Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda

by Joel Rosenberg

  She nodded. She understood the implied threat. “I’ll make no objection. Truth to tell, I have no objection to the girl. Just to her father.”

  “Me?” He started to place a hand, fingers spread, on his chest, but stopped the motion. “You object to me?”

  “You didn’t keep your word to me. That Derinald is still alive, and you said you’d have him dealt with.”

  Although she never should have believed him. Derinald was the best evidence of her involvement with the attempted assassination on Jason Cullinane. She had been an idiot to think that he would remove that evidence, and the hold that it gave him over her.

  “My word? I don’t recall ever giving my word that I would have Derinald, or anybody else, killed.”

  “You said —”

  “I said, my Empress, that if you wanted somebody killed, you should chalk the name on this buttress. As, I take it, you did. I think you assumed that I had some agents in the castle, who would report that to me, but I don’t think I ever said that I did. In fact, I’m quite sure that I never said that at all.” He smiled. “Just as I never said that, if you chalked somebody’s name on this buttress, I would have that somebody killed, and I chose my words very carefully. I told you that I am your friend — and indeed I am. I told you that I would wish to protect you from your own recklessness — and indeed I do.” He laid a gentle hand on her arm. “There’s only one minor matter to be attended to with regard to that, and we can attend to it shortly. But for now, there’s no need for all this concern. It’s all worked out very well, for your family, for mine, and for the Empire. I would wish that your son was half as taken with my Greta as that Forinel is smitten with his Leria, but I don’t insist on it. Do you?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “But —”

  “But that may come, in time. I hope it will.” He shook his head. “But enough of that. You and I have one more task to perform, this evening, and then we can take our ease. I’ll see you in the hall, in but a few moments. Let’s eliminate this problem, you and I, once and for all.”

  He quickly turned and walked away before she could ask what he meant.

  20

  PIROJIL

  PIROJIL WAS ALONE in his room on the third floor of the barracks when there was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  The door opened, and Erenor stood there. He looked like a wizard again: his lying face was lined with age, and there were grease stains on his beard. He had a bundle under his left arm, something about the length of a sword, wrapped in a blanket.

  “A pleasant evening to you, Captain Pirojil,” he said. “You’ve been missing a lovely dinner.”

  “I don’t remember being invited.”

  “Well, you weren’t, not exactly — but, after all, you are a captain in the Emperor’s Own. A captain of march only, granted, but a captain nonetheless. I think you ought to think seriously about joining the festivities, and now would be a very good time — and I’m not just talking about having a few sips of wine while pretending to drink more than a few glasses; I’ve done enough of that for all three of us this evening.”

  He produced a folded piece of parchment from his robes. “Here’s a pass, although I doubt you’ll need it. I don’t think that anybody will stop you — people are coming and going under the watchful eyes of the House Guard all the time right now, and while you might need a pass to get into the keep, you are within the keep, after all. Aren’t you?”

  “What is this all about?”

  “I think you ought to go to the great hall,” Erenor repeated. “You might bring this along with you.” He smiled. “And your own sword. If you please. It’s not necessary, by any means, but there’s a certain … sentiment attached.”

  He tossed the package onto the bed, and turned to go.

  “Wait.”

  Erenor shook his head. The smile was gone. “No, I don’t think I want to wait, not anymore. The time for waiting is over.”

  Pirojil reached for his arm, but Erenor muttered a single, utterly unrememberable syllable, and vanished.

  ***

  Pirojil stood, for a moment, in silence, alone.

  There was something wrong here. Yes, Erenor liked to act mysterious — but most of that, most of the time, was just an affectation.

  What was this …

  Pirojil’s blunt fingers pulled at the knots that held the package shut, until he just gave up, and retrieved his mind and slashed the twine.

  A sword lay inside the blanket.

  Pirojil had seen that sword before, many times. It was similar to his own: the blade was thin, but heavy enough to cut as well as thrust; the hilt was plain, wrapped with brass wire, and the pommel of polished bone, not brass like his.

