Sethra Lavode (Viscount of Adrilankha) by Steven Brust Page A

his second best singlet, our Tiassa set out on that morning, with a bitter wind coming off the sea. It took him over an hour to negotiate the twisting roads leading to the north bank of the river, a delay increased by the construction that was blocking off many of the major roads, as not only was the district where the Palace was being built blocked off, but several other roads were taken up by over-sized wagons negotiating narrow streets with construction materials. At length, however, he arrived at a certain manor house distinguished by several large boulders in front and an iron gate surrounding it. As the gate happened to be open, he rode through it, and leaving his horse tied to a convenient hitching post (there not being a stable-boy in sight), he approached the door and pulled upon the clapper.
    A pretty little maid at once opened the door, inquiring as to what His Lordship might wish.
    “I am Khaavren of Castle Rock, Count of Whitecrest by courtesy, and, if it is convenient, I should wish to wait upon your master, your mistress, or both. If it is not convenient, then I should desire an appointment.”
    “Yes, my lord. If you will do us the honor to step into the waiting room, I will convey your message at once.”
    After only a short wait, Khaavren was led into a comfortable sitting room, or perhaps a library, as there was no shortage of books on shelves along the walls, these books being the only decoration save for a sword of indifferent quality that was hung by a pair of wires. And in this room were both the master and the mistress of the house, both dressed casually; the one in Dzur black, the other in green and white. They bowed to Khaavren respectfully, although with a hint of coldness, and asked if he would care to sit.
    With a certain aspect of ceremony, Khaavren unbuckled his sword belt and leaned it against a wall before returning to the middle of the room, bowing carefully to each of his hosts, and saying, “I believe I shall stand.”
    “As you wish,” said Shant, the Dzurlord.
    “May I offer you wine?” asked Lewchin. “I have some of your esteemed namesake, and it is a tolerably old date. Or we may have klava brought to us; here we brew it exceptionally strong, and have plenty of honey.”
    “Thank you for you kindness, madam, but I require no refreshment, only conversation, if you would be so agreeable.”
    “Certainly, sir,” said Shant. “We are entirely at your service.”
    “Upon what subject, sir,” inquired Lewchin, “does Your Lordship wish conversation?”
    The words “you know perfectly well” reached almost to Khaavren’s lips, where they were stopped, pushed back, and swallowed, perhaps in part by the elegance of the courtesy with which he had been addressed. Instead he said, with a certain abruptness, “Where is my son?”
    There was a silence—hardly less awkward for being brief—at the end of which, Lewchin said, “My lord, are you entirely certain you would not care to sit?”
    Khaavren clenched his jaw. His position, to be sure, was difficult; while he had never forbidden his son to see these two, and had knownthey were close, he had never approved of their arrangement: Dzur and Issola living together as husband and wife. Indeed, it seemed likely to Khaavren that it was their example, more than any other factor, that had led Piro to not only fall in love with a girl of another House, but believe that he might marry her. All of this was true, and yet, it was also true that he was here as a guest.
    In the end, he compromised: sitting on the edge of his chair, his back upright. Shant and Lewchin, on the other hand, sat fully in their own chairs—quite comfortable leather padded with some resilient material on the arms as well as the seat—in a way that struck Khaavren as just on the right side of insolence. It flashed through his mind how he would treat these two if they were guardsmen under his command; after which he brought his attention back to the present