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.

No, he was used to danger, even though he would never have said that out loud, particularly in front of Leria, for fear of sounding boastful.

*Well, yes, it would sound boastful — but I would say that it’s true enough, although not so unusual that you should sprain your arm patting yourself on the back over it. Many of your kind have courage. It’s a lot more common than, say, wisdom. As for me, I think wisdom is better.*

But what he wasn’t used to was pretending to be something that he was not, and the dragon — and only a few others — knew just what a fraud he was.

*Get used to it. Dragons aren’t much good at forgetting, either.*

He would have to get used to it, just as he had to get used to looking at fingers that were a trifle shorter and slimmer than they ought to be, or at arms and legs and a chest that were almost devoid of the scars that they should have had, at a face in the mirror that frowned when he frowned, smiled when he smiled, winced when he cut himself, but he could not make himself believe was his.

*You had better start.*

That was easier for Ellegon to say than it was for Kethol to do. The elven wizards in Therranj had changed him, yes, with magic far beyond what any human wizards could do, with spells that didn’t merely create a seeming, the way that Erenor could, but which had altered his flesh irrevocably.

He looked just like Forinel.

Physically, he was Forinel, from the the widow’s peak that stubbornly defied his receding hairline, to the thick black mat of hair that covered his chest and arms, down to the missing toenail on the little toe of his left foot.

He looked like Forinel, but that was only on the outside.

And it was a lie.

Behind him, Leria leaned forward to place her mouth next to his ear. He didn’t resent that she had taken naturally to riding on Ellegon’s back, and in fact was relieved — there was nothing he could have done to protect her from the nausea that racked his guts.

“There’s the Nifet River,” she said, pointing, “and the Ulter Hills begin just beyond, right at the horizon. We fly quickly across farmland and over Dereneyl, and we’ll be at the Residence before noon.”*Or perhaps not. I think it would be a good idea to drop you off in Dereneyl, since we’re not expected. Pirojil and Erenor agree.*

Nobody had asked him, and that was understandable.

Kethol’s jaw clenched so hard that it hurt. He’d been an idiot to agree to take this imposture on.

But it was either that, or let the son and heir of the bitch that murdered Durine become Baron Keranahan. Elanee was dead, but even dead, she would have won. Forinel couldn’t return to the Empire to claim the barony, not with the elven woman that he had married in Therranj, and particularly not with their half-breed child.

Parliament and the Emperor had been about to award Barony Keranahan to Miron, Forinel’s half-brother — Elanee’s son — and if there had been nobody to take Forinel’s place, that is just what would have happened.

That was unacceptable.

Kethol didn’t mind the thought of dying, but losing?

No.

He had to keep telling himself that, that that was the reason why he had agreed, and that it had nothing to do with the way Leria looked at him, the way that her hands and eyes had rested on his hands and eyes. It had nothing to do with the definite certainty that if he did not agree, Leria would find herself in another man’s bed.

It couldn’t be that, after all. She was too good, too fine for the likes of him, and she belonged in a better man’s bed, in a higherborn man’s bed.

No. He had to make it just another way to fight.

He knew fighting, and he was good at it.

*And what do you say to the notion of Dereneyl as the destination, Baron? It’s your call.*

There was no trace at all of sarcasm in Ellegon’s mental voice.

But no, it wasn’t his choice. He was just an imposter. The others were in charge, not him.

So let it be Dereneyl, he thought.

*I’m so glad you agree,*the dragon said,*because I was going to drop you off in Dereneyl anyway.*

***

Spiraling down out of the sky so fast that it made Kethol dizzy, the dragon came to a steep, bumpy landing within the inner walls of the keep.

It must have rained much more heavily here last night than it had in Biemestren — the wind from the dragon’s buffeting wings sent a spray of water from the ground into the air, soaking Kethol thoroughly.

He’d live; he had been wet before.

*Everybody off, and quickly.*

It was risky for Ellegon to drop them off there at all — the Empire in general and Ellegon in particular had enemies, and there was always the chance that some fool with a dragonbane-tipped arrow or spear would be lurking about. A fool, yes — Pandathaway could offer a hundred times the killer’s weight in gold, but collecting it would be another matter, after all.

Kethol quickly unstrapped himself and made his way down the dragon’s broad sides, fingers and toes digging into the rough surface of the thick scales for purchase. When he reached the ground, his knees trembled and threatened to buckle beneath him, but he tensed up, and forced them to lock in place.

He quickly handed Leria down, releasing her as soon as he decently could. It wasn’t right, after all, that somebody like him should be touching someone like her.

She still took his breath away.

It wasn’t just the regular features, the pert little nose and full red lips, the golden hair, bound up for travel, leaving her long neck bare. It wasn’t even the way that she had felt in his arms, her tongue warm in his mouth.

No. It was the way that she had always treated him and Pirojil and Durine like they were real people, and not just blood-spattered instruments. More: it was preposterous, silly little things, like how she couldn’t keep her hands from tending a campfire at night, or how, when she awoke in the morning to find him asleep — or so she thought — across her doorway, she would shake her head and smile.

(Erenor often said, in muttered conversation with Pirojil that Kethol pretended not to hear, that it had been a foregone conclusion that Kethol would fall in love with the first woman who smiled at him, but that wasn’t true. Kethol had been in service to the Cullinane family for years, and had guarded both the late Emperor’s adopted daughter and his wife, and all of them had smiled at him, often, and while he certainly had liked them all, not one of them haunted his dreams by night.

(Then again, what Erenor said and what was true only coincided by accident.)

Pirojil was down almost as quickly as Kethol was, and was at his side, with Erenor not far behind. The two of them made an unlikely pair — Pirojil, large, misshapen, and ugly; Erenor almost a caricature of a wizard, with a lined, bearded face partially concealed in the hood of his gray robes.

Appearances were sometimes deceiving.

Kethol hoped that appearances were sometimes deceiving, although he couldn’t for the life of him understand why somebody didn’t take a quick look at him and start shouting, “Imposter!”

There was a commotion along the ramparts, but the soldiers over by the main gate and the stableboys and house girls in their noontime game of touched-you-last quickly disappeared from sight, the soldiers quietly ducking into the guard shack, some of the children running for the darkness of the stable, others disappearing behind the bulk of the keep itself.

Erenor shook his head and laughed. He had an easy laugh, a laugh that sounded sincere, a laugh that probably was sincere every now and then, if only by accident. Kethol had just had to get used to that about Erenor, although he didn’t have to like it, and he didn’t.

“Standing orders,” Erenor said, “are often obeyed when they consist of making yourself quickly absent when a flame-breathing dragon plops down out of the sky.”

“Shut up,” Pirojil said. “Just get the bags unhooked,” he added, although it was hardly necessary — Erenor’s nimble fingers were already working on the straps.

*It wouldn’t bother me at all if you were to do that a little more quickly,*Ellegon said.*Or maybe a lot more quickly.*

While there was a good chance that the keep was secure, it was vanishingly unlikely that there was nobody in the town below greedy and reckless enough to try to earn the standing Pandathaway Slavers Guild reward for bringing Ellegon down. Dragons were rare in the Eren regions in general, and unknown — well, almost unknown — in the Middle Lands in particular.

Even now, it was entirely possible that nervous fingers were, somewhere, unwrapping a hidden arrow or crossbow bolt, and dipping its tip in a forbidden pot of dragonbane extract before nervously fitting it to a taut string.

“You’re worried about being shot at, I take it?” Erenor asked.

*No.*The dragon’s head curled on its long neck to eye the wizard, its dinner-plate – sized eyes yellow and unblinking.*I just love getting poisoned, don’t you?*

“I’d say sarcasm ill becomes you, Ellegon, but actually, I must admit that I rather like it.” Erenor stepped back. “And, in this, as in so much else, I think I may be of some help. Are you ready to go?”

*I was ready to go before I came.*

“Then …”

The dragon straightened, and Kethol put his hand on Leria’s arm, urging her back and away, trying not to blush when she smiled, and nodded, and folded her warm, soft hand over his callused one.

Erenor’s eyes seem to lose focus, and his smiling face became distant and almost expressionless. His thin, parched lips parted slightly, and harsh, guttural syllables began to issue forth.

This wasn’t the first time, or the forty-first time, that Kethol had heard a wizard pronouncing a spell. Despite knowing better, he tried to remember the syllables, to put them together into words — if you could remember the words, you could speak the words, and if you could speak the words, you could pronounce the spell, and if you could pronounce the spell, you could work the magic — but the wizard’s words vanished on the surface of his mind, skittering about like drops of water on a hot frying pan before they evaporated … gone, forgotten, not merely unremembered but unrememberable.

The spell ended with a sharp, one-syllable exclamation.

The sunlight, flashing on pools of water left from the overnight rain, suddenly became brighter, brighter than the sun itself, a white light that dazzled not only the eyes but the mind.

The wind from the dragon’s wings beat hard against Kethol, and it was all he could do to keep from being thrown from his feet. His eyes dazzled, he more felt than saw the dragon take to the air.

*Thank you, Erenor,*the dragon said, its mental voice already starting to grow more distant.

“My pleasure,” Erenor said. “And, of course, it’s not merely my pleasure — it would be terribly uncomfortable, at least for a very short moment, to have several tons of dead dragon falling out of the sky and landing on my all-too-fragile flesh.”

*Yes, it would, at that.*

Then, in an eyeblink, the blinding light was gone, and Kethol looked back to see the dragon circling above, gaining altitude as he did, huge leathery wings flapping madly until Ellegon stretched his wings and banked, flying off to the west.

*Good luck,*Ellegon said, his mental voice taking on the muted, formal tone that told Kethol that it was intended for all ears — minds — around, and not only his.

