The Bastard King

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Two messengers came into the city of Avornis only hours apart. The first was from the plains of the south—an announcement that a baron named Pandion had rebelled against King Grus and announced that he was King Lanius’ rightful protector. “How can he say that?” Lanius asked the messenger, a cavalry captain who’d stayed loyal to Grus. “I’ve never met him. I wouldn’t take oath I’ve ever even heard of him.”

“How much sleep do you suppose he’ll lose about that, Your Majesty?” the captain replied. “With King Grus busy against the Thervings, Pandion figures he’ll make hay while the sun shines—get as strong as he can before Grus is able to do much about it. That’s how it looks to me, anyhow.”

It looked that way to Lanius, too. He praised the officer and dismissed him. He couldn’t do anything about Pandion’s revolt. Not a soldier outside the royal bodyguard would obey his orders. The uprising was Grus’ worry, not his.

The second messenger announced that the Thervings were withdrawing from Avornan soil and Grus was on his way back to the city of Avornis.

Lanius laughed till he cried. “I don’t think it’s that funny,” Sosia said.

“No?” Lanius answered. “I do, by the gods. Baron Pandion may have started the worst-timed rebellion in all the history of Avornis.”

His wife thought about that. Then she smiled, too. “Oh,” she said. “I see.” A bird flew by their bedroom window. Sosia went on, “You ought to send the man who brought word from the south to my father. He should know what’s happened there as soon as he can.”

Now it was Lanius’ turn to think. He didn’t need long before he nodded. “You’re right. I wouldn’t want your father thinking I tried to conceal anything like that from him.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Sosia said. “He trusts you more than you think.”

Was that praise or faint praise? Lanius wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out, either. He said, “I’ll attend to it.” And he did.

King Grus came back to the city of Avornis a few days later. He met Lanius outside the palace and said, “So this Pandion bastard thinks he can play games with me, does he? I’m going to teach him he hasn’t even started to figure out the rules.”

“Speaking of games and rules, how did you make Dagipert withdraw so very quickly?” Lanius asked.

“That’s the funny thing, Your Majesty—I didn’t,” Grus answered. “He did it himself.” He explained how he and the King of Thervingia had met in the middle of the Tuola, and how Dagipert had pulled back from Avornan soil not long afterward.

“You made him think about what he was doing,” Lanius said admiringly. “You must tell a scribe exactly what you said to him. That’s something future Kings of Avornis need to know.”

“When I get a chance.” Grus sounded indifferent. Seeing the disappointment Lanius didn’t try to hide, the older man went on, “I’m sorry, but that’s how it’s got to be. I want to move against Pandion as fast as I can. With any luck at all, I’ll hit him before he even knows I’m not fighting the Thervings anymore. The faster the better. If he’s not ready to fight, I’ll roll him up like a rug.”

“But you rolled Dagipert up without fighting, don’t you see?” Lanius said. “Isn’t it important to set down how you did it?”

Grus said, “I didn’t roll him up without fighting. We bought him off until we were ready, and then we spent years fighting Thervingia. I just convinced him he couldn’t get anything out of one more year of war. See the difference?”

Reluctantly, Lanius nodded. “Yes, I think I do.” He was the one who’d read all the histories. That Grus had a deeper view of what had happened than he’d seen himself was embarrassing.

As swiftly as Grus came into the capital, he left again. Very likely a good many of his men marched out of the city with hangovers from a brief carouse. Lanius wouldn’t have wanted to tramp off with an aching head, and wouldn’t have been happy if he’d had to. When he said as much to Grus, though, his fellow king only smiled. “They may not be happy to march,” he said, “but I’ll tell you one thing—they’re plenty happy they don’t have to fight the Thervings this year.”

“But they will have to fight Pandion,” Lanius said.

Grus smiled again. “If I had a choice between fighting Dagipert’s wild men and a baron who’d grown too big for his breeches, Your Majesty, I know which one I’d pick, I’ll tell you that. Especially when they think they’re taking him by surprise.”

