Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda

by Joel Rosenberg

  The old cedar wardrobe that stood against the north wall of Forinel’s — of his bedroom, of his bedroom — was far too large to fit through the door, and had certainly been built in place by a long-dead carpenter. Large as it was, it was still utterly crammed full of clothes, and Elda, the fat housekeeper (did any noble ever have a skinny housekeeper?), had told him that most of his clothes were still in storage, carefully sealed in chests in what had been his childhood bedroom.

  He didn’t press the matter further — but, at least, he knew when he found a room filled with chests and chests of tunics and jerkins, he would know where his childhood bedroom had been.

  There was far too much here to choose from, so Kethol had made it simple: a plain white shirt and black linen vest, over trousers and calf-high black boots.

  He flexed his feet in the boots. They were a little stiff from years of lack of use, but they had been oiled and polished on a regular basis, and it wouldn’t take him long to break them in.

  They definitely did need breaking in — from the look of the soles, they couldn’t have been worn more that a few times, and there were other shoes and boots in the wardrobe that seemed to never have been worn, or, more likely, had been perfectly restored by the same cobbler who had made them in the first place.

  These did fit his feet — even though those feet were slightly smaller than they should have been.

  The boots really shouldn’t have felt so tight, so constricting.

  It wasn’t the boots. The whole bedroom suite felt smaller than it should have, what with the way that it was built up against the outer wall of the keep, with nothing but a pair of barred windows letting in the late-afternoon sun.

  He pushed his way through the silken netting to lie back on the too-soft bed, reflexively checked to see that the hilt of his sword was within reach, and let himself sigh. His shoulders were tight, and his neck could barely move.

  Everything should have been fine. Wonderful, even.

  He had had the Residence staff presented to him, from the fat old housekeeper to the hostler’s infant children — twin daughters; very cute — and all except the youngest of the children had breathed a visible sigh of relief when he had announced, as Leria had coached him to, that he had no intention of “making any changes,” which was a noble’s way of saying that they could all stay on.

  Yes, they had served Elanee, but it was not their fault that she had attempted a very curious sort of rebellion, and neither Kethol nor Forinel — whoever he was — had any intention of turning out a couple of dozen men, women, and children with nothing but the clothes on their backs and whatever they could steal at the last moment.

  A tray of snacks had been brought to his room, and while Erenor had insisted on testing it for poison — Erenor thought that everybody else thought the way he did, perhaps, or, more likely, he simply mistrusted everybody as a matter of policy — the wizard had ruled the food safe, and it was definitely tasty. He had filled up enough on the meatrolls and the very garlicky sausage that he barely touched the turnip compote, and had only eaten half of the pork pie.

  Finished with his meal, he had used the garderobe in the washroom off his bedroom that was dedicated to that purpose — both his station and his having a room up against the wall had their virtues — and then he had made a sketchy bath in the washbasin, and now he was dressed, and the right thing to do would be to go downstairs and pretend to refamiliarize himself with the Residence, from the dungeon to the attic.

  It would be easy to justify, Leria had explained. A few words about how he had been gone so long, and had missed every room, every mural and tapestry, every stick of furniture. Nobody would believe that, but that was the best part of it: everybody would think that he was trying to see what had disappeared in his absence.

  He was looking forward only to part of it: he should be able to find a good bow in the armory.

  Sometimes, he thought that giving up his own laminated longbow was the hardest part of all this — he had had to; there were too many people who would have recognized it as Kethol’s — although that was silly, from the point of view of a noble.

  It was just a bow, after all. That was the way Forinel would have thought of it. For Kethol, it had cost half a year’s wages, and it had suited him perfectly, and he doubted that he could find its like here.

  Still, he should get to the tour sooner than later, although he didn’t mind putting it off.

  There was a lot to see. The old baron — his father, his father — had had a private library that was apparently famous through Holtun.

  Not that that would do Kethol a whole lot of good — he could read Erendra, although not particularly quickly or well, and could make his way through a page of Englits by sounding out the words if nothing else, but the old languages were something that a woodsman’s son had never had any cause or opportunity to learn, and a soldier had neither cause nor time to learn.

  Although he would have to, sooner rather than later, at least well enough to pass himself off as literate, if some visiting nobleman were to ask his opinion about a book in the library.

  But, instead, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. He couldn’t relax, although he tried to. He was in another man’s room, and another man’s bed, wearing another man’s clothes, and he could almost feel the walls closing around him.

  There was a knock on the door.

  “Yes?”

  When the door didn’t open, he got down from the bed, and pushed his way through the silken blackfly netting that surrounded it, careful not to tear it, and walked to the door, opening it.

  Leria stood there, smiling. Her long golden hair, slightly darkened and still damp from her own bath, had been pulled back in a simple overhand knot, not the complex braid that she usually favored. An almost preposterously white shift was belted tightly above the hips, falling to mid-thigh, revealing her riding pants, black leather decorated along the seams with silver trim, below.

  “Just out of the bath?” He didn’t have any objection, but Leria seemed to spend every spare moment soaking herself in hot water.

