The Scepter's Return (41 page)

They returned to the business at hand the next morning. As Collurio had said he would, he put out only half as many rewards as usual for Pouncer. When the moncat got to where the first one should have been; it looked around in surprise on discovering the treat wasn't there. After a brief pause, though, it went on to where the next treat should have been—and was.

Collurio breathed a sigh of relief. “You're always afraid they'll just sit down and lick themselves when they run into something different,” he said. “I didn't really expect that, but you can't know ahead of time.”

Pouncer hesitated whenever a reward was missing, but kept on with the routine to get the ones that were there. When Collurio put the moncat through its paces again later in the day, it went straight from reward to reward, scarcely even slowing at the sites that had held treats but did no more.

“He's figured it out!” Lanius said happily.

“Looks that way,” Collurio agreed. “Like I told you, we'll keep going until he's good and used to doing it this way, then stretch the distance between rewards again. We're going in the right direction, Your Majesty.”

Lanius nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I really think we are.”

King Grus fanned himself with a fan made of peacock feathers. It was not only gorgeous but, in this sweltering weather, highly practical. Anything that stirred the air was welcome. Even now, with the sun sinking down in the west, it was hotter than it ever got in the city of Avornis.

“Your Majesty?” A sweating guardsman stuck his head into the pavilion.

“What is it?” Grus asked.

“One of our scouts just rode into camp. I think he's got himself a high-and-mighty Menteshe with him.”

“Oh, he does, does he?” With a grunt, the king heaved himself up off the stool where he'd perched. “Well, I suppose I'd better come see what the fellow wants, then, hadn't I?”

He had no idea who the nomad would be or which faction he represented. Whatever the answers to those questions were, Grus could guess what the man would want—would demand, probably. He would tell Grus that the Avornans had to go back over the Stura, and that they must not join with whichever faction he didn't happen to favor. The Menteshe knew only one song, though they tried to disguise that by singing it in different keys.

“Your Majesty.” The nomad bowed low before Grus.

And Grus found he recognized him. “Good day, Qizil son of Qilich. What does Prince Sanjar want with me?” he inquired.

The Menteshe bowed again, lower this time. “I am honored that you remember me, Your Majesty.”

“Oh, yes. I remember you. And I know Sanjar's men have attacked mine this year. What have we got to say to each other?”

“When we last spoke, Your Majesty, you mentioned something in which you were interested.” Qizil didn't name the Scepter of Mercy. Did that mean he was too close to Yozgat? Or was he too close to the Banished One's lair in the Argolid Mountains?

It didn't really matter. Whether Qizil named it or not, Grus knew perfectly well what he was talking about. “Well?” the king asked. “You're right. I am interested. Does Sanjar have it?” If the concubine's son had stolen the Scepter from his unloving half brother, Grus was ready to deal with him. Grus would have made almost any bargain for the Scepter of Mercy.

But, regretfully, the Menteshe emissary shook his head. “No, I must tell you that it still rests in Yozgat. But my principal will join his men to yours in the effort to take the city and the—prize.”

Grus bowed. “My thanks. That is generous of Prince Sanjar, but it would be more generous if things were different. The way they are, the Banished One could make them turn against us without warning, the way they did when they fought us not long ago. Then it was Sanjar's men and Korkut's all together, and all against my army.”

To his surprise, Qizil looked embarrassed. “That … was not what we expected to happen, Your Majesty. Our own shamans are looking into it.”

“Are they?” Grus was surprised all over again. This was the first time he'd ever heard of Menteshe working against the Banished One's wizardry. He didn't know whether to believe it, either.

“They are. We are not puppets on strings. We are not thralls.” Pride rang in Qizil's voice. “We serve the Fallen Star because we choose to serve him. If the choice is not ours—well, maybe we will choose differently.”

“You tempt me,” Grus said. “It's a pity you don't tempt me quite enough. If I could be sure you were your own men and would stay your own men—that might be different. But the way things, are, my men can't trust Sanjar's men at their side or behind them. And so I think we'll just have to go on by ourselves.”

