Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda

by Joel Rosenberg

  After a moment, she nodded. “You have my word. For what it’s worth.”

  “I wouldn’t dare to presume that the Dowager Empress’s word was not her bond.” He released her wrist, but didn’t take a step back. “Don’t blame Derinald,” he said, “any more than you’d blame the knife you chose because it wasn’t sufficiently sharp for the task. Nor were the men he found — in Nyphien, was it? — sufficiently sharp for their task. Still, the poor fellows appear to have disappeared, and I don’t think they’ll ever be seen again.”

  “Unless, of course, I don’t do whatever you ask me, whenever you ask it.”

  “You misunderstand me, I think. I meant what I said: I think that they’ll never be seen in Biemestren again, regardless of what happens between you and me. You’re mistaken if you think I’m trying to blackmail you.”

  He shook his head. “The truth is I’m trying to protect you. And your son. And the Empire. You have been foolish, my Empress, and that foolishness could redound to the detriment of yourself, of your son, and of the Empire. You seem to trust too little, and when you do, you trust the wrong people. That last is a lethal failing, and one I hope you’ll repent of — just as I hope you realize that you’d be unwise to mention to Derinald that we’ve talked, or he’s liable to panic and start saying all sorts of silly things, and not think until it was too late that that would cost him his scrawny neck.”

  “And your gift is?” she asked. “No, let’s not mince about the subject: your price is?”

  “No, there is no price.” He shook his head, again. “You don’t understand me at all, my Empress. I’ve little fondness for the Cullinanes, and thought — and think — that the crown should have been mine when Jason decided to abdicate. But that is what he decided, and that’s how it is, and I’d be a fool to try to change that for my own benefit. I may be many things, but I’m not a fool.

  “The thing is, my Empress, that I actually care about the kingdom and the Empire. I’m not a sentimental man — that seems to run in the Furnael line, not mine — but we’ve had a time of peace, and of power. Still, still the world is a dangerous place, and it seems to me that the Empire itself is the wall that keeps some of that danger out.

  “I like walls, my Empress. They have such a nice way of keeping things out, don’t you agree?” He waited a moment for her to answer, but when she didn’t, he went on: “So it would be a bad thing, I think, if it were to become known what you’ve done, or what you will do.” He smiled knowingly. “So, my gift to you is this: my finger, held to my lips,” he said, touching his finger to his lips.

  She cocked her head to one side. “Surely, Baron, you’re not telling me that there is to be no price to pay for that … gift?”

  “You wound me to the heart, my Empress, truly you do.” He shook his head, sadly. “I’m hardly a merchant, engaged in common trade, balancing favors and obligations on either side of a scale. Yes, when you think your voice will be heard, I’d very much like it raised in support, say, of maintaining the occupation in Holtish baronies, and it would bother me not at all if you were to summon my daughter, Greta, to wait upon your most impressive Imperial person —”

  “Ah. So you’d like an Emperor for a son-in-law, wouldn’t you?”

  “Who would not? If the crown is never to sit on my head, or one of my sons’, a grandson’s head would surely do.” He shook his head, sadly. “Sadly, I doubt you could prevail upon your son to see her in any other light than that he would choose himself. No, I’d not ask you to try to foist her on him — you’re his mother, after all, and I’d much rather you explain how unsuitable she is. How she has no grace, does not bathe well or frequently, does not — well, whatever flaws you can find in her, particularly if they are flaws that she does not indeed have.” He thought on the matter for a moment. “And it might be best if the Lady Leria were to be here, too — and for you to seem to push her at your son, perhaps?”

  “She is here now, and she doesn’t do anything but make little calf eyes at that Forinel.”

  He nodded. “They have been long separated, and that’s understandable — but she is about to leave for Keranahan, with her betrothed.” He pursed his lips. “Let her settle in for a tenday or two, and then send for her, at the same time you send for my Greta. I think my Greta will acquit herself adequately — she’s hardly a country lady, untutored in the gentle arts.” He spread his hands. “There’s no guarantee, but it’s worth the effort of writing a letter, is it not?”

