Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda (2 page)

Common soldiers who were supplementing their pay with a little bit of private enterprise among the criminal class — even if it consisted of stealing from the criminal class — couldn’t afford to draw any attention to themselves.

Money was money, of course, and the most they ever had to do was carefully examine the silver coins — or, all too rarely, a gold one — for any distinctive markings that had been scratched on to it. On the rare occasions that they found any, that coin, too, would go into the melting pot. The evening wasn’t over until they had melted the silver and gold — separately, of course — and reduced them to unidentifiable metal lumps.

That part Pirojil could do himself, of course. But it really took more than one person to do the rest of it effectively, not to mention safely.

There had to be one person acting as bait, and Pirojil wasn’t the best bait. He was above average in size, for one, and a close look — which he hoped would come too late, which
should
come too late in the dark — would reveal that his preposterously ugly face was creased with scars, proclaiming him a less than ideal target.

He did the best he could.

A floppy cap covered where the tip of his left ear had been bitten off even better than his fringe of hair could. His slick oiled canvas rain cloak, with its mirror-polished silver buttons, hid the brace of knives at his hip and the sword that was slung down his back, while the buttons acted as an additional garnish on the bait. His short, heavy dagger was in his right hand, but he had it in a reverse grip, the blade flat along his forearm, and he always made a point, before going out, to be sure that he had fully blackened its surface by holding it over a candle. It would be hard enough to see the blade in daylight, and at night it would be effectively invisible.

Not that he was going to have any use for the knife, unfortunately. Even the pouring rain couldn’t wash from the air all of the garlicky smells of roasting meat that mixed with the sounds of laughter from the taverns, but the rain had almost emptied the streets. It lacked an hour of midnight, and even an Imperial soldier who was due to stand the next watch — and who at least thought that his decurion was too lazy to check for the smell of beer on his breath — wouldn’t think of leaving the warmth and comfort of the tavern to go out into the storm until either the storm passed or the various stations of the Nightwatch, scattered throughout the city, began to echo the sounding of the warning bell.

Shit, all of the Nightwatch on duty in this part of town were probably inside, somewhere, keeping themselves warm and dry, too, although the fact that none of the lanterns in front of each shop and home were lit was only weak evidence for that, and didn’t approach proof. There was no point, after all, in rousting the locals out of their bed to light the lanterns, no matter what the law said, if the next blast of wind was simply going to blow the lantern out again.

A stray dog rooted in a pile of garbage in the alley next to the largest of the taverns, but if there were eyes peering out of the dark at him, Pirojil couldn’t see them.

He staggered on down the muddy street, listening, ever hopefully, for quiet splashes behind him, but hearing nothing but the damn rain.

It was useless, and he probably should have quit tonight before beginning. Still, he would have to get used to doing this alone sooner or later, after all, and at least to Pirojil’s way of thinking, sooner was better than later.

Durine was dead, his body rotting in that cave in Keranahan under a cairn of rocks; Erenor wasn’t trustworthy; and Kethol wasn’t even Kethol anymore — he was Forinel.

So if Pirojil was going to work this scheme, he would have to do this by himself, and he might as well get used to it now.

Durine had worked it by himself from time to time, but Pirojil had always thought that you really should have at least two, preferably three men. Beyond the bait — and you had to have good bait — it was just this side of necessary to have at least another one, or preferably two, in case you actually struck gold. Or, more commonly, silver. And sometimes only copper.

And tonight, apparently, nothing except mud, and if mud was valuable, peasants would be princes.

The streets were more than due for a good cleaning; his boots sunk almost to the calf in spots, and it was just as well, at least while he was struggling to get himself clear, that he was alone.

Of course, he could have walked along the wooden sidewalks, which were raised up just out of the mud of the street, but he was supposed to be scared — a merchant, perhaps a frightened horse trader from the territories, hurrying back to his inn after closing a deal, constantly clutching at his pouch, visibly patting at it to be sure that it still was there, while unintentionally reassuring anybody watching that here there was money for the taking.

