Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda

by Joel Rosenberg

  Thomen could be very bloody-minded when it came to other matters of state — he was wisely resisting too quickly giving control of most of the Holtish baronies back to the barons, and he watched the Treasury very closely, not paying out good gold for works projects of questionable worth, insisting that the barons involved would have to fund the projected rail line between Adahan’s New Pittsburgh and Biemestren.

  He even said that he had put off marrying for good reason, not out of a lack of time or interest. She believed that the way that little upstairs maid of his made a point of having difficulty sitting down most mornings was a reliable testament to his interest, just as Beralyn’s insistence that Derinald regularly take the girl to the Spider had proclaimed loudly to that little piece of common trash that there would be no question, ever, of a bastard to complicate matters.

  But, so he said, as long as the Emperor remained unmarried, and made it clear that he would choose his bride, when he did choose a bride, from whichever noble family — Holtish or Biemish — that he decided upon, then he would not have to put up with the conflicts that any choice would of necessity instigate.

  There was, he said, no need to rush.

  She disagreed, but his wasn’t a stupid position to take. In the short run. Particularly if he had been sensible enough to be sure that the major danger to his throne was dead and buried.

  Jason Cullinane was a real threat.

  The awful truth — the truth that simply everybody knew, but which was spoken of only in whispers, when it was spoken of at all — was that if Jason Cullinane chose to take the crown back, he could do so overnight.

  There was no doubt in her mind that he someday would.

  Oh, he certainly could and no doubt would claim to have some noble purpose in mind when he did that.

  Perhaps he would decide that Thomen was not removing the military governors and lifting the occupation of the Holtish baronies quickly enough, or perhaps he would convince himself that the Emperor’s justice fell too heavily on common thieves or too lightly on some noble’s son who had had his way with a few peasant girls.

  Perhaps he would decide that the occasional bandito raids along the Kiaran border required a stronger response, or — if Thomen finally decided to bring those Kiaran dogs to heel — Jason Cullinane would decide that it should have been a weaker one.

  Or, more than likely, Jason Cullinane would marry that disturbingly masculine little Slovotsky girl, and find that he wanted to gift his own son with an empire, and not just the barony.

  Or, perhaps, it would be all of those.

  But it was, of course, only a matter of time, not of whether.

  She had said that to her son, more than once.

  More than once she had explained that he simply had to produce an heir, that he had to intertwine himself and his blood with a noble family of impeccable lineage — Lady Leria Euar’den had been Beralyn’s choice, but hers was hardly the only noble womb available for the purpose — and establish not just himself, but his line.

  And for the sake of his blood and his lineage — and for the sake of the memory of his dead father and dead brother — he simply had to find some way to eliminate the Cullinane threat that Thomen, sweet Thomen, foolish Thomen, saw as an alliance rather than the danger that it most surely was.

  Taking the barony away from Jason Cullinane would be a good start. There were collateral cousins of the Furnaels that had a claim to it, and while the Emperor would be a fool to promiscuously strip a baron of his title and lands, there was precedent for it in Bieme, as well as in Holtun.

  No. That wouldn’t do. She could fantasize about it, but for Thomen to take away the Cullinane barony would likely trigger the revolution that she feared, that she knew, would surely come one day.

  Why wait for it? Why not simply cut the head off of the snake now?

  Thomen would just shake his head, and say that he didn’t think of Jason Cullinane as a threat, that Jason Cullinane didn’t want to be emperor, anyway, or he wouldn’t have abdicated at all, much less in Thomen’s favor.

  Just wait, he would say. Notice, he would say, time and time again, that Jason Cullinane himself had put off marrying that Slovotsky girl — or anybody else. Jason was waiting for him — let the Emperor marry first, let him produce an heir, and Jason Cullinane himself would stand guardian at the boy’s naming.

  It didn’t matter to her if Thomen was right. Did anybody think that she would let Jason Cullinane within a dozen leagues of her grandchild?

