(no subject)
"I especially, my lady," said Mica to Tazendra, "thank you. And if there is anything I can do to aid you in anything, you need only ask; henceforth, I would lay down my life for you."
Tazendra bowed, then, suddenly struck by a thought, said, "But, have you not said that you eat only three times a week?"
"Yes, my lady, but that is twice a week more than I ate before I gained this position."
"But then, would you wish for a better position; one that will allow you to eat, not three times a week, but four times a day?"
Mica's mouth seemed to water at the thought, and, to judge by the way his eyes lit up, he had no complaints to make of any plan with that as its object. He bowed to the Dzurlord and said, "My lady, that would suit my greatest wishes. Only tell me what I must do."
"Well, first you must travel with me."
"Travel with such a lady as you? Oh, that would be a fine thing."
"Good."
"But, what next?"
"Next, you must wear my livery."
"Ah, to be dressed in the arms of a Dzurlord! Such happiness is beyond me. But, what else?"
"Well, after that, you must care for my horse."
"I love horses, and have been caring for them all my life. What next?"
"You must learn to clean, polish, and sharpen my weapons."
"I sharpen the knives for Master Cleff, as well as cleaning and polishing the silver that he keeps in case a prince should honor his house, which he has never used in two hundred years, but which must, nevertheless, be polished every week against the chance that his fortune changes."
"You must help me to dress."
"My grandmother on my mother's side used to live with us when I was but a child, and she had the aryes so bad she could not dress herself, so I performed this service for her every day for three hundred years. What next?"
"You must bring food and wine for me and my friends when we require it, with the understanding that any scraps of meat or dregs of wine are yours."
"It is just this I have been doing for Master Cleff for the last year; and he is a tolerably stern taskmaster. What next?"
"That is all."
"Well, I do not conceal from you that it would bring me the greatest possible joy to hold this position."
"Then, my dear Mica, it is yours."
"But stay," said Pel, frowning, "surely you are aware that it is no longer the fashion to have lackeys."
"Blood!" said Tazendra, "That is true. I had not thought of it."
Mica trembled as all of his hopes for the future collapsed. Uttrik felt great sympathy for him, since the Dragon had, after all just saved his life, but could think of nothing to do except to lean over and whisper in Khaavren's ear, "We must do something."
"Indeed?" said Khaavren. "Why?"
"Are you not moved to tears by the look on his face?"
"Well, but what can we do?"
"The Horse! You are a Tiassa; think of something."
Khaavren had a reply ready for this: he was about to say, "You are a Dragon; kill someone," when this thought led to another, which led to still another, and he finished by addressing Tazendra.
"My dear friend, attend me."
"Well?"
"Suppose, upon wishing to enter this fine hostel, we had met with a gentleman who forbade you from entering. What would you do?"
"What would I do? Why, I should take my sword and separate his head from his body."
"Good. But then, what if, when you are in the garden taking your morning exercises, someone should say, 'Your activities offend me; I insist that you stop them.' What then?"
"Oh, then, well, then, if I had not my sword with me, I should take a flash-stone and see how large a hole I could make in his body with it."
"Good. But then, let us pretend that one day you are dining by yourself in the Longwood Arms hotel, and an individual should insist that he, rather than you, should have the table at which you are sitting, and which commands a view of the river?"
"Why, I think I should give him a better view of the river than he had asked for by sending him directly into it. But, good Khaavren, why all of these questions?"
"Because it seems to me that if you are unwilling to let individuals dictate your decisions for you, how it is you are willing to let such an abstract thing as fashion decide how you are to lead your life?"
"Well," said Tazendra, "your words are full of truth. And I have changed my mind once more; Mica, you are my man."
--
"And yet," said Uttrik, "I am worried that-but stay a moment. Tazendra, what is it that your lackey is holding?"
"Eh? Why, yes. What are you holding, Mica?"
"A letter, my lady."
"A letter?"
"So it seems to be."
"And to whom is it addressed?"
"To Lord Adron," said the clever Teckla, who had learned his ciphers sometime during his early career, a fact which even Aerich did not hold against him.
"How?" said Adron. "A letter for me?"
"So it seems to be, Your Highness."
"From whom?"
"As to that, I have no idea, Your Highness."
"But," said Khaavren, "where did you find it?"
"In Lord Garland's pouch, which he left behind him after it was cut from his waist by Count Shaltre."
"What is this," said Tazendra sternly. "You have looked through the gentleman's pouch?"
"Yes, exactly, my lady," said Mica complacently. "There is no crime in that, for I am not a gentleman."
"That is true," said Aerich, after which he murmured, "This notion of Tazendra's lackey, will, in time, get entirely out of hand; I must mention it to her."
--
At the same time, some distance away, were taking place events that were not as unrelated to all of these other matters as the reader might, at first, suspect. In the Hammerhead Inn-which, as the reader may recall from certain events which occurred there in our earlier volume, was located quite close to Khaavren's house-the next step in a romance was being played out: To wit, Mica, after taking careful account of his personal treasury, was buying a good dinner for himself and for Srahi, to whose company he had grown more and more attached as the days went by.
Mica's generosity extended to roasted fowl, dripping with fat and positively smothered with mushrooms, short-grain bread baked with sweet peppers and half-garlic, and a bottle of sweet white wine; all of which were treated by Srahi with the reverence they deserved, both for their intrinsic quality and for what they cost (for, as the reader is doubtless aware, cost is not absolute, but relative-this same dinner, at the same price, would have been a mere trifle for Tazendra, yet it was nearly a fortune for poor Mica, who habitually lived on the leavings from his master's plate).
To complete the satisfaction provided by this veritable feast, Srahi endeavored to make pleasant conversation. We use the word endeavored because at first she had to make an effort to do so, yet we should add that, very quickly, because of the natural agreement in the character of these two individuals, no effort was required, but, rather, the conversation proceeded across the table as smoothly as the victuals proceeded in the opposite direction.
It is not our intention to weary our readers with details of this conversation-it is sufficient to say that it befit two worthy Teckla who were discovering, amid pleasant surroundings, how agreeable they found one another's company (far more agreeable, we should add, than the servants of the Hammerhead found their presence, for it is an invariable law that the most unpleasant sorts of patrons to an inn are, in the first place, those with so much wealth and power that they believe everyone ought to answer to their least whim, and, second, those who are so poor that they believe, as they are spending so much of their hard-won money on their repast, that it ought to be as important to the servants as it is to them).
As they neared the end of the meal, discussing their masters, those tasks they found most annoying as well as those they found most agreeable, the interesting color of each other's eyes and hair (all four samples of which were, in fact, a nearly identical nondescript brown), the value of white meat versus dark meat and the importance, in the case of the former, of insuring it was sufficiently moist, and so on, Mica gave a loud, imperious call for bread, with which he intended to soak the remaining juice from the broad, wooden platter upon which the fowl had been presented. A servant brought a loaf of coarse black bread, and accompanied it with such a resentful look that Mica could not help but notice.
"Bah!" he said. "Did you mark the servant, and his ill-favored countenance."
"I did," said Srahi. "Cha! What manners they have!"
"Had I my barstool, well, I assure you I should have words with him."
Srahi gave him a puzzled look. "Had you your what?"
"My barstool. Surely you recall the stories good Lord Khaavren told, of-"
"Ah, yes! Indeed, I do recall. I was merely startled, for I had not realized that you still thought of such implements as weapons."
"Well, I do not in general, but my own is different, for I am so used to it. Indeed, I assure you that, whenever I venture out upon a campaign, I would not think to leave it behind-it is, after all, the weapon with which I am most familiar."
"How, you bring a barstool with you?"
"Certainly. Have you not marked it, sitting in the corner by the door."
"Ah-ah! My dear Mica, I have done a terrible thing!"
Mica frowned. "What is it, my dear? Come you must tell me, for I perceive you are agitated, and I grow more so as you look at me with your countenance growing pale."
"I did not realize what it was, I thought it was only refuse from your journey, and in cleaning I-"
"Yes?"
"I threw it away!"
Mica, in his turn, became pale. "How, you threw it away?"
"Yes, onto the rubbish heap, to be removed every alternate week by those who are paid by the Empire to perform this service."
"Oh," said Mica, miserably.
"Will you ever forgive me?"
Mica swallowed, but, after several moments, he attempted, and managed, a pale smile. "Well, but it is only a barstool, after all. There must be others-"
"Bide," she said, suddenly sitting upright in her chair.
"Yes?"
"Something has occurred to me."
"And that is? I beg you to tell, for you perceive that I am most anxious to hear."
"The refuse will not be removed from its pile until tomorrow morning."
"Which means-"
"Unless someone has seen it, and decided to remove it-"
"It will still be there!"
"Exactly."
"Come, I will pay for our repast by leaving the exact amount required here on the table where they cannot fail to find it, and we will help our digestion by hurrying to the trash-heap."
"Which is, in fact, by the side of house, just outside of the kitchen window."
"Then, allow me to finish this last glass of wine-"
"And I, the same."
"And we are away. Give me your arm."
"Here it is."
--
Then it seemed as if a formless shadow grew from the larger shadow of the house and approached Khaavren's senseless body. A closer look would have revealed, in the figure's hand, a dull black rod, about a meter in length, of the type often used by sorcerers to concentrate, or even contain, particularly potent spells. A still closer look would have shown that the figure was, in fact, Laral, who quickly walked up to Khaavren, holding the rod aloft. There can be no question that all would have been up for Khaavren at that moment, except that, just then, the stillness was broken by Srahi, who cried out in her shrill, piercing, and abrasive voice, "What is this, a robbery in front of my master's door? Hey, you, what is it you are doing? Get away from there!"