Pirojil had learned some useful things from Erenor about maintaining a disguise. Erenor was a wizard, granted, and much of what he did in creating a seeming was magic — but not all of it, not always. He said that putting on a seeming was always more than just magic, and sometimes didn’t require magic at all, and could be utterly ruined if, say, you looked like a bent, wizened wizard but carried yourself with the easy grace and bold strides of a young man.

For this, you needed to do more than act like you were a victim, looking for a place to be victimized — you had to
be
the victim, to know yourself the victim, to believe with every move you made that you were the victim, curse yourself for finding yourself in Dogtown too late on a night when even the Nightwatch barely ventured out into the rain.

Pirojil was, he hoped, putting on a good show, but there was nobody watching, and, of course, his new rain cloak leaked.

Shit. He should have expected that. There should have been a flap of cloth over the shoulder seams, because no matter how much you oiled the seams, they always leaked, and Pirojil’s old ragged rain cloak, which hung in the bureau in his quarters, was of better construction than this — it just looked cheap. This poor excuse for a slicker had left him soaked and miserable, and his teeth were starting to chatter with the cold.

He hurried along.

Just one more trip up Dog Street, then down Blacksmith’s Way — although why they called it that Pirojil didn’t know; there were no smithies along that twisting street, and had been none the first time he had been in Biemestren, years ago — and then he would give up.

Which he did, wet, cold, muddy, and empty-handed.

He paused for a moment under an overhang and wrung his floppy hat out just as a matter of good practice, although the point of it escaped him. The hat, even wrung-out, was still soggy, and when he walked out into the rain it would become instantly soaked, once again. Which, of course, wouldn’t have made it any less useful for flinging up and into a face while he went in low behind his knife, but he clearly wasn’t going to be having the opportunity to do that, not tonight.

It seemed that the armies of thieves and footpads and muggers and such that infested the capital were taking the night off, at least until the rain let up, and Pirojil should probably have been smart enough to do the same in the first place, rather than spending a couple of hours tromping through mud, with nothing to show for it but wet clothes.

Well, so much for this ….

***

He made his way back up the hill to the outer gate of Biemestren Castle, and cursed his luck when the rain finally stopped just at the very moment that he reached the top of the hill.

It was one of those nights.

He thought for a moment about going back down into the town, but decided against it. He was getting tired, and tired men made mistakes, and it was bad enough a night without ending up beaten and dead in some alleyway.

He stripped off his floppy hat, and twisted it once again until he got most of the water out, then folded it and his slicker across his arm, revealing the tunic underneath.

Not that the guards would need to see the tunic — his face was, unfortunately, so distinctively ugly that he would be instantly recognized.

Surprisingly, he didn’t have to knock on the small door in the main gate, as it swung open at his approach. He was reaching for the pass that he had put into what he hoped was a sufficiently waterproof packet under his tunic, but the guard didn’t challenge him.

“A pleasant evening to you, Captain Pirojil,” the guard said. “A little wet out tonight, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Well, in fact, Pirojil
did
mind his saying so — Pirojil was soaked like a drowned rat, and he hardly needed any comments from some lucky soldier who had been fortunate enough to be able to spend
his
evening warm and dry in shelter of the guardhouse, with a warm brazier of coals to keep him company — but it didn’t seem like a good idea to put the man at a brace and explain that in detail, despite the strong temptation.

You made enough enemies in this life, as it was, and shouting at the lucky sod wouldn’t have made Pirojil any warmer or drier.

“Yes,” he said, “it’s been just a little bit damp, at that.”

The soldier surprised him by offering him a folded blanket; it was warm, warm enough that it had probably been sitting next to that brazier, waiting to comfort some officer, or even a noble, who had been foolish enough to go out on a night like this. That was very nice of —

Oh. Pirojil
was
an officer, now, at least technically.

“Thank you,” he said. “And a pleasant, dry evening to you, too.”

