The Phoenix Guards Read online

  “Well, I am most anxious to learn.”

  “Your own foolishness betrayed you, Garland.”

  “How—?”

  “There were no lancers, there were no pikeman, there were no archers, there were no sorcerers, and there was no cavalry; there was only a quick-thinking Dragonlord who spotted someone moving in to attack, a sorcerer who knew how to perform a light-spell, and a fool who believes everything he hears.”

  “But the lights, and the explosions—”

  “What explosions? Any fool of a sorcerer can make a flash and a loud noise. Was anyone injured in these explosions?”

  “Well, no. And yet—”

  “Be still, idiot. I must consider what is to be done.”

  “Very well, your ladyship. And I?”

  “You? Well, after I have considered, I will have instructions for you.”

  “I will carry them out, your ladyship.”

  “I hope so, Garland.”

  “When shall I endeavor to speak with you again?”

  “Give me two hours.”

  “Until then, your ladyship.”

  And with this, we will, with our readers’ permission, leave Seodra to consider her next action, while we follow our friends across the Floating Bridge and on to Mount Kieron, and so on toward the Pepperfields.

  Chapter the Twenty-seventh

  In Which it is Shown

  That Some are made Unhappy by Reflection,

  While others are made Unhappy By Projection

  IN ORDER TO CROSS THE Eastern River, which is, at its best, far too cold to swim and far too fast to ford, it was necessary to cross the Floating Bridge. Duraj e’Kieron, Duchess of Eastmanswatch during the Pioneer Wars, had caused this cunning feat of engineering to be built to provide access to the forts and strongholds the rebels had built and inhabited along the southern slopes of Mount Kieron. It did not, we should say at once, actually float; it was merely so low that, viewed from the passes on either Mount Kieron or Mount Bli’aard it seemed as if it were, in fact, floating freely on the river, an effect that was enhanced by its curious shape—the mystery of which we propose to solve.

  There have been many stories to account for the peculiar pattern in which the bridge was laid out—the twistings and turnings, esses and half-loops of its length. We have heard it proposed that the form was due to some particular spell of preservation which was laid beneath it; we have heard that it was intended to frighten the enemy so he wouldn’t use it himself; we have heard that the engineer who designed the bridge had a weakness for imbibing know-not weed which affected his judgement; and there are other stories besides these.

  Yet, had anyone taken the trouble to study the letters and papers of Lady Duraj at the time and compared these to the accounts of the battles then being fought, he would have noticed that, even as the bridge was constructed, the engineers who built it were constantly under attack from the rebels, attacks that consisted of infantry charges, bow shots, catapulted boulders, and other things. The notion of a permanent bridge was, at first, far from the mind of the Duchess; she, in fact, merely wanted access to the other side as quickly as possible. Her solution was, then, to cause boulders to be rolled down from Mount Bli’aard and to cause them further to be pushed or dragged into the river, after which planks were set on them wherever they happened to fall. This is how Duraj was able to secure a foothold on Mount Kieron.

  After this time, there was never a chance to design the bridge in a proper manner, it simply had to be maintained as it was to allow for a possible retreat, then strengthened to allow for the passing of reinforcements, and finally widened to allow supply wagons to cross. It was toward the end of the war (in fact, shortly before the abdication of the Issola Emperor Juzai XI) that Duraj spoke of her men tying ropes during a heavy engagement to allow the passing of an ambulance. That is, with the war nearly over, the bridge was still of rope and wood; the first iron beams were probably not added until twenty or thirty years later, by which time no one thought of going to all the work necessary to take down the bridge and re-design it; it was easier (although more expensive in material) to simply strengthen what was there. As the rocks which supported the structure began to sink deeper into the river they were replaced, first with wood, then with iron struts, finally with bricks, which were connected to the structure by means of thick iron chains.

  The result, then, was a bridge built of odd, unexpected curves and angles, fully three times as long across as the distance an arrow would make; that, at the height of the rainy season, lay almost fully on the water itself, so even now one cannot traverse it and expect to arrive on the other side with one’s feet entirely dry, and during unusually rainy years the bridge is impassable for weeks at a time.

  This bridge is famous for many things. We may number among them, first, its vital role in the Pioneer Wars we have already had the honor to mention. Next, there are the suicides which have been committed nearby, especially those of lovers who jump from Deppa’s Fang into the icy water the bridge traverses; in such a way did the Issola noble Chalora and his Tiassa lover Auiri die, in spite of the more gruesome and poetic means of mutual destruction ascribed to them in the ballad that bears their names. There have been, as well, so many duels fought along the bridge that it would be tiring to list them, but it should be pointed out that it was on the Floating Bridge that the poet Barracsk and his chief critic, V’rono, killed each other to end an artistic siege that had lasted nearly two millennia. We may add, as an historical footnote, that the critic Norra, who served as Imperial Witness, wryly remarked of this duel, “Barracsk’s end was as dramatic as he could manage at his age, but he suffered from allowing his desire for emphatic statement to dominate his movement; whereas V’rono seemed unable to put aside his own ideas of the fence long enough to understand what his opponent was engaged in bringing off; the result was therefore curiously inevitable, yet artistically satisfying.”

