The Scepter's return

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

It was a day like any other day since Grus came to the I monastery. Along with the other monks, he was called out X of bed early for dawn prayers. Then he ate breakfast. As usual, it was filling but bland. Neophron and the other cooks had either never heard of spices, didn't like them, or couldn't afford to put any in the barley mush. After breakfast, Grus went into the kitchens to wash earthenware bowls and mugs and horn spoons.

Prayer and work alternated through the day, work predominating. After what seemed not so very long, it was time for supper. As usual, a little sausage did go into the mush for the evening meal. So did some beans and peas. The mug of ale that washed things down was larger than the one at breakfast — not enough to get drunk on, but plenty to take the edge off a bad day. Grus' hadn't been bad, but it too got better.

Most of the time, Ortalis stayed as far away from Grus as he could in the dining hall. That suited Grus as well as it did his son. This evening, though, Ortalis chose to sit across from him. "We ought to eat better than this," Ortalis complained.

Grus shrugged. "It's enough. Even if it weren't, why are you telling me about it? I can't change things one way or the other."

"But I can, by Olor's prong!" Ortalis said — perhaps a dubious oath for a monastery. "I never wasted my time in the archives, or in the forest, come to that. When I went hunting, I went out to kill things, and I did. I could do it again."

"Maybe you could," Grus said. Anser had never complained about Ortalis' talent, only about his judgment in when to be bloodthirsty. With another shrug, Grus went on, "I'm not the one to tell you you can or you can't, though. If you want to convince somebody to let you go out, the abbot is your man."

"He won't listen to me," Ortalis said scornfully. "He'll think I'm trying to get away."

"He might," Grus agreed. "The same thought crossed my mind, you know."

"Why should it? You told me yourself — I'm in here for good," Ortalis said. "We all are. I'm used to it by now."

He didn't sound used to it. He sounded suspiciously hearty, like a man saying what he thought people around him wanted to hear. Grus sipped from his ale. That was good; the monks who brewed it did know what they were doing. He said, "The other thing I told you was, it's not in my hands. And it's not. The only one who can tell you yes — or even no — is Pipilo."

"I will talk to him, then. He'll see sense," Ortalis said. He'll do what I want him to do, was what he likely meant by that. He'd never been able to tell the difference between what he wanted at the moment and what was right.

Grus was not unduly surprised when Pipilo came up to him a few days later and said, "Your son has approached me about the possibility of going out and hunting for the larder. Is he as good an archer and stalker as he says he is?"

"I don't know how good he said he was, but he's pretty good, yes," Grus answered.

"He did sound as though he knew what he was talking about," the abbot allowed. "That is, of course, only one part of the issue at hand. The other is, were he to go beyond the walls, would he be tempted to abandon his monastic robe and try to return to the secular world?"

Of course he would, Grus thought. All he said was, "The two of us, I fear, are estranged. I cannot be just in judging him, and so I will not try. You have to decide that yourself."

"You're honest, anyhow," Pipilo told him.

"Most of the time, anyhow — when it looks like a good idea," Grus said. "Were you a married man before you came here?"

"I was." Pipilo nodded.

"Well, then." Grus stopped, as though no more needed to be said. By the way Pipilo laughed, he had said enough.

In the end, the abbot decided not to let Ortalis go out hunting. If Grus had been in his sandals, he would have decided the same thing. Ortalis blamed him for it. Grus had expected that, though not the full force of his son's fury. Storming up to him in the monastery courtyard, Ortalis shouted, "You're keeping me locked up in this stinking jail!"

"I had nothing to do with putting you here." Grus looked down his nose at Ortalis — not easy when his son was taller. "You can't say the same about how I got here. Do you hear me complaining about it?"

"No, but you're soft in the head or something." Mere truth wasn't going to dent Ortalis' outrage. "You told the warder — "

"The abbot, and you'd better remember it, or he'll make you sorry."

Ortalis rolled his eyes. "Who cares what you call him? The point is, the old blackguard won't let me go out. I know he talked to you about it. What other reason would he have for keeping me in here except that you told him to?"

