The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha)

  On the occasion of which we now write—that is, some time before dawn on the day Piro set out from Adrilankha—Pel, who is actually the Duke of Galstan, had arrived at the same library in which, two centuries before, the plans for the campaign were first laid. At this time Pel, if time had added more than two centuries to those which had already passed beneath his feet, showed them no more than he had when last we saw him, still being dark of hair and eye, fine of skin, and graceful of gesture. In the library already were Kana and Habil, who were leaning over a detailed and skillfully drawn map of the desert of Suntra. Pel, upon entering, made a respectful bow.

  “Good day to you, Galstan,” said Kâna. “You have something to report?”

  “I do,” said Pel, “if you wish to hear it.”

  “I wish to of all things,” said Kâna. “My cousin and I were engaged in debating the virtues of attempting to take the western portion of the desert of Suntra, compared to the advantages of working around it to the south. We are, as yet, undecided, and if you have any information that will make our decision easier, well, we should like nothing better than to hear it.”

  “On that subject,” said Pel, “I do have certain things to say.”

  “Well?” said Habil.

  “I have heard from my friends that a certain warlord, named Fwynn, has been gathering strength for the past score of years, anticipating an effort on your part to take the western portion of Suntra. His base of strength seems to be to the north of the desert, where he can call on some six thousands of trained and organized warriors, while he has a garrison of some four thousands at this point, all of whom are mounted and ready to move at a moment’s notice.”

  “Then perhaps,” said Kâna, “if we go north, rather than south, we can cut the forces off from each other.”

  “Rather,” said Habil, “we are likely to be caught between them; we have only eleven thousands available to us, and it will take some little time to move more into position.”

  “Can our eleven thousands take the garrison, do you think?” asked Kâna of Pel.

  “If they can arrive without being seen,” said Pel, “then it could be managed. For that, however, an attack from the far north is indicated, because they are not watching from that direction. If Your Venerance wishes, a detailed report of the roads and watering spots can be ready by morning.”

  Habil and Kana consulted each other by look, then both nodded. “Is there anything else?” said Habil.

  “There is, Marchioness.”

  “Well?”

  “You know where our chief danger lies in the future, do you not?”

  “You have told us,” said Kâna, “that Dzur Mountain must be taken into account.”

  “Exactly,” said Pel.

  “Well?”

  “I have, therefore, kept a constant watch on Dzur Mountain, and even had followed all of those who have left it on errands of one sort or another.”

  “And that is well done, I think,” remarked Habil.

  Pel bowed.

  “But then,” said Kana, “has something happened?”

  “Exactly,” said Pel. “And, if you wish, I will tell you what it is.”

  “Do so,” said Habil. “You perceive we are both listening avidly to your every word.”

  “Yes,” said Kâna, “what has the Enchantress been doing?”

  “She has,” said Pel, “been sending out messengers. And moreover—”

  “Yes?”

  “She has been summoning people to her.”

  “Troops?” said Kana.

  “Not troops,” said Pel, “but individuals.”

  “What individuals?” said Habil.

  “I don’t yet know all of them, but one, at least, I know, and that is the Viscount of Adrilankha, who I have learned, thanks to the sorcerous communications methods you have given me access to, just a few hours ago set out in the company of the messenger from Sethra.”

  “Exactly who is this Viscount?” said Kâna.

  “The son of an old acquaintance of mine,” said Pel; “that is, the son of Lord Khaavren, who commanded the Phoenix Guards until the Disaster.”

  “Ah, I have heard of him,” said Kana. “He was not to be trifled with when he was in his prime.”

  “Exactly,” said Pel. “Nor is his son, if the blood flows true.”

  “And, is there something you recommend we do?”

  “No, only be aware of it. Sethra Lavode is preparing a stroke, whether against us or in some other direction I cannot yet say, but I would caution Your Venerance to remain aware of her. And for my part, I intend to redouble our vigilance on Dzur Mountain and environs.”

  “Very well,” said Kâna. “What else?”

  Pel sighed. “I fear Sethra Lavode,” he said. “We cannot storm Dzur Mountain, we cannot counteract her sorcery, we cannot undermine her diplomacies, all because, in the first place, she is skilled and powerful, and, in the second place, we know so little about her. What is the source of her power? What is her nature? What is her age? We know none of these things, but have only speculations.”

  “Perhaps,” said Kâna, “she is powerless since the fall of the Empire. Is it not true that she has not left Dzur Mountain in all that time?”

  “It may be true,” said Pel. “To be sure, we do not know that she left. But how can we tell? She hasn’t been tested.”

  “How then,” said Habil, “can we test her without committing ourselves?”

  “There may be a way,” said Pel. “There are young Dzurlords, and even Dragonlords, who may be convinced to stand against her, which would give us some indication of how much we need fear her.”

  “You can arrange this?” said Kana.

  Pel bowed. “But there is still another consideration.”

  “And that is?” said Habil.

  “It may be that we need not fear her, but, rather, we can enlist her.”

  “How, enlist her?” said Kâna.

