The Chernagor Pirates tsom-2

by Dan Chernenko

Regardless of what Olor and Quelea and the other gods in the heavens saw, the rain kept falling. It didn’t get lighter. If anything, it got worse. Grus kept the army moving west for as long as he could. But movement was at best a crawl. What should have taken a quarter of an hour took a quarter of a day.

  At last, Hirundo said, “Your Majesty, may I tell you something obvious?”

  “Go ahead,” Grus said.

  “Your Majesty, this is more trouble than it’s worth,” the general said. “Gods only know how long we’re going to need to get to Hrvace. Once we’re there, how are we going to feed ourselves? We won’t be able to live off the country, and supply wagons will have a demon of a time getting through. The Chernagors inside the walls will laugh their heads off when they see us.”

  He was right. King Grus knew that all too well. Even though he knew it, he resisted acting on what he knew. Angrily, he asked, “What do you want me to do? Turn around and go back to the city of Avornis?”

  Grus hoped that would make Hirundo say something like, No, of course not, Your Majesty. Instead, the general nodded emphatically. “Yes, that’s just what I want you to do,” he said. “If you ask me, it’s the only sensible thing we can do.”

  “But—” Grus still fought the idea. “If we do that, then the Banished One still has a toehold in the Chernagor country.”

  “Maybe,” Hirundo said. “But maybe not, too. Lazutin and Gleb swore up and down they didn’t have much to do with him—certainly not directly. We don’t really know he had a toehold anywhere but Nishevatz.”

  “Tempting to believe that,” Grus said. “I’m almost afraid to, though, just because it’s so tempting.”

  “Well, look at it this way,” Hirundo said. “Suppose we go on to Hrvace and sit outside it and get weaker and hungrier by the day. We can’t threaten to ravage the countryside, because the storms already done most of that. Suppose the Chernagors come out when they see how weak we are. Suppose they smash us. Don’t you think

  that would do the Banished One some good?”

  Grus tried not to think how much good that would do the Banished One. He tried… and he failed. He sighed. “All right. You’ve made your point,” he said, and sighed again. “We’ll go home.”

  “King Olor be praised!” Hirundo exclaimed. “You won’t regret this.”

  “I already regret it,” Grus answered. “But I’m liable to regret pushing ahead even more. And so… and so we’ll go home.” He spent the next few minutes cursing the weather as comprehensively as he knew how.

  Hirundo had heard a good deal. He’d sometimes been known to say a good deal. His eyes grew wide even so. “That’s… impressive, Your Majesty,” he said when Grus finally ran down.

  The king chuckled self-consciously. “Only goes to show you can take the old river rat away from the river, but you can’t get the river out of the river rat.”

  “You’ll have to teach me some of that one of these days, you old river rat,” Hirundo said. “But meanwhile—”

  “Yes. Meanwhile,” Grus said. “Go ahead. Give the orders. Turn us south. You’ve won.”

  “It’s not me. Its the stinking weather,” Hirundo said. He did give the necessary orders. He gave them with great assurance and without the slightest pause for thought. He had been planning those orders for a long time, and he’d gotten them right.

  The army obeyed them with alacrity, too. A lot of the soldiers must have been thinking about going home. As soon as they had a chance to put their desires into action, they made the most of it. They could go no faster traveling south than they had traveling west, but they were much happier stuck in the mud while homeward bound than they had been on their way to attack Hrvace.

  Even the weather seemed to think turning south was a good idea. Two days after Grus reluctantly decided to abandon his campaign in the land of the Chernagors, the rain stopped and the sun came out again. It shone as brightly as it had in the middle of summer, Grus said several more things Hirundo hadn’t heard before. He said them with great feeling, too. The road remained muddy, and would for several more days. Even so, there was mud, and then there was mud, soupy ooze without a trace of bottom anywhere.

  There was one more thing, too. “You know what would happen if I tried to use this good weather and went east again, don’t you?” Grus asked Hirundo.

  The general nodded. “Sure I do, Your Majesty. It would start raining again. And it wouldn’t stop until we all grew fins.”

  “That’s right. That’s just exactly right.” Grus waved his hands. All around him, the landscape gently steamed as the warm sun began drying up the rain that had already fallen. “But Pterocles tells me it’s just an ordinary storm. The Banished One has nothing to do with it, he says. By Olor’s beard, if he doesn’t know, who’s likely to?”

  “Nobody,” Hirundo said.

  “Nobody,” Grus agreed sadly. “No matter how hard a time I have believing it, it’s only a what-do-you-call-it. A coincidence, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

  “Pterocles usually knows what he’s talking about, sure enough,” Hirundo said. “When it comes to magic, I usually don’t, any more than Pterocles knows how to drive home a cavalry charge.”

  “He was brave inside Nishevatz,” Grus said.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t be afraid to try a spell—not afraid like that, anyway,” Hirundo said. “That doesn’t mean a spell I tried would work. I haven’t got the training, and I haven’t got the talent.”

  “Neither have I.” The king looked warily up at the sun. It smiled back, for all the world— for all the world, indeed, Grus thought—as though it had never gone away and never would. But he knew better. He wouldn’t be able to trust it until the coming spring—and not even then, if he had to campaign in the Chernagor country.

  For now… for now, he was going home. If he hadn’t done everything he’d wanted to, he had managed most of it. That wouldn’t have impressed the gods in the heavens. In the world where mere mortals had to live, it wasn’t bad at all. Plenty had tried more and accomplished less. So Grus told himself, anyway.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  King Lanius waited outside the brown stone walls of the city of Avornis as King Grus brought the army back to the capital. The whole royal family had come out to see Grus off. Lanius was there by himself to welcome the other king and the army back. King Grus waved from horseback. Lanius solemnly waved back.

  “Welcome home,” he called.

  “By Olor’s beard, it’s good to be back,” Grus answered.

  “Congratulations on driving the Banished One from Nishevatz, and from the land of the Chernagors.” Lanius did not mind praising Grus for that.

  “I thank you,” the other king replied. “I’m not sure we drove him out of the Chernagor country altogether, but we did weaken his hold there.” He had a strong streak of honesty in him—except, perhaps, when he was talking to his wife about other women (but how many men had that particular streak of honesty in them?).

  Grus guided his horse away from the rest of the army and over beside Lanius. He always joked about what a bad rider he was, but he handled the animal perfectly well. Lanius wished he were as smooth. Grus reviewed the soldiers as they rode and marched past and into the city. The men were hard and scrawny and scraggly-bearded. Some of them limped; others showed fresh scars on faces or forearms.

  One of the foot soldiers waved to Grus and called, “We earned our pay this time, didn’t we, Your Majesty?”

  “I’d say you did, Buteo,” Grus answered. The soldiers face stretched to hold a pleased smile. He waved again, and kept looking back over his shoulder until the gateway hid him.

  “You know him?” Lanius asked. “Was he one of your guards up there?”

  “Buteo? No, just a soldