The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) (15 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

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“But enough of this, old friend. Shall we show you to your room?”
“Ah, I am sorry to say it, but I am on an errand, and this is only the briefest stop.”
“Shards! Do you mean to say that you will arrive on my doorstep after three hundreds of years and then leave without spending even a single night beneath my roof? Impossible!”
“You are no stranger to duty, my old friend, and that is what calls me now.”
“Impossible,” repeated Khaavren.
“At least,” said Daro, “you will stay and eat with us, will you not?”
“After which,” said Pel smiling, “it will be too late to travel? Well, so be it. I will stay and eat, and will remain with you tonight, and we will drink wine and reminisce until it becomes so late that my departure tomorrow will be delayed, and I will lose nearly an entire day. Come, will that satisfy you?”
“Ah, my old friend, I will not be satisfied until the four of us are living once again under a single roof, but that can never be, I think, and so I will take my pleasures where I can find them, and be content.”
“The beginning of wisdom,” said Pel.
“Or dotage,” murmured Khaavren.
Cook, upon being informed of a guest for dinner, was, after an initial and short-lived panic, positively delighted; guests for dinner, and thus the requirement for creative efforts, had now occurred twice within a month; this would not only be reflected in the budget for the month, and was not only entertaining in itself, but it meant that there was a chance that the Count would begin, once more, to show an interest in food for its own sake—an interest he had not shown in a hundred years. This would not make up for the departure of the Viscount, whom she missed, we should add, for himself as well as for the way the young man appreciated a good meal; but it would help a little.
She therefore spared no effort, requiring the maid to run down to the market for the freshest squabs, the choicest cuts of kethna, a supply of goose fat, cresent-onions, striped mushrooms, marrows, basil, peppers, and saltpea pods; all of this while she, the cook, rummaged in the cellar for the best wines, the purest flour, the freshest garlic, and the most active yeasts. She had been trained, the reader ought to understand, at the same Valabar’s Restaurant that still exists in Adrilankha today, and from which those most concerned with victualing still hire, or attempt to hire, the cooking staff; it being said that a man who has cleaned tables at Valabar’s will absorb more of the art of cooking than the head chef for any other inn or tavern in the Empire; an exaggeration which, if not entirely true today, was much closer to the truth during the Interregnum.
We should add as an aside that, should the reader believe that Cook was giving herself all of the exciting work while forcing the maid to engage in the drudgery, nothing could be further from the truth. While the maid had the pleasure of a pleasant walk into town (with, as always, a few extra pennies in hand to spend as she pleased) the cook, with full confidence in the maid’s abilities to gamer only the best of the supplies for which she had been dispatched, was engaged in carefully washing and seasoning all of the pots, pans, and utensils required by her exacting profession; at the same time, she cheerfully arranged her mind for the frenzy of preparation and execution that would begin upon the maid’s return.
None of this, of course, was apparent to Khaavren, Daro, or Pel, who gave the order for the meal to be prepared and then continued chatting, entirely oblivious to the flurry of activity in the back rooms of Whitecrest—or almost oblivious, the exception being that Khaavren had to show Pel to his room himself, the maid being otherwise occupied.
Pel did not, in fact, require any rest, and so, after a cursory inspection of the room, carried out for the sake of custom, he returned at once to the parlor, where the conversation continued without interruption until Cook herself, dressed in her finest outfit of pale blue and white, with the Tiassa insignia apparent, announced that dinner was ready, whereupon they proceeded into the dining room and engaged in a meal where, if there was perhaps more ceremony than might have been strictly called for, the diners were inclined to forgive it because of both the rarity of the occasion and the quality of the food. When the sweet (a puff pastry filled with thin slices of cheese and covered with strawberries) had been digested along with a good quantity of fortified wine, the diners made their way back into the parlor.
Should the reader feel annoyed at the brevity with which we have described the meal, we can only say that, under these circumstances, what was most important was not the meal, but that which occurred before it and after it, and so that is where we insist the reader’s attention be turned, and we are thus refusing to indulge in a misplaced desire for sensuous gratification at a time when our duty demands we concentrate on other
areas: to wit, the conversation that took place, especially between Khaavren and Pel—a conversation destined to have far-reaching effects on the history of both individuals, and, thus, on the history we have taken it upon ourselves to relate.
