Tiassa (23 page)

The messenger, who had heard this flavor of comment before from the worthy Dragonlord, bowed and said, “Yes, m’lord. Is there an answer?”

“Remain nigh,” said Raanev. “I will pass the message along, and, well, we will learn if there is a reply.”

“I shall not stray from this room,” promised the messenger.

“And you will be right not to,” agreed the secretary.

With this reassurance, the messenger took a seat and began to wait. Waiting, we should add, was something he was especially skilled at, having had some thirty or thirty-five years’ practice since the time he had first received this employment. What his thoughts were, or what methods he might have had to combat ennui, we cannot tell; but for the purposes of this history, we should add, such information would not be useful, and we therefore have no need to take up the reader’s valuable time with it.

Even as the messenger—whom we have chosen to leave nameless as an indication of his unimportance both to history in general and to our history in particular—was taking a seat, Raanev opened a door located in the back corner of his office, and, passing through the doorway, stood before his superior, who was none other than Khaavren of Castle Rock, with whom the reader may, perhaps, be familiar from our earlier histories. For the benefit of the reader who is, for lack of opportunity or for some other reason, unacquainted with these histories, we will say two words about Khaavren, who at this time was Captain of Her Majesty’s Guard.

He was, then, well into his middle years, being somewhat more than eleven hundred years of age, and if he had lost some of his youthful flexibility, both in body and in spirit, he had gained in strength. His eyes were as sharp as ever and still glinted with the same quick intelligence; and if his mouth only rarely curved into the spontaneous smiles as before, his chin nevertheless showed the same determination. Beyond this, his wrist was as firm and supple as it ever was, and his ears, which had once been honored by winning the attention of an Emperor, had lost none of their cleverness.

Raanev placed himself before this worthy and bowed. “My captain,” he said, “we have received word of an Easterner, found wounded near the river.”

“Well?” said Khaavren, as if uncertain about how this intelligence could have anything to do with him.

“Moreover,” said Raanev.

“Yes, moreover?”

“According to a signet upon his person, he holds an Imperial title.”

“An Easterner with an Imperial title.”

“A wounded Easterner with an Imperial title.”

“Tell me, Raanev. Which seems to you more likely: an Easterner with an Imperial title, or an Easterner who has, for reasons of his own, stolen a signet?”

“Oh, it is obvious which is more likely, only—”

“Yes?”

“I have heard no report of such a signet being stolen.”

Khaavren frowned, struck by the extreme justice of this observation. “Nor have I heard such a report,” admitted the captain, “and you are right to point this out.”

“I am pleased that my captain thinks so.”

“Oh, I do. And not only that—”

“Yes, Captain?”

“I believe we should reflect on this situation.”

“I have no argument to make with such reflection.”

“But in order to reflect, more information is required.”

“I agree with the captain that, when reflecting, having information upon which to reflect is often useful.”

“Is the messenger still waiting?”

“He is, Captain.”

“Then have him return to Ensign Shirip. Instruct her to investigate this Easterner, then report to me here.”

From this, the reader may deduce that Khaavren, who had been wont to run out to learn what he could, now had others to do this work, and had such information as they acquired brought to him; whether this was a result of his increased responsibility, or increased age, we must leave to the reader to decide. Raanev, for his part, had no occasion to speculate, but merely carried out the orders of his superior officer.

The messenger, who had been waiting for just such an occurrence, also carried out his orders; and did so with such effectiveness that in a short time Ensign Shirip had received the message with as much accuracy and precision as if she’d heard it from Khaavren’s own lips. For her part, she understood that, when given an order by the captain, there was no question of joking, and so she at once carried out an inspection of the Easterner, and spoke at some length with the physicker attending him.

This done, she called for a coach and driver and, leaving a subordinate in charge, made her way to the Imperial Palace. Once there, she found the suite of the captain, where a servant named Borteliff, of whom we will learn more later, admitted her to Khaavren’s private office.

Now this office was, first of all, spacious, as befit the Captain of the Phoenix Guards, who was, among other things, responsible for the safety of Her Majesty. In addition to the door by which first Raanev and now Shirip had entered, there were four others. One of these, in the far back, led via a short tunnel to the outside, and it was used by the captain for his own comings and goings. The one to the left (that is, Shirip’s left as she entered) communicated with a large hallway that was the quickest way to reach the Iorich Wing (although the reader must understand that the quickest way was not, in point of fact, quick). A third door, next to the one in back, led to a wide, heavily guarded area where teleports were permitted both in and out, and, beyond that, to certain council chambers where the captain could meet privately with anyone with whom he wished to consult. The final door, on the right, led by as direct a route as possible to the throne room in the Imperial Wing.

In addition to the doors there was a small alcove where the captain might hang his hat and cloak and also his sword. The rest of the room was dominated by a large walnut desk—a desk that the captain kept clean by the simple expedient of making others do his paperwork whenever possible. In addition to the desk, there were five chairs arranged in a semi-circle in front of it. Each of these chairs was, we should add, quite comfortable, featuring arm-rests and cushions; because with his present elevated rank, he was now visited by those who deserved better treatment than was generally afforded even an officer of the guard. Khaavren’s own chair was not unlike him: it was simple and without padding or ornament, firm, and gave the appearance of being entirely functional.