*Welcome home, Forinel, Baron Keranahan — it has been a pleasure serving you. And as Karl Cullinane used to say, ‘the next time you fly, please be sure to consider flying on Ellegon Airlines.’*

Whatever that meant. Kethol — and Durine and Pirojil — had been the only ones of the Old Emperor’s bodyguards to survive Karl Cullinane’s Last Ride, but he had never quite understood half of what the Old Emperor said.

Wings stretched out, the dragon flew low over a far ridge, and then it was gone.

Kethol found that he still had his hand folded over Leria’s, so he let his hands drop down by his sides.

***

Erenor chuckled, leaning his head close to Pirojil. “Not a bad entrance, eh?”

Erenor was far too easily amused, Pirojil decided, with the usual irritation.

Faces were already starting to peek out of windows and doorways, and one immensely fat woman — a cook, by the look of the grease-spattered apron — even went so far as to carry a bucket of something out, to dump it on the slop pile next to the stables before, after a quick glare at the newcomers, scurrying back in.

Whatever it was, Pirojil thought, must have smelled awfully horrid for her to be so willing to venture out. The idea of eating here wasn’t at all appealing, if even the cooks couldn’t stand the smell.

Pirojil wasn’t surprised that none of the soldiers had chosen to come out of the barracks at the far end of the courtyard, or from any of the guard posts at the corner towers. A new arrival was always of some interest in an outlying outpost — and to Imperial troops, an outpost didn’t get much more outlying than Barony Keranahan — but arrival by dragonback suggested that the new arrivals were of some great importance, and it never took even a new soldier long to learn that it was wisest to at least try to be in another place when something important was going on.

Pirojil wished he was in another place.

The front door of the keep stood open, cool, dark, and inviting. Normally, there should have been a pair of soldiers on guard, and Pirojil had been wondering whether they would be standing in the black leather corselets that would have them sweating like hogs in the hot sun. Pirojil had stood his share of watches in that leather armor, which never seemed to lose the reek of the boiling vinegar that had turned the leather stone-hard and solid black.

Not that you minded the smell when it caught the edge of an enemy’s blade.

He had silently bet with himself that the watchmen wouldn’t be in armor, that they would just be dressed in linen tunics and breeches, and he hadn’t decided whether that would mean that the discipline among the occupation troops was slack, or that Treseen was smart enough to insist that his men not suffer to no particular end.

It did mean, of course, that they weren’t of the elite Emperor’s Own, because then they would have been wearing their shiny steel breastplates — or, at least, having them nearby, where lesser men could admire them — although likely not armored head to toe.

Pirojil was beginning to be annoyed at the lack of reception.

Ellegon or no Ellegon, protocol would have called for somebody — somebody important — to come out and greet such visitors, and Pirojil was willing to wait for that to happen … until Kethol — until Forinel started to stoop to pick up his own rucksack.

Pirojil snatched it away from him.

Idiot.

“Allow me, Your Lordship,” he said, only the look in his eyes adding: You idiot — nobles don’t carry their own bags.

He forced himself not to shake his head in disgust. Leria had been trying to teach Kethol how to be a noble, but beyond getting him to learn how to use an eating prong with a proper flourish, and getting him to stop wiping his nose on his sleeve, she had been less than remarkably successful.

For the time being, his awkwardness could be explained away by Forinel’s long absence from Holtun and Bieme, but in the long run, it could easily get them all hanged.

Leria laid a gentle hand on Forinel’s arm, and he met her smile with an expression that reminded Pirojil of a well-trained dog waiting for permission to eat from its bowl.

“Bide a moment, please, Forinel,” she said. “I’m sure it’s just an oversight that you’ve yet to be greeted properly — do let us wait, and send … someone in to announce your presence.”

“A servant, perhaps?” Erenor asked. “It’s always so very pleasant to have a servant, I’ve found. And, well, since the closest thing we have to that is Pirojil, here, I guess he’ll have to do. You may have the honor of carrying the bags, good Pirojil.”

Erenor smiled as he handed his own rucksack to Pirojil, and then loaded Leria’s on top of the pile. Wizards didn’t carry their own gear, either, save for the small black leather bag that contained Erenor’s spell books, and which never seemed to leave his hands.

“I thank you for your help, good Pirojil. We shall meet you inside,” Erenor said.

Pirojil didn’t have to ask how Erenor felt about their roles having been reversed, about how it was Pirojil playing the servant — a captain of march, in theory, but a servant in practice, at least for the moment — instead of Erenor. Erenor visibly enjoyed it. Too much.

Pirojil would have enjoyed beating Erenor’s face into a bloody pulp, but that was not on today’s schedule, apparently.

Pirojil tried to act as though he didn’t much care, which would have been somewhat easier at the moment if he wasn’t trying to balance four bags as he walked.

Cursing silently, unable to see his own feet, Pirojil staggered up the steps, almost falling when he reached the top one.

Old Tarnell was waiting for him just inside the door.

