The Bastard King

by Harry Turtledove

  “Underestimating the Banished One doesn’t pay.” Lanius snapped his fingers.

  “What is it?” Grus asked.

  “Later.” Lanius nodded toward the guards, as though to say, Not in front of them. Their wooden expressions never changed. After a moment, he realized terror lay beneath that woodenness. They had to wonder if they would lose their heads for almost letting the two Kings of Avornis be murdered. Lanius nodded toward them again. “It’s not their fault. They were ensorcelled.”

  He waited to see if Grus would hold a grudge. Grus didn’t usually, but he didn’t usually have a narrow escape from assassination, either. Lanius knew a certain amount of relief when Grus said, “Yes, I know that. The Banished One has a cursed long reach, and we can’t always hope to outguess him.” The guards showed their relief, mute but very obvious. Grus went on, “Sometimes I wonder if we can ever hope to outguess him.”

  “So do I,” Lanius said, as fervently as though he were praying in a temple. He wished the comparison weren’t so apt.

  A messenger hurried up the corridor, calling, “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!”

  “Yes?” Lanius and Grus spoke together.

  Lanius wondered why he bothered. The messenger, inevitably, wanted to talk to Grus. “Your Majesty, the treasury minister reminds you that you were supposed to meet with him more than an hour ago.”

  The treasury minister wouldn’t let a little thing like an assassination attempt interrupt his schedule. “Tell Petrosus—” Grus began, but then caught himself. “Tell Petrosus I’ll be with him soon. The quicker we get back to normal, the better.” He nodded to Lanius. “Isn’t that right, Your Majesty?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  Grus didn’t let him finish. “Glad you agree. I’ll see you in a bit. Meanwhile, I’d better go find out what’s in Petrosus’ beady little mind. So if you’ll excuse me …” He started after the messenger.

  “But there was something I needed to tell you,” Lanius said. “Something important.”

  “I’m sure it will keep,” Grus said over his shoulder, by which he couldn’t mean anything but, I’m sure that, whatever you have to tell me, it can’t possibly be important.

  Before Lanius could shout at Grus and tell him what a blockhead he was, the other king was around the corner and gone. Lanius muttered under his breath. Then he cursed out loud, which did him no more good than the other had. He almost followed Grus. What point, though? Grus wouldn’t listen to him now. The palace servants would. He set them to rounding up the moncats that had gotten out of their room after the thrall opened the door.

  Later that day, Sosia said, “King Olor be praised you’re all right. You and Father both, I mean.”

  Even her relief was enough to stab at Lanius, almost as though it were the knife the thrall had tried to use against him. “King Olor be praised indeed,” he said, and wondered when he’d been so sarcastic before. He couldn’t think of a time.

  He was glad Sosia didn’t notice. She said, “Father’s had a lot happen to him lately.”

  “So he has.” But Lanius couldn’t help adding, “He did some of it to himself, you know.”

  Sosia didn’t argue. “Of course he did. But not today, not unless you’re going to blame him for bringing those thralls north so he could study them.”

  Grus had already blamed himself for that. But Lanius said, “I’ll never blame anybody for trying to learn things. I do wish he’d listened to me when I tried to tell him that—”

  But Sosia suddenly wasn’t listening to him anymore, either. Crex came in crying and limping on a scraped knee. That had to be washed off—which produced more wails and tears—and he had to be cuddled by both Sosia and Lanius. By the time Crex decided he might possibly be all right after all, the servants were bringing in supper. Lanius drank more wine with the food than he usually did. He went to bed not long after supper and slept like a log—except that logs don’t usually wake up the next morning with a headache.

  Grus reached for the carafe. “Here,” he said to Estrilda. “Let me pour you some more wine.”

  She pushed her goblet across the table toward him. “Thanks,” she said. “Tonight I can use it.”

  He filled the goblet for her, and poured more for himself, too. As they both sipped, he said, “I should think so.” He’d seen a lot of fighting. Nobody had ever tried to kill Estrilda before, even if she’d been an afterthought to the thrall.

