“Thank you,” he said.
She smiled back with very nice dimples, gave a light bow, and walked away down the hall.
Thomen retied his robe belt and stepped into a loose pair of slippers.
Put a pipe in his mouth, and a large-breasted blonde on each arm, and he’d look like a young Hugh Hefner.
“So nice of you to come to see me, Walter,” he said. “You wouldn’t have time, this fine afternoon, to go for a short ride with your emperor, by any chance?”
“I haven’t been on a horse for a week or more,” Walter said.
“Then I think it’s about time. I seem to recall somebody telling me that I needed to get out more into the fresh air, not all that long ago. In fact, if I recall correctly, that somebody climbed into my room in the middle of the night — scaring me half out of my wits in the process — to tell me that, among other things.”
“The Emperor must be mistaken. Everybody knows that the castle is far too secure for any such thing.”
“It is now. I think. The north field?”
“Dealer’s choice.”
They had been speaking in English; whether Thomen preferred talking in English with Walter because they were less likely to be understood if overheard, or just to show off, wasn’t one of those questions that you could ask an emperor. It probably wasn’t out of any worry that they would be overheard. There are always security concerns about the emperor going for a ride, but the fallow fields to the north of the castle should be safe enough, as long as he didn’t make a habit of doing it too often, and kept his habits irregular.
Walter didn’t really think that any of the barons would be stupid enough to try to have the Emperor assassinated — everybody knew full well who would grab the crown if that happened — but it was never a particularly good idea to rely on anybody else’s intelligence, and dangerous enough to rely on your own.
“As you wish.”
“I’ll go change into some riding clothes —” Thomen held up a peremptory palm. “Nothing in Imperial colors, mind — and then we can go saddle our own horses.”
Yippy skippy. We can saddle our own fucking horses. Yay. “If I’m really good, can I muck out the stalls, too?”
“We’ll see.”
***
They were almost out of sight of the castle before Thomen said anything other than a few pleasantries.
It was a nice enough day. Birds chirped in the trees, and the wind came across the fields, carrying a nice, sunbaked smell, rather than the stink of the city. To the extent that Walter could ignore the company of Imperials on the road to the east, and the other one to the west, it was almost like they were alone, a couple of friends out for a pleasant ride.
“So?” Thomen asked. “Aren’t you going to berate me for that ‘silly little stunt’ of the other day?”
“I kind of figured that your mother had already done enough of that,” he said. “Not that she said anything about that in public — if you listen to what she’s been telling Leria and Greta and all the rest of her attendants, it was a brilliant political move.”
“You don’t think so.”
No, he didn’t think so. It was the kind of fool stunt that Karl would have pulled. But maybe it was best to let Thomen work that out by himself.
“I don’t like to argue with success. You sent the margrave home worrying more about the quality of our marksmen and our weapons, rather than trying to compare the numbers — although those are still in the Empire’s favor.”
“For now.”
“And will be, for the foreseeable — unless you think that a bunch of clumsy Nyphs can start making rifles as quickly as Riccetti’s engineers.”
“You know, that’s the one thing that I’ve never liked about you, or even Karl. You always tend to assume that we — we ‘natives,’ isn’t it? — that we natives can never be as clever as you Other Siders.”
That wasn’t true. But there was no sense in arguing about it. It wasn’t a matter of cleverness, but of knowledge, that had shaken up the Middle Lands — and most of the knowledge hadn’t been even Karl’s or Walter’s. Take some basic sixteenth-century — Other Side reckoning — knowledge about how to make gunpowder, add in enough resolution to make some changes, and there would be changes. It wasn’t as though Karl had thought he was some sort of Che Guevara — and Walter knew enough about the reality of that to know that that myth was bogus, too: he knew about Guevara running around like an idiot across Africa playing revolutionary, while the CIA had been busy making sure that everything he did failed embarrassingly.
Things had just happened, year by year, until Karl’s revenge on the Slavers Guild had ended up putting a crown on his head.
Besides, Walter did think he was cleverer than most. That was just because it was true, after all.
Thomen shook his head. “I would have thought that your time at court would have taught you a little about how devious us primitive types can be.”
“I noticed.”
Thomen laughed. And then his expression grew somber. “I don’t like conspiracies. I guess I’m more like Karl than you — I like things out in the open. I like it when there’s a problem that you can solve by smashing something flat, or building something up, or even just making a deal. But too often it all gets … so complicated.” His fingers played with his mare’s mane. “An emperor should try to stay above it all, don’t you think?”
Walter shrugged. “I guess that’s what you have me for, in part, isn’t it?”
“Perhaps. And since that’s what I have you for, perhaps you’ll tell me why Baron Keranahan is on his way here, with — so I’m told — blood in his eye.”
“Probably to kill his half-brother. Not that I blame him. Not that you should try to stop him.” “Oh?”
“You know as well as I do that Miron was every bit as involved as Elanee was in that attempt on Ellegon.” “Know? Of course I know. I’m not an idiot, no matter that that’s the only thing that you and Mother seem to agree on. It only makes sense — but if I start killing off nobles for things I can’t prove, I am going to have to start worrying rather more about assassination attempts on me. I’d have to have something close to proof, and I don’t.”
