Not Exactly The Three Musketeers

by Joel Rosenberg

  It would take more than an icy wind to divert her from her routine, and more than a diversion from her routine to divert her from her resolution.

  So let the wind blow, cold and hard, chilly and inflexible as a man's heart. She would still enjoy her stroll about the parapet.

  The Faerie lights were all in blues and purples tonight, and half-hidden in the clouds. They pulsed through their narrow spectrum quickly, like a heartbeat, then vanished, like sheets of silent blued lightning.

  It was only iron will that prevented her from shivering as she rounded the last of the guard stations and started down the steps, slowly, carefully. The climb up to the parapet was difficult, and painful to the knees and that cursed right hip that not even the Hand woman could do much with. But the climb down was dangerous. One crumbling step beneath her feet, one failure of knee or hip or muscle, and she would pitch forward, with nothing to break her fall but the steps beneath her and the too-solid cobblestones of the yard below.

  It occurred to her that a lesser woman would have clung to the stone railing that ran down the side of the steps, but Beralyn was not a lesser woman. Her womb had long since dried up, and no man had warmed her bed since her husband had been murdered by Pirondael through either the connivance or the incompetence of the cursed Cullinanes, but she was no lesser woman.

  She was the dowager empress, and mother of the emperor himself, and until she held her grandson and future emperor in her hands, she would maintain.

  But she had had enough of today.

  Let tomorrow's troubles be what they may; they could wait until tomorrow. It was all she could do not to glare at Derinald as he waited, his hands behind his back, just inside the archway. She had not summoned him, and that did not bode well. But her long-dead husband had once chastised her for her tendency to blame the augur for the augury, and it was all she could do not to duck her head and whisper, Yes, Zherr, I shall never do that again.

  The years had, despite her wish to the contrary, dulled her pain, if not her resolution. But it was at moments like this that her voice and hands quavered at the horrid realization that never again would she be held in those strong, warm arms.

  "I had best change my route," she said, using all her resolve to keep her voice from trembling, her look daring him to recognize her failure. "I am becoming too predictable in my old age."

  "Not at all, my empress. Rather, I think of it as a duty and a pleasure to know where to find you."

  He had a pretty way with a compliment, but she was having none of it. "You'd rather lay me out on a slab for burial, and don't deny it," she said. "What need does a young man like yourself have of a withered old woman?" she asked, as she walked toward the doorway into the keep, ignoring the way the guard leaped to get the door for her. She had her control back; as long as she could keep her anger and hate warm and sharp, the pain would recede to the background.

  Derinald grinned. The buffoon. "I'd rather think of you as reliable, ever steady, my empress," he said, his smile too broad, too apparently sincere to possibly be real. "Which does make you a stanchion of security in an always-insecure world, an utterly steadfast anchor for my restless and ever uncertain mind to cling to."

  "And what news do you bring that will bind this stanchion ever more securely to you?" she asked. This was ridiculous. She was an old woman, living on tasteless food and salty anger, more set in her ways than any stanchion, but once again this charming captain had her taking on his style of speech, as though she was still a young chit whose head could be turned with flattery and flowers.

  Beralyn had been young once, long ago, but she had never been that young.

  He pursed his lips. "News? I wouldn't say it is precisely news, but a fast runner was dispatched by Governor Treseen to the telegraphy station, and his reports have reached here tonight." He tapped at his chest. "I was just on my way to deliver this to the emperor, although as I understand it he will be retiring - "

  A distant gong rang, then again, and again, and a final time.

  " - just about now," Derinald went on, his smile returning, "although it is nothing that needs his attention before morning."

  She held out her hand, palm up.

  "I'm very sorry, Your Majesty," Derinald said as he removed a small leather pouch from inside his tunic. He held it up to the flickering light. There were two seals; one was Derinald's familiar curlicues that always reminded Beralyn of a handful of snakes trying to escape from a wicker basket, and the other was one of those engineer glyphs. "The emperor himself ordered all messages to him sealed, for reasons I can't explain."

