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Authors: Steven Brust

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“Absurd!”
“Impossible!”
“They are,” quietly observed Zivra to Lewchin, “beginning once more.”
“I nearly think they are,” agreed Lewchin. “And quickly, too.”
“Ought we to do something?”
“Yes, perhaps we should.”
“And have you an idea?”
“I have.”
“Well?”
“I believe,” said Lewchin, “that we should have another glass of wine, for yours is quite empty, and mine is no better.”
“An admirable plan,” said Zivra, and poured. Shant and Piro, meanwhile, had raised their voices and begun pounding on the furniture in order to emphasize certain points in their dispute. After some few minutes, however, Zivra and Lewchin, through an exchange of looks, decided that the conversation could be stopped without risk of an inordinate amount of knowledge or understanding being forever lost to the world.
“Gentlemen,” said Zivra, in a sweet voice with which she somehow contrived to penetrate the sounds of controversy. “I beg you to leave off for a moment.”
They stopped, glanced at Lewchin and Zivra, then at each other, after which they adopted abashed expressions. “Well?” said Piro.
“I have something to say,” said Zivra. She pronounced these words with no particular expression; in fact, she used the same tone of voice in which she might have announced that the coffee was roasted and seasoned and ground and ready to be brewed (for she was, in fact, adept at this craft, though such mastery had grown rare after the Disaster), yet in some indefinable way, everyone understood that Zivra was about to say something of importance; consequently, no one spoke, but rather everyone waited for her to continue, which she did at once and in this fashion: “My guardians have informed me that I am to be leaving for some destination for some length of time.”
“How, leaving?” said Piro.
“Precisely,” said Zivra.
“Do you mean, leaving Adrilankha?” said Shant.
“Yes, that is it.”
“For some destination?” said Piro.
“For an
unknown
destination.”
“Then, you do not know where you are going?” said Lewchin.
“You have understood me exactly.”
“But,” said Piro. “Your guardians must have at least given you a reason.”
“Not the least in the world, I assure you,” said Zivra.
“But, when will you be leaving?” asked Shant.
“To-morrow,” said Zivra.
“To-morrow!”
“Early in the morning.”
“The Horse!” said Piro. “So soon?”
“Nearly,” said Zivra.
“But, then, has something happened?” said Shant. “For to be told that one must pack up and leave, with only a day to prepare, well, there must be a cause for it.”
“That may be,” said Zivra. “Yet, if so, I assure you I know nothing about it.”
“And will you be returning?” said Lewchin.
“Ah.”
“Well?”
“I know nothing about that, either.”
“But,” said Piro, “did you not interrogate them?”
“How, interrogate my guardians?”
“Yes.”
“Not the least in the world. They made the announcement, and I—”
“Yes, and you?”
“Well, I submitted. It seemed to be a matter of grave urgency, and a matter, moreover, about which strict secrecy must be observed, for otherwise they would have answered those questions they knew I had before I should ask them.”
“And therefore,” said Shant, “you didn’t ask them?”
“Exactly.”
“You must write to us,” said Piro.
“And often,” added Shant.
“I will,” said Zivra.
“It is a shame,” said Piro, “that the Orb is lost, for with sorcery we could communicate directly, mind to mind, as they did in the old days.”
“Sorcery is not required,” said Shant. “There are those who can so communicate without it.”
“Oh, indeed?” said Piro. “Well then, do so now.”
“That I have not learned this art,” said Shant, “is no proof—”
“Gentlemen,” said Lewchin. “If you please, let us not start this again.”
“I must confess,” said Zivra, “that I shall miss even the arguments on natural and magical philosophy.”
“Well,” said Lewchin. “I will take notes, and then send them to you with my letters.”
“Ah! I anticipate much pleasure in their perusal.”
Lewchin frowned and pursed her lips, studying her friend, and then said, “There is more, isn’t there?”
“How, more?”
“You know or suspect something you have not yet told us.”
“Ah,” said Zivra, and smiled. “Well, I ought to have known I could not fool you.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I only suspect—”
“That is,” put in Shant, “you fear.”
