Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda (39 page)

He guessed that that sour-faced Sister Bertha had been right when she wrote down “doesn’t play well with others” on his report card, closer to four decades ago than he was comfortable thinking about.

Then again, if the universe — this one or the one on the Other Side, assuming they were different — had been designed for his convenience, he figured he was long due for a refund on defective merchandise.

Aiea had brought him lunch on a tray at his new office. It was a suite of three rooms on the third story of the Imperial Keep, just down the hall from where a trio from the House Guard kept a watch on the Emperor’s bedroom — killing a man while he’s sleeping is one of those old faithfuls that never quite goes out of style — and perhaps more than a little on the Imperial proctor.

She plopped down in his lap. There were moments when he didn’t revel in how comfortable she was with him, but those were few and far between. Not at all like it had become with his ex-wife, Kirah, who had gradually grown to the point where she couldn’t stand his touch.

“I’ve heard,” she said, “that you’ve gotten a telegraph from Nerahan.”

“The barony, or the baron?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

“Please.” She frowned, and shook her head. “The baron. Which is surprising. As we all know, Bob,” she said with a grin — she had apparently been spending too much time with her mother, Andrea, again — “Baron Nerahan has no particular love for you.”

That was true enough. On the other hand, Nerahan was smart enough to know that word of Baron Keranahan’s disappearance had to get to Biemestren quickly, and unfond enough of Treseen to mention that it had been closer to a full tenday since Keranahan had disappeared from there, in the wake of some unpleasantness that Nerahan was probably honest in saying that he didn’t know anything about — but which meant, in any case, that it would be any day now that Forinel would be knocking on the castle doors.

He wasn’t the only inbound baron, either — Jason Cullinane was on his way in, and Tyrnael, as well.

Not exactly Walter Slovotsky’s idea of a good rump Parliament session, but nobody, apparently, was asking his opinion.

“And I’m not the only one who has heard. Garavar craves an audience, and Bren Adahan has wired you to stay put until he gets in, day after tomorrow.”

“Is he bringing Kirah and Doranne?”

“He didn’t say, which probably means that they are staying in New Pittsburgh.” She smiled. “Which is fine with me —”

“I thought you like my daughter. Both of my daughters.”

She ran her fingers gently down the side of his neck. “If you want to change the subject, that’s fine with me. Yes, I like both of them. I don’t even mind Kirah, not much.”

“So —”

“But you should know that
he
says
he
wants to see you, too. At your earliest convenience, which means, I think, right now, or he’ll send for some guards to march you over.”

“You didn’t want to mention that right away?”

“Well, you seemed to have other ideas. I thought Thomen could wait for a little while.”

“Wonderful.”

Not that he had any problem going to talk to Thomen. For once, he and Beralyn were in agreement about something: that stunt that Thomen had pulled with the margrave was something that Walter had been looking for an opportunity to chew His Imperial Highness out over, in detail, and with as much heat as it was safe to muster when chewing out the Emperor.

The shot had been impressive, granted. But, coming from the keep, it was a good hundred, hundred and fifty yards, at least, and it had just been pure, dumb luck that the shot hadn’t gone totally wide — which would have ruined the effect of it all — or taken Thomen’s fool head off, which would have been worse.

If Thomen was going to do something that risky, he should have consulted with his lord proctor, who would, Walter Slovotsky devoutly hoped, have been able to talk him out of it, and surely would have tried.

Walter wasn’t one to quibble with success — and surely the margrave had gone back to Nyphien very impressed with the quality of the best of the Imperial marksmen — but shit, that had been stupid.

Walter Slovotsky was stunned by the abilities of whoever that marksman was — that had been a miraculous shot — but nobody was talking to him about it, although he had asked around, and Derinald was about as useful as usual, which was to say that he managed to occupy a body-volume full of air.

Well, things had already gone to hell, anyway, what with the still-living Derinald sending him daily notes about nothing much, and Walter watching and waiting for Derinald to show up dead, which he hadn’t yet been considerate enough to do.

