Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda (5 page)

She was glad he was dead, but she was far too honest to deny to herself that he had earned himself some of that loyalty, and that was the way of it — loyalty could be transferred from father to son, and Thomen’s father was long gone.

Still, it was hardly just a matter of loyalty. Loyalty was a far weaker staff to lean on than self-interest. If the Emperor could have any one of the barons assassinated, why, he could have any other of the barons assassinated.

It wasn’t just their own necks that would concern them, of course. They would be as worried about their own heirs’ necks, as well, just as Beralyn was concerned about Thomen’s.

There was a simple solution, of course.

The only trail led through Derinald to her. So let it end with her, and let Derinald flee for his life. With any luck, the dolt would fall from his horse and break his neck.

There was no reason to wait, and there were advantages to doing it here and now.

It would just be a matter of flinging herself over the ramparts, to the hard stones below. Then let Tyrnael explain how the Empress had managed to stumble and fall over the stone railing that rose to her mid-chest.

She wished she could be there to see it, but, of course, if she was, there would be nothing to see.

It would have been better to shout out, “Please stop,” or “Please don’t hurt me,” or “He’s going to throw me over the railing, help,” but not only would that be beneath her dignity, it would also give him a warning.

She regretted that. It would be good to be sure to take him with her, and that cry would surely do it.

There was much to regret, but no time to regret it.

But as she started to move, his hand snaked out and gripped her wrist tightly, almost hard enough to break bones.

“No,” he said, “you misunderstand me.”

She didn’t bother to pull against his much greater strength. There wouldn’t be any point, and Beralyn never believed in useless gestures.

“Release me, now,” she said, forcing herself to keep her voice low and level, “or I’ll call for the guard.”

“And tell them what? That you tried to kill yourself when I told you I know that you tried to have Baron Cullinane assassinated? Let’s not be silly, my Empress.” He shook his head. “Ah,” Tyrnael said, “you have such admirable bloody-mindedness in you. Your son didn’t inherit that from you, more’s the pity.” He raised a finger. “Promise to stay and hear me out, and I’ll release your hand. Let me speak, and then do what you will.”

“I said —”

“I want your word. I would have been willing to wager anything on your husband’s word, and I know you wouldn’t dishonor the word of the Furnaels — so give me your promise, your word, on your family honor. It’s not much to ask, after all. Surely, surely you can spare me a moment’s attention. Then,” he said with a smile, “if you absolutely
insist
on shattering your body on the stones below, I’ll ask that you at least give me a few moments to make my escape before you do.”

After a moment, she nodded. “You have my word. For what it’s worth.”

“I wouldn’t dare to presume that the Dowager Empress’s word was not her bond.” He released her wrist, but didn’t take a step back. “Don’t blame Derinald,” he said, “any more than you’d blame the knife you chose because it wasn’t sufficiently sharp for the task. Nor were the men he found — in Nyphien, was it? — sufficiently sharp for their task. Still, the poor fellows appear to have disappeared, and I don’t think they’ll ever be seen again.”

“Unless, of course, I don’t do whatever you ask me, whenever you ask it.”

“You misunderstand me, I think. I meant what I said: I think that they’ll never be seen in Biemestren again, regardless of what happens between you and me. You’re mistaken if you think I’m trying to blackmail you.”

He shook his head. “The truth is I’m trying to protect you. And your son. And the Empire. You have been foolish, my Empress, and that foolishness could redound to the detriment of yourself, of your son, and of the Empire. You seem to trust too little, and when you do, you trust the wrong people. That last is a lethal failing, and one I hope you’ll repent of — just as I hope you realize that you’d be unwise to mention to Derinald that we’ve talked, or he’s liable to panic and start saying all sorts of silly things, and not think until it was too late that that would cost him his scrawny neck.”

“And your gift is?” she asked. “No, let’s not mince about the subject: your price is?”

“No, there is no price.” He shook his head, again. “You don’t understand me at all, my Empress. I’ve little fondness for the Cullinanes, and thought — and think — that the crown should have been mine when Jason decided to abdicate. But that is what he decided, and that’s how it is, and I’d be a fool to try to change that for my own benefit. I may be many things, but I’m not a fool.