“This could be the worst mistake you ever make,” Qizil warned.

“Maybe,” Grus said. “But it could also be one of the smarter things I've done lately, and so I'm going to do it. If you ever persuade me you're really broken free of the Banished One, we may have something to talk about. Until then, I'm afraid we don't.”

Qizil winced at the name the Avornans gave the exiled god. That told Grus he might not be happy with his ultimate overlord, but he wasn't ready to break away from him, which meant Sanjar wasn't ready to break with the Banished One, either. It would have been nice if things were different.

“I will take your words back to my sovereign,” Sanjar's ambassador said.

“Yes, do,” Grus said. Unfortunately, to his way of thinking, Sanjar was only Qizil's superior; the Banished One remained his sovereign—and Sanjar's, too. They could see they were less free than they wanted to be, but they could not yet see how to get away.

After dismissing Sanjar's envoy, Grus summoned Pterocles. He told the wizard what Qizil had said. Pterocles stayed silent for some little while. “That
is
interesting,” he said at last. His voice sounded far away; he was plainly still deep in thought. “I wonder what the Menteshe could do to block the Banished One's spells if they set their minds to it. They know his magic much better than we do.”

“Than most of us except you do, anyhow,” Grus said.

“Oh, I'm sure he gets into their minds sometimes, only to help them with their spells, not to knock them down,” Pterocles said. “They ought to know him from the inside out, too, so to speak.”

“What would a warding spell against him be like?” the king asked.

Pterocles started to laugh. “If I knew, Your Majesty, I'd use one,” he said. “Since I don't know, since I'm just guessing, I'd say it would be something like the spell that frees thralls. Same principles, anyhow—probably a different way of using them.”

“That sounds as though it ought to be true—which doesn't mean it is, of course.” Grus plucked at his beard as he considered. “Would you do well to leave that spell written out someplace where the nomads might find it?”

“You
do
ask fascinating questions,” Pterocles breathed. He paused again in thought. When he came out of his study, he said, “The way it looks to me, Your Majesty, that sword has two edges. Letting the Menteshe learn exactly how we free thralls might help them do something against the Banished One. The other edge is, it might help them—or him—figure out how to counter our spell. I'll do it if you order me to, but not unless you do.”

Grus grunted. Now he had to do some studying of his own. In the end, he said, “No, I won't order you to do it. You're right—the risk that they might find a way to fight our spell is real, and we can't ignore it. For now, it's too important. But if we win this campaign, it gives us something to think about doing next, so we won't forget about it, either.”

“I hadn't even begun to think about what happens next,” Pterocles said.

“Neither had I, but we need to,” Grus said. “Once we free the serfs, we ought to help the Menteshe build barriers against the Banished One.”
Maybe the Scepter of Mercy will help,
he thought.
But even if it doesn't, we should try.
Aloud, he went on, “We'll still have trouble with them, no doubt, but it'll be trouble like we have with the Thervings—ordinary human trouble. It won't be the kind of trouble we have now.”

“That would be good,” Pterocles said seriously.

“It would, wouldn't it?” Grus' smile was wistful. “If I only had to worry about ordinary, human troubles … Yes, that would be wonderful. Well, here's hoping.”

“Make way for His Majesty!” Lanius' guardsmen bawled as they rode into the city of Avornis. “Make way! Make way!”

People scrambled to clear the streets. Lanius wished the troopers wouldn't make such a fuss. He'd told them as much, but they refused to listen to him. Anyone who thought a king gave orders that were always instantly obeyed had never been a king.

“Look! It's the king!” People shouted and pointed, as though seeing him could somehow make a difference in their own lives. And then someone yelled, “Hurrah for King Grus! Beat those Chernagors!” In a heartbeat, everyone was cheering and applauding.