  It was to this bridge, then, that our friends came after having, through Kathana’s subterfuge, escaped from the surrounding forces; or, rather, after having allowed the surrounding forces to escape them. As they walked their horses along its peculiar length (another thing the bridge is justly famous for is the dislike it arouses in horses, which is how the Cavalier Joroli of Bridden Cove came to be drowned), Khaavren said, “Well, we all agree, do we not, that this Tazendra is clever enough?”

  “Indeed yes,” said the others.

  Tazendra bowed. “We must add, however, that this Kathana is surely brave enough.”

  “And quick-eyed as well,” said Khaavren.

  “Norska’s Teeth!” said Pel. “I think so! I would surely have been spitted like a game hen had she not seen those three brigands who stumbled upon us so unexpectedly when we thought all was over.”

  “And I,” said Khaavren, bowing to Kathana, “would have found my head cloven in two, which would have made thinking impractical, if she had not so elegantly struck down the one who had caught me at such a disadvantage.”

  “And,” added Uttrik, “though it pains me to admit it, I saw that, in doing so, she exposed herself to the attacks of the third, who would surely have wounded her severely had Tazendra not interrupted his attack by treating him in exactly the manner his friend proposed to treat Khaavren.” And he, too, bowed to Kathana, though he did so somewhat stiffly.

  “And yet it seems to me,” said Kathana, bowing in return, “that we ought to determine why we were to be attacked, and then discover a way to prevent such attacks in the future.”

  “Well,” said Tazendra, “that is only right. Who knows, but that next time they will have an army.”

  “And,” said Pel, “they will be less likely to be fooled a second time.”

  “We could,” said Khaavren, “request help from Lord Adron, who is your friend, Kathana, and does indeed have an army.”

  “I am loathe to do so,” said Kathana. “Because such a thing might compromise his position in the discussion he is engaged in with the Emperor to e
arn command of the Pepperfield. He would certainly send help if I asked, but, you perceive, it would be an unkindness.”

  “Then we must not do so,” said Aerich, as if to be discourteous to the Dragon Heir ended the discussion for all time.

  “And yet,” said Uttrik, “I am not convinced that we require any help at all.”

  “How?” said Pel. “Explain your reasoning.”

  “I will be glad to do so. To-morrow we will have arrived in the Pepperfields.”

  “Well, and?”

  “And then, Kathana and I will have the honor of touching steel with steel, and it seems to me that, however the encounter ends, there will be no need for the survivors to remain here. And, furthermore, it may well be that the cause of the attacks will have vanished.”

  “Well,” said Kathana, “there is some justice in this remark.”

  “Well then,” said Khaavren, “as I perceive we are now at the end of the bridge, let us mount once more and continue,” which excellent and practical suggestion they followed at once, taking the mountain paths, which, like those leading up to Castle Redface, were steep, but well within the capabilities of the horses.

  Khaavren took the lead himself, and for a while Aerich rode with him, but then, with the great sensitivity this Lyorn possessed, he determined that the young Tiassa wished to be alone with his thoughts and so Aerich allowed his horse to fall back to where Tazendra and Uttrik were involved in a discussion comparing the merits of various sorts of stirrups when used in melee versus in mounted duels (which had not yet fallen entirely out of fashion, though they were becoming rare). Aerich astounded them both with his knowledge of the intricacies of this subtle art, and with his wisdom on the necessity of relating the style of stirrup to the precise task the cavalry officer intends to perform; but, as we suspect our readers will have rather less interest in this subject than the participants, we will return our attention to Khaavren, in his blue and white, gold half-cloak down his back, as he rides his mare and soliloquizes.

  “Now,” Khaavren was saying to himself, “I must decide between betraying my Emperor and betraying my love. Well, when put this way, the choice becomes simple after all: the love of one obscure Guardsman must always give way before the needs of the Empire, that is the principal upon which men live together under his banner. But no, I must think again. The choice is not between love and the Empire, it is between two oaths that I have made and which contradict each other, so the problem is really one of choosing to whom I am to be forsworn. Forsworn! Ah, now there is an ugly word. And why am I to be forsworn? Because my mouth has made a promise that my heart directed it to make, without first consulting my brain, which it ought not to have done, because it is certainly my brain’s proper function to keep a check on my mouth’s activities, whereas my heart should limit itself to pumping blood through my body. But never mind that, the case is still clear: it is far more important to keep an oath to one’s Emperor than to one’s love.

  “But, if this is true, why does my heart say so differently? Well, that is easy, it is because my heart, quite properly ashamed of what it has done, is denying blood to my brain, so that the brain, instead of thinking clearly, allows everything to become muddled and confused. Perhaps I will be so fortunate in our next encounter that this treacherous heart will deny blood to my arms, and then it will find itself properly pierced with holes and my dilemma will then end, albeit in a rather droll way. Oaths must come from somewhere, after all, and my heart knows it has no business making them when they contradict those that have been prompted by my brain, or, at any rate, by my viscera.