  She nodded. “I thought I’d bathe before dinner, but Elda says that you don’t plan to sit table this evening.” Did her light tone conceal or reveal disapproval?

  “Yes, that’s what I said.” He beckoned her inside, and closed the door behind her. “There’s a problem.” “Oh?”

  “I can’t read, anything except a little bit of Englits, and recognize a few Erendra symbols, and maybe a couple of dozen dwarven glyphs, and —”

  She touched her finger to his lips. “I already thought of that. That’s just one of the things you’ll have to learn,” she said, smiling, “but I think you’ll find the teacher pleasant company.”

  “Teacher?” He frowned. “But if we get somebody to teach me, he’ll know —”

  “I will be the teacher,” she said, her smile warm, and not vaguely insulting. “I hope you won’t mind having to spend time with me?”

  “No, but —”

  “But save that for later, please — we were talking about you not sitting table this evening.”

  When the old woman had asked him what time he planned to sit table, he hadn’t known quite what to say. Sit table? The nobility seemed to spend most of their lives just eating and talking and eating with each other, while Kethol had always been used to quickly wolfing down a meal before he had to get out and actually do something.

  So he had just pleaded travel weariness, and that had been good enough.

  There were advantages to being in charge, even if you were an imposter.

  He started to say something, but Leria smiled as she again put a finger to his lips.

  “There’s no need to sit table, not tonight — which is why I had her pack us a light dinner, and have had a couple of horses saddled. I thought we’d go for a ride. As you’ll remember, there’s a wonderful riding trail down toward Ulter, through the woods.”

  She took his hand and pulled him close, locking her hands
behind him, at the small of his back. It was only then that he noticed that her breasts were bound tightly, as though for riding.

  The woods?

  Her smile and nod were knowing. “We’ll want to be back before it gets dark — it’s not like you’re an accomplished woodsman or something — so let us be going, shall we? Unless, of course, you mind being alone with me.”

  How was it that she could tease him and it didn’t bother him? Not even a little.

  “To the woods, then.”

  ***

  These woods had far too long been underhunted — game trails crisscrossed the riding trail in a preposterous profusion. If it wasn’t for the wolves, the barony would probably have been knee-deep in deer, and more than waist-deep in rabbit.

  He didn’t even have to get down from the back of the overly spirited black gelding that the stableboy had picked out for him in order to spot bear spoor under, as far as he could tell, each and every one of the old oaks that held a beehive, as most of them appeared to.

  His mouth watered at the idea of smoking out the bees and sinking his teeth into a fresh honeycomb.

  As they cantered down the side of the hill, a covey of grouse exploded out of the bushes beside them, the fluppeta-fluppeta-fluppeta as they battered their wings together at least as hard as they beat the air sending him reaching for one of his pistols.

  It had been too long since he had been out in the forest. It was embarrassing that he hadn’t even spotted the grouse before he had startled them, although who had been doing most of the startling and who had been doing most of the being startled wasn’t at all obvious.

  She laughed, more at him than with him. “I appreciate your concern for my safety, but I don’t think a pack of grouse is very dangerous.”

  “True enough.” But he couldn’t help but keep his eyes from scanning not only the trail in front of them, but the brush to either side. “But it’s what I’m used to.”

  “I know.” She nodded, and as the trail widened, kicked her heels against her brown mare’s broad sides until they were riding almost knee-to-knee. “Still, you can get used to all this. Good food, clean clothes, a regular bath, and as much leisure as you’d like aren’t difficult tastes to acquire, are they?”

  He didn’t answer. “It’s … different. I’ve spent most of my life —”

  “Shhh.” She looked ahead. “I know we’re alone, but please, please don’t get in the habit of talking about … such things.” Her lips pursed tightly. “I can’t imagine that Miron would suspect the truth, but he’s certain to be looking for an opportunity to discredit you — and he is known to the local landholders, and has allies in Parliament. In fact, I think you ought to make an opportunity to court Lord Moarin — he’s a wretched old lecher, but —”

  “Please? At least when we’re alone, can’t I just stop pretending for a few moments?”

  When she didn’t answer right away, he angrily slapped his reins hard against his thigh. The horse misread that as a signal to break into a canter, and he was easily a dozen manlengths away before he pulled the horse back into a slow walk so that she could catch up.

  Ahead, the trail broke on a clearing surrounding a small pond. The ducks that seemed to glide effortlessly across its green-scum – covered surface ignored them, while a skinny heron, propped up on one foot at the far edge, paused for a moment to eye them carefully before knifing its long beak back into the water, emerging with a wriggling fish, its rainbow scales gleaming like jewels in the sunlight.

  Heron wasn’t the most flavorful of birds, but it wasn’t bad. Better than eagle and loon, and there was more meat on one than there was on a duck. Since he hadn’t been able to locate a proper bow boot quickly, and hadn’t wanted to take the time to find one, he hadn’t even strung one of the longbows in the Residence armory; he had simply taken a short horn bow and a small quiver from the armory and strapped them to the back of his saddle.

  It would be almost too easy to stop, string the bow, and shoot some supper — and it would have been the natural, the normal thing to do. The woods here were like an open town market without the incessant cries of farmers and merchants hawking their wares.

