The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) (36 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

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“And I,” said Clari, “have found a merchant who pretends to have more canvas than he requires, and has made me an offer of some of it when he learned we would be traveling.”
“Bah,” said Ibronka. “My dear Röaana, this girl will show us both up.”
“That is true, my dear Ibronka, yet we will have our revenge, for each time she does—”
“Yes, each time she does?”
“Well, we will make her blush.”
“Ah, that is a good revenge.”
“Well, there is no more to say about that, then.”
Needless to say, the matter of revenge was entirely successful, as the poor Teckla was fully flushed.
Röaana then said, much to the relief of Clari, “On another subject entirely, I have something to say.”
“Well?”
“I am not ashamed to admit to you that, well, I have some concerns.”
“How, concerns?”
“Yes. We have more than five hundred kilometers to travel, and that is if we go in a straight line; you perceive it is even longer if follow the coast.”
“Well, and then?”
“There are only two of us and the pretty Clari, and I know little enough of the lands through which we will be traveling, and, to be honest—”
“Yes, yes. Be honest, by all means.”
“Well, I should be sorry to meet an ignominious end before
ever reaching our destination. That is to say, the sort of adventures I anticipate do not involve being waylaid by highwaymen in a lonely jungle in the dead of night. It does not seem to be a very romantic way to die.”
“Do you know,” said Ibronka, “there is a great deal of justice in what you say. But then, can you think of anything to do about it?”
“Oh, you wish for an idea?”
“Yes, exactly. An idea. Do you have one?”
“Well, I admit I have sometimes had ideas.”
“That is but natural; you are a Tiassa.”
“Oh, I don’t deny that.”
“Have you an idea now?”
“Your pardon, my ladies, but may I speak?”
“Certainly, Clari, if you can be spared from the attentions of your Captain, well, we should adore hearing what you have to say.”
Clari blushed and said, “Oh, my lady, he has already said farewell and gone about his business.”
“I hope,” said Röaana, “that he said farewell with more than words.”
“Oh, my lady!”
“Well, but,” said Ibronka, “what is it you have to say?”
“My lady, my family is from Hartre.”
“Well, and?”
“There are certain clans of Teckla in the district who, I think, retain some affection for my family.”
“Go on, Clari. You perceive this conversation interests me exceedingly.”
“It seems to me, my lady, that if I should speak with them, I might learn something of the safest routes to travel, and perhaps how to avoid whatever dangers there might be, and, if Fortune smiles, we will even be able to find maps.”
“For my part,” said Röaana, “I think this an excellent plan.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Ibronka. “It is very well thought of, Clari. Go and see to it.”
“I will do so this very instant.”
Clari was, we should say, so successful in her mission that when the three of them set out at dawn of the next day it was with a certain confidence that they would, indeed, arrive in
due course in the city of Adrilankha, and, not withstanding the lack of escort or caravan, without any of the more unpleasant sorts of adventures.
Having now looked in upon Ibronka and her friend, we will continue our steady progress in time (if saltatory in space) by looking in on Brachington’s Moor, where our old friend Aerich, sitting at a sort of secretary, has just pulled upon a certain bell-rope.
In a very short time, a frail-looking, grey-haired Teckla, who, for all of his apparent age, nevertheless stood straight as a bar of iron, came into the room and gave Aerich a courtesy. Aerich acknowledged the salute, and carefully set down the paper upon which he had been writing, as well as the long feathered quill he had been writing with. He looked at the paper, which but awaited his signature, as if he didn’t recognize it; then he turned his attention once more to the Teckla who stood patiently waiting before him.
“Well, Steward,” said the worthy Lyorn. “How did the winter stores of fodder hold out?”
“Your Venerance,” said Steward, “we had a bin that had only just been broached.”
“Good,” said Aerich. “Then we will plan on the same levels for next year. Make a note of it.”
Steward bowed.
“Next,” said the Duke, “how is the water?”
“Your Venerance, it was last tested at the beginning of winter, and found to be pure enough.”
“See that it is tested again.”
“Yes, Venerance.”
“Finally,” said Aerich, “how progress the plans for the restoration of the smokehouse?”
“The carpenters pretend they have to send away for the sort of lumber Your Venerance has requested.”
“And then?”
“They do not expect to be able to begin for ten or twelve days, Venerance.”
“Very well, that is acceptable.”
Steward bowed. “Is that all Your Venerance requires?”
“No.”
Steward waited.