  She set down the goblet. “Did I say thank you?” she asked.

  “You have now.” Grus shrugged. “You didn’t need to.”

  “I think I did. I … may have been harder on you lately than I should have been.”

  “It’s all right.” Grus shrugged again. “I can’t say you didn’t have your reasons. I can’t say I didn’t give them to you, either.”

  “You could have just let … whatever was going to happen there, happen.” Estrilda took a long pull at the wine. “Then you wouldn’t have had to worry about this mess anymore.”

  “You said that earlier,” Grus said. Estrilda nodded. He went on, “I don’t think you’ve ever said anything that made me angrier. It’s a sorry business when I have to kill somebody to show you I love you, that’s all I’ve got to say.”

  “Yes.” His wife nodded. “It is a sorry business, isn’t it?”

  Grus started to answer that, then suddenly realized odds were he’d be better off keeping his mouth shut. Since it was already open, he couldn’t very well do that. He could pour more wine down his throat—he could, and he did. His cheeks and ears started feeling numb. He wondered just how much wine he’d drunk. Enough, evidently.

  Estrilda reached for her goblet, missed, laughed much too loud, and at last succeeded in capturing it. “I’m going to wish I was dead tomorrow morning,” she said, “but I don’t care right now. I’m going to keep on drinking, because I’m not dead.”

  “No, and I’m glad you’re not,” Grus said.

  “So am I.” She yawned. “I may not be dead, but I am sleepy.” None too steadily, she got to her feet. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Wait. I’ll come with you.” The room spun a little as Grus got up. He thought his walk back to the royal bedchamber was fine, if a little slow. By the way she giggled, Estrilda didn’t. Grus thought her swaying strides pretty funny, too, but he didn’t giggle. He felt proud of his own restraint.

  “Do you need anything, Your Majesties?” a servant asked. Grus shook his head, which made the room spin more. The servant left, closing the door behind him. Grus undressed and got under the covers; even inside the palace, the night was cold. Estrilda got into bed with him. They’d been sleeping in the same bed all along. Usually, since finding out about Alca, she’d built a barricade of pillows to make sure sleeping was the only thing they did together.

  Tonight, she didn’t. Grus noticed that, but he just lay there, waiting to see what she would do or say. Pushing too hard too soon could only be a mistake. “Good night,” he said, and blew out the lamp.

  “Good night,” Estrilda answered as night swallowed the room. Grus shifted a little. He felt Estrilda shifting, too.

  Their knees bumped. It was the first time they’d touched in bed since she found out. Grus said, “Sorry.”

  “It’s all right.” His wife shook her head, making the mattress sway a little on the leather lashings that supported it. “No. It’s not all right. But I thought it was the end of the world, and it’s not that, either. There are pieces left. Maybe we can put some of them back together again.”

  “I hope so,” Grus said. “I—” The words wouldn’t come. He reached for her instead, there in the darkness. If she pushed him away … If she did, she did, that was all.

  She didn’t. She reached for him, too. “I’m not going to tell you no tonight,” she said, “not after …” She checked herself. “I’m not going to tell you no.”

  He caressed her. He knew what pleased her. He’d had years and years to find out. It wasn’t the way it had been with Alca, whe
re he’d learned something new every time. Now he shook his head. If she’d try not to be angry tonight, he’d try not to think of Alca. That seemed only fair.

  Then, a little later, he wondered if he could do what he wanted to do. He wished he hadn’t had so much wine. But he managed. By the way Estrilda quivered beneath him, he managed more than well enough. He gave her a kiss as he slid from on her to beside her. “Good night,” he muttered, spent.

  “Good night,” she answered. He wasn’t sure he even heard her. Already he slid into sleep as deep and dark as the blackness filling the bedroom.

  Lanius needed a way to get Grus’ attention. He didn’t like the one he found, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. With a resigned mental sigh, he said, “Your Majesty?”

  Grus always noticed when Lanius admitted he too was King of Avornis, not least because Lanius did it so seldom. “Yes, Your Majesty?”

