Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards) (34 page)
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Authors: Steven Brust
BOOK: Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards)
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“In the same way—I took the path that seemed right to me, and I found you at its end. And when I found you—up now, that’s right. Here, let me … that is good. Now you must hold me about the waist, just so. When I found you, there was a Dragonlord standing over your body, as if he were wondering what to do with you. I called upon him to move, and we had a discussion, after which I began to bind your wounds, stopping only to attend to another Dragonlord who wished to converse with me as I worked.”
“Then, I owe you my life.”
“Oh, as to that—”
“Well?”
“Not in the least. Dragonlords do not murder their wounded enemies.”
“Perhaps. But neither can they be relied upon to bind their wounds. And if, as I suspect, they knew why I was there, they—”
“We will speak of it another time. Is the motion of the horse uncomfortable?”
“Not in the least. In truth, I cannot have lost much blood after all; I suspect I was only stunned by the blow to my head, for I feel better with each passing minute.”
“That may be, and yet, the ground around you, as you lay, was covered—”
“Cha! Let us speak of it, as you say, another time.”
“Then of what ought we to speak?”
“Of you, my dear Countess.”
“There is little to say on that score, my brave Captain.”
“Whatever the score, let us play it, for I wish to hear every note.”
“Even if the melody is wearying?”
“What matters the melody? Melody is but the means whereby the soul of the musician is expressed.”
“And if the musician is only average?”
“The means are always an average.”
“Ah, you are pleased to jest.”
“You object to jests?”
“Not in the least; to make the patient happy is the desire of the physicker, and jests, which can lead the patient to a more cheerful and complaisant disposition, are often instrumental in that regard.”
“There, you perceive that, having mentioned instruments, we are discussing music once more.”
“If you like. But the instrument is not as important as the player.”
“You think not?”
“I am convinced of it. An unskilled player—”
“Such an instrument as yours could bring forth no sounds but the most harmonious, and no themes but the most enduring.”
“Yet, what is harmonious to one is dissonant to the next, and a theme you find enduring, another might consider trite and overused.”
“What could be more enduring than love? Yet name a theme more trite. It is all in the rendering and orchestration.”
“Well, and how would you have me orchestrate this theme?”
“Why, madam, you are the orchestra, as I will demonstrate, if you will allow me.”
“Certainly, sir. You may attempt to prove your case, and I will listen closely to your reasoning, though I warn you that I will accept no shoddy logic.”
“My logic will be as sharp as the sword with which you have lately delivered me from danger.”
“We had agreed not to speak of that.”
“Very well.”
“Then begin.”
“Listen: Your lips, first of all.”
“My lips? Why do you mention my lips?”
“Because they are part of the orchestra.”
“I perceive you are serious about this.”
“Entirely.”
“Very well, then, my lips. What part will they take?”
“They will be the reed pipes, with the humming of your voice as the reeds themselves.”
“Do you think so?”
“I am certain of it.”
“Then I accept my lips as the reed pipes, since you insist upon it. But is there a chanter-pipe in this orchestra, as well as the reed pipes?”
“There are chanter-pipes, reed-pipes, wood-pipes, and brass-pipes.”
“What, then, are the chanter-pipes?”
“What could they be but your own sweet bosom, with the delicate, steady pulsing of each breath that so occupies my thoughts?”
“Did you learn such speech in the service of His Majesty? Well, what, then, of the wood-pipes?”
“Your eyes, my only. They flutter and trill the high notes, yet have a full, warm, deep timbre.”
“I did not know you knew so much of music, Captain. What, then, are the brass-pipes?”
“The set of your chin and the lines of your face provide the music with its power, and make the forceful statements without which the sweet refrains would be insipid, but against which they are played with such beauty that all eyes moisten when the ears are so treated.”
“I like these comparisons.”
“I’m glad you do. And yet, you are laughing.”
“That is true, but I hope my laughter does not wound you—you are already wounded enough. I laugh from pleasure, and because I must laugh in the face of such compliments, lest they turn my head.”
“I am glad you are not laughing at me, at any rate, for my self-love could not stand the anguish.”
“Be reassured.”
“Well, what of the polychords? One cannot have an orchestra without them.”
“Your hands will be the polychords, each finger ringing a different note.”
“Well, what next? The idiophones, by which I mean the clappers, knockers, and cymbals?”
“These will be taken by the beating of your heart, which encloses my own in its gentle rhythms.”
“Ah, ah! You are a poet, sir.
“And are there, then, membranophones as well?”
“But surely, madam, your legs are the membranophones, for they support the orchestra, and can as well exhibit grace, elegance, and beauty.”
“You are making me blush.”
“You do so prettily.”
“It seems we have nearly completed our orchestra, except for the organophone, which must only be played by a master, yet which can produce music which excites, terrifies, stupefies, or calls up any of countless other emotions, all with the subtlest touch of the fingers.”
“Oh, madam, no gentleman could be so crude as to detail the location of this most sacred of all instruments.”
“Ah, now I am blushing and laughing at once, and my dignity is gone forever. I will never forgive you.”
“But have I convinced you, at least, that you are worthy of discussion?”
“I assure you, I surrender fully. What do you want to know?”
