Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards) (47 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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But with circumstances as they were, it was not so easy. Mario led them on a chase throughout the Imperial Wing, while Khaavren, after sending a messenger for more guards, directed the search, using two score of messengers to inform himself of the progress of the search, and deploying his forces as best he could.
Who can follow Mario’s path through the Imperial Wing? From the reports of cooks, we know that he passed through the kitchen; from the reports of gardeners, we know he passed over one of the low roofs near the Athyra Wing; from Menia, who took a thrown knife in her left thigh and a severe knock on the head, we know that he ventured into the tunnels connecting the Imperial Wing with the Lyorn Wing; from a report by Brudik, Lord of the Chimes, we know that, wearing Menia’s stolen cloak, he walked boldly and calmly into the Dragon Wing—the last place anyone would have expected; and that he was nearly out of the door of this wing—would, in fact, have escaped by simply walking out of the Sub-wing of the Guard, had he not been seen by Thack, who knew everyone who belonged to the uniform, and who, upon seeing the back of a head that he did not recognize above a cloak that he did, gave the alert in an instant.
Mario was almost captured then and there, but, it seemed, the assassin knew the wing better than any had thought—better even than many of his pursuers, and entered what looked to be a closet on the second story of the Warlord’s Sub-wing but which actually opened in back, putting him near a stairway up to the third level, which housed the Lavodes—who, having been alerted by Sethra, were none of them there, but were all off searching for him.
By this time he had abandoned the cloak, and was dressed simply in his tight-fitting black and grey garments, hung about with weapons, and he was also bleeding slightly from his left arm where Khaavren had nicked him, when he stepped out of a hidden doorway, into the hall, and practically into the lap, as it were, of Aliera e’Kieron.
They stared at each other for a moment, Aliera appearing not at all worried by the naked sword, and Mario not certain if such beauty as he was seeing could actually exist, or if perchance he had been killed during the chase, and was now meeting his reward in the Paths of the Dead—in fact, for an instant, he rather hoped he was; but then he recalled that he had matters to finish that required he live a bit longer, so, on reflection, he hoped he was not.
Aliera said, “You are a Jhereg.”
Mario said, “You are the most beautiful woman who has ever lived, or ever will live, in the Empire or anywhere else.”
“Well,” said Aliera.
“I am,” remarked Mario, “confronted by a difficult decision.”
“Life seems to be full of them,” agreed Aliera. “What is yours?”
“Whether to continue running for my life, or to stay here and look at you.”
Aliera allowed herself a smile. “Were it I,” she said, “I should choose life.”
“And yet—”
“Who is after you?”
Mario laughed. “Ask rather, who is not?”
“Well, what have you done?”
“They believe I tried to kill His Majesty.”
“Kill His Majesty?” said Aliera, her eyes widening. “That is an excellent thought; His Majesty ought to die.”
“How, you think so?”
“Entirely. And yet you said, they think.’”
“And so I did.”
“Is it not true?”
“Oh, it is true in part.”
“In part?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care to explain?”
“I thought I was to kill His Majesty, and, in my own mind, I even attempted to do so.”
“Well?”
“But those for whom I made the attempt—”
“You made the attempt for others?”
“For money.”
For an instant Aliera’s face darkened, then she said, “Well, but you are a Jhereg.”
“That is true. And you are beautiful.”
“You have already said that.”
“And you have already—”
“Yes. But, then, continue with your history.”
“It seems that I was not to actually kill him, only to appear to make the attempt, after which my mind was to be destroyed so that I could not identify those who had instigated this plan.”
Aliera frowned. “They must be paying you an exorbitant amount of money.”
“Not enough.”
“But then—”
“They have betrayed me, you see; it is clear that someone wanted an unsuccessful attempt on His Majesty’s life, and I was to be used to carry it out, and then I was to be thrown away.”
“Ah. Only—”
“Yes. Only I have lived, and my mind is not destroyed, and I may yet escape.”
“And if you do, will you attempt once more to kill His Majesty?”
“I will not.”
“Oh,” said Aliera, sounding disappointed.
“But I will certainly speak with those who gave me this mission, and I will speak to them in terms which allow for no doubt about my opinions.”
“Well, I understand that. But if, as you say, they are searching for you, ought you not to be on your way?”
“It is, as I have said, a difficult choice.”
“What, can you be serious? To escape with your life or to stare at me? A difficult choice?”
“Yes.”
“You are mad.”
“Certainly I am mad, in a particular way.”
“And yet—”
“Well, I have chosen.”
“And what is your choice?”
“I will stand here and look at you until they take me away, for each second more that I can absorb every nuance of your form will be hours of pleasure in the future, so that—”
“Come with me.”
“How, where are we going?”
“First, around this corridor, then down these stairs.”