"Maybe he has eyes of his own to see with?" Grus suggested.

"What do you mean?"

"Anyone who does have eyes knows you'd take off in a heartbeat if you got outside the walls," Grus said, more patiently than he would have thought possible. "Pipilo doesn't need me to tell him that. You tell him yourself, every time you breathe. If you want to know what I said to him, ask him yourself. I'm sure he'll give you the truth."

"Suppose you tell me, before I knock some teeth loose," Ortalis growled.

Grus had given his son a few beatings. They hadn't done what he'd hoped they would. Maybe he should have started sooner and given more. On the other hand, maybe he never should have started at all. If he and Ortalis fought now, Ortalis probably could beat him. "You won't believe me even if I do," he said.

"Try me," Ortalis said. Grus recounted the conversation with the abbot as exactly as he could. Ortalis snorted and rolled his eyes again. "You're right. I don't believe you." Instead of swinging at Grus, he stormed off.

Petrosus came up to Grus. "He is a charming fellow, isn't he?" said the former treasury minister.

"He's my son," Grus answered. "I'm tied to him however he is. You yoked your daughter to him when you didn't have to. What does that say about you?" And she fell in love with him, where nobody else in the world could. What does that say about her?

Petrosus glared at him. "You're still as charming as you were when your backside warmed a throne, aren't you?"

"No doubt," Grus said. "And you're still as ambitious as you were when you dreamed of a throne. Don't you see how foolish that is when you're here?"

"Not if I don't have to stay here," Petrosus said.

"Do you think Lanius will let you out? Don't hold your breath," Grus said. "You were the one who held back his allowance while I was campaigning. He's never forgotten that, you know."

"You told me to. I did it at your order!" Petrosus exclaimed.

He was right, of course. Back in those days, Grus had worried about any power coming into Lanius' hands. He'd kept the other king weak every way he could, including not giving him enough money. And what had that gotten him? At the time, it won him security on the throne. In the end? In the end, power came into Lanius' hands anyhow. Grus looked down at his own hands, and at the coarse brown wool on the sleeves of the robe he wore now.

"The difference between us is, I don't mind being here, and you do," Grus said.

"The difference between us is, you're out of your mind and I'm not," Petrosus retorted.

Grus shook his head. "The reason I don't mind being here is that I did everything I wanted to do, everything I needed to do, out in the world. Because of what I did, people will remember me for years after I'm gone, maybe even forever. Who will remember you, Petrosus?"

"After I'm dead, what difference does it make?" Petrosus said, which also held some truth. But it held only some, and Petrosus proved as much by snarling curses at Grus and storming away. Grus looked after him and shook his head. The monastery wasn't as calm as he wished it were.

Lanius was grateful to Sosia for not nagging him about releasing Grus. Ever since they wed, she'd inclined more toward him than toward her father. She understood the reasons why he wouldn't want Grus to come back to the palace. Whether she agreed with them or not, she respected them enough not to be difficult over them.

But she didn't — or perhaps couldn't — talk her mother out of asking Lanius to order Grus out of the monastery. "Don't you owe him that much?" Estrilda said with the peculiar certainty older people often show when talking to younger ones. "Don't you, after everything he did for the kingdom? If he hadn't done all that, you wouldn't be on the throne now, you know."

"No, I suppose not," Lanius said. If Grus hadn't become king, if he himself had had to marry King Dagipert's daughter instead of Grus', the fearsome old King of Thervingia probably would have shoved him aside more violently and more permanently than Grus had.

"Well, then," Estrilda said, as though that were the only thing that mattered. "Don't you have any sense of gratitude?"

"Shall I be grateful that he put my mother in a monastery and never let her out?" Lanius inquired acidly.

"Certhia tried to kill him," Estrilda said, which was also true. "He never tried to kill her."

"Well, I'm not going to try to kill him, either. On that you have my word," Lanius said. If his gratitude ran no further… then it didn't, that was all.

"You're not listening to me." Estrilda sounded surprised — almost astonished. As wife to the more powerful king, she'd gotten used to people following her slightest whim.

"I am listening," Lanius said politely. "But I decide what to do now — no one else."

