And what could be a better expression of Sethra, founder and first Captain of the Lavodes, Lord of Dzur Mountain, warrior, poet, enchantress, natural philosopher, vampire? Who could meet her, in the flesh and for the first time, without feeling his knees to tremble, his mouth to become dry, and his heart to palpitate?
The answer to this question is not, we say with regret, Khaavren, who, in spite of having prepared himself for the encounter, fell victim to all of the symptoms we have delineated. Yet, to do him justice, we must add that not a shade of these sensations passed over his countenance nor was visible in his aspect; he remained expressionless as a Serioli and motionless as a hunting issola. We cannot, in all honesty, say the same for Menia, who, notwithstanding Khaavren’s warning, allowed her eyes to widen and who twitched with some emotion upon realizing, by certain clues, who it was that stood before her.
Sethra, on her part, gave Captain and guardsman the most cursory of glances as Dimma led her past them into the room where His Majesty waited. Dimma, performing in this room the function relegated to Brudik when His Majesty was in the Portrait Room, then called out, “The Baroness of Dzur Mountain and Environs.” We should add that she performed this office as if there were nothing in the least unusual in announcing the Dark Lady of Dzur Mountain before the Emperor.
Sethra bowed to His Majesty and took a step backward, seating herself, as His Majesty indicated she should, on the low stool that faced his chair. When Sethra had seated herself, Dimma poured wine for both His Majesty and Sethra, then left the room. Khaavren, meanwhile, acting on instinct, entered and took up a position in a corner which commanded a view of the entire room and was placed only a few steps from Sethra—although, as he admitted to himself, there was probably nothing he could do in the event that Sethra were to attempt treachery.
The oil lamps that illuminated the room—there were four of them—gave a slightly yellow cast to her features, and her attitude as she sat was that of a warrior: relaxed and confident. She studied the Emperor while giving him time to study her, then said, “Sire, I am informed of Your Majesty’s desire to see me. I am here. What is Your Majesty’s will?”
Tortaalik cleared his throat and sipped his wine—it seemed to Khaavren that His Majesty had not decided what to say, and wished to gain time. The Emperor then glanced around and drank more wine, as if hoping to find
Jurabin at his elbow. Sethra also tasted her wine and, finding it satisfactory, swallowed a good draught.
“Madame,” said the Emperor at last, “We have no doubt that you are informed of the assassination of Gyorg Lavode.”
“I am, Sire,” said Sethra.
“In addition,” he added, hesitating, as if searching for words, “We do not doubt that you are as anxious as we ourselves to learn who has committed this act, and why.”
“Your Majesty is not mistaken,” said Sethra.
“That being the case, we—” he broke off. Khaavren, from his vantage point, was able to notice three things—first, that His Majesty’s forehead was spotted with perspiration; second, that the Orb had turned to a bright, nervous yellow; and, third, that Sethra showed no sign of having noticed either forehead or Orb. His Majesty resumed, “we desire your assistance in learning these things.”
“Very well, Sire.” said Sethra, nodding.
His Majesty started, and his eyes widened, as if the campaign had proved successful before he had thought his forces to be so much as assembled. “How, you will assist us?”
“Yes, Sire. For I am, as Your Majesty has surmised, as anxious as anyone to learn who has killed Gyorg, and for what reason. I have no doubt that it is part of some deeper plan, and, while this does not concern me, I will certainly inform Your Majesty of anything I learn.”
“Yes, very good,” said the Emperor. His mouth opened and closed a few times. Khaavren cleared his throat slightly, calling for His Majesty’s attention. His Majesty blinked, then said, “You may begin by speaking with my Captain of the Guard, Sir Khaavren, who will assist you in any way you desire.”
Sethra turned her glance on the Tiassa, who withstood it, and bowed his head slightly. The Emperor rose to his feet, causing Sethra to do the same and, furthermore, to bow deeply to His Majesty, who returned the courtesy and made his way to the door as quickly as his dignity permitted.
