Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda

by Joel Rosenberg

  Miron dropped the point of his sword, and beckoned with his free hand. “Come on, come on. Surely you can do better than that. Try me — let me see if I can beat you as easily as I did when we were boys.”

  A noble duelist would have felt Miron out, probed his defenses, tried to lure him into an attack, seeing if he could manage a stop thrust on an extended arm.

  But Kethol ran at him, in full extension, and batted Miron’s blade out of line, not caring for a moment that its tip pierced his sword arm, paying no attention to the agony that shot through him, at the way that his fingers refused to grip the hilt of the sword, at the way that it fell from his fingers.

  Because Kethol had another arm.

  He snatched the hilt of Durine’s sword with his left hand, twisted it away and into his own hand and gripped Miron’s shoulder with every bit of strength that he had in his wounded arm, and ran him through, then twisted the blade, back and forth, over and over and over again, ignoring the way that Miron’s deafening screams became weaker, and weaker, until he fell silent, and Miron slipped from the blade, to fall to the floor.

  Kethol tried to take a step, but he slipped on the blood-slickened floor, and fell, hard on his side.

  Leria was at his side, trying to hold his wound shut, careless of the way that blood was spattering across her arms and chest. He wanted to say something, although he didn’t quite know what.

  It was just as well, perhaps, that the darkness came up and washed over him.

  He probably would have said something stupid.

  Part 6

  Post Mortem

  22

  FAREWELLS

  LERIA LOOKED DOWN at his sleeping form. He was so awfully pale.

  Filistat, the Spidersect priest, laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’m sure that he will be well,” the priest said, smiling genially, as he twitched his fingers to beckon his familiar back toward him.

  The huge spider walked across Kethol’s chest, and, preposterously silent, made its way down his right leg before scampering into the ample recesses of his brown robe, peeking several eyes out from between the folds of the robe, from where it perched on top of the priest’s ample belly.

  “Not even a scar, and he will probably be awake shortly,” Filistat said, giving a quick look at where Pirojil stood by the unlit hearth. “You could wake him now, I suspect, but I think it’s best to let him sleep.” He looked over at Pirojil, again, who was sitting at the table, still cleaning the swords, and frowned. “If you had gotten the healing draughts to him quickly enough, he wouldn’t have lost so much blood. Still, that’s the only thing that I can find wrong with him. Hand healing draughts?”

  “No.” Pirojil shook his head. “Eareven — but I used a lot.”

  “Apparently.” Filistat ran a thick finger down Kethol’s shoulder. “I can barely feel where the wound was, and even the healing structures beneath the skin are fading — I don’t think he’ll have any loss of motion, or any pain, for that matter.” He smiled. “Not that the pain would mean much to a man like him, but a man should have two good arms.” He nodded, agreeing with himself. “He’ll be well.”

  Forinel’s — no, she would call him Forinel, but he would always be Kethol, inside, and that was more than fine with her — Kethol’s face was still deathly pale, and his chest only slowly rose and fell as he breathed.

  But he was breathing, after all, and the priest said he would be well, and what more could she ask for?

  Pirojil didn’t respond to the priest other than by nodding. He had been at Kethol’s side more quickly than Leria would have thought he could move, and he had gotten the small brass flask of healing draughts out very quickly, and even giving Miron’s head a final kick hadn’t slowed him down.

  But the blood had been spurting in a red fountain from Kethol’s arm. Pirojil had pressed down on the wound, stemming the flow long enough for Leria to pour the sick-smelling liquid over his hands, and into Kethol’s shoulder.

  They made a good team, the three of them.

  She drew the blanket up over him. He was so cold and pale that, for a moment, she had to lay her hand on his chest to be certain that he was still breathing.

  The priest smiled. “He just needs to sleep, and eat, as much as he can, until he can restore the blood he lost. Rare beef, broth — any kind of broth, as long as it’s salty — and he should be up and around in a day or two.” He looked up at her. “He’d best not travel until he’s fully recovered. Give him a tenday of rest, though, and he should be well enough for travel, and other … strenuous activities.”

