Walter Slovotsky sighed. It would be nice to be elsewhere, just about now.
Time to get Erenor out of Biemestren, and away from Henrad, and since Erenor was mostly useless as a soldier and wasn't terribly trustworthy anyway, that meant sending Kethol and Pirojil along with him.
He could, of course, simply tell Henrad that he had a spare wizard tucked away – and hope that Henrad would not mind, or would accept that Erenor was merely an illusionist, unable to work other than the simplest of other spells, and would keep his mouth shut about Erenor.
And you could, of course, play poker with all your cards face up on the table, and hope everybody would be too polite to peek. That didn't seem like a good idea, either.
Walter Slovotsky took his leave of the wizard without bringing up the matter of the mosquitoes again. A few bug bites could wait on more important matters, although it probably wouldn't feel that way in the middle of the night, when every mosquito, fidgetbug, gnat, and nameless insect was using Walter Slovotsky's skin as a combination parade ground and smorgasbord.
He walked carefully down the long, winding staircase, amusing himself with the image of Beralyn having climbed up to leave a wet bar of soap on one of the steps.
Well, she would, if she could. And he could tumble without that. It would be a shame to break his neck and disappoint so many women, after all.
Walter Slovotsky chuckled. He was always his own best audience.
Chapter 3
Leria
If you're not at the poker table, you can't possibly win. Of course, if you're at the poker table and the game is fixed, well, maybe you'd better find another game.
– Walter Slovotsky
Life at court, Leria had quickly decided, was – at least for her – not an acquired taste. She had taken to it immediately.
After all, what was there not to like? She leaned back against the supporting ripples of the burnished copper tub, and toed the lever at the foot of the tub, rewarded by a delightful influx of hot water from the stone spigot, which had been carved into the shape of a dragon's head. Yes, two of the castle's maids waited in the outer chamber of the tiled bath, but privacy was an even rarer luxury than these endless streams of heated water, instantly available through the copper tubing that emerged from the juncture of wall and ceiling. She settled down beneath the water, careless of the way that motion sent soapy water splashing to the tiles.
After two long years under the all too watchful gaze of Baroness Elanee, constantly fending off the persistent attentions of her son, Miron, the respectful interest of the various lords of the imperial court was entirely refreshing. And with the dowager empress having taken her under her wing, the muted hostility of some of the ladies of the imperial court was quite easy to bear. Yes, and then there was the emperor himself. He regularly asked – and with a charming hesitancy that was far more boyish than imperial – for her company at table, and they had what had quickly become a standing riding date.
The heat soaked all stress from her shoulders, and more importantly relieved the irritation at the juncture of her thighs that always accompanied the end of her catamenia. It would have been preferable, if possible, to simply have skipped today's ride – and the Fedensday ride, as well, when her menstrual cramps had been at their worst – but she had learned from Elanee the necessity of seeming to do things effortlessly, and as much as she had hated the baroness, Leria was determined to follow her late father's advice and try to learn something from everybody she came in contact with.
She rose carefully, and by the time she was fully straightened, a pair of young maids – sisters, by the look of them – had bustled into the room, one with a stack of warm, fluffy towels, the other with fresh clothes from her rooms.
"We must hurry, Lady," the older one said, her eyes lowered. "They are already gathering at table, and it wouldn't do to arrive after the emperor."
Their averted eyes probably missed her smile.
Were they even more unsophisticated than Leria was? Yes, it wouldn't do to arrive after the emperor – but it would be impossible to arrive after the emperor. He simply would not arrive until the last lord and lady were gathered at table.
But, still, the point was well-taken. There were times when it would be amusing to make Thomen wait – men were so charming when they felt slightly put-upon but didn't want to show it – but this was probably not one of those times. Particularly with his mother in attendance.
Leria had found herself in the dowager empress's favor without much effort, although she had spent much effort staying in that favor. Privately, she agreed with Kethol's evaluation of Beralyn – mean, dangerous, and spiteful – but that argued for not offending the old woman, not without a very good reason.
She let her attendants groom and dress her quickly, not trying to help, as that would only hinder them.
That was another lesson she had learned from Elanee: let the experts do their work without bothering them. She had been raised in an outlying barony, and only rarely had had this kind of constant personal service. The house maids, even after her mother died, had always had far more to do than wait upon her every need, and her nanny was of the belief that a noble should reenact the climb from peasantry to nobility as a natural part of childhood, and her father had agreed.
That upbringing had left her far more comfortable currying a horse than sitting still for endless hours while attendants clucked and chittered and chattered, combing here, tucking there, their remarkably nimble fingers ripping apart a seam only to trim and resew it to a more flattering line.
She allowed herself a thin smile as she thought how Kethol would have reacted to such a declaration. After endless days on the road, hiding from pursuers and having little enough time for even a quick wash, much less a long bath and change of clothes, he would have shown great patience with such trivial complaints, and while he certainly would have thought less of her, he would have done the best he could to fail to let even a hint of that show on his face.
