by Steven Brust
"Well, in that time, the King was trapped in his Palace, like a norska in a chreotha's net. They were then only beginning to build the tunnels in which we are now pleased to sit, my Prince. But life went on as it would, for many. Yet among the Northerners was a young man who had a barbaric sounding name that I will not try to pronounce, who fell in love with a young woman of Fenario. She loved him too, I should add, but she loved jewels even more. So she begged this Northerner to give her the biggest diamond he could find."
The coachman took another drink of pálinka and offered the bottle to Miklós. The prince shook his head but didn't speak. Miska continued.
"The Northerner went to all of the jewelers in the city—for as you know, the finest of the diamonds found in the Western Mountains are sent here—and he found one that he thought was good enough for her. He asked the jeweler for it. The jeweler handed it to him but, foolish man, asked him to pay for it. 'Here is your payment,' the Northerner said, up goes his sword, and off comes the jeweler's head.
"Well, it so happened that one of the Goddess's demons was walking around trying to make mischief for the barbarians. He sees this and tells the Goddess. She sends a dream to the King's youngest son, since I'm told that is how she speaks to your family, and lets him know about it.
"Well, to leave off half the story, this young Prince goes into his father's bedchamber and takes hold of Állam, the sword of the kingdom. Then he goes into the courtyard, finds a táltos bull, and they leap right over the Palace walls. So he goes riding right through the Northern army (who, after all, is going to get in the way of a táltos bull?) and comes into town. He finds this Northerner, all cozy in bed with the girl, who is all cozy in bed with her diamond. He barges in, and before you can say garabonciás, he runs him right through, while she cries about how she'll never love another and all like that.
"There is much more, my Prince. I could tell you of how he had to win back to the Palace through the entire Northern army, after she betrayed him to them. I could tell you how Állam swept back and forth in all its battle-madness, killing scores of barbarians at a blow, but that isn't the end of the story. The end of the story, Prince Miklós, is that when this young man returned to the Palace his father had found out that he had taken Állam, which only the King may wield, and so he had the sad duty of cutting off the young man's head.
"And that is the end of my story. Come to me when I'm sober, and I'll tell you a longer one."
Miklós studied the coachman, who sat back with an ironic expression on his face, drinking pálinka from the bottle. "What happened to the girl?" he asked, as he knew he was supposed to.
The coachman smirked. "She married the demon," he said.
Miklós nodded his appreciation and watched Miska for another moment. Then he asked, "What, exactly, is the point, good coachman?"
Miska snorted. "Point? I don't know, my Prince. Maybe, within this story, there is a prophecy of the tale of your own life. Maybe more. Maybe the point is the futility of all human endeavor. Maybe it is the triumph of justice, whatever the cost. The point? I don't know. You wanted to hear a story so I told you a story. Ask yourself the point. If you were entertained, that is enough for me."
Miklós looked at him some more. At length he stood. "Yes, Miska," he said. "I was entertained. Thank you. Drink well. Perhaps I'll see you later."
Miklós climbed the stairs past the sodden coachman. The story the coachman had told him came and went in his mind as he considered what he should do next. He made no effort to be silent, as he knew the sounds his weight made on the wooden slats of the stairway would blend with the Palace night sounds. He reached the top and slipped past the draperies. The warmth inside made him realize that the cellar had been chilly.
All was still in the Palace itself. He walked past the buttery, the corridor toward the servants' quarters, the hall that led to his old chambers, and so came to the grand winding stairway that led to the Great Hall (called so mostly by tradition—in the Old Palace the Great Hall had started on the ground level and gone up three stories).
He reached it and found a guard sleeping outside of the door. He walked past and the other never stirred, leaving Miklós to wonder if losing his boots hadn't been a stroke of good fortune—or else the guard had become so accustomed to the creakings of the Palace that little could have disturbed him.
