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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha)
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“It is this: We have been making five leagues a day, have we not?”
“And if we have?”
“Only this: The Lady Zerika, who seems to be leading our expedition, pretends we can now make ten leagues a day.”
“Yes, my friend, so I have understood.”
“It seems like a great deal.”
“Does it? Well, in the old days, we made ten leagues a day without fail; and, you perceive, that was without using the posts.”
“So you believe we can do this without killing ourselves, or, at any rate, our horses?”
“Feathers! I am certain of it.”
“Then I will say no more about it.”
As to the question of the nature of the Easterners, and their status as a people, the historian will offer no opinion; but as to the good Mica’s conviction that it was possible to travel ten leagues a day without injury to themselves or their horses, well, this was proved entirely correct, because they did, in fact, do just that as they passed through Luatha and continued northward, looking forward to their first sight of the Eastern Mountains, still far ahead; and, at their northern tip, some fifteen hundred miles away, Deathgate Falls and the Paths of the Dead.
 
 
How Morrolan, Teldra, and Arra
Traveled South as Piro and Company
Traveled North, and Very Nearly
Met Each Other
 
 
 
M
orrolan looked to the west and said, “Do you know, I begin to believe there will be no end to these mountains.”
“As to that,” said Teldra, “I have never taken this route, and so I cannot say, yet I am told that they end. And, indeed, they must, because it is well known that if one travels far enough south, one eventually reaches the sea.”
“Perhaps the mountains continue all the way over the ocean, to whatever lands lie beyond it.”
“If I may be permitted to say so, my lord, I find that unlikely.”
“Well, no doubt you are correct.” He then turned to his other traveling companion and said, “Do you realize, my dear Arra, that we are going about this exactly wrong?”
“How, wrong? In what way, my lord?”
“Well, it is winter, and thus quite cold.”
“That much I had noticed, my lord, and it is why you are wearing your heavy cloak, and Lady Teldra and I are both wrapped in furs.”
“Well, but we are traveling south. And so, you perceive, by the time it is summer, we will be too warm.”
“There is some justice in what you say. And yet, well, no doubt we will have a pleasant enough springtime at some time during our journey.”
“We ought to have timed our departure better,” observed Morrolan.
“My lord,” said Arra, “I must remind you that when we left, well over a year ago—indeed, closer to two years—we were in no small hurry. And, moreover, we had no way of knowing that we would be unable to cross the mountains, but rather should be forced around them.”
Morrolan thought about the rains of spring, but instead of speaking of them, he said, “I beg your pardon, Arra, and yours as well, my dear Teldra. I have had a gloomy disposition of late, and I fear I have been but a poor traveling companion.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Teldra. “Long journeys, especially on foot, can turn anyone’s disposition.”
“A propos,” said Morrolan, “should we see about procuring horses, now that we have completely abandoned all thought of finding a pass?”
“That is not a bad idea,” said Arra. “There are villages at the base of these mountains, and in many of them there may be horses with which someone is willing to part.”
Teldra said, “I should not mind at all finding a good horse. As we are skirting the mountains, we should find no ground that will be too difficult for animals.”
“It is decided then,” said Morrolan. “Should anyone see signs of a village, well, say so, and we will go there directly.”
“If I am not mistaken,” said Arra, “you perceive that there is something like a road here, and there is a sign carved upon that stone that indicates a direction for something that is almost certain to be a village.”
“Then let us go in that direction,” said Morrolan.
“I have no objection to make,” said Teldra.
They turned and made their way along the road, and it was, in fact, only a few hours before they arrived in Kliuev, a small village nestled into what here were called the Mountains of Faerie, although only fifty or sixty miles to the west they were part of that great chain called the Eastern Mountains. This village, though boasting a population of only thirty or forty, nevertheless maintained itself by raising goats along its upper slopes and growing rye along the lower, the whole augmented by giving aid and comfort to whatever highwaymen might be
working along the nearby roads that connected to the waterways which, in turn, connected to what the Easterners called the River of Faerie, which eventually made its way to the Shallow Sea. That these roadways were well traveled was proven by the condition of Kliuev itself, which was in a far better state than it could have been merely depending upon an economy of goat’s milk, goat’s cheese, and rye.
It was late afternoon when Morrolan, Teldra, and Arra arrived along the dirt path that served as a main street of Kliuev, and the reader may well imagine that the trio attracted more than a little attention.
“There,” said Arra. “Do you see? There are six or seven horses tied up outside of that house. It would therefore seem likely to be a public house, and, as I have not yet seen any signs of a livery stable, I would think this might be the place to begin.”
“Let us go in, then,” said Morrolan.
“Yes,” said Teldra. “Let us do so.”
They entered the house, and, in a very short time, came out again, unhitching and taking three of the horses that they had noticed earlier.
“Come,” said Arra, “that didn’t go so badly. We have horses, after all, and are none the worse.”
“And yet,” said Teldra, “I cannot help but wish—”
“Yes?” said Morrolan. “You wish?”
“I wish that we had understood their language.”
“Understood their language?” said Morrolan. “Well, it seems clear enough what they were saying, even without speaking whatever barbarous tongue is used in this region. And, when they pulled those knives that gleamed so prettily in the lamplight, well, then they were speaking more clearly than ever.”
“Well, that is true,” said Arra. “And I must say, in that regard, I’m glad my sword is longer than the knife of that fellow with the beard because, I give my oath, I believe he was a better fighter than I.”
“For my part,” said Teldra, “I cannot help but wonder if, had we been able to communicate, they’d have sold us the horses.”
Morrolan shrugged. “Well, it was a pretty enough little fight at all events, and I doubt this place will forget us soon.”
“Oh,” said Arra, “there is no doubt that you are right.”
“Nor will I forget,” said Morrolan. “After all, while I have, now and then, been involved in a scuffle, more or less serious, this is the first time I have bloodied my sword.”
