What is significant was that, as he approached these studies, darting from one to the other as a bee in a flowerbed, he would, naturally, meet librarians. He had, in point of fact, met several. In the Caffissa Library, taking up the first three stories of the southern quarter of the Athyra wing, all of the librarians were Athyra, and they were only as polite to Khaavren as was necessary to avoid the challenge which any astute observer could discover always waiting on the wings, as it were, of the Tiassa’s countenance. In the halls of Silver Library, outside the Palace proper but quite close to the Lyorn Wing, all of the librarians, themselves Lyorn historians, were helpful, but often too helpful, and Khaavren frequently became lost in their recommendations and counter-recommendations, and corrections and notations.
But in the Zerika Library, in the basement beneath the Imperial Wing, there was an Easterner, one Ricardo, a rotund fellow with, as is common with those of his short-lived race, more hair growing on his face than on the top of his head. His walk had a trace of the waddle one finds in the smaller species of wildlife that dwell along the Yellow River, and the tip of his tongue appeared to have made a permanent home between the teeth on the right side of his mouth. Yet in him, Khaavren found a veritable fountain of information, which, at the least pressure, that is to say, at the slightest provocation, would gush forth until the Tiassa thought he might drown in it. For while the Phoenix rate philosophy very high among the branches of knowledge, still it was as yet the aftermath of the reign of the Athyra, a House with as little use for impractical knowledge as the House of the Dragon would have for anything which didn’t cut or thrust. All of this had the result of leaving poor Ricardo destitute for patrons in a poorly maintained library, and one which was visited but seldom; hence his high regard for Khaavren when the latter first appeared.
It need hardly be added that the young Tiassa benefited greatly by the association; where by nature he was inclined to flit from book to book and from thought to thought with no order or method, the Easterner displayed some of the characteristics of a tsalmoth—attacking any problem from a dozen angles simultaneously, but never letting go until it was solved. The result is that Khaavren, though he never developed more than a passing interest in philosophy, that is, in the science of science, still he received two benefits; the first being the acquisition of some skill in how to approach a problem, the second being the friendship of this learned Easterner.
It was to Ricardo then that Khaavren went, and brought with him news of the crime of Kathana e’Marish’Chala. Ricardo listened to the entire history as he listened to everything, with his whole attention, asking no questions, his eyes fixed on Khaavren’s mouth as if he were reading the words as they emerged.
When Khaavren had finished, the Easterner suggested that Khaavren return in several hours while he, Ricardo, requested of one of the records libraries certain documents which he claimed would be most revealing. To this Khaavren agreed, and, after a light luncheon of fruit and cheese in one of the small inns connected to the Phoenix Wing, he returned to find Ricardo bent over a large stack of folios, with slips of paper, red, brown, green, yellow, or blue, emerging from them like the tongues of snakes. Upon closer inspection, the folios were filled with columns of numbers, names, dates, and locations. Raising his eyes from these, Ricardo looked at him blankly, as if forgetting who Khaavren was and why he was there. Then he gave his head a small shake and said, “Ah, you are back.”
“That is true, good Ricardo,” said the Tiassa. “And it seems you have something there.”
“These documents I requested from the Imperial Records Service, which oversees all matters pertaining to taxation.”
“Ah. Taxation.”
“Exactly.”
“But, if you will pardon me Ricardo, what has taxation to do with the whereabouts of Kathana e’Marish’Chala?”
“Oh, it has everything to do with it.”
“How is that?”
“Well, I will explain.”
“Do so, please.”
“What you must remember, young sir,” said the Easterner, forgetting that Khaavren was, in point of fact, rather older in years than he was, “is that Dragonlords never hide. Therefore, if your quarry seems to you to be in hiding, to her she must be doing another thing entirely.”
“And what might that be, good Ricardo?” inquired Khaavren, patiently allowing the librarian to arrive at the point in his own way.
“Any of a number of things are possible. And yet, she is an artist. So, what would be the most natural thing for an artist to do, if she wished to remain out of sight for a long period of time?”
“Well, she might go paint a picture,” suggested Khaavren.
“Exactly my thought,” said Ricardo.
“But, you perceive, she could paint it anywhere.”
“She could, but she wouldn’t. That is, she is actually in only one place.”
“With this, I agree. But how are we to determine where? That is, after all, the very question with which I came to you.”
“And it is the question which I now propose to answer.”
“What, now?”
“Indeed, yes.”
“How, then?”
“By making a determination.”
“Ah! A determination.”
“Yes. By determining for whom she is working. I have here the reports on all expenditures within the last month for every one of the ten thousand wealthiest nobles in the Empire. These reports are broken down into categories, and each details the expenditures made by that individual. One category on which these people must report is the amount spent on cultural matters.”
“That is true, Ricardo; for the Empire is always interested in encouraging culture among the nobility; hence the lack of taxes on any such expenditure.”
“Precisely.”
