Lanius had always chafed at his own obscurity. He’d wanted to be at the heart of great affairs. Once in a while, though, being of no particular importance had its advantages.
King Grus’… problems with Queen Estrilda made everyone in the royal palace walk on eggs. The least misstep landed a servant in trouble. Lanius didn’t want to think about what sort of trouble a misstep might land him in. But what was he supposed to say when Sosia rounded on him one afternoon and demanded, “You’d never do anything like that, would you?”
As a matter of fact, he knew what he was supposed to say. “Of course not, dear.”
“Good,” his wife said. “There’s nothing worse, nothing lower, than somebody who’s unfaithful.”
Lanius nodded politely. He was used to keeping his opinions to himself. Being unfaithful is bad, yes, he thought. Getting caught being unfaithful is worse.
That was one of the things that had kept him from amusing himself with the serving women in the palace, as he’d done before he was married. If he did, Lanius would find himself in the same unpleasant predicament as Grus. Grus was welcome to it.
Besides which, Sosia kept him happy enough. He didn’t know whether Estrilda had kept Grus happy. But some men—and, no doubt, some women—fooled around just for the sport of fooling around. He didn’t fully understand the impulse.
Sosia went on, “It’s hard when you can’t trust anybody.”
“Yes, it is,” Lanius agreed. He’d known about that since he was very small.
“How could he?” Sosia demanded.
“If you really want to find out, you’ll ask him,” Lanius answered.
She made a horrible face. “I couldn’t do that.”
Lanius shrugged. “Well, don’t ask me, because I wasn’t there and I didn’t do it.” He wanted her to remember that.
“But you’re a man,” she said.
“Women go astray, too,” he pointed out, which made Sosia scowl again. He added, “The witch here has—had—a husband, too.”
“Had,” Sosia said. “He threw her out of the house. I wish Mother could throw Father out of her house.”
That made Lanius laugh, though it wasn’t really funny. “She can’t,” he said. “Nobody can do anything to your father that he doesn’t want done.” Except an assassin, he thought, but he didn’t say that for fear of the evil omen. He didn’t want Grus dead, just out of his hair.
Sosia said, “I know nobody can do anything to him. It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Really?” Lanius laughed again, with even less mirth than before. “I never would have noticed.”
His wife turned red. “I know you don’t think what’s happened is right. I wouldn’t be your queen if it hadn’t happened, you know.”
And would I be happier if you weren’t? Lanius didn’t know. Most marriages in Avornis were arranged unions, not love matches. This one hadn’t worked out badly; by now, the two of them did love each other, perhaps as much from familiarity as for any other reason. As for Grus … “Your father isn’t that bad a man.”
“He’s a beast!” Sosia exclaimed.
“No.” Lanius shook his head. “If your father were a beast, he would have murdered me. I admit as much. He would have murdered lots of people. He hasn’t. He has no taste for blood. Plenty of Kings of Avornis have.”
“You know what he did,” Sosia said.
“Yes. But he didn’t force her—it’s very plain he didn’t force her. He didn’t hurt her. He’s not a perfect man. I never said he was. But there’s a long way from not being a perfect man to being a beast. And if I can see that in your father, maybe you should, too.”
“Maybe,” Sosia said, but the look in her eyes might have belonged to a little girl saving up more spit so she could go on with her tantrum.
“He’s … a good enough king,” Lanius said. “I don’t want to admit it. But I’m not blind. I can see what he’s done. It’s … good enough, taken all in all.”
Could I have done as well? he asked himself. Could I have gotten people to do as I say, the way Grus does? He doubted it. He was a man for the archives and for odd animals and for his family and perhaps for a small circle of friends.
Sosia said, “What he did with—with that woman, that wasn’t good enough.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Lanius answered. “I suppose he and your mother will eventually straighten it out.” Grus wouldn’t put Estrilda aside because he was sleeping with another woman, either. Plenty of Kings of Avornis had done things like that, too.
“I hope so,” Sosia said. “I don’t know how, though.”