“Bloodied it?” said Arra. “I nearly think you did! You brought four of them to ground entirely on your own, and I should be astonished if there were not two of them who will never rise again.”
“Well, but, as you have already observed, I have a sword, and they, well, they had only knives.”
“Nevertheless, it was no mean feat.”
“Well.”
“And yet,” said Teldra, “I do not understand why we were attacked.”
“You do not?” said Arra. “Consider, my lady, that to a human, you and Morrolan are demons.”
“Are we? That astonishes me.”
“Does it? And yet, how are those like myself considered in lands inhabited by your folk?”
“Well, there is some justice in your observation.”
“You think so? Then I am satisfied.”
Morrolan turned around and observed, “They are not following us.”
“That is well for us,” said Arra, “and better for them.”
“Yes,” said Morrolan, “I nearly think you’re right.”
“And I,” said Teldra, “believe that this is a far better way to travel than walking.”
“Of that,” said Morrolan, “there can be no doubt.”
“Let us turn here,” said Arra, “for if I do mistake the meaning of those wheel-tracks that are so abundant upon the ground, we will soon strike a road that will not only bring us south, but, moreover, will lead us to a bridge over whatever the next river is in these lands where it seems one crosses a river, or at least a deep stream, twice each day.”
“Well,” said Morrolan, “I agree with turning here, since you believe it is the best way.”
“And tonight when we stop,” said Arra, “you must not forget
to offer up your thanks to the Demon Goddess, who must have had a hand in guiding your blade today.”
“I will not fail to do so,” said Morrolan.
They stopped that night, and had just spread their blankets on the ground—which was, we should add, pleasantly soft, they having crossed into grassland in the last few hours—when Morrolan felt a drop of rain upon his uncovered head.
“Bring out the equipment, Arra, and quickly,” he said.
“Very well,” said the Priestess, and hastened to bring out the supplies required by the heathen art practiced by Morrolan, which equipment involved braziers, candles, and other paraphernalia, all of which he hastened to use according to the system he had been taught, and, either his gestures, chants, and invocations had some effect, or the rain-cloud, for reasons of its own, passed them by, for they were spared being drenched.
“Well done,” said Arra.
“I’ll take the first watch,” said Teldra.
Morrolan did not respond, because, after finishing his arcane activities, he at once fell into a deep sleep.
Among historians—who, as the reader may know, spend a great deal of time arguing amongst each other about issues that can have no interest except to other historians—there is an ongoing debate concerning a general question: Under what conditions can one travel more quickly by horse than by foot? It is, without doubt, a complex and difficult question, whether addressed by theory or through the use of historical examples. When addressed by theory there are so many aspects, or “variables” as the arithmetists say, as to provide an endless source of argument and counter-argument: the exact distance under discussion, the physical condition of the man, the nature of the ground, the breed of horse, the sorts of food consumed by the man, the sorts of fodder consumed by the horse, even the footgear or lack thereof on each of the contestants. Attempting to solve the problem by referring to history is no better, because there will always be enough differences in circumstance to render a precise comparison suspect.
Of course, one can set up extreme conditions: It is beyond argument that a rider will outpace a man on foot over a distance of half a mile of level ground; similarly, there can be no
question that in a race of a thousand miles, an athletic man will handily and easily outpace the rider no matter what sort of horse or what sort of ground is considered.
The number that is most often used in casual discussion (and which, we admit, is the number that most often results in dissension) is something like three days. That is, should a mounted man set off in a straight line over a good road on a good horse, such as a Browncap, and should another man who is skilled at running over long distances chase him, and should these improbable conditions continue, the running man will catch the rider sometime on the third day. We should add that all attempts to test this have produced nothing but arguments over validity, as well, we should admit, as a great deal of money changing hands, because while historians may conduct tests for knowledge, there is no shortage of those who cannot see a race without placing a wager upon its result.
We have brought this up to point out that, in the event, there are very few cases of a man chasing a horse over long distances (although, to be sure, there is the incident that gave inspiration to the popular ballad “Lord Stonewright’s Revenge”), rather, when comparing speed mounted to speed afoot in any practical situation, there are almost always determining factors beyond the simple issues of speed and endurance. In other words, the naive observer might believe that Morrolan, Teldra, and Arra would, in fact, slow down upon procuring mounts. Yet, in this situation, there was one factor that outweighed all others: This factor was nothing more or less than comfort.
To be precise, the fact that they were able to ride made the journey so much easier and more pleasant to the three of them—all three, we should add, being experienced riders—that instead of traveling ten or twelve hours a day, as they had been accustomed to do, they now began, without anyone making a decision to do so, to make stages of eighteen or nineteen hours a day, with the result that, though at no time did they consider themselves to be in a hurry, nevertheless they significantly increased the pace at which they made their way toward Morrolan’s ancestral holdings—to be precise, toward the county of Southmoor.
After a good week of riding, Arra observed, “My lord Morrolan,
it seems to me that we are nearing the end of our supply of food.”
“Ah,” said Morrolan. “In fact, I had noticed this very thing.”
“And have you a plan?”
“It seems to me that this is a district full of wild norska, and moreover, it is one in which certain game-birds are available in abundance.”
“And therefore?”
“Why, therefore I propose that we catch some of them, and, having caught them, eat them.”
Arra nodded. “I think your plan a good one, and, for my part, I subscribe to it wholeheartedly.”
“Well,” said Morrolan, “but, do you hunt?”
“I?” said Arra. “Not the least in the world. I had hoped you did.”
“No, I’m afraid I have never had to acquire this skill. Lady Teldra, do you, by any chance, have any abilities as a hunter?”

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