by Steven Brust
“Seems like it to me, too. The Empress prosecuting a friend isn’t—”
“No, that’s not what’s odd; Emperors do what they have to do, and being a friend to an Emperor sometimes means losing your head. It’s always been like that.”
“All right, then. What’s odd?”
“The law they’re prosecuting her with. It isn’t intended to be used against high nobles whose House is near the top of the Cycle.”
“Ah, you’ll have to explain that.”
“What’s to explain?”
“Some laws apply to high nobles, and some not?”
“How else?”
“Um. I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“To prosecute a noble under the Code, you have to get a majority vote of the princes. The princes aren’t going to vote against a noble when the House is powerful without a more compelling case than this is.”
“So this is a waste of time?”
“No, no—you misunderstand. That’s under the Code. This is an Imperial Edict, which means the Empress and the High Justicer make the decision. That’s why they can get a conviction.”
“Well then, what’s—”
“But using the Edicts against a noble, at a time when you couldn’t get a conviction, is going to raise quite a stink among the princes. The High Justicer has to know that, and so does the Empress.”
“Would they let that interfere with justice?”
“Are you being funny?”
“Yes.”
“Eh. I guess it was a little funny at that. But, you know, there is making the law, and enforcing the law, and interpreting the law, and they all mix up together, and it’s people who do those things, and the people all mix up together. You can’t separate them.”
“It’d be interesting to try.”
He waved it aside. “The point is, this will create lots of bad feelings among those who matter. And bad feelings are bad statesmanship, and the Empress isn’t known for bad statesmanship.”
“Um. Okay, I think I get the idea. What’s your conclusion?”
“My conclusion is that I want to know what’s going on. I’ll look at it from my end, you look at it from yours.”
“All right.”
“Do you know how you’re going to start?”
“Of course not.”
He nodded like he’d have been surprised to get any other answer. “Are you open to suggestions?”
“Sure.”
“Stay away from the Empress.”
“That part is easy. I don’t have that much call to see her, you know. But that only tells me what not to do.”
“I’m sure we can find more things for you not to do if we put our minds to it.”
“See, Boss? He does have a sense of humor.”
“Such as it is.” Aloud, I said, “You need something that will provide a legal angle for Aliera.”
He nodded.
“Yeah, well, I know about as much about the law as you know about—that is, I don’t know much about the law.”
“You don’t need to. Find out why they’re prosecuting Aliera, and be able to prove it.”
“Prove it. What does that mean, exactly?”
“Find people who saw or heard things, and will swear to it beneath the Orb.”
“Oh, and where would I—oh.”
“Right. But stay away from the Empress.”
“Great. And what will you be doing?”
“Same as you, only to different people. And I’ll be reviewing the laws, and looking through decisions and case histories. You aren’t going to be too useful for that part.”
“I imagine not.” I stood and headed out.
Let me explain again something I’ve already mentioned: The way an assassin operates involves picking a time and a place, setting up whatever is necessary (which usually means making sure you have a good edge on your knife), and striking. If for some reason things go wrong—like, say, the guy gets suspicious about the handwriting of a note—then you go back and start over. All of which means that no one was going to be making a move on me for a day at least. Which means I should have been able to relax as I left the waiting room and headed toward the Palace.
Yeah, well, you try it sometime and see how relaxed you are.
Loiosh was pretty tense too, either because he sensed that I was, or because he knew what was going on. It’s pretty crazy, that feeling of walking through a big, wide corridor, your boots echoing, almost no one in sight, thinking you’re safe, but feeling anything but. I stopped just inside the door to cross the wide pavement to the Iorich Wing, and let Loiosh and Rocza explore carefully. The trees that dotted the pavement were too thin for anyone to hide behind, but I studied them anyway.
I kept an even walking pace across the long, long, long paved promenade between the House of the Iorich and the Palace.
“Boss, no one is going to make a move in the middle of the day, out in the open, in front of the Imperial Palace.”
“Who are you trying to convince?”
“Me, of course.”
“Just checking.”
“But you have to figure you’re being watched.”
“I know.”
I got inside, and started toward the Imperial Wing. I had the idea that it would be fun to count the number of disdainful looks I got on the way, but I forgot to actually do it. I’m still not sure how I got lost; I thought I had the route memorized. I wasn’t even aware of having gone wrong until I stepped into a large open area I hadn’t realized existed, and heard the drone of voices and saw strange and wondrous things: a shoemaker’s shop, a tailor’s, a wine seller’s, a sorcerer’s supply, a silversmith. The ceiling, if you can call it that, was high and domed, and somehow the dome’s silvery white color made it seem even higher.
“Boss, there’s a whole town here.”
“I think I should have gone up that flight of stairs I went down.”
“Or maybe down the one you went up?”
“This is a whole city.”
“There’s probably an inn with better food than that place yesterday.”
“I can always count on you to get right to the important stuff.”
“The important stuff is finding your way back to where you want to be.”
