A cardinal virtue—perhaps the cardinal virtue—of hereditary rule is that you may—may—get a reluctant ruler. The trouble with the usurper is that he usually wanted the job. I said usually; I'm an exception.
Wanting to rule—as opposed to being willing to govern—is clear evidence of a diseased mind; the only person who should be allowed to make decisions for anybody else ought to be someone who doesn't want the job.
Note: Pretended reluctance to rule isn't an effective substitute.
Additional note: Not wanting the job isn't a sufficient qualification, just a necessary one.
Short form of the above: Life can be a real bitch.—Karl Cullinane
Baron, you're an asshole, Karl Cullinane thought as he approached the keep, crawling on his belly through the tall grasses.
If Baron Arondael was going to try to explore the possibility of rebelling against his prince and emperor, at least he could have had the goddam consideration to have his goddam groundskeepers mow the goddam lawn so that the goddam prince and emperor couldn't quietly sneak up on him, thereby forcing said goddam prince and emperor to come up with some plan either more straightforward or more devious than creeping through the goddam grass on his goddam hands and knees.
He paused for a moment and rose to his knees to rub at the stubs that were all that remained of the three outermost fingers of his left hand. After all these years, he had gotten used to managing with thumb and forefinger; he rarely missed them—
*Matter of fact, you can count in base seven better than anyone else I know.*
—but grass made the stumps itch.
Baron, you are going to pay for my itching stumps.
That seemed only fair. The stumps weren't Arondael's fault; the itching was.
*Good, good,* the sarcastic voice echoed in his head. *Worry about what a jerk Baron Arondael is and how you'd rather just walk up to the castle. Much, much better to think about what you'd rather be doing than to concentrate on what you are doing. Why not worry how Jason's lessons at Home are coming along?*
Ellegon—
*Maybe you could concentrate on Jason's incompetence in long division instead of the admittedly more minor issue of whether or not somebody's going to shove a sword through your guts.*
Sarcasm doesn't become you.
*Stupidity doesn't look good on anyone. Do you know the technical term for the children of stupid soldiers?*
Okay, I'll bite: What do you call them?
*Orphans.*
To his right, General Garavar and the six soldiers strung out beyond him pretended that Ellegon hadn't included them in his mental broadcast.
There was one exception. And a carefully pitched snort of derision that couldn't have carried farther than a few meters.
*Tennetty says that I'm right, as usual, by the way.*
"Be quiet, all of you. We've got a job to do."
"Your majesty," Garavar whispered, "I say again: Emperors don't do this sort of thing."
"I said to shut up. I don't want to attract attention." Yet.
Garavar was a soldier of the old school, Bieme style, where loyalty counted more than obedience.
Still, when Karl glared as Garavar opened his mouth again, Garavar shut up.
Karl had to admit that Garavar did have a point. A good one, at that. Not that this was particularly a bad idea, but it shouldn't have been Karl Cullinane leading it.
It shouldn't be me, Karl thought. It should be someone good at a quiet sneak, it should be somebody like Walter Slovotsky trying to creep in close. This was Walter Slovotsky's sort of thing, not Karl's.
*There is nobody like Walter Slovotsky. I take it you miss him.*
Good guess. Slovotsky would already be well inside the castle, have seduced one or more pretty girls, filled his pockets with coins and jewels, set himself up with another bed partner or two for later, stuffed himself on rich food in the castle kitchen, uncorked and imbibed the best bottle of wine available, and had the baron up against the wall, fully frisked and intimidated by now.
Without raising a sweat, probably.
*Hmmm . . . I wonder if he has such an overinflated opinion of your abilities. By the way, you could have done this like a normal kind of person. You have heard of normality?*
The standard way to get a recalcitrant baron out of his castle was for a detachment of his neighboring barons to show up at his door and invite him to accompany them to the capitol.
That was almost completely safe: no baron would want open combat with his neighbors unless he was certain his life was already forfeit; fighting his neighbors was certain to get him killed. Even if he did order his men to attack such a delegation, his soldiers would be likely to mutiny; princes and emperors tended to frown on such attacks and express their disapproval with axe and gibbet.
Relay to Garavar, Karl Cullinane thought. I didn't get where I am today by doing things the standard way. And speaking of which, it's my understanding that generals don't usually go creeping around through the grasses, either.
There wasn't an answer to that.
Although Tennetty quickly provided one anyway. "There are some people," she whispered softly, "who are a bit concerned about your tender hide."
Ellegon provided another. *And since when are you so happy about where you are today?*
Shut up. I've got to think.
*Oh—a new trick!*
Shush!
There was a time when Karl Cullinane would have gone on a raid without worrying about the welfare of the people he was raiding, but that was in the old days, when he was the leader of a Home raiding team, and the victims were slavers in caravan.
Now, it was different: The guards here were his subjects—although he did not like the word—and an emperor didn't just go around killing innocent subjects.
Hmmm . . . it was just as well that the baron clearly didn't expect trouble this quickly; instead of paying attention to what they were doing, the two guards were chatting about what a bastard the new guard sergeant was as they approached. Karl eyed their path and didn't like it. It looked like the guards were going to come too close to his squad.
We don't need a whole lot of alarms being raised. Relay: Ten, what do you think of the idea of taking the one on the left while I take the one on the right?
*From Tennetty: "What do I think? I think that's just about the dumbest idea you've had this year. Aren't they going to get a bit suspicious when the two of us pop out of the grass? We need a diversion, not a brace of panicky soldiers crying for help."*
Ellegon, can you read them well enough for a mindscream?
*Yes, but I'm not close enough to be sure it would really stun them.*
Wonderful. Karl shrugged mentally. Okay, back to basics. Relay: Tennetty, you take that skinny kid—
*"Hoften."*
—Hoften, and work your way around behind them. When I get their attention, jump them, and do your best to silence them, without killing. Understood?
*"Understood. Without killing."*
Karl didn't like it, but he'd have to count on Arondael's military commander being as sloppy about training as he was about peacetime discipline.
As the two closed to within barely five yards of where Karl lay, Karl Cullinane leaped to his feet, a flintlock pistol in one hand, his saber in the other.
"Halt in the name of the emperor," he hissed, as the others rose up beside him, Garavar with a throwing knife balanced, the others with sword or crossbow ready.
That stopped them for a precious second; a second was all that was needed. Arondael wasn't on a war footing; neither guard had time or inclination to make an outcry in the second before Tennetty and Hoften were on them.
"Who . . . ?" the larger of the two started, the word trailing off to a gurgle as Tennetty snaked an arm around his throat, gently setting a knifepoint against his windpipe.
"Please don't scream," she said politely, "or I'll cut the sound in half before it leaves your throat. Now, open your mouth slowly," she said, jamming a gag in it when he did.
Hoften had silenced his quarry by the simple expedient of jamming his own arm into the man's mouth; the boy gritted his teeth against the pain as the guard struggled for the moment it took until Karl was upon him.
Karl Cullinane uncocked and holstered his pistol, then reached out and grabbed the guard by the front of his tunic.
"I said," he whispered, " 'Halt in the name of the emperor,' " setting the point of his sword against the guard's throat.
Wide-eyed, the guard relaxed his bite.
"Better. Would you prefer I said, 'Halt in the name of me'? I don't normally like incidental killings, but if you don't get your damn teeth out of that boy's arm, I'll make an exception. Good.
"Now, I want tonight's passwords."
* * *
Wearing the guards' livery, Karl and Garavar approached the guard station, muttering the night's password under their breath.
As the sleepy-eyed corporal of the guard snicked the bolts aside and opened the door, Garavar took a step inside the gate and brought a cocked pistol up to the corporal's head.
"You know," he said conversationally, while Karl guided the guard into the shadows, "there comes a time in a man's life when he has to make a decision. You've got one to make right now. You can either give out an alarm—in which case the emperor will be most irritated with you—or you can help us get close to the baron."
"Emp—"
"That's me," Karl said, reaching into the cloth bag at his waist and pulling out the silver crown of Bieme. He set it on his head. "The one and only."
Now, I want a broad relay to everyone in the castle.
*Station Kay Ay Ar Ell, the voice of the Emperor of Holtun-Bieme, is now on the air,* Ellegon answered back, as the dragon landed noisily on the ramparts above them.
"My name is Karl Cullinane," he said quietly, knowing that Ellegon would add the proper volume as he relayed the thoughts. "I am Prince of Bieme, conqueror of Holtun, and Emperor of Holtun-Bieme, and I want to see Baron Arondael, now."
He unbolted the door and kicked it open for Tennetty and the rest to follow. "And in case anyone has any foolish idea, I've summoned a sufficient force to tear this castle down to the bare stones. Anyone who gets in my way is dead."
Next step. Karl closed his eyes.
*Here goes.* A dark shadow passed high overhead, only to be relieved by dazzling brightness as Ellegon's flame lit up the night.
Relay: "Into the courtyard, everyone. Now."
