At this time Khaavren was struck by one of those sudden thoughts to which Tiassa are, in some measure or another, subject; those flashes of inspiration which drive some to disaster and some to wild success. Khaavren, true to his ancestry, acted upon this thought at once, saying, “Well, I will release you from the terms of this duel, and furthermore, I invite you to accompany us.”
“Accompany you? But where are you going?”
“The Horse! We are going to find Kathana e’Marish’Chala!”
“But you said—”
“I did not say we were going to aid her.”
“But then, are you going to arrest her?”
“Oh, I don’t say that, either.”
“But then, when you find her what will you do?”
“The Gods! When we find her, well, we will reflect.”
Chapter the Ninteenth
In Which Uttrik, Being Interviewed, Is Found to be Satisfactory, and, In the course of a Meal, Aids Tazendra in Acquiring a Lackey
THE DISCUSSION ENDED HERE, AND Khaavren made a sign to the judge that the affair was at an end, whereupon Khaavren conducted Tazendra to where his friends awaited him. “This gentleman will be traveling with us,” he explained.
Aerich shrugged, Pel raised his eyebrows, but Tazendra said, “How, this gentleman?”
“None other.”
“He will travel with us?”
“Yes, you have guessed it.”
“He who, but a minute ago, tried to kill you?”
“Kill or wound, yes.”
“Do tell me why, good Khaavren.”
“Why, my dear Tazendra? Because I will have it so. Do you protest?”
“Well, no. But I—”
“Stop, then, before your lips produce some word or other that I have heard too often already.”
Tazendra then shrugged in her turn. “Very well, be it so.”
Uttrik bowed to them all, then went off to hold a conversation with Wyth. “Of what do you think they are speaking?” said Pel.
“Well, they are friends, and they are parting. No doubt that is the subject of the conversation. Or else they are communicating matters to be attended to while Uttrik is absent.”
“Or,” said Pel, “they are preparing something of a nature that they do not wish to disclose to us.”
“Well, that is possible.”
“And if it is true?”
“We shall be on our guard.”
“Very well.”
When Uttrik had bid farewell to Wyth and paid the judge, they mounted upon their horses and continued along the road. They had not, in fact, been traveling for more than an hour when Tazendra remarked to the world at large, or rather, to anyone who would listen, “It seems to me that Khaavren must be hungry.”
“Explain to me why you think so,” said Khaavren, “for I am most anxious to learn.”
“Why, because you have a fought a duel.”
“Well, and?”
“I have merely watched you fight, and yet I have gained sufficient hunger to go a fair way toward devouring every one of those sausages I perceive hanging in the window of the hostelry we see before us. You, then, having fought, rather than merely watching, must be even more hungry.”
“If I were to disclose my true thoughts,” said Khaavren, “well, I would admit that hunger would not be far from them at this moment.”
“Food,” said Pel reflectively, “would not hinder my enjoyment of the afternoon.”
Aerich gave a shrug which indicated that he, too, would enjoy eating. Uttrik simply nodded. So saying, they entered the hostelry, which was marked by a sign containing a picture of Beed’n, the Cavalier minstrel of the early Sixteenth Cycle, easily recognized by the peacock feathers he wore trailing down from his beret.
This is the second time we have entered that peculiar institution called the rural inn since we began our history, and since we were too busy the first time to describe it, and, moreover, as we will find ourselves in such a place more than once in the course of our journeys, we will permit ourselves now to say two words about it.
If, as the Thirty-third Marquis of Goi once remarked, there is always a rebellion in progress somewhere within the Empire, then there will always be hostels to serve as the breeding grounds of sedition. If, as K’verra e’Tenith said, there are always more bandits than there are forces to contend with them, then there will always be inns to give them a place to rest between robberies. If, as Zerika II said, there are always traveling procurators, tinkers, solicitors, and peddlers on the highways to pick up anything missed by rebels and bandits, than there will always be inns to provide them with a warm place to rest before resuming their trade.