  He looked like he expected her to blush, but she just stared levelly at him, until he looked away.

  “I guess,” he said, “that I had best be going, as there’s no more need for me here.” With that, he gathered his robes about him, and bowed himself out.

  The three of them were alone, although maybe she should just have thought of it as the two of them, given that Kethol was asleep.

  Pirojil looked for a long moment at Kethol’s sleeping form, then went back to the small table where he was busy cleaning the swords. A small pile of clean rags lay on the table, and a growing heap of bloody rags lay on the floor next to him. He ran a clean cloth down one of the blades, then examined the cloth thoroughly, nodded, and ran his thumbnail down both of the sword’s edges and gave the bone pommel a final quick polishing before setting it down, and picking up the other, the one with the brass pommel, shaped like a walnut.

  “Is there something I can do to help?” she asked.

  “If you’d like.” He nodded. “You might want to oil that sword,” he said, gesturing at the glass bottle on the table. “Have you ever done that before?”

  She shook her head. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  “Don’t stint — you want to be sure you get the oil into every crack, because if you don’t, water will find its way in, one way or another, and it will rust. I think that Forinel will want to keep that sword, all in all. You might even find that it’s what he usually chooses to carry, rather than a noble’s rapier. A little more awkward to carry about than a smallsword, perhaps, but … I don’t think anybody would question his choice of it, do you?”

  “No, I don’t think so, either.” She shook her head as she accepted the sword, hilt-first. It was lighter than it looked, although the grip wasn’t quite right in her hand; the finger impressions in its wire-wound leather surface were too large and widely spaced for her, and probably for Kethol and Forinel, too. “It is the sword that he dispatched his traitor half-brother with, and I can see how nobody would question why he would choose to belt that sword around his waist.”

  “Yes.” A thin smile played across his thick lips. “That’s what I was thinking, my lady.”

  “‘My lady’? Really, Pirojil.” She arched an eyebrow. “After all we’ve been through together, don’t you think you can call me Leria?”

  “I don’t think so.” The smile was gone. “It wouldn’t be a good idea to get in the habit of first-naming my betters, all things considered, my lady,” he said, gesturing at the seat across the table from him. “More than a little unseemly, perhaps.”

  “If you insist.”

  “No.” He shrugged. “No, I don’t insist about much.” His lips twitched. “Insisting isn’t the sort of thing for the likes of me, or Kethol, or Durine or Erenor. But …”

  “But?”

  “But I think, as I said, that getting into bad habits is, well, a bad habit in and of itself, my lady.”

  “As though Forinel or I would ever call you to account for being too informal with us, or permit anyone else to do so.” She snorted. “Really.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I’ll have any occasion to worry about that,” he said casually — too casually. “Not in the near future, in any case.”

  She sat back. “Why not?”

  “Because, well, when the two of you go back to Keranahan, I’ll not be going with you.”

  His eyes never seemed to leave
the surface of his own sword, and he wrapped a bit of cloth around his index finger and rubbed heavily at a spot that she was sure was utterly free of anything except gleaming steel and oil.

  “It’s not just that questions might be asked — as they would, eventually.” He found another clean spot and rubbed at it, as well, and still his eyes wouldn’t meet hers. “I think that Forinel has the right … partner to lean on, in more ways than one, and another old soldier who should be off soldiering isn’t going to be of any real help, not in matters political. Besides, Governor Treseen is not overly fond of me, as well, and it would be a bad idea for me to be in his way — I’m getting a little tired of every damn thing going wrong in Dereneyl being my fault.”

  What is the real reason, she couldn’t ask. Is it me?

  He might as well have read her mind: his ugly face split in a smile as he shook his head.

