“I’m sure.” The older king sounded altogether determined.
“By all the signs, Ortalis and Limosa are happy newlyweds,” Lanius said.
Grus snorted. “Ortalis is getting laid regularly. Of course he’s happy. But what happens when that isn’t enough to keep him happy?” He made a particularly sour face. So did Lanius, who knew what his father-in-law meant, and wished he didn’t. He wondered what Limosa would think when she found out about her new husband’s … peculiar tastes.
Changing the subject seemed a good idea. Lanius said, “Gods go with you on your trip to the south.”
“Yes,” Grus said. They sat alone in a small audience chamber. A low table with a jug of wine and a couple of cups stood between them. Grus emptied his cup, then looked around to make sure no one lurked outside a window or in the hallway by the door. Only after he’d satisfied himself did he continue, “They’d better, don’t you think? Considering who’s behind Ulash, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. That’s what I had in mind, too.” Lanius also took another sip of wine.
Grus got up, came around the table, and set a hand on his shoulder. “You take care of things here. I’ll do what I can with the Menteshe—to the Menteshe.”
“Good.” Lanius beamed. Grus was starting to accept him as a real partner, not just as one in name only. No doubt Grus did so only because he had no choice. Lanius knew as much. He was no less pleased on account of that.
The fastest way south was by ship through the Maze. That made Hirundo unhappy. Even on the placid waters of the marsh, Grus’ general was less than a good sailor. He wagged a finger at the king. “Don’t you laugh at me now, Your Majesty, or I’ll pay you back when you get on a horse.”
“Me? I didn’t say a thing.” Grus contrived to look innocent.
Hirundo laughed, which made him suspect his contrivance could have been better. “I saw what you were thinking. The only thing I can say for this is, it’s better than going out on the open sea.” He shuddered at the memory.
“It’s better than horseback, too,” Grus said.
“Some people might think so,” Hirundo answered pointedly. “I don’t happen to be one of them.” He glanced around at the water, the weeds and branches floating in it, the muddy, grassy tussocks rising just out of it, and shook his head. “I think the only real reason you came through here was so you could see for yourself the monastery you picked out for Petrosus.”
Grus had seen the monastery. It sat in the middle of a tussock big enough to be called an island. The only way off was by boat, and even boats had trouble getting through the mud surrounding it. All the same, the place was built like a fortress. Monks who came there would assuredly spend the rest of their lives in prayer.
Something landed on Grus’ arm. It bit him. He swatted. He didn’t know whether he smashed it or not. A moment later, something else bit him on the back of the neck. He swatted there, too. The bug squashed under his fingers. He wiped his hand on a trouser leg. Monks at Petrosus’ new monastery might spend every spring and summer praying to be plagued by fewer bugs.
Hirundo was swatting, too. “Miserable things. This place is good for nothing—not a single cursed thing.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Grus said. “I can’t think of any place much better for getting rid of troublemakers.” He sent Hirundo a speculative stare.
“Don’t look at me that way!” the general exclaimed. “Don’t you dare, Your Majesty! You tell anybody—me, for instance—he’s liable to have to stay here for the rest of his days, and he’ll be good forever. I know I would.”
“Don’t give me that. I’ve known you too long, and I know you too well,” Grus said. “Nothing could make you stay good forever, or even very long.”
“The threat of staying here for the rest of my life would do it,” Hirundo insisted. “Offhand, I can’t think of anything else.”
When the sun set, the flies and gnats went away and the mosquitoes came out. Their high, thin whine was enough to drive anyone mad. Some of the sailors, more used to traveling through the Maze than Grus was, draped fine mesh nets over themselves and slept without being badly bothered. Grus got some of the netting for himself, too. One of the things nobody told him, though, was how to pull it over himself without letting mosquitoes get in under it. The king passed an uncomfortable night and woke with several new bites from the company he hadn’t wanted.
Noticing Pterocles scratching as the wizard ate bread and ale for breakfast, he asked, “Don’t you have any magic against mosquitoes?”
Mournfully, the wizard shook his head. “I wish I did, Your Majesty. Maybe I’ve spent too much time worrying about big things and not enough about small ones,” he answered, and scratched some more.