  In the meantime, what she was supposed to do, of course, was to wait, and be a useless old woman, and occupy herself with fripperies like the needlepoint that her old fingers were far too clumsy for, and managing the servants that were perfectly capable of being managed by the majordomo, and doing anything and everything except remembering that every time Parliament met it was just another convenient opportunity for Jason Cullinane to take her son’s place.

  Wait?

  No. She would not wait for the inevitable ax to inevitably fall.

  There was a sense of freedom, she thought with a private smile, in not doing what you were supposed to.

  She trudged on.

  A head leaned out of the guard shack at the southern rampart, then quickly ducked back in. There was no need for an alarm; it was just that useless old woman on her nightly walk, and if her tongue was still sharp, it was a simple matter to avoid her, after all.

  The servants in the castle had taken to calling her the Walking Widow, she had heard, and calling the ramparts the Widow’s Walk.

  That was just fine with her.

  Ahead, just at the top of the stairs that led up from the inner bailey, Baron Willen Tyrnael was waiting for her, as she had half-expected. Usually, he was among the first to leave after Parliament, pleading the exigencies of running a barony on the Nyphien border; this time, though, he was almost the last to go, and she had assumed that it was to find the opportunity to speak to her privately. It wouldn’t be the first time that he had caught her on her nightly walk.

  She reminded herself that she always had to watch herself around Tyrnael — the misleadingly gentle eyes and the tight, fierce mouth reminded her, far too much, of her dead husband, Zherr. Understandable, really, since all the Biemish barons were distantly related, in many cases having married each other’s sisters or daughters. Even more understandable, really, that he would cultivate the resemblance to Zherr Furnael, the more easily to manipulate a lonely, useless old woman whom nobody took seriously.

  She forced herself to concentrate on the ways in which he was different: how, for example, his hair and beard were always neatly trimmed, and close-cropped, not like Zherr’s, who she had practically had to drag into the barbering chair.

  “A good evening to you, my Empress,” he said, awkwardly touching a knuckle to his forelock. That was the only awkward thing about him. Understandably, Willen Tyrnael had had little practice in showing obeisance; surprisingly, he had not put in the time or effort to learn how to do so deftly.

  “Do you really think so, Willen?” She didn’t pause in her pacing, but nodded at him, giving permission for him to walk along with her. “I find it a rather glum and utterly unpleasant evening, myself. Which is why most have turned in for the night, as I thought you had.”

  Most men would have nodded in agreement — Beralyn had long since become used to insincere agreement — but the baron shook his head.

  “I did turn in, but I found myself not particularly sleepy, and I also find myself the last Holtish baron under the Emperor’s roof” — he glanced at the dark sky above — “so to speak, and I find it pleasant not to share his attention with any of those Holtish barons in particular, nor, for that matter, others of the Biemish barons.”

  “Then why,” she asked, “are you not spending time with him, and instead waiting here, out in the dark, for a useless old woman?”

  “I would never think of you that way, and I am sure that I have never heard anybody call you that, my Empress, but be t
hat as may …” Tyrnael eyed her for a moment. “I asked for some time with Thomen this evening, but I was told that he was closeted up with the baron minister and the lord proctor. And I’m told that he has an appointment with Forinel at the tenth hour, as well. Spending some time speaking with the new baron before Forinel takes his leave seems to be of some understandable importance.”

  If the idea of Thomen giving precedence to spending time with Bren Adahan and that awful Walter Slovotsky bothered the baron, it didn’t show in his voice or face, any more than did his irritation at Forinel’s presence. The sudden, surprising appearance of Forinel to claim his barony — just as Parliament and the Emperor were about to name Forinel’s half-brother, Miron, as Baron Keranahan — seemed to bother him not at all.

  It did, of course. But she admired his self-control; his self-control made them kindred spirits.

