“Oh, yes. He knows all sorts of things.” Grus let it go at that. The one thing Lanius didn’t know, as far as Grus could see, was what was important and what wasn’t. Grus went on, “You said you wanted to ask me a couple of things. What’s the other one?”
The general’s mobile features squeezed into a frown. After a moment, he brightened and said, “All right, now I remember. Once we settle this mess in Nishevatz, do you think we’ll be able to turn around and march home again? Or are we going to spend the next five or ten years putting out fires in the Chernagor country?”
“I hope we’ll be able to do this quickly and neatly and then go home again,” Grus said. “I don’t know whether that will happen, though. It’s not just up to me, you know. The Banished One will have something to do with it. So will the Chernagors. They like squabbling among themselves—and they don’t always like outsiders sticking their noses in on one side or the other.”
“Might as well be a family,” Hirundo said.
That startled a laugh out of Grus. He said, “You’re right. But it’s also what worries me most.”
As the army pushed north, the mountains climbed ever higher on the horizon. They were neither as tall nor as jagged as the Bantians proper. Snow was already melting from their peaks. In the range to the west, it would cling to the mountaintops all summer long.
Several passes gave entry to the Chernagor country on the far side of the mountains. Naturally, Grus led his men to the one closest to Nishevatz. He ordered scouts out well ahead of the main body of the army. If the Banished One’s backers (who might include Prince Vasilko) wanted to ambush them before they got to Nishevatz, the pass was the best place to try it. Grus remembered Count Corvus coming to grief against the Thervings because he didn’t watch out for an ambush. Had Corvus found it instead of the other way around, he likely would have made himself King of Avornis. As things were, he was a monk in the Maze these days, and would never come out.
No ambush waited in the pass. But one of the scouts said, “Your Majesty, we rode up to the watershed and then down a ways. When we looked to the north, we saw the whole country was full of smoke.” Several other riders nodded.
Grus and Hirundo exchanged glances. They both knew what was most likely to cause that. A company of cavalry around him, Grus rode out ahead of the army to see for himself. Sure enough, when he got to the top of the pass and peered north, it was just as the scout had said. Grus caught Hirundo’s eye again. “They’ve gone and started their war without us,” he said. “I’ll bet I can tell you which side Vasilko’s on, too.”
“Not ours,” Hirundo said. Grus nodded.
King Lanius hated being disturbed when he was with his moncats. Servants in the palace generally knew better than to bother him there. When someone knocked on the door to the moncats’ room, Lanius muttered in annoyance—he had Bronze on his lap. “Who is it?” he called. “What do you want?”
He sat on the floor with Bronze. The reddish female was one of the first pair Yaropolk of Nishevatz had given him several years before. She was about the size of an ordinary house cat, and of a temperament not far removed from that of an ordinary cat. But moncats’ paws were not those of ordinary cats. They had hands with real thumbs and feet with big toes that worked the same way. Even their tails could grip. They were made for life in the trees on their native islands somewhere out in the Northern Sea—just where, Yaropolk hadn’t said.
“It’s me,” came the answer from the other side of the door.
“And who are you?” Lanius knew he sounded irritated. He was irritated. He did his best not to show it to Bronze, stroking the moncat’s back and scratching at the corner of its jaw to try to coax a purr out of it.
The door to the room opened. That made Lanius spring to his feet in fury, spilling Bronze out of his lap. The moncat yowled at such cavalier treatment. Lanius whirled to see who besides Grus had the nerve to disturb him in here. Moncats were smarter than ordinary cats. They realized at once that an open door meant a chance to get away. With gripping hands and feet, they could go places ordinary cats couldn’t, too. A couple of escapes had proved that. One of the few rules Lanius had been able to enforce as though he really ruled was that servants were banned from his animals’ chambers.
But this wasn’t a servant. Prince Ortalis stood in the doorway. “Olor’s beard, shut that before they all get loose!” Lanius exclaimed.
For a wonder, Ortalis did. Grus’ legitimate son was a couple of years older than Lanius. He was taller, handsomer—and, most of the time, fouler-tempered. He looked around now with considerable curiosity; as far as Lanius knew, he’d never been in the moncats’ chamber before. “What peculiar beasts,” he said. “Are they good for anything?”