  “I’m about done in, my lady.” True enough, his face was lined, and if anything the wrinkles had deepened in recent days. “I’ve had enough of blood feuds, and enough of killing people I don’t know well enough to have any grievance with — and I don’t need to make any new enemies at the moment.” He tapped at the captain’s tabs on his shoulder. “Besides, I’m spoiled — I’ve gotten used to having some rank, but I’m not vaguely qualified, not even as a captain of march. Governor Treseen was right about that — I’ve never even raised a company, after all, much less commanded one. It would be a bit hard to go back to being an ordinary soldier, after all this.”

  But you don’t have to, she didn’t say.

  “So what are you going to do?” she asked. “Back into Baron Cullinane’s service?”

  He chuckled. “Jason Cullinane was born to go look for trouble, and I’d just as soon he have somebody else watch his back, somebody a little younger, and a lot faster — both of wrist and wit. Better for him. As for what I’m going to do, I’m not sure, but I do have some ideas, and I’ll just have to see if I have the money I need to do something about them.”

  “If it’s a matter of money,” she said, then stopped herself. “Please. But money can be come by, if …?”

  He shook his head. “No. Kethol and Durine and Erenor and I managed to put some gold aside, over the years, and I had occasion to take it out and look it over the other day, and it’s gotten to be a fair amount. It’s starting to be too heavy to carry around, if the truth be known, as it sometimes is. Even after I give Erenor his share, there’s probably enough for me to buy the tavern that the three of us used to talk about, as long as I don’t insist on it being in the capital, and I don’t. Maybe over in Cullinane, or perhaps in Adahan.

  “The Three Swords Inn, maybe? That was the name that we always talked about, the three of us. Durine would have liked that, and, well, with Kethol off in Therranj, I don’t think I’ll hear an objection to me using his share of the money, or the name.” He looked up at her. “If he ever shows up to claim his share of the tavern, that would be fine with me, but I somehow doubt that he will, eh?”

  “There are other possibilities, you know,” she said. “Dereneyl, for example —”

  “Dereneyl, my lady, is governed by Treseen, and even after the baron takes over, I’ve made a few enemies there. I seem to have that habit. It would be difficult for Lord Sherrol and his son to hold a grudge against the baron, but an innkeeper? I think that settling in Dereneyl would be asking for trouble, and well, I’m trying to give up asking for trouble, aren’t I?” He shrugged again. “It really takes more than one person to run a tavern, but I think I might cut Erenor in, for a small piece.” His grin was back. “Probably not as small as he’ll agree to, but I can live with that.”

  He had still been rubbing at the same spot on the sword, all the time he had spoken, and he glared down at it, stopped himself, and stood.

  Pirojil picked up his sword belt, and slipped the sword into the scabbard, pumping it a couple of times as though to make sure that it wouldn’t stick, before he belted the sword around his thick waist. “Back to normal, eh?”

  “So when …?”

  “When do I leave? And for where? As soon as I can. I’ve got to go take my leave of Baron Cullinane, and tell Walter Slovotsky that the next time that he has some dirty job that he needs to rope some poor fool into doing for him, he’d best find somebody else.” He sighed. “And I should talk to Erenor. There’s … some matters he and I need to discuss, particularly if I’m going to let him buy into the Three Swords, wherever it ends up being.” He frowned for a moment. “We’ll see,” he said, as he drew himself up straight. “But that’s nothing that you need to concern yourself with, my lady.”

  He reached out and took her hand, and bowed deeply over it. His hand was rough and callused, but he held hers gently, as though he was afraid that it would break. “This shouldn’t need to be said, not really, but I’ll say it anyway: if, well, if you ever do need an ugly old soldier, you know that you have but to send for me.”

  His words were quiet, but there was an intensity behind those piggish, sunken eyes that frightened her.

  Send for him? Why should she have to send for him? It wasn’t right. Why couldn’t he just stay?

  Yes, of course, he would come if she or Kethol sent for him, and if there was anybody in the way …

  “I’ve never been one for long goodbyes,” he said, “and this one has already been more than long enough for me.” He gestured at Kethol’s sleeping form. “Give Baron Keranahan my best wishes, my lady.”

