The Chernagor Pirates

CHAPTER SIX

“Coming back here to the capital?” Lanius asked Grus’ messenger. “Are you sure?” “Yes, Your Majesty.” The young man sounded offended Lanius should doubt him. “Didn’t he tell me with his own mouth? Didn’t he give me the letter you’re holding?”

Lanius hadn’t read the letter yet. He’d enjoyed being King of Avornis in something more than name for a little while—he’d discovered he could run the kingdom, something he’d never been sure of before. Now he would go back to being nothing in fancy robes and crown. Grasping at straws, he asked, “How soon will he return?”

“It’s in the letter, Your Majesty. Everything is in the letter,” the messenger replied. When Lanius gave no sign he wanted to open the letter, the fellow sighed and went on, “They should be back inside of a month—less than that if they don’t have to fight their way out.”

“Oh.” Lanius didn’t much want to read the letter—seeing Grus’ hand reminded him how much more power the other king held. Talking to the courier made him the stronger one. “How has the fighting gone?”

“We’re better than they are. One of us is worth more than one of them,” the messenger said. “But there are more of them than there are of us, and so…” He shrugged. “What can you do?” He didn’t seem downcast at pulling back from the land of the Chernagors. Did that mean Grus wasn’t, or did it only mean he’d done a good job of persuading his men he wasn’t? Lanius couldn’t tell.

Even after dismissing the messenger and reading his father-in-law’s letter, he still wasn’t sure. Grus presented the withdrawal as the only thing he could do, and as one step in what looked like a long struggle. The Banished One will not do with the Chernagors as he has done in the south, he wrote. Whatever we have to do to stop him, we will.

He wasn’t wrong about how important keeping the Banished One from dominating the land of the Chernagors was. Lanius saw that, too. But, when he read Grus’ letter, he wondered if his father-in-law was saying everything he had in mind. Was he leaving the north country to make sure Lanius didn’t decide he could rule Avornis all by himself? Again, Lanius couldn’t tell.

Would I throw Grus out of the palace if I had the chance? As usual, Lanius found himself torn. Part of him insisted that, as scion of a dynasty going back a dozen generations, he ought to rule as well as reign. That was his pride talking. But, now that he’d had a taste of running the kingdom day by day, he found he would sooner spend time with his animals and in the archives. If Grus wanted to handle things as they came up, wasn’t he welcome to the job?

All things considered, Lanius was inclined to answer yes to that. Another question also sprang to mind. If I try to get rid of Grus and fail, the way I likely would, won’t he kill me to make sure I don’t try it again? Lanius was inclined to answer to that, too. Maybe—probably—the present arrangement was best after all.

No sooner had he decided, yet again, to let things go on as they were going than another messenger came before him. This one thrust a letter at him, murmured, “I’m very sorry, Your Majesty,” and withdrew before Lanius could even ask him why he was sorry.

The king stared at the letter. It gave no obvious clues; he didn’t even recognize the seal that helped hold it closed or the hand that addressed it to him. Shrugging, he broke the seal, slid off the ribbon around the letter, unrolled it, and began to read.

It was, he discovered, from the abbess of a convent dedicated to preserving the memory of a holy woman who’d died several hundred years before. For a moment—for more than a moment—the convent’s name meant nothing to him. He couldn’t have said where in Avornis it lay, whether in the capital or over in the west near the border with Thervingia or in the middle of the fertile southern plains. Then, abrupt as stubbing a toe, he remembered. The convent stood in the middle of the swamps and bogs of the Maze, not far from the city of Avornis as the crow flies but a million miles away in terms of everything that mattered. It had held his mother ever since she’d tried and failed to slay Grus by sorcery.

No more. Queen Certhia was dead. That was what the letter said. The messenger must have known. That had to be why he’d said he was sorry. It had to be why he’d slipped away, too—he didn’t want Lanius blaming him for the news.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Lanius said aloud. But a messenger from out of the Maze, a messenger who didn’t know him, wouldn’t know about that, either.

He made himself finish the letter. The abbess said his mother’s passing had been easy. Of course, she likely would say that whether it was true or not. She added praise for Certhia’s piety. Never, she wrote, was your mother heard to complain of her fate.

