The Silver Crown

by Joel Rosenberg

  This is all crazy, you know.

  *That is entirely a matter of opinion. If I were you, I'd try to get used to it. Now go back to sleep.*

  But—

  *That wasn't a suggestion.*

  None of it made any sense to him.

  Sleep, on the other hand, did.

  * * *

  Sleep, food, and rest gradually brought back some of his strength. Within three days, Andrea decided that he could have visitors, as long as they didn't tire him.

  Walter Slovotsky was the first. "Hey, Prince, how you doing?" he asked, manifestly pleased with himself. As usual.

  Karl pushed away the bowl of soup that Andy-Andy was trying to force on him. "No more beef stock. I want a beefsteak. Thick one. Pan-fried. With butter, lots of it. And corn—on the cob. And maybe some deep-fried chotte—"

  "Whoa, hero." She laughed, kissing him lightly on the forehead. "Take it slow." She gave him another sisterly peck.

  Karl quietly resolved to even the score for that, and shortly.

  *Sex. All this one thinks about is—*

  Shh.

  Andy-Andy rose to leave the room, stopping for a moment to whisper to Walter that she wanted him to make the visit short.

  "Well," Slovotsky said, shaking his head, "I'll keep it as short as possible; there's a lot to catch up on."

  "Think about it." Her face stern, she held a hand in front of Walter's face and murmured a few harsh syllables. Sparks arced from her thumb to her forefinger. "Just a few minutes, I said."

  "Right. Just a couple of minutes. One minute. Thirty seconds—whatever you say." Slovotsky waited until the door shut behind her. "Whew!" He shook his head. "I'll be happy to get back to Kirah. My wife isn't deadly." He threw a hip over the edge of the bed. "How long you figure you'll be laid up?"

  Karl sat up all the way, his head spinning only slowly.

  "Another couple of days and I'll be on my feet. Probably be quite a while before I'm back to par, but . . ." He eyed the fresh bandages covering the still-painful stumps of the three missing outer fingers on his left hand. "It could be worse."

  "Good. I'm going to send Garavar in here in a couple of minutes." Slovotsky snorted. "I'll tell you, there was a time when I regretted getting him and the House Guard to go along with Pirondael's abdication—I'd planned on showing him an upright Karl Cullinane, not a comatose one."

  "What is this nonsense about my being a prince?"

  "Not nonsense. Bieme's all yours—unless you abdicate. Which I wouldn't suggest. There've been enough changes—"

  "But why me?" Dammit, Walter, this isn't my sort of thing, and you—

  "Garavar went along with it because there had to be somebody, and your name was the one on the table." Slovotsky shrugged. "I pushed for you because the only way I can think of for this war to be ended is for the Holts to sue for peace quickly. And that wouldn't happen with some revenge-minded baron on the Biemish throne.

  "Which is where you come in. After word percolates through Holtun of your defeat of two regiments of combined Holtish and slaver troops, you're going to be the most feared man in the Middle Lands. If the Holtish don't come to the peace table, my guess is that with Andy making sure that the Holts can't use their guns, Valeran's improvised brigade can go through them like shit through a goose."

  "But I'd intended on ending the war—"

  "In your own way." Walter spread his hands. "Which might or might not work. This will. Whatsamatter, don't you want the crown?"

  Karl clenched his fists. "Don't give me that—"

  "Then fine. Give it to Thomen, and let Beralyn rule as regent. That'll be a fine gift to Furnael's son."

  "Now, wait—"

  "Or let the barons fight over which one gets it. They might settle it quickly enough so that Bieme doesn't necessarily lose the war. Bieme might even win, Karl—and instead of Bieme's being chopped up and sold to Pandathaway on the installment plan, it'll be Holtun that gets the axe."

  "Not while I'm alive, it won't."

  Slovotsky nodded. "And not while you're prince, either. Here's one hell of a chance for you to make some changes, Karl. Go ahead and use it." He turned to the door and raised his voice. "Garavar! He'll see you now."

  Garavar was a large, grizzled man of about fifty. His features were regular, and his hands of normal size, but he had something of Aveneer's expression around the eyes, the same look of eagles.

  "Your majesty?" he said, as he walked slowly into the room, an aged wooden box in his hands.

  Karl sighed. Walter was right. He was stuck with it, for now. But not forever.

  *Of course not forever. You're not even going to live forever.*

  Good point.

  *Thank you.*

  "I am Karl Cullinane," he said carefully.

  "I am Garavar, of the House Guard. With the others, I have been . . . managing as best I can, waiting for you to be able to take over your duties."

  "Fine." Karl swung his feet over the edge of the bed. "Give me a hand, both of you. Walter, get me some clothes. There's work to be done."

