“What next?” said Laral.
Greycat smiled, and, in doing so, showed all of his teeth, which were exceptionally white and fine. “Surely you haven’t forgotten,” he said.
“Ah, yes,” said Laral. “You are to pay us.”
“Indeed I am.”
“And do you intend to do so?” said Dunaan.
“I will pay you as I promised. And to prove it, here is the money. One purse for each of you. I trust you will find within the agreed-upon amount.”
They accepted their fees, after which Laral said, “I will ask once again: what next?”
Greycat shrugged. “Next, we must embarrass Countess Bellor, which will not be difficult, now that the one intendant who knew the true state of the Imperial Treasury is dead.”
“Pardon me,” said Dunaan, “but I believe you said it would not be difficult.”
“That is right,” said Greycat.
“Then you have a plan?”
“No,” said Greycat. “But I have confidence.”
“How, confidence?”
“Yes, good Dunaan. Confidence that, before too much longer, you will have a plan, and a good one, too.”
Dunaan nodded. “Very well, then.”
“And I?” said Laral.
Greycat nodded. “You must know that Adron e’Kieron, the Duke of Eastmanswatch, is expected to arrive at court within a day or two.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“As the Dragon Heir, suspicion for these recent murders will naturally fall on him.”
“Yes. And you wish me to help this suspicion along? Perhaps by putting a few words into the right ears, and few clues before the right eyes?”
“On the contrary, Laral. Far from desiring you to increase these suspicions, it is my wish that you will remove them entirely.”
“How, remove them?”
“Yes, that is correct.”
“That will be more difficult.”
“I know a way.”
“And that is?”
“By removing Lord Adron.”
Laral frowned. “Removing Lord Adron,” she said, “will be no easy matter.”
“If it were easy, my lady, I wouldn’t need to entrust it to one as skilled as you are.”
Laral laughed. “You attempt to flatter me, Greycat, yet I think there is more truth than flattery in your observation.”
“And then?”
“Very well. But the Duke of Eastmanswatch is worth three times as much as an intendant of finance.”
“Agreed,” said Greycat.
“Agreed,” said Laral.
“And,” said Dunaan. “What will you be doing?”
“Very little,” said Greycat. “Because very little is necessary, just at the moment, to provoke a riot.”
“Ah,” said Dunaan. “A riot.”
“For what purpose?” said Laral.
“You do not need to know that yet,” said Greycat.
“Very well,” said Laral, who seemed not at all disturbed by this.
“Will we meet again?” said Chaler. “And, if so, when, and where?”
“Let us meet here in four days’ time,” said Greycat. “That is, on the fourteenth day of the month. And I find this place congenial enough that I do not hesitate to use it again. Moreover, I will be here late at night on the thirteenth as well, should anyone have information to communicate to me. The night of the thirteenth and the early morning of the fourteenth should see—” he paused and smiled, “—certain activity.”
“Very well,” said Laral. “In four days, Adron e’Kieron will be dead.”
“In four days,” said Chaler, “Lord Khaavren will be dead.”
“In four days,” said Dunaan, “Countess Bellor will be discredited.”
“And in three days,” said Greycat, “this city will see a riot. Small, but, perhaps, a portent of great ones to come.”
Dunaan shook his head. “I don’t know how you can command a riot, my friend Greycat, but I do not doubt that you can.”
“You are right not to doubt,” said Greycat.
As he said this, he made a gesture indicating that the meeting was over, and, one by one, the others rose and departed, leaving Greycat alone in the
room. He made no move toward leaving, however; rather he sat, utterly motionless, with a look of deep contemplation on his features. After several moments, he stirred and said, “Come over to the table, Grita; I see no reason to pretend I don’t know you’re there, so there is, you perceive, no reason for you to hide.”
“I was not and am not hiding,” said Grita, who still spoke from the shadows. “It is merely that I have accustomed myself to being seen as little as possible. You can, I assume, understand the reasons.”
Greycat winced at these words, as if he were somehow affected by them. Then he recovered his blank countenance and said, “That’s as may be, but please come forward now, for I dislike speaking to someone I can’t see; it brings back unpleasant memories.” As he said this, he chuckled slightly—a chuckle that would have sent shivers down the back of anyone who heard it and did not have nerves of iron.
