Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda Read online

  You killed with the point much more often than with the edge, of course, but that was no excuse for not having a proper edge. Yes, a sharp edge could chip on armor or steel or even on bone, but if you survived the fight, there was always time to sharpen a chip out.

  “I can’t decide whether you’ve come up or gone down in the world, Pirojil,” Tarnell said, as he helped to unload the bags to the floor. “Last time I saw you, you were with the other two —” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Kethol and Durine.”

  “Yeah — those two. And then you had your own servant — that big fellow, the one who never smiled. This time, you’ve no servant or comrades, and if you had some sort of Imperial warrant, you’d have shoved it under my nose by now — which says you’ve fallen in state. But you’re accompanying two nobles and a wizard, which suggests just the opposite. And isn’t that a captain’s braid on your collar?” he asked, smiling, fondling the captain’s braid on his own collar.

  The last time Pirojil had seen Tarnell, Tarnell had been the decurion in charge of the stables, not the governor’s aide. The governor’s aide had been a weasel-faced little man with an annoying way of looking slantwise out of his eyes at you, and Pirojil didn’t miss him very much.

  “What happened to Ketterling?” he asked.

  “You hadn’t heard?” Tarnell frowned. “Hanged,” he said. “The general — the governor found that he had been peculating.” His face was studiously impassive.

  Well, that was not much of a surprise.

  “Occupation brings opportunities” was an unofficial byword in the Imperial service. Pirojil had never heard of a former occupation officer — particularly not one who acted as a governor’s bursar — having to beg in the streets for his next meal, or, for that matter, having to take up service as even a minor noble’s retainer after leaving office. Somehow, they all seemed to have saved almost miraculous multiples of their salaries.

  It was amazingly sticky stuff, gold and copper and silver.

  Minor corruption was commonly acknowledged, but only irregularly, if severely, punished. After all, more than a few of the older occupation officers had already taken retirement in the barony they had occupied, and if nothing else, the hostility that they had earned from the local lords and wardens guaranteed that they would remain loyal to the Empire long after the occupation was ended, and control of the rest of the Holtish baronies restored to the Holtish barons.

  Yes, every once in a while, an embezzler would be discovered and hanged, and it was probably hoped that that would keep theft down to a minimum, but Pirojil didn’t think that anybody ever got drunk enough to think it would ever be eliminated.

  The timing of this was interesting, though.

  Coincidental that Ketterling was conveniently dead just as the new baron was returning home?

  Pirojil didn’t much believe in coincidences. What was it that Walter Slovotsky said? “I don’t know whoever said that the first time is an accident, the second time is a coincidence, and the third time is enemy action, but whoever it was must have had one shitload of incompetent enemies, and me, I’d like to trade.”

  Yes, Keranahan was under occupation, theoretically under the baron’s reign but in practice and in law under the governor’s rule, but, still, if Forinel wasn’t given access to the account books if — when — he requested it, there would be some definite Imperial interest.

  The governor had bought himself some time, that was all. No wonder Treseen had scurried home, the first to leave after Parliament had let out.

  Treseen hadn’t known that it hadn’t been necessary, after all.

  While Kethol/Forinel was not totally illiterate nor utterly innumerate, he would have been no more capable than Pirojil was of penetrating a maze of account books.

  Leria, on the other hand …

  “Where is he?” Pirojil asked. “And is there some good reason that the governor himself hasn’t rushed downstairs to greet the baron?”

  Tarnell held up a hand. “Hey, Pirojil — take an even strain, man. He just got in from Parliament four days ago, and he’s not only had to try and then hang Ketterling, and then start to catch up on his own work — and Ketterling’s — but his new jerfalcon has taken sick with some sort of feather rot, and he was up half the night with her. He asked me to see to the bar — to all of the visitors’ comforts, and then bring you to his office.”

  Pirojil didn’t believe that, either — more likely, the governor had been out riding an old horse or a new wench, or had just been up drinking himself into a stupor late the night before, and had just crawled out of bed. Tarnell had been with Treseen since the war; loyal old Tarnell was just covering for him.

  “Then let’s go see him.”

