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Authors: Steven Brust

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“How dare you speak to me thus?”

“I dare not keep silent.”

“I believe I am condescending to dispute with you, Countess! Can you somehow have contrived to forget your rank, as well as my own?”

“You dispute not with me, but with Fairness and Justice, madam—two entities who know no rank.”

“Shards and splinters,” said Khaavren to himself. “It is a shame this girl is a Lyorn, for I declare that if she were a Tiassa I should marry her in an instant, and then I should convince His Majesty to give me back the lands of Khaavren and we should have a fine daughter to rule my estate as Marchioness and a pretty son to rule hers as Count, after which we would retire together to Mount Bli’aard and let the Empire fall to whatever ruin it desires while we watched the golden lights dance off Redface in the morning.”

If Khaavren was impressed with Daro’s rejoinder, we can only say that the Consort was less so. She said, in a voice at once high and cold, “Countess, I think it is time for you to return to your estates, which, I suspect, stand in need of your firm and, no doubt,
just
hand to guide them.”

“As Your Majesty wishes,” came the answer, still in a strong voice. “Yet, madam, I have not surrendered. I assure Your Majesty that, before leaving, I intend to make certain that everyone at court knows—”

“You will do nothing of the kind!” cried the Consort in tones of outrage. “You will speak to no one; you will say nothing. You will be gone from here within the hour. If you fail in any way to do exactly what I have just said—that is, if you disobey a direct order of your sovereign—you will be arrested for treason at that moment and you can spend the rest of your life in prison,
remembering this day and all it has brought you. And if I were less merciful, I should not give you this choice, for you have hardly earned it. Now go!”

“Madam, I will follow your orders to the letter, yet I beg you to consider—”

“Go!” cried the Consort.

Khaavren suddenly realized his peril, and positively sprinted for the door, which he reached safely even as he heard the inner door open. He walked quickly past the guards, thinking to be out of sight before either the Consort or the Countess could see him. But then, on a sudden thought, he stopped where he was, in the Consort’s sitting room, turned, leaned casually against the wall in the attitude of one who had been there for some time, and waited.

Daro appeared in an instant, her face flushed, but her eyes dry and appearing calm. She wore a floor-length dress of Lyorn-red, gathered down the back, with puffed sleeves tapering to the wrist and a train that was also red save for a bit of tasteful gold embroidery. Her brown hair fell straight and plain to her shoulders, yet caught the light as if it had been brushed the legendary five thousand strokes. She appeared about to go straight past Khaavren as if she hadn’t seen him, but he cleared his throat, bowed, and said, “Countess—”

She stopped, frowned, and said, “What is it, Captain? I am in a hurry.”

“Well,” he said phlegmatically.

“Yes?”

“If you will allow me to escort you whither you are going, I assure you I would look upon it as a great favor, and even as an honor.”

Her eyes widened. “Surely I am not arrested!” Then she added in a low voice, as if to herself, “No, it would be impossible so soon.”

“Arrested, madam? Not the least in the world, I promise you. Rather I am arrested. But that is neither one place nor another. No, there is no talk of arrest, merely a desire to escort you, for no reason other than the pleasure of doing so, for, if the words, however heartfelt, of a mere soldier can touch you, than be assured that you have interested me. Will you allow me the honor of escorting you?”

She laughed, though it seemed to Khaavren that she felt no great amusement. “What, Captain, after all these years have you become a courtier?”

“Ah, you wound me, madam. I—”

“Captain, I assure you that, as I said before, I am in a great hurry. I must see to my business with no delay. If you wish to accompany me, well, I have no objection to make, yet we must be about it at once. In fact, Captain, for reasons I dare not mention, it would ease my mind to have a strong arm to lean on just now, though perhaps it would be best for you if it were not yours.”

“How, best for me? Yet—”

“No, do not ask why, and do not speak, merely allow me to take your arm, and let us proceed at once.”