“No more—and no less—than any other cat is,” Lanius answered. “Did you come here to ask me that?”
Ortalis made a horrible face. The question must have reminded him of why he had come. “You’ve got to help me, Lanius,” he said.
Lanius’ heart sank. If Ortalis was in trouble, he feared he knew what sort. Hoping he was wrong, he asked, “Why? What did you do?”
“It wasn’t the way she says it was,” his brother-in-law answered, which proved he was right. Ortalis went on, “By the gods, she liked it as much as I did, up until.…” He shook his head. “It’s all kind of fuzzy now. We both drank a lot of wine.”
“What happened?” Lanius wondered if he really wanted to know. He decided he needed to, whether he wanted to or not. “What did you do?”
“She … got hurt a little.” Quickly, Ortalis went on, “It’s not as bad as she says it is, though—I swear it’s not. And she wanted more while it was going on. I wouldn’t lie to you, Lanius. She did. She really did.”
“Your father won’t be very happy with you when he finds out,” Lanius said.
“That’s what I’m saying!” Ortalis howled. “You’ve got to help me make sure he doesn’t. If he does …” He tapped the back of his neck with a forefinger, as though the headsman’s ax were falling.
“What can I do?” Lanius asked. “I haven’t got the power to do anything to speak of. You ought to know that.” Even if he could have done something, he would have only for Sosia’s sake. Her brother repelled, revolted, and frightened him.
Ortalis said, “Money. She wants money.”
“Who doesn’t?” Lanius pointed to one of the moncats. “You know, I’ve been painting pictures of these beasts and selling them because the treasury minister doesn’t give me as much as I need.”
“Oh,” Ortalis said, as though Lanius had betrayed him when he needed help most. Maybe Lanius had. Grus’ son went on, “I was hoping you could talk to Petrosus and get whatever I need—whatever you need, I mean.”
“Not likely,” Lanius said, thinking, You meant what you said the first time. You’re the only one you ever cared about.
“But what am I going to do?” Ortalis sounded desperate. “What am I going to do? If she doesn’t get paid, she will blab. And then who knows what my father will do? He’s yelled at me before.”
Yes, and that’s because you’ve done nasty things to your women before—one more thing Lanius saw no point in saying. Ortalis never paid attention to anyone but himself, and turned nasty—nastier—when he was crossed. As much to get his brother-in-law out of his hair as for any other reason, the king said, “Maybe you ought to talk to Arch-Hallow Anser, instead. He heads the temples, so he can get his hands on money that doesn’t come through Petrosus.”
“Already tried him. He turned me down. My own flesh and blood, and he turned me down. Flat.” Anser was also Grus’ son, but a bastard. Despite his irregular past, Lanius—and everybody else—found him much more agreeable than Ortalis. The king wasn’t sure how bright Anser was. He was sure Grus’ bastard, unlike his legitimate son, had his heart in the right place.
More than ever, he wanted Ortalis gone. Spreading his hands, he said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to tell you now.”
; “She’s got to disappear,” Ortalis muttered. “One way or another, she’s got to disappear.”
“By the gods, don’t make it worse than it is already!” Lanius exclaimed in alarm.
“It can’t get any worse than it is already,” his brother-in-law replied. “Just you remember, Lanius—you haven’t heard a thing.”
“I remember,” Lanius said. “If you think I want to walk into the middle of a quarrel between your father and you, you’d better think again.” He’d made promises to keep quiet about certain things before, made them and kept them. He didn’t promise now, and hoped Ortalis wouldn’t notice.
Full of other worries, Ortalis didn’t. “She’s got to disappear,” he said once more, and then rushed out of the chamber.
The king hurried after him. As Lanius had feared; Ortalis didn’t bother closing the door behind himself. Lanius did it before any of the moncats could get out. They did harm to their prey, too, but innocently and without malice. He wished he could say the same about Ortalis.
Whenever Grus breathed in, he tasted smoke. When he spat, he spat black. He turned to Hirundo and said, “It’s so nice that we’re welcome in the land of the Chernagors.”
