Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda (12 page)

“You’ve changed the subject,” he said.

“And you, my dear Forinel, have a keen eye for the obvious.” Her fingers idly toyed with the top button of her blouse. “Yes, I will do my duty, all of it. We’ve applied to the Emperor for permission to marry, and that we will, and the sooner the better. Parliament meets again after the fall harvest — would that suit you?”

There was something distressingly bloodless about the way she said that, at the way her eyes searched his face.

“Unless, of course, you don’t want me — you’re the baron, after all. There’s probably not more than one or two lords’ single daughters who wouldn’t jump at such a catch. I’m hardly in a position to protest, and it’s not like I’d be lacking in suitors.”

He was just starting to say something — he was never sure quite what — when a rustling out in the brush had him on his feet, his sword in his hand and the scabbard cast to one side before he half-knew what he was doing.

The bear browsing through the raspberry brambles at the far end of the clearing rose up on its hind legs and turned to look at him, then dropped to all fours and quickly ran off in a curious loping gait, while both horses took off at a gallop down the path, and Kethol had to stop himself from running after them. His two pistols were in the saddle boots, not that he would have wanted to try to kill a bear with something that was barely adequate to bring down a man.

Leria pressed herself tightly against him, trembling. “Did you see that?” Her pulse fluttered at the base of her neck. “Please — don’t let go of me. Not until you’re sure that, that horrible creature is gone.”

“He was more scared of us, thankfully, than we were of him,” Kethol said.

“You may speak for yourself on that,” she said, her voice shaking. “I’m quite capable of being more scared than a huge bear could ever possibly be.”

“Just as well the bear ran away.” That edge of the clearing was upwind, and the bear had been unable to smell them at all, and hadn’t known that Kethol was there until he stood. Bears were generally afraid of men, which was just as well for all concerned. Taking on an angry bear was a job for at least three men, preferably more — preferably a
lot
more — with rifles and spears, not one with a sword.

“Oh? Wouldn’t you have been able to kill it?”

“Kill it?” He snorted. “Me? By myself? Not likely, not even with a real sword, and it would be worse with this little noble-sticker. Not a chance — if I was unlucky enough that it charged, I’d have hoped to be lucky enough to hurt it enough to frighten it away, but …” He shook his head. “The right thing to do if you see a bear is to climb the highest tree you can, as quickly as you can, and hope that it doesn’t come after you.”

She looked pointedly at the old oak across the riding path. “So? Is there some illusion at work? Are you really up the tree and not standing here?”

He didn’t understand. “No, I’m here.”

If she had started running, he would have taken to his heels behind her without a moment’s hesitation. Maybe Pirojil thought that Kethol was an idiot — and maybe, just maybe, Kethol had given Pirojil more than enough excuse, from time to time, to think him so — but he would hardly have confronted an angry bear just for the sake of being able, if he survived, to show the scars.

But Leria had barely gotten to her feet when the bear — and the damn horses, for that matter — were out of sight. Running hadn’t been a possibility. Then.

Now, he could try to run after the horses. Possibly they would have slowed and stopped to graze just around the bend. Sure — and possibly the sky would open and rain beef soup on him.

He felt silly just standing there with this little sword in his hand. He tried to take a step back so that he could pick up his sword belt and slip the sword back into the scabbard, but she clung tightly to him, and he couldn’t just push her away, after all.

She was still trembling. “I don’t think he’ll come back, do you?” she asked, her tone much less certain than her uncertain words.

“No — if he’s gone, he’ll stay gone, more than likely. I don’t think that the horses will come back, either,” he said. “They won’t stop until they reach the Residence.” He could blame himself for not hitching them, but in their panic they would have torn a light hitching loose, anyway.

No matter. Thirien would, he was sure, send a party out after them, and, just as a precaution, send to Dereneyl for reinforcements. If a soldier went missing for a while, that was of no particular importance; it was something to be handled by the decurion when he returned, and a few days of mucking out the stables and cleaning out the dung piles beneath garderobes would make him a good example to others.