Khaavren bowed and held out his arm, which Daro took, and they walked down the corridor. Now we would not be faithful to our duty as historian if we did not admit that our Tiassa found himself confused by the tremor he felt in his arm when she took it, for he had been a soldier for five hundred years, and, after the heartbreak of his first love, had treated dalliance as the game that, alas! many soldiers do—forced to by the nature of their calling. Those who live with violence too often find that its opposite—love, becomes a matter as casual, and worth as little consideration, as swordplay. That is, to commit violence because duty requires it is to find one’s self simulating hatred (for the best soldiers feel no real hatred for the opponent fate has placed before them); in the same way, then, it is all too easy to treat the acts of love—kisses, caresses, soft words—as mere simulation of love. One goes through the motions, and, indeed, takes certain pleasures from doing so, yet the touching of soul to soul that love brings to those who are blessed by it is denied by the very emotions that allow the soldier to take sword in hand, day after day, and commit acts which to most of us only accompany the most extreme passion.

In fairness, we must add that not all soldiers have this experience with love. Indeed, many of them, sickened by being constantly surrounded by thoughts of death, fall into love as an escape from the horror that surrounds them every day. Whether this is better or worse, we do not feel it our place to say, being merely the mirror upon which truth is, however imperfectly, reflected.

Khaavren had, alas, fallen into the trap we have described, though he had never realized it. But now, when a gentle but brave hand was laid upon his arm, he became suddenly aware that he was not immune to such tender thoughts, and shooting through his soul were lances both of the pleasure that unselfish love brings, and the pain that comes with the awakening of emotions long asleep. Needless to say, he felt great confusion in his mind even as he felt a beating in his heart and a trembling in his limbs. Thoughts flitted through his mind too fast for his awareness to fasten on and pin down, yet they left their impressions in his clouded brow and shallow breath.

For her part, we should say that for years Daro had seen the Captain, and admired him from a distance—both his form and his character, insofar as she could see that he held himself apart from the intrigues and petty maneuvers of the court, and always carried himself with the relaxed confidence of a warrior, and had, moreover, a smile that, though rare, brightened his countenance, and made her think how pleasant it might be to cause the smile to appear. While she had never entertained serious thoughts in his direction, to find him there, a strong arm when she felt her strength exhausted, and a kind glance when she
felt surrounded by malice, made her see him in a new way, and she was almost overwhelmed with bitterness at the thought that she had truly met him only now, when her life was ruined and she was to be ignominiously driven away. In addition, Khaavren had revealed a side of himself hitherto hidden—he had shown that he had a heart, and one that could be touched, and could open up to another in need.

The Countess endeavored to keep these thoughts concealed, and to recover herself as she walked, yet a part of herself cried out to reveal them, and so, as will sometimes happen when two souls develop a sudden sympathy, hints of her ideas communicated themselves to Khaavren via the hand upon his arm, which, in turn, accounted in part for the reactions that she felt from him.

By the time they reached the set of chambers where the maids of honor slept and kept their clothing, the Countess had recovered herself, and put up once more the barriers that prevent deep emotion from revealing itself too soon, before the heart is convinced that opening will not simply bring a fresh onslaught of pain without any likelihood of reward.

Daro’s room was, by chance, unoccupied. She let go of Khaavren’s arm with a bow, opened her wardrobe, removed a tall valise, and began filling it with her clothing.

“Tell me, Captain,” she said as she haphazardly threw her clothing into the valise (charmingly, thought Khaavren), “what brought you to Her Majesty’s room? For it could not have been for the pleasure of seeing me.”

“And why could it not?” said Khaavren. “Shards! I can think of few better reasons to walk a few paces, or even a hundred leagues.”

She laughed. “You
are
becoming a courtier. But it could not be, because you could not have known I would be there.”

“Well, that is a reason, at any rate, with which I cannot argue.”

“Well then?”

“Madam, I came to see the Consort.”

“Ah. Well, why did you not?”

“Because I saw you instead, and—”

“Flatterer!” she cried, although she did not seem displeased. “You said, ‘and’?”

“And I heard you as well.”

Daro stopped what she was doing, turned, and frowned. “You say you heard?”

“Every word, Madam.”

“I see. And therefore—?”

“I wished to pay you a thousand compliments, for I am a soldier, and soldiers know what courage is.”

For the first time, Daro blushed, turning bright red for a moment and looking down. “Thank you, Captain. But you perceive, if you heard our conversation, that I have no time. And that is why it might be best for you not to be seen with me lest your light be stolen by my shadow. Indeed, I should not, for your sake, have allowed you to walk with me, but I was weak, and needed your arm. Forgive me.”