Khaavren placed himself before the Enchantress, saluted, and said, “At your service, madame.”
Sethra acknowledged the salute and finished her wine in a single draught. “I am informed,” she said without preamble, “that an attempt was made on your life as well.”
“Yes, Madame.”
“And has the body been preserved?”
“Indeed it has. Or, rather, they have; all of the bodies have been preserved against a need to investigate them.”
“That, then, is how I shall begin. Where are they?”
“In the basement, below the sub-wing of my company of the guards.”
“Then, if you will have the goodness to lead me there—”
“I shall do so at once, delaying only to be certain that someone is attending to His Majesty.”
“Very well.”
Khaavren fulfilled this duty with his usual dispatch, using neither a word nor a step more than was necessary, reckoning, as was his custom, that a step wasted can never be recovered, an excess word can never be recalled. After five steps, then, in the direction of the corporal on duty, and after two words spoken to this worthy, Khaavren immediately placed himself, as he had said, at Sethra’s service.
Sethra, like Khaavren, was not given to wasting words, wherefore in answer to Khaavren’s declaration that he was prepared to render her any service she might require, she simply said, “Let us recover my dagger, then view the body.”
“This way, Madame,” said Khaavren, and directed his steps through the Imperial Wing, where Sethra’s sheathed poniard was restored to her, and into the Dragon Wing, and so, eventually, to the basement level of the Sub-wing of the Imperial Guard. This level was reached through a large oaken door on iron hinges. On one side—the side, be it understood, facing up the stairs—the door was polished to a gleaming tan color and carved with an intricate dragon’s head. The other side, however, marked the end of elegance and the beginning of cold utility, for the back of the door was hardly smoothed, and the walls it looked upon were barest stone, broken only by iron brackets to be used for torches, and the stairway, likewise, was of stone cracked and chipped, upon which great care was required to avoid an embarrassing or injurious fall. It is worthwhile to note that neither of these warriors appeared to give any thought to this danger, nor to make any accommodation in their stride to the condition of the steps, but simply walked down as they would have upon the finest marble stairway in the Imperial Wing, Khaavren holding aloft the oil lamp, Sethra following in silence.
After some thirty or thirty-five steps, Khaavren became aware that the temperature had dropped no small amount, and he began to wish that he’d worn his cloak, although he was careful to let no hint of this discomfort appear in word or gesture. Reaching the bottom, Khaavren passed through a wide room filled with sword-blades, pikes, chairs, and desks, ready to answer their call as soldiers in the Imperial Reserve might hold themselves ready for word of the outbreak of violence in the duchies. Beyond this was another room, which was filled with chairs awaiting glue, sword-blades awaiting a whetstone, pikes awaiting new hafts, desks awaiting nails, and other equipage of the guards in need of repair. After this, a passage off to the right led to a
room where glue, nails, hafts, and whetstones resided, while one to the left would have brought them to a workshop where the contents of one room might be brought together with the contents of another, the result to repose in the first. They ignored both of these, and continued straight ahead for some forty or fifty paces, after which Khaavren stopped, murmuring, “Hullo!”
“What is it?” said Sethra.
“Light,” said Khaavren.
“Yes,” said Sethra. “I see ahead of us the flickering of an oil lamp. Is there, then, something in this sight that causes you distress?”
“Distress, Madame? No. But interest, certainly, and perhaps even concern.”
“My Lord,” said Sethra, “I am anxious to learn the reason for this interest and concern.”
“That is easily explained,” said Khaavren. “It is because there is no reason for a lamp to be burning down here, especially in the chamber up ahead, which is where the bodies have been placed.”
“Well?”
“Well, if there is a lamp, then no doubt, there is someone with it, for I have never heard of a lamp which would ignite itself and bring itself into the basement where bodies lie. Moreover—”
“Yes?”