“Well, yes, I fear. I have been told that I am to meet someone.”
“How, meet someone?” said Piro.
“Exactly.”
“Then you fear—”
“That I am to be married.”
“But your guardians wouldn’t do that!” cried Lewchin.
“Alas,” said Zivra. “I don’t know. They will tell me nothing, only that I am to go, and that I will meet someone, and all will be explained.”
“I confess,” said Piro, “that it sounds, well, I do not like how it sounds.”
“Nor I,” said Shant.
“Nor I,” said Lewchin.
“But it is a mystery,” added Piro. “That much is clear.”
“If it is a mystery,” said Shant, “then it is not clear.”
“I meant—”
“Well, but what can be done?” said Zivra quickly.
“We will carry you off ourselves!” said Piro.
“How, carry me off?”
“Exactly,” said Shant.
“To where?”
“Well,” said Piro, “to, that is—”
“Anywhere,” said Shant. “The jungle.”
“Neither of you,” said Lewchin, “is being sensible. Consider—”
“Well?” said Shant and Piro.
“We do not know that marriage is contemplated, we only suspect.”
“That may be,” said Shant. “Yet it is bound to be unpleasant, or they’d have told her what it was. Come, Piro, what do you think?”
“I am entirely in agreement with Shant.”
“And I,” said Zivra, who seemed caught between laughter and tears, “am very much afraid I must subscribe to Lewchin’s opinion. We cannot run off merely on a suspicion. Besides, if it is a marriage, perhaps I will like him.”
“You think so?” said Piro, doubtfully.
“Well—”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Lewchin. “We will not, in fact, be carrying her off.”
“And yet—” began Shant.
“But,” continued Lewchin, “our friend will write to us, and soon we will know, and then—”
“Well?” said Piro. “And then?”
“And then we will do what we must.”
She said this coolly, and with no expression in her voice. The others looked at each other and nodded solemnly.
The rest of the day’s events continued under a certain pall, and with the not-unaccountable feeling of something ending. No one said that the Society was now, in effect, dissolved; yet everyone, in his own way, seemed to feel it. They drank but sparingly, as if none wished to have his memory clouded by wine, and they spoke, even Piro and Shant, in low tones, recalling past adventures and sharing plans, hopes, and dreams for the future, until well into the night.
At one point, Piro said, almost as if speaking to himself although his words were addressed to Zivra, “Do you think that you might at last learn something of your origins?” Then, realizing he’d spoken his thoughts aloud, he held himself very still, an apology on his lips, for this was a subject that had never been spoken of.
Yet Zivra only nodded, as if the question were the most natural one in the world, and said, “I have had that thought. Perhaps I will, but then, perhaps not.”
For years this had never been broached, and now that it was, no one quite knew what to say, until Lewchin said, “Has it troubled you not to know?”
Zivra frowned and said, “You wish to know if it has troubled me?”
“Yes,” said Lewchin, “if you would care to tell me.”
“Well, I will answer your question.”
“And?”
“No, for some reason it has not. It has always seemed to me as if—”
“Yes?” said Shant. “As if?”
“As if there was a reason why the names of my parents and the circumstances—and even the House—of my birth has been hidden from me. I have always known, or seemed to know, that I would find out at the right time.”
Said Piro, “And this, perhaps, is the right time?”
“Perhaps.”
“And,” added Lewchin, “you have never questioned your guardians?”
“Never,” she said.
“But,” put in Shant, “you will tell us if you find out? For you perceive we are curious about everything that affects any member of our Society.”
“Yes, I understand that, and by my faith I will tell you everything I can.”
“That is all we can ask,” said Lewchin, with a look to Shant to make sure he understood to whom these words were, in fact, addressed.
After that, the conversation drifted to other subjects, and continued until at last Zivra announced that she must retire, for the following day would see her busy in completing her preparations for departure in the earliest hours, and in setting out while it was still quite morning.
