The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) (28 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

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“Well, yes,” said Piro. “But is that all?”
“By no means. You will also have your lackeys.”
“Well, but no one else?”
The Enchantress shrugged and said, “If a Dragon, a Dzur, and a Tiassa cannot deliver a Phoenix to Deathgate Falls, then I fail to see how any others could help.”
Kytraan said, “You believe, then, that more would not help?”
“More would be an army, and, as such, would call attention to itself.”
“Attention?” said Zerika.
“There are a score of warlords who dream of re-creating the Empire with themselves as Emperor. Some of them would yield to Zerika, upon learning of her ancestry and goals. But others, perhaps, would not.”
Zerika nodded and said, “Very well, I understand.”
“Then,” said Tazendra, “we have our troop, and we have our destination. What else remains?”
“Well, we must pick an auspicious time for a departure,” said Sethra the Younger, who, according to her custom, had said little.
“That is always good when beginning a journey,” agreed Tazendra.
“Well,” continued Sethra, “I have done so. I cast the cards this morning.”
“And?”
“The day after to-morrow, at the stroke of noon.”
Zerika shrugged. “That is later than I should have liked to set out, but if is auspicious, then, well, it cannot harm us to have as much of Fortune working with us as we can.”
“That is my opinion as well,” said Tazendra.
“Then,” said Kytraan, “we at least have plenty of time to prepare what we will need for our journey.”
“And to rest before we begin,” said Piro.
“And to study the maps,” said Zerika.
“And to sharpen our swords,” said Tazendra, “because I should be more than a little astonished if we do not need them.”
 
 
How Tevna the Pyrologist
Came to Play a Small
Yet Crucial Rôle In History
 
 
 