He was overdue for some new clothes: his tunic fit him too loosely over the chest and bulged at the belly enough to threaten popping buttons.

But a shiny new bit of silver braid along his shoulder seam proclaimed him the governor’s aide, and it matched the silver captain’s braid on his collar. That and the two officers’ pistols on his belt were the only changes that Pirojil could see: the deep creases in Tarnell’s lined face hadn’t deepened, nor had the plain wooden pommel of his sword’s wire-wrapped hilt been replaced by something more gaudy.

It was a standard barracks joke that the only thing that moved across the ground faster than a good Nyphien warhorse was a newly made captain on his way to the armorer to buy a proper officer’s saber, but Tarnell had kept his own weapon with his new rank.

Pirojil sympathized with that — if he was Tarnell, he wouldn’t have fucked with something that had served him that well for that long out of anything this side of necessity.

And, in fact, he hadn’t, and he had no intention of doing so. The sword at Pirojil’s own waist was still the one he had carried for years: straight and double-edged, not a curved officer’s saber. Its hilt was wrapped with brass wire, instead of some flashy lizardskin that might slip under a sweaty palm, and the pommel was made of plain brass shaped like a walnut. Expensive as it had been, it was still a line soldier’s weapon, not an officer’s. Not flashy, but effective — the blade had been made of good dwarven wootz, and was kept sharp enough to shave with.

You killed with the point much more often than with the edge, of course, but that was no excuse for not having a proper edge. Yes, a sharp edge could chip on armor or steel or even on bone, but if you survived the fight, there was always time to sharpen a chip out.

“I can’t decide whether you’ve come up or gone down in the world, Pirojil,” Tarnell said, as he helped to unload the bags to the floor. “Last time I saw you, you were with the other two —” He raised an eyebrow.

“Kethol and Durine.”

“Yeah — those two. And then you had your own servant — that big fellow, the one who never smiled. This time, you’ve no servant or comrades, and if you had some sort of Imperial warrant, you’d have shoved it under my nose by now — which says you’ve fallen in state. But you’re accompanying two nobles and a wizard, which suggests just the opposite. And isn’t that a captain’s braid on your collar?” he asked, smiling, fondling the captain’s braid on his own collar.

The last time Pirojil had seen Tarnell, Tarnell had been the decurion in charge of the stables, not the governor’s aide. The governor’s aide had been a weasel-faced little man with an annoying way of looking slantwise out of his eyes at you, and Pirojil didn’t miss him very much.

“What happened to Ketterling?” he asked.

“You hadn’t heard?” Tarnell frowned. “Hanged,” he said. “The general — the governor found that he had been peculating.” His face was studiously impassive.

Well, that was not much of a surprise.

“Occupation brings opportunities” was an unofficial byword in the Imperial service. Pirojil had never heard of a former occupation officer — particularly not one who acted as a governor’s bursar — having to beg in the streets for his next meal, or, for that matter, having to take up service as even a minor noble’s retainer after leaving office. Somehow, they all seemed to have saved almost miraculous multiples of their salaries.

It was amazingly sticky stuff, gold and copper and silver.

Minor corruption was commonly acknowledged, but only irregularly, if severely, punished. After all, more than a few of the older occupation officers had already taken retirement in the barony they had occupied, and if nothing else, the hostility that they had earned from the local lords and wardens guaranteed that they would remain loyal to the Empire long after the occupation was ended, and control of the rest of the Holtish baronies restored to the Holtish barons.

Yes, every once in a while, an embezzler would be discovered and hanged, and it was probably hoped that that would keep theft down to a minimum, but Pirojil didn’t think that anybody ever got drunk enough to think it would ever be eliminated.

The timing of this was interesting, though.

Coincidental that Ketterling was conveniently dead just as the new baron was returning home?

Pirojil didn’t much believe in coincidences. What was it that Walter Slovotsky said? “I don’t know whoever said that the first time is an accident, the second time is a coincidence, and the third time is enemy action, but whoever it was must have had one shitload of incompetent enemies, and me, I’d like to trade.”

Yes, Keranahan was under occupation, theoretically under the baron’s reign but in practice and in law under the governor’s rule, but, still, if Forinel wasn’t given access to the account books if — when — he requested it, there would be some definite Imperial interest.

The governor had bought himself some time, that was all. No wonder Treseen had scurried home, the first to leave after Parliament had let out.

Treseen hadn’t known that it hadn’t been necessary, after all.

While Kethol/Forinel was not totally illiterate nor utterly innumerate, he would have been no more capable than Pirojil was of penetrating a maze of account books.

Leria, on the other hand …

“Where is he?” Pirojil asked. “And is there some good reason that the governor himself hasn’t rushed downstairs to greet the baron?”

Tarnell held up a hand. “Hey, Pirojil — take an even strain, man. He just got in from Parliament four days ago, and he’s not only had to try and then hang Ketterling, and then start to catch up on his own work — and Ketterling’s — but his new jerfalcon has taken sick with some sort of feather rot, and he was up half the night with her. He asked me to see to the bar — to all of the visitors’ comforts, and then bring you to his office.”

