Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards) Read online

  “That is true,” said Sethra. “He was not a skilled poet. What else?”

  “Who is Diess?”

  “A lady who occupied his thoughts for some years. Does the poem mention her?”

  “No, no. But there is a note from her glued to the lamp near his bed.”

  “Yes, I see it. What does it say?”

  “That she values his friendship.”

  “Ah. Which means, of course, not his love.”

  “So I would take it. And yet—”

  “And yet it is glued to the lamp by his bed.”

  “What else?”

  Tazendra pointed to a grey chair in the corner, a stuffed chair that seemed to be falling apart; one leg was missing and was propped up by books, while the stuffing on one side had burst from its bounds and the headrest was loose on the other side. “That is where he would sit betimes,” she said, “and look at that picture,” here she pointed to the opposite wall, “and contemplate the ruined side of the castle, and how he would someday repair it, for,” she indicated the painting again, “that cannot be other than his home, and,” here she indicated a whetstone by the side of the chair, “he would, I am convinced, sharpen his sword as he did so. I believe it must have been a form of meditation; I, myself—” she broke off abruptly, and blushed.

  “Of course,” said Sethra. “You are a Dzurlord, as was he. To the Dzur, there is a ritual to the sharpening of the sword—so warlike and yet so soothing; a preparation for the future, a defiance, a threat, and, at the same time, it is rhythmical, and, while so engaged, one is given to dream, and to think about the blade, its history and destiny; and to contemplate and wonder, above all, for what one strives—and always one finds answers to this question, for finding those answers is what it means to be a Dzur.

  “Sometimes,” she continued softly, staring at the painting which Gyorg must have himself spent so much time gazing upon, “those of other Houses laugh, or call the Dzur foolish, stupid, or blind, and there is no good answer to such charges, for to kill for such an insult is often beneath the Dzurlord; yet there is always the sword, whose sharpening breathes of the future, and the glory which is not only in being remembered, but in knowing one has defied the entire world, and pitted one’s self against the impossible, and proven, to all who are not Dzur, that there is value and glory in the battle, regardless of the outcome. All of these thoughts come to mind when the Dzurlord sharpens his sword, and looks upon some token of the past until he can feel the wind that blows to the future.”

  For some time, it had seemed as if Sethra were speaking to herself, but at last she fell silent. “You understand,” said Tazendra in a whisper.

  “I have lived a long time, comrade,” said Sethra, smiling. “And moreover, he was my friend; he said to me things a Dzurlord would not ordinarily tell someone of another House.”

  “I believe that,” said Tazendra, looking upon the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain as if for the first time. “Yes, I believe that he would.”

  Tazendra paused, then, and, after a moment, she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t know him.”

  “Yes,” said Sethra. “You would have liked him. Come. I have seen what I came to see, and must now have the servants pack away his belongings, which his kin may want. Then I will have the room cleaned, and fresh bedding put in, after which I shall take up residence, and remember him when I go to take my rest. We shall find the servants, then see if we can rejoin our friends, who are no doubt in the Imperial Wing with the good Lord Khaavren.”

  “My lady,” said Tazendra, bowing toward the door.

  “My lady,” said Sethra, also bowing toward the door.

  Tazendra went out first, and they walked down the hallway together, even as, not far away, the assassin, Mario, set foot in the Imperial Wing of the Palace.

  Chapter the Twenty-seventh

  Which Treats of Regicide,

  For the First, But Not the Last Time.

  SHOULD ONE TAKE THE TIME to look at Volume Four of Dentrub’s Imperial Wing of the Old Palace, one would learn that there were ninety-one entrances to the wing; and for each of them one will find cataloged its location, size, function, uses, and history. If, instead, one should peruse Burrin’s Overview of the Architecture of the Old Imperial Palace, one will find reference, in the third chapter of volume eight, to “The ninety-four entrances to the Imperial Wing,” although only a few of these are discussed in detail. Kairu, to pick still another example, in the sixth volume of his History of Doors and Windows, which can be found in manuscript in the Vallista Library of the Imperial Palace, points to no fewer than one hundred and six doors into the Imperial Wing, and, indeed, describes each one with the passion of a connoisseur.

