Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda (13 page)

She reddened. At least with people she trusted, she knew she was more bluntly spoken than most women of her class, but Erenor was speaking far more bluntly than she was accustomed to, or cared for.

He held up a hand. “My apologies, my lady, my humble apologies. But if we spend too much time chatting by ourselves in private, tongues will start to wag, and I don’t think either of us wants that. So, let’s get straight to it, and leave both of our blushes aside for the nonce, or even for a couple of nonces. I ask again: are you pregnant?”

She shook her head. “That would hardly be possible,” she said.

“Not possible?” Erenor rolled his eyes. “Well, the man certainly does have his virtues, and I’ve not known him to be overly bright, but I wouldn’t think him to be that stupid. Too bad we couldn’t use Pirojil for the purpose.”

She didn’t ask whether by
the purpose
he meant
somebody to substitute for Forinel
or something more crude.

Erenor smiled knowingly. “Again, since we have little time, I’ll ask you to forgive my bluntness — do you have reason to think him, err, incapable?”

This was intolerable, but she had tolerated the intolerable before, when it was necessary. The thing to do, she had decided, was to act as though she was talking to herself, and in the privacy of her own mind she never knowingly permitted evasion and deception.

“No,” she said. “I, I have every reason to believe him more than capable, but —”

“But he hasn’t laid a hand — or, more relevantly, other body parts more to the point — on you.” He nodded. “I should have anticipated that. He’s trying to be noble, I suspect — or, rather, he’s trying to be what he
thinks
is noble. He’s spent far too many nights sleeping across your doorstep to easily let himself go through the door, and slip under the blankets. The fool.” He pursed his lips. “Let me think on it a moment.”

With Erenor, you could usually assume that what he said was not what he meant.

Let me think on it a moment
probably meant either
I don’t have the vaguest idea of what to do
, or, more likely,
I’ve a clever plan worked out, and I’ve just been waiting for you to broach the matter, but don’t want to seem as though I’ve thought things out in advance
.

It would be something devious, no doubt. Erenor preferred things complicated.

He could, after all, have simply presented himself as a relatively young wizard, albeit one who looked overly athletic and well muscled.

But Erenor preferred to look old and withered and weak, and she suspected that was as much because he enjoyed deception for the sake of deception as for the added credibility the added years gave him. It probably had even more to with his ability to instantly drop the seeming and quickly take to his heels, in the disguise that was utterly impenetrable simply because it was no disguise at all.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But … it’s really very simple. So, consider this: Forinel, due to his long absence from polite society, feels out of place. He’s not comfortable within these walls, having servants around to wait upon him. He’s not used to people ready to bring him clean clothes or a meal, or listening to every grunt and fart he makes on a garderobe, ready to proffer a soft cloth to wipe his noble behind. And the idea of a headboard banging against a wall, well, I doubt that he’d even consider that. At first.”

She understood that, in a vague way. But it was unavoidable — no matter where you went, there were
always
servants around. The ordinary details of your life could not possibly be a secret to them. Yes, it was necessary to project a smooth, polished exterior to the world — but the woman who soaked and shaved your legs and arms would no more believe that your limbs were hairless than your cook and serving girls would think that the conversation around your table was lofty, no more than the maid who changed your sheets or the scullery girl who washed them would fail to notice their condition.

“You could just slip into his room tonight, or any night, but I’ve seen what he does when he’s suddenly awakened — that wouldn’t be a good idea. So, I think you’ll have to create an opportunity to, well, break him in, so to speak. Get him someplace where he’s more comfortable than you are, or at least thinks he is, and then handle it, err, directly.”

She tried not to blush. Erenor was right, but what sort of place? Kethol wasn’t comfortable in the Residence, and they would hardly be alone on Fredensday, in Dereneyl, when Treseen presented him as the new baron to the local nobility.

Of course — “The woods, perhaps?”