  "Andy-Andy said—"

  "If I'm prince, then I outrank her, no? Move. Captain," he said, forcing himself not to waver as he pushed himself to his feet, "I'll want a staff meeting tonight. Frandred, Valeran, Beralyn, my wife, Tennetty, plus you and anyone from the House Guard you think needs inviting. In the meantime . . . Ellegon, are you flying yet?"

  *Just short distances. I . . . still have a ways to go. And the same goes for you—*

  "Shut up. Captain, tell Valeran I want a recon of the slaver camp on Aershtyn, and I want it yesterday."

  The warrior nodded gravely. "Yes, your majesty. You intend to send a detachment up Aershtyn?"

  Karl snorted as Walter helped him on with his breechclout and leggings, then slipped a clean tunic over his head. "I plan on leading a detachment up Aershtyn, Captain."

  "With all due respect, princes don't—"

  Kneeling to slip Karl's boots on, Walter threw back his head and laughed. "With all due respect, Captain, this prince is going to do whatever the hell he damn well pleases. Get used to it." He belted Karl's saber around his waist. "Better give him what's in the box."

  Garavar opened it. Inside lay a circlet of silver, studded with diamonds, rubies, and emeralds. "You could wear a simple cap of maintenance, if you'd prefer, but — "

  "This will do for now." Karl took the crown and set it on his own head. It didn't feel steady there; he had to hold himself up straight to make sure it didn't slip off.

  Probably I can improvise some sort of bobby pin, but . . . first things first. "Captain Garavar, as of now, nobody owns people in Bieme. Anybody who thinks he owns anybody else—"

  "Ta havath, Karl." Slovotsky chuckled. "Garavar's already had that explained to him, complete with ruffles and flourishes. No point in bothering with any proclamations right now; no matter how you yell and scream, there aren't going to be any changes, not until the war settles down. Hmm . . . what are you going to do about the former slaves?"

  "Sharecropping is a step up, no? No, not sharecropping," he decided, remembering little Petros' fierce devotion to his scraggly field. "Better: We'll give the former slaves some of the barons' land, and allow the barons reasonable taxation privileges."

  I'll soon be known as Karl the Tyrant by the barons, but that's their problem. Government needn't worry about the strong and wealthy; they could always take care of themselves. "Give me your arm," he said. "I've got work to do."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Goodbyes

  Why is it, Maecenas, that no man living is content with the lot that either his choice has given him or that chance has thrown to him, but each has praise for those who follow other paths?

  —Horace

  Andy-Andy and Tennetty standing at his side, Karl said goodbye to Walter and Ahira at the keep's gates.

  Their mounts and their packhorses were champing at their bits, possibly because of the way that Ellegon was eyeing them interestedl
y.

  "You sure you don't want an escort?" Karl asked. "If you'll just wait a couple of weeks, I can send Ranella with you—and I could send a company with you as far as Biemestren right now."

  *Karl, since when does putting something off make it not happen?*

  I don't know. But how can I say goodbye to either of these two?

  *Briefly and matter-of-factly, if you don't want to nauseate a recovering dragon.*

  Sitting uncomfortably in his pony's saddle, Ahira shook his head. "'Tis best done quickly, eh?"

  Adjusting a rifle in its saddle boot, Slovotsky shrugged. "Seems that way to me, too. Hey, who knows? Endell might turn out to be a real drag; I may get so bored in a year or so that I'll need to get back into harness. Hell, we might even still be Home when you and Ellegon show up to pick up the kids."

  "I'd like that."

  "Karl." The dwarf looked down at him. "I have to say this again: If you ever need either of us . . . you'll know where to find us, Karl. Come if you can; send word if you can't. This isn't goodbye—just so long."

  I need you two now, he thought. But he couldn't say that. Not in front of everyone.

  Damn. He reached up and shook hands first with Ahira, then with Walter. "I'll miss you, both of you."

  Slovotsky snorted. "Tell me about it." He clasped hands briefly with Tennetty, then vaulted from the saddle to kiss Andy-Andy thoroughly, whispering softly in her ear as he held her close.

  *You're supposed to be jealous.*

  Shut up, Karl explained.

  Walter's all-is-well-with-a-universe-whose-center-holds-Walter-Slovotsky smile seemed a bit forced as he climbed back up to the fore-and-aft-peaked saddle, making sure that the packhorse's leads were still tightly bound to it.

  Andy-Andy walked over to Ahira, threw her arm around his waist, and buried her face against his thigh, not saying anything, while the dwarf ran gentle fingers through her hair. She turned away, her face wet.

