Not Exactly The Three Musketeers

by Joel Rosenberg

  The men were lancers, their spears pointing innocently toward the sky, for the moment. It was possible for a swordsman on horseback to take on a mounted lancer - if you could get past the steel-clad point, he was yours - but it wasn't easy

  The leader of the squad was a big black-haired man riding a huge black gelding. The horse had overly thick legs that spoke of some plowhorse ancestry. The man had thick legs and arms, as well. Pirojil was tempted to ask if they were related, but he figured that probably wasn't a good way to start off the conversation.

  The big black gelding came to a prancing halt. "You are... ?"

  "Pirojil, Kethol, and Durine," Pirojil said, not introducing Erenor. Erenor was just a servant, after all. "We've been sent from Biemestren. We're here to see the baroness, and the lady Leria." And why, he thought, don't I have any doubt that we're not telling you something you don't already know?

  Well, if so, that boded well. If the baroness had just decided to have them killed, they'd already be dead.

  The leader waited a measured two beats before answering. "You've a letter of introduction to show me?" he asked, his hand out.

  Pirojil pulled his copy of his orders out of his pouch, and handed it over. The paper was getting a bit ragged around the edges; he'd been pulling it out a lot lately.

  "Hmmm..." the leader said, "this seems to all be in order."

  Then why are you holding the paper upside down? Pirojil didn't ask. He just accepted the paper back, and stowed it away.

  "Follow us."

  Their horses unsaddled and let loose in an empty corral to be fed and watered by Erenor - who accepted the reins with a grumble and some quiet muttering - the three were led inside the Residence. Pirojil's eyes took longer to adjust than he would have liked, but that was the way of it on a bright day.

  The afternoon was getting hot outside, but the great hall was cool and dark, and there were two women waiting for them, seated at the end of the long oaken table.

  The woman at the head of the table was in her forties, an age at which a peasant woman would long ago have gone all dumpy and faded, but she was no peasant woman, and the years had only added a depth of character to her face. Twenty years ago, perhaps, when she was younger and more rounded, her chin would have been weak and her cheeks chubby, but now her face was angular, her cheekbones high and exotic, and the eyes that watched Pirojil seemed to radiate both power and sexuality.

  Her hair, black and shiny as a raven, was done up in a complicated braid that left her slender neck bare, and made his hands itch.

  She rose at their approach, tall and trim, a smile that was only polite, no more, on her lips. "I am Elanee, Baroness Keranahan," she said. Her voice was lower than Pirojil had expected, and more musical. Her eyes swung past Pirojil and Durine and settled on Kethol.

  "I've been told that you wish to see me," she said, addressing him, "and Lady Leria."

  The girl was lovely, although Pirojil thought her a little slim and boyish for his tastes. Her long blond hair was faintly curly, as though it had just been released from some sort of braid. Probably something as complicated as the baroness's; a noble girl would hardly have her hair in a simple braid, after all.

  "Yes," Kethol said. "We ... we've been asked to look into a message she sent to the dowager empress." Strange. Kethol didn't stutter, not usually.

  The girl didn't quite blush as she lowered her head.

  "Oh, that silly thing." The baroness shook her head. "It was just a mistake, and the matter has long since been handled. Isn't that correct, my dear?"

  The girl nodded. "Yes, Baroness. I was ... it was a mistake."

  Kethol looked over at Pirojil. He should be handling this, but the baroness assumed that the tall, rangy, good-looking one of them was the leader of the group.

  "Mistake?"

  'The baroness and I had a misunderstanding," the girl said. "I... I thought she was pressing me into a marriage."

  "When," the baroness said, "nothing could be further from the truth." She rested a hand on Leria's shoulder. "I would swear on the blood of my son that I'd not want to force this lovely girl into a marriage with anybody at all." Her voice had the ring of truth, but of course that was often the way with liars.

  The baroness gestured them to seats, picked up a small bell, and gave it a quick ring. A housemaid, a plain girl in a plainer white shift and gray apron, walked through the door almost instantly, as though she had been waiting just outside, as she probably had been.

