But the thought did relax her.
She sat back in the overstuffed chair next to the man-high fireplace and considered the captain over the rim of her cup of herb tea. She had been thinking over it too long; the tea had gone lukewarm, nowhere near the almost scalding heat she preferred. She grimaced. It was her job to handle things like this - that was what Jason Cullinane had made her regent for, and the emperor had approved it himself - but it would have been nice to have some advice.
But Walter Slovotsky and Bren Adahan and the dragon had hared off after Jason - via the Home colony in what the Therranji elves still stubbornly insisted on referring to as the Valley of Varnath - and Andrea and Aiea were still in Biemestren.
Walter Slovotsky's wife and daughters were still here, of course, but Kirah didn't have a lot of sense, Doranne was a baby, and Janie had her father's impetuousness. Best to keep them out of the way. Handling this was her responsibility, after all, not theirs.
You 're the regent, she said to herself, so rege.
"So," she said, "Thomen's mother wants to send those three into trouble, and she wants me to order it for her."
"That's not the way I would put it, Regent." Derinald's hands fluttered like an Italian's. "I would not put it that way at all, but I don't object if you do."
She let a smile creep across her face, and recrossed her legs, conscious of the way the slit in her long skirt revealed them to good advantage. "Call me Doria."
He returned her smile, with interest that didn't feel simulated. Hmm ... that was unusual for Beralyn.
She usually chose flunkies who preferred men, as the generally unspoken but very real prejudices against such could bind them more tightly to her. This Side or the Other Side, if you held the key to somebody's closet, you owned what was inside, and if they were inside, that meant you owned them.
On the other hand, even if this one liked women, it would be beyond credibility for Beralyn to send one her way whose loyalty could be turned in bed, even if Doria was willing to.
"Very well, then: Doria. Doria, I hardly see it as much trouble," Derinald said. "It makes sense to have the matter looked into, and to do it without creating the sort of disturbance that an official imperial envoy would mean is simple courtesy."
"You mean politics."
"Can it not be both?"
"Well, I'll have to think on it some," she said. It would have been good to have somebody who she could discuss it with, although thank God Jason Cullinane wasn't around. Jason was a good kid, but he had probably made the best political decision of his life when he had abdicated the imperial throne to Thomen. Politics wasn't exactly a Cullinane family specialty, unless the politics involved shooting, slashing, or punching. The Furnaels were much better at real politics, and wasn't that a two-edged sword, eh?
Too bad Jason's mother wasn't here, though.
She could talk things over with Andy, and then do what seemed sensible. But Andrea Cullinane and her daughter Aiea were in residence in Biemestren, albeit temporarily, and while they weren't overtly being used as hostages, there was always that implication. There was a reason why kings and emperors enjoyed having their subordinate nobles and their families pay a call upon them every so often, effectively baring their throats to the ruling swords.
And why did Parliament -well, what they called Parliament; Doria would have called it the House of Lords - meet at Biemestren?
"That's certainly a reasonable request," Derinald said carefully. "I can't see how anyone could give voice to a complaint were you to sleep on it tonight, and then give your answer in the morning. But Her Majesty did emphasize to me that she doesn't mink of this whole matter as particularly negotiable."
The veiled threat again. A threat was nonetheless real for being less than explicit.
"I'm shorthanded here, though," Doria said, "what with most of the baronial troops either on occupation duty in Holtun or off in Barony Adahan chasing down those orcs. But some of them are due back any day - I'd rather keep these three around at least until we're back up to some minimal strength."
The best way to deal with it was to delay, at least until she could decide which way to play it. Ellegon was due in a few days, and having a telepathic, fire-breathing dragon sitting out in the courtyard was a definite asset in any set of negotiations.
"I can understand why you would want that," Derinald said, shaking his head, "but I doubt that Her Majesty will brook a delay. She's not the most flexible of women, and perhaps wouldn't see the necessity." He sipped at his wine. "Particularly since I'd have to report that I've counted at least a dozen soldiers' beds in use in your barracks. Not, certainly, anything more than a skeleton crew, but I can't see how she would see that another three would be essential."