Once the participants were seated in a relaxed posture, the conversation, to which we have just had the honor to refer, turned toward the conditions prevailing in what had once been the Empire. It came as no surprise to Khaavren, and should come as no surprise to the reader, that Pel was exceptionally well informed of the major movement throughout the territory that had until Adron’s Disaster been ruled from Imperial Palace in the city of Dragaera, and for some time kept up a stream of gossip concerning lords of small areas attempting to expand, or of marauders terrorizing unprotected districts, or of the difficulty, in many cases, of telling one from the other. He spiced the anecdotes with observation of a more general character, touching on the failure of certain long-established customs and the emerging of new, sometimes inexplicable ones; as well as making shrewd observations and daring predictions.
“Do you know,” he remarked during one lull in the conversation, “I believe our old friend Aerich, Lyorn that he is, must be truly scandalized by what has become of rank. A man born before the Disaster as a baron often simply decides that he is now a count, or even a duke, and so he is called unless someone nearby decides to take issue.”
“Indeed?” said Khaavren. “And what of you, who were, I believe, actually a duke?”
“I? Oh, I claim no title anymore. It seems pointless, when I am not engaged in the general scrabbling for land or power.”
“How, you are not?”
“No more than you are, my dear Khaavren. Less, in fact, as you have some responsibility to a certain amount of territory, whereas I am responsible for nothing and to no one.”
“For nothing and to no one,” Khaavren echoed. “Well, yes, I understand that. Perhaps you are right, then, and titles mean nothing. I should dearly love to learn what Aerich thought of the matter.”
Pel nodded, watching Khaavren closely. “What,” he said, “is it that you’re not telling me?”
“I?” said Khaavren. “Not telling you? Now, that is a peculiar question for you to ask, don’t you think?”
Pel sighed and looked away. “I cannot help but be worried for you, my old friend, whatever other concerns may be occupying my thoughts.”
“Concerned for me?” said Khaavren. “Well, it is good of you to be concerned, but there is no need. The sculpture of Kieron the Conqueror stood for a score of centuries outside the Dragon Wing in the Palace, and the elements played such havoc with it that twice each century artisans were called in to repair it, yet I am certain it didn’t care. In the same way the forces of nature work on old men like me, but that is only part of life, and there is no need to be concerned about it.”
“You! Old!”
“Beyond my years, Pel, for reasons you know as well as I. Yet there is no cause to be sad on my account. I have a good home, a family, and all is as it should be, and I even have my footnote in history to console myself with when the dream-winds blow. I am as contented a man as you are likely to find, and, I tell you frankly, that when I see you scheming as of old I feel nothing but fondness, and I would no more expect you to tell me everything you are thinking than I expect you to worry about this old statue that is content to stand before the gate of its keep and provide a nesting place for the birds who flock about it with such careless abandon.”
During this uncharacteristically lengthy speech, Pel’s frown grew deeper, and at its end he glanced covertly at Daro, to see if her countenance expressed worry, pity, impatience, annoyance, or if she were carefully keeping all expression from showing; what he noticed was a frown of puzzlement that was, had he known it, nearly the twin to his own. It seemed clear that there was something about what Khaavren had said that, in some measure, bewildered her, yet she said nothing. Pel, after some thought, realized that he could do no more.
“Very well,” he said. “You have told me not to worry, so I shall not.”
“That is best, believe me,” said Khaavren.
“I do,” said Pel.
The conversation turned, then, to other topics, and, pleasant as it was for Khaavren, and, indeed, for Pel to be reminded of the good times of the past, such reminiscences, we know, would hold but little interest for the reader, and moreover the details of this conversation would do nothing to bring forward the story we have taken it upon ourselves to tell, wherefore we shall content ourselves with the remark that the conversation continued well into the night, and was ended only by the drooping lids of both Khaavren and Pel, Daro having retired some time earlier. Khaavren then showed the guest to his room, after which he took himself to his own and fell into a sleep which, though deep, was not without dreams, the dreams being full of images from the adventures of the past, and especially of Aerich, whom Khaavren still missed bitterly.