  "Can't, or won't?"

  He shrugged away the difference. "I'm hardly one to read the emperor's thoughts at all, and I'm not one to repeat the emperor's words unbidden."

  Nor was he one to keep a secret from her, even though ordered to by Thomen. That was good. It showed that he understood his situation.

  "And why is it sealed by your ring, as well?"

  Derinald's lips pursed. "Well, it's been my custom to bring a tray of tea and trifles to the poor fellow on evening duty at the telegraphy station, just about the time that the new telegrapher at Neranahan comes on."

  She snickered. "And he doesn't wonder why a captain in the guard would be acting as his servant?"

  "Engineers," he said, his tone making the word a pejorative. It occurred to Beralyn that if he used that tone in public frequently, his oh-too-pretty face would not have remained so pretty, unless he was very good with the suspiciously decorative sword that stuck out impudently from the right side of his waist, at the angle of a young man's erection.

  "It is a lonely job," he said, spreading his hands, "and surely no simple soldier could possibly read the tickety-tickety-tackity of the telegraph."

  "Oh, really?" She raised an eyebrow. "And you can, you say?"

  "I hope I said nothing of the sort, my Empress." He raised his palms. "I would not lie to you, and I am loath to confess my inadequacy so very bluntly, but since you insist, so be it: I cannot. It's just a clickety-clickety-click to me, and nothing more."

  It wasn't like Derinald to present himself a failure. She waited, letting just a trace of impatience show. Yes, the guard captain was a useful retainer, but there were times when his predilections for drama and self-aggrandizement made her wonder if he was more trouble than he was worth.

  So: he couldn't make out the code of the telegraph. But he was not announcing failure.

  "Very well," she said. "Go on."

  "I can, however," he said, "read upside-down." He stuck his hand into his pouch. "And my memory is quite good." He extracted a folded sheet of paper from his pouch, and held it out to her. "It would seem that the three Cullinane men have successfully extracted the girl from the baroness's possession, and are on their way back to Biemestren, having left something of a mess behind them." "So even if they are successful..." she said, and let her voice peter out. She was too old, and there was not enough time left. A younger Beralyn would not have revealed her thoughts to one such as Derinald, even though he likely could have guessed them anyway.

  He took her silence as an invitation. "Yes, even if they are successful, they'll have engendered sufficient ill-will in Keranahan to reflect badly on their master."

  And, of course, there was little reason to assume, and less to hope, that they would be successful, in the final essence.

  "Well?" she asked. "Isn't there something you ought to be doing?"

  His eyebrow lifted, but his composure didn't waver for a heartbeat. "Your Majesty?"

  She kept a gnarled forefinger against his chest. "I think the emperor is awaiting the message you carry. I don't imagine he'd want you standing about and jabbering with a useless old woman."

  "I am sure that is so, but I cannot possible imagine how that would have anything whatsoever to do with Your Majesty," he said, bowing as he took a step back. "But, nevertheless, I'm sure the emperor would not thank me for dawdling even in such pleasant and noble company, and if I may be excused,
I shall be on my way."

  She smiled at his back. Well, at least the boy had enough spine for sarcasm.

  Meanwhile, it was time to heat things up for the cursed Cullinanes.

  A quick telegram to Governor Treseen, explaining her wish that the baroness be apprised of Beralyn's unhappiness with the way that Leria had been treated, and her intention to listen to the girl's full report before deciding what punishment to recommend to the emperor...

  That ought to stir up some action, and if that action caused anybody to overplay his - or her! -hand, then so be it.

  She picked up her pace, and if she hadn't long since been incapable of smiling, she probably would have smiled. For some reason, Beralyn's joints weren't hurting as much as usual.

  Chapter 15

  The Road, Again

  Dawn was threatening to break; through the windows, the outside had gone from black to an incredibly dull taupe, and was now settling on a nice dark gray.

