The Chernagor Pirates

by Harry Turtledove

  “By the gods,” the king said softly. He hoped the magic that made men into thralls hadn’t so stunted their souls as to keep them from winning free of this world. He hoped so, but had no way of knowing if that was true.

  “You see, Your Majesty,” a guard said.

  “I see, all right,” Grus agreed grimly. He nodded to the guard, who no longer had anything to do here. “Go fetch me Pterocles.” The man hurried away. Almost as an afterthought, Grus turned to the servant who’d brought him to the thralls’ room and added, “Fetch King Lanius here, too.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” The servant went off even faster than the guard had.

  Even so, Pterocles got to the thralls’ chamber before the other king. The wizard was yawning and rubbing his eyes, but he stared at the dead thralls without astonishment; the guard must have told him what had happened. “Well, so much for that,” he said.

  “Eh?” Grus scratched his head. “I don’t follow you.”

  “I was going to do what I could to improve the spell. I used to free the first thrall,” the wizard replied. “I was, but I can’t very well do it now, not when I don’t have any more thralls to work with—to work on.”

  “Oh.” The king thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I should have seen that for myself.”

  “Should have seen what?” King Lanius asked around a yawn of his own. Then he got a good look at the thralls who’d killed each other. He also said, “Oh,” and then turned to Pterocles. “We’ll have to get you more thralls, won’t we, if you’re going to do all the experiments you need to?”

  “Afraid so,” Pterocles said.

  Grus grunted, obscurely annoyed with himself. The other king and the wizard had both seen at once what he’d missed—why the Banished One had decided to end the lives of the captive thralls. How was he supposed to run Avornis when other people in the kingdom were smarter than he was?

  Then Lanius asked him, “What do we do now?” Pterocles leaned forward expectantly, also waiting for his answer.

  They think I can lead them, Grus realized. Well, they’d better be right, hadn’t they? He said, “The only way we can get more thralls is to go over the river and take them out of the lands the Menteshe rule. I don’t know that we want to do that until we see how things go with Sanjar and Korkut. If they want to quarrel with each other instead of us, why give them an excuse to change their minds?”

  Pterocles looked disappointed. Pterocles, in fact, looked mutinous. He wanted more thralls, and wanted them badly. But Lanius nodded and said, “That makes good sense.”

  To Pterocles, Grus said, “I know you want to make your spell better. But isn’t it good enough now?” Reluctantly—ever so reluctantly—the wizard nodded. “All right, then,” Grus told him. “For now, good enough will have to do.”

  “How do you decide so quickly?” Lanius sounded more than abstractly curious. He sounded as though he wanted to learn the trick so he could do it himself.

  “Being on the battlefield helps,” Grus said after a momentary pause. “Sometimes it’s better to try something—to try anything—of your own than to let the enemy decide what you’re going to do next. If it turns out that what you tried isn’t working, you try something else instead. The trick is to impose your will on whatever’s going on, and not to let the other fellow impose his on you.”

  “But there is no other fellow here,” Lanius said.

  “No?” Slowly and deliberately, Grus turned toward the south, toward the lands the Banished One ruled. He waited. Lanius bit his lip.

  A guard asked, “Your Majesty, shall we get rid of the bodies here?”

  “Yes, do that,” Grus answered. “Put them on a proper pyre. Don’t just throw them into a hole in the ground or chuck them in the river. In a strange sort of way, they’re soldiers in the war against the Menteshe.”.

  The guard shook his head, plainly not believing that. But he didn’t argue with Grus. Neither did his comrades. They got the dead thralls apart—not so easy, for the corpses had begun to stiffen—and carried them away. Not having people argue was one of the advantages of being king.

  Wherever we’re going, we’re going because I want us to get there, Grus thought. Now … I’d better not be wrong.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Outside the royal palace, the wind screamed. Snow blew by almost horizontally. Braziers and hearth fires blazed everywhere inside, battling the blizzard. Despite them, the palace was still cold. From the lowliest sweeper on up, people wore robes of wool or furs over their everyday trousers and tunics. The noise of chattering teeth was never far away, even so.

