Not Quite Scaramouche

by Joel Rosenberg

  "But the principle is what is important."

  "Yes, yes, yes," Claressen said, "we all believe in principle, Baron Tyrnael, and even if that were not the case, not one here would admit otherwise," he said, with a booming laugh, "and – while I think it is easy to criticize Treseen for missing a plot – governing a barony is not an easy thing, and relieving a governor is something that should be done only with careful deliberation."

  "Exactly." Treseen slammed his fist down on the table with a loud bang. "Let me ask you this: if that is so for a governor, how can it not be so for the rightful and proper heir to the barony of Keranahan?"

  The uncharacteristic violence of the pounding on the table must have been a signal, Walter Slovotsky decided.

  Quite quietly, with Tyrnael's aide at one side and a soldier in Keranahan livery at his other side, a slender, well-dressed young man in his late twenties walked quickly but gracefully into the room, and took up a position just inside the doorway.

  He was too pretty, Walter Slovotsky decided, although there was a ruggedness in the jaw and in the gymnast's shoulders. The eyes were blue, their chilliness softened by the friendliness of the full mouth above the well-trimmed beard.

  He was familiar, of course. Walter Slovotsky had been careful to check out the Tyrnaelian captain that Bren Adahan had given a pass to, and the gifts that the captain and his servants had brought.

  This was one of the servants. And some damn fool has been living the easy life among nobility far too long because he didn't think to question that a wide-shouldered man carrying a captain's bags was his servant.

  Yes, he could make excuses – the nobleman's hair had been rough-cut, and his beard untrimmed – but excuses didn't count, except by the ton, and even then they were cheap.

  And there was something familiar about the face. The young nobleman looked sort of like –

  Shit.

  It was Elanee's son. Miron. Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshit. Walter Slovotsky looked at Tyrnael, who was carefully not meeting his eyes.

  "My name," he said, "as some of you know, is Miron. I am, by custom and law, heir to Barony Keranahan. I have been in hiding, these many tendays, as people of whom I do not pretend to know anything have accused me of conspiring with my mother to do horrible, treasonous things.

  "I have come here today to ask that those who would accuse me be brought before this Parliament, so that I can swear, on my sword, that all that I have been accused of is untrue. I loved my mother, as a son should, but I am here today to say that she loved me enough to keep me uninvolved in anything wrong, anything traitorous she was involved in.

  "There is no man alive, or dead, who could swear otherwise. As to my mother... well, as she lies dead in her grave, may I say – and not be thought disloyal? – that she has been punished enough?" He raised a palm. "But that is not why I am here. I have come here today to claim my barony, my inheritance, to be given the title I am due and to assume the responsibilities that are mine by birthright."

  He – overly dramatically, Walter Slovotsky thought – crossed his arms over his chest. "Or if that's not to be, surely, this Parliament will want to know the reason why."

  Walter Slovotsky looked over at Tyrnael.

  I think we've just been suckered, he thought. By an expert. He would have liked to applaud that expertise with a twenty-one-gun salute, but he doubted he could get Tyrnael and Miron to stand in front of the guns.

  Shit.

  The silence was deafening as Walter Slovotsky rose to his feet. "Thom – Emperor. I think we ought to have a recess," he said.

  When you don't know what else to do, stall, he thought.

  And I'd probably better add that to Slovotsky's Laws.

  Thomen nodded. "It's been a long day, and looks to be a longer evening." He looked over at Miron. "Lord Miron," he said, "we will have much to discuss, I think. Welcome to Biemestren."

  ***

  Aiea smiled at him over her glass of wine. "You always take this sort of thing too seriously, Walter," she said.

  Her hair, long and honey-brown, was tied in what Walter insisted on thinking of as a Psyche knot – although he didn't know where he had picked up the name – leaving her neck bare. For some reason, he found the fine hairs at the base of her neck remarkably erotic.

  I know the reason, Walter Slovotsky decided. I'm a guy-

  The cut of her gown – low in front, thigh-high on the side – had what he thought of as a French flavor, in contrast to the barely perceptible epicanthic folds of her eyes.