Lanius’ mouth twisted when he read that. Anger? Grief? Laughter? He couldn’t tell. Some of all of them, he supposed. Maybe his mother hadn’t complained because she was grateful Grus hadn’t done to her what she’d tried to do to him. Lanius sighed. That might be noble, but it struck him as unlikely. From all he remembered, gratitude had never been a large part of Queen Certhia’s makeup. Odds were she hadn’t complained simply because she’d known it would do no good.

Her pyre was set ablaze this morning, the abbess wrote. What is your desire for her ashes? Shall they remain here, or would you rather bring them back to the city of Avornis for interment in the cathedral?

The king called for parchment and pen. Let her remains be returned to the capital, he wrote. She served Avornis as well as the gods, acting as Queen Regnant in the days of my youth. She will be remembered with all due ceremony.

“And if Grus doesn’t like it, too bad,” Lanius muttered. He hadn’t seen his mother for years. He’d known he was unlikely ever to see her again. He’d also known ambition burned more brightly in her than love ever had. Even so, as he stared down at the words he’d written, they suddenly seemed to run and smear before his eyes. He blinked. The tears that had blurred his sight ran down his face. He buried his head in his hands and wept as though his heart would break.

Even now that he was well back inside Avornis, King Grus kept looking back over his shoulder to make sure the Chernagors weren’t pursuing his army anymore. Beside him, General Hirundo whistled cheerfully.

“Can’t win ’em all, Your Majesty,” the general said. “We’ll have another go at those bushy-bearded bastards next spring, I expect.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Grus agreed. He took the defeat harder than Hirundo did. He knew more about the nature of the true foe they faced than did his general. Part of him wished Lanius had never told him who and what Milvago had been—part of him, indeed, wished Lanius had never found out. Fighting a god cast out of the heavens was bad enough. Fighting the onetime lord of the gods cast down from the heavens… No, he didn’t want his men knowing that was what they had to do.

Not far away, Prince Vsevolod rode along with slumped shoulders and lowered head. He’d doubtless hoped for better than he’d gotten when he called on the Avornans to help him hold on to his throne. But his ungrateful son, Prince Vasilko, still held Nishevatz. And Vasilko would go right on holding it at least until next spring.

Hirundo looked ahead, not behind. “We’ll be back to the city of Avornis in a couple of days,” he said.

Vsevolod muttered something his beard muffled. He wasn’t delighted about riding into exile, even if he was heading toward the greatest city in the world. Grus said, “Coming home is always good.” Vsevolod muttered again. He wasn’t coming home. He was going away from his, and had to fear he would never see it again.

With a grin, Hirundo said, “You’ll get a chance to see what the other king’s been up to, Your Majesty.”

“So I will.” Grus knew he sounded less gleeful at the prospect than Hirundo did. Lanius had done very well while he was gone—perhaps too well for comfort. If the other king was becoming a king… well, what could Grus do about it? Stay home and watch him all the time? He knew he couldn’t. The two of them could either clash or find a way of working together. Grus saw no other choices.

He looked around for Pterocles. There was the wizard, as hollow-eyed as he’d been since the sorcerer in Nishevatz struck him down for the second time. Grus waved to him. Pterocles nodded back and said, “Still here, Your Majesty—I think.”

“Good. I know you’re getting better.” Grus knew no such thing. Pterocles had shown less improvement than the king would have liked. Saying so, though, wouldn’t have made things any better. Grus wondered if he ought to have other wizards look Pterocles over when they got back to the city of Avornis. Then he wondered if that would help.

Pterocles was the best he had. Could some lesser wizard judge whether something was really wrong with him?

Too many things to worry about at the same time, Grus thought. All we’d need would be an invasion from the Menteshe to make everything perfect.

He glanced up to the heavens and muttered a quick prayer. He didn’t want the gods taking him seriously. The only question he had was whether they would pay any attention to him at all. “You’d better,” he murmured. If things went wrong down here on earth, the gods in the heavens might yet have to face their outraged sire. Grus wondered if they knew that. He also wondered how much help they could deliver even if they did.