“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed.” The general spat black, too. Hirundo swigged from a cup of ale, swallowed, and said, “I’m also glad the men of Nishevatz invited us to their city-state. Just think what kind of a greeting they would have given us if they hadn’t.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not,” Grus said wearily. The Avornan army had yet to see the city of Nishevatz itself. It was still busy reducing forts south of the town. Had it left them behind, the garrisons in them would have fallen on Grus’ men as soon as they’d gone by, or else on his supply wagons later.
Varazdin, the latest of them, wasn’t much different from any of the rest. The local limestone was golden, which made the walls and the keep inside look deceptively cheerful. As Grus had already seen with three other fortresses, Varazdin’s looks were indeed deceiving. His men ringed the fortress, just out of range of the archers and catapults on the walls. Whenever they came close enough, the Chernagors inside started shooting and flinging things at them.
A handful of Chernagors of Prince Vsevolod’s, party made their way toward Grus. Several more Avornan bodyguards accompanied them. The Chernagors said they were of Vsevolod’s faction. Up until now, they’d acted as though they were of his faction. But if Grus’ men trusted them on account of that, and if one of them really favored the rebels and Prince Vasilko, favored the Banished One who backed the rebels and the young prince … If that happened, Avornis would suddenly have Lanius on the throne, and then things would look very different.
Grus didn’t intend that things should look different. The Chernagors, fortunately, didn’t seem offended at guardsmen shadowing them wherever they went. They too played political games with knife and poison and dark wizardry. Their leader, Duke Radim, bowed to Grus. In gutturally accented Avornan, he said, “I have found out who commands in Varazdin, Your Majesty.”
“Have you? Good.” King Grus took a big swig from his mug of ale. He drank as much to wash the smoke out of his mouth as because he was thirsty. “Who is he?”
“He is Baron Lev, Your Majesty,” Radim answered. He was an old man, his beard white, his shoulders stooped. He put Grus in mind of a fortress much more ancient and weathered than Varazdin. What remained showed how mighty he must have been in his younger days. He added, “He is, or should be, loyal to Vsevolod.”
“He has an odd way of showing it,” Hirundo exclaimed.
Radim nodded gravely. “He was not reckoned an important man. No one told him Vsevolod would seek aid from Avornis. He thought your coming was a real invasion.”
“Doesn’t he know better now?” Grus asked.
“Oh, yes.” Radim nodded again. “But his honor is touched. How can he yield you passage when his sovereign insulted him?”
“We’re trying to help his sovereign,” Grus pointed out.
“He knows that. But the insult comes first.”
“Do you mean he’s gone over to Vasilko?” Hirundo asked.
Now Radim shook his head. The Chernagors with him seemed shocked. “Oh, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. Still, how can a man who has been treated as though he were of no account cooperate in any way with those who so abused him? Should a woman who is taken by force cooperate with her ravisher and lie with him as though they truly loved each other?”
King Grus’ head started to ache. He was a practical man. He’d always thought the Chernagors were practical men, too. Of course, most of the Chernagors who came to the city of Avornis were merchants. By the nature of things, merchants needed to be practical men. He wished the same held true for nobles. But it didn’t. He’d already seen that in Avornis.
“Well,” he said, “if we have to take the most honorable Baron Lev by force, that’s what we have to do.”
And, three days later, he did. He thinned his line around the fortress of Varazdin, using the men thus freed to form two storming parties. Just as dawn was breaking, the men of the first one rushed at the north wall, shouting Grus’ name—and, for good measure, Vsevolod’s, too. Archers rushed forward with them, shooting as fast as they could to make the Chernagors inside the fort keep their heads down.
Up went ladders against those golden walls. Up swarmed Avornans, and Chernagors who were not only loyal to the rightful Prince of Nishevatz but willing to admit it. Lev’s men inside Varazdin rushed to defend the fort. They pushed over some of the scaling ladders. They poured boiling water and hot oil on the men ascending others. They were as loyal to their commander, and as brave, as any soldiers Grus had ever seen.