  She laughed, lightly, the sound of silver bells. "And you should know, by now, not to let that show on your face," she said, her voice low, her breath warm in his ear.

  Aiea's expression sobered. "What concerns me is that we haven't seen any sign or had any word of my baby brother." That Jason was Karl and Andrea's child by birth while Aiea had been adopted didn't seem to have affected the relationship that the two of them had. "I'm starting to get worried about him. I'm not surprised that he's late, but...

  I'm worried."

  "I'm not," he said, lying.

  There was no point in worrying her. He carefully didn't look over at the two empty seats next to her, where Bren Adahan and Kirah were supposed to be. Bren Adahan had taken a patrol out on the road to Cullinane, and while that couldn't be kept secret very long, the story that he and his new wife were having dinner in their rooms might hold for a while.

  If Aiea knew that, and knew that Walter hadn't stopped him – and Bren would, they both knew, defer to him on this sort of thing – she would know that he was concerned, as well.

  Her smile broadened. "Did you know that your eyes have trouble meeting mine when you lie?" she asked.

  He matched her own smile. "No, I wasn't aware of that." He glanced over to where Miron was holding forth at the Tyrnael table, across the room. He was regaling half a dozen entranced faces with some no doubt entertaining story.

  Probably something about the stupid Polack who had let him into the keep.

  She drew a slim finger up his thigh. "Well, they don't, but I thought it was worth a try, you being so easy to put something over on today." With her free hand, she picked up a sweetmeat from the table and fed it to him. Too much honey, but not bad at all. "But at least you're not letting it show," she said.

  "Well, it sounds like I've done something right."

  "Well," she said, her ringer still high on his thigh, "right about here – on the inside of my leg, not the outside like you like to carry yours – I've got a small, sharp knife." She brought her hands up to the table. "Would you like me to solve your little problem for you?"

  She probably wouldn't – she probably would have more sense – but there were times when she was anything but sensible, so he shook his head. "No."

  "And why not?"

  "Because that would make it worse. Worse for you, worse for me, worse for your brother, and worse for Tho-men." Better for Tyrnael, of course – if Miron was murdered while here, while under the protection of the Crown, it wouldn't affect him adversely. By weakening Thomen, in fact...

  Damn. Even an accident would militate to Tyrnael's advantage. Nobody would believe that it hadn't been arranged by somebody close to the emperor, or at least close to Walter Slovotsky.

  How long had Tyrnael had Miron under wraps? Long enough to make some sort of deal, some sort of arrangement with him. As Holtun/Biemish hard feelings went, there was no particular vendetta going on between the baronies.

  Whatever the result of his machinations, Tyrnael had achieved at least one success: he had established himself as a power in his own right, beyond the rest of the barons, and that would augment his power regardless of how Miron's claim on the Keranahan throne worked out.

  And, perhaps, regardless of whether or not Miron marrying Tyrnael's eldest available daughter was part of the deal.

  Shit.

  "I should have lined things up," he said. "He was in on his mother's plans – that's why she sent him aft
er Kethol, Pirojil, Durine, and Leria."

  Aiea made a face. "He could have been kept in the dark."

  "You don't believe that, do you?"

  "No. But others might. Barons who've had more than a few thoughts themselves about how their noble rumps should grace the throne won't want to see one of their own convicted on anything but solid evidence of treason."

  Governor Claressen rose from his chair and more staggered than walked over. He never drank much wine, but servitors kept a tankard of beer full for him with much effort, and between trips to the garderobe he had managed to put away a gallon or so, and seemed to be waddling his way on another such trip.

  "Good evening to you, Imperial Proctor," he said, his words slurring, his voice a booming basso. "Or is it such a good evening for you, now?"

  "I've had better," he said.

  "'I've had better,' he says. 'I've had better.' I like that." Claressen threw back his head and laughed. "I suspect you have, at that." He clapped a hand to Slovotsky's shoulder. "I suspect you have, at that," he repeated.