  “Oh, please — there’s no rush. Why not have a bath and a meal first? I can have the cook fry you up a couple of chickens and some turnip cake, and have it all ready by the time you’re clean.”

  “The governor, first.”

  “But —”

  “Will my word do, Tarnell, or do you need to hear it from the baron himself?”

  “Argh.” Tarnell made a face. “As you wish.”

  Tarnell ushered Pirojil and the other three in. After making quick introductions — and, indirectly, covering for Forinel if he forgot that Forinel hadn’t met Tarnell before, even though Kethol had — they followed Tarnell up the main staircase to the governor’s office in what had, Pirojil suspected, been the castle nursery, back when the Keranahan barons lived in Dereneyl, before the occupation.

  There were two men waiting, and they stood as Tarnell led Pirojil and the rest in.

  One was Governor — formerly General — Treseen.

  It was easy to underestimate the Treseen that was slowly, painfully, rising from his chair to greet them. Vanity didn’t necessarily mean incompetence, although he was vain; his hair had been carefully blackened, leaving only pompous silver traces at the temples. There was something wrong, something weak about his eyes, as though he could never quite focus them properly. What had been a strong jaw had long since become sagging jowls, and his massive belly spoke of too much comfort over too much time. His sword belt — and the sword was, of course, a curved saber, announcing that Treseen never planned on dismounting while hacking down at foot soldiers — hung from a coatrack to his left, well out of reach.

  Peacetime reflexes.

  But Pirojil had heard some of the wartime stories about him, including the breaking of the siege at Moarin, and it didn’t pass his notice that the bone-handled letter opener on Treseen’s desk was within easy reach of his right hand, and was shaped more like a dagger than such things usually were, and he would have been happy to bet that the edge was sharper than it had any business being.

  It was the other man, though, that made Pirojil’s hands itch for the hilt of his own sword. Or the pistols on his belt. Or, preferably, a large, spiked club.

  Miron.

  Miron — more formally, Lord Miron, Forinel’s half-brother, son of the late, unlamented Elanee, and almost certainly her co-conspirator, although everybody who could have shed any proof on that charge was either dead or fled. Pirojil would have resented that more if he hadn’t killed or scattered most of them himself.

  “It is good to see you all,” Miron said, his smile only a little too broad to be believable — not that Pirojil would have believed it anyway.

  Miron always reminded Pirojil of, of — of somebody he had known, a long time ago: a strong, aquiline nose under suspiciously innocuous blue eyes, a generous mouth that smiled far too much. His jaw was too square, the sharpness only slightly relieved by a very carefully trimmed fringe of beard that reminded Pirojil of Baron Tyrnael’s.

  Miron was tall and lean, but broad-shouldered like a peasant, as though he had spent much of his life in strenuous outdoor labor, an effect heightened by the even, dark tan across his face and neck.

  And what was that strenuous outdoor labor? Riding down fleeing peasant girls?

  Miron’s wrists,
though, those were what Pirojil always looked at — both were thick, the muscles well defined and always held in tension, as though he was keeping himself instantly ready to pass a blade from his powerful right hand to an equally powerful left.

  There were a few — too few — dueling scars on the right wrist. The scars were to be expected, but did the paucity of them mean that he had rarely been touched, or that his vanity had caused him to let only a few heal naturally?

  Pirojil wouldn’t have wanted to bet either way, but if Pirojil ever had to fight him, he would be sure to watch Miron’s left hand as much as his right, although more than likely what he really should be watching for would be a knife in the back from some accomplice.

  Governor Treseen waddled out from around the desk and took Leria’s arm, ignoring Forinel’s glare as he helped her to a chair.

  Pirojil forced himself not to roll his eyes.

  Shit, man, it’s not like he’s the sort to bend her over the desk and yank up her dress, after all.

  Treseen was, of course, probably the sort to idly wonder what doing that would be like, but Pirojil had no problem with that, Pirojil being the same way. He wouldn’t do it — even if the lady were willing, which was beyond mere unlikelihood — but he didn’t mind thinking about it. Wondering didn’t hurt anything, as long as Kethol didn’t see Pirojil watching the way her hips swayed when she walked, and Pirojil was careful to be sure that he didn’t.

