The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  Walter tackled him; and they rolled around on the thick carpet for a difficult few moments before Walter could get a proper hold on the larger man.

  But finally he had one of the prince's arms twisted up into a hammerlock and the point of a knife barely pricking the skin over Pirondael's jugular.

  "I think this counts as a gotcha, fatso," he said in English, then switched to Erendra. "I advise caution, your majesty—and silence."

  He raised his voice fractionally. "All set in here, Baron." Walter frog-marched the prince over to the bed and pushed him face-down as Furnael entered the sleeping chamber and began lighting the several lamps scattered about the walls. "Search the bed for weapons, while I keep an eye on your prince."

  The baron quickly pawed through the bedding, sweeping a dress dagger from the nightstand and onto the floor. "Nothing else, Walter Slovotsky."

  "Good. Load the crossbow, please, then give it here."

  Furnael slipped the bolt into the slot, nocked it, and handed it to Walter.

  "Take a seat, Baron," Walter said. "The show starts in just a couple of minutes." He curled his fingers around the trigger as he let go of the prince. "You can turn over now, your majesty," he said merrily. He pulled a stool over next to the nearest wall, rapped on it to assure himself of its solidity, then sat down. "Now, I'm renowned for being one of the best shots with a crossbow that ever there was," he lied. "Matter of fact, back where I come from, an officious official once forced me to knock an apple off my son's head from a good hundred paces away . . . so, I wouldn't think that there's going to be any difficulty about putting this bolt through your throat if you cry for help, is there?"

  The prince shook his head.

  "I can't hear you."

  "No," Pirondael whispered.

  "No, no," Walter said. "Don't whisper. There's nothing that attracts attention like a whispering voice." He had to repress a smile when the prince looked at him as though he were insane. "Just talk in normal tones. Now: Karl Cullinane sends his greetings. Karl's a bit irritated with you for betraying us, and he sent the baron, Ellegon, and me to see about bringing back an explanation."

  The prince's feigned look of surprise and shock came just a heartbeat too late.

  "Then it's true." Furnael sucked air in through his teeth. "All along, I'd wished that there was another explanation."

  "That counts as gin, shithead," Walter said to the prince, then switched back to Erendra. "Why, Pirondael?"

  Pirondael spread his hands. "I do not know what you are talking about, Walter Slovotsky. I've . . . betrayed no one."

  "Then how do you explain that the Holts knew enough to send assassins with dragonbane ahead? Other than our own people, there were only four who knew that we were expecting him: you, two of your soldiers, and Beralyn. None of the other three had any reason to betray us. You did. It didn't work, but," he said, eyeing the window, "Ellegon's irritated. He'll be along before morning to explain that in person." Walter leaned back against the wall. "So, we've got a bit of a wait."

  "What did you say about the dragon?" Pirondael said, raising his voice just a trifle.

  Walter ignored him as he turned to address Furnael. "You know why people don't like dragons, Baron?"

  "No, Walter Slovotsky. I don't."

  "It's not just that they're large and carnivorous, although that helps. But there are a lot of things in the world that are large and carnivorous, and—I wouldn't move too far, Pirondael—people don't fear them the way they do dragons.

  "The real reason," he went on, as Pirondael folded his hands back in his lap, "is that dragons can read minds. They know what you're thinking, and if that's not enough, they can probe for everything you've ever done. Every dirty little secret, every private disgrace that you've tried to forget—every betrayal, Pirondael."

  "I've betrayed no one, Walter Slovotsky."

  Slovotsky shrugged. "Tell that to Ellegon. He'll eat you, if you've betrayed us. Too bad; the baron here would just banish you, load you up with gold, and let you and a small band hit the road."

  "Banish me?"

  "That's the other part of the deal that lets you get out of facing the dragon. You'd have to abdicate in Furnael's favor."

  Pirondael laughed. "So. Now we know what this is all about." His face grew somber. "And I'd thought better of you, Zherr. I wouldn't have thought you a traitor."

  "Traitor?" Furnael snarled. "You call me a traitor? I haven't breathed an unfaithful breath, Pirondael, not until I was persuaded you sold out my barony, my people, and my friends."

