“All because of some anonymous letter … what’s your real reason, Mother?” he asked.
She loaded her rifle again before answering. “I don’t know. Or maybe I’m just not sure. Intuition?”
You don’t have that kind of intuition, not anymore.
He didn’t say that. Mother had spent her magical abilities in Ehvenor, burned them like they were gunpowder in sealing up the breach between Faerie and reality, and if the cost ever bothered her — and it had to — she never showed that to the world, and not even to her son.
There was something to admire in that. Father would have been the same, if his own sacrifice hadn’t involved blowing himself into tiny little bloody bits on a beach at Melawei. Jason had never heard Mother complain about that, no more than he had heard Tennetty complain about how she lost her eye, no more than he had heard any of the others complain about what they had lost.
Jason Cullinane was the son of two heroes and the companion of others, and he tried to learn from them.
That was hard to do, from time to time, but there were worse fates.
He nodded. “Biemestren it is, then.”
13
A NIGHT IN DERENEYL
The only good thing I can think of about letting two idiots settle a controversy with a pair of sharp, pointed pieces of metal is that it does settle the controversy.
— Walter Slovotsky
ERENOR HAD TRIED to talk him out of it, but he had thrown up his hands in frustration when the most he could do was to get Kethol to change clothes before riding into Dereneyl.
Pirojil hadn’t even tried.
It was just as well that they had ridden straight back to the Residence, and not stopped off in Dereneyl in the first place, as Pirojil had wanted. When Kethol had found that Leria was gone — and Miron, as well — he had gone suddenly cold and distant, and couldn’t seem to keep his fingers from clutching the hilt of his sword.
Pirojil thought that he would have been happier if Kethol had broken furniture.
At least he wasn’t fingering his sword now, as they waited for Treseen. Instead, he was constantly kneading his right hand with his left, as though he had hurt it. That wasn’t perfect, but it was better.
Tarnell had taken up his usual position at the door of Treseen’s office, and waited, presumably to make sure that they didn’t rifle through the governor’s papers while they were waiting.
Treseen bustled in, all smiles and handshakes. “Congratulations, Baron, and thank you for coming to see me,” he said. “Tarnell’s just been telling me about the success of your … great adventure, and I’ve sent for both Lord Moarin and Lord Melchen, to join us at dinner tonight.”
Kethol opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Leria,” he finally said.
“Yes.” If Treseen had been beaming any more brightly, it would have been hard to see anything in the room. “Isn’t it wonderful?” He spread his hands. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s only a few tendays before you’re summoned to the capital, as well. With any luck, the two of you will be married before the fall harvest, and I’m very much looking forward to the celebration.” He tapped at the papers in front of him. “Work is important, but it’s these sorts of things that bind us all together.”
He pushed himself back from his chair, and rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s been some minor trouble down by the riverfront, and I’m not at all happy with the chief armsman’s report on it. It’s one of those things where I’d best go see to it myself, unruffle a few ruffled feathers, if it can be said that dwarves have feathers, and —”
Kethol shook his head. “No. We need to settle this, now. You can try to distract me later.”
Treseen’s lips tightened, and Pirojil could more feel than see Tarnell stiffen out of the corner of his eye.
“Distract?” Treseen sat back down heavily. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Baron, and if you don’t mind my saying so, I’m a little offended.”
How could he be both? Pirojil wondered. If he didn’t understand, after all, he wouldn’t be offended — and Treseen very clearly did understand.
Well, honesty was not a major tool of statecraft, after all.
“I’m sure that no offense was intended, Governor,” Pirojil said.
It was the thing to say. It was the thing that Forinel should have said, of course, but Pirojil would have been able to grow old waiting for Kethol to say it. The idiot — just this side of calling the governor a liar?
“I’m sure none was,” the governor said.
Pirojil glared at Kethol.
“No,” Kethol finally said, “of course not.” He shook his head. “It’s just that I was … disappointed.”
Treseen nodded. “That’s more than understandable, and you’ve had a rough few tendays. Yes, of course. You and she were separated for so long; I was heartless not to see how coming home to an empty house would be disappointing, even under the circumstances.” He frowned. “Although I would have thought that that fast-tongued Erenor would have made matters clear to you, as he well should have.”
“I’ll speak to him about it,” Kethol said.
“Good.”
That was better. There was a time and a place for open warfare, but this wasn’t it.
Having Leria in the capital was a good thing, at least at the moment, as long as Kethol didn’t screw things up here. Let her talk around court about how quickly on his return Forinel had immediately set to handling a bandit problem that Treseen hadn’t been able to touch. The more she bragged, the more anybody expressed any doubt about what Forinel could do, the better — surely some in Biemestren would doubt, quietly if not openly, that he would succeed. Then, when reports filtered in through both official channels — and the travelers’ gossip that always made things bigger than they were — Forinel’s reputation would grow.
What they should be doing now was simply letting Treseen do what he obviously wanted to do this evening: praise Forinel’s success with the bandits in front of Moarin and the rest of the local nobles.
Perhaps Treseen would even offer to send a joint letter on the subject to Biemestren. Moarin would see the virtue of that, and if it didn’t occur to him, Pirojil would suggest it.
