Yendi.”

  “Yet,” said Tazendra, “why should a Yendi wish to join the Imperial Guard?”

  “Ah, perhaps I will see him and ask,” said Khaavren, who, talking about his plans, became filled with the desire to reach the end of his journey.

  “Yes,” said Tazendra. “We will find him and ask him.”

  “We!” exclaimed Khaavren. “Excuse me, but I nearly think you said ‘we’.”

  “Why, I did at that,” said Tazendra.

  “You join the Guard?”

  “And by the Orb, why not? Your plan sounds to me to be a good one.”

  “Well, I think it is.”

  “Therefore, I shall subscribe to it. Come! I have money, if our friend the Lyorn doesn’t win it all from me, and I can pay for a coach for both of us.”

  “Ah!” said Aerich. “You say ‘both’.”

  “Well, and if I do?”

  “Both means two, I think.”

  “So it seems to me, good Aerich.”

  “Well, I think we are three.”

  “You mean to join us, then?” cried Khaavren happily, for, in playing, he had begun to admire the Lyorn’s coolness more and more.

  “You have understood me exactly,” said Aerich.

  “Come then,” said Tazendra. “Let us drink to this plan!”

  “Rather,” said Aerich, “let us drink to our friendship.”

  To this they agreed, and it was no sooner said than acted upon. But Khaavren said to himself, “Come, Aerich my friend, there is some mystery here. I will certainly find you out in time.”

  And yet, as they drank the dark, sweet wine of the district, Aerich seemed so pleasant, though he still spoke little, that, by the third bottle, any mistrust Khaavren may have had of him vanished, and never returned as long as they knew each other.

  Chapter the Second

  In Which Our Friends Take a Journey

  Which is Not as Uneventful as One Might Suppose

  AT THE TIME OF WHICH we have the honor to write, there were, in general, six varieties of coach in use throughout the Empire. The one- or two-horse coaches in the large cities, that allowed intercourse among the streets and alleys thereof, were often only bare frames of soft wood, with highly decorated but poorly built square boxes nailed to the top. At the other extreme were the privately owned and built coaches, such as the famous twenty-two-horse carriage of Lothinor, Duke of Needle-At-The-Top, made of blackwood braced with iron, with a box of oak, maple, and silver, with six separate compartments, each with its own door, and six sets of wheels, each with its own brake, that required three expertly trained coachmen to keep on the roads, and was capable of such speed that it nearly made the jump across the Lonely Ridge in the Kanefthali Mountains.

  The coach in which our friends found themselves early in the morning of the next day fell squarely between these extremes. It was built upon fine maple braces, each of which had a strip of good iron for additional support, and above these were set long pieces of leather on which the cab rested, to provide ease for the passengers from the tribulations of the journey. The cab itself was large enough for eight persons—that is, four on either side—to journey in great comfort, with room for all of them to stretch out their legs, a great boon on long journeys. Above each passenger was a small cabinet supplied with several wines of various potency and sweetness, along with good bread, fruit, and dried meat. Luggage was cleverly placed on top of the cab, behind the driver, surrounded by an oak railing that prevented it from sliding or toppling onto the driver or the road.

  The driver, a surly Teckla who wore the black that has been the garb of coachmen for as long as coachmen have existed, casually threw Khaavren’s valise up to the top, followed by the small pack that Aerich bore. Tazendra, it seemed, had no luggage at all. Khaavren and Tazendra removed their swords and set them inside near to hand. A light but steady rain, typical for that part of the country in that season, fell against the wooden cab. The driver assisted the passengers up the iron stairway and into the cab, then closed the door and pulled the stairway back up to fasten against t
he single door until it was needed again. He then climbed up to his box, and allowed the passengers to make their own introductions as they would.

  The coach rolled smoothly out of the yard behind the inn, with Khaavren sitting next to one window, Aerich next to the other, and Tazendra between them. Across from them were the only other occupants of the coach, a man and a woman. Both wore the white and green of the House of the Issola, had the light brown hair and eyes that most Issola have, and the gentleman even had an issola engraved on a ring he wore on the least finger of his left hand.

  To Khaavren’s eye, the gentleman was pleasing enough; that is, his movements were slow and practiced, he smiled with both sides of his mouth at once, his fingers were long and graceful, and his attitude was easy and relaxed.

  It must be added, lest we be reproached for leaving out details important to our readers’ understanding of subsequent events, that the lady seemed to have all the attributes of beauty, grace and charm that make a young man’s heart beat faster and cause his eyes to widen, lest they miss the least nuance of expression or gesture. It need hardly be added that Khaavren was just of the type to appreciate all of these qualities; that is to say, he was young and a man, and had, moreover, a vivid imagination which allowed his thoughts to penetrate, if not the mind of the lady opposite him, at least the folds and angles of her gown.

  “Good morning,” said Khaavren. “It seems we are to travel together. I am Khaavren, and these are my friends, Aerich and Tazendra.”

  “A pleasant morning to you, also,” said the lady. “I am Nylissit, and this is my husband, Hrivaan.” Hrivaan nodded pleasantly to them, then leaned his head against the well-padded seat back and closed his eyes. Khaavren’s heart sank when he heard the word “husband,” yet he kept his disappointment from his features. “My husband,” continued the lady by way of explanation, “is very weary from the revels of the last night, which were spent in Pondview, just a few leagues from here.”