  "Hah. Sold out indeed. Barony Furnael was already lost, Baron. I'd been forced to write it off to the Holts. It was dead. If the corpse could serve Bieme, then—"

  "I held!" Furnael slammed his fist against the wall. "And would have held out forever, if need be. But you, you treated us like gamepieces on a board—"

  "Save me your noble pretensions, Baron. Put yourself in my place—what would you have done?"

  Furnael paused for a moment. "I don't know," he said softly. "But I would have kept faith with my people, Pirondael. As I always have."

  "Honorable of you," Pirondael sneered. "Very honorable. I did what I thought best for Bieme, and I'm not ashamed of it."

  "You wouldn't be." Furnael strode to the curtain over the doorway and jerked it from its hooks. "But you ought to be."

  The bound forms of ten soldiers of the House Guard stood silently there, Ahira, Henrad, and Beralyn collectively brandishing more than enough sharpened steel to assure their silence.

  Furnael spun the nearest of the guards about and slashed the rope binding his hands. "What do you say to this, Guard Captain?"

  It's nutcutting time, Walter thought. This was what it all depended on. If the kind of soldier who would remain proudly on station on the losing side of a war didn't care about what kind of man he had pledged his life to defend, then everything was shortly going to go to hell.

  But if Pirondael's guards did care, if it was important to them that their prince be a man of honor, and not the kind of sniggling opportunist that the prince had proved himself to be . . .

  The captain stood and faced Pirondael, tears streaming freely down his grizzled cheeks. "I would have served you to the last, your majesty," he said, pronouncing the title like a curse. "I would have died protecting your body, pig." Wiping the tears away, he turned to Walter Slovotsky. "You mean to put Baron Furnael on the throne?" he asked quietly.

  "If not, I've come a long way for damn little." Walter nodded. "He's got as good a claim as anyone. And he doesn't betray his people or his friends."

  "And what would you do with this?" He jerked a thumb toward the prince.

  "If he abdicates in Furnael's favor, it would be up to Prince Furnael, no?"

  "Banishment," Furnael said. "If he abdicates."

  "Generous." The captain nodded. He held out a hand to the dwarf. "Give me a sword."

  Ahira raised an eyebrow. Well? his expression asked.

  Furnael didn't wait. He jerked his sword out of his scabbard and threw it hilt-first to the captain, who caught it, then balanced it on the flat of his palms.

  "I swear my loyalty to you, Zherr Furnael," the captain said, "for as long as you are worthy of it." He offered Furnael the sword.

  "Keep it," the baron said. "And these others?"

  The captain nodded. "They are my men, majesty. I wouldn't have them in my company if they weren't worth having."

  "Then please unbind their hands, friend Ahira."

  "Excuse me." Walter raised a hand. "If you two will stop playing kiss-my-ring for a minute, we've still got an abdication to arrange."

  The sword whistled through the air until the point rested just beneath Pirondael's chin, the hilt held firmly in the captain's hand. "I do not think there will be any problem," he said. "Will there, Pirondael?"

  "N-no. I abdicate in favor of Tyr—" The prince went into a spasm of choking as the flat of the captain's sword slapped him across the throat.

  "No.
The choice is ours, not yours," the captain snarled. "Do you agree to that? Nod your head more briskly, Pirondael. Good. Taren, procure paper and a pen, and fetch the Warder of the Seal. No explanations—just bring him."

  Walter looked at Furnael.

  The baron laughed. "If you don't want to trust Captain—what is your name?"

  "Garavar, majesty."

  "Not majesty yet. As I was saying, Walter Slovotsky, if you do not wish to trust Garavar, who will be chief captain of my personal guard, I'll be more than happy to listen to alternatives."

  Walter laughed. "Then be on your way," he said, gesturing with the crossbow.

  That was a mistake. He never knew where Pirondael got the knife. It could have been hidden in the bedding and missed by Furnael in his search; it could have been concealed somewhere on Pirondael's ample person.

  Six inches of steel flickered through the air until stopped by Furnael's throat.