Grita emerged from the corner and sat down opposite Greycat. If the reader had thought that her reticence was due to some grotesque aspect of her appearance, we must at this time assure him that nothing could be further from the truth. If Grita was not striking for her beauty, she had, at least, nothing of which to be ashamed. She was of middle years, certainly not more than six hundred, and small, with hair the color of new straw. The lines of her face were pleasing, if slightly sharp, with large eyes and a small nose. Her movements were, perhaps, a little hesitant, but not the less graceful for that. She had, to be sure, a small scar, as from a knife wound, above her left eyebrow, but it was faint, and made her face more interesting, rather than repulsive.
It was only when one looked closely, searching for those clues to identity that we notice almost unconsciously, that one began to be disturbed. She had a distinct noble’s point—more visible because she kept her hair cut short and brushed back. If one looked at her cheekbones and her chin, one might think she was a product of the House of the Dzur. Yet the roundness of her eyes gave the lie to this conclusion, and, furthermore, her complexion (which was nearly the color of an unripe olive) and her size spoke of the House of the Tsalmoth.
At this point, the observer would suddenly realize, with horror and pity, that here was one of those unfortunates who, being the product of two Houses, belong to none, and go through life as will a ship that, with neither anchor nor mooring ropes, will be accepted by no harbor, but must instead weather every storm that comes her way as best she can.
It was one of the great shames of society of that period that such people as Grita could, through no fault of their own, be subject to scorn and rejection at every hand. And, we might add, in spite of the wishes of our own Empress,
such treatment continues today, only moderately abated by the Edicts on Half-breeds which were signed into law within five years of the Empress taking the Orb.
If, as has been often said, many such people become beggars and criminals, how can this be considered their fault? If because of an excess of love or an insufficiency of precaution in the heat of a moment of passion, a child is born to lovers who cannot marry because one or the other (or both!) were born into the wrong House, surely, wherever the fault lies, it is not with the child. It is one of the marks of the civilized human being to separate the innocent victim from the guilty criminal; those who fail to make such distinctions fail to distinguish themselves from the tribes of Easterners who, to their misfortune, are never able to rise above ignorant prejudice.
And to those who say that such a birth is punishment from the Gods for transgressions in a past life, we say that we will hope for only misfortunes for those who make such claims, thus taking upon themselves the duties of Gods; and we can assure them that, whatever evils plague them, there will be few who show any pity. This historian, for one, will take unashamed delight in telling them that the loss of a loved one, or the collapse of a business, or a crippling or disfiguring injury, is punishment for transgressions in a past life.
Let no one claim to speak for the Gods who does not, in his own hand, hold the power to inflict and remedy that the Gods do. And such persons ought to consider, for their own good, if not from the kindness required of one human being to another, how the Gods will feel about those who dare to take on the attributes of Divine judgment by saying such things.
And yet, to our sorrow, we must confess that through no fault of their own many of these unfortunates do end as criminals, and, in some cases, of the worst sort. Such a one was Grita. We do not know what she was forced to do to live, Houseless and alone, in the Underside, and we will not lower ourselves by speculating, but she carried herself as one who has battled with the worst sides of her fellow creatures and emerged both victorious, in that she survived, and defeated, in that the sense of honor and decency with which we are all endowed at birth had, in her case, been entirely eradicated. Her countenance, as she sat with Greycat, was cool and confident—which says a great deal, because Greycat was one of the more feared denizens of that part of the city.
“We spoke before,” said Greycat at last, “about producing a riot.”
“That is right,” said Grita.
“You still believe you can do it?”
“I can do it.”
“How?”
“That is my affair.”
Greycat shrugged. “It is my affair as well, because if I put into motion events that require it to take place, and it does not—”
“It will,” said Grita.
“Very well. It need not be large. Just enough to—but why are you smiling?”
“Because you speak of a riot of the citizens as if it were a fire that is contained by a stove or a hearth. It is not. It is an open conflagration, and will only go out when all of the timber is consumed.”
“And, therefore?”
“I can start a riot; once started, I can neither stop nor control it.”
“Do you mean it will consume the city?”
“It may. And it may die almost at once. It may depend on the reaction of one man who sees his child threatened, or one woman who suddenly doesn’t care if her shop is destroyed, or one soldier who does or does not strike at a certain time. It may destroy the city, it may turn into nothing. I suspect it will turn into nothing, because the people, while unhappy, are not desperate; while they despise the Emperor, they do not hate him. But I offer no surety. If you wish it done, it will be done, and after that, those boots will be on your feet.”
