Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda (41 page)

The proctor and the baron made an unlikely pair: Slovotsky, pleasantly homely — although he always carried himself as though he thought otherwise — in his typical, middle-class blousy white shirt, leather vest, and trousers, without so much as a signet ring decorating any of his fingers, ran those fingers through his thinning hair, mussing it even further; Adahan, impeccably dressed in a well-fitting cream-colored linen tunic and matching leggings that set off his shock of perfectly combed brown hair and dark eyes, sat back in his chair with his fingers tented. Two seals hung from almost preposterously thin golden chains looped around his neck, as though declaring that he couldn’t go through an hour without finding some document that needed either his ministerial or baronial seal.

Both men had taken off their swords, and looped their belts over the backs of their chairs; they had apparently been sitting, sipping at whatever was in the dew-beaded glasses on the tables next to their chairs.

“You’ve had a long few days — and they are about to get longer, over the next few,” Slovotsky said, waving the three of them to chairs.

What would a baron do? Kethol was getting tired of asking himself that question, so he just sat. Pirojil and Erenor should be waiting for the baron to say something — and the two of them were looking at him, waiting for him to say something — so he did. “It’s a strange welcome to Biemestren, to be accosted by a troop of the Emperor’s Own.”

Slovotsky smiled. “Well, it’s strange enough for a baron to be trying to sneak into the capital.”

Bren Adahan nodded in agreement. “I know you’ve been away for years, but the … conventionalities need to be followed.” He sipped at his drink.

Pirojil made a face. “What’s so conventional about Miron trying to have the baron killed?”

“Yes, there is that.” Slovotsky nodded. “I see your point. I’ve only gotten the bare bones of the story — I’d like the full details.”

Erenor rose and poured himself a glass from the pitcher on the side table. He took a sip and nodded. “Hot or cold, there’s always better tea in the capital — and you’d best ring for some more. This may take some time.”

Kethol let Erenor talk. Erenor liked to talk, and it took some time.

***

“The problem,” Walter Slovotsky said, “is a matter of proof. And all the proof is dead.”

Kethol didn’t like hearing that, but Pirojil saw the point, and so did Erenor.

The wizard nodded. “I’m so very sorry that this assassin inconvenienced us all by dying, but we had other concerns at the time.”

Slovotsky laughed. “I can see that. But the point is, I’ve gotten orders from the Emperor himself that the baron is not to get himself involved in a duel with Miron.” He tilted his head to one side. “A fight that I’m not entirely sure you could win, anyway.”

Kethol leaned forward. “Everybody knows that Miron —”

“No.” Bren Adahan — Baron Adahan — held up a hand. “Everybody
knows
nothing. Many people
suspect
many things; I think you’re probably right.

“I
suspect
that Miron was involved with his mother’s plot. I
suspect
that Miron carefully set up the assassination, and then left for Biemestren, so that he could be here and not there when the news arrived. I
suspect
that he’s thick enough with Tyrnael and enough of the other barons that he could reliably have counted on getting the title — particularly since there is no other candidate with a good claim. I more than
suspect
that would be a terrible precedent — there’s lots of younger brothers of baronial heirs around, and I don’t think it would be a good idea if it became easy for them to improve themselves simply by getting their big brothers knocked off.

“I had a brother, once.” His eyes closed for a moment, then opened. “He was supposed to inherit my barony, and I’d give up all of it, every bit of it, if only he was here today.”

They all were silent for a few moments. But then Walter Slovotsky grinned. “I think your brother would have given up dying, too, in exchange for Barony Adahan.”

Adahan’s lips tightened. “There are times when you press me too far, Walter.”

“Then I’d better stop, eh?”

Adahan gave him another glare, but it had the feel of him doing something that he had done a thousand times before, a man reacting to a habitual irritation with a habitual frown.

He shook his head. “What I don’t understand is Beralyn’s role in all of this, and I can hardly ask her.”

“I don’t think she was involved in this,” Slovotsky said.