Srahi had come around the corner, in the company of Mica, and seen just enough to know that there was a crime taking place on the street outside of her house. Now Srahi was no stranger to crimes of one sort or another-in fact, if truth be told, she had, before being hired by Khaavren, herself engaged in activities of dubious legality; she had no thought whatsoever of passing judgment in any moral sense. But she also understood that the space in front of her master's house was no place for criminal action, or violent crime in any case, and he Captain of His Majesty's Guard!
A sense of outrage not only filled her, but it positively carried her straight up to the amazed Laral, who could not believe that a Teckla would be so foolish, not to mention insolent, as to interfere with Jhereg business. We should add that, for her part, Srahi had no notion that this was a Jhereg before her, and whether she would have behaved differently if she had known we cannot say. Locked up in the rod in Laral's hand was the embodiment of that spell called The Quick Road by those in the Jhereg who practiced assassination through sorcery-the spell was so named because it was reputed to be one of the quickest known paths to the afterlife: It acted by instantly freezing all of the liquids within the fairly small radius of the spell's effect, wherefore it was only necessary to direct it at the victim's heart for death to follow almost before the victim could be aware. For just the briefest of moments, it was directed at Srahi's heart, but Laral realized that it would be ludicrous to use the spell she had carefully prepared for Khaavren on a mere Teckla, who could hardly threaten her in any case. At the same time, however, she realized that this Teckla may have glimpsed her face, and thus had to die, and that without any delay. Her solution to this problem was to bring forth a simple flashstone which she had concealed in a convenient pocket, raise it, and discharge it fully into Srahi's face-a solution which she put into practice at once.
It happened, however, that instead of discharging it into Srahi's face, she rather discharged it into the space Srahi's face had occupied a moment before, for, just at that moment, Mica, who had seen such devices in action often enough to recognize one at once, pushed his own body into Srahi's in such a way that she was thrown to the side and the flashstone went off into the air above Mica's head-Mica having, fortunately, the presence of mind to duck at the same time that he pushed. The horses, already made nervous by the commotion and the smell of blood, took this moment to bolt, and, with no coachman to direct them, hurtled down the street (for the sake of completeness, we ought to explain what became of the coach, but, in point of fact, we have not been able to learn of it). After ducking the murderous power of the stone, Mica straightened up and, doing his best to imitate the tones his mistress was wont to use on such occasions, addressed Srahi in these terms: "Now, my dear, you shall see the use to which I can put a good barstool, and we will both be grateful that we were able to find it in the trash-heap-it is true that it now smells of klava leavings, the peelings of vegetables, and the guts and heads of fish, but, what of that? The refuse before me will only feel more at home therefrom."
To Laral, he said, "Now then, you, defend yourself, for I am well acquainted with this weapon I bear, and if you are not at least equally familiar with your own, then, Shards and Splinters! I think you are a dead woman!"
Laral, for her part, felt no need to engage in conversation; moreover, she was far too angry to attempt words-the very idea of two Teckla happening by and ruining her careful plan filled her with outrage. But she was a sorcerer both powerful and subtle, as well as being a killer both fierce and heartless. She knew that, if she were to have any chance of completing her mission, she could waste no time with these Teckla; they had to be dispatched at once. She also knew that, with her flashstone having already sent its sharp, penetrating crack through the neighborhood, there was no longer any reason to be quiet, wherefore, with no hesitation, she now aimed her flashstone a second time.
Mica, looking at the flat surface of the stone only inches from his nose, realized, in the first place, that it must have been prepared with a second charge-he knew such things were possible because he had assisted his Master, Tazendra, in preparing such devices several score of times-and, in the second place, he knew that he was a dead man.
Or, to be more precise, we ought to say he thought he was a dead man, for he had reckoned without Srahi who, though weaponless, had no intention of standing by while Mica, who was well on the way to becoming her lover, and who had, moreover, just saved her life, suffered the very fate from which he had lately preserved her. Srahi let go an enraged cry that vied with the flashstone itself for volume, and threw herself on the arm of Mica's assailant.