He reslung his sword belt over his shoulder — he didn’t want to belt it around his soggy waist — and made his way up the short paved road across the outer bailey, conscious of the eyes watching him from the ramparts of the inner wall.

That was fine with him; he had every right to be here, at least at the moment, and he knew enough to stay on the road, and wondered as to whether it would be a bullet or an arrow that would bring him down if he made a sudden dash into the proscribed outer bailey.

A bow shot, he finally decided — the guards probably wouldn’t trust their rifles on such a wet night.

If the guard at the inner gate recognized him, he didn’t say anything, and Pirojil actually had to show his pass to be given entry. When the door squeaked shut behind him, he tucked the pass back in its pouch, and the pouch back into his tunic, and he walked quickly across the courtyard to the barracks, not bothering to avoid the puddles. There was no point in it; he couldn’t get any wetter.

He scraped off his boots in the mud room. Ignoring the clicking of a game of bones that came from the common room on the first floor, he climbed the stairs all the way to the top, his boots making squishing sounds as he walked. He looked back down the stairs. Between his boots and his dripping clothes, he had left a trail of slime, like a snail. Well, at least cleaning that up wasn’t his problem. Let the servants handle it.

Visiting officers were billeted on the third floor, which made life easier for the common soldiers, who didn’t have to remove their boots for fear of annoying somebody senior enough to do something about it, and at the moment, he was the only one resident in the west wing.

Which also was just fine with him. One of the few things that Pirojil prided himself on was not needing any company.

He drew his sword and dagger and laid them out on the table in the common area, and quickly located some soft cloths with which to dry them off thoroughly, even though that would require a complete re-blackening of the dagger the next time he went out. He couldn’t find any oil in the common area — except for the lamp oil, which he didn’t trust to protect the blades — so he retrieved his own flask of linseed oil from his quarters, and gave both blades not only a good oiling but also a good polishing before setting them down and retrieving a change of clothes from his room.

You had to have a sense of priorities. He might feel like he could have rusted out in the rain, but he couldn’t. His sword and his knife definitely could, and he didn’t like to take sandcloth to them any more than he had to.

Shivering, he stripped off all of his clothes, and stood naked to warm himself for a moment in front of the fireplace before dressing. While the officers’ quarters were serviced — often, in more than domestic ways — by the castle’s staff, the majordomo was not so clueless as to send unwitting serving girls into the barracks at night, and body-modesty was not a luxury that Pirojil had been able to afford for longer than he cared to think about, anyway.

His wet clothes, along with the belt and scabbard, he hung up near the fireplace; they would be dry by morning.

The boots, though, would take at least a full day to dry properly, but he would be sure to put them on while still damp in the morning, over a couple of extra pair of thick wool socks to be sure that they didn’t shrink too much. It was either that or replace them, and a few days of aching feet were far cheaper than a new pair of boots would have been.

It still made him feel strange, though. He was an officer, now, and could count on traveling on horseback or better, but he had been a line soldier long enough to know that taking care of his feet was no more optional than was taking care of his weapons.

And as to the sword and dagger? They could hardly go back in their wet scabbards, but that was no problem for tonight, and his sword belt could dry in front of the fire, too. Biemestren Castle or no Biemestren Castle, he would sleep with his sword and his dagger unsheathed, next to him, where he could find them in the dark.

He ran a well-bitten thumbnail down both sides of the sword’s blade. Still razor sharp; he hadn’t had to cut anybody or anything tonight, and hadn’t for a long time. No need to get out the whetstone. The dagger, too, was sharp enough to shave the hairs off his forearm — they made that wonderful little popping sound when he located a patch of stubble.

Not that it mattered as much — if you were close enough to use a dagger, you could drive a blunt one hilt deep into a chest, after all. He knew men who worried about the edge being too sharp and brittle, although he never worried about that himself, as a chipped-bladed knife was just fine for killing, if not as good for shaving.