  Lanius’ teeth chattered more than most. The king sat in the archives. He had a brazier by him, but it did less than he would have wished to hold the chill at bay. No hearth fire here. Even the one brazier made him nervous. With so many parchments lying around, a single spark escaping could mean catastrophe.

  But he wanted—he needed—to do research, and the archives were simply too cold to tolerate without some fire by him. Now that Pterocles had—or thought he had—brought one thrall out from under the shadow the Banished One’s spell had cast over him, Lanius was wild to learn more about all the earlier efforts Avornan wizards had made to lead thralls out of darkness.

  He found even more than he’d expected. The archives held dozens, maybe hundreds, of spells intended to cure thralls. They held just as many descriptions of what had happened once the spells were tried. The spells themselves were a monument to ingenuity. The descriptions were a monument of a different sort, a monument to discouragement. Lanius read of failure after failure after failure. He marveled that Avornan wizards had kept on trying after failing so often.

  Before long, he realized why they’d kept on trying. Kings of Avornis could see perfectly well that they had no hope of defeating the Menteshe in any permanent way if they couldn’t cure thralls. They kept the wizards at it.

  What the present king found gave him pause. Every so often, a wizard would claim to have beaten the spells that made thralls what they were. Reports would come into the capital of thralls being completely cured and made into ordinary men. Every once in a while, the cured thralls themselves would come into the capital.

  That was all very well. But none of the wizards had won enduring fame, for most of the thralls proved not to be cured after all. Some gradually drifted back into their previous idiocy. Others—and these were the heartbreakers—turned out to be the eyes and ears of the Banished One.

  The more Lanius thought about that, the more he worried. After a while, he couldn’t stand the worry anymore, and summoned Pterocles not to the archives but to a small audience chamber heated by a couple of braziers. He asked, “Are you sure this thrall is cured, or could the Banished One still control him?”

  “Ah,” the wizard said. “You wonder about the same thing as I do, Your Majesty.”

  “I have reason to.” Lanius spoke of all the reports he’d found of thralls thought to be cured who proved anything but.

  Pterocles nodded. “I know of some of those cases, too. I think you’ve found more than I knew of, but that doesn’t matter so much.” Lanius had to fight not to pout; he thought his thoroughness mattered. The wizard went on, “What matters is, by every sorcerous test I know how to make, the thrall is a thrall no more. He’s a man.”

  “By every sorcerous test you know how to make,” King Lanius repeated. The wizard nodded again. Lanius said, “You’re not the first to make that claim, either, you know.”

  “Yes, I do,” Pterocles replied. “But I am the first to make that claim who knows from the inside what being emptied by the Banished One is like. I know the shape and size of the hole inside a man. I know how to fill it. By the gods, Your Majesty, I have filled it, at least this once.”

  He sounded very sure of himself. Lanius would have been more sure of him if he hadn’t read reports by wizards years, sometimes centuries, dead who’d been just as sure of themselves and ended up disappointed. Still, Pterocles had a point�
��what he’d gone through in front of Nishevatz gave him a unique perspective on how the Banished One’s wizardry worked.

  “We’ll see,” the king said at last. “But I’m afraid that thrall will need to be watched to the end of his days.”

  “I understand why you’re saying that,” Pterocles answered. “If we can cure enough other thralls, though, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  The only way to cure other thralls was to cross the Stura and take them away from the Menteshe; as far as Lanius knew, the thrall Pterocles had cured (or believed he had cured?) was the only one left on Avornan soil. “I think the war against the Chernagors will come first,” Lanius said.

  “I think you’re probably right,” Pterocles replied. “That does seem to be what His Majesty—uh, His other Majesty—has in mind.”

  “His other Majesty. Yes,” Lanius said sourly. Pterocles hadn’t intended to insult him, to remind him he was King of Avornis more in name than in fact. Intended or not, the wizard had done it. If anything, the slight hurt worse because it was unintentional.

  “Er … I meant no offense, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said quickly, realizing where he’d gone wrong.

