Not Quite Scaramouche

by Joel Rosenberg

  "No annoying clomping of horses in the street, much less the offensive smells being wafted to our delicate noses.

  "No nobility – I mean, of course no decurions and troop captains – seeking to interrupt a quiet conversation or a few moments of rest with tasks that are likely to be unpleasant and possibly even, from time to time, dangerous.

  "No servants, flitting about, here and there, ostensibly working, but in fact carrying gossip up and down every staircase in the castle.

  "No cooks, seeking to rid their coldcellars of every bit of gristly meat, suspiciously limp carrots, maggoty bread, and turned turnips, preferring to feed it to the soldiers rather than to the compost heap.

  "Again, I say, look about us. Leagues and leagues of, well, leagues and leagues – neither walls, nor doorways, nor alleyways, nor forests, nor covered bridges sheltering large, hulking men with sharp swords in their hairy hands and unkind intentions on their simple minds. Instead, we have pleasant company – at least, I certainly do, and I'm quite sure that Kethol and Pirojil do, as well, and hope that you find the company not unpleasant – an unsleeping dragon to keep watch, and, if my skills as a cook have not utterly deserted me, we shall have a dinner I hope you find fit for a lady, and which is more than fit for the likes of the three of us."

  Squatting – and how Erenor managed to look graceful while squatting was something Kethol would never understand – he reached a long stick into the fire, and pulled the hot coals off the clay pot, then gently slid it across the hard ground until it was free of the fire. He knelt over it, and carefully blew every last ash and cinder from the cover, and then, protecting his hand with the sleeve of his tunic, he removed the lid with a typically Erenor-like flourish.

  There was only the lightest of breezes on the Waste at the moment, but, cruelly, it brought the meaty smells of roasted chicken and garlic, the rich, earthy smell of cooked turnips, and a half-dozen other tantalizing aromas that had Kethol's mouth watering, and his stomach in sudden pain with hunger that he had barely noticed before.

  Erenor ladled out a generous helping into a wooden bowl, and brought it over to Leria, waiting patiently until she tasted it.

  "Mmmm. That's really very good," she said. Then her forehead wrinkled prettily, and her lips twisted into a frown. "Does it really taste this good? Or is this just another one of your seemings?"

  "Just a seeming? Just a seeming? I should be insulted, although I am notoriously reluctant to take offense." Erenor laughed as he returned to the pot and served first Kethol, and then himself. "Tell me this: what difference, my Lady, would that make?" He lifted his bowl to his lips and sipped at the broth.

  "Only the difference between appearance and reality," she said. "Are you going to tell us, Wizard Erenor, expert in seemings and deception, that there is no difference between appearance and reality?"

  Kethol would have expected a return, a flirting sally, but Erenor was still capable of surprising him: he considered the question for a long moment, not even covering the fact that that's all he was doing by raising his bowl.

  "I guess," Erenor finally said, his tone unusually serious, his smile atypically genuine, "that would depend on what the illusion, what the appearance, and what the reality is." He dipped thumb and forefinger into his bowl, produced a piece of meat, and put it in his mouth, licking the sauce from his fingers. "In this case, this stew consists of fresh chicken and vegetables, cooked in their own juices with just a sprinkling of water, some salt and Kiaran brown pepper, with nothing more than some roux to thicken it. Quite tasty, is it not? But if, perhaps, I made the chicken meat just a trifle more flavorful, reduced the taste of the salt if I had added too much – just a little too much, mind you, not enough to make you terribly thirsty – or took away a harmless but metallic taste that the clay pot had picked up, somehow, somewhere, would that be a bad thing? Would it even be a false thing?"

  He shook his head, answering his own question. "I think not," he said. He stretched out his arm toward Kethol. "It's been suggested, and there may even be some truth to it, that I am willing to swindle my companions out of the odd coin here and there. That may be true, and it may be false, but it's something that they understand about me, just as I understand that Master Pirojil will keep hold of my spell books, at least for the time being. There may be deception in what I do, and there may be coercion in what he does, but there is, in no real sense, any betrayal, as they know what I truly am and I know what they truly are.

