Not Exactly The Three Musketeers

by Joel Rosenberg

  "You mangy son of a half-breed Katharhd," the swordsman said, his voice slurred with drink. "You bumped my arm, and look what you've done." He reached out a hand to grab at Pirojil's tunic, but Pirojil blocked it easily as he rose. "And look at you," he went on. His eyes seemed to have trouble focusing. 'That face of yours is the ugliest thing I've seen since the hind end of a pig, and there's some pig's asses I'd rather look at. Makes me want to puke, it does."

  Getting into a fight with a drunk wasn't what Pirojil had come down into town for, and while under other circumstances he would gladly have given the dolt a lesson in manners - preferably with his bare hands; there was something satisfying about doing it that way - this wasn't the time or place.

  "Ta havath," he said. "It's just spilled beer."

  "But it's my beer." The other took a wild swing at Pirojil, which Pirojil again blocked, grabbing the wrist and twisting it up and around behind the fellow's back easily.

  "Now just go back to your table and I'll have the taverner bring you over your mugs, eh?" He pushed the wrist up until the other grunted. "Eh?"

  His friends were on their feet, but the taverner was suddenly in between them and where Pirojil stood, a short staff, ferruled in brass at both ends, in his hand. His face was creased in an irritated frown, but he looked comfortable holding the staff in his massive hands, the knuckles the size of walnuts. Big walnuts.

  "I don't mind fights in my tavern," he said. "Can't sell beer to men who want to drink themselves drunk without having a fight every now and then, and a fight means some smashed furniture and broken barrels. But I'll want to see the silver you're going to use to pay for the damage before you go after each other." One of the two seated drunks set his hands on the table and started to rise, but the taverner slammed one end of the staff down barely short of the ends of his fingers, scoring the wood but stopping the movement cold. "Sit, I said, and sit I meant."

  He waved the end of the staff toward where Pirojil stood, still holding the drunk with his arm twisted up behind his back. The fellow lifted his right boot - probably to stomp down on Pirojil's foot - but Pirojil just twisted the arm up higher, forcing something halfway between a scream and a groan from the other's lips.

  "Now, as to you, you with the ugly face," the taverner said, "you just let him go, and let's be done with this, since I don't see anybody eager enough to fight showing some coin to pay for the privilege."

  Kethol had been trying to get into the game, but now he was working his way through the suddenly quiet, suddenly attentive crowd. He'd made no move toward his weapon, or any sound at all, but it wasn't a coincidence that he was positioned to move against either of the seated men if they tried to get up, or that one of his hands gripped the back of a chair, ready to use it as an improvised weapon.

  Pirojil didn't look directly at him. Kethol had his flaws, but you could count on him in a fight, even if the fight hadn't started.

  The taverner took a half-step toward Pirojil. "I won't tell you three times to let him go," he said, his voice more threatening for its quietness.

  Pirojil shoved the drunk away, and took a careful step back to get himself clear from any sudden back kick.

  Kethol caught his eye, made a slight jerking movement of his chin toward the exit, and then quietly started to edge his way around the crowd, toward the door. Pirojil didn't need the advice: he was covered in beer, his head still flushed from the sudden rush of anger, and he wasn't thirsty anymore.

  He tossed a copper coin on the table. "I'll be leaving now. I'd appreciate it," he said to the taverner, "if you'd buy them a round of beer on me, and see they stay to drink it."

  The taverner shrugged. "Just get going. They're too drunk to catch up with you, if you make yourself gone quickly enough."

  "Coward," one of the three said.

  "An ugly coward, at that," another snickered.

  "Run, run, run," the third muttered, his voice, if anything, thicker and more slurred than those of the other two. "Men fight; cowards run."

  Pirojil, Kethol at his side, bowed graciously toward the taverner, spun around, and walked swiftly out and into the night.

