The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha) (13 page)

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Authors: Steven Brust

BOOK: The Paths of the Dead (Viscount of Adrilankha)
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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
 
 
 
I
t 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 describe 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.
Late one evening, after they had been on the road nearly two weeks, and Piro was scarcely noticing his muscles, as they were about to make camp, they saw the flickering of another light, a few hundred meters away; and by mutual consent they turned their horses toward this light. They stopped just inside the ring of illumination given off by what proved to be a campfire, so that whoever it was whose camp they were visiting could see their number and their faces. For an instant, there was a stillness; Piro could hear nothing save his own breathing, Kytraan’s, and the jingle of the harness of Piro’s horse, which horse, we should add, gave Piro a quick look as if it wondered why they had stopped, before abruptly shaking its head, stamping its right forefoot, and snorting.
This silence, or near-silence, was broken at last by Kytraan, who said, “I give you good evening, stranger. We are travelers, and wonder if you would do us the honor of sharing your fire for the evening. We have wine, bread, cheese, and certain
salted meats which we have but lately tested and found good, and we are more than willing to share them.”
The reply came after only an instant. “Come, then,” said the stranger, a woman from the sound of her voice. “I have boiled coffee, dried fruits, salt, and biscuits, and I am, like yourselves, entirely willing to share.”
They dismounted, hobbled their horses, and approached the fire, where sat a woman who, though it was difficult to see in the flickering of the fire, seemed to be about eight or nine hundred years old. It was impossible to guess her House, but she had, at any rate, a noble’s point, which seemed sufficient for the moment.
“I am Kytraan e’Lanya of the North Pinewood Hold. This is my companion, Piro, the Viscount of Adrilankha.”
“I give you good evening. I am called Orlaan, and I am not a traveler at all, but, rather, I live here.”
“How, you live here?”
“Exactly. I am attempting the study of sorcery, and the control of certain forces, and, you perceive, such matters are best performed where there is no one around, in case of a miscalculation.”

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