  He bent over and whispered, "Do you think, perhaps, that an imperial proctor can afford to have such a fool made of him?"

  He staggered off without waiting for an answer. He hadn't sounded drunk at all when he had whispered.

  Walter Slovotsky caught up with Leria outside the Great Hall. "I think we'd best talk, Lady," he said.

  The decurion running her guard detachment – which was up to five now, although Walter Slovotsky was becoming increasingly sure that any threat to Leria was a sideshow – gestured him toward a door that led out, and down a set of outside stairs to the courtyard below.

  The tents and pavilions of the guests were an ocean – well, more of a pond, really – of noise and light to their right; he led her off to the left, into where a large maple shaded them from the flickering lights of the wall-mounted torches.

  But it wasn't completely dark; he could read the accusation in her eyes. "You said – "

  "Everybody said," he said. And if I'd had the brains that Stash and Emma's baby boy is supposed to, that alone would have been enough of a warning. "If I'd needed to, if I'd thought I needed to, we could have had Treseen round up enough of his mother's servants. Nobles talk too much in front of the servants – some of them would have heard something." Anything that they could use against him.

  "But I saw him kill – "

  Slovotsky raised a hand. "You saw Miron have a farmer killed in Adahan, and he'll say that he was trying to locate you – for your own safety, of course – and that he feared that the farmer meant you harm." Besides, the barons weren't going to turn on one of their own for killing a commoner. It wasn't so long ago that it wasn't against the law for anybody who was allowed to call himself "lord" or better to kill anybody who wasn't, after all.

  "The problem is that he's the heir presumptive," Walter Slovotsky said. "He was the acknowledged son of the baron, and – "

  "No," she said. "Not the acknowledged son. An acknowledged son. The baron had two sons, one of them by Becka, his first wife – Miron was the other one, by Elanee."

  "Yes, but Forinel's dead, and – "

  "No, but – " She sighed. "No, I think I would know. I loved him, and he loved me, you know. Elanee charmed him into going out into the world to prove himself."

  Walter Slovotsky had not had direct experience of the baroness's charms, but he had had some discussion of it with Kethol, Pirojil, and Erenor. It wasn't just that she was a lovely woman – she had some raw magical abilities that expressed themselves sexually. Erenor had spotted them, although it sounded like she had given both Kethol and Pirojil embarrassingly serious woodies, as well as them all a much worse kind of hard time.

  She smiled fondly. "Forinel was, well, he wanted to be something in his own right, not just the baron's son and heir."

  "You've never heard anything from him?"

  She shook her head. "He – he promised he'd return to me." Her hand started to move toward her throat, then stopped.

  "He gave you a keepsake." Walter Slovotsky tried to keep all hope out of his voice. It was a long shot anyway, but...

  "Yes. His ring. The one with his father's crest carved into it."

  Walter Slovotsky nodded.

  Well, as one of Slovotsky's Laws says, "If you're drowning and somebody throws you an anchor, grab it."

  What he needed was something like – *Good evening, Walter,* sounded in his mind, distantly.

  Well, it's about damn time.

  *Yes, everyone is well, thank you for asking. I just wanted to be – *

  Shh. Don't land here.

  With all the strangers around, it was too dangerous, particularly now. It was unlikely that whatever Tyrnael had going on included maneuvering an attack on Ellegon – but it wasn't impossible.

  He felt paranoid, but even paranoids had enemies.

  Meet me at the crossroads off the Prince's Road, just south of the bridge. Midnight.

  *I assume there will be some explanation, then?*

  Yeah.

  *That would be nice.*

  Walter Slovotsky looked for a shadow passing over the stars above, but with –

  *You've got this new invention blocking your line of sight. They call it a 'wall.'* Ellegon's mental voice was fainter and fainter.

  *Later... *

  Go.

  "Lady," he said, "go put on some riding clothes, and wait for me in your rooms. We're going to quietly ditch your guard, sneak out of the castle, and go for a ride." Horses wouldn't be a problem; he could pick up some at the barracks in Biemestren. Tipping his hand, on the other hand, would be a problem. Sneaking out made more sense, and never mind that sneaking out came more naturally to Walter Slovotsky than walking out the front door would have.