The reader, who has only just been introduced to these four persons, will not be interested in hearing of the words and tears which poured fourth as Zivra and Piro took their departure from Lewchin and Shant, so let us pass quickly by with only the statement that there was no shortage of protestations of mutual affection and promises of letters to be exchanged often and visits to be made when possible.
The routes taken by Piro and Zivra ran together for some distance, and so, after mounting their respective horses, they continued together for some time.
“Do you think,” said Piro, “that we will all ever meet again?”
“As to that,” said Zivra, “I cannot say. But at least you will be able to see Lewchin and Shant when you wish.”
“That is true. Do you know, I envy them.”
“Because they have found each other?”
“Yes, that is it exactly.”
“They are fortunate,” said Zivra. “Before the Disaster, they should never have dared to display such an arrangement, one being a Dzur, the other an Issola.”
“Well,” said Piro, shrugging, “at least one good thing, then, has come from the Disaster.”
“You think so?”
“How, you disapprove?”
“Of Lewchin and Shant? Of course not, they are my friends. I shall miss them. And you, as well.”
“It is a new stage of our lives, Zivra. Yours, and mine as well.”
“You are right. And I accept it, only—”
“Well?”
“If it is to be without the friends I love, it will be hard.”
“Yes. But here is the bridge, and this is where we part.”
“I believe—”
“Yes?”
“I believe we will see each other again, Piro.”
“It is my dearest wish, Zivra.”
We ought to say that, upon leaving Piro, Zivra went to a place the reader might not expect, met with a most remarkable person, and had a conversation of considerable interest. The reader may rest assured that we will reveal place, person, and conversation when it is proper to do so. Nevertheless, we believe that we should waste no time in following the principal actor in our history: the Viscount of Adrilankha. He directed his horse through the streets, oblivious, as he always was, of the danger of riding alone through the city at night, until, without incident, he returned to the high cliffs above the sea, and thus to Whitecrest, which was the name of his home, as well as the district in which the city of Adrilankha was situated. There he gave his mare into the care of the night-groom and was about to enter the home, when he observed, in the dim light that came from the windows of the manor, the form of a man, who stood like a statue near the servants’ entrance of the keep.
 
 
How the Viscount Met His New Lackey,
With Necessary Digressions During
Which Something Is Learned of
the
Countess and Count of Whitecrest
 
 
P
iro touched his sword, which, having been removed from the saddle, was hung from the sheath-belt over his shoulder. On consideration, however, he did not draw it, but approached the figure before him, whereupon this person turned and presented a respectful bow, as to a superior, which the Viscount found unusual, as they were as yet unable to see each other clearly. Piro continued forward, and finally stopped a few feet away, at which time he acknowledged the salute and said, “I give you good evening, visitor.”
The visitor repeated his bow, as deeply as the first time, and said, “I am not yet even a visitor, noble lord, yet I aspire to be more.”
“You aspire to be more than a visitor?”
“I do, my lord.”
“Well, let us see, then.” Piro was close enough so that, squinting in the small amount of light that filtered down from an open window above, he was able to see that the stranger, who was holding his hat in his hand, had no noble’s point. “Come, what are you doing here?” asked the viscount.
“My lord, I am waiting.”
“How, waiting?”
The Teckla bowed once more. “Yes, lord: waiting.”
“But, then, for what are you waiting?”
“I am waiting for the door to open.”
Piro was momentarily confused, uncertain whether he was being mocked. He said, “You are waiting for a servant to answer the door?”
The visitor respectfully bowed his agreement with this assessment.
“You perceive,” said Piro, “that there is no one to come to the door, as we have no doorman. It is unlikely that the Countess or Count would have heard you, and the other servants have, no doubt, retired for the evening.”
“Then that,” said the one who was not yet a visitor, “more than adequately explains why I have not been acknowledged or admitted.”
“Well,” said Piro, “but how long have you been waiting?”
“Four hours and a quarter,” said the Teckla.
“Four hours and a quarter?”
The visitor nodded solemnly.
“But then, how are you able to know the time to such a precise degree?”
