“Yes, Sire, the Orca, who are politically allied with the Hawk, the Tsalmoth, the Jhereg, the Issola, and the Lyorn. Yes, Sire.”
His Majesty shook his head, sighed, and looked thoughtful for several moments. Then he said, “Well, but surely we could survive, at least for a short time, without taxes from the Dragon and the Athyra.”
“Sire? Without two of the three largest contributors to the Imperial Treasury? Perhaps we could, if that were all, but—”
“How, if that were all? It is not?”
“No, Sire.”
“What more is there?”
“Well, Sire, we are of the House of the Phoenix, and you are Prince, as well as Emperor. What will be the contribution of our House to the Imperium?”
“I must ask our Deputy, who is the Princess Loudin, to whom I have delegated this matter.”
“I have asked her, Sire.”
“And has she given you an answer?”
“Yes, Sire. She has said that the House is on the verge of bankruptcy.”
“Bankruptcy!”
“Those were her words, Sire.”
“But how could this be?”
“Because, Sire, the House, in its own name, and many of us as individuals, have made certain speculations—”
“What speculations?”
“You know, Sire, that we are a small House, and none of us, except perhaps Baroness Highplane and Countess Nolanthe, have large holdings, so it is by speculation that, for the most part, we—”
“What speculation, Jurabin?”
“Primarily, Sire, to certain Dragonlords, counting on funds they will receive from the Empire for military operations, and to certain Athyra, counting on actions to appease the climate. These operations have been delayed, pending the Meeting of Principalities, and the—”
The Prime Minister stopped speaking, for his Majesty had stopped listening, but was, rather, sitting with his head leaning back, his eyes tightly shut. After an interval, the Emperor spoke, saying, “Jurabin, do me the kindness to summon my physicker.”
“Yes, Sire. Is it the headache?”
“Go, Jurabin.”
“Yes, Sire.”
Jurabin rose at once and left to find the physicker, leaving His Majesty with his head in his hands, and the Orb an ugly brown as it circled His Majesty’s head. The physicker, whose name, by the way, was Navier, though it is not our intention to fully introduce her at this point in our history, arrived in due time, bringing with her tea made with certain herbs that were used to cure the headaches with which the Emperor was afflicted on those rare occasions when he tried to understand the workings of the Empire he ruled.
After administering the treatment, the physicker remained to make certain His Majesty felt better, after which she took her leave, and a few minutes later, the Emperor, seeing that it was approaching his dinner hour, rose to leave. He opened the door, and found himself facing a familiar figure, that of the officer on duty, the Ensign of the Red Boot Battalion of the Imperial Guard.
Which Treats of an Old Friend,
And His Conversations with
Three Acquaintances from the Past.
T
O THOSE FAMILIAR WITH OUR earlier history, it should come as no surprise that the ensign to whom we have just referred is none other than Khaavren, who has now passed his six hundredth year—that is to say, he has achieved an age at which the energy of youth is lost, but is replaced by a calmness that comes with knowing one’s position. In Khaavren’s case, his position was at His Majesty’s door—or, rather, at the door of whatever room His Majesty happened to occupy—and the centuries of waiting there, and making reports to his superiors, and making campaigns against enemies of one sort or another, had, to all appearances, entirely sapped the energy that had been the particular mark of his youth.
Where he had been wont to make wry observations and loyal outbursts, now he kept his observations to himself, and relegated his outbursts to those occasions when his duties required it (and, as a good officer, his duties seldom required outbursts). Where he had been quick to bring hand to sword upon any real or imagined slight, now he was more likely to chuckle, shake his head, and pass on. And yet, should anyone be foolish enough to insist on playing, there were, in the Empire, few with whom it would be a more dangerous pastime. Khaavren’s wrist was as strong and supple as ever, his eyes were as sure, and his body as limber. If he had lost, perhaps, the rash exuberance of youth, he had gained far more in his knowledge of the science and art of defense.
As to appearances, the changes were fewer. The Khaavren of five hundred years before would, upon meeting the Khaavren of this day, have thought he was looking into a glass, were it not for a slight thinning of both face and figure, brought on by constant exercise, and a few faint lines on his forehead, brought on by responsibility—the implacable foe of all lighthearted natures.
Yet he took this responsibility gladly, for it was a mark of his character as it had emerged over centuries that he took great care and pride in carrying out
his duties merely because he found he was good at them—that is, he no longer saw the service as a means to glory and accomplishment; rather he now saw it as an end in itself, and as his prospects for to-morrow faded, so did his resolve strengthen to perform to the very best of his ability. Whereas five hundred years before his motto had been, “Let there be no limit to my ambition,” now his motto was, “Let my ambition carry me to the limit,” which subtle change in emphasis, as we can see, bespeaks worlds of change in character.
