Not Quite Scaramouche

by Joel Rosenberg

  Yes, that might well be a problem. But it was worth knowing what their choices were. Not that Kethol's preferences would likely have much to do with what happened. As usual.

  Ellegon, his legs tucked underneath him, looking like one of those ridiculously oversized snakes that had slipped out of Faerie not all that long ago, had slithered down the riverbank and into the river, and hidden himself mostly under water. Only the top of his head and his eyes showed, and when the inner membranes were shut, he looked like a not-particularly-large rock sticking up out of the water.

  Kethol wasn't sure why Ellegon had done it that way. Yes, the dragon probably wanted to stay out of sight while remaining nearby, but at night, it would probably have made more sense for the dragon to be circling high overhead, invisible except as an occasional shadow against the stars...

  *Haven't you ever gotten tired?* sounded in his head. *I certainly have.*

  ... and it would have been nicer if Kethol could have had some privacy in his own head.

  He looked at the road, as it twisted up toward where the castle was hidden by the tree-covered ridge.

  Leria was there. He had been about to see her; he had been sure of that. But not now – they hadn't been told to stay out of town in order to be put back in charge of her guard detail.

  Which was just as well. Just looking at her made him hurt. She was lovely and gentle and ... and a noble lady. ... and he was just an ordinary soldier – in rank, if not necessarily in abilities – and a better than ordinary woodsman, and he knew that if he remembered it accurately, their fleeing from Miron and his companions had been a scary time, and not the best time in his life simply because he had rarely been more than a few quick steps from her side.

  If nothing else, if he had fouled things up, or if he had been unlucky, she could have been hurt, or worse.

  So it hadn't been as good as he remembered it.

  And remembering her, in the doorway, wearing –

  No. He wouldn't remember that, not with the dragon peeking at his every thought.

  *You know, while I'm sure that you were quite ... adequate, I doubt that you invented anything new. Although – no, Kethol. Be still and listen to me. I don't really like peeking into minds, and most of the time I just sort of let the noise wash over me. You have the bad habit of thinking about me, and that attracts my attention.* The dragon snorted, sending bubbles and steam up from the river. * So try real hard not to think about me, and I'll try real hard not to tell you that again, as that will surely make you think about me again, which will... *

  Kethol looked over to where the dowager empress was in quiet conversation with Ahira. Ahira would understand how Kethol felt. The dwarf was in love with Andrea Cullinane – anybody could see it – and she was just as far out of his reach as Leria was out of Kethol's.

  The very idea was laughable, but Kethol wasn't laughing, either at the dwarf or at him –

  There was a triple hoot that sounded vaguely like a hairy owl, and then another.

  That made Kethol smile.

  Toryn didn't quite have the sound right – it took some practice – but he was trying, and it was likely that anybody who could be sure enough that that wasn't the sound of a hairy owl probably knew that hairy owls always hooted twice, not three times.

  Hoofbeats sounded in the distance. At least two horses, possibly three.

  "Everybody," Pirojil said, quietly, "off the road." Like Kethol, he already had his sword in his right hand, a pistol in his left.

  *Your caution is commendable, but unnecessary, in this case.* The dragon's head rose out of the water. *It's Walter Slovotsky and another.*

  Well, good. Kethol put his flintlock pistol to half-cock and stuck it back in his belt before he resheathed his sword. He would have thought that Walter Slovotsky was self-confident enough to brave the dark by himself, but on horseback, it was –

  Leria.

  "Good evening," Walter Slovotsky said. "Would somebody give us a hand?" His horse shied and pawed at the ground as though it was about to bolt, and Leria's wasn't much better.

  His fingers trembled as he grabbed at her horse's reins, settling it down with firm hands and soft words.

  It snorted and pawed, but settled down, and he was glad that it was Pirojil who helped her down to the road.

  "You folks set up a campsite near here?" Slovotsky asked.

  "Why would we want to do that, Walter?" the dowager empress asked, letting the irritation show in her voice. She must have been very tired, or upset about something that was none of Kethol's concern, as she usually had more control than that.