This time when the stone discharged, however, it was not without effect; Mica, who had once been kicked in the left shin by one of his master's colts, with whom he had been disagreeing about the proper direction to move through the corral, felt for a moment as if this same colt had kicked him in the right shin; indeed, the crack of the flashstone even sounded in his ears very much as the crack of breaking bone had on that occasion, and the shock to the limb-that particular shock which resembles numbness but which promises pain to follow in short order-was nearly identical except that, on this occasion, it was accompanied by a searing heat which promised even more extreme pain and, half an instant later, by the smell of cooking meat-had he paused to consider that this smell came from his own tortured flesh, he may well have been so discomfited that he would have been unable to respond. In the event, however, Mica did not pause to consider this, nor did he even pause to consider that he had been hurt, perhaps disabled, and that both he and his mistress might soon be left helpless before their unknown assailant; rather, the instant he felt the blow and the accompanying heat, he swung his faithful barstool with grim purpose and deadly aim. He, was rewarded by the solid, satisfying feel of a good stroke well placed; Laral fell back three steps with a hiss of pain or annoyance at the same instant that Mica gave a scream that was, in fact, the loudest sound yet to ring out through that night, after which he fell, nearly senseless himself, next to Khaavren who slept, and the coachman who would never wake.
--
"Well," said Khaavren, when at last he understood the sequence of events, "it seems that, once again, I've been saved by the arrival of my friends-in this case several of them. Moreover, this time there can be no doubt that the true heroes are Mica and Srahi."
"For my part," said Tazendra, giving Mica a fond glance, "I could not agree more."
"Bah," said Mica, blushing and wondering if he could contrive to be killed for both Khaavren and his master at the same time and resolving to do so as soon as a means could be found, "we were only too happy to be of any small service we could, were we not?" He addressed this last to Srahi, who sniffed disdainfully, but also smiled-a task to which the muscles of her face seemed unaccustomed.
--
As daylight brightened the eastern face of Dzur Mountain, Piro awoke with the events of the last several days filling his thoughts, leaving him with some anticipation and a great deal of confusion. After spending some time attempting to understand all that he had learned, he came to the conclusion that it would be better to break his fast first and think later. This decision made, he rose, dressed, and made his way down the hall where, after a certain number of false turns and retracing of his steps, he came at last to the parlor where he had first met the Enchantress. Before he actually entered the room, however, he heard voices, and, being possessed of a great deal of that curiosity which is the birthright of any Tiassa, he paused for a moment to listen.
One voice he instantly recognized as belonging to the Teckla Mica, Tazendra's servant.
"You see this end," Mica was saying, "can be used to block or parry an opponent's attack; even a heavy sword cannot penetrate the wood nor break it-you see marks where some have tried. Of course, to defend against a rapier I prefer to turn it around, holding it in this fashion, because my enemy's blade can then be caught between the legs, after which, by the smallest twist, my opponent will be disarmed, or else his blade will snap; and, moreover, I am then able to instantly counter from that position simply by thrusting forward, especially into the face of my enemy."
"Well, I perceive there is a great deal to this art."
"Oh, there is, I assure you."
"And I freely confess that I admire your courage, which seems to be as great as that of a Dzurlord."
"Well, I admit that, serving my mistress, there are occasions when a good stock of courage is as necessary as knowing how to lace up a doublet."
"Yes, I understand that."
"And-but bide, I hear someone coming. I am certain of it, for you perceive, in the sorts of adventures upon which my mistress takes me, sometimes a sharp pair of ears is all that stands between you and a quick, unceremonious demise, and so I have trained my ears to respond to the least noise."
Of course, the sound he heard was Piro, who, having heard enough, had resumed his course toward the room in which Mica was holding forth. As he entered, Mica, who had been holding a barstool, set it down, rose to his feet, and bowed deeply, as did his companion, who was none other than Lar.
"What is this?" said Piro. "Are you instructing him?"
"Yes, my lord," said Mica. "That is, I was explaining to him the use of the barstool, a weapon with which I am not unacquainted."
"Yes, indeed," said Piro. "I know of the barstool from having heard my father speak of it."
Mica positively beamed at this evidence of Khaavren's memory and of his own exploits, and turned an eye upon Lar as if to say, "Here is the proof of all that I have told you."
"And is that," continued Piro, pointing to the object in question, "the very barstool of which I have heard such stories?"
"Alas, no," said Mica. "This is a replacement recently acquired."
"Ah," said the Viscount. "But I hope, at least, that your previous weapon was given an honorable retirement?"
"In a fashion," said the Teckla. "It was used to supply a replacement for the lower part of my left leg, which, alas, was lost in the service of my mistress."
"And of my father, as I recall the story," said Piro.
Mica bowed his acknowledgment.
Piro then addressed Lar, saying, "You should listen to all this worthy man tells you, Lar, for there is no doubt that my father and his friends should never have survived all of their adventures if they had not been served by clever and courageous lackeys such as our good Mica here."
Lar bowed, and vowed to himself that he would find an opportunity to display his courage before Piro at the first instant he could find to do so; Mica, at the same time, decided that he would permit himself to be burned alive for the young Tiassa as soon as it could be arranged. The quick-thinking Mica realized, however, that there was unlikely to be a chance for such an activity in the next few hours, whereas it was possible that he would be able to serve him in other ways, wherefore he said, "Would my lord care for
klava this morning, as well as, perhaps, something with more substance?"
