The Bastard King

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“Something’s wrong,” Sosia said in the quiet of the royal bedchamber.

“Wrong? Where?” The last time she’d said that, it had alarmed Lanius. This time, it only puzzled him. “Everything seems quiet to me. Thervingia’s peaceful. The Chernagors are squabbling amongst themselves instead of with us. We taught the Menteshe a lesson—I hope we did, anyhow. The moncats are healthy. Even the monkeys are doing well. What could be wrong?”

His wife sent him an exasperated look. “There are times when I wish you paid less attention to your beasts and more to the people around you. Something’s wrong with Father.”

“Oh.” For various reasons he found good, Lanius paid as little attention to Grus as he could get away with. Sometimes, of course, that was like trying not to pay attention to a natural calamity. A couple of heartbeats later than he should have, Lanius realized he needed to ask, “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Sosia answered. “That’s part of what worries me. Haven’t you noticed how he has his mind on something lately, something that doesn’t let him pay attention to things right under his nose?”

“I’m like that all the time,” Lanius said.

“Yes, I know.” Sosia’s tone was quietly devastating. She went on, “But Father isn’t. Or he never used to be. If he is now, all of a sudden, it must be because something isn’t the way it ought to be.”

“Why don’t you ask him what it is?”

Sosia’s expression got more exasperated than ever. “Don’t you think I have? He just looked at me and said, ‘Nothing.’ But it isn’t nothing. If it were nothing, he wouldn’t act the way he’s acting.”

“Maybe he’d tell me if I asked him,” Lanius said.

“Maybe he would,” Sosia said. “You’re a man. Maybe that makes a difference. Would you try, please?”

“All right, when I find the chance.” Lanius wondered what he was getting himself into. “The time has to be right. I can’t just ask him out of the blue, or he won’t tell me anything. I wouldn’t tell anybody anything if I got asked out of the blue.”

“All right.” Sosia didn’t complain, which proved how worried she was.

Finding the right time to ask his father-in-law personal questions proved harder than he’d expected. The moment did finally come, though. King Grus was complaining that Evren’s Menteshe had done more damage down in the south than he’d thought they would when their invasion started. “Unfortunate,” Lanius agreed.

“Worse than unfortunate,” Grus said. “Between this and all the losses we had from the civil war and from the Thervings, I just hope the harvest is decent next year. If it’s bad, we could see trouble.”

“Is that what’s been bothering you lately?” Lanius asked, as casually as he could. “Worry about the harvest, I mean?”

Grus gave him a stare as opaque as stone. “Nothing has been bothering me lately,” he said tonelessly.

Up until then, Lanius hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary with Grus. That stare and that unconvincing denial, though, were far out of character—so far out of character, Grus would be bound to prickle up if Lanius called him on it. Instead, Lanius said, “Well, Sosia’s been worried that you aren’t quite yourself.”

“Who else would I be?” Grus’ laugh also sounded wrong.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Lanius answered. “I’m only telling you what she told me. Women are funny creatures sometimes.” He did his best to sound like the man of the world he wasn’t.

The effort fell flat. Grus nodded soberly and said, “That they are. You can’t live with ’em, and you can’t live without ’em.” And he told nothing more of whatever was on his mind. A couple of further questions only brought out stares that made the first one seem warm and friendly by comparison. Lanius didn’t need long to give up.

That evening, he told Sosia what little her father had said. “Men!” she said, as though writing off half the human race with one scornful word.

“I found out more than you did,” Lanius said defensively.

“But you didn’t find out enough,” Sosia replied.

“Well, if you want to know more, you can ask him yourself,” Lanius said. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me. Or—” He broke off.

“Or what?” his wife asked.

“Or how he didn’t want to talk,” Lanius answered. That wasn’t what he’d started to say, or anything close to it. But, suddenly, he doubted he ought to suggest that she ask Alca.

“Grus?” Estrilda’s voice was soft but determined. “There’s something we need to talk about, Grus.”

This is what being wounded feels like, Grus thought. It’s been a long time, but I remember. First the shock, then, after a little while, the pain. As a man sometimes will, he vowed not to show the pain no matter how much it hurt—and no matter how much more it was likely to hurt soon. Nodding to Estrilda, he asked, “What is it?” Here it comes. Oh, yes, here it comes.

And then she said, “We ought to find Ortalis a wife. High time he was married. Past time he was married, in fact. If he doesn’t get a wife before too long, people will… will start to wonder if something’s wrong with him.”

More than once in the fighting against the Menteshe, arrows had hissed past Grus’ head, arrows that would have been deadly if they’d struck home. He’d been in the heat of battle then. He hadn’t had time to know relief. He did now. Almost giddy with it, he answered, “You’re right, dear. We ought to see what we can do.”

This isn’t escape. This is only a reprieve. It may not even be a long one. She could find out tomorrow. Olor’s beard, she could find out this afternoon. She’s bound to find out before too long. So Grus told himself. He still felt as though he’d drunk three cups of strong wine, one right after another.

“We should have started in on this a long time ago,” Estrilda said. “It may not be easy, even though you’re the king.”

Even though you’re the king, plenty of fathers may not want to take the chance of marrying any daughter of theirs to your son. That was what she meant. Conversations about Ortalis were always full of things left out, things not spoken, blunt truths turned into euphemisms. Grus wished it were otherwise.

“It’s… better since he took up hunting,” he said. Ortalis was flesh of his flesh, too, and he too talked around his son’s troubles.

“Some,” Estrilda said. “Have you noticed, though, that he doesn’t hunt with Anser anymore? I don’t know why, but he doesn’t. And there’s nothing wrong with Anser… now.” She couldn’t resist tucking on that last word. Grus heard another arrow buzzing by him. Estrilda couldn’t help liking Anser. Hardly anyone could help liking him. But she couldn’t help remembering he was Grus’ bastard, either.

How bad will it be when she finds out about Alca ? No sooner had Grus asked himself the question than he decided he didn’t want to know the answer. He might, he probably would, find out whether he wanted to or not, but not right now. Back to Ortalis, then. “Have you got anyone particular in mind?”

“Doesn’t Marshal Lepturus have a granddaughter who’d be about the right age? That would be a good connection for our family.”

“I think he does, yes,” Grus answered. “Shall I ask him?”

His wife flashed him an annoyed look. “I wouldn’t have mentioned the girl if I didn’t want you to, now would I?”

“No, dear,” Grus said dutifully.

When he asked Lepturus to dine with him, he made it a private invitation, only the two of them. If Lepturus had some things to say, Grus wanted them to be for his ears alone. The head of the royal bodyguards put him in mind of an old bear—slower than he had been, sometimes almost shambling, but still able to break a man’s neck with one swipe of his paw.

They ate. The chef outdid himself with quail stuffed with crayfish gathered from the river outside the city of Avornis. The honey-glazed torte filled with candied fruit that followed the main course was every bit as magnificent in its own way. Grus made sure the wine flowed freely.

Lepturus emptied his goblet—not for the first time—then set it down. “Well, Your Majesty, if I were a pretty girl, you’d have seduced me by now,” he rumbled. “But I’m no girl, and I never was pretty. So tell me, what’s on your mind?”

Grus told him. Lepturus listened carefully. After the king was done, Lepturus refilled his goblet himself. He sipped. He said not a word. At last, Grus had to ask, “Well?”

“You do me a great honor, Your Majesty, me and my family,” Lepturus said. He sipped again. He said not another word.

“Well?” Grus asked again when the silence stretched unbearably tight.

“Well, Your Majesty, as I say, it’s a great honor, and mighty generous of you,” Lepturus said, and then fell silent once more.

“What else do you have to say about it?” Grus asked.

“Well, Your Majesty…” Lepturus punctuated that by draining the goblet yet again. He sighed, then resumed, “Well, Your Majesty, it’s a great honor, like I say. It’s a great honor, but I’m going to have to turn you down.”

Now that Grus had an answer, he wished he didn’t. “Why?” he barked.