Those were no thoughts to be having about gods he’d worshiped all his life. All the same, he would have been happier if he’d seen more in the way of real benefits from them. King Olor, if you happen to be listening, I could use a few blessings that aren’t in disguise. Grus laughed when that prayer crossed his mind. How many mortals couldn’t use a few blessings like that?

The men who followed the Banished One—the Menteshe, and presumably Prince Vasilko and his followers as well—knew what sort of rewards they got. Those who opposed him weren’t so sure. What they got wasn’t so obvious in this world. In the next, yes—provided the Banished One lost the struggle with his children and stayed banished. If he didn’t… Grus preferred not to think about that.

He had a lot of things he didn’t want to think about. By the time the army got back to the city of Avornis, those seemed to outnumber the things that were worth contemplating.

He’d sent messengers ahead. Lanius knew to the hour when he and the army would arrive. One more thing he’d wondered was whether he ought to do that. If Lanius had anything… unpleasant in mind, Grus was letting his fellow king know things that could be very useful to him. Grus didn’t think Lanius was plotting anything like that. His own spies back in the capital hadn’t warned him his son-in-law was hatching plots. Was Lanius clever enough to do some hatching without drawing their notice? Grus would have worried less if he hadn’t known how clever Lanius really was.

But no soldiers held the gates and walls of the city of Avornis against him. Lanius came out through the North Gate to greet him along with Sosia; with Prince Crex and Princess Pitta, their children; with Ortalis; with Estrilda; and with Arch-Hallow Anser. “Welcome home!” Lanius said.

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Grus replied, hoping his relief didn’t show. He would have worried more if Lanius had used his royal title in greeting him. He knew his fellow monarch didn’t think him a legitimate king. Had Lanius been plotting something, he might have tried buttering him up. This way, things were as they should be.

“Grandpa!” Crex and Pitta squealed. They ran toward Grus’ horse. He dismounted—something he was always glad to do—stooped, and squeezed them. That they were glad to see him made him feel he’d done something right with his life. Unlike adults, children gave you just what they thought you deserved.

A groom came forward to take charge of the horse. It was a docile beast, but Grus was still happy to see someone else dealing with it. Sosia and Anser greeted Grus only a couple of steps behind his grandchildren. “Good to have you home,” they said, almost in chorus, and both started to laugh. So did Grus. Neither his daughter nor his bastard boy seemed to have any reason to regret his return. And Sosia’s anger at his affair with Alca seemed to have faded, which was also good news.

“I wish things had gone better up in the Chernagor country,” Grus said. Lanius, hanging back, raised an eyebrow at that. Grus needed a moment to figure out why. A lot of Kings of Avornis, he supposed, would have proclaimed victories whether they’d won them or not. He saw no point to that. He knew what the truth was. So did the whole army. It would get out even if he did proclaim victory. If he did, the truth would make him look like a liar or a fool. This way, he would look like an honest man who’d lost a battle. He hoped that would serve him better.

Grus understood why Lanius hung back. His son-in-law had solid reasons not to care for him, and was a reserved—even a shy—young man. Ortalis hung back, too. Grus also understood that. His legitimate son had done plenty to displease him. He and Ortalis traded looks filled with venom.

And Estrilda also hung back. That hurt. Was his wife still steaming over Alca? He’d thought they’d patched that up. In fact, they had—but then he’d gone off to war. Maybe the patch had torn loose. Maybe she wasn’t angry about Alca, but suspected a Chernagor girl had warmed his bed while he was in the north. That hadn’t happened, not least because, again, he’d worried about the truth getting back to her. But, of course, she didn’t know it hadn’t happened.

Bang Grus sighed. Half my family likes me, the other half wishes I were still off fighting the Chernagors. It could be worse. But, by Olor and Quelea, it could be better, too.

He turned to Hirundo. Whether his family liked him or not, the kingdom’s business had to go on. “Send the men to the barracks,” he said. “Give them leave a brigade at a time. That way, they shouldn’t tear the city to pieces.”

“Here’s hoping,” Hirundo said. “If it looks like the ones who haven’t gotten leave are turning sour and nasty, I may speed things up.”