“Oh,” Lanius said. “Yes, that does make sense, doesn’t it?”

“I try.” As it often did, Grus’ voice came dry as the southern plains after a long season without rain.

Lanius’ ears burned, as though that dryness had set them afire. “Er, yes,” he mumbled, wishing he could escape his father-in-law.

He got his wish, though not quite in the way he’d meant. With a nod, Grus said, “Well, I’ll be off soon. Can’t keep Pandion waiting, now can we?” He turned to go, then checked himself, adding, “I thank you for sending word of his revolt to me so quick.”

“Uh, you’re welcome.” Lanius too hesitated. Then he added, “Uh, it was Sosia’s idea.” Better Grus should hear that from him than from her.

But by the way Grus nodded, he already knew. He said, “You still had to do it, though. And who knows? You might have wanted Pandion as protector instead of me.”

“I don’t want anyone as protector!” Lanius all but screamed it. Not having anyone as protector, though, wasn’t one of the choices life offered him. It never had been. He wondered if it ever would be.

King Grus savored the feel of a pitching deck under his feet, the breeze in his face, the countryside smoothly flowing by as he led his fleet along the Halycus River toward Pandion’s estates. “This is the life,” he said to Nicator, who stood beside him. “This is more fun than staying cooped up in the palace all the time, gods curse me if it isn’t.”

“What’s that, Your Majesty?” Nicator cupped a hand behind his ear. Patiently, Grus repeated himself. He had to do it yet again before Nicator nodded and said, “You’re welcome to the crown, far as I’m concerned. I wouldn’t take it on a bet.”

I’m certainly lucky, Grus thought. Every king needs a man like you— someone he can trust at his back, someone who’s not ambitious, or not too ambitious, on his own. Not every king finds a man like that. The king turned away just in time to watch a couple of mergansers take alarm at the river galley and spring into the air. He wished he could enjoy freedom like that.

Nicator spied the saw-billed ducks, too; nothing wrong with his eyes. His thoughts ran in a different direction. “Those miserable birds taste too much like the fish they eat.”

“I know,” Grus answered.

Farmers tending fields and flocks looked up in surprise as the war galleys grided down the Halycus. A royal war fleet hadn’t been seen in the heartland of Avornis for many years. Nobles in their castles were probably every bit as amazed, and a good deal more alarmed. Grus wanted them alarmed. If they were thinking of joining Pandion’s revolt, or of starting one of their own, they needed to consider the risks of the game as well as the rewards.

Two days later, Nicator pointed ahead. “That should be Pandion’s stronghold.”

Grus shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand. “Yes, I think so,” he agreed. The keep, of yellow limestone, seemed not so very strong, not so very well sited. Grus peered again. “Are those tents, there all around the moat?”

“Look at all the tents underneath the castle,” replied Nicator, who hadn’t heard him. He called, “Up the stroke,” to the oar-master. To the trumpeters, he said, “Signal the other ships to speed up, too. The sooner we get there, the less time they’ll have to get ready for us.” His ears might be—were—bad, but his wits, like his eyes, still worked just fine. Grus wondered if Nicator caught the blaring horn calls or simply assumed they went forth because he’d ordered it.

The fleet had almost come abreast of the castle, which lay about half a mile from the Halycus, before Pandion’s encampment began to stir. “Here’s an interesting question,” Grus shouted into Nicator’s ear. “Will he try to fight us, or will he pull back into the castle and let us lay siege to him?”

Once Nicator understood, he said, “He’ll fight, if you ask me. He can’t pack that many men into the keep. Even if he could, he can’t feed ’em long—and the more the place holds, the less time he’ll be able to keep ’em fed. If he beats us in a battle, he doesn’t have to worry about that—or he doesn’t think he does.”

“We’ll see,” Grus bawled. Nicator was likely right. If he’d been in Pandion’s shoes, he would have fought. The river galley’s keel scraped against the gently sloping bank. Marines and most of the rowers jumped or scrambled off the ship to form the beginning of a battle line ashore. The rest of the rowers stayed behind. They would guard the galley if Pandion’s men somehow broke past Grus’ army.

