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Authors: Steven Brust

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BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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“You know more than I would have thought, young man.”
“It is necessary for me to know a little of everything. Yes, I am speaking of elder sorcery.”
“Such a thing would be illegal.”
Mario gave her a look impossible to describe.
“If,” she said at last, “you would explain exactly what you are trying to do—”
“No,” said Mario.
A look of impatience crossed Cariss’s features; Mario touched the pouch into which he had put the bill; Cariss shrugged.
“I will tell you this much,” said Mario. “I need to be able to summon an immense amount of power, using elder sorcery, and I need to put it into a certain area and keep it there, though only for a few seconds.”
“You speak of power as if it were a glass of water that you could simply put somewhere.”
Mario set his glass on a table near his elbow. “Well?” he said.
“This power will do nothing,” said Cariss, shaking her head.
“That is what I wish.”
“And you want to do it yourself?”
“Exactly.”
“Even more difficult.”
“I am not offering a small sum of money,” said Mario. “Nor are you unskilled.”
“Are you attempting to flatter me?”
“No, madam, I am attempting to purchase your services.”
“To do what?” she said, beginning to sound a little vexed.
“To fill an area with power,” said Mario, who was, himself, becoming annoyed at having to repeat himself. “Is it possible?”
“Possible? Anything is possible. There would need to be a medium, and—”
“A what?”
“Something upon which to lay the power.”
“Would the air not work?”
“Too insubstantial—too thin.”
“What then?”
“Thick air.”
Mario frowned. “I do not understand.”
“Fog. Mist. Air with a great deal of water mixed in, so that the energy can attach itself to the water.”
“How much energy can you supply?”
She shook her head. “You still do not comprehend—it doesn’t matter how much, because it won’t be
doing
anything.
“Good,” said Mario. “Then I wish for a great deal of power. A great deal.”
“If your wish is to attract the attention of every sorcerer in a thousand-mile radius, well, I assure you there are easier ways to go about it.”
“That is not my wish.”
“It will happen, nevertheless.”
“Then let it.”
Cariss stared at him, as if trying to see into his mind to discover the use to which he intended to put this unusual spell. Then she sighed and said, “Does it matter what form it takes?”
“I do not understand.”
“The spell must be invested into an object if you, rather than I, are to use it. Does it matter what object?”
“No. Something small.”
“Will you be setting it off, or will another? If it might be another, I will instruct it to release upon a word or a sign. If it is to be you, then we can arrange for it to respond to your will. Or, if you prefer, I can arrange it so you simply open it like cracking an egg.”
“That would be best.”
“That is how it shall be.”
“Then you can do it?”
“I can do it.”
“How much power?”
“There is no limit to the amount of power available, only to the amount one person can control. When the energy isn’t doing anything, it need not be controlled.”
“And so?”
“And so we will summon more power than, I think, has ever been seen before in one place—and all of this power will do nothing except to exist, alerting every sorcerer for a thousand miles in all directions, and then it will be as if it had never happened.”
“Excellent.”
“How long do you wish it to hold together? A few seconds is easy; after that, I must find power to hold it together, and this power can only come from the Orb, or from itself; and I have no wish to attempt to control that sort of power even for something trivial—especially for something trivial.”
“Ten seconds would be good, five seconds may well be enough.”
Cariss considered for a moment, then said, “Eight seconds, then; or perhaps a little more. I can do that safely enough.”
“So be it. Eight seconds. How, precisely, will it work?”
“It will be a small glass ball. You will shatter the glass, and the area—how big an area?”
“A fifty-foot diameter will be sufficient.”
“Very well. The area will fill with fog—”
“How long will it take to fill?”
“Do you wish it to happen quickly?”
“Yes.”
“Less than the drawing of a breath, then.”
“Very well.”
“It will fill with fog, and each particle of this fog will be charged with immense power, which will do nothing, and everyone within the circle will be bathed in power, which will do nothing, although,” she frowned, “it may feel a trifle odd, I don’t know. In any case, after eight seconds, the power and the fog will dissipate, and nothing will have changed.”