Miklós stepped into the hall, where fires were still burning in two of the five hearths. He stepped beneath the doorway at the far end. This put him on a very small winding stairway (he had to turn sideways to ascend). He followed it easily. There was now a certain amount of light, both from torches in the Great Hall below and from narrow window slits high above him, letting in starlight. It occurred to him that he had never really noticed the transition, as he walked, from darkness to faint light. These stairs were less familiar to Miklós than most of the rest of the Palace, so he went slowly, using both hands to guide himself.
There was a small lamp glowing in the chill room at the top, smoking and giving off the pungent odor of burning oil. It was set on a table between two beds.
Miklós's breathing echoed loudly here, as if the rest of the Palace sounds didn't penetrate. He had the sudden feeling that he was entering a different world—one bare of the luxuries of the Palace, yet also without its decrepitudes.
Decrepitudes? he thought. Now, where did that notion come from? His mind traced back the path he had just walked, through a dank, smelly cellar, past cracked wooden panels and crumbling sandstone that he somehow had not seen as he actually passed them. Sudden tears sprang to his eyes.
In the test of memory against reason, reason had achieved the final victory.
The air was chill against the back of his neck. He looked at the pair of beds from the which soft, disjointed sounds of his parents' breathing could be heard. He realized that he had nothing to say to them.
As softly as he could, he made his way back down the stairs.
* * * *
The great hall was as quiet as ever. Miklós stood in the middle of it, feeling its vastness and trying to decide where to go from there. Several doors led down: one to the hallway that led to the sleeping rooms, another to the King's audience chamber, still another to the kitchen and servants' quarters, yet another led up to László's private chambers. Miklós considered long and quietly.
At last, though he couldn't have explained why, he took the one that led to the chambers of his brother Vilmos. This was a small stairway that curved but didn't wind. The corridor it led to was wide but empty. One oil lamp was lit at the far end, revealing several others that were not. Miklós walked softly, and was near the curtains of Vilmos's room when a shape appeared in front of him.
He jumped back, stifling a cry, and heard the sound of another cry being stifled. He stood motionless, as did the other, and he could dimly make out a pair of eyes looking into his. He stood thus for perhaps half a dozen heartbeats, then Miklós said, "Who are you?"
"That was going to be my question," said a soft, feminine voice. "But I am Brigitta."
Miklós walked past her to the lamp at the far end, stood under it, and turned to her. "I am Prince Miklós," he said.
Her gasp indicated that the name was not unknown to her. She approached him, as if to see better, and in doing so he saw her as well. He studied her face, and said, "You must be here at László's request."
She nodded, still wide-eyed. "He is entertaining a prospective bride, but he asked me to remain here, so he gave me a room to sleep in." She continued to stare at him, and her voice changed. "He said you were still alive. No one else believed him, but he said he knew it." Miklós nodded. She seemed fascinated by him, as if he were a vision or a specter. He carefully kept any expression from his face. "You know," she continued, "he told me what he did to you. He regrets it terribly. I think… thought that was why he refused to admit you were dead."
Miklós nodded once more, then stifled a gasp. Whether it was a trick of the flickering lamps, he couldn't say, but for
just an instant her staring eyes seemed to contain a reflection of the Palace itself, seen from the outside, with all of its crumbling walls, broken towers, and sagging arches highlighted. The vision was so strong that Miklós looked away.
"What is it?" she said.
"Nothing." He swallowed. "Are you from town? I don't think I've seen you before."
"No. I used to live by the marshes, in the county of Nagyláb."
"How long have you been in Fenario?"
"Since spring. My mother died last winter."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be," she said with only the tiniest trace of bitterness. "It wasn't much of a life."
Miklós was about to ask more when he caught a flicker of motion from over her shoulder. She followed his glance as Vilmos, dressed in a pale nightgown, emerged from a room down the hall.
"Who by the demons is out there?" he thundered.
Miklós said, "Hello, Vili."
Vilmos stared, then a grin erupted all over his face. "Miki!" he cried. He rushed forward, almost running over Brigitta, and embraced Miklós.