  She nodded. It might work. “And if my telling Thomen that your Greta is totally unsuitable does not make her more attractive to him — if he picks, instead, this Leria chit, or some other girl …?”

  “Friends do not require each other to be successful; but, of course, friends do make efforts on behalf of their friends. Do they not?” His smile broadened. “Regardless, I hope you will still look upon me as a friend and ally, for that I surely am. Not just a merchant to whom you owe a debt. A friend, for whom you would willingly do a favor, as a friend often does for another.” He bowed slightly. “And I’d ask another favor more of you.”

  “Yes?”

  “The next time,” he said, quietly, but with some heat, “the next time and any time that you find it expedient to have some throat slit, I’d take it as a great personal favor if you’d simply chalk the name, say,” he went on, looking around, “here, on this buttress, rather than trusting that idiot Derinald to do better in the future than he has in the past.”

  She had always assumed that all — or at least most — of the barons had spies in the castle. It would be interesting, if she had any servants that she could trust — Derinald clearly wouldn’t do — to keep watch on that buttress, and see who read the scrawl.

  “I can do that,” she said. “But if the name that I scrawl is Jason Cullinane?”

  “No, I don’t think it will be.” He shook his head. “I think that would be a very bad name to scrawl, and I hope you will trust me on this.”

  No, she didn’t think that would be a bad name to scrawl. She thought it was, in fact, the perfect name to scrawl.

  “Very well,” she said.

  “It’s good for friends to trust each other,” he said. He scratched his nose, then looked at his finger, as though he had never seen it before. “It may happen someday that I might say something that would frighten you, anger you, but I ask now that you would hear me out, then and always. Perhaps the only warning you will have is me scratching my nose — perhaps there will be none. But always, always, I hope, as a friend, my dear Beralyn, you will hear me out, as one friend does for another.”

  “And if your nose simply itches?”

  He shook his head. “My nose never simply itches.”

  “And the … attack on Jason Cullinane? The one that you seem to suggest that I might have had something to do with, but which we all know failed miserably, embarrassingly, totally?”

  He reached out and patted her hand. “Why, I’m sure that was just the Slavers Guild, aren’t you? Pandathaway is so far away, and even if the Slavers Guildmaster were right here, right now, swearing his innocence on his sword, he wouldn’t be believed.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I must finish my walk,” she said.

  “Then I’ll ask you one last favor,” he said. “If I may presume again upon our friendship.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think it would be best if we simply forget we had this conversation, don’t you?”

  There was something overly self-satisfied about the way he asked that, something that seemed very atypical for Tyrnael. He usually concealed his feelings much better.

  “I see no problem,” she said. “You came to bid me a good night before I turned in, and we exchanged a few pleasantries. In fact, since I’ve not shown your previous gift to anybody, it might be that you gave it to me tonight.” That, of course, was a lie, but not much of one — she had only shown it to Henrad, and the wizard wouldn’t talk. “Why would I need to forget that?”

/>   “No reason. No reason at all, dear Beralyn.” He touched his finger to his forelock, again. “In that case, I’ll bid you a very good night, my dear Empress.” He scratched his nose, again, and bowed, once again, this time more deeply, and waited patiently, politely, while she walked away.

  Well.

  There would have to be another way to deal with the Jason Cullinane problem, but the world was full of throats that her son, her sentimental son, was too weak to have slit.

  The only question was where and how to start.

  After, of course, she scrawled the name “Derinald” on the buttress.

  ***

  The trouble with being Emperor, Thomen Furnael decided, and not for the first time, was the hours.

