“You think so, do you?” The witch filled her wine cup yet again.
What was that supposed to mean? Grus almost asked the question aloud, but checked himself. He said, “I do thank you for all the help you’ve given me.”
“You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” Alca said gravely. “You’re very welcome.” She raised the cup. “Your good health.”
“And yours,” Grus said. He would have a headache in the morning, but morning seemed a long way away.
“Thank you.” Alca drank. So did Grus. She eyed him. “Have you decided why so many thralls are coming over the river and into Avornis?”
“My best guess is, the Banished One wants to make trouble and to see what we can do about it,” he replied. “We have to take anything seriously if it’s got anything to do with the Banished One.”
“Yes!” The witch’s agreement startled him with its vehemence.
He said, “If only we could strike at him as easily as he strikes at us.”
“Yes.” Alca sipped again. “I wish…”
“What?” Grus asked.
“Nothing. Never mind. I didn’t say anything.”
“You started to.” Grus got to his feet and walked—carefully—toward her.
“If you can’t see for yourself, you’ve got no business knowing.”
“Can’t see what for myself?”
“Whatever it is you’re not seeing, of course.”
“You’re no help. All I see is you.”
“Well, then,” Alca said, as though that explained everything.
Grus reached for her like a drowning man reaching for a floating plank. Her arms tightened around him. When their lips met, she kissed him as he was kissing her.
“I didn’t think—” Now he was the one who had trouble going on.
“It’s all right,” Alca answered. “You said you wouldn’t do anything I didn’t want. You aren’t.”
“Gods be praised!” Grus said. He kissed her again. He held her tight, tight enough that she couldn’t possibly doubt kissing her wasn’t the only thing he had in mind. She didn’t pull away.
His hands began to wander. Alca purred, down deep in her throat.
The bedchamber wasn’t far. She hurried toward the bed. Later, he wondered if she went ahead to keep from giving herself time enough for second thoughts. That was later.
They lay down together. It was everything Grus had dreamt it would be, which said a great deal. Alca clutched him with arms and legs. He drove deep into her, and she clutched him inside herself, too. They both groaned together.
No sooner had they spent themselves than Alca pushed him away, saying, “We shouldn’t have done that. No good will come of it.”
Grus set the palm of his hand on her left breast. Her heart still thudded. When he teased her nipple between thumb and forefinger, her heartbeat sped up again.
She twisted away even so. “We shouldn’t have,” she said. “It’s not what we came here for.”
Grus just said, “All we can do is make the best of it now.”
“What sort of best is there to make?” she said. “I betrayed my husband, you your wife. No good anywhere there.”
“What we did was good by itself, and you can’t tell me you didn’t think so, too, not while it was going on.”
“While it was going on, I didn’t think at all, and neither did you.” That was true, but it didn’t make what Grus had said any less true. With a sigh, the witch went on, “Yes, you pleased me.”
“I should hope so,” Grus said. “You, ah, pleased me, too, you know. I’ll tell you exactly how much when I’m able to see again.”
She snorted, not altogether a happy sound. “You know, your hand could please you, too, and you wouldn’t talk nonsense to it afterward.”
Grus’ ears heated; that was bawdier talk than he was used to hearing from a woman. Alca sat up at the edge of the bed and started dressing. Grus almost told her to stop. But he was leery of pushing too hard and antagonizing a witch. And he wasn’t sure of his own second round. In his younger days, making love twice in a row would have been nothing. Now, nothing was what was more likely to happen the second time.
He said, “You mean a lot to me, you know.”
That she noticed—noticed and took seriously. “You mean a lot to me, too, Your Majesty. I wouldn’t have done this if you didn’t, no matter how much wine I drank. But that doesn’t mean I wasn’t foolish—or that you weren’t foolish. Suppose I bear your bastard. Will you make him arch-hallow one of these days?”
“I thought you could… know if you’d caught,” Grus said. He hadn’t thought about a baby at all.
