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Authors: Steven Brust

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Tazendra, after assuring herself that the room was empty, sat in front of the fire, removed the necessary items from her pocket, and began to sharpen her sword, where we will leave her with her sword and her thoughts.
Khaavren, upon receiving Aliera’s sword, made her his accustomed offer—that is, that she might pack a valise.
“I have done so,” she said. “I am ready.”
“We may,” said the Captain, “arrive at the Imperial Prisons by any reasonable route you choose. Have you a preference?”
“Not in the least,” said Aliera. “Everyone will know of my arrest in any case, and I am hardly ashamed of it, so it matters not the least in the world.”
“Very well, then if my lady will follow me.”
“I am at your service, Captain.”
Other than this, there was no conversation between them, for Khaavren was still too angry, and Aliera too proud; as the rest of the walk was conducted in silence, we see no need to inform the reader in any great detail of the hollow sounds their boots made on the Ringway Stairs, or the odors of fresh paint in the Blue Corridor, or the startling, almost painful light that struck their eyes as they passed by the window above the Warding Gate into the Iorich Wing, or any of the other details of their journey. Suffice it to say that, in due time, Aliera
was turned over to Guinn and his jailers, and Khaavren returned to tell His Majesty, who was playing at shereba (for, we should add, stakes that were so small as to be only tokens) with certain courtiers, that his mission had been accomplished. His Majesty responded with a simple nod, and Khaavren repaired to his offices to see if anything of moment had happened during his long absence.
He looked through the correspondence that had accumulated during his absence, and had not gotten far when he stood and called for Thack, who presented himself at once, appearing, thanks to a brief nap, to be somewhat refreshed. He bowed upon entering and said, “Yes, Captain? Is there some matter upon which you desire to speak to me?”
“I nearly think so,” said Khaavren.
“What is it, Captain? For you perceive I am entirely at your service.”
“This,” said Khaavren, waving a note about.
“The note, Captain?”
“Yes. Unless my eyes have failed me at last, it has your mark upon the bottom.”
“Why, so it does,” said Thack. “Have I erred in some way? For I observe from your countenance, Captain, that something his displeased you.”
“Never mind that,” said the Captain. “Are you aware of what it says?”
“Yes, Captain, it speaks of a certain movement among the population—”
“Movement! You say, movement?”
“Why, yes, Captain—”
“When every Gate to the city is filled with a constant stream of people—and people of all classes, I might add—desperate to leave the city, so that fights have broken out, and Baroness Stonemover has been forced to activate her reserves, and some citizens have been trampled to death in their urgency to leave, well, you call it
movement
? And if the entire Palace were on fire—which is not as hard to imagine as you might think—would you then say, ‘there is a certain warmth’?”
“Well, Captain, I—”
“I should very much like to ask why I was not informed of this before, but I cannot, for I know very well why; it is because I have been wounded, and, moreover, because I have been seeing to the aftermath of the attempt against His Majesty.”
“Captain, I—”
“No, I am not blaming you, Thack; it is only that I am annoyed, and now I must decide what action to take.”
“It would seem, Captain, if I may be permitted an opinion, that Baroness Stonemover is doing what has to be done.”
Khaavren shook his head. “Thack, have you spent any time in forests where there are dangerous animals, such as dzur, or tiassa, or bear, or wolves, or even dragons?”
“Why, yes, Captain, I have.”
“Have you ever seen all of the birds fly away suddenly, while the smaller animals are seen scurrying into their holes, or in some other direction?”
“I am familiar with this, yes, Captain.”
“Well, and if you were to make certain that these birds escaped safely, and the small animals reached shelter, well, would you then feel, as you seem to feel about the exodus from the city, that nothing more needed to be done?”
“I take your meaning, Captain.”
“I am glad you do.”
“But, Captain, have you any orders for me?”
Khaavren sighed. “None yet, my good Thack, for I will not know what to do until I have finished reading all of these cursed reports. But be prepared for anything.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Khaavren read the reports, forcing himself to take his time so as not to miss any detail, and, at the same time, allowing himself to build a picture of the city as it stood; and, more important, to attempt to feel how it was moving. The change in the mood and character of the city even from that morning, when he had come to the Palace, was shocking; and again he cursed his wounds, which had forced him to take a coach—what he would have seen walking, instead of driving by, would have told him a great deal that he could not deduce even from the most accurate of reports.