“The thing is, my Empress, that I actually care about the kingdom and the Empire. I’m not a sentimental man — that seems to run in the Furnael line, not mine — but we’ve had a time of peace, and of power. Still, still the world is a dangerous place, and it seems to me that the Empire itself is the wall that keeps some of that danger out.

“I like walls, my Empress. They have such a nice way of keeping things out, don’t you agree?” He waited a moment for her to answer, but when she didn’t, he went on: “So it would be a bad thing, I think, if it were to become known what you’ve done, or what you will do.” He smiled knowingly. “So, my gift to you is this: my finger, held to my lips,” he said, touching his finger to his lips.

She cocked her head to one side. “Surely, Baron, you’re not telling me that there is to be no price to pay for that … gift?”

“You wound me to the heart, my Empress, truly you do.” He shook his head, sadly. “I’m hardly a merchant, engaged in common trade, balancing favors and obligations on either side of a scale. Yes, when you think your voice will be heard, I’d very much like it raised in support, say, of maintaining the occupation in Holtish baronies, and it would bother me not at all if you were to summon my daughter, Greta, to wait upon your most impressive Imperial person —”

“Ah. So you’d like an Emperor for a son-in-law, wouldn’t you?”

“Who would not? If the crown is never to sit on my head, or one of my sons’, a grandson’s head would surely do.” He shook his head, sadly. “Sadly, I doubt you could prevail upon your son to see her in any other light than that he would choose himself. No, I’d not ask you to try to foist her on him — you’re his mother, after all, and I’d much rather you explain how unsuitable she is. How she has no grace, does not bathe well or frequently, does not — well, whatever flaws you can find in her, particularly if they are flaws that she does not indeed have.” He thought on the matter for a moment. “And it might be best if the Lady Leria were to be here, too — and for you to seem to push her at your son, perhaps?”

“She is here now, and she doesn’t do anything but make little calf eyes at that Forinel.”

He nodded. “They have been long separated, and that’s understandable — but she is about to leave for Keranahan, with her betrothed.” He pursed his lips. “Let her settle in for a tenday or two, and then send for her, at the same time you send for my Greta. I think my Greta will acquit herself adequately — she’s hardly a country lady, untutored in the gentle arts.” He spread his hands. “There’s no guarantee, but it’s worth the effort of writing a letter, is it not?”

She nodded. It might work. “And if my telling Thomen that your Greta is totally unsuitable does not make her more attractive to him — if he picks, instead, this Leria chit, or some other girl …?”

“Friends do not require each other to be successful; but, of course, friends do make efforts on behalf of their friends. Do they not?” His smile broadened. “Regardless, I hope you will still look upon me as a friend and ally, for that I surely am. Not just a merchant to whom you owe a debt. A friend, for whom you would willingly do a favor, as a friend often does for another.” He bowed slightly. “And I’d ask another favor more of you.”

“Yes?”

“The
next
time,” he said, quietly, but with some heat, “the next time and
any
time that you find it expedient to have some throat slit, I’d take it as a great personal favor if you’d simply chalk the name, say,” he went on, looking around, “here, on this buttress, rather than trusting that idiot Derinald to do better in the future than he has in the past.”

She had always assumed that all — or at least most — of the barons had spies in the castle. It would be interesting, if she had any servants that she could trust — Derinald clearly wouldn’t do — to keep watch on that buttress, and see who read the scrawl.

“I can do that,” she said. “But if the name that I scrawl is Jason Cullinane?”

“No, I don’t think it will be.” He shook his head. “I think that would be a very bad name to scrawl, and I hope you will trust me on this.”

No, she didn’t think that would be a bad name to scrawl. She thought it was, in fact, the perfect name to scrawl.

“Very well,” she said.

“It’s good for friends to trust each other,” he said. He scratched his nose, then looked at his finger, as though he had never seen it before. “It may happen someday that I might say something that would frighten you, anger you, but I ask now that you would hear me out, then and always. Perhaps the only warning you will have is me scratching my nose — perhaps there will be none. But always,
always
, I hope, as a friend, my dear Beralyn, you will hear me out, as one friend does for another.”