Pirojil didn’t believe that, either — more likely, the governor had been out riding an old horse or a new wench, or had just been up drinking himself into a stupor late the night before, and had just crawled out of bed. Tarnell had been with Treseen since the war; loyal old Tarnell was just covering for him.

“Then let’s go see him.”

“Oh, please — there’s no rush. Why not have a bath and a meal first? I can have the cook fry you up a couple of chickens and some turnip cake, and have it all ready by the time you’re clean.”

“The governor, first.”

“But —”

“Will my word do, Tarnell, or do you need to hear it from the baron himself?”

“Argh.” Tarnell made a face. “As you wish.”

Tarnell ushered Pirojil and the other three in. After making quick introductions — and, indirectly, covering for Forinel if he forgot that Forinel hadn’t met Tarnell before, even though Kethol had — they followed Tarnell up the main staircase to the governor’s office in what had, Pirojil suspected, been the castle nursery, back when the Keranahan barons lived in Dereneyl, before the occupation.

There were two men waiting, and they stood as Tarnell led Pirojil and the rest in.

One was Governor — formerly General — Treseen.

It was easy to underestimate the Treseen that was slowly, painfully, rising from his chair to greet them. Vanity didn’t necessarily mean incompetence, although he was vain; his hair had been carefully blackened, leaving only pompous silver traces at the temples. There was something wrong, something weak about his eyes, as though he could never quite focus them properly. What had been a strong jaw had long since become sagging jowls, and his massive belly spoke of too much comfort over too much time. His sword belt — and the sword was, of course, a curved saber, announcing that Treseen never planned on dismounting while hacking down at foot soldiers — hung from a coatrack to his left, well out of reach.

Peacetime reflexes.

But Pirojil had heard some of the wartime stories about him, including the breaking of the siege at Moarin, and it didn’t pass his notice that the bone-handled letter opener on Treseen’s desk was within easy reach of his right hand, and was shaped more like a dagger than such things usually were, and he would have been happy to bet that the edge was sharper than it had any business being.

It was the other man, though, that made Pirojil’s hands itch for the hilt of his own sword. Or the pistols on his belt. Or, preferably, a large, spiked club.

Miron.

Miron — more formally, Lord Miron, Forinel’s half-brother, son of the late, unlamented Elanee, and almost certainly her co-conspirator, although everybody who could have shed any proof on that charge was either dead or fled. Pirojil would have resented that more if he hadn’t killed or scattered most of them himself.

“It is good to see you all,” Miron said, his smile only a little too broad to be believable — not that Pirojil would have believed it anyway.

Miron always reminded Pirojil of, of — of somebody he had known, a long time ago: a strong, aquiline nose under suspiciously innocuous blue eyes, a generous mouth that smiled far too much. His jaw was too square, the sharpness only slightly relieved by a very carefully trimmed fringe of beard that reminded Pirojil of Baron Tyrnael’s.

Miron was tall and lean, but broad-shouldered like a peasant, as though he had spent much of his life in strenuous outdoor labor, an effect heightened by the even, dark tan across his face and neck.

And what was that strenuous outdoor labor? Riding down fleeing peasant girls?

Miron’s wrists, though, those were what Pirojil always looked at — both were thick, the muscles well defined and always held in tension, as though he was keeping himself instantly ready to pass a blade from his powerful right hand to an equally powerful left.

There were a few — too few — dueling scars on the right wrist. The scars were to be expected, but did the paucity of them mean that he had rarely been touched, or that his vanity had caused him to let only a few heal naturally?

Pirojil wouldn’t have wanted to bet either way, but if Pirojil ever had to fight him, he would be sure to watch Miron’s left hand as much as his right, although more than likely what he really should be watching for would be a knife in the back from some accomplice.

Governor Treseen waddled out from around the desk and took Leria’s arm, ignoring Forinel’s glare as he helped her to a chair.

Pirojil forced himself not to roll his eyes.

Shit, man, it’s not like he’s the sort to bend her over the desk and yank up her dress, after all.

Treseen was, of course, probably the sort to idly wonder what doing that would be like, but Pirojil had no problem with that, Pirojil being the same way. He wouldn’t do it — even if the lady were willing, which was beyond mere unlikelihood — but he didn’t mind thinking about it. Wondering didn’t hurt anything, as long as Kethol didn’t see Pirojil watching the way her hips swayed when she walked, and Pirojil was careful to be sure that he didn’t.

What went on in the recesses of your mind didn’t matter, as long as you kept it there.

Still, Forinel’s glare was perfectly in character for a newly affianced baron, so Pirojil let himself relax. He would just let it be. There was enough for Pirojil to complain about concerning Kethol’s inadequacies without bothering Leria or Kethol — or himself, for that matter — about the few things that actually looked right.