  "Because we need to talk, and I'd just as soon not stand out on a windy road in the middle of the night," Slovotsky said.

  "There's a wartime campsite just the other side of the river," Kethol said. "It was a mustering ground during the war for baronial troops."

  Pirojil grunted. "Doubt it's being used right now with all the baronials in soft beds in the city."

  Erenor leaned close and whispered in Kethol's ear, "Some of them even alone."

  "Sounds good."

  Walter Slovotsky liked to pace while he thought, and Pirojil didn't like the way he kept pacing. "Well, we're up against it," he said. "Tyrnael's maneuvered everything quite neatly. I'm not sure what deal he has with Miron, but – "

  "It doesn't matter what deal he has," Jason Cullinane said, his jaw tight.

  Pirojil warmed his hands in front of the fire. It wasn't cold enough that he couldn't have gotten by with just his cloak, but there was something about a fire that warmed you more inside than outside.

  In the flickering firelight, Jason Cullinane's sweaty face was grim and stony. "I'm of suitable rank, I think, to deal with him."

  His mother rolled her eyes. "Which would, I'm sure, irritate Miron – assuming, of course, that you could beat him in a fair fight – "

  "I can. I've – "

  “– never seen him fight, and you don't have the slightest idea," Ahira said. "So stop bragging and start thinking. You can't go around challenging every lord or baron who gets in your way." The dwarf picked up a stick and poked at the fire as he talked. "There's at least two involved. The other barons wouldn't put up with it, particularly since you can't prove any offense. What happens if you and Niphael disagree on a matter of, oh, taxation or quartering? Does he have to worry about you calling him out?"

  'This isn't the same thing at all," the baron said. He took a pull from the waterskin. "Miron tried to have me assassinated."

  Toryn wagged a finger at him. "Oh, I don't think you should be making accusations without proof," he said. "Particularly not against a fellow baron."

  "He isn't the baron."

  Toryn's smile was wicked in the firelight. "I wasn't talking about Miron. Tyrnael is in a much better situation to recruit and hire soldiers." He shook his head. "I wouldn't even care to wager that it's him. You Cullinanes have made enemies far and wide, and I've no doubt that the Slavers Guild would still like to see your head, and if it weren't attached to your body anymore, why, that would be all the better."

  Pirojil eyed him coldly. The baron said that Toryn was trustworthy, but the baron was as capable as anybody else of being wrong.

  – But no, if Toryn had intended to kill Jason Cullinane, he surely could have done so by now. A simple knife in the back in the night and he could be far gone by morning.

  "Do you think it's a coincidence that this happened just in time to be to Miron's advantage?" "No." Toryn shook his head. "I don't believe in coincidences. But unless you're prepared to prove it – "

  "We could put them in front of Ellegon," the baron said.

  *Once. Maybe.*

  Walter Slovotsky shook his head. "I think I'd better work up a long lecture for you that we'll call Politics 101."

  "Don't you patronize me, Uncle Walter – "

  "Then don't you act like a child, Jase. Every one of the barons has had thoughts and done things that they wouldn't want the emperor – or Ellegon – to know
about. You threaten to start using Ellegon as some sort of fire-breathing lie detector on a regular basis for them – the way your dad used to do to keep Guild spies out of our raiding teams – and you're going to stimulate conspiracy and rebellion, not put an end to it." He shook his head. "Bad idea. If you can imply that you suspect Tyrnael, you might get him to swear on his sword, and if he's lying that ought to make him nervous about the idea of having to actually use it some day .. ." He shook his head. "But you can't. Ellegon?" He addressed the dragon, as though Ellegon was right in front of him, although the dragon was still down at the river.

  *I agree. If I start doing that sort of thing, I'd best not make any appearance in Holtun-Bieme at all. Any baron " who has ever – *

  “– committed a thought crime," the dowager empress said, "is going to turn that into a real crime."

  Slovotsky had started to bristle at the interruption, but instead smiled and touched a knuckle to his forehead. "She's still pretty and she's still bright."

  "And," she said, her voice too light, "you are married to my daughter, so treat me with some respect."

