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

fact, the Empress—required even more effort. It seemed that a hundred emissaries a day would enter, to be bullied, cajoled, or entertained; and a thousand letters had to be written, many of them signed with her own hand—that is to say, her own pen. Indeed, it seemed to her that she had been working, without a pause, forsomething like a hundred years, although a hundred days was, in fact, closer to the mark.
    But, for whatever reason, or combination of reasons, Zerika, on that day, at that hour, came to the realization that she could no longer concentrate on her work; that she (as does everyone, whether engaged in physical labor, mental calculation, or emotional turmoil) needed to rest herself. This may appear to be a small matter—an accident, no more; yet, what is history except the arrangement of accidents, combined with the activity of human will operating on those accidents? To put it another way, one might say that man, who sets out to make history according to his wishes (although, to be sure, he is usually unaware that he is doing so) must perpetually weave his way in and out of happenstance and chance incidents; some far-reaching in their effect, some so trivial as to be lost, receding in the ocean of events before their occurrence, like a speck of sand upon the beach, can even be noted.
    The reader may ask: Is it the actions, more or less deliberate, of men striving to make the world as they wish that determine the eventual course of history, or is it the preponderance of accidents? One must admit that if the answer were simple, the Imperial library would not be packed full of books purporting to answer this very question; the entire discipline of historiology would not exist. But for our purposes, the answer is this: Both factors weave in and out of each other, men doing the best they can with circumstances that might have been determined by caprice or chance, and then, in attempting to shape events, generating, as an ice-house generates steam, a fresh outpouring of accidents; a process that continues forever.
    And, in this case, the accident was that it was on this day, rather than the day before or the day after, that Zerika happened to decide, to the extent of throwing her pen across the room, that she had had enough work, and must give herself something of a holiday or else she would, as she put it to herself, “either dissolve into the Orb, or explode like my predecessor.”
    Having come to this decision, then, Zerika called out, “Captain! Sergeant! Ensign!” We should explain that it was not, in fact, three soldiers for whom Her Majesty called, but, in fact, only one: in such circumstances, she had been accustomed to summon the captain, and so had made the first call. She then, however, remembered that the captain was no longer on duty, and, instead, recalled to her mind hisreplacement, the first name on the list with which Khaavren had presented her, that being an experienced guardsman whose name happened to be Sergeant. On reflection, however, after asking for him, she thought she ought to address him by his rank, which a moment’s reflection brought to her mind; it being, of course, Ensign.
    Whether three or one, this worthy appeared quickly enough in answer to her call and made a respectful bow.
    “Your Majesty desired something?”
    “Yes, Ensign. I desire to be entertained.”
    The worthy soldier frowned. “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon, but, while I know a few barracks songs well enough to sing them when there are enough other voices so that mine is lost—”
    “No, you idiot. I am not asking you to entertain me.”
    “Ah. Well, I tell Your Majesty in all honesty that I am just as glad.”
    “I wish to know,” said Zerika, speaking slowly and carefully, as one might speak to an outlander or a small child, “what entertainments are available this evening—entertainments that it would not compromise the dignity of the Orb for me to be at. I require distraction, life, noise.”
    “Your