In our own happy days, when we can look back upon rebellion with a shrug, search in vain for the highwaymen who made unarmed travel impractical, and pretend that the trade of procurator, tinker, solicitor or peddler is an honest one, the character of the inn has changed markedly, and, we are forced to admit, not always for the better. In those days, it is clear from all accounts, the floors were always swept free of dirt, the tables were polished morning and evening until they fairly glistened; the glasses of wine and ale were cold and full; the plates of food were hot and plentiful, and had, moreover, always the particular characteristics of the region; and the host, who never knew if he was about to meet a rebel, a highwayman, a tinker, or one who had the duty to confound the others, took pains to be polite to all and partial to none; assuming, of course, the patron was of gentle birth.
The layout was simpler, then, as well; usually confined to a large common room, one or more private rooms in back, and a few chambers to let on the upper story (it was a rare inn that boasted more than two stories). The benches, tables, and chairs were always simple, but built to last for a thousand years; in those ballads we hear so often which speak of brawls in which the ruffians are breaking furniture over each other, we may be sure that, in fact, a blow by a simple fireplace stool would have broken the skull of the unfortunate upon whom it was rendered without a single crack appearing on the bludgeoning instrument.
To such a place, then, our friends came and presented their horses to the stable-hands, and themselves to the hostelry, where, in a room empty save for a pair of merchants, they sat at a bench near a front window; thus being as far as possible from the cooking fire. This fire, we should say, had no purpose, the weather being still warm, but to serve the several spitted fowls, the two slabs of kethna-ribs, and the leg of mutton that were making the flames dance to the call of their dripping fat.
After the companions arranged themselves, they called first for the mutton, but, upon being told that it wanted yet two hours before it should be suitable, happily settled for two of the capons, which, along with warm poppy-seed bread, sourfruit, several kethna sausages, and a decanter of the local sweet red wine, made for a satisfactory repast.
At first the conversation was stilted; the addition of Uttrik had turned the convivial alliance into an uncomfortable association. But as they finished eating, that is, when they reached that point in the meal when it is necessary to speak in order to feed the hunger of the mind as capons will feed the hunger of the stomach, Khaavren said, “So, good Uttrik, you are from Pepperfield?”
“Well, yes.”
“And have lived there all your life?”
“Oh, not at all. I spent much of my life in Dragaera City, where I have been training for a career in arms.”
“But have you yet gone beyond training?”
“Only twice, Sir Khaavren.”
“Tell us, then, about those two occasions.”
“That is easily done,” he said. “Both of these were in the south-west, and came about shortly after my father’s death, which of necessity interrupted my period of mourning.”
“That is understandable,” said Tazendra. “But, tell us about these battles.”
“Well, to be precise—”
“Precision is always good,” put in Khaavren.
“—they took p
lace in the duchy of Fautonswell.”
“Ah,” said Tazendra. “You then served, did you not, under the Duke of Twinoaks?”
“I had that honor.”
“Against Kliburr, and the Carriage House Uprising?”
“So it has been called.”
“Twinoaks is an able general, by all accounts.”
“Well, I can testify to that. My first battle was a skirmish, when we were sent against a small cavalry unit to teach them to respect the supply lines that connected us with Lynch.”
“Well,” said Tazendra, who was becoming interested. “Did you teach them?”
“Nearly. They were coming out of the hills in an ambuscade when—”
“How many?” said Tazendra.
“Of them? Only thirty or forty.”
“And you?”
“Thirty-two plus our officer, Lady Duraal.”
“Well, and then?”
“Then we engaged them from the side, coming on them out of a grove of elms such as are found in abundance in that area. We left five of them dead, captured twice that number, and drove the rest away.”
“And did you then give chase?”
“We were not permitted to do so.”
“Well, and your casualties?”
“We were fortunate enough not to have had any.”
“Well,” said Tazendra nodding, “that was not bad work. And you yourself?”
