Kethol bit his lip until it hurt more than his torn ear did. He had messed it up; it was his fault.
He could just hear Pirojil: if only Kethol had just waited for the assassin to come out and try to finish Ahira off, he could have disabled the man with an arrow to the leg, say, just as the assassin had done to Ahira. Ahira had been willing to be their bait, and if only Kethol hadn't gone off again, playing the hero. Yes, the assassin was dead and they were all alive, but the dead man was just a tool – and with him dead, there was no way to know whose hand had wielded the tool.
Unless, of course, there was some evidence on the body.
Which there wouldn't be.
Pirojil clapped a hard hand to his shoulder, and Kethol nodded in thanks.
That was the thing about Pirojil: he knew that Kethol was in the wrong, but more than that, he knew which side he was on. That was important. There was more than enough right to go around, but trust was always in short supply.
Ahira looked up at Kethol. "You just going to stand there bleeding, or are you going to give me a hand with this?"
Part Three:
Parliament
Chapter 8
Bren Adahan
The best time to get in a little private sparring, it occurred to Bren Adahan, probably for the thousandth time, was the early morning, just at dawn. The keep was quiet then, save for a few early-rising servants and some late-posted guards, and the heat of the day had yet to bake the horse urine-soaked parade ground outside the inner barracks, releasing the scent of ancient horse piss. With a little luck, a stiff wind at the ramparts level would translate into a light breeze at the ground, perhaps bringing a distant smell of sun-warming wheat, but certainly carrying away sweat before it had the chance to bead on your bare chest.
These days, of course, what with everything else he had to do, getting up early probably meant meeting with some noble or notable so that he would be able to talk intelligently to Thomen, about whatever was bothering or interesting the emperor, over their usual breakfast together.
So an early morning bout had gone the way of his old early morning ride, and he missed it almost as much.
Almost as good as an early morning bit of sparring was a late night bout. With the night wind whispering vague threats and vaguer promises, bodies moving under the light of flickering torches with the tips of the practice swords disappearing into the darkness, reappearing moments later, you could concentrate – you simply must concentrate – on nothing more than the bout itself. It felt too real, the threat too imminent, when your sight couldn't always reassure you that your opponent's sword was blunt and button-capped, like your own.
Of course, what with Parliament in session, and with the danger of the other barons, particularly the Biemish barons, thinking him aloof, and therefore dangerous, or isolated, and therefore vulnerable, his evenings were filled with endless dinners and interminable drinking bouts with the rest of the visiting nobility. He would be lucky to stumble back to his rooms, not sure whether he was more tired than drunk or more drunk than tired, where Kirah – warm, soft, patient Kirah; what a fool Walter Slovotsky had been to let her slip away – waited with warm cloths, warm hands, and a warmer mouth. Sleep was a dark but friendly pit that he could fall headlong into.
The worst time was now: noon on a busy day, when what he really ought to be doing was going over tax figures and expenditure reports with the engineers and accountants, so that he would have facts not merely at his fingertips, but at his lips, when arguments arose during a session of Parliament. But sword practice was like riding, and hunting, and sex: even when it was bad it was pretty good, and when it was good it was terrific.
It was also better than the alternative way of earning some respect from the fighting men of the Home Guard, for this reason: it was possible.
If you were going to command fighting men, his father had long ago taught him, you had to command the respect of fighting men, and the simplest and best way to do that was to lead them in battle. Not the safest, mind, but the best.
You couldn't always be right there when steel met steel and flesh, not in person. But if you demonstrated, from time to time, that you were willing to put your own steel – and your own flesh – out in front, you could earn that respect. You could make the men believe that the only reason you weren't here, right here and now, was that you were busy somewhere else, and the least they could do was to shoulder their share of the burden. Much of the time, they would. You could earn that respect by winning a few scars in battle, early on, and let your legend grow in the telling, the way the Old Emperor had.
