Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda (29 page)

And Jason Cullinane, thankfully, wasn’t an engineer.

He snapped the breech shut, and then cocked the hammer carefully before even more carefully sliding the primer over the little nipple. He had, just as an experiment, cocked the hammer and primed the gun before closing the breech once this morning. The splintered top of the weathered shooting table stood witness to that, and the resulting bang still had his ears ringing.

He raised the rifle to his shoulder, settled it in against shoulder and cheek, and took careful aim before he rested his finger on the trigger, and pulled on it, slowly increasing the pressure until it —

Bang.

His shot was a palm’s breadth off the mark. He lowered his rifle, and glared at it. “Don’t blame your tools,” she said. “The bullet goes where the rifle is pointed. It doesn’t have a mind of its own. You do, and I think you should get your mind back to what we were discussing.”

“Why Biemestren?” he asked. “Thomen hasn’t summoned me, after all.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

“No, he hasn’t sent for you — and he hasn’t sent for Willen Tyrnael, either. But I’ve just gotten word that Tyrnael is planning a trip to Biemestren, and I don’t know why. I wish I did.”

Jason shrugged. That wasn’t particularly unusual. Yes, generally, the Holtish barons stayed out of the capital except during Parliament, but the Biemish ones came and went as they pleased, and that was only partly because there was less travel involved.

Jason was a special case. His presence made the real nobles — the other nobles — nervous. He didn’t quite fit in. He was, he supposed, too much his father’s son in their eyes, just as he was too little his father’s son in some others’. The barons were always preoccupied with the piddling little details of ruling a barony — taxes and inheritance, works and borders, and the absurd issues of protocol and precedence that he found even more boring than the details of steelmaking.

So, if his presence made others uncomfortable there, and he was uncomfortable there, then what was the point?

Yes, it was important to appear at Parliament, to nod in agreement every time Thomen spoke, to — as Walter Slovotsky insisted — appear to be marveling at the gems that dropped from Thomen’s jaws every time his mouth opened.

Never mind the fact that he actually liked Thomen; the point was that Thomen was the Emperor, and Jason had put him on the throne, and it was only sensible and honorable and reasonable to do everything he could to keep him firmly there.

Ellegon? he thought.
Ellegon?

There was no answer.

He hadn’t really expected one, although it would have been nice. He had known the dragon all of his life, and somehow or other — he was never quite sure why — that enabled him to communicate with Ellegon farther than anybody else could, but that only amounted to a matter of a few leagues.

Ellegon was probably splashing around the lake at Home, alternating munching up a few trout and playing with the children. Children who had grown up around the dragon — as Jason had — just weren’t afraid of him the way that others were.

“How did you get word?” he asked. “You’re not telling me that you have spies in Biemestren?”

She laughed. “Oh, I’ve still got a few connections in the capital. He’s not the only one due in. I got a letter, delivered by Imperial post, a couple of days ago. It’s unsigned, and I don’t recognize the seal, and the proof marks say that it originated in Nerahan, not that I necessarily believe them. It told me that Lady Leria Euar’den — that nice girl who is going to marry Baron Keranahan — has been summoned there, and there’s some question about the marriage.”

“Why would anybody be going to the trouble to tell you that?”

And more, why would anybody be going to the trouble to tell her that in such a circuitous way?

She shrugged. “It seemed strange to me, and stranger still that this letter arrived even before a note from Walter that said just the same thing.” She raised a finger. “So, when you go, don’t take the Prince’s Road; swing out into Adahan, and ride in with a wagon train from New Pittsburgh.”

“All because of some anonymous letter … what’s your real reason, Mother?” he asked.

She loaded her rifle again before answering. “I don’t know. Or maybe I’m just not sure. Intuition?”

You don’t have that kind of intuition, not anymore.

He didn’t say that. Mother had spent her magical abilities in Ehvenor, burned them like they were gunpowder in sealing up the breach between Faerie and reality, and if the cost ever bothered her — and it had to — she never showed that to the world, and not even to her son.

