The Scepter's Return

by Harry Turtledove

  “Not a bit,” Lanius told him. “And if you want to write some letters for me along with your own, I don’t mind that, either. I was just thinking you’re better at this part of being a king than I am.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that,” Grus said. “When something interests you, you get better at it than I ever could. When it doesn’t, you don’t bother with it so much, that’s all.”

  Lanius thought about that. He didn’t need long to decide Grus was right. “I should do better,” he said.

  “Probably,” Grus said. “Everybody has some things he should do better—and if you don’t believe me, you can ask either one of our wives.”

  “Ha!” Lanius said. “We don’t need to ask them—they come right out and tell us.”

  “Wives do that sometimes. Husbands do it to wives, too, I expect.” Grus sat down across the table from Lanius. He dumped a disorderly pile of letters and blank leaves of parchment on the table in front of him, pulled the stopper from a burnt-clay bottle of ink, dipped a goose quill, and began to write. The pile stayed disorderly. Lanius was much neater about the way he worked. But Grus dipped his pen and wrote, dipped his pen and wrote, dipped his pen.… He wasn’t neat, but he got the job done, turning out letter after letter.

  “I’m jealous,” Lanius remarked.

  The other king only shrugged. “It’s nothing very special,” he said. “Most of the time, the simplest answer will do. Yes, no, tell me more, whatever the local official decided also seems right to me. It’s only on the odd things that you really have to slow down and think.” He passed a letter across to Lanius. “Will you read this to me, please? My sight hasn’t lengthened too badly, but I have trouble when somebody writes as small as this.”

  Lanius read it. It was an appeal of a conviction for theft. “Thanks,” Grus said. He wrote a few lines, set the letter aside, and went on to the next.

  “What did you tell him?” Lanius asked.

  “What would you have told him?” Grus asked in return.

  “It doesn’t seem likely that the victim and the captain and the city governor are all in league against the appellant,” Lanius said. “They would have to be for him to be innocent, seems to me.”

  “Seems the same way to me,” Grus replied. “So I told him no. Not worth wasting a lot of time on it.”

  “I suppose not.” Lanius had come up with the same answer as his father-in-law. He would have fussed much more over the letter, though. He wanted things to sound good. Grus just wanted to make sure no one could misunderstand what he meant. Lanius had rarely seen him fail to live up to that standard.

  After a while, Grus stopped writing. He looked at Lanius and said, “I wonder how much longer it will be.”

  “No way to know,” Lanius answered, having not the slightest doubt about what Grus meant. “Babies come when they feel like coming, not when you tell them to.”

  “I’m not going to say you’re wrong. I can’t very well when you’re right, can I?” The other king inked his pen, started another letter, and then stopped once more. “Here’s something you haven’t heard from me. If you tell anybody I said it, I’ll call you a liar to your face. Have you got that?”

  By the way he said it, Lanius knew he was liable to do worse than call him a liar. “I won’t blab. I don’t blab.”

  “Well, that’s true, too—you don’t.” Grus leaned forward and dropped his voice to something not much above a whisper. “I hope it’s a girl.”

  “Do you?” Lanius hoped he didn’t squeak in surprise. Grus solemnly nodded. “Even though Ortalis is your legitimate son?” Lanius asked. Grus nodded again. Lanius couldn’t believe he was telling anything but the truth. He also couldn’t help asking, “Why?”

  “It makes things simpler,” Grus told him. “When you get as old as I am, you decide simpler is better most of the time.”

  His answer wasn’t as simple as it might have been. Lanius had no doubt the other king knew as much. Had Grus been pleased with Ortalis, had he thought his legitimate son would make a good successor, he would have done whatever he needed to do to make sure the crown went to him and his descendants. If anyone—Lanius included—stood in his way, that would have been too bad for the person who proved an obstacle.

  As things were, though … “Thank you,” Lanius said quietly, though he knew Grus’ choice wasn’t so much praise for him as a judgment on Ortalis.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Grus said. “You’re not the boy I shoved aside to take the throne anymore. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I don’t believe you’ll ever make much of a warrior—I don’t see you taking the field and driving everybody before you. But except for that, you make a good king.”

