moment.
“Very well,” said Khaavren. “I am sitting. May I do myself the honor of putting my question a second time?”
“Instead,” said Lewchin, “perhaps you would do us the honor of permitting us to put a question to you?”
Unspoken at the end of this remark was the observation “as you are in our home.” Khaavren heard it, and, though far from delighted, found himself unable to offer a good reason to decline, wherefore he nodded. “Very well, then. That is but just. What is your question?”
“It is simply this: Why ought we to tell you?”
“What is that?” said Khaavren, turning pale and his voice sounding rather hoarse in his own ears.
“My lord,” said Shant, “you perceive that we do not deny that our friend Piro has communicated with us. Indeed, he has, and on more than one occasion. And it is obvious from the very fact that you ask your question that he has not told you where he is. It therefore seems plain that he does not want you to know. Why, then, ought we to break a confidence with which he did us the honor to trust us?”
“He is, then, alive?”
Lewchin, whose manner, as we have said, had been somewhat cold—indeed, remarkably cold for an Issola—softened her expression and said, “Yes, my lord. There is no harm in telling you that he is alive, and in good health when last he wrote to us, which was this Marketday week.”
Khaavren bowed his head in thanks for this intelligence, then, raising it once more, said, “To answer the question you did me thehonor to ask: In the first place, I should point out that I am his father.”
Shant and Lewchin nodded—which nod gave very nearly the impression of a shrug.
“Moreover,” continued Khaavren, “well, I wish to speak to him.”
“It is possible,” said Shant, “that he has less interest in speaking to you. I say this only because he has not done so. It is true that, hitherto, neither have you; yet surely you must see that I cannot take it upon myself to make this decision for him. It would not be the act of a friend. You must, sir, see how impossible your request is.” It occurred to Khaavren that somewhere during the course of the conversation he had lost the moral advantage—if, indeed, he had ever held it. “I should very much like,” he said, after reflecting for a moment, “to learn from him if what you say is true.”
“And if it is,” said Shant. “Will you respect his wishes in this matter?”
“No,” said Khaavren.
“Well,” said Shant, and this time he did shrug.
Khaavren felt himself trembling with anger, so that he had to fight to master it.
“He is my son!” cried Khaavren.
“He is our friend,” said Shant coolly.
“Come sir,” said Lewchin. “Would you not do as much for a friend of yours, should he ask?”
“A friend of mine would not—” He broke off, aware that, should he bring the sentence to its conclusion, he could do his cause no good.
“Do what?” said Shant, a light growing in his eye.
Khaavren matched his glare. “Do not seek to provoke me, young Dzur. I promise you that nothing good could come of any games played between us.”
“And why not? I have not fought in—how long?”
“Twelve weeks,” said Lewchin. “And you should not fight now.”
“And yet—”
“How do you suppose,” continued Lewchin, “Piro would feel to know that you and his father had slaughtered one another? Can you explain to me what good would come of such a course?”
Khaavren bowed his head. “Exactly my own thoughts, madam.”
“Well,” said Lewchin.
“You are right,” said Shant, sighing as with regret.
“So then, sir,” continued Lewchin, “if there is no more to say—”
“Please,” said Khaavren.
Lewchin looked down. “I am sorry. In all conscience, I cannot. He has trusted us. To do as you ask would be nothing less than a betrayal.”
Khaavren frowned. “Well, can you at least tell him that I wish to speak to him?”
Lewchin nodded slowly. “Very
“Very well,” said Khaavren. “I am sitting. May I do myself the honor of putting my question a second time?”
“Instead,” said Lewchin, “perhaps you would do us the honor of permitting us to put a question to you?”
Unspoken at the end of this remark was the observation “as you are in our home.” Khaavren heard it, and, though far from delighted, found himself unable to offer a good reason to decline, wherefore he nodded. “Very well, then. That is but just. What is your question?”
“It is simply this: Why ought we to tell you?”
“What is that?” said Khaavren, turning pale and his voice sounding rather hoarse in his own ears.
“My lord,” said Shant, “you perceive that we do not deny that our friend Piro has communicated with us. Indeed, he has, and on more than one occasion. And it is obvious from the very fact that you ask your question that he has not told you where he is. It therefore seems plain that he does not want you to know. Why, then, ought we to break a confidence with which he did us the honor to trust us?”
“He is, then, alive?”
Lewchin, whose manner, as we have said, had been somewhat cold—indeed, remarkably cold for an Issola—softened her expression and said, “Yes, my lord. There is no harm in telling you that he is alive, and in good health when last he wrote to us, which was this Marketday week.”
Khaavren bowed his head in thanks for this intelligence, then, raising it once more, said, “To answer the question you did me thehonor to ask: In the first place, I should point out that I am his father.”
Shant and Lewchin nodded—which nod gave very nearly the impression of a shrug.
“Moreover,” continued Khaavren, “well, I wish to speak to him.”
“It is possible,” said Shant, “that he has less interest in speaking to you. I say this only because he has not done so. It is true that, hitherto, neither have you; yet surely you must see that I cannot take it upon myself to make this decision for him. It would not be the act of a friend. You must, sir, see how impossible your request is.” It occurred to Khaavren that somewhere during the course of the conversation he had lost the moral advantage—if, indeed, he had ever held it. “I should very much like,” he said, after reflecting for a moment, “to learn from him if what you say is true.”
“And if it is,” said Shant. “Will you respect his wishes in this matter?”
“No,” said Khaavren.
“Well,” said Shant, and this time he did shrug.
Khaavren felt himself trembling with anger, so that he had to fight to master it.
“He is my son!” cried Khaavren.
“He is our friend,” said Shant coolly.
“Come sir,” said Lewchin. “Would you not do as much for a friend of yours, should he ask?”
“A friend of mine would not—” He broke off, aware that, should he bring the sentence to its conclusion, he could do his cause no good.
“Do what?” said Shant, a light growing in his eye.
Khaavren matched his glare. “Do not seek to provoke me, young Dzur. I promise you that nothing good could come of any games played between us.”
“And why not? I have not fought in—how long?”
“Twelve weeks,” said Lewchin. “And you should not fight now.”
“And yet—”
“How do you suppose,” continued Lewchin, “Piro would feel to know that you and his father had slaughtered one another? Can you explain to me what good would come of such a course?”
Khaavren bowed his head. “Exactly my own thoughts, madam.”
“Well,” said Lewchin.
“You are right,” said Shant, sighing as with regret.
“So then, sir,” continued Lewchin, “if there is no more to say—”
“Please,” said Khaavren.
Lewchin looked down. “I am sorry. In all conscience, I cannot. He has trusted us. To do as you ask would be nothing less than a betrayal.”
Khaavren frowned. “Well, can you at least tell him that I wish to speak to him?”
Lewchin nodded slowly. “Very
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