The Chernagor Pirates

by Harry Turtledove

  The palace was full of little rooms—storerooms, small reception halls, rooms with no particular purpose. Finding an empty one was as easy as walking down the hallway and opening a door. Lanius and Zenaida went in together. The king closed the door and barred it. When he turned back to Zenaida, the maidservant was already pulling her dress off over her head.

  Half an hour later, they came out of the chamber—Zenaida first, then Lanius, who was still setting his clothes to rights. He blew the maidservant a kiss as she went off on whatever business he’d interrupted when he smelled the sandalwood perfume. Laughing a happy little laugh, she fluttered her fingers at him and disappeared around a corner.

  “Oh. The archives.” Lanius had to remind himself where he’d been going when he smelled Zenaida’s perfume. He suspected he wore a silly grin as he opened the doors that let him in and closed them behind him.

  He sat down and started poking through old tax registers. After a moment, he realized he was paying no attention to them. Now he laughed. Thinking about Zenaida’s smooth, creamy skin, about the way she arched her back and moaned when pleasure took her, was more fun than finding out how many sheep villagers two hundred years dead had claimed they owned.

  Thinking about that also made him realize he’d enjoyed lying with her as much as he ever had with Cristata. He wondered what that meant. Actually, he had a pretty good idea. It meant what he’d thought was love for the other serving woman had probably been nothing but satisfaction.

  Grus had told him as much not long after sending Cristata off to a provincial town. Lanius hadn’t wanted to listen. Now … Now he had to admit to himself (he never would have admitted it to Grus) that his father-in-law had been right. Making love with Zenaida had taught him more than he’d imagined when he first sniffed sandalwood.

  And not only had he learned something about himself, he’d also learned something about Grus. The other king got high marks for cleverness. Lanius also had a better idea why Grus sometimes bedded other women. Sosia wouldn’t care for that bit of insight, or how he’d gotten it. Neither would Estrilda. Lanius shrugged. He had it, come what might.

  Another tall-masted, high-pooped ship burned in the waters off Nishevatz. It lit up the night. The Chernagors had quit trying to resupply the city during the day; Pterocles’ magic made that impossibly expensive. They’d tried to sneak the merchantman past the wizard under cover of darkness. They’d tried, they’d failed, and now they were paying the price—he’d found that setting ships alight with sorcerously projected ordinary fire worked at night as well as using sunlight did in the daytime.

  Standing beside King Grus, Prince Vsevolod folded his big, bony hands into fists. “Cook!” he shouted out to the sailors aboard the burning ship. “You help my son, the scum, you get what you deserve. Cook!”

  “I think we’re getting somewhere, Your Highness,” Grus said.

  “I know where I want to get.” Vsevolod turned to the gray stone walls of Nishevatz, now bathed in flickering red and gold. “And I know what I want to do. I want to get hands on son.”

  “What would you do with Vasilko if you had him?” Grus asked.

  “Make him remember who is rightful Prince of Nishevatz,” Vsevolod answered, which didn’t go into detail but did sound more than a little menacing.

  “I wonder how much food they’ve got in there,” Grus said in musing tones. “Maybe not so much, if they thought they could bring in fresh supplies whenever they needed them. They’re going to get hungry by and by, if they aren’t hungry already.”

  Vsevolod shook his fist at the city-state he’d ruled for so many years. “Starve!” he shouted angrily. “Let them all starve. I take bodies out, bury in fields, raise cabbages from them. Then I bring in new people, honest people—not thieves who take away crown from honest man.”

  Grus didn’t argue with him. He’d long since seen there was no point to arguing with Vsevolod. The exiled prince knew what he knew, or thought he knew what he knew, and didn’t care to change his mind.

  Sure enough, Vsevolod demanded, “How soon we attack Nishevatz?”

  “When we’re sure the defenders are too hungry and too weak to put up much of a fight,” Grus answered. “We fought too soon and too hard year before last, if you’ll remember. We want to win when we go in.”

  Vsevolod made a noise down deep in his chest. It wasn’t agreement, or anything even close to agreement. The prince sounded like a lion balked of its prey. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to spring and leap and kill.

