The Bastard King

by Harry Turtledove

  Since Alca had, after all, saved him from the sending, Grus thought he could ask, “Will you help me find out who did it?”

  Alca licked her lips. “That depends. What will you do when you know?”

  “That depends, too,” Grus answered. “Whatever I have to do. I didn’t come to the city of Avornis to let myself get killed, you know. I can’t very well worry about the Thervings if I’m dead.” He didn’t mention the Banished One. If a fallen god hated him enough to try to get rid of him, it wouldn’t be with anything so trivial as a sending. He eyed Alca, waiting to hear what the witch would say. If Alca said no, they wouldn’t stay friends even though she’d saved him.

  But, after a long, long pause, she nodded. “Yes, I will do that. As I say, there are means, and then there are means. No one should use a black sending like that; it would sicken a Menteshe.”

  That wasn’t quite how Grus had thought of it, but maybe it wasn’t so far removed, either. He said, “I’ll talk to each of them in turn, with you behind an arras. Will you be able to tell if I’m talking to a liar?”

  “I believe so, sir,” Alca replied. “There are wards against truth spells, but those are also likely to reveal themselves.”

  “All right, then,” Grus said. “Let’s get on with it.” He wanted to find out as soon as he could, before whoever’d come so close to killing him tried again.

  When Lepturus came at a servant’s request, the guards commander asked, “You all right? Some funny stories are going through the palace.”

  “And well they might.” Grus briefly explained what had happened, finishing, “I am … interested in getting to the bottom of this, you understand.”

  “I should hope so,” Lepturus said. “I’ll tell you straight out, Commodore—I didn’t do it, and I don’t know who did. I don’t love you, but you haven’t done anything to make me want you dead.” He scowled. “I don’t like a lot of the thoughts I’m thinking.”

  “I’m thinking them, too, and I don’t like them, either.” Grus nodded to the marshal. Face full of thunderclouds, Lepturus left. Alca emerged from behind the arras. “Well?” Grus demanded.

  “He spoke the truth,” the witch answered. Grus nodded. He’d thought so, too. He sent out another servant to ask Queen Certhia to see him.

  One look at her face when she saw him hale told him everything he needed to know, even without Alca’s help. He asked a short, sad question—“Why?”

  “To keep you from stealing the throne from my son,” she said. “Your men are everywhere in the city. Even a blind beggar could tell what you were up to, and I’m not blind. I’m not sorry I did it. I’m only sorry it didn’t work.”

  Maybe she didn’t know what sort of sending her wizard had used. Maybe. Grus said, “You’re wrong. I meant no such thing.” Maybe he was telling the truth. Maybe. He went on, “But now, I’m afraid, you’ve forced my hand.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Lanius had seen his mother exiled from the palace before. She’d come back in triumph after Arch-Hallow Bucco sent her away. Somehow, he didn’t think the same thing would happen this time. He glared at Grus. “You have your nerve, Commodore, asking me to come talk with you after what you’ve done.”

  “Your Majesty, I know you’re going to be angry at me,” Grus said.

  “Do you?” Lanius was just learning how to use sarcasm, which made him enjoy it all the more.

  He might have been shooting arrows at a boulder, though, for all the effect he had on the naval officer. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry I sent your mother to the Maze,” Grus said. “By the gods, I am. My life would’ve been easier if we’d managed to get along. But she tried to kill me, and she came too close to doing it. What was I supposed to do, leave her here to take another stab at it?”

  He sounded reasonable. He sounded sincere. And Lanius knew perfectly well that his mother had tried to kill Commodore Grus. That didn’t make him like Grus any better, even if it did mean he understood why Grus had done what he’d done. Lanius said, “Will you get rid of me now, for fear of what I might do to you one day?”

  Grus’ face froze. Something in Lanius froze, too. He hadn’t imagined Grus would really dare do any such thing. Slowly, the commodore said, “I don’t want to do that, Your Majesty. I don’t want to do that at all. Everybody in Avornis cares about the dynasty.”

  “But if you think I’m dangerous enough, you will.” Lanius had to force the words out through lips stiff with fear.