That wasn't a possibility that was open to Bren Adahan.
Forget, for the moment, all the silly talk about a unified empire. That was just talk, and talk was always the cheapest of coin. He was a Holt, and Holtun had been conquered by Bieme, and commanding fighting men in Bieme was something that was not going to happen, no matter bis title.
But he could earn their respect, even the half-sneering sort of respect that might be the best that an outlander noble would be able to earn.
The way of the sword is the way of timing and balance and speed, and very little of sheer force, but while strength wasn't the key to it, strength mattered. You needed power not just in your wrist and arm, but in your legs and torso, and with some effort, you could make your opponent spend his strength fighting phantom menaces while, slowly, bit by bit, his legs tired, and his arm drooped, until you could beat his sword – practice, as now, or a real sword – to one side as you moved in, leaving him open from nose to ankles.
Bren Adahan did just that, yet again, and lightly tapped Captain Garett on his left nipple, then stepped back. The objective was not just to beat the captain, but to do so in a way that would not cause the other to lose stature and credibility among bis men. There was no need for that. Stature, like wealth, was not a fixed commodity; it could be created as well as destroyed, and to destroy it without need was not just cruel, it was wasteful. Bren Adahan was willing to be cruel – you simply couldn't wield power if you weren't willing to be cruel when necessary – but he wasn't willing to be wasteful. Too much of both Holtun and Bieme had been wasted during the war.
"Very nicely done, sir," the captain said. The set of his jaw showed that the admission was at war with his pride, but the words showed that his pride, in a deeper sense, was still the winner. There was some shame in admitting that you had been bested, but much more in denying it.
Bren Adahan nodded to himself. This one would do. It was hard to keep track of the idiotic Biemish system of ranks that, in the Biemish victory, had become the imperial system of ranks, but Garett was now a captain of patrol – by one way of looking at it, the second-lowest ranking officer class.
Well, what with deaths and promotions, the Home Guard was in need of two captains of companies, and three of troops. Garett could fit in either way, and while it was usually General Garavar's call as to promotions, the general probably was ready for retirement, and it wouldn't do to have too much of his hand in shaping the new Home Guard on his way out to pasture.
At Adahan's nod, Garett gave a quick salute, dropped back a full step – Adahan had already caught him when he had ignored his proper spacing – and re-engaged.
This was almost too much fun. It would be wonderful to spend the rest of the day sparring, to exercise nothing more than wrist and thigh muscles, to keep his mind blank – thinking too much was a bad habit that the loss of a few points could correct quickly – but it was time to get back to work.
He deliberately let Garett win the point – something that probably would never have occurred to most people, he thought smugly – and then let his point drop, as though tired.
"Well done, Captain," he said.
"Do you fancy another point, Baron Minister?" The captain's stony face betrayed his self-satisfaction only in the twinkling of his eyes.
"I think not," he said. "At least, not now."
It was tempting, though. There was much to be said
for having a reputation for knowing everything that was going on, and since it was impossible to actually know everything that was going on, the only way to gain that reputation was to be able to produce information with seeming effortlessness, and being ready for effortlessness took a lot of work.
This wasn't work.
Truth to tell, it was fun. Necessary fun, but fun.
I am, he thought, not quite entirely alone and generally hated, in a foreign land. But at least I'm having a good time.
Adahan – the town, as well as the family – had been destroyed in the war, and if it hadn't been for the Old Emperor...
And what was not to like? His bed was warmed every night by a warm, willing, and remarkably pleasant woman, one who, unlike his former intended, had better things to do with every moment of the day than compare him – unfavorably – with her adopted father and her "Uncle Walter." And with the Spider's assurance that Kirah was still fertile, he had every reason to hope for an heir.
And if not, well, the world was filled with warm, willing, pleasant women, wasn't it?
"Nicely done," sounded from the walls high above, in a familiar voice.