“That’s unusual,” Adahan said. “You’re usually ready to accuse her of anything from a deep conspiracy to being the cause of too many mosquitoes in spring.”

Slovotsky grunted. “I just don’t believe in things being that much more complicated than they appear. If she and Miron were somehow conspiring — and why she should want Baron Forinel dead —”

“Other,” Pirojil said, “than that she had seemed to have picked Leria to be her new daughter-in-law. I heard that from you.”

“I remember you when you were just an ordinary soldier, Captain; it wasn’t all that long ago. You didn’t used to interrupt your betters so easily.” He looked over at Kethol. “If you’re going to keep him around, I think you’d better have some words with him.” He cleared his throat and took another drink. “As I was saying — before I was so rudely interrupted — she and Thomen have already picked another winner of that beauty pageant, and while I think she’d have been more than bloodthirsty enough to have Forinel bumped off to get him out of the way, I don’t think there’s any reason to believe her that reckless, not with the matter settled.

“So that explanation is out, unless you want to assume that she is one of those people who likes to complicate things just to make them more complicated, and she isn’t.” He nodded, smiling in agreement with himself. Walter Slovotsky was always his own best audience. “And since the new empress is going to be Tyrnael’s daughter, that should pretty much quiet Tyrnael down. And with you marrying Leria in … two days?”

“Three,” Adahan said. “Arondael and Forsteen just wired that they won’t be able to get in until the day after tomorrow, so we’ve pushed it a day back.” He shrugged. “It’s all going to seem unseemly hurried, in any case.”

Slovotsky’s smile broadened. “But that’s the best part — we marry Forinel off to Leria, and then we announce the marriage of Greta and the Emperor. The giggling — and these nobles giggle like a bunch of schoolgirls — about the reason for the rush should persuade Miron that his chance to end up as Baron Keranahan will be over in less than a couple of dozen tendays.

“The Emperor’s marriage gives Tyrnael what he wants, which means that he doesn’t need any support from Miron, as Baron Keranahan, and a little bit of politicking on your part, Baron Keranahan, should solidify that — you’ve got yourself a new best friend at court: Willen Tyrnael. Let him think that you’re just trying to ingratiate yourself with the Emperor’s future father-in-law.” He spread his hands. “I’m not like my late friend, the Old Emperor. I don’t like things that end with a bang, and a boom, and a river of blood on the floor. We end this with a marriage, and an announcement, and some laughter, and then we get on with our lives.”

There was an obvious problem with all that. Even Kethol saw it, but Pirojil spoke up first.

“But that still leaves Miron thinking that he is in line for the barony, if the baby is a girl, or if Leria and Baron Forinel happened to get killed —”

“Oh, I think there have been far too many assassination attempts around here, of late. Never mind who was responsible for the one on Jason, or the one on Ellegon — which also easily could have killed me, for that matter, although nobody ever seems to make a point about that! — and never mind who was responsible for this latest attempt on Baron Forinel.

“I think that, properly pointed out, the rest of the barons will start to look more than a little askance at this whole … epidemic, and will make it clear that they and the Emperor would be none too eager to reward all this promiscuous assassination with lands and titles. Bad precedent.

“The only question is how to make that clear to Lord Miron, and give him something else to think about.”

Erenor nodded. “You have that all worked out, I take it.”

Slovotsky nodded. “Which means that somebody with some credibility just has to have a few words with Lord Miron, and somebody with some credibility has to arrange for him to be more than a little busy with other matters.” He looked over at Baron Adahan. “Baron Minister, do you happen to know anybody with that sort of credibility?”

Adahan smoothed a hand down the front of his linen tunic as he smiled back at Walter Slovotsky. “Well, yes, Lord Proctor, I happen to be a person with that sort of credibility, and I’ve got a little surprise in store for Lord Miron. A particularly ugly surprise, with a foul temper, and a very newly noble father who needs a son-in-law to berate — but we can save that for tomorrow night, at the castle,” he said, walking over to the bell rope.