As he worked, the notion began to grow that, if things were falling out as they seemed to be, there was nothing to be done. If the full force of the Imperial Army were called in, then, perhaps, a semblance of order could be kept in the city; but, failing that, he could find no plan, even one involving all of his forces, Baroness Stonemover’s, and even the Lavodes, providing they could be persuaded to help, that would, in the event of a fully fledged riot, have any chance at all of preventing an equally fully fledged conflagration. His only choice, as he saw it, was to concentrate his forces around the Palace, with the idea of protecting His Majesty, while simultaneously hoping His Majesty would find a way to appease the populace.
He sighed. When word got out that Aliera had been arrested, well, this would not ease the situation.
However, Khaavren had not reached his position because he was one to give up easily; on the contrary, he sat and racked his brains, going over and over the reports, for several hours. He was still thinking when it came time to escort His Majesty on his rounds, which occurred just before the twelfth hour after
noon. As they went through the familiar ritual, Khaavren took a certain pleasure in pacing out the path through the quiet Palace, as if the troubles they faced were, at any rate, over for the day.
His Majesty said, “Captain, I have received word that Lord Adron is preparing to move against me in the morning.”
“I am surprised, Sire.”
“How, you did not think that, with his daughter arrested, he would attack at once?”
“No, Sire, it is not that.”
“Well?”
“I am surprised that he would give warning. The Breath of Fire Battalion moves so quickly that it would seem that, to attack in the morning, he need do nothing before the very moment of the attack.”
“Well, that is true, except, according to Lord Rollondar’s intelligence, he has made certain magical preparations, and these require time to bring into position.”
“Ah. Magical preparations.”
“I have alerted those Athyra wizards on whom we can depend.”
“Yes, Sire.”
“Are you still worried about the populace?”
“I am, Sire.”
“Well, do not.”
“How, do not?”
“I have given the problem over to Baroness Stonemover.”
“And, yet—”
“You will have another task on the morrow, and one that will allow no time to concern yourself with rebellious Teckla.”
“Sire?”
“In the first place, you must protect Noima.”
“I understand. And Your Majesty as well.”
The Emperor shrugged, as if he could not argue, but was not pleased to consider himself in need of protection.
Khaavren said, “Your Majesty has done me the honor of mentioning one task; what, then is the second?”
“You must arrest Lord Adron.”
“Yes, Sire,” said Khaavren.
“You perceive that it is your duty.”
“I believe, Sire, that I had the honor of informing Your Majesty some days ago that this was my opinion; I am pleased that it coincides with Your Majesty’s.”
“Have you any questions?”
“No, Sire; everything is clear to me.”
“That is good, Captain, for I am tired, and it seems we have arrived at the end of the rounds for this evening.”
“Yes, Sire, and allow me to wish Your Majesty a good night.”
“And a good night to you as well, my dear Captain. I will see you in the morning.”
“No, Sire, another will be here; for to-morrow I must prepare to carry out Your Majesty’s orders.”
“Ah. Yes. Then I will no doubt see you later in the day.”
“Yes, Sire. No doubt Your Majesty will.”
In spite of his coolness when answering the Emperor, Khaavren was certainly surprised by these orders, although, he reflected as he walked back to the Dragon Wing, he need not have been—what could be more natural than to assign the Imperial Guard the task of protecting Their Majesties? And what could be more natural than assigning their Captain the task of arresting the rebel?
To the right, the task annoyed him, for he was not convinced that Baroness Stonemover was equal to the task. Yet, to the left, he felt a certain relief, for in his considering the exodus from the city, and all it implied, he had realized that there was no way to reliably keep order in the streets—not with Adron attacking from without as the forces of disorder had their way within; Khaavren was pleased to cede this task to Stonemover. And, as for protecting Their Majesties, well, there were certain steps to be taken, and that was that—if they were overwhelmed, then there was no more to be said, except that each guardsman must do his best. As for arresting Lord Adron, well, that was a mere formality. If the Imperial Army were victorious, all he need do was find Adron and take his sword; if the Imperial Army were not victorious, there could be no arrest.
Although, to be sure, it would be something to be remembered if, while the battle raged, he could penetrate the lines and lay hands on His Highness, carrying out the arrest of the general while the troops fought on. As he had this thought, he smiled, and within him the Khaavren of years ago whispered it was just such chances as this that he had longed for.