  "These men," the baroness said, "have had a long ride out here; they'll need cold drinks and some sustenance. A platter from the kitchen, if you please, and hurry about it."

  "Yes, Baroness," she said, scurrying away.

  "It's common knowledge," the baroness said, turning back to Kethol, "when my husband was still alive, Leria had a... a flirtation with Lord Forinel, my stepson." She smiled tolerantly. "Understandable, really: Forinel was a fine figure of a young man, and had quite a way with young girls. And he was the heir apparent to Keranahan, which still does mean something, even these days?"

  Was?

  "And where would Forinel be?"

  "I'm not at all sure." She spread her hands. "He was a romantic young man, very much taken with the idea of making his own way in the world and not simply inheriting the barony." She smiled tolerantly. "I think, perhaps, he heard too many stories about the Old Emperor and his ... exploits."

  Which exploits got the Old Emperor killed.

  "Three years ago," she said, "Forinel rode off for the Katharhd, so he said, to - now how did he put this? - to 'prove himself with sword and lance and bow, and to show that the blood of Keranahan does not run thin.' I think he resented the occupation, and perhaps his father's quiet acceptance of it, at the same time that he worshipped the Old Emperor." She shrugged. "I thought it foolish, but - " she spread her hands " - I'm but a woman, and my counsel wasn't heeded." She shook her head sadly. "He's not returned, and we've had no word of him." Her mouth set itself firmly. "And with his father dead, he's the heir to the barony, but..."

  "But if he's ridden off to the Katharhd and hasn't come back, maybe that's because he's dead," Kethol finished for her. "Which would make your son, Miron, the heir and the baron."

  She nodded. "Eventually, the emperor himself will have to decide. I've not pressed the point; it would be unseemly." And it would make her the dowager baroness, as well, although she didn't mention that. For now, with the barony under military government, perhaps the distinction wasn't much, but it was something.

  "Perhaps poor Forinel will yet return," she said, "and perhaps not - but for me to push for the accession of my own son would be improper, at best."

  And, Pirojil thought, if Forinel was dead, which seemed likely, there was no rush, not with Keranahan still under the authority of the governor. Particularly if the governor could be influenced by those dark eyes as much as Pirojil wanted to let himself be. On the other hand, it didn't take a wizard squatting over the guts of a chicken and muttering unrememberable spells to divine whom the baroness wanted Leria to marry. Tie a young woman with a good heritage and a large inheritance to her son, and she and her son would remain a power in Keranahan even if Forinel returned.

  Assuming, of course, that he was alive.

  Assuming, of course, that she hadn't dispatched an assassin to kill him and leave his body buried in some unmarked grave. No, she would have been unlikely to do that. The dowager empress was a suspicious type, and what if she insisted on testimony under the influence of a truth spell? Or what if they simply called in Ellegon? The dragon didn't like to read minds, but he could tell a lie from the truth if he had to.

  Pirojil would have shaken his head. There was a lot about this that he wasn't required to understand. It was his job to do things. But he did know that the statement of the girl under the baroness's roof, with the baroness herself present, wasn't going to be given much weight. Not by the dowager empress, and not by him and Kethol and Durine.

  "Well," he said,
"that explains that, but I see a problem. We've ridden a long way, and the dowager empress has gone to some trouble and expense to send us out here. We can't just ride back and tell her that this was a mistake - "

  "But it was."

  The baroness's lips tightened. "Now, don't interrupt, dear, it's not seemly." She turned back to Kethol. "I've a letter," she said, "apologizing for the misunderstanding." She tapped an envelope that rested on the table. It was wax-sealed at four points. "All you'd need to do is to take this back to Biemestren. It explains everything." She gave a shrug. "I'd have posted it by imperial messenger, but Leria only confessed her... indiscretion to me the other day, and we've been discussing how to handle it with the least embarrassment. The letter was written but a few days ago, and we've not had the opportunity to send it into Dereneyl and the ... the governor's residence, as of yet."

  A fascinating coincidence, if true, which it wasn't. Just too much of a coincidence.

  Kethol looked to him, while Durine grunted. No, that wasn't going to do. "I think your first thought was right," Pirojil said. "Send the letter by imperial post. I'm sure that will... ease Her Majesty's mind, while we ride back to Biemestren - "

  She smiled.