Tazendra bowed, then, suddenly struck by a thought, said, "But, have you not said that you eat only three times a week?"
"Yes, my lady, but that is twice a week more than I ate before I gained this position."
"But then, would you wish for a better position; one that will allow you to eat, not three times a week, but four times a day?"
Mica's mouth seemed to water at the thought, and, to judge by the way his eyes lit up, he had no complaints to make of any plan with that as its object. He bowed to the Dzurlord and said, "My lady, that would suit my greatest wishes. Only tell me what I must do."
"Well, first you must travel with me."
"Travel with such a lady as you? Oh, that would be a fine thing."
"Good."
"But, what next?"
"Next, you must wear my livery."
"Ah, to be dressed in the arms of a Dzurlord! Such happiness is beyond me. But, what else?"
"Well, after that, you must care for my horse."
"I love horses, and have been caring for them all my life. What next?"
"You must learn to clean, polish, and sharpen my weapons."
"I sharpen the knives for Master Cleff, as well as cleaning and polishing the silver that he keeps in case a prince should honor his house, which he has never used in two hundred years, but which must, nevertheless, be polished every week against the chance that his fortune changes."
"You must help me to dress."
"My grandmother on my mother's side used to live with us when I was but a child, and she had the aryes so bad she could not dress herself, so I performed this service for her every day for three hundred years. What next?"
"You must bring food and wine for me and my friends when we require it, with the understanding that any scraps of meat or dregs of wine are yours."
"It is just this I have been doing for Master Cleff for the last year; and he is a tolerably stern taskmaster. What next?"
"That is all."
"Well, I do not conceal from you that it would bring me the greatest possible joy to hold this position."
"Then, my dear Mica, it is yours."
"But stay," said Pel, frowning, "surely you are aware that it is no longer the fashion to have lackeys."
"Blood!" said Tazendra, "That is true. I had not thought of it."
Mica trembled as all of his hopes for the future collapsed. Uttrik felt great sympathy for him, since the Dragon had, after all just saved his life, but could think of nothing to do except to lean over and whisper in Khaavren's ear, "We must do something."
"Indeed?" said Khaavren. "Why?"
"Are you not moved to tears by the look on his face?"
"Well, but what can we do?"
"The Horse! You are a Tiassa; think of something."
Khaavren had a reply ready for this: he was about to say, "You are a Dragon; kill someone," when this thought led to another, which led to still another, and he finished by addressing Tazendra.
"My dear friend, attend me."
"Well?"
"Suppose, upon wishing to enter this fine hostel, we had met with a gentleman who forbade you from entering. What would you do?"
"What would I do? Why, I should take my sword and separate his head from his body."
"Good. But then, what if, when you are in the garden taking your morning exercises, someone should say, 'Your activities offend me; I insist that you stop them.' What then?"
"Oh, then, well, then, if I had not my sword with me, I should take a flash-stone and see how large a hole I could make in his body with it."
"Good. But then, let us pretend that one day you are dining by yourself in the Longwood Arms hotel, and an individual should insist that he, rather than you, should have the table at which you are sitting, and which commands a view of the river?"
"Why, I think I should give him a better view of the river than he had asked for by sending him directly into it. But, good Khaavren, why all of these questions?"
"Because it seems to me that if you are unwilling to let individuals dictate your decisions for you, how it is you are willing to let such an abstract thing as fashion decide how you are to lead your life?"
"Well," said Tazendra, "your words are full of truth. And I have changed my mind once more; Mica, you are my man."
--
"And yet," said Uttrik, "I am worried that-but stay a moment. Tazendra, what is it that your lackey is holding?"
"Eh? Why, yes. What are you holding, Mica?"
"A letter, my lady."
"A letter?"
"So it seems to be."
"And to whom is it addressed?"
"To Lord Adron," said the clever Teckla, who had learned his ciphers sometime during his early career, a fact which even Aerich did not hold against him.
"How?" said Adron. "A letter for me?"
"So it seems to be, Your Highness."
"From whom?"
"As to that, I have no idea, Your Highness."
"But," said Khaavren, "where did you find it?"
"In Lord Garland's pouch, which he left behind him after it was cut from his waist by Count Shaltre."
"What is this," said Tazendra sternly. "You have looked through the gentleman's pouch?"
"Yes, exactly, my lady," said Mica complacently. "There is no crime in that, for I am not a gentleman."
"That is true," said Aerich, after which he murmured, "This notion of Tazendra's lackey, will, in time, get entirely out of hand; I must mention it to her."