"Doria, there's a problem," U'len said as she burst in, ahead of schedule, wiping her hands on her ragged apron.
U'len was a massive chunk of middle-aged woman, comfortably homely from the wart on the side of her nose that had three wiry black hairs projecting from it down to the preposterously battered toes that peeked out from under her skirts. Her blouse, a dingy gray to start with, was spattered with grease and bits of food and God-knew-what; she had been in her kitchen since before dawn and would be supervising the two junior cooks until past midnight, supported by an occasional sip from a clay bottle of hideously sweet blackberry wine and two short naps, one after serving breakfast, one after lunch.
Doria rose to her feet slowly, carefully, simulating regret probably not well enough to fool the imperial captain, but he probably wasn't disposed to be fooled. It wasn't as important to fool him as it was to stall him.
Some problems could handle themselves, if you just left them alone, and political machinations in the capital might well turn Beralyn's attention to some other matter, or time alone might give Doria some other opportunity to duck this problem without confronting it directly.
"What appears to be the problem, U'len?" she asked. "Surely there's nothing and nobody about at this hour who needs attention."
"It's Verden. The warden from Lenek village."
Doria was irritated. U'len was supposed to have had Doria called away on a matter out at the Farm, and if Derinald insisted on coming along, a fast rider would have been dispatched to the Farm to be sure there was at least some problem out there that the baron or his regent would have been disturbed for, but U'len was obviously improvising. Lenek was one of the closest villages to the baronial keep, and certainly one could expect loyalty and obedience from the village warden, but it was unlikely that whatever emergency could be improvised there would stand close scrutiny, and the threat of looking closer was another card that Doria didn't want put in Derinald's hand.
And what if Derinald wanted to see Verden? What if he offered to help with whatever the problem was?
He was already on his feet. "Might I be of some assistance?" he asked, with a smile that could have been merely friendly. "I do have a small troop with me, if there's any - "
"No, I don't see any need, after all - " Doria swallowed her improvised excuse when U'len beckoned Verden inside the study.
A village warden wasn't a lofty noble position; it was a commoner's job, and Verden looked like the peasant he was, from the simple sandals strapped to his feet to the rough haircut that could have and probably had been done with a wooden bowl and a pair of farming shears. It paid to look less prosperous than he in fact was. As the tax money passed through his hands toward the baronial keep, it was likely that a copper or two would stick to those hands, but it wouldn't do to either let that show or alienate his neighbors by putting on airs.
His face and arms were covered with dust and sweat, and his breathing was still ragged as U'len led him into the study, although he had the presence of mind to keep his dirty feet on the wicker runner.
"There's trouble at the village, Lady Doria," he said, without preamble. "One of those urks, or orcs, or whatever the foul beasts are called, has broken into the house of In-grel Leatherworker and made off with his
baby boy." He spread his hands helplessly. "The village is up in arms, and torches are lit from one end to the other, but..."
"But that won't do any good," Doria said.
Nor, likely, would it do any good for the child, who was probably already dead by now.
Trouble had arrived ahead of schedule. The orcs hadn't been seen this far east, not yet, although the troops in Barony Adahan, across the river in Holtun, had been busy clearing out a hive of them near New Pittsburgh, accompanied by most of the small contingent based at Castle Cullinane.
Trouble always arrived ahead of schedule, though, and the hulking creatures that Walter Slovotsky had named orcs that had flowed out of the breach between Faerie and reality were definitely trouble.
"U'len," she said, "send for my riding gear, if you please. And for Durine, Kethol, and Pirojil. Horses for all four of us."
"They're just outside - the soldiers, I mean - and - "
"Then get them, get them. Find a bed and some food for Verden after you call for the saddle horses."
