When his eyes had adjusted, he glanced over the rest of the room. The Issola were all seated close to the stage, four each at two tables. They were seated in front of and beside the tables; none behind them—that is to say, they were all in good position to rise and draw in the shortest possible time. At that point, he realized that Count Szurke was, to all appearances, nowhere in the room.
Khaavren mentally shrugged. He had no doubt the Easterner would appear soon enough. It was now past the time when the musicians had been scheduled to begin, and the audience was becoming restless; it was simply a matter of waiting. He leaned against the wall near the door and waited.
Adham and Dav-Hoel were the first up; Adham stepping onto the stage with a twirl of his lant over his head; Dav-Hoel merely stepping up, moving to the back of the stage, and fixing his gaze on the far end of the room.
Then, holding a reed-pipe, Lady Saruchka emerged, dressed in narrow pants of green and a tight-fitting white blouse. She smiled warmly at the audience as she stepped onto the stage.
And it was at this moment that the eight Issola all stood, as one, reaching for their weapons.
Khaavren wasn’t certain where he came from, but, somehow, the Easterner, Count Szurke, was standing in front of the stage. A light-weight sword was in his hand, and two jhereg were on his shoulders.
It seemed to Khaavren that it might be a reenactment, as it were, of the fight by the river.
The Issola charged.
The pair of jhereg leapt from Szurke’s shoulders, flying into the face of two of them.
There was a flash as something left the Easterner’s left hand, and one of the Issola stopped, staring down at a knife that had somehow appeared in his chest.
After that, however, it no longer resembled the battle by the river; Khaavren placed himself to the Easterner’s left, his sword out and ready.
It is possible Szurke would have made some observation about this remarkable event, but, in fact, he had no time; Issola, though not, perhaps, as inclined to violence as certain others, are known to not waste time when the moment for action arises. These eight certainly did not.
That the reader may have a clear understanding of events as they unfolded, it is absolutely necessary, at this time, to say two words about the positions of the significant individuals. (We use the qualifier “significant” to make it clear to the reader that we will not, at this time, be describing the position or action of the host or of those accidental patrons who do not figure in the calisthenics about to take place.)
So, then, as we look, the instant after the Easterner has thrown his knife, we see two of the Issola being chased about the room by jhereg, in a scene reminiscent of some of the lower-class bawdies available for four coppers on Verendu Lane. With one of the Issola concerned—quite reasonably in the opinion of this historian—with the knife that had penetrated a full three inches into his chest, this left five Issola who were charging Count Szurke.
Or so they thought. In fact, they were facing not only Szurke, but also Khaavren, who, drawing his sword, placed himself in a guard position beside the Easterner.
Khaavren, as was his custom on such occasions, feinted toward one long enough to interfere with her attack, so that he could concentrate on the other. This opponent was an exceptionally tall woman who wielded an especially long sword to add to this advantage. Khaavren, therefore, took a step forward as he parried her attack, after which he disengaged with lightning speed and, still moving in, passed his sword through her body, leaving her stretched out full length upon the floor.
Meanwhile, the Easterner had taken a peculiar stance in which only his side appeared as a target. He emerged with another small throwing knife, though exactly where on his person it had been concealed was impossible to say, and, with a flick of his wrist, sent it underhanded in the direction of one of his enemies. Although the weapon had been thrown too weakly to do any damage, and even failed to arrive at its target point-first, it nevertheless caused him to duck, which permitted Szurke to address himself to his other opponents. He took a step backward, then, much as Khaavren had, feinted toward one while in fact concentrating on the other. This man was in the process of making a lunge at the Easterner’s body—a lunge that would have had murderous effect if Szurke had remained where he was; however, not wishing to feel several inches of steel enter his vitals, he stepped lightly and quickly to the side, after which he delivered three very fast cuts with his thin blade to his opponent’s sword arm, with the result that the Issola’s weapon fell from his nerveless hand.
The three remaining Issola recovered their guard positions, as, in fact, did Khaavren. The two jhereg, as if by command, returned to the Easterner’s shoulders; the Issola they had been chasing took positions next to their comrades, also in guard positions. Szurke, for his part, not only did not assume a guard position, but, on the contrary, ignored his opponents entirely. Instead, he coolly turned toward the stage, bowed, and said, “My apologies for the delay in the beginning of your performance. I give you my word, I look forward to hearing your music once this little matter is disposed of.”
No one spoke. In fact, there was no sound at all, save soft, constant cursing from the Issola whose arm and hand the Easterner had cut and the moans from the one Khaavren had wounded.
Khaavren, never removing his eyes from his opponents, said, “My dear Count, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Well,” said the Easterner.
“You left so quickly before, that I feared the hospitality displeased you.”
“In fact,” said the other, “the klava left something to be desired.”
“Indeed? I am concerned to hear it.”
“It tasted as if it had been made with hot coffee, when, of course, the coffee must be made cold, then heated, then run through the filter.”
“I had not been aware of this circumstance,” said Khaavren. “And I thank you for bringing it to my attention.”
“You are welcome,” said Szurke laconically. “My lord Captain—or should I say brigadier?”
“Captain,” said Khaavren.
“Very good, then. My lord Captain, what should we do with these, ah, miscreants?”
“Miscreants?” said Khaavren.
“Brawlers in public places.”
Khaavren chuckled. “I admit, the notion of arresting them on this charge appeals to my humor. It is less humorous, but more reasonable, to arrest them on a charge of attacking an officer of the Phoenix Guard; a charge, by the way, for which the punishment is death. However—” He paused here and looked at the four Issola who remained in guard position, weapons out. To judge by the expression on their countenances, the statistic recited by Khaavren had no effect on them whatsoever. “However,” he continued, “for now, I should prefer to understand something of what this is all about.” He paused, turned his head toward the stage, and said, “Lady Saruchka, might I trouble you to step forward?”
Now, the reader must understand that Lady Saruchka was not only an Issola, but, moreover, a performer; hence it should come as no surprise to the reader that her reply, when it came, was delivered in a calm, even voice with no hint of agitation. “I will do so, my lord, but I should prefer to have a sword in my hand. Alas, I left mine in the pacing room.”
“But, my lady, if you had the sword, upon whom would you turn it?”
“Why, upon them, my lord. That is to say, my mother’s brother, his son, his daughter, and her husband.”