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Authors: Steven Brust

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Khaavren’s uniform, to be sure, attracted a certain amount of attention from the angry populace, but his martial air and his calm demeanor made those who looked upon him think that perhaps there would be better targets upon which to vent their frustration. And moreover, there rode next to him a woman with a large sword slung over her back, and the colors of a Dzurlord in her clothing, and with a haughty, challenging gleam in her eye; as well as a man wearing the costume as well as the cool countenance of a Lyorn warrior; and a cavalier upon whose fierce, angry eye none could look—in other words, they were not set upon as they rode through the crowd.
It was, nevertheless, a crowd, and they were on horseback, so it took them some time to reach the Toehold Bridge, although after they had passed it there were no more delays, and soon they arrived at the Gate of the Seven Flags, which was built of thick mortar and had a single tower from which the gate could be worked—which gate, we should add, was, in fact, three separate slabs of hard, lacquered wood, each one eight or nine centimeters thick. And which gate was, as Tazendra had predicted, closed.
“Well?” she said.
Khaavren shrugged. “Open the gate,” he called.
There were ten or twelve soldiers on duty, as well as a mounted messenger who remained on the alert to run for help in the case of trouble. “How, open the gate?” they called back. “Impossible.”
Khaavren shrugged and rode forward so that, when he spoke, they could not fail to hear him. “I am,” he said in a conversational tone, “Khaavren of Castlerock and, by His Majesty’s will, Captain of the Imperial Guard, Redboot Battalion. Some of you should recognize me. My friends and I are required to pass through this gate on Imperial business. If, therefore, this gate is not open in one minute, I will open it myself, treating any who oppose me
however I must. Those who survive will be reported to His Majesty, with what results I am certain your imagination will tell you. The minute,” he concluded, “begins now.”
It took perhaps twenty seconds to open the gate. They rode through and heard it close behind them.
“The Dragon Gate,” remarked Khaavren, “is this way.”
“I hope the battle has not yet started,” remarked Tazendra.
“Well, in fact,” said Khaavren, “though perhaps for a different reason, so do I.”
It was twenty minutes past the eighth hour of the morning as Greycat, standing before his score of cutthroats, remarked, “I had no idea they would attempt to take horses through the throng of soldiery.”
“Well,” said Grita, “but they did, and we have lost them.”
“Unless,” said Greycat, “we can determine whither they are bound, in which case, you perceive, it matters not in the least if we are following them or not, for we will nevertheless be able to arrive where they are.”
“But can you make this determination?”
“Perhaps. Consider, they are not going toward the Palace.”
“Well, that is true, they are not going toward the Palace.”
“And neither are they going toward where the Uprising is at its peak.”
“That is also true. What then?”
“Well, where else could they be going?”
“Only to the battle.”
“Exactly.”
“But—”
“Yes?” said Greycat.
“The battle, when it begins, and if it has not already begun, will be at the Dragon Gate, and we saw them riding
away
from the Dragon Gate.”
“That is only natural; they could not have ridden horses through the infantryman assembled on the street.”
“Well, but what then?”
“They must have another means of arriving at the battle.”
“What means is that?”
“I do not know. Perhaps they think to arrive by way of the Gate of the Seven Flags.”
Grita shrugged. “It is near to the Dragon Gate, but it will be closed, or Rollondar is a fool.”
“It will not be closed to the Captain of the Guard.”
“Maybe,” admitted Grita. “And yet, even if they open it to him, well, we have no Captain of the Guard with us.”
“But do you agree that that is how they have gone?”
“It seems not unlikely.”
“Then we know that they have gone, for some reason, to the battle, perhaps to assist the Warlord. So much the better for us.”
“How?”
“Because, should his throat be cut in the midst of battle, no one will think anything of it.”
“Well, that is true. But how do we get there? The gate they are using, as I’ve said, must be closed, and the Gate of the Dragon is filled with soldiery.”
“Ah, that
is
a question. Let me think.”
Greycat considered for some few moments, then called, “This way!” His troop, if it may be dignified by such a term, followed him, although they did not do so in anything like a military fashion. Still, they followed.
After a time, Grita said, “We seem to be approaching the Gate of the Seven Flags.”