  After all, Miron was obviously a creature of Tyrnael’s. Whatever Tyrnael had spent, in promises or gold, to gain a hold over the would-be baron had, the instant that Forinel had appeared in Parliament, become a wasted investment, and Tyrnael didn’t seem to be the sort of man who would fail to regret such a lost investment, and he most certainly wasn’t the sort of lord who would fail to attempt to recoup such a lost investment, either.

  “So you leave tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I’d best. Not that I’m utterly indispensable to the running of my barony,” he said, with a self-deprecating chuckle that almost seemed genuine. “After all, graveyards are filled with men who thought themselves to be indispensable. Still, I do like to think I’m of some use — and word has reached me that there are some problems on the Nyphien border.”

  “Oh?” “Problems” could mean anything short of a Nyph invasion.

  “It’s probably just more orcs, but I’d rather check it out myself. Delegating things is all well and good, but one of the lessons that the Old Emperor taught all of us is that there’s no substitute for getting out and seeing for yourself.” His smile broadened. “Of course, doing that once too many times killed him, but no policy is perfect, yes? And I did want to leave you with a present before I left.”

  “Oh?” She fingered the pendant around her neck — a finely polished garnet on a silver chain.

  Cautious by policy as much as by temperament, she had had it examined by Henrad, Thomen’s pet wizard, before ever putting it around her neck, and indeed it had been as innocuous as Tyrnael had claimed: it was touched with just a minor glamour, just the smallest of spells that tended to make sweet food taste a trifle sweeter, cold water feel a touch cooler, and the like.

  “Another gem?” she asked, fingering the garnet.

  His face was impassive, no hint that he recognized it as the Tyrnael family heirloom that he had given to her.

  Sometimes she thought that he took his self-control too far, although that was something that could safely be said about Beralyn herself, as long as it wasn’t said where such words could reach her ears.

  “No,” he said, smiling. “Something less appealing, I’m afraid, and more subtle. Would it surprise you, my Empress, to know that a couple of men — Nyphs, by the look of them — two days ago showed up in a tavern in the lower city, looking for your aide, Captain Derinald?”

  So there it was.

  She didn’t bother asking him how he had found that out. There was no question that all of the barons — and certainly some of the minor lords, as well as others — had spies in the capital, and it didn’t surprise her that Tyrnael’s were among the best.

  It did surprise her that the men Derinald had hired were stupid enough to come back to Biemestren, but it didn’t surprise her much. Men were, by and large, such stupid creatures, and men who made their living soldiering for others were among the stupidest of men.

  But she didn’t let him see any fear in her face. She had realized, long before, that there were risks, and she did have a plan to protect her son from her own exposure.

  Still, it was worth trying to see if she could find a way out of the swamp that Derinald’s stupidity had put her in.

  “Derinald,” she said, “has some low-life friends, and that’s long been known to me.” It had long been useful to her, as well, although the usefulness of that, and of him, was clearly about to end.

  It had all made sense at the time. Derinald had been supposed to have traveled incognito in Enkiar, not Nyphien — he was supposed to pass himself off as a Pandathaway Guild slaver, and she had given him enough gold to make that credible — but he was never quite as clever as he seemed to think he was, and this time his stupidity was going to be expensive.

  Tyrnael smiled. “I hadn’t thought much of it, until then.”

  “I had nothing to do with it. Everybody knows that it was the Slavers Guild that tried to have Jason Cullinane assassinated, after all.”

  His smile broadened. “What everybody knows and what is true are so often such different things. Yes, hired assassins trying to kill a Cullinane spoke of the Pandathaway Slavers Guild, after all. But the timing was interesting.”

  Yes, it was. Just before Parliament. Just before another chance for Jason Cullinane to take back the crown, despite his protestations that he supported Thomen.

  Still, she had expected that the blame would fall on the Slavers Guild, and it had, of course.

  Until now.

  “Yes.” She allowed herself a slight nod. “How interesting. And I suppose that these, these thugs have all sorts of interesting stories to tell.”

