The Chernagor Pirates

CHAPTER NINE

The ocean was an unfamiliar world for Grus. Up until now, he’d been out upon it only a handful of times. If his river galley and the rest of the fleet sailed much farther, they would go out of sight of land. Avornan coastal traders never did anything like that. Even now, with the horizon still reassuringly jagged off to the west, he worried about making his way back to the mainland.

He worried about it, yes, but he went on, even though he increasingly had the feeling of being a bug on a plate, just waiting for someone to squash him. He didn’t see that he had much choice. To the Chernagors, the open ocean wasn’t a wasteland, a danger. It was a highway. They’d come all this way from their own country to Avornis to prey on his kingdom. He couldn’t sail back to theirs, not from here. His ships couldn’t carry enough supplies for their rowers or spread enough sail to do without those rowers. He didn’t want to think about how they would handle in a bad storm, either.

But he could—he hoped he could—convince the pirates that they couldn’t harry his coasts without paying a higher price than they wanted. As far as he knew, his men had cleared them out of all the river valleys where they’d landed. But their ships weren’t like his. They could linger offshore for a long time—exactly how long he wasn’t sure—and strike as they pleased. They could… if he didn’t persuade them that was a bad idea.

Tall and proud, the Chernagors’ ships bobbed in line ahead, not far out of bowshot. The wind had died to a light breeze, which made the river galleys more agile than the vessels from out of the north. The Chernagors wouldn’t be easy meat, though, not when their ships were crammed with fighting men. If a ramming attempt went wrong, the pirates could swarm aboard a galley and make it pay. They’d proved that in earlier fights.

Hirundo checked his sword’s edge with his thumb. He nodded to Grus. “Well, Your Majesty,” he said, “This ought to be interesting.” The river galley slid down into a trough. He jerked his hand away from the blade. He’d already cut himself once in a sudden lurch.

At the bow, the chief of the catapult crew looked back to Grus. “I think we can hit them now, Your Majesty, if we shoot on the uproll.”

“Go ahead,” Grus told him.

The crew winched back the dart and let fly. The catapult clacked as it flung the four-foot-long arrow, shaft thick as a man’s finger, toward the closest pirate ship. The dart splashed into the sea just short of its target. The Chernagors jeered.

“Give them another shot,” Grus told the sailors, who were already loading a fresh dart into the catapult.

This one thudded into the planking of the Chernagors’ ship. It did no harm, and the Chernagors went right on mocking. One or two of them tried to shoot at Grus’ ship, but their arrows didn’t come close. The catapult could outreach any mere man, no matter how strong.

Grimly, its crew reloaded once more. This time, when they shot, the great arrow skewered not one but two pirates. One splashed into the sea. The other let out a shriek Grus could hear across a quarter of a mile of water. The catapult crew raised a cheer. The Chernagors stopped laughing.

“Form line abreast and advance on the foe,” Grus told the officer in charge of signals. The pennants that gave that message fluttered along both sides of the galley. The ships to either side waved green flags to show they understood. The system had sprung to life on the Nine Rivers, and was less than perfect on the ocean. But it worked well enough. Grus saw no signals from the Chernagor ships. When had the pirates last faced anyone able to fight back?

Catapult darts flew. Every now and then, one would transfix a pirate, or two, or three. Marines at the bows of the river galleys started shooting as soon as they came close enough to the Chernagor ships.

By then, of course, the Chernagors were close enough to shoot back. Carpenters had rigged shields to give the river galleys’ rowers some protection—that was a lesson the first encounters with the big ships full of archers had driven home. Every so often, though, an arrow struck a rower. Replacements pulled the wounded men from the oars and took their places. The centipede strokes of the galleys’ advance didn’t falter badly.

Clouds covered the sun. Grus hardly noticed. He was intent on the Chernagor ship at which his ram was aimed like an arrow’s point. The wind also began to rise, and the chop on the sea. Those he did notice, and cursed them both. The wind made the Chernagor ships more mobile, and with their greater freeboard they could deal with worse waves than his galleys.

“Your Majesty—” Pterocles began.