Tyrnael leaned over the balustrade, his fingers widely spread on the rail. "You wouldn't mind giving a quick lesson to a lesser baron, would you, Baron Minister?" he asked, then headed for the nearest staircase, taking the answer for granted.
He hadn't seemed to hurry, but his pace must have been brisk; it was only a few moments later that Tyrnael exited from the darkness of the tower staircase, his hair still damp from his morning ablutions. The older baron was dressed casually for the morning, in little more than a blousy spidersilk white shirt over linen trousers, his thick-soled boots the only note of utility, save for the plain-hilted sword at his left hip.
"You're up and around early, Baron," Bren Adahan said. That was the way things were when Parliament was in session – drinking and talking until all hours of the night, with most of the visitors sleeping until the afternoon heat drew them from their beds.
Tyrnael smiled. "Oh, I'm meeting the lovely Lady Leria shortly," he said, casting a quick glance where the short shadow on the sundial was nearing the fifth hour. "I'm hoping that I can persuade her and her entourage to visit us, out in the country. She's developing quite a reputation as a horsewoman, and I think she might like some of what my middle son has been breeding in our stables."
Bren Adahan kept his face studiously blank. Tyrnael's eldest living son, Lord Lefernen, was very much not in evidence; probably back in Tyrnael, keeping everybody there in line, while acting as a reminder that the mass of baronial troops were under local, not imperial, command. It was one thing to make the barons put their own necks under the emperor's sword – and while it was rarely spoken of, it was understood by all that that was a major reason for Parliament gathering – but their bringing along their whole families as hostages, implicit or otherwise?
That was too bad, in many ways. Lefernen had quite a reputation as a troop captain, won honestly in riding the Kiaran border after his elder brother had been killed doing just the same thing. Bren Adahan would have liked to have met him here, to have taken the measure of the man. But Thomen was reluctant to order other than the barons themselves to the capital, just as the Old Emperor had been.
And – baron minister or not – Bren Adahan didn't have the authority to give such an order himself. Vertum, Bren Adahan's father, had taught him that you should never give an order that you knew would be rebelled against, or ignored. Better to relieve the commander or warden instead. It was even worse with subordinate nobility – you couldn't just relieve them, not if they had their own fealty-held troops.
Barking out orders could be a bloody thing. Think twice and cut once, his father used to say, was a good maxim to apply whether you're measuring wood for a spear or judging a man for a grave.
"But that wasn't why I asked your clerk for a few moments of your time," Tyrnael said. "I do have a small request."
"My clerk?" Bren Adahan raised an eyebrow. He hadn't spoken with Deretty since before breakfast. "I'm sorry; you have the advantage of me. What did you ask my clerk for?"
"It's nothing major," Tyrnael said, "but there's a small party from the barony – my barony – arriving today, and I would much appreciate a pass for its captain. He should have brought a few trinkets that I didn't quite have time to gather together before leaving." His smile was sure innocence. "Just a few gifts and surprises I've been having some of our local craftsmen work on to give out at this Parliament."
Bren Adahan nodded. "Of course," he said. And, he added silently, Walter Slovotsky and I are going to each have a very close look at these trinkets of yours, and at the captain bringing them.
Tyrnael's smile broadened. I wouldn't have any other way, it seemed to say.
Chapter 9
Kelleren's Farm
Some things and some people heal slowly, and maybe some never heal at all, Pirojil thought. There are, after all, wounds to the body, and to the mind, and to the spirit.
He rubbed at his face with the back of his hand, the smoothness of his ring comforting in its familiarity, the signet warm against the palm of his hand.
Prince's Road still hadn't recovered from the ravages of the war, although there had been more than enough time. In the old days, there had been, by princely edict, inns with suitable accommodations for travelers, no more than a day's ride apart, as the road snaked its way through the Biemish landscape.