Grus nodded. “Do whatever you think best. The point of the exercise is to keep things as orderly as you can. They won’t be perfect. I don’t expect them to be. But I don’t want riots and looting, either.”

“I understand.” Hirundo called out orders to his officers.

“What of me, Your Majesty?” Prince Vsevolod asked. “You send me to barracks, too?”

“As soon as I can, I aim to send you back to Nishevatz, Your Highness.” Grus pretended not to hear the Chernagor’s bitterness. “In the meantime, you’ll stay in the palace as my guest.”

“And mine,” Lanius added. “I have many questions to ask you about the land of the Chernagors and about your customs.”

Grus had all he could do not to laugh out loud. By the look on Sosia’s face, so did she. Lanius had pet moncats. He had pet monkeys, too. (The Chernagors, Grus remembered, had brought those beasts here to the capital.) And now, at last, Lanius had his very own pet Chernagor.

“Your Majesty, what I know, I tell you.” Vsevolod sounded flattered that Lanius should be interested. Grus had to turn away so neither the prince nor his fellow king would see him smile. If Vsevolod made a promise like that, it only proved he didn’t know what he was getting into.

Prince Vsevolod looked discontented. King Lanius had never seen anyone whose face, all harsh planes and vertical lines and with that formidable prow of a nose, was better suited to looking discontented. “Questions, questions, questions!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “Am I prisoner, you should ask so many questions?”

“You told me you would tell me what you knew,” Lanius said.

“By gods, not all at once!” Vsevolod exploded.

“Oh.” By the way Lanius sounded, the Prince of Nishevatz might have just thrown a rock at his favorite moncat. “I am sorry, Your Highness. I want you to be happy here.”

Vsevolod nodded heavily. Lanius let out a small sigh of relief—he’d been right about that, anyhow. The exiled prince said, “How can I, cooped up in palace all time?”

“I am,” Lanius said in honest surprise. “What would you like to do?”

“Hunt,” Vsevolod said at once. “Hunt anything. Hunt boar, goose, even rabbit. You are hunter, Your Majesty?”

“Well… no,” Lanius replied. Vsevolod’s lip curled. Lanius said, “Arch-Hallow Anser is a keen hunter.” After another, longer, hesitation, he added, “Prince Ortalis also sometimes hunts.”

“Ah. Is good,” Vsevolod said, which only proved he didn’t know Ortalis well. “And I know King Grus is hunting man. Maybe here is not so bad. Maybe.”

“I hope you will be happy here,” Lanius said again. “Now, can you tell me a little more about the gods your people worshiped before you learned of King Olor and Queen Quelea and the rest of the true dwellers in the heavens?”

Vsevolod’s broad shoulders went up and down in a shrug. “I do not know. I do not care.” He heaved himself to his feet. “I have had too much of questions. I go look for hunt.” He lumbered away.

Lanius knew he’d angered the Prince of Nishevatz, but didn’t understand why. Vsevolod had said he would answer questions. The king went off to console himself with his monkeys. If they could have answered questions, he would have asked even more than he’d put to Vsevolod. As things were, he could only watch them cavort through their chamber. A fire always burned there, keeping the room at a temperature uncomfortably warm for him. The monkeys seemed to like it fine. The Chernagor who’d given them to Lanius had warned they couldn’t stand cold.

They stared at the king from the branches and poles that reached almost to the ceiling. Both male and female had white eyebrows and long white mustaches on otherwise black faces. They looked like plump little old men. Lanius eyed the female. He nodded to himself. She’d looked particularly plump these past couple of weeks. That Chernagor had said they would never breed in captivity, but maybe he was wrong.

Behind Lanius, the door opened. He turned in annoyance. But it wasn’t Bubulcus or any other servant he could blister with impunity. King Grus stood there. He made a point of closing the door quickly, giving Lanius no excuse to grumble even about that. “Hello, Your Majesty,” he said. “How are your creatures here?”

“I think the female’s pregnant,” Lanius answered.

Grus eyed her, then nodded. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right. You’d have fun with the babies, wouldn’t you?”