It was in this office, and, more precisely, in this chair that Khaavren sat and, with a nod, greeted Ensign Shirip.

“Captain,” she said, saluting. “I have inspected the Easterner, as you ordered.”

“And you were right to do so. Is he conscious?”

“Not yet, but the physicker is hopeful.”

“How was he injured? By he, you understand,” added Khaavren, who was always careful to avoid confusion, “I refer to the Easterner, not the physicker.”

“I understand all the better, Captain, because the physicker is a she.”

“Ah, then there can be no ambiguity.”

“Exactly.”

“So then you will tell me of his injuries?”

“I will do so this very instant.”

“Excellent. I am listening.”

“Four cuts and two stab wounds, Captain. All but one cut and one stab are shallow and insignificant. He is cut on the right shoulder and elbow, and the right leg above the knee, as well as a significant gash on the left side, just above the hip. There is a shallow puncture wound in the left shoulder, as well as a serious one low on his right chest, only just missing the lung.”

“How many weapons caused the wounds?”

“Three.”

“So, unless one of them fought with two weapons, there were at least four attackers.”

“Four, Captain? And yet—”

Khaavren brushed it aside. “A tolerably skillful player. Other than his wounds, what did you observe?”

“He seems somewhat slight for one of his race. He has grown hair above his lip, but none on his chin. His cheekbones are high, like those of a Dzurlord. His ears are round, and close to his head. He has thick eyebrows and long lashes, and his chin has a crease, as if it were cut, but there is no scar. He does have a faint scar to the left of his nose and another beneath his right ear, and he is missing the fifth finger of his left hand.”

Khaavren nodded. “Is his hair dark? That is to say, black?”

“It is, my lord,” said Shirip.

“His brows are thick, his chin strong with no trace of point?”

“You have described him, Captain,” said Shirip, with a raised brow.

The captain answered the question implied by the look: “I believe I know him.”

“And then?” said the ensign.

“I must see him.”

“But, does he in fact hold an Imperial title?”

Khaavren replied with a brusque nod, informing Shirip that, not only was her question answered in the affirmative, but, moreover, that the captain no longer wished to continue the conversation. Shirip understood both of the messages her superior officer did her the honor to convey, and so asked no more questions.

For his part, Khaavren at once made arrangements for a carriage to bring him to where the wounded Easterner was. We should note in passing that the Khaavren of two hundred years before would have ridden a horse rather than a carriage; but we should also note that the Khaavren of two hundred years before was younger; and younger, we should add, by the amount of two hundred years.

Thanks to the efficiency demanded by the good Tiassa of all of those whom he commanded, it was only moments before he was informed that carriage and driver were ready. With another of his expressive nods, he invited Shirip to accompany him in the conveyance.

They climbed into the coach, reaching it, as the reader will no doubt deduce, by the door which we have earlier had the honor to describe, and settled in for the brief ride. Khaavren, having no wish for conversation, initiated none. Shirip took this as a cue, and also remained silent for the duration.

After some little time, they arrived at the North Central Guard Station, where the coachman—a private soldier detailed for this duty because of his skill with horses—alighted and held the door for the captain and the ensign. Khaavren led the way into the station with the ease and command that came naturally to him. He at once went to the infirmary, politely clapping outside of the door. The reader should understand that even the Captain of the Phoenix Guards ought not to enter an infirmary before being assured that no one was in the midst of a delicate procedure; while interrupting a physicker in the midst of an operation is less hazardous than interrupting a sorcerer in the midst of a complex spell, it is not less discourteous.

On this occasion, rather than a call to enter, the door opened and the physicker emerged. She was an Athyra, of medium height and middle years, with what appeared to be a permanent crease in her brow, and a proud nose of the type usually associated with Hawklords. She closed the door softly behind her before bowing to Khaavren and saying, “I have been expecting you, my lord.”

“Well, and here I am.”

“No doubt, you wish to know of my patient’s condition?”

“You have guessed the precise nature of my errand.”

“Then I will tell you what you wish to know.”

“And you will be right to do so.”

“In the first place, you must know he has been badly wounded.”

“That much I had already deduced.”

“Moreover, I am unable to cast the usual spells to prevent mortification.”

“How, unable?”

“Exactly.”

“But, what prevents you?”

“I am uncertain. Yet my efforts have failed.”

“Well, and then?”

The physicker frowned, the creases in her forehead deepening. “I have used older, more primitive methods of cleaning the wounds, and if these are successful, I would expect him to live.”

“Is he awake?”

“Not as yet.”

“Can you tell when he will regain consciousness?”

“No more than I can prevent mortification; that spell, too, fails.”

Khaavren frowned. “Then I will wait here until—”

He was interrupted by a sound not unlike that the wind makes when passing through a hollow cavern—a sound which seemed to emanate from the other side of the door near which they stood. Without another word, the physicker opened the door and entered, Khaavren at her heels.

C
HAPTER THE
S
ECOND

How the Captain Spoke
to the Easterner, and the
Easterner Received a Visit

Inside was a high, thin bed, upon which lay the Easterner, covered by a sheet and a blanket. His eyes were squeezed tightly shut, but opened as Khaavren and the physicker approached. He looked at the black silken scarf about her neck and whispered, “If you have something for the pain, I would be not ungrateful.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “My spells will not work on you.”

He closed his eyes again. “Opium?” he said.