"Excuse me, if you please." Derinald held up a restraining hand. "But this is foolish. Dashing off into the night to chase down some hulking, claw-handed beast? That's not only unlikely to do you any good, it's unsafe, and I've always hated to see a lovely lady do something dangerous, even when it's not this unwise. Assuming you're so unfortunate as to find the creature - and I mink that's not going to happen, not if it doesn't want to be found - do you want to find it jumping out from behind a hedge in the dark? No. This is not a matter for a regent and soldiers at night, it's a matter for huntsmen, in the morning." He patted the air, as though telling her to sit down.
Doria shook her head. "The gamekeeper and his son have been off hunting for several days now; I expect we'll see them in a day or two, with some dressed-out deer and perhaps a boar. This is a small barony, Captain, and we're quite civilized, but I don't have endless gamekeepers sitting on call. Most of our meat comes from the Farm, not the forest. Unless - "
"May I make a small suggestion?" Derinald smiled and bowed. "Perhaps you could use the assistance of another huntsman's son, one who has spent most of his adult life in service to the Crown, but who still remembers how to follow a trail."
"You?"
"None other." He smiled and bowed again. "In fact, two of my troopers are also experienced in trailing; they were a scout and a ranger during the war. I prefer to keep a balance of talent in my troop.
With your permission, we shall leave before first light; I'd ask that you have fresh horses and provisions ready." He turned to Verden. "And I'll have you hold yourself ready as guide to your village, man."
Verden looked to Doria before nodding.
The peasant started as Durine, Kethol, and Pirojil walked into the study.
Kethol, long, lanky, a tangle of red hair and an easy smile that spoke of an easygoing attitude that his clever eyes denied. Durine, the big man, a head taller than Kethol and twice as wide, built like a barrel and covered with black hair from the bushy beard that looked more hacked than trimmed to the backs of his hands, hands with fingers that were too thick to use anything more delicate than an ax handle. Pirojil, the ugly one, his face heavy-jawed, and with an eye ridge that would have made him look like a Neanderthal if the forehead had sloped back. He should have worn a beard. A beard would have covered the double chins and the twisted mouth, but there was nothing much that could have been done about the sunken, piggish eyes.
Without a word or gesture, the three of them spread out, as though dividing the room among themselves. But there were no hands on weapons, or any overt threat, and in fact Kethol leaned back against the doorframe while Durine moved closer to the fireplace as though to warm himself, and Pirojil just watched.
They didn't say anything.
"I'm sure you heard what's happened," Doria said. "We'd all better get some sleep," she went on. "We've got a ride in the morning. Early in the morning. U'len - "
"I'll have Harria have food ready for you," she said firmly. "I'll be sleeping in, in the morning, myself."
Despite the situation, Doria smiled. "Oh? You will, will you?"
U'len nodded grimly. "It'll be a long night, but I won't sleep anyway, not with these orcs or urks or whatever you want to call those horrible monsters lurking about."
Derinald smiled indulgently. "No need for fright, old woman. The keep ought to be more than safe enough - "
"I'm not worried about the little stringy meat clinging to these old bones," she said with a derisive snort. "Besides, any such creature would surely gag and choke to death on my flesh. But my babies sleep upstairs, and I'll be sitting up outside their rooms tonight."
Derinald looked her up and down, no doubt noticing the wrinkles and gray hair that suggested that the time for her to have babies was many years past, but he just smiled and nodded as she turned about and waddled out of the room.
Doria didn't explain that U'len's "babies" were the Slovotsky girls, particularly little Doranne. Ever since Kirah, their mother, had taken up with Bren Adahan, the girls had been getting less attention than they needed, and U'len had always been fond of Doranne and Janie, and had them under her wing.
Hell, most nights Doranne fell asleep on a pile of blankets in a corner of the kitchen, carried up to her room by U'len before U'len turned in for the night. The keep was a lousy hunting ground for any creature, but if U'len had decided to spend the night sitting up outside the girls' rooms, no doubt with a heavy cleaver lying across her lap, Doria knew better than to argue with her.
