Read Online Not Really the Prisoner of Zenda by Joel Rosenberg - Free Book Online Page B

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