This, then, was the person His Majesty suddenly found himself confronting—the same as he had accustomed himself to seeing for some five hundred and thirty years. The Emperor prided himself on being able to judge his fellow creatures (in fact, in one of his few surviving letters he wrote to his mistress of the time, Enova of Ridge, shortly before the infamous scandal of the Three Gibbets, “In spite of what they say, I trust Lord Capstra. Why? Because all of my instincts tell me to, and I’d sooner listen to my instincts than to all of the advisers in the Empire.”), and, after seeing this officer, in the blue and white of the House of the Tiassa, with the gold uniform half-cloak of the Imperial Guard and the badge of an ensign—after seeing this officer, we say, for more than half a millennium, he realized that here was someone in whom he could confide. And his Majesty was taken with the need to confide in someone.
“Well, Ensign?” he began.
Khaavren’s eyes widened slightly; he was unused to being addressed by His Majesty, other than to be given orders. “Sire?” said the guardsman, looking frankly back at him whom the gods had made his master.
It is worth noting that the Khaavren of a few hundred years before would have put into word and countenance all of his eagerness for glory and willingness to risk his life on His Majesty’s orders; the Khaavren of today merely answered and waited, slightly curious. Faced with this mild yet confident look, the Emperor faltered for a moment, and covered his confusion by saying, “Well?”
“Sire?” repeated Khaavren.
“Have you nothing to say, then?”
Khaavren had, in the intervening years, become a soldier of few words, and those carefully chosen. On this occasion he chose six of them: “I am at Your Majesty’s orders,” he said.
“And I,” said the Emperor, “am waiting to hear what you have to say.”
“What I have to say, Sire?”
“Precisely.”
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but I do not understand the question Your Majesty does me the honor to ask.”
“Do you pretend you do not know what we were talking about just now?”
Khaavren’s countenance remained impassive. “I assure Your Majesty, I have not the least idea in the world.”
“And yet, you were outside of the door, and the walls are so thin that I can hear when anyone passes by, and I can even hear you explain to passersby in that soft, gentle lilt which still betrays your country of origin, that the room is occupied. How is it, then, that you cannot hear what is said within?”
“Sire, it may be that I have trained my ears not to hear what does not concern them.”
“You have very complaisant ears, sir.”
“That may be, Sire. In any case, they thank Your Majesty for deigning to notice them.” Khaavren accompanied these words with a small bow.
Tortaalik made a sound that is the despair of the historian to render, but may be thought of as midway between a snort and a harrumph. After which ejaculation he said, “Then you persist in denying that you overheard our conversation?”
“I assure Your Majesty—”
“Would you say so again, standing beneath the Orb?”
For the first time Khaavren’s expression changed; a light of something like anger gleamed in his eyes. He said, “It would not, Sire, be the first time I have been required to swear beneath the Orb.”
“Ah—ah,” said the Emperor. “You did so once before, didn’t you?”
“I had that honor,” said Khaavren.
“I seem to recall the circumstances,” said His Majesty slowly. “It had something to do with a charge of murder, had it not?”
“A murder, Sire, of which the Orb acquitted me.”
“Yes, and a plot that you uncovered, and a treaty that you arranged with an army of Easterners.”
Khaavren bowed.
“And since then,” continued His Majesty, “you have been involved in some eight or ten campaigns for us, have you not? Including the retreat from Watcher’s Lake, where you distinguished yourself during the holding action?”
“Distinguished myself, Sire? I was not aware—”
“—That anyone had seen your actions after Brigadier G’aereth was wounded? But the brigadier saw, and he was pleased to tell me, in glowing terms, of the marvelous stratagem you devised which allowed him to reach the safety of … of …”
“Brickerstown, Sire.”
“Yes, of Brickerstown. But I know of these things, Ensign, and of others, believe me.”
“Sire, I am—”
“And, now that G’aereth is less and less able to fulfill his duties, it becomes my lot to consider a replacement. What do you say to that, Ensign?”
“Sire, I don’t know what to say.” Khaavren delivered this remark—as he had each remark since the inception of the conversation—with little inflection, no emphasis, and less emotion.
“What you should say, Ensign, is to answer my questions. I assure you, it will do you no harm.”
“Questions, Sire?”
“Come, walk beside me.”
Khaavren bowed, and they began strolling toward the Hall of Windows, an extension of the Imperial Wing that looked out of the Palace on five sides (including above and below), and where His Majesty was accustomed to dine on informal occasions. As they strolled, the Emperor said, “You are a military man, are you not, Sir Khaavren?”