  The way back through town toward the main road that twisted up the hill toward the keep was a long one, but Pirojil didn't mind the walk. It gave him a chance to calm down, or at least fool himself that he could. He had more than once drawn on somebody who had made fun of his ugliness, and he had both given and received the scars to show for it, and not just blade scars. There had been this fellow back in Biemestren - a baron's man, not an imperial - whose ear Pirojil had bitten half off, and he still remembered the feel of the flesh rending between his teeth, the warm taste of the salty blood in his mouth, and the way the snickers had turned to squeals of pain.

  Silently he cursed the dowager empress for putting him in a position where he had to take the abuse a drunk wanted to dish out. He cursed the taverner for stopping the fight, because even though it was stupid, he wanted to carve the drunk's face until it was uglier than his own.

  Pirojil could have justified fighting back. He probably should have. Kethol certainly would have, and so would Durine. The drunk had not only splashed beer on him, but he had thrown the first blow. If his steel had started to clear its scabbard first - and a quick move toward the hilt of his own sword could have persuaded the drunk to draw -Pirojil could have drawn and killed him without a qualm. Nobody who had ever held a sword in his hand expected you to take it easy on somebody who had started a sword-fight just because he was drunk. It wasn't like hand-to-hand, where anybody with any backbone would look down on you for beating up an obviously incapable opponent. Swords were sharp and steel moved quickly, and the blade of even an incompetent, blind-drunk opponent could find its way to your heart or through your neck if you let up on him for even an instant.

  Kethol kept quiet as they walked. Say what you would about Kethol's judgment, but, just like Durine, he was a good and loyal companion.

  They had turned down a side street toward the main road that led up to the keep when Kethol nudged him. "Footsteps behind," he whispered, then stopped in his tracks, bending over in a fit of coughing that covered his moving his hand toward his sword, while it let Pirojil move a few steps away, close enough to aid him, not so close as to get in his way.

  Pirojil stopped, and looked back at where Kethol was half bent over. There was nobody on the dirt street behind him, and the shops that lined the street were shuttered and locked up for the night. Kethol hadn't just been hearing things - whoever it was must have ducked into the alley.

  Kethol must have thought the same thing, because he continued his coughing fit, staggering toward the darkness of the alley.

  Very well. If Kethol was handling the alley, that left it to Pirojil to deal with another threat, if there was another threat.

  "What is it now?" Pirojil asked, not letting his voice get too loud.

  It was then that the two men came from around the corner, swords glistening in the starlight.

  They were, of course, two of the three from the tavern.

  "We have some unfinished business, ugly one," the heavyset man who had slopped the beer on Pirojil said. He didn't sound quite so drunk now, if indeed he ever had been drunk at all. "Coward."

  Pirojil set his hand on the hilt of his own sword. "You use words like 'coward' quite a lot," he said.

  "Are you brave enough to come at me one at a time, or do I have to skewer both of you at once?"

  Kethol's coughing fit seemed to worsen; he leaned up against the wall next to the alley.

  The heavyset man smiled thickly. "Oh, I think I'll be able to handle you myself," he said, stepping forward, while the other stood waiting.

  Pirojil drew his own sword. It was hard to see it by the dim light of the overhead stars; its coating of lampblack made it difficult - well, impossible - to handle without getting dirty, but it also put an opponent at a disadvantage in a fight in the dark, and made no difference in its ability to cut or stab.

  He
closed, and engaged blades, tentatively testing the other's defenses. A quick feint that could have preceded a lunge drew an instant parry - not the delayed movement of a drunk. No, this man wasn't drunk, and he hadn't been drunk in the tavern, not with reflexes like these. There were those who could hold their beer well, but it did not sharpen the eye or steady the wrist.

  Another series of equally tentative moves drew only defensive responses. This fellow was at least an adequate swordsman, and a cautious one. The time you were most exposed was when you were on the attack, and it was a matter of simple strategy to try to draw a predictable attack, allowing your opponent to bring his arm, particularly his wrist, into your range.

  Great swordsmen and greater idiots could show off by trying for the heart or the belly, but anybody with anything less than a master's touch and anything more than a cow's brain went for the extremities, for the sword arm or the legs. An amazingly small cut to the wrist would make it impossible for your opponent to fight, even if he could still, just barely, clutch his sword. A jab to the knee, or the thigh, or as little as a thrust to the toe could slow your enemy down enough to let you control the space, the timing, and if you could control the fight, you would win it.