  It was Durine’s sword.

  Somebody had taken great pains to polish the rust out, although there was nothing that could have been done about the pitting of the surface of the blade. But the edge was sharp, sharp as a razor, sharp as Pirojil’s own sword.

  What was —

  Pirojil quickly belted his own sword around his waist, and wrapped Durine’s sword back up in the blanket. It wouldn’t do to move faster than a fast walk — that would draw attention from the guards — but it was all he could do to keep from running.

  21

  KETHOL

  It takes a lot of time to make things go right, but they can all go to hell in a heartbeat.

  — Walter Slovotsky

  IT WAS WRONG, but you could get used to something being wrong,

  Kethol decided.

  There were some things right about it, though, or at least that felt right. Like the way that Leria sat to his left, maintaining the flow of conversation around them, bringing him in and leaving him out just as deftly as Durine and Pirojil would have used their bodies and their swords to make an opening for Kethol.

  He had talked about the trap that they had set for the Kiaran bandits, and had pushed the dishes away so that he could draw a little map in beaded water on the polished table, and while Leria had pretended to chide him for taking on the bandits all by himself, the Emperor had been impressed, and seemed to accept Kethol’s explanation that all he had been doing was stalling until help arrived.

  He had tried not to brag — he had given most of the credit to Pirojil and the peasant archers, and made sure to mention Wen’ll by name, but nobody had seemed to take that very seriously.

  “You think,” the Emperor said, “that these peasant archers might someday be as useful in defense of the Empire as they were in opposition to it.”

  Leria nodded. “He certainly does. We were just talking about that this afternoon, about how regular formations and watches — and bounties on any bandits — would let the peasants deal with things themselves, probably without any need to call in Imperial or baronial troops —”

  “Except to count the bodies,” Kethol said.

  “Please.” Greta Tyrnael interrupted. “I’m sure that the two of you have much better things to talk about than some smelly peasants.”

  “I would hope so,” the Emperor said.

  Kethol would have said something, but Leria, without looking at him, had laid her hand on his thigh and given him a peremptory squeeze.

  “We talk about many things,” she said. “And I know he’s already decided, once occupation is lifted, to hold regular peasant archer formations.”

  “Not the worst idea I’ve ever heard.” Walter Slovotsky nodded. “I’ve been saying for years that’s the trouble with the occupation — you don’t want to beat the peasants down, and that’s what the occupation has done, all too often. Shit, that’s what too many of the Biemish nobles do, by habit more than anything else.”

  “I don’t know.” Jason Cullinane shook his head. “When I ride into a village, I’m not entirely sure I want to be greeted by a bunch of armed men.”

  “Get used to it, kiddo — it’s going to happen. In fact …” Slovotsky stopped himself. “But let’s save that discussion for another day, shall we?
”

  Willen Tyrnael had rejoined them while Walter was speaking; he nodded, and sat, patted his daughter gently on the hand, then reached for his glass. “It sounds like quite an interesting discussion; let’s do have it, sooner than later.” He turned to the Emperor. “If I may …?”

  Thomen shook his head. “I know we agreed that we would save the other announcement until after tomorrow. I think it would be unseemly to preempt this evening’s celebration with any other —”

  “No, I wasn’t going to talk about that. But I do have a confession to make, and I hope that I can get the attention, and perhaps the forgiveness, of the entire party.” The smile was gone from his face, and his expression was grave. “Please bear with me for a moment.”

  The Emperor cocked his head to one side. “Willen? What is this about?”

  “Indulge me for a moment, please,” he said, rising. “If I may have everyone’s attention, please,” he said, raising his voice. “There is a matter that needs to be discussed now, and not later.”

  The room got very quiet.

  Kethol looked around, and noticed that Pirojil had, without him noticing it, entered the hall. He stood near the door, a blanket wrapped bundle in his arms. He looked like he wanted to say something, but Tyrnael had already started talking.