“I have that honor, Sire.”
“As a military man, what do you think of the state of the Empire, and of this Meeting of the Principalities that is to happen within the month?”
“What do I think, Sire, of the state of the Empire and the Meeting of the Principalities?”
“Yes, that is what I wish to know.”
“What do
I
think, Sire?”
“That is, indeed, the very question I ask of you.”
“Sire, we can arrest them all.”
His Majesty stopped and stared at Khaavren, dumbfounded. Then he resumed his walk and said, “Do you, then, seriously advise me to arrest all of the Heirs and Deputies—that is, the Prince of each House—and the Deputies?”
“I, Sire? Not the least in the world.”
“But then, I am certain I heard you say so.”
“I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but I had no such intention.”
“Well then, what did you mean when you said we could arrest them?”
“Only that, Sire. We are able to do it; and, at that, with little trouble. The Duke of Eastmanswatch will present a certain difficulty, but I am certain—”
“Sir, I still fail to understand. If you are not counseling me to arrest them, what are you doing?”
“Sire? I am answering Your Majesty’s question. Your Majesty did me the honor to ask what I, as a military man, thought of the impending meeting. As a military man, which were Your Majesty’s words, my thoughts at once fall to military questions. Now, as I recall, Your Majesty has, on one occasion,
arrested one of them at least, and I doubt I am mistaken, for I believe it was I who had the honor to carry out the arrest of Her Highness the Princess of Bendbrook, of the House of the Tiassa—”
“Author of a play in which I am portrayed as a buffoon! She is fortunate I showed clemency, or she’d not have her head today, much less be free to attend this meeting.”
“Yes, Sire, that is the lady to whom I refer. And you have caused to be burned certain pamphlets written by Lord Haymel, one of the Deputies of the House of the Hawk—”
“Yes, by the Orb! And I’d do it again! He not only proposed an end to the sales of judgeships, a not unreasonable suggestion, but that each House provide its own judges, which would have caused no less than rebellion from the Iorich, and then he went on to suggest unanimous approval for these judges by—me? No, of course not! By the Council of Princes! As if the authority of the Empire were not enough! He, too, is lucky he isn’t a head shorter!”
“Yes, Sire. And then there is Lady Ironn, Deputy of the House of the Orca, whom you caused to be arrested some years ago on the occasion when she—”
“Publicly discussed matters of my personal history in terms that no gentleman could be asked to endure, then declined to apologize, and would not fight! Ah, then I missed old Lord Garland indeed, for he would have tracked her down and extracted either a recantation or her liver, instead of forcing me to use the powers of the state, which power ought, by rights, to have led her to the Executioner’s Star.”
“Yes, Sire. And that is how I understood Your Majesty’s question.”
The Emperor walked in silence for a while, and the Orb, which had been a foreboding red, cooled down. His Majesty said, “That is not, in fact, what I meant.”
“Sire?”
“Sir Khaavren, Jurabin speaks of the state of the treasury and the correlation of the Houses; Countess Bellor tells me many things about the state of our treasury; the Princess Loudin, who watches over the interests of the House, speaks of the”humor of the Empire“as if there were only one; the Duchess of Pronfir, Trustee of Shipping, has much to say concerning the fall in trade; Brigadier G’aereth tells me of matters military; and Nyleth speaks of—or, rather, cackles about—matters arcane. There is not a one of them who agrees with another. And to me, whatever my inclinations, fall all of the decisions. Well, Ensign, I am asking for your opinion—what do you think I should do? Or, if you positively will not answer, then: To whom should I listen?”
Khaavren paused, and appeared to reflect for a space of time that lasted
long enough for them to traverse the corridor that rose from the West Terrace to the Hall of Ferns, after which he said, “Sire, I think Your Majesty ought, without delay, find a Discreet to take the place of the Duke of Wellborn, now that he has retired.”
His Majesty stopped, and looked at the guardsman, who returned his gaze with an expression of innocence. The Orb went through a rapid series of changes—beginning with a dull yellow of mild confusion, turning then to the orange of beginning anger, followed by the pale blue of anger contained, then mutating to a light green of consideration. At this point His Majesty began walking once more.
“I am most anxious,” said the Emperor, “to learn why you make this suggestion.”
“You wish to know the reason, Sire?”
“I more than wish to, I demand to.”
“Well, then, Sire, it is because, if His Discretion were still here, and still practicing his trade, Your Majesty would have no need to confide in a humble ensign of the Imperial guard.”