“Well, it’s their worry,” Lanius said. And thank the gods for that, he thought.
By the way Alca looked at Grus, he might have been something wet and sticky and smelly she’d stepped on in the street. Her expression made him feel that way, too. She said, “So it’s come to this, has it?”
“I’m afraid it has,” he answered miserably.
“You have to send me away?” The witch’s gesture held infinite bitterness. “Why not send her away?”
With a sigh, he said, “I can’t. She’s the mother of my children. And—” He stopped again.
Alca finished for him, saying, “And when you get down to it, you’d rather have her around than me.”
“I’m sorry,” Grus whispered.
“You’re sorry?” Alca said. “How do you think I feel?”
Grus wished she would have made this easier. She had no reason to, of course. “Go wherever you will, except this city,” he said. “Wherever you go, you won’t want, I promise.”
“I won’t want? I’ll want for a husband; for a lover; for a life. People will whisper behind my back and point fingers at me for the rest of my life. ‘She’s the one who laid the king, who sucked the king’s—’” Alca broke off. “I won’t want? Ha!”
“What money can do, I’ll make sure money does,” Grus said.
“I didn’t come to your bed to be your whore.”
“I don’t want to give you money because you were my whore, gods curse it,” Grus said. “I want to give you money because it’s all I can give you now.”
“You have to save the rest for the mother of your children,” Alca said, and Grus winced. She went on, “The mother of your legitimate children, I should say.” Grus flinched again. Alca shook her head. “Queen Quelea help me, I knew it would come to this.”
“Anser and his mother never lacked for anything,” Grus said. “I made sure of that.”
The witch said, “Ha!” again, even more scornfully than before. “Where was his father? Where was her man?”
“She ended up marrying,” Grus said. “Her husband raised the boy as his own.”
“He was generous with a cuckoo’s egg.” Alca’s sarcasm flayed. “Do you suppose I’ll find a man who could cherish something the king used and then discarded? Wouldn’t I be lucky?”
“Alca, please—” Grus began.
She shook her head. “I haven’t begged you for anything. You have no call to beg me, Your Majesty.” Grus’ title might have been a curse in her mouth, as it had been in Estrilda’s. “Do what you’re going to do.”
“I told you what I’d do,” Grus said. “You know why. Tell me where you’d rather go—”
“I’d rather not go anywhere,” Alca said.
Grus sighed. “You don’t have that choice.”
“Send me wherever you please, then,” the witch said. “If this is the thanks I get for saving your life and then for thinking …” She shook her head again. “No, I never did think that. I was always sure this would end badly.”
“I wish things could be different,” Grus said.
“You wish you hadn’t gotten caught.” Yes, Alca sounded very much like Estrilda. “You were a fool, and I was a fool, and …” She looked through him, and something in her voice changed. “… And you will be a fool again, and your child, your precious child, will make you pay for it.”
All of a sudden, Grus wanted her as
far away as she could go. She blinked and seemed to come back to herself. Too late, as far as he was concerned. If that wasn’t prophecy, what was it? He tried to gather himself, saying, “I’ll send you to Pelagonia, then.” The town was in the middle of the southern plains, a long way from the capital.
“You can do whatever you want,” Alca said. “Whether it’s right or fair doesn’t matter.”
If Grus could do whatever he wanted, why was he doing this? He knew why. Sometimes, even the King of Avornis took orders from a higher authority—and what authority could be higher than an outraged spouse?
People didn’t commonly set off on a journey across Avornis in the dead of winter, especially not when the winter in question was a hard one. When Alca left the royal palace, left the city of Avornis, for Pelagonia, no one said a word about what people didn’t commonly do. Everyone knew why she was leaving, and everyone knew remarking on it wouldn’t be wise.
All Lanius said was, “Maybe we’ll have some peace and quiet in the palace now.” Even he waited a couple of days before saying anything, and even he made sure only his wife heard him.
“That would be good,” Sosia agreed. “We don’t need any more scandals of that particular sort.” The look she gave him warned he’d better not cause a scandal of that particular sort.
