The Chernagor Pirates

by Harry Turtledove

  “We beat them,” Hirundo said. “Now, the next question is, will we get to celebrate beating them, or do they have the last laugh?”

  “They may be better sailors on the open sea than I am,” Grus said, “but, by the gods, I still know a little something about getting home in a storm.”

  As though to answer that, the freshening sea sent a wave that almost swamped and almost capsized the river galley. Grus seized a line and clung for his life. When the ship at last righted herself—slowly, so slowly!—the first thing he did was look around for Pterocles. The wizard, no sailor, was all too likely to go overboard.

  But Pterocles was there, dripping and sputtering as he hung on to the rail. And the fleet made shore safe—much battered and abused, but safe. The storm blew higher and harder and wilder yet after that, but after that it didn’t matter.

  Prince Vsevolod took a long pull at the cup of wine in front of him. “Ask your questions,” he said, like a wounded man telling the healer to go ahead and draw the arrow.

  Getting the exiled Prince of Nishevatz to show even that much cooperation was a victory of sorts. He thought everyone else should cooperate with him, not the other way around. Lanius said, “Which city-states in the Chernagor country are likely to oppose Prince Vasilko and the Banished One?”

  Vasilko sent him a scornful stare. “This you should answer for yourself. King Grus takes prisoners from Nishevatz, from Hisardzik, from Jobuka, from Hrvace. This means no prisoners from Durdevatz, from Ravno, from Zavala, from Mojkovatz. These four, they no sail with pirate ships. They no love Vasilko, eh?”

  That made good logical sense, but Lanius had seen that good logical sense often had little to do with the way the Chernagors behaved. He said, “Would they ally with Avornis if we send our army into the land of the Chernagors?”

  “No. Of course not.” Yes, while Lanius thought Vsevolod strange, Vsevolod thought him dull. The Prince of Nishevatz continued, “You want to drive Durdevatz and other three into Banished One’s hands, you march in.”

  “But you were the one who invited us up to the Chernagor country in the first place!” Lanius exclaimed in considerable exasperation.

  Prince Vsevolod shrugged broad, if somewhat stooped, shoulders. “Is different now. Then I was prince. Now I am exile.” A tear gleamed in his eye. Regret or self-pity? By the way Vsevolod refilled the wine cup and gulped it down, Lanius would have bet on self-pity.

  “Why do the city-states line up the way they do?” he asked.

  Holding up the battered fingers of one hand, Vsevolod said, “Nishevatz, Hisardzik, Jobuka, Hrvace.” Holding up those of the other, he said, “Durdevatz, Ravno, Zavala, Mojkovatz.” He fitted his fingertips together, alternating those from one hand with those from the other. “You see?”

  “I see,” King Lanius breathed. Immediate neighbors were hostile to one another. Pro- and anti-Nishevatz city-states alternated along the coast. After some thought, the king observed, “Vasilko would be stronger if all the Chernagor towns leaned his way. Can he get them to do that?”

  “Vasilko?” The rebel prince’s father made as though to spit, but at the last moment—the very last moment—thought better of it. “Vasilko cannot get cat to shit in box.” That Vasilko had succeeded in ousting him seemed not to have crossed his mind.

  “Let me ask it a different way,” Lanius said. “Working through Vasilko, can the Banished One bring them together?”

  Now Vsevolod started to shake his head, but checked himself. “These city-states, they are for long time enemies. You understand?” he said. Lanius nodded. Vsevolod went on, “Not easy to go from enemy to friend. But not easy to stand up to Banished One, either. So … I do not know.”

  “All right. Thank you,” Lanius said. But it wasn’t all right. If Vsevolod wasn’t sure the Banished One couldn’t bring all the Chernagor towns under his sway, he probably could. And if he could …

  “If he can,” Grus said when Lanius raised the question, “the fleet that raids our west coast next year or the year after is liable to be twice as big as the one we beat back.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Lanius said.

  “Believe me, Your Majesty, I would rather lie to you,” Grus said. “But that happens to be the truth.”

  “Did I ever tell you I found out what King Cathartes had to say about the Scepter of Mercy?” Lanius asked suddenly.