“Oh, I engaged my man. He had not the skill of Sir Khaavren, I am happy to say. And, moreover, I have some knowledge of fighting on horseback. I had the honor to set my sword against the spear of an enemy, and I was able to give him a good cut on the arm and another on his leg, which convinced him to leave off the battle and retreat.”
“And that was well done, I think,” said Khaavren.
Uttrik bowed.
“But then,” said Tazendra, “you spoke of two battles, I think?”
“The second was the Battle of Fautonswell itself.”
“Ah,” said the Dzurlord. “My cousin, Tynn, was wounded in that one. Not, however,” she added, “before accounting for ten or twelve of the enemy.”
“Well, it was a warm affair. They charged first, and our officer, Duraal, went down. That is, her horse was killed, and she was speared while she tried to recover.”
“Was she killed?”
“She was mortally wounded, and died before the battle ended, but not before arranging our skirmish-line and reorganizing our force in preparation for the general’s charge, and even, wounded though she was, leading our lines into the battle on the horse of an enemy swordsman she had brought down.”
“Oh, that was well done.”
“Those were my thoughts.”
“And you,” said Khaavren. “What was your role?”
“I played my part, I assure you. The General ordered our battalion to force the enemy back toward the hill, where his lancers were stationed, and, in doing so, I had the honor to bring three of the enemy to the earth; one with a flash-stone and two with my blade.”
“Come, that’s not bad,” said Tazendra.
“Well, it was pretty hot, but we fought mercenaries, which gave us the advantage.”
“That is true,” put in Aerich. “They fought for pay, but you fought for the Empire.”
“That is it exactly,” said Uttrik. “And for the honor of our General, in whom we all took great pride. A gentleman always fights better when he is with cause, for then he is not afraid of what he will meet when he passes over Deathgate Falls.”
“That is full of justice,” said Aerich, who then murmured, “I think I shall end by liking this gentleman.”
Pel, who overheard him, gave the sort of peculiar half-smile which was part of his nature and said softly, “I agree with you, my friend, but I say nothing on the matter of trust.”
Aerich shrugged once more, and exactly as he did so, there came a cry from near the door, which sound was followed by the peculiar sound of a large sheet of thick oiled paper torn asunder. Khaavren and Tazendra were on their feet at once, looking toward the noise; Uttrik, who was facing that way, merely pushed his chair back and let his hand stray to his sword hilt; Aerich and Pel contented themselves with looking up.
The source of the cry and the cause of the sound were at once apparent, in the form of a small man in the colors of the House of the Teckla, who, contrary to the custom prevailing at all times in all public houses, had been thrown through the window into the inn, where he lay on his back, endeavoring to rise in spite of a certain confusion that appeared to have afflicted his brain, due, no doubt, to the effects of his means of arrival.
He was followed at once by several—Khaavren counted eleven—burly-looking men of no discernible House, save that ill-defined “House” that makes up those who are born neither to serve nor to be served, neither to make nor to sell: in other words, common riff-raff of the highways. In one of them, it is true, the sleek, pale countenance of the Orca could be discerned, but he wore no insignia, and thus could not claim the title of gentleman.
These ruffians, then, entered the house by the door, and at once found the Teckla who had come flying through the window, with, presumably, their help. They picked him up, then, and two of them held him while a third, holding a stick of good weight, prepared to lay it upon the unfortunate. Khaavren, on seeing this, frowned; Aerich shrugged as if, since none of them were gentlemen, it was none of his affair; Pel settled himself back with a look of idle curiosity, but Tazendra, who had already risen, cleared her throat significantly, while Uttrik stood and took a position next to her.
While the sound of the Dzurlord’s throat-clearing might have communicated a certain menace, in this case it failed in its object, as the sounds made by the scuffling necessary to keep the Teckla from falling over effectively blocked out any noises softer than speech. Observing this, Tazendra took the necessary action; that is, she spoke. “Excuse me, my friends.”
