The Phoenix Guards Read online

  “And you were right, my lord,” said Khaavren.

  “I found my pouch at once, but, well, you may understand my amazement upon discovering that the seal was not there.”

  “How, not there?” said Uttrik. “Then, that is not it in your hand?”

  “Yes, this is, in fact, the seal itself.”

  “And yet,” said Tazendra, “Your Highness has done us the honor to say it was not where you had left it?”

  “Not at all; and I spent some moments looking for it, I assure you.”

  “Well then,” said Aerich, “where was it?”

  “That is the strange thing. For as I was returning to this room to discover what you knew about this matter, and to learn how it might relate to the claim you have made of an outrage committed in my name, there came a visitor to the door.”

  “What, a visitor?” said Khaavren.

  “Exactly. A visitor who announced himself as an Imperial messenger.”

  “Well,” said Aerich, “I hope Your Highness condescended to allow him to deliver his message.”

  “I did exactly that, and he delivered his message.”

  “And would you do us the honor to relate the message?”

  “I will. In fact, I will do so at once. Here it is.” And, with these words, he held out his seal of office.

  “What?” said Pel. “The messenger delivered the seal?”

  “Exactly.”

  “And, excuse me for questioning Your Highness, but I am very curious. Did he explain how it came into his possession?”

  “He did. He pretended that I had left it in my rooms in the Palace.”

  “But, is that possible?” said Aerich, who had determined that this Dragonlord was not given to carelessness.

  “Not at all.”

  “So, then—?”

  “So, I believe it was stolen from me.”

  “Bah,” said Aerich. “By His Majesty? Impossible.”

  “And yet,” said Adron, “it was his confidant, Lord Garland, who delivered it.”

  “What?” cried Pel. “Garland? An Imperial messenger?”

  “It is as I have had the honor to tell you.”

  “Your Highness is right; there is some intrigue in this.”

  “That was my opinion. I am glad to see that we are in agreement.”

  “Then, Your Highness believes that the seal was taken from you?” said Khaavren.

  “Yes, and for no good purpose.”

  “Well, that is exactly what we have come to tell Your Highness.”

  “Then tell me, if you will, what has been done in my name, and with the use of this seal?”

  “That is why we have come,” said Khaavren, and hastened to describe for Lord Adron the conversation he and Aerich had overheard.

  “But then,” cried Adron when he had finished, “this is insupportable! It is infamous!” ’

  “That is my opinion,” said Aerich.

  “You are right to tell me of it.”

  “We are glad of that,” said Khaavren.

  “But tell me, how did you avoid the trap, after you had learned of it?”

  “Avoid it?” said Tazendra. “We did not avoid it. Rather, we sprang it ourselves.”

  “What? The five of you against thirty brigands?”

  “We had,” said Pel, “the advantage of surprise, and the additional advantage of several flash-stones, one of which, it is true, did not work, and yet the other two did.”

  “But this is amazing!” cried Adron.

  “That one did not work?” asked Tazendra naively, “or that two did?”

  “No, no, that the five of you survived against thirty brigands.”

  “Oh, we fought tolerably well,” said Tazendra.

  “Five of you, you say, defeated thirty of them?”

  “We killed several, I think,” said Khaavren. “The rest ran.”

  “This is a great victory!” cried Adron.

  Pel bowed gracefully.

  “Truly,” said Adron, shaking his head, “you amaze me.”

  “Your Highness honors us,” said Aerich.

  “Come, you must stay with me for the night at least, that I can give a dinner in your honor.”

  “That is exceedingly kind of Your Highness,” said Aerich.

  “But, do you accept? I must nearly insist, for, in winning this battle, you prevented an infamy from occurring in my name. An infamy that I should have despaired of ever living down.”

  “Well, then,” said Khaavren, “if Your Highness does us the honor to insist upon it.”

  “I do indeed,” said Adron.

  “We accept gladly,” said Khaavren.

  “Then do you go to your toilettes, while I give the orders for the feast. My man will show you to your rooms, and will call you when we are ready to dine.”

  After more courteous words, these things were done. But we do not wish to tire our readers with a description of this feast, which, at any rate, was far more entertaining to partake of then it would be to read about. Suffice it to say that there was fresh mountain poppy-bread with goat’s cheese, and the meat of wild boar, and roast pheasant which had been stuffed with black mushrooms, and thin slices of kethna served in a butter-cream sauce of which even the Emperor, who prided himself on his palate, could have found no complaint.

  Lord Adron had at this time no guests (excepting, presumably, the Baroness of Kaluma, who made no appearance), so it was only the six of them, but he made up for the lack by toasting them many times and praising their actions in the most complimentary way, and demanding, moreover, additional details of the battle, which he took as much delight in hearing as a child of sixty or seventy would have, and nearly as much as Tazendra, for one, took in relating. Mica was allowed to help serve the meal so that he, too, could help describe the battle in which he had played such an important role. We would not be faithful to the truth if we did not add that, while this was occurring, if there was anywhere in the Empire a happier individual than this worthy Teckla it would be hard to imagine.