  His shoulders twitched, and just for a moment, she thought that he was going to reach out to her, but he just brought a knuckle to his forehead.

  He left, closing the door softly behind him.

  She watched the door for a very long time.

  23

  BERALYN

  It’s not over until it’s over, and maybe not even then. (A fat lady singing just means that you’re at the opera, or maybe listening to Kate Smith.)

  — Walter Slovotsky

  BERALYN COULDN’T EVEN think of sleep. Walking the ramparts was, at least, better than pacing up and down in her room, which is all she would have done.

  She didn’t understand it, not any of it. Tyrnael had refused to have a quiet word with her, and had begged to be excused, bowed quickly, and walked off to his rooms.

  It was quiet now. Even most of the nobles minor who should have been honored and pleased to have been offered residence in the castle had excused themselves and found other accommodations in the city.

  Even Forinel and that Leria had not reappeared, closeted up in their rooms with his injuries as an excuse, although the healing draughts that Thomen, himself, had poured into his wounds had sealed them up almost instantly. Yes, he had had some loss of blood, but she doubted that that was the real —

  “Nothing quite like a sudden death to end a party, eh?”

  She started. She hadn’t seen Tyrnael come up to the ramparts.

  He bowed deeply, too deeply.

  “I thought you were in bed,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Well, there is some truth in that. Baron Tyrnael does lie sleeping in his bed — sleep spells, combined with wine, are most effective. I’m going to have to sneak in and wake him up — and I assure you, he will take some waking — before I can explain to him what a reluctant, belated hero he’s been this evening, having exposed — belatedly, but exposed nonetheless — Lord Miron. I think he will accept it as an accomplished fact. As will you, Beralyn.”

  What?

  Tyrnael muttered a quiet phrase, and he changed.

  The man who stood in front of her was the wizard, Erenor. Gray-bearded, stooped with age, much like herself. “I have been your friend, Beralyn, albeit a friend under false pretenses.” His smile was far too self-satisfied. “I had always thought it more than a little convenient for you — the timing of that assassination attempt on Jason Cullinane. In my business you have to have a feel for timing, after all.”

  “You.”

  “None other.” He gave a s
light, mocking bow, then straightened, smiling broadly. “I thought you had me for a moment, the first time we met up here. That talk about the gift that I had given you — for a moment, I thought you were testing me, as I was surely testing you.

  “It never was about you, my Empress. May I call you my Empress? No, don’t answer; I will, anyway. There was no question in my mind that Miron could not be deterred, and that he would find some way to harm, preferably kill, Forinel. And I haven’t known Forinel very long, but I like him. I’ve never had many friends.” He shrugged. “It’s part of being a swindler, a liar, and something of a thief, I guess.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Then you should probably say little, or, better, nothing. I don’t think I need to explain myself completely to you — we’re not really friends, after all — but I think I should point out some obvious things.

  “Such as, for example, that you don’t want this whole matter looked at any more than it already will be. Three of us — you, me, and Derinald — know that Miron was killed for something you did. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “And then there’s the men that Derinald hired.”

  His smile broadened. “Really? I suspect that they are long gone; I could swear honestly, if I cared to, that I’ve never seen them — but I thought that added a little bit of verisimilitude to the story.” He spread his hands. “I doubt that those men ever have, or ever will, set foot in Biemestren. Fear does make a powerful motivation, doesn’t it?”

  “You —”

  “Shhh.” He raised his finger. “Not that it’s hard to hire someone, if you’ve got enough gold, to kill almost anybody. I even did it myself, in Dereneyl. I could excuse it by saying that Forinel isn’t really a friend of mine, but that’s of no matter — Dereken was intended to fail, anyway. He was completely expendable, and I quite completely expended him.

  “I don’t have many friends, but I do have one. His name is Pirojil. For whatever reason, he’s terribly fond of the Cullinanes, and I think he would be very unhappy if anything — anything — bad were ever to happen to any of them. I don’t think you would want to make him unhappy, do you?”