“You are familiar with the southwest room on the third story.”
“Yes, Your Venerance. And the proof is: It is an empty room that is never used, and it has a wooden floor that is swept twice a week.”
“Yes, and there is a closet in that room. The closet is locked. Here is the key. You will unlock the closet, remove what is within, and arrange it. Fawnd will help you; he is aware of how the equipment works. You will attach the climb ropes, set up the striking board, place the targets, and lay out the mat.”
“Yes, Venerance.”
“It will be ready by morning to-morrow.”
Steward bowed.
“You will have Fawnd awaken me one hour earlier each morning from now on, but my breakfast will be ready at the usual time.”
“As Your Venerance wishes.”
Aerich nodded, and looked once more at the letter he had just written. The text upon it was as follows:
My Dear Galstan, I hope this letter finds you well. I hope, moreover, that your mission was successful. I have heard nothing from you or from our brave Tiassa, yet I imagine it is too soon for the results, if any, to be known, and even too soon for me to write to him. Nevertheless, if you have learned anything, I should be most glad to bear of it.
As for other matters, it continued, I confess that I worry about you. A certain delicacy prevented my interrogating you while you were here, yet I begin to believe that I should have. Word reached my ears of stirrings to the west that are stretching out in our direction. The encroachment of Easterners in this district increases, and more of them are moving west. Tazendra, who left some years ago upon what she called a“quest,” has not returned, nor have I heard word of her. A certain oracle who lives in the district and passes by once or twice a year, speaks of occurrences in Dzur Mountain and pretends that great events are afoot.
And in all of this, I think of you, my dear friend, and am taken with a fear that matters will put us upon opposite sides.
This would be a great sadness to me. For this reason, I wish to know something of your plans, your intentions, and, especially, whom you are now serving, and in what capacity. Believe me when I say that my only reason for this request is the desire to avoid crossing blades with you. Of the things I treasure in this life, there is nothing to which I attach more value than my friendship with you, Tazendra, and Khaavren; and if anything I can do might serve to prevent a rupture of that friendship, I should like to know what it is, because you must believe that, if it lies within my power, I will do it.
I remain, my dear friend.
Your affectionate
Aerich.
Aerich picked this letter up, quickly signed it, spread the sand, and brushed it off, after which he handed it to Steward, who accepted it with a bow.
“To what address does Your Venerance wish it sent?” he asked.
Aerich considered for a long moment, then finally said, “None. Throw it into the fire on your way out.”
Steward bowed, and, without expression, carried out his master’s orders.
 
 
How Our Friends Arrived
At Deathgate Falls, and
What They Did There
 
 
 
T
he months between Zerika’s departure from Dzur Mountain and and her approach to Deathgate Falls have been the subject of countless romances and numberless ballads, none of them agreeing with any of the others in important details, except for those occasions when some especially inspired incident, such as the supposed “debate with the dragon,” are copied by all of those who follow. In fact, none of those on the journey have spoken of anything save its remarkable end, wherefore, however, much the historian wishes to, he can say nothing useful on this long and, we may assume, arduous journey until the point in time when, nearly a full year after setting off on their mission, Piro looked around and said, “How high up are we?”
Kytraan said, “It feels to be the same height as North Pinewood Hold, which has been measured as nearly half a league higher than the sea.”
“Bah. North Pinewood Hold is a thousand miles from the sea; how can they know that?”
“As to that, I cannot say.”
“In any case,” broke in Zerika, “if Sethra’s maps continue to be as true as they have been, then we are going no higher.”
“How, no higher?” said Piro. “And yet, we can plainly see peaks above us.”
“That is true, but we should soon run into the Blood River,
which we will follow into the Greymist Valley. And, as we will be following a river, well, you perceive we must therefore go down.”
“Cha!” said Piro. “In this place, well, if the river were to flow up I should not be astonished.”
“For my part,” said Kytraan, “neither would I.”
Zerika smiled, “Well, nevertheless, it behaves as other rivers do, at least in such mundane matters as choosing a direction in which to flow. However, do not drink the water.”
“I shall not, I assure you,” said Piro.
“Nor will I,” said Kytraan.
Tazendra, in the meantime, had been studying the area carefully. She turned back, frowning.
“Your pardon, my dear Dzurlord,” said Zerika, “but it seems to me that you are frowning.”
“Am I?” said Tazendra. “Well, I am not astonished at that.”
“How, are you perturbed?”
“A little.”