In moments, the entire keep had stumbled out, soldiers numbly clawing for their armor and weapons, servants and children in their night tunics.
Including Arrifezh, Baron Arondael.
The rapier-slim man rubbed a gnarled fist against eyes that hadn't yet noticed they weren't sleepy anymore.
"Good morning, Baron," Karl Cullinane said, raising his voice. "And good morning all. Every man, woman, and child, regardless of rank, who is not in rebellion against their prince and emperor, will now kindly lay down any arms and kneel." He sheathed his sword and folded his hands over his chest. "I said now."
Tennetty brought up her rifle and took careful aim at the middle of the baron's nose. "Starting with you, Baron," she muttered in a low voice. "We start with you, one way or another."
Karl's soldiers following the baron's example, the several hundred people in the courtyard bent like a sea of wheat in the wind.
"That's fine. Up, all of you."
Garavar drew himself up to his full height. "My apologies, your majesty," he said to Karl. "You were right; I was wrong. It worked."
"As usual," Karl said.
"For those born luckier than they've any right to be," the general shot back. And then added: "Sire."
But he was smiling. And that was usual.
Karl returned the smile, then sobered as he raised his voice and turned to Arondael. "Baron, I'll need to speak to you privately at your earliest convenience—as long as your earliest convenience is right now."
* * *
Arondael had recovered most of his composure as he sat in his high-backed chair, a cup of hot tea warming his hands.
Karl wasn't thirsty, he'd said.
Actually, without his wife or a reliable cleric to check for poison, he wasn't about to trust Arondael's food.
Ellegon, from his perch on top of the keep, might be able to probe the baron's mind, but there was no guarantee that some subject of Arondael's might not decide to ingratiate himself with the baron by poisoning the emperor, and Karl wouldn't have wanted Ellegon to subject himself to the odious task of probing hundreds of minds simply so that Karl could have a cup of tea.
"What I don't understand, majesty," Arondael said, sipping nervously at his tea, "is the necessity for all this . . . commotion."
"Did you get my letter of last tenday, Arondael?"
"Yes, of course, sire—a response is on its way to the capitol."
"You'll notice that I asked that you visit me at Biemestren yesterday, Baron."
"Your majesty, as I said in my response, things have been so busy here that—"
"I want all my barons visiting me regularly, when summoned."
There wasn't a better way to prevent treachery than to insist that Karl's nobles show up at the capitol every now and then, effectively surrendering themselves to his mercy.
"Maybe the trouble, Baron, is that you're thinking of me as your prince."
"Which you are, sire, in law and in fact. As well as my emperor."
"What I mainly am, Baron, is a usurper; I wasn't born to inherit the throne, but I do intend to keep on ruling. And I do intend to be obeyed. Kapish?" he said, immediately switching back to Erendra and correcting himself to "Understood?"
"Of course."
Karl nodded. "Good. Officially, our explanation—what you'll tell your people—is that you were concerned about the readiness of your guard, asked that I have them tested, and, as a sign of my great respect for you and love for your people, I've honored you and them by doing it personally. Agreed?"
"Yes, sire." Arondael didn't smile at the absurdity of it. Despite the fact that Karl had publicly suggested that Castle Arondael was in rebellion, Arondael didn't see anything strange in agreeing to a cover story that everyone in the castle would know to be false.
I guess he doesn't think that, say, a twelve-year-old boy might point out that the baron's story leaves his butt uncovered.
*You mean that the emper—make that baron—isn't wearing any clothes?*
Something like that.
*Then again, maybe the baron felt that a twelve-year-old calling out that the baron's cover story left him bare-ass naked might be the reason that they invented the gibbet,* Ellegon suggested.
That could be part of it, too, "You're sure that's acceptable, Baron?"
"Yes, sire."
This is starting to feel like a Platonic dialogue.
*What do you mean? I don't see a whole lot of wisdom flowing around.*
No, no, not the wisdom part. I'm not that egotistical.
*Nah. Not you. But you were saying?*
In the Dialogues, Socrates has all the good lines; the rest just get to say "Yes, Socrates" and "It would surely seem so, Socrates" and "How true, Socrates."
"So we do have an understanding?"
"Of course, sire."
Very good, Socrates. "Rules, as we say, are rules, Baron." Karl gave a genial smile. "I don't mind your testing my authority, once. This was once, understood?"
"Yes, sire," the baron said.
How clever, Socrates.
*He's wondering what would happen if you happened to disappear here tonight.*
Karl sighed. Sometimes these damn barons were so predictable. "Mmm . . . I know you have grievances against the Holts. I know about how Arondael was taken by the Holts during the war."