  “Exactly. If she believes that we are the best hope for the Empire, why, then it may be that she will aid us, rather than thwarting us.”

  “How, then, are we to determine this?” said Habil.

  “That is the question,” said Pel. “That is what we must consider.”

  “Would it be safe,” said Kana, “for us to send an envoy?”

  “How, ask her directly?” said Pel. “I had not considered that.”

  Habil chuckled. “I am not astonished by that, my good Yendi. Yet what do you think of it?”

  “It may be the best solution,” admitted Pel.

  “We must carefully consider who to send,” said Kâna.

  “I have an idea,” said Habil.

  “I should be glad to hear it,” said Kâna.

  “I believe I can think of someone who is polite, subtle, observant, discreet, courageous, and intelligent. Someone who is able to follow orders, yet able to exceed these orders, or change them, if circumstances require it. Someone who, in short, has all of the virtues needed for this mission.”

  “I agree with your list of needed virtues,” said Pel. “It remains only for you to give us the name that goes with the list.”

  Habil, instead of answering, merely smiled, and continued looking at Pel. His eyes widened slightly when he realized what was being said, but then, after an instant’s consideration, he bowed.

  Chapter the Twelfth

  How the Author, Forced Against His Will

  To Write of the Viscount’s Travels,

  Attempts, for the Sake of the Reader,

  To Make Travel Interesting

  It has long been known by those who take up the pen and write for a populace greedy for distraction, that among the most difficult tasks of the writer are those caused by circumstances in which the characters whom the reader has been following must go from one place to another. The author must somehow account for the journey, and to merely say, “They traveled; they arrived,” often leaves the reader with the feeling that something important has been missed; yet to actually des
cribe the passage of one day after another, each filled with nothing more than the routine of the traveler, is, more often than not, to invite ennui; that is, in a word, to bore the reader.

  To be sure, those who write pure history are sometimes able to escape this dilemma under the guise of pretending that, as nothing of significance happened, nothing need be said. Alternatively, the historian may be so fortunate as to have history provide a good supply of incidents with which to keep the reader amused; some historians, notably the witty and erudite Cropperwell, seem to specialize in historical events that feature exactly this sort of circumstance.

  As for the writer of the popular romance, each has sought after methods of treating this difficulty, with more or less success. The fabulist will invent adventures of the most absurd variety; the minutist will describe the scenery through which characters and readers are passing to the tiniest detail; the summarist will omit the journey, contenting himself with the assertion that it has occurred; while to the metaphorist the journey becomes the reason for the story itself; and then there are those, such as the delightful Madam Payor with her “Greentide Romances,” who invent characters who are, for one reason or another, incapable of traveling; or the clever Tremmel of Brock, who uses as a device actions that center on a certain specific location and brings all the events to the characters who dwell there; thus escaping the problem entirely. Any of these choices, and of others we have not troubled to mention, are reasonable and proper if carried out with sufficient skill and dexterity, yet it seems to us that what is most significant to the reader ought to be that which is most significant to the characters who occupy the reader’s attention, and this is doubly true in the case of the historical romance, where we are not at liberty to invent incidents, but must rather be content with those events with which history has provided us, and then fulfill our task of casting them in an entertaining as well as an informative light.

  For this reason, then, it has been our approach, which has met with a certain success, to direct the attention of the reader toward events which have caused significant changes in the personality, or, at any rate, the disposition of those whose actions have attracted our interest; that is, if the struggles of the journey itself, or the conversation among the travelers, or certain incidents have had a profound and lasting effect, that is where we will ask the reader to lend us his attention, so that we, in turn, may repay him by providing him with a deeper understanding of those characters, and with whatever degree of entertainment is naturally afforded by the incidents we are called upon to reveal.

  All of which brings us to a time exactly a week into the journey, to a small fire where Piro, Kytraan, and Lar sat in order to feel simultaneously warm and protected. The jungle around them was alive with night noises, the loudest being the nickering of their own horses, who were themselves rather close to the fire, as if entirely uncertain about what sorts of animals might live nearby and what these various species might think about horse as a delicacy. With these noises the crackle of the fire competed, as if to assert the continuing drama of man’s invasion of wilderness; yet together these sounds—the jungle noises of nature, and the sound of the burning of nature’s artifacts by man—produced a certain music, or at least a backdrop of sound, against which the soft conversation of Piro and Kytraan harmonized in its own way, while providing, should the reader choose, another, deeper metaphor concerning man and nature, but one of which the author will eschew the explicit drawing.

  As we make our study, we will find Piro saying, “But, my dear Kytraan, you must have had your share of adventures.”

  To this, the worthy Dragon said, “Perhaps, but not as many, nor as adventurous, as you might suppose. To have one’s sword blooded for the first time in order to prevent one’s skin from being punctured is an adventure, or feels like an adventure at the time, even if one’s attacker is an innocent beast and hardly a threat.”

  “Well, I understand that,” said Piro, thinking suddenly of Porker Poker and feeling unaccountably homesick, albeit just for an instant. “And then?”