Men spilled out of other river galleys, too, and off the barges accompanying them. Horses came off some of the barges, too, already saddled. Soldiers swung up onto them. A horse waited for Grus. He mounted reluctantly—but then, he always mounted reluctantly. More horns blared. The battle line swiftly lengthened. From the horse—a docile gelding—Grus waved. His army advanced on the castle.

Pandion’s force was slower forming. These were peasants, most of them, not veterans of years of war against Thervingia and the Menteshe. They followed their overlord’s orders, probably because they hadn’t thought to do anything else. On they came, their line shorter than Grus’ and more ragged. Grus looked to see if the rebel baron made himself obvious. He hadn’t.

Arrows began to fly. On both sides, men began to fall. Some never made a sound, but lay still. More thrashed and screamed and cursed and wailed. As the sides drew closer, spears joined arrows. More and more men went down. A spear darted over Grus’ left shoulder and buried itself in the ground behind him. Had it been a foot lower… He shuddered and did his best not to think of that.

The two lines collided, both yelling and calling on the gods and taking their names in vain. That fight was sword- and pike-work. It was very warm work for a little while, too, for the men Pandion led were fierce enough and to spare at the start. But bravery could do only so much against superior numbers and superior skill. Grus’ line lapped around the rebels’ flanks. Pandion’s army had to give ground or face attack from sides and rear. Even when the rebels did give ground, they still had horsemen on their flanks.

After half an hour or so, their spirit began to fail. Grus was surprised they’d held out even that long, being both outnumbered and outfought—not in terms of courage, but in terms of strategy. A few at a time, Pandion’s men started slipping out of the line of battle and trying to get away. Some of them made it. Grus’ riders cut down more from behind.

And then, all at once, the whole rebel line gave way. Pandion’s soldiers scattered, throwing away weapons and helmets to flee the faster. The castle opened its gates. Many of the fugitives made for that shelter, but Grus’ men came hard on their heels. Grus wondered if enough of his men would get in along with Pandion’s to let them seize the fortress from the inside. He vastly preferred that to besieging it.

But he hadn’t even ridden up to inspect the castle at close range before a shout rose from his horsemen. “Pandion!” they cried. For a moment, he feared some few of them, or maybe more than some few, had gone over to the baron. Then he realized they’d captured Pandion.

The fortress kept Grus’ soldiers out by slamming the gates shut on many of the rebels. The men who couldn’t get in threw down swords and spears—those who hadn’t already—threw their hands up, and surrendered in droves.

Grus waited till Pandion was hauled before him. The baron was blockily built, with a fuzzy gray beard. Several different kinds of fear warred on his face as he stared at Grus. “You wizard!” he burst out. “How did you get here so fast, with so godscursed many men? You’re supposed to be fighting the Thervings!”

“Life is full of surprises, isn’t it?” Grus plucked at his own beard. “Now, what am I going to do with you?”

“Take my head—what else?” Pandion owned a certain bleak courage, or perhaps just knew he had nothing to lose.

“Maybe not,” Grus said. Watching hope fight not to come back to the baron’s face was like watching a youth trying not to look at a girl with whom he was desperately, hopelessly, in love. The king went on, “If you order your stronghold to open its gates and yield to me, I’ll send you to the Maze instead. You can keep Corvus company. Of course, if they don’t listen to you in there… Well, that would be too bad. For you.”

“I’ll persuade them,” Pandion said quickly.

He did, too. Grus had expected that he could. His men wouldn’t have followed him into rebellion if they weren’t in the habit of obeying him. The sun was still an hour above the western horizon when Grus’ men marched into the fortress. They disarmed the soldiers who’d fought for the baron and sent them back to their farms. The peasants were almost wild with relief; they’d been sure they would be massacred if they lost.