  When the meal was over, His Highness stood and bowed to them, saying, “You may be pleased to walk around the grounds or the castle where you will, and I will hope to see you once more in the morning, when we can break our fasts together before you depart.”

  “It would be a great honor, Your Highness,” said Aerich, as they bowed to him.

  As they left the dining hall, Khaavren said, “Well, my friends, I think we should accept Lord Adron’s offer, and avail ourselves of the lovely evening.”

  “That is all very well,” said Tazendra, “and yet I still wonder how we are to find Kaluma?”

  “Oh,” said Khaavren, smiling in a manner particular to him at such times, “I have been born with foresight, and I predict we shall have no difficulty, now that we have been given the run of the grounds.”

  “What?” said Uttrik. “You pretend that we can search the entire grounds of Castle Redface, each room, each hall, each building, and the surrounding area, by to-morrow morning?”

  “Well, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “How, not?” said Tazendra.

  “Observe, and you shall learn.”

  “Khaavren,” said Pel to Aerich, “has an idea.” Aerich nodded.

  Khaavren said, “Come, Mica, find, if you can, a small piece of parchment, pen, ink, and blotter, and bring them to me, or, if that is not practical, bring me to them.”

  Mica left to do so. Pel looked at Khaavren with some curiosity, but Aerich appeared willing to merely wait contentedly. Mica returned presently and pointed the way to a small desk where Adron’s secretary was accustomed to do his correspondence. Khaavren, seeing that it was not being used, sat at the desk like a veritable secretary himself, and, using the pen provided, wrote the following lines:

  “My Dear Lady Fricorith, I have long been an ardent admirer of your work, which cause, I hope, will be sufficient to allow me to interrupt you for a few moments of conversation.

  Your servant,
r />   Khaavren of Castlerock.”

  This done, he showed it to Pel, who said, “Well, and is Fricorith the name under which Kaluma is living here?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But, suppose she refuses to see you?”

  “There is no danger of that,” said Khaavren. “Observe.”

  He led the way out to the courtyard, where he found a young peasant lad, whom he accosted with the words, “My friend, if you will a run a brief errand for me, there are three copper pennies which will pass from my pocket to yours.”

  The boy seemed amenable, and said, “What errand is it, my lord? I should be most happy to oblige you, if I can.”

  “Well, it is just this: take this message to the artist, the lady Fricorith, and bring back her reply.”

  “The lady Fricorith?” said the young man, suddenly looking uneasy. “But, well—”

  “Come, come, we shall not compromise her. You perceive that I know she is here; how could I know it if your master, Lord Adron, had not told me? And, moreover, how could I know under what name she is staying? Besides, I don’t ask you to betray her exact whereabouts, merely to deliver a message and bring back the result.”

  “And yet—”

  “Well, here are the pennies. Do you want them?”

  At length, greed, as it so often does, won out over caution, and the lad took the message and ran off.

  “And yet,” said Pel, “I repeat, what if she does not wish to see you?”

  “And I repeat, my good Pel, that it matters not if she does or does not. Do you pretend we are going to await her reply? That young man knows who she is, and where she is. Why are we standing here, gentlemen? To horse! Or, rather, to foot! We will follow him, and, I answer for it, we will be standing before Kathana e’Marish’Chala before the sky has darkened.”

  Chapter the Twenty-fifth

  In Which the Reader Will, No Doubt,

  Be Pleased to Meet at Last

  One of the Principal Actors In Our History

  THERE IS A CERTAIN PLAY which was written by the master playwright Villsni of Cobbletown, which is called The Return of Duke Highwater. The play centers around the actions of two characters, one being the Duke, the other his youngest son, the Marquis of Havenwood. As one watches this play, one begins, in about the second act, to become uncomfortably aware that the Marquis has not yet made an appearance in person, although he is industriously throwing plot twists at the other characters from off the stage—leading charges, becoming wounded, being betrayed by his mistress, and so on. And yet, the audience wonders, when will we meet him? In fact, throughout the entire work, the Marquis never does appear, and it soon becomes apparent that—but we beg the reader’s pardon; it was not our intention to enter into a critique of this production, merely to draw an analogy to our present situation, in preparation for destroying that analogy for all time.

  To be more precise, then, we wish to point out that the more astute of our readers may, by this stage of our narrative, have begun to notice that someone of no small importance to our own drama has not yet appeared; that is, Kathana e’Marish’Chala. It is not our desire, then, to emulate the redoubtable Villsni, for we freely admit that his subtleties are sometimes so far beyond us as to leave us confused as to theme, plot, subplot, and, in general, what exactly the Master is trying to tell us (all the while, the reader may rest assured, we are admiring his skillfully wrought speeches and fine distinction of mood and meter).

  Nevertheless, we have brought this work to our readers’ attention merely to dismiss any notion that we might have thought of attempting something similar. Therefore, to utterly dispel such notions, and, moreover, because our history now absolutely requires it, we will turn our attention to the missing baroness; which we will do by following our friends to the place where, at this moment, she stands, as if awaiting our attention, with her powders, brushes, and easel, high on a bluff looking out past the Redface. Once here, we will begin by sketching the artist. We are not unaware that there is some degree of presumption in this.