  “Well, the second or third time it happens, unless the threat is more severe, or the goal to be accomplished is greater, it is no longer an adventure, but merely an annoyance. Now, it is true that I have, once or twice, encountered bandits or highwaymen—”

  “How, you have?”

  “As I said, once or twice, and yet—”

  “Well?”

  “Well, never during these encounters was there an occasion to draw steel, for such as these will rarely attack a man who may choose to fight back.”

  “Ah, I see.”

  “Upon first leaving Dzur Mountain, I fancy I saw a dragon, but it was far away and asleep, and may indeed have been nothing more than a peculiar formation of rock, such as occur there to provide grist for the stories about the Enchantress.”

  “Then you don’t believe the stories of the Enchantress changing people into stone and into animals?”

  “I don’t know,” said Kytraan reflectively. “I could, perhaps, believe either one by itself, but I cannot imagine why she should wish to turn someone first into one and then into the other. Moreover, I cannot see why, if she had the power to do such a thing, she would fail to simply kill the intruder.”

  “There is some justice in what you say,” admitted Piro.

  “Do you think so?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  “Well, then I am satisfied.”

  “But, continue. You were discussing adventure.”

  “Ah, yes, so I was. Well, to conclude, I expected adventure on my way to visit you, good Piro, but I am forced to say that nothing happened beyond my being woken in the night by some unknown man or animal, which promptly retreated upon the introduction of another stick to the fire that has always been the best friend of the woodsman.”

  “You say you had been expecting adventure, but had you been hoping for it as well?”

  “Ah, as to that—”

  “Well?”

  “I don’t say I wasn’t.”

  “If your journey hither, alone, was uneventful,” said Piro regretfully, “then, with two of us, it is unlikely we shall encounter much to cause excitement.”

  “That is my opinion,” said Kytraan. “Yet consider whither we are bound: is it not adventure enough to visit Dzur Mountain? And consider that you go there in pursuit of some sort of mission. My friend, I fully expect, if adventure is your desire, adventure is what you will have, and that before too much time has passed.”

  “Well, that is true,” said Piro. Then he laughed and said, “Though I have heard that those who have had the most desire the least when all is over.”

  “And I have heard the same. And yet—”

  “Well?”

  “You know of your father’s friend, Tazendra?”

  “I have heard of her, yes. But then, she is a Dzur .”

  “That is true; such feelings do not apply to Dzurlords.”

  Piro sighed. “I should love to meet her, and those others of whom my father speaks with such fondness, and of whom my mother tells such stories.”

  “Your father does not tell stories?”

  “Of himself? Rarely. The memories are, I believe, too painful.”

  “It is a shame, though,” said Kytraan. “In those days, there were heroes. And, as you know—”

  “Well?”

  “Girls like heroes.”

  “That is but natural,” agreed Piro. “Indeed, that would be sufficient reason for adventure, even if there were no others.”

  “You have expressed my thoughts so well that I can do nothing except agree.”

  Piro nodded. “That, then, is the plan: we will have adventures, and then we’ll meet girls.”

  “I am in complete agreement with your plan, my friend.”

  “Ah, you call me your friend.”

  “Well, and if I do?”

  “I am gratified, and I hope you will do me the honor of allowing me the same privilege.”

 
“Of a certainty, my dear fellow. Here is my hand.”

  “And here is mine.”

  “There, we are friends.”

  “Good. Now, who has the first watch?”

  “Our worthy servant, Lar.”

  “Lar, are you on watch?”

  “Entirely, my lord, and I give you my word that nothing larger than a rollbug will escape my eyes, and nothing louder than a damp leaf will escape my ears. And this will be easier, as I am now in a region I know well.”

  “You have been here before?” asked Piro.

  “With those brigands of whom I told you, my lord.”

  “Then there may be brigands about?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed. They like this region, because of the large number of roads that pass and intersect, many of which are still in use.”

  “Well, then, you will wake me in three hours?”

  “As nearly three hours as I can manage, my lord. You perceive there are at present no ratbirds in the vicinity.”

  “How, ratbirds?” said Kytraan.

  “I will explain on another occasion,” said Piro. “Very well, then, to bed, and perhaps sleep can relieve these muscles of some of the stiffness they acquired from being on horseback for so long!”

  “That is not likely,” remarked Kytraan. “You perceive that sleeping on the ground is not conducive to easing sore muscles. Nevertheless, it will pass. Very soon, you will not even notice.”

  “I hope you are right,” said Piro, and, almost on the word, he had drifted off to sleep.

  In the days that followed, they continued along trails and paths that had been cut through the jungle, stopping at streams to fill their water-bottles, and looking at the desolation of what had once been villages along the various larger waterways, until at last, with a surprising abruptness, the jungle turned into grassland: long, seemingly endless, and with no explanation of why it should make such a drastic change with so little warning; nevertheless what had once been a road still ran through it, so their rate of travel was unchanged. As the hours and days passed, they visited one or two villages that were not quite deserted, but found little to say to the dispirited inhabitants, and so, finding nothing that appeared to be an inn, they proceeded on, keeping their horses to a gentle walk, and speaking little even among themselves.