“Good. That is what I wish. Apropos the fog—”
“Yes?”
“Can it be made thick, so that a person might hide in it?”
“That is easily done. It can be made so thick you will not be able to see your hand, though it be six inches in front of your eyes.”
“Perfect.”
Cariss shook her head, as though resigning herself to remaining mystified. “When do you need it?”
“When can I have it?”
“You can have it in an hour.”
“Then that is when I need it.”
“It will be ready.”
“I will wait here.”
“Very well. Oh, have you a preference for the mist?”
“A preference in what way?”
“Its color. Black, or red, or grey, or—”
“Grey,” said Mario. “The color of death. Let it be grey.”
“It shall be grey,” said the sorceress.
Which Treats of Dawn
On the Day of Battle.
 
 
 
T
HE MORNING OF THE SEVENTEENTH day of the month of the Vallista of the 532
nd
year of the Reign of Tortaalik the First was cool if one considered it to be late summer, but warm if one thought of it as early autumn. Even before dawn, while the Dragon Gate, with its high stone walls and strong iron bars, stood open to the world, there was a promise of a breeze from the east, bringing with it the sweet aroma the last of the blossoming late-apples, and a promise, as well, of that perfect weather where one is comfortable in a heavy cloak if one is standing still, in a lighter cloak for those walking about, or in a simple jerkin for those engaged in heavy exercise.
Should the reader realize with sudden dismay or annoyance that the weather has been all but ignored by the historian, we will point out that, according to our almanac, the weather had remained, with the least variation, slightly warm, but not forbiddingly so, with a little wind, and only a sprinkle of rain upon one or two of the nine days which comprise our history; there has been, in a word, little of interest about the weather, and therefore no reason to take up our reader’s valuable time by describing it.
Indeed, the only reason for mentioning it upon this occasion is, as the astute reader has no doubt realized, by way of making an ironic contrast between the conditions of the day and the events destined to take place upon it—a comparison that may be unnecessary in a strictly historical sense, but which, because of its appropriateness, the historian finds irresistible. Moreover, as great events are about to unfold, we consider it a pleasing device to begin with facts which are, in essence, unimportant—that is, to turn our reader’s attention to matters unrelated to our history, after which, the reader may be assured, we will gradually begin to reveal those momentous events, as well as the no less interesting personal events, the reader’s interest in which has, no doubt, caused him to remain with us to this point in our history.
The Dragon Gate, as we have already said, was built of iron and stone; the stone was in the form of a pair of towers which were built as part of the city wall itself; the iron consisted of bars three-quarters of a meter in thickness and separated by half a meter. It was, we should add, very difficult to see through these bars when the gate was closed. Should it happen that the Warlord wished to close the gate, this could be accomplished by releasing the single massive rope that worked an intricate series of wheels, gears, and pulleys which held the grid poised above the gateway. Dragons’ heads adorned each tower (or, rather, a sculptor’s rendering of such heads—to use real dragons’ heads would have been disrespectful).
Some few hours before the first light of morning filtered through the overcast the streets had emptied themselves of citizens—all of those who wished to leave had either done so, or realized, now that the Warlord had had the gates of the city closed against the expected attack of His Highness, they would be unable to do so; and those who remained tucked themselves into their homes where they hoped they would be safe. Daro, the Countess of Whitecrest, was, in fact, among the last to leave. We should add, as an aside, that this, while true for the district near the Dragon Gate, where we have placed ourselves, was not true everywhere—the Underside, for example, was quite active, and many historians place the beginning of the Uprising as during the night we have just skipped over; to be sure, there were isolated fires, and some shops had been broken into.