Grus waved the wizard to silence. “Not now! Brace yourself, by the—”

Crunch! The ram bit before he could finish the warning. He staggered. Pterocles fell in a heap. The Chernagor ship had tried to turn away at the last instant, to take a glancing blow or make the river galley miss, but Grus’ steersman, anticipating the move, countered it and made the hit count. “Back oars!” the oarmaster roared. The river galley pulled free. Green seawater flooded into the stricken pirate ship.

A couple of other Chernagor vessels were rammed as neatly as the one Grus’ galley gored. Not all the encounters went the Avornans’ way, though. Some of the Chernagor captains did manage to evade the river galleys’ rams. The kilted pirates, shooting down into the galleys while they were close, made the Avornans pay for their attacks.

And one river galley had rammed, but then could not pull free— every skipper’s nightmare. Shouting Chernagors dropped down onto the galley and battled with the marines and the poorly armed rowers. Grus ordered his own ship toward the locked pair. His marines shot volley after volley at the swarming Chernagors. Pirates and Avornans both went over the side, sometimes in an embrace as deadly as their vessels‘.

Pterocles struggled to his feet. He plucked at Grus’ sleeve. “Your Majesty, this storm—”

“Storm?” Grus hadn’t realized it was one. But even as he spoke, a raindrop hit him in the face, and then another and another. “What about it? Blew up all of a sudden, that’s for sure.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Your Majesty,” the wizard said. “It’s got magic behind it, magic or… something.”

“Something?” Grus asked. Pterocles’ expression told him what the wizard meant—something that had to do with the Banished One. The king said, “What can you do about it? Can you hold it off until we’ve finished giving the Chernagors what they deserve?” As he spoke, another river galley rammed a pirate ship, rammed and pulled free. The Chernagor ship began to sink.

At the same time, though, a wave crashed up over the bow of Grus’ river galley, splashing water into the hull. The steersman called, “Your Majesty, we can’t take a lot of that, you know.”

“Yes,” Grus said, and turned back to Pterocles. “What can you do?” he asked again.

“Not much,” the wizard answered. “No mortal can, not with the weather. That’s why I think it’s… something.”

“Should we break off, then?” Grus asked doubtfully. “We’re beating them.” First one, then another, Chernagor ship hoisted all sail and sped off to the north at a speed the river galleys, fish in the wrong kind of water, couldn’t hope to match.

“I can’t tell you what to do, Your Majesty. You’re the king. I’m just a wizard. I can taste the storm, though. I don’t like it,” Pterocles said.

Grus didn’t like it, either. He didn’t like letting the Chernagors get away, but their ships could take far more weather than his. “Signal Break off the fight,” he shouted to the man in charge of the pennants. Another waved smashed over the bow. That convinced him he was doing the right thing. He added, “Signal Make for shore, too.” In the thickening rain, the pennants drooped. He hoped the other captains would be able to make them out.

The last Chernagor ships that could escaped. The others, mortally wounded, wallowed in the waves. One had turned turtle. So had a wrecked river galley. Here and there, men splashed by the ruined warships. Some paddled; others clung to whatever they could. The river galleys fished out as many sailors—Avornans and Chernagors—as they could.

Make for shore. It had seemed an easy enough command. But now, with the storm getting worse, with rain and mist filling the air, Grus was out of sight of land. He and the steersman had to rely on wind and wave to tell them what their eyes couldn’t.

“We beat them,” Hirundo said. “Now, the next question is, will we get to celebrate beating them, or do they have the last laugh?”

“They may be better sailors on the open sea than I am,” Grus said, “but, by the gods, I still know a little something about getting home in a storm.”

As though to answer that, the freshening sea sent a wave that almost swamped and almost capsized the river galley. Grus seized a line and clung for his life. When the ship at last righted herself—slowly, so slowly!—the first thing he did was look around for Pterocles. The wizard, no sailor, was all too likely to go overboard.

But Pterocles was there, dripping and sputtering as he hung on to the rail. And the fleet made shore safe—much battered and abused, but safe. The storm blew higher and harder and wilder yet after that, but after that it didn’t matter.

Prince Vsevolod took a long pull at the cup of wine in front of him. “Ask your questions,” he said, like a wounded man telling the healer to go ahead and draw the arrow.

