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Authors: Steven Brust

Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards) (32 page)

BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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“Ah,” said Jaan. “There I must disagree.”
“How, His Majesty is not fond of diamonds?”
“Oh, to be sure, he is. But he has spent far less on this passion than many believe. I know this, because my cousin is in the Guard, and he has a close friend whose niece, also a guardsman, has spent a great deal of time stationed outside the offices of the intendant, Smaller, who has been killed, and this niece both spoke with him and overheard his discussions with his clerks. There can be no doubt that only the tiniest fraction of the Imperial Funds have ever gone to indulge His Majesty’s whims.”
“Well then,” said Clover, who had no answer to this direct evidence, “what is the cause then?”
“As to that, dearest lady, I suspect a number of things at once. But if you will not think me a mystic, then I would say it means just what you have already suggested—it is time for the cycle to turn, and no more need be said. Lord Adron ought to do something, and if he were here, I would tell him so directly. He must act before it is too late.”
“Yes, yes, I agree completely,” said Clover, delighted at being called “dearest lady.”
“And there is more,” said Jaan. “My cousin spoke of the blockades set at the gates, where all wagons are searched. He said that they found that a wagon, which appeared to be full of Teckla entering the city, actually contained, in a hidden compartment, several sacks of grain.”
“Indeed?” said Newhouse and Clover together.
“The Teckla were hanged at once,” said Jaan. “But consider how desperate they must be to risk death to sneak grain past the tax collectors, not even considering what they must have done to acquire it.” He shook his head, as if to say that there was nothing good to look forward to in the city, and, indeed, the Empire.
“And yet,” said Newhouse, “if what you say is true, it would seem to be exactly the wrong time to bankrupt the Imperium.”
Clover shrugged, as a pair of well-dressed Jhereg entered the room. “Let others supply the funds—we will have our work cut out for us.” As she said others her eyes strayed significantly to the Jhereg we have just mentioned, and whom we will now, abandoning the Dragonlords, follow to the last booth in the room. One of these, the reader will recognize instantly as our old acquaintance, Dunaan. The other was a young, small, quiet-looking Jhereg, with regular, handsome features and nothing to distinguish him save for his countenance, which was marked by bright, sparkling eyes, and a peculiar expression resembling a faint smile that seemed to be permanently fixed on his features.
They seated themselves, and asked the obsequious waiter to bring them a good red wine, a dish of kethna sauteed with green onions, mushrooms, and sage, and a bowl of fruit. Then they sat quietly, speaking only of such innocuous subjects as fashion and the weather, until the plates of food arrived, and the waiter departed. As they began eating, Dunaan said, “You have, Mario, acquired a certain reputation.”
“Have I?” the one addressed replied mildly. “I had not been aware of it.”
“It is, nevertheless, true.”
“Well I hope, then, that it is a good one.”
“I think so. It is, in all events, the reason I wish to speak to you.”
Mario stabbed a piece of kethna with his skewer in a motion precise and graceful, acquiring both an onion and a mushroom at the same time. He lifted these to his mouth and nodded for Dunaan to continue.
“We have a task for which we believe you are qualified. I should warn you at once that it will not be easy.”
Mario, having finished the piece of kethna, bit into a whitefruit, somehow contriving to eat it without, as usually happens to victims of this fruit, finding that it has exploded into his face or down his chin. He chewed thoughtfully, brought his napkin up to his lips and expelled a few seeds, then swallowed. “Very well,” he said. “I understand. It will not be easy.”
“In fact, it will be very difficult.”
“It will be very difficult; I am warned.”
“We wish you to kill someone.”
“Well,” said Mario phlegmatically.
“We are offering a fee that is, I daresay, more than anyone has ever been offered before.”
Mario’s forehead twitched in a peculiar manner, but he made no rejoinder.
“Yes,” said Dunaan, nodding. “This is a very serious matter, and there is no question of joking. Our aim is high—very high, and we mean to hit what we aim at. Will you be our weapon?”
“How high?” said Mario.