The next morning, Khaavren and Daro were up early to greet their departing guest, who, after breaking his fast with them, left amid embraces all around. As he rode out of the gate and down the streets of Adrilankha, Khaavren continued staring after him for some time, until, at last, Daro said, “There is something on your mind, I think.”
“Yes,” said Khaavren.
“Well?”
“I am thinking about what he told me.”
“Did he tell you so much?”
“That he did, Countess. I know him, and I know how to interpret his words, and read his lies, and fill in what he doesn’t say, so that he has told me a great deal.”
“But what did he tell you?”
“That there a great power brewing in the Kanefthali Mountains, and that he has allied himself with it in some capacity, and this may bring about a conflict with none other than Sethra Lavode herself.”
“He said all that?”
“He did.”
“It must have been after I had retired for the evening.”
Khaavren smiled briefly, then said, “The fact is, I am troubled.”
“How, troubled?”
Khaavren nodded. “Great events are afoot.”
Daro looked steadily at Khaavren, who, in turn, was staring off into the distance, as if he could see the future, and what he saw troubled him.
 
 
How Kâna Met with Representatives
Of the Great Houses
 
 
 
I
t should come as no surprise to the reader that, as Pel prepared to take his leave of Khaavren, there were other activities occurring in other parts of what had once been the Empire. This is because of that phenomenon of history called “simultaneity,” which avers that events do not always happen in a neat orderly manner, one after the other, but rather that many things can happen at the same time. Thus, for example, during the Eleventh Issola Reign, while in Dragaera City the Baron of Karris was preparing an expedition to venture into the eastern jungles in search of exotic birds, at that same moment, in the desert of Suntra a caravan of traders was forming that, on their way to the port city of Adrilankha, would be passing through the jungle; and it was in this way that there came the fateful meeting between Ricci of Longgarden and Nessa of Kobi that resulted, some few years later, in the Battle Beneath the Hills and the subsequent rise to power of the Chreotha who became the Empress Synna the Fourth. This is just one example out of thousands of the phenomenon of simultaneity, and serves to point out one of the difficulties in writing—and, consequently, reading—history: that is, while historical events of significance are inclined to happen at the same time, it is nevertheless obvious that they can be treated by the historian only one at a time, as if they had happened sequentially. Hence, the writing of history is bound to introduce
certain inaccuracies, and the reading of history is bound to produce certain misconceptions. It is the hope of the author that these inaccuracies and misconceptions can be held to a minimum by the expedient of making the reader aware of this circumstance, which we have just endeavored to do by our discussion of simultaneity, which, now that it has been made, can be set aside as we turn our attention to an example of this phenomenon of more direct moment to our particular history than the events, thousands of years in the past, when the birdwatcher met the game hunter.
We therefore turn our attention and the reader’s to a place very nearly upon the opposite side of the continent from Adrilankha, that being the Kanefthali Mountains, in particular, to the mountain called Kana and the duke of the same name, whom we hope the reader will not have forgotten in the brief time since we last encountered him. We observe, then, the Great Hall of the manor, where the Duke has gathered together, in addition to his cousin, a collection of notables brought in not only from the surrounding region, but from great distances away as well. In addition to certain advisers to the Duke, and to the servants who kept the guests supplied with wine, there were, in total, some fourteen guests; a number that has a significance that, the reader may be assured, we will reveal in due course.
Both the Duke and his cousin spent some little time among their guests, greeting each by name and welcoming them, until the moment seemed to be right, at which point Kâna took himself to a place before the hearth and said, “I am Skinter e’Terics, Lord of Whiteside, Duke of Kana; also by right of conquest, Duke of Harwall, Tenmoors, and so on and so on. My friends, for so I hope I may call you all, if you would do me the honor to give me your attention for some few moments, well, I will endeavor to explain why I have asked you to attend me at this time and in this manner.”
This speech, short though it was, produced the desired effect; that is, the guests, instead of speaking among themselves, at once gave their attention to Kana.