  Grus also wanted Nishevatz. What he didn’t want was to pay a crippling price for the Chernagor city-state. He’d done worse than that on his earlier campaign against it—he’d paid a high price and failed to take the place. Another embarrassment of that sort would be the last thing he—or Avornis—needed.

  Vsevolod’s thinking ran along different lines. “When do you attack?” he asked again. “When is Nishevatz mine once more?”

  “I told you, I’ll attack when I think I can win without bankrupting myself.”

  “This is coward’s counsel,” Vsevolod complained.

  “Oh?” King Grus sent him a cold stare. “How many men are you contributing to this attack, Your Highness?”

  The deposed Prince of Nishevatz returned a glance full of fury—full of something not far from hate. “Traitors. My people are traitors,” he mumbled, and slowly and deliberately turned his back on Grus.

  An Avornan who did something like that to his sovereign would find himself in trouble in short order. But Grus wasn’t Vsevolod’s sovereign. Vsevolod was, or had been, a sovereign in his own right. The way he acted in exile made Grus understand why the people of Nishevatz had been inclined to give Vasilko a chance to rule them. Since Vasilko relied on the Banished One for backing, that choice hadn’t been a good one. But Vsevolod hadn’t been the best of rulers, either.

  Sighing, Grus wished he had some other choice besides Vsevolod or Vasilko to offer the Chernagors inside Nishevatz. But, as he knew all too well, he didn’t. If only Vsevolod had a long-lost brother or cousin, or Vasilko had a brother or even a bastard half brother. But they didn’t. Grus was stuck with one or the other—was, in effect, stuck with Vsevolod, since Vasilko had chosen the Banished One. The King of Avornis sighed again. In a poem, some other candidate for Prince of Nishevatz would turn up just when he was needed most. In real life, this bitter old man, no bargain himself, was the only tool that fit Grus’ hand.

  “Traitors,” Vsevolod muttered again. He swung back toward Grus. “Your wizard can find way over wall, yes?”

  “Maybe.” Grus wasn’t sure himself. “I’d better see, though.”

  He sent a messenger to find Pterocles and bring the wizard to him. Pterocles came promptly enough. The wizard seemed more cheerful than he had since being felled in front of Nishevatz during the last siege. Succeeding with his spells had buoyed him, the same way a string of victories would have buoyed a general.

  “What can I do for you, Your Majesty?” he asked.

  “I don’t know yet,” Grus answered. “Prince Vsevolod has asked what you can do to help take Nishevatz away from Vasilko. It strikes me as a reasonable question.”

  “Set walls afire, like you set ships afire,” Vsevolod said eagerly. “Roast Vasilko like saddle of mutton in oven.”

  Pterocles shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I can’t manage that. The ships are wooden, and burn easily. I’m not wizard enough to set stone afire. I’m not sure any mortal could do that.” Maybe the Banished One could hung in the air, unspoken but almost palpable.

  “Burn gates, in that case,” Vsevolod said, which was actually a good suggestion.

  Grus looked at Pterocles. Pterocles looked toward the gates, which were of timbers heavily plated with iron. “Maybe,” the wizard said. “I could try, anyhow, when the sun comes out again. For that, I’d want the strongest, purest sorcery I can work, and sunlight is stronger and purer than earthly fire.” The day, like many around Nishevatz, was dim and
overcast, with fog rolling in off the Northern Sea.

  “Get ready to try, then,” Grus told Pterocles. “We’ll see what happens.” He didn’t say anything suggesting he would blame the wizard if the magic failed. He wanted to build up the other man’s confidence, not tear it down.

  Vsevolod cared nothing for such concerns. Glowering at Pterocles, he demanded, “Why you have to wait for sun?”

  “As I said, it gives the best fire to power my spells,” Pterocles replied.

  “You want fire?” Vsevolod pointed toward the rows of cookfires throughout the Avornan encampment. “We have plenty fires for you.”

  “You may think so, but the magic is stronger with the sun,” Pterocles said. “For a ship that’s very easy to burn, the other fire, I’ve found, will do. For the gates, which will be much harder, I have to have the strongest fire I can get. Do I tell you how to run your business, Your Majesty?”

