Free Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda by Joel Rosenberg Page A

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