Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda

by Joel Rosenberg

  No.

  “So it’s not the Emperor,” Erenor said. “But it’s somebody noble, and the place to prove who it is isn’t here — it’s in the capital. It would be interesting to see just what Lord Miron has been doing there, wouldn’t it?”

  Thirien nodded. “Governor Treseen will have it looked into —”

  Erenor interrupted him with a snort. “Governor Treseen is a thief — which doesn’t matter, not in this — and an idiot, which most certainly does. I think Pirojil and I had better look into this ourselves.”

  Pirojil nodded, and Kethol silently agreed.

  It made sense. It wasn’t even unprecedented. He and Kethol and Durine — solid, reliable, dead Durine — had been used, after all, first by the Dowager Empress to rescue Lady Leria, and later by Walter Slovotsky to find Forinel.

  Of course, things hadn’t worked out the way anybody had planned, either time.

  But there was something about being at the center of something important that seemed to have started appealing to Pirojil, despite his protestations that he preferred to be simply a private soldier.

  Kethol knew how he felt; Kethol, after all, felt the same way. There was something about handling a problem himself, and not having to trust to his betters to see to it for him.

  It was best that they look into matters themselves.

  “I think you’d draw far too much attention,” the captain said. “Wizards don’t tend to travel much, and —”

  Erenor held up a finger, silencing him.

  “Then, perhaps, I’m not a wizard.”

  He muttered a few syllables, and he changed.

  Kethol had to admire the gradualness with which it happened: thin, gray hair thickening and darkening into a warm brown while wrinkles smoothed and a bent stature became firm and upright. There was, of course, no hint that it was an illusion, no intimation that he might not be a strong man in his thirties, well muscled like a laborer, not an ancient, ascetic wizard.

  “And that will hold how long, after someone so much as lays a finger on you?” the captain asked.

  “Oh,” Erenor said, “I think it may still work.” He reached out and took the scabbarded sword from the captain’s hand, and slowly drew the sword.

  Strong fingers gripped it both at the hilt and near the tip, and Erenor seemingly almost effortlessly bent the sword into a shallow arc, then slowly let it go straight again.

  He smiled. “I wouldn’t think that Baron Keranahan would have given you a sword that could easily shatter or bend without springing back into shape; I’m pleased to be right, as I usually am.”

  “Pfah,” the captain said. “Just another illusion. The sword never bent, eh?”

  “Then, if you will,” Erenor said, “grip my hand in both of yours, and squeeze.”

  Thirien belted the sword around his waist — it still looked silly, over a nightshirt — and gripped Erenor’s hand in both of his.

  The captain was in his sixties, yes, but his shoulders were broad, and his forearms thick. He squeezed; only the set of his jaw and the way the tendons on his arms stood out, drawn tight, like a bowstring, showed how much he was attempting to crush Erenor’s fingers.

  Erenor simply smiled more broadly and squeezed back, smiling and squeezing and squeezing and smiling until the captain, with a muttered oath, released his hand and nodded.

  “Well, it’s apparently a day for me being wrong,” Thirien said. “I’ve never seen such an illusion.”

  Kethol would have been more impressed if he hadn’t known that this was actually Erenor’s real appearance, that the old, wizened wizard was just a seeming that Erenor — never much of a wizard, except for his illusions — assumed to give himself some stature.

  And, for that matter, it had served Erenor to lure unwary travelers into making foolish wagers, as Erenor had done the first time he had met Pirojil. Kethol was vaguely irritated with himself that the thought of Erenor swindling the usually difficult-to-fool Pirojil brought him more amusement than the anger that it should have.

  He wasn’t surprised that the idea appealed to Erenor. Erenor was far too tricky for his own good, and liked things complicated.

  Still …

  “I’ll be going with you,” Kethol said.

  ***

  Pirojil wasn’t surprised. That was the problem with Kethol.

  Heroism.

  The idiot.