  Morning always began too early, with some crisis in the making — whether it was an overnight telegram from Tyrnael, about rumblings on the Nyphien border, and laconic reflections about the relative sizes of the forces just across the border; word from Becca that Ranella had been waiting for hours (she apparently never slept) to harangue him about the need for more dwarven miners in Adahan, complete with sniffs about how she didn’t think that King Daherrin was actually running out of dwarves, although somebody apparently did, given what kind of pay Daherrin was asking; and, always, proctors’ and bursars’ reports that his minister, Bren Adahan, or the Imperial proctor, Walter Slovotsky, should have caught and handled before they reached the Emperor’s desk …

  And that was just the morning.

  The days had a way of filling up, although with Parliament now adjourned until fall, and almost all of the barons back where they should be, his work would be real work, at least for a while, and less balancing off of all those irritating, competing interests and personalities — at least in person — and some of that could be laid off on Bren and Walter.

  They had asked for — demanded — the jobs as minister and proctor, and Thomen had no objection to letting them do some of the work.

  But Bren Adahan was off in New Pittsburgh, and while there were things that the Emperor could count on his Lord Proctor for, paperwork wasn’t among them.

  Which was why Thomen Furnael was, well after midnight, still at his desk, even though the exquisitely neat printing of the detailed report as to what Ranella’s railroad had already cost — and never mind, for a moment, what it was going to cost before Biemestren and New Pittsburgh were finally linked by rail — was starting to blur in front of his eyes, even before he got to the bottom line.

  And without so much as a league of track being laid, except for the short test track outside of New Pittsburgh, and with what she lightheartedly referred to as her Mark III steam engine still barely able to pull its own weight.

  *I guess it isn’t steam engine time, quite yet, eh?*sounded in his head.

  Ellegon? He raised his head. The dragon sounded nearby.

  *No, some other dragon. Humans in the Eren regions are so very hospitable that I’m stunned that you aren’t utterly knee-deep in scales.*

  Thomen smiled. “Would a quick apology do?” he asked, quietly. He didn’t even have to speak out loud, but he preferred to. A man’s thoughts should be his own, and not shared unless he spoke.

  *I’ll try harder not to listen, then,*Ellegon said.

  Neither Thomen, personally, nor anybody else in Holtun or Bieme, had anything to apologize to Ellegon for — Ellegon had, granted, spent a couple of centuries chained in the sewage pit in Pandathaway, forced to flame the city’s wastes into ash or be buried in offal, but that was Pandathaway, not the Empire, after all, and things were different here.

  *I guess I should admire your detachment, but I’m not sure that I do.*

  “Well, then, I’m sorry,” he said. He set down the papers, stood, stretched, and walked to the window.

  *It’s not your fault, Thomen.*

  “No, but I’m still sorry. Really,” he said.

  *I know.*

  Beyond the bars, the dragon stood in the courtyard, stretching his neck out to shoot a gout of flame skyward. Ellegon preened himself, and stretched his wings, then turned his head toward where Thomen stood.

  “So,” Thomen said. “Last I heard, you were going to fly Baron Keranahan and his party home tomorrow.”

  Ellegon flicked his wings; a sort of draconic shrug.*Jason asked me to. You have some objection?*

  Thomen shook his head. “No, no objection — just some petty jealousy. I’m stuck in this castle, while Jason is back in his barony, probably already out hunting, and —”

  *And Lady Leria is also returning to Keranahan, with her betrothed. Does that bother you?*

  Thomen’s jaw tightened. “Read my mind if you want to know that badly.”

  Yes, Thomen had been more than slightly attracted to Leria, and had entertained the possibility of marrying her, which made sense for reasons of state, as well. Thomen’s main task, as he saw it, was to bind Holtun and Bieme together, and for him to marry a girl of an old Euar’den family might help to do that.

  His private thoughts were none of anyone else’s concern.

  *My turn to apologize, I expect,*Ellegon said.

  Thomen forced himself to unclench. He was just tired, and overreacting. Complaining about Ellegon reading his mind was silly. It was natural for the dragon to do that —

  *At least with friends, and at least on the surface level,*Ellegon said.*I can sense that there are some things you’re trying hard not to think about — some painful memories, perhaps, or some things you’re ashamed of, possibly — but I’m not looking at those, Thomen. Not that it would matter if I did. And not that I would tell anybody, either.*

  Thomen nodded. “So, you’re back to carry the baron and his lady home?”