  “Why, no. You never did.” King Grus smiled a crooked smile. “Up until this minute, as a matter of fact, I wouldn’t have bet anything I worried about losing that I’d ever even heard of King, uh, Cathartes.”

  “I would have said the same thing, until I found a letter of his in the archives while you were on campaign,” Lanius said. Grus smiled that crooked smile again; like Lanius’ fondness for strange pets, his archives-crawling amused his fellow king. But Grus’ expression grew more serious as he heard Lanius out. Lanius finished, “Now maybe we have some idea why the Banished One hasn’t tried to turn the Scepter against us.”

  “Maybe we do,” Grus agreed. “That’s … some very pretty thinking, Your Majesty, and you earned what you got. How many crates full of worthless old parchments did you go through before you came on that one?”

  “Seventeen,” Lanius answered promptly.

  Grus laughed. “I might have known you’d have the number on the tip of your tongue. You usually do.” He spoke with a curious blend of scorn and admiration.

  Lanius said, “One of the parchments turned out not to be worthless, though, so it was worth doing. And who knows whether another will mean a lot a hundred years from now, and who knows which one it might be? That’s why we save them.”

  “Hmm.” Grus stopped laughing. Instead of arguing or teasing Lanius some more, he changed the subject. “Did that monkey of yours ever have babies?”

  “She did—twins, just like the moncats,” Lanius answered. “They seem to be doing well.”

  “Good for her,” Grus said. “Good for you, too. I’ve been thinking about what you said, about how breeding animals shows you’re really doing a good job of caring for them. It makes sense to me.”

  “Well, thank you,” Lanius said. “Would you like to see the little monkeys?”

  Grus started to shake his head. He checked the gesture, but not quite soon enough. But when he said, “Yes, show them to me,” he managed to sound more eager than Lanius had thought he could.

  And the smile that spread over his face when he saw the young monkeys couldn’t have been anything but genuine. Lanius also smiled when he saw them, though for him, of course, it was far from the first time. Nobody could look at them without smiling. He was convinced of that. They were all eyes and curiosity, staring at him and Grus and then scurrying across the six inches they’d ventured away from their mother to cling to her fur with both hands, both feet, and their tails.

  “They act a lot like children. They look a lot like children, too,” Grus said. “Anybody would think, looking at them, that there was some kind of a connection between monkeys and people.”

  “Maybe the gods made them about the same time as they made us, and used some of the same ideas,” Lanius said. “Or maybe it’s just happenstance. How can we ever hope to know?”

  “The gods …” Grus’ voice trailed off in a peculiar way. For a moment, Lanius didn’t understand. Then he did, and wished he hadn’t. What if it wasn’t the gods, but only Milvago—only the Banished One?

  He forced that thought out of his mind, not because he didn’t believe it but because he didn’t want to think about it. This was another of the times when at least half of him wished he’d never stumbled upon that ancient piece of parchment under the great cathedral. Had finding it been worth doing?

  “Anyhow,” Grus said, “I’m very glad for your sake that your monkeys have bred. I know you’ve done a lot of hard work keeping them healthy, and it seems only fair that you’ve gotten your reward.”

  “Thank you very much.” At first, Grus’ thoughtfulness touched Lanius. Then he re
alized the other king might be doing nothing more than leading both of them away from thoughts of Milvago. He couldn’t blame Grus for thinking along with him, and for not wanting to think about what a daunting foe they had. He didn’t care to do that himself, either.

  Rain pattered down outside the palace. In one hallway, rain pattered down inside the palace. A bucket caught the drips. When the rain stopped, the roofers would repair the leak—if they could find it when the rain wasn’t there. Grus had seen that sort of thing before. Odds were, the roofers would need at least four tries—and the roof would go right on leaking until they got it right.

  Turning to Pterocles, Grus asked, “I don’t suppose there’s any way to find leaks by magic, is there?”

  “Leaks, Your Majesty?” Pterocles looked puzzled. Grus pointed to the bucket. The wizard’s face cleared, but he shook his head. “I don’t think anyone ever worried about it up until now.”

