There is no need to try the reader’s patience by relating for a second time what he has already learned, and in far more detail, in the preceding chapter; we will instead say that, as the day darkened, so, then, did the spirits of our friends as they drew closer and closer together in horror and fear.
At one point, Aerich, as he watched Srahi and Mica, who were shamelessly holding one another’s hands, turned to Khaavren and said, “Do you fear for the Countess?”
Khaavren swallowed and, with great difficulty, in a voice scarcely to be heard, said, “I should know if anything had happened to her. There can be no doubt, I should know.” It need not be added that Khaavren’s tone belied his words.
And yet, it is not our intention to torment our reader (as, indeed, our brave Tiassa was tormented) by wondering about Daro. We will, then, at once dispel any fear the reader may have by asserting that she arrived at Bra-Moor even as the last light of the day was receding in the direction of broken and vanished Dragaera; she was shown in to the room where were gathered Khaavren, Aerich, Tazendra, Pel, Mica, Srahi, and Fawnd, and, with no word needing to be spoken, she came to Khaavren’s bed and took both of his hands in her own, and reverently kissed them.
“I feared—” she began. Then she said, “And yet I knew—”
“And I,” he whispered, and it seemed to those around him that life returned to his eyes even as he spoke. “I knew, yet I feared.”
“Well,” she said, attempting to laugh. “We are together, and nothing else matters.”
“Nothing else matters,” agreed Khaavren.
As the end of one tale is always the beginning of the next, and as the line between one and the other is more often as vague as the edge of the Sea of Amorphia than sharp as the edge of Khaavren’s sword, the reader ought to understand that this was the beginning of the Interregnum, and that, even as Khaavren and Daro partook of the joy of their mutual survival, the first seeds of the Great Plagues were beginning in Adrilankha, Candletown, Northport, Branch, and Tirinsar. The Easterners were strong, and some of them had made no treaty with the Empire. The Dukes were strong, and would soon realize that there was no Empire to limit their desires. In a word, then, the most horrible, deathly, and fearful era since the downfall of the Jenoine was only beginning. And, in fact, we are fully aware that, if we have lost sight of Grita, the reader has not forgotten her, as perhaps he forgot Garland once before.
And yet, we insist upon our right to leave the reader here, because as adulthood is the end of youth, so, then, can marriage be seen as the end of life as a single man. Certainly, Khaavren, the soldier, the Captain, the bachelor, was no more. If there is a tale to be related of Khaavren and Daro, or perhaps of some of the others of our confraternity, well, that does not change our opinion that, if an end must occur somewhere, this is where it must fall.
As we humbly ask for our recompense, whether in gold or in esteem, we do not do so with the arrogant conviction that there is no more to tell, for, as Master Hunter has pointed out, the end, where it is possible to determine it, can never be expressed—yet, if more is to be told, then the historian, we believe, has the right as well as the duty to demand both that his work be appreciated, and that he be permitted, insofar as his judgment and his conscience allow him, to place both the beginning and the end where he will.
We cannot but be grateful that the audience—that is, the reader—has trusted us to invade his mind with our gentle weapons of word and image, and, moreover, we do not fail to understand the obligation under which this places us. Therefore, in the interest of the satisfaction of our reader as well, we must insist, of honesty, and although we have not forgotten enemies, plagues, invasions, wars, and famine, we nevertheless direct our reader’s gaze to calm Aerich, happy Tazendra, and smiling Pel, who, in turn, are looking upon Khaavren and Daro, who stare deeply into each other’s eyes with the happy, tender, and even joyful expression of fulfilled love, and it is here that we choose to take our leave of the reader.