“Please, Baron, my lady, be seated. You, too, Erenor.” Treseen cocked his head at Miron. “Lord Miron, I don’t know if you met Erenor in Biemestren. I don’t know him well myself; we had the chance to exchange but a few words — a hello and such.” His smile broadened. “And fortunately for me, they were words I can remember, or I’d likely have found myself sprouting feathers from my nose, or some such thing.”

“No, I haven’t met him,” Miron said, his smile still genuine as faerie gold. “I didn’t have that pleasure. I was, you’ll recall, somewhat preoccupied with other matters when my beloved brother made his very dramatic entrance. Erenor, is it?”

“Erenor the Great, he’s called.”

Not that “the Great” was an uncommon appellation for wizards. Just once, Pirojil would have liked to meet a wizard who billed himself, honestly, as “the Barely Adequate” or “the Not Utterly Incompetent.” The closest he could think of was Vair the Uncertain, and Vair was a frighteningly powerful wizard.

“Erenor the Great.” Treseen’s smile and laugh seemed more than a little forced. “And, surely enough he deserves that appellation for having been able to locate Baron Forinel, after so many years of absence.”

“Please.” Erenor spread his hands. “General, you do give me too much credit. It was just a matter of assembling the right tools, and choosing to use them, after all.”

There was also the matter of the ring that the real Forinel had given Leria before he had left Holtun, and which she had kept hidden over the years.

The boy Forinel had been given that ring by his late father. As a boy, and he had worn that ring for years, first on his thumb and then on smaller fingers as he grew into it. He had worn it long enough and with enough intent that there was a real connection between Forinel and the ring. It had taken a far more adept wizard than Erenor to exploit it, but it had seemed expedient to let Erenor get the credit.

“A modest wizard.” Treseen shook his head.

“Who is it who dares to suggest that we do not live in an age of wonders?” Miron asked the air. “Surely not I. Yes, Erenor the Great does deserve much for his accomplishment.”

In an eyeblink, the hard look he gave Erenor was replaced by a grin that gave the lie to what that “much” that Miron would have liked to give Erenor was. “But I’m disappointed in you, Governor — here the baron and his company have just arrived after a most … unusual trip, and you’ve yet to offer them so much as a drink of water or a crust of bread.”

“I’m properly chastened, and I’m far too responsible to lie and claim that I’d already given orders to that effect,” Treseen said, raising a hand and gesturing toward Tarnell. “Some refreshments for the baron and his company, Tarnell, if you please.”

The flick of Treseen’s fingers made it clear that he meant for Tarnell to go and fetch, but he didn’t appear surprised when Tarnell simply reached over to the wall and took down a speaking tube, spoke a few words into it, and then replaced it, an impassive look on his face.

Loyalty, Pirojil decided, was sometimes as much a mirror as a shield. Tarnell had been perfectly willing to leave Miron alone with Treseen, but not Pirojil and the others. That was every bit as revealing as Treseen not having blamed Tarnell for having failed to see to the party’s needs.

“You seem surprised to see me, brother,” Miron said, turning toward Forinel.

“No. It’s just that —”

“It’s just that,” Leria said, laying her hand on Forinel’s arm, “we would have thought that you’d not dare to show yourself in Keranahan.”

“Me?” Miron laid a spread-fingered hand over his heart. “Why?”

“I think that you know very well why,” she said, not taking his light tone.

“Why should I be in any way reluctant to return to my own home? Because of those spurious accusations that I was in some, some sort of conspiracy with my mother? Or some silly, preposterous complaint that I cut down a rude churl or two in Adahan? The former is a lie, spread only in whispers, and the latter is true, but not important.”

He waved the accusations away with an effete-looking flutter of his thick wrist. “If there is any evidence, any evidence at all, that I was somehow conspiring with my mother, trot it out, please, and place it before the governor, here, and let him judge me himself.”

Pirojil had seen Miron play the innocent dandy before, and he wouldn’t have believed it even before he’d met Erenor, and been more thoroughly — and expensively — educated as to how false superficial impressions could be.

“So, Miron,” Leria said, “what do you think your mother was doing, raising that dragon in hiding?”

Miron spread his hands. “Knowing her as I did, knowing her to be the woman that she was, I’m sure that she intended to gift the Emperor with it. All this talk about how she had tricked Walter Slovotsky and Ellegon into coming to Keranahan is silly. But she’s dead, alas, and I think it’s even more unbecoming for me to have to defend her reputation than it is for others to demean her, now that she is not here and cannot speak in her own defense.”

That was a preposterous explanation, but that was one of the good things about being a noble, Pirojil decided. You could get away with a preposterous explanation. Most of the time.

Miron turned back to Forinel. “You weren’t such a quiet sort in the old days, brother. My late mother used to complain that it was all she could do to get you to pause in your babblings at dinner.”

Leria laughed. It sounded phony in Pirojil’s ears, but he had heard the lady laugh for real.

“That’s silly, Miron,” she said. “Old days or new days, Forinel has always been one to say little and do much. Unlike some people I could think of.”