Greycat considered these words carefully for several long moments, after which he said, “Very well. I will accept the risk. Carry out your plan.”
“And when do you wish this riot to take place?”
“In three days’ time.”
“In the evening or the morning?”
“The evening.”
“At what hour?”
“How, you can create a riot at a precise time, yet you cannot control it?”
Grita laughed—a laugh, we might add, as chilling as Greycat’s chuckle of some few minutes before. “I know when I set off the flashstone; I cannot know what sort of charge it contains.”
“Make it, then, at the eleventh hour after noon.”
“It will be done. I would suggest that you go into hiding at that time.”
“Me? Hide?”
“Where there is fire, there is water.”
“Well?”
“Well, cats, I believe, are not overfond of either.”
Greycat shrugged. “This cat knows how to use them both.”
“For your sake,” said Grita, “I hope so.”
“Afterwards,” said Greycat, “I will see you again.”
“Yes,” said Grita, looking fully into his face. “Whatever else may happen, that is one thing about which there can be no doubt: you will see me again.”
There being no more to say, she stood at that moment, and took herself
out of the room, leaving Greycat there alone, to consider what he had begun. For a while, his countenance appeared worried, but gradually, as he considered the details of his scheme, and the reward that awaited him, a small, wicked smile came to his lips.
Presently, he stood, left the small room, left the cabaret, and blended once more into the evening of the Underside of Dragaera City.
Which Treats of the Arrival
Of an Important Dignitary
At the Court.
W
E RETURN (WITH, WE CONFESS, some relief) to the Imperial palace a mere thirty hours (that is, a day and a night) after we left it.
In the intervening time, there has been constant activity amid the offices and secretariats of the Palace; messages have been sent and received, audits have been requested, post officers have been dispatched; but in spite of this, His Majesty’s routine has, since the emergency meeting in his bedchamber the day before, been uninterrupted.
Before going on, we hope the reader will permit us to say two words about this routine. It was, first of all, invariant—more than invariant, in fact, it was unchanging. Each morning, he was awakened by the Orb at the seventh hour after midnight. At 7:02 a servant entered, bringing him, in a silver cup decorated with emeralds, klava with six drops of honey and a dash of cinnamon. He permitted himself only eight minutes to drink it, after which he began his morning toilet, finishing with dressing which, for reasons never revealed, he preferred to do himself. These procedures consumed thirty minutes, so that at precisely 7:40 he was ready to greet his ensign—or, rather, his
Captain
of the Guards, who conducted him on his “morning rounds,” which consisted of walking by certain doors and commanding them to be opened—the official beginning of the day in the Imperial Palace.
The rounds ended back at his apartments (it was, in fact, because his walk described what was in effect a circle that they were called “the rounds”) where, at 8:50, after dismissing the Captain (actually, until today, the Ensign), he broke his fast with klava, this time served in a silver cup decorated with rubies, and without the cinnamon; usually a smoked fish served at room temperature; dark or sour bread which had been toasted over a redwood fire and might have butter or goat’s cheese on it; and some form of noodle covered with either goat’s cheese or butter—the counterpoint, be it understood, to the bread.
After breaking his fast, he arrived at 10:00 in the Portrait Room, where he
was accustomed to meet with any High Lords (meaning Dukes) and Princes (meaning Heirs) who had business with him. In fact, if there were any such, they usually met with Jurabin, who only interrupted His Majesty if it were necessary. The Emperor actually spent this time gossiping with the court gossips and jesting with the court jesters.
Visitors were asked to leave the Portrait Room, and its doors were closed, in time for His Majesty’s Hour of Relaxation, which began at 11:45 and continued for an hour and a quarter. During this time, His Majesty might walk, or fence, or read, or even decide to cancel his afternoon appointments and go off to the Imperial Preserve to hunt the athyra, the wild boar, or other such game as might interest him.