  It always had been and it always would be. Kethol had his virtues — he was by far the best tracker and woodsman that Pirojil had ever known, a good horseman and a better swordsman, and there was nobody alive that Pirojil would rather have had at his back in a fight — but he had one horrible, constantly frustrating weakness: he always had to be a hero. His idiocy in trying to stop a dozen bandits single-handed was only the most recent example. It was only through luck, and because Kethol had long been partnered with Pirojil — and Durine, for that matter — that Kethol’s insistence on being a hero hadn’t yet gotten him killed.

  Yet.

  “Eh?”

  “I said,” Kethol repeated, “that I’ll be traveling with you to the capital.”

  Erenor’s smile was conspicuously absent. “I’m not surprised. Lady Leria is there, after all.”

  Thirien nodded. The explanation satisfied him.

  The best way to lie, Erenor always said, was to tell a little bit of the truth. And there was some literal truth in what Erenor had said — it was no secret that Forinel had gone adventuring to prove himself to his childhood sweetheart, and it was no secret to Pirojil that Kethol was in love with her, as he would have been with any woman who would spread her legs for him without having first heard the sound of coins clinking into a wooden bowl.

  Still, it made sense — absent Leria to guide him, Kethol/Forinel didn’t know much about running a barony in general, or any more about the barony than a casual visitor to Keranahan would. Most of that, of course, could be explained by his long absence, and vague references to injuries, or simply avoided. But it was always best to keep the necessity for explanations to a minimum, and zero always did make the perfect minimum.

  Besides, two ordinary soldiers — even if one of them actually was a wizard in (or was that out of? With Erenor, you could never be quite sure) disguise — wouldn’t have much influence in Biemestren. Oh, certainly, they could get the ear of the Imperial proctor — Walter Slovotsky seemed to have some respect for both of their talents — but there was no guarantee that he would be in the capital, and while Pirojil thought that he probably could get a message passed to Leria, there was no guarantee. Imperial livery or not, you couldn’t just walk into Biemestren Castle, not without a pass.

  But, on the other hand, a baron, even a Holtish baron from an occupied barony, would not be turned away at the door, and could surely get an audience with the Emperor. Hang this around the neck of Miron — or his absent neck, if he wasn’t in Biemestren — and that would go a long way to making things easier around here.

  Pirojil wondered if that had been Erenor’s plan all along.

  “If the line is still up in Nerahan,” Erenor said, “we can have a telegram to the proctor by late tomorrow.”

  Pirojil shook his head. Even if he wasn’t known to Berten and Ernel, his captain’s warrant should be good enough to get a telegraph message sent, but announcing their coming?

  No.

  Shit. After that little excursion along the border, Pirojil had been looking forward to some quiet time, helping Kethol — damn it, Forinel, Forinel, Forinel — to adjust to life as a baron. Nothing more dangerous than a deer hunt, he had thought, or maybe a boar at worst, and killing a boar, as long as you were hunting with somebody you could trust, was mostly a matter of paying attention and hanging on to the spear.

  And there was every chance that by serving a baron — a phony baron, but one nonetheless — some coin would end up sticking to his fingers, to be added to the stash that he and Durine and Kethol had been building for years. In his mind’s eye, he could see the size of h
is homestead in Barony Cullinane grow, tenday by tenday.

  He didn’t trust Kethol’s judgment — baron or soldier, he was always too inclined to be the hero — and he didn’t trust Erenor at all.

  So why, he wondered, did he feel like somebody had breathed life back into him?

  Pirojil decided that he wasn’t only ugly, he was stupid.

  But he still smiled. “Let’s see … we’ll need to raid the strong room for some coin, and I’m sure that you can find some Keranahan livery for all three of us,” he said, thinking out loud, “and a message for the Emperor, sealed with the baron’s seal, should explain to any Imperials what we’re supposedly doing if we get stopped on our way. If the governor or any of his men show up here …”

  “Since my loyalty isn’t in question, you can leave that to me.” Thirien shrugged, then smiled. “‘Good morning, Governor,’” he said, addressing the air in front of him. “‘The baron is out hunting boar or deer or more bandits, and is not expected back for a few days, at least, and can I offer the governor some refreshment?’”