“We don’t need any scandals of any sort,” he said, being a man who liked things neat and tidy. Having been born as part of a scandal, he particularly deplored them. He knew things weren’t always neat and tidy—if they had been, he would have ruled Avornis instead of just reigning over it—but he wished they were.
“She’s gone. She won’t be back,” Sosia said, as though that was a very good thing indeed. Lanius had his own views on the subject, had them and made a point of keeping them to himself.
He did need to see King Grus about something else. His father-in-law didn’t seem to want to see him—or anyone else, for that matter. Not for the first time, Lanius put it off … and then put it off again, and eventually, as he had before, let it slip to the back of his mind. Yes, it was something Grus needed to hear and Lanius needed to tell him, but it wasn’t anything Lanius really wanted to talk about or Grus would care to hear. Nobody who carried bad news was eager to blurt it out, especially when the person who got it couldn’t do anything about it.
And, before long, Lanius and Grus both had other things to worry about. The winter went on and on and got worse and worse. Lanius suspected the Banished One had more than a little to do with that, as he had before. He didn’t know whether Grus suspected the same thing. He didn’t feel inclined to ask, either. Grus couldn’t very well ask Alca to use her sorcery to help find out, not anymore, and the other king didn’t seem to have found a new wizard he could trust.
Whatever or whoever caused the hard winter, it had results neither Lanius nor Grus could ignore. Farmers sent petitions by the score—by the hundred—to their local governors and to the royal capital, asking to be relieved of taxes. How can I pay, one of them asked, when all my cows and half my sheeps is dead, and so is my mule?
Some farmers didn’t bother with petitions. They simply abandoned their land and made for the closest town or for the city of Avornis, looking for whatever work they could find. Very often, they couldn’t find any, and started to starve. “What are you going to do about these fellows?” Lanius asked Grus after a party of half a dozen unlucky men came to the palace to beg.
“I’m not so much worried about them,” Grus answered. “I’m worried about their farms.”
“Their farms?” Lanius said. “Why do you care about the farms? The men are here, and they’re hungry.”
“Oh, I know that,” his father-in-law said. “But they’re here because they’re walking away from their farms. Who’s going to get that land now? The nobles, probably, in spite of all the laws I’ve made to keep that from happening.”
“Well, yes,” Lanius admitted. “Even so …” His voice trailed away. Usually, he was the one who thought in abstract terms, while Grus was down-to-earth. Here, though, he saw men and Grus saw agricultural policy. He scratched his head. It made for an odd reversal.
Grus sensed as much, too. “I’m trying to think about the whole kingdom, Your Majesty,” he said, his tone edgy. “What’s more important than Avornis?”
“Nothing. I’m sure of that,” Lanius replied. “But if the Kingdom of Avornis isn’t made up of people like these hungry farmers, what is it?”
His father-in-law started to answer, hesitated, started again and again failed, and finally frowned. “You have a point,” he said at last. “How are the granaries? Can we feed them?”
He expected Lanius to have the answer at his fingertips, and Lanius did. “Oh, yes, we can feed them till spring without too much trouble,” he answered. “We’ve had good harvests the last couple of years, and there’s plenty of wheat in the granaries, and even more rye and barley. Oats, too, come to that.”
“Oats?” Grus made a face. “A lot of people, especially down in the south, think they’re nothing but fodder for horses.”
“I never said they were fancy,” Lanius answered. “But if it’s a choice between boiling oats and making porridge of them on the one hand and going hungry on the other, I know which I’d sooner do.”
“I suppose so.” Grus still sounded unhappy, but he couldn’t very well argue. He drummed his fingers on the side of his thigh. “I wish I knew whether this was just a bad winter of the sort we often get, or a bad winter sent by the Banished One.”
“This is a very bad winter, which makes it more likely the Banished One has given us a gift.” Lanius paused and then decided to see what happened when he said, “You could use a wizard to help you find out.” Grus had given him the opening, after all.