“Very high,” said Dunaan.
“Could you be speaking of a minister?”
“Higher.”
“Of a Prince?”
“Still higher.”
“Of the—?”
“Exactly.”
“I see,” said Mario.
“Well?”
“Yes, I perceive that there is no question of joking.”
“Have you any interest?”
“Have you any assurance that such a thing is possible?”
“Anything is possible,” said Dunaan.
“That is not assurance.”
“What troubles you? The Guard?”
“I can elude guards, and I can strike before they are aware, and I can be gone before they can recover.”
“Well then?”
“The Orb.”
“Ah, the Orb.”
“Exactly. Will it not act to save the life of the Emperor?”
“Not if the cycle has turned.”
Mario considered this, then nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You need only convince me that the cycle has turned, and no more need be said.”
“Oh, as to that …”
“Yes?”
“I may not be able to convince you.”
“Well, then—”
“But I can do something as good.”
Mario nodded and waited patiently for Dunaan to continue.
Dunaan set a velvet pouch on the table before him, between a wineglass and a scrap-boat. Mario took the pouch, opened it, and a large pearl fell into
his hand. He considered it, and, realizing that, though worth a great deal, it was still less than he should demand for killing His Majesty, turned a look of inquiry upon Dunaan.
“Bring it into the presence of the Orb, and crush it beneath your foot. For the next few minutes, the Orb will not act to save His Majesty’s life.”
Mario frowned. “How can this be?”
“The Orb will, for some minutes, believe that the cycle has turned.”
“Shards!” said Mario, showing emotion for the first time. “This pearl you have shown me, when crushed, can deceive the Orb itself?”
“Exactly.”
“How can this be?”
“How was the Orb made?” said Dunaan.
“I am neither scientist nor historian.”
“And yet, you know that some are.”
“Yes.”
“The work of scientists and historians has gone into the design of this object, as well as the work of skilled sorcerers in producing it. How it was done, I know no more than you.”
“But you are certain it will work?”
“I am convinced.”
“Yet I must be convinced, too.”
“Consider,” said Dunaan, “that if it fails, you will fail. If you fail, the Phoenix Guards will almost certainly attempt to capture you alive; if they succeed in this, the Orb will be used to interrogate you, and if the Orb is used to interrogate you, you will, without doubt, reveal everything, including my name, appearance, and such other information as will allow the Phoenix Guard to find me. I am, therefore, staking my life as well as your own.”
“That is sufficient,” said Mario after considering this argument.
“As to the fee …”
“Well?”
Dunaan named a prodigious amount of gold, and stated that half should be rendered as soon as he, Mario, should agree to do what was asked of him, the other half when the mission had been completed.
Dunaan said, “Do you need time to consider this proposal which I have had the honor of making you?”
“A few moments only,” said Mario. “A few moments that I will spend boiling these rednuts in this liqueur before spooning them onto the cold fruit, and eating them before the temperatures have evened out. I suggest, My Lord, you busy yourself in the same way, and, before the bowl of nuts has exhausted itself, well, I believe I will have an answer for you.”
This plan was instantly adopted, and Dunaan applied his full attention to the rednuts, the liqueur, and the iced fruit, while Mario thought matters over.
We should explain that Mario, though he had scarcely seen his hundredth year, had already acquired a reputation within those hidden, illegal circles to which we have been forced to introduce our readers. We should add that, in these circles, reputation was of supreme importance, and it was rare indeed for the rumors of one’s character or abilities to be incorrect. Mario was, by all accounts, as skilled in his trade as anyone could desire.
And yet, to be sure, he was also young, and coincident with youth is inexperience. His head was not turned by the amount of money, nor, indeed, was it turned by anything like the idea of glory (for glory is an unknown concept in the world-behind-the-world of a criminal organization), but he was susceptible to challenges, and his extraordinary reflexes, his ability to make quick decisions, to pay attention to every detail, and to carry out his plans with no hesitation or scruple made him, he knew, one of very few who might have a chance to carry out such a mission. He was well aware that the Orb had never before been defeated, but Dunaan’s arguments were persuasive—at the very least, persuasive of Dunaan’s faith in the magic of the pearl. And Dunaan had a reputation for being careful and not easily fooled.
