Read Online Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda by Joel Rosenberg - Free Book Online
Authors: Joel Rosenberg
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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deep creases in Tarnell’s lined face hadn’t deepened, nor had the plain wooden pommel of his sword’s wire-wrapped hilt been replaced by something more gaudy.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
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
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