Cast of Characters
Of the Court
Tortaalik I—His Majesty The Emperor
Noima—Her Majesty the Consort
Jurabin—Prime Minister
Rollondar e’Drien—Warlord
Countess Bellor—Superintendent of Finance
Nyleth—Court Wizard
Khaavren—Ensign of the Imperial Guard
Brudik—Lord of the Chimes
Lady Ingera—Lord of the Keys
Navier—His Majesty’s physicker
Dimma—His Majesty’s Chief Servant
Daro—A Maid of Honor to Her Majesty
Dinb—Master of the First Gate
Of the Phoenix Guard
Thack—Khaavren’s corporal
Tummelis e’Terics—A guardsman
Naabrin—A guardsman
Menia—A guardsman
Sergeant—A guardsman
Tivor—A guardsman
Kyu—A guardsman
Ailib—A guardsman
Heth—A police-man
Of the Imperial Palace
Duke of Galstan (Pel)—An Initiate into Discretion
Lady Glass—Chief of the Sorett Regiment
Erna—Master of the Order of Discretion
Ktorynderata—A servant at the palace
Of Lord Adron’s Company
Adron e’Kieron—Dragon Heir
Aliera e’Kieron—Adron’s daughter
Molric e’Drien—Adron’s chainman
Durtri—A sentry
Geb—A soldier
Dohert—A soldier
Eftaan—A soldier
Of the Lavodes
Sethra—Captain of the Lavodes
Dreen—A Lavode
Tuvo—A Lavode
Roila—A Lavode
Nett—A Lavode
Of the City
Raf—A pastry vendor
Leen—A would-be assassin
Greycat—A ruffian and a conspirator
Laral—A Jhereg
Chalar—An Orca
Dunaan—A Jhereg
Grita—A Half-breed
Baroness of Clover—A Dragonlord
Baroness of Newhouse—A Dragonlord
Count of Tree-by-the-Sea—A Dzurlord
Cariss—A Jhereg Sorceress
Tukko—A Jhereg
Mario—An assassin
Of Others
Aerich—Duke of Arylle
Fawnd—Aerich’s servant
Steward—Aerich’s servant
Tazendra—Baroness of Daavya
Mica—Tazendra’s lackey
Sir Vintner—A Lyorn delegate
Lysek—A Jhegaala
Seb—A messenger
Theen—A brigand
Five Hundred Years After
Being in the Nature of a Sequel to
The Phoenix Guards
Describing Certain Events Which Occurred
In the Year of the Hawk
In the Turn of the Orca
In the Phase of the Dragon
In the Reign of the Phoenix
In the Cycle of the Phoenix
In the Great Cycle of the Dragon
Or
The 532nd Year of the Reign of Tortaalik the First
Submitted to the Imperial Library
From Springsign Manor
Via House of the Hawk
On this 3rd day of the Month of the Lyorn
Of the Year of the Iorich
Or
In the Eleventh Year
Of the Glorious Reign
Of the Empress Norathar the Second
By Sir Paarfi of Roundwood
House of the Hawk
(His Arms, Seal, Lineage Block)
Presented, as Always
To the Countess of Garnier
With Gratitude and Hope
BOOKS BY STEVEN BRUST
THE DRAGAERAN NOVELS
Brokedown Palace
THE KHAAVREN ROMANCES
The Phoenix Guards
 
; Five Hundred Years After
The Viscount of Adrilankha,
which comprises
The Paths of the Dead,
The Lord of Castle Black,
and
Sethra Lavode
THE VLAD TALTOS NOVELS
Jhereg
Yendi
Teckla
Taltos
Phoenix
Athyra
Orca
Dragon
Issola
Dzur
Jhegaala
OTHER NOVELS
To Reign in Hell
The Sun, the Moon, and the Stars
Agyar
Cowboy Feng’s Space Bar and Grille
The Gypsy (with Megan Lindholm)
Freedom and Necessity (with Emma Bull)
About the Author
Brust: Allow me to say, in the first place, that I’m delighted we’ve actually had the chance to meet.
Paarfi: Well.
Brust: The first thing I would like to know, and I’m sure many readers are also curious, is this: Do you write like that on purpose? I mean, is that your natural style, or are you deliberately playing games with auctorial voice?
Paarfi: I am afraid I do not understand the question you do me the honor to ask.
Brust: Never mind. I’ve noticed that you have gone through a considerable number of patrons. Would you care to comment on this?
(Paarfi cares to do nothing except look annoyed.)
Brust: Well, then let us discuss admission to what you call The Institute. Do you still hope to achieve it?
Paarfi: Sir, are you deliberately trying to be insulting?
Brust: Sorry. Well then, uh, are you married?
Paarfi: I fail to comprehend why the reader ought to concern himself … herself … it … curse this language of yours! How do manage?
Brust: I use “he” and “him.”
Paarfi: Preposterous! What if—
Brust: Let’s not get into that, all right?
Paarfi: But how did you address the problem in my work?
Brust: I used “he” and “him.”
Paarfi: That is absurd. In some cases—
Brust: I’d really rather not discuss it.
Paarfi: Very well.
Brust: Now, what were you saying?
Paarfi: I was saying that I fail to comprehend why the reader ought to be concerned with such questions as my matrimonial state. Moreover, it is entirely personal in nature, and I am uninterested in such discussions.
Brust: Some readers like to know—
Paarfi: Are you married?
Brust: … I see your point. Well, are there going to be any more books about Khaavren?
Paarfi: It is not impossible.
Brust: I take it that means maybe.
Paarfi: Well.
Brust: Is it a question of money?
(Paarfi declines to answer)
Brust: Have you any opinions about music?
Paarfi: I do not understand why you wish to know.
Brust: To find out whether you’ve heard any of my music, such as Reissue by Cats Laughing (tape), Another Way to Travel by Cats Laughing (tape and CD), Queen of Air and Darkness by Morrigan (tape), King of Oak and Holly by Morrigan (tape), A Rose for Iconoclastes by Steven Brust (tape and CD)—all of which may be ordered from SteelDragon Press. For a catalog, one could send a stamped, self-addressed envelope to P.O. Box 7253, Minneapolis, Minnesota, 55407. The cost is a mere—
Paarfi: That is insupportable, and I have no intention of sitting here while you shamelessly—
Brust: All right, all right.
Paarfi: Well?
Brust: What do you want to talk about?