She stared at him. Plainly, he was sole King of Avornis now. If he weren't, why would she ask him to let Grus go? Just as plainly, the idea that nobody could tell him what to do now hadn't fully sunk in until this moment. Shaking her head, Estrilda walked out of the audience chamber.

As Lanius and Sosia were going to bed that night, she said, "I am sorry about what happened earlier today. I told Mother I didn't think that would be a good idea, but she went ahead and did it anyhow."

By then, Lanius had had the chance to gain a little perspective on things. "It's all right," he said. "It could have been worse, anyhow."

"Oh?" Sosia raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"She could have asked me to let your brother out, too, or instead."

"Oh." Sosia said again, this time on an altogether different note. "That would have been awkward, wouldn't it?"

"No." He shook his head. " This was awkward, because there could be reasons to let Grus out of the monastery. If she'd asked the other, I would have said no and then thrown her out if she asked me again." To keep Ortalis from coming out of the monastery, he was ready to be as rude and stubborn as he had to. That went against his usual nature, but so did what he felt about his brother-in-law.

At least he wasn't afraid of offending his wife about Ortalis. Except for Limosa, Ortalis seemed to have alarmed everyone who ever knew him. That included Sosia. She'd never made any great secret of it, either. All she said was, "It's over. You don't need to worry about it anymore."

But she was wrong. The next morning, a servant came up to Lanius just as he and Sosia were finishing breakfast. "Excuse me, Your Majesty, but Arch-Hallow Anser would like to speak with you."

"Of course," Lanius said. "I'm always happy to see him. Bring him in, and then fetch some wine for him, too." The servant bobbed his head and hurried off.

Anser came in a moment later. Lanius blinked when he did. Anser was wearing his red formal robes, something he hardly ever did when not conducting services in the great cathedral. "Your Majesty," he said, and bowed to Lanius. Turning to Sosia, he repeated the words. He also bowed to his half-sister, not quite as deeply.

"Sit down," Lanius urged. As Anser did, the king went on, "I've got a servant bringing you wine. What can I do for you? You're not usually out and about so early if you aren't hunting."

Anser looked faintly embarrassed, which startled Lanius almost as much as the ceremonial regalia did. "I have a favor to ask of you, Your Majesty," the arch-hallow said. "I haven't asked many, have I?"

"You've asked so few, it almost makes me suspicious," Lanius answered. "Go ahead and ask, and we'll see what happens then." He wasn't foolish enough to promise to grant favors no matter what. Kings had gotten themselves in a lot of trouble with promises like that.

After a deep breath, Anser said, "Your Majesty, please let my father out of that monastery. If you do, I swear I'll never ask another thing of you for as long as I live — not even to go hunting with me, if you don't want me to."

"He would be pleased with you, to know you've asked this," Lanius said. "He would be proud of you, too."

"He did everything for me," Anser said simply. "Plenty of bastards don't even know who their father is. But he made sure I always had enough. And then when he got the crown… Well, look what he did. Do you think I'd be wearing this" — he flapped the sleeve of his robe — "if not for him?" He snorted to show how unlikely that was, then went on, "So you see, Your Majesty, I'd do anything for him, too. I'm not too proud to beg you to set him free. Please."

With some regret, Lanius shook his head. "I'm not going to do that. I'm sorry, but I'm not. I'm the King of Avornis now. I didn't expect to be, not until he'd lived out his days. Frankly, I thought I was sure to lose if I rose against him. Maybe I was wrong — who knows? But if I called him back to the city of Avornis, I couldn't very well do it without seeing the crown go back on his head, too, could I? You may think I'm heartless, but I just don't want to do that."

"I don't think you're heartless, Your Majesty. I would never think so," Anser said. "You'll do what you think you have to do, but please understand that I've got to do the same thing."

"I do understand that," Lanius said. "And I think it's sad that his legitimate son overthrew him and his bastard is pleading for me to turn the hourglass upside down again, but I can't change that."