“Why?” Lepturus echoed, as though he’d never heard the word before. He hesitated, perhaps looking for some polite way to say what he thought needed saying. He must not have found one, for when he went on he was as blunt as before. “It’s like this, Your Majesty. My granddaughter’s a sweet girl, and—”

“And what?” Grus broke in. “Don’t you think she’d be happy with Ortalis?”

“I don’t even think she’d be safe with Ortalis,” Lepturus said. “Some of the things I’ve heard about him…” He shook his big, heavy-featured head.

“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Grus said quickly.

“I don’t. I don’t believe half of it, or even a quarter. What’s left is plenty. I want to keep Sponsa happy, and I want to keep her healthy. So thank you very much, Your Majesty, but no thank you.”

Whatever Grus had expected, he hadn’t expected Lepturus to turn him down flat. He didn’t even argue when the guards commander heaved himself to his feet and limped out of the little chamber where they’d dined. He didn’t leave himself, not right away. He stayed and got very drunk.

He still remembered everything the next morning. He tried to use more wine to deal with his headache. It didn’t work very well. “He said no,” he told Estrilda. “Said he didn’t want Ortalis marrying her.”

His wife’s lips thinned. “What are you going to do about that?”

“I don’t know,” Grus answered, which was itself a confession of sorts. If I had a marriageable daughter, would I want her wedding Ortalis? He knew the answer to the question. He knew, but he didn’t want to admit it even to himself.

“You need to do something ,” Estrilda said.

“I know,” he said.

He summoned Lepturus again the next morning. The guards commander nodded to him. “You decided you’re going to take my head because I don’t want Sponsa marrying your son?” He sounded more curious than afraid.

“Well, that’s up to you,” Grus said.

“I’m not going to change my mind, if that’s what you want. Do what you want to me, but leave my granddaughter alone.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Grus told him. “How would you like to go into retirement in the Maze?”

“And if I say no, I get the other?” Lepturus tapped a finger against the back of his neck.

“I’m afraid so,” Grus said. “I have to do something, you know. You’ve insulted me and my family. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

“I’ve got nothing in particular against you, Your Majesty,” Lepturus said. “You’ve turned out pretty well—better than I expected, to tell you the truth. But that son of yours…” He shook his head. “Anything I say’ll just get me in deeper, so I’ll shut up now.”

“Yes, it probably will,” Grus said, though he doubted whether Lepturus could say anything worse about Ortalis than he’d thought himself. He held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t shut up yet. You are retiring?”

“Oh, yes. I’ll do that, if you’ll let me. And I thank you for it. I wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye to the whole world just yet.”

“All right. We’ll make the announcement in a day or two, then.”

Lepturus nodded and ambled out. He and Grus might have been talking about crops and taxes, not about the choice between exile and execution. Lepturus understands how the game is played, Grus thought with relief. Now I just have to hope Estrilda thinks it’s enough.

King Lanius knew about the royal we. He knew about it, but he could never remember using it before. He’d never found a time when he seemed to need it. He did now. Giving Grus his iciest stare, he said, “We are not pleased with you.”

“No?” To Lanius’ endless frustration, Grus had a thick skin, and a slick one, too. Insult slid off him; it hardly ever pierced. Now he only shrugged and said, “Sorry to hear that, Your Majesty.”

“How dare you exile Lepturus?” Lanius snarled, letting out the fury he couldn’t hold anymore.

“How dare I?” Grus shrugged again. “That’s pretty simple— it was either send him to the Maze or kill him. I’m glad I didn’t have to do that.”

“Why would you even want to?” Lanius asked. “He’s guarded me my whole life.”

“I know,” Grus said patiently. “I’m not happy about it, but he insulted me. It wasn’t something I could smile and ignore, either.”

“What did he do?” Lanius couldn’t imagine Lepturus offending the other king.

But Grus answered, “I offered him a match between Ortalis and his granddaughter, Sponsa. He said no. If that’s not an insult, what is?”

Good for him, was the first thing that crossed Lanius’ mind.

He realized he couldn’t very well say that to Ortalis’ father. What he said instead was, “Oh.” He didn’t see how “Oh” could get him into trouble.