  “As you all know, after his mother’s attempted rebellion in Keranahan, Lord Miron sought and found shelter with me.

  “He swore to me — and I believed him then and I believe him now — that he had nothing whatsoever to do with Elanee’s treachery. It hasn’t escaped my notice, or the notice of anyone else, I’m sure, that there are those who don’t believe him.”

  Like me, for one, Kethol thought.

  He wanted to say something, but Leria was shaking her head, and he trusted her instincts in this better than his own.

  Miron smiled. “I thank the baron for that, and, of course, what he said is true.”

  Tyrnael nodded. “And he’s also been accused of having tried to assassinate his brother, recently. I don’t believe that, either.” He turned to Kethol. “For the sake of us all, I am going to ask you to believe that.”

  Kethol shook his head. “So who was it?”

  “I don’t know. I just ask you to accept that. I ask you to hear me out on another matter before you decide whether or not I can be trusted.

  “I ask that, because I, in an indirect way, have broken a trust. Baron Cullinane, I owe you an apology. I know who was behind the attempt on your life before Parliament. That person let it slip, once, in a drunken moment. That person thought — wrongly, I swear — that I would see an attempt on you as in my interests, as a way of bringing me closer to the throne. My line is the oldest, save possibly for the Furnael line, of the Holtish barons. If — and I hope that it never happens — the Emperor were to die without leaving an heir, my claim would be, I think, the best. Save for only yours, Baron Cullinane.”

  “I gave up the throne,” Jason Cullinane said. “I did it because I thought that Thomen would be a better Emperor than I could be, and I’m pleased to say that he’s proven me right.”

  “I believe you,” Tyrnael said. “And I believe — as I hope all of us believe, from the lowliest noble minor, to the Dowager Empress herself — that you meant it when you abdicated, that you understood that there was no going back.” He nodded, in agreement with himself.

  “Without going into other matters — yes, Emperor, this night should be free of that other announcement — I make no apology for my willingness to see my grandson, someday, on the throne. I make no apology for having thought, once, that I was the proper heir to the throne.

  “But I do apologize for this: I let this matter rest, this matter about which I need to talk to all of you. I didn’t want dissension among us. We have challenges, and dangers to face, and I thought that —”

  “Wait.” Beralyn stood. “You promised —”

  “Yes, Dowager Empress, I promised. When I discussed that with you just this evening, you told me that I was wrong when I had decided to let this matter go, that we could not just let the common belief that it was the Slavers Guild who attempted to kill Jason Cullinane be believed.

  “You brought me to my senses, my Empress, and I will always be grateful for that. Didn’t you? Did you not say that Miron must be called to account?”

  Miron was on his feet. “That’s not true —”

  Tyrnael faced Miron. “I swear, on my honor as Baron Tyrnael, on the honor of my family, that you confessed to me. That you thought you would ingratiate yourself to me, and though I found what you had done to be disgusting, I confess to this company — and I ask the forgiveness of you all — for not having dragged it out into the open before now.”

  He turned to Kethol. “Your brother has brought disgrace upon your family, even as my silence has brought disgrace upon mine. My weakness — no, my cowardice — stopped me from acting before, and I’ll understand if you don’t choose to forgive me for that cowardice.”

  Jason Cullinane was on his feet, and he was smiling. “Baron Tyrnael’s word is good enough for me. Shall we have a trial, or,” he said, “would Lord Miron be good enough to step outside for a moment?”

  “No.” Kethol stood. He didn’t need to see Leria nodding to hope that she was. And if she wasn’t, it didn’t matter. His eyes were fixed on Miron. “He’s mine.”

  He didn’t know what Forinel would have done, and it didn’t matter. Maybe Forinel would have wanted Miron to stand trial, or maybe he would have taken this shameful assassination attempt as a blot on the family’s honor.

  Kethol didn’t know much about honor, and less about trials.