“The important stuff is not to get killed. This is a good place to shine someone up.”
“Oh,” he said. And, “It is, isn’t it?”
“It’s still too soon for them to have set anything up, but—”
“We’re watching, Boss.”
I tried to be inconspicuous—which I’m not bad at, by the way, even with a pair of jhereg on my shoulders—and looked for someone to ask directions of.
A girl who was too young to work for the Jhereg came along, carrying a box full of something that steamed. Probably someone’s lunch that I was going to make cold.
“I beg your pardon, lady,” I said. Teckla especially like being called “lady” when they’re too young to be. “Can you tell me how to get out of here?”
She stopped. “Out of where?”
“To the Palace.”
“You’re in the Palace, sir.” Her tone said she thought I was deranged or else stupid.
“The Imperial Wing.”
“Oh.” She gestured with her chin. “That way until you see the three pillars, then left to the wide stairway, and up. You’ll be right there.”
“You have my thanks.”
There were streets, buildings, pushcarts with food, and I think I even saw a beggar. What I didn’t see were three pillars, until I finally noticed what looked like an inn in miniature—chairs and tables set in a small courtyard near a long bar—that spread beneath a hanging sign showing three pillars. Yeah, all right.
After that it was easy enough to find the stairway (I climbed a lot of stairs, but not as many as it seemed I should have climbed to get above that domed ceiling; there’s some weird geometry with that place), and a bit later I found a page in Tiassa livery who was kind
enough to point me in the right direction. Ten minutes or so later I was once more in an area that looked familiar—for the symbols of the Imperial Phoenix that marked every door, if for no other reason.
It was the middle of the day, and it was busy—Phoenix Guards looking impassive, advisers looking serious, adjutants looking important, courtiers looking courtly, and all of them moving past me like I was standing in the middle of a stream that flowed around me as if I were of no interest, and it might sweep me off if it felt inclined. I looked for someone who wasn’t in a hurry, because rushing down a hallway filled with teeming functionaries isn’t the best way to have a conversation.
After about fifteen minutes, I gave up and started drifting along in what I was pretty sure was the direction of the throne room.
“Not to make you nervous or anything, Boss, but someone who could nail you here, right in the Imperial Wing, would earn himself quite the reputation.”
“Yeah.”
The hallways of the Imperial Wing near the throne room are wide and tall and copper-colored, and you can’t imagine there being a time of day or night when they aren’t full of people scurrying about looking important. Here and there were wide archways or narrow doors, and from time to time someone will vanish into one or pop out and enter the flow. I didn’t go out of my way to call attention to myself, but I didn’t try to fit in, either, because that would have involved becoming part of the constant movement, and I wanted to take some time to just observe.
Eventually I found a place I recognized—I’d eaten there yesterday. I didn’t care to make that mistake again, but a number of others weren’t so particular: this time the place was doing a pretty good business. There was a low, steady hum of voices punctuated by metal trays and utensils.
I stood off the side for a while and just watched. On the other side, all alone at a table, there was a Dragaeran of middle years—say a thousand or so—who had the pale complexion and round face of the House of the Teckla. I studied him for a moment; he was drinking slowly, and seemed relaxed and maybe lost in thought. I approached and said, “Mind if I join you?”
He jumped a bit and started to rise, took in my mustache, the jhereg on my shoulders, and my sword. He hesitated and frowned; I gestured to him to remain sitting to make it easy for him. Teckla are never exactly sure whether they are above or below a nobleman who happens to be an Easterner—we throw off all of their calculations just by existing.
“By all means, my l . . . ah, sir.”
“Thanks,” I pulled up a chair. “I’ll buy you another of whatever you have there, if you don’t mind. What does the yellow armband signify?”
He had light brown hair peeking out from under a hat that was too tall and not wide enough to look anything but absurd. He glanced at the armband as if he didn’t realize it was there, then said, “Oh, I’m a message-runner.”
“For whom?”
“For hire, sir. Did you wish a message sent somewhere within the Palace? If it is outside the Palace itself, I have to charge more, because I pass it on to—”
“No, no. I was just curious about what it meant.”
He nodded, held up his mug, and gestured in the direction of a young Chreotha who seemed to be working for the older woman who was still there, only now much more awake.
“I’m Vlad,” I said. “Baronet of this, Imperial Count of that, but skip all that.” He wouldn’t, of course. He’d be incapable of skipping it.
“I’m Poncer,” he said.
“Well met.”
He gave Loiosh and Rocza a look, but then his drink arrived—it smelled like the sort of dark beer that makes me hate beer—and that distracted him.
“What can I do for you, sir?” he asked after a swallow.
“Tell me what you know.”
“Sir?”
I smiled. “Do you need to be anywhere for the next couple of hours?”
“Well, I should look for work—”
“How much do you earn?”
“Three pennies within the Imperial Wing. If I have to—”
I gave him an imperial.
He stared at it, then at me, then back to it, then he took it and put into a pouch at his side.