Getting the exiled Prince of Nishevatz to show even that much cooperation was a victory of sorts. He thought everyone else should cooperate with him, not the other way around. Lanius said, “Which city-states in the Chernagor country are likely to oppose Prince Vasilko and the Banished One?”

Vasilko sent him a scornful stare. “This you should answer for yourself. King Grus takes prisoners from Nishevatz, from Hisardzik, from Jobuka, from Hrvace. This means no prisoners from Durdevatz, from Ravno, from Zavala, from Mojkovatz. These four, they no sail with pirate ships. They no love Vasilko, eh?”

That made good logical sense, but Lanius had seen that good logical sense often had little to do with the way the Chernagors behaved. He said, “Would they ally with Avornis if we send our army into the land of the Chernagors?”

“No. Of course not.” Yes, while Lanius thought Vsevolod strange, Vsevolod thought him dull. The Prince of Nishevatz continued, “You want to drive Durdevatz and other three into Banished One’s hands, you march in.”

“But you were the one who invited us up to the Chernagor country in the first place!” Lanius exclaimed in considerable exasperation.

Prince Vsevolod shrugged broad, if somewhat stooped, shoulders. “Is different now. Then I was prince. Now I am exile.” A tear gleamed in his eye. Regret or self-pity? By the way Vsevolod refilled the wine cup and gulped it down, Lanius would have bet on self-pity.

“Why do the city-states line up the way they do?” he asked.

Holding up the battered fingers of one hand, Vsevolod said, “Nishevatz, Hisardzik, Jobuka, Hrvace.” Holding up those of the other, he said, “Durdevatz, Ravno, Zavala, Mojkovatz.” He fitted his fingertips together, alternating those from one hand with those from the other. “You see?”

“I see,” King Lanius breathed. Immediate neighbors were hostile to one another. Pro- and anti-Nishevatz city-states alternated along the coast. After some thought, the king observed, “Vasilko would be stronger if all the Chernagor towns leaned his way. Can he get them to do that?”

“Vasilko?” The rebel prince’s father made as though to spit, but at the last moment—the very last moment—thought better of it. “Vasilko cannot get cat to shit in box.” That Vasilko had succeeded in ousting him seemed not to have crossed his mind.

“Let me ask it a different way,” Lanius said. “Working through Vasilko, can the Banished One bring them together?”

Now Vsevolod started to shake his head, but checked himself. “These city-states, they are for long time enemies. You understand?” he said. Lanius nodded. Vsevolod went on, “Not easy to go from enemy to friend. But not easy to stand up to Banished One, either. So… I do not know.”

“All right. Thank you,” Lanius said. But it wasn’t all right. If Vsevolod wasn’t sure the Banished One couldn’t bring all the Chernagor towns under his sway, he probably could. And if he could…

“If he can,” Grus said when Lanius raised the question, “the fleet that raids our west coast next year or the year after is liable to be twice as big as the one we beat back.”

“I was afraid you’d say that,” Lanius said.

“Believe me, Your Majesty, I would rather lie to you,” Grus said. “But that happens to be the truth.”

“Did I ever tell you I found out what King Cathartes had to say about the Scepter of Mercy?” Lanius asked suddenly.

“Why, no. You never did.” King Grus smiled a crooked smile. “Up until this minute, as a matter of fact, I wouldn’t have bet anything I worried about losing that I’d ever even heard of King, uh, Cathartes.”

“I would have said the same thing, until I found a letter of his in the archives while you were on campaign,” Lanius said. Grus smiled that crooked smile again; like Lanius’ fondness for strange pets, his archivescrawling amused his fellow king. But Grus’ expression grew more serious as he heard Lanius out. Lanius finished, “Now maybe we have some idea why the Banished One hasn’t tried to turn the Scepter against us.”

“Maybe we do,” Grus agreed. “That’s… some very pretty thinking, Your Majesty, and you earned what you got. How many crates full of worthless old parchments did you go through before you came on that one?”

“Seventeen,” Lanius answered promptly.

Grus laughed. “I might have known you’d have the number on the tip of your tongue. You usually do.” He spoke with a curious blend of scorn and admiration.