  What went on in the recesses of your mind didn’t matter, as long as you kept it there.

  Still, Forinel’s glare was perfectly in character for a newly affianced baron, so Pirojil let himself relax. He would just let it be. There was enough for Pirojil to complain about concerning Kethol’s inadequacies without bothering Leria or Kethol — or himself, for that matter — about the few things that actually looked right.

  “Please, Baron, my lady, be seated. You, too, Erenor.” Treseen cocked his head at Miron. “Lord Miron, I don’t know if you met Erenor in Biemestren. I don’t know him well myself; we had the chance to exchange but a few words — a hello and such.” His smile broadened. “And fortunately for me, they were words I can remember, or I’d likely have found myself sprouting feathers from my nose, or some such thing.”

  “No, I haven’t met him,” Miron said, his smile still genuine as faerie gold. “I didn’t have that pleasure. I was, you’ll recall, somewhat preoccupied with other matters when my beloved brother made his very dramatic entrance. Erenor, is it?”

  “Erenor the Great, he’s called.”

  Not that “the Great” was an uncommon appellation for wizards. Just once, Pirojil would have liked to meet a wizard who billed himself, honestly, as “the Barely Adequate” or “the Not Utterly Incompetent.” The closest he could think of was Vair the Uncertain, and Vair was a frighteningly powerful wizard.

  “Erenor the Great.” Treseen’s smile and laugh seemed more than a little forced. “And, surely enough he deserves that appellation for having been able to locate Baron Forinel, after so many years of absence.”

  “Please.” Erenor spread his hands. “General, you do give me too much credit. It was just a matter of assembling the right tools, and choosing to use them, after all.”

  There was also the matter of the ring that the real Forinel had given Leria before he had left Holtun, and which she had kept hidden over the years.

  The boy Forinel had been given that ring by his late father. As a boy, and he had worn that ring for years, first on his thumb and then on smaller fingers as he grew into it. He had worn it long enough and with enough intent that there was a real connection between Forinel and the ring. It had taken a far more adept wizard than Erenor to exploit it, but it had seemed expedient to let Erenor get the credit.

  “A modest wizard.” Treseen shook his head.

  “Who is it who dares to suggest that we do not live in an age of wonders?” Miron asked the air. “Surely not I. Yes, Erenor the Great does deserve much for his accomplishment.”

  In an eyeblink, the hard look he gave Erenor was replaced by a grin that gave the lie to what that “much” that Miron would have liked to give Erenor was. “But I’m disappointed in you, Governor — here the baron and his company have just arrived after a most … unusual trip, and you’ve yet to offer them so much as a drink of water or a crust of bread.”

  “I’m properly chastened, and I’m far too responsible to lie and claim that I’d already given orders to that effect,” Treseen said, raising a hand and gesturing toward Tarnell. “Some refreshments for the baron and his company, Tarnell, if you please.”

  The flick of Treseen’s fingers made it clear that he meant for Tarnell to go and fetch, but he didn’t appear surprised when Tarnell simply reached over to the wall and took down a speaking tube, spoke a few words into it, and then replaced it, an impassive look on his face.

  Loyalty, Pirojil decided, was sometimes as much a mirror as a shield. Tarnell had been perfectly willing to leave Miron alone with Treseen, but not Pirojil and the others. That was every bit as revealing as Treseen not having blamed Tarnell for having failed to see to the party’s needs.

  “You seem surprised to see me, brother,” Miron said, turning toward Forinel.

  “No. It’s just that —”

  “It’s just that,” Leria said, laying her hand on Forinel’s arm, “we would have thought that you’d not dare to show yourself in Keranahan.”

  “Me?” Miron laid a spread-fingered hand over his heart. “Why?”

  “I think that you know very well why,” she said, not taking his light tone.

  “Why should I be in any way reluctant to return to my own home? Because of those spurious accusations that I was in some, some sort of conspiracy with my mother? Or some silly, preposterous complaint that I cut down a rude churl or two in Adahan? The former is a lie, spread only in whispers, and the latter is true, but not important.”