  " - with Lady Leria."

  The smile vanished. The baroness sniffed. "I couldn't possibly agree to such a thing. Subjecting a delicate young girl to such a trip? And with the ... well, that hardly seems proportionate punishment for such a small flight of fancy on her part."

  She had been focusing her attention on Kethol, but now it was Pirojil's turn. Her expression was haughty and distant, but there was something about her eyes.

  They locked on his, and he found that his heart was beating hard, so hard he could hear it, could feel it thumping in his chest like a drum. She was a lovely woman, and those were eyes to die for, to kill for. For the life of him, he couldn't tell what color they were, but it didn't matter. He had seen beautiful women before, and he had wanted beautiful women before, but it hadn't ever been like this. That had always been the sort of pressure he could relieve with a quick trip to the nearest brothel.

  These eyes not only aroused, but they promised. Pirojil was glad he was sitting down; he found himself suddenly, painfully erect. At her slightest nod, he would have laid his sword at her feet, begging for the touch of her hand on his head. He was hers.

  No.

  His will was his own, and he was not the vassal of this woman. He would not be.

  Pirojil forced his eyes away from hers as he shook his head. "She has nobody to blame but herself, Baroness," he said, hoping nobody else heard how ragged his voice felt. He swallowed once, hard, then turned to Leria. "Lady, your station will, of course, be respected, but if we were to return with nothing more than a piece of paper, I'm confident that Her Majesty would not be satisfied. She thought it important enough to have us sent out here, with letters of authority, and with very specific instructions. I'm sure you'll find it inconvenient and awkward to travel with us, and we'll certainly borrow a coach and team for your comfort, but that's the way it must be. You can explain it yourself, in person, to Her Majesty, that you meant nothing of what you said, and you can let her ... acceptance of that burn your ears."

  He looked over at the baroness. Her expression was hard to read, but he didn't like it. Was there a trace of amusement in her smile? Or was it just contempt and arrogance?

  The baroness looked them over for a long time. "Very well. But I'll hold the three of you responsible for her safety. I'm fond of this young girl, and should word come to my ears that any of the three of you has so much as - -"

  "Please." Kethol held up a hand. "We know our place, Baroness."

  "Well, since you seem to have the authority, and since I've been given no choice, I'll surrender with what dignity I can muster." She smiled graciously. "She's in your charge." She turned to the girl and patted her knee. "Don't worry, my dear. We'll have you packed and my coach rigged immediately."

  Her eyes fixed on Pirojil's, and again it was all he could do to control himself. "Will you three be able to manage the coach, or must I provide you with a coachman?"

  Why the rush? Pirojil wondered. Surely, waiting the rest of the day wouldn't make a difference. And why the sudden switch from resistance to almost eager compliance? Fair questions, certainly, but the baroness's expression made it difficult, perhaps impossible, to ask.

  And besides, it was vanishingly unlikely that they'd get an honest answer, and completely impossible that they'd get one they could trust.

  "We'll handle it," Durine said. "Unless you've got too many people serving you, and need to cut the number down."

  She laughed. "Ah, no, there's barely enough staff to keep this old house running; I've none to spare idly."

  A group of three young serving girls arrived, each bearing a tray. All three were slim and lovely, the tan shifts that served as livery cut to emphasize their small waists. The baroness liked to surround herself with pretty girls, something that Pirojil understood. He would have liked that, too.

  The prettiest one, a blond girl with a delicate face and full lips that reminded Pirojil of another time and place, was barely able to repress a shudder as she looked him in the face. He would have tried to smile reassuringly, but all he could do was stare at her until she first looked him in the eyes, and then dropped her gaze.

  Yes, he wanted to say, I'm ugly. I've been ugly all my life, and lovely young women have been shuddering at me all my life, and I'm used to it, and it doesn't bother me anymore.

  Most of that would have been true, more or less.

  But not now. If he had been another man, he could have -

  But never mind that. He wasn't, and he couldn't, and so be it.

  The three girls set the trays down on the table in front of them, and then scurried away.