“Oh, yes, but it’s not just that,” Lanius said. “If an animal will breed for you, you know you’re treating it the way you should. From what the fellow who gave it to me said, the Chernagors can’t get monkeys to breed. I’d like to do something they can’t.”

With a judicious nod, Grus said, “Mm, yes, I can see that.” His right hand folded into a fist. “It’s not what I’d like to do to the Chernagors right now, but I can see it.” He chuckled. “I was pretty sure you’d question Vsevolod to pieces, you know. He just tried to talk me into going hunting. I sent him off to Anser. He has more time for it than I do.”

“I told Vsevolod I wanted to ask him things,” Lanius said. “Didn’t he believe me?”

“Nobody who’s never met you believes how many questions you can ask,” Grus said. “But that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got some questions of my own.”

“Go ahead.” Lanius realized Grus wouldn’t have come here to talk about monkeys. The other king did show some interest in Lanius’ beasts, but not enough for that. “What do you want to know?”

Grus let out a long sigh. “What about my son?”

Lanius had known this was coming. He hadn’t expected it so soon. “What about him?”

“Don’t play games with me.” Grus seldom showed Lanius how dangerous he could be. The impatient snap to that handful of words, though, warned of trouble ahead if he didn’t get a straight answer.

“Have you spoken with a serving girl named Cristata yet?” Lanius asked.

“Cristata? No.” Again, Grus sounded thoroughly grim. “What does she say? How bad is it this time?”

Lanius reached around to pat himself on the back of the shoulder. “I don’t think those scars will go away. I don’t know what other marks she has—this was what she showed me.”

“Oh,” Grus said, and then nothing more.

He was silent long enough, in fact, to make Lanius ask, “Is that all?”

“That’s all I’m going to say to you,” King Grus answered. But then he shook his head. “No. I have a question I think you can answer. Is this Cristata the same girl I heard about when I was up in the land of the Chernagors?”

“I… don’t know,” Lanius said carefully.

His father-in-law heard him speaking carefully, which he hadn’t intended. Frowning, Grus asked, “What do you think?”

“I think that, since I don’t know, I wouldn’t be doing anyone any good by guessing.”

By the way Grus cocked his head to one side, Lanius feared his real opinion was only too evident. But the older man didn’t press him on it. “Fair enough, Your Majesty. I daresay you’re right. The world would be a better place if people didn’t guess and gossip so much. It might be a duller place, but it would be better.” Again, he paused for so long, Lanius thought he’d finished. Again, Lanius proved wrong. Grus went on, “Never mind. One way or the other, I’ll find out.”

Lanius didn’t like the sound of that. He suspected he would have liked it even less if he were Ortalis.

King Grus turned to go. Over his shoulder, he said, “Have fun with your creatures. Believe me, they don’t cause nearly as much trouble as people do.” Before Lanius could answer that, Grus left the room.

With no one else there, Lanius naturally turned toward the monkeys, saying, “Do you think he’s right?” The monkeys didn’t answer. They certainly made less trouble than a human audience, which might have given Lanius some reply he didn’t want to hear. Laughing, the king went on, “I bet you wish you could make more trouble. You make plenty when you get the chance.”

Still no answer from the monkeys. Lanius took from his belt a small, slim knife. That got the animals’ attention. They chattered excitedly and swarmed down from the branches. One of them tugged at Lanius’ robe. They both held out beseeching little hands, as a human beggar might have.

He laughed. “Think I’ve got something, do you? Well… you’re right.” He had a couple of peeled hard-boiled eggs he’d brought from the kitchens. The monkeys loved eggs, and healers assured Lanius they were good for them. Healers assured Lanius of all sorts of things he found unlikely. He believed some and ignored others. Here, because the monkeys not only enjoyed the eggs but flourished on them, he chose to believe.

He cut a slice from an egg and gave it to the male, who stuffed it into his mouth. One ancient archival record spoke of teaching monkeys table manners. Lanius had trouble believing that, too. He gave the female some egg. She ate it even faster than the male—if she hesitated, he was liable to steal it from her. Lanius had tried withholding egg from him when he did that, but he didn’t understand. It just infuriated him.