“Cha,” said Khaavren. “I will be seen with you whenever I can, madam, and hold myself honored.”

She gave him a gentle smile and extended a soft hand, upon which Khaavren placed a reverent kiss. “You are kind, Captain. But it is the case that I am ruined, and your compliments, as well as the whisperings of my heart, are as nothing before the whims of the Consort.”

“The whisperings of your heart, did you say?” cried Khaavren, falling to his knees. “Ah, do not say aloud what your heart whispers, because if it speaks as mine, then, by the Halls of Judgment, I will cast every curse I know at the fates which decreed that I should be a Tiassa while you are a Lyorn!”

Has the reader ever found himself wondering, as he was engaged in some activity or another, “What else is happening in the world?” Or perhaps, upon hearing of some momentous event, has the reader ever wondered, “What was I doing at the exact moment when that occurred?” It is, without doubt, one of the charms of the historical account that these questions can be answered, at least for some people at some times.

By way of example, we will mention that shortly after the third hour after noon, a week and a day nearly to the minute from when we opened this history with a messenger asking to see His Majesty, another messenger was asking for the same favor, this messenger coming from none other than Adron e’Kieron.

At this same moment, the Consort, having positively run from her rooms after the interview with her maid of honor that we, as well as Khaavren, have just overheard, was closeted with His Majesty, and was begging of him certain boons.

Tazendra, who had been wandering the labyrinthine Palace for some hours, had at last managed to locate the Academy of Discretion, and was asking after Pel.

Aliera and Sethra, who had been closeted with Jurabin for most of the day, were at last emerging, having learned what they wished to know, but still uncertain what to do with the knowledge.

Aerich was contemplating the Duke of Eastmanswatch while, at the same time, the Duke was contemplating his mosaic of purple stones and dreaming of inflicting countless humiliations on the Emperor in vengeance for those His Majesty had inflicted upon Aliera.

And, at this same time, Daro said, “How, a Lyorn? Not in the least, my friend. I merely chose these colors because they suit me, and I will not be bound by silly traditions. No, no, do you see my eyes, the shape of my ears, the form on this signet? I am as much a Tiassa as you, good Captain.”

After which revelation our old friend Khaavren, unable to speak for the pounding in his ears, rose unsteadily to his feet and took Daro, Countess of Whitecrest, into his arms.

BOOK
Two

Chapter the Eighteenth

Which Treats of Several Persons
Who
,
for Various Reasons
,
Decide They Ought to Speak at Once
To Our Friend, the Captain.

H
ISTORY IS NOT WHAT MEN could have done, or should have done, but, rather, what they did. It is unquestionably the case that, had the author chosen to write a romance, the ending of the last chapter would have been a rude and unpleasant shock to the reader. That is, the requisite element of classic romance—lovers of different houses finding each other at court but knowing their love is doomed—appeared, only to be set aside in a single, hasty moment of revelation, devoid of the intricacies of plot and counter-plot through which the author would cleverly prevent his characters from learning the truth about each other until either the last moment before the tragedy, or at the first moment after it was too late, depending on whether the author was of the romantic school of Lord Wrenchilde or the more ironic disposition of Lady Hopston.

But if history, though containing, we believe, enough true drama to satisfy anyone’s cravings, rarely follows the formulae outlined by the subscribers to this or that school of history, still less, then, is she willing to follow anyone’s notion of literature. She is a piece of wood afloat in the tide, and will go where the winds and waves bring her, caring nothing for the artist who stands, crayon poised, to draw her from the shore. Should he study her image as it is, she may be willing to fetch up near him long enough to allow some of the secrets of her form to be revealed by an honest canvas; if he insists she conform to his preconceived artistic laws, his work will never enfold her, and truth will always run before him, a step out of reach for ever, like the chreotha in Lady Neloy’s fable.

We insist, then, that, the conventions of romances notwithstanding, we have related what actually occurred between Daro and Khaavren, and we have placed it in time and space as accurately as our meager talents permit. Furthermore, we believe the drama is stronger because it has the resonance of
truth,
rather than the artifice of fiction; yet the reader is, of course, free to draw
his own conclusions about literature versus history, as about anything else we have discussed during the time when he has done us the honor to allow us to spend an evening with him.