"And so, Captain," Doria said, "we'd best see about getting you settled in for the night." She turned to Pirojil. "See to his men, if you please, and make sure they have fresh horses in the morning, when we leave."
"We?" Derinald shook his head. "I think it best if you simply leave this to us, to myself and my men."
Durine grunted. Whether that meant he agreed or disagreed was something that Pirojil and Kethol probably could have figured out, but not Doria.
"No," she said. "I'll want to look into it myself. I trust that these three can keep me safe while you hunt down whatever it is."
"Accidents can happen," Pirojil said. He looked her in the eye, then at Derinald, and then back. Yes, accidents could happen, and they could be arranged.
She shook her head once. No. "No, accidents can't happen. It's your task to make sure that they don't. It'd be a bad idea if anybody got hurt."
Sure, if it had been necessary, Derinald and his troopers could be killed, their bodies buried somewhere. But questions would be asked, and the explanations would not satisfy those who wouldn't want to be satisfied. You just didn't go around killing imperial troops, not without a damn good reason, and the irritation with them for conveying the dowager empress's machinations wasn't a good reason.
If Derinald had the sense to feel the menace in the room, he also had the sense not to show it. "As to these three," he said, "I'd feel better about haring off after some rampaging creatures if I could explain to Her Majesty that they had been dispatched, as instructed, to Keranahan."
"We can discuss that in the morning," Doria said. "Perhaps."
Doria had assigned Derinald a room across from her own, just around the corner and down the hall from where U'len sat in an overstuffed chair hauled from the late baron's game room.
"I hope you'll be comfortable here," she said, setting the lantern down on the nightstand.
"I've no doubt I shall. Much nicer accommodations than I'm used to," he said.
It was a nice room, at that. The bed was a large one, and the feather mattress on top of the broad, interlaced leather straps was always freshly aired. The walls had been whitewashed recently, and were decorated with an opposed pair of small tapestries - deer frolicking in a meadow on one side, a familiar looking fire-breathing dragon coming in for a landing on the other side. The nightstand held a pitcher of water, a corked glass bottle, and a pair of mottled green glasses, while a gleaming porcelain thundermug and basket of corncobs stoo
d in the far corner.
In the morning, the barred window would look out on the apple tree standing at the top of the grassy knoll at the west side of the inner bailey. A pleasant view.
It was a pleasant room, always left prepared for an unexpected guest, and the metal bar hidden behind the heavy oak door could be instantly inserted into a brass socket hidden in the hall floor under the carpet and then jammed into the door, turning it into a comfortable prison, just in case.
It also had the advantage of U'len being down the hall on one side, and the staircase at the end of the hall on the other side leading down past the kitchens, where U'len's assistant cooks and the housemaids were busying themselves with the night's cooking and baking. Feeding a troop of imperials in addition to the household was something that the staff was ready for, but it required pressing some staff into unaccustomed duties.
Keeping a close eye on visitors, on the other hand, wasn't an unaccustomed duty for any of the castle staff.
Derinald hung his sword belt from a bedpost, and then pulled a small bottle out of his leather bag. "I hope you'll join me in a drink."
"I don't think - "
"Please," he said with a smile. "I find it helps me sleep, but I've long had a problem with the bottle, and find that I can best manage it by never drinking alone. And this is a particularly fine Holtish wine, the grapes, so I'm told, grown from vines a thousand years old."
"Well, if you insist," she said.
He poured them each a small glassful. She liked that. An indirect overture, not just a ploy to get her drunk.
"Barony Cullinane," he said, raising his glass.
'The empire," she returned. She sipped at the wine. It was sweeter than she usually liked, but rich and inky, a taste of berries and sunshine that lingered on the tongue.
He smiled at her over the glass, one eyebrow raised in a question that could have been about the wine, but wasn't.
Well, Doria decided as she set the glass down and went to him, there was more than one way to make sure someone didn't prowl around the castle unaccompanied.
Not Exactly The Three Musketeers Page 4
