Five Hundred Years After (Phoenix Guards) by Steven Brust

was—the Consort?”
    “You have answered your own question.”
    Pel nodded, then, abruptly, he stood, and pressed Khaavren’s hand. “You have given me no little help, my old friend. If there is anything I can do for you—”
    “Ah, but there is.”
    Pel’s eyes narrowed by such a small degree Khaavren hardly noticed. “What is it, then? If it is anything I can do without compromising—”
    “Yes, Pel, it is that you stop neglecting your old friend, and come to me and visit from time to time, while I rot away to insignificance and you shine ever brighter, like a fire to which an invisible hand is adding log after log.”
    Pel smiled. “You may be assured that I will not neglect you, Khaavren. But I also assure you that, even if you believe what you have just said about rotting away to insignificance, I do not. There are some natures that are destined to
rise to ever greater heights until they tower over all other mortals. The first of those I recognized was Adron e’Kieron, the Duke of Eastmanswatch. And, though I did not realize it at first, you are another. So have no fear.”
    “I agree about the first, Pel, but as to the second—”
    “Remember my words, good Khaavren. And, to make them the stronger, I shall leave you with them, for I must be on my way at once.”
    And, after pressing his friend’s hand again, Pel put his hood up over his head and left Khaavren, who was still standing, staring after him, a bemused smile on his lips.

Chapter the Third
    Which Treats of Pastries,
And of the Care that Must
Be Exercised with Regard to
Casual Correspondence.
     
     
     
    K HAAVREN LEFT THE DRAGON WING for home shortly after Pel’s exit. Although the Tiassa, as ensign, had the right to quarters in the Dragon Wing, he kept as his own residence the house on the Street of the Glass Cutters, which we hope our readers will recall without further prompting. On the way, as was his custom, he stopped for a pastry from the vendor who took as his station the place where the Avenue of Seven Swans Park intersected with the Street of the Dragon.
    The vendor, a Teckla named Raf, greeted Khaavren respectfully and said, “To-day, my lord, the pastries are venison, and have, in addition, a filling of mushrooms, both of which ingredients were left for some hours in a marinade of wine and tarragon before being cooked together and folded into the pastry.”
    Khaavren nodded and accepted one, for which he did not pay, as Raf was accustomed to give the Tiassa what he wanted out of gratitude for the way the latter had settled a territorial dispute with another vendor of pastries some ninety years before. Raf, therefore, not only handed over the pastry, which was deliciously warm from having been kept over the hot coals with which the cart was filled, but he also bowed as he did so. Khaavren wordlessly acknowledged the gift and the bow as no less than his due and turned toward home, when, being struck by a sudden thought, he turned back and said, “How is business, my dear Raf?”
    The Teckla, startled by the onset of conversation where he had anticipated only silence, took a moment to gather his wits, after which he said, “Business, my lord? Pardon me, but does Your Lordship do me the honor of asking about my business?”
    “You have understood me exactly, my dear Raf, that is what I am asking you.”
    “Well then, my lord, since you ask, I will reply, and frankly at that.”
    “That is what I wish.”
    “Business, my lord, is good. I have sold as many pastries today as I did yester-day, and because to-morrow is Market Day, I expect to sell even more to-morrow.”
    “And so you are surviving, Raf?”
    “Indeed I am, my lord. In fact, I am more than surviving; I am positively flourishing.”
    “How, flourishing?”
    “Yes, my lord. To such an extent, in fact, that my wife has been able to buy the best glazes, so that her pottery has begun to sell better than ever, which means, in turn, that I have been able to secure