“Then, have you failed to find the trail?”
“Oh, no, the trail is exactly where it should be.”
“And then, what is the trouble?”
“Exactly that.”
“I beg your pardon, my dear Tazendra, but I do not understand what you do me the honor to tell me.”
“We have found everything too easily, precisely where the map says it is, and, furthermore, with no opposition, either natural or human. We have only twice had to dismount to guide our horses up slopes, and only once has the weather been sufficiently inclement that we were forced to seek shelter, which shelter, you may remember, we found at once. We have not seen a single dragon in the mountains, nor have we heard the call of the dzur, nor even met a darr, though all of these beasts live here. Three times we passed what could have been bands of brigands, but they avoided us. We even saw an army of Easterners, but, as you recall, even they didn’t come near us. I tell you plainly it worries me. A quest such as ours should not come so easily.”
Kytraan and Piro considered this remarkable reasoning, but Zerika only shrugged. “I think you have nothing to worry about, my friend. I am certain that, if everything is easy now,
well, soon enough we will have enough opposition to satisfy even you.”
“How, you think so?”
“I am convinced of it.”
“Well, I am satisfied, then. The trail will take us around that boulder, and I can even see the glint of water just beyond it.”
“And so you think—?”
“That we have found the Blood River.”
“Then we are very nearly there.”
“Well,” said Tazendra.
Zerika urged her horse forward and others followed.
It has been suggested that the Blood River got its name because of its reddish tint; an absurd notion when one considers that all bodies of water beneath the Enclouding have, to one degree or another, a reddish tint. Others have claimed that it is, in fact, a river of blood: that somehow the blood from those who pass over the falls finds its way, perhaps through hidden springs, back up into the Ash Mountains. While this has never been proven or disproven by investigation, this historian begs leave to doubt it. In this case, as in so many others, the simplest explanation is probably the truth: The Blood River is an obvious, if fanciful, name for the body of water that passes through the Greymist Valley and flows over Deathgate Falls to the Paths of the Dead.
The Greymist Valley itself stretches some twenty or twenty-five miles, beginning next to Hanging Mountain, and continuing past the next of the three peaks that, still part of the Eastern Mountains, are together called the Ash Mountains. This next mountain is called Gyffer’s Peak, and it, of the three, is the one beside which the greatest channel has been cut by the fast-flowing Blood River. The valley has never been inhabited save by various vegetation and the meaner sorts of wildlife, yet it is a picturesque enough setting, with the dark mountains looming above on both sides, the snowy caps of Gyffer’s Peak behind, and the soft green of Round Mountain before.
Gyffer’s Peak, in general, has rather gentle slopes, and, unlike the others, is even populated upon some of its lower slopes, though not, as we said, in the valley itself. But there are several villages on the west side where coffee beans are
grown. In the days of the Empire, these beans were often brought overland to the Eastern River or to the Spearhead Channel and thus to the Kieron’s Sea. Needless to say, this economy has collapsed with Adron’s Disaster, and so the villages were, at this time, all but deserted, which led Tazendra to remark, “Perhaps, on our return journey, we can stop and gather some coffee beans, for I am told the very best beans come from this district.”
“Perhaps,” said Zerika. “Yet it seems you are likely to be too busy on the return for such excursions.”
“Then you think there will be trouble.”
“It seems likely enough.”
“Then I am satisfied.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Piro to Zerika, “but it seems to me that you have said, ‘you.’”
“Well, and is it not a perfectly good word?”
“Oh, as to that, I say nothing against the word.”
“And then?”
“But I worry about implications.”
“Ah! Implications!”
“Yes. That is to say, it would seem as if you imply that you will not be with us on the return.”
“How, had you thought I would be?”
“I must admit, that was my assumption.”
“And mine,” said Kytraan.
“And mine,” said Tazendra.
“Well,” said Zerika, “but, while it may be possible to descend Deathgate Falls, it is not possible to return by climbing up it again.”
“It is not?” said Piro.
“So I am informed by Sethra Lavode, who should know, I think.”
“Well, but then,” said Kytraan, “where will you be?”
“Oh, as to that, I have not the least idea in the world, I assure you.”
“You don’t know where you will be?” said Kytraan.
Zerika shrugged. “Sethra has told me that, if I succeed and am permitted to leave the Halls of Judgment, I could emerge anywhere. There is no way to predict.”
Tazendra, Kytraan, and Piro all looked at each other. Piro
then cleared has throat and said, “So you will appear somewhere, and be entirely on your own?”