“Well, and then?”
“To this window, which we will open, like this.”
“And yet, I do not—”
“After that, into this room, which, as daughter of the Heir, is still mine. Do
you stay here while I stand by the doorway, so that if anyone should attempt to gain entrance, well, I will kill him.”
Mario swallowed. “But you are a Dragonlord,” he said at last.
“Yes,” said Aliera. “And you are beautiful.”
The effect these words had on Mario can scarcely be exaggerated. He took two steps backward and ended, fortunately, by sitting in a chair, after which he sat in a daze, not really hearing Aliera’s conversation with Thack, who, in the company of two other guardsmen, arrived in time to see Aliera staring at the window at the far end of the hall.
“My lady!” they cried.
She said, “Are you looking for a slender man in grey and black, bleeding slightly from the arm?”
“We are indeed; has he been here?”
“I nearly think he has,” said Aliera, still staring intently at the open window.
The guardsmen thanked her profusely and went through the window themselves, following the only possible path, which led over some roofs toward the Lyorn Wing, while Aliera returned to the room and shut the door.
“What is your name?” she said.
“Mario, my Lady.”
“I am Aliera e’Kieron. You will remain here for an hour, after which time I will show you how to escape the Palace.”
“My lady—”
“Well?”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“I know a way,” said Aliera.
For Khaavren, the next two hours were among the most active in a life filled with activity—he spoke with thirty-one people who had, or may have, seen Mario; he studied the marks around eleven pried-open windows; he consulted six drawings of the Palace; he found blood stains in three places where he did not expect to, and failed to find them in another four where he suspected he would; he also gave orders for more searchers here or for abandoning searches there, and, in the end, he discovered a significant footprint, followed the most obvious path, and was forced to conclude that his quarry had escaped.
This, however, did not end his activities, for there were certain puzzles that he was determined to solve: a window left open where Mario had not gone, a window that was closed through which he seemed to have gone, and the lack of marks and signs, especially the blood stain we have already mentioned, where there ought to be some. He therefore spent yet another hour
questioning and cross-questioning witnesses, until, at last, a suspicion began to grow.
He spent still another hour, much of it on his hands and knees on the grounds outside of the Dragon Wing or squinting over diagrams of the Palace, until, although he disliked the conclusion he had perforce reached, he could no longer deny it. It was then that he came to His Majesty (once again interrupting his dinner), and explained what he had discovered and how he had proved it.
His Majesty gave the only orders possible under the circumstances, and, on this occasion, Khaavren, even to himself, had no objection to make. And so it was that, at the fifth hour after noon on the sixteenth day of the month of Vallista, in the five hundred and thirty-second year of the Reign of His Imperial Majesty Tortaalik the First, Khaavren, his face pale with fury, presented himself at the chamber of Aliera e’Kieron and, upon being admitted, said, “Madam, I have the honor to arrest you in the name of the Emperor; please give me your sword and come with me at once.”
Aliera bowed her head slightly and handed him her sword. “What delayed you?” she said.
Which Treats of the
State
of the Empire
On the Very Eve of Crisis
.
 
 
 
W
E MUST NOW TURN OUR attention back to Adron’s encampment, which was filled with soldiers ready to ride, to kill, or to be killed at the least wish of His Highness, Prince Adron e’Kieron, Duke of Eastmanswatch and Dragon Heir to the throne. The camp was in such a state as anyone who has been a soldier will recognize at once—a camp ready to move, to attack, or to defend at the first word or the least sign of trouble. The call to action had been sounded, without an official word being spoken, by yester-day’s sudden departure from the city, and now, again with no orders issued, everyone knew that battle was coming, and would not be long delayed.
Some whispered that His Majesty had unleashed an army, and it would be arriving over the crest in moments. Others claimed to have heard Adron order his daughter and Sethra Lavode to steal the Orb from over His Majesty’s head, and that Lord Adron would be taking possession of the city as soon as he received word that this had been accomplished. Still others insisted that Adron was waiting for intelligence indicating that the exact moment was right to launch an assault on the city. In any case, the horizon was scanned constantly for signs of spies or messengers, and, as there were a good number of spies (Adron’s) and messengers (again, Adron’s) each day, there were also a good number of false alarms; yet it should be clearly understood that these in no sense discouraged those who watched.
The messenger who arrived from the Palace at around the seventh hour after noon, having ridden by the fastest post, was, therefore, watched eagerly and assisted even more eagerly; and when he was admitted to Adron’s tent, the tent was itself then watched with the greatest possible eagerness, in hopes of learning somewhat from Lord Adron’s countenance whenever he should emerge.
