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Authors: Steven Brust

Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards) (38 page)

BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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Her sword fell to the ground with a clang, and she stared, gasping, at the knife which appeared to grow from her stomach—nearly four inches of blade had penetrated, testifying to Laral’s skill and strength. The assassin, however, did not pause to congratulate herself on the skill and strength to which we have just alluded; she knew very well that time, a most valuable commodity to an assassin, was quickly slipping away, and she must act at once if she were to complete her mission—or, indeed, if she were even to herself attempt the very thing that time was doing—that is, slipping away.
And so, once more, for the last time, she turned back to the prostrate Tiassa, raising the black rod in her hand; and once more, for the last time, she was interrupted, this time by Tazendra, who cried, “What is this, a massacre on Khaavren’s very doorstep?”
“An assassination, more like,” said Pel through clenched teeth.
“How! Do you think so?”
“I am convinced of it, my dear Baroness. And if we are too late, then, by all the gods of the Paths, someone will pay dearly for our tardiness.”
Laral turned at these voices, and seeing two warlike figures silhouetted against the light from the slowly approaching glowbulb, decided that there was no longer time for saving anything, but, rather, she must use her most potent weapons at once, and hope only to escape with her life. She therefore raised the rod, directed it at the larger of the two, which looked to be a woman (and was, in fact, Tazendra), and cast the spell, while simultaneously drawing a rapier with which she intended to quickly dispatch the smaller (whom the reader will realize is Pel), after which she hoped to cut the throats of everyone present—certainty more of a bloodletting than she would have preferred; but, she decided, she had no choice.
Unfortunately for our Jhereg, Tazendra and Pel each had other ideas. Although Tazendra was not quick to comprehend the subtleties of intrigue, or the nuances of communication, or the feints and deceptions behind the schemes of a Yendi, she knew very well what the rod signified, and quickly cast a rune of protection over her and her friend, and such was her skill in the magical sciences that, although she felt a momentary chill, there was no other effect of the enchantment. Similarly, Pel had never in his life allowed anyone to pierce his skin with anything sharp if he could at all prevent it; in this case, he prevented it by drawing his own sword and neatly deflecting Laral’s hurried lunge, a maneuver he followed at once with a riposte that cut her wrist, causing her to drop her sword.
We should say in Tazendra’s defense that, had she noticed that the unknown sorcerer was weaponless, she (by which we mean Tazendra) would have held up on her own attack, but events proved too quick in the unfolding, and the light proved too dim in the shadows, so that Tazendra’s massive sword
was in her hand, and, indeed, the blade was embedded in Laral’s skull, before the sound of Laral’s own sword striking the ground had reached Tazendra’s ears.
In the silence that followed the clang of the sword onto the stone walkway before Khaavren’s house, followed, as it was, by the muffled sound of the assassin’s body falling next to her own sword, Daro stared up at the two unknowns, grateful for their presence but wondering who they were. Pel stepped out of the way of the glowbulb, thus allowing the light to fall on the Countess’s face, after which he said, “Well, my dear Whitecrest, our arrival seems to have been timely.”
“I am convinced I have heard that before, too,” murmured Tazendra.
“How, you know me?” said Daro.
“Indeed,” said Pel, and turned so the light fell on his face (the glowbulb, we should add, was only now moving into place above the ensemble, so quick had been all of the action). “You are without doubt one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor, and are called Daro, are you not?”
“Indeed, and I recall your face, yet I cannot think where I have seen you.”
“I have been at court,” said Pel, “though in other garb than this. Perhaps—”
“Ohhhhhhh,” moaned Srahi.
“Help,” suggested Mica.
“Countess, is that your voice I hear, or am I dreaming?” said the Captain. “And why is it so cold?”
“Perhaps,” said Pel, “we ought to bring everyone inside, and tend to that unfortunate length of steel which seems to have embedded itself in your stomach, Countess, and attend, as well, to anyone else who is wounded.”