  But he knew a little about loyalty. Kethol and Pirojil and Durine had served Karl Cullinane, the Old Emperor, and the three of them had been the only survivors of the Emperor’s Last Ride, which had cost Karl Cullinane his life.

  Kill the Emperor’s son?

  No.

  Not even over Kethol’s dead body — Pirojil would be there to follow through if Kethol failed. It would end here, and it would end with Miron’s body on the floor. And if there were more bodies than that, that was fine with Kethol.

  Leria seized his arm, but he shook it off.

  No.

  He’d defer to her about many things. She was smarter than he was, and better educated, and she had a feel for things that made his head ache.

  But she hadn’t stood on the sand in Melawei, among the bits of bone and flesh that were all that had been left of the man that Kethol had served. Kethol had. And she hadn’t sworn, flat of her sword balanced on the palms of her hands, that she would protect that man’s son and daughter — and Kethol had done just that.

  This disguise of too-solid flesh didn’t change that, not for a moment.

  The whole hall was silent until Thomen nodded. “So be it: it’s your privilege, Baron Keranahan. It’s your decision. Shall we sit in trial, with your brother being judged by me, or —”

  “No.” He turned to Miron. “You and me, right here, right now.”

  Miron smiled. “And if I win? When I win? Will all agree that these vile charges are untrue?”

  “I guess you’ll have to wait and see,” the Emperor said.

  Like all the others, both Kethol and Miron had hung their sword belts on the back of their chairs. A sword was not just the right of a noble, it was the badge of a noble.

  “If I may,” Pirojil said, stepping forward. “I have two matched swords here, one of them mine. I have befriended the baron, and I hope he will honor me by using my sword.” He drew his own sword and laid it on the blanket next to the other.

  Miron quickly walked over to the blanket and picked up Pirojil’s of the swords. “I think I’ll take your sword, Captain Pirojil. I suspect that the other one has been tampered with.”

  Pirojil picked up the other sword, and gave it a few practice swings.

  “No,” he said. “It’s just fine. There was some rust on it, I think, but that’s been polished off. Tampering with s
words is your sort of thing, Lord Miron, not mine.” He turned to avoid putting his back to Miron, and walked backwards until he reached Kethol.

  The sword felt right in his hand. And it was familiar.

  Pirojil nodded. “This used to belong to a friend of mine,” he said. “I think he would want you to have it, don’t you?”

  Pirojil didn’t have to show him the bone pommel for Kethol to know that it was Durine’s sword.

  Why Pirojil had retrieved it from the cave, and why he had arrived in the hall just in time, was something that Kethol would ask him later. If there was a later.

  Pirojil leaned forward. “Forget everything else,” he said, as though he had read Kethol’s thoughts. “Kill him now, and we’ll have time to talk about it later on.”

  Leria was nodding, too.

  Miron shrugged himself out of his short jacket, and tossed it to one side. “Well, I wondered if it would come to this, although I probably should have been wondering when it would come to this, eh?” He raised his — Pirojil’s — sword in a quick salute, then gave it a few practice swings. “A bit heavy and clumsy, but it will do, it will do.”

  The whole world, the whole universe, became Miron.

  The marble floor was clear from the main table to the side tables.

  A noble would have said something. The real Forinel would have said something. He would have talked about how his brother had disgraced their house, their line, perhaps. He might have challenged him or taunted him, or both. He would have said something.

  But Kethol just walked, slowly, quietly onto the floor, and took up a ready position, not bothering with a salute at all.

  He wasn’t even angry, not at the moment.

  Fighting had nothing to do with being angry. He didn’t believe for a moment that Miron hadn’t tried to have him — and worse, much worse, her — killed. But it wasn’t a moment for anger, and it wasn’t about him.

  They engaged tentatively in a high line, then Miron feinted low, but Kethol met the flat of his blade with the flat of his own, and slashed at Miron’s arm as Miron retreated.