He shrugged. The Khaavren of years ago may have longed for such chances, and, to be sure, would have gone through fire and blood for just such an opportunity; but the Khaavren of today was older, perhaps wiser, and, above all, without his friends—indeed, was not Aerich even now keeping company with His Highness? No, thought Khaavren, the chance for such heroics comes, at the most, but once in a lifetime, and he had had his five hundred years before, and had taken it, and there was no more to be said on
the subject. These, at any rate, were his thoughts when he stepped into his office.
“Ah, my dear Khaavren, there you are! I have been awaiting you.”
“Aerich!”
“Yes, it is Aerich. Why, what is it? What accounts for that look on your face?”
“I have been thinking, Aerich, and you were very much in my thoughts.”
“How, I? Well, I cannot but be pleased to be thought of by my good friend. What were you thinking?”
“Tell me first, Aerich, where are Pel and Tazendra?”
“Pel was here with me for some time, but has now returned to the house, where he awaits us.”
“And Tazendra?”
“She spent an hour in the Dzur Wing, and has now gone to join Pel. Why, is there something for us to do?”
Khaavren laughed. “I nearly think there is. Go now and join them, my friend, and tell them to sharpen their weapons, for to-morrow we shall have a task to perform.”
“Very well. You know I never ask questions.”
“I know it well. And, Aerich, we ought to send the servants out of the city.”
“I have done so.”
“How, you? You know what is going to happen to-morrow? Ah, but I have forgotten; you have just come from His Highness. Apropos, has he your loyalty?”
“He has my friendship, but if he had my loyalty I would not now be here.”
“Good, good,” said Khaavren.
Aerich smiled. “It is a pleasure to hear you laugh.”
“It is a pleasure to have again something about which to laugh. Go now, my friend. The morning will see blood, but to-night will see scratches on parchment; I will be hard at work for some hours.”
“Till to-morrow, then.”
“Till to-morrow.”
Which Treats of Khaavren’s
Peculiar Interactions with
An Assassin or Two.
 
 
 
E
VENTUALLY THE LAST OF KHAAVREN’S instructions were written out—and written out, we should add, so clearly and precisely that he had no fear of a lieutenant misinterpreting them. He made certain each document was signed and placed in its proper receptacle, after which, rubbing his eyes, he permitted himself to make his way home.
It was, by this time, quite late, yet the streets were still alive—more than alive, it seemed to Khaavren, they were awake and aware. There were, in the first place, more people out than he was accustomed to see at such an hour. In the second place, many of these people were clearly abandoning their homes—taking what possessions they could and leaving as quickly as they could manage by foot, horse, wagon, or coach, depending on the person’s wealth. In the third place, there was an attitude among those who remained—an attitude of watchful expectation, and of alertness, and of fear, and even of anger. Indeed, there were some who openly sneered upon seeing the Captain’s uniform, although none of these were close, and, after giving him such a look, sometimes accompanied by a gesture, each one at once took to his heels.
As he passed the Avenue of Seven Swans Park, he noticed a figure huddled against a store advertising preserved fruit. Realizing that there was something familiar about this figure, Khaavren looked; looking he recognized Raf, the pastry vendor. “My dear Raf,” said Khaavren, approaching. “How do you fare?”
“Ah, ah,” said Raf, looking up bleakly. “Is it you, my dear Captain?”
“Indeed it is, my friend, indeed it is. But come, what accounts for the sorrow I read upon your countenance?”
“You ask me that!” cried Raf.
“Yes, I ask you that; I even think I ask you twice. What is the matter, my friend?”
“Ruined, Captain! I am ruined!”
“How, ruined? And yet, it was less than two weeks ago that you were flourishing!”
“That has ever been the fortune of man,” agreed Raf. “From the highest to the lowest in an instant.”
“But come, what has happened? Will no one buy your pastries?”
“Buy my pastries!” said Raf. “And what pastries have I to sell?”
“How is this, no pastries?”
“Indeed, none.”
“But, it seemed to me that you had a cart, and—”
“The cart is gone,” sobbed the Teckla. “Destroyed by ruffians, who pretended they could use it to pack their belongings so they could leave the city.”
“Cha! In truth?”