  And Grus nodded. “If I have to, I will, yes. I don’t want your blood on my hands, but I don’t want my blood on your hands, either. I think you can understand that.”

  The worst of it was, Lanius could understand it. Had he stood in Grus’ sandals, he would have thought about how best to get rid of himself. How could he have done otherwise? The King of Avornis—even if not of age, even if not trusted with the reins of government—was and always would be a menace to any mere protector simply by virtue of his office and the tradition and power that went with it.

  “I think I may have found a way around the problem, though,” Grus said. “I just might have.” He eyed Lanius with what looked to the king like wry amusement; Lepturus had sent him more than a few such glances. “It keeps you breathing, too, which I hope you’ll appreciate.”

  “I’ve heard ideas I like less,” Lanius answered, which made Grus chuckle. Lanius went on, “What is this way of yours?”

  “I’m going to have myself crowned King of Avornis,” Grus said.

  Rage ripped through Lanius. He’d never imagined he could be so furious. Having his mother exiled had frightened him as well as angered him. This was pure, raw fury. “You would dare?” he whispered in a deadly voice. “You dare speak of the dynasty in one breath, and then use the next to cast me down?”

  “Who said anything about casting you down?” Grus said. “I don’t intend to do anything of the sort. You’ve got all those ancestors who wore the crown. The people are used to having somebody from your family on the throne. That’s fine with me. You’ll keep on being King of Avornis. But I’ll be King of Avornis, too.”

  “That’s … very strange,” Lanius said. “I’ve never heard of anything like it. I don’t think anyone else has, either.”

  “So what?” Grus said cheerfully. “The other choice is leaving you shorter by a head. If that’s what you want, I can arrange it.” He folded his arms across his chest and waited.

  Lanius almost told him to do his worst—almost, but not quite. Just in time, he realized Grus was neither joking nor bluffing. If he said something like, I can’t live with the humiliation, he would, very shortly after that, stop living. He didn’t want to, and so shook his head.

  “Good,” Grus said. “I don’t want to kill you, Your Majesty. I didn’t want to send your mother away, either, but she didn’t leave me with a whole lot of choice.”

  Can I believe that? Lanius wondered. He had to believe it. Grus was letting him live. If the commodore—the commodore who was promoting himself to wear a crown—wanted him dead, dead he would be. He asked, “If we’re both going to be King of Avornis, who will rule the kingdom?”

  Grus jabbed a thumb at his own chest. “I will. You can wear the crown and the fancy robes. But I’ll say who does what. I’ve heard you like to read old books and play around in the archives. Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Lanius answered. “That is so.” He remembered playing with Marila in the archives, and how much he’d enjoyed that. But it wasn’t what Grus meant, and he also loved going through old documents.

  “Good,” the commodore—the usurper—said again. “You can do that to your heart’s content. If you find anything interesting, you can write a book of your own. As long as you don’t jog my elbow, you can do whatever you please. If you do—but I already talked about that.”

  “So you did,” Lanius said. “I suppose I ought to count myself lucky.” He’d intended that for sarcasm, too, but it came out sounding different. He knew a good deal about Avornan history. The kingd
om had known its share of usurpers, including the founder of his own dynasty. They hadn’t gone out of their way to try to mollify the kings they overthrew. On the contrary—they’d gotten rid of them as fast as they could, and often as bloodily as they could.

  Grus nodded now, to show he knew that, too. “Yes, Your Majesty, I suppose you should,” he replied.

  Lanius had never felt the lure of great power—he didn’t want to take the throne so he could tell people what to do. He’d thought that, as King of Avornis, he was more likely to be able to do the things he wanted—like reading old books and playing around in the archives. Once he came of age, who would presume to tell him he couldn’t?

  And now here was Grus, telling him he not only could but had better do that. Oh, yes, there were worse usurpations, which didn’t mean Lanius liked this one. He didn’t. But what could he do about it? He could fume quietly, or he could die. Past that, nothing he could see. And there were worse fates than losing himself in the archives.

  Arch-Hallow Bucco’s beard was white as snow. Age bent his back and made him walk with the help of a cane. A cataract clouded one eye. He had to cup a hand behind his ear when someone spoke to him.