  Walter centered the crossbow on Pirondael's chest and jerked the trigger. The bolt caught the prince's shoulder. Walter whipped one of his throwing knives through the air, relishing in the meaty thunk as it sunk into Pirondael's chest, directly over the heart. A last knife caught Pirondael's twitching outflung palm, pinning it to the headboard.

  He dropped his crossbow and rushed to Furnael's side. No good. There was no time to send for healing draughts.

  Furnael was dead.

  * * *

  He crouched there for a long moment, until Garavar's shaking of his shoulder brought him back to the here-and-now.

  Beralyn cradled the body in her lap, weeping silently, her husband's dead face hidden in her hair. Before, she had been able to face her husband's death almost casually, but not here, not now.

  He glanced over at the bed. Pirondael's blind eyes stared glassily back at him.

  Garavar shook his shoulder again. "What do we do now, Walter Slovotsky? Have you any good ideas?"

  Walter stood, and forced himself to nod. Shit. I'd better think fast. Technically, the heir is probably somebody like Tyrnael—or Thomen, maybe, if we assume that Pirondael actually abdicated in Furnael's favor. I guess we can wrap his hand around the seal long enough to stamp anything we want.

  But that won't do it. Tyrnael would probably have all our heads just on general principles, and Bieme doesn't need either a sixteen-year-old prince or some sort of regency.

  "Yes," he said. "I have a suggestion. Pirondael abdicated in favor of whoever we choose, didn't he?" He took a deep breath.

  Forgive me, my friend. "Now . . ."

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Defense of Furnael Keep

  In war more than anywhere else in the world things happen differently from what we had expected. . . .

  —Karl von Clausewitz

  Karl Cullinane walked the ramparts, looking off to where the Holts waited. His eyes teared, partly from the glare of the setting sun, partly from the acrid smoke that the light breeze wafted his way.

  "Belay firing," he called out, his word picked up and echoed down the line of two hundred riflemen. Slowly, the ragged volley died out. "Clean and reload; oil patches, only," he said. "Aveneer, take over. Fire only at reasonable targets."

  He turned and climbed down the ladder to the courtyard below, then walked over to where Ellegon lay sprawled on the dirt. The dragon's eyes were almost impossibly bleary, but they still glowed with life.

  *What is going on, Karl?* Ellegon's mental voice was still weak, but growing firmer as every day brought the dragon more strength. Just today, he had been able to lift his head from the ground for the first time.

  "Damned if I know," he said, reaching out and rubbing his fingers against the hard scales of the dragon's jaw. "They're redeploying a bit, but nothing much." Just the sort of idle shuffling of positions that would keep the defenders worried, but it didn't look as if the Holts were really getting ready for an assault, not yet.

  It just didn't make any sense. After Tennetty's last recon, she had reported that the Holts were doing absolutely nothing, other than holding position. No building at all—no ladders, no siege engines, no beams being cut for shoring the walls of tunnels—nothing. Somewhere between thirty-two hundred and four thousand Holtish troops were sitting there, the nearest just out of rifleshot, all of them waiting.

  Now I know how a candle on a birthday cake feels. But even so, even if Ahrmin is on his way, why the wait?

  Why would the top Holtish commander be willing to let line troops stand idle, when they could undoubtedly be put to good use in the north after polishing off Furnael Keep?

  What were they waiting for?

  *I don't know. Maybe Tennetty would have some ideas?*

  Speaking of Tennetty . . . where is she?

  *On the northern . . . rampart. I've sent for her; she's on her way.*

  "Shh," Karl whispered. "Save your strength. Sleep, if you can."

  *Young dragons don't need much sleep.*

  "You don't look all that young right now."

  *Good point.* The plate-sized eyes sagged shut.

  Tennetty's slim form appeared atop the rampart; she bounded down the rungs to the bottom.

  "You sent for me?" she asked, her index finger working its way under her eyepatch as if of its own volition.

  "I was considering it—but Ellegon decided for me," he said, as he beckoned her over to the well in the center of the courtyard. He worked the crank and raised the bucket, scooping out a dipperful for Tennetty first, and then for himself.