All of which is not to say that the streets near the Dragon Gate were empty—we were careful above to say the streets were empty
of citizens
; in fact, had we wished to indulge in low humor, we might have made a remark to the effect that there was a veritable army of people within the Gate, the supposed humor being found, of course, in the fact there
was
an army within the Gate—to wit, the Imperial Army, which flooded the square to overflowing with the regiment of the Calivor Pike-men led by Lord Tross, followed by the cavalry regiment of Sorett, led by Lady Glass, which was almost contained in the square, and filling the streets around the square on both sides was the cavalry brigade of Lookfor, still commanded by the Duke of Lookfor who had founded it. In the streets behind them, awaiting their command to move into place, were remaining infantry divisions too numerous to mention.
The Warlord was mounted in the middle of the Sorett Regiment; on one side of him was Lady Glass, on the other was Nyleth who commanded the Wizards of the Imperial Army. Other soldiers and wizards had manned the towers, awaiting the command, should it come, to lower the gate, and waiting as well to give word that Adron’s army had been sighted.
“Upon you,” said Rollondar to Nyleth, “falls the chief burden. You must, first of all, evaluate the threat contained by this spell-wagon he is reported to
have; you must determine if it is a real threat. You perceive, if it is a bluff, I will close the gate and we will defend it, while I disperse the troops to the other gates of the city, and we will fight defensively. If the threat is real, we must make destroying it the center of our strategy, wherefore we will leave the gate open and attack them through it, with the intention of leading you and your assistants against the spell-wagon.”
“I understand,” said Nyleth, an Athyra with large, brilliant eyes and a perpetual smile, giving him the appearance of a madman, which some thought he was. “But what if Lord Adron appears at another gate?”
“He will not,” said Rollondar. “Oh, he may end by attacking another gate if it looks best to him, but the Breath of Fire Battalion will appear first at the Dragon Gate—Adron would die rather than miss an opportunity for such theatrics. I give you my word that he hopes to give battle here and enter beneath this arch.”
“I understand, my lord.”
“Do you then, my good Nyleth, understand what your task is to be?”
“Yes, but—”
“But?”
Nyleth continued smiling, as he leaned forward; Rollondar resolutely reminded himself that, mad or not, the Athyra had proven himself in a score of battles. The wizard said, “If the threat does prove real—and, my lord, if there is elder sorcery involved it is almost certainly real—I will need a guard of fighters to help reach the spell-wagon.”
“You will have one,” said Rollondar, “for, should it prove necessary, and should nothing else present itself, I will send my personal guard to aid you against those who guard the spell-wagon.”
Nyleth looked around him at Rollondar’s legion of grim, powerful fighters, and his smile grew broader. “That will certainly do, my lord.”
“You understand, then?”
“Entirely.”
“Very well. Then no more need be said; now we await Lord Adron’s pleasure.” He did not seem entirely happy as he said it, for one rarely enjoys time spent waiting for another’s pleasure—certainly Greycat did not, as he paced the floor of the cabaret in the Underside, occasionally stopping to look outside to see if the one for whom he was waiting was arriving, or if violence had yet erupted in the streets. By chance, in that area, there had been as yet neither looting nor burning, and so Greycat returned to his pacing.
The cabaret was nominally closed, but one would not have guessed it to look upon it, for it appeared to have a sizable contingent of patrons—no fewer than a score of men and women were there, sitting, drinking, talking quietly, and occasionally glancing at Greycat with expressions of trust and confidence.
They all of them affected garb that would have been appropriate in the mountains, and they all of them had the look of those who spend a great deal of time out of doors; for these were none other than the advance guard of the army of brigands of whom Greycat had earlier spoken to Dunaan; they had arrived the day before, and been told to meet at the cabaret in the early hours of the morning. Now they were here, armed head to toe, and they awaited Greycat’s orders, while he waited for someone who, unaccountably, was late.
The door opened, but it was Grita who walked in. She glanced at the assembled brigands, appeared to dismiss them with a glance, and said, “We must speak.”
“Well, speak,” said Greycat, who, though surprised to see her, did not wish to acknowledge this fact.
“In private.”
“Very well. In back?”