“And if your nose simply itches?”

He shook his head. “My nose never simply itches.”

“And the … attack on Jason Cullinane? The one that you seem to suggest that I might have had something to do with, but which we all know failed miserably, embarrassingly, totally?”

He reached out and patted her hand. “Why, I’m sure that was just the Slavers Guild, aren’t you? Pandathaway is so far away, and even if the Slavers Guildmaster were right here, right now, swearing his innocence on his sword, he wouldn’t be believed.”

She didn’t answer.

“I must finish my walk,” she said.

“Then I’ll ask you one last favor,” he said. “If I may presume again upon our friendship.”

“Yes?”

“I think it would be best if we simply forget we had this conversation, don’t you?”

There was something overly self-satisfied about the way he asked that, something that seemed very atypical for Tyrnael. He usually concealed his feelings much better.

“I see no problem,” she said. “You came to bid me a good night before I turned in, and we exchanged a few pleasantries. In fact, since I’ve not shown your previous gift to anybody, it might be that you gave it to me tonight.” That, of course, was a lie, but not much of one — she had only shown it to Henrad, and the wizard wouldn’t talk. “Why would I need to forget that?”

“No reason. No reason at all, dear Beralyn.” He touched his finger to his forelock, again. “In that case, I’ll bid you a very good night, my dear Empress.” He scratched his nose, again, and bowed, once again, this time more deeply, and waited patiently, politely, while she walked away.

Well.

There would have to be another way to deal with the Jason Cullinane problem, but the world was full of throats that her son, her sentimental son, was too weak to have slit.

The only question was where and how to start.

After, of course, she scrawled the name “Derinald” on the buttress.

***

The trouble with being Emperor, Thomen Furnael decided, and not for the first time, was the hours.

Morning always began too early, with some crisis in the making — whether it was an overnight telegram from Tyrnael, about rumblings on the Nyphien border, and laconic reflections about the relative sizes of the forces just across the border; word from Becca that Ranella had been waiting for hours (she apparently never slept) to harangue him about the need for more dwarven miners in Adahan, complete with sniffs about how
she
didn’t think that King Daherrin was actually running out of dwarves, although
somebody
apparently did, given what kind of pay Daherrin was asking; and, always, proctors’ and bursars’ reports that his minister, Bren Adahan, or the Imperial proctor, Walter Slovotsky, should have caught and handled before they reached the Emperor’s desk …

And that was just the morning.

The days had a way of filling up, although with Parliament now adjourned until fall, and almost all of the barons back where they should be, his work would be real work, at least for a while, and less balancing off of all those irritating, competing interests and personalities — at least in person — and some of that could be laid off on Bren and Walter.

They had asked for — demanded — the jobs as minister and proctor, and Thomen had no objection to letting them do some of the work.

But Bren Adahan was off in New Pittsburgh, and while there were things that the Emperor could count on his Lord Proctor for, paperwork wasn’t among them.

Which was why Thomen Furnael was, well after midnight, still at his desk, even though the exquisitely neat printing of the detailed report as to what Ranella’s railroad had already cost — and never mind, for a moment, what it was going to cost before Biemestren and New Pittsburgh were finally linked by rail — was starting to blur in front of his eyes, even before he got to the bottom line.

And without so much as a league of track being laid, except for the short test track outside of New Pittsburgh, and with what she lightheartedly referred to as her Mark III steam engine still barely able to pull its own weight.

*I guess it isn’t steam engine time, quite yet, eh?*sounded in his head.

Ellegon?
He raised his head. The dragon sounded nearby.

*No, some
other
dragon. Humans in the Eren regions are so
very
hospitable that I’m stunned that you aren’t utterly knee-deep in scales.*

Thomen smiled. “Would a quick apology do?” he asked, quietly. He didn’t even have to speak out loud, but he preferred to. A man’s thoughts should be his own, and not shared unless he spoke.