“I haven’t got one I can rely on against the Banished One right now,” Grus said.
King Lanius eyed him. “And whose fault is that?”
“Oh, it’s mine,” Grus replied. “Have I ever said any different?” More than a little reluctantly, Lanius shook his head. Grus had never been shy about admitting his own flaws. He wasn’t the sort of man to claim he had none, as more than a few kings had been wont to do. Lanius sighed. If only Grus had worked harder to root out those faults … Of course, even fewer men tried to do that than admitted they had flaws in the first place. Lanius didn’t suppose he could blame Grus too much for failing to root them out. No—not too much, anyhow.
Guards spirited Thraupis into the palace as though he were the most beautiful courtesan in the world. He wasn’t. He was a gangling middle-aged man with stooped shoulders, a long, horsy face, and watery gray eyes with a nearsighted squint. King Grus received him in a chamber well separate from his living quarters, and, despite the hunger in the city, gave him roast meat and white bread and sweet wine red as blood.
“Very kind, Your Majesty; very kind,” Thraupis said. He started to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, then remembered his manners and used a cloth instead.
“Glad you’re pleased,” Grus replied. “Now, then—let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Happy to oblige, Your Majesty; happy to oblige.” Thraupis had a habit of repeating himself. He picked up a wooden case and set it on the table next to his empty platter. A moment later, a servant whisked the platter away. Another servant poured him more wine. “Thank you. Thank you very much,” he said, and opened the case.
Grus eyed the contents—cleverly displayed on black velvet—as avidly as he might have eyed a courtesan displayed by the same fabric. The ram-headed spiral gold bracelet with the emeralds for eyes particularly caught his notice. “This is a very fine piece,” he said to Thraupis.
By the way the jeweler beamed, Grus knew it was also a very expensive piece. “Glad you like it,” Thraupis said. “Mighty glad.” He pointed to a pair of elaborate earrings with filigree-work gold disks and boat-shaped pendants and several small golden seeds dangled from each pendant by chains of almost unimaginable fineness. “These’d go well with the bracelet, Your
Majesty. They’d go really well.”
“I’m sure they would. I’m certain of it.” Grus shook his head in bemusement. He was starting to talk like Thraupis. Yes, he was starting to sound just like him. Stop that, he told himself sternly. “How much do you want for them? Will the treasury have any money left if I buy them?”
Thraupis named a price. He named it only once. Once was plenty to make Grus yelp. The jeweler clucked. “Can’t get much lower, Your Majesty—not much. Gold is gold. Jewels is jewels. My time’s worth a little something. Yes, a little something, by the gods.”
“You’re a thief,” Grus said—but weakly. But the King of Avornis couldn’t let those pieces go by, not just then he couldn’t. He took the bracelet and earrings to Estrilda and gave them to her with as much of a flourish as he could—all things considered, less than he would have wanted. “I hope you like them,” he said.
“They’re very pretty,” Estrilda answered. “Would you have gotten them for me if you hadn’t been sleeping with the witch?”
“Dear …” Grus said in strained tones.
“Spare me,” Estrilda told him. “When you did this the first time, you were easy enough to forgive. You said you wouldn’t do it again, and I believed you. The second time? No. I’ve told you that, too. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.”
She eyed him. “And now you’re going to say something like, ‘Well, if you can’t be nice to me, I’ll get rid of you and find somebody who can.’ Go right ahead—that’s all I’ve got to say to you.”
“I wasn’t going to say anything at all,” Grus said. “I don’t want to get rid of you, Estrilda. All I want to do is go back to the way things were before.”
“Not likely,” Estrilda said. “If you drop a goblet, can you put it back together again?”
“Not easily,” Grus answered, “but I’m doing what I can. You’ll see cracks on the goblet when I’m done, but I hope it will hold wine again.”
“That’s a pretty figure of speech,” Estrilda said. “Why should I care whether it holds wine or not, though? You’re the one who smashed it and spilled the wine it did hold.”
The Bastard King Page 52