I
t is well known that moments of historical drama cast people as well as situations into a new light—that is, the place of men in relation to circumstances is highlighted, changed, and, in general, clarified. This is true in general—that is, for the great masses of people; and also in particular—that is, for any individual upon whom we might choose to focus our attention. Many who seem important are shown, at such times, to be insignificant; while others, hitherto undistinguished, are pushed forward onto the stage of history to be tested in the most public of lights, where flaws and virtues are magnified as if seen through one of Baroness Holdra’s glasses. Indeed, one might say that a crisis of historical magnitude is the best way known to determine the true character of those who wish to claim a place in the memory of the race. We will mention in passing that it is exactly for this reason that the historian as well as the writer of romance will devote his energies to situations of high drama and to characters who face mortal danger: while some critics decry the love of “adventure” on the part of the writer and of the reading public, yet at no other time can one see so clearly into the soul of a man or of historic circumstance; and if an historian or an artist cannot illuminate the soul, for what purpose does he wield a pen?
What then lies at the soul of those who deserve the attention of the historian? What can we find at the heart of those
moments in history when accumulated tension meets intolerable pressure? To answer these question, we direct the reader’s attention to the brave Khaavren, whom we left some time ago saying farewell to his old friend Pel, after already saying farewell to his only son, sent off to do that which the brave Tiassa was unable anymore to do himself.
Several days after Pel had left, Khaavren was watching the sea from the terrace on the south side of Whitecrest Manor—the sight of the ocean-sea, with her infinite variety of rhythmical, rolling, crashing sameness being always conducive to such moods as melancholia tinged with pride, and such being the flavor of Khaavren’s recent thoughts. In the midst of these thoughts, which we hope the reader will permit us to leave with no more invasion than those generalities we have already perpetrated, Khaavren was interrupted by the cook, who was also doing service as doorman, wine servant, and several other domestic occupations.
“My lord?” began the servant hesitantly.
Khaavren slowly turned his head, showing no signs of having been startled. “What is it, then?” he said.
“My lord, there is someone who inquires if you are at home.”
“Someone?” said Khaavren. “You perceive that to say
‘someone’ is to supply little information. So little, in fact, that I am unable to determine whether I wish you admit the inquirer into my presence, or, instead, to require you to tell one of those polite social lies—which you, as a Teckla, are permitted to tell—that will preserve my solitude.” We would be remiss in our duty as historian if we failed to mention that Khaavren’s tone of voice indicated a certain lassitude, as if he did not care very much what sort of answer he might receive to his question.
“And then, my lord, you wish me to provide more information about the caller?”
“You have divined my meaning exactly.”
“I will tell you more, then.”
“And this very moment, I hope.”
“Yes, my lord, this very moment.”
“Well, begin then.”
“He wears clothing all of grey.”
“How, grey?”
“Yes, my lord, as I have had the honor to tell you.”
“He is, then, a Jhereg?”
“As to that—”
“Well?”
“There is a patch upon the right shoulder of his singlet which would indicate he is a Tiassa.”
“Ah! Of my own House?”
“Exactly, my lord. And, if I may be permitted to express an opinion based on my own judgment—”
“Well?”
“His features seem to be those of a Tiassa as well.”
“Indeed. But then, why would he wear grey?”
“His profession, my lord.”
“His profession?”
“Exactly.”
“And what profession is that?”
“He says that he is a pyrologist.”
“Ah! Then he wears grey because that is the appropriate garb of a pyrologist.”
“So he gave me to understand, my lord.”
“Well then, all is answered.”
“I am glad that it is, my lord.”
Khaavren continued, “All, that is, except for one question.”
“My lord, there is yet another question?”
“Only one.”
“My lord, if you would do me the honor to ask it, I promise to answer if I can.”
“Very well, here is the question: What is a pyrologist?”
“Oh, as to that …”
“Yes, as to that?”
“I must claim ignorance, my lord.”
“I see,” said Khaavren. “Well, then, has this pyrologist a name?”
“Oh, indeed he has, and a good one at that, my lord. He is called Tevna.”
“Well, that seems to be a name less obscure, at any rate, than his occupation. And this Tevna, then, desires an audience with me?”
“With you, yes, or with the Countess.”
“Ah. With either of us? Then why, pray, have you come to me, when you know that I have little interest in affairs of the county, and you must have known, or deduced, that such was his concern?”
“My lord, I beg you to believe that I went first to the Countess.”
“And?”
“She is indisposed, my lord; or she was when I spoke to her, although in the time I have had the honor to be engaging in this conversation with Your Lordship, she may have become disposed again, and I should be happy to discover this, if you wish.”
Khaavren sighed. “Let this Tevna be brought to me, then, and bring us refreshment as well, if you would. Something white, and not too strong. And some biscuits.”
“I will see to it at once, my lord.”
The cook left upon this errand, and returned shortly to announce, “Sir Tevna of Split Canyon.”