But the horses of a baron and a noblewoman returning without their riders would — or should, at least — be cause for a search party to be sent out.

Yes, it was peacetime, and the assumption would probably not be foul play — bandits would surely take the horses, after all, and even bandits knew better than to ply their trade close to nobles’ residences — but something embarrassing, like a baron and his betrothed taking advantage of a nice afternoon.

After all, Thirien didn’t know that Kethol was an imposter, just a simple soldier in disguise, the sort of man no decent noblewoman would bear the touch of.

He wasn’t sure why that saddened him. He didn’t really know Thirien, after all.

“You’re smiling,” she said. The trembling had gone, which was good. “I always liked your smile, although I never did see it often enough.”

Was she talking about Kethol or about Forinel? He didn’t know, and he couldn’t ask.

“Yes. I was just thinking about how disappointed Miron will be when a search party turns us up easily.”

“Well.” She frowned. “I’m disappointed. I was thinking something else, entirely.” Her fingers played with her shift’s buttons, again. “I was thinking about how you and I haven’t had a moment alone since we got back from Therranj.” She unbuckled her belt and dropped it to one side. “And I was thinking that perhaps you were thinking that here we are, with some time alone … do I absolutely have to put it more bluntly? I hardly know how I
could
put it more bluntly.”

He didn’t know what to do — every time Kethol had had a woman, it was just a matter of putting a copper in a whore’s bowl, and then mounting her quickly, finishing before the next man’s turn. The only smile involved was the times he had accidentally put an extra coin in the bowl, and that gap-toothed grin had nothing at all in common with Leria’s smile as she stepped out of her riding trousers and came to him, dressed only in her shift, and that fell from her shoulders to the ground even as he reached for her.

Beneath it, she was smooth and perfect, and it didn’t seem right for someone like him to have his hands on anyone like her.

But then her mouth was sweet and warm on his, and his clumsiness didn’t seem to matter.

To her, at least.

Part 2

Piece

Development

4

L
ERIA

It’s very easy to get what you want. Just think carefully, work hard, and get very, very lucky.

Okay, I lied: it’s not easy. Sue me.

— Walter Slovotsky

L
ERIA
KEPT
HER
smile inside as she threw the uneaten meatrolls into the bush — if the bear returned, it would make him happier than they had made Kethol, although not quite as happy as
she
had made Kethol — then carefully folded the blanket.

She straightened, adjusting her clothes.

Kethol had his virtues, certainly, but he was really no cleverer than most men. Yes, bears were dangerous if provoked, but unless you ran across a bear sow protecting some cubs, they were famous as cowards, and this bear had run away before Leria had even had time to get scared.

And then it was just a matter of doing the obvious. Tremble a little, and play with a few buttons — and never suggest out loud that she was rewarding him for having saved her from the very, very, very dangerous bear — and it had all worked out as she had planned that it would. The bear had simply made things easier, that was all.

Kethol was having trouble meeting her eyes, but she could deal with that.

Erenor had been right, after all.

***

She had caught up with the wizard in the Residence attic, where he was muttering to himself while clearing space among the stacked boxes and casks.

He had found a battered old tabletop somewhere in the attic, and set it between a pair of wooden boxes that were almost of the same height.

A collection of small jars had been set out on the improvised workbench. Some were made of crudely chipped stone, but most were of plain, dull pottery, and several of those had been glazed in a variety of colors that were probably a key to their contents, although perhaps the unreadable letters on the sides of some of them served that purpose, as well.

Whether through accident or a combination of good timing and Erenor’s sense for the dramatic, a beam of light through a gap in the shingles illuminated the small brazier on a cast-iron tripod. While no fire burned in it at the moment, it was filled with enough charcoal to prevent the grill from being fully seated, and the small silver dagger that lay on the grill looked like it would slide off at the slightest shock.