  *Yes. But I made it a point to be a little early. They won’t be ready to leave until morning, unless I wake them up now, and I’m not of a mind to, for any number of reasons.*

  “Such as?”

  *Can you keep a secret?*

  “Yes.”

  *Well, so can I. In any case, they’re not leaving until morning, and …*

  “And?”

  *And I was wondering if the Emperor can drag himself away from his paperwork for a short ride.*

  “For what? Is there something —”

  *No, there’s nothing wrong. Not everything has to be a problem, or a solution, after all. I just thought you might like a break.*

  “No important affair of state?”

  *No. No surprise inspection of the guard in Tyrnael; no quick survey of wood stock in Adahan; nobody to talk to except me, and nothing to do, except maybe look at the river from cloud level; it’s pretty under the starlight, and the faerie lights over Kernat are lovely tonight. No plans — although I might swoop down and swoop up a sheep, because I’m getting hungry — just for fun.*

  Thomen looked back at the stack of paper on his desk. It hadn’t gotten any smaller while he had been chatting with the dragon. He was the Emperor, after all, and he had responsibilities. And he was a grown man, and had been, for years, and not a boy, who could simply take off whenever he wanted to, to do whatever he wanted to.

  *Sure you can. As long as you don’t do it very often. I warn you, though: your mother will have a fit.*

  Thomen smiled. You didn’t have to read minds to know that. “You just talked me into it.”

  A gout of flame roared skyward.*I thought that would do it. Dress warm; it’s cold up there.*

  2

  HOMECOMING I

  The old saw says that the first time is an accident, the second time a coincidence, and the third time enemy action. As a matter of policy, I’m suspicious of accidents, and I don’t believe in coincidences.

  — Walter Slovotsky

  THE WIND RUSHED by too fast, too hard, driving tears from his eyes back into his ears.

  Or whoever’s ears they really were.

  These ears sat too closely to his head, and where there should have been a ridge of scar tissue at the top of the left one, there was only smooth skin.
>
  The only way that they felt like his ears was that they felt wet.

  At least he had long since stopped throwing up — what little he had had of breakfast had been spread over three baronies, and even the dry retching had stopped.

  Had he known he would be riding on dragonback, he wouldn’t have had as much as a sip of water that morning. He had ridden on dragonback before, a few times, and those few times were far too many, as far as his stomach was concerned.

  *Fortunately for you, lots of people get airsick. There’s nothing distinctive — or revealing — in that.*The dragon’s mental voice was, for once, at least vaguely sympathetic instead of acidly sarcastic.

  *No, that’s only in your mind, Kethol — or should I be calling you Forinel?*

  He didn’t have a smart answer to that, and if he did, he wouldn’t have given it anyway — not to the dragon, of all creatures. Kethol had spent little time around the dragon — as little as possible — and being around Ellegon always made him nervous.

  *I do have that tendency, don’t I?*

  That was understandable. The dragon was a huge beast, its yellowed teeth the size of daggers, and its fiery breath could incinerate a man in moments — Kethol had seen it do just that — or send a man, or several men, flying through the air, broken like a child’s shattered toy, with one blow from a tree-trunk leg.

  The physical fear was bad enough for most, but it was different for Kethol.

  No, it wasn’t a matter of that kind of fear, not really. Kethol was perfectly capable of feeling fear — the bitter, metallic taste in his mouth, the pounding of his heart in his chest, the way that the palms of his hands tended to sweat so that he had to force himself not to grip the hilt of his sword or the shaft of his bow too tightly …

  Those were all familiar to him.

  But he was used to that. That was normal, natural; fear was simply part of the job. He had been a simple soldier since he was barely old enough to shave, and he’d been damn good at it — and damn lucky, as well — in order to have survived this long.