One of the ruffians, the one, in fact, who looked like an Orca, spared her a glance. “Well?” he said.
“I hesitate to interrupt your sport, but I have certain questions to put to you. In particular, I wish to know what this Teckla has done that has caused you to treat him in this manner.”
“This doesn’t concern your lordship,” said the Orca, in a tone that could be considered polite only by allowing the greatest possible liberty in the use of the term.
“Your pardon, but it does concern me, in that I have done you the honor to ask you the question.”
“And I repeat, your ladyship, that it doesn’t concern you. Our business is our own, I think, and thank the Orb the law does not require gentlemen such as ourselves to answer such questions of anyone who comes by.”
“Allow me to say that you are rude,” observed Tazendra. “And, moreover, you are not observant, or you would perceive these gold-colored cloaks we wear which announce that we are members of His Imperial Majesty’s Guards. Now, what cause has this man given you for such treatment? I beg you to observe that I have now asked you twice; I will not ask a third time.”
“That’s lucky,” said the Orca, and signaled his friend to begin the beating. His blow never landed, however, for before the stick could fall, there was a flash that, even in the well-lighted room, made everyone blink; the flash was accompanied, moreover, by a sharp sound, not unlike two blocks of wood clapped together, and this was followed by a bittersweet smell that filled the room, and, at the same time, a scream as the man holding the stick stared down at the black burn in the center of his chest, then collapsed to the floor like a pile of dirty linen.
“Oh,” cried the Orca. “Is that it, then? Well, we are ready to answer you, meddler. Charge!” They drew knives, then, save for the leader who had a sabre, and charged Tazendra.
She, however, as cool as Aerich, said, “What is this, my man? Do you think that I only have one charge in my stone? Allow me to correct you,” and fired the second in the Orca’s face, leaving him stretched out dead on the spot.
&nb
sp; She stood then, with her sword raised (the stone had been in her left hand), ready to defend her position like Lord Golgoril at Bendrock Junction. And, indeed, the brigand who held the front rank upon the fall of his leader felt something, for, though she swung her greatsword at him one handed, he had nothing but a poniard with which to deflect it, the result being that both Tazendra’s sword and his own dagger cut deeply into his shoulder, leaving him moaning on his knees.
Things might have gone poorly for Tazendra nevertheless, except that Uttrik, who had likewise been offended by the injustice of the attack, had in the meantime drawn his own weapon and met the first attacker with a good thrust through the body which laid him out on the floor. Meanwhile, the Teckla, who had been released by his captors upon the order to charge, rather than running for the door, had picked up a stool that was of the sort used by those who polish the shoes of gentlemen, and proceeded, wielding it by two of its three legs, to bash in the head nearest him, which he did with good style.
“That was well struck, my good Uttrik,” said Tazendra.
“Well, and yourself, I must say your sorcery is very pretty, my dear Tazendra.”
“Bah, it was nothing. But look to your left, there—that’s it!”
Now, while all this was going on, Pel had whispered to Aerich and Khaavren, “My friends, this has a smell about it I don’t like, and spike me if I don’t believe that these fine folk are here to provoke us, and for no other reason.”
“Well,” said Aerich. “You may be right. But, Blood of the Gods, they have succeeded!” On this, the three friends stood up, and each held his flash-stone in plain sight while Aerich called loudly, “Come now, I think we can get them all in one turn, don’t you? On the count, gentlemen. Ready?”
This was too much for the remaining attackers, who, by this time, were reduced to six in number, for they at once turned and fled the room, the last to leave getting a good knock on the head by the Teckla as recompense for his tardiness. Those who remained on what had been the field, or rather, the floor of battle, looked about them while putting away their weapons, which consisted of three flash-stones, two swords, and a barstool, which was dutifully set down by the fire. Aerich and Pel took their seats first, while Tazendra and Uttrik embraced and congratulated each other on their victory.