"Careful," said the smaller brother.
"Then it was you! I thought I saw you—"
"With the dragon. Yes. I would have said something, but the dragon threw me one way, and the River carried you another."
Vilmos nodded and released him. He held him at arm's length to take a good look at him. "You've been hurt," he said.
"The dragon threw me into a tree. I'm all right now. How are you?"
"Never better. I almost murdered old Sándor, but—why are we standing here? Let's go to the kitchens or somewhere and talk! By the Goddess, it's good to see you alive! Where have you been?"
Miklós nodded to Brigitta, suggesting that she accompany them, and began walking toward the stairs up to the kitchen.
"Not that way," said Vilmos.
"Eh?"
"We have to go around and up. Those stairs collapsed a year ago."
Miklós sighed and followed his brother farther down the hall toward another archway. "This whole Palace is going to collapse one of these days," he said.
"Is it indeed?" said a new voice.
They turned. The King was clad in a purple dressing gown with fine embroidery, and showed no signs of sleepiness. Oddly, the sword at László's side did not seem incongruous. Viktor stood next to him, holding a lamp.
"Good evening, László," said Miklós.
"The whole Palace is going to collapse, I think you said?"
"Aren't you going to welcome me home, brother?"
"I was prepared to do so, Miklós. Indeed I was, when the Goddess woke me up in a dream to tell me that you had arrived. Until I came down here, Miklós, and heard you, once again, holding forth on—"
"Did the Goddess tell you to greet me armed, László?"
"No, brother. Viktor did. He came as I was dressing to say that he had heard whispers down here and that one of the voices was Brigitta's."
Miklós looked over at her. She was staring at László, her face unreadable.
"And you wanted to protect your property, is that it?"
"Don't bait me, Miklós. I don't know why you have returned, but if you wish for peace between us, this is your chance to beg for my pardon."
Miklós felt suddenly stung. He knew that, almost against his will, he and László were falling into the old patterns. Yet his answer came before he could stop it. "Beg? For pardon? Yours?"
"Hauteur doesn't become you, Miklós."
"Then tell me what I am to ask to be pardoned for?"
"Trying to convince our brother of… whatever it was that you were trying to convince him of."
"I wasn't trying to convince him of anything, László. He told me that the stairway to the kitchens had collapsed. I said—"
"Don't repeat it!"
"As you wish."
"Well?"
Miklós felt himself beginning to tremble. This was going so wrong! He hadn't wanted it to start all over again. He closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. "László," he said slowly. "It is not my wish to offend you. I am sorry you heard what you did. I—"
The King's eyes had narrowed to slits. "You are sorry I heard it; are you sorry you said it?"
Miklós looked at his brother. As he did so, the last two years came rushing back to him in a flash—the endless hours of toil, the pain of learning to use the Power, the true grandeur of which László and kingdom were such a pathetic parody. To the devils with him, then! he thought. "Are you sorry it is true, elder sibling?"
László's answer was to draw his sword. Even in the dimness of the flickering light, the plain, functional blade stood in glaring contrast to the ornate sheath from which it was drawn.
"I can see," said the King in a soft voice, "that you are going to need a better lesson than you received last time, if I am ever to have peace from that flapping tongue of yours."
He advanced on Miklós as he spoke, slowly, much as Vilmos had avanced on Sándor before. Brigitta slunk to the side. Miklós, without turning from László, said, "Well, Vili? Will you let him kill me before your very eyes?"
Vilmos said, "I… stop it, Laci."
"Hold him, Vilmos."
"Protect me, Vili."
The giant stood as if paralyzed. László lunged suddenly, like a yendi striking. Just as quickly, Miklós stepped behind Vilmos.
"Hold him for me, Vilmos."
"Help me escape, Vili."
For a moment it was comic; Vilmos standing as if he were a pillar, while the other two played a deadly game of roundies. But then László snapped, "Viktor." The latter moved to one side as the King moved to the other. Miklós stepped directly back from Vilmos, grabbed Brigitta, and pushed her into Viktor. She gasped and stumbled. László instinctively paused to see that she was all right. When he turned back, Miklós had vanished down the corridor.