Oarmasters on the river galleys got their rowers working as soon as they could. They worked them hard, too, harder than Grus would have in their place. When he remarked on that to the oarmaster of his own ship, the man replied, “Sooner we get out of this miserable place, sooner we stop getting eaten alive.” Grus had a hard time disagreeing with that.
But getting through the Maze in a hurry wasn’t easy, either. Galleys and barges went aground on mud banks and had to back oars or, when badly stuck, to be towed off by other ships. Rowers and officers shouted curses.
Hirundo said, “There ought to be clearly marked channels, so people know where they’re going.”
“Part of me says yes to that,” Grus answered. “The other part wonders whether it’s a good idea to show enemies how to get through the Maze—or, for that matter, to show people shut up inside the Maze how to get out of it. I had to dredge one place out so river galleys could get through the whole length of the Maze. They didn’t used to be able to, you know.”
“Maybe we should have gone around,” Hirundo said.
“Going through it is still the fastest way to get south,” Grus said. “We’re not crawling now. We’re just not going as fast as we would if everything were perfect.”
“Oh, hurrah,” Hirundo said sourly.
His general’s sarcasm didn’t faze Grus. He peered south, waiting for the steersman to find the channel of the Nedon, which ran south for some little distance after escaping the flat swampland of the Maze. As soon as the ships were in a place where they could easily tell the difference between the river and the countryside through which it flowed, they made much better time.
This left Hirundo no happier. As the river galleys sped up, their motion grew rougher. Every mile the fleet traveled south, Hirundo got greener.
Grus, by contrast, enjoyed the journey on the Nedon. Eventually, the river would turn east, toward the Azanian Sea. Since the Menteshe were fighting farther south, his men and horses would have to leave the galleys and barges then. He would have to get on one of those horses. That prospect left him as delighted as river travel left Hirundo.
When Lanius heard clanks and then a meow in the royal archives, he wasn’t very surprised, not anymore. He didn’t jump. He didn’t wish he were a soldier, or even that he had weapons more deadly than pen, parchment, and ink. He just got to his feet and went over to see if he could find the moncat responsible for the racket.
After some searching, he did. Pouncer was carrying a stout silver serving spoon. Lanius wondered how it had gotten the spoon from the kitchens here to the archives; they weren’t particularly close. For that matter, the chamber where the moncat lived wasn’t all that close to the kitchens, either. There had to be passages in the walls a moncat could go through, regardless of whether a man could.
The king scooped up Pouncer—and the spoon. The moncat twisted and tried to bite. He tapped it on the nose, hard enough to get its attention. “Stop that!” he told it, not that it understood Avornan. But it did understand the tap and the tone of voice. Both told it biting was something it wasn’t supposed to do. Little by little—about as fast as an ordinary cat would—it was learning.
Servants exclaimed as Lanius carried Pouncer down the corridor. “How did it get out this time?” a man ask
ed.
“I don’t know,” the king replied. “I wish I did, but I’ve never seen it leave its room. I don’t think any cooks have ever seen it sneak into the kitchens, either.”
“Maybe it’s a ghost.” The servant sounded serious. The workers in the royal palace were a superstitious lot.
“Feels too solid to be a ghost—and I’ve never heard of a ghost that steals spoons,” Lanius said. The moncat twisted again, lashing out with its free front foot. It got Lanius on the forearm. “Ow! I’ve never heard of a ghost that scratches, either.”
“You never can tell,” the servant said darkly. He went down the corridor shaking his head. Lanius went up the corridor to the moncats’ chamber.
When he got there, he set Pouncer down. Then he had another small struggle getting the silver spoon away from the moncat. He watched for a while, hoping the beast would disappear down whatever hole it had used while he was there. But, perverse as any cat, it didn’t.
At last, Lanius gave up. He took the spoon off to the kitchens. As he walked through the palace, he wondered if Pouncer would get there ahead of him, steal something else, and then disappear again. But he saw no sign of it when he went through the big swinging doors.