“But what of that?” continued Raf. “For the last three days I have been unable to afford the flour my pastries require, and so I have made none.”
“You could not afford flour, my dear Raf? How can this be? I had thought you near to being a wealthy man!”
“The price of wheat, my dear Captain, it is abominable. And if no one can afford bread, well, can anyone afford pastries? And my wife—”
“Well, your wife?”
“There is no one to buy her pottery. We may lose our home because we cannot pay the note, if, indeed, it is not destroyed outright.”
“How, destroyed?”
“Everyone speaks of marching on the Palace, Captain.”
“Everyone? Who is everyone?”
“Everyone! And if they march on the Palace, well, the Palace will march back, and what will be left of our city?”
“Come, come,” said Khaavren, “it cannot be as bad as that. There is always hope.”
But the Teckla would not be reconciled, and, after trying for some few moments, Khaavren gave him a few silver orbs to help him over these trying times. Raf was tearfully grateful, but Khaavren still left a sad and bitter man behind him as he continued on his way home.
Khaavren was considering the implications of this conversation, as well as thinking of his plans for the morrow, when, as he stepped onto the Street of the Glass Cutters, he was attacked by Dunaan.
We apologize if this seems abrupt, but, as history is a recapitulation of life, and as the history we are relating is Khaavren’s and not Dunaan’s, it seems appropriate to allow our narrative to reflect, as it were, Khaavren’s reaction to the event, as opposed to Dunaan’s, for, in fairness, as far as the Jhereg was
concerned, there was no trace of abruptness whatsoever. On the contrary, he had, having learned Khaavren’s route home, spent many hours in picking his spot, and then, not knowing precisely when Khaavren would be there, had spent several more hours waiting. He had three assistants who, on the one hand, were to warn him of Khaavren’s approach, and, on the other, were to make sure there were neither police nor friends of Khaavren nearby when the Captain approached.
We should add that, although these three nameless assistants performed their functions, they were not expected to be in sight when the attack took place, nor were they ever informed in so many words what was happening; this was by invariable Jhereg custom, and was done so that, should any of these three be caught and forced to testify under the Orb, each would be able to state that he had not seen Dunaan kill anyone, nor had he known that Dunaan was going to do so—the Orb would recognize these as truths, which would make it more difficult to convict, not only Dunaan, but the assistants as well.
On this occasion, Dunaan waited between two buildings next to which Khaavren invariably walked, and had, moreover, disabled the one glowbulb that operated in the vicinity (otherwise, of course, it would have helpfully lighted him up and alerted everyone in the area that someone was crouching in an alley). He was informed by certain signs that the Captain approached, and was informed in a like manner that there were neither police nor agents of the Captain anywhere in sight. Khaavren then stepped past the narrow gap between the buildings and Dunaan, utterly silent, and with a long, wicked poniard naked in his hand, glided up behind him.
Khaavren, guided by some warrior’s instinct, or perhaps by the half-heard sound of Dunaan’s heartbeat, turned in time to see the knife flashing down for his throat, and to feel the annoyance that he had, again, been taken by surprise, and even (for the reader ought to understand that the mind works much faster than the body in such circumstances) to berate himself for lack of caution, after surviving no fewer than three earlier attempts. This time, there could be no reprieve; this time the assassin was in perfect position, and Khaavren’s friends, though scarcely a hundred meters away, might as well have been at Redface for all they could help the Captain.
Khaavren had only time to begin a curse before the knife flashed down, continued past his shoulder, and hit the ground with a clang an instant before Dunaan, gasping and stumbling, landed on his knees. At this point Khaavren’s body reacted faster than his mind, for, before he had time to realize he had somehow been given exactly the reprieve he could not expect, his sword was in his hand.
Dunaan fell face first to the ground. The Captain noticed an object, such as a dart or a small knife, protruding from the exact center of the assassin’s
back; there was, in fact, very little blood, yet the effect on the Jhereg seemed profound. “I cannot move my legs,” he said conversationally.
“Well,” said Khaavren.
“I believe I have been poisoned.”
Khaavren endeavored to keep an eye on his assailant, who could have been only feigning an injury (although for what purpose, when he could have easily killed Khaavren, wasn’t clear), and at the same time look around to find his deliverer, who, for all Khaavren knew, might have only accidentally struck down the assassin. The Captain remarked, “If you have indeed been poisoned, my dear fellow, I give you my word that it was not my doing. Come, let me ask you a few questions.”