“May one ask what you’re doing?” she had asked, her head just above the open trapdoor.

“Oh, just moving things around.”

Annoyingly, he didn’t stop in his work as she climbed the rest of the way up the ladder to the rough-hewn attic floor. If she hadn’t known that his aged appearance was just a seeming, and that he was as well muscled as a peasant farmer, the fact that he was picking up and moving chests that he could barely get his arms around would have told her. Still, while he had apparently been at this for a while, he had just barely managed to clear a space large enough for a bed.

He grunted in effort as he moved another chest from next to the newly cleared space over on top of an already high stack of boxes.

“What this attic needs is some shelving,” he said. “But I’m told that there’s no carpenter on staff here. Seems they’ve even been using a cooper from some nearby village — how can they possibly get by without a cooper? — and having Treseen send out a couple of carpenters and apprentices from Dereneyl. Would you mind speaking to him about that?”

She didn’t answer. She just stood waiting, irritated at the rudeness, until he looked up, his brow furrowed.

“Oh,” he said, “I am forgetting my manners, aren’t I?” He produced a rag from — from somewhere, and dusted off the top of a plain wooden box that was about the right height for a chair, then set a folded blanket down on top of it.

She hadn’t seen where the blanket had come from, either. Erenor was showing off. That was reassuring — Leria was used to boys and men showing off for her.

“Please, my lady,” he said, “would you honor me by sitting?”

If his voice was ever-so-slightly overly formal, she didn’t need to take any notice of that.

“Thank you,” she said. “I take it you’ve decided that the attic is the best place for your workshop?”

He nodded. “It will have to do, at least for now. If I don’t have good ventilation, it’s likely not to be a problem for me, but I can promise you it will be a problem for everybody else. I’m going to be working on, well, on a few things, and some of the preparations are less than pleasant — smelly and smoky.” He shook his head. “It would be nice to have a proper wizard’s aerie, but, then again, I shouldn’t complain, me not being an entirely proper wizard, and all.”

“But I’m sure that, oh, by the time that the fall rains come, and root rot breaks out, you’ll have learned how to kill it.”

He folded his robes about his knees and sat down across from her, seemingly on the air. “I wish I was sure of that, and I wish even more that I could tell if you are being sarcastic or simply overly trusting.”

“Why, Erenor, you —”

“— understand you thoroughly.” He spread his hands, the picture of embarrassed innocence. “I’m in something of the same position that a friend of ours is in,” he said. He thought for a moment, then closed his eyes. “Wait a moment.”

He mumbled a quick incantation, and it was suddenly silent around them.

She only noticed by their absence the clopping of horses’ hooves, the whispering of the wind against the shingles that roofed the attic, and the far distant screeching of some cook berating one of the serving girls.

“That’s better,” he said. His voice seemed flat, somehow, as though her ears were not working right, as though she had a cold, and her ears were stuffed. “I don’t actually know that the baron’s — that
your
servants are spying on their betters, but …”

“But you would be doing just that, if you were any of them,” she said.

“Well, yes,” he said, smiling. “While I usually find it’s the case that most people are not nearly as innately inquisitive as I am, I don’t particularly think it’s sensible to assume that it’s always the case. So it seems only reasonable to take a precaution or two. For now, please speak frankly with me. Since it’s not my company that you seek, it must be my advice, and if I’m any judge of character — and I’d best be a very good judge of character, all things considered — I’d judge that you want some advice about dealing with how strange Baron Forinel has become in his long absence, am I correct?”

She nodded. It hadn’t escaped her notice that Erenor was referring to Kethol as Forinel, despite having made sure that they could not be overheard, and talking around the problem, rather than addressing it directly. Erenor was more of an actor than a wizard, really, and she would have been amazed if he hadn’t completely thrown himself into his role. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if the collection of jars contained nothing more exotic than salt and dried horseradish.

“Yes,” she said. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

“Well, let’s begin with the obvious — are you pregnant yet?”