  "Now, were I to truly betray them, to steal their hidden coin, to reveal their private secrets, well, then, that would be another reality, and not merely a harmless illusion and deception."

  His eyes bored in on Kethol's. "There are lies we tell, and there are truths we don't speak of, and we are not false in the speaking of lies nor in the silence of those truths, because sometimes – not, my dear Lady Leria, when we would have it so, but when the world would have it so – lies are loyalty, and fidelity, and honor, and friendship, and more, and spoken truths – even truths that should be spoken, by others, or at other times – are betrayal, and infidelity, and worse."

  "Very good." Two meaty hands smacked together in loud applause from behind Kethol. He had heard Pirojil's footsteps in the back of his mind, but had paid them little heed while Erenor had commanded his attention.

  "Very good, Master Erenor," Pirojil said, as he wiped his hands on a towel, then flicked it across his shoulder to dry.

  "A lecture on honor and fidelity and friendship and truth from a swindler and illusionist. I find myself impressed, and even moved."

  After all these years, there were times when Kethol didn't understand Pirojil at all. It was impossible to tell from his expressionless, ugly face or his even tone whether he meant what he was saying or not, or what he meant if not.

  Sometimes, sometimes around Pirojil he felt like his mind was all numb and fuzzy.

  Leria's eyes caught his, and she nodded.

  He didn't know what that meant, either. But he returned the nod, and she smiled.

  Well, apparently he didn't do quite everything wrong.

  Chapter 21

  Miron

  The talk in Biemestren was all about Miron, and ascension, and if Walter Slovotsky had had any real choice in the matter, he would have been somewhere else while others sorted it out.

  Politics was a swear word, after all.

  Jason Cullinane caught up with him just outside the

  Great Hall. "Uncle Walter, have you a moment?"

  Uncle Walter, it was, eh?

  "Sure, kid." That sounded strange coming out of his own throat – for just a moment, he was tempted to look around for Big Mike, his father's best friend.

  But Big Mike was on the Other Side, and Walter hadn't seen him for more than twenty years.

  "So, what is it?" he asked. "Thomen tear you a new one?"

  "No." Jason shook his head. "Although I think he's going to spread the rumor that he did, but – "

  "Good."

  "What?"

  "Shut up and walk with me, please."

  Walter Slovotsky forced a smile as he linked arms with Jason, and walked down the corridor with him, studiously ignoring the way Governor Claressen tried to catch his eye. Claressen was important, yes, and so were half a dozen other lords and barons who were trying to get his attention, but there was something about Jason ...

  Walter tried to figure out what it was.

  They turned the corner, and walked out into the bright sunlight, down the wide stone steps.

  In the great tradition of locking the barn after the horse has been stolen, the guard had been tripled along the inner ramparts, and while he was too far away from them really to make out any expression, he imagined he could see at least a couple of them glaring down at him as they walked their rounds, sure in their own minds at least that it would be somebody else who was drawing the duty if it wasn't for that sneaky imperial proctor who had so embarrassed the lot of them by being able to come and go – with and without oth
ers – from a supposedly secured castle.

  Well, let it be their problem, for now.

  No, no, no, he was going to have to figure out some way to soothe the irritation, and better sooner than later, but not right now, dammit.

  How many eggs could a juggler keep in the air at one time? Particularly if everybody seemed to be going for the juggler.

  There was another joke that wouldn't sell to a This Side audience, and it was just as well that Walter Slovotsky was always his own best one.

  As they walked down the steps, Toryn, who had been standing under one of the trees, resting on one foot, with the other foot up against the bole of the tree, his arms folded, his back up against the solid bole, straightened.

  Walter didn't like him, and if it wasn't for Ellegon and Jason – particularly Ellegon; Jason was still a kid, in more ways than not – vouching for him, he would have followed the basic principle that had seen him safely through the raiding years: the only ex-slaver is a dead slaver.