One after another, the cooks denied seeing the moncat. “Has that miserable beast been in here again?” a fat man asked, pointing to the spoon in Lanius’ hand.
He held it up. “I didn’t steal this myself.”
He got a laugh. “I don’t suppose you did, Your Majesty,” the fat cook said, and took it from him. “But how does the moncat keep sneaking in?”
“That’s what I want to find out,” Lanius answered. “I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Sorry, Your Majesty,” the cook said. The other men and women who worked in the kitchens shook their heads. A lot of them sported big bellies and several chins. That was, Lanius supposed, hardly surprising, not when they worked with and around food all the time.
A woman said, “What do you suppose the animal’s been eating with that spoon?” She got a louder laugh than Lanius had, and added, “I suppose we’d better wash it.” The fat man who was holding it tossed it into a tub of water ten or fifteen feet away. He had perfect aim. The spoon splashed into the tub and clattered off whatever crockery already sat in there.
Lanius wondered whether they would have washed it if the cook hadn’t asked if the moncat had eaten from it. Some things, perhaps, were better left unknown. He walked out of the kitchen without asking.
He was walking back to his own chambers when he almost bumped into Limosa, who was coming up the corridor. She dropped him a curtsy, murmuring, “Good morning, Your Majesty.”
“Good morning, Your Highness,” the king answered. “How are you today?”
“I am well, thank you,” she answered. “May I please ask you a question, Your Majesty?”
Lanius thought he knew what the question would be. Since he didn’t see how he could avoid it, he nodded. “Go ahead.”
“Thank you.” Limosa visibly gathered her courage. “Is there any way you can release my father from the Maze?”
He’d been right. “I’m sorry,” he said, and did his best to sound as though he really were sorry. He knew he had to work at it, considering what he really thought of Petrosus.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t the only one who knew what he thought of the former treasury minister. Flushing, Limosa said, “I know you aren’t fond of my father, Your Majesty. But could you please free him for my sake?”
“If I could, I would,” Lanius answered, thinking, If I could, I … might. I did ask Grus not to send him to the Maze, so maybe I would. He wasn’t brokenhearted at having a good excuse not to, though. “But King Grus sent him away, and King Grus is the only one who can bring him back to the palace.”
“And King Grus won’t,” Limosa said. Lanius didn’t contradict her. Biting her lip, she went on, “He thinks my father tricked Ortalis into marrying me. By the gods, Your Majesty, I tell you again it isn’t true.”
“I see,” Lanius said—as neutral a phrase as he could find.
“It isn’t true,” Limosa insisted. “I wanted to marry Ortalis. I love him.” Lanius wanted to say, Are you out of your mind? Before either did more than cross his mind, Limosa went on, “He’s the most wonderful man I ever met—uh, meaning no disrespect to you, Your Majesty, of course.” She blushed.
“Of course,” Lanius echoed. He was too bewildered, too astonished, to find anything else to say. Ortalis? The Ortalis who hunted because he was fond of blood? The Ortalis who hurt women because it excited him? That Ortalis was the most wonderful man Limosa had ever met? Something, somewhere, didn’t add up. Lanius had no idea what. He did know the only individual to whom he less wanted to be married than he did to Ortalis was the Banished One.
Limosa sighed. “He’s so sweet. And he does such marvelous things.” She blushed again, this time a bright, bright red. Lanius only scratched his head. He really did wonder if they were talking about the same Ortalis. If he hadn’t seen Grus’ son with Limosa, he wouldn’t have believed it.
Horse-drawn wagons full of grain rattled along with Grus’ army. They didn’t slow it down badly, but they did help tie it to the roads. Grus wasn’t happy about that, but knew he gained as well as lost from having them along. The Menteshe made a habit of burning farms and fields and anything else they came across. Carrying supplies with him was the only way he could be sure of having them when he needed them most.
The horizon to the south should have been smooth, or gently rolling with the low hills between the valleys of the Nine Rivers. Instead, an ugly brown-black smudge obscured part of it. Pointing that way, Grus said, “We’ll find the nomads there.”
Hirundo nodded. “That’s how it looks to me, too.” He sent the king a sly smile. “Are you ready to ride into battle, Your Majesty?”