  “No,” she said, finally. “I don’t think you should stop pretending, as you put it. But we can make an exception, just this once. Since it’s just you and me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Would you mind stopping for a moment? I’m finding that bouncing up and down on a saddle is beginning to tire me.”

  “Of course.”

  He pulled his horse to a halt, quickly bolted to the ground, and went to help her dismount. He could barely feel the ground through the thick soles of his boots. If he had still been himself, he would have brought along a pair of woodsman’s leather buskins.

  She stretched broadly, but showed no other sign of weariness from either their ride out from Dereneyl or their much shorter ride from the Residence.

  “Thank you,” she said. “It’s very gentlemanly of you to hand me down from my horse, but please do get out of the habit of rushing to do it — it makes you look like a servant. I can wait.”

  “Very well.”

  She untied the leather provisions bag from her saddle, and looked around. “Should we cut some stakes? For the horses?”

  “We?” He raised an eyebrow.

  “We,” she said, firmly, and reached into her saddle’s pouch to produce a short sheathed knife. “I’m not utterly helpless, you know — I’m perfectly capable of chopping a stake.”

  He tried to decide whether she was really irritated or just teasing him, but gave up. “If the horses won’t stay near their riders,” he said, “we may as well find out now, and not sometime when we’re half a day’s ride away from the Residence.”

  “From home, you mean.”

  “From home.”

  He loosened the bits from both horses’ mouths and tied the reins to their saddles so that they wouldn’t catch in the brambles. After giving Kethol a curious look and snort, his gelding walked a short way off into the meadow, staked out a patch of clover, and began to graze, followed after a moment by the mare, who took a tentative nibble from the same patch, then quickly moved away at the gelding’s warning whinny.

  He smiled. It seemed that the horse’s spirit hadn’t been totally cut away when a red-hot gelding iron had taken its cock and balls.

  Leria spread the blanket out, flattening the waist-high grasses, and quickly produced a bottle of wine and a half-dozen meatrolls, each wrapped in now-greasy parchment.

  She patted at the blanket beside her, and he unbuckled his sword belt and set it down on the grass next to the blanket as he sat.

  She frowned at the leather bag. “I’m sure that there’s a proper picnic kit somewhere in the Residence, but the cook didn’t know where it was, and I’m going to have to have my confrontation with Elda soon enough.” She pulled the wooden stopper out of the wine, and gave a quick sniff. “It’s Ingarian, I think,” she said, taking a brief drink before offering the bottle to him. “I wouldn’t say that it’s the best wine I’ve had, but I can swear that it’s not vinegar, at least.”

  “Thank you.” He took the bottle and tilted it back. The wine was light and cool, smoother and gentler than he was used to. It tasted of lazy summer days, he decided, although he had never actually had a lazy summer day.

  “Confrontation? With Elda?”

  She pursed her lips. “A home has to have one mistress, and that’s going to be me, not some housekeeper,” she said. “The only question is when I have to set Elda straight, not whether, although I’m tempted to say that the sooner, the better. Are you set on keeping her?”

  “I hadn’t thought about it.” That sounded better than saying, Yes, I have thought about it, but I’m not going to fire the whole staff.

  “Well, please do think about it. I’m sure I could arrange a position for her with one of the nobles minor in town — I’m not talking about turning her out into the night, you know — and I think that a s
udden drop in station might actually be quite good for her.”

  “You decide.”

  “No. You are the baron, and you have to decide. Even if,” she said, smiling, “you decide to do what I think is best. If you’re set on keeping her on, though, I’d better have my confrontation with her privately — but if you’re not, making an example of her in front of the rest of the staff would probably be the best way to handle things. What do you think?”

  “I think,” he said, “that I don’t have much of any of an opinion, and would very, very much like putting the whole matter off, at least for now.”

  He was impressed at how her mind was constantly working. And he was impressed at how much there was to the running of a noble household, and yes, he would have to learn all about it.

  But not now. Now it was a fine afternoon, and he was in the woods, which only made it better, with the scree-scree-screes sofa pair of distant flitterwings boasting to each other of their prowess also announcing that they were alone — flitterwings were even more cowards than they were braggarts.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, primly, folding her hands in her lap. “There’s much that you have to learn about being a noble, and little enough time to spare.” She raised a finger. “Now, now, don’t look like that — you remind me of a little boy, trying not to admit that he’s done something that deserves a beating.”

  She leaned back on an elbow and considered him. “It’s quite a turnabout, you know. When we were on the run, it was you who knew everything — how to keep dry in the rain, or start a fire, or when and how to go to ground and let the pursuers pass. But here and now, this is where I’m at home, and — if you’ll let me — where I can teach you.”

  He didn’t know quite what to say. “I don’t see much choice in it.” “Oh.” Her expression grew somber. “Is my company so unpleasant to you?”

  “No. It’s not that. You know it’s not that, not at all.” She had a way of putting him on the defensive. “It’s just that — I don’t think I can do this. I’ll try, I swear on my sword I will — but it seems to me that anybody can look at me and see that I’m not what I pretend to be.”