  The water was cool and wonderful as he tilted his head back, pouring it in his mouth, relishing the way the icy overflow ran down his beard and onto his chest.

  That was the nice thing about now: Every sense was sharp, every sensation special, even the slightly metallic taste of Furnael Keep well water. Karl nodded softly to himself. It was easy to forgive your friends, at the end of it all.

  "Move it, you," a merry basso sounded from the ramparts, as Aveneer brought the two hundred riflemen down from their full alert, passing out watch assignments for the night.

  Karl nodded in approval. The Holts almost certainly weren't going to try for some sort of tricky night assault, but there was no sense in taking chances.

  He turned to Tennetty. "You think we're going to get any visitors tonight?"

  She shook her head. "No. And I don't understand it. I haven't seen any evidence of their building siege towers or engines—or even ladders."

  He nodded. "Me neither. It's like we're all waiting for someone, or something. But I don't understand why."

  "Ahrmin, of course . . . I can see that he'd want to be in on the end." She fingered the amulet around her neck. "But why would the Holts want to wait for him?"

  "I don't know."

  Tennetty cocked her head to one side. "Want me to find out, Karl?"

  "What say we find out?"

  She shook her head. "I don't think you can sneak well enough. Maybe Peill and me?"

  "I've got a better idea; let's go talk to Andy." He walked toward the nearest door into the keep proper and headed for the suite that he and Andy-Andy were using.

  She was seated in front of a flickering lamp that stood on a wide wooden table; a huge leather book was open in front of her as she carefully studied the words that Karl couldn't even see.

  He knew better than to interfere while she was studying, so he waited until she lifted her head before he cleared his throat.

  "Karl." She smiled as she turned in the chair and rose to her feet, stretching catlike in her gray robes. "Are they still out of range?"

  "Yeah. Funniest damn siege I've ever seen. How's your invisibility spell these days?"

  "Good enough," she said, then paused for a moment as she sucked air in through her teeth. "You're planning on taking a walk tonight?"

  "Tennetty and I are, if you can manage it."

  Tennetty raised her eyebrow. "Be still, my heart."

  The tension between the two of them had evaporated in the past days. A small part of it was that
he needed somebody who he was used to working with; with Chak dead, Peill occupied with his longbow squad, and Walter and Ahira gone, Tennetty was about the only one remaining from his original team he was really used to.

  The big reason, of course, was simpler.

  I'm not going to make it alive out of this one, he thought. There was no sense in taking hard feelings to the grave, not when the object of the anger was really a friend. Tennetty had had a horrible breach of judgment back in Enkiar, true, but she was a friend.

  And death was a time to forgive one's friends, a time for gentle goodbyes.

  "When are the two of you planning on leaving?" Andy-Andy asked.

  He reached out and rubbed his thumb gently against her jaw. "About midnight, I thought. Give us some time to ourselves, before."

  "Good." She smiled up at him. "I guess I didn't wear you out last night."

  "Apparently not."

  The conviction that his own end was near had brought a fierce passion to their lovemaking, and he didn't feel like stinting himself. Not when the end approached so quickly.

  Maybe, if Walter and Furnael were successful in Biemestren, relief would be on its way, eventually. Hell, if they had actually gotten to Biemestren, and in the unlikely event that (a) they had put Furnael on the throne quickly, and (b) Furnael had ordered the House Guard to ride immediately, and (c) the House Guard had obeyed, and with alacrity, and (d) they came in enough force to break through the Holtish roadblock on the west road, then relief could arrive in another week or so.

  But that wasn't about to happen.

  It probably wouldn't make a difference, or not enough of one. Since the Holts weren't building catapults and onagers, it was likely that already-built ones were on their way down the road.

  Maybe that was it. But certainly Karl and the defenders didn't have forever. The Holts either knew or had to assume that the dragon was recovering within the walls; they and the slavers among them would have no desire to stall the assault until the dragon was recovered enough to fight.

  He shook his head. Hell, they could take the keep by rushing it with siege ladders, if they didn't have a more elegant, a less costly way.

  But maybe, just perhaps, the Holts would hold off until Ellegon got well enough to flee, if not to fight.