The woods to the immediate west of the castle were the baron’s private reserve, watched over by a forester who lived deep in them, and while traveling through the woods wasn’t technically forbidden, poaching in them very much was, and few nobles and no common folk would want to try to make their way through the woods when they could use perfectly good roads to skirt them, and avoid any accusation.

He smiled knowingly. “That would serve quite well.” He rose from his invisible seat — if it was an invisible seat, if it wasn’t just a matter of Erenor having adopted an uncomfortable position for effect — and dismissed the silence with a snap of his fingers.

Sounds returned. The wind whispered across the shingled roof, and off in the distance she could hear Elda berating loudly somebody over something unimportant.

“I think we’re done, here.” Erenor was, as usual, very pleased with himself. “I hope you won’t take it as presumptuous if I wish you a pleasant ride.” His smile broadened. “In more ways than one, perhaps?”

She was quite pleased with herself as she and Kethol walked down the path, hand in hand like a couple of children. Their shadows stretched across the hunting trail in the light of the setting sun peeking through the trees behind them.

Rotting corpses of small trees lay on either side of the trail, some covered with mushrooms that Kethol had said were not suitable to eat. The hunting trail had been well maintained over the years — there was no overgrowth to speak of, and while certainly there were some overhead branches that would be eager to snatch at the body and eyes of an unwary rider, there had been few enough that it had not slowed their riding much, and it slowed their walking not at all. Oh, certainly, they had to step carefully where tree roots arched up from the hard-packed soil, but there had been only one tree blocking their path, and that only an arm-thick birch that the horses had stepped over on their way in, and that Kethol had moved to the side of the path on their way out.

The forester was keeping things up quite well. She would have to be sure that Kethol soon had the opportunity to meet the forester, and praise him.

That was not the only praise that would be soon forthcoming, of course, although she would have to be careful. It wouldn’t do to seem too experienced — and, in fact, she wasn’t overly experienced, at that.

Kethol had been, as she had suspected he would be, even clumsier than Forinel had been, years before, but perhaps he could learn some patience, and, if not, what of it? She had determined to find his perfunctory attentions absolutely ground-shaking and marvelous, and, all in all, it had really been quite pleasant, and he was very sweet.

There were things that were difficult in life, but this was hardly one of them.

Kethol froze for a moment.

“What is —?”

“Shush.”

She tried to let go of his hand, but his grip tightened on hers, and he pulled her off the path and behind a pair of old elms.

“It’s —”

He clapped his hand over her mouth. He wasn’t brutal about it, but he made no effort at being gentle.

“Quiet,” he said, his lips up against her ear. “Not a word.”

“But —”

His grip tightened, and he released her mouth only after she forced her body to relax against his, and tried to nod against his hand.

Of course, it would just be riders from the Residence, come looking for them when their horses had returned riderless. There was no need to hide.

He pulled his knife from his belt. Reaching up, he chopped down three small branches, and as he squatted down, he laid them over the two of them.

“I don’t —”

His hand was back over her mouth.

This was ridiculous. Could he not simply ask her to be quiet?

“Yes,” he whispered, his breath warm in her ear, “it should be a troop from the Residence, it almost certainly is a troop from the Residence — but what if it isn’t? Or what if Miron’s talked Thirien into letting him lead a search? Now don’t talk, don’t move, don’t even breathe heavily.”

Miron?

Granted, Miron was angry at Forinel having — as he no doubt saw it — robbed him of the barony, and she had no doubt at all that he would slit more than a few throats if that would make him Baron Keranahan, but something as clumsy as murdering Forinel, with his own hand? In front of witnesses?

No. Miron wasn’t stupid.

She started to protest, but stopped herself. He wouldn’t let her talk, and even if he would, he simply wouldn’t listen, not now. At the sound of the hoofbeats, he had changed, instantly, from a pretend baron into something else, someone else, a someone with strong opinions, stronger muscles, and the fast reflexes to carry those opinions out without hesitation. She could guide — no, not guide: manipulate; she had to be honest with herself — she could manipulate the false baron easily, but this other person was another matter entirely.