“Your are perspicacious.”
“And yet, it is closed.”
“I will convince them to open it.”
“How?”
“You will see.”
When they reached the gate, which had been closed behind our friends, Greycat paused some distance away to study the situation. He turned to Grita and said, “Do you see the fellow on the horse?”
“Well?”
“Kill him.”
Grita shrugged. “Very well,” she said.
She walked over to him, calling out, “My dear sir, a moment of your time please, for there is trouble in the city and I am worried.”
As he turned to consider her, Greycat turned to his band and said, “Take the tower.”
The brigands charged the tower. The soldier on the horse turned, startled, and then was startled yet again as Grita grasped his saddle and, using it as a handhold, vaulted up and neatly cut his throat.
The battle at the tower lasted scarcely longer than it had taken them to open the gate to Khaavren’s command. A few more minutes, and the gate stood open.
Grita said, “Should we not close it behind us?”
“A good idea,” Greycat acknowledged, and gave the order. The rope was cut by one of the band who was skilled at scaling walls, after which he rejoined them.
“What now?” said Grita.
“We have just sealed ourselves out of the city,” said Greycat. “And yet, I confess this does not worry me overmuch, for soon I will be able to send to His Majesty to bring me an escort to the Palace. But first—”
“Yes,” said Grita. “First we must kill the Tiassa.”
“This way,” said Greycat.
It yet lacked a few minutes of the ninth hour of the morning.
Which Treats of the Meeting
of Kbaavren and Greycat,
And the Discussion Which Took Place
Between Them.
 
 
 
K
HAAVREN DREW REIN AT THE top of Flag Hill and looked down at the scene spread out below.
“They are not attacking,” remarked Tazendra.
“Who?” said Khaavren.
“Why, neither of them are attacking,” explained Tazendra.
“That is true,” said Khaavren. “But I wondered which of them you had expected to attack.”
“Ah. I see.” She frowned. “Both of them, I should think.”
“Well, that is not unreasonable.”
“I am glad you think so.”
“What now?” said Pel.
“In fact,” said Khaavren, “I am uncertain. Aerich?”
“The Tiassa asks the Lyorn for an idea?” said Aerich with a smile. Then he shrugged. “We must find Adron. He is, no doubt in the battle-wagon.”
“Spell-wagon,” said Tazendra.
The others looked at her.
“What is the difference?” said Khaavren.
“A spell-wagon carries spells into a battle,” said Tazendra.
“Well,” said Khaavren. “And a battle-wagon carries battles into spells?”
“Not in the least,” said Tazendra patiently. “A battle-wagon carries spells intended to be used in battle against the enemy, whereas a spell-wagon may carry any sort of spell whatsoever; that is, a battle-wagon is necessarily a spell-wagon, while the reverse is not true. Do you see?”
“In truth,” said Khaavren, “I do not; the difference appears to be trivial.”
“Perhaps it is,” said Tazendra doubtfully. “And yet, it seems to me—”
“I beg your pardon,” said Aerich. “Tazendra is right; it is an important difference, and one we ought to bear in mind.”
“How, do you mean it?”
“I have never been more serious.”
“And yet—”
“Were that—” said Aerich, indicating the large wagon below, “a battle-wagon, it would hold sorcerers and artifacts and would be used against Lord Rollondar’s troops.”
“Well?”
“Well, I can say little more, for some of what I know was told to me in confidence.”
“But,” said Pel softly, “you, Tazendra, say the spells in the wagon are not to be used against the Imperial Army?”
“Oh,” said Tazendra, confident now that she had unexpectedly been supported by the Lyorn. “I don’t say that at all.”
“But then, what are you saying?” said Khaavren with some exasperation.
“That we don’t know what spells it contain, and that, therefore, we ought not assume—”
“Ah,” said Pel. “I begin to comprehend the difference. Should we attack with the notion that it is a battle-wagon, then we might—”
“Yes, yes,” said Khaavren impatiently. “I understand.” He looked down at it, and, moreover, at the grim warriors who stood around it. “In any case, we must climb onto the wagon, and enter the tent, for there can be no doubt that Adron is there.” He sighed. “Why do they not attack?” he murmured.