  Kethol rose silently from his bed and crept across the floor to the door. He listened for a moment, and then another, and stayed motionless, listening, until Pirojil wanted to shout at him to get on with it until he nodded.

  Pirojil threw back his blankets and rose quickly. He had slept fully dressed - save for his boots, of course, and it was just a matter of moments to lace them up and tie the laces tightly, and then belt his sword about his waist:

  He took a small tub of grease from his kit, opened it, wincing at the smell - that goose had died far too long ago, and the expense of having a wizard put a preservative spell on the grease seemed trivial, in malodorous retrospect - and dipped his index finger in it, then carefully lubricated the hinges on the heavy door that led to Lady Leria's room. It was the only door in or out of that room; their suite was the usual one for a noble with bodyguards.

  She lay sleeping peacefully, her chest barely moving with gentle breaths, her golden hair spread out across her pillow as if it were floating there. Had she been some common wench, she would have woken with his left hand across her mouth, if not with his right holding a knife to her neck, but he could hardly lay familiar hands on a noblewoman with no more reason than a strong desire for silence.

  So he stood well away from her bed. "Lady," Pirojil whispered. "Lady."

  She came awake suddenly and sat up, her breath coming in a loud gasp, quickly focusing on Pirojil standing near the door, his finger flying to his lips.

  That was a mistake; he could barely stop himself from gagging at the smell of the long-rancid goose grease. There had been time to clean his hands, he supposed, and it would have been well to use it.

  "Lady," he whispered again. "It's time we be going."

  "But... the - I mean, Lord Miron - "

  "Should still be asleep, given the amount he drank and the time he retired, and we'll be well on our way before he wakes, with any luck."

  You made your own luck, and if it took a drinking contest that still had Pirojil's temples feeling as if somebody was pounding on them with a hammer and his stomach ready for heaving with a moment's notice, well, so be it. He and Durine could function with hangovers, and Kethol's head had been kept clear for a purpose.

  "Quickly, quickly," he said, then closed the door behind him. If he'd had his way he would have yanked her out of her nightclothes, stuffed them in a bag and her in another, and thrown her over his shoulder, but she was a lady, and he would have to wait.

  He was surprised - pleasantly so, for once - that she emerged from her room only a short while later, hair pulled back and tied with a ribbon, and a dark green cloak covering her brown traveling dress. She actually was carrying one of her bags herself, with her own hands.

  Not your typical noble lady, Pirojil decided. Not typical at all.

  "You said we had to hurry, Pirojil," she said, her voice a low murmur, her head tilted to one side in a way that made her even smile seem crooked. "Shall we be off?"

  Durine leaned hard against the traces, ignoring how much his fingers ached, the way that his thighs, powerful though they were, complained with every step.

  From a leafy branch overhanging the road ahead of him, the bright eyes of a jackhen peeked through the dimly lit leaves in the gray light, and cawed a noisy laugh. Durine didn't reach out and crush its head and body with his hands not just because the bird's perch on the branch was at least two manheights out of his reach, not just because even if the branch had been within reach the bird would have flown away at his first motion, not just because even if the bird had been nailed to its perch - a pleasant idea, that - and the perch had been within Durine's reach, his hands were occupied with the traces.

  Durine didn't blame the bird. If he had been the one sitting comfortably on a branch, he would have laughed at the idiot below, pulling the carriage up what had looked, at first, to be only a shallow rise.

  It had seemed like a simple idea yesterday, and in fact it still made sense.

  Sort of.

  The harness straps didn't cut into his shoulders -any more than they would have cut into the dray horses' thick hides - but the trouble was keeping his hands tight on the harness. The next time they did this - hah! - he would have some saddlemaker make him a harness. If Durine was going to pull a carriage, he could bloody well at least be hitched properly to it. Horses didn't have to blister and bloody then-hands.

  He wouldn't mind skipping the iron bit between his teeth, though.