“That’s how kings does things,” one of them said in Grus’ hearing. But this wasn’t Grus’ first round of civil war. He’d seen how Avornis was wounded no matter which side won the fighting. Being as moderate as he could helped.

“Will you let me bring my wives along?” Pandion asked after the castle yielded.

“They can go to the Maze with you, if they want,” Grus answered. “They’ll go to convents, as you’re off to be a cleric. Or they can stay in the world and find new husbands. I won’t tell them what to do.”

Neither of Pandion’s wives seemed the least interested in abandoning the world for his sake. That left the baron affronted and gloomy. He got even gloomier when Grus ordered his two eldest sons—youths not far from Ortalis and Lanius’ age—into the Maze with him. So did the youngsters. Grus was unyielding.

“You all have another choice, if you really want one,” he told Pandion and his sons.

“What’s that?” the baron asked. Grus folded his arms across his chest and waited. Pandion didn’t need long to figure out why. “Uh, Your Majesty?” he added.

“Your heads can go up over the gate of your castle here,” Grus said. “That’s as much of a choice as you get. This is not a friendly chat we’re having here, remember. You tried to rise up against me. You lost. Now you’re going to pay the price.” He gestured to the soldiers who had charge of the baron and his sons. “Take them away. I think they’ve made up their minds.”

Pandion didn’t tell him he was wrong.

Nicator said, “Well, Your Majesty, that was a very pretty little campaign. Very pretty indeed, matter of fact.”

Grus surveyed the field. Ravens and crows hopped from one corpse to the next, pecking at eyes and tongues and other such dainties. Vultures spiraled down out of the sky to join them at the bounteous feast people had laid out. The wounded from both sides has been gathered up, but they still moaned or sometimes screamed as surgeons and wizards tried to repair what edged and pointed metal had done to them. The odors of blood and dung hung in the air.

“Yes, very pretty,” Grus said tonelessly, “and may we never see an ugly one.”

Sosia said, “I’m going to have another baby.”

“I thought so,” Lanius answered. “Your courses didn’t come, and you’ve been sleepy all the time lately…” He chuckled. “I know the signs now.”

“You’d better,” his wife said. “If you’d forgotten, I’d be angry.”

He gave her a kiss. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“No, I know you wouldn’t,” Sosia agreed. “I could say this, that, or the other thing about you, but you don’t forget much. Once you notice something, it’s yours forevermore. Getting you to notice… Sometimes that’s a different story.”

“What do you mean?” Lanius asked, more than a little indignantly. He didn’t like to think of himself as missing anything.

“Never mind,” Sosia said, which was not at all what he wanted to hear.

Quarreling with his wife over a trifle would have been foolish, though, especially when she’d given him news like that. He kissed her again. In a pear tree outside the bedroom window, a cuckoo called. The day was breathlessly hot, with not a breeze stirring. The bird called again, then fell silent, as though even song were too much effort.

After a few more minutes, the cuckoo did call once more. Lanius laughed as a new thought crossed his mind. “I wonder what the moncats are doing right now,” he said.

Sosia laughed, too. “Why do you wonder? They’re trying to get the bird. If one of them can find a way out through a window, he’ll do it, too.”

“I know,” Lanius said. “We’ve made sure the bars are too narrow to let them get out, but the moncats keep working away anyhow.”

“They’re stubborner than ordinary cats,” Sosia said.

“I don’t know whether they’re stubborner or just wilder,” Lanius said. “They do keep working at it, as you say.” He put a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “And so do we.”

“Yes, we do.” She smiled. “I wonder if we don’t get along better than my father ever thought we would.”

“That had occurred to me, too,” Lanius said slowly. “I didn’t want to say anything, for fear of making you angry—and maybe making him angry, too—but it had crossed my mind. I won’t try to tell you any differently.”

“It doesn’t really matter, you know,” Sosia said.

“Oh, yes. Whether you’re on your father’s side or mine, what King Grus wants is what Avornis is going to get. I know that. I’d better know it. He’s rubbed my nose in it often enough.”