“Which appears to be everyone,” agreed Tazendra. “But who are they? Was that, indeed, Khaavren’s voice?”
“It is I,” said Khaavren. “But why am I on the ground? And—”
“Questions later, my dear,” said Pel.
“Who else is here?” said Tazendra, looking around.
“I am, Baroness my master,” said Mica.
“Mica, is that you?”
“Most of him,” said Mica.
“How, most of him? What then is missing?”
“Just about a foot,” said the servant. “I hope I will not be less useful to you on that account, however.”
“Well, well, we shall see. Who is this?”
“I do not know, but he was killed by sorcery from that woman whose head you have just parted like a ripe melon.”
“I see,” said Tazendra.
“No doubt the coachman,” said Pel. “But who is this? Could it be Srahi?”
The reader will note that the above conversation had taken only two minutes, yet this was time enough for Srahi to have recovered sufficiently to say, “Who else might it be, do you think? Here, after saving my brave master from the Gods know what sort of violence, and him helpless, are we thanked? Are we even assisted indoors? No! The good Mica lies bleeding and freezing on the cold street, and—”
“By the Gods,” said Pel. “It
is
Srahi.
“It could be no one else,” agreed Tazendra.
“Let us bring them all inside, Khaavren first of all.”
“Cha!” said Khaavren. “I am the healthiest present, save for you late arrivals. Attend to the Countess, then send for a physicker.”
“Ought we,” said Pel, “to move her at all before the physicker arrives?”
In answer, Tazendra at once bent over and conducted a brief but thorough inspection of her wound. She then, using bits of cloth from Laral’s costume, stanched the bleeding as best she could and said, “We must be careful, but we ought to move her at once to a place where she can be kept warm; I cannot tell what damage this weapon has done, yet I fear … come, Pel, help me bring her inside.”
The Countess was too weak from pain and shock to object to this plan, and allowed Pel and Tazendra to carry her inside. When she had been set on the sofa, they returned to find Khaavren standing up, and even assisting Srahi with Mica, who still had his bar-stool clenched in his hand. They replaced both Khaavren and Srahi, and sent the latter off to find a physicker, which she claimed she could do in two minutes. Mica seemed unhappy at seeing her leave, but he bore his loss, like the pain of his wound, as an old campaigner.
Soon they were all settled in the parlor in this fashion: Daro lay on the couch with cloth all about the knife which was still in her stomach, and with her head near the grey armchair, upon which, we should add, was Khaavren, his feet propped up before him and his head tilted back. On the floor near him was Mica, sitting on several spare blankets, and using his master’s pillow, while Pel and Tazendra occupied two of the chairs (that is, one each). Even as Tazendra stretched out her legs, tossed her hair, and opened her mouth to make a pronouncement on some subject or another, Srahi came in.
“Well?” said Tazendra. “And the physicker?”
“He is behind me,” said Srahi, “and will be here before you can draw a breath—he stopped only to pick up those supplies he pretends he might need.” She then seated herself before Mica, with her legs crossed netmaker-fashion and her face set in a stern, forbidding look that discouraged questions about the physicker, requests for potables, or discussion of any other sort.
The physicker, a resolutely cheerful Chreotha with a Serioli name that was
all but unpronounceable (wherefore we shall refer to him as “the physicker,” trusting our readers will not object), did, in fact, arrive in scarcely more than the time Srahi had mentioned—at any rate, few breaths were drawn and no more conversation took place before he arrived. Srahi sent an imperious glance around the room, but said nothing except for giving the briefest greeting to the physicker (whose name she massacred without apparent embarrassment), to which he responded by affable nods to all present, and after which he went around the room inspecting the patients, beginning with Daro, then Khaavren, and lastly Mica. No one spoke while he made his examinations, but, rather, everyone watched his face, hoping for a clue to the condition of the patient in question. No such clues were, however, forthcoming—he remained cheerful, and said nothing until he had examined all three, then, without consultation (which consultation would necessarily have produced an argument) he began his treatment first with Mica, saying, “There is no question, my friend, but that you must lose that foot and a portion of the leg, but we shall certainly save the knee, which ought to be a comfort to you.”