Did ride have a little extra stress, or was Grus imagining things? Knowing Hirundo, he probably wasn’t. He answered, “I’m as ready as I’m going to be,” and set a hand on his horse’s neck. The beast was a placid gelding. It did what Grus wanted it to do, and didn’t put up much in the way of argument. That suited him fine. Hirundo rode a stallion. It had more flash, more fire. Grus cared very little about that. To him, a horse with fire was a horse that was all too likely to pitch him out of the saddle and onto the ground headfirst.
He nodded to a trumpeter who rode close by. The man blew Trot. The king used his knees and the reins to urge his horse up from a walk. The sooner his men closed with the Menteshe, the better, as far as he was concerned. Prince Ulash’s men had already come too far north to suit him.
“Scouts out in the van! Scouts out to the flanks!” Hirundo called. Riders peeled off from the main body of the army and hurried out to take those positions. Grus nodded again. He would have given that command in a moment if Hirundo hadn’t. Generations of painful experience fighting the southern nomads had taught Avornis that attacks could come from any direction at any time.
Lanceheads glittered in the sun. His army was split fairly evenly between lancers and archers. If they could come to close quarters with the Menteshe, they would have the edge. More painful experience had taught that closing with the hard-riding nomads wasn’t always easy, or even possible.
Grus glanced toward Pterocles. “What of their wizards?” the king asked.
“I don’t feel anything … out of the ordinary, Your Majesty,” the wizard said after a pause for thought. After another pause, he added, “Not everything is the way it ought to be, though.”
“What do you mean?” Grus asked. Pterocles only shrugged. Grus tried again, asking, “Why do you say that?” Pterocles gave back another shrug. The king said, “Could it be because you feel the Banished One paying attention to what happens here, where you didn’t up by Nishevatz?”
Pterocles jerked, as though someone had stuck him with a pin when he wasn’t looking. He nodded. “Yes. It could be. In fact, I think it is. There’s … something watching, sure enough.�
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“What can you do?”
“What can I do?” Pterocles laughed, more than a little wildly. “I can hope he doesn’t notice me, that’s what. And a forlorn hope it is, too.” He pulled on the reins and steered his horse away from the king’s.
Grus hadn’t intended to ask him any more questions anyhow.
Late that afternoon, a scout came galloping back to the king. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty!” he called, his voice cracking with excitement. “We just saw our first Menteshe, Your Majesty!”
“Did you?” Grus said, and the young man nodded, his head jerking up and down, his eyes shining. “Did you catch him? Did you kill him?”
Some of that fervid excitement faded. “No, Your Majesty. I’m sorry. He rode off to the southwest. We sent a few men after him, but he got away.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Grus told him. “Plenty more where he came from. And maybe he showed us where some of his friends are.” If I find them, will the Banished One be brooding over the battlefield? Grus wondered. If I don’t, though, what am I doing here? Why aren’t I just yielding my southern provinces to Prince Ulash? He couldn’t do that, not if he wanted to stay King of Avornis, not if he wanted to be able to stand the sight of his own face whenever he chanced to see a reflection. But he didn’t relish going forward, either.
The Avornan army didn’t go much farther forward that day. When the army encamped for the night, Grus ringed it with sentries a long way out. “That’s very good,” Hirundo said. “That’s very good. I remember how much trouble Evren’s men gave us at night.”
“So do I,” Grus answered. “That’s why I’m doing this.” The Menteshe would sneak close if they could, and pepper a camp with arrows. They didn’t do much harm, but they stole sleep soldiers needed.
Despite all the sentries, a handful of nomads did manage to sneak close enough to the main camp to shoot a few arrows at it. They wounded two or three men before shouts roused soldiers who came after them. Then they disappeared into the night. They’d done what they’d come to do.
The disturbance roused Grus. He lost a couple of hours of sleep himself, and was yawning and sandy-eyed when the Avornans set out not long after sunrise. They went past fields the raiders had torched perhaps only the day before. Sour smoke still hung in the air, rasping the lungs and stinging the eyes.
The Chernagor Pirates Page 23