And it didn’t. Grus nodded and said, “That’s right. I can’t ignore insults, you know.”

“No, I suppose not,” Lanius said unhappily.

“Lepturus thought I would take his head.” Grus sounded proud of his restraint.

Maybe he even had reason to. All the same, Lanius thought, He was willing to die to keep his granddaughter from marrying Ortalis. Doesn’t that tell you something about your son? He didn’t see how he could say that to Grus, either. What he did say was, “I trusted Lepturus to keep me safe. He did the job for my father, and he always did it for me. Who will take his place?”

“We can talk about that later, Your Majesty,” Grus answered. “It’s not something we have to worry about right away. You are safe here in the palace, eh?”

Reluctantly, Lanius nodded. The one thing Lepturus would have done—would have tried to do—was protect him from Grus himself. But that, he had to admit, was a form of protection he didn’t need. Grus could have had his head at any time since proclaiming himself king. He’d never shown any interest in taking it.

“I didn’t want to do this, Your Majesty,” Grus went on. “I didn’t ask Lepturus to supper with me intending to send him to the Maze. He hasn’t gone yet—you can ask him yourself about that. I asked him intending to make him my daughter-in-law’s grandfather. But when he said no…” He shrugged.

Even more reluctantly, Lanius nodded again. Grus was doing what he could to solve the problem of Ortalis. He just didn’t quite realize how bad a problem he had. Lanius could have told him, but he’d made a bargain with Anser and Ortalis, and Ortalis hadn’t actually done what he’d talked about doing. Lanius hoped he hadn’t, anyhow.

“So that’s how it was,” Grus said.

“Oh,” Lanius said once more. It still seemed safe. He turned away. Grus let him go. As usual, Grus could have done much worse than he had. As usual, that was small consolation for Lanius. He wished no one else were running Avornis. Having someone relatively mild doing the job was better than having a frightful tyrant doing it, but that wasn’t the point.

He doubted Grus would have agreed with him.

As he often did when things went wrong, he shut himself away in the archives. No one would bother him there—or, at least, no one ever had. He wondered what would happen if he disappeared in this part of the palace. How long would it be before anyone came looking for him? Who except for Sosia and his children would even notice he was missing?

For a while, he simply hid there, opening crates of records at random to have something to read under the dusty skylights. Then he began to search more systematically, for he grew curious about what the archives had to say about monkeys. To his disappointment, the answer seemed to be, not much.

But, even though he didn’t find what he was looking for that day, the search was enough to calm him down, to ease the fear that had knifed through him when he heard of Lepturus’ exile. Life could go on. Life could even go on for Lepturus, if not in the way Lanius would have wanted.

And life could go on for Sponsa. One day, she might marry someone who suited her. She probably had no idea how lucky she was. She wouldn’t have to find out, either. Maybe that made her the luckiest one of all.

Sleet coated everything outside with ice. The sky was gray as granite. Grus’ mood matched the weather. He’d tried to arrange another match for Ortalis. This time, he’d thought he would try subtlety, hinting to the father of the prospective bride instead of coming right out and asking for her hand. That way, he could get some idea of how the noble felt without putting either one of them on the spot.

He hadn’t been subtle enough. Before he could get around to asking the question that needed asking, the noble and his whole family had packed up and left—fled—for the countryside. Grus couldn’t very well ask him if he wasn’t in the city of Avornis to ask. If he wasn’t there to ask, he didn’t have to say no, either.

In his bedchamber, Grus drummed his fingers on a bedside table. “I ought to send a letter after him,” he growled. “Then he’d have to give me a yes or a no.”

“I wouldn’t,” Estrilda said, “not unless he’s someone you really want to get rid of.”

She was right. Grus knew as much. That did nothing to improve his temper. “By the gods, the King of Avornis shouldn’t have this much trouble finding a wife for his only son.”

“Only legitimate son,” Estrilda murmured.

“Only legitimate son.” Grus accepted the correction. Throwing his hands in the air, he cried, “Is Ortalis that much of a monster?”