Lanius said, “One of the parchments turned out not to be worthless, though, so it was worth doing. And who knows whether another will mean a lot a hundred years from now, and who knows which one it might be? That’s why we save them.”

“Hmm.” Grus stopped laughing. Instead of arguing or teasing Lanius some more, he changed the subject. “Did that monkey of yours ever have babies?”

“She did—twins, just like the moncats,” Lanius answered. “They seem to be doing well.”

“Good for her,” Grus said. “Good for you, too. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how breeding animals shows you’re really doing a good job of caring for them. It makes sense to me.”

“Well, thank you,” Lanius said. “Would you like to see the little monkeys?”

Grus started to shake his head. He checked the gesture, but not quite soon enough. But when he said, “Yes, show them to me,” he managed to sound more eager than Lanius had thought he could.

And the smile that spread over his face when he saw the young monkeys couldn’t have been anything but genuine. Lanius also smiled when he saw them, though for him, of course, it was far from the first time. Nobody could look at them without smiling. He was convinced of that. They were all eyes and curiosity, staring at him and Grus and then scurrying across the six inches they’d ventured away from their mother to cling to her fur with both hands, both feet, and their tails.

“They act a lot like children. They look a lot like children, too,” Grus said. “Anybody would think, looking at them, that there was some kind of a connection between monkeys and people.”

“Maybe the gods made them about the same time as they made us, and used some of the same ideas,” Lanius said. “Or maybe it’s just happenstance. How can we ever hope to know?”

“The gods…” Grus’ voice trailed off in a peculiar way. For a moment, Lanius didn’t understand. Then he did, and wished he hadn’t. What if it wasn’t the gods, but only Milvago—only the Banished One?

He forced that thought out of his mind, not because he didn’t believe it but because he didn’t want to think about it. This was another of the times when at least half of him wished he’d never stumbled upon that ancient piece of parchment under the great cathedral. Had finding it been worth doing?

“Anyhow,” Grus said, “I’m very glad for your sake that your monkeys have bred. I know you’ve done a lot of hard work keeping them healthy, and it seems only fair that you’ve gotten your reward.”

“Thank you very much.” At first, Grus’ thoughtfulness touched Lanius. Then he realized the other king might be doing nothing more than leading both of them away from thoughts of Milvago. He couldn’t blame Grus for thinking along with him, and for not wanting to think about what a daunting foe they had. He didn’t care to do that himself, either.

Rain pattered down outside the palace. In one hallway, rain pattered down inside the palace. A bucket caught the drips. When the rain stopped, the roofers would repair the leak—if they could find it when the rain wasn’t there. Grus had seen that sort of thing before. Odds were, the roofers would need at least four tries—and the roof would go right on leaking until they got it right.

Turning to Pterocles, Grus asked, “I don’t suppose there’s any way to find leaks by magic, is there?”

“Leaks, Your Majesty?” Pterocles looked puzzled. Grus pointed to the bucket. The wizard’s face cleared, but he shook his head. “I don’t think anyone ever worried about it up until now.”

“No? Too bad.” They turned a corner. Grus got around to what he really wanted to talk about. “You’ve never said anything about the letter I gave you—the one from Alca the witch. What do you think of her notions for new ways to shape spells to cure thralls?”

“I don’t think she’s as smart as she thinks she is,” Pterocles answered at once. He went on, “She doesn’t understand what being a thrall is like.”

“And you do?”

Grus had intended that for sarcasm, but Pterocles nodded. “Oh, yes, Your Majesty. I may not understand much, but I do understand that.” The conviction in his voice commanded respect. Maybe he was wrong. He certainly thought he was right. Considering what had happened to him, maybe he was entitled to think so, too.

Backtracking, Grus asked, “Can you use anything in the letter?”

“A bit of this, a dash of that.” Pterocles shrugged. “She’s clever, but she doesn’t understand. And I have some ideas of my own.”

“Do you?” Grus wished he didn’t sound so surprised. “You haven’t talked much about them.” That was an understatement of formidable proportions. Pterocles had shown no signs of having ideas of any sort since being felled outside of Nishevatz.

He shrugged again. “Sometimes things go better if you don’t talk about them too soon or too much,” he said vaguely.