It was, reflected Mario, the greatest challenge that was ever likely to fall in his way, and he knew that, if he passed it by, he would always wonder if he would have been able to carry it out.
So he was, we perceive, careful, thoughtful, and skilled well beyond his years—and inexperienced in the ways of the world, and even in the ways of the Jhereg.
That Dunaan was deliberately betraying him never entered his thoughts.
“Very well,” he said. “I will do it.”
Which Treats of the Translation of Orders
By Teckla and by
Captains,
And the Translation of Looks and Phrases
By Ingenious Yendi.
 
 
 
I
T WAS STILL THE MIDDLE of the afternoon when Khaavren took his leave of Daro, with soft words on both sides and a promise from the Countess that she would not leave for her estates before the evening at the earliest, but would, in fact, arrive at the house on the Street of the Glass Cutters to continue the conversations with the Captain that had provided them both with such great and unexpected pleasure. This established, she resumed her packing, which she finished with extraordinary speed. When each gown, petticoat, manteau, housecoat, scarf, wrap, glove, muff, boot, shoe, bonnet, hat, and various items we will not offend our readers’ sensibilities by naming was stowed, or, more precisely, deposited in the appropriate satchel or portmanteau (there were no more than three all told), she caused servants to bring them to the Waterspout Door of the Phoenix Wing, where she came herself to wait until the carriage arrived. This it did in due time, and she gave the address of the house on the Street of the Glass Cutters.
She was, fortunately, preceded in her arrival at Khaavren’s house by a messenger who handed Srahi a note, which we will hasten to divulge to our readers:
“Daro, Countess of Whitecrest, has condescended to honor our house with a visit. The terrace room ought to be suitable. You may expect me at the usual time, if His Majesty’s orders do not interfere. Convey my respectful courtesy to the Countess upon her arrival, and be kind enough to convey to her also my welcome to our home.” It was carefully signed, “Khaavren, Captain of the Guard.”
Now Srahi, though a Teckla, was, at any rate, sharp enough to cut dry wool, as the saying is. The first thing she noticed was that Khaavren did her the honor to sign his message with his title, and she knew that this indicated
something of the importance he attached to this visitor. Furthermore, the phrase, “ought to be suitable” was significant, because there could be no question that this room, which had once been Pel’s, would suit a guest; the only question was, would the room be ready. Khaavren, then, was informing her that, in brief, it had better be.
His remarks about being home at the same time as he was always home would seem to be wasted words, and Khaavren, as we have established, was not accustomed to wasting words in speech, and still less was he accustomed to wasting words on paper. This was an indication to Srahi that, when he returned, he would be looking at the state of the room in which this Countess was staying, and that he would tolerate no slovenliness in this case—this notion was underscored by the mention of His Majesty’s orders, indicating that Khaavren expected his own orders to be obeyed as if they came from the Orb itself.
As a whole, then, the letter showed that this guest was important to Khaavren, and that this was one of those occasions when Srahi ought to spare no effort to see to it that his wishes were carried out.
Because of the excellence of her translation, and perhaps, because of the improvement in Srahi’s disposition since the arrival of Mica, and, indeed, because Srahi had Mica’s cheerful help in all the preparations, Daro, upon her arrival, was treated with smiling courtesy as well as efficiency. She settled into these rooms with the ease of a woman used to sudden changes in her situation, and, we ought to add, with the energy and joy of a woman suddenly and unexpectedly in love.
Speaking of those suddenly and unexpectedly in love, Khaavren, after sending this message, returned to those areas of the Palace to which his duty called him, and where he was immediately spotted by a page sent by His Majesty (it will hardly surprise our readers that, of those searching for Khaavren, it was His Majesty who found him first).