Estrilda didn’t answer.

Grus felt the silence stretch. He stared at her. “Is he?” he demanded. “He’s not that bad, and he’s been getting better.”

“Yes, he has been,” Estrilda said. “But better isn’t the same as good. The stories about what he did with—to—those serving women haven’t gotten any smaller in the telling.”

“That was a while ago now, and I think I put the fear of Olor’s judgment in him—or if not of Olor’s, then at least of mine,” Grus said. “He hasn’t done anything outrageous for a long time.” He didn’t like listening to his own words. He sounded like someone trying to make a bad case sound good.

“Not so very long ago, he had an argument—a loud argument—with Anser,” his wife said. “It was something to do with hunting, and I suppose it was why they stopped going out together. That’s all I know. Nobody who knows any more than that seems to want to talk about it.”

“I wonder who could tell me,” Grus said.

“Either of your sons could,” Estrilda said, a small taste of vinegar in her voice.

Grus clicked his tongue between his teeth. “I’m not going to ask Ortalis.” He’d just passed judgment on the prince, but he didn’t realize it. Thoughtfully, he went on, “Maybe Anser would talk.”

“Maybe he would.” Estrilda had trouble keeping that same sour edge to her tone. Yes, everyone liked her husband’s bastard boy.

“I think I’ll find out,” Grus said.

But when he paid a call on the arch-hallow a couple of days later, Anser only shrugged and said, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

“I don’t believe you,” Grus said bluntly.

“That’s… too bad, isn’t it?” his by-blow said. “I don’t know what else to tell you.” He looked nervous, as though he expected Grus to call for the torturer. And, had he not been flesh of Grus’ flesh, the king would have been tempted.

Instead, Grus snapped, “You’re not doing anyone a favor by keeping silent.” Anser only shrugged—silently. Thwarted, Grus muttered something he never would have said in the presence of any other Arch-Hallow of Avornis. Grus stalked away.

He was still steaming when he returned to the royal palace. Had he run into Ortalis, it might have gone hard for his legitimate son. He didn’t, though—he ran into Alca.

He brightened at once. “By the gods, I’m glad to see you!” he said.

“Are you, Your Majesty?” The witch seemed not at all sure she was glad to see him.

“Yes, I am. Can you use your wizardry to figure out what was said in an argument between Ortalis and Anser a while ago?”

“How long is a while?” Alca asked.

“I’m not sure, not to the minute,” Grus answered. “Weeks, months—something like that. When we were down in the south.”

Alca shook her head. “I’m sorry, but wizardry won’t do. What you need is a miracle. The gods give those. You might get one from the Banished One. From me?” She shook her head again. “No.”

“A pestilence,” Grus said. “I really need to know.” He explained why, finishing, “Whatever this is, it’s keeping people from wanting to marry their daughters to Ortalis.” It probably wasn’t the only thing keeping them from wanting to marry their daughters to Ortalis, but Grus preferred not to dwell on that.

Alca’s eyebrows came down and together as she thought. “I can’t bring back the argument itself, Your Majesty. Maybe I could make your son remember it. Would that do?”

“It might,” Grus answered. “Could you make sure he didn’t remember remembering it?”

“I think so,” the witch said.

“Could you do it here and now, or would you need fancy preparations?”

“Here and now—somewhere off in a quiet room, anyhow— would do. It’s not that complicated.”

“All right, then. I really need to find out.” Grus shouted for the servants. He pointed to several of them in turn. “Bring me Prince Ortalis. If he’s in the palace, I want him here as fast as he can get here. Understand me?”

By the way they dashed off, they did. Alca ducked into a chamber close by. Ortalis came up to Grus only moments after the witch left the corridor. “What do you want?” Grus’ son asked, adding, “I didn’t do anything.”

Not lately, anyhow, the king thought. “I want to talk with you,” he answered, and pointed to the room into which Alca had just gone. “Let’s do it in there.”

“What do you think I’ve done now?” Ortalis asked. “You always think I’ve done something, and I haven’t, not this time. Not lately. I really haven’t.” He sounded as though he meant it.