“The life of an Imperial proctor is never a quiet one,” he said, straightening.

It could be worse. He rubbed his back, and tentatively straightened his knee — time to see the damn Spider again. Still …

It was good to get up and move; he had been working in just trousers and a blousy shirt, going over reports.

An empire — even a small one, consisting of just two countries that had been united in a war — flowed on a river of paper. There was the steel production in New Pittsburgh to go over, and the curiously small taxes just in from Niphael, despite what appeared to be a bumper crop of wheat and oats, and requests for Imperial troops to be moved from Adahan to Tyrnael, and never mind the Biemestren master-at-arms’s report of increased brawls in the city and a particularly ugly rape-and-murder in Kernat Village, just down the river, that the armsmen were having no success at all in solving, and probably never would.

Someday, with any luck, reporting of such things would be done on some sort of regular basis, so that somebody could sit back and take a look at the whole picture. But it was hard to figure out how to plan a forest when you spent all your time pissing on little wildfires.

He sighed as he stood and stretched, then picked up a leather vest from where it hung on the chair next to his desk. Long practice kept him from letting it collide with the desk. The thunking sound would have revealed at least one of the throwing knives just under the hem, or the slash pocket inside the vest that kept his revolver at just about the same position that a shoulder holster would have.

“So,” he asked, “do you want to come along?”

“He didn’t send for me.”

“If he doesn’t want you to stay, he’ll ask you to go.”

“No; but I thank you anyway, good Lord Proctor.” She shook her head as she sank into his chair. “If you’re not going to eat your lunch, I may as well.” She picked up a meatroll and popped it into her mouth.

Damn. She even chewed prettily.

***

Thomen Furnael, Baron of the Prince’s Barony, Prince of Bieme, and Emperor of Holtun-Bieme, was in the garderobe when Walter was admitted to the east wing.

Which didn’t particularly surprise Walter. Even an emperor has to take a dump, every now and then, after all.

Walter waited until Thomen emerged from the garderobe, dressed only in a silken robe, belted loosely around his waist. He washed his hands in the washing bowl on the wall, then splashed some water on his face, and accepted a soft towel from the serving girl, dried himself, and handed it back to her.

“Thank you,” he said.

She smiled back with very nice dimples, gave a light bow, and walked away down the hall.

Thomen retied his robe belt and stepped into a loose pair of slippers.

Put a pipe in his mouth, and a large-breasted blonde on each arm, and he’d look like a young Hugh Hefner.

“So nice of you to come to see me, Walter,” he said. “You wouldn’t have time, this fine afternoon, to go for a short ride with your emperor, by any chance?”

“I haven’t been on a horse for a week or more,” Walter said.

“Then I think it’s about time. I seem to recall somebody telling me that I needed to get out more into the fresh air, not all that long ago. In fact, if I recall correctly, that somebody climbed into my room in the middle of the night — scaring me half out of my wits in the process — to tell me that, among other things.”

“The Emperor must be mistaken. Everybody knows that the castle is far too secure for any such thing.”

“It is now. I think. The north field?”

“Dealer’s choice.”

They had been speaking in English; whether Thomen preferred talking in English with Walter because they were less likely to be understood if overheard, or just to show off, wasn’t one of those questions that you could ask an emperor. It probably wasn’t out of any worry that they would be overheard. There are always security concerns about the emperor going for a ride, but the fallow fields to the north of the castle should be safe enough, as long as he didn’t make a habit of doing it too often, and kept his habits irregular.

Walter didn’t really think that any of the barons would be stupid enough to try to have the Emperor assassinated — everybody knew full well who would grab the crown if that happened — but it was never a particularly good idea to rely on anybody else’s intelligence, and dangerous enough to rely on your own.

“As you wish.”

“I’ll go change into some riding clothes —” Thomen held up a peremptory palm. “Nothing in Imperial colors, mind — and then we can go saddle our own horses.”

Yippy skippy. We can saddle our own fucking horses. Yay.
“If I’m really good, can I muck out the stalls, too?”

“We’ll see.”