  “I know you didn’t.” Lanius still sounded sour. Just because the offense hadn’t been meant didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

  Two messengers came north, each from a different town on the north bank of the Stura. They had left for the city of Avornis on different days. They’d both struggled through bad roads and blizzards and drifted snow. And, as luck would have it, they both came before King Grus within the space of an hour and a half.

  The first messenger said, “Your Majesty, Prince Sanjar is sending you an ambassador to announce his succession to the throne Prince Ulash held for so long. The ambassador is trailing behind me, and should get to the city of Avornis before too long.”

  “All right. Good, in fact,” Grus said. “I’m glad to know who came out on top there. When Sanjar’s ambassador gets here, I’ll be as polite as I can, considering that we’ve just fought a war with the prince’s father.” He dared hope Sanjar wanted peace. That the new Menteshe prince was sending an envoy struck him as a good sign.

  Grus had just sat down to lunch when the second messenger arrived. The king asked the servant who announced the fellow’s presence if his news was urgent. The man said it was. With a sigh, Grus got up from his bread and cheese and wine. “I’ll see him, then.”

  After bowing, the second messenger said, “Your Majesty, Prince Korkut is sending you an ambassador to announce his succession to the throne Prince Ulash held for so long. The envoy is on his way to the capital, and should get here in a few days.”

  “Wait a minute. Prince Korkut, you say?” Grus wanted to make sure he’d heard straight. “Not Prince Sanjar?”

  “No, Your Majesty.” The courier shook his head. “From what Prince Korkut’s ambassador said, Sanjar is nothing but a rebel.”

  “Did he say that? How … interesting.” Grus dismissed the second messenger and summoned the first one again. He asked, “Did Prince Sanjar’s envoy say anything about Prince Korkut?”

  “Why, yes, Your Majesty. How did you know that?” the first messenger replied. “He said Korkut was nothing but a filthy traitor, and he’d be hunted down soon.”

  “Did he? Well, well, well.” King Grus looked up at the ceiling. “We may have some sparks flying when the embassies get here.”

  “Embassies, Your Majesty?” The courier, who didn’t know he wasn’t the only man to come to the capital with news from the south, stressed the last syllable.

  “That’s right.” Grus nodded. “Korkut’s sending one, too. If you listen to his ambassador, he’s Ulash’s rightful heir and Sanjar’s nothing but a rebel.”

  “Oh,” the courier said, and then, “Oh, my.”

  “Well, yes.” King Grus grinned like a mischievous little boy. “And do you know what else? It ought to be a lot of fun.”

  He did his best to make sure it would be fun, too. Korkut’s ambassador got to the city of Avornis first. Grus put the man—his name was Er-Tash—up in a hostel and made excuses not to see him right away. Sanjar’s representative, a Menteshe called Duqaq, reached the capital three days later. Grus invited both envoys to confer with him on the same day at the same time. He made sure neither saw the other until they both reached the throne room.

  Er-Tash glared at Duqaq. Duqaq scowled at Er-Tash. Both of them reached for their swords. Since they were in the throne room, they’d been relieved of those swords and other assorted cutlery beforehand. They snarled and shouted at each other in their own language. Their retainers—each had a small handful—also growled and made threatening noises.

  At Grus’ gesture, Avornan soldiers got between the two rival embassies, to make sure they didn’t start going at each other with fists—and to make sure nobody had managed to sneak anything with a point or an edge past the guards.

  “Your Majesty!” Duqaq shouted in good Avornan. “This is an outrage, Your Majesty!”

  “He is an outrage, Your Majesty!” Er-Tash cried, pointing at Duqaq. “How dare he come before you?”

  Before Duqaq could let loose with more indignation, Grus held up a hand. “Enough, both of you,” he said. Several guards pounded the butts of their spears down on the marble floor of the throne room. The solid thumps probably did more to convince the Menteshe envoys to keep quiet than any of the king’s words. When Grus saw they would keep quiet, he went on, “Both of you came to me on your own. Don’t you think I ought to hear you both? If I do send one of you away, which one should it be?”

  “Him!” Er-Tash and Duqaq exclaimed at the same time. Each pointed at the other. Both looked daggers at each other.