“Ask your questions to the air, if you wish; you’ll get no answers from me—at least, not until I have learned who has so treated me; for I cannot imagine how you could have struck me in the back while I was facing you.”
“Were you asking about me, my good Dunaan?” said someone who could not be seen, but whose voice appeared to come from the same shadows the Jhereg had lately quitted.
Khaavren’s eyes strained in that direction, while the assassin remarked, “I do not know who you are, for I am no longer able to turn my head. I believe, in fact, that I shall soon be unable to talk, and, no doubt, an inability to breathe will follow shortly.”
“You are perspicacious,” said the unknown.
“You have killed me, then,” said Dunaan.
“Exactly.”
“How did you find me?”
“I found the location where you would necessarily kill the Captain, for I knew you intended to do so, and then I waited until you revealed yourself. Come, what do you think?”
“And entirely admirable plan, I tell you so. But I cannot help but wonder—”
“Yes?”
“Who are you, and why have you done this? I confess that your voice sounds familiar, and yet—”
“How, you ask who I am? And why I have killed you? Come, your mind is not yet paralyzed; a moment’s thought should answer your question. Whom have you lately betrayed?”
“The Gods! Are you Mario?”
“None other.”
“But you were taken!”
“Obviously not; you ought to have assured yourself on the success of your scheme.”
“And yet, I heard an attempt was made on His Majesty, and that, in fact, there had been an arrest.”
“I cannot speak to that,” said the unknown, still hiding in the shadows. “But, well, here I am.”
“Captain,” said Dunaan, “you should be ashamed of letting a dangerous assassin loose—how is someone to be able to make an attempt on His Majesty and yet walk the streets? You are only a poor sort of officer after all.”
“Maybe,” said Khaavren. “Maybe I am as poor an officer as you are an assassin. Yet consider that His Majesty yet lives, and that so do I, whereas you—”
“Well, I cannot dispute you there. Ah! When I consider the chance that was before me, the opportunity that is now gone, it is enough to make me gnash my teeth, yet they will scarcely respond to commands. I perceive my speech is slurring. My breath is going. I cannot speak! I die, I die.”
“Well,” said Khaavren.
“Well,” said Mario.
Khaavren stood over the one called Dunaan, and discovered that, indeed, he was no longer breathing. He addressed the shadows, saying, “I perceive from certain things you have said that you, who seem to be called Mario, are the very one I spent so many hours looking for today.”
“Indeed I am. But what is this about an arrest being made? Have you taken the wrong man?”
“Hardly. I have taken the right woman.”
“The right woman? Come, sir; I have just saved your life. In exchange, tell me what you mean.”
“That is only fair,” judged Khaavren.
“And so?”
“I today arrested the Lady Aliera, who, for reasons I cannot guess, helped you to escape from the Palace, while I and all of my guardsmen were searching for you.”
“How, you have arrested Aliera?”
“I had that honor.”
“My dear Captain, having saved your life, I confess that I am now of a mind to kill you.”
“My blade is out, my dear assassin, and I am ready. You may try your best.”
“Oh, my best is sufficient, I promise you, for you are not protected by the Orb. If you are not convinced, you may ask Dunaan there.”
“As you would, then. I am ready.”
“Well, remain ready, then, and let us speak for a moment.”
“As you wish; you have, indeed, saved my life, and, though I long to get my hands on you, well, I cannot deny you a few minutes of conversation, at least.”
“Then tell me this: what is the charge against Aliera?”
“High treason.”
“And the evidence?”
“Irrefutable; the more so because she has made no effort to deny it; she pretends she hates His Majesty, and that anyone attempting to kill him has her favor.”
“She does not deny it?”
“Not in the least.”
“Will there be a trial?”
“A mere formality, unless she changes her mind and chooses to deny what she did; but even in that case there can be little doubt that His Majesty, who was, I assure you, displeased by the attempt on his life, will surely find her guilty.”
“And then?”
“And then, I’m afraid she must be executed.”
“Executed!”
“Yes.”
“By what means?”
“She will be taken to the Executioner’s Star, and there each of her appendages will be removed, in order, by a single blow of the ax. It may be that His Majesty will be kindly disposed, and will thus order the executioner to begin with her head; but it may be otherwise.”
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