--
At the same time, some distance away, were taking place events that were not as unrelated to all of these other matters as the reader might, at first, suspect. In the Hammerhead Inn-which, as the reader may recall from certain events which occurred there in our earlier volume, was located quite close to Khaavren's house-the next step in a romance was being played out: To wit, Mica, after taking careful account of his personal treasury, was buying a good dinner for himself and for Srahi, to whose company he had grown more and more attached as the days went by.
Mica's generosity extended to roasted fowl, dripping with fat and positively smothered with mushrooms, short-grain bread baked with sweet peppers and half-garlic, and a bottle of sweet white wine; all of which were treated by Srahi with the reverence they deserved, both for their intrinsic quality and for what they cost (for, as the reader is doubtless aware, cost is not absolute, but relative-this same dinner, at the same price, would have been a mere trifle for Tazendra, yet it was nearly a fortune for poor Mica, who habitually lived on the leavings from his master's plate).
To complete the satisfaction provided by this veritable feast, Srahi endeavored to make pleasant conversation. We use the word endeavored because at first she had to make an effort to do so, yet we should add that, very quickly, because of the natural agreement in the character of these two individuals, no effort was required, but, rather, the conversation proceeded across the table as smoothly as the victuals proceeded in the opposite direction.
It is not our intention to weary our readers with details of this conversation-it is sufficient to say that it befit two worthy Teckla who were discovering, amid pleasant surroundings, how agreeable they found one another's company (far more agreeable, we should add, than the servants of the Hammerhead found their presence, for it is an invariable law that the most unpleasant sorts of patrons to an inn are, in the first place, those with so much wealth and power that they believe everyone ought to answer to their least whim, and, second, those who are so poor that they believe, as they are spending so much of their hard-won money on their repast, that it ought to be as important to the servants as it is to them).
As they neared the end of the meal, discussing their masters, those tasks they found most annoying as well as those they found most agreeable, the interesting color of each other's eyes and hair (all four samples of which were, in fact, a nearly identical nondescript brown), the value of white meat versus dark meat and the importance, in the case of the former, of insuring it was sufficiently moist, and so on, Mica gave a loud, imperious call for bread, with which he intended to soak the remaining juice from the broad, wooden platter upon which the fowl had been presented. A servant brought a loaf of coarse black bread, and accompanied it with such a resentful look that Mica could not help but notice.
"Bah!" he said. "Did you mark the servant, and his ill-favored countenance."
"I did," said Srahi. "Cha! What manners they have!"
"Had I my barstool, well, I assure you I should have words with him."
Srahi gave him a puzzled look. "Had you your what?"
"My barstool. Surely you recall the stories good Lord Khaavren told, of-"
"Ah, yes! Indeed, I do recall. I was merely startled, for I had not realized that you still thought of such implements as weapons."
"Well, I do not in general, but my own is different, for I am so used to it. Indeed, I assure you that, whenever I venture out upon a campaign, I would not think to leave it behind-it is, after all, the weapon with which I am most familiar."
"How, you bring a barstool with you?"
"Certainly. Have you not marked it, sitting in the corner by the door."
"Ah-ah! My dear Mica, I have done a terrible thing!"
Mica frowned. "What is it, my dear? Come you must tell me, for I perceive you are agitated, and I grow more so as you look at me with your countenance growing pale."
"I did not realize what it was, I thought it was only refuse from your journey, and in cleaning I-"
"Yes?"
"I threw it away!"
Mica, in his turn, became pale. "How, you threw it away?"
"Yes, onto the rubbish heap, to be removed every alternate week by those who are paid by the Empire to perform this service."
"Oh," said Mica, miserably.
"Will you ever forgive me?"
Mica swallowed, but, after several moments, he attempted, and managed, a pale smile. "Well, but it is only a barstool, after all. There must be others-"
"Bide," she said, suddenly sitting upright in her chair.
"Yes?"
"Something has occurred to me."
"And that is? I beg you to tell, for you perceive that I am most anxious to hear."
"The refuse will not be removed from its pile until tomorrow morning."
"Which means-"
"Unless someone has seen it, and decided to remove it-"
"It will still be there!"
"Exactly."
"Come, I will pay for our repast by leaving the exact amount required here on the table where they cannot fail to find it, and we will help our digestion by hurrying to the trash-heap."
"Which is, in fact, by the side of house, just outside of the kitchen window."
"Then, allow me to finish this last glass of wine-"
"And I, the same."
"And we are away. Give me your arm."
"Here it is."
--
Then it seemed as if a formless shadow grew from the larger shadow of the house and approached Khaavren's senseless body. A closer look would have revealed, in the figure's hand, a dull black rod, about a meter in length, of the type often used by sorcerers to concentrate, or even contain, particularly potent spells. A still closer look would have shown that the figure was, in fact, Laral, who quickly walked up to Khaavren, holding the rod aloft. There can be no question that all would have been up for Khaavren at that moment, except that, just then, the stillness was broken by Srahi, who cried out in her shrill, piercing, and abrasive voice, "What is this, a robbery in front of my master's door? Hey, you, what is it you are doing? Get away from there!"