With this understood, it is time to move on to the rest of the Palace, where events have not stood still while Khaavren and Daro discovered one another. On the contrary, the sudden and unexpected complication between Captain and Countess, though of great importance to this history (and, we dare to hope, to our readers), was so unimportant to the rest of the court as to pass entirely unremarked.

Lest the reader fear that, in following this “sudden and unexpected complication,” as we have called it, we have lost track of the others whose actions we are obliged to follow, let us declare that nothing could be further from the truth. And the proof, if more proof is needed than the summary provided near the end of the previous chapter, is that we are now prepared to look in on Sethra and Aliera, as they leave Jurabin’s council chamber.

“Well,” said Sethra. “So, it is true that it was Jurabin who has saved you from arrest.”

“There can be no further doubt on that score,” said Aliera. “He confessed it with every gesture, every glance—”

“Every glance, that is, at me,” said Sethra, smiling. “For, as you no doubt observed, he could not bring himself to look directly at your countenance.”

“Well,” said Aliera, shrugging, “there is some truth in what you say.”

“And yet, we are no closer than we were to knowing who is behind the assassinations—both failed and successful—that have broken out like a plague over this last week and more.”

“That is true,” said Aliera. “For, though he was confused, and could conceal nothing, he gave no indication of guilty knowledge on this subject.”

“And yet—” said Sethra.

“Yes?”

“There is one matter to which my mind keeps returning.”

“Well, if you will tell me what it is, my mind will turn to it as well, and your mind shall have company on its journey, which will, no doubt, be as pleasant for our minds as the company we keep on our journey along this corridor is pleasant to us.”

“You reason like an Athyra, my dear friend.”

“Well, go on.”

“This is it, then.”

“I am listening.”

“The way he spoke of the Consort. The quiver, if you will, in his voice, and the way his eyes shifted away from me.”

“Ah! I had not remarked this! What do you make of it?”

“That he knew something he would not tell us.”

“About the Consort?”

“Precisely.”

“There is gossip about the two of them.”

“That is certainly the case, my dear Aliera.”

“Then you suspect—?”

“That she is your enemy? Exactly.”

“And she has the ear of His Majesty.”

“And His Majesty has his Guards.”

“And the Captain of the Guards?” said Aliera.

“Khaavren,” said Sethra.

“Yes, Khaavren,” said Aliera. “The order for my arrest, as we determined before, must go through him. But would he warn us first, if he were told to arrest me?”

“As to that, I cannot say.”

“No,” said Aliera, “but I can.”

“Oh?”

“I need only a few words with him, and I will know if he has been given these orders.”

“Well?”

“Then let us find him, and at once.”

Sethra laughed. “How, you have not remarked the direction we are traveling? We are nearly to the Dragon Wing. Down these stairs, and we shall be at his offices.”

“Then lead on,” said Aliera. “And let us learn what we can from this Tiassa.”

All of this took place in the Dragon Wing of the Palace, beginning on an upper floor and winding down toward the Sub-wing of the Imperial Guard. Some distance away, near the Athyra Wing (although not, technically speaking, within it) another of our friends had reached her destination.

Tazendra, as we have already mentioned, had, after several hours of diligent searching, finally located the Institute of Discretion. She asked to see Pel. The door-ward denied knowing any such person and persisted in this denial until, fortunately, at least for the door-ward, Tazendra remembered to ask for him as the Duke of Galstan, after which the Duke was sent for. After an interval of a few minutes, he arrived.

Tazendra gave a cry upon seeing Pel, and embraced him with an exuberance that simultaneously raised the door-ward’s eyebrows and threatened the Yendi’s ribs. He nevertheless returned the embrace as well as he could before disengaging himself and paying Tazendra a thousand compliments.

“So,” he said at last, “you have been seeking me?”

“More than seeking you,” said Tazendra. “I have found you.”

“Well, you have,” said Pel. “And yet—”

“And yet?”

“Well, I wonder—”

“Ah! I recognize you so well in that!”

“Oh, to be sure.”

“But tell me what you wonder.”

“Oh, I am about to.”

“Begin then.”

“I wonder why you have been seeking me.”

“Why else, but to find you?”