  “This being the case, my choices are to fall sick at heart, or, in the other case, either sick to my stomach or develop the headache. I have been sick to my stomach, and I have had the headache, perhaps it is now time to become sick at heart, after which I will have had the experience of feeling illness in all major regions of the body, and I will be that much more complete for it. Bah, as Aerich would say. There must be a better way to make choices than by determining where the illness caused by the decision will fall. Well, that is an interesting question; let us examine it.

  “To live,” Khaavren continued to himself, “is to be faced with choices. This must be, because to be dead is to be faced with no choices whatsoever, save those that exist beyond Deathgate, and which the philosophers believe are nothing but a recapitulation of all the choices one has taken in life.

  “But then, if life is to be filled with choices, many of them difficult, one ought to have a method with which to approach the art of decision-making. But no, I have left something out. One always has such a method; it is merely the case that one is not always aware of it. So, then, what is my method? Simply this: to fail to make any decision at all, to worry it the way a dog worries a scrap of leather, and then, by Undauntra’s Garters, to be forced into some hateful actions or inaction that I’d never have contemplated a month before. Cha! That’s no way to live!

  “But, to return to the question, there ought to be a way to decide, clearly and explicitly, where one’s duty lies, and yet so often there is not. In this case, for example, to fail in my duty toward my lover will give me, and in faith, I think her, too, great pain, whereas to fail in my duty to his Majesty will not cause any damage to the Empire itself, it will merely cause some slight annoyance in a man who, if truth be told, is just like me, except that over his head circles the Orb, whereas over mine circle only these infernal clouds which will not stop producing these thin droplets of mountain rain until, I suppose, we have reached such heights that they will begin producing snow. Cha! If nature cannot make up her mind about such a simple, practical question, that is, to rain, or mist, or snow, then how am I to make a moral choice knowing I shall be miserable whichever way I decide?

  “So, when there is no right thing to do, how does one decide which course to take? It seems my mother and father, whose duty it was to instruct me, ought to have told me the answer to this; unless it is one of those lessons which, if they can be learned, cannot, at any rate, be taught. If so, then I am a fool for thinking I can simply decide, and I must go on my way and prepare myself for the instruction of events, which, I am certain, make the best teachers, at least when one is prepared to learn from them.”

  At this point, Khaavren broke off his monologue, for he noticed that Mica had come up next to him, and was looking around with a melancholy expression on his normally cheerful face.

  “Well,” said Khaavren, happy to be distracted by someone else’s misery, “you are looking mournful.”

  “It is true, my lord.”

  “But then, have you a reason for this look? Or is it due to the rain that is soaking us to the skin and making us fear our horses will slip on this treacherous mountain path and lead us to break our necks? Do you know, we had planned to bring oiled cloaks with us, we even counted on it, but somehow we forgot to bring them. It is a sad comment on the human condition when even correct planning is of no benefit. Is it this that saddens you, good Mica? For, if so, I am in full agreement.”

  “No, it is not that at all, my lord.”

  “Well, what is it then?”

  “You wish me to tell you?”

  “I do.”

  “Then I will.”

  “Go on, then, I await you.”

  “Well, this is it: I have been doing sums in head.”

  “But then,” said Khaavren, “I have done sums in my head, and it never makes me sad; on the contrary, it sharpens my wits, which, in turn, increases my amusement with the world, and that makes the hours go by in a very pleasurable way.”

  “I will try to follow your example, my lord.”

  “You will be pleased with the results, Mica, I assure you.”

  “But I have been doing more than sums, my lord; I have been making projections.”

  “Ah, projections. Well, that is another matter entirely.”

  “I am pleased that you think so, my lord.”

  “Oh, I do indeed. Projections are far more ser
ious matters than sums.”

  “And moreover—”

  “What, there is more?”

  “There is, my lord, and, if you want to hear it, I shall tell you.”

  “I should enjoy hearing it if for other reason than because the clipped tones of your accent tickle me; you speak so differently from the northern twang of the city or the lilt of my own country.”

  “Well, my lord, it may be that the subject upon which you calculate sums is different from the subject upon which I make projections.”

  “Well, that may be, Mica, because I had not known you were making projections on a particular subject.”

  “I have been, my lord.”

  “And what, then, is this famous subject?”

  “It is soldiers, my lord.”

  “How, soldiers?”

  “Exactly. Attend: were you not, before I had the honor to meet you, attacked by one man?”

  “Well, yes, I was, and the proof is, it was Uttrik, who now rides with us.”

  “And then, at Beed’n’s Inn, were there not twelve brigands who attacked us?”

  “Why, that is exactly the number, Mica.”

  “And then, when we were leaving The Painted Sign, were we not set on by some thirty of the enemy?”

  “That is to say, we set on them, but your numbers are correct.”

  “Well, and, were there not at least a hundred of the enemy who were driven off by my lady’s stratagem?”

  “This time, I think, you may be in error.”

  “But at least, my lord, there were a good deal more than thirty.”

  “With this I agree.”

  “Well then, it is upon this subject that I have been making projections, toward the goal of determining how many enemies will face us next time.”

  “I see. Well, and what have you determined, Mica?”

  “That there will be many more of them than there are of us.”

  “Well, I don’t doubt that you are correct.”

  “An army, my lord. I fear they will bring an army.”