Well, it would be too much to hope for that Tyrnael would freeze to death out on the veranda, given the balmy weather. And for that matter, Tyrnael was hardly the most difficult and annoying of the Biemish barons – Niphael was much worse, albeit less slick.
Walter Slovotsky liked the Holtish barons better, by and large – something about being under military occupation tended to make them quite reasonable, most of the time.
"Join me?" Slovotsky asked.
"I wasn't invited," Adahan said, his expression flat and unrevealing.
Slovotsky returned the expression, or rather the lack of it. "Nor were you asked if you were invited. You were asked, 'Will you join me?' "
Two could play at this game, even if only one of them could enjoy it, and that one would be Walter Slovotsky. Slovotsky prided himself on his ability to enjoy just about anything that didn't involve pain and suffering – particularly his own.
Adahan's too-handsome face split in a smile. "I guess I wasn't, at that. And, yes, I think I will join you. It might be interesting."
They made their way through the fringes of the crowd, past where young Lordling Arondael, the heir apparent to that barony, held court in front of the massive fireplace, alternately using the fireplace poker to rearrange the burning faggots and to illustrate some fine point of sword-play – or at least what he thought of as a fine point of swordplay, as he was far too young, and far too unscarred, to have earned his opinions the hard way; past where some old dowager's chins shook and wobbled as she whispered in the ear of a young woman who was manifestly her daughter – add around three decades, fifty pounds, five childbirths, a hundred thousand frowns to the daughter and she would become the mother; past where a thick, barrel-chested decurion of the Home Guard passed out appetizers from a silver tray, spoiling any possibility of his servitor's tunic fooling anybody by scratching at himself with his free hand; past a long table, piled high with gifts – the usual run of knives, bone sculpture, rolled tapestries, and dark bottles of wine for Thomen, as one did not come to visit the emperor empty-handed; past where the Holtish barons and their entourages clustered and plotted and schemed, something they would not be able to do during dinner, as the seating plan alternated Holtish and Biemish delegations with a careful, or at least carefully thought out, overlap.
He nodded to himself. That was best. After a couple of centuries of brush wars and one major one, you couldn't expect all the children to play nice right away, not even with Daddy – in the person of the emperor and his troops – watching carefully.
Adahan nodded. "Give it a few generations, Walter Slovotsky."
Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't aware that I was thinking out loud."
"You weren't." Adahan's smile was halfway between contagious and insulting. "But you looked carefully down the rows, then sighed and nodded to yourself."
"I'd better watch myself more carefully," he said.
"I knew you'd take my point."
Half a dozen men and as many women, including Vika Tyrnael, tried to catch his eye while pretending not to try to catch his eye – apparently, Slovotsky being named imperial proctor made him just ooze irresistible sexuality – and he returned the former's glances with a smile-and-nod and the latter's with a smile and a slightly elevated eyebrow.
Maybe it was his present, barely interrupted run of monogamy that was increasing his prowess to legendary – translation: bullshit – proportions.
Or maybe both.
It would have been enough to give a lesser man a case of performance-anxiety impotence.
"What are you grinning about?"
"Just some private thoughts, Baron Minister," he said. "Nothing of any concern."
The night was clear and cool, with only a film of clouds that more frosted than obscured the stars and the slowly pulsating Faerie lights off in the distance.
Torches crackled and sputtered on the inner ramparts, where doubled patrols of the House Guard kept a more than usually close watch on what was going on inside the keep, as well as looking for trouble from outside. Baronial troops were always in the capital, and less often seconded to the Home Guard, but, except when there was outlying nobility in residence, so much as a single baronial soldier within the walls of the keep was a rarity.
"Good evening, Baron," Walter Slovotsky said.
Tyrnael – Walter Slovotsky always thought of him by his family name, by the barony's name, rather than by his given name – was alone as he waited for them on the veranda, the baronial butt elegantly perched on the stone railing, showing off the long, lean lines that a combination of heredity and exercise had enabled him to keep well into his fifties. His close-cropped hair was full, despite the high widow's peak, and dusted with silver at the temples only.