  Pirojil was still feeling around the other's defenses when he heard the sounds of fighting behind him, followed by a bubbling groan and Kethol's laugh.

  Pirojil's opponent's eyes widened, and he retreated several paces while Kethol rejoined Pirojil, his sword extended, the blade darkly wet

  Even out of the corner of Pirojil's eye, Kethol's grin was warming. "Seems there was a bowman waiting in the alley for you," he said, walking crabwise away from Pirojil's opponent to engage the remaining man. "The idea, I suppose, was for you to be busy watching the one in front while an arrow pierced you from behind."

  The three of them carried healing draughts in their pouches - that was one of the benefits that came with working for the Cullinanes, who insisted on it, despite the expense. But even the best healing draughts would do no good whatsoever to a man who had been injured by an arrow - not if the swordsman in front of him had used the injury as an opportunity to run him through.

  Remove the arrow and thrust a sword through the wound, and what you had lying on the ground was the loser of a duel, somebody who had been run through. Maybe slash his wrist and sword arm a few times, too, to make the killing wound look like the last of several blows.

  Steel clashed on steel as Kethol engaged with his man - Kethol was always eager, perhaps always too eager - but Pirojil didn't let himself get too anxious. A sword fight wasn't won as much as it was lost.

  "Put up your sword, and tell us who sent you and why," he said, "and you'll go free." He raised his voice. "Kethol, that goes for the other, too. The first to surrender lives."

  Pirojil's opponent started to speak, but all he made was choking sounds. "I'd like to," he said, with a friendly smile. "But I'm afraid that just won't be possible. Not this - " He interrupted himself with a quick feint toward Pirojil, probably hoping to draw a response.

  "Not this time?" Pirojil said.

  His opponent shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said, suddenly lunging toward Pirojil. "My regrets." Perhaps next time his assassin wouldn't agree to having a geas put on him, one that would make the back of his throat close up tight if he tried to tell who his employer was.

  Then again, if there was a next time, Pirojil wouldn't be around to care about it.

  Their blades clashed again as they thrust and parried, counterthrust and riposted. Pirojil's opponent left his wrist high and exposed momentarily. Pirojil feinted toward it, then thrust low and in, under the other's blade, in full extension, the tip of his sword slicing high into the other's thigh, near the groin, while his opponent was busy sticking the point of his sword high into the air where Pirojil's arm was supposed to be.

  Pirojil recovered instantly, beating his man's sword aside as he did, and he took a few cautious retreating steps while blood fountained from the other's thigh like a stream of dark wine pouring from a keg with its bung pulled.

  Despite the deadly wound, the heavyset man was game enough: he took a half-step forward, but he grunted as a bloody sword point thrust out of the front of his chest. He barely had time to look down and see a hands breadth of steel thrusting through his ribs before he was flung forward as Kethol kicked him off his sword, twisting it as he did so.

  He was dead before he hit the ground, although the body did twitch for just a moment before fouling itself with an almost funny flatulence, followed by a horrible stench.

  Kethol's man was down and dead - Pirojil had been too busy with his own fight to take in the details - his throat cut open, most likely to finish him off. Kethol was aggressive, but not likely to go for the throat until his opponent was down.

  Kethol cleaned his sword on the cloak of Pirojil's dead opponent. "I think we'd best wake up the governor and report."

  "Before somebody else does." Pirojil nodded.

  "Who do the three - two of you think you are?" Treseen fumed. "You had me taken from a soft, warm bed in the middle of the night to tell me that instead of simply retiring for the evening, you found yourself a drunken duel, and that three men lie dead on the street?" His hair was disarrayed, no longer covering the bald spot that it had so assiduously been combed over, and he had not bothered to put on shoes when he had pulled on a fresh tunic and trousers to come downstairs.