Lanius, by contrast, was fuming and steaming. Not only didn't the people know who Avornis' current foe was, they didn't even know who
he
was. And then, to his own surprise, he started to laugh. Like any king, he'd had wistful thoughts of living a normal life, of going through the streets of his own capital unrecognized. Well, here he was, going through the streets of his own capital, and he certainly seemed unrecognized. This was as close to anonymity as he was ever likely to come.

The palace battlements and, not far away, the heaven-leaping spire of the great cathedral dominated the city skyline. The closer Lanius came, the taller they seemed. He smiled as he got ready to fall back into the routine of palace life. The country holiday had been pleasant, but this was home.

Servants bowed and curtsied when he went up the broad stairway and into the palace. “Your Majesty!” they exclaimed. “Welcome back, Your Majesty!”

“It's good to be back,” Lanius answered, over and over again. He beamed at the servants. They knew he wasn't King Grus. He'd never thought that was any special reason for which to admire them, but he did now.

“You'll want a bath, won't you, Your Majesty?” one of the servants said.

That was probably a polite way of telling him he smelled of horse. He couldn't smell it himself; he'd been too close to it for too long. But he nodded. “Thank you very much. A bath would be wonderful.”

And it
was
wonderful—a big copper tub to soak in, with plenty of hot water to wash away the stinks and the kinks of a journey on horseback. They brought him wine, too, and put the cup where he could reach it without getting out of the tub.

He was thinking regretfully about getting out and getting dressed when the door to the bathing chamber opened yet again. This time, though, it wasn't another servant with a pitcher of hot water. It was Sosia.

“I hope you had a nice stay in the country,” she said, politely if not enthusiastically.

“Thank you—I did,” Lanius answered.

“I hope it wasn't
too
nice.” Her claws came out, just for a moment.

“Not like that,” he said truthfully, though he would have said the same thing even if it hadn't been true. “It's good to see you again,” he added, also truthfully. “How are you?”

“I'm going to have a baby.”

“Oh,” Lanius said, and then, “Oh!” That wasn't the way he'd thought she would answer his question. “I want to give you a hug,” he went on, “but I'm afraid I'd soak you if I did.”

“You could dry off first,” Sosia suggested.

Lanius still didn't much want to come out of the tub, even though he'd been in there for a while. For a baby on the way, though, he put what Sosia wanted first. Out he came. She handed him a towel. He rubbed himself more or less dry, then took her in his arms.

She let out a small squawk. “I thought you'd put some clothes on!”

“Why?” he asked, genuinely curious. He didn't let go of her. In fact, he held her tighter. “What better way to celebrate?”

Sosia squawked again. “In here?”

“It's as good a place as anywhere else,” he answered, rising to the occasion. “Do you think the tub is big enough for two?”

“I think you're out of your mind,” his wife said. “What if the servants walk in on us?”

“Then they'll have something brand-new to gossip about.” Lanius kissed her. “The best way to keep them from walking in on us is to hurry.”

“The
best
way to keep them from walking in is not to start in the first place.” She tried to sound severe, but her mouth couldn't help turning up at the corners. “You really
are
out of your mind.”

“I know.” He kissed her again, and steered her toward the gently steaming tub.

They managed. They did hurry. It was more awkward than Lanius thought it would be, and more water slopped onto the floor than he'd expected. But they had finished and were both dressed by the time a servant did come in.

“Sorry … I was so sloppy,” Lanius said. He'd almost said,
Sorry we were so sloppy.
That would have given the game away.

The servant only shrugged. “You put towels down, anyways,” he said. “That's something. Won't be a lot of mopping to do.”

“Good,” Lanius said. He steered Sosia again, this time toward the door. “A baby!” he repeated.

“It does happen,” she said, and then giggled. “If I'd caught this time instead of before, I might have had a mermaid.” Lanius laughed, too. Sosia turned serious again. “I hope it's a boy.”

“So do I,” Lanius said. “If it's a girl, though, we'll just try again, that's all.” Ortalis had said the same thing after Limosa had Capella. They had tried again, and now they had Marinus.

Sosia hesitated in the hallway, then asked, “You don't have any bastards I don't know about, do you?”