  We need not worry about the precise number for two reasons: First, because G’aereth, in certain letters, makes reference to the need to guard six different means of approach from the outside world to the areas where His Majesty might, at different times of the day, be found, and this is the number in which we are interested; and second, because we know how Mario entered, and that is what is most important to our history.

  It is worth noting that, in fact, it would have been absurdly easy for Mario to have gained entrance on that day because of the condition of the Guard—Khaavren’s command were tired to a man, and any number of ruses, tricks, or bluffs would have sufficed to get past them. Yet Mario, in formulating his plan, had not known of this circumstance, and when he learned of it he did not choose to deviate from his intentions. Therefore, some three hours before noon, he arrived at the main entrance to the Imperial Wing dressed in a dirty brown woolen tunic, loose pantaloons that smelled of offal, plain boots, a sort of cap, and even a pack over his shoulder; and, in this garb, looking as if making the request took all of his courage, he demanded to see His Majesty. The guard on duty, though tired, out of sorts, and disposed to send the beggar on his way with a beating, knew perfectly well that this beggar was within his rights, and knew, furthermore, how the Captain felt about guardsmen administering casual beatings; therefore he gave the clapper the particular pull associated with this request—a request which had been used to occur some two or three times a month, but which had lately become a daily event.

  “Someone will be with you in a moment,” said the guard.

  “Thank you, my lord,” said Mario in a tone of great humility.

  Soon, there appeared a minor functionary named Dinb, who held the position called, “Master of the First Gate,” and whose task, among other things, was to admit those of the lower classes who wished to exercise their right to an audience with His Majesty, and attempt to discourage them. It must be denied in the most emphatic terms that Teckla were beaten, as many claimed was the case; there has never been a good reason to believe such tales, and every reason to believe that beatings were, in fact, unnecessary—the methods actually used were sufficient to discourage nearly all of those who appeared, and if His Majesty had to face the one or two Teckla or tradesmen in a year who were able to pass through all of the intimidation, well, this was not considered too irksome by those who determined who would and who would not have the privilege of a face-to-face meeting with the Emperor.

  Dinb was well-suited to the task, both physically and, if we may be permitted the expression, spiritually; he was a burly lorich, with the rippling muscles of his upper arms visible through the thin blouses he affected, and a large head of curly light brown hair which concealed his noble’s point as well as concealing most of his forehead, but left revealed his cold, dark eyes. He had previously been employed by the notorious publisher, Lord F——, in the task of meeting with authors and answering any questions they might have of His Lordship concerning publication schedules and payments. In spite of his imposing looks, and his ability to assume a threatening demeanor, he was in fact a cold, emotionless man who, with the exception of certain fishes he kept in a glass bowl in his chambers and to whom he spoke often and at great length, was not known to have any affection for or interest in anything except his duty,
which he pursued with an uninspired rigor.

  He escorted Mario to the room which had been set aside for this purpose—a very large, imposing room with no furniture at all, and decorated only with oils depicting prisoners in chains, prisoners being executed, and His Majesty looking entirely regal. Here, as was his custom, Dinb asked the supplicant his business, and, upon being informed that it was His Majesty’s ear that was sought, proceeded to lecture the visitor about the importance of His Majesty’s time and the vital nature of the matters with which His Majesty was currently contending. After this he added, in a tone suggesting that he was revealing secrets, that His Majesty was not well-disposed to anyone to-day; that a previous visitor, who had slipped on a minor point of court etiquette, had been hauled off at once to the Justicers; and that another day would certainly be preferable.