He bred moncats and helped the mothers raise the kittens. He went into the archives almost every day, soaking up more lore from the ancient days of Avornis. Without false modesty, he knew he’d learned as much about the past of the city and the kingdom as any man living.

And so what? he asked himself. What good does that do you ? What good does it do Avornis ? He found no good answers, none at all. As long as he played with things that had no possible consequences, he made King Grus happy. If ever he didn’t, if ever he tried to do anything substantial… He didn’t know exactly what would happen, but he had a good idea of the range of possibilities. He might end up in the Maze. On the other hand, he might end up dead. And whether Sosia was on his side or not wouldn’t matter a bit.

When Grus came back from beating Pandion, Lanius congratulated him in front of the whole city of Avornis. He felt the irony as he mouthed the words. It wasn’t that he’d wanted Pandion to overthrow Grus. He hadn’t. Lanius had wanted Pandion no more than he wanted Grus—less, in fact.

What Lanius wanted, as he’d once told Grus, was no protector at all. Though he was King of Avornis, that seemed to be one thing he couldn’t have.

He retreated into the archives. There, at least, he was master of his world, even if that world was a small one. He pored over some of the oldest records there, trying to learn all he could of the Banished One. But there seemed to be less to learn than he would have hoped. As far as the royal chronicles told the story, the Banished One had simply appeared in the south one day. The power he showed was far beyond any merely earthly—any merely mortal—power. And the exile hadn’t aged, either. That became obvious after a generation, and still seemed true today, all these centuries later. Generations meant nothing to the Banished One. By anything the records showed, centuries meant nothing to him, either.

What would the world be like if Olor hadn’t cast him out? Lanius wondered. He had no way of answering that. Neither did anyone else. He couldn’t even prove the world would be better. Maybe the long struggle against the Banished One had strengthened, steeled, Avornis. Maybe. He couldn’t prove it hadn’t. But he doubted it.

He kept hoping his reading would give him some clue or another about the Banished One’s weaknesses. The more he read, the more he doubted that, too. As far as he could tell, the Banished One had no weaknesses—not in the humanly recognizable sense of the word. He wasn’t as strong as a god, not while his self, his essence, rested in the material world rather than in the heavens beyond. Had he been that strong, he would have ruled the world from the moment he found himself cast down into it.

Suddenly, Lanius had a new thought, one that he didn’t believe had occurred to any Avornan for many long years before his time. Before being cast down from the heavens, the Banished One had surely been a god himself. Which god had he been? Over what heavenly province or attribute had he ruled? The king had never seen the question, let alone the answer, in the royal archives.

I might be able to find out, Lanius realized. Not many records survived from the days before the Banished One came down to earth, but a few did. If they mentioned a god who was no longer worshiped…

That thought led to another—I wish Bucco weren’t dead. The old arch-hallow had been a conniver, a serpent, but he’d also been a learned man. He might have known the answer to Lanius’ question, or at least how to go about finding the answer. The clerics had records of their own, records that went back at least as far as those in the royal archives.

Anser wouldn’t know. Anser wouldn’t care, either. Lanius snapped his fingers. “A secretary will know,” he said aloud. “Secretaries always know.” Top officials came and went. Secretaries went on forever. They were the memory of Avornis. “When I get around to it, I’ll ask one of the arch-hallow’s secretaries. He may not know the answer, but he’ll know where to find out.”

He knew it wasn’t anything he had to do in a hurry. The answer, if indeed it existed in the clerics’ archives, had been sitting there for centuries. A few days one way or the other weren’t going to matter.

And then a messenger came riding into the city of Avornis from out of the west. He’d almost killed his horse; it was lathered and blowing under him. And the news he brought to the royal palace drove any thoughts of the Banished One and the clerics’ archives right out of Lanius’ head.

“King Dagipert is dead!” the messenger cried. “Dagipert of Thervingia is dead at last!”

King Grus sat on the royal throne. “Give me all you know about what happened in Thervingia.”