  “We need to talk for a few minutes,” Lanius said. “It’s important. Seeing what happened yesterday, I think it’s very important.”

  That got through. Grus nodded. “Say what you have to say. I promise I’ll listen.”

  “Let’s go someplace quiet, where we can talk by ourselves.” Lanius’ gaze flicked toward the servants bustling along the corridor.

  “Whatever this is, you’re serious about it,” Grus remarked. Now Lanius nodded. Grus asked, “Is this—whatever it is—is it what you’ve already started to tell me a couple of times?”

  “Yes,” Lanius said. “I had to put it off then. After yesterday, I can’t put it off anymore.”

  “All right, Your Majesty.” Grus did do him the courtesy of taking him seriously. “Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

  A couple of maidservants were gossiping in the first room whose door the kings opened. The women stared in astonishment. Now they would have something new to gossip about. The next room the kings tried had shelves piled high with bed linen, and only a little space in which to stand while putting things on those shelves or taking them down.

  “Will this do?” Lanius asked doubtfully.

  “Nobody will bother us in here, that’s for sure,” his father-in-law answered. “Go on, shut the door.” After Lanius had, Grus asked, “Well, what’s on your mind?”

  “Have you ever heard the name … Milvago?” Lanius asked. He’d never said the name aloud before, and looked around nervously as he did. Someone—something—might be listening.

  To Grus, it was only a name, and an unfamiliar one. “Can’t say I have,” he replied, indifferent. “Sounds like it ought to be Avornan, but I wouldn’t want to guess past that. You’re the one who’s talking, so tell me about this Milvago.”

  “I can’t tell you much,” Lanius said. “I don’t know much. Most of what was written has been dust and ashes for hundreds of years, and the priests have made sure all the ceremonies are different nowadays. They tried to get rid of all the records, too, but they couldn’t quite manage it. They’re only human, after all. Even the peasants have forgotten him, and peasants can have longer memories than anybody.”

  “Who is he? Or should I say, who was he?” Grus asked. “You’re the one who knows history, so I expect you can tell me. Some long-ago heretic? Sounds like it, by the way you talk.”

  “You might say so.” Lanius knew his voice sounded strange. “Yes, you just might say so.”

  “All right. Fair enough,” Grus said. “But please don’t get angry at me, Your Majesty, when I ask you why I need to know any of this.”

  “I won’t get angry,” Lanius said. “It’s a reasonable question. And the answer is, we still hear about him today. The only difference is, we call him the Banished One.”

  That got Grus’ full and complete attention. Lanius had been sure it would. The older man leaned toward him, intent as a hunter on his prey. “Milvago was … what? The name he had before he was cast down from the heavens?”

  “Yes.” Lanius nodded. “The name he had when he was a god. I found it on an ancient parchment in the ecclesiastical archives under the cathedral.”

  “The name he had when he was a god,” Grus echoed. “Do you have any idea how strange that sounds?”

  “Believe me, Your Majesty, it sounds at least as strange to me as it does to you,” Lanius replied. “I haven’t said anything about this to anyone, not till now.”

  Twice in the space of a few minutes, he’d used Grus’ royal title. It had been months, maybe years, since the last two times he’d used it. And Grus noticed. Lanius could see as much. But the other King of Avornis didn’t mention it. Instead, he asked the right question. Lanius had noticed his gift for that. “Well,” Grus said, “if this Milvago was a god once upon a time, what was he the god of? Bad weather, maybe? Or just bad temper generally?”

  Those were good, quick, reasonable guesses. Lanius wished with all his heart one of them was right. But he answered with the truth—what he was convinced was the truth—he’d found far under the cathedral. He gave that truth in one word—“Everything.”

  “What do you mean?” Grus asked. “What was he the god of?”

  “Everything,” Lanius repeated miserably. “As best I can tell, he was the chief god in the heavens, the god from whom Olor and Quelea and the rest sprang long, long ago.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “By the gods”—Lanius laughed, though it was anything but funny—“I am not.”

  “What did they do?” Grus demanded. “Turn on him and cast him down, the way nasty sons will turn on a rich father when they’re too impatient to wait for him to die?”