Usually, however, the door would be opened at 13:00, and meetings with High Lords and Heirs would continue until the Lunch Hour, 14:15. When the weather was fine, His Majesty would eat his lunch on the terrace immediately adjacent to the Portrait Room (which caused a certain amount of difficulty for the staff, as there was no kitchen nearby); when the weather was poor, His Majesty would dine either in his own apartments, if he wished to be alone, or in the Table Room, if he desired the company of one of the Gentlemen of his Household (those to whom we have earlier referred, ironically but truthfully, as gossips and jesters). In any case, lunch would usually consist of assorted fruits (fresh in the summer and fall, dried in the winter and early spring) and possibly an omelet or some other dish made with hen’s eggs, because His Majesty pretended that eating eggs every day was vital to maintaining his health and virility.
After allowing a mere forty-five minutes for lunch—in other words, at exactly noon—His Majesty would be back in the Portrait Room, which would now be open (at least in theory) to anyone who wished to speak with His Majesty on any subject at all. This was, in point of fact, his busiest time, and it was not uncommon for the press of Imperial business to actually impinge upon his banter and conversation with the ladies and gentlemen of the court.
At 1:30 he would retire to the Seven Room, or the Fireside Room, or the Glass Room, to meet privately with anyone Jurabin felt it necessary for him to charm (he could, indeed, be very charming when he put his mind to it), or to learn about the doings of the Empire when it came into his head to take an interest, or to speak with Jurabin if the inclination came upon him. Until fifty years before, this had been his time with the Imperial Discreet, but that post was now empty.
At 3:20, he would meet once again with—we may as well say his name—Khaavren, who would conduct him to the Hall of Windows for dinner, which began promptly at 3:30. Dinner was the largest and the most
varied of the meals, and was often attended by guests of state. It was frequently lavish, always well prepared, measured at least six courses, and consumed two and a half hours. Lately, His Majesty had developed the affectation of wanting meals from every area of his realm. On one day the dinner might feature a kethna, roasted in the spicy style of the Eastern Mountains. On another, perhaps there would be anise-jelled winneasaurus steak from the North. On yet another day, perhaps a fish stew from the South.
At 5:45 began the evening recreation, which might involve cards, or visiting a theater or a concert hall, or even quietly reading in his chambers. Depending on the activity, the Consort might be present; if so, this would be the first time they saw each other that day; if not, they would see each other at 9:15, which was when they had their supper together. Supper was the lightest meal of the day, and would often consist only of delicacies, perhaps preceded by a broth.
At 10:45 he would retire to his baths, often with the Consort. Khaavren, on those occasions when our Tiassa remained late at the Palace, would meet with His Majesty again at 11:55 and conduct him on his evening rounds of closing the doors as he had opened them—more often, Khaavren would delegate this duty to whichever guardsman had performed exceptionally well in some capacity or another. The Consort would sometimes accompany His Majesty on these rounds which, in any case, would end at His Majesty’s apartments at 12:55, which was the time scheduled for his Majesty’s evening toilet, which would be completed by 13:10, which was the hour at which His Majesty would retire for the evening.
It is certainly the case that, on some occasions, Her Majesty the Consort, Noima, would accompany His Majesty into his bedchamber, and it is also the case that it is only Khaavren who would know how often this was done. Yet this is one subject upon which the Tiassa has never breathed a word, and so we are left to engage in unseemly speculation, or not. The fact that the Consort was delivered of a child must be held sufficient for our purposes. But we ought to add that, while court gossip was certainly divided about Their Majesties’ domestic lives, most of those who held that moments of passion between them were rare and mutually unsatisfying were those who wished to pay court to Her Majesty, and were very likely engaging in the time-honored practice of confusing desire with truth. There were few, we should add, who desired to pay court to Tortaalik, for he furiously objected to any such familiarity, and his flirtations with mistresses were few and short-lived.
The astute reader will, no doubt, notice that, excepting only the briefest of remarks while discussing His Majesty’s morning toilet, we have entirely neglected the subject of dress. Our reasons for doing so are twofold: We do not wish to tire the reader with needlessly lengthy descriptions; and the matter has
been extensively elaborated upon in numerous scholarly and several popular volumes, not the least of which are Traanier’s
Court Dress Before the Interregnum,
belonging to the former category, and the unfortunately named Baron Vile’s
The Clothes Unmake the Emperor
belonging to the latter.
For those unfamiliar with these or similar works, we will mention that His Majesty changed his dress no fewer than six nor more than eleven times during the day, but rarely returned to his apartments to do so, rather instructing the chief servant of his household, Dimma, to procure what he wished so that he could duck into any unused room and effect a change in costume. The scandal caused by this Imperious disregard for his own dignity provides the basis for Vile’s work mentioned above—a work whose careful attention to detail nearly makes up for the absurdity of its central premise.