  The bread was a basketful of fist-sized rolls, almost too hot to the touch, as though they had come fresh from the oven. Fresh apples, clearly sliced but moments ago into thin crackers, just barely starting to brown in the fresh air, surrounded tiny, finger-sized sausages that reeked of garlic and perimen. Another tray held wedges of cheese, one a buttery yellow, another just a shade off pure white, delicately veined with a rich blue; yet another, a rich dark brown the color of tanned deerhide. The last held a half-dozen ramekins, each filled to the brim with a different compote.

  "Enjoy this small collation," the baroness said as she rose. "Leria and I shall go help the maids pack, while I'll call for the carriage. Please, refresh yourselves, and before you know it, you'll be back on the road." She took the girl by the arm. "And the sooner begun, the sooner ended, yes, my dear? I'm not sure how Her Majesty will deal with these three for having discommoded you so much over so little, but I doubt that will be your problem, and I'm sure it won't be mine."

  She smiled genially at the three of them, and then swept away.

  Durine checked the rigging again of the four-horse team that was necessary to pull the carriage. Erenor had already checked it - he was taking well to the role of a servant, surprisingly - but Durine had to be sure not only that the horses were properly hitched, but that he himself could not only unhitch them when they stopped for the night but put the whole mess back together in the morning. None of the three of them had had a lot of experience driving teams, and these harnesses were rigged differently enough from the ones they used in Barony Cullinane that he would have been nervous about it, if he got nervous about such things.

  He was more irritated than anything else. Durine would have grumbled if grumbling would have done any good. More trouble and expense feeding four dray horses, and more trouble hitching and unhitching the team every night - couldn't the little chit just ride on the back of a horse? She had been born to spread her legs for some nobleman to bear more noble brats - couldn't she just spread them over a saddle?

  But no, not nobility. She had to ride like the lady she was. Riding was a sport for a lady, although with all the time some of them spent riding, she was likely bet
ter at it than any of the three of them. But it wouldn't do for her to have to ride. For travel, it was a carriage.

  Pfah.

  With the carriage, they couldn't take the hunting path back to Dereneyl; the carriage needed a wider road. And that would mean a longer trip back than out, as they would have to stick to the main roads. You could ford a stream on the back of a horse, but a carriage would break a wheel or an axle, or just get stuck and not be able to move.

  Enh.

  Well, there was a good side to it. At least the carriage was of the old Euar'den style, with a flat roof where the baggage could be tied down. With a little effort in rearranging it, once they were out of sight, it would be possible to leave a space between the bags where you might lay down a blanket and stretch out. Kethol prided himself that he could sleep anywhere, and if it was possible to sleep while traveling, that would be nice for Kethol.

  Pirojil tied his horse's reins to the hitching rings at the rear of the carriage; he'd take the first turn driving the team from the driver's bench. It was a plain wooden bench, of course, not the leather-upholstered couch for the passenger inside. If the jouncing of the coach bruised a pair of buttocks, it wasn't going to be the occupant's.

  He beckoned to Kethol, and Durine walked over, as well.

  "Eager to get back to Dereneyl?" he asked, his voice low but casual.

  Kethol shrugged. "Not particularly."

  Pirojil nodded. "There's more than a little strange going on here." He patted his saddlebags. "We've got enough water and field rations to keep you a couple of days, if we pool all of ours. Once we're out of sight of the Residence, are you willing to sneak back and take a look around? I'll have Durine ride out with your horse and meet you on the trail, say, sundown, day after tomorrow."

  Kethol? The hero? Durine grunted. No. Not a smart way to do it.

  Pirojil raised an eyebrow. "You've got a better idea?"

  "Yes." Durine nodded. "Me."

  Kethol was more of a woodsman, and was better at keeping out of sight, but he wasn't better at keeping out of trouble. He had demonstrated that in Riverforks, and as a result they'd been saddled with Erenor, and had had too much attention drawn to the three of them. Durine didn't like that. Attention was something that you got enough of when you were big and strong, but being big and strong didn't make you invulnerable. You were the first target for an archer, or a lancer, or even a swordsman, because they always saw you as the dangerous one.