Paarfi: We could discuss literature. For example, its creation. Or we could even discuss the particular work in which a transcription of this conversation is destined to appear, by which I mean, of course, A Discussion of Some Events Occurring in the Latter Part of the Reign of His Imperial Majesty Tortaalik I.
Brust: I’ve … uh … I’ve actually given it a different title.
Paarfi: You’ve what?
Brust: Trust me.
Paarfi: The proper title, Sir, is—
Brust: Look, I know publishers, okay?
Paarfi: Are you proud of that fact?
Brust: Well, then, uh, would you mind explaining why you have sometimes used feet, inches, yards, miles, and so on, and other times meters, centimeters, and kilometers, as well as leagues, and even furlongs and like that?
Paarfi: You ought, in my opinion, to stop asking questions to which you know the answer, and to which, moreover, any intelligent reader could determine the answer.
Brust: Say it anyway, all right?
Paarfi (looking pained): Very well. There were, at the time in which this work is set, six completely different systems of measurement in use throughout the Empire. Your translation of these into terms with which the reader is familiar is an attempt to capture some of this complexity. There. Does that please you?
Brust: Thank you. Would you like to give the reader a hint about where to find Devera in this volume?
Paarfi: As it happens, she does not appear at all.
Brust: Huh? But I told you—
Paarfi: It would have been inappropriate, not to mention dishonest, to have simply “put” her somewhere, when, in fact, I was able to learn nothing of where she may have appeared, or, indeed, whether she appeared at all.
Brust: (Inaudible)
Paarfi: I beg your pardon?
Brust: Nothing.
Paarfi: Would it be possible for you to find a question that requires some degree of thought to answer?
Brust: All right, then, for whom do you write?
Paarfi: I beg your pardon?
Brust: Do you have an audience in mind when you write? Are you writing to someone, or just to please yourself, or what?
Paarfi (looking interested for the first time): Ah. I see. I write for those who love to read.
Brust: Well, of course, but—
Paarfi: I believe you have failed to comprehend what I have said. I do not mean that I write for those who simply like a good tale well told, or for those who use the novel in order to explore what your critics are pleased to call “the human condition,” or for those who treat a story as a distraction from the cares of the day, but, rather, I write for those who take joy in seeing words well-placed upon the page.
Brust: Typesetters?
Paarfi: I believe you are attempting jocularity. I believe you are failing.
Brust: In fact, I think you know what you mean: Your reader is the one who doesn’t rush on to see what happens next, but relishes the way the sentences are formed. Is that right?
Paarfi: Substantially.
Brust: That’s interesting.
Paarfi: And, you, sir?
Brust: Me?
Paarfi: For whom do you write?
Brust: Uh … I think I’d like to please all of the above.
Paarfi: I beg your pardon?
Brust: All of those in the list you mentioned—those who like a good story, those who—
Paarfi (ironically): A worthy goal, no doubt. And yet, do you not write in what is called a genre, or, more accurately, a marketing category, where it is assumed that one cannot create works of lasting importance?
Brust: Let’s not get into that.
Paarfi: Very well. Tell me, then, what do the initials “PJF” after your name indicate?
Brust (annoyed): I said I don’t want to get into that.
Paarfi (stiffly): I beg your pardon. But if you are going to go so far as to insist on having obscure initials after your name on the very title page of a novel, I should think the reader would have the right to know what these initials indicate. Is it an elaborate joke? Is it a statement of what you hope to accomplish? Come, sir. Here is your chance to explain to your public.
(Brust declines to answer.)
Paarfi: As you wish. Name some of your favorite writers, please.
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Brust: Well, Alexander Dumas—
Paarfi (ironically): I should never have suspected.
Brust: Twain, Shakespeare—
Paarfi (sniffing): You would be doing me an inestimable service if you stopped trying to impress me, and, instead, named writers of the time in which you have the honor to work.
Brust: You mean contemporary writers?
Paarfi: If you please.
Brust: Oh. Well. Zelazny, Yolen, Wolfe, and Shetterly, to start at the back of the alphabet, or maybe Bull, Crowley, Dalkey, Dean, Ford, and Gaiman to start at the front. Or—
Paarfi: I do not comprehend.
Brust: Never mind. I’m awful fond of Patrick O’Brian and Robert B. Parker. Diana Wynne Jones is wonderful. I shouldn’t mention Megan Lindholm, because I’ve written a book with her, but—
Paarfi: You perceive that none of these names are familiar to me.
Brust (stiffly): You asked.
Paarfi: And, moreover, I do not believe that one can be “awful fond” of someone.
Brust: Deal with it.
Paarfi: Then, if you please, name some of your colleagues of whom you are not “awful fond.”
Brust: Huh?
Paarfi: Name for us the bad writers in what is euphemistically called, “the field.”
Brust: Oh, yeah. Right. And maybe monkeys—
Paarfi: I take it you decline to answer?
Brust: That’d be a yes.
Paarfi: Well. Would you care to speak of any works in progress?
Brust: I’m thinking of writing another story about Vlad Taltos.
Paarfi (yawning): Indeed?