“I’ll know if I catch… when the time comes, in the usual way. Meanwhile… Meanwhile, good night, Your Majesty. I was foolish. We were foolish. We’d best not be again.” She left the bedchamber before he could reply, which was probably just as well.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
In charge of the royal treasury was a man named Petrosus. Grus had appointed him after the previous treasury minister, a graybeard, retired to a monastery. As far as Lanius knew, that retirement was voluntary; Grus hadn’t required or even suggested it. Petrosus was a sharp-nosed fellow with a nearsighted squint. Lanius didn’t much like him. He had trouble imagining how anyone, including Petrosus’ wife, could like him very much. But that wasn’t to say the fellow didn’t know his business.
At the moment, his business seemed to consist of driving Lanius out of his mind. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but there’s nothing I can do,” he said. Even his voice was irritatingly scratchy.
“What do you mean, there’s nothing you can do?” Lanius demanded. “My household needs more money. You’re the man in charge of the money. I know it’s in the treasury; tax receipts have been up lately. So kindly give me what I need. I’ll have to let some servants go unless you do.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Petrosus repeated, sounding not the least bit sorry. “There’s no allocation for any further funding for that purpose.”
“What do you mean, there’s no allocation?” Lanius was repeating himself, too. “Why in the name of the gods do you need an allocation, anyway? Am I the King of Avornis, or aren’t I? If I need money, do I get it or don’t I?”
Petrosus scratched the end of his pointy noise. His fingers were stained with ink. “Well, Your Majesty, it’s like this. You’re a King of Avornis, sure enough. But are you the King of Avornis? As a matter of fact, since you’re the one that’s asking, I have to tell you the answer is no.”
Lanius knew exactly what that meant. He’d had his not so pointy nose rubbed in it, the past few years. Grus was the one who gave the orders. Lanius understood that, no matter how little he liked it. But even so… “This is money for my household!” Yes, he was repeating himself.
So was the treasury minister. “You already told me that, Your Majesty. And I’m telling you there’s no allocation for any more money than you’re already getting.”
Voice dangerously calm, Lanius asked, “Are you saying King Grus doesn’t want his own daughter getting what she needs? Are you saying I can’t pay for the servants she has?”
But Petrosus didn’t seem to feel the danger. “I’m saying there’s no allocation. No allocation, no money. Simple as that, Your Majesty.” Simple as that, you moron, he might have said.
“Suppose I write to King Grus,” Lanius said. “Suppose I tell him how—how obstructive you’re being. What do you suppose he will have to say about that?”
“Probably something like, ‘Congratulations, Petrosus. Good job. You’re not supposed to spend any silver without an allocation,’ ” the treasury minister said cheerfully. “So if you want to write him, you just go ahead.”
That wasn’t the answer Lanius had expected or wanted. He stared at Petrosus, who squinted back. After a long pause, Lanius asked, “Are you telling me King Grus doesn’t want me to have the money I need?”
“Don’t ask me what he wants or doesn’t want. I’m telling you I don�
��t spend money without an allocation. That’s my job. No allocation, no money. That’s all I’m telling you, Your Majesty.”
“And how are you supposed to get an allocation?” Lanius asked.
“Why, from King Grus, of course,” Petrosus answered. If he’d been asked where light came from, he would have said, Why, from the sun, of course, in just that tone of voice.
“Well, if you don’t have an allocation from him, suppose you get busy getting one,” Lanius said.
“I already know what His Majesty wants me to spend money on—the things I have allocations for,” the treasury minister said.
King Lanius was not one who often lost his temper. This time, though, marked one of the exceptions. “You idiot!” he shouted. “You lazy, miserable, worthless, good-for-nothing bastard!”
“Takes one to know one, eh?” Petrosus said. That was the surest proof any man could give that he thought Lanius altogether powerless. Lanius proved him wrong—he punched him in his pointy nose, and blunted it considerably. Petrosus left the chamber dripping blood.