"Neither can I. I wish I could," Anser replied. "Ortalis… Ortalis always knew he couldn't live up to his father, and he couldn't live up to what his father wanted from him. Me, I was further away. I didn't have to live up to anything at all. I was glad enough just to live, and to live pretty well."

Lanius thought there was a lot of truth in what his half brother-in-law said — a lot, but not enough. "Not being able to live up to what Grus wanted of him wasn't the only trouble Ortalis had," the king said. "That mean streak, that taste for blood and pain, was all his own."

"It was," Sosia said softly. "He always had it, as far back as I can remember."

"Well, I didn't know him then — or you, Your Majesty," Anser said to her. "I'll have to take your word for that." He turned back to Lanius. "But it doesn't have anything to do with why you should or shouldn't let my father come back. He didn't do anything to deserve what Ortalis did to him. I should say not! Look how much Avornis owes him. The Scepter of Mercy back again! Could anyone have imagined that?"

I had something to do with it, too, Lanius thought. He couldn't have done it without Grus, but Grus couldn't have done it without him, either. He said, "The Scepter accepts me, too, you know."

"Oh, of course, Your Majesty! I never said it didn't," Anser said quickly. "But…" He spread his hands. "You know what I mean."

"I do," Lanius said. "But I'm the king now, and I intend to stay the king for as long as I last."

Anser sadly bowed his head. "Then there's not much I can do about this, is there? Thanks for hearing me out, anyhow." He bowed to Lanius, then to Sosia, and left the room.

Sosia sighed. She quickly finished eating and also hurried out. She might understand why Lanius was doing what he was doing, but that didn't mean she liked it, either. Lanius sighed, too. He poured his own cup of wine full again, and then again after that. He wasn't a man in the habit of getting drunk before noon. Today, though, he made an exception.

Grus had won a promotion. From peeling turnips, he'd advanced to measuring out grain and beans and dried peas, pouring them into big iron kettles full of boiling water, and stirring the stews with a long-handled wooden spoon. It wasn't exciting work — he wasn't sure such a thing as exciting work existed anywhere in the monastery — but it was a step up. When Neophron offered it to him, he took it.

As long as he was in the kitchens or at whatever other work Abbot Pipilo set him, he was contented enough. It was something to do, something not too hard, something to keep him busy through most of the day. Things could have been worse.

When he wasn't at his labors, things were worse. He couldn't avoid Ortalis and Petrosus; the monastery wasn't big enough. Whenever he got near one of them, he got into a quarrel. He didn't start the arguments, but he didn't back away from them, either. If he hadn't backed away from King Dagipert or the Banished One, he didn't intend to back away from his son or a palace functionary, either.

After the seventh or eighth shouting match in the courtyard, he did go to see Pipilo in the abbot's office. Pipilo was scribbling something on a piece of parchment when Grus knocked on the open door and stood waiting in the doorway. "Come in, Brother," Pipilo said. "And what can I do for you today?"

His tone said, Let's get this over with so I can go back to the important things I was doing before I had to deal with the likes of you. Grus fought to hide a smile. Sure enough, the abbot was a king in his own little realm. Grus couldn't begin to remember how many times he'd used that same tone himself.

"Father Abbot, isn't this supposed to be a place of peace?" he asked.

"Of course, Brother," Pipilo answered. "But what a place is supposed to be and what it turns out to be aren't always the same. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I don't think you'll say I'm lying."

"No, not at all," Grus agreed. "Still, I would like to be able to get through a day without at least one screaming row."

"I can see how you might, yes," the abbot said judiciously. "It was perhaps unfortunate that three men who have such strong reasons to disagree with one another were all gathered together in the same place."

"Perhaps it was." Grus went along with the understatement. "Is there any chance one or two of us might be moved to another monastery?"

Pipilo spread his hands, as though to show the limits of his domain. "I have not the authority to make such a transfer, Brother. It is possible to send a petition back to the city of Avornis, a petition I would endorse. But what my endorsement would do, if anything, I am not sure. This is the most, ah, secure monastery in the kingdom, which is why each of the three of you was sent here."

Why each of the three of you will stay here, he might as well have said. "By your leave, I will write that petition," Grus said. "The worst I can hear is no, and no leaves me no worse off."