  “Stories?” Tyrnael affected to look puzzled. “About what? I’m afraid I don’t understand. Surely there will be no stories about the Dowager Empress’s aide having solicited them to murder a baron on his way to Parliament, I’d imagine, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”

  So: there it was, all out in the open, or, at least, as out in the open as Tyrnael wanted it to be at the moment.

  He thought that she was utterly at his mercy, but she wasn’t.

  Rumors and suspicions were one thing, but let some reliable word leak out that the Emperor — or the Emperor’s mother, it would make no difference — had tried to have any one of the barons murdered, and the outcry could shake the crown right off Thomen’s head.

  Jason Cullinane’s father had earned far more than his share of loyalty among the Biemish barons by turning the tide in the war against Holtun, and even more than that among the Holtish barons by letting them keep their titles and most of their properties, even under the occupation. They had expected, after all, that the conquering Biemish would do to them what they had been busily trying to do to the Biemish, before the war had turned. Cart off the excess peasants and sell them to slavers; kill most of the Holtish nobility, and reduce the rest to nobles minor, at most, and distribute lands and titles among the Biemish conquerors.

  But Karl Cullinane hadn’t done that, and he had not just forced his will on the Biemish barons — although he had — but eventually even persuaded them that welding Holtun and Bieme together would leave the created Empire stronger than would a Bieme that would have to spend the next generations digesting Holtun.

  She was glad he was dead, but she was far too honest to deny to herself that he had earned himself some of that loyalty, and that was the way of it — loyalty could be transferred from father to son, and Thomen’s father was long gone.

  Still, it was hardly just a matter of loyalty. Loyalty was a far weaker staff to lean on than self-interest. If the Emperor could have any one of the barons assassinated, why, he could have any other of the barons assassinated.

  It wasn’t just their own necks that would concern them, of course. They would be as worried about their own heirs’ necks, as well, just as Beralyn was concerned about Thomen’s.

  There was a simple solution, of course.

  The only trail led through Derinald to her. So let it end with her, and let Derinald flee for his life. With any luck, the dolt would fall from his horse and break his neck.

  There was no reason to wait, and there we
re advantages to doing it here and now.

  It would just be a matter of flinging herself over the ramparts, to the hard stones below. Then let Tyrnael explain how the Empress had managed to stumble and fall over the stone railing that rose to her mid-chest.

  She wished she could be there to see it, but, of course, if she was, there would be nothing to see.

  It would have been better to shout out, “Please stop,” or “Please don’t hurt me,” or “He’s going to throw me over the railing, help,” but not only would that be beneath her dignity, it would also give him a warning.

  She regretted that. It would be good to be sure to take him with her, and that cry would surely do it.

  There was much to regret, but no time to regret it.

  But as she started to move, his hand snaked out and gripped her wrist tightly, almost hard enough to break bones.

  “No,” he said, “you misunderstand me.”

  She didn’t bother to pull against his much greater strength. There wouldn’t be any point, and Beralyn never believed in useless gestures.

  “Release me, now,” she said, forcing herself to keep her voice low and level, “or I’ll call for the guard.”

  “And tell them what? That you tried to kill yourself when I told you I know that you tried to have Baron Cullinane assassinated? Let’s not be silly, my Empress.” He shook his head. “Ah,” Tyrnael said, “you have such admirable bloody-mindedness in you. Your son didn’t inherit that from you, more’s the pity.” He raised a finger. “Promise to stay and hear me out, and I’ll release your hand. Let me speak, and then do what you will.”

  “I said —”

  “I want your word. I would have been willing to wager anything on your husband’s word, and I know you wouldn’t dishonor the word of the Furnaels — so give me your promise, your word, on your family honor. It’s not much to ask, after all. Surely, surely you can spare me a moment’s attention. Then,” he said with a smile, “if you absolutely insist on shattering your body on the stones below, I’ll ask that you at least give me a few moments to make my escape before you do.”