“I… see,” said Grus, who wasn’t at all sure he did. “When will you be ready to test some of your ideas? Soon, I hope?”

“I don’t know,” the wizard said. “I’ll be ready when I’m ready— that’s all I can tell you.”

Grus felt himself getting angry. “Well, let me tell you something. If you’re not ready with your own ideas, why don’t you go ahead and try the ones the witch sent me?”

“Why? Because they won’t work, that’s why,” Pterocles answered.

“How can you say that without trying them?”

“If I walk out into the sea, I’ll drown. I don’t need to try it to be sure of that. I know beforehand,” Pterocles said. “I may not be quite what I was, but I’m not the worst wizard around, either. And I know some things I didn’t used to know, too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Grus demanded.

“I’ve already told you.” Pterocles sounded impatient. “I know what it’s like to be emptied out. I ought to. It’s happened to me. Your Alca’s a good enough witch, but she doesn’t know.” Again, he spoke with absolute conviction.

If only he spoke that way when he really has to do something, Grus thought unhappily. But he was the one who turned away. Pterocles at least thought he knew what he was doing. Grus had a pretty good idea of how far he could push a man. If he pushed Pterocles any further here, he’d put the wizard’s back up, but he wouldn’t get him to change his mind.

At his impatient gesture, Pterocles ambled back down the hall. Grus wondered whether the wizard would bump into the bucket that caught the drips from the roof, but he didn’t. Grus also wondered whether he ought to pension Pterocles off, or just send him away. If he did, though, would whomever he picked as a replacement prove any better?

Alca would. How many times had he had that thought? But, for one thing, no matter how true it was, Estrilda would make his life not worth living if he tried it. And was it as true as he thought it was? Pterocles had a different opinion. What if he was right? Grus muttered under his breath. He wasn’t sure he could rely on Pterocles to remember his name twice running, let alone anything more.

And yet Pterocles had warned of the storm the Banished One raised, out there on the Azanian Sea. Grus had listened to him then, and the fleet had come back to shore without taking much harm.

Yes, and the Chernagor ships got away, the king thought. But that wasn’t Pterocles’ fault. Was it? Surely blame there belonged to the Banished One? Grus didn’t know what to believe. He ended up doing nothing, and wondering every day whether he was making a mistake and how big a mistake it was.

If only I hadn’t taken Alca to bed. If only her husband hadn’t found out. If only my wife hadn’t found out. If only, if only, if only…

Lanius threw a snowball at Crex. He didn’t come close to hitting his son. Crex scooped up snow in his little mittened hands. He launched a snowball at Lanius, whose vision suddenly turned white. “Got you!” Crex squealed, laughing gleefully.

“Yes, you did.” Lanius wiped snow off his face. “Bet you can’t do it again.” A moment later, Crex proved him wrong.

After taking three more snowballs in the face—and managing to hit his son once—Lanius had had enough. He himself had never been accused of grace. There were good reasons why not, too. Grus, on the other hand, made a perfectly respectable soldier—perhaps not among the very best, but more than able to hold his own. Through Sosia, Crex looked to have inherited that blood.

The boy didn’t want the sport to end; he was having fun pelting his father with snow. But Lanius couldn’t stand being beaten at a game by a boy who barely came up to his navel. “Not fair!” Crex squalled, and burst into tears.

That tempted Lanius to leave him out in the snow. But no, it wouldn’t do. Losing a game wasn’t excuse enough for freezing his son. If I were a great and terrible tyrant, I could get away with it, Lanius thought. But he wasn’t, and he never would be, and so Crex, quite unfrozen even if still loudly discontented, went back into the palace with him.

A handful of apricots preserved in honey made Crex forget about the game. Lanius paid the bribe for the sake of peace and quiet. Sosia probably wouldn’t have approved, but Sosia probably had too much sense to get into a snowball fight with their son. If she didn’t, she probably could throw well enough to give as good as she got. Lanius couldn’t.

I’m no good with the bow, either, he thought glumly. The only time he’d ever thrown something when it really counted, though, he’d managed to pitch a moncat into the face of the knife-wielding thrall who intended to murder him. Remembering that made the king feel a little better—not much, but a little.