  “No? Too bad.” They turned a corner. Grus got around to what he really wanted to talk about. “You’ve never said anything about the letter I gave you—the one from Alca the witch. What do you think of her notions for new ways to shape spells to cure thralls?”

  “I don’t think she’s as smart as she thinks she is,” Pterocles answered at once. He went on, “She doesn’t understand what being a thrall is like.”

  “And you do?”

  Grus had intended that for sarcasm, but Pterocles nodded. “Oh, yes, Your Majesty. I may not understand much, but I do understand that.” The conviction in his voice commanded respect. Maybe he was wrong. He certainly thought he was right. Considering what had happened to him, maybe he was entitled to think so, too.

  Backtracking, Grus asked, “Can you use anything in the letter?”

  “A bit of this, a dash of that.” Pterocles shrugged. “She’s clever, but she doesn’t understand. And I have some ideas of my own.”

  “Do you?” Grus wished he didn’t sound so surprised. “You haven’t talked much about them.” That was an understatement of formidable proportions. Pterocles had shown no signs of having ideas of any sort since being felled outside of Nishevatz.

  He shrugged again. “Sometimes things go better if you don’t talk about them too soon or too much,” he said vaguely.

  “I … see,” said Grus, who wasn’t at all sure he did. “When will you be ready to test some of your ideas? Soon, I hope?”

  “I don’t know,” the wizard said. “I’ll be ready when I’m ready—that’s all I can tell you.”

  Grus felt himself getting angry. “Well, let me tell you something. If you’re not ready with your own ideas, why don’t you go ahead and try the ones the witch sent me?”

  “Why? Because they won’t work, that’s why,” Pterocles answered.

  “How can you say that without trying them?”

  “If I walk out into the sea, I’ll drown. I don’t need to try it to be sure of that. I know beforehand,” Pterocles said. “I may not be quite what I was, but I’m not the worst wizard around, either. And I know some things I didn’t used to know, too.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Grus demanded.

  “I’ve already told you.” Pterocles sounded impatient. “I know what it’s like to be emptied out. I ought to. It’s happened to me. Your Alca’s a good enough witch, but she doesn’t know.” Again, he spoke with absolute conviction.

  If only he spoke that way when he really has to do something, Grus thought unhappily. But he was the one who turned away. Pterocles at least thought he knew what he was doing. Grus had a pretty good idea of how far he could push a man. If he pushed Pterocles any further here, he’d put the wizard’s back up, but he wouldn’t get him to change his mind.

  At his impatient gesture, Pterocles ambled back down the hall. Grus wondered whether the wizard would bump into the bucket that caught the drips from the roof, but he didn’t. Grus also wondered whether he ought to pension Pterocles off, or just send him away. If he did, though, would whomever he picked as a replacement prove any better?

  Alca would. How many times had he had that thought? But, for one thing, no matter how true it was, Estrilda would make his life not worth living if he tried it. And was it as true as he thought it was? Pterocles had a different opinion. What if he was right? Grus muttered under his breath. He wasn’t sure he could rely on Pterocles to remember his name twice running, let alone anything more.

  And yet Pterocles had warned of the storm the Banished One raised, out there on the Azanian Sea. Grus had listened to him then, and the fleet had come back to shore without taking much harm.

  Yes, and the Chernagor ships got away, the king thought. But that wasn’t Pterocles’ fault. Was it? Surely blame there belonged to the Banished One? Grus didn’t know what to believe. He ended up doing nothing, and wondering every day whether he was making a mistake and how big a mistake it was.

  If only I hadn’t taken Alca to bed. If only her husband hadn’t found out. If only my wife hadn’t found out. If only, if only, if only …

  Lanius threw a snowball at Crex. He didn’t come close to hitting his son. Crex scooped up snow in his little mittened hands. He launched a snowball at Lanius, whose vision suddenly turned white. “Got you!” Crex squealed, laughing gleefully.

  “Yes, you did.” Lanius wiped snow off his face. “Bet you can’t do it again.” A moment later, Crex proved him wrong.