“You cannot fail to have observed,” he began, “that, including myself and my cousin, and excepting only the House of the Teckla—for reasons that, I am convinced, need no explanations,
and the House of the Phoenix because there is none left—each House in the Cycle is represented in this room.”
Most of those present had, indeed, observed this curious fact; the few exceptions, such as the ancient and stooped Iorich Lord Newell, quickly looked around and gave out more or less quiet exclamations as the realization struck home.
“Some of you,” continued Kâna, giving a bow to Her Highness the Jhegaala Princess Eaner and Her Highness the Dzur Princess Sennya, “are, in fact the Heirs for your House. Others,” here he indicated the Tiassa Lord Röaanac, the Chreotha Countess Deppian, and the Jhereg Lord Beck, “are or have been Imperial representatives of your House. The rest of you have, to say the least, great influence within your House.”
Kâna paused, then announced, “The Cycle is irretrievably broken. There is no Empire. There is no Orb. There is no communication. There is no trade.” He cleared his throat, then, and said, “Here, from these mountains, we have been attempting nothing less than restoration of the Empire.”
These were greeted by looks of frank astonishment, followed by murmurings of surprise in some cases, outright disbelief in others, and comments of the form, “I knew it all along,” from a few, such as the Yendi Lady Casement, who was seated next to Lord Deppian. The latter replied with a shrug, and turned his attention back to Kâna.
“No doubt,” continued the Dragonlord after he deemed that sufficient time had passed, “you now understand why I have asked you here. You—that is, you who are in this room—will be the foundation of the new Empire. Some of you are aware of how much progress we have made, to the rest of you, if you will do me the honor to direct your attention to the map behind me, permit me to say that all of the area colored red is now entirely under our control, whereas the area in pink is under a control which is less than absolute, in that it still requires a military presence, but is, nevertheless, mostly secure. You perceive that very nearly a sixth of the area that was the old Empire can be considered already part of the new Empire—which Empire we have not even yet declared. In terms of our forces, we have—but the numbers are unimportant. Let us say we have enough.
“My friends, we have made great progress, and our future
seems, if not assured, then at least extremely favorable. We have our armies, and more than this, caravans now regularly travel to two coasts. And we have reintroduced the posts. But then, you may ask, what is your role? For what reason have I caused to be assembled representatives of the Great Houses? Well, this is an astute question, and, moreover, one that deserves an answer. If you will do me the honor to continue giving me your attention, as you have so graciously done till now, well, I will explain.”
Various reactions from those to whom he spoke indicated that such an explanation would be welcome, wherefore he continued, saying, “It is time to prepare for the transition. That is, hitherto we have been a conquering army; soon we will be an Empire. In order to go from one to the other certain things are needed. That is, in the first place, there must be an Imperial Palace; for this, of course, we turn to Lord Cenaaft of the House of the Vallista. Next, we require something to take the place of the Imperial Orb—that is, a means of communication, and, if possible, a way to give the Empire control of the Sea of Amorphia. This, naturally, will be the province of the Marquis of Mistyvale of the House of the Athyra. There will be the matter of creating laws, for which we will turn to the House of the Iorich, represented here by Lord Newell. And so on. In other words, my friends, I say to you that it is time we got down to business.
“That concludes what I have to say. Should any of you have any questions, well, I would consider it an honor to attempt to answer them, which answers I will give to best of my ability.”
For a moment no one spoke; rather as if, they having consumed a large meal, a veritable feast of information, some amount of time was required in order to permit the mechanisms of digestion to work sufficiently to permit the resources to become available for use. Then the Marquis of Mistyvale rose. Mistyvale was an old wizard of imposing stature, if somewhat stooped now from age. He still carried his now-useless wizard’s staff, a length of hickory that, when resting upon the floor, stood taller than the Marquis. His hair had gone entirely grey, and his face was more full of wrinkles than an almshouse is full of beggars, and his voice, when he spoke,
was barely over a whisper. He said, “There are matters, Lord Kâna, of which you should perhaps be aware.”