  "Always, Andrea. Always." For a moment, the mask dropped, and Walter Slovotsky seemed serious and older than his years, rather than younger. "As long as you don't mind if the respect is mixed with a little lust."

  Pirojil had never heard the dowager empress actually giggle before. Laugh, certainly. But giggle?

  She definitely giggled. "I'm sure you say that to all the dowager empresses – well, come to think of it, I'm not sure you'd say that to Beralyn."

  Ahira grunted. "If you two could save the flirting for later, I'd appreciate it. I'd rather pay attention to the issue at hand: what do we do?"

  Walter Slovotsky spread his hands. "Two obvious possibilities: one, we accept defeat. It wouldn't be the end of the world or even the end of the empire if Elanee's son ends up getting the barony, or if Tyrnael manages to put one over on not only the emperor's proctor – that would be me – and his baron minister... "But it would be a start in that direction.

  Thomen doesn't even have a wife and son, and – "

  “– which means that if he dies, the succession is in doubt, Tyrnael has the best claim – assuming that the Biemish barons are senior – although there's a few Euar'den nobles around. There's some Furnael cousins around the capital and in your barony."

  "The best thing," Ahira said slowly, carefully, "might, in that sort of situation, be for Jason to take the crown."

  Slovotsky spat into the fire, a gobbet of spittle that sizzled and died in the coals. "Don't even think that, much less say that out loud." He fingered the leather thong about his neck. "Which brings me to the other idea. Back during the raiding years, Karl and I started wearing these amulets – supposedly makes it difficult-to-impossible for locations spells to work." He looked to Erenor.

  "Yes, I've seen it." Erenor nodded. "It's a fairly simple set of spells – it just keeps changing, while magically part of you. It may not be impossible to solve the pattern and eliminate the confusion – it's usually foolish to claim something is impossible – but I've never heard of it being done."

  Jason Cullinane's brow furrowed. "What would you know of such things?" He looked from Walter Slovotsky to Erenor, and then back again. "And why would you be asking him, instead of, say, Mother?"

  "Now, now, now." Walter Slovotsky held up a hand. "Well, kiddo, there's a few things that you haven't been told. Need to know, and all that, and – "

  Ahira seized the young baron's hand with his massive one. "I've known Walter since long before you were born, Jason, and there's never been any point in getting upset with him being sneaky."

  "Hey, it's what his imperial emperorness pays me for, no?" Slovotsky waited until the baron settled down. "Now, would an ancestral ring that Forinel used to wear constantly be enough for a location spell?"

  Erenor nodded. "Absolutely. It's one of the reasons family heirlooms are so closely guarded. You can do all sorts of interesting things to somebody with something so meaningful to him. With some limitations, it's better than hair, or nail clippings, and almost as good as blood. Far better than stools."

  Pirojil fondled the ring on his hand, the signet stone, as always, turned inward. That was true enough, and it would probably be best if he destroyed the ring. Smash the stone to powder; melt the gold in a hot fire and throw it into a river, or the Cirric, or just bring it to a goldsmith and have him melt it down with some gold coins, diluting it until it was just metal, and not the ring Pirojil had worn.

  Pirojil should have seen it coming. Of course – that's what the three of them were for.

  "Well, then," Slovotsky said, "that's what we'll do." He gestured to Leria. "Give the ring here."

  "But – "

  "You're the one who said she is sure he's alive. Let's give Erenor the ring, let him locate Forinel, and then he and Pirojil and Kethol and Ellegon go pick him up." He looked over at Andrea and Baron Cullinane. "We can stall things here for a while, and if he's alive, and can be found, that'll give Tyrnael a setback, put Miron out in the cold, and – "

  "And help secure Thomen on the throne while improving our position," Jason Cullinane said. He nodded. "Better than my idea."

  "Well, it does have its virtues," Erenor said as he stood. "It's a brilliant idea, Walter Slovotsky. With the proper spells, an heir's ring should be able to lead somebody toward Lord Forinel, assuming that he's not tried to protect himself against such things – "

  "Why would he?" Jason Cullinane asked. Pirojil didn't know whether he was more irritated with the baron for interrupting or with Erenor for not having answered the obvious question without it having to be asked.