  He thought for a moment before he turned back to them. “In fact, it would seem to me to be best if the three of you equip yourselves with boar spears, and some packhorses, and cut through the forest until you reach the Nerahan road.”

  He chuckled as he clapped a familiar hand to Kethol’s shoulder. “It won’t be the first time I’ve let you sneak off to hare about, eh, Baron?”

  Part 4

  Final Attacks

  17

  THOMEN

  When the student outsmarts the teacher, it speaks well for the student — and probably better for the teacher.

  — Walter Slovotsky

  AH, TO BE Jung again,” Walter Slovotsky said, “as Freud said with his dying breath.”

  As Aiea set down the serving tray, she gave him one of her not-quite-patented he’s-making-obscure-references-again looks. She had taken to doing that a lot, lately.

  Looking, that is.

  She looked pretty, she looked at him, and she looked like she wanted something, which was also something that she was doing a lot of lately, so he did the obvious thing, which was to take her in his arms and hold her.

  Which was also something that he had been doing a lot of lately.

  She had been spending a lot of time with Thomen, of late. That actually bothered Walter a little, and it bothered him that it bothered him at all. He wasn’t the faithful type, himself, although he had been far too busy for any dalliances at the last Parliament, and maybe he was slowing down, or maybe it was that he was just, finally, a happily married man. Hard to say.

  He had just become a creature of habit, he decided. Habits were bad.

  Just as well there was no assassin looking for him — at least as far as he knew — at the time. It wasn’t like he hadn’t ever had people trying to kill him. And not just people, either.

  He guessed that that sour-faced Sister Bertha had been right when she wrote down “doesn’t play well with others” on his report card, closer to four decades ago than he was comfortable thinking about.

  Then again, if the universe — this one or the one on the Other Side, assuming they were different — had been designed for his convenience, he figured he was long due for a refund on defective merchandise.

  Aiea had brought him lunch on a tray at his new office. It was a suite of three rooms on the third story of the Imperial Keep, just down the hall from where a trio from the House Guard kept a watch on the Emperor’s bedroom — killing a man while he’s sleeping is one of those old faithfuls that never quite goes out of style — and perhaps more than a little on the Imperial proctor.

  She plopped down in his lap. There were moments when he didn’t revel in how comfortable she was with him, but those were few and far between. Not at all like it had become with his ex-wife, Kirah, who had gradually grown to the point where she couldn’t stand his touch.

  “I’ve heard,” she said, “that you’ve gotten a telegraph from Nerahan.”

  “The barony, or the baron?” he asked, trying to keep his voice light.

  “Please.” She frowned, and shook her head. “The baron. Which is surprising. As we all know, Bob,” she said with a grin — she had apparently been spending too much time with her mother, Andrea, again — “Baron Nerahan has no particular love for you.”

  That was true enough. On the other hand, Nerahan was smart enough to know that word of Baron Keranahan’s disappearance had to get to Biemestren quickly, and unfond enough of Treseen to mention that it had been closer to a full tenday since Keranahan had disappeared from there, in the wake of some unpleasantness that Nerahan was probably honest in saying that he didn’t know anything about — but which meant, in any case, that it would be any day now that Forinel would be knocking on the castle doors.

  He wasn’t the only inbound baron, either — Jason Cullinane was on his way in, and Tyrnael, as well.

  Not exactly Walter Slovotsky’s idea of a good rump Parliament session, but nobody, apparently, was asking his opinion.

  “And I’m not the only one who has heard. Garavar craves an audience, and Bren Adahan has wired you to stay put until he gets in, day after tomorrow.”

  “Is he bringing Kirah and Doranne?”

  “He didn’t say, which probably means that they are staying in New Pittsburgh.” She smiled. “Which is fine with me —”

  “I thought you like my daughter. Both of my daughters.”