When the battle in the north was well and truly joined, when the besieged Chernagors were fully engaged—or so Grus hoped—he ordered the second assault party forward, against Varazdin’s southern wall. This time, his men approached the wall without shouting anything. They couldn’t sneak across a quarter of a mile of open ground, but they did their best not to draw undue notice.
And it worked. Even though the handful of defenders who hadn’t run to the north wall cried out in alarm, nobody else inside the fortress paid much attention to them. Maybe, with the din and excitement of the fight on the far wall, none of the other Chernagors even heard them.
They were brave. Instead of running away or yielding, they did everything they could to throw back Grus’ storming party. Using more long, forked poles, they did manage to tip over some of the scaling ladders that went up against the wall. Avornans shrieked as they fell. The clank of chainmail-clad soldiers striking the ground made Grus flinch.
But more Avornans, and Chernagors with them, gained a foothold on the south wall. They began dropping down into the courtyard. Some of them rushed to seize the keep, so that Lev’s men would have no chance to make a last stand there. Seeing that, the defenders of Varazdin threw down their weapons, threw up their hands, and yielded.
Avornan soldiers brought Baron Lev, none too gently, before King Grus. The Chernagor noble had a red-soaked bandage tied around his forehead to stanch a cut. He also bled from a wounded hand. He glared at the king. Grus glared back. “Your Excellency, you are an idiot,” he growled.
“I would not expect an Avornan to know anything of honor,” Lev growled in return.
“Do you favor Vsevolod or Vasilko?” King Grus pronounced the Chernagor names with care; the hums and hisses were alien to Avornan, and he did not want to confuse the man he backed and the one he opposed.
“Vsevolod, of course,” Lev replied, as though to a half-wit.
“All right, then. I thought as much, but I was not sure. Did you know—do you know—I have come to aid him if I can?” Grus asked. He waited until Lev grudged him a nod. Then he threw his hands in the air and demanded, “In that case, why did you keep trying to murder my men?”
“I told you an Avornan would not understand honor. My countrymen do.” Lev spoke with somber pride.
; “Honor? I have my own notions about that. I understand stupidity when I see it. I understand stupidity very plainly,” Grus said. “We should fight on the same side, against Vasilko. Instead, you delayed me, cost me men, cost yourself men, and helped the man you say you oppose. The Banished One understands that sort of honor. You are right when you tell me I do not.”
“We could have put down Vasilko without your interference,” Lev said sullenly.
“That’s not what Vsevolod thought. He was the one who asked Avornis for help.”
“He made a mistake. He made another mistake in slighting me,” Baron Lev said.
“I see.” Grus nodded. “And so you had to make a mistake in turn, to pay Vsevolod back.”
“Yes,” Lev said, and then, “No! It was not a mistake. I did what I had to do.”
Grus turned to Duke Radim, who was listening off to one side. Radim seemed not at all surprised at the way the conversation was going. Indeed, he’d seemed to understand why Lev hadn’t yielded Varazdin even before the fortress fell. If not for that, Grus would have wondered whether the Banished One was somehow clouding Lev’s thoughts, such as those were.
“Let me ask another question,” Grus said. “Now that we’ve peeled you out of your shell here”—he pointed to Varazdin, which dominated the horizon from where they stood—“will you and your men fight for Vsevolod?”
“Of course.” Now the baron sounded surprised. Grus glanced Radim’s way once more. Radim nodded. He believed Lev. Grus was not at all sure he did. Still, he’d just proved he didn’t understand how Chernagor nobles’ minds worked. If Radim was willing to rely on Lev, he supposed he would, too … up to a point.
He also looked toward General Hirundo. His own countryman seemed about ready to jump out of his shoes at the idea of trusting Lev. Grus saw that, but he’d known Hirundo for many years. He doubted the Chernagors would realize just how upset Hirundo was.
“Very well. I accept your service,” Grus said to Lev, and then, “Excuse me for a moment.” He took Hirundo aside and spoke in a low voice. “We’ll break up his men into small bands and put them among Avornans. If they turn their coats, we’ll slaughter them. Does that suit you?”
The Bastard King Page 57