Eyes that blinked a fraction too little watched closely. A mouth that smiled a touch too often was framed by a close-cropped strip of beard that accentuated an already sharp jaw and cheekbones. The effect was always somehow reptilian, although for the life of him Walter Slovotsky couldn't figure out how the baron's appearance added up to that.
"Good evening to you, Proctor," Tyrnael said, his thin lips barely moving, as though it would be too much trouble. "And a good evening to you, too, Baron Adahan," he added, as though in afterthought.
"If we are going to be so formal, Baron Tyrnael, that should be 'Baron Minister Adahan,' " Bren Adahan said.
Walter Slovotsky frowned at him, and Adahan shrugged an apology, which Slovotsky accepted with a gracious nod. Which was the proper thing to do, after all, particularly considering that Slovotsky had been just about to correct Tyrnael himself.
"Please accept my sincere apologies," the Baron said, only the slightest of frostiness at the edges of his voice giving the lie to his words.
"I don't think you asked me out here to talk about forms of address, Baron," Walter Slovotsky said.
Tyrnael nodded. "There's some truth there, indeed. No, I want to know what you mean to do about the Keranahan succession."
"I?" Slovotsky raised an eyebrow. "I'm not going to do anything about it at all. That's a matter for the emperor to decide, not for a lowly proctor."
"Or even for a baron minister," Bren Adahan put in. "Though I think I'm probably rather more familiar with the precedents and relative claims on the barony. There was a Keranahan baron failing of an heir five, six generations ago, if I remember correctly." From his slight smile, Walter could tell that not only did he remember correctly, but he knew exactly how many generations ago it was, and what the circumstances were. "I wouldn't suppose that you are inclined to support the Euar'den claim on the baronial throne?"
Tyrnael's lips pursed. "On which baronial throne, Baron Minister? Yours? Or shall we go back to the Nifne Dynasty and dispute the settlement of baronial estates in Bieme? Looked at from the right perspective, we don't stand on solid ground at all, but on floating flows of rearranged territory, drifting and rearranging themselves down the river of time." He stamped a baronial boot against the flat stone of the terrace. "As to me, I prefer something more substantial, something to be relied upon, to be stood upon, not merely to be hoped might possibly persist for a few more years."
Slovotsky nodded, conceding the point. "Yes, there is a value to consistency. But it's not the only value."
"And that is as it should be," Tyrnael nodded. "I do have a suggestion, though, which maintains that value, perhaps as well as others."
Here it comes.
"Were the emperor to declare that Forinel, Nerahan's oldest son, is still the presumptive heir, it would maintain that stability, as well as giving the Council reason to believe that the emperor will not be quick to take Keranahan as his own. If, on the other hand, he marries the lovely Leria, he'd have a proper claim on the barony as father of the presumptive heir, and – "
"I've heard nothing about any such intention," Walter Slovotsky said. "And I don't expect to, for that matter."
"About marrying Leria? Or about claiming the barony?"
"I've heard
nothing about either."
Which was a bold-faced lie about Leria, although true of the barony.
Walter Slovotsky never minded a little falsehood. Thomen was apparently rather taken with Leria – and who could blame him? She was, after all, attractive, well-mannered, and relatively politically uncomplicated, both in intellect and in connection. Beralyn, of course, favored the idea – cementing the Furnael line to a direct descendent of the old Euar'den princes would appeal to her, and Leria had cultivated that malicious, crooked, evil old bag with uncharacteristic skill and style.
Bren Adahan cocked his head to one side. "Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but isn't Forinel supposed to be dead?"
"Yes," Tyrnael said, "that's precisely the case: most do suppose that he is dead. But there's been no body produced, no witnesses. Some years ago he rode off – some say to the Katharhd, some say to join the Home raiders – and he has never been heard from since."
Which is why Elanee's son, Miron, had been the presumptive baronial heir. Which was also why it was, in retrospect, strange that Elanee had been only weakly politicking for a declaration that Forinel was dead. Slovotsky
had always assumed that was because she wasn't ready to share power with her son, becoming dowager baroness.
She had, in fact, had other plans.