The Orb, when Khaavren saw it circling His Majesty’s head in the Portrait Room, was a dark, brooding red; Khaavren thus prepared himself for his master’s displeasure. He anticipated correctly, for, as the Captain made his way through the courtiers, Tortaalik’s eyes fell upon him angrily, and he said, “I perceive you are here at last, Captain.”
Khaavren bowed. “Yes, Sire; I have just received your message.”
“You have been damnably hard to find to-day.”
“I am sorry,” said the Captain, “that Your Majesty has had trouble locating me.”
“Well?”
“Yes, Sire?”
“What have you been about?”
“My duty, Sire,” lied Khaavren, with a significant glance about him, asking if His Majesty really wished Khaavren to discuss the exact nature of his activities before the assembled court.
The Emperor harrumphed, and gave into Khaavren’s hand a piece of paper, adding the words, “Please see to this at once, if your duties will spare you long enough.”
Khaavren ignored His Majesty’s irony, and merely bowed and said, “Yes, Sire,” after which he backed away and retreated to the hall outside of the Portrait Room, where he broke the seal on the note and read it on the spot. As with Khaavren’s note to his servant, we will reproduce the text of it here:
“Order for Lord Khaavren, Captain of the Guard, to Arrest His Highness Adron e’Kieron, Duke of Eastmanswatch, etc. etc., At Once and Confine him in a Secure Place within the Iorich Wing, taking All Necessary Precautions against Escape or Undue Disturbance.”
Khaavren read the message again, and then a third time. Khaavren had had much experience in performing the necessary translation from the ciphers in which the most apparently simple order was couched—that is, he understood that a great deal could be conveyed in what was left unsaid, or in the precise wording of the orders His Majesty did him the honor to entrust to him, and what was said in this order was, indeed, enough to cause our Tiassa some unease.
By including his name, and even going so far as to use his title as well, Khaavren was being told that the responsibility for this order rested on his shoulders—he could delegate as much as he chose—but his position, perhaps even his head, would answer for the success or failure of this mission.
Next, there was the phrase, “At Once.” All orders were to be carried out at once; that His Majesty deigned to make this explicit indicated something of His Majesty’s state of mind, which would brook no delay for any reason.
Even more disturbing, however, was His Majesty’s use of the phrase, “Secure Place.” There was no reason to believe that any prison in the Iorich Wing was not secure—what this meant was that Khaavren would be held responsible, not only for arresting Lord Adron, but for seeing to it that Adron remained arrested; Khaavren had been given the responsibility that normally fell to the jailer. This was emphasized and even underlined by the remarks about escape and disturbance. His Majesty, then, feared an attempt would be made to rescue Lord Adron, or that social unrest might break out because of his arrest, and Khaavren was to be held responsible for all of this, as well.
It was, to be sure, no small task, and the phrase “at once” compounded the difficulty, because it meant he had precious little time to make preparations for any trouble that might ensue.
He stood for a moment, thinking, then carefully folded up his order and
put it in his pocket. After this, he continued his contemplations. It was all very well for His Majesty to say, “At once,” but certain matters had to be considered. In the first place, how many men would he need to make the arrest? If Adron did not choose to resist, then none would be needed, but if Adron
did
resist, than, shards! all of his men at once, aye, and Stonemover’s as well, would not be sufficient. Well, then, he would assume Adron would not resist. If he guessed wrong, why, Adron would have him, that is, Khaavren, killed, and Khaavren would then have fallen honorably, although his mission would not have succeeded.
“But, my dear Captain,” he said to himself, “does that matter? Come, be honest, can you recall a mission you have set out upon with less joy in a hundred years? Arrest Lord Adron? Cha! I should more happily set him upon the—but stay, let us not contemplate treason, even in our most private thoughts. We have our orders, and we must carry them out, or fall nobly in the attempt; it is all one.” He shrugged philosophically, “Still, it is, without a doubt, a shame that, if I succeed, I shall be jailing, and, no doubt, helping to prepare the execution of, one of the first gentleman in the Empire. And, by the Gods, as much a shame that, if I fail, I will be denied further company of my Lady Daro.”