  She shook her head. "I don't understand. There are more patrols – "

  "Don't worry about the patrols." It was good to feel confident of something, for a change.

  And it was a change.

  Chapter 16

  "I'm Not a Bad Man..."

  I don't like it at all," Pirojil said, quietly. "Meeting outside of town?" He sucked in air through his teeth. "Why can't the baron just walk up to the front gates? It doesn't make sense."

  "Not to me, either." Kethol shook his head. Yes, they were late for Parliament, but surely that wouldn't put the baron in danger of arrest when he showed up at the castle gates?

  Would it?

  "If somebody tries to arrest him, do we let them?" he asked.

  "I don't know." Pirojil spat. "I'm not of a mind to let a bunch of imperials arrest the baron, not if there's another choice. Not without orders." He was silent for a long moment, then raised his head and beckoned to Erenor, who obediently trotted over.

  "Yes, Master Pirojil? What is it that this unworthy wretch, deserving of your condescension and scorn, can do to help you?" The mockery was only in the words: his tone and manner seemed sincerely humble.

  "Shut your mouth and listen," Pirojil explained.

  "I live but to obey."

  The temptation to slap Erenor, his hand moving back and forth until Erenor's face was spread across the landscape, was almost irresistible, but Kethol had always been able to resist the almost irresistible. After all, he had kept his hands to himself around Leria... except, perhaps, for that one time, that one night, that probably was just a dream.

  In the dim light provided by the twinkling stars and the blue-and-green pulsating Faerie lights, Kethol could more hear than see Pirojil smile. "Does sarcasm spoil?"

  "Not that I am aware of, Master Pirojil, although this unworthy one knows so little and is so totally worthless that it – "

  "Then perhaps you can save it for later? We wouldn't want to have you run out, of course."

  Kethol would have tried to figure out what was going on between the two of them, but it probably didn't matter, and both of them seemed to have quicker wits than he did, about most things. Not gambling, or woodcraft, or bowmanship, or fighting – Pirojil mig
ht be a touch better defensively than Kethol was, but Kethol was better on the offense, at least most of the time – but in everything else, he felt like he had been born with a few too few wits when he was around Pirojil, and more than a few around Erenor.

  "As you wish, Pirojil," Erenor said. "What is it that you want, then, if it's not to abuse me? Are there any chamberpots hidden about that need emptying? Horses that require currying? Heavy bags that need to be transported from one place to another, and then back again?"

  "No." Why Pirojil was putting up with this was something that Kethol would have to ask him about later. "It's a question of magic. How much preparation would you need in order to be able to make the baron invisible? How much time?"

  Erenor laughed. "Ah. I see where the sudden lack of disrespect comes from." He played with his beard with the tips of his fingers and thought about – or, knowing Erenor, pretended to think about – the question.

  "It depends on what you want. True invisibility is rather difficult, and making it so that the subject can still see is even more so. The classical approach is to bend light around the subject, and then modify the behavior of the spell so that light comes in at the eyes. That takes three fairly difficult spells, working together. I've done all the spells before, but I don't think I could keep all three in my head at the same time.

  "There's a simpler approach, that makes the eye of the viewer tend to go by the subject, but that won't work on somebody who has already seen the subject until he moves, and I don't know if I can work the dominatives all at once, although – "

  "Could you possibly, just this once, answer a simple question? If there are troops being set out to arrest the baron, can you make him invisible quickly enough so that he can get away in the dark?"

  "Well, that's another matter entirely." Erenor had dropped the false humility, and now the pedantic tone of security had gone, as well. "Quite easy, for that sort of purpose. All I'll do is make his cloak more light absorbent. A quick distraction, and he can wrap it about himself as he runs – darkness in the darkness is invisible enough, particularly if I add some distraction in another direction." He considered it for a moment. "The problem, I think, would be persuading the baron to run."