Srahi had come around the corner, in the company of Mica, and seen just enough to know that there was a crime taking place on the street outside of her house. Now Srahi was no stranger to crimes of one sort or another-in fact, if truth be told, she had, before being hired by Khaavren, herself engaged in activities of dubious legality; she had no thought whatsoever of passing judgment in any moral sense. But she also understood that the space in front of her master's house was no place for criminal action, or violent crime in any case, and he Captain of His Majesty's Guard!
A sense of outrage not only filled her, but it positively carried her straight up to the amazed Laral, who could not believe that a Teckla would be so foolish, not to mention insolent, as to interfere with Jhereg business. We should add that, for her part, Srahi had no notion that this was a Jhereg before her, and whether she would have behaved differently if she had known we cannot say. Locked up in the rod in Laral's hand was the embodiment of that spell called The Quick Road by those in the Jhereg who practiced assassination through sorcery-the spell was so named because it was reputed to be one of the quickest known paths to the afterlife: It acted by instantly freezing all of the liquids within the fairly small radius of the spell's effect, wherefore it was only necessary to direct it at the victim's heart for death to follow almost before the victim could be aware. For just the briefest of moments, it was directed at Srahi's heart, but Laral realized that it would be ludicrous to use the spell she had carefully prepared for Khaavren on a mere Teckla, who could hardly threaten her in any case. At the same time, however, she realized that this Teckla may have glimpsed her face, and thus had to die, and that without any delay. Her solution to this problem was to bring forth a simple flashstone which she had concealed in a convenient pocket, raise it, and discharge it fully into Srahi's face-a solution which she put into practice at once.
It happened, however, that instead of discharging it into Srahi's face, she rather discharged it into the space Srahi's face had occupied a moment before, for, just at that moment, Mica, who had seen such devices in action often enough to recognize one at once, pushed his own body into Srahi's in such a way that she was thrown to the side and the flashstone went off into the air above Mica's head-Mica having, fortunately, the presence of mind to duck at the same time that he pushed. The horses, already made nervous by the commotion and the smell of blood, took this moment to bolt, and, with no coachman to direct them, hurtled down the street (for the sake of completeness, we ought to explain what became of the coach, but, in point of fact, we have not been able to learn of it). After ducking the murderous power of the stone, Mica straightened up and, doing his best to imitate the tones his mistress was wont to use on such occasions, addressed Srahi in these terms: "Now, my dear, you shall see the use to which I can put a good barstool, and we will both be grateful that we were able to find it in the trash-heap-it is true that it now smells of klava leavings, the peelings of vegetables, and the guts and heads of fish, but, what of that? The refuse before me will only feel more at home therefrom."
To Laral, he said, "Now then, you, defend yourself, for I am well acquainted with this weapon I bear, and if you are not at least equally familiar with your own, then, Shards and Splinters! I think you are a dead woman!"
Laral, for her part, felt no need to engage in conversation; moreover, she was far too angry to attempt words-the very idea of two Teckla happening by and ruining her careful plan filled her with outrage. But she was a sorcerer both powerful and subtle, as well as being a killer both fierce and heartless. She knew that, if she were to have any chance of completing her mission, she could waste no time with these Teckla; they had to be dispatched at once. She also knew that, with her flashstone having already sent its sharp, penetrating crack through the neighborhood, there was no longer any reason to be quiet, wherefore, with no hesitation, she now aimed her flashstone a second time.
Mica, looking at the flat surface of the stone only inches from his nose, realized, in the first place, that it must have been prepared with a second charge-he knew such things were possible because he had assisted his Master, Tazendra, in preparing such devices several score of times-and, in the second place, he knew that he was a dead man.
Or, to be more precise, we ought to say he thought he was a dead man, for he had reckoned without Srahi who, though weaponless, had no intention of standing by while Mica, who was well on the way to becoming her lover, and who had, moreover, just saved her life, suffered the very fate from which he had lately preserved her. Srahi let go an enraged cry that vied with the flashstone itself for volume, and threw herself on the arm of Mica's assailant.