“Well, then, everything’s fine, isn’t it?” Grus said smoothly. “Come on. You’ll see.”

Ortalis didn’t look happy, but he didn’t argue anymore, either. To Grus, that proved his son didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. Ortalis barely had time to notice Alca and start to turn toward her before the witch said, “Hold, Ortalis son of Grus son of Crex!” And Ortalis did hold—his feet might suddenly have frozen to the floor.

His expression froze, too. Grus didn’t like that reproachful stare. He was glad his son wouldn’t remember this. “May I ask him questions?” he said in a low voice.

“Go ahead,” Alca told him. “He will answer truthfully, and he will forget he’s done it.”

“Thank you.” Grus turned to Ortalis. “Do you hear me?”

“I hear you.” Ortalis’ voice was soft and dull.

“All right, then. What was your quarrel with Anser about?”

“Which quarrel with Anser?”

After some thought, Grus said, “The bad one. The one you don’t want anybody to know about.”

When the Prince was done, Grus knew much more than he wished he did. Quietly, Alca asked, “And did you truly mean this, or were you only joking?”

Even with the magic driving him, Ortalis was a long time silent. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “It would have been fun, but”—a shrug—“people don’t seem to like that kind of thing.”

“‘People don’t seem to like that kind of thing,’” Grus echoed bitterly. “Well, at least he’s noticed. Maybe that’s something. Maybe.” He gestured to Alca. “Wake him up. He’s given me what I wanted to find out.”

The witch murmured a charm. She slipped out of the room through a back door before Ortalis stirred, blinked, and nodded to his father. “Well, what do you want to talk about?” he asked.

“Never mind, Son,” Grus answered with a sigh. “It’s not important.”

“See? I told you. I didn’t do anything.” Ortalis swaggered to the front door and out.

As soon as that front door closed, Alca returned. “Well?” she asked.

“Well,” Grus said, “I don’t suppose he has to get married right away.”

The mustachioed monkeys looked out through the window at the swirling snow. A carefully screened fireplace kept their room warm. They didn’t know what the bad weather meant. It interested them just the same. Their black eyes swung to Lanius, as though asking what he had to do with it. “Sorry,” he told them. “I can’t make it go away.” By their expressions—so much more humanlike than those of the moncats—they didn’t believe him. He was in charge of their food and water. Why wasn’t he in charge of the weather as well?

“I wish I could change it,” he said. “Believe me, I would.” They didn’t believe him. He could tell. One of them turned its back, almost as though it were an affronted courtier. They both retreated closer to the fire. Remembering the warning from the Chernagor who’d given them to him, Lanius hoped he could bring them safely through the cold season of the year.

A knock on the door made the monkeys’ ears twitch. “What is it?” Lanius called. Servants had stopped charging into the rooms where his animals lived. He’d persuaded them he was deadly serious about that. Grus might rule Avornis, but in these few chambers, at least, Lanius was king in fact as well as name.

“Come quick, Your Majesty!” That was Bubulcus’ voice. If he’d learned his lesson, then surely they all had.

Lanius didn’t feel like leaving. “What is it?” he repeated.

“Come quick!” Bubulcus said again—that and no more.

Muttering under his breath, Lanius left the monkeys. The hallway outside was noticeably chillier than their room. His voice was also chilly as he repeated himself once more. “What is it? And why didn’t you tell me what it was the first time I asked you?”

“Why? On account of I didn’t want to yell it all over everywhere, is why.” As usual, Bubulcus was full of invincible self-righteousness. But before Lanius could lose his temper, the servant went on, “Prince Ortalis and Her Majesty the Queen— the queen your wife, I mean, not the queen your mother-in-law—are having a demon of a row. If you can help fix it—”

“Oh, by the gods!” Lanius set off at a dead run. Ortalis hadn’t fought with Sosia for a while now, but Ortalis in a temper was dangerous to everyone around him. Of that King Lanius had no doubt at all.