  Lanius didn’t see himself as much of a warrior, either. Fighting wasn’t something he was or wanted to be good at. He nodded to Grus all the same. “You haven’t made a bad king yourself.” He wasn’t sure he’d ever admitted even that much to the man who’d stolen more than half his throne.

  Grus gave him a seated bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

  “You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” Lanius responded, every bit as seriously.

  Grus seemed to be casting about for something else to say. Whatever it was, he didn’t find it. Instead, he went back to the letter that he’d stopped halfway through. He finished it and went on to the next. Lanius started writing again, too. He still couldn’t match his father-in-law for speed.

  An hour later, or maybe two, shouts in the corridor outside made them both look up from their work. Someone knocked on the door to the dining room. “Come in,” the two kings said together.

  “Your Majesty!” a servant said excitedly. He paused, blinked, and tried again. “Uh, Your Majesties, I mean. I have great news, Your Majesties! Princess Limosa has had a baby boy!”

  Grus had to reward the servant who brought him word of Ortalis’ son. He had to pretend it was good news. Things in the palace would have been even worse if he hadn’t.

  Ortalis gave money to every servant he saw. He kissed all the women, including those old enough to be his mother. He slapped all the men on the back. He didn’t walk down the palace hallways. He danced instead.

  “Marinus!” he said to anyone who would listen. “We’ll call the baby Marinus!”

  It wasn’t a name from Grus’ side of the family. Maybe it was connected to Petrosus’—or maybe Ortalis and Limosa had just decided they liked it. Grus didn’t feel like asking. He said, “Congratulations,” to his legitimate son, and hoped his face wasn’t too wooden while he did it. Evidently not, for Ortalis only grinned at him. Seeing Ortalis grin felt almost as strange as congratulating him. Ortalis’ face frequently wore a frown or a scowl or a sneer. A grin? Grus wondered where those usually sour features found room for one.

  Lanius did somewhat better, saying, “I hope Limosa is well?”

  “Oh, yes.” Ortalis stopped cutting capers long enough to nod. “The midwife said she came through it as well as a woman can.”

  “Good,” Lanius said.

  “Wonderful,” Grus agreed, thinking nothing of the sort. But then, that wasn’t fair. Say what you would of Petrosus, Limosa was an inoffensive creature. Her worst failing up until now had been the unfortunate taste for pain that made her such a good match for Ortalis. But bearing an inconvenient boy came close to being an unforgivable sin.

  Did she realize as much? If she did, she had the sense to hide the knowledge. Naïveté, here, worked to her advantage. Ortalis understood what she’d done, all right. He started dancing again, dancing and singing, “I have an heir! Thank you, King Olor! I have an heir!”

  Lanius showed none of what he was thinking. Grus admired that, and hoped his own features were under something close to as much control. He wouldn’t have bet on it, though. And then something occurred to him that actually let him smile. He’s calling on King Olor. He isn’t calling on the Banished One.

  That he should think such a thing about his own son … He shrugged. Yes, it was sad. But Ortalis had give
n him plenty of reason to worry about whose side he was on. Seeing and hearing such a worry come to nothing wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

  Grus studied his joyful legitimate son. Just because Ortalis didn’t shout the Banished One’s praises didn’t mean he saw eye to eye with Grus and Lanius. The way he was carrying on showed he didn’t, at least as far as the succession went. He could do the Banished One’s work without acknowledging the exiled god as his overlord. He might work more effectively in the Banished One’s behalf if he didn’t acknowledge him. Few men got out of bed thinking, I’m going to do something evil today. Many more thought, I’m going to do something good, not seeing that what they reckoned good was anything but in the eyes of most of their fellows.

  Prince Vasilko of Nishevatz, up in the Chernagor country, had been like that when he rose against his unloving and unlovable father. He saw all the things Vsevolod was doing, and didn’t care where he looked for help to overthrown him. If men who backed the Banished One would help him overthrow Vsevolod, so much the better. And if they—and the exiled god—gained ever greater power in Nishevatz and then in the rest of the Chernagor city-states … well, Prince Vasilko hadn’t worried about that. He’d gotten what he wanted, and nothing else mattered nearly so much to him.