  But if pigs had wings, they'd be pigeons.

  "Jason and I are looking for a place for a private talk," he said.

  "I know." Toryn's smile was too wide. "That's why I had him – I asked him to go get you." He bit his lower lip for just a moment. "I'd like to show you something."

  Oh? Like your back, leaving, permanently?

  "Very well."

  With Parliament in recess – and how long that could be stretched out was an interesting question, and like most interesting questions, probably had an unpleasant answer – the barons had spread out around various parts of the castle and the capital. There were two hunting parties, one gone west for deer, and the other north after a particular bear; both mixed Holtish and Biemish – and both a heavy drain on Home Guard troops to keep the barons company, and make sure that ancient grudges didn't break out into an accident. Bren Adahan was with the northern party, and the emperor with the western – the forces of sanity and reason were spread too thin for Walter's taste.

  It would have been nice if Miron and Tyrnael had decided to go hunting, as he could always have hoped for an accident – with enough noble witnesses that it was an accident, of course.

  But they hadn't, and under Tyrnael's watchful eye, Miron – stripped to the waist in the hot sun, probably to display his flat, youthful belly as much as to keep cool – was engaged in a fencing match with one of Tyrnael's satellite nobles. It was hard to tell just who was under the mask, but from the build it could have been Lord Esterling as easily as Lordling Verken.

  Miron, on the other hand, wore no mask, and seemed to be relying on his skill rather than any restraint on his opponent to protect his head and eyes. Most likely, of course, one or more of Tyrnael's minions had a flask of healing draughts ready for an emergency or error, and damn the possible expense – that a handsome young would-be baron would risk a little pain and a few gold marks to look good in front of the ladies and gentlemen wasn't exactly a huge surprise.

  Both were good. The blunted blades flickered in the bright sunlight, sometimes faster than the eye could see.

  Fencing was hard work – Miron's chest was shiny with sweat as he moved quickly, a gasp of applause from some of the watching ladies his reward when he lunged in full extension, underneath the other's blade, to touch home.

  "Watch this, Uncle Walter," Jason said, as Miron parried a tentative thrust, then backed up a quick step before reversing into a lunge that came close to scoring.

  Walter Slovotsky frowned. Yes, there had been a hesitation there. Not much of one, but certainly the sort of thing that a good swordsman could exploit.

  Just a question of timing, and of having noticed it. It would be tricky to pull off, but the usual principle applied: if you knew what the other guy was going to do next – not suspected, but knew – he was yours.

  He watched the sparring for the next few passes, gratefully accepting a tall glass of cool water from a tall cool serving-girl who was passing among the crowd with a tray, who returned his casual smile with what appeared to be real interest.

  He hadn't noticed Aiea until she shouldered her way out of the crowd and joined him and the other two up against the stone railing. She must have been hidden behind some taller people, or more likely under the shade of one of the multicolored canopies that protected many of the watchers from the heat of the noon sun.

  She was, of course, spectacular, even though the shift she wore was far less ornate and decorative than most of the ladies' relatively sedate daytime apparel. There was something about the way that the whiteness of it set off her olive skin, and the occasional flash of leg from the thigh-high hemmed slit up the right side that had Jason frowning.

  She was Walter's wife, yes, and she was older than he was, but Aiea was still Jason's sister, and while adoption meant a lesser relationship in Holtun – fostering was a different matter, of course – it was fully understood in Bieme, and, more importantly, by the Cullinanes.

  She kissed her brother lightly on the cheek before taking Walter's hand.

  Yes, he had made mistakes in his life, but Aiea wasn't one of them. They had been kindred spirits for years, and he easily could read the smile in her eyes that she kept from her lips to mean that she was amused at the way Jason was restraining himself from commenting on the way the high, wide, tight cotton belt – more of a girdle, almost; it was a new style that Walter, for one, appreciated – emphasized the swell of her breasts as well as the slimness of her waist.

  She stood between Walter and Jason, and watched the fencing. "He's quite good, isn't he?"