  Vsevolod muttered something in the Chernagor language. Grus didn’t understand a word of it. All things considered, that was probably just as well. Before the Prince of Nishevatz could return to Avornan, Grus spoke up, saying, “We have to trust Pterocles’ judgment here. When he’s ready, he can cast the spell. Until then, he would do better to wait.”

  More mutters from Vsevolod. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said.

  “You’re welcome,” Grus answered, but he couldn’t help adding, “I hope you don’t have to wait too long.”

  Later, he wished he hadn’t said that. He couldn’t help wondering whether he’d jinxed the wizard and his magic. Day after day of gloom and fog followed, with never more than a halfhearted glimpse of the sun. Such stretches of bad weather could happen here, sure enough. Was this one natural, though?

  At last, Grus grew impatient and frustrated enough to ask the question aloud. Pterocles only shrugged. “Hard to know for certain, Your Majesty. I will say this once more, though—weatherworking’s not easy, not for mortals.”

  “Not for mortals.” The king chewed on that. “Is the Banished One turning his eye this way again, then?”

  “I haven’t noticed any sign of it.” Pterocles’ sigh sent more fog into the cool, moist air. “I think I would. A man who’s known the lion’s claw recognizes it when he feels it again.”

  Four days later, the weather finally changed, but not for the better. Rain began dripping from the heavens. It went on and on, never too hard but never letting up, either. Avornan soldiers squelched glumly through their camp, pulling each boot out of the mud in turn.

  The rain frustrated Pterocles in more ways than one. “I hope the Chernagors don’t try to sneak ships into Nishevatz while the weather stays bad,” he said. “Bad for us, I mean—good for them. They might manage it without our even noticing. For that matter, using ordinary fire in the spells against their ships wouldn’t be easy now.”

  “How likely are they to do that?” Grus asked. “I wouldn’t want to try sailing through rain and fog.” He shuddered, imagining rocks or other ships unseen until too late. Pterocles only gave him another shrug. That did nothing to reassure him. With a shrug of his own, Grus said, “Be ready to do what needs doing when the weather finally clears. Sooner or later, it has to.”

  “I’ll be ready, Your Majesty,” the wizard declared. Grus could only accept that. If he nagged Pterocles after such a promise, he would likely do the Avornan cause more harm than good.

  After another week of fog and drizzle and rain, the king felt about ready to burst. So did Vsevolod, who muttered darkly into his white beard. Pterocles paced back and forth like a caged bear. Even General Hirundo, among the most cheerful men ever born, began snapping at people.

  Grus felt like cheering when he finally saw a sunny dawn. Thanks to the rain that had gone before, it was a beautiful day. All the weeds and shrubs around Nishevatz glowed like emeralds. Sunbeams sparkled off drops of water in the greenery, spawning countless tiny rainbows. The bushes might have been full of diamonds. The air still tasted sweet and damp; the rain had washed it clean of the stinks that clung to an encamped army.

  “Let’s go, Pterocles,” Grus called. He didn’t ask if the wizard was ready to work his magic against the gate. He assumed Pterocles was. If that assumption proved wrong, the king would have something to say. Until it proved so, he would go forward.

  Pterocles said, “Your Majesty, I can try the spell now if you order me to. It may work, but it may not. If you let me wait until the sun stands higher in the sky and its light is stronger, the spell is almost sure to work then. I will do as you require either way. What would you like?”

  However much Grus wished it weren’t, that was a legitimate question. “Wait,” he said after thinking a little while. “Your magic is the most important part of the attack. It needs to work to give us a chance of taking Nishevatz. Do it when you think the odds are best.”

  “Thank you.” Pterocles sketched a salute.

  Grus Watched the skies, looking for clouds to roll across the sun and steal the wizard’s chance. He thought he would tell Pterocles to try with ordinary fire then—if it started the gate burning, well and good; if not, they could wait for sun again. But the day only got brighter, and about as warm as it ever seemed to around Nishevatz. Steam rose from the walls of the city-state, and from the ground around it. The king was about to ask Pterocles if he was ready to begin when a rider pounded up from the south. Mud flew from his horse’s hooves as it trotted forward. “Your Majesty!” the messenger called. “I have important news, your Majesty!”