Within the tent itself, Aerich, who had been conversing with His Highness when the message arrived, watched Adron, who was staring at the yellow
parchment in his hand as if willing it to burn—although he could not really be doing so, because had he actually so willed, it would have. One might say that, rather than the note, it was the Lyorn who burned—who burned, that is, to know what was written upon it that had caused His Highness to at first pale, and then flush, and now merely stare fixedly at the parchment, reading it over and over again. Aerich, though uncharacteristically impatient to know what it contained, would certainly not ask.
At last Adron looked up at him, and at first it seemed that he had mastered his emotions, but, on a closer look, Aerich saw that this was not the case. The reader may be familiar with the peculiar smelters that fill some of the towns along the Twindle River with their stenches; these smelters use a method of generating heat that requires an attendant to regulate the air flow into the furnace in such a way that the fires do not become so hot as to melt the furnace, which would cause a general conflagration, and yet enough air is let out so that the entire furnace does not explode from the heated air trapped within. In the parlance of that profession, this is called, “stroking the vent,” and requires a gentle touch combined with nerves that resemble the exact sort of high-grade steel the furnaces produce. We mention this because it seemed to Aerich that this was exactly what His Highness was doing—attempting to release enough of his anger so that he would not erupt into irrationality, yet not so much as to unleash the very fires he sought to control. In this context, we hope the metaphor, striking as it was to Aerich, is also sufficiently clear to the reader.
Adron, without a word, handed the note to Aerich. The note took this form: “Your Highness is informed that Aliera e’Kieron has today been arrested for High Treason, and is confined to the Imperial Prisons in the Iorich Wing to await trial.” That was all, except for the signature, which was the mark of Liseter, the Court Scribe, and contained the appendix: “By the wishes of His Majesty, Tortaalik the First, Emperor of Dragaera.”
Aerich wordlessly handed the note back to His Highness, unable to find anything to say.
“Well, Duke?” said His Highness.
Aerich said, “I should wish, above all, Highness, to learn the details.”
“And so I shall, Duke,” said Adron. “I shall go to His Majesty and inquire after particulars. But I shall bring my army with me.”
“Your Highness—”
“For now, I will give orders that the spell wagon be loaded with the argument I have prepared for His Majesty.”
“Sire—”
“The army will set out in the morning. The city will be mine in the afternoon. The Orb will revolve around my head before nightfall.”
“Then Your Highness has made up his mind?”
“Irrevocably.”
Aerich bowed. “Your Highness perceives, no doubt, that I cannot remain.”
Adron nodded. “May the best of fortune be yours, Duke.”
“And Your Highness’s as well.”
“Perhaps we shall meet again.”
“Perhaps we shall,” said Aerich. And so it was Aerich, not Adron, who emerged at last from the tent. At first, this was disappointing, for nothing could be learned from the Lyorn’s countenance; yet, in only a short time, he and his servant were mounted, and were departing the encampment at a good speed, which led to endless speculation: Some believed that Aerich was a diplomatist, attempting to reconcile His Highness with the court; of these, a few believed his departure signaled success, but most were convinced that he had failed. Still others believed that Aerich was a powerful sorcerer, who would be in advance of the battalion when the attack was launched. A few maintained that he had offered His Highness an army to help them against the Imperial Army. Some suggested that he was a close friend of His Highness’s, but that, being a Lyorn, he would not take arms against His Majesty (these last were, we should add, essentially correct).
In any case, speculation ended just a few minutes later when Lord Adron emerged and ordered his spell-wagon prepared. It was not his custom to announce his decisions, or even to let his troops know that action was planned, but, from the orders he gave, and from the meeting he held with his officers far into the night, there could be no possible doubt this time.
Adron informed Fawnd that they would be leaving at once and traveling quickly; such was the Lyorn’s expression, communicated by voice and gesture, that his servant, although just lately recovered from the first such journey, and although dreading another as he dreaded fire, allowed neither whimper nor sigh to escape his lips, and allowed neither frown nor scowl to cross his countenance.
Adron and Fawnd rode fast and hard, using the Imperial posts, Fawnd keeping up the rugged pace of the journey without complaint; and so they reached the Dragon Gate shortly after dark. Aerich wasted no time by stopping at the house on the Street of the Glass Cutters, but, rather, gave certain explicit instructions to Fawnd, after which he turned at once toward the Imperial Palace.
Fawnd was warmly greeted by Srahi and Mica, who were speaking in low tones near the fire that Srahi had built, pretending that Mica’s injury required warmth; she was also making certain that he drank Covaath cider in great quantities, both to ease his pain and to help him gain strength. Neither of these treatments, we should say, had been particularly recommended by the
physicker, but Srahi insisted upon them, claiming that they had been used by her family for generations and had never failed. Mica, for his part, had no thought of resisting her ministrations, although he was careful not to allow the cider to intoxicate him.