  The way Pirojil had explained it, it had all made sense: it wouldn't be possible to hitch all the dray horses to the carriage and then clop off down the road without making enough noise to draw the attention of Miron and his companions, but it was possible for Erenor to quietly lead the horses out of the stable one by one and hitch them all, one at a time, to a stump a far ways down the road, and then the only problem was bringing along the carriage without the clop-clop-clop of hoofbeats.

  That was the trouble with Pirojil: he thought too much. Spent too much time worrying over every little problem, like a dog worrying a bone. Made life too complicated.

  Life should be simple.

  Of course, he thought, when you let life be simple, you found yourself the one stuck pulling the carriage while Pirojil and Kethol got to walk, so maybe there was something to this complication stuff after all.

  He recognized Erenor's footsteps - far too noisy, far too self-assured, far too Erenor - before he saw him crest the hill.

  What was it with this wizard? He was all fresh and clean and well combed in the morning light, even though he had gotten less sleep than Durine had, and had been spending his time making trips to and from the stable for the horses. There was something suspicious about a man who looked too good this early.

  "That was the last one, Master Durine," he said as he approached, his voice too loud. Without so much as a by-your-leave, without even a raised eyebrow in inquiry, Erenor reached up to the seat of the carriage and pulled down a set of traces, quickly slinging them across his own shoulders and leaning into them, just as Durine had.

  Hmm ... he really was as strong as he looked; the weight against Durine's hands lightened, and his pace quickened.

  They crested the hill easily, and before the carriage could pick up speed, Durine slipped out of his traces and quickly boosted Erenor to the driver's bench.

  Durine let the carriage roll past, and got a grip on the straps he'd tied to the tailpiece. He was about to caution Erenor to use the brake, carefully but firmly, to avoid letting the carriage break into an unguided roll, but even before he could open his mouth, he felt the carriage slow - but just a trifle, just enough to keep the pace at a fast walk, but not so fast that Durine couldn't swing the rear wheels to the right, and then correct to the left, keeping the carriage in the middle of the road.

  It wasn't the easiest thing Durine had ever done, but it did beat hauling this hunk of wood and iron uphill, at that.

  There was the temptation to let the carriage build up speed so as to roll-at least partway up the next hill, but, surprisingly, Erenor was
smart enough to resist it even without specifically being told to, although, unsurprisingly, his resolve weakened and the carriage sped up as it approached the bottom of the hill, so much so that Durine had to break into a dogtrot to keep up with it until, too soon, it slowed and, iron-rimmed wheels grinding against the dirt of the road, stopped.

  Back into the traces Durine went, Erenor again at his side.

  Years ago, with the emperor, he had flown over this barony, and from high above, on the dragon's back, the land had seemed gently rippled, like a lakeside beach after the water receded. They might have been gentle ripples from cloud level; here on the ground they were bloody big hills, and Durine hoped that this was the last one.

  At the top of the hill, the road curved away, twisting down the slope toward where a glistening stream divided woods from plowed land. A path had been worn along the streambed, and it was on the path that their horses stood, each carefully hitched to an overhead branch and then twist-hobbled. Pirojil's big bay was the first to notice; the amber-eyed gelding lifted its muzzle from the water and snorted, sending the other horses shifting nervously.

  Off in the distance, each burdened only by a bag on his shoulder, Pirojil led Lady Leria down the streamside path, while Kethol, ever watchful, brought up the rear.

  Where was the rest of the gear?

  He turned to Erenor, favoring him with a glance that would have shriveled a less self-confident man. "You didn't leave the rest of our gear at the inn, did you?" The idea was to be gone, long gone, before Miron and his companions were awake, and they were getting a late enough start as it was.

  Erenor ducked his head in simulated humility and then gestured a thumb toward the carriage's boot. "No, Master Durine, I wouldn't think of it."

  The arrogant brummagem wizard had had Durine haul the bags up hill after hill, like a plowhorse, when he could have simply loaded the gear on the horses? The nerve of him! Durine would have liked to strangle him one-handed, right here on the road.