“Ah, does Your Lordship wish me to explain?”
“Yes, that is it exactly: I wish you to explain.”
“I will then.”
“I am listening.”
“As I became aware that I might be standing here for a good length of time, it came to me that the time would pass better were I able to keep my mind occupied.”
“Well, I understand that, for standing in one place often leads to ennui. What, then, did you do?”
“Your Lordship may perceive that, it being dark, there was nothing to look at.”
“Yes, I understand that. And therefore, being unable to see?”
“Being unable to see, well, I listened.”
“Ah! And what did you hear?”
“I heard many things, my lord: the waves crashing upon the cliffs, the hollow clop of a shod horse along the stone streets, the rattle of carriage wheels. But among them was the peculiar chitter that I recognized as the hunting call of the ratbird.”
“Yes, I know that chitter.”
“And I, too, for I have spent a great deal of time in forest, wood, and jungle; and I know that the male ratbird, who always hunts with his mate, makes this call at regular intervals,
each time receiving a response from his mate, who is also hunting, until one or the other has made a kill. Your Lordship may perceive that the important thing is the regularity of the call, which is astonishingly consistent for each pair on each night.”
“I am not unaware of this phenomenon,” said Piro. “And then?”
“I had a thought.”
“As you listened to the ratbird?”
“Yes, exactly. In fact, it was listening to the ratbird that inspired the thought.”
“Well, but what was this famous thought?”
“My lord, it is was this: If the ratbird demonstrates this behavior in forest, wood, and jungle, why, then, should it not demonstrate the same behavior when entering the city?”
“Why, that was more than a thought, it was very nearly an idea.”
“Was it not? And then, my lord, having nothing else to do, I counted the interval between calls, and discovered that, with this pair—ah, there it is again!—eight minutes and twenty-one seconds elapsed between calls. Now, as I am something of an arithmatist—”
“The Trey! Are you then?”
The Teckla bowed. “I was thus able, merely by keeping track of the number of times the ratbird made its call, to discover two things.”
“And what are these two things you have discovered? For you perceive you interest me enormously.”
“In the first place, that I have been waiting at this door for the amount of time that I have had the honor to inform Your Lordship.”
“That being four hours and a quarter.”
“Now, in fact, four hours and twenty-five minutes, or close to it.”
“I understand. And, the second thing you have discovered?”
“There are very few rats in the environs of Your Lordship’s keep.”
“Ah. I understand.”
“I am gratified that I have been able to answer Your Lordship’s question.”
“And I am gratified to learn that there are so few rats, although it does make me wonder why the ratbird should venture this far into the city.”
“Ah, my lord, with Easterners to the east, and Islanders to the West and South, and plagues and brigands all around us—”
“Well?”
“Well, the city and the jungle become closer each year.”
“That is true, I think. Yet there remains the issue of what I am to do, for I am loath to leave you standing here for another four hours and a half, or more.”
“That is as Your Lordship wishes.”
“Well, since there is no one else to speak to you, I shall do so myself.”
“That is very kind of Your Lordship,” said the Teckla, and he put himself into an attitude of waiting.
“Why have you come to the door?”
“I have come for a position, my lord.”
“How, a position? What sort of position?”
“Doorman and lackey.”
“Ah, ah! You heard, then, that such a position was open?”
“Exactly. I heard that such a position was open, and I have not only heard it, but—”
“Well?”
“I think I have very nearly proved it.”
“Indeed, I think you have. How did you come to hear about this position?”
“Gossip, my lord, from local gossips, which is often the best if not the only way to learn anything.”
“And what exactly did you hear? For, you perceive, I was raised to believe in precision in all things.”
“If I may say so, my lord, that is only just, and so I will tell you what I heard.”
“That is what I wish to know.”
“It was just this: The Countess and Count of Whitecrest require a doorman and lackey. This doorman and lackey, so I was told, must be of good character and have letters of reference.”
“And you have such letters?”
“Indeed, my lord.” The prospective servant touched his breast to indicate that he carried them within his blouse.
“Well, follow me, then.”