"By all means, Brother. You may have parchment and pen for the purpose," Pipilo said. "And I wish you good fortune from it — not because I am not glad of your company here, for you have shown yourself a worthy monk, but because, if the king grants it, you will find more tranquility in your life."

"Tranquility," Grus murmured. He'd had a lot of things in his life, but, up until now, rarely that. Did the abbot really think him a worthy monk? Pipilo must have. He didn't need to keep Grus sweet. It was the other way around here. Grus hadn't had many finer compliments than that.

If only he didn't have to worry about Ortalis and Petrosus… Yes, he would write that petition, as soon as he could.

Brother Grus to King Lanius — greetings, Your Majesty. Lanius wasn't used to getting letters from Grus without the royal seal stamped in wax to help hold them closed. This one had no seal of any sort. As usual, Grus came straight to the point. Here in this monastery, he wrote, Ortalis and Petrosus and I quarrel like so many crabs in a kettle with the water getting hot. I do not ask to be released from this place back into the world. I know you would say no at once. But could you please arrange it so the three of us are in three separate places? It would take a miracle for us to get along here, and miracles are in moderately short supply lately. I hope the kingdom runs smoothly. I know it is in good hands.

"Well, well," Lanius said under his breath. Grus had never been a man to show self-pity, and he showed even less now than the king would have expected. Lanius would have granted his petition without the least hesitation… if he weren't in the strongest monastery in the Maze. He seemed content as a monk now, but how could anyone guess if he would stay that way?

And Ortalis had a claim on the throne — had held it, if not for long and not well. And Petrosus was father to a princess who'd briefly been a queen (and was now a nun) and was grandfather to a young prince and princess. All three men could become problems if they found themselves in a place easier to escape from than that monastery.

It would take a miracle for us to get along here. Lanius sighed when he read that again. It wasn't that he didn't believe it. On the contrary — it seemed much too likely. Ortalis had never gotten along with his father. Petrosus had no reason to.

"A miracle," Lanius repeated. A slow smile spread over his face. He didn't know if he had a miracle handy. On the other hand, he didn't know he didn't, either, and that was more than most men could say.

The guards in front of the Scepter of Mercy stiffened to attention when Lanius walked up. "Your Majesty!" they chorused.

"As you were," the king said, and the guardsmen relaxed. Lanius picked up the Scepter. Being able to pick it up encouraged him; as King Cathartes had written centuries before it was stolen, it would not let itself be used for anything unrighteous.

Lanius thought carefully about how to seek what he wanted from the Scepter. If he sought to make Grus and Ortalis and Petrosus suddenly love one another, he was sure his wish would go ungranted. There was such a thing as asking — and asking for — too much.

Up until now, he'd used the Scepter of Mercy for things that would obviously help Avornis as a whole. Chief among them was seeking better harvests in the lands the Menteshe had ravaged in their invasion before Prince Ulash died. Even with that help, he feared the southern provinces would still be a long time recovering.

This… This was something else. Whether he used the Scepter of Mercy or didn't, Avornis wouldn't change one way or the other. Few people outside the monastery would have any idea of what he'd done. This almost struck him as a task too small and trivial to bring to the Scepter's notice, as it were.

But there — were small mercies as well as large ones. If Grus and Ortalis and Petrosus had to live together — and they did — couldn't they live together without rubbing one another raw every day of their enforced cohabitation? It didn't seem too much to ask. Grus particularly deserved peace and quiet, if that was what he'd found at the monastery.

Lanius aimed the Scepter in the general direction of the Maze. He wasn't sure that helped, but he didn't see how it could hurt. He shaped the idea behind what he wanted until it was clear in his mind. Then he sent it forth, out through his will, out through his arm, out through the Scepter.

He'd felt power thrum through the Scepter of Mercy when he used it to do what he could for the southern croplands. He felt it again now, but not nearly to the same degree. That made him smile at himself. Not even he believed this was as important as anything he'd done with the Scepter before. All the same, that didn't mean it wasn't worth doing.