Today, the monkeys seemed in the mood for affection. One of them wrapped its little hand around Lanius’ thumb as he scratched it behind the ears with his other hand. The expression on the monkey’s face looked very much like the one Lanius would have worn had someone done a nice job of scratching his back. He knew he shouldn’t read too much into a monkey’s grin. Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help it.

Prince Ortalis shuffled his feet. He stared down at the floor mosaic. He might have been a schoolboy who’d gotten caught pulling the wings off flies. Back when he was younger, he had been a schoolboy who’d gotten caught pulling the wings off flies. “Well?” Grus growled in disgust. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

“/don’t know,” Ortalis answered sullenly. “I don’t really want to do things like that. Sometimes I just can’t help it.”

Grus believed him. If he could have helped it, he wouldn’t have done—Grus hoped he wouldn’t have done—a lot of the things he undoubtedly had. But, while that explained, it didn’t justify. “I warned you what would happen if you ever did anything like this again,” Grus said heavily.

Ortalis only sneered at him. Grus feared he understood that all too well. He’d warned his legitimate son about a lot of things. He’d warned him, and then failed to follow through on the warnings. No wonder Ortalis didn’t believe he ever would.

“How am I supposed to get it through your thick, nasty head that I mean what I tell you?” Grus demanded. “I know one way, by the gods.”

“What’s that?” Ortalis was still sneering. He might as well have said, You can’t make me do anything.

He looked almost comically surprised when his father slapped him in the face. “This—and I should have done it a long time ago,” Grus said, breathing hard.

“You can’t do that,” Ortalis blurted in disbelief.

“Oh, yes, I can.” Grus slapped him again. “It’s not a hundredth part of what you did to those girls. How do you like getting it instead of giving it.”

Ortalis’ eyes went so wide, Grus could see white all around his irises. Then, cursing as foully as any river-galley sailor, Ortalis hurled himself at Grus. His churning fists thudded against his father’s ribs. “I’ll murder you, you stinking son of a whore!” he screamed.

“Go ahead and try.” Grus ducked a punch that would have flattened his nose. Ortalis’ fist connected with the top of his head. That hurt his son more than it did him. Ortalis howled. Grus hit him in the pit of the stomach. The howl cut off as Ortalis battled to breathe.

He kept fighting even after that. He had courage, of a sort. What he lacked was skill. Grus had learned to fight in a hard school. Ortalis, who’d had things much easier in his life, had never really learned at all. His father gave him a thorough, professional beating.

At last, Ortalis threw up his hands and wailed. “Enough, Father! In the names of the gods, enough! Please!”

Grus stood over him, breathing hard. The king’s fists stayed clenched. He willed them open. If you don’t stop now, you’ll beat him to death, he told himself. Part of him wanted to. Realizing that was what made him back away from his son.

“All right,” he said, his voice boulders in his throat. “All right. Get up.”

“I—I don’t think I can.”

“You can,” Grus ground out. “I know what I did to you. I know what I should have done to you, too—what you really deserved. And so do you.”

Ortalis didn’t try to argue with him. Keeping quiet was one of the smarter things his son had ever done. Had he denied what Grus said, Grus might have started hitting him again, and might not have been able to stop. Tears and blood and snot smeared across his face, Ortalis struggled upright.

“They—” The prince stopped. He might have started to say something like, They were just serving girls. Again, he was smart to keep quiet. That might have fired Grus’ fury, too. After a moment, Ortalis said, 1 m sorry.

That was better. It wasn’t enough, not even the bare beginnings of enough, but it was better. Grus said, “If you ever do anything like that again, you’ll get twice what I just gave you. Do you understand me, Ortalis? I’m not joking. You’d better not think I am.”

“I understand you.” Ortalis’ voice was mushy. His lip was swollen and cut and bleeding. He glared at Grus as well as he could; one eye was swollen shut, the other merely blacked. Grus stared stonily back. His hands ached. So did his ribs, on which Ortalis had connected several times. And so did the heart thudding under those ribs. His heart ached worst of all.