Miklós ran to the end of the hallway, ducked under a low arch to his right, and made his way to the east wing, up through the servants' hall, around, back into the central area, and down. As he ran, the gongs and bells of the Palace rang out. When they stopped, Miklós paused to listen, but heard no sounds of pursuit. He pushed aside a curtain and entered a room.
His brother's eyes were open and he was looking around Wearily. "Wha—Miklós! You're alive!"
"Shhhh!"
"But—"
"I need help, Andor."
"What kind? Where have you been? How—?"
"Hide me."
"Hide you? From what?"
"There isn't time."
"But—"
"Please."
Andor blinked twice. "All right," he said. "Where?"
"Here. If anyone asks, you haven't seen me, all right?"
"Yes, certainly, brother. But—"
"Later."
Miklós stepped into Andor's wardrobe and hid himself behind a silver-blue tunic and a thick gray-dyed woolen cloak. He had barely settled in place when he heard László's voice.
"Andor!"
"What is it?"
"Miklós has returned. He's in the Palace somewhere, and we must find him."
"Why?"
"He's up to old tricks again."
"Why are you holding your sword?"
"Don't question me, Andor."
Miklós tried to breathe as quietly as he could. He wondered how it could be that he felt no fear of his brother, yet was aware of the danger he was in.
"Well?" demanded László. "Will you rise and help us search? You know the Palace as well as any of us."
"But can't you give me some idea of what happened?"
"I have explained all you need to know. Miklós has returned. He—has offended me. I was awakened by a dream sent by the Goddess, and found him—"
"The Goddess!"
"Yes, that's right. I dreamt of her, warning me. But there is no time—what is it?"
"I have to think. Are you sure it was the Goddess?"
"How can I doubt it? What's wrong?"
&nbs
p; "It… Miklós. He is hiding in my wardrobe."
"Here?"
Miklós sighed and stepped out from between the garments. "Thank you, Andor," he said coolly.
László stared at him, then his lips curled into a smile. "You don't understand," said Andor plaintively. "The Goddess—"
"Be silent, Andor," said László.
Viktor stood behind the King. Another member of the Palace Guard, one whom Miklós didn't recognize, stood next to Viktor. All three held naked swords. The King raised his until it was pointed at Miklós's breast.
Miklós studied the tableau, thinking furiously, yet still feeling no trace of fear. Állam, the Sword of the Kingdom, was pointing at him; the other two swords were held uncertainly, as if their wielders didn't quite dare raise them to a Prince. Andor stared at the scene with an expression of amazement and horror, as if he couldn't believe he was about to see one of his brothers attack another.
Miklós reached a decision. He opened his mind to the Pathway. The Power came quickly. Union of fabric and flesh. Feel the tang beneath and within. Motion within that, now speed. Expand. Spread out. Draw, pull from the fabric, from the flesh, from the air. Faster. Yet faster. Power is speed and speed is heat. More—
His concentration was broken by screams. Viktor and the other guard dropped their blades and clutched at their hands. László still held his, but his face had become pale, his eyes narrow, and his jaws were clamped tightly together. Miklós could actually see smoke rising from where hilt and flesh met.
Well, thought Miklós, this will have to do. He found a water pitcher on the table next to Andor's bed, and flung it at the King. As László's hand and sword went up, Miklós ducked past him, pushing him to the side, ran past the other two (who were still clutching their hands), and out into the corridor.
He fled back down the hallway, his bare feet slapping against planks of the floor—long stripped of lacquer—around a sharp corner and up a flight of stairs, with boards half-broken and feeling none too sure. He heard footsteps behind him. He slipped under the pale archway, through the Informal Dining Room, and down another flight of stairs. At last he came, through no conscious plan, back almost to Andor's room—into his own chambers.