“Yes,” said Zerika.
“In that case,” said Piro, “I shall descend the Falls with you.”
“As will I,” said Tazendra.
“And I,” said Kytraan.
“No,” said Zerika, “you will not.”
Piro said, “And yet—”
“I may,” said Zerika, “or may not be able to emerge from the Halls of Judgment with the Orb. But it is certain you will not.”
Kytraan said, “But—”
“You will die,” said Zerika. “Sethra knows that as certainly as she knows anything.”
“Oh,” said Tazendra, “that is of no concern.”
“And yet,” said Zerika, “should you die, and be held in the Paths of the Dead, well, you will be able to do me no good in any case.”
“That is true,” said Piro. “Nevertheless—”
“There is no nevertheless,” said Zerika. “I have decided.”
“And yet—”
“The matter is settled,” said the Phoenix.
None of them had heard Zerika speak in such a tone before; especially to Piro, who had known her the longest. It startled him in no small degree to hear his old friend, who had always been of a quiet and retiring nature, speak with such finality and certainty, as if her word were law, and a final decision was made simply because she declared it so. Piro stared at her, Kytraan nodded dumbly, and Tazendra sighed and shrugged, and so the matter was settled. Behind them, Mica and Lar exchanged looks, but, of course, neither dared to enter into the conversation.
There was then little sound as they rode, though the Blood River, making its swift way over rocks and boulders, created its own sort of ceaseless music that was not unpleasant.
Some hours later they heard a steady crashing sound that Piro recognized as coming from a waterfall. “Is that it?” he said, straining to look forward in the growing dusk.
Zerika frowned. “It shouldn’t be. If the map tells the truth, we have yet another ten or twelve miles before we reach it.”
In fact, they soon reached a waterfall, in which the Blood
River went crashing over the lip in a great torrent to land amid spray and fine mist some hundred feet below. They stopped and admired it from an overhanging cliff for some time, then turned to continue on the path. As they did so, Mica said, “Hello.”
Tazendra turned to him. “What is it, Mica? For I perceive you have spoken.”
In answer, the lackey pointed behind them. They all looked in the indicated direction.
“What is it?” said Tazendra after a moment. “I see nothing.”
“Mistress, I saw what seemed to be several horsemen in the valley behind us.”
“How many?” said Zerika.
“I am uncertain, my lady.”
“How far behind?” said Tazendra.
“I am a poor judge of distances, mistress, yet it was a long way; I could not make out figures clearly, only that, for a moment, it seemed that there were several horses and riders silhouetted upon that ridge.”
Zerika turned to the Dzurlord. “Well?”
Tazendra shrugged. “If he says he saw them, well, I, for one, believe him.”
“Very well,” said Zerika. “Then we will leave the path, and will rest without a fire tonight.”
To this, the others agreed without complaint, though it was a trial, especially on Lar, who had been taking a certain pleasure in preparing simple yet tasteful meals as they traveled.
They left the path, then, and dismounted, leading their horses some hundred meters up into the mountains, and, eschewing Tazendra’s sorcerous abilities, they arranged for each of them to spend an hour on watch, looking to see if anyone came near them during the night. While they didn’t see anyone, Kytraan, during his watch, fancied he heard, very faintly, the sound of horses’ hooves. While he did not wake up the camp, he mentioned it the next morning as they prepared to resume their journey.
“Well,” said Piro, shrugging. “There is nothing to do but go on.”
“With this I agree,” said Zerika.
Returning to the trail once more, they looked carefully, but
saw nothing. Zerika pulled her cloak more closely around her against the morning chill, then glanced up at the heavy Enclouding. “The wind is from the west,” she remarked.
“Is that an omen, do you think?” asked Tazendra.
Zerika shrugged.
They discovered as they rode that, some time after passing the waterfall, they had, in fact, left Gyffer’s Peak, and were now on Round Mountain. The Blood River, once more flowing on their right, was slower and wider, as if gathering itself for the great plunge that it knew was coming.
“Do you know,” remarked Tazendra as they rode, “from a distance, the mountain appears quite green; yet I see nothing here except grey rocks.”
“Well,” said Kytraan, “perhaps we are above the greenery.”
“Look up there,” said Piro. “What is that?”
“It is not green,” said Tazendra.
“It appears,” said Kytraan, “to be either a particularly odd formation of stone, or else a sculpture, though of what I cannot say.”

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