“What else but everything?”
“Everything is a great deal. Where shall I begin?”
“Tell me of your family.”
“My mother was Countess of Whitecrest; now she lives in Adrilankha and will become Dowager upon my return, for she has never loved governing. Still, we have interest in shipping, and in certain insurance companies, and even in a small bank. Mother saw to my training with the sword, and what little magic I know.”
“Well, that is your mother. What of your father?”
“He was Baron of Fourleaguewood, but he gave up his title to wed my mother, and now he lives with her in Adrilankha. His father once performed some service—I do not know what—for Her Majesty, and it was upon this service that he called when I expressed a desire to spend a few years at court, in order to come to understand better the workings of the Empire, so that I could better govern my fief. A plan,” she added, sighing, “which I must now abandon.”
“Have you brothers, sisters?”
“None at all.”
“I shall be pleased to meet your mother and father.”
“And I, too, shall be pleased for you to meet them. But what of you?”
“Come, remember our agreement. We will speak of me later, though there is little enough to tell.”
“You wish me to continue, then?”
“I should like nothing better.”
“What else, then, do you wish to know?”
“What food do you enjoy?”
“Ah, I am from Adrilankha, with boasts Valabar’s, with which even His Majesty’s greatest feasts cannot compare.”
“In truth?”
“As I live and breathe. Every wine worthy of the name, from the Empire, from the island kingdoms, from the Serioli, and even from the East—all are gathered in the cellars of Valabar’s, and each is allotted its proper place as a companion to some specialty of the house, all of which are treats to the senses. In truth, Valabar’s has spoiled me for most food, so you perceive it is a curse as well as a blessing.”
“You must bring me to this house.”
“I will do so.”
“Tell me more.”
“About food?”
“Or something else.”
“What, then?”
“Your philosophy?”
“You pretend I have a philosophy?”
“Everyone has a philosophy.”
“Well, you are right, but to describe mine would take more time than we have, for, see, here is your house before us.”
“Ah, you are right, we are at our journey’s end. Dismount, then, for I must return to the Palace.”
“How, to the Palace? But you are wounded!”
“On the contrary, though a little lightheaded, I am feeling more alive than I have in years. I must see His Majesty and report on the results of the commission he gave me, after which, I promise, I will visit His Majesty’s own physicker and return to you as soon as ever I can.”
“Very well, I will not stand between you and your duty, but have a care for your health, for I do not wish my work to be wasted.”
“I will be careful. And you, what will you do?”
“I? Oh, I will put the orchestra in tune in preparation for the next concert.”
After leaving Daro at the door, Khaavren turned toward the Palace. A certain euphoria, with which all lovers will be familiar, remained with him as he rode. Yet as he made his way closer to the Palace, the realizations both of the failure of his mission and of his duty to His Majesty, gained pre-eminence in his thoughts, wherefore this euphoria, though still present, fell into the background, as it were, of his thinking, replaced both by a certain disappointment, and a feeling of urgency and even impatience.
We should say, in fact, that Khaavren’s impatience upon leaving the Palace was nothing to his impatience upon his return, for, whatever was to happen, he knew that His Majesty must be informed at once. Therefore, when he heard someone say, “I beg your pardon, my dear Captain,” even as he was dismounting from his horse, a brown gelding called Champer, he could not help but feel a certain annoyance, which at once transferred itself to the caller, whose voice Khaavren had not, we should add, recognized by sound.
He did his best, however, to hide his impatience and assume a pleasing countenance as he turned to see who beckoned him. It happened to be a certain Lord Vernoi, a Phoenix noble whom Khaavren recognized from having seen him at court. Khaavren bowed, saying, “Yes, my lord? I believe you have called out to me?”
“Yes, my dear Khaavren, I have called out, for I wish two words with you before you continue on your way.”
“I will grant you two words,” said Khaavren, handing his horse over to the care of the groom. “Yet, in good conscience, I can scarcely permit more. Not, you perceive, of my own will, but rather because of His Majesty’s orders, which do not allow me any leisure, but, on the contrary, must be carried out without a moment’s delay.”
“I will be terse,” said Vernoi, “for I have no wish to interfere with His Majesty’s orders.”
“Very well,” said Khaavren. “Then speak, for I am listening.”
“And yet—Captain, you seem unusually pale.”
“It is nothing, a mere scratch.”
“Is that why you are pressing your hand to your side, and have that bandage around your head?”
“The very reason. But, come, speak your question, for I promise you I can spare no time.”
“Very well, since you will have it so.”
“I will.”
“This is it, then: Do you know the Princess Loudin?”
“That is your question?”
“Nearly. My question concerns her, which is why I ask.”
“Well, I have seen her, if I am not mistaken. Was she not, some years ago, one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor, and is she not now the Phoenix Heir?”
“The very woman. She resigned some eighty years ago, upon the occasion of our marriage.”
“How, you married one of Her Majesty’s maids of honor?”
“Why, that is exactly what I did.”
“Allow me to congratulate you, my lord; for the notion of marrying a maid of honor has, in my opinion, a great deal in its favor.”
Vernoi bowed and said, “It is, however, my wife who is causing me a certain measure of concern.”
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