Moarin would, of course, be less than entirely happy to have to pay the costs of building the decoy telegraph line, much less plunking down a bagful of silver marks to pay off his bet, but, of course, he would be enough of a politician to conceal any unhappiness, and to praise Forinel’s courage and strategy to the skies.
It was in his own interest, after all. The more competent the baron had demonstrated himself to be, the stronger the case could be made in Parliament for the lifting of the occupation, which would let the local lords get back to the business of squeezing the peasants and landholders themselves, rather than living off stipends from the governor. It would be a tricky matter, of course, to advocate for that without alienating the governor, but Pirojil could rely on the likes of Moarin and Melchen, and all the rest, to do what came naturally to them — the lot of them had been suckled on intrigue more than milk from their mothers’ tits.
Not that intrigue couldn’t be learned.
“I’m sorry to hear you’ve been distracted, Governor,” Pirojil said. “It seems to me that you are far too busy to handle something like this ‘small unpleasantness’ at the waterfront, what with all the demands on your time.” He gestured at the governor’s desk. “Those many accounts to reconcile, and all.”
Treseen spread his hands. “Yes, but what am I to do?” He turned back to Forinel. “As you’ll see when you take over the barony, when you’re in charge, your life is not your own, and people are usually more interested in persuading you that everything is fine, regardless of the situation, than they are in telling you the truth. Back when I was just a captain of troops, it was my experience that the best way to find things out was to do it myself, and —”
“Or rely on somebody trustworthy,” Kethol said, interrupting. “Like,
say, me?” He rose. “You won’t mind me looking into this little problem along the waterfront myself, will you?”
Shit. There he went again.
It was clear to Pirojil that Kethol didn’t believe that there was any problem at the waterfront at all. Kethol obviously thought that Treseen had merely invented a story about problems in the interest of getting the baron out of his office and out of his way, at least for the moment, and would try to find some way to be sure that Forinel didn’t simply go straight to Dereneyl’s chief armsman until Treseen had time to get word to the chief armsman about this fictitious problem.
That might work, in the short run. But it wouldn’t work long, not if a suspicious Forinel simply asked around. Which he would.
Which is why it was even clearer to Pirojil that Treseen wasn’t lying. Overstating a problem, quite possibly — but Treseen wasn’t stupid enough to make up a lie that could be so easily checked.
So he wasn’t at all surprised when Treseen smiled, and immediately reached for his pen and a sheet of vellum.
“Would I mind?” Treseen asked. “How could I possibly mind when you’ve offered to do me such a service, Baron? If you have any questions, Wellum is the chief armsman, and while I’m sure you’d find him most accommodating in any case, with a note from me, I’m doubly sure.”
His smile broadened as he began to write.
***
They had missed the bar fight — which was fine with Pirojil — and almost all of the aftermath of the bar fight, which wasn’t nearly as good.
At their approach, the two battered dwarves supporting the badly injured one had limped off quickly down the street, and a couple of Imperials running after them would likely only have scared them into a full run, if they could have managed it.
The tavern was almost empty.
All of the dwarves were gone, as were the human brawlers. Anybody with a lick of sense, of course, had lit out when the fight had started. The only people remaining in the Spotted Dog were the tavernkeeper himself and a preposterously ugly woman, presumably his wife, whose unrestrained dugs waggled beneath her stained muslin tunic in counterpoint to the sweeping of her broom.
The rough-sawn floor of the one-story tavern was still littered with broken shards of pottery, and more than a few puddles that Pirojil hoped had come from upended bowls of stew, but could just as easily have been vomit. The scrawny, brown, torn-eared dog that was greedily feasting at one of the pools probably wouldn’t have cared much either way.
Broken stools had been haphazardly shoved over into the corner, but none of the low tables seemed to have been upturned or broken, which pretty much guaranteed that they were bolted to the floor.
Whether by design or accident — Pirojil would have guessed it was accident — the floor visibly sloped toward the rear of the tavern, where steps led down to the dock below, which meant that it was easy for her to sweep the detritus off the back porch, and let it fall. What didn’t just splash down into the river could be swept off the dock later.
The tavernkeeper bustled over to them, wiping his hands on his none-too-clean apron.
“Good evening, Decurions,” he said, ignoring the fact that their borrowed Imperial livery held no rank insignia at all. It never hurt business to inflate a customer’s rank. “Beer?” He rubbed a dirty rag on the dirty surface of the table. His faded red hair was braided behind him in a simple sailor’s queue, and bound up with a wooden fillet that would keep it from being easily snatched in a fight. He was awfully skinny for somebody who daily hauled kegs of beer up all those steps from the dock below — even if he used a block-and-tackle rig, it would still take solid muscle — but he probably was stronger than he looked. Lots were.
Pirojil raised two fingers, and pulled up a pair of stools for himself and Kethol.
The tavernkeeper emerged from behind the rough-hewn bar with two clay mugs of beer and stood, looking expectant, until Pirojil produced a copper, and set it on the table.
“Some trouble here tonight?” Pirojil asked, leaving his finger on the coin.
