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Authors: Steven Brust

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BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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“Tolerably well, sir,” said Adron. “And I hope the same may be said for you?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Khaavren. “And Your Highness does me too much honor by asking.”
“Well,” said Adron with a shrug, “if the message is not, I think, one I shall like, at least I may say the messenger does not displease me.”
“Your Highness is kind,” said Khaavren, “though I will admit to being confused by Your Highness’s remarks about a message and a messenger.”
“Confused, Sir Khaavren? Yet surely you must know that your errand will be, if not unexpected, at least in some part disagreeable to me.”
“And yet I must confess,” said Khaavren with another bow, “that I do not understand what Your Highness does me the honor to tell me.”
“You pretend you do not understand?” said Adron, with a smile that was not unkind.
“I assure Your Highness that I am entirely bewildered.”
“Well, then, what is the cause of your visit?”
“Why, the desire to see Your Highness, nothing more.”
Adron laughed without mirth. “Bah, my good sir. Be frank. Do you retain any affection for me, from our experiences so long ago?”
“The Gods!” said Khaavren. “I think I do.”
“Well, then, from that affection, do me the honor to answer my questions as honestly as I ask them.”
Khaavren bowed. “Your Highness need but to ask; assure Your Highness that you will not be unsatisfied with the truthfulness of my response.”
“Well, then, here is my first question: you come on the part of His Majesty, do you not?”
“I come on the part of His Majesty? Not the least in the world.”
“How, you do not?”
“By my faith as a gentleman,” said Khaavren.
“Then you are not here to arrest me?”
“Arrest Your Highness? And for what?”
“For what? Why, you know that His Majesty was vexed with me at the end of our interview.”
“On my honor, I know nothing about it.”
“Impossible! Then you do you not come to arrest me?” said Adron again, as if he could not believe it.
“Nothing like it,” said Khaavren. “Oh, should that have been my plan, I beg Your Highness to believe I would not have traded upon your kindness this long, but should have at once said, ‘Your Highness, I have the honor to arrest you in the name of His Majesty; please give me your sword and come with me.’ And that would have been all.”
“Well,” said Adron, over whose countenance a slight shade had passed when Khaavren had pronounced the words he hadn’t intended to speak. “You nearly convince me.”
“And then?”
“Then it remains for me to place myself entirely at your service. Would you care for wine?”
“Wine would not be at all unwelcome, Highness, for there is no small amount of dust in the air between the city and the tent, and hang me if most of it has not taken up residence in my throat.”
Adron rang a bell, and, in less than a minute, Khaavren was seated facing His Highness while the two of them drank to each others’ fortune. “Apropos,” said Adron when this ceremony had been thirstily brought to its conclusion, “how does your fortune fare, and that of your friends? That noble Lyorn, and the others. Do you still see them?”
“Alas,” said Khaavren, “not the least in the world. I hear from Temma—that is, Aerich—from time to time, and he tells me that Tazendra is still thriving, and once or twice in a hundred years my path crosses Pel’s, but I’m afraid our society is ruptured by the years, which, as you know, have neither pity nor empathy. And as to my own fortunes, well, you perceive that I am Captain of the Phoenix Guards, which would seem to be the zenith of my ambition—and not bad, Your Highness will allow, for the younger son of an impoverished Tiassa nobleman.”
“Not at all bad,” said Adron. “And please accept my compliments.”
“And I hope Your Highness will allow me to offer congratulations for Your Highness’s successes—the Breath of Fire Battalion has made a name for itself that will not soon be forgotten.”
“Yes,” said Adron, with a small smile. “We have not done too badly. Of course, you must take some of the credit yourself, my dear sir, for it would
have been impossible to form the battalion at all if we had still to worry about invasions from the East, and, moreover, had it not been for your skill as a diplomatist we should have been unable to trade for the number of horses—the truly appalling number of horses, to be frank—which made the battalion possible.”
“It is good of Your Highness to say so,” said Khaavren. “Ah, but I regret those days! At any moment either a sword was in my hand or a beautiful woman was on my arm! Now, my sword remains at my side, and my arm touches nothing but the hilt, which hilt, allow me to tell Your Highness, has made a fine callus near my left elbow, which is not where soldier’s calluses ought to be, and has besides worn out the sleeves of several blouses in the process.”
“Is that what you remember of those days, my dear Captain?” said Adron, laughing. “Well, I remember other things. I remember a fugitive whom I was obliged to hide, and whose presence caused me to wonder if I should be led to the Executioner’s Star. And I remember fear of—not an invasion of Easterners, but, rather, an invasion of Easterners that would force me to choose between duty and oath—that is, between honor and law. If there is a less comfortable choice, Captain, well, I don’t know what it is.”
“Ah, it is true what Your Highness says—that is a sad choice to be brought to, and, if Your Highness has no such choice to-day, well, so much the better.”
“To-day? Bah! To-day my cousin is Warlord, and his younger son is my chainman, so that whenever there is an opportunity for glory, well, there is no question about who will be the first one called upon.”
“Your Highness does himself an injustice in thinking that these opportunities are anything but the result of a well-earned reputation. Who else but Your Highness could have managed the Briartown affair with such dispatch? Ah, if Your Highness had been at court while that was going on! On one day comes the word of the uprising, on the next Lord Rollondar—your cousin—is preparing to march, and on the next we receive word that you have the matter in hand. I still recall the look on His Majesty’s face! And a month later came the reorganization of the posts. His Majesty said, ’If Eastmanswatch can move two thousand soldiers four hundred miles in a day and a night, we should be able to move one post officer a similar distance in the same length of time.’”