***

They were almost out of sight of the castle before Thomen said anything other than a few pleasantries.

It was a nice enough day. Birds chirped in the trees, and the wind came across the fields, carrying a nice, sunbaked smell, rather than the stink of the city. To the extent that Walter could ignore the company of Imperials on the road to the east, and the other one to the west, it was almost like they were alone, a couple of friends out for a pleasant ride.

“So?” Thomen asked. “Aren’t you going to berate me for that ‘silly little stunt’ of the other day?”

“I kind of figured that your mother had already done enough of that,” he said. “Not that she said anything about that in public — if you listen to what she’s been telling Leria and Greta and all the rest of her attendants, it was a brilliant political move.”

“You don’t think so.”

No, he didn’t think so. It was the kind of fool stunt that Karl would have pulled. But maybe it was best to let Thomen work that out by himself.

“I don’t like to argue with success. You sent the margrave home worrying more about the quality of our marksmen and our weapons, rather than trying to compare the numbers — although those are still in the Empire’s favor.”

“For now.”

“And will be, for the foreseeable — unless you think that a bunch of clumsy Nyphs can start making rifles as quickly as Riccetti’s engineers.”

“You know, that’s the one thing that I’ve never liked about you, or even Karl. You always tend to assume that we — we ‘natives,’ isn’t it? — that we natives can never be as clever as you Other Siders.”

That wasn’t true. But there was no sense in arguing about it. It wasn’t a matter of cleverness, but of knowledge, that had shaken up the Middle Lands — and most of the knowledge hadn’t been even Karl’s or Walter’s. Take some basic sixteenth-century — Other Side reckoning — knowledge about how to make gunpowder, add in enough resolution to make some changes, and there would be changes. It wasn’t as though Karl had thought he was some sort of Che Guevara — and Walter knew enough about the reality of that to know that that myth was bogus, too: he knew about Guevara running around like an idiot across Africa playing revolutionary, while the CIA had been busy making sure that everything he did failed embarrassingly.

Things had just happened, year by year, until Karl’s revenge on the Slavers Guild had ended up putting a crown on his head.

Besides, Walter did think he was cleverer than most. That was just because it was true, after all.

Thomen shook his head. “I would have thought that your time at court would have taught you a little about how devious us primitive types can be.”

“I noticed.”

Thomen laughed. And then his expression grew somber. “I don’t like conspiracies. I guess I’m more like Karl than you — I like things out in the open. I like it when there’s a problem that you can solve by smashing something flat, or building something up, or even just making a deal. But too often it all gets … so complicated.” His fingers played with his mare’s mane. “An emperor should try to stay above it all, don’t you think?”

Walter shrugged. “I guess that’s what you have me for, in part, isn’t it?”

“Perhaps. And since that’s what I have you for, perhaps you’ll tell me why Baron Keranahan is on his way here, with — so I’m told — blood in his eye.”

“Probably to kill his half-brother. Not that I blame him. Not that you should try to stop him.” “Oh?”

“You know as well as I do that Miron was every bit as involved as Elanee was in that attempt on Ellegon.” “Know? Of course I
know
. I’m not an idiot, no matter that that’s the only thing that you and Mother seem to agree on. It only makes sense — but if I start killing off nobles for things I can’t prove, I am going to have to start worrying rather more about assassination attempts on me. I’d have to have something close to proof, and I don’t.”

“Proof might be provided. Good enough proof, that is.”

“From you?” Thomen shook his head. “I don’t think so. What are you going to do? Write up a confession and sign his name to it?”

“I don’t think that would work, do you?”

“No, I don’t think that would work.”

Then again, maybe Derinald might be of some use after all. Perhaps Miron had made some sort of late-night, drunken confession? The trick would be in the details — but the details could be worked out.

It was something to think about. “Well, at least I’m not idiot enough to risk my life just to make a silly little point about Imperial marksmen.”

Thomen smiled. “Oh, that.”

He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a metal tube. It looked like a pistol barrel — it
was
a pistol barrel, complete with a little nipple at the breech.