I now had his attention.
5
The orders from the Warlord to General Lady Fardra e’Baritt were not put in specific terms (see Appendix 2), but did include the phrase “minimal damage to property and non-combatants in the region is a priority second only to suppression of the disorders.” One question before this committee, then, is to consider what “minimal” means in this context, and who is a non-combatant, and who can reasonably be assumed to be a non-combatant by individual soldiers of various ranks and responsibilities in high-risk areas.
“You see people,” I told him.
“My lord?”
I’m not completely sure how much the titles and how much the imperial had to do with me becoming “my lord.” I said, “I’m trying to learn my way around this place, and who’s who, so I don’t make a fool of myself when I meet strangers.”
He nodded as if it were a great idea, and he was just the man for the job.
“Who do you want to know about first?” He had a serious, business-like expression. I avoided laughing in his face because it would have been unproductive, not to mention rude.
“Who is close to Her Majesty?”
“Close?” he said, as if I’d mentioned something scandalous.
“Who does she listen to?”
“Oh,” he said, and looked thoughtful again. “Well, first, there’s Lady Mifaant.”
“Who is she?”
“An Issola. She doesn’t have, ah, an office or anything. I mean, there’s no name for it. But she’s Her Majesty’s, um, I don’t know the word. The person the Empress goes to when something is bothering her.”
“Confidant? Best friend?”
Something about that bothered him—like, I don’t know, maybe the Empress isn’t supposed to have friends—but he finally gave a hesitant nod.
“Who else?”
“Nerulan, of course. Her physicker.”
I nodded.
“And her, well—” He hesitated, and turned a little red.
“Hmmm?”
“You know.”
“I don’t, actually. Unless you mean she has a lover.”
He nodded once, watching me carefully, as if for a clue as to what sort of expression he should have.
“Who is he? Or she?”
“He. He’s, um, he’s . . .” His voice trailed off and looked a little desperate.
“An Easterner?” I said. In fact, I knew very well, but the less I admitted to knowing, the more he’d tell me.
He nodded.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’d heard rumors. What’s his name?”
“Laszló,” he said. I nodded. Poncer dropped his voice and said, “He’s a witch.”
“Well,” I said. “Interesting.”
And it was.
“He’s been alive for, well, longer than they’re supposed to live, anyway.” He looked at me, reddened again, and became very interested in his drink.
I gave him what I calculated to be a friendly, reassuring chuckle. “What does he look like?”
He frowned. “Like you,” he said. “His skin is your color, and he has hair growing like you have, above his lip. More hair, though, and curlier.”
“I take it he’s usually surrounded by courtiers?”
“They try,” he said.
“Yeah, they would.”
“He tries to stay away from them, though.”
“I don’t blame him. So, how do I manage to talk to him?”
“Um,” he said. I think the question startled him. Gossip was one thing; actually using the gossip seemed to make him uncomfortable. I waited.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t think of any way.”
I waited some more.
“It won’t help,” he said, “but there are rumors . . .”
�
��Yes?”
“There are rumors that he knows the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain.”
I didn’t have to pretend to look startled.
“Easy, Boss. ‘Rumors,’ remember?”
“But still—”
“And if she knew him, why didn’t she ever mention it?”
“Oh, come on, Loiosh. She’s Sethra.”
“That’s good to know,” I told Poncer. “Who else sees the Empress? Does she have a Prime Minister?”
“No,” he said. “Well, some say she does, but it’s secret.”
“She must have advisers she consults regularly.”
“The Warlord, for anything about the army. And the Lady of the Chairs for anything to do with the Council of Princes. And then for finances and stuff—”
“The Warlord.”
He nodded.
“I thought the Warlord was under arrest.”
“The new Warlord.”
“Who is the new Warlord?”
“Her Highness Norathar,” he said.
I stared at him. After a moment, I said, “I thought she was Dragon Heir.”
“She’s both.”
“Interesting. And they see each other often?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who is Lady of the Chairs?”
“Lord Avissa.”
“House?”
“Issola. The Lady of the Chairs is always an Issola.”
“Oh. Of course.” I almost touched the hilt of Lady Teldra, but I didn’t want to make Poncer any more nervous than I had to.
We talked a little longer about inconsequential things, and I bought him another beer, dodged a few polite questions, and took my leave. I’m much better at getting information from Teckla than I used to be, thanks to a ghost and a knife, in that order. Long story, never mind.
Norathar and Sethra. Yeah, I shouldn’t be surprised that two of the Empress’s secret confidants were people I knew. Aliera herself was a third, for that matter. I had surrounded myself with those types by a complex process that had started years ago when a minor button-man started skimming from me. And no, I’m not about to give you any more details. Get over it.
I thought about walking to the Dragon Wing and seeing if I could have a long chat with Norathar e’Lanya, the Warlord and Dragon Heir. Once, she’d been a Jhereg assassin. She’d worked with the Easterner who became my wife.