  But his wits still worked. Once Grus made him understand what he wanted, the arch-hallow grinned a wide and eager grin. Grus didn’t care that that grin showed several missing teeth. He cared much more that it was there.

  “A pleasure!” Bucco said. “Yes, sir, it will be a great pleasure. I’d like it even better if you kicked the miserable little gods-despised bastard off the throne altogether. I’d truly like that, I would. Thinks he’s three times as smart as everybody else, too.”

  Grus wondered exactly what had passed between King Lanius and Arch-Hallow Bucco. He didn’t ask Bucco; he wanted the prelate’s help. One day, I might ask Lanius, he thought, though that would only give me his side of it. He said, “I can’t afford to get rid of him. The people like the dynasty. If I killed the boy, I’d be ‘that bloody-handed murderer’ the rest of my days.”

  “Well, you may be right,” the arch-hallow admitted. “Yes, you may be right. But I don’t have to like it, and I don’t.” He leaned forward. “What did you do with that miserable whore Certhia?”

  What went through Grus’ mind was, Not everybody loves the dynasty. He answered, “She’s in the Maze. Deep in the Maze. She won’t come out again, either, not unless there’s worse treason than I can imagine.”

  “In Avornis, there’s always worse treason than anyone can imagine,” Bucco said. “I marvel that the Banished One tries so hard to overthrow us, I truly do. If he left us to our own devices, some of us would sell him Avornis soon enough, so long as they saw even half a chance to pay back their enemies that way.”

  Grus wanted to tell Bucco he was full of nonsense and bile. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He feared the arch-hallow all too likely knew what he was talking about. Instead, Grus said, “You will crown me, then?”

  “I won’t just crown you, Commodore. I’ll enjoy doing it,” Bucco replied. “Let’s pick a day, and I’ll set the crown on your head. Do you want me to do it in the palace or in the cathedral?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Grus said. “I’d like you to do it in the square in front of the palace. The more people who can crowd in, the better.”

  “You’re right,” Arch-Hallow Bucco answered. “You’ll make a pretty good King of Avornis. You see how the pieces fit.”

  “Let’s spread the news through the city and then hold the ceremony.”

  “You do know how the pieces fit,” the arch-hallow said approvingly. “We’ll do it exactly like that. You ought to have Lanius come and be a witness, too.”

  “He hates the idea,” Grus said.

  “Too bad,” Bucco answered. “That isn’t what anyone will see.”

  “Oh, no,” Grus agreed. “Lanius knows what he’s supposed to do, and what will happen if he doesn’t. He’s not stupid.”

  “No, he’s not.” By the sour expression on Bucco’s face, he would have liked Lanius better had the young king been stupid. That would have made him easier to lead by the nose. The arch-hallow eyed Grus. “And since he isn’t stupid, and since you say he doesn’t like your stepping in front of him, he’s going to spend a good deal of his time from now on plotting against you. How do you propose to get around that?”

  He does want me to get rid of Lanius. He wants it very much, Grus thought. Now he eyed Bucco. “You like twisting people this way and that so they do what you want, don’t you?” he said.

  “Me, Commodore? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucco answered. Maybe he meant it; some men were curiously blind about their own character. More likely, though, he donned innocence as readily as his red ecclesiastical robes. “You may insult me if you please. It is your privilege, as the man who will be King of Avornis. But do remember, you have not answered my question.”

  “How will I stop Lanius from plotting against me?” Grus echoed, and Bucco nodded. With a shrug, Grus went on, “I have some ideas about that. I’m not going to tell you what they are, because I will tell you they’re none of your concern.”

  “All right. It’s your worry, not mine. The little bastard and his slutty mother discovered they couldn’t do without me,” Arch-Hallow Bucco said. “Now—when do you want the coronation?”

  “As soon as you can arrange it and spread word through the city of Avornis that it’s going to happen,” Grus replied. “We do want a good-sized crowd there.”

  “There’s the anniversary of the consecration of the cathedral—that’s coming up six days from now,” the arch-hallow said. “It’s not one of the major festivals on the calendar, but a lot of people do take the day off from work. They’d come to the square, or a good many of them would.”