“I only know it was sudden,” the man replied. “One day he was ruling the kingdom, the next he was dead. The gods finally got tired of him tormenting us.”

“Well, he’s in their hands now,” Grus said. “I’m going to—” He stopped.

“Going to what, Your Majesty?” the messenger asked.

“Nothing. Never mind.” Grus had started to say he was going to order the cathedrals to offer up prayers of thanksgiving for Dagipert’s death. But the Thervings worshiped the same gods Avornis did. Publicly thanking those gods for ridding the world of King Dagipert would have insulted Thervingia. Better for Grus to offer his own private thanksgiving. Remembering the niceties, he said, “I’ll have to send Prince Berto—King Berto, now—my condolences.”

Lanius had said Berto was a man more interested in cathedrals and prayer than in coming over the border at the head of a long column of warriors in chain mail carrying axes. I’ll send some fine Avornan architects to Thervingia to build him there the fanciest cathedral his heart desires. Making Berto happy that way had to be cheaper than fighting a war.

“It’s the end of an era,” the messenger said.

King Grus nodded. “It certainly is. King Dagipert was a strong man and a nasty foe.” He added, “You’ll have your reward, of course, for bringing the news here so quickly. There’s not much that could be more important.”

The messenger bowed. Grus caught a distinct whiff of horse from him; he’d ridden hard indeed. “Thank you for your kindness, Your Majesty,” he said.

“You’re welcome. You’ve earned it. That’s the point.”

Another bow. “Thank you again. I was thinking, the only thing bigger than Dagipert dying’d be the gods-cursed Menteshe invading us again. Thank the gods they’ve been quiet lately.”

“Yes.” Grus had no idea how much the gods did, or could do, to stop the Menteshe—and the Banished One, their patron— from acting as they pleased. They’d cast the Banished One into the material world and then turned their backs on him… hadn’t they?

He couldn’t be sure. He needed to remind himself of that every now and again. If he couldn’t fully understand the Banished One, who dwelt in this world with him, how could he hope to understand the gods still up in the heavens?

Stick to affairs of this world, then, he told himself. To a junior courtier, he said, “Fetch General Hirundo, if you’d be so kind.”

The man went off at a run. A polite request from the king counted as an order, and he knew it.

Hirundo came to the throne room in a hurry, too. Grus smiled, if only to himself. He’d discovered people paid much more attention to his commands now that he was king than they ever had when he was a mere commodore of river galleys. “You’ll have heard the news?” he asked the general.

“You mean about Dagipert? Oh, yes, Your Majesty.” Hirundo nodded. “That’s all over the palace by now. It’s probably all over the city. I wouldn’t be surprised if Corvus and Pandion were gossiping about it in the Maze. Rumor has more legs than a millipede, and runs faster, too.”

“Now there’s a pretty picture,” Grus said. “Rumor happens to be true here, which isn’t always so. Prince Berto—King Berto, I should say—is supposed to have less fire in his belly than old Dagipert did.”

“He could hardly have more,” Hirundo remarked. “But that’s just rumor, too, eh?”

“Not entirely,” Grus replied. “King Lanius met Berto once, when he came here with his father while Dagipert was laying siege to the city. Still, that was a while ago. In case Berto’s changed…” He took it no further. He didn’t want to say Lanius didn’t know what he was talking about. He did want to say Avornis couldn’t be sure Lanius had everything right, though.

Fortunately, Hirundo understood the fine line he was walking. “You’ll want to send soldiers out to the west, just in case Berto turns out to be friskier than we expect.”

“That’s just what I’ll want,” Grus agreed. “You’ll take care of it for me, I hope? We don’t want to look as though we’re invading Thervingia, now. We do want to be sure the Thervings won’t invade Avornis.”

“I understand, Your Majesty,” Hirundo said. “I won’t go anywhere near the border. But I’ll make it very plain I can put up a good fight on the far side of the Tuola.”