Adron laughed. “Is that what he said?”
“I have the honor to assure Your Highness that those were his very words.”
“And the expense?” said Adron, still smiling. “What did My Lord Jurabin say to the expense?”
Khaavren matched His Highness’s smile with one of his own. “Neither more nor less than you would think,” he said. “And yet, in truth, it could not
be that bad. You are only one man, and you have managed the expense of maintaining the posts for ten thousand, if my memory is not at fault.”
“Oh, you know I am tolerably wealthy,” said Adron. “The diamonds from Sandyhome must travel through Pepperfield on the way to Dragaera, and the peppers from my own land travel in all directions, and so a part of each comes to me. In outfitting the Breath of Fire Battalion I have, to be sure, used up no small sum, but hardly enough to make me look to a surrender of debts, or to fear the loss of my daughter’s inheritance.”
“Well, then, can Your Highness doubt that the entire Empire, with all her resources, can be so much further behind, when there are even fewer horses to equip and stable?”
“There is some justice in what you say,” said Adron.
“Indeed, I wonder, if Your Highness will forgive my curiosity—”
“Oh, indeed; you may ask anything you wish.”
“Well then, I wonder at Your Highness’s desire to bring the entire battalion along to the Meeting of the Principalities, which, as I understand it, is the reason Your Highness graces the city with his presence.”
“Oh, you wonder at that?”
“Well, Your Highness perceives that I am but ill-informed about anything happening at the Palace that does not fall within the sphere of my duties.”
“And yet,” said Adron, with the ghost, as it were, of a smile playing about his lips, “do you not wonder if this battalion which now surrounds you might fall within the province of your duty?”
“How could it?” said Khaavren, affecting surprise. “My duty only involves the security of His Majesty and the integrity of the Imperial Wing of the Palace, as well as, to a certain extent, seeing to the general safety of the city and supporting Lord Rollondar’s forces should he request such support. Not arduous, as Your Highness perceives, and entirely unconnected with anything Your Highness might do.”
Adron, who did not seem convinced by this fine speech, still smiled. “And yet you are, you say, curious.”
“Well—”
“Then allow me to satisfy your curiosity. I have brought my battalion with me for no other reason than because His Majesty requested that I do so.”
“How, His Majesty?”
“Exactly.”
“The Emperor, Tortaalik?”
“I know no other. You pretend you were not informed of this circumstance?”
“Not the least in the world. You perceive that, as I said, I know little that does not concern my duties. And yet I wonder—”
“Why His Majesty wanted the battalion at hand?”
“Exactly.”
“I believe he is worried about disorder within the city.”
“Ah, he worries about that, does he?”
“Exactly.”
“And does Your Highness also worry?”
“On my word of honor, good Captain, I know nothing about it.”
“And, yet—”
Here Khaavren was interrupted, for a sentry had arrived with a message. Khaavren fell silent while Adron accepted it. “Come,” said the Captain to himself. “Either there is no treachery here and my fears are those of an old man, or Lord Adron is playing a closer game than any Dragonlord I have ever met would be capable of. But, what is this? He has gotten some news that puzzles him, for he is frowning. Perhaps he will tell me what it is, for I should be more than glad to know.”
Adron, still frowning, looked up from the message, staring out at nothing. “This is decidedly odd,” he said in a low voice, as if speaking to himself.
“Your Highness?”
“Eh?” he said, looking suddenly at the Tiassa. “Oh, Sir Khaavren, I had forgotten you were here. I have just received the most unusual intelligence. Shall I tell you what it is?”
“If Your Highness wishes.”
“It is from a certain Calvor of Drem. Do you know him?”
“I must confess that I do not, Highness.”
“No matter. He is a Phoenix, and a poet, and a colossal bore.”
“Well?”
“Well, he has sent me a note in which he claims that he does not understand the reason for the excuses I sent him.”
“How, excuses?”
“Yes; I sent a messenger to him, begging his forgiveness for canceling my appearance at the opening of the Pavilion.”
“Ah, yes, I know something of that.”
“He claims that he had no intention of being there.”
“Well?”
“Well, I have here … now where is it? Ah! Here, what do you make of this?”
Khaavren glanced at the message, making sure his face remained expressionless, although he may as well not have troubled, for there was nothing remarkable in the note, save for its contents.
“Well?” said Adron.
“I assure Your Highness that I find it all decidedly unusual.”
“As do I, Captain. In one note he says he will be there, and in the other he denies that had ever intended to. I mistrust the unusual.”
“Were I in Your Highness’s place, I should do the same.”
“So you think—?”
“There is some mystery here, that is certain.”
“Indeed. Come, Captain, look at the first note, and at the second.”
“The gods! The hands are entirely different!”
“And yet both are signed.”
“With different names—this one, you perceive, claims to be from the hand of a scribe named Dri, whereas the name of the scribe according to this letter is Entoch.”
“But then,” said Adron, “why would he use two different scribes?”
“Perhaps, as a poet, he requires two. Is he a particularly long-winded poet?”
“He is indeed. And yet, I am not satisfied. There is, in any case, something unusual in all of this.”
“I am entirely of Your Highness’s opinion—I should think, in fact, that one of these documents is a forgery.”
“Well, but which one?”
“Oh, as to that—”
“Well?”
“I confess that I am at a loss. And yet—” Khaavren looked at the first note, the one in which Calvor announced that he would be presenting his poetry. And, as Khaavren did so, he realized that he had seen that hand before—there was something familiar, although disguised, in the way the marks were laid upon the page.
BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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