  After taking three more snowballs in the face—and managing to hit his son once—Lanius had had enough. He himself had never been accused of grace. There were good reasons why not, too. Grus, on the other hand, made a perfectly respectable soldier—perhaps not among the very best, but more than able to hold his own. Through Sosia, Crex looked to have inherited that blood.

  The boy didn’t want the sport to end; he was having fun pelting his father with snow. But Lanius couldn’t stand being beaten at a game by a boy who barely came up to his navel. “Not fair!” Crex squalled, and burst into tears.

  That tempted Lanius to leave him out in the snow. But no, it wouldn’t do. Losing a game wasn’t excuse enough for freezing his son. If I were a great and terrible tyrant, I could get away with it, Lanius thought. But he wasn’t, and he never would be, and so Crex, quite unfrozen even if still loudly discontented, went back into the palace with him.

  A handful of apricots preserved in honey made Crex forget about the game. Lanius paid the bribe for the sake of peace and quiet. Sosia probably wouldn’t have approved, but Sosia probably had too much sense to get into a snowball fight with their son. If she didn’t, she probably could throw well enough to give as good as she got. Lanius couldn’t.

  I’m no good with the bow, either, he thought glumly. The only time he’d ever thrown something when it really counted, though, he’d managed to pitch a moncat into the face of the knife-wielding thrall who intended to murder him. Remembering that made the king feel a little better—not much, but a little.

  Feeling better must not have shown on his face, for several servants asked him what was wrong when he walked through the palace corridors. “Nothing,” he said, over and over, hoping he would start to believe it before long. He didn’t, but kept saying it anyhow.

  Most of the servants nodded and went on their way. They weren’t about to contradict the king. When he said, “Nothing,” to Cristata, though, she shook her head and said, “I don’t believe you, Your Majesty. You look too gloomy for it to be nothing.”

  Lanius needed serious thought to realize Cristata spoke to him as a worried friend might. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him like that. Kings didn’t have friends, as far as he could see. They had cronies. Or maybe they had lovers.

  That thought had crossed his mind before. Of course, Cristata had had Prince Ortalis for a lover. If that wasn’t enough to put her off royalty for life, what would be? But she still sounded … friendly as she asked, “What is wrong, Your Majesty?”

  Because she sounded as though she really cared, Lanius found himself telling her the truth. W
hen he was done, he waited for her to laugh at him.

  Only later did he realize how foolish that was. A maidservant didn’t laugh at a King of Avornis, even at one without much power. But friendship left him oddly vulnerable to her. If she had laughed, he wouldn’t have punished her and he would have been wounded.

  But she didn’t. All she said was, “Oh, dear. That must seem very strange to you.” She sounded sympathetic. Lanius needed longer than he might have to recognize that, too. He wasn’t used to sympathy from anybody except, sometimes, Sosia.

  He didn’t want to think about Sosia right this minute, not while he savored Cristata’s sympathy. Grus probably didn’t want to think about Sosia’s mother while he was with Alca, either, Lanius thought. Looking at the way Cristata’s eyes sparkled, at how very inviting her lips were, Lanius understood what had happened to his fellow king much better than he ever had before.

  When he leaned forward and kissed her, he waited for her to scream or to run away or to bite him. After Ortalis, why wouldn’t she? But she didn’t. Her eyes widened in surprise, then slid shut. Her arms tightened around him as his did around her. “I wondered if you’d do that,” she murmured.

  “Did you?” Now Lanius was the one who wondered if he ought to run away.

  But Cristata nodded seriously. “You don’t think I’m ugly.”

  “Ugly? By the gods, no!” Lanius exclaimed.

  “Well, then,” Cristata said. She looked up and down the corridor. Lanius did the same thing. No one in sight. He didn’t think anyone had seen them kiss. But someone might come down the hallway at any time. His heart pounded with nerves—and with excitement.

  Now, for once, he didn’t want to think. He opened the closest door. It was one of the dozens of nearly identical storerooms in the palace, this one half full of rolled carpets. He went inside, still wondering if Cristata would flee. She didn’t. She stepped in beside him. He closed the door.

  It was gloomy in the storeroom; the air smelled of wool and dust. Lanius kissed the serving girl again. She clung to him. “I knew you were sweet, Your Majesty,” she whispered.