  “Perfect,” Grus said. “We’ll do it two hours after sunrise, to make sure everyone’s out of bed.”

  “You may rely on me … Your Majesty,” Bucco said.

  “Your … Majesty.” Grus tasted the words. After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll just have to get used to that, won’t I?”

  Not being of age, King Lanius had never had true power in Avornis. He’d had influence with his mother and with Lepturus, though. With Grus he had none. The protector—the man who would make himself king—did listen to him; Grus was unfailingly polite. But Grus was also plainly a man who trusted his own judgment and no one else’s. The next suggestion of Lanius’ he took would be the first.

  Grus did nothing to rob Lanius of his ceremonial role as king. Two days before the commodore was to steal a share of the title that by rights should have belonged to Lanius alone, the young king sat on the Diamond Throne to receive a party of merchants and ambassadors—with the Chernagors, the titles went hand in hand—from the folk who dwelt along the northern coast and on some few of the nearer islands in the Northern Sea.

  The head of the embassy was a big, broad-shouldered man with a black beard—just beginning to be streaked with gray—that tumbled halfway down his chest. He wore his hair tied back in a neat bun at the nape of his neck. Fancy embroidery in vivid colors decorated his shirt. In place of trousers, he wore a wool kilt that showed off his knobby knees and hairy calves. His name was Yaropolk.

  “Greetings to you, Your Majesty,” he said in fluent if gutturally accented Avornan. “Greetings from my sovereign, Prince Vsevolod of Nishevatz, and from all the princes of the Chernagors.”

  “I greet you in return, and your prince through you,” Lanius answered. He said nothing about the other princes of the Chernagors. Yaropolk probably would have been astonished if he had. The Chernagors lived in independent city-states, and fought among themselves over trade or, sometimes, over what seemed to an outsider like nothing at all. The only time they pulled together was when outsiders threatened. Sometimes they didn’t do it then, either; several of those city-states had passed part of their history in Avornan hands.

  Bowing, Yaropolk said, “You are very kind, Your Majesty, too kind to a strang
er.”

  “By no means,” Lanius said—this was all part of the ritual of dealing with Chernagors. “Behold—I have gifts for you and your companions.” He nodded to a servant, who came forward with a silver tray on which sat a plump leather sack for each of the men who’d come to the throne room. Yaropolk’s sack was a little plumper than the others.

  “You are truly too kind, Your Majesty!” Prince Vsevolod’s ambassador cried. He hefted his sack. Lanius was sure he knew to the farthing how much was due him, and that he could tell by the weight of the sack in his hand whether he’d gotten what he was supposed to. He seemed satisfied, as well he might have. Once he’d stowed away the sack, he went on, “We are also privileged to give you a gift, Your Majesty.”

  “Thank you,” Lanius said, as impassively as he could. But he couldn’t help leaning forward a little. The gifts Avornis gave to Chernagors followed strict and ancient custom. The gifts the Chernagors brought to the city of Avornis could be anything at all, by equally strict and ancient custom. Master traders and master mariners, the Chernagors traveled widely over the world’s oceans. They came across things no one else—no one else from lands Avornis knew, anyhow—had ever seen, and sent some of those strangenesses down to the city of Avornis to amaze and delight her kings.

  Bitterness surged through Lanius. I won’t be King of Avornis much longer. But stubborn honesty made him shake his head. I won’t be sole King of Avornis much longer. Grus could easily have slain him or sent him to the Maze with his mother. The commodore hadn’t. That was something. Still, Lanius found resentment easier to cultivate than acceptance.

  But resentment, too, was forgotten as a pair of Yaropolk’s henchmen carried something large and bulky—but, apparently, not too heavy—and covered by a sheet of silk up to the base of the throne. Two or three royal guardsmen started to interpose themselves between the Chernagors and Lanius. He waved them back, saying, “It’s all right.” They didn’t look as though they thought it was all right, but Lepturus, who as always stood to the left of the Diamond Throne, did not contradict the king. Muttering, the guardsmen returned to their stations.