His best, at least in that, wouldn't have been nearly good enough. She couldn't have read his thoughts more easily if they had been written in Euar'den runes on his forehead.
There were some men, certainly, whom she couldn't read quite so easily. Most men, in fact, particularly nobility. Perhaps it was just that she had been raised too far out in the country, too rarely exposed to nobles.
Baroness Elanee had insisted on that, after she had taken over as Leria's guardian, and persuaded poor Forinel to go out into the world and win fame in his own name, not merely as the baronial heir.
She fondled the ring Forinel had given her, the night he had left.
Keep it until I return, to claim it, to claim my barony, and to claim you, he had said.
He had kissed her even more gently than usual, and taken her heart as well as her virginity that night, and ridden off toward the Katharhd in the morning ...
Never to return.
It was getting difficult to remember bis face these days. In her dreams, his soft but strong hands tended to become Kethol's big-knuckled ones without warning, and his smile and face would melt until it became Thomen's, all too often.
But Thomen's face, too, tended to melt into Kethol's.
She didn't need a witch reading her dreams to tell her what that meant.
Lena sighed. She was a descendant of the Euar'den rulers of Tynear, of Lerian the Red himself – a man who had gotten his nickname from the blood on his hands, not the red that legend had added to his hair – and hers were a practical people.
Still...
A distant bell chimed.
"The dowager empress should be ready to receive you for your afternoon visit with her."
Lena nodded and smiled.
She was doing a lot of nodding and smiling of late, and it was beginning to irritate her. There were worse things than a little irritation. "Then let us not keep her waiting, shall we?" she said.
Chapter 4
The Proctor,
Kethol, Pirojil
, and Erenor
You wanted to see us, Proctor?" Pirojil asked, as the imperial proctor stalked through the arch and into the office.
"Yes," Walter Slovotsky said. "That's why I sent for you," he added, deadpan, as though he didn't want to let on whether or not he was insulting them or having some sort of weak joke with them.
Pirojil and Kethol were standing, but Erenor was seated on the chair next to Walter Slovotsky's desk, leaning back, the very picture of a man at leisure. He either didn't notice – or, more likely, knowing Erenor, affected not to notice – the glare that Walter Slovotsky gave him. Walter Slovotsky was dressed too elegantly by half. His doeskin tunic was soft and sun-bleached to a preposterous whiteness, particularly in contrast to the inky blackness of his undershirt, leggings, and boots. His long mustache and stylishly block-trimmed beard were shot with white, and he was silvery at the temples – and hair, mustache, and beard were all far more neatly trimmed and tightly combed than they had been in the old days.
The only visible reminder of the old days was the thick belt buckled tightly over his hips: it supported a short sword on the left-hand side, a plain one with a bell guard and leather grip, and a brace of pistols on his right hip. A knife with a highly polished, gold-encrusted hilt was strapped, angled for a quick draw with either hand, just in front of the sword. Of course, with the knife in that position, and not thonged into place, it would be easy for somebody else to snatch it out of its sheath and bury it in Walter Slovotsky's gut.
Pirojil tried to spot where the trick release was, but couldn't. There had to be one, though; Walter Slovotsky had not gotten so far from his roots as to leave himself quite that vulnerable.
"We have a small problem," Walter Slovotsky said.
Pirojil's jaw twitched. A small problem? That was a silly idea to anybody who had been in the baron's service for a tenth the time Pirojil had. You could get killed every bit as dead over a small problem as you could over a major one.
Walter Slovotsky nodded in agreement with the unvoiced thought.
Ellegon? Pirojil thought, remembering not to move his lips. Ellegon, can you hear me?
But there was no answer.
So: the dragon wasn't around, reading Pirojil's thoughts and relaying them to Walter Slovotsky. That was too bad. Pirojil wished that the dragon had been doing that. It would be better to face some draconic mind reading than have Walter Slovotsky able to read his thoughts by human insight rather than magic.
Insight was a more dangerous resource, and Slovotsky was both devious and subtle.
"But it's not that kind of problem," Walter Slovotsky said.
"Fine," Kethol grunted. "Just tell us what you want, and let us get out of here. We're accompanying Lady Leria to dinner this evening."
Slovotsky cocked his head to one side. "Who do you think put you on duty as her guards?" He kicked Erenor's feet out of the way as he made his way to his desk and sat down.
Erenor gave Pirojil a quick, knowing glance.
It all went over Kethol's head. Which wasn't surprising, all things considered. Kethol had been far too grateful to be in Her Presence regularly once more to ask a lot of questions – which was fine with Pirojil – or to think about why the three of them had been selected – which wasn't.
That was always the trouble with Kethol. In or out of a fight, he was as reliable and steady as a stone wall. You could count him to do not necessarily the best thing – Pirojil couldn't count on himself to do the best thing, for that matter – but a useful thing, and his reflexes and instincts were quick and sure. And he wasn't stupid – but when his loyalty or affection was engaged, he refused to think ahead further than the next slash of a sword, pull of a trigger, or blow of a fist.
He hadn't even thought to ask why Leria had been given her own personal guards, much less why the three of them had been chosen for the job.