“That’s what I want from you,” Grus said. “King Berto will probably send his own ambassador here to announce his accession. That’s what the custom is, I think. If he does, I want that ambassador to see your men on the move so he’ll know we’re ready for whatever happens.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hirundo promised. Grus dismissed him after that. The king had come to know his general, and to know he could count on a promise of that sort.

And, indeed, Hirundo left for the Tuola and the province beyond it three days before an embassy from Thervingia reached the city of Avornis. At the head of the embassy was Zangrulf, serving Berto as he’d served Dagipert for so many years. He bowed low before King Grus in the throne room. “I gather you will have heard our sad news?” he said in his fluent but gutturally accented Avornan.

“Yes,” Grus replied. “Please pass on to King Berto my personal sympathies. I lost my own father a few years ago. It’s never easy.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Zangrulf bowed again. “That is… gracious of you. I am sure the king will appreciate it.” His tone sharpened. “I am sure he will appreciate it more than the sight of armed Avornans marching toward Thervingia.”

Grus shrugged. “They’re marching through Avornis, Your Excellency. They have no intention of starting any trouble between our two kingdoms. But at the start of a new reign, it’s hard to know what will happen next.”

“May I take your assurance back to King Berto?” Zangrulf asked.

“Certainly,” Grus answered. “Tell him that as long as you Thervings stay on your side of the border, we’ll stay on ours. I don’t want any trouble with Thervingia. I never have.”

“Really?” Zangrulf raised a sly eyebrow. “If it weren’t for Avornis’ trouble with Thervingia, you wouldn’t be king today.”

That was probably true. As a matter of fact, that was bound to be true. Even so, Grus only shrugged again. “I meant what I said, Your Excellency. It’s possible to buy some things too dearly. Didn’t King Dagipert finally realize that when he was fighting us?”

“Maybe,” the Therving ambassador said. “But maybe not, too.”

“By the gods, you’re not giving me any great secrets,” Grus exclaimed. “Dagipert’s dead. He won’t be attacking us again, come what may.”

“He was my master for many years,” Zangrulf said. “I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting him to give me some new order. It doesn’t happen. It won’t happen. I know that. Most of me knows that, anyhow. But there’s still that part… He was a strong king.”

“So he was.” Grus couldn’t disagree. No one who’d ever had to deal with Dagipert could have disagreed with that. Grus persisted, “But didn’t he finally figure out he couldn’t hope to beat us, no matter how strong he was?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Zangrulf said again. “I’m not going to say any more than that, Your Majesty. There’s still that part that thinks he may be listening. And if he is, he’s saying, ‘Whatever I thought is none of your business, Avornan.’ ”

Grus laughed. “Have it your way, then, Your Excellency. And would you say King Berto is as strong as King Dagipert was?”

“King Berto is as strong in prayer as King Dagipert was with the sword.” Zangrulf picked his words with obvious care.

“May the gods love him, then,” Grus said—as safe an answer as he could find. Zangrulf confirmed what Lanius had said about Dagipert’s son. Grus added, “May he bring peace, and may the gods love that, as well.”

“I hope it will be so. I think it will be so,” Zangrulf said. He didn’t say whether he thought that would be good. By his tone, he had his doubts. The Thervings were an iron-bellied folk, most of them. Would Berto be able to hold them to peace, even if that was what he intended? Grus shrugged—a shrug so small he could hope his robes hid it from Zangrulf.

“I will give gifts,” the king said. “Some to you, for bringing King Berto’s greetings, and some to him, in the hope of a long reign for him and peace between our two kingdoms.”

Zangrulf bowed. His eyes gleamed. He seemed no more immune to gifts than anyone else. Grus resolved to make them generous, in the hope of getting some use from the man. “Thank you very much, Your Majesty. Your openhandedness is famous throughout the world,” the Therving said.

That made Grus smile. He was no more openhanded than he had to be, and everyone who knew him knew as much. Maybe Zangrulf was wangling for fancier presents. If he was, he’d probably get them. Here, Grus could see he did have to be open-handed, and so he would be.