“And you have looked through ten thousand of them?”
“Oh, hardly that. The Emperor would be saddened to learn how few have actually spent anything at all on improving their knowledge of the arts; but for us, why, we are pleased, for there were a scant thousand, and most of those could be dismissed at a glance.”
“I see. So, you have discovered who has spent money on artistic pursuits.”
“Yes. And more.”
“What, more?”
“Of a certainty. The Empire requires more than the bare amount; on the contrary, anyone wishing to avoid these taxes must include the amount spent, the type of work, and the name of the artist.”
“Ah, the name of the artist!”
“Exactly.”
Khaavren considered for a moment, and said, “But surely she would not be listed by her own name in such a thing.”
“It is unnecessary that she be so listed.”
“Well, then?”
“Do you know by what means an artist earns his livelihood?”
“Well, by being paid for his art.”
“But then, who pays him? One can hardly expect an artist to put his work out for sale in the market, as if it were a clutch of eggs.”
“No, the artist must have a patron who agrees to purchase the work, or else must make an agreement beforehand.”
“And will this agreement state the amount to be paid for the work?”
“Assuredly, though one expects to pay more than the agreed-upon price.”
“And do you suppose that an artist who is also a Dragonlord, such as Kathana e’Marish’Chala, would, even in hiding, accept a fee below her usual standard?”
“Why, I should not expect so.”
“Well, there you have it. We need only look for who has commissioned a painting within the range that the Baroness of Kaluma, that is, Kathana e’Marish’Chala, generally commands.”
“And it is just such a list that you have, my good Ricardo?”
“Indeed, Sir Khaavren, and I have already perused it.”
“And you have a result? That is to say, you have discovered her whereabouts?”
“Oh, as to that, I could hardly be c
ertain of such a thing. And yet I have discovered that Baroness Kaluma has received, for her last several works, payment between one thousand three hundred and two thousand one hundred Imperials.”
“Blood! So much?”
“It is so.”
“And you have found someone who has commissioned a work for that amount?”
“Many, in point of fact.”
“Then we must determine which it is.”
“Your pardon, but I have already done so.”
“Done so!”
“Indeed.”
“But how?”
“Why, when I looked at the names of the artists listed, there were some few I recognized.”
“Ah, then those could be eliminated at once.”
“Exactly.”
“And then?”
“Well, then I looked at the others.”
“And what did you find?”
“One, I found, was called, Fricorith.”
“Very well, one is called Fricorith.”
“Exactly.”
“But I fail to see—”
“Ah. You do not yet comprehend.”
“You are correct; I do not comprehend.”
“Fricorith, in the old North-western tongue, which is still preserved by the House of the Dragon, as well as the House of the Lyorn, means, ‘Nearly-the-End-of-Winter.’”
“How is it you know this, good Ricardo?”
“Why, it is in this language that most of the library documents are written, since most Lyorn still speak it, as I have had the honor to mention.”
“I see. But then, how did this information help you make your determination?”
“By the simplest means. The Baroness of Kaluma is of the e’Marish’ Chala line; that is, she was named after Marish’Chala, who was Warlord of the Empire during the fourth Dragon Reign. At that time, she, that is, Marish’Chala, was called Marishori Cvorunn Chalionara, which name I took the precaution of looking up against the chance that it would be useful to know.”
“And that was well thought.”
“I am gratified that you think so.”
“But, then, tell me what it means.”
“I will do so. Marishori is a Northwestern name that signifies ‘keeper of trust.’”
“And yet, good Ricardo, I do not see how this is of help to us.”
“It is not. But then, I did not stop there.”
“You did not?”
“No. I acquired translations of the other names as well.”
“And what did you find?”
“Cvorunn, I found to be very close to the Serioli Kvirinun, which means, ‘time of melting snows,’ that is, spring. And Chalionara is similar to another Serioli word, that being Shuloon!re, which means, ‘to arrive prematurely.’ The combination, you perceive, would be ‘spring arriving early?” and at what time of year would spring arrive early?”
“Why, late winter, of course.”
“Exactly. Now, you perceive, it is significant that I have found an artist whose name, Fricorith, means, ‘nearly-the-end-of-winter.”
“Ricardo, you are a marvel!”
The old Easterner bowed, and his face actually became slightly pink. “I think,” he said at last, “that we may safely assume that the Baroness of Kaluma is dwelling in the far Eastern keep of Redface, home of Adron e’Kieron, of the House of the Dragon.”
Chapter the Thirteenth
In Which, to our Regret, We are Forced to Leave our Heroes for a Brief Time
NOW, AS KHAAVREN RUNS UP the narrow circular stairway to the level of the Street, and sets off at a run through the maze of the Imperial Wing, around the South Cornerstones to the Long Corridor, there to burst out in the Phoenix Courtyard and begin the dash toward the rendezvous set for only an hour hence, his hand clutching his sword to keep it from between his feet, his head fairly exploding with ideas and intentions—now, we say—we will turn our gaze to a place far back in the Palace, and much higher than Khaavren has ever ventured.