The tavernkeeper shrugged. “None to speak of, Decurion — and nothing involving Imperials, no need to bother yourself. It was just some of those Ulter dwarves starting another fight with a few of the noble boys, and the dwarves just got some of what was coming to them, although it wasn’t much, and it was all over by the time that the armsmen arrived. A little damage to the place, sure, but that’s been taken care of.”
“Oh.” Pirojil flicked the coin across the edge of the table; the tavernkeeper snatched it out of the air and scurried away, busying himself behind the rough-hewn bar at the other end of the room.
“Dwarves,” Kethol said, his mouth twitching, “causing trouble.” He tilted the beer mug back, but when he set it down, it was still almost as full as it had been. Some things never changed.
“You heard it,” Pirojil said, then took a deep pull on his tankard. It wasn’t very good, but it was beer.
“Yes, I heard it.” Kethol pretended to drink more.
In their time, they had spent thousands of coppers and more than that number of hours in taverns like this one — few worse, some better — and Kethol’s habits were well enough established that he didn’t even consider not nursing a beer when he drank in public. A soldier who wasn’t busy trying to get himself drunk could find a game of bones every bit as easily as one who was, and regardless of the myths about drunken fingers being more steady than sober ones, a sober man was far more likely to come out a winner at the end of the evening — both at the gambling and at the almost inevitable fight.
A wise captain always had issues more pressing than punishing his men for minor misbehaviors on their off hours, after all.
Like Kethol, Pirojil never had seen much pleasure in recreational brawling, but there were others who did, and Kethol had been known to take advantage of that, every bit as much as he did of his skill at bones. A reasonably clever, sober man could make off with a few dropped coins or even snatch a purse while making an escape when a fight broke out, and while that wasn’t nearly as lucrative as looting a battlefield, there were a lot more tavern fights than battlefields available these peaceful days.
“Have you ever known a dwarf to start a fight?” Kethol asked.
Pirojil pretended to think about it, although there wasn’t really much to think about.
Warfare was one thing — humans had long ago learned that trying to invade the dwarven warrens was a particularly painful form of suicide; if there was a stupider way to die than crouched in a tunnel so that you couldn’t even swing a sword properly, while some dwarf with an ax hacked you to bits, Pirojil couldn’t think of one offhand.
Brawling?
Brawling was about as much a dwarven activity as swimming was, and dwarves were famous for never being willing to enter water deeper than their knobby knees. It was more than a little strange that a creature that would work its way through a narrow mining tunnel, the weight of a mountain pressed down on its chest, would shake and tremble at the thought of water up to its hairy belly, but that’s just the way that it was.
Brawling? Dwarves? The word for “dwarves” in their own language meant “the Moderate People,” and the appellation fit, by and large. While dwarves tended to be a noisy bunch, particularly after a few beers — if Pirojil never, ever heard another dozen low voices raised in a guttural dwarven drinking song, that would be fine with him — fighting for pleasure was almost unknown among them.
Unless, of course, you counted wrestling — but ceremonial wrestling, the way that the Moderate People saw things, wasn’t really fighting. It could be and was used to settle disputes, but dwarves more commonly wrestled just for the sake of wrestling. An accomplished dwarf wrestler had about as much status among them as a master blacksmith did. Wrestling was somewhere between a sport and a religious offering, like a Hand priestess burning bay leaves before the altar.
Burning bay leaves did smell better than a bunch of sweaty dwarves did, but that was another
matter. Brawling dwarves? Not likely.
“No,” Pirojil finally said, “I haven’t.”
“Be interesting to find out who they fought with, and why, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, yes, it would.” Pirojil nodded, and gestured with his mug toward the tavernkeeper. “Be interesting to see what he’d say if it was Baron Keranahan who was asking him, instead of a pair of Imperial soldiers.”
“Want me to try?”
Pirojil shook his head. “If anything is going on tonight, it’ll stop quickly as soon as word gets out that the baron is prowling around the riverfront.”
“It might have already stopped if Tarnell has spread the word.” Kethol frowned.
“Possibly.” Pirojil shrugged. “If he does, then we’ve learned something interesting.”
“How interesting is it if Treseen’s catamite has a loose tongue?”
“Please — Baron. Go a little easy, eh? Tarnell’s not a bad man, just because he’s got a different set of loyalties than some other people.”
Besides, Pirojil didn’t think that Tarnell would talk, except to Treseen, who would probably just find the whole thing amusing.
Tarnell had offered to have their clothes laundered and be ready by morning when they had gone to borrow some soldiers’ livery, but Pirojil had declined, and just tucked them in his bag. If they were going to be nosing around town, they would draw less attention as ordinary soldiers, but particularly in a rough part of town it could easily become more than a little convenient to be able to become Captain Pirojil and Baron Keranahan again with a simple change of clothing — say, if they had to blow one of the armsman’s whistles that Tarnell had also provided.
Tarnell had just smiled and nodded. While noblemen really didn’t often take to common dress to pass among the common people the way they did in legend, it wasn’t entirely unknown. Shit, the Old Emperor probably would have done it himself, if the fact of an all-too-good likeness of his face being emblazoned on every Imperial coin hadn’t made that impractical.
Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda Page 23