This time when the stone discharged, however, it was not without effect; Mica, who had once been kicked in the left shin by one of his master's colts, with whom he had been disagreeing about the proper direction to move through the corral, felt for a moment as if this same colt had kicked him in the right shin; indeed, the crack of the flashstone even sounded in his ears very much as the crack of breaking bone had on that occasion, and the shock to the limb-that particular shock which resembles numbness but which promises pain to follow in short order-was nearly identical except that, on this occasion, it was accompanied by a searing heat which promised even more extreme pain and, half an instant later, by the smell of cooking meat-had he paused to consider that this smell came from his own tortured flesh, he may well have been so discomfited that he would have been unable to respond. In the event, however, Mica did not pause to consider this, nor did he even pause to consider that he had been hurt, perhaps disabled, and that both he and his mistress might soon be left helpless before their unknown assailant; rather, the instant he felt the blow and the accompanying heat, he swung his faithful barstool with grim purpose and deadly aim. He, was rewarded by the solid, satisfying feel of a good stroke well placed; Laral fell back three steps with a hiss of pain or annoyance at the same instant that Mica gave a scream that was, in fact, the loudest sound yet to ring out through that night, after which he fell, nearly senseless himself, next to Khaavren who slept, and the coachman who would never wake.
--
"Well," said Khaavren, when at last he understood the sequence of events, "it seems that, once again, I've been saved by the arrival of my friends-in this case several of them. Moreover, this time there can be no doubt that the true heroes are Mica and Srahi."
"For my part," said Tazendra, giving Mica a fond glance, "I could not agree more."
"Bah," said Mica, blushing and wondering if he could contrive to be killed for both Khaavren and his master at the same time and resolving to do so as soon as a means could be found, "we were only too happy to be of any small service we could, were we not?" He addressed this last to Srahi, who sniffed disdainfully, but also smiled-a task to which the muscles of her face seemed unaccustomed.
--
As daylight brightened the eastern face of Dzur Mountain, Piro awoke with the events of the last several days filling his thoughts, leaving him with some anticipation and a great deal of confusion. After spending some time attempting to understand all that he had learned, he came to the conclusion that it would be better to break his fast first and think later. This decision made, he rose, dressed, and made his way down the hall where, after a certain number of false turns and retracing of his steps, he came at last to the parlor where he had first met the Enchantress. Before he actually entered the room, however, he heard voices, and, being possessed of a great deal of that curiosity which is the birthright of any Tiassa, he paused for a moment to listen.
One voice he instantly recognized as belonging to the Teckla Mica, Tazendra's servant.
"You see this end," Mica was saying, "can be used to block or parry an opponent's attack; even a heavy sword cannot penetrate the wood nor break it-you see marks where some have tried. Of course, to defend against a rapier I prefer to turn it around, holding it in this fashion, because my enemy's blade can then be caught between the legs, after which, by the smallest twist, my opponent will be disarmed, or else his blade will snap; and, moreover, I am then able to instantly counter from that position simply by thrusting forward, especially into the face of my enemy."
"Well, I perceive there is a great deal to this art."
"Oh, there is, I assure you."
"And I freely confess that I admire your courage, which seems to be as great as that of a Dzurlord."
"Well, I admit that, serving my mistress, there are occasions when a good stock of courage is as necessary as knowing how to lace up a doublet."
"Yes, I understand that."
"And-but bide, I hear someone coming. I am certain of it, for you perceive, in the sorts of adventures upon which my mistress takes me, sometimes a sharp pair of ears is all that stands between you and a quick, unceremonious demise, and so I have trained my ears to respond to the least noise."
Of course, the sound he heard was Piro, who, having heard enough, had resumed his course toward the room in which Mica was holding forth. As he entered, Mica, who had been holding a barstool, set it down, rose to his feet, and bowed deeply, as did his companion, who was none other than Lar.
"What is this?" said Piro. "Are you instructing him?"
"Yes, my lord," said Mica. "That is, I was explaining to him the use of the barstool, a weapon with which I am not unacquainted."
"Yes, indeed," said Piro. "I know of the barstool from having heard my father speak of it."
Mica positively beamed at this evidence of Khaavren's memory and of his own exploits, and turned an eye upon Lar as if to say, "Here is the proof of all that I have told you."
"And is that," continued Piro, pointing to the object in question, "the very barstool of which I have heard such stories?"
"Alas, no," said Mica. "This is a replacement recently acquired."
"Ah," said the Viscount. "But I hope, at least, that your previous weapon was given an honorable retirement?"
"In a fashion," said the Teckla. "It was used to supply a replacement for the lower part of my left leg, which, alas, was lost in the service of my mistress."
"And of my father, as I recall the story," said Piro.
Mica bowed his acknowledgment.
Piro then addressed Lar, saying, "You should listen to all this worthy man tells you, Lar, for there is no doubt that my father and his friends should never have survived all of their adventures if they had not been served by clever and courageous lackeys such as our good Mica here."
Lar bowed, and vowed to himself that he would find an opportunity to display his courage before Piro at the first instant he could find to do so; Mica, at the same time, decided that he would permit himself to be burned alive for the young Tiassa as soon as it could be arranged. The quick-thinking Mica realized, however, that there was unlikely to be a chance for such an activity in the next few hours, whereas it was possible that he would be able to serve him in other ways, wherefore he said, "Would my lord care for
klava this morning, as well as, perhaps, something with more substance?"