Fawnd appeared, then, in this domestic scene, and, addressing both of them, said, “Pack.”
They looked at him, understandably startled. “I beg your pardon,” said Mica, imitating Tazendra as best he could. “But I do not understand what you do me the honor of telling me.”
“Pack,” repeated Fawnd.
“Well,” said Mica. “But, pack for what?”
“To leave.”
“How, we are leaving?”
“Yes,” said Fawnd.
Srahi turned a worried look upon Mica, and said, “But you are not fit to travel.”
“Nevertheless,” intoned Fawnd. Then he added to Srahi, “You, too.”
“How me?”
“Yes.”
“By whose orders?”
“My master’s.”
“I—” Srahi stopped before certain words were out of her mouth, remembering, in the first place, how intimidating the Lyorn could be, and second, realizing that, if Mica were to be traveling, there was good reason to be traveling with him.
“But why?” said Mica.
Fawnd shrugged.
At this point, Daro appeared, leaning on the nearest wall, and looking pale, for she, of them all, was in considerable pain, and after having read the message thoughtfully provided by Pel and promptly delivered by Srahi, she had returned to her bed and remained there until this moment. Now she said, “What is this I hear?”
Fawnd bowed low to this woman, who, though he did not know her, and though she was dressed only in a housecoat, was clearly a noblewoman. “My lady,” he said, “I have been instructed by my master to see to it that we—by which I mean Srahi, Mica, and I—leave the house, and the city, and even the district, within the hour.”
“Within the hour!” cried Srahi and Mica together.
“Yes,” said Fawnd.
“But,” said Daro, “who is your master?”
“Duke Arylle,” said Fawnd.
“I do not know him,” said Daro suspiciously.
Mica said, “My lady, the Lord Khaavren speaks of him as Aerich.”
“Ah, yes,” she said. “I have, indeed, heard him pronounce this name, and that with the greatest respect and affection. But, has he given a reason for these strange orders?”
“No, madam, he has not.”
Daro made her way to a couch and eased herself into it. After breathing deeply for a moment, she said, “Have you, yourself, any guess about why he gave these orders?”
“No, madam.”
“Well.” She pondered for a moment, then said, “Was he at the Palace before issuing these orders?”
“No, madam.”
“But then, where was he?”
“At Lord Adron’s encampment.”
“Oh,” said Daro. “That may explain everything.” She frowned, then, and said, “Well, you had best be about it.”
“And yet,” said Srahi, “if my master returns, and I am not here—”
“I will explain,” said Daro.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“But there is something you must do for me.”
“Yes, my lady?”
“You must pack quickly, and you must, in addition, pack up everything of your master’s which he would want preserved, and that you can put on a wagon in the time you have. Do not waste a moment.”
“I will do so, my lady,” said Srahi, who was beginning to understand that the matter, whatever it was, was entirely serious.
“You,” said Daro. “What is your name?”
“Fawnd, my lady.”
“You must nearly be packed already, for you have come from a journey.”
“That is true, my lady.”
“So you find a wagon—here, take this purse, pay whatever you have to. A wagon with a good team—can any of you drive a team?”
“I can,” said Mica.
“Good. Find a wagon and a team and bring them here at once.”
“My lady,” said Fawnd, “I will do all you ask.”
“Where are we to go?” said Mica.
“Bra-moor,” said Fawnd.
“Which is?” said Daro.
“My master’s estate, near the Collier Hills.”
“Very well,” said Daro. “You had best be about your business, then.”
“Yes, my lady,” said Srahi and Mica. Mica then looked at the heavily bandaged stump of his leg and scowled, but said nothing. Srahi gifted him with a tender look, which he returned in full measure.
“We must,” remarked Srahi, “be certain to bring your bar-stool.”
The reader may be wondering about Tazendra, who was last seen in the company of Sethra, but who did not, in fact, appear in the Portrait Room with the Enchantress. When Sethra had been summoned, Tazendra thought it a good time to attend to certain matters, wherefore she took herself to the Dzur Wing of the Palace—that great, lofty, dark, empty hall where hung oils of only the greatest of the great and which was dominated by the mammoth dzur sculpted in the depths of time by Pitra himself; from there she followed one of the side wings, along the passage where the Lists were kept, stopping, from time to time, to find the name of a relative. On each side of this hall were sitting rooms done each of them in stone, and each featuring a different weapon made famous by some great warrior, and named, in some cases for the warrior, in others for the weapon. Eventually, she chose one that was named for Arylle, who had led the expedition which had discovered, among other things, Tazendra’s homeland; Arylle was also renowned for being the lone survivor of an ill-fated foray against a pirate stronghold on an island in the far west (this was unusual, because, to get one of these rooms in the Dzur Wing named after one, it was generally a requirement that the hero not survive).

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