  Or maybe he was just irritated. It was obvious who was going to have to go haring off after Forinel.

  Which was, all in all, reasonable.

  The Katharhd, though. A tough land to work. Not tamed, like the Middle Lands were – too many magical creatures about, even before the Breach.

  Forinel, so Pirojil had been told, had gone off to the Katharhd to make a name for himself, and while there were places Pirojil would have been less eager to go chasing around in...

  That was the thing to do when you were up to your chin in a sewer: be glad the sewage wasn't up to your nose. The Katharhd would be bad, but there were worse possibilities. Pandathaway, for a variety of reasons, came instantly to mind, followed closely by Faerie and preceded by Ther – by another country he had left a long time ago, riding away at night to the sounds of fire and screams.

  So: the Katharhd. So be it.

  At least it wasn't Therranj.

  "Wait." Erenor raised a palm. "Leave that for a moment. I don't know that he is, and I don't know that he isn't. But, even if he is not protected, there are still two problems."

  Walter Slovotsky snorted. "Wizards and lawyers can never make anything simple. Well, what are they?"

  "The first one is the lovely Lady Leria," Erenor said, bowing in her direction in a way that would have been overtheatrical to the point of mockery if anybody else had done it. Pirojil ignored the way Kethol glared at Erenor, and wasn't at all surprised to see that Kethol's hand had a knuckle-whitening grip on the hilt of his sword. Kethol probably didn't even know he was doing it.

  "What is the problem?" Walter Slovotsky asked. "She doesn't seem to be a problem to me." His grin was disarming. "She's bright, brave, and remarkably decorative, as well, if you ask me."

  Nobody had asked him. Particularly Kethol, whose grip on his sword was even tighter. Pirojil reached out and tapped him on the hand. "Just take it easy," he whispered, low enough that nobody else should have been able to hear it.

  Erenor ignored the byplay. "It's the conditions. She's been holding it as a keepsake from Forinel, and unless I miss my guess, he was wearing it during," Erenor paused, "intimate moments with her."

  In the firelight, Pirojil couldn't see the redness in her cheeks that he was sure was there.

  "All of which makes it as much part of her as part o
f him, if not more so," Erenor went on. Off to the west, the sky was dark, save for a solitary Faerie light, dashing into and out of the approaching cloudbank, as though it was playing with invisible friends. "If," Erenor said, "if I could put a location spell on it, the ring could guide one toward Forinel – or to where he's buried, most likely – until it was nearer him than her, and then," he said with a shrug, "all it would do is point back to her."

  "What do you mean, 'if'?" Jason Cullinane had contained himself as long as he could. Pirojil could have waited. Erenor would have gotten around to it sooner or later, if only for the joy of hearing himself speak.

  "I can't do those spells." Erenor spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "I flatter myself that I'm a better than average illusionist..." he waited, probably for somebody to offer a word of praise.

  Erenor shrugged apologetically. "I'm not a bad man; I'm just not a very good wizard."

  * * *

  Pirojil shook his head. "You might have mentioned that right away," he said.

  "There's the obvious solution," Andrea Cullinane said as she rose. She walked around the fire to where Leria sat and held out her hand. "The ring, if you please."

  "But..."

  "Give me the ring," she said.

  Erenor's mouth twitched. "Begging your pardon, Lady, but while I may not be much of a wizard, I can see flames just fine. You may have had some magical fire burning within you, although if you did it was likely little more than a spark, but the spark's long since gone out."

  She extended her right hand, her fingers cupped and pointing toward him. "There was a time, Erenor, when I could have reached out and struck you blind, deaf, impotent, and lame with one syllable. I... was something of a wizard, once, and for some time."

  Pirojil knew that, and he knew how and why she had given up her magic, and if he had needed more reason for loyalty to Andrea Cullinane, he could have looked to that.

  But he didn't, of course. "Shut your mouth, Erenor," he said, rising. "You'll speak to her with respect on your tongue, or you'll have no tongue in your mouth."