That done, Lanius also wrote to King Grus, explaining in great detail Petrosus’ incompetence and insolence. He was amazed his pen didn’t scorch the parchment as it raced along. His letter sped south by courier.
In due course, an answer came back. Petrosus, from all I have heard, is doing a good job on the whole, Grus wrote. I have no doubt he is attending to things the same way I would if I were back in the city of Avornis. I am sure you will be able to get along with him once you work a little harder. Without another word, Grus signed his name.
“By the gods,” Lanius muttered. “He really doesn’t want me to have the money I need.”
Up till then, he hadn’t believed that. He’d been sure Grus didn’t know what Petrosus was up to. He’d been sure—and he’d been wrong. Grus had known perfectly well. A rival king with less money posed a smaller danger than one with more money. It all seemed very obvious, when you looked at it the right way.
“I’ll make money by myself, then,” Lanius declared. He was most determined. That he hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about making money by himself or for himself worried him only a little.
* * *
Lanius’ annoyance didn’t worry King Grus. He had more important things on his mind. Whenever he looked over the Stura, he imagined Yozgat in his mind’s eye. He wanted the Scepter of Mercy so badly, he knew he wasn’t even close to being rational about it.
“How can you hope to get it, Your Majesty?” Alca asked one evening. “Whenever Avornans have tried, it’s always been a disaster. Why should it be any different now?”
“I don’t know,” Grus answered. “I truly don’t know. But I do know I’m going to see what I can do one of these days.”
“How many thralls were made from Avornan armies?” the witch said.
“Too many,” Grus admitted. “But there are plenty of other thralls on the far side of the border. If we can cure them—”
“It will be a miracle,” Alca said. “You know that as well as I do. We can’t even cure the ones who’ve fled over the river to us. Well, we can cure some of them, maybe, but how reliable is the cure? Not very, you ask me.”
“We have to get better at that,” he said. “If we’re ever going to reconquer the lands south of the Stura, we’ve got to be able to turn thralls into ordinary farmers again.”
Alca nodded. “That’s what we need, all right,” she agreed. “Whether we can get it is a different question.”
“Well,” Grus said, “there are plenty of thralls for you to practice on.”
“I wondered if you were going to tell me that,” she said. “For someone who claims to care about me—”
“I do more than care about you,” Grus broke in. “If you don’t know that—”
She interrupted in turn, saying, “For someone who claims to care about me, you keep doing your best to get me killed.”
“I want to be able to fight the Banished One,” Grus said. “I want to take back the lands the Menteshe stole from us.”
“If you try to fight the Banished One, strength against strength, you’ll lose, Your Majesty,” Alca said bluntly. “You have the strength of a man. He has the strength of an exiled god. If he puts it forth, you will lose. That’s all there is to it.”
She spoke with as much certainty as of tomorrow’s sunrise.
King Grus said, “Then any hope of taking land back from the Banished One is nothing but a foolish dream?”
“I didn’t say that,” the witch replied. “But if you do it, you have to do it so that he doesn’t put forth all his strength.”
“How?” Grus asked.
“Your Majesty, I don’t know,” she said. “This is the riddle Avornis has been trying to solve since the Banished One was cast down from the heavens.”
“Well, one step at a time,” Grus said. “I think the Banished One has been trying to see how strong and clever we are. Otherwise, why would he make all these thralls come over the river and into Avornis?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, “Maybe we can make him pay for that. Wouldn’t it be poetic justice if we used the thralls to learn how to free people from thralldom?”
“It would be, if we could do that,” Alca said. “Whether we can or not, I don’t know.” She eyed him. “Or are you just looking for reasons to keep me down here in the south and not go back to the city of Avornis?”
“You know what my reasons are,” he answered. “And I hope you have some of those reasons, too.” He thought he had the right to hope; in spite of what she’d said after they joined the first time, she’d come to his bed several times since. Even so, he went on, “If you think you can do a better job curing thralls in the capital, say the word and we’ll go back there. Would having more wizards here help?”
