“Ah, I should mislike that.”
“As should I.”
“And then?”
“Let us examine his wounds, and attempt to determine how quickly this decision ought to be made.”
“Very well, I agree with this plan.”
They made a quick examination and deduced that, thanks to the Teckla’s stockings, the Easterner would most likely survive being moved. This decision made, they loaded him onto the oxcart, where he suffered through a bumpy ride with significantly less discomfort than he would have experienced had he been awake.
While it is the case that the headquarters of the Phoenix Guards was located in the Dragon Wing of the Palace, the reader should be aware that, when Farind and Nill spoke of headquarters, this was not the place to which they referred. Instead, on Old Quarry Road, not far from the market that had been Dyfon’s original destination, was the North Central Guard Station, a two-story building of baked brick painted a particularly hideous shade of orange. It was to this station that our Dragonlords referred when they spoke of headquarters, and it was, therefore, to this station that the Easterner was accordingly brought.
Upon their arrival, a messenger was at once dispatched for a physicker. Nill and Farind asked Dyfon for his name and lord, which information Dyfon gave for the simple reason that he was too frightened not to; and they also took down what little information he had, after which they went in to see their ensign. Dyfon, for his part, returned to his task and his life. To our regret, we must now bid him farewell, as he no longer forms any part of the history we have taken upon ourselves to relate.
Upon presenting themselves to the ensign, whose name was Shirip, they saluted and, in the brief and business-like manner she required, they explained what had brought them back early from their patrol. The ensign listened until they explained about finding the signet in his purse, at which time her eyebrows rose and she made a noise which Farind and Nill interpreted as surprise.
“I believe,” said the ensign after some consideration, “that you did the right thing. For an Imperial noble to be permitted to die would reflect poorly on our ability to protect our citizens. And yet—”
“Well?” said Nill.
“An Easterner with an Imperial title. It is exceptional. More than exceptional, in fact, it is unusual.”
“And then?” said Farind. “Shall we question him when the physicker has finished?”
“No,” said the ensign. “While I have no fear of battle, nor of crossing swords with anyone you might name, still do I confess that there are things I fear. Rather than risking giving offense to an Imperial lord by questioning him, or annoying my superior officers by letting him go, I will inform the Wing of what has happened, and await instructions.”
Nill said, “If I may speak, Commander.”
“Yes?”
“This seems wise to me, only—”
“Well?”
“What if he should wake up before we have heard from the Wing?”
“Oh, in that case—”
“Well?”
“As the Vallista say, we will burn that house when we enter it.”
Farind frowned, as he was not, in fact, certain that the Vallista said this; but he and Nill comprehended her meaning, and at once nodded and said, “We understand, Ensign. Shall we then return to our duty?”
“Yes, do you do that. I will see that word of this matter reaches the proper ears.”
Nill and Farind bowed and took their leave. The ensign, true to her word, at once wrote out a message to what the guardsmen called the Wing, but was, in fact, the actual headquarters of the Phoenix Guards. She made the decision that the message was not of sufficient urgency to require psychic transmission, and so, upon completing the message, dispatched a messenger, who, thanks to possessing, first, a good pair of legs, and, second, the willingness to use them, less than half an hour later reached the Offices of the Captain of the Phoenix Guard in the Dragon Wing of the Palace.
Once there, he wasted no time in pleasantries, but put the message at once into the hand of Lord Raanev, the personal secretary to the captain (not to be confused with the captain’s confidential servant, whom we shall meet presently). This worthy received the message with the greatest aplomb, glanced at it, and at once replied with a single word: “Interesting.”
The messenger, who had heard this flavor of comment before from the worthy Dragonlord, bowed and said, “Yes, m’lord. Is there an answer?”
“Remain nigh,” said Raanev. “I will pass the message along, and, well, we will learn if there is a reply.”
“I shall not stray from this room,” promised the messenger.
“And you will be right not to,” agreed the secretary.
With this reassurance, the messenger took a seat and began to wait. Waiting, we should add, was something he was especially skilled at, having had some thirty or thirty-five years’ practice since the time he had first received this employment. What his thoughts were, or what methods he might have had to combat ennui, we cannot tell; but for the purposes of this history, we should add, such information would not be useful, and we therefore have no need to take up the reader’s valuable time with it.
Even as the messenger—whom we have chosen to leave nameless as an indication of his unimportance both to history in general and to our history in particular—was taking a seat, Raanev opened a door located in the back corner of his office, and, passing through the doorway, stood before his superior, who was none other than Khaavren of Castle Rock, with whom the reader may, perhaps, be familiar from our earlier histories. For the benefit of the reader who is, for lack of opportunity or for some other reason, unacquainted with these histories, we will say two words about Khaavren, who at this time was Captain of Her Majesty’s Guard.
He was, then, well into his middle years, being somewhat more than eleven hundred years of age, and if he had lost some of his youthful flexibility, both in body and in spirit, he had gained in strength. His eyes were as sharp as ever and still glinted with the same quick intelligence; and if his mouth only rarely curved into the spontaneous smiles as before, his chin nevertheless showed the same determination. Beyond this, his wrist was as firm and supple as it ever was, and his ears, which had once been honored by winning the attention of an Emperor, had lost none of their cleverness.
Raanev placed himself before this worthy and bowed. “My captain,” he said, “we have received word of an Easterner, found wounded near the river.”
“Well?” said Khaavren, as if uncertain about how this intelligence could have anything to do with him.
“Moreover,” said Raanev.
“Yes, moreover?”
“According to a signet upon his person, he holds an Imperial title.”
“An Easterner with an Imperial title.”
“A wounded Easterner with an Imperial title.”
“Tell me, Raanev. Which seems to you more likely: an Easterner with an Imperial title, or an Easterner who has, for reasons of his own, stolen a signet?”
“Oh, it is obvious which is more likely, only—”
“Yes?”
“I have heard no report of such a signet being stolen.”
Khaavren frowned, struck by the extreme justice of this observation. “Nor have I heard such a report,” admitted the captain, “and you are right to point this out.”
“I am pleased that my captain thinks so.”
“Oh, I do. And not only that—”
“Yes, Captain?”
“I believe we should reflect on this situation.”
“I have no argument to make with such reflection.”