“Outside.”
“If that is your desire,” said Greycat, shrugging.
“I will.”
“Here we are, then.”
“Yes.”
“Well, what have you to say?”
“He for whom you are waiting will not appear.”
“How, Dunaan will not appear?”
“That is correct.”
“What could keep him? He knows that I but await word of his mission’s success before going to His Majesty.”
“His mission did not succeed.”
“What? The Jhereg refused?”
Grita frowned. “I know nothing of any Jhereg refusing anything.”
“But then, of what do you speak?”
“I assumed he was to kill the annoying Tiassa.”
“Yes, yes. And then, afterwards, he was to go to the Jhereg and—”
“There was no afterwards.”
Greycat stared. “How, he failed to kill the Tiassa?”
“Exactly.”
“Are the Gods protecting this guardsman?” Greycat, we should add, pronounced the word
guardsman
in a tone of utmost contempt.
Grita shrugged. “In this case, it seems an assassin was protecting him; or, at least, that is how it seems from what I was able to learn.”
“An assassin? Do you mean—”
“Yes. Dunaan is dead.”
“Dead!”
“Killed by a Jhereg assassin.”
“And the Tiassa yet lives!”
“Exactly.”
For the first time, Greycat’s eyes now held doubt and confusion.
“Well?” said Grita. “Do we continue?”
“How, you mean continue to His Majesty? Not for the world! We can do nothing until we have killed the Tiassa.”
“But still, one man—”
“He will denounce me to His Majesty.”
“Well, but does not His Majesty know you already?”
“I know how to play to His Majesty’s weaknesses; I cannot do so while the Tiassa lives, for he has His Majesty’s ear.”
Grita shrugged. “What then?”
“We must kill him ourselves.”
“What, you and me?”
“You and me, and our friends in there.” He gestured toward the cabaret where his band of cutthroats waited.
“Do you think there are enough of us?”
“Do not jest; it is no laughing matter. Yes, I think there are enough of us.”
“Then let us be about it.”
“We must find him, first.”
“That is taken care of,” said Grita with a peculiar smile.
“Taken care of? How?”
“He is at home, and I have set spies there; when he leaves, we will be informed.”
Greycat smiled for the first time—a smile reminiscent of Grita’s. “Excellent. Then we must return to waiting, but now, at least, I know why I am waiting.”
“Shall we go inside?”
“By all means.”
“After you.”
“I am leading.”
The first haze of morning light, so deceptive and ambiguous, had still, perhaps, not quite touched the Palace walls when Sethra stood in the hall which had once borne her name but which was now, after the Lavode Scandal, called the North Room, high in the Dragon Wing. The hall was not overly large, being crowded when more than a hundred were present, and the hearth, which filled most of the west wall, seemed almost absurd for such a small room. There was now a fire upon it, however, and the two score or so assembled there were grateful for it; the furnaces which heated the Palace had
not yet been tested for the season, and none were ignited—and the high reaches of the Dragon Wing were but ill-heated at the best of times.
All of those assembled, including Sethra, affected black garb without a speck of color anywhere, save for the chance gleam, here and there, of a weapon’s hilt, or a red or blue jewel that might glitter from a sheath or a belt. There were hard wooden chairs in the room, set in a large circle, and every chair was occupied. Sethra’s voice was not loud, but it was penetrating. “Our task,” she said, “is the protection of the Imperial Wing, and especially of His Majesty. We will be aiding the Red Boot Battalion, but not working with them. I have chosen this course because, while it may be that the Imperial Guard have the skill to protect His Majesty from throngs of rioting citizens, we cannot depend on them to protect His Majesty from well-formed and -trained Dragon warriors; furthermore, while I cannot support the rebellion, neither do I wish to attack Lord Adron, and, so far as I can see, duty requires no such attack. Has anyone anything to say?”
“I do,” said a thin woman who, to look at her, one would think too retiring to ever speak in a gathering of more than three; yet her voice was strong and confident.
BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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