"What did you do, Your Majesty?" one of the guardsmen asked as Lanius set the Scepter of Mercy back on its velvet cushion.

He smiled again, a little sheepishly. "I'm not quite sure. I hope I find out in a while." The guard smiled back, thinking he'd made a joke. The smile slowly faded as the man realized Lanius meant it.

Because Grus had always been in the habit of rising early, the call to sunrise prayer worked no great hardship on him. Even back in the palace, he would have been up soon anyhow. He rolled his eyes. From the Maze, the palace seemed farther than Yozgat had from the city of Avornis.

He'd gotten to Yozgat. He didn't think he'd get back to the palace. What still surprised him was how little that seemed to matter. He slid out of bed, belted his robe around him, and joined the stream of monks trudging down the hallway toward the chapel.

The sky was bright in the east as he walked across the courtyard, but the sun hadn't risen. Night's chill still lingered, though it wouldn't much longer. The day would be warm and muggy. The air was full of the damp, mostly stagnant smell that pervaded the Maze. A jay flew by overhead, screeching.

In their robes, monks often appeared interchangeable. Grus didn't notice he was walking only a few feet from Petrosus until he'd been doing it for some little while. The former treasury minister saw him, too, but didn't say anything. Neither did Grus.

That could have been worse, he thought as he went into the chapel. Along with the rest of the monks, he offered up the day's first hymns to King Olor and Queen Quelea and the other gods in the heavens. He sang with better conscience than he would have before the Scepter of Mercy came back to the city of Avornis. The gods probably didn't pay much attention to what went on here in the material world, but sometimes they did, and it mattered that they did. He hadn't been convinced that was so. Now he believed it.

When the service was over, the monks trooped into the refectory for breakfast. Grus took a bowl of barley porridge and a mug of ale from one of the servers, then sat down at a bench and a table just like all the other benches and tables in the large hall. Again, he wasn't as far from Petrosus as he wished he were. The other man left him alone. That suited him fine.

After breakfast, Grus went into the kitchens himself to wash dishes. That kept him busy for most of the morning. The head cook came over to watch him. "You sure don't mind work, do you?" Neophron said.

Shrugging, Grus answered, "Why should I? What else is there to do here but sit around twiddling my thumbs?"

"Some people would like that — you bet they would." Neophron laughed. "Never thought I'd have a king working under me, and that's the truth."

"You don't," Grus said. The other man raised an eyebrow. Grus continued, "If I were still king, I'd be back in the city of Avornis. Since I'm here, I'm a monk like any other monk." That was true enough; no one had tried to make life in the monastery any easier or any softer for him because of what he had been.

"Guess you're right," Neophron said after a little thought. "Well, I never figured I'd have somebody who used to be a king working under me, either." He eyed Grus to see if the formerly illustrious dishwasher would argue with that. Grus didn't. He just rinsed out another mug and set it on a rack to dry.

Once he'd leveled the mountain of earthenware, he went out into the courtyard. Petrosus was watering the garden. He eyed Grus, but again didn't speak to him. Petrosus had been snapping every time Grus came out of the kitchens. His silence seemed doubly welcome because it was so unexpected.

Here came Ortalis. He looked discontented — but then, he usually did. He minded work, but Abbot Pipilo didn't care whether he minded or not. He got it either way, and he got punished when he didn't do it well enough to suit Pipilo or whoever else was set over him. That did nothing to improve his temper.

He gave Grus a curt nod and kept walking. Caught by surprise, Grus nodded back. He and his son quarreled even more readily than he and Petrosus did. They had, anyway, ever since Ortalis' brief reign collapsed and he ended up here along with his father. Grus had looked for yet another barb from Ortalis. He scratched his head, wondering why he didn't get one.

After quiet persisted for a few days, Grus approached Pipilo in his office and asked him if he'd had anything to do with it. The abbot gravely shook his head. "No, Brother Grus, not I. I said not a word to either of them or to you, figuring whatever I said would do no good and might make things worse."

"It wouldn't have made them worse with me. All I want is peace and quiet," Grus said.