If he’d shown that, everything he’d done to Ortalis would have been wasted. Making his voice stay hard, he said, “Get out of my sight. And go wash yourself. You’ll want to stay out of everyone’s sight for a few days, believe me.”

Ortalis inhaled and opened his mouth. Once more, though, nothing came out. He might have started to say, I’ll tell people my father beats me. Again, that would have been the wrong thing to throw at the king. Again, he realized it and kept quiet. Left hand clutched to his sore ribs, Grus’ son and heir turned away from him and made his slow, painful way out the door.

Servants chattered among themselves. Their gossip, though, took a while to drift up through clerks and scribes and noblemen and finally to King Lanius’ ears. By the time Lanius heard Grus and Ortalis had had a falling-out, most of the evidence was gone from Ortalis’ person. A black eye fades slowly, but a black eye could also have happened in any number of ways. Lanius asked no questions. Ortalis volunteered nothing.

Lanius thought about asking Grus what had happened. His father-in-law, though, did not seem approachable—which was, if anything, an understatement. Lanius resigned himself to never knowing what had gone on.

Then one day he got word that Cristata wanted to see him. He didn’t mind seeing her at all, though he carefully didn’t wonder about what Sosia would have thought of that sentiment. After curtsying before him, Cristata said, “The gods have blessed Avornis with two fine kings.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Lanius answered. Would I be happier if the gods had blessed Avornis with only one. fine king? For the life of me, I don’t know. He made himself stop woolgathering. “Do you care to tell me why?”

“Because you told King Grus about what happened to me, and he went and made his own son sorry he did what he did—and then he gave me gold, too,” the maidservant answered.

“Did he?” Lanius said. Grus hadn’t said a word about doing any such thing.

But Cristata nodded. “He sure did. It’s more money than I ever had before. It’s almost enough to make me a taxp—” She broke off.

Almost enough to make me a taxpayer. She hadn’t wanted to say anything like that to someone who was interested in collecting taxes and making sure other people paid them. Most of the time, she would have been smart not to say anything like that. Today, though, Lanius smiled and answered, “I’ll never tell.”

Did he feel so friendly to her just because she was a pretty girl? Or was he also trying to show her not everyone in the royal family would behave the way Ortalis had, even if he chanced to get her alone? What I’d like to do if I chanced to get her alone… He shook his head. Stop that.

“King Grus even said he was sorry.” Cristata’s eyes got big and round. “Can you imagine? A king saying he was sorry? To met And he was so friendly all the time we were talking.”

What would Queen Estrilda say if she heard that? Would she wonder whether Grus had shown his… friendliness in ways that had nothing to do with talking? Lanius knew he did.

Oblivious to the questions she’d spawned, Cristata went on, “He’s going to see if he can send me to the kitchens. There’s room to move up there; it’s not like laundry or sweeping.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would be.” Lanius’ voice was vague. He couldn’t have said which branches of palace service offered the chance to get ahead and which were dead ends. Grus knew. He knew—and he acted.

Why don’t I know things like that? Lanius wondered after Cristata curtsied again and left the little audience chamber where they’d been talking. Not even the sight of her pertly swinging backside as she left was enough to make him stop worrying at the question. Up until now, knowing things like that had never seemed important the way the reign of, say, King Alcedo—who’d sat on the throne when the Scepter of Mercy was lost—had.

Cristata knew the kitchens, and laundry and sweeping. Lanius would have fainted to learn she’d ever heard of King Alcedo. But Lanius was as ignorant of the world of service as Cristata was of history. Grus knew some of both—less history than Lanius, but also more of service. Lanius wished he had a manual to learn more of that other world.

There was no such manual. He knew that perfectly well. He knew of every book written in Avornis since long before Alcedo’s day. He hadn’t read them all, or even most of them, but he knew of them.

“I could write it myself,” he said thoughtfully. It wouldn’t be useful just for him; Crex and all the Kings of Avornis who came after him might find it interesting. First, though, he’d have to learn quite a bit he didn’t know yet. And if he needed to summon Cristata now and again to answer questions—well, it was all in the cause of advancing knowledge. Even Sosia would—might—have a hard time complaining.