There was something to admire in that. Father would have been the same, if his own sacrifice hadn’t involved blowing himself into tiny little bloody bits on a beach at Melawei. Jason had never heard Mother complain about that, no more than he had heard Tennetty complain about how she lost her eye, no more than he had heard any of the others complain about what they had lost.

Jason Cullinane was the son of two heroes and the companion of others, and he tried to learn from them.

That was hard to do, from time to time, but there were worse fates.

He nodded. “Biemestren it is, then.”

13

A N
IGHT
IN
D
ERENEYL

The only good thing I can think of about letting two idiots settle a controversy with a pair of sharp, pointed pieces of metal is that it
does
settle the controversy.

— Walter Slovotsky

E
RENOR
HAD
TRIED
to talk him out of it, but he had thrown up his hands in frustration when the most he could do was to get Kethol to change clothes before riding into Dereneyl.

Pirojil hadn’t even tried.

It was just as well that they had ridden straight back to the Residence, and not stopped off in Dereneyl in the first place, as Pirojil had wanted. When Kethol had found that Leria was gone — and Miron, as well — he had gone suddenly cold and distant, and couldn’t seem to keep his fingers from clutching the hilt of his sword.

Pirojil thought that he would have been happier if Kethol had broken furniture.

At least he wasn’t fingering his sword now, as they waited for Treseen. Instead, he was constantly kneading his right hand with his left, as though he had hurt it. That wasn’t perfect, but it was better.

Tarnell had taken up his usual position at the door of Treseen’s office, and waited, presumably to make sure that they didn’t rifle through the governor’s papers while they were waiting.

Treseen bustled in, all smiles and handshakes. “Congratulations, Baron, and thank you for coming to see me,” he said. “Tarnell’s just been telling me about the success of your … great adventure, and I’ve sent for both Lord Moarin and Lord Melchen, to join us at dinner tonight.”

Kethol opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Leria,” he finally said.

“Yes.” If Treseen had been beaming any more brightly, it would have been hard to see anything in the room. “Isn’t it wonderful?” He spread his hands. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s only a few tendays before you’re summoned to the capital, as well. With any luck, the two of you will be married before the fall harvest, and I’m very much looking forward to the celebration.” He tapped at the papers in front of him. “Work is important, but it’s these sorts of things that bind us all together.”

He pushed himself back from his chair, and rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s been some minor trouble down by the riverfront, and I’m not at all happy with the chief armsman’s report on it. It’s one of those things where I’d best go see to it myself, unruffle a few ruffled feathers, if it can be said that dwarves have feathers, and —”

Kethol shook his head. “No. We need to settle this, now. You can try to distract me later.”

Treseen’s lips tightened, and Pirojil could more feel than see Tarnell stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

“Distract?” Treseen sat back down heavily. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Baron, and if you don’t mind my saying so, I’m a little offended.”

How could he be both? Pirojil wondered. If he didn’t understand, after all, he wouldn’t be offended — and Treseen very clearly did understand.

Well, honesty was not a major tool of statecraft, after all.

“I’m sure that no offense was intended, Governor,” Pirojil said.

It was the thing to say. It was the thing that Forinel should have said, of course, but Pirojil would have been able to grow old waiting for Kethol to say it. The idiot — just this side of calling the governor a liar?

“I’m sure none was,” the governor said.

Pirojil glared at Kethol.

“No,” Kethol finally said, “of course not.” He shook his head. “It’s just that I was … disappointed.”

Treseen nodded. “That’s more than understandable, and you’ve had a rough few tendays. Yes, of course. You and she were separated for so long; I was heartless not to see how coming home to an empty house would be disappointing, even under the circumstances.” He frowned. “Although I would have thought that that fast-tongued Erenor would have made matters clear to you, as he well should have.”

“I’ll speak to him about it,” Kethol said.

“Good.”

That was better. There was a time and a place for open warfare, but this wasn’t it.