  He waved the accusations away with an effete-looking flutter of his thick wrist. “If there is any evidence, any evidence at all, that I was somehow conspiring with my mother, trot it out, please, and place it before the governor, here, and let him judge me himself.”

  Pirojil had seen Miron play the innocent dandy before, and he wouldn’t have believed it even before he’d met Erenor, and been more thoroughly — and expensively — educated as to how false superficial impressions could be.

  “So, Miron,” Leria said, “what do you think your mother was doing, raising that dragon in hiding?”

  Miron spread his hands. “Knowing her as I did, knowing her to be the woman that she was, I’m sure that she intended to gift the Emperor with it. All this talk about how she had tricked Walter Slovotsky and Ellegon into coming to Keranahan is silly. But she’s dead, alas, and I think it’s even more unbecoming for me to have to defend her reputation than it is for others to demean her, now that she is not here and cannot speak in her own defense.”

  That was a preposterous explanation, but that was one of the good things about being a noble, Pirojil decided. You could get away with a preposterous explanation. Most of the time.

  Miron turned back to Forinel. “You weren’t such a quiet sort in the old days, brother. My late mother used to complain that it was all she could do to get you to pause in your babblings at dinner.”

  Leria laughed. It sounded phony in Pirojil’s ears, but he had heard the lady laugh for real.

  “That’s silly, Miron,” she said. “Old days or new days, Forinel has always been one to say little and do much. Unlike some people I could think of.”

  Miron’s lips tightened, but he didn’t say anything to her; he just looked over at Forinel.

  Pirojil gave Forinel a nudge. Leria was Forinel’s betrothed, and that made him responsible for anything she did. It was Forinel’s duty to shut her up.

  Of course, knowing Leria, that was exactly why she had made the dig at Miron.

  Pirojil nudged Forinel again, harder this time.

  “I think, Lady,” Miron started, “t
hat —”

  “Excuse me.” Forinel leaned forward. “I think — I think that my betrothed has been spending too much time around Erenor, and that she lets her tongue wag far too freely,” Forinel said. “I’ll ask your pardon on her behalf. Brother.”

  “Now, really, Forinel, there’s no need for that.” Miron made a face. “Lady Leria is, of course, absolutely charming, as always. There’s nothing to apologize for, and so no reason to accept an apology.”

  “I’m sorry, Lord Miron,” Forinel said, rising. “I suppose I wasn’t clear enough, so I’ll try again. As her betrothed, I’m responsible for her behavior, and I take my responsibilities very seriously. If you take offense, we’ve a courtyard outside, and we both are wearing swords — I’ll be happy to discuss it there, and with them. Will you be satisfied with the first blood?”

  “Baron?” Treseen’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure I didn’t hear you say what I’m sure I just heard you say.”

  Even Leria looked shocked.

  Well, that was the sort of gaffe that Pirojil should have expected. Challenging Miron?

  That aside — and that was a lot to put aside — Pirojil was almost impressed with Forinel’s manner.

  Maybe they could pull this off after all. The awkwardness of Forinel’s phrasing could be easily attributed to his long absence from polite society. The rest of it, though, was pure Kethol — if you had an enemy, you cut him down now, and worried about the cost later — but it wasn’t a bad line to take, as long as you just talked about it.

  Doing it? That would be another matter. That sort of thing was a luxury that they just didn’t have, not with Forinel as the baron.

  Young noblemen engaging in the occasional duel was more expected than not. While it wasn’t impossible to get killed in such a thing, it was extremely rare — most duels were fought to the first blood, after all, with a swordmaster standing by, staff in hand, to knock aside the dueling swords after so much as a scratch. And it was no coincidence that most nobles chose to hold their duels conveniently close to a temple, where even if a healer was not standing by, one could be quickly summoned. The short rapiers that noblemen carried on a daily basis were designed for thrusting, not cutting, and while a thrusting blow was theoretically far more capable of killing instantly than a slash was, that was only true if the thrust went to the heart or head — and any but the best swordsmen would find that well before they had worked themselves close enough to touch their opponent’s torso, they would themselves first have been struck on the hand, or arm, or leg, or foot.