Not that that was something difficult to figure out: Leria's visibility around the emperor was not overly popular with any of the nobility with marriageable daughters and an eye on bettering themselves, which was to say: any of the nobility with marriageable daughters.
And particularly with Parliament in session, there were a lot of extra people around the castle.
Was it likely that somebody would hire an assassin to get Leria out of the way?
No; it was not likely at all.
But unlikely things had happened before and would again, and Walter Slovotsky had probably made a good decision in having three men that he could trust – Kethol and Pirojil because of their long and established loyalty to the Cullinane family; Erenor, because, like Kethol and Pirojil, Walter Slovotsky had the illusionist's balls in a vice
– watching over her, supplementing them with hand-picked soldiers from the Home Guard.
"Very well, then: what does this problem have to do with our guarding Lady Leria?" Kethol asked, more of a challenge than a real question.
"Simple: you're relieved of guarding Lady Leria," he said. "I'll see that she's looked after."
Kethol bristled, but Slovotsky ignored him and forged on. "Draw mounts and spares from the imperial stables and get out of Biemestren as fast as you can without drawing attention to yourselves. There still a bit of an ore problem over the barony – if Doria doesn't have anything better for you to do, you can spot for the imperials. Or you can put yourselves on leave and go hunting dragon eggs, or go fishing, or just drop out of the service and get yourselves lost."
He picked up a pen and scribbled something, presumably his signature, on three sheets of parchment, not waiting for the ink to dry before setting each on his imprinting pad and embossing each signature with his personal seal.
Walter Slovotsky produced an envelope, unsealed, and handed that over to Pirojil along with the three parchment sheets. "Your orders, and a letter for Doria – or Jason, for that matter, on the off chance that he's warming his butt on his own baronial throne instead of gallivanting around somewhere, or heading here to be early for Parliament."
Kethol started to say something, but Pirojil touched him on the arm, and he desisted.
Slovotsky looked up from his desk. "Well? I'd ask what the three of you are still doing standing there, but there's no point in asking an illusion anything, and you must be illusion because I've just told the three of you to get out of here. Vanish, illusion, vanish."
As they walked away down the hall in silence – even Kethol knew better than to chatter openly in front of any guard or maid or servitor they happened to pass by – it occurred to Pirojil what had seemed so strange about the whole interview with Walter Slovotsky: not only had Walter Slovotsky not engaged Erenor in the conversation, but Erenor hadn't spoken as much as a word.
Pirojil shook his head. By the time they got to the barony, that surely would have long since ceased to be the case.
* * *
He was right, of course.
By the time they turned off the Prince's Road onto the dirt road that led across one last hill to Castle Cullinane, he would gladly have been dragging Erenor behind him, by a hook through the wizard's tongue.
Part Two:
Cullinane
Chapter 5
Jason Cullinane
No, I don't want to go to Biemestren early," Jason Cullinane said. "We'll leave in another tenday, no sooner. I've got some business up around Kendall's Ridge – "
"You have some business in Biemestren, as well."
“– and I don't have to be early, and I really don't want to discuss it further. I'm the baron, remember?"
"It would be difficult to forget," his mother said, smiling sweetly across the breakfast table at him, "given that you remind me about it on a daily basis."
"If you'll stop nagging, then I'll stop reminding you," he said.
Janie Slovotsky hid a smile behind her mug, and U'len emitted a derisive sniff as she bustled in from the kitchen, her wooden serving tray piled high with slices of ham and pan-fried turnips, fist-sized loaves of bread fresh from the oven, and a steaming bo
wl of boiled, shredded cabbage, the smell of which made Jason's stomach shrivel to the size of a fist.
Cabbage.
When he was a little boy, U'len had told him that he would like it when he was grown. Wasn't twenty-three grown enough for her to admit that he never would like the disgusting stuff, no matter how often it appeared on the table?
"Just a baron, he is," she said, easily balancing the serving tray on one flipperlike hand as she removed plate after plate, setting the rolls down as far away from Toryn as possible – Toryn liked fresh-baked bread, but U'len didn't like Toryn – and, of course, putting the foul-smelling breakfast cabbage in front of Jason. "Just a baron. His father was an emperor; it appears to me that the family has fallen a long way."
She was an almost impossibly fat woman, old – but she had been old all of Jason's life – but apparently ageless, her flat, dull, gray hair neither more nor less gray than it had been last year, the wrinkles in her face and the creases in her many chins neither deeper nor shallower, and if her step was just a trifle less brisk, and her voice not quite so loud and booming as it used to be, well, then that couldn't be any sign of mortality, could it?
It was a silly thought. U'len was like the hills and valleys and trees. She had always been and would always be. He knew that was nonsense, but that's what it felt like.
Bang. Bang-bang. A trio of gunshots sounded from outside.
"What?" U'len almost dropped the now empty tray. Mother was already moving toward the sideboard where she had left her pistols, and Toryn was halfway out of his chair, while Jane Slovotsky simply sat and grinned at him.
Not Quite Scaramouche Page 4