  She ran her fingers gently down the side of his neck. “If you want to change the subject, that’s fine with me. Yes, I like both of them. I don’t even mind Kirah, not much.”

  “So —”

  “But you should know that he says he wants to see you, too. At your earliest convenience, which means, I think, right now, or he’ll send for some guards to march you over.”

  “You didn’t want to mention that right away?”

  “Well, you seemed to have other ideas. I thought Thomen could wait for a little while.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Not that he had any problem going to talk to Thomen. For once, he and Beralyn were in agreement about something: that stunt that Thomen had pulled with the margrave was something that Walter had been looking for an opportunity to chew His Imperial Highness out over, in detail, and with as much heat as it was safe to muster when chewing out the Emperor.

  The shot had been impressive, granted. But, coming from the keep, it was a good hundred, hundred and fifty yards, at least, and it had just been pure, dumb luck that the shot hadn’t gone totally wide — which would have ruined the effect of it all — or taken Thomen’s fool head off, which would have been worse.

  If Thomen was going to do something that risky, he should have consulted with his lord proctor, who would, Walter Slovotsky devoutly hoped, have been able to talk him out of it, and surely would have tried.

  Walter wasn’t one to quibble with success — and surely the margrave had gone back to Nyphien very impressed with the quality of the best of the Imperial marksmen — but shit, that had been stupid.

  Walter Slovotsky was stunned by the abilities of whoever that marksman was — that had been a miraculous shot — but nobody was talking to him about it, although he had asked around, and Derinald was about as useful as usual, which was to say that he managed to occupy a body-volume full of air.

  Well, things had already gone to hell, anyway, what with the still-living Derinald sending him daily notes about nothing much, and Walter watching and waiting for Derinald to show up dead, which he hadn’t yet been considerate enough to do.

  “The life of an Imperial proctor is never a quiet one,” he said, straightening.

  It could be worse. He rubbed his back, and tentatively straightened his knee — time to see the damn Spider again. Still …

  It was good to get up and move; he had been working in just trousers and a blousy shirt, going over reports.

  An empire — even a small one, consisting of just two countries that had been united in
a war — flowed on a river of paper. There was the steel production in New Pittsburgh to go over, and the curiously small taxes just in from Niphael, despite what appeared to be a bumper crop of wheat and oats, and requests for Imperial troops to be moved from Adahan to Tyrnael, and never mind the Biemestren master-at-arms’s report of increased brawls in the city and a particularly ugly rape-and-murder in Kernat Village, just down the river, that the armsmen were having no success at all in solving, and probably never would.

  Someday, with any luck, reporting of such things would be done on some sort of regular basis, so that somebody could sit back and take a look at the whole picture. But it was hard to figure out how to plan a forest when you spent all your time pissing on little wildfires.

  He sighed as he stood and stretched, then picked up a leather vest from where it hung on the chair next to his desk. Long practice kept him from letting it collide with the desk. The thunking sound would have revealed at least one of the throwing knives just under the hem, or the slash pocket inside the vest that kept his revolver at just about the same position that a shoulder holster would have.

  “So,” he asked, “do you want to come along?”

  “He didn’t send for me.”

  “If he doesn’t want you to stay, he’ll ask you to go.”

  “No; but I thank you anyway, good Lord Proctor.” She shook her head as she sank into his chair. “If you’re not going to eat your lunch, I may as well.” She picked up a meatroll and popped it into her mouth.

  Damn. She even chewed prettily.

  ***

  Thomen Furnael, Baron of the Prince’s Barony, Prince of Bieme, and Emperor of Holtun-Bieme, was in the garderobe when Walter was admitted to the east wing.

  Which didn’t particularly surprise Walter. Even an emperor has to take a dump, every now and then, after all.

  Walter waited until Thomen emerged from the garderobe, dressed only in a silken robe, belted loosely around his waist. He washed his hands in the washing bowl on the wall, then splashed some water on his face, and accepted a soft towel from the serving girl, dried himself, and handed it back to her.