“Proof might be provided. Good enough proof, that is.”
“From you?” Thomen shook his head. “I don’t think so. What are you going to do? Write up a confession and sign his name to it?”
“I don’t think that would work, do you?”
“No, I don’t think that would work.”
Then again, maybe Derinald might be of some use after all. Perhaps Miron had made some sort of late-night, drunken confession? The trick would be in the details — but the details could be worked out.
It was something to think about. “Well, at least I’m not idiot enough to risk my life just to make a silly little point about Imperial marksmen.”
Thomen smiled. “Oh, that.”
He reached into his saddlebag and pulled out a metal tube. It looked like a pistol barrel — it was a pistol barrel, complete with a little nipple at the breech.
Thomen curled his fingers around it.
“If you put a small powder charge — it doesn’t take much; a quarter-charge will do — and stick a gourd on the end of it, then mash down on the primer with, say, a ring that you’re holding in your hand, it does make a fairly impressive display, as long as you time it correctly. You have to watch for the flash from the supposed marksman, and not wait for the bang.” He looked at the tube for a moment. “Gift from the Engineer — he thought that it might be nice for the Emperor to have a little something he could hide in his sleeve, just in case, say, somebody … untrustworthy slipped into his room one night.”
“Lou didn’t say that.”
“Not in those words. But it was a nice gift, and while he did say he hoped I’d never use it, it’s nice to have. Particularly with all these guests we’re about to be having, eh? You never know.”
It didn’t surprise Walter that Thomen�
��s information was as good as his own.
“Willen Tyrnael is here, already,” Thomen said. “He got in late last night, so here. He’s staying with Lord Lerna.”
That Walter hadn’t heard. Why was Tyrnael staying in town with one of the nobles, rather than at the castle? It would be interesting to know. Not that that necessarily meant anything — Tyrnael and Lerna were thick as thieves.
Thomen smiled. “Well, it appears that, for once, I’ve heard something before you do. What do you think that’s all about?”
“Maybe Tyrnael just wants to see Birth of an Empire, again. I’ve heard that the fellow who plays me is really very good.”
Walter hadn’t seen the play all the way through. He had tried, mainly because Aiea wanted him to, but it wasn’t his cup of tea. He doubted that he ever would develop much of a taste for local theater — the actors seemed to have to bray every line out at the top of their lungs, and if Walter was going to sit in a darkened room, he just preferred it to be a private darkened room, and his companion to be solitary, and female.
“And Jason?” the Emperor asked. “Why is he on his way in?”
“Well, you can blame me for that — when I heard that Leria had been summoned by your mother, it was only a matter of time until Baron Keranahan was on his way, so it occurred to me that having Jason around as a moderating influence might be a good idea. Besides, anything that a Cullinane says will sound to Pirojil like it’s coming from a burning bush, and Forinel does seem to value his opinion.”
More to the point, both Kethol and Pirojil could be counted on to listen to and obey anything that Jason said. But since Walter didn’t officially know that Forinel was Kethol — and he very much hoped that Thomen didn’t know it at all — that probably wasn’t a good thing to bring up.
“Good enough of a reason, I suppose.” Thomen nodded. “My mother thinks that he’s coming here to take the crown, although I haven’t heard of him bringing an army with him, and, then again, my mother always thinks that any time he comes into the capital, it’s to kill me and take the crown.” Thomen seemed to consider it for a moment. “That doesn’t seem to be terribly likely — at least, not to me.”
“No. Your mother’s wrong.” Walter shrugged. “But beyond that, if I told you I knew what was going on, I’d be lying.”
“And you wouldn’t ever want to do that, of course.” Thomen seemed to consider it for a moment. “Well, I’ve got an explanation. Let’s just assume that Lady Leria is pregnant, and that we — note the Imperial ‘we,’ Walter — have decided to sanction her marriage to Forinel and perform the ceremony now, rather than waiting until the fall Parliament, by which time her condition will be obvious.”
“Some of the other barons won’t be happy about that, and they —”
“We’ll make that up to them at the fall Parliament.” Thomen nodded. “I think that the marriage of an emperor should be an even better social event, don’t you?”
This day was full of surprises. Thomen’s self-destructive stunt had turned out to be nothing of the sort, and now he was getting married.
Walter thought about saying something to the effect of, well, since Frankenstein could find a bride, it shouldn’t have taken you so long, but Thomen was unlikely to understand the Other Side reference, despite his long acquaintance with Walter and the Cullinanes, and probably wouldn’t be amused even if he did understand it.
There are so many wonderful times in life to keep your mouth shut.
“Do I get to know who the new empress is? Or do I have to wait until you lift the veil?”
Thomen smiled. “I had a thought. It occurred to me that one way to cement my hold on everything would be to marry into the Cullinane family, joining the Old Emperor’s line with my own.” He cocked his head to one side.
Aiea?
Thomen held a hand. “Oh, Walter, relax — I’m just teasing. I’m not going to divorce you from your wife so that I can marry her. Besides, she said no.” Thomen was enjoying this too much. “It would have made sense, though — if I could have gotten her to go along with it.” He shook his head.