Feeling better must not have shown on his face, for several servants asked him what was wrong when he walked through the palace corridors. “Nothing,” he said, over and over, hoping he would start to believe it before long. He didn’t, but kept saying it anyhow.

Most of the servants nodded and went on their way. They weren’t about to contradict the king. When he said, “Nothing,” to Cristata, though, she shook her head and said, “I don’t believe you, Your Majesty. You look too gloomy for it to be nothing.”

Lanius needed serious thought to realize Cristata spoke to him as a worried friend might. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him like that. Kings didn’t have friends, as far as he could see. They had cronies. Or maybe they had lovers.

That thought had crossed his mind before. Of course, Cristata had had Prince Ortalis for a lover. If that wasn’t enough to put her off royalty for life, what would be? But she still sounded… friendly as she asked, “What is wrong, Your Majesty?”

Because she sounded as though she really cared, Lanius found himself telling her the truth. When he was done, he waited for her to laugh at him.

Only later did he realize how foolish that was. A maidservant didn’t laugh at a King of Avornis, even at one without much power. But friendship left him oddly vulnerable to her. If she had laughed, he wouldn’t have punished her and he would have been wounded.

But she didn’t. All she said was, “Oh, dear. That must seem very strange to you.” She sounded sympathetic. Lanius needed longer than he might have to recognize that, too. He wasn’t used to sympathy from anybody except, sometimes, Sosia.

He didn’t want to think about Sosia right this minute, not while he savored Cristata’s sympathy. Grus probably didn’t want to think about Sosia’s mother while he was with Alca, either, Lanius thought. Looking at the way Cristata’s eyes sparkled, at how very inviting her lips were, Lanius understood what had happened to his fellow king much better than he ever had before.

When he leaned forward and kissed her, he waited for her to scream or to run away or to bite him. After Ortalis, why wouldn’t she? But she didn’t. Her eyes widened in surprise, then slid shut. Her arms tightened around him as his did around her. “I wondered if you’d do that,” she murmured.

“Did you?” Now Lanius was the one who wondered if he ought to run away.

But Cristata nodded seriously. “You don’t think I’m ugly.”

“Ugly? By the gods, no!” Lanius exclaimed.

“Well, then,” Cristata said. She looked up and down the corridor. Lanius did the same thing. No one in sight. He didn’t think anyone had seen them kiss. But someone might come down the hallway at any time. His heart pounded with nerves—and with excitement.

Now, for once, he didn’t want to think. He opened the closest door. It was one of the dozens of nearly identical storerooms in the palace, this one half full of rolled carpets. He went inside, still wondering if Cristata would flee. She didn’t. She stepped in beside him. He closed the door.

It was gloomy in the storeroom; the air smelled of wool and dust. Lanius kissed the serving girl again. She clung to him. “I knew you were sweet, Your Majesty,” she whispered.

Were those footsteps on the other side of the door? Yes. But they didn’t hesitate; they just went on. And so did Lanius. He tugged Cristata’s tunic up and off over her head, then bent to kiss her breasts and their darker, firmer tips. Her breath sighed out.

But when he put his arms around her again, he hesitated and almost recoiled. He’d expected to stroke smooth, soft skin. Her back was anything but smooth and soft.

She noticed his hands falter, and knew what that had to mean. “Do you want to stop?” she asked. “Do you want me to go?”

“Hush,” he answered roughly. “I’ll show you what I want.” He set her hand where she could have no possible doubt. She rubbed gently.

Before long, he laid her down on the floor and poised himself above her. “Oh,” she whispered. She might have been louder after that, but his lips came down on hers and muffled whatever noises she would have made… and, presently, whatever noises he would have.

Afterwards, they both dressed quickly. “That’s—what it’s supposed to be like, I think,” Cristata said.

It had certainly seemed that way to Lanius. Now, of course, he was screaming at himself because of the way he’d just complicated his life. But, with the afterglow still on him, he couldn’t make himself believe it hadn’t been worth it. They kissed again, just for a heartbeat. Cristata slipped out of the storeroom. When Lanius heard nothing in the hallway, he did, too. He grinned, a mix of pleasure and relief. He’d gotten away with it.

