The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) (37 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha)
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“It is a phoenix,” said Zerika coolly.
They came closer and found that it was, indeed, a sculpture of a phoenix, and one, moreover, that appeared to have survived the ages with no wearing away whatsoever. Zerika stopped and dismounted, then knelt before it, her head bowed; and she spoke very quietly, as if addressing it. The others remained mounted, back a certain distance, and silent.
When Zerika had finished, and was climbing onto her horse (unaided, we should add, except for a convenient rock lying near to the path), Tazendra said, “Do you hear something?”
Piro nodded. “I believe it may be the sound of a waterfall up ahead.”
Kytraan said, “Would that be—?”
“Yes,” said Zerika. “We have arrived.”
They urged their horses forward, and soon reached another statue, this one showing a jhegaala in its wingèd form, just taking to the air.
They passed more statuary. When they reached the tiassa, which was poised upon its hind legs, wings outspread, Piro wondered if he were supposed make a sort of obeisance; but not knowing, he contented himself with removing his hat as
he passed by it. Shortly thereafter they passed the sculpture of the dragon, showing only its head; Kytraan bowed to it as they moved on. They passed the marker of a hawk, not caught in flight, as was its depiction in the Cycle, but standing, posed, looking back toward Deathgate Falls, which was now clearly audible, though still muffled.
They followed the river through a curve, the sound of the Falls becoming ever louder, and soon passed a larger-than-life sculpture of a man, standing naked, sword in hand, looking back away from the Falls.
“Kieron the Conqueror,” said Zerika. “The first human to pass this way. Sethra says he still remains in the Paths, waiting for his time.”
Kytraan removed his hat and solemnly saluted the statue. Piro said, “With the Empire fallen, well, I wonder what better time there would be.”
Zerika shrugged.
The river seemed to be picking up speed now, as if suddenly in a hurry to reach the Falls and be done with its journey at last. Nearby was the dzur, which, like the dragon, showed only the head of the beast, mouth open as if to tear at the observer’s throat. Just beyond it was the lip of Deathgate Falls. Seen from the top, it appeared, as a waterfall often will, to be utterly harmless, just a place where the water picked up speed, broke into occasional frothy whitecaps, and disappeared out of sight, without the least indication of the distance it would fall, nor what waited beneath. The west bank of the lip, dominated by the dzur’s head, was a semicircular clearing of around forty or fifty feet in diameter; it almost seemed to have been carved out of the rock to provide a place for any last rituals before the body of a departed friend or family member was given to the Falls. And, indeed, perhaps this was the case, for there are mysteries surrounding Deathgate Falls that the historian will make no claims to have solved.
The travelers approached the lip and looked over it, seeing nothing below except thick mist.
“How far down is it?” asked Piro.
“No one knows,” said Zerika.
“Well,” said Kytraan. “What now?”
“I must consider,” said Zerika, “the best way to descend.”
As they considered, they were startled by loud cries, like screams or screeches. All of them looked around, until at last Tazendra said, “Above us.”
They looked up, and saw four or five shapes circling overhead.
“Jhereg,” said Zerika.
“Has something died?” said Tazendra.
“When they see activity here, they know there is usually a corpse nearby,” said Zerika.
“And yet,” said Kytraan, “it would seem that they would hesitate to attempt to feed upon a corpse when it is surrounded by men.”
“These are not the jhereg of the jungles or the cities,” said Zerika. “They are much higher up, and, consequently, larger, than they seem.”
“Oh,” said Piro. “Should we be worried?”
“No,” said Zerika. “Soon they will realize that there is no scent of a corpse, and they will not bother us. They will not attack a living man.”
“In fact,” said Kytraan, “I am just as glad that they will not.”
“Well,” said Tazendra, shrugging.
Zerika turned her attention back to Deathgate Falls.
“How will you get down?” said Piro.
“I am considering that very question,” said Zerika.
“How, did you not discuss it with Sethra?”
“Well, we did discuss it, only—”
“Yes?”
“We did not arrive at a conclusion.”
“A conclusion,” pronounced Tazendra, “would be good.”
“We have rope,” said Zerika. “We could tie it to one of the sculptures and I could lower myself that way.”
“Have you sufficient rope?” said Piro.
“Two thousand feet,” said Zerika. “If that isn’t enough, well, then I can always let go. Jumping was an option we considered.”
“Not seriously, I hope,” said Kytraan.
“Entirely seriously. It is placing myself in the hands of the gods.”
“And yet—”
“It was not,” said Zerika, “our first choice.”
“Well,” said Piro. “I, for one, am glad that it was not.”
“I agree,” said Kytraan, “because if you jump—oh.”
Piro looked at him. “Oh?”
Rather than giving him an answer, Kytraan pointed back the way they had come.
“Horsemen,” said Tazendra.
“Several of them,” agreed Piro.
Mica, with the attitude of a man who had been in such situations many times, coolly untied his bar-stool from his saddle and held it ready in his hand.
“You think there will be trouble?” said Lar.
“It is possible,” said Mica, doing his best to imitate his mistress’s manner at such times, and, we must admit, making an entirely credible job of it.
“Well,” said Lar, and, taking a deep breath, began to dig around in his saddle-pockets.
Zerika said, “How many of them are there?”
Tazendra stood up in her stirrups, as if a little additional height would give her better vision. “Perhaps a dozen,” she said.
“Do you think they wish to stop us?” said Kytraan.
“As to that,” said Piro, “who can say?”
“Soon we will know,” said Tazendra, and gently rolled her shoulders, the significance of which we trust the reader remembers.