Having Leria in the capital was a
good
thing, at least at the moment, as long as Kethol didn’t screw things up here. Let her talk around court about how quickly on his return Forinel had immediately set to handling a bandit problem that Treseen hadn’t been able to touch. The more she bragged, the more anybody expressed any doubt about what Forinel could do, the better — surely some in Biemestren would doubt, quietly if not openly, that he would succeed. Then, when reports filtered in through both official channels — and the travelers’ gossip that always made things bigger than they were — Forinel’s reputation would grow.

What they should be doing now was simply letting Treseen do what he obviously wanted to do this evening: praise Forinel’s success with the bandits in front of Moarin and the rest of the local nobles.

Perhaps Treseen would even offer to send a joint letter on the subject to Biemestren. Moarin would see the virtue of that, and if it didn’t occur to him, Pirojil would suggest it.

Moarin would, of course, be less than entirely happy to have to pay the costs of building the decoy telegraph line, much less plunking down a bagful of silver marks to pay off his bet, but, of course, he would be enough of a politician to conceal any unhappiness, and to praise Forinel’s courage and strategy to the skies.

It was in his own interest, after all. The more competent the baron had demonstrated himself to be, the stronger the case could be made in Parliament for the lifting of the occupation, which would let the local lords get back to the business of squeezing the peasants and landholders themselves, rather than living off stipends from the governor. It would be a tricky matter, of course, to advocate for that without alienating the governor, but Pirojil could rely on the likes of Moarin and Melchen, and all the rest, to do what came naturally to them — the lot of them had been suckled on intrigue more than milk from their mothers’ tits.

Not that intrigue couldn’t be learned.

“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been distracted, Governor,” Pirojil said. “It seems to me that you are far too busy to handle something like this ‘small unpleasantness’ at the waterfront, what with all the demands on your time.” He gestured at the governor’s desk. “Those many accounts to reconcile, and all.”

Treseen spread his hands. “Yes, but what am I to do?” He turned back to Forinel. “As you’ll see when you take over the barony, when you’re in charge, your life is not your own, and people are usually more interested in persuading you that everything is fine, regardless of the situation, than they are in telling you the truth. Back when I was just a captain of troops, it was my experience that the best way to find things out was to do it myself, and —”

“Or rely on somebody trustworthy,” Kethol said, interrupting. “Like, say, me?” He rose. “You won’t mind me looking into this little problem along the waterfront myself, will you?”

Shit. There he went again.

It was clear to Pirojil that Kethol didn’t believe that there was any problem at the waterfront at all. Kethol obviously thought that Treseen had merely invented a story about problems in the interest of getting the baron out of his office and out of his way, at least for the moment, and would try to find some way to be sure that Forinel didn’t simply go straight to Dereneyl’s chief armsman until Treseen had time to get word to the chief armsman about this fictitious problem.

That might work, in the short run. But it wouldn’t work long, not if a suspicious Forinel simply asked around. Which he would.

Which is why it was even clearer to Pirojil that Treseen wasn’t lying. Overstating a problem, quite possibly — but Treseen wasn’t stupid enough to make up a lie that could be so easily checked.

So he wasn’t at all surprised when Treseen smiled, and immediately reached for his pen and a sheet of vellum.

“Would I mind?” Treseen asked. “How could I possibly mind when you’ve offered to do me such a service, Baron? If you have any questions, Wellum is the chief armsman, and while I’m sure you’d find him most accommodating in any case, with a note from me, I’m doubly sure.”

His smile broadened as he began to write.

***

They had missed the bar fight — which was fine with Pirojil — and almost all of the aftermath of the bar fight, which wasn’t nearly as good.

At their approach, the two battered dwarves supporting the badly injured one had limped off quickly down the street, and a couple of Imperials running after them would likely only have scared them into a full run, if they could have managed it.

The tavern was almost empty.

All of the dwarves were gone, as were the human brawlers. Anybody with a lick of sense, of course, had lit out when the fight had started. The only people remaining in the Spotted Dog were the tavernkeeper himself and a preposterously ugly woman, presumably his wife, whose unrestrained dugs waggled beneath her stained muslin tunic in counterpoint to the sweeping of her broom.