He closed his eyes. “I count three horses,” he whispered. “Shhh.”

If quiet is so important, she thought, then why are you talking?

Just to show off?

She was immediately ashamed of the thought. He was trying to reassure her, and she was more than a little surprised to find that she was reassured. Was it that she thought that Kethol could take on three men all by himself? With them on horseback? She knew that he was strong and tough and fast, but that seemed unlikely, not if they knew what they were doing. He would be lucky to surprise one, and the others would ride him down, baron or no.

She hoped he wasn’t going to try anything. But there was no point in trying to protest, since he clearly wasn’t going to let her talk.

So she just closed her eyes and leaned back against him, not entirely sure that she didn’t resent the fact that he still had his hand clapped across her mouth.

The leaves rested against her face, making it itch, and it was all she could do not to try to raise her hands and brush them away.

The bole of the tree blocked her view as the horsemen thundered by. She had never really noticed before how the ground actually shook, if only a little, under the pounding of their hooves.

The horses slowed, and then stopped, and an unfamiliar voice cried out, “Baron Keranahan? Baron Keranahan?”

There was, of course, no answer.

“I don’t see what you’re yelling about,” another voice answered. “If he’s anywhere around, he’ll have heard us long before this.”

“Yes, but —”

“So shut up and let’s ride, Derwin. Or do you want to be in the woods at night and get your eyes poked out when you don’t see a branch in the dark?”

The horses moved off, the
clop-clop-clop
of their hooves diminishing in the distance.

She tried to sit up, but he held her firmly.

“No. Wait,” he whispered.

She waited for what felt like the longest time, until he finally sighed, released her, and gently laid the branches that had covered them to one side before rising to his feet, and brushing himself off.

He offered her his hand. “I think we can go now.”

“May I ask what that was all about?” she asked, as he easily pulled her up.

For once, his smile didn’t seem at all forced or hesitant. She liked that.

“I just don’t like to take chances I don’t have to,” he said. “You’re probably right — those were probably just searchers sent out from the Residence, looking for us. But why should I bet — why should we bet our lives on it?” He plucked an errant pine needle from his beard, and stuck it between his teeth, then stooped to pick up the branches and throw them off into the brush. “Just to save ourselves a little walk? I don’t mind walking, do you?”

He shouldered the provisions bag, and hitched at both his sword and his knife. “Shall we, Lady?”

“Leria,” she said, correcting him. “My name is Leria, and I think that, under the circumstances, informality should be the rule between us, and not the exception. Don’t you?”

He actually blushed. “Very well. Leria.”

“So? What do you think? Weren’t those just soldiers from the Residence, out searching for us? They didn’t sound like bandits, and while I’m pleased to say I’ve never met any Dark Riders —”

“I have, Leria, and they’re nothing to joke about.”

“— those didn’t seem like any such. So you think that they were out to kill you? Us?”

“No, I don’t.” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. But I’m not sure, and since I’m not sure, it didn’t make any sense to me to take a chance. But there were just three riders, with three horses. If they were sent out to rescue us, why only three horses?”

She didn’t answer. He was feeling awfully full of himself, which was just what she wanted, and no good at all could come from any answer, except one, so she made that answer:

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded, not blushing now, accepting the thanks as his due.

Good. He wouldn’t have nodded so self-confidently if she had pointed out that, of course, two of the soldiers would have been more than happy to surrender their horses to the baron and his lady, so that the nobles could ride rather than walk back to the Residence.

It was far more important to build up his self-confidence than it was to be seen to be right.

And, come to think of it, she might well be able to help to build up his self-confidence tonight, perhaps two or even three times.

She might even enjoy it.

They walked, side by side down the path, talking quietly. Every once in a while, he would stop and stand stock-still, listening or smelling or looking for something, and she obediently mirrored his silence — without the need of him clapping a hand to her mouth.