The Phoenix Guards (39 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: The Phoenix Guards
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“I nearly think we can,” said Khaavren.
“I hope so,” said Crionofenarr.
“And how will we do this?”
“Because,” said Khaavren, “the Empire will agree not to make any more raids into the land of the Easterners.”
“Heh,” said Adron. “For whom do you pretend to speak?”
“Heh,” said Crionofenarr. “Will you no longer need horses?”
“If we need horses,” said Khaavren, “we will buy them. Better, we will trade for them. And I speak for your Highness, who will, unless my powers of prophecy have failed me, be made Marquis of Pepperfield within a few weeks.”
“Well,” said Adron, “I don’t say you’re wrong, but nevertheless—”
“What do you pretend you could trade?” interrupted the Easterner.
“You understand, sir, that we need very few, only to improve our breeding stock.”
“Well?”
“We could trade horses of our own, some of which are certain to please you. And, moreover, we could trade—”
“Well?”
“The right to grow peppers,” said Khaavren coolly.
Silence stretched over the field, and so great was the Easterner’s amazement at this answer, that for a moment he found nothing to say.
“But that is the same as if you were giving up these lands.”
“Nearly,” said Khaavren.
“Impossible,” said Adron.
“Not at all,” said Khaavren.
“But we must have these lands.”
“Oh, that, of a certainty we will.”
“And yet,” said Crionofenarr, “you have just said—”
“Cha,” said Khaavren. “A detail only. His Highness will not mind if you remove a portion of your people hither to work these fields.”
“How,” said Adron. “I will not?”
“Assuredly not, lord, because your own troops, stationed in places overlooking these fields, will see that there are no weapons among them, and because they will swear an oath that they will never make war nor raids upon us, nor allow anyone to use this place to do so.”
“We will do this?” said Crionofenarr. “It is a great deal, it seems to me.”
“Well, but you will then receive this land,” said Khaavren, “that is, the right to work it as you would, and to carry off from it what you will, and you will receive a promise that the Empire will make no more sorties into your lands.”
“That is too much,” said Adron. “Why should we give up these lands, which we now hold?”
“I do not think you hold them,” said Crionofenarr, glancing back at his army.
“Well,” said Adron, “I think, at any rate, that you do not.”
“That can be mended,” said the Easterner.
“Bah,” said Khaavren. “Why fight, Your Highness, when this worthy Easterner is giving us so much?”
“How, so much?”
“Indeed. He will surrender to the Empire certain lands some forty or fifty leagues to the north, which are held by Easterners, but are of no possible value to him, save for their location.”
“I will do all of this?” said Crionofenarr doubtfully.
“Well, it is that or war, I think.”
“To what lands do you refer?” asked the Easterner.
“I wish also to know that,” said Adron.
“Oh, a mere nothing,” said Khaavren. “A place of shifting sand, where nothing grows except plants too stringy to eat, and nothing lives save the poisonous yendi. In our tongue, we call it Sandyhome.”
Adron’s eyes widened as he realized what the Tiassa had just proposed, and he said, “Well, if these terms are agreeable to Crionofenarr, and if I am to become the Marquis of Pepperfield, then I accept the terms, with one additional condition.”
“And what is that?” said the Easterner.
“Your sword.”
“How, you expect me to surrender my sword? And yet I beg to remind your lordship that you have not beaten me.”
“That is true. But, nevertheless, it is not right for an Easterner to bear a Morganti weapon.”
“How,” said Crionofenarr with a smile. “It frightens you?”
“It disgusts me,” said Adron.
The Easterner’s eyes narrowed, and Khaavren feared that all would be lost just as everything was nearly agreed to. He stepped forward then, and handed Crionofenarr his sword. “This is a very good weapon, my dear sir,” he said. “And, as you have, in fact, beaten me, why, I surrender it to you.”
“Well, and then?”
“As to that, I leave to you, but I beg to point out to you that you now have three swords, which are two more than you are likely to need.”
“Well,” said the Easterner, frowning, “I prefer this arrangement to seeing our warriors kill one another. Yet if I am not mistaken, you used, in your speech, the word, ‘it.’”
“Well,” said Adron, “and why not? It is a perfectly good word.”
“Oh, as to the word, there is no question. But as to its meaning—”
“Well?”
“It seems to indicate some doubt.”
“It does, because how can I know that I will become the Marquis of these lands? And, if I am not, how can I know the truce will be held?”
“I answer for it,” said Khaavren.
The Easterner looked at Khaavren with an expression of speculation. “You answer for it?” he said doubtfully.
“I more than answer for it, I swear that, if does not come about, well, I will place myself in your hands for you to do with as you would.”
“You swear to this, you say?”
“I swear to it by … by …” Khaavren cast his eyes around for something to swear by, and at last he found it. “I swear to it,” he said, “by the blood of your horse.”
Evidently, he had, by chance, found the right answer, for Crionofenarr, after expressing surprise, nodded and said, “I believe you. Give me your hand.”
“Here it is.”
“And here is mine.”
“That is well.”
“And yours, Lord Adron?”
“Here it is.”
“That is good. And to you, Sir Khaavren, I give over this sword. And, moreover, here is your own back. By the Goddess, what would I do with it? It is too long and heavy for me in any event.”
Khaavren took his own weapon back gratefully, and the Morganti blade with some hesitation, even though, in its sheath, it seemed no different from any other sword. He quickly handed it to Lord Adron, who said, “Then it is settled.”
“Yes,” said Crionofenarr. “Let us retire from this field for an hour, and then, after we have rested, we will finish by agreeing upon the exact details.”
“To this I agree.”