And then the Holts, aided by the Pandathaway Slavers Guild and their own version of gunpowder, had torn through Bieme, playing out ancient enmities with sword and torch, burning the harvests and harvesting the people to be marched off north and east as slaves. That had been understandable. Not, of course, at all pleasant to be on the receiving end of, but understandable. There would be something satisfying about turning an ancient enemy into jingling coins.
What most people would not have understood is why the Holts had so often burned everything behind them as they ravaged their way through the baronies.
There was no profit in that.
No, most people would not have understood, but Pirojil understood. War was not just about profit and money and pride; it was about destruction and killing. You could ride into a village and kill all who opposed you, and march the rest out in a line, destined to become slaves in other lands, but could you leave behind their homes, untouched? Wouldn't you have to build up your anger and hatred, and wouldn't it be all too easy to touch a torch to a thatched roof? If there were any left inside, you could close your ears to their screams.
Pirojil had closed his ears, his mind, and his heart to a scream or two in his time.
"I don't like this." Andrea Cullinane swung a leg over the pommel of her saddle – and why did the Cullinane women always seem to choose the biggest horse available? – and vaulted more than dropped to the ground. "I don't like this at all," she said. She sniffed the air. "Something smells wrong, and I don't know if it's in the air or in my mind."
She was dressed for the road – women wore trousers for riding, for obvious reasons – but in a discordant note, a short sword was strapped to the left side of her hips, balanced by a flap holster on the right. It was unusual to see a single pistol – when Kethol intended to rely on gunpowder and lead rather than tempered steel, he never carried less than a brace – but the dowager empress (and to Kethol and Pirojil, Andrea Cullinane would always be the real dowager empress, and Beralyn Furnael but a shriveled, shrunken, mean-spirited usurper) undoubtedly had her own reasons for arming herself as she did, and it wasn't the place of the likes of Kethol to question her judgment on that or anything else.
If she wanted his advice – or his belly sliced open so that she could warm her toes in his guts – all she had to do was ask.
Pirojil would have found her strikingly attractive, if he had let himself. Her forty years had left only the start of wrinkles at the comers of her eyes and particularly her large and generous mouth, but if there was any
sag to her breasts, the tightness of her leather vest concealed that. The blouse beneath the vest had started the day white and clean, but road dust had already turned it a dingy gray.
Her skin was smoother than it should have been at her age, and there were no visible scars, not to her body, but, from time to time, when her eyes forgot to lie, there was a wildness and an ancient pain there.
Well, that was understandable. One moment she had been the wife of the emperor, mother of the heir, and a powerful wizard in her own right. The next, she was a widow, her husband blown to bloody little bits on a Melawei beach. Now, she was just a dowager empress, and that only a courtesy title, as her son had abdicated the crown and throne to Thomen Furnael.
"I don't know, either," Jason Cullinane said. His eyes kept sweeping their surroundings, never quite resting on anybody or anything. He was too inexperienced to make it less than obvious that he half-expected things to go crazy on them at any moment.
Ta havath, Pirojil thought. Stand easy.
The rest of the guards – Pirojil could have remembered their names if he'd bothered, but he didn't like to get too close to the regulars – were still on their horses, the animals snorting and shuffling in impatience.
The young baron was no unblooded, effete noble, but he was, after all, still young. Yes, it made sense to stay alert, but if an attack was going to happen here and now it probably would already have happened. You had to learn to husband your energies, to get what little rest you could from the situation, or when it all went to shit around you, you would not have any reserves left.
Pirojil was just a simple soldier, of course, but it made sense for even the simplest of soldiers to look at his own personal reserves from a lofty perspective. And it was a lot easier than remembering how scared he had been when he had charged out into the meadow behind Kethol. It was amazing, if you thought about it: Pirojil had been doing this for more years than he cared to count, but he still hadn't outgrown the fear. Maybe that was something you were born with, and that stayed with you when your baby teeth, your easy youthful erection, and your belief that you could depend on people abandoned you.
Not Quite Scaramouche Page 9