Piro led the way into the house, through the buttery, larder, and kitchen, and so into the gentle confines, where he lit a few more tapers, then sat and held out his hand. The Teckla removed a neatly tied scroll of papers from his bosom, slipped it from an oilskin envelope, and presented the scroll to the Viscount, who untied it, unrolled it, and glanced through the various letters and documents contained therein. After a moment he said, “Your name is Lar?”
“Yes, my lord. My name is Lar, and Lar means me.”
Piro rolled up the documents and tied them once more. “Well, Goodman Lar, it is late, and I am not the one to whom you must speak. I have looked at these recommendations, and they appear to be entirely regular, so that I will permit you to spend the night within these walls. You may find a corner of the kitchen, and then in the morning you may speak with the Count.”
“Thank you for your kindness, my lord,” said the Teckla, accepting his scroll. Meanwhile Piro, whose eyes had quite adjusted to the light, took a good look at the Teckla. He was rather shorter than the Viscount, but sturdy-looking, as if he had spent some time in physical labor, he had the round face of his House, and, moreover, a face with no expression on it, yet Piro, who even at his tender age had some skill as a physiognomist, thought he detected a certain intelligence in the set of Lar’s eyebrows and the lines of his forehead.
Piro cleared his throat and said, “Two words.”
Lar stopped in mid-bow and looked up, presenting a slightly comical aspect. “My lord?”
“When you speak to the Count—”
“Yes? When I speak to the Count?”
“You may wish to be, well, laconic.”
Lar straightened up slowly, frowning a frown of bewilderment.
“There is something about you,” continued Piro, “that inspires my sympathy, and I wish to help you.”
“I am grateful,” said the Teckla. “And yet—”
“Your comportment,” explained Piro. “My father the Count is, well, he is not a cheerful man, and I am afraid that he will not wish to be attended by a cheerful servant. And my mother,
well, as she manages the affairs of County Whitecrest, she leaves the estate and the domestic matters to my father.”
“How, not cheerful?”
“Exactly.”
“And yet, he is a Tiassa.”
“Well, I know it is strange.”
“My lord, it is—unusual.”
“You perceive, there are reasons.”
“Oh, as to that.”
“Yes?”
“Well, my lord, is it not the case that there are reasons for everything?”
“You think so?”
“So I have been told, my lord.”
“Then you are educated.”
“I know my symbols, and I know my numbers, and I know that there is a cause for every effect.”
“Then you wish to know the cause for this?”
“If Your Lordship would care to tell me, well, I would listen.”
“This is it then. You know about Adron’s Disaster.”
“Trout! I nearly think so! I was a young man when it happened, and a thousand miles away, and yet I remember feeling the ground shake beneath my feet, and I was nearly brained by a large pitcher falling from a shelf.”
“Well, then, my father was a friend of Adron.”
“How, Adron himself?”
“Exactly.”
“Ah! I had not known of this circumstance.”
“There is more.”
“How, more?”
“He was a servant to His Majesty, the Emperor.”
“A servant?”
“And more than servant.”
“More than a servant?”
“He was—”
“Yes?”
“Captain of the Phoenix Guards.”
“He!”
“Exactly.”
“And yet, His Majesty was assassinated.”
“Precisely.”
“Well, much is explained then. And yet—”
“Well?”
“Has he been brooding on this subject for two and a half hundred years?”
Piro made a gesture with his hands. “It has grown worse, so I am told, these last hundred years or so. But nevertheless …”
“Well, that clarifies matter, my lord. Only—”
“Yes?”
“The position, as I have been informed, is not that of servant for the Count.”
“How, it is not?”
“Not the least in the world.”
“Well, but then, what is it, my good Lar?”
“It is lackey to his son.”
“His son?”
“Exactly.”
“But I am his son.”
“So it would seem, my lord.”
Piro looked at him again. “You are, then, to be my lackey?”
“That, at any rate, is the post for which I have the honor to apply.”
“And yet, good Lar, I give you my word that I had no idea any such position was requested.”

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