Grus turned to Estrilda. “The cooks did a really good job with that boar, don’t you think?” he said, licking his mustache to get all the flavorful grease.

His wife nodded. Then she said, “If you think it was good, shouldn’t you tell Ortalis and not me?”

“Should I?” The king frowned. “You’re usually harder on him than I am. Why should I say anything to him that I don’t have to?”

“Fair is fair,” Estrilda answered. “You… did what you did when he… made a mistake. When he goes hunting, he’s probably not making that particular mistake. And shouldn’t you notice him when he does something well?”

“If he did things well more often, I would notice him more.” Grus sighed, then nodded reluctantly. “You’re right. I wish I could tell you you weren’t, but you are. The meat is good, and he made the kill. I’ll thank him for it.”

On the way to Ortalis’ room, he asked several servants if the prince was there. None of them knew. He got the idea none of them cared. He didn’t suppose he could blame the women. The men? Ortalis seemed to have a gift for antagonizing everyone. That’s not good in a man who’ll be king one day, Grus thought. Not good at all.

He knocked on Ortalis’ door. When no one answered, he tried the latch. The door opened. The sweet smell of wine filled the room, and under it a gamier odor that said Ortalis hadn’t bathed recently enough. Grus’ son cradled a wine cup in his lap like the son he’d never had. An empty jar of wine lay on its side at his feet. One with a dipper in it stood beside the stool on which he perched.

Ortalis looked up blearily. “What d’you want?” he slurred.

“I came to thank you for the fine boar you brought home,” Grus answered. “How long have you been drinking?”

“Not long enough,” his son said. “You going to pound on me for it?” He raised the cup and took another swig.

“No. I have no reason to,” Grus said. “Drinking by yourself is stupid, but it’s not vicious. And if you do enough of it, it turns into its own punishment when you finally stop. Once you sober up, you’ll wish your head would fall off.”

Ortalis shrugged. That he could shrug without hurting himself only proved he wasn’t close to sobering up yet. “Why don’t you go away?” he said. “Haven’t you done enough to make my life miserable?”

“I said you shouldn’t hurt women for the fun of it. I showed you some of what getting hurt was like. You didn’t much care for that,” Grus said. “If you’re miserable on account of what I did… too bad.” He’d started to say I’m sorry, but caught himself, for he wasn’t.

His son glared at him. “And didn’t you have fun, giving me my lesson?”

“No, by Olor’s beard!” Grus burst out. “I wanted to be sick afterwards.”

By the way Ortalis laughed, he didn’t believe a word of it. Grus turned away from his son and strode out of the room. Behind him, Ortalis went on laughing. Grus closed the door, dampening the sound. Praising Ortalis’ hunting wouldn’t heal the rift between them. Would anything? He had his doubts.

Not for the first time, he wondered about making Anser legitimate. That would solve some of his problems. Regretfully, he shook his head. It would hatch more than it solved, not just with Ortalis but also with Estrilda and Lanius. No, he was stuck with the legitimate son he had, and with the son-in-law, too. He wondered if Crex, his grandson, would live to be king, and what kind of king he would make.

Wonder was all Grus would ever do. He was sure of that. By the time Crex put the royal crown on his head and ascended to the Diamond Throne, Grus knew he would be gone from the scene.

I haven’t done enough, he thought. Bringing the unruly Avornan nobles back under the control of the government was important. He’d taken some strong steps in that direction. He’d fought the Thervings to a standstill, until King Dagipert gave up the war. King Berto, gods be praised, really was more interested in praying than fighting. But letting the Banished One keep and extend his foothold in the land of the Chernagors would be a disaster.

And, ever since Grus’ days as a river-galley captain down in the south, he’d wanted a reckoning with the Menteshe, a reckoning on their side of the Stura River and not on his. He hadn’t gotten that yet. He didn’t know if he ever would. If his wizards couldn’t protect his men from being made into thralls after crossing the Stura, if they couldn’t cure the thralls laboring for the Menteshe, how could he hope to cross the border?

If he couldn’t cross the Stura, how could he even dream about recovering the Scepter of Mercy? He couldn’t, and he knew it. If he got it back, Avornis would remember him forever. If he failed… If he failed, Avornis would still remember him—as a doomed fool.