“Yes, yes, I understand that, only—”

“Only you wish to know
why
I wanted to find you?”

“Yes, Tazendra. You have guessed it. I wish to know
why
you wanted to find me.”

“Oh, as to that—”

“Yes?”

“I will tell you.”

“And at once, I hope.”

“Why, this, this very instant.”

“Then I am listening.”

“I wished to find you because I wish to learn what you know.”

“You wish to learn what I know? But surely you must understand—”

“Ah, ah! You know that understanding is not something I do well.”

“Oh, but this is something you
will
understand.”

“I am skeptical.”

“I know you are, Tazendra, and I assure you that it is a mark of intelligence.”

“Do you think so?”

“I am convinced of it.”

“Well, what must I understand, then?”

“You must understand that the secrets of Discretion are not to be divulged to anyone who is not an initiate.”

“Oh, yes, I understand that.”

“Well, you perceive I was right.”

“Yes, yes. You are always right. Only—”

“Yes?”

“When I spoke of wanting to learn what you knew, I was not thinking about the secrets of Discretion.”

“But, my dear Tazendra, what else could I, locked away in this tower, know? I assure you, it has been my whole life. No, no, don’t answer yet. For I
assure you that I desire nothing more than conversation with you, so let us find a place where we can sit comfortably while we speak. Here, turn this corner, and now this one, and so through this portal. Here, you perceive, is a room that is empty save for some chairs, and one that has, moreover, good, thick walls. Now, of what do you pretend I have knowledge?”

“Well, of the assassination attempt on Lord Adron.”

“Ah! I admit that I had some concerns on that score, but they seem to have been misplaced.”

“Not at all.”

“How, not at all? Was an attempt made?”

“Yes, only—”

“Well?”

Tazendra dropped her voice. “They made a mistake, and attempted to kill Khaavren instead.”

“How, Khaavren?” cried Pel, amazed.

“Yes. And they might have succeeded, except that, thanks to your warning, Aerich and I were there, and I was able to discharge a flashstone which, thanks to the Gods, did not miss its mark.”

“Your flashstones rarely miss their mark,” said Pel.

“You are kind to say so,” said Tazendra magnanimously.

“Yet,” said Pel slowly, “I cannot believe they would have made such a mistake.”

“Oh, they did, although, to be sure, neither Khaavren nor Aerich seem to think it was a mistake.”

“What do they think?”

“They think it was an attempt on Khaavren. But that would mean that you had erred in thinking that Adron was in danger, and I do not think—”

“When was an attempt made?”

“It was the evening of the riot. We had a hand in that, too, I should add. I mean, we helped to stop it; we did nothing to start it, I assure you.”

Pel seemed to be considering matters deeply. “You say an attempt was made on Khaavren?”

“No, no. On Adron. Only—”

“An attempt was made, was it not, Tazendra?”

“Yes.”

“And Khaavren was its intended victim?”

“Without question.”

“Then that is enough for now.”

Tazendra shrugged as if she, having done her best to open his eyes, would waste no more time pointing out the obvious. For his part, Pel did not seem distraught by this. He said, “Do you know who made the attempt?”

Tazendra frowned. “I must confess something,” said Tazendra.

“Well, as a Discreet, at least in training, there are few to whom you could more safely make a confession.”

“Listen, then.”

“I am listening.”

“I cannot remember what they said.”

“What, who said, my dear Tazendra?”

“Khaavren and Aerich. They spoke at some length about the assassin, as if they knew him. Yet all I can remember is that he was from the Underside. You remember the Underside, Pel? We went in there one day, the two of us, when there was a disturbance in a private home, where eight or nine rogues seemed determined to plunder it. When we arrived, they were holding the residents hostage, and we had to—”

“Yes, yes, I recall, but—”

“Ah, that was hot work, that night! Some steel sang, and some blood was let!”

“Yes, yes, Tazendra. It was a fine night. Only—”

“Do you recall, after we had rescued the victims, they gave me a pewter goblet, with a ruby on the base?”

“I had forgotten that circumstance.”

“I still have it, you know. I keep it on the mantel, near the dagger I broke when Khaavren and I were set upon by—”

“Your pardon, Tazendra my dear, but I must ask you this: you say Khaavren and Aerich knew the assassin?”