Pipilo smiled thinly. "One man's notions of peace and quiet are not always the same as another's." He held up his hand before Grus could reply. "I don't intend to offend anyone by saying this."

"Oh, you don't offend me, Father Abbot," Grus said. "I know that's true. Anyone who's had anything to do with more than a few people will know it's true."

The abbot smiled again. "Yes, you would have had that kind of experience before you, ah, joined us, wouldn't you? Well, Brother, if you've sent prayers up to the gods for tranquility, maybe you've had them answered."

"Maybe I have." Grus couldn't see how else he could respond to Pipilo, and he couldn't see where else to go from there. Since he couldn't, he bowed and left the office — which was, no doubt, just what Pipilo wanted him to do.

Even so, he grappled with the small problem — not that silence from Ortalis and Petrosus was a problem, even if the reason for their silence was — as stubbornly as he'd grappled with the problems King Dagipert or the Chernagor pirates posed for Avornis. Past their eventually delivering the Scepter of Mercy into his hands, he didn't see that the gods in the heavens listened to prayers very often, let alone answered them.

That left him shaking his head and laughing at the same time, which made his fellow monks send him puzzled, even wary, glances. He didn't care. He wondered whether any other monk in the long history of this monastery had ever had a less reverent attitude toward the gods in the heavens.

But if Olor and Quelea and the rest of the heavenly host hadn't inspired his son and his son's father-in-law to leave him alone, who or what had? Grus couldn't believe Ortalis and Petrosus had suddenly decided on their own to back off; that wasn't like either one of them, let alone both at the same time.

It was a nice puzzle. He realized he'd missed having something to ponder since he came here. Now he did, and found he was enjoying himself while he pondered. The more he did, the more perplexed he got. He didn't mind that; at least now he had something to wonder about.

Life at the monastery went on. One of the monks died — not an old man with a white beard, but one scarcely half Grus' age, of an attack of belly pain that led to fever. The surviving brethren, Grus among them, stood around his pyre and prayed that his soul might rise to the heavens with the smoke of his burning. This will be my end, too, Grus thought. The idea worried him less than he'd expected it to. He'd already lived a long life. And, while few people if anyone outside the monastery would remember poor Brother Mimus, his own name would last.

Though Ortalis went on leaving Grus alone, he got into a brawl with another monk. He broke one of his knuckles giving the man a black eye; the other man broke Ortalis' nose. Pipilo put them both on bread and water for a week. Dishonors were judged to be about even on both sides.

A couple of new monks came in. One of them, a skinny young man with a scraggly beard, really wanted to be there. He'd grown up not far away, and had wanted to join the monastery ever since he was a boy. Grus wondered how he'd like his wish now that he had it. The other was a city governor who'd thought living far from the city of Avornis let him get away with fattening his belt pouch. Grus was glad Lanius had proved him wrong, and took that as a good omen for his son-in-law's sole reign.

Lanius was a clever fellow, no doubt about it. Grus had always wondered whether the other king would be strong enough to rule on his own. He'd had his doubts about that. Maybe Lanius would prove him wrong after all.

And sometimes being clever sufficed. Grus was lying down on his thin mattress one evening when, instead, he sat bolt upright. The gods in the heavens surely couldn't care less if he and Ortalis and Petrosus squabbled. But the idea might bother Lanius, and the king knew there was trouble from Grus' petition. If he decided to pick up the Scepter of Mercy…

Would he use it for as small a thing as stopping a nasty quarrel? Grus nodded to himself, there in the darkness. Lanius didn't like unpleasantness. It was untidy. And he might well feel he owed Grus enough to make sure the other king got at least some peace now that he was king no more.

"Thank you," Grus murmured. He wasn't supposed to speak after lying down, but he wasn't pious enough to get upset at breaking a small rule, either. If one of the other monks had caught him at it, he would have had to do something unpleasant for penance, but the brothers nearby were all snoring.

He nodded again. Now he was pretty sure he had an answer to his riddle. The world wouldn't have ended even if he hadn't gotten one — hardly! — but he still felt better knowing. Maybe he wasn't so different from Lanius after all. He rolled over and fell asleep.