  Overthrowing him and others whom the Banished One had seduced had cost Avornis years of fighting. It also cost Grus the chance to take advantage of the civil war among the Menteshe for all that time. (Of course, the civil war down in the south cost the Banished One the chance to take advantage of Avornis’ being busy in the north. Things evened out—except when they didn’t.)

  Would Ortalis lean toward the Banished One if he saw that as the only way to get what he wanted? Grus eyed his son again. He’d had that worry before, had it and dismissed it from his mind. Should he have? He didn’t know. And asking Ortalis what he’d do would only put ideas in his mind—ideas that might not have already been there. Grus sighed. Nothing was as simple as he wished it were.

  Ortalis, for his part, was glancing at Lanius. He didn’t proclaim that Marinus was the rightful heir not just to him but also to the Kingdom of Avornis. If he had, he would have had trouble on his hands right away. But did the gloating look in his eyes say what Grus thought it did? He couldn’t see what else it was likely to mean.

  What Ortalis did say was, “It’s a good thing the kingdom has another prince.” He didn’t say Lanius should father more children. If he had, Lanius couldn’t have been too unhappy. As things were, Ortalis made it sound as though Prince Crex was liable to be in perilous health. If he was, Ortalis was all too likely to be the one who made his health perilous.

  “Maybe it is,” Lanius replied, in tones that couldn’t mean anything but, You must be out of your mind.

  “Can we see the baby?” Grus asked. That seemed harmless enough.

  “If the midwife lets you.” Ortalis rolled his eyes. Grus had all he could do not to laugh out loud. Ortalis and Limosa were no doubt using Netta, the midwife who’d also come when Sosia was brought to bed. She was the best in the city of Avornis. She was also probably the toughest woman Grus had ever met. She took no nonsense from anybody. Even Ortalis had figured that out. If he could, anybody and everybody could.

  Sosia had given birth in a special palace room reserved for queens. Limosa, only a princess, had had to do it in her own bedchamber. They’ll need new bedclothes in there, Grus thought. Ortalis knocked before presuming to go inside. He waited till he heard a gruff, “Come in,” too—only then did he open the door.

  He came out with Marinus in his arms. Like any newborn, his son could have looked better. Marinus’ head seemed misshapen, almost conical, and was much too big for his body. His face looked smashed. His eyes were squeezed shut. He was redder than he should have had any business being. Netta had put a bandage over the stump of the cord that had connected him to his mother.

  “Isn’t he handsome?” Ortalis said, proving all new fathers are blind.

  “Congratulations.” Grus held out his hand not to his son but to his new grandson. Marinus’ tiny hand brushed against his forefinger. The baby clung to the finger with a grip of sudden and startling strength. Grus laughed himself then. He’d seen that with other newborns. It faded after a little while.

  Ortalis looked down at the tiny shape in his arms. “A boy. A son. An heir,” he said softly. Grus would have been happier if he’d left out the last two words.

  Gossip about Limosa’s back and the scars on it had quieted down in the palace. It revived even before the midwife left. Naturally, a couple of servants had been in there with Ortalis’ wife and Netta. They blabbed about everything they’d seen. By the way the news sounded to Lanius, they blabbed about quite a bit they’d made up, too. He didn’t think a person could have as many scars as they said Limosa did and go on living.

  Naturally, the servants paid no attention to his opinion. The scandals of their superiors were more interesting and more entertaining than the possibility that a couple of their own number were talking through their hats. He’d seen that before. It didn’t bother him. It was part of palace life.

  That evening, Sosia said, “You can sleep in the bedchamber—if you feel like it.” Her voice held an odd note of challenge. She’d made it plain he wasn’t welcome there ever since she found out about Oissa.

  “I’m glad to,” Lanius answered. He paused. “Are you sure?” His wife nodded. She didn’t hesitate before she did it. He found himself nodding, too. “All right.”