He pulled it three times, then twice again. “In the meantime, Captain Pirojil, if you and Erenor don’t mind joining the proctor and me out in the garden, I think that Baron Keranahan might be interested in other things.”

“I don’t think I want to be left out,” Kethol said.

“Oh, I think you do, all things considered.” Walter Slovotsky smiled.

***

The hallway door opened, and
she
stood there, smiling.

19

T
HE
W
IDOW

B
ERALYN
SUFFERED
THROUGH
the long meal without complaint. The table in the great hall was far too crowded. It seemed that each and every minor noble within three days’ travel of the capital had decided to grace the castle with his presence, and their appetites, and it wasn’t just the main table — the side tables in the great hall had been pressed into service, as well, and other tables carried in from elsewhere in the castle.

Beralyn didn’t have much of an appetite. That had been an ongoing problem, of late.

It wasn’t just the meal. The long table was crowded with food, dozens upon dozens of serving dishes piled high with baked yams and turnips, roasted meat from any animal that could walk or fly; fish baked whole, and stewed.

Everybody else seemed to be eating like a bunch of famished peasants, but it was all she could do to pick at her plate. Food seemed to have lost its appeal.

While they had not made the formal announcement, yet, nobody had failed to take note of the fact that Greta Tyrnael was presiding over the head of the table with Thomen, her father beaming at the two of them. She chattered and laughed much, and ate little. Probably the moment that she was married, she would swell up like a poisoned thumb.

Willen Tyrnael was obviously happy. He had gotten what he wanted, and he hadn’t even had to do what he said he would.

He murmured something into his daughter’s ear, and then excused himself. While she had noted that he had had his glass refilled from the water pitcher, not any of the wine bottles, she was surprised it had taken him this long. The man must have had a bladder made of good steel.

That little weasel, Derinald, was still somewhere around, although he had not, of course, been invited to dine with the nobility.

Which was fine with her. What wasn’t fine with her was that what she thought of as the Cullinane delegation had all been seated near the head of the table, along with the happy couple. She included Baron Keranahan in that — he was far too friendly with them. Forinel listened much and spoke little, while Leria smiled, and chatted, and laughed with that horrible Jason Cullinane — and his sister, and his mother — like the lot of them were old friends.

There was far too much Cullinane presence in the hall, and particularly near the head of the table. They had even seated that Pirojil character with Forinel, although at least they had relegated his wizard, Erenor, to one of the side tables, where he and Henrad conversed in low voices while Henrad’s apprentices acted as servants, keeping an almost impossibly large stream of food and drink coming.

It was, apparently, too much drink for all of them, particularly Erenor.

He should have known better, a man his age. Both of the wizards rose, Erenor even less steady than Henrad was, and more staggered than walked out of the hall, Henrad bowing toward the Emperor and making some comment about how the two of them were going off to discuss some fine points of magic.

She caught that Lord Miron smiling. He wasn’t fooled, and neither was she. The two of them were just going to sleep it off. Henrad was bad enough, but from the way that Erenor staggered, she would have been willing to bet that he would be on his knees, vomiting, before he was halfway to his room.

Beralyn was relegated to the foot of the table — supposedly also a position of honor, but it didn’t escape her notice that Thomen kept her surrounded with minor city nobles, with the only person of any substance nearby being Vertum Niphael, that fat, word-slurring drunk.

“A lovely couple,” he said. She ignored him, but he pressed on. “Has it been decided when the formal announcement is going to be?”

“No.”

Nobody has asked me, she thought. If it had been up to her, of course, the announcement would already have been made. What did it matter to her if that took all of the excitement out of the immediate wedding? It might even be better for Forinel and Leria, although she didn’t much care about that — people were laughing behind his back about their carelessness, and any distraction would have been in his interest.

She pushed herself away from the table, and walked, wordless, to the main entryway, servitors and soldiers alike scattering in her wake. At least somebody was showing her some respect.

Just a little longer, she thought. If she could just push this ancient, pain-ridden body for a couple more years, long enough to see a grandson, she could close her eyes forever.