Miron’s lips tightened, but he didn’t say anything to her; he just looked over at Forinel.

Pirojil gave Forinel a nudge. Leria was Forinel’s betrothed, and that made him responsible for anything she did. It was Forinel’s duty to shut her up.

Of course, knowing Leria, that was exactly why she had made the dig at Miron.

Pirojil nudged Forinel again, harder this time.

“I think, Lady,” Miron started, “that —”

“Excuse me.” Forinel leaned forward. “I think — I think that my betrothed has been spending too much time around Erenor, and that she lets her tongue wag far too freely,” Forinel said. “I’ll ask your pardon on her behalf. Brother.”

“Now, really, Forinel, there’s no need for that.” Miron made a face. “Lady Leria is, of course, absolutely charming, as always. There’s nothing to apologize for, and so no reason to accept an apology.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Miron,” Forinel said, rising. “I suppose I wasn’t clear enough, so I’ll try again. As her betrothed, I’m responsible for her behavior, and I take my responsibilities very seriously. If you take offense, we’ve a courtyard outside, and we both are wearing swords — I’ll be happy to discuss it there, and with them. Will you be satisfied with the first blood?”

“Baron?” Treseen’s brow furrowed. “I’m sure I didn’t hear you say what I’m sure I just heard you say.”

Even Leria looked shocked.

Well, that was the sort of gaffe that Pirojil should have expected. Challenging Miron?

That aside — and that was a lot to put aside — Pirojil was almost impressed with Forinel’s manner.

Maybe they could pull this off after all. The awkwardness of Forinel’s phrasing could be easily attributed to his long absence from polite society. The rest of it, though, was pure Kethol — if you had an enemy, you cut him down now, and worried about the cost later — but it wasn’t a bad line to take, as long as you just talked about it.

Doing it? That would be another matter. That sort of thing was a luxury that they just didn’t have, not with Forinel as the baron.

Young noblemen engaging in the occasional duel was more expected than not. While it wasn’t impossible to get killed in such a thing, it was extremely rare — most duels were fought to the first blood, after all, with a swordmaster standing by, staff in hand, to knock aside the dueling swords after so much as a scratch. And it was no coincidence that most nobles chose to hold their duels conveniently close to a temple, where even if a healer was not standing by, one could be quickly summoned. The short rapiers that noblemen carried on a daily basis were designed for thrusting, not cutting, and while a thrusting blow was theoretically far more capable of killing instantly than a slash was, that was only true if the thrust went to the heart or head — and any but the best swordsmen would find that well before they had worked themselves close enough to touch their opponent’s torso, they would themselves first have been struck on the hand, or arm, or leg, or foot.

It was as much a matter of the mechanics of it as it was of common consent that most duels ended with just a scratch, or, at worst, a wound on the sword arm.

There were safer things than dueling, but deaths were rare, and that was only in part because the local noble authorities — the barons in Bieme, and the governors in Holtun — would occasionally choose to consider that the death was a murder.

It was one thing for a couple of nobles to occasionally square off over some private offense — whether real, or not — but it would be entirely another thing for the baron, of all people, to fight his half-brother and heir.

Besides, Miron was almost certainly better with a short dueling rapier than Kethol was.

Legends to the contrary, few soldiers had time for extensive sword practice, and that would be with sabers, not little noble-stickers. Pirojil and Kethol had more training than most, but put all their hours together — and double the sum — and they still probably hadn’t spent a tenth of the time with a sword in hand that Miron, a scion of nobility, had.

Besides, while Forinel and Miron each wore a nobleman’s short rapier, Kethol had always carried a saber. It probably wouldn’t even occur to Kethol until it was too late that as a dueling weapon a rapier was by far better than the saber that Kethol had always carried, just as the longer, heavier saber was far more useful in a battle than a skinny little poking rod could be.

Yes, Kethol was a fine swordsman, and every bit as good with staff and knife and fists and elbows if need be — but a duelist? Hardly. When you fought for real, and not just sport, the only purpose of a strike to the hand, or leg, or foot — as common as those were — was to set up for a death blow, or, as Pirojil himself had done more times than he cared to count, to disable or at least slow one enemy while you had to turn to deal with another.

Now, if Pirojil was going to take on Miron, the fight would start with a kick to the balls or knee, or an elbow to the too-full mouth or noble neck — or, preferably, a bow shot or rifle shot at great distance — and not a swordmaster’s “Make yourselves ready.”

Sport was a noble’s ideal, and Pirojil was very much not a noble.

Miron had let Treseen’s words — and Forinel’s stupid words, which they were in reply to — linger in the air long enough.

“Really.” Miron made no move to rise; he rested one elbow on the arm of his chair, and his chin on the tips of his fingers, as though studying something unusual and vaguely distasteful. “Perhaps it’s been too long since you’ve been home, brother. It’s long been a custom — in Holtun and in less civilized countries — that the ruler, be it a lowly noble landholder, or a baron, or the Emperor himself, is not properly subject to challenge by anybody below his station.” His smile was deeply offensive without being obviously offensive. “Which is why, perhaps, rulers’ ladies so often are so … charmingly outspoken.”