  “One of you represents Prince Ulash’s legitimate successor,” Grus said. “One represents a rebel. How do I figure out which is which?”

  “Because Prince Ulash left my master—” Duqaq began.

  “Liar!” Er-Tash shouted. “The land is Korkut’s!”

  “Liar yourself!” Duqaq yelled. Grus reflected that they both could end up right, if Ulash’s sons split the territory their father had ruled. By the signs, they were more interested in splitting each other’s heads. That didn’t break the King of Avornis’ heart. Just the opposite, in fact.

  None of what Grus thought showed on his face. Up there on the Diamond Throne, he remained calm, collected, above it all—metaphorically as well as literally. “Why should I recognize one of your principals and not the other?” he inquired, as though the question might be interesting in theory but had no bearing on the real world.

  “Because he is the rightful Prince of Yozgat!” Er-Tash said.

  Duqaq shouted, “Liar!” again. He went on, “Sanjar was Ulash’s favorite, Ulash’s chosen heir, not this—this thefter of a throne.” His Avornan wasn’t quite perfect.

  Again, as though the question were only theoretical, Grus asked, “Which man does the Banished One prefer?” If the ambassadors knew—and if they would admit they knew—that would tell Grus which contender Avornis ought to support.

  But Er-Tash answered, “The Fallen Star has not yet made his choice clear.” Duqaq, for once, did not contradict him.

  How interesting, Grus thought. Did that mean the Banished One didn’t care, or that he was having trouble making up his mind, or something else altogether? No way to be sure, not for a mere man.

  Then Er-Tash said, “If you recognize Korkut, he will promise peace with Avornis.”

  “Will he?” Grus said. “Now you begin to interest me. How do I know he will keep his promises? What guarantees will he give me?”

  “I will give you a guarantee,” Duqaq broke in. “I will give you a guarantee Er-Tash is lying, and Korkut is lying, too.”

  “Oh?” Again, Grus carefully didn’t smile, though he felt like it. “Does Sanjar want peace with Avornis? If he does, what guarantees will he give? We need guarantees. We have seen we cannot always trust the Menteshe.” He went no further than that. What he wante
d to say about the Banished One would only anger both ambassadors.

  “Sanjar wants peace,” Duqaq said. “Sanjar will pay tribute to have peace.”

  “And try to steal it back again!” Er-Tash burst out. Duqaq snarled at him, no doubt because he’d told nothing but the truth.

  “What will Korkut give?” Grus asked Duqaq.

  “He too will pay tribute,” Korkut’s ambassador replied, at which Er-Tash laughed loud and long. Flushing under his swarthy skin, Duqaq went on, “And he will also give hostages, so you may be sure his intentions are good.”

  “You may be sure he will cheat, giving men of no account who—whom—who he says are important,” Er-Tash said.

  “Will Sanjar give hostages?” Grus asked. If he had hostages from the Menteshe, they might think twice about attacking Avornis. Money, he was sure, would not give him nearly as big an advantage.

  Reluctantly, Er-Tash nodded. Now Duqaq was the one who laughed a raucous laugh. Er-Tash said, “Shut your fool’s mouth, you son of a backscuttling sheep.” The insult had to be translated literally from his own tongue; Grus had never heard it in Avornan. Duqaq answered in the Menteshe language. The rival envoys snapped at each other for a minute or two.

  At last, Duqaq turned away from the quarrel and toward King Grus. “You see, Your Majesty,” he said. “You will get no more from the rebel and traitor than you will from Prince Korkut, so you should recognize him.”

  “You will get no more from the robber and usurper than you will from Prince Sahjar, so you should recognize him,” Er-Tash said.

  They both waited to hear what Grus would say. He thought for a little while, then spoke. “As long as two sons of Ulash claim to be Prince of Yozgat, I will not recognize either of them—unless one attacks Avornis. Then I will recognize the other, and do all I can to help him. When you have settled your own problems, I will recognize the prince you have chosen, however you do that. Until then, I am neutral—unless one of your principals attacks my kingdom, as I said.”