  “Give it to me,” Grus said, as calmly as he could. News like that, news important enough to rush up from the south, was unlikely to be good.

  And, sure enough, the messenger said, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but Prince Ulash’s Menteshe have come north over the Stura. They’re hitting the provinces on our side of the river hard.”

  “Ulash’s Menteshe?” Grus said, and the rider nodded. Grus cursed. That was the worst news he could have gotten. Ulash had stayed quiet when Prince Evren raided the southern provinces a few years before. If he was running wild now … He was at least as strong as all the other Menteshe princes put together. No wonder the Banished One stopped worrying about the land of the Chernagors, Grus thought.

  “Shall I go ahead and cast the spell, Your Majesty?” Pterocles asked.

  “No,” Grus said, hating the word. “We have to break off the siege again. We have to go back.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Lanius wished he weren’t once more briefly seeing Grus in the city of Avornis as the other king hurried from one trouble spot to another. Grus looked harried. Lanius couldn’t blame him. Grus said, “Is it really as bad as it’s sounded from all the reports I’ve had?”

  “All I have are the same reports,” Lanius answered. “It doesn’t sound good, does it?”

  “This isn’t just a raid, sure enough,” Grus said. “They’re throwing everything they’ve got into it.”

  “In a way, it’s a compliment,” Lanius said. Grus eyed him as though he’d lost his mind. “It is,” Lanius insisted. “You were doing too well up in the Chernagor country. The Banished One couldn’t find any way to stop you up there, so he got Ulash moving down in the south.”

  The other king frowned as he thought things over. “Something to that,” he said at last. His frown got deeper, pulling the lines of his face into harsh relief. He’s not a young man anymore, Lanius thought. But even if Grus wasn’t as young as he had been, he remained vigorous. He also hadn’t lost his wry wit. “It’s a compliment I could do without, you know.”

  “I believe it.” Lanius waited for Grus to warn him not to get too enthusiastic about running the kingdom from the capital while his fellow king took the field. Grus didn’t do it. Instead, he threw back his head—and yawned. Lanius asked him, “How long do you aim to stay in the city of Avornis?”

  “Today, maybe tomorrow,” Grus answered. “No longer than that. A couple of things I need to take care of here, and then I’ll be on my way down tow
ard the Stura. It’s not like I haven’t fought in those parts before.”

  “What are you going to do here?” Lanius asked.

  Grus’ smile was all sharp teeth. “I know Petrosus isn’t your favorite minister,” he said. Lanius nodded. The other king went on, “You’ll be dealing with someone else from now on. Petrosus will spend the rest of his days in the Maze.”

  “Even though he’s Ortalis’ father-in-law?” Lanius said in surprise.

  “Because he’s Ortalis’ father-in-law,” Grus answered grimly.

  “But Ortalis and Limosa ran off and got married by themselves,” Lanius said. “That’s how they both tell it.”

  “I don’t care how they tell it,” Grus said. “Ortalis wouldn’t have chosen her if her father hadn’t pulled wires. And any which way, you can’t tell me Petrosus wouldn’t try to pull more now that he’s wedged his way into my family.”

  In a way, that was funny. Grus had wedged his way into Lanius’ family the same way. And Grus didn’t just pull wires. He had the whole web of the kingdom in his hands. Pointing that out would not have endeared Lanius to him. The only thing Lanius found to say was, “You would know best.”

  Even that earned him a sharp look from Grus. The other king was far from a fool, even if Lanius had to remind himself of that every so often. Grus said, “There are times when I wonder whether I know anything about anything.”

  You know enough to hold on to things for yourself, Lanius thought. He said, “Will you use river galleys against the Menteshe?”

  “If I can,” Grus answered. “Past that, I’ll just have to see.”

  Lanius nodded. “All right. Until you see how things are down in the south, I don’t suppose you can say anything more.” He hesitated, then added, “Are you sure you want to send Petrosus to the Maze? He hasn’t done anything out of line that I’ve been able to see—and you’re right, I don’t like him a bit, so I wouldn’t be shy about telling you if he had.”