Crionofenarr had a horse brought to him, and, mounted once more, led his army back away from the place where the battle had nearly been fought. When Adron turned around, he perceived that Shaltre and Garland were being held in a very threatening manner. “What is this?” he demanded.
Khaavren bowed. “We were merely insuring that the negotiations could be carried off evenly.”
“Well,” said Garland in an ironic tone of voice. “You have proved an able negotiator, and the Empire ought to be grateful to you.”
“I hope so, my lord,” said Khaavren, bowing and ignoring the way in which this compliment was delivered.
“Nevertheless,” said Shaltre, “we have our orders, and moreover, an army at our backs, and you are our prisoners.”
“I think not,” said a new voice, that being Aerich, who picked that moment to step forward, his eyes flashing.
“Who are you and what do you want?” said Shaltre, frowning.
Aerich had long since sheathed his sword and now held out his hands, palms open. He spoke slowly and clearly, saying, “My friends call me Aerich, but I should be called Temma, Duke of Arylle, Count of Bra-moor, which titles I hold by birth and blood, and I challenge you, Count Shaltre.”
Shaltre fell back half a step, amazed. “Impossible,” he said. “The last Duke of Arylle took his own life.”
“Not the last,” said Aerich. “I am his son.”
“He had no son.”
“I was carried away from the destruction of our chateau, and my existence was concealed from you, for my father knew you for the coward and traitor that you are, and wished to spare my life. He hoped I might avenge him; that hope is now to be realized.”
Shaltre said, “You cannot challenge me, for, by the ancient laws, you, trained as a warrior, cannot—”
“Do you know,” interrupted Aerich coldly, “that no one ever seems to notice Teckla. There may be one practically hiding in your fine silk stockings without your ever being aware of him.”
“What do you say?” said Shaltre, frowning still more.
“Back there, you spoke privately with His Highness and with Lord Garland; you did not notice our friend Mica, lackey to the lady Tazendra, for no one ever seems to notice a Teckla.”
“Well,” said Shaltre, “and if he heard our conversation, what then? You know, then, what we wish for you.”
“And, moreover, you then had a conversation without His Highness.”
“And, if I did?” Count Shaltre, we should say, appeared a little less sure of himself than he had a few moments before; Garland had become pale.
“As I have had the honor to inform you, Count, no one ever notices a Teckla, and yet, some Teckla, such as Mica here, are perfectly capable of overhearing a conversation.”
Shaltre looked shaken for a moment, but recovered himself. “You are lying,” he said coolly.
“I? I have no history of lying. There is no one in the world who can ever say that I have told a lie. But in your case, that is not true. Would you like to question Mica here? Do you wish him to say, in plain, simple words, all that you and Garland told each other?”
Shaltre became quite pale, which showed sharply with his bronzed complexion, but only repeated, “You are lying.”
“Teckla can not only hear,” continued Aerich impassively, “but they can also report what they have heard. They can discuss matters of court intrigue, matters of secret arrangements with certain Athyra, the hiring of Jhereg, conspiracies against Lord Adron—”
“All lies,” insisted Shaltre, although he was clearly quite shaken by the charges.
“What is this?” said Adron. “What did they say when I couldn’t hear them?”
“He is lying,” said Shaltre.
“They said,” continued Aerich coolly, “that if all the witnesses of this deed were killed in battle with the Easterners, including Your Highness,
there would be no need to keep Kathana alive, as Pepperfield would naturally fall into the hands of the e’Lanya line, which is what Garland’s master, Seodra, wants, and what Shaltre wants as well, since he has evidently made some sort of pact with Seodra, perhaps in order to keep the shameful secret of his past.”
“You are lying!” cried Shaltre, while Garland gave Mica such a look of hatred that it was a wonder he didn’t fall dead on the spot.
“Assassination is an ugly word,” said Adron, looking at Shaltre coldly, “but proofs are required.”
“Treason is an uglier word,” said Aerich coolly. “It is so ugly, that, by the custom of my House, I am released, under such circumstances, from the oath that forbids warriors of our House to challenge those who are not so trained.”
“I declare that this Teckla was lying!” said Shaltre. “He is a Teckla, and—”
“I declare,” said Aerich, “that you are lying; and, I declare further that I am about to kill you; this very moment, in fact.”
“You cannot touch me!” cried Shaltre, panic in his voice, drawing his sword and springing back.
“On the contrary,” said Tazendra, “I think that, if he is willing to dirty his hands, he can touch you quite easily.”
“In your pride and ambition,” said Aerich, “you dishonored my family, have given poor counsel to his Majesty, and you are now prepared to commit treason outright, and to cause to be assassinated friends whom I love. You will die, and, if my voice is heard, you will be denied Deathgate. What have you to say?”
“No,” whispered Shaltre. “I will exile myself. I will leave the Empire for the Islands.”
“Where you will use the knowledge you have gained at court as a poniard in the back of His Majesty.”
“I will not.”
“No, you will not,” said Aerich, letting each word fall like a single drop of water falling into a rain-pail after a storm. “You will not, because I am going to kill you now.”
“No, I swear—” and, at these words, thinking, perhaps, to catch Aerich off guard, he sprung, his sword swinging to cut at Aerich’s neck. The first thing his sword did was come near to decapitating Garland, who stood behind him. In point of fact, the blade sliced through the leather cord that held Garland’s pouch, before coming around to strike at Aerich.
There was a brief clang as Aerich deflected the cut with one of his vambraces, then, with the same hand, he took Shaltre by the throat. The older Lyorn swung again, and once more Aerich deflected the blade, this time with his other vambrace, after which he gripped Shaltre’s throat with his other hand. Then he squeezed and twisted. There came a stifled cry, and
the sound of breaking bones, and Count Shaltre fell unmoving to the ground, his neck at an odd angle.

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