  Jason nodded. "Yes," he said. "He is that. With a blade in his hand." His eyes never left the swordplay. "Or in helping his mother try to get Ellegon killed. Most likely me, as well."

  That was possible, of course, but unlikely. That would mean that Tyrnael was behind it, as Miron, with few friends and connections, in hiding in Barony Tyrnael, would hardly have been able to make any of those sorts of arrangements without Tyrnael's sponsorship.

  It was unlikely, though, that Tyrnael would have involved Miron in that, even if he was the source of the would-be assassins. Why tip his hand – even to an ally?

  "Which didn't happen," she said, quietly. "Nor is it proven that he is involved, and if it were – "

  "We wouldn't have a problem," Jason said. "Maybe we don't. Have a problem, that is."

  Well, Walter could see where this was going. If Miron could be provoked into challenging Jason – presumably in some way that left Jason clear of any real suspicion that he had provoked the provocation, so to speak – it would be a simple matter to have a duel, and no matter how minor a duel it might be, a single strike that went under the armpit and deep into the chest could easily kill a man dead before any waiting lackey with healing draughts or even a talented healer could do anything about it.

  There were some obvious problems with that, but it might be manageable. It would have to be beyond question that the impetus was Miron's, and not Jason's, as the latter case would be read as the emperor's favorite baron having removed a disliked candidate from succession, and there were more than a few barons and other nobles who had reason, good or bad, to fear that it could happen to them, as well.

  But even a Cullinane could defend himself from an unprovoked challenge, and if in that defense he managed to be more successful than was likely for a typical duel, well, that could be managed.

  There was still one problem with it.

  Walter Slovotsky looked at Toryn, unable to read his expression. It would be nice to know if Toryn had worked out the problem. Jason was like his father – too straight forward, most of the time. Too honest, really. He could use a devious companion – which anybody who had left the Slavers Guild could reliably be counted on to be – as long as the companion was smart enough.

  Aiea was. She shook her head.

  "It's an interesting thought," she said. "But no. Don't."

  "I liked Durine," Jason said, quietly. "He was – "

  "He was a fine man, a loyal
soldier, and a remarkably ...durable lover," Aiea said.

  Well, there was a surprise. Walter tried not to show it.

  "... but Miron didn't kill him, not directly; you can't prove that he was involved in what his mother did; and this just isn't going to work."

  Jason Cullinane's mouth twitched. "Perhaps you're right," he said, after a long pause.

  Well, the boy still had a lot to learn about deception. He had given in far too easily.

  "Stay here," Walter Slovotsky said, as he stripped off his vest and handed it to Aiea, taking the opportunity to remove a few of his weapons and hide them in the folds.

  It would have been nice to know if Toryn had figured it out, as Walter would have preferred to delegate this, but...

  "Lord Miron," he said, gently elbowing his way through the crowd. "You seem to be quite the swordsman."

  Miron didn't turn his head until he had managed to slip past his opponent's defenses and score an easy touch on the sword hand, one that in a real fight would have disarmed his opponent instantly.

  The masked man saluted and stepped back. "Very nice, sir," he said, his voice muffled.

  Miron turned to Walter Slovotsky. "I thank you, Lord Proctor," he said, his smile seemingly sincere. Maybe it was. For the moment, at least.

  "Perhaps I could take a lesson?" Walter deliberately turned his back as he selected a practice sword from the rack.

  "I don't think that – "

  "Oh, please," Walter said, turning around, "I insist." He examined the hilt, and nodded – ever so slightly – to himself as he did, then tugged overly dramatically at the welded-on button that served as a tip. "I'm far too far out of shape, and besides, if you're going to assume the barony, it would probably be best if we get to know each other, and I can think of few better ways than a friendly bout or two. And if you're not, then what's the harm?"

  "Oh, Lord Proctor," Miron said, "you think I've no case?"

  "Well, there is the matter of your brother."

  "Half-brother."

  "Forinel?"

  "Years gone, fled his responsibilities." Miron shrugged. "Were he coming back, surely he would have returned by now."