  "Watch your butt, Karl. Or Andy's; it's much prettier," Walter Slovotsky said as he and the dwarf turned their horses around and rode them slowly through the open gate, the three packhorses trailing behind. "And remember Slovotsky's Law Number Twenty-nine: 'It ain't over 'til it's over, and maybe not then, either.' "

  Karl watched them for a long time, until they had vanished around the bend.

  * * *

  Finally, he turned to Tennetty. "Once we hit the slavers on Aershtyn, you want to hitch a ride Home with Ellegon and take over our raider team?"

  "No." Idly, she fumbled in her pouch, pulling out her glass eye, holding it up with thumb and forefinger, considering it in the daylight. "We're going to have to rush this Aershtyn raid, so that you and Ellegon can take off soon enough to get back to the valley before Gwellin leaves."

  "Oh? Why is that?"

  "You're going to see if you can persuade Daherrin to take over the team, instead of going back to Endell. Gwellin wouldn't go for it, but I think Daherrin might."

  "So, you want Aveneer's team instead?"

  "Frandred's team, now," she said firmly. "Granted, he'll give every order twice, but that won't hurt anything."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  She tossed the glass eye high into the air, then let it thunk into the palm of her hand. Tucking it back in her pouch, she adjusted her eyepatch and smiled up at him. "I'm going to watch your back. Somebody's got to make sure it doesn't sprout knives."

  *How about me—*

  "You?" Tennetty spat. "You who can't even dodge a quartet of clumsy crossbowmen? You're going to watch out for Karl? Who's going to watch out for you?"

  Ellegon didn't answer; he just lowered his massive head to his crossed forelegs and closed his eyes.

  Andy-Andy smiled her approval.

  Karl turned away from all of them for a moment, forcing his shoulders not to sag, though even his cap of maintenance seemed heavy.

  But it wasn't really the cloth cap or this absurd title that weighed on him. Karl had long ago taken on a task vastly more important, far more difficult, than governing a two-bit principality, and neither a manipulating wizard nor a crippled slaver was going to stand in his way. There were going to be some changes made, no matter what.

  *Karl.* All the playfulness was now gone from Ellegon's mental voice; it was gentle but serious. *Do you think that Walter and Ahira don't know that? Do you think that they aren't committed to it? Taking a vacation isn't the abandonment of a vocation, Karl.*

  I know that.

  *And so do Walter, Ahira, Lou, Andrea, Tennetty, and all the rest. They're every bit as committed as you and I are, my friend.* Gentle fingers stroked his mind. *The phrase is: "and we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes, and our sacred honor." And we shall keep the flame burning.* Ellegon sent a gout of fire roaring into the sky. *In more ways than one.*

  "Fine by me." Karl Cullinane straightened his shoulders, then wiped his eyes before he turned back to the others. "We've got a lot to do. Let's get started."

  Epilogue

  Ahrmin

  Fortune is like glass—the brighter the glitter, the more easily broken.

  —Publilius Syrus

  Ahrmin looked around the Aershtyn camp, shaking his head ruefully. The slave drive to Pandathaway had to start within a matter of days, or it surely would never leave. It was a certainty that Karl Cullinane would be sending a force up the slopes of Aershtyn to steal the slaves; Ahrmin had no intention of being around when that happened. Under other circumstances, he would have wanted to try to ambush Cullinane, but not this time. This was Cullinane's moment; best to let him win. There would be another day.

  Just one more time, Karl Cullinane. . . .

  It was even possible that Cullinane and that damned dragon of his would somehow manage to ambush the drive en route to Pandathaway. Ahrmin had no intention of being around for that, either. Let Fenrius take the caravan to Pandathaway; Ahrmin would travel more quickly by himself.

  He shook his head. The assault on Cullinane at Furnael Keep had been a disaster, but Ahrmin had survived disasters before. The trick wasn't simply to survive, but to turn the setback into an advance.

  Things didn't work out as well as you must think, Karl Cullinane, he thought. Until now, Cullinane had been able to move freely about, magically protected from being Located; the only place in the Eren region in which he ever could surely be found was that blasted valley of his. And that had been too well defended.

  But now it was different. Cullinane was pinned down in Bieme; that would make him more vulnerable, not less so. Let him wear a crown for a year or two; a crown could be separated from a head as easily as the head could be separated from its shoulders.

  We aren't done with each other, Karl Cullinane, Ahrmin thought. You have won two battles, that is all.

  The third battle and the war will be mine.

  "Fenrius," he said, "saddle my horse. I want an escort of twelve men ready to leave before nightfall. You will bring the chain to Pandathaway; I will meet you there."

  "Yes, Master Ahrmin."

  The next time we meet, Karl Cullinane, you die, he thought, completely certain that it would come to pass.

  Ahrmin smiled.

  THE END