Murder in LaMut by Raymond E. Feist, Joel Rosenberg

to Kethol. ‘I’ve written a letter to the Earl, and another to the Swordmaster, praising you for your service, and explaining that the little…disturbance in the castle last night was entirely my fault, not having discussed Morray’s…ways with the serving girls.’ He looked Kethol straight in the eye. ‘It’s one thing to have some sport with a willing young girl. It’s another to do so far from one’s own field, and be unwilling to provide for a bastard.’ His lips tightened. ‘You wouldn’t think of it to look at me now, but I’ve sired a few bastards in my younger days, and I can say that I’ve made arrangements for them all, and probably for some that other men sired, as well.’ He patted the pouch. ‘The letters are in here. I’ve put my seal on my signature, rather than using it to seal the letters shut.’
    Well, that would save Pirojil the trouble of carefully warming the wax so that he could read them without breaking the seals. Kethol was sure that this baron was as good as his word–he liked and trusted this man–but Pirojil was more cautious by nature.
    But letters? ‘Then you’re not accompanying us back to LaMut?’
    Other than getting Morray out of town and away from the putative assassin, getting Baron Mondegreen to LaMut had been the main purpose of this expedition. The rest of it could have waited. Yes, rotating the Mondegreen troops would have been necessary–the barons didn’t like to have their own troops spend too long away from their own lands lest they form unlikely attachments to the wrong people–but there was no urgency…
    ‘I think you’ve worked out that that’s unlikely, at this point.’ The Baron shook his head. ‘Old Father Kelly says that I’m unlikely to survive an overland trip as far as LaMut, or even to survive many more days simply lying here,’ he said, as though commenting on a minor problem. ‘Duty compels me, yes, but it can not compel the flesh to be stronger than it is.’
    Then why haul the lady out here and back? Kethol didn’t understand, but the Baron’s manner, while certainly unusually friendly, didn’t seem to invite that kind of familiar inquisitiveness.
    Kethol hadn’t picked up the pouch. The Baron pushed it towards him with trembling fingers. ‘I’ll expect you to watch out for my wife on the trip back, as well.’
    Pirojil would have said something to the effect that they would try to do it as well as they had done it on the trip out, but there was something about the Baron’s manner that made it hard for Kethol to lie to him, even by indirection.
    Damn.
    There was nothing for it, so he picked up the pouch and looked inside–it was heavier than it looked; gold, not just silver–and stashed it inside his tunic.
    The Baron smiled.
    What was this really all about? Kethol was busy trying to work out a way to ask around the question–damn it all, why hadn’t the Baron called for Pirojil? Pirojil was good at this sort of thing–when the door opened, and Lady Mondegreen entered, two steaming mugs on a tray. She set the tray down on the bedside table, and then sat down on the bed next to her husband, helping him prop up his head so that he could sip at his tea.
    ‘I see that the carriage is being readied,’ she said. ‘But I know that I most clearly heard Father Kelly say that you’re too ill to travel.’
    The Baron seemed to draw himself straighter. ‘Obligations, my dear. It’s important that Mondegreen be represented at Council, and–’
    ‘And–’ she stopped herself with a look at Kethol. ‘If you would excuse us for a moment, I would–’
    ‘Please, be still, my dear. It would be ungracious to ask someone who has done us such a service to leave as if he were merely a servant.’ He gestured at the mug of tea. ‘He hasn’t even finished his tea yet.’
    Her lips pursed stubbornly. ‘Very well, then. Embarrass me in front of this man, if you will.’
    ‘Embarrass you? How could I do such a thing?’
    ‘Very