Walter Slovotsky didn't hold a grudge, even though those plans had included his death and had come too fucking close to causing that death. Elanee had made her play for power, and it had cost her her life. No point in staying mad.
Bitch.
Bren Adahan nodded. "I can't speak for the emperor either – "
"Save when you're warming his throne for him."
Slovotsky kept his nod to himself. That was, of course, the source of Tyrnael's jealousy and irritation. As, at least arguably, the senior line of Biemish barons, Tyrnael had had a better claim on the throne than the Furnaels, and certainly better than the Cullinane usurpers. If Thomen were to die without naming an heir, both precedent and politics would likely cause the other Biemish barons to turn to Tyrnael.
Which was, as far as Walter Slovotsky concerned, a good argument for keeping Tyrnael either in Biemestren, under close watch, or out of the capital entirely.
It was not a good argument for having him act as chief of staff when the emperor was out riding or hunting or taking some other break from affairs of state, as important as that recreation was to keeping Thomen from going bugfuck crazy.
“– but," Bren Adahan went on, as though he hadn't been interrupted, "I think you've a sound point, and I'll recommend it to the emperor." His lips twitched. "Of course, he could leave the matter to Parliament."
Tyrnael nodded sagely. "Yes, I suppose he could." Walter Slovotsky had never heard sarcasm played with such a light touch. Tyrnael turned to Slovotsky. "And you, Proctor?
"Me?"
"Will you support keeping the succession open, at least for now?"
It would have been nice to know what Tyrnael's real motivation was. Oh, it probably included his desire for stability. Did he have Forinel stashed somewhere? Or some connection with Treseen, the Keranahan governor?
Slovotsky nodded. "Your position sounds reasonable to me..."
"Ah." Tyrnael's lips barely turned up at the edges. "You've turned into a cautious noble in your old age, Walter Slovotsky."
I'm not that damn old, Walter Slovotsky thought, as your second-oldest daughter found out a few days ago. Twice in the same night. Vika had been very sweet, and while Walter Slovotsky was glad that Aiea had been born without a jealous cell in her body, he hadn't thought to mention their encounter to her, and had no intention of bringing it up here and now.
"Perhaps it's just age," Walter said. "But I like to think that when I commit myself, I'm sure as to what I'm committing myself to, and why."
"Why?" Tyrnael's face was studiously uncommunicative. "I've certainly given you good reason why."
"You have, at that," Slovotsky said. "I'll think about it. I don't see any need to rush into anything. It's usually been my experience that it's much easier to rush into trouble than to rush out."
"Ah." Tyrnael said. "Another of your famous aphorisms. How nice." He brightened. "Well, shall we join the others? I would not want to keep the Emperor waiting ..."
Walter Slovotsky and Bren Adahan had joined their ladies at table when the decurion pretending to be a servant quieted the chatter in the Great Hall by pounding the butt of his staff on the floor, three times.
Thoom. Thoom. Thoom.
"Gentles and Barons, Barons and Lords, Lords and Ladies, Ladies and Gentles," the decurion called out, his blaring voice more suited to a parade ground than the Great Hall, "the Dowager Empress Beralyn and the Emperor Thomen."
Beralyn and Thomen entered through the private door to the emperor's study, the dowager empress on Thomen's arm. They moved slowly, probably more out of necessity than for dignity and dramatic effect; Beralyn looked older, day by day. And, still, her eyes moved across the crowd until they met Slovotsky's, and burned in.
Amazing how fresh and unyielding her hate could be. Yes, Walter Slovotsky had been in the room when her husband was killed – but it hadn't been his fault, and Slovotsky had killed Zherr Furnael's murderer seconds later.
Her holding a grudge was, well, inconvenient at best, dangerous at worst.
It would be convenient if she simply keeled over and died, but the dowager empress was unlikely to do anything at all for Walter Slovotsky's convenience, not even so small a favor as dropping dead.
Aiea bent her head close to his and whispered, her lips barely brushing his ear. "I'm beginning to wonder if she's ever going to let it go," she said, her breath warm and surprisingly erotic in his ear.