The witch sighed. “I don’t think so. I’m not sure where I try will make any difference at all. I’m not sure it can be done. We haven’t got many wizards who could help.”
“If it can’t be…” Grus didn’t want to think about that, but made himself. “If it can’t be, I don’t see what chance Avornis has of ever taking any land back from the Menteshe. Do you?”
“No, Your Majesty.” Alca sighed again. “All right. You’ve convinced me the work is important. Now if you’d only convinced me I had any real chance of doing it.”
“How do you know until you try?” Grus asked. “It may be easier than you think.”
“It almost certainly is easier than I think,” Alca said, “for I doubt it can be done at all.”
Having gotten the last word, though, the witch did decide to make the effort. Grus smiled to himself and said not a word. In some ways, Alca and Estrilda weren’t so very different after all. If he’d said as much to either one of them, she would have made him sorry for it. That being so, he knew he was smart to say nothing.
His guardsmen brought another thrall up from the floor of the amphitheater in Cumanus. An ordinary man might have complained or struggled at such treatment. The thrall just stared around in dull, incurious incomprehension. He didn’t know what was going to happen to him, and he didn’t care, either.
Alca sighed. “This is foolishness, and nothing but foolishness.”
“You’ve come this far,” Grus said. “Why not go a little further?”
“Because of what the Banished One may do if I try?” she suggested. But they’d already seen samples of that. “All right, Your Majesty. I am your fool, sure enough—in more ways than one.”
That made Grus wince. Alca turned away from him and began to cast a spell on the thrall. The fellow knew what magic meant. He bawled wordlessly and tried to twist free of the guards, as a beast of burden might have kicked up its heels when it saw a man with a whip in his hand. Grus wondered what sort of wizards the thrall had been unlucky enough to meet in his unhappy life south of the Stura.
The thrall’s struggles did him no more good than an ox’s might have done it. The guards had no trouble hanging on to him. Alca conti
nued her spell. King Grus winced again. Seeing a man—or someone who still looked like a man, at any rate— reduced to such impotence was hard to bear.
When Alca made a sudden, sharp pass, the thrall stopped struggling as abruptly as he’d started. His mouth fell open, showing teeth that had probably never had any care in all his days. “What’s your name?” Alca asked him, her voice quiet and interested.
“Do thralls have names?” Grus asked.
“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “But men have names— I do know that. Now hush.”
Grus obeyed. The thrall ignored the byplay between witch and king. His dirty face furrowed. That might have been the hardest question anyone had ever asked him. It might have been the first question anyone had ever asked him. After a long, long pause, he said, “Immer.”
That was a name an Avornan might have borne, which surprised Grus. If it also surprised Alca, she gave no sign. Nodding, she said, “All right, Immer, how do we go about setting free the part of you that has a name and knows what it is? How do we bring that part out and leave the rest behind?”
Immer only shrugged. Grus was surprised again, this time that she’d gotten even so much of an answer from him.
And the witch seemed surprised, too. “Isn’t that interesting?” she murmured. “There’s more of him inside himself than I’d expected. Maybe I’ll be able to do this after all.”
“Some of our wizards have,” Grus said.
“I know,” she said. “But some of them thought they had, and then watched their wizardry fail a little at a time. I don’t want that to happen. If I can break this spell, I want to break it once and for all.”
“Good.” Grus nodded. He didn’t want to see wizardry done by halves, either.
Immer just stood there, waiting for whatever would come next. Or rather, as far as Grus could tell, he wasn’t waiting. He seemed to give no more thought to what might come than a steer would have.
Alca began to chant again. Grus wondered if she would take out her crystal and shine a rainbow onto the thrall’s face. She didn’t. After a moment’s thought, Grus decided he was glad she didn’t. The Banished One had caused too much trouble through her magical rainbows. Maybe—no, certainly—he could cause trouble other ways, too. But Grus had seen he could do it that way.
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