“Well then, Marquis, I hope you will condescend to inform me of them.”
“If you wish, Duke, I will tell you.”
“I wish for nothing else in the world, and, moreover, I should not be surprised if everyone else in the room was anxious to hear anything you should do us the honor to tell us.”
“In that case,” whispered Mistyvale, “I will tell you at once.”
“We ask for nothing better.”
“It is simply this: It is impossible to create the Orb, or anything like it.”
“How,” said Kâna. “Impossible?”
“Yes,” whispered the Marquis.
“And yet, it was done once.”
“That is true.”
“Well, then?”
“In the first place, we know of no deposit of trellenstone sufficient for the purpose, and nothing else will do. And, in the second, of all of the secrets that the Orb contained, it never held the secret of its own making, and as Zerika the First never told anyone, that secret is now lost to us.”
“Well,” said Kâna, “these are certainly problems. Yet—”
“My lord,” said the Lyorn, the Count of Flowerpot Hill and Environs.
Kâna broke off, and said, “Yes, Count?”
The Count, whose name was Ritsak, was a thin, frail man of around fifteen hundred years, with an unhealthy-looking pale complexion and a strong, booming voice, which voice he used to good effect, saying, “I have a question.”
“Ask it, Count. And I promise that, if it is within my power, I will answer it.”
“I will ask, then.”
“I await you.”
“You speak of an Empire, my lord.”
“Well, and if I do?”
“An Empire necessarily requires an Emperor.”
“Yes, that is but natural.”
“Well then, who is to be this Emperor?”
Kana shrugged. “The last reign was that of the Phoenix.” “Well, and?”
“That of the Dragon must necessarily follow.”
“Ah. It will be, then, a Dragonlord?”
“Yes. No doubt one who has proven his fitness to be Heir.”
“In that case, my lord—”
“Yes? In that case?”
“My House cannot condone such a thing.”
“How, your House cannot condone rebuilding the Empire?”
“Not in this way.”
“But then, Count, have you a reason?”
“I nearly think I do.”
“And what reason is that?”
“It is because we have no reason to believe the Cycle has turned; and if it has not, it is still the Reign of the Phoenix.”
“Bah! The Cycle has been broken.”
“Well, and if it has, then there is no reason for the natural successor to the Phoenix, that is, the Dragon, to claim the throne.”
“In that case, Count, we will claim the Throne not according to the Cycle, but according to the arguments more usual with the House of the Dragon, those being the arguments of blood and conquest”
Ritsak, with no hesitation, replied, “An Empire formed upon that basis is an Empire where steel and terror take the place of wisdom and law, and it will be an Empire without the House of the Lyorn.”
Kana cast a quick glance at his cousin, who returned a look that said, as clearly as if she had spoken aloud, “We need this man.”
We hope we have delineated Kâna’s character well enough to show that he had certain virtues; yet it is undeniable that the ability to make quick decisions, to respond to sudden change in circumstances with an improvised idea, was not one of his particular skills. Faced, then, with a situation requiring such action, all he could think of to do was, to put it in terms military, mount a delaying action. He said, therefore, “I believe, my dear Count, that I can convince you to see matters in a different light.”
The Lyorn looked doubtful, and said, “You think so?”
“I am certain of it. But it will take a certain amount of conversation, and so, if you will permit me, I will continue with other matters, and you and I together will find a time for our discussion.”
“Very well,” said Ritsak. “To this, I agree.”
Kâna bowed his thanks and said, “Let us, then, return to the subject of conversation my lord Mistyvale did us the honor to speak upon, that being the creation of an Orb.”
The Count bowed his agreement.
“Then,” said Kâna, “let me ask this. Is it not possible, with all the knowledge of the House of the Athyra, to find a way to permit the Emperor communication with his subjects?”
Mistyvale frowned, and was silent for a long moment, then at last he said, “If that is all you wish, it may be possible.”
“All we wish?” said Kâna. “The Gods! We wish for a great deal more than that! Yet, it is a beginning.”
“Oh,” remarked the agèd Princess Sennya. “And yet, for my part, I wonder at what goes beyond the beginning.”

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