  Now he was the one who sounded as though he was joking. But Lanius nodded, saying, “Yes, I believe that’s exactly what they did, though Milvago may have been the nasty one. The way he’s behaved here on earth would make you think so, anyhow.”

  Grus’ eyes were wide and staring. “And we have to stand against a god like that?”

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Lanius answered. “If you don’t believe we still have free will, what’s the point to anything?”

  But the details of philosophical discussion had never interested Grus. He waved Lanius’ words away. “How are we supposed to fight against the god who made the ground we’re walking on? How, by the—” He broke off. Lanius understood that. Why swear by the gods when you were talking of the one who’d sired them?

  But, in literal terms, Grus’ question had an answer, or Lanius hoped it did. “How? The same way we’ve been fighting him ever since he was cast down from the heavens. Even if he was all-powerful once upon a time, he isn’t anymore. If he were, he couldn’t very well have been cast down from the heavens in the first place, could he? And as for creating the world, who knows whether Milvago did that or not? What happened to his father, if he had one?”

  He waited to see how Grus would take that. He’d always respected his father-in-law’s resourcefulness; without it, Grus never would have won his share of the crown. For the moment, it seemed to have abandoned the older man. Lanius didn’t suppose he could blame Grus. He himself had had a while to work through, to work past, his shattering discovery. The other king was trying to take it in all at once.

  “Don’t tell anybody else,” Grus said suddenly.

  “What?” Lanius asked, taken aback.

  “Whatever you do, don’t tell anybody else,” Grus repeated. “Do you want Avornans worshiping the Banished One, the way the Menteshe do? Some of them would.”

  He was bound to be right. Lanius hadn’t thought of that. Maybe Grus’ resourcefulness hadn’t deserted him after all. Lanius said, “I haven’t even told Sosia or Anser.”

  “Good,” Grus said. “Don’t. By Olor’s—” He broke off again, shaking his head like a man bedeviled by gnats. “I half wish you hadn’t told me. Maybe more than half.”

  “How do you think I felt when I found out?” Lanius exclaimed. “There I was, down in the deepest level of the archives, all alone with a secret no one but the Banished One has known for … for a very long time.” His sense
of chronology, usually so sharp, deserted him.

  Grus set a hand on his shoulder. He seldom cared to have anyone but Sosia or his children touch him, but the warmth and solid weight of Grus’ hand felt oddly reassuring. Grus said, “We just have to go on, that’s all. We’ve always known he was stronger than we are. If he’s … even stronger than we thought, what difference does that make, really?”

  We just have to go on. That was easy to say, harder to do. “If we had the Scepter of Mercy …” Lanius said.

  “Yes. If,” Grus said.

  “The Banished One—Milvago—wants to make sure that we don’t have it, that we can’t use it.” Lanius looked south, in the direction of Yozgat. “So we really have to get it back, don’t we?” Grus nodded.

  Turn the page to continue reading the Scepter of Mercy Trilogy

  CHAPTER ONE

  Not for the first time—not for the hundredth, either—King Lanius wondered what it would be like to rule Avornis. His ancestors for a dozen generations had been kings. They’d ruled. He, on the other hand …

  He, on the other hand, sighed and went on poking through the royal archives. Avornis was a proud and ancient kingdom. That meant it had been accumulating scrolls and codices and sheets of parchment and the occasional (often broken) potsherd for centuries. Lanius, fascinated by history, dug through them as eagerly as a miner went after a rich vein of gold.

  The King—well, one of the Kings—of Avornis looked more like a scholar than a ruler. He was a tall, thin, weedy man in his midtwenties, with dark brown hair that needed combing and a beard with a chunk of dust in it down low on his right cheek where he couldn’t see it and flick it away. Instead of royal robes, he wore an ordinary—in fact, rather grubby—linen tunic and baggy wool trousers. The servants had complained that he always came back from the archives covered in dust and dirt, and that robes so smirched were impossible to clean. Lanius didn’t like to cause people trouble when he didn’t have to.