“That a lamp is burning implies a person who wishes to see.”
“Well, I understand that, but could it not be the case that the lamp was left unattended and burning by whomever brought the bodies down here?”
“It is not likely,” said Khaavren. “In the first place, I should wonder how this person found his way back up, or, alternately, why he thought it necessary to bring two lamps.”
“That is true,” said Sethra. “And in the second place?”
“In the second place, it has been more than a day since the body was placed here, and none of the lamps we use hold more than twenty hours of fuel.”
“I understand,” said Sethra. “Well, then, what do you propose? Are you going to call for assistance?”
“Assistance, Madame? Cha! When a soldier has a good sword by his right hand, and the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain by his left, he can hardly think he stands in need of assistance, whatever unknown circumstances may lie before him.”
Sethra bowed to acknowledge the compliment. “Well then?” she said.
“Well then, let us pass on and see what we find.”
“Very well.”
They continued down the corridor, and, in short order, stepped into a long
room, which contained several tables, each of which held a body. There was, in addition, an oil lamp hanging from a peg on the wall, and a short female figure which stood over one of the bodies and appeared to be studying it, to judge from the thin glass rod she held over it. This person looked up as they entered, and, with no sign of surprise or embarrassment, nodded briefly to Khaavren before returning to her inspection of the corpse.
“Lady Aliera!” cried Khaavren, who had recognized the Dragonlord when she glanced at him.
“There is no doubt,” said Aliera, as if in answer to a question, “that there was a spell laid upon this fellow before his death; the traces of it remain. I suspect what it was, yet I cannot—”
“Lady Aliera,” said Khaavren, in a more normal tone of voice, “if you would be good enough to tell me what you are doing here, well, I should be entirely in your debt.”
“You wish to know what I am doing here?” said Aliera.
“Yes, exactly.”
“Why, I am investigating this body, in order to learn how he came to die.”
“Or,” said Sethra, “perhaps to remove all traces of the spell, so that nothing can be learned.”
Aliera looked at Sethra for a long moment before saying, “I don’t know you, Madame.”
The Enchantress bowed. “I am called Sethra Lavode.”
Aliera bowed in her turn. “Very well, Sethra Lavode. I am called Aliera e’Kieron.”
Sethra bowed once more, and if she was surprised that Aliera displayed no reaction upon learning her identity, she gave no sign of it.
“Now,” said Aliera, “that introductions are made, there remains the matter of your last remark, which sounded to my ears very like an accusation. I must, therefore, beg you to make it either more explicit, so that I may respond appropriately, or to recast it in such a way that no response is called for.”
Khaavren cleared his throat. “My Lady, are you aware that you are beneath the sub-wing of the Imperial Guard, and that this area is private—that is, reserved for those with Imperial business?”
“And,” added Sethra, “you ought to be aware that you are doing—whatever it is you are doing—to the body of Gyorg Lavode, who was Captain of the Lavodes, and, moreover, my friend.”
“Therefore?” inquired Aliera, assuming an air of curiosity, as if she could not imagine what these statistics might have to do with her.
“Perhaps you are unaware,” said Khaavren, “that certain malicious gossips accuse your father of having had something to do with these assassinations.”
“I know it so well,” said Aliera, “that it, in fact, accounts for my presence here. I believe that only by learning who, in fact, committed these actions, will I be able to prove that my father had nothing whatsoever to do with the crimes of which he is accused.”
“Well,” said Khaavren, “but you have not contributed to the good of your cause.”
“How not?” said Aliera.
“Because,” said Khaavren, “to find you down here, engaged in I know not what activities with respect to the bodies, puts appearances against you.”
“Appearances, My Lord?” said Aliera, in a tone of voice, and with a simultaneous look, expressing the greatest disdain. “I have often heard that phrase,
Appearances are against you
, uttered by those who wish to conceal an accusation. Who are these people who believe appearances, My Lord? Would you care to name them?”