Slovotsky could more feel than see Kirah, out of the corner of his eye, glaring at him. Wonderful. His ex-wife resented his and Aiea's relationship, even though – as far as she knew, although there was much Kirah didn't know – it hadn't amounted to anything before their marriage was over, and their marriage had long been over when Walter had stumbled upon Kirah and Bren Adahan fucking – in his own damn bed.
He turned to Kirah and gave her a genial smile that he hoped would either reassure or irritate her.
Damned if he knew which he really wanted.
The tables had been arranged, as much as possible, to alternate Holtish barons with Biemish, attempting to keep traditional enemies – Nerahan and Arondael; Selahan and Benteen; Nerahan and Niphael; Nerahan and Adahan (Nerahan didn't seem to get along with anybody; particularly understandable, considering the legendary brutality of his soldiers during the war) – as far away from each other as possible. It reminded Walter Slovotsky of Doria Perlstein's stories about her Bar Mitzvah and other gatherings of the remarkably dysfunctional Perlstein/Silverstein/Rosenberg clan, where the combinations of who-couldn't-benext-to-whom often seemed to approach the mathematical limits, and the organizer would always, at some point, have to throw up her hands (and it always was a her) at the sheer frustration of trying to get some semblance of civility for even a short celebration.
Here, it had been the job of the baron minister and the imperial proctor, and Walter and Adahan had done the best that they could.
Robald Nerahan's table had been put next to the emperor's in the hope that that would keep him away from most everybody else – and, perhaps, give Beralyn somebody else to glare at besides Walter. Nerahan, a short, bristle-mustached man, reminded Walter of a weasel not just in his appearance, but in the way he was busy attacking the pile of herb-encrusted squabs on the trencher in front of him, as if he had been turned loose in a henhouse, or at least in a squab house, if there was such a thing, rather than a pigeon coop. His party included half a dozen lords – or at least, putative lords, from his barony;
Walter suspected that the biggest, most broad-shouldered of the lot was an imposter, brought along as an extra bodyguard who could be brought into the castle while Nerahan's soldiers were relegated to the barracks in town – and a half dozen ladies
of the barony, all of whom seemed to run to large breasts, hair the light brown of molasses honey, high cheekbones, large lovely eyes... and buck teeth and piercing, nasal laughs that ruined the whole effect.
Tyrnael seemed almost alone at his table, accompanied only by two minor lords and their ladies. All were dressed in appropriate formal wear – well-tailored linen tunics and leggings for the men and long, floor-sweeping gowns for the ladies – but despite the variety of colors, each garment was hemmed in Tyrnaelian red and black, as though in none-too-subtle reminder of where their allegiance lay. But Tyrnael seemed unembarrassed by the empty expanse of wood, and chatted quietly but animatedly with his party, listening with at least feigned absorption as one of his lords, a big, unabashedly fat man who reminded Walter of Sidney Greenstreet, gestured with an eating prong to emphasize some point he was making.
Selahan, accompanied by his military governor as all the Holtish barons – save for Bren Adahan, of course – were, watched the goings-on at Tyrnael's table with barely concealed envy. Big-boned, sunburned, and lantern-jawed, he kept spilling sauces on his formerly white tunic as he tried his best, no doubt, to convey food to his mouth while the conversation at his own table eddied around him, splashing up against the rock of General Dereneer, the real power in Barony Selahan.
It was hard to tell Barons Hol'sten, Benteen, and Derahan apart, except by the baronial colors of the filigreed decorations on their sleeves. Probably not more than a couple years separated them in age: all the men were in their early fifties, with sagging jowls that were barely concealed by their short-cropped beards, and receding hairlines that were more emphasized than concealed by careful attempts at comb-overs. Walter had to remind himself that Hol'sten was yellow and green; Benteen was brown and gold; Derahan, crimson and cerulean.
The Keranahan table was one of the two empty ones – General Treseen, not having a baron to accompany, had elected to quarter himself with his officers. Walter wasn't sure whether or not he approved – that was the intelligent, competent thing to do, and if Treseen wasn't an incompetent boob, then he had likely been involved in Elanee's treason, and that was worse.
Not Quite Scaramouche Page 6