“Who?” said Tazendra.
Some hundreds of yards away, Rollondar said, for the seventeenth time, “Why do they not attack?”
Lady Glass, who stood next to him, shrugged. “He wishes to fight a defensive battle, that is all; he wants you to attack, so that he can use his greater mobility.”
Rollondar shook his head. “What is your opinion?” he asked Roila.
“I haven’t one,” said the Lavode, but she was frowning and looking out at the neatly formed lines of the Breath of Fire Battalion.
Nyleth appeared at the moment, returning from the front ranks. “Well?” snapped the Warlord.
Nyleth shook his head, “I can tell you nothing,” he said, smiling as if it were the greatest joke in the world.
“How, nothing?”
“Exactly. Counter-spells, illusions, blinders, cloaks, baffles—whatever it is, if it is anything, more work has gone into concealing it than I have seen go into the actuality of most spells.”
At this moment, a messenger, wearing the livery of the Imperial Army, rode up the Warlord, saluted, and said, “Your Excellency.”
“Well?”
“There has been a massacre at the Gate of the Seven Flags.”
“How, a massacre?”
“No one is guarding it, Excellency.”
“Is it open or closed?”
“Closed.”
Rollondar nodded grimly, then frowned. “A clever maneuver, but why does he not take advantage of it by storming the city through that gate?”
The messenger said, “Excellency, it may be that he had nothing to do with it. The streets—”
“Well?”
“The streets are filled with rioters.”
“Rioters?”
“Everywhere, Excellency.”
“Then there are no longer clear paths to the other gates?”
“I fear there are not—certainly the streets between here and the Gate of the Seven Flags is not clear.”
Rollondar stared once more through the Dragon Gate, as if trying to find his enemy and read his mind. “So,” he said, as if to himself. “His spell is either a bluff or not, and he is either behind the rioting or not, and he either intends to assault another gate or not.”
“This lack of intelligence is insupportable.”
Rollondar fell silent, scowled, and took counsel with himself. After a moment he then straightened up. “I must gamble, it seems,” he said. “It is an elaborate bluff, or a profound threat. If it is a bluff, it is intended to make us attack him and leave the gate undefended. If a threat, he wants time to prepare it. I believe the threat is real, and so I make my throw. But I will hedge in these ways: First, I will send a brigade of infantry to each of the other gates, who will sweep aside any opposition on the way; second, because our forces are thus reduced, we will not attempt to surround them, but will attack on three sides, and Lookfor will hold a division ready to defend the gate should Adron charge it. Oraani,” he added, addressing his commander of infantry, “attend to the gates as I have said.”
This order was acknowledged, and Rollondar continued looking forward, but his countenance was clear and strong, and there was even something like a smile upon his lips, now that the waiting was over and the time for action had arrived. “We attack at once,” he said. “Glass, prepare to charge them. Tross, pike-men behind. Lookfor, you will guard both flanks as well as the gate behind us when it clears. Lavodes, go with Nyleth, break through, and destroy Adron’s spell.”
There were echoes all around as officers acknowledged orders. Lady Glass said, “Well?”
“Now,” said the Warlord.
Glass gave the signal to charge. It was, at this moment, almost exactly the tenth hour of the morning; and, at the Palace, His Majesty had just refused to treat with, or even to see, the delegation headed by Plumtree. His schedule now called for him to be in the Portrait Room, so that is where he took himself, still refusing to deviate from his agenda. Thack walked before him, Sethra Lavode behind.
We will now turn our attention to the other side of the wall, a scant minute later, where Molric e’Drien poked his head, threw the entry flap of Adron’s tent and, with some hesitation said, “Highness?”
“What is it?” snapped Lord Adron, not looking up from his work.
“They are charging.”
“Well?”
“The Lavodes are in the vanguard, and seem determined to push their way through.”
Adron looked up, then, and a certain doubt appeared in his eyes. “Is Sethra there?”
“No, Highness.”
“Ah.” He returned to his work. “Stop them,” he said. “Hold them for an hour.”
“Yes, Highness.”
At this same time, Khaavren said, “There!”