“The question,” said Zerika, “is whether we ought to wait and find out.”
“I believe,” said Piro, “that the question is, have we any other choice?”
“That, too, is a good question,” said Kytraan.
“If we charge them,” said Tazendra, “then, well, all will soon be settled.”
“That is true,” said Zerika. “And yet, what if their intentions toward us are friendly?”
“Or their presence could be entirely unrelated to us,” said Kytraan. “Consider that we are at Deathgate Falls, where for millennia bodies have been brought to attempt passage to the Halls of Judgment.”
“Perhaps,” said Zerika. “But how many expeditions to Deathgate have you heard of since Adron’s Disaster?”
“Well, it is true that there have not been many, but nevertheless—”
“I believe,” said Zerika, “that we are safe in making the assumption that their presence here is related, in some manner, to our own.”
“Let us charge them,” said Tazendra.
“But,” said Piro, “how could they know about us?”
“In many ways,” said Zerika. “The simplest divination could answer a question to anyone who knows enough to ask. Or they could have spied us as we rode, and be following us for some reason. They could have been sent by Sethra with aid for us. They could have been sent by the gods to stop us. They—”
“Let us charge them,” said Tazendra.
“On my word of honor,” said Kytraan, “I am not far from agreeing with Tazendra.”
“We cannot attack them,” said Zerika, “until we know if they are hostile, indifferent, or friendly toward us.”
“Nevertheless,” said Tazendra, “I believe—”
“The matter is settled,” said Zerika.
Tazendra sighed.
“But in case they are hostile,” added the Phoenix, “let us remain mounted.”
“With this I agree,” said Tazendra.
Kytraan urged his horse forward until he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Tazendra; Piro, for his part, came forward to the Dzurlord’s other side. In this position they waited.
“Do you know,” said Kytraan after a moment, “I believe I recognize the fellow in front.”
“Yes,” said Piro. “If I am not mistaken, it is the charming bandit whom we met on the way. Wadre, was that not his name?”
“Indeed,” said Kytraan. “That is it exactly. And that seems to be the sorceress we met. What was her name?”
“Orlaan. But what could they wish? We have no more wealth than we did the last time we met.”
“That is true,” said Piro. “And yet, I do not like it that they are together. I believe that their intentions toward us are not friendly.”
Tazendra shrugged. “Then so much the worse for them.”
“Your mistress is not lacking in confidence,” remarked Lar.
“She has reason,” said Mica smugly.
“You perceive,” said Kytraan, “that the sorcerer, Orlaan, has drawn her weapon.”
“Well,” said Zerika. “Then let us show her equal courtesy.”
“With this plan, I agree,” said Tazendra, at once drawing her over-sized blade, which she contrived to hold with one hand as if it were a rapier. It was, we should say, what is called a hand-and-a-half sword, and rather bedecked with jewels, most of them rubies upon the hilt and even inside the bell; yet it was by no means a “dress sword,” but, rather, one intended for business.
Kytraan drew his much more modest, though still entirely serviceable, blade, which was of the type most favored by soldiers, having enough weight to protect one’s self against the heaviest blade, enough length to permit a good thrust when it was called for, but being mostly designed for cutting, being sharp on both edges for its entire length, rather wide, and with a hilt long enough to accommodate two hands for those situations where brute strength, and nothing but brute strength, would do the job.
Piro, not to be left out, drew his own sword, which was considerably the smallest of the three, at least in thickness, though it was of good length, and made of fine steel, dating back to the Sixteenth Cycle, and never having required more than the touch of a whetstone to restore a razor’s edge to it Piro’s mother had discovered it in the armory of Whitecrest Manor and, though she pretended ignorance of its history, recognized it at once as a well-constructed and versatile weapon.
Zerika had a dueler’s blade—thin, light, and flexible—the sort of weapon one would not expect to encounter in general combat, and which looked as if it would break easily if asked to parry too heavy a stroke, yet she drew it and held it as if she was well acquainted with its length.
Soon Wadre and Orlaan, followed by the rest of the band, came up before them and held there. Orlaan gave them a bow that seemed to Piro to contain a good measure of irony, and she said, “Greetings to you, fellow travelers. I am called Orlaan, and I have met some of you before.”
Kytraan and Piro returned her greeting, and Zerika said, “I am Zerika, and this is Tazendra, and I wish you a good day.”
“A good day?” said Orlaan. “Well, you wish me a good day. You hope my day is good. And yet, my dear Zerika, as you style yourself, I have cause to believe that for my day to be good requires yours to be less than good. What then?”
“Oh, then?” said Zerika, shrugging. “Then I no longer wish you a good day. You perceive I am a very changeable person.”
“And I,” said Orlaan, “admit to a curiosity, which I hope you will do me the kindness to satisfy.”
“And yet, madam, if a good day for you requires a bad day for me, I fail to see why I should satisfy your curiosity or anything else.”
“That is entirely just.”
“And then?”
Orlaan shrugged. “You must have a question or two of me. Come. A bargain. If you will answer a question for me, well, then I will answer a question for you.”
“In fact,” said Zerika, “I do have a question for you, and that is, do you intend to attempt to thwart my mission?”
“Ah, but how can I answer that before I know what your mission is? And that, you perceive, is exactly my question.”
“You know well enough what we are doing here, madam,” said Piro suddenly.
“How, you think so?” said Orlaan.
“I am entirely convinced of it.”
“Well,” said Orlaan. “If the lady who has done me the honor to introduce herself as Zerika is, as she seems to be, of the House of the Phoenix, than, well, I believe I can make a guess as to her mission.”

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