Here, in the labyrinth where the Imperial Family makes its home, in one of the numerous tower chambers that provide such an excellent view of much of the Palace and a fair portion of the city, two persons were sitting on the thin, yellow marble tiling of the tower floor. One, dressed in the full regalia of the House of the Dragon, complete with “bombast,” that is, with the patches and medallions and insignia of her campaigns and the honors she has won in them, was none other than Lytra e’Tenith, the Warlord of the Empire. The other was a dark figure, in the hooded robe of an Athyra, it is true, but without mark or insignia upon her garments. The hood hid her face, but her hands were old and wrinkled, yet her voice was strong without any hint of age.
The Athyra said, “The news, Excellency, is of the most recent variety.”
“But, dear Seodra, I am not asking how recent the news is, I speak of the news itself.”
“And you wish to know, Excellency?”
“I wish to know how this could have happened.”
“I assure Your Excellency that, if I were able to explain this, I would do so, and that directly. Perhaps one of the gods had a hand in it.”
“Should that prove true, Seodra, we must enlist another, or, at any rate, a demon.”
Seodra chuckled, which sound might have sent a cold shiver of fear down the back of anyone who chanced to be listening; indeed, Lytra herself could scarcely keep a singular expression from crossing her countenance. “Have you a god in your pocket, Excellency?”
“Hardly,” said the Warlord.
“Nor, you perceive, have I.”
“Well?”
“Well, then we must find another means of protecting our investment.”
“Investment, Seodra? By the Orb, you sound like a merchant.”
“After a fashion, Excellency, I am a merchant, although the merchandise in which I have the honor to deal can be neither tasted nor smelt, and the coin in which I am paid does not shine like gold.”
Lytra shifted uncomfortably, as if she had no wish to penetrate Seodra’s metaphor. “Perhaps,” she said, “it was not a god; perhaps there is some sorcery that pierces the veils you have cast about our friend.”
“That is possible, Excellency; in any case I am not offended at the suggestion. But be it sorcery, the act of a god, or merely the caprice of fortune, we must act in such a way as to repair the damage.”
“I ask for nothing better. Have you a suggestion as to how we may go about doing this?”
“It may be, Excellency, that a simple warning will do. He is neither Dzur nor Dragon.”
“And then?”
“Well, he may have some sense.”
Lytra stared at the old woman, her brows coming together. “Seodra, are you attempting to offend me?” There was now an edge to the Warlord’s voice.
“Not in the least,” said the other. She chuckled. “After all, where would be the profit in that?”
“Profit,” said Lytra scornfully. “You do speak like a merchant, dear Seodra.”
“That’s as may be, Lytra, but may I do myself the honor to suggest that we concentrate on the issue which has come before us?”
“Someday, Seodra, you might succeed in making me angry. And do you know what would happen then?”
“Why, then the Emperor would either lose a skilled Warlord, or he would lose …” Her voice trailed off, as if she was unwilling to describe what else the Emperor might lose.
“And yet,” said the Warlord, “this possibility does not in any way appear to concern you, Seodra.”
“Thank you very much, Excellency. Shall I arrange for this warning, which I have just mentioned, to take place?”
“By all means.”
“That is well, Excellency.”
“And if the warning doesn’t work, Seodra? What then?”
“Then? Why, we follow through on the warning, that is all. You have a tolerably long reach, have you not? And my own is hardly shorter. We have each our arms, our eyes, and our tools. You are the Warlord,
and this, it would seem, is war.”
“Indeed it is, Seodra, but an amusing war.”
“Amusing? In what way?”
“Why, amusing in that we are going to a great deal of trouble to protect this little Kaluma, and yet it is we who are going to destroy her.”
“But it must be we ourselves, and none other, Excellency, for as you know, if anyone else destroys her, we lose our best bargaining piece in the real game, and it may not be so easy to find another.”
“That is true, my ally. Which bring us to the question of Viscount Uttrik.”
“Yes, the poor son of the late but scarcely lamented Marquis of Pepperfield, he whose head Kaluma so conveniently removed for us.”
“Exactly. He is undoubtedly looking for Kaluma even now, and if he finds her—”
“If he finds her, he will challenge her, and she will kill him. He is a pompous fool.”
“He was. He has seen battle recently; perhaps he has changed.”
“Impossible. He was a pompous fool, he remains a pompous fool.”
“But, for a Dragon, not an exceptionally brave one. He may call the authorities in, rather than challenge her himself.”
“Impossible, Excellency! No Dragonlord could do such a thing, as you should know better than I.”
“And yet, I must ask: can we take this chance? Such an error could be the undoing of all our plans.”
“How, then you have something to propose? If it is assurance you want, there are those in the House of the Jhereg who would be anxious not to be in my debt any longer.”