“Where?” said Pel and Tazendra together.
“Between the near flank, and the file headed by the woman with her head shaved.”
“Well,” said Pel, “I see the place; what of it?”
“When battle is joined, the flank must move that way, while the long file has to go forward.”
“Why is that?” said Tazendra.
Khaavren, who had seen more than a few battles, just shook his head. “It must be that way.”
“What of it?” said Pel.
“That will allow us to slip past the lines and reach the battle-wagon.”
“Spell-wagon.”
“Yes, the spell-wagon.”
“They clash!” cried Tazendra. “Ah, what are they doing?”
“Rollondar,” said Khaavren, “is hoping to use his pike-men to make the horses shy, so that his cavalry can find purchase against their line—clever, but I do not believe it will work against warriors—and horses—trained by His Highness.”
“Time presses,” said Aerich.
“We must wait until the line—ah, there, you see how that division is moving? Let us dismount at once, our chance is coming soon.”
“Very well,” said the others.
They dismounted, and, in fact, it was only a short time later that Khaavren, calculating carefully how long it would take them to close the gap, said, “Now is the time to move.”
“I am forced to disagree,” said someone behind him.
Khaavren and his friends turned.
“In fact,” continued Greycat coolly, “I think it is time for you to stay where you are. You perceive, you cannot flee without being cut down as you run, so you may as well attempt to nick a few of us with your sticks, which will, no doubt, provide you some consolation in the Paths of the Dead.”
Khaavren looked at the assembled ruffians and cutthroats, and, having had time during Greycat’s speech to recover himself, said, “I am glad that you have allowed us the chance to have this pleasant conversation, sir, before I spit you like roasting fowl.”
The other bowed. “I am called Greycat,” he said. “This is Grita, and these are my friends. If you wish, you may draw; it all comes to the same thing, but, no doubt, you shall feel better holding a weapon when the end comes.”
“When the end comes,” said Khaavren, drawing and placing himself on guard, “I have no doubt I shall be holding a weapon, but I think that, to bring about this end, it will take someone more skilled than you, Greycat, or Garland, or whatever you are pleased to call yourself.”
“Garland,” said Tazendra, frowning, as she also drew her weapon. “It seems to me I know that name.”
“It has been a while, my dear,” said Pel. “Think nothing of it.” He carefully removed the grey gloves from his belt and deliberately drew them on, after which he took his sword into his hand and cut the air once or twice before saluting his adversaries and taking a guard position.
Aerich did not speak, nor had he yet drawn his blade.
“It has, indeed, been a long time,” said he who had been Lord Garland and who was now called Greycat.
“It would seem,” said Khaavren to Aerich, “that there are five of them to each one of us. I do not consider this a problem, especially when we recall the games we played near Bengloarafurd. And yet, should you choose not to fight, well, then it is closer to seven to one, which I confess would worry me a bit—I might be scratched.”
Aerich barely smiled. “I will fight,” he said. “But first, Lord Garland—”
“Call me Greycat,” said the other, with a glint of hatred in his eye. “I renounced my name when you ruined me. I shall take it back when I have
restored myself to His Majesty’s favor, which should happen soon after we have dispatched you. Wherefore, as much as I am relishing this conversation, I wish to make a quick end of it so I can be about my business.”
“Restore himself?” said Tazendra. “In fact, I believe I begin to recall the cowardly fellow.”
“And I,” said Pel, whose polite demeanor began to turn grim, “believe I know who is behind the riot of last week, and the assassination of Smaller, as well as the death of Gyorg Lavode, and—”
“And Captain G’aereth,” finished Khaavren, in whose eyes the light of anger was beginning to burn. “Yes, I nearly think you have the right of it, Pel. But, Aerich, I believe you were doing this gentleman the honor of speaking to him. Come, complete your thought, then, when you have finished, why, we will begin the slaughter.”
“I merely wish to know,” said Aerich, bowing, “if—Greycat—is entirely certain he wishes to begin this battle, which, I promise, can have only one result. For, I give you my word, I hold no more animosity toward you, and should you choose to give over—”
Greycat smiled. “Of course you hold no animosity toward me; you won last time. Yes, I am certain.”
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