The baron's face clouded over. The Holts hadn't been as gentle conquerors as Karl Cullinane had—somewhat later—insisted that the Biemish be; men, women and children had been chained, hauled off by guild slavers. Some had made their way back in the nine years since the end of the war; most had not.
And then there was the baron's family. . . .
Karl didn't like thinking about the baron's family. "Well, Baron, like it or not, we're all part of the same empire now. Granted, the Biemish barons have more independence; Furnael can run his barony as he pleases—"
"As his mother pleases."
Karl Cullinane stared long and hard into the baron's eyes. "I believe I was speaking?"
"Sorry, sire."
My mistake, Socrates. "Better. As I was saying—we've had to be very restrictive of the Holts. Baron Nerahan, like the rest of the Holts, hasn't been allowed to have even a small detachment of soldiers under his own command; they've all been occupation troops."
"As well they should be."
"Until now, Baron. Like it or not, Nerahan and his people have been the most loyal of the Holtish; I've rearmed them, and ordered the occupation troops into Nerahan's service. And unless I—personally—stop them, an army under Barons Nerahan and Furnael—"
*And—ahem—me.*
"—and Ellegon, which is even now marching on Arondael, is going to lay siege to your keep, bring down the walls, and not leave a stone standing on a stone." That wasn't true; there was no army marching on Arondael. But it could be made true, quickly, if need be.
Arondael's face whitened. He opened his mouth, worked it silently for a moment, closed it.
"Or," Karl Cullinane said as he rose to his feet, "you and Nerahan, under General Kevalun's overall leadership, will jointly carry out the first joint Holtun-Bieme military maneuvers."
Karl had planned that, but the next thing out of his mouth surprised even him. "I'm about to call a barons' council of both Holtun and Bieme. I want to see some cooperation between an opposite pair of baronies before. It'll make me look good."
The baron bit his lip, then shrugged.
"Spit it out, Arondael."
"A joint council? Are you sure that is wise?"
"If I wasn't sure, I wouldn't call one, would I? You're stalling, Arondael; take your pick, Baron. Joint maneuvers, or do we flatten your keep?"
*He's geeking.*
Surprise, surprise.
"I'll take the second alternative, sire," Arondael said calmly, pleasantly, as though he'd been offered a choice between two sweetmeats.
I'll take one from Column B, Socrates. Still, Karl had to admire Arondael's composure; under the proper threat, the baron had simply folded his hand, giving no apparent look of regret toward the pot Karl was sweeping in.
Best to remind him of the pot. And of the penalty for overbetting. But first things first.
"Very well," Karl said. "Now, the thing I'll want you to concentrate on—both you and Nerahan—is making sure that no fights break out. None. Even a fistfight won't look good." Karl rose from his chair and deftly plucked the cup from Arondael's hands. "Do you mind? The tea does look good." He sipped at it. A bit more honey than he would have put in, but better leaf tea than he usually had at Biemestren, if not quite the sassafras of Home.
Not to mention coffee.
He tried not to mention coffee, not even to himself; he hadn't really had any for close to twenty years, although he could still almost taste the imaginary cup that Arta Myrdhyn had served him, almost ten years before.
"Understood, sire." Arondael deliberately suppressed a knowing smile. "I'll happily take another taste, if you like."
"Not necessary, Arrifezh. And now that we're friends again, I'm Karl, when we're alone."
"Very well, Karl," Arondael said, rising to pour himself another cup of tea. "You were saying about the maneuvers?"
"It wasn't all that long ago that you and Nerahan's people were at war with each other, and I'm not foolish enough to expect that your men and his will get along, so I want you to make sure that each and every one of your men understands that there's to be not only no fighting, but no name-calling, no insults. If anybody steps out of line, I want him slapped down immediately—you see to that personally, understood?"
Arondael nodded. "Understood, Karl."
"One more thing," Karl said, drawing himself up to his full height as he drained the last of Arondael's tea. "Don't test me again. Don't let me think that there's a trace of disloyalty left in Arondael. Or I'll yank you out of this keep and give it to Nerahan."
He turned away from the baron, forcing himself not to tense the muscles of his back until he heard the choked words:
"Yes, sire."
Good. Karl had pushed Arondael's self-control far enough. "No, make that 'Yes, Karl'—remember, we're friends again."
"Yes, Karl. I understand."
"And next time I send for you?"
"I will be where you require me to be, when you require me to be there, or I shall die trying."
"Good point." Karl looked at him for a long time. "A very good point."