As he sub-vocalized this name, he felt a certain peculiar constricting in his chest, a sensation that all lovers will recognize at once; and which sensation, along with the thoughts it carried in its wake, brought a happy, if slightly dazed, expression to our Tiassa’s countenance. This expression, however, gradually changed to a frown, as the thought he allowed to grow within himself became stronger, and he realized more fully what he would be giving up along with his life. This induced a certain melancholy, which our brave Captain checked as soon as he became aware of it.
“Come now,” he told himself sternly. “Is happiness to make me craven? This cannot be allowed. No, no I must set about my mission directly, or resign my commission and become a hermit, which would be intolerable to one of my disposition.
“Well then, Khaavren my friend, onward, and meet your fate with your chin pointed forward, if not with your heart light. But what is this? More old friends approach. Ah, temptation steps onto my path!”
This was occasioned by the sight of Pel and Tazendra, who looked on him with expressions of unalloyed pleasure—pleasure which faded, or, as the sailors say,
moderated
as they approached, no doubt on observing that Khaavren appeared to be unhappy about something.
Nevertheless, Khaavren made an effort to be cordial. “Greetings, my good friends,” he said. “What brings you to the Palace?”
“Why, you do,” said Tazendra.
“You are looking for me?” said Khaavren.
“In fact,” said Pel, “more than looking for you; we have found you.”
“Come now,” said Tazendra to herself. “I think I have heard that phrase before.”
“And so you have,” said Khaavren, speaking, we hasten to add, to Pel, rather than to Tazendra. “And yet,” he continued, still speaking to Pel, “I confess, as much pleasure as your company brings me, I have little enough time to spare, for duty calls, and it is a duty that, if it affords me no joy, affords me even less time.”
“Where does your duty take you?” asked Pel. “For if we can accompany you on its first steps, well, that will allow us a few moments to converse with you, and will cost you no time at all, while satisfying all we desire.”
“It takes me,” said Khaavren, “in the first place, back to my offices in the Dragon Wing, and I can think of no reason why you cannot accompany me at least that far.”
“Then lead on,” said Pel, bowing.
“Yes,” said Tazendra. “For you always lead so charmingly.”
To this, Khaavren had no rejoinder, so he began walking toward the Dragon Wing. As he did, Pel said, “Come now, tell me what you can about this poor fellow who made an attempt on your life just two days ago.”
“Two days ago?” said Khaavren. “Is that all it was? Shards and splinters, but the days have been busy!”
“And like to become busier,” said Pel.
“I have no doubt you are right,” said Khaavren with a sigh.
“Nevertheless, I am interested in this circumstance, and, if you will relate all you know and have surmised about this fellow, well, Tazendra and I will have a look and see what we can learn about him.”
“It is easily done,” said Khaavren. “The more so because I was about to go to you and ask for your help in precisely this matter when I was interrupted, first by the outbreak of civil disorder, and then by other matters following quickly on the riot’s heels, so I am now delighted that you will agree to look into the matter, and I am anxious for any enlightenment you can bring me.” And he quickly related the observations and deductions he and Aerich had made with regard to the assassin, exactly as we have already had the honor of relating them to the reader, wherefore we will not take up the reader’s time by unnecessary and redundant repetition.
“Hmmm,” said Pel. “You have, in any case, given me something to look for.”
By this time, they had reached Khaavren’s offices, and the Captain said, “Here I must bid you farewell, for duty awaits, and it is a duty in which you
cannot help me, nor, I think, would you wish to.” He paused and looked carefully into Pel’s eyes. “A very unpleasant duty. And I am certain you would not wish to help.”
“I see,” said the Yendi. “Yes, I see. Well, in that case, allow me to wish you the best of fortune, and we will be on our way.”
As his two friends left, Khaavren sat down to begin considering and then composing the orders that might protect the city against any disturbance triggered by the arrest of Lord Adron. But he had scarcely begun considering, and was nowhere near composing, when he was informed of visitors.
“Who?” he said laconically.
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