  Yet we are forced to ask, who can pretend to write history without, in some measure, falling victim to the sin of presumption? That is, without being arrogant enough to believe one is capable of insights others have missed? Without being bold enough to stand in the circle with those who have piled up, one after another, the great deeds upon which history itself is built? We do not attempt, in this way, to diminish either those great men and women of whom we report, nor the deeds by which they have proved themselves. It may be that we feel a certain pleasure in our actions, as if, by revealing, as faithfully as we can, the hidden ideas and motivations which lead the great ones to act as they did, we are some way above them. Yet, if we feel this, can we not be excused? The very drives which cause some to act are those which cause us to report on their actions, and if we take pride in our ability to relate these events, should that pride be any less than that felt by the do-ers themselves? And if, in our discussions, we chance to touch upon some universal fear, or some common desire, and thus enlighten our readers in some small way, should we, for this reason, take any less pride in this accomplishment than those mighty figures of history took in theirs? Or, in fact, less pride than the readers of a complex passage might take in deciphering the interrelationships and references in the passage to partake fully of what has been written, or, if we are permitted, reap all that has been sown?

  Yet, we believe that none of this would be possible, for either the great ones of history, the recorders of history, or the readers of history, without a certain degree of presumption; that is, of bold, arrogant conduct. For this reason, we will not apologize if, to complete our task to our own satisfaction, we will locate that great person, the center of so many of the cogs and wheels that drove the great machine of history early in the eighteenth Phoenix reign, and, as we have had the honor of saying, sketch the artist.

  This can be done in two words. She was a thin woman of medium height. Her complexion was dark for a Dragonlord, though not so dark as a Lyorn. Her features were sharp even for a Dragonlord. Her eyes were deeply set and heavily lidded indicating a sensual disposition, whereas her cheekbones were high, proving strength of character. She wore her light brown hair cut short around the sides.

  But, like Kathana herself, we will not limit our picture to what can be seen, as it were, on the surface, but will go on to lay bare that which is concealed by the envelope of flesh which is worn by all mortals, and often bears only the most superficial resemblance to the shades and nuance of character which the discerning eye may discover from this surface, in much the same way that the eddies and foam on top of a stream reveal the actions of the deep currents that are the stream’s true essence. These eddies and foam, be assured, never reveal the nature of the currents in a direct and obvious way, but only provide a starting point for one who is willing to penetrate the surface and uncover the true relationships, as well as the submerged boulders, that determine in exactly what way this particular waterway fulfills its unique destiny.

  We feel justified in saying, then, that this ability, which men call insight, is the special attribute of the rare Dragon bloodline that is named Marish’ Chala, and the Lady Kathana unquestionably had it in abundance. Yet, this quality, this insight, is not like the ether, which exists throughout the universe and provides a means for light and sound to travel from one end of the room to the other, or from one end of the world to the other. That is, it does not exist independent of other attributes, but, rather, invariably finds its expression in some certain way. In Kathana, then, it revealed itself in her ability to see, and, moreover, to show, those qualities in people, in things, even in places, which, seemingly opposites, actually determine what the thing is. That is, like the Serioli musician who makes the listener laugh while he cries and cry while he laughs, she could see, and then show, the fear that determined the bravery of the Dzurlord, the soft pliability that caused the unyielding shape of the mountain, the hidden movement in the stagnant pond, or, the
opinion of the late Lord Pepperfield notwithstanding, the weakness that led to the strength of the wounded dragon protecting her young.

  As for those hidden qualities within herself, it is known that she, who had, by the age of three hundred, mastered all the known techniques developed in tens of thousands of years of painting, still believed her technique was weak, and not only always strove to improve it, but believed, the results of her own hand to the contrary, that nothing except barest technique was of any importance whatever. It is known that, to her eye, the work she had created always fell so far short of the image in her mind, that she became arrogant on the subject, and would brook no criticism. It is known that she was intolerant of anyone or anything that was less than perfect, and, knowing and hating this tendency, became, when not enraged by critics, one of the most perfect ladies in the Empire, a model of courtesy and tact. It is known that, like the subject of her famous painting, The Dzurlord Before the Charge of Knowngate, life was so precious to her, and, consequently, her fear of death was so great, that she drove herself to acts of personal bravery that would have made her the pride of her House even if had she never touched a brush in her life.

  Which of her aspects would appear at any moment? We may as well ask, as we stand in the center of the Whirling Canyon, “Which way will your winds blow to-morrow?” For it is circumstance, that mysterious entity, represented by a word which is so precise in its ambiguity, so vague in its precision; it is circumstance, we say, the randomly selected occurrence of events, weighted by probability, but unknown in exactitude, that determines for any painter, soldier, Emperor, peasant, or historian what his reactions will find at any specific moment on the boundless seashore of uncertainty. And if it was to these limitless but shifting sands that Kathana, at her best, returned again and again, it is also the exact lay of sand, surf, and stone on this unending beach called chance, or caprice, or circumstance, that determined how she would respond to events unforeseen, to company unlooked for.