“No, I’ll be marrying Greta Tyrnael, come fall. My mother assures me that she is fully capable of bearing children, and she’s pleasant enough, at that.” He tilted his head and looked carefully at Walter. “All you have to do is make sure, after she does bear me a son, that her father doesn’t have me killed so he can be regent until his grandson is old enough to take the throne on his own.”
“That can probably be arranged.”
“Good. For now, though, I’m giving you a job: keep the peace. There are to be no problems between Forinel and his brother that might mar the pleasantness of the ceremony, and I think I will have you make the announcement about my own pending nuptials. Or do you think it should be Bren Adahan?”
“Is that a serious question? Or are you just having more fun with me?”
“Pretend it’s a serious question.”
Actually, that made sense. The Furnaels and the Adahans were hereditary enemies, although in truth both Thomen’s father and Bren’s father had put that aside, during their time. Bren Adahan had been the first Holtish baron to have his barony returned to him — although as Thomen’s chief minister, he had been more involved in Imperial matters than baronial ones.
We are an incestuous little bunch, Walter thought. Walter had married Karl’s daughter, and Bren Adahan had married Walter’s exwife, Kirah. Walter had finally gotten to the point where he could think about Bren and Kirah in bed, and just hope that they had a good time, rather than resenting that Kirah could bear Bren’s touch without screaming, something that had been impossible for her with Walter in the last years they were together.
“Bren,” Walter said, “I think. I’m called a lord proctor even though I’m no noble —”
“You are the lord proctor because I say you are.”
“That’s my point. Bren has his own lands, and a title that goes back to the first push in the bush in Holtun. I’m an outsider, and I always will be. Title — and authority that goes with it — or no. So it should be Bren, and not me.”
Thomen nodded. “I can go along with that. So we’ll keep this all in a low, gentle key. You be sure to greet Baron Keranahan when he arrives, and I’ll hold you responsible for his conduct. We’ll just have a sudden marriage, and let all the barons giggle and chortle quite privately about why that’s necessary, and —”
“The ones who aren’t invited aren’t going to be laughing.”
Thomen smiled. “Why, Walter — I think I have put another one over on you. All of the barons will be here. I’ve sent word to the ones close enough to get here on their own within the next three days, and I’ve enlisted a little help to collect the other barons. And a few others, who aren’t quite nobles, as well.” He seemed to consider the matter for a moment. “In fact, if matters of security weren’t quite so tight at Lord Lerna’s country estate right now — if that cook of his hadn’t been unable to have a note smuggled out — you might have heard about all the people there, and others arriving every day.”
Walter was getting too old for this. Thomen had arranged all of this without him having so much as suspected, and he even knew who Walter’s spy in Lerna’s estate was — well, one of them, anyway.
Walter nodded in admiration. The student had indeed surpassed the teacher, and if Walter had been wearing a hat, he would have taken it off.
Wait a minute.
Even with the telegraph it would take days to get —
“What do you mean, ‘a little help’?”
Thomen touched at the dragon symbol emblazoned on the medallion around his neck. “‘I have friends in high places,’ isn’t that the way it’s said?” he laughed. It was a good laugh, a sincere laugh, and Walter couldn’t help but join in.
“You take care of Baron Keranahan,” the Emperor said, “and you let me take care of … of everything else. Like the Empire, say?”
Walter was trying to think of a comeback and f
ailing miserably, when Thomen kicked his horse into a fast canter.
“Now, see if you can catch me,” he called back, over his shoulder.
He gave a quick tug on the reins, and barely touched his heels to the big gelding’s side. He was halfway across the field before Walter could even start his horse galloping.
Part 5
Endgame
18
A RECEPTION, OF SORTS
A SMALL TROOP of Imperials picked them up a few dozen leagues outside of Biemestren.
Pirojil had been expecting that — neither he nor Erenor had missed the way that that armsman in Kernat had ridden off in the direction of the telegraph station just a little too quickly, although Kethol hadn’t noticed.
He had barely spoken an unnecessary word in days. He was probably preoccupied with figuring out how Forinel would have called Miron out, and rehearsing the words in his head. Over and over and over and over.
Pirojil hadn’t argued with him. There was no point in arguing, not when Kethol had made up his mind — distracting him, on the other hand, was another matter.
What he had planned to do was to get the three of them settled in in some inn down in the city, and then himself go up to the castle and make arrangements for the baron’s reception.
But this was just as good. Better, even.
Regardless of what Kethol thought he was going to do, he could hardly go up to the gates of the castle, bang on the door, and call Miron out.
Days of hard riding hadn’t done anything to calm him down, but that was to be expected.
It had actually been a pleasant few days, in a strange sort of way. Their Keranahanian livery had proclaimed them to be three ordinary baronial soldiers, and it was nice for Kethol and Pirojil to pretend to be something that they actually were, even if it was only for a while, rather than pretending to be something that they weren’t.
And it was probably even nicer for Erenor to be pretending to be something he wasn’t while looking entirely like what he was, although, with Erenor, you could never tell.
Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda Page 31