Sosia and her brother were shouting at each other when Lanius hurried into the chamber to which their racket had drawn him. Bubulcus prudently stayed several paces behind the king. To Lanius’ relief, it was just shouting; Ortalis didn’t seem to have struck out with open hand or fist. “What’s going on here?” Lanius demanded.

Grus’ son rounded on him. “Maybe she’s not the liar after all,” he said. “Maybe you are.”

“And maybe you’re a gods-cursed idiot,” Lanius snapped. Ortalis’ jaw dropped; Lanius was not in the habit of matching his rudeness. The king continued, “You’re certainly acting like one. What is all this senseless commotion about?”

“Somebody blabbed,” Ortalis said sullenly. “Somebody told Father what everybody promised nobody would say.”

“I keep telling you, I didn’t,” Sosia said.

“Neither did I,” Lanius said. “That leaves Anser.”

“He says he didn’t, either.” Ortalis’ eyes flashed furiously.

“But somebody did, because Father sure knows now. I can tell. He’s been giving me these looks, and these little lectures, and I can’t stand it anymore. He hardly even knows he’s doing it, but he is, and I’m about ready to pop.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Sosia said.

“I gave my oath I wouldn’t, as long as you kept your side of the bargain,” Lanius said, and then, “Have you kept it?”

“Yes!” Ortalis said—all but howled. “I’ve kept my mouth shut, and I haven’t done—anything. But Father found out. I don’t know how. Somebody must have told him. And it had to be one of you three.” He glared at Lanius, then at Sosia. Had Anser been there, he would have glared at him, too.

“We didn’t,” Lanius said, pointing first to himself, then to his wife. “And if Anser says he didn’t, too, then he probably didn’t. He wouldn’t lie about something like that.”

“Somebody did,” Ortalis repeated. “Somebody must have.”

“Maybe he found out by magic,” Lanius suggested. “He could have done that all by himself.”

Some—a little—of the rage faded from Ortalis’ eyes. “Maybe,” he said grudgingly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe it’s true. I can try to find out, anyway.” Some of the tightness and stiffness seeped from his spine. He no longer seemed on the point of throwing himself at his sister—or at Lanius. In fact, he gave Lanius a nod that seemed almost friendly. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Lanius answered, but he was talking to Ortalis’ back.

“I haven’t seen him have a spell like that for a long time,” Sosia said once the door had closed behind Grus’ son.

“I wouldn’t be sorry never to see another one,” Lanius said. “You can’t tell what he’s going to do when he’s in a temper.” To him, nothing was more damning than lack of predictability.

“If I were Father, I’d try to arrange it so that Ortalis didn’t find out about any magic he worked,” Sosia said.

“If I were your father, I wouldn’t have let Ortalis know I knew anything out of the ordinary,” Lanius replied. Then he shrugged. “Something like that, though… If you know, how can you help showing you know?”

“I wish we didn’t know.” Sosia grimaced. “I wish there weren’t anything to know. I wish—I wish Ortalis were just like everybody else.”

“Too much to hope for,” Lanius said.

“He has been better,” Sosia said. Lanius nodded, for that was true. She went on, “Even here, he didn’t lose all of his temper. And he calmed down when you gave him an explanation he hadn’t thought of.” Lanius nodded again. His wife sounded like a woman lavishing praise on a poor child that finally stammered out “Mama” at six or seven. He started to say as much, but then noticed Sosia’s eyes were bright with tears.

He kept quiet.

Crex came in a few minutes later. Pitta pattered after him. He was tossing a leather ball stuffed with feathers up into the air and catching it—or, more often, dropping it. When he did, Pitta would grab it. Crex got it back and threw it in Lanius’ direction. The king reached for it but missed. Before Crex could run after it and pick it up, Sosia grabbed him and gave him a fierce hug. She didn’t seem to want to let him go.

“Put me down!” the little boy squawked.

“In a little while,” Sosia told him.

“Now!” Crex said.

Sosia gave him a last squeeze. He twisted free, got the ball away from Pitta, and threw it to his father. Lanius missed it again. The king laughed anyway. Sosia hugged Pitta. Lanius tickled Crex as he went by. Crex squealed. Lanius laughed louder.