Mica closed his eyes tightly and did not seem especially comforted.
By chance, the physicker was not entirely unskilled, and had brought along dreamgrass oil to ease pain, which he carefully measured out and administered on thin wafers. After urging two of these on the poor Teckla, who was so frightened he could scarcely swallow and had to be assisted with long draughts of water, most of which he spilled, the physicker commanded that a room be set aside for his surgery, with clean sheets and a bucket ready. By the time the room was ready, the dreamgrass had taken effect.
It is not our intention to pander to those of our readers who delight in blood; moreover, it is the belief of the author that there has been enough blood already in this chapter of our history to satisfy all but most depraved of readers; we will, then, content ourselves with saying that the remainder of Mica’s foot and ankle were removed without mishap, and after the stump was neatly tied, the physicker checked all of the Teckla’s vital signs and pronounced him out of danger.
Daro’s wound, though shallow, was, as Tazendra had observed, the most dangerous, because the knife had come near to cutting open her intestines, which must surely have resulted in death unless extreme measures were taken. But fortunately, after examining her, the physicker announced that, in fact, no serious damage had been done, and after dosing her with dreamgrass, he drew forth the knife in one easy motion; then, after cleaning the wound, he quickly closed it with five stitches, which Daro bore quite complacently, the dreamgrass having done its work.
After giving Khaavren a quick inspection, and announcing that he required nothing more than rest, the physicker collected his fee, which was generously
contributed by Tazendra, and departed. By the time he left, all three patients had been moved back to the parlor, and all of them were able to speak without moaning, although, to be sure, two of them—by which we mean Daro and Mica—at times had to struggle to concentrate on what they or their companions were saying.
Khaavren, upon hearing the door close, wasted no time in asking what had happened, with the result that several voices attempted to answer him at once. After some few moments of this, he asked for and received silence, and required the stories to be told simply, clearly, and one at a time. The next several hours, then, were taken up in sorting through what had happened and attempting to reconstruct it and put it into some kind of coherent order, beginning with an account from Pel and Tazendra of their recent activities (with which the reader is already familiar, except to say that, upon reaching the Imperial Palace, they discovered that Khaavren had been taken ill and sent home, and they had hastened there as quickly as they could), including Srahi’s explanation of how she and Mica came to be there at that time (which, likewise, the reader has already heard except for certain portions which we are confident the reader can fill in himself), and concluding with an effort on all sides to piece together exactly who had been wounded how and when, and, in turn, who had done exactly what to the assassin (whose body, we should add, still remained on the sidewalk, next to that of the coachman, because Khaavren felt too weak to subject it to his usual scrutiny). In all, these activities continued (with, we should add some measure of success) far into the night.
“Well,” said Khaavren, when at last he understood the sequence of events, “it seems that, once again, I’ve been saved by the arrival of my friends—in this case several of them. Moreover, this time there can be no doubt that the true heroes are Mica and Srahi.”
“For my part,” said Tazendra, giving Mica a fond glance, “I could not agree more.”
“Bah,” said Mica, blushing and wondering if he could contrive to be killed for both Khaavren and his master at the same time and resolving to do so as soon as a means could be found, “we were only too happy to be of any small service we could, were we not?” He addressed this last to Srahi, who sniffed disdainfully, but also smiled—a task to which the muscles of her face seemed unaccustomed.
Khaavren suggested they allow the servants a glass of wine, and, moreover, offered to drink to the health of the two of them, and this proposal was promptly put into action—they were honored the more in that it was Pel who went to fetch the wine and Tazendra who poured it into the cups, waiting upon the servants, as it happened.
BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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