Khaavren rose, bowed, and took a good look at the stranger—for if Khaavren’s ardor had dampened and faded with the passing of the years, be assured that the sight with which he had been accustomed to assess anyone and everyone who might be received by the Emperor was as sharp and true as ever. He saw, then, a man of nearly two thousand years, with the narrow eyes and thin lips typical of a Tiassa, but dressed, as the cook had told him, all in grey; and dressed, moreover, in a certain dignity that nearly reminded Khaavren of his friend Aerich. It was this dignity, as much as the requirements of courtesy, that prompted Khaavren to rise with as much alacrity as he could muster in his depressed physical and spiritual condition, and, having risen, to perform a deep bow, after which he indicated a chair in which his guest might sit.
“Greetings, kinsman,” he said. “Please be welcome at Whitecrest. Your family, if I heard correctly, comes from Split Canyon? I, myself, am from Castle Rock in the Sorannah, near the headwaters of the Yendi River.”
“Ah, indeed? You must then be of the family of Shallowbanks.”
“Shallowbanks, yes, and then Deguin.”
“Ah, well, you perceive my father counts the Deguin clan among his cousins, and one of my mother’s great uncles married a Sendu, who, as I am certain you are aware, are offsprings of the Shallowbanks.”
“Yes, that is true. And you may also note that the Countess Whitecrest, who is my wife and who you will, no doubt, have the honor to meet in a short time, takes her given name, Daro, from a lesser daughter of a cousin of the Amzel clan, who are, if I am not in error, close relations to you, the first lord of Split Canyon having been a brother to the first Lady Amzel, they both being offspring of the Duchess of Fourpeaks.”
“Why yes, that is true.”
“Then, in consideration of how closely we are related, you are doubly welcome, and I hope you will enjoy your visit. Apropos—”
“Yes, kinsman?”
“Tell me, if you will, to what I owe the pleasure and honor of your visit.”
Tevna raised his glass (which had arrived during the courtesies, but we chose to refrain from mentioning this fact because we did not wish to delay the reader’s discovery of the information revealed in the conversation occurring at that time) and said, “I shall be glad to tell you the reason for my visit, but I must warn you first that my arrival is not occasioned by anything of a glad or frolicsome nature.”
“It is, then, serious business?”
“I regret to say that it is.”
“Well, so much the more, then, is my desire to make you comfortable, and thus relieve, in any way I can, the unpleasantness that must attend to serious matters.”
“Believe me, the desire is appreciated.”
“Tell me, then, what brings you to Whitecrest?”
“The Plague,” said Tevna.
Khaavren carefully set his wine glass down on the table near his right elbow. From this same table he drew a linen napkin, which he used to wipe his lips, after which he set the napkin down again and repeated, “The Plague.”
Tevna nodded solemnly.
“You perceive,” said Khaavren, “that when we speak of the Plague, there is no question of joking.”
“I am glad that you understand that.”
“I more than understand it, I have seen it: the swollen tongues, the listlessness in the eyes, the constant perspiration; the redness of the skin. I have seen it, for who could live in a large city in these times and not have seen it? Yet I had hoped it had passed its way forty years ago and would not trouble us again.”
“It may be that it will not, and yet—”
“Well? And yet?”
“There have been signs.”
“What signs?”
“The very ones you have described so well, only—”
“Yes?”
“Only they have not yet come to pass.”
“You must explain,” said Khaavren, “how it is that you have seen signs which have not yet occurred; you perceive that I find this unusual. In fact, more than unusual: strange.”
“I can answer that in the simplest way, my dear kinsman.”
“Well?”
“Here is the answer: I am prescient.”
“How, prescient?”
“Exactly.”
“Then, you can see the future?”
“At times.”
“At what times?”
“On some of the occasions when I perform my trade. On this occasion, I saw a vision of a place in Adrilankha, where a man had died showing certain symptoms of the Plague.”
“You see these visions when you practice your trade? That is, on the occasions when you act as a pyrologist?”
“You have understood me exactly.”
“It may seem so, good Tevna, only—”
“Yes?”
“Only I have never until today had the honor to hear the word ‘pyrologist,’ so in consequence—”
“Yes? In consequence?”
“In consequence, I have no idea what it means.”
“How, you don’t know what ‘pyrologist’ means?”
“I have not the least idea in the world, I assure you.”
“And so you don’t know what a pyrologist does?”
“I am as ignorant as an Easterner.”
“Well, but would you like me to tell you?”
“I would like nothing better.”
“Shall I do so now?”
“Why, I believe that it is an hour since I asked for anything else.”
“Here is the answer then: A pyrologist is one who burns the bodies of the dead.”
“You burn the bodies of the dead?”
Tevna bowed his assent.
“But, forgive me, kinsman, why would one do that?”
“It has been found that the Plague will often travel from the dead body of one who fell victim to it to the living bodies of those around him. However, if the body is quickly burned, along with clothing, bedclothes, and any artifacts that were in close proximity—”
“Yes, if this is done?”
“Then the body can no longer spread the Plague. And, moreover—”
“Yes?”
“Sometimes I see visions in the flames.”
“Are they true visions?”
Tevna did not answer this question at once; instead he stared at the floor, but it seemed to Khaavren that, instead of looking at the floor, he was seeing something far away. At last he looked up and said, “Sometimes they are misleading. But I once chose to believe the visions were not true.”

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