  It wouldn't do to get into a fight with the governor, of course - the guards weren't close enough to hear a low conversation, but a shout was another matter - but if it were to happen, Pirojil would start off by stomping, hard, on the governor's toes. It was a trick he had learned from Durine so long ago that he had almost come to think of it as his own, so long ago that he almost didn't wince at the memory.

  Pirojil let Kethol do the talking. Treseen had decided that Kethol was the leader of the three, and that was fine with Pirojil.

  Kethol shook his head. "No, Governor, that's not what we're saying. We're saying that those three were looking for us. First they tried to pick a fight with Pirojil, and then when that didn't work out, they waylaid us. Two of them were supposed to draw our attention while the third filled us full of arrows from behind."

  "Pfah." Treseen's mouth twisted into a sneer. "That's hard to believe. Abrasive and offensive the three of you are, surely, but I can't see how you could have irritated anybody here so much as to dispatch three armed men after your blood." He cocked his head to one side. "On the other hand, perhaps you have the right of it. So, those nobles you went out of your way to offend in Riverforks decided not to let things rest so easily. Eh?"

  What he was suggesting just wasn't possible. In order for these to be from Riverforks, whoever had sent them would have had to locate three assassins, hire them, get a wizard to put a geas on them to prevent them from speaking his name, and put the assassins on their trail - and do it all quickly enough that these men had arrived in town less than a day after Pirojil, Kethol, and Durine had. With the local wizard in tow.

  No. It hadn't happened that way, and it hadn't happened by accident.

  There was only one question in Pirojil's mind about the assassins: was it the dowager empress or Elanee who had targeted them?

  Either made sense. If they had been killed in what would be portrayed as a drunken brawl, as Treseen had put it, that would have reflected badly on Barony Cullinane, and perhaps that was what the dowager empress had intended all the time. It would have been nice to know if these three had been on their trail since they had left Biemestren, perhaps waiting to make their play until Kethol, Pirojil, and Durine had managed to get Leria out of Elanee's hands.

  That way, if they failed, Beralyn's agents wouldn't have had to do anything at all. And if that was the case, then was Treseen working for the dowager empress, too?

  Or was it Elanee? She had given in perhaps too easily at the Residence, and let them take Leria without protest or obstruction.

  But that would have meant tha
t she would have had to have had the assassins standing by, already her retainers. There just hadn't been enough time for her to go about recruiting such, even if she knew just whom to see and where.

  Either way, it wasn't just a bar fight gone serious, and it wasn't a retribution for Riverforks.

  Pirojil couldn't quite figure out whether Treseen was willfully avoiding the obvious explanation or was just stupid. The Old Emperor used to say something about not ascribing to malice what stupidity could explain, but the Old Emperor had always had a better feel for the amount of stupidity in the world than he'd had for the malice.

  "No," Pirojil said quietly. "No. It wasn't because of Riverforks. And I think you know that very well, Governor."

  Treseen raised a finger. "I would be very careful, were I you, of making wild accusations, soldier. I'm not disposed to listen to such, and I would suggest that you not dispose yourself to making such." He sighed. "But enough of that, and enough of all this. You've a long trip to start in the morning, and the Lady Leria to guard. Perhaps it would be just as well if you did so well rested, eh?"

  Part II

  Chapter 11

  Uneasy Lies the Head

  The emperor's dreams were soft and gentle this night, for a change. He was out riding a large ruddy horse through fields of clover, under a sky of pure blue decorated with huge, fluffy clouds.

  Not hunting, not trying to escape the endless infighting among the barons and the staff, not getting exercise - just riding. He pricked at the horse's side with his heels, and the huge animal broke first into a canter, then a full gallop, Thomen's legs straight as he stood tall in the saddle.

  Usually, when he dreamed of riding, it was all smooth and effortless, but this time, it felt real - it took all his skill and most of his strength to go with the motion, to prevent the saddle from smashing his tailbone into splinters.

  It was wonderful.

  The horse didn't think so. It raised its head and snorted at him, its neck craning around at an angle that would have broken its spine in real life.