  When he came to bed, she was already under the covers. That didn’t surprise him; the night was chilly, and braziers did only so much to fight the cold. “Good night,” he said, and blew out the lamp on his night table. That was all he did—she’d invited him to sleep in the bed, not to sleep with her. But when she slid toward him, as though for a good-night kiss, he almost automatically reached out to take her in his arms. He jerked back in surprise when his hands found soft, bare flesh.

  Sosia laughed a brittle laugh. “It’s all right,” she said. “You can go on—if you feel like it.” The challenge rang stronger now.

  “Why?” he asked. “What made you change your mind?”

  “Two things,” Sosia answered. “If you don’t do it with me, you will do it with somebody else. Even if you do do it with me, you may do it with somebody else—but you may not, too.” She clicked her tongue between her teeth; that might have been too bald even for her. After a moment, she went on, “And we really ought to have more than one son—especially now.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Marriages for reasons of state sometimes held love. Theirs had, on and off. Whether love was there or not, though, duty always was. Not getting out from under the covers, Lanius wriggled free of his nightshirt. “I’m glad to,” he said as he embraced her.

  He wasn’t even lying. He’d never stopped enjoying what the two of them did together, not through all his other liaisons. He didn’t think she understood that or believed it, but it was true.

  Now he took special care to please her, kissing and caressing her breasts and her belly for a long time before sliding down to the joining of her legs. If she was angry enough at him, of course, nothing he did would bring her pleasure. But she sighed and murmured and opened her legs wider. He went on until she gasped and quivered. Then he poised himself above her and took his own pleasure.

  When they lay side by side again, she asked him, “Was that as good for you as it was for me?”

  “Yes, I think so,” Lanius said, adding, “I hope it was good for you.”

  “It was, and you know it was,” Sosia said, which was true. After a moment, she went on, “If it was good for you, why do you want to look anywhere else?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, and muffled his words with a yawn. Sosia made a small, exasperated noise. Pretending he didn’t hear it, he got up, used the chamber pot, and then lay down again. Before long, he was breathing deeply and regularly. Men had a reputation for rolling over and going to sleep afterwards.

>   But, reputation or not, Lanius wasn’t asleep. He lay there on his side, not moving much. Sosia muttered again, more softly this time. Then she started breathing deeply and regularly. Maybe she was pretending, as he was. He didn’t think so, though. He thought she really had dropped off.

  Why do you want to look anywhere else? He knew the answer, regardless of whether he felt like giving it to Sosia, which he didn’t. He knew it wouldn’t make sense to her, and would only make her angry. Because I knew everything you were going to do before you did it. The serving girls he bedded weren’t that much prettier than his wife, if at all. They weren’t that much better in bed, if at all. But they could surprise him. He liked that.

  He did love Sosia, as much as he could in their arranged marriage. Would he have chosen her if he could have picked from all the girls in the kingdom? He had no idea. For one thing, the idea of marrying for love and only for love was an absurdity. Most of him accepted that. The part that slept with maidservants didn’t.

  His deep, regular breathing became shallower and less regular for a moment. No doubt he had as much trouble surprising Sosia as she did surprising him. She’d threatened to take a lover now and again. He hadn’t believed her or taken her seriously. He didn’t think she was looking for variety, as he was.

  Revenge? That might be a different story. He knew too well that it might.

  But she could no more keep it a secret in the crowded world of the palace than he could. Servants always talked. It might take a while, but it always happened. He’d never heard anything that made him think she was doing anything of the sort.

  A good thing, too. She was angry at him. He would have been much more angry at her. Maybe that wouldn’t have been fair. He didn’t care. It was how he would have felt.

  Another child? He smiled and yawned, this time genuinely. Another child wouldn’t be so bad, especially if it was a boy. He yawned again. If he had another son, what would he name him? He fell asleep before he found a name he liked.

  Grus kept a wary eye on Ortalis. If his son was going to show signs of plotting, having Marinus to plot for might start him off. But he seemed no more than a new father happy at the birth of a son. Maybe I misjudged him, Grus thought. Or maybe he’s just sneakier than I figured.