Now that we have completed His Majesty’s day in general, let us return to its beginning in specific; that is, we will return to 7:40 in the morning, when Khaavren has arrived to escort his Majesty on his rounds, exactly one day after the meeting with Lords Rollondar and Jurabin.
His Majesty stepped forth from his bedchamber. Khaavren bowed, and, although this was his first full day as Captain, he had no thought of changing his usual formulaic greeting to His Majesty, which was a bow made in respectful silence. His Majesty responded with a brusque nod, and Khaavren led the way to the White Stairway, which led to the Inner Door of the Portrait Room, the first door to be opened. As they walked, His Majesty said, “Is there news, Captain?” (It is to His Majesty’s credit that, having promoted Khaavren, the Emperor never once forgot and referred to him by his former rank.)
“Yes, Sire.”
“How, you say there is news?” (If His Majesty was astonished, it was because he invariably asked this question, and if Khaavren heard something of interest once in twenty years, it was very often indeed).
“Yes, Sire.”
“Then, something has happened?”
“Indeed, Sire.”
“And you know about it?”
“Enough, perhaps, to satisfy Your Majesty’s curiosity, if, indeed, Your Majesty has any.”
“I assure you, Captain, I have some, and, moreover, it is now jumping around in its cage like one of Lord Weer’s trained chreotha.”
“Then, Sire, it is just as well that I can satisfy it.”
“Do so now, Captain.”
“Then, Sire, this is it: A messenger from the Lord Mayor of Adrilankha awaits Your Majesty on an affair of some urgency.”
At this moment, they reached the first door, and His Majesty nodded to
the Lord of the Keys, who, at this time, was a certain Athyra named Lady Ingera. Lady Ingera unlocked the door and, as it was opened by the servants, she fell into her accustomed position a step behind Khaavren and the Emperor.
“How,” said His Majesty, continuing the conversation. “The Lord Mayor?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“I wonder what he wants.”
“I think I know, Sire.”
“You think you know?”
“Yes, Sire. In fact, that is the real news which I have for Your Majesty.”
“The real news is the reason?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“And you can tell me what it is?”
“Yes, Sire.”
“You will do so, then.”
“Yes, Sire,” said the Captain imperturbably. “I will do so.”
“And this very instant, I hope.”
“If you wish, Sire.”
“If I wish? I think it is an hour since I wished for anything else!”
“Sire, Lord Adron e’Kieron, Duke of Eastmanswatch, and Prince of the House of the Dragon, has arrived at the city gates, and awaits the Lord Mayor’s word to be admitted.”
“Ah,” said His Majesty. “Lord Adron is here.”
“Yes, Sire.”
His Majesty frowned, and spoke no more while they opened the next several doors. At last he said, “Captain, when you are finished here, if you would be so kind, please convey to the Lord Mayor my desire that His Highness be granted permission to enter the city. I understand that this is not, of course, your office, but if you would … .”
“Of course, Sire. I should be honored.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“It is my pleasure, Sire.”
As this is the only thing of interest to happen until after His Majesty’s breakfast, and as we are rigorously opposed to wasting the reader’s time with information not essential to the unfolding of the events of our narrative, we will now bring the reader forward in history a few hours, to the time when, in the Portrait Room, Lord Brudik droned, “His Highness the Duke of Eastmanswatch. The Countess of Limterak.”
At this announcement, the space in front of the throne was parted as if by the prow of a tri-mast, and into the opening, walking as if he had never
belonged anywhere else, came Adron e’Kieron and his daughter, Aliera e’Kieron.
Lord Adron had eschewed his identity as Duke of Eastmanswatch and even his identity as Prince of the House of the Dragon, appearing simply as a Dragonlord, clothed in black garments with silver trim-garments that fell barely short of appearing to be a uniform. But, let us recall, Adron was not only the Heir of the House of the Dragon, he was scion of the e’Kieron line—which meant that he could trace his lineage back directly to Kieron the Conqueror; that is, to the man who, if anyone did, fathered the Empire itself by gathering the disparate hordes into the world’s first actual army. Looking at Lord Adron, one could imagine his forebear.