Forinel/Kethol didn’t have a quick response to that. Which was probably just as well.

Miron went on: “And fond as I am of you, Forinel — and, my brother and baron, please do forgive me for the presumption — I wouldn’t want you to think that I’ve lost any skills in the last years. Even after your departure, my mother saw to it that we always had a good swordmaster on staff. In fact, I think that you might find that I’m better with a sword than I used to be, and I used to be somewhat better than you, much to your embarrassment, as you may recall.”

“I think —” Kethol started.

“Excuse me.” Treseen cleared his throat. “I think this has gone quite far enough,” he said. “I will remind you — both of you — that I am the governor of Keranahan, and I absolutely forbid either of you — either of you — to engage in any sort of duel with each other.” His eyes went from Forinel to Miron, and then back. “Since I feel the need to be very specific: I mean there are to be no duels whatsoever between the two of you — either in your own person, or by proxy — and Captain Pirojil, I’m talking to you.

“It’s no secret that there’s bad blood between the two of you, and I don’t believe for a moment that either one of you would be satisfied with a little scratch on the other’s sword arm.

“If some duel should happen — no matter how it happens — I can promise that it will not go well for the survivor. Neither the Emperor nor Parliament would consider awarding the title to you, Miron, if you killed your brother. And as for you, Baron, if I were you, I would worry a great deal about explaining to the Emperor and the rest of Parliament how a fratricide should properly remain the baron of Keranahan. Understood?”

Miron nodded easily, lightly, and after a moment, Forinel nodded, as well.

Treseen grunted. “As for me, I’d find it more than slightly embarrassing if I were to be obliged to report that the baron had killed his half-brother and heir, and more embarrassing than that were I obligated to report to the proctor or the Emperor himself that the baron, just confirmed in his estate by the Emperor and Parliament, had been killed by his half-brother and heir.” He looked from Miron to Forinel, and then to Pirojil. “Have I been utterly clear?”

For once, Treseen didn’t come across as the buffoon that Pirojil had always thought of him as.

He looked over toward where Tarnell was eyeing him and nodding, as though to say, You watch over your baron, man, and I’ll watch over my captain.

Pirojil nodded back, and quietly decided that if he ever had to kill Treseen, he’d be sure to cut Tarnell down first. Not out of anger, but in self-preservation.

Treseen was still staring at both Forinel and Miron. “I know that neither of you has served as a military officer, but it’s customary when one gets an order to acknowledge it.” He turned to Kethol. “Baron?”

“I understand,” Kethol said.

Treseen nodded, accepting that, then turned to Miron, who immediately raised and spread his hands.

“Of course, Governor; you’ve been most clear. I hope that all will pardon my testiness, and just attribute it to a minor case of indigestion.” He patted himself on his flat belly.

“Well,” Treseen said, sitting back in his chair, “now that we’re done with that little bit of unpleasantness, I imagine that you are eager to return to the Residence, and settle yourselves in. A more formal greeting can wait for, perhaps, Fredensday? I’m sure that I can get invitations out today —” He looked over at Tarnell.

“I can find a scribe who knows one end of a pen from another,” Tarnell said. “We supposedly have a pair of them down the hall, although I’d never have believed that such thumb-fingered dolts would call themselves scribes.” He bit on a heavily bitten thumbnail in thought. “Fredensday is something of a rush, though … perhaps Karlsday, or even Tenthday would be better —”

“Fredensday will do nicely.” Treseen nodded in agreement with himself. “The sooner the better, if only for my own sake. While I’m sure that I’ll enjoy the company, as always, it will also be a particularly pleasant change to have complaints about the occupation be directed at other ears than mine. The local lords will be more than eager to greet the … long-lost baron, I’m sure.”

“I can’t imagine that they wouldn’t,” Miron said. “Perhaps I should remain here, and help in the preparations — much as it pains me to delay my own homecoming.”

Sure. That was a great idea. Let Miron and Treseen have more time to plan and plot in private.

Then again, the truth was that there would be no real way to prevent that from happening, and it was pointless to try. Neutralizing Miron’s threat was something that required either a lot more subtlety or a lot less.

“No.” Forinel rose. “I wouldn’t want you to feel that you weren’t welcome at home, brother,” he said. “You’d best come with us.”

Miron shrugged lightly, and easily rose to his feet. “I’m grateful, of course, brother — and I am at your service, my baron.”

Pirojil couldn’t figure out who had been doing the manipulating, but he had a suspicion, and he didn’t like it very much.

Treseen nodded. “Then I’ll see you on Fredensday, and I think that concludes our business for today. Tarnell — horses for the baron’s party, if you please.”

Rising, Treseen extended a hand to Forinel. “Again, Baron Keranahan: welcome home.”