  Should the supplicant, though by this time undoubtedly displaying signs of fear, insist that he was adamant about seeing His Majesty to-day, Dinb would turn his palms up as if to say that he acquitted his conscience in advance, and then would proceed to inform the supplicant in gruesome detail of the search of his person that would necessarily take place to insure His Majesty’s safety, and that the supplicant would be summoned when it was time. After this, Dinb would walk out of the room by the great double doors that, Dinb implied, would lead to His Majesty. The other door, the small, friendly door through which the supplicant had arrived, would remain invitingly open, and it was the rare Teckla who would not slink away during the three- or four-hour wait that invariably followed.

  We should note that there were other means of handling those who did wait, and that the road to see His Majesty was by no means as simple as we have implied (or, in fact, as the law required), but we shall have no cause to follow these procedures any further, for Mario did what was expected—he slipped out of the door he had entered by, which put him, all alone, in a short, narrow hallway which let out into the anteroom where Dinb had first appeared, and where a guard still waited. This hallway, we should add, had no features except doorways on either end, and a window high on either side.

  Mario, now that he was alone and unobserved, wasted no time in scaling the wall with the help of certain hooks that he fastened to the wall and ropes with which he scaled it—the reader ought to understand that he had carried these in his satchel, from which the reader may correctly deduce that Mario knew exactly what he was doing, and had planned out every step. Once he reached the top of the wall, Mario pried open one of the windows to which we have just alluded and slipped through it, thus landing in a small, rarely used garden that was entirely enclosed by the Imperial Wing, and was, in addition, completely unguarded. He contrived to remove his hooks and to close the window—no simple task in that it had to be done quickly while he perched atop a wall—and then dropped down to the garden.

  He hastened, then, to divest himself of his too-conspicuous clothing, leaving only plain, tight-fitting garments of black and grey and a leather harness about which were hung the weapons and tools of his trade, all of which he had carried in his satchel. The satchel now being empty, he concealed it, along with his discarded clothing, behind a heart-pear bush. He then checked the time, and having discovered that he was nearly a minute early, he waited where he was, moving no more than one of the statues that dotted the garden, until the minute had passed, after which he made his way along the wall, keeping to the shadows, until, after having turned a corner to his left, he reached the third window, which, being opened, admitted him to an old room that Tortaalik had turned into a clothes-closet, and which contained a small keyhole. This keyhole, when the lock was carefully and silently removed, provided him with a good view of the well-guarded door to the Hall of Portraits—the door through which His Majesty, if on schedule, ought, according to Mario’s calculations, be passing out of in the next two minutes.

  His Majesty, as we know, had no intention of remaining in the Hall of Portraits an instant longer than he had to; in fact Mario had barely time to take a breath before the doors opened and His Majesty came forth, preceded by Khaavren and followed by Jurabin, as well as by the two guards who had been watching the door but who now, their task completed, set off to be at hand wherever His Majesty decided to spend the next hour and a quarter.

  At just about this same time, the guardsmen Mario had first seen ought to be relieved by another; in the unlikely event that Dinb had left word of the “Teckla” who was expected to slink away from the Palace, each guard would assume the other saw him leave—the chances that Dinb or anyone else would make a careful check were almost nonexistent; Mario, at any rate, reckoned this one of the safest of the necessary gambles he had to make in order to effect the assassination of His Majesty, followed by a safe escape.

  An instant after His Majesty, His Majesty’s Guards, and the courtiers had left the room, they were replaced by the omnipresent and inconspicuous Teckla who entered to ensure that the room was clean, polished, and stocked with whatever His Majesty might require when he returned later that day. This process took some forty-five or fifty minutes, after which time the room was locked.

  It took Mario only a few seconds to defeat this lock, and scarcely more to lock it again, after which, alone in the Portrait Room and with nearly an hour at his disposal before His Majesty would return, Mario carefully made his preparations.

  That there be no confusion later, when time and place will assume greater importance, let us now—while there remains yet a certain amount of time before the speed of events will catch up, and even overtake, the urgency of the historian to record them—take a moment to consider the precise placement within the Palace of the principal actors in this unfolding drama, at the point when it yet lacked fifteen minutes of the thirteenth hour of the morning.

  To begin, as one ought, at the apex of our social pyramid, His Majesty, after changing his wardrobe to a martial costume, reclined in the small Lounge of Furs only a few steps from the Portrait Room. Khaavren, as was his custom, inspected the room carefully; his recent wound in no way hindered his ability to use his eyes. Upon being certain that there was no danger, he then took a position outside the door to await those who would replace him. His Majesty gave no thought to these precautions, for he had become quite used to them, and they seemed as normal to him as breathing. He sat himself down, then, in a comfortable chair and read from a book of traditional stories from the Kanefthali Mountains which had been collected and transcribed by Baroness Summer and was a book of which His Majesty had been fond since childhood.

  Her Majesty was in her chamber. After the ordeal of her morning bath, she was resting by playing quions-of-fours with several of her maids of honor.

  Jurabin, after escaping the Portrait Room, retired to the Seven Room where he caused the fire to be lighted. He then stared into the fire, and went over the events of the last few days in his mind, attempting to ease the turmoil therein, and, if possible, to discover what he could and should do to restore to himself Their Majesties’ favor—unfortunately, he found he was able to think only of Aliera’s eyes, which was of no help in this instance.

  Khaavren, as we have indicated, stood outside of the Lounge of Furs, until, after some few minutes, Menia appeared to take his place, which gave Khaavren the chance to make his way to His Majesty’s kitchen, where he gorged himself in good style. The staff, we ought to say, looked upon him suspiciously, recalling the last time he had eaten there, but as he seemed, this time, to have no intention of collapsing before them, they eventually relaxed into their accustomed good humors. After finishing the meal (which consisted of bread and a large portion of a certain cold fowl which had been prepared in the Elde Island manner, with a sauce of tart fruit and handshoot seeds), he set about personally inspecting each guard post in the Imperial Wing, pausing to have a few words with each guardsman to make certain no one was about to fall asleep.

  Sethra and Tazendra were making their way from the Dragon Wing to the Imperial Wing, walking slowly, and stopping to look at the scenes of battl
es depicted on the walls—Sethra would describe the inaccuracies of the depiction and point out for her companion’s benefit where Dzurlords appeared, or where they did not appear but, to be accurate, ought to. For her part, Tazendra had quite forgotten that she was in the company of the Enchantress of Dzur Mountain and chatted on merrily, speaking of battles she had fought and adventures she had had, and of certain spells she had been attempting to duplicate from certain ill-kept notebooks handed down from her family. Eventually they reached the Imperial Wing, and began to conduct an unhurried search for Pel and Aliera.

  Pel and Aliera had begun a discussion of Khaavren’s injury and Sethra’s proposal, which discussion had become so absorbing that they had forgotten their intentions, and had wandered aimlessly about the Imperial Wing until, by chance, they came upon Khaavren, who had just completed the inspection of his guard positions and was about to return to his offices in the Dragon Wing to see if anything had occurred which required his attention.

  “Well met, my friends,” he said.

  “And to you!” cried Pel. “I had worried about you, and upon my oath it gives me joy to see your firm step and hear your strong voice.”

  “How, you had worried about me?” said Khaavren.

  “Your injuries,” said Pel.

  “What of them? You know that we soldiers are made of rednut wood, and, should our bark be punctured, we may lose a little sap, but we will send out our full complement of leaves nevertheless, while digging our roots a little deeper.”

  “I am pleased, too,” said Aliera, bowing. “The more so because I know how you came to be injured, and I assure you that I regret the fate that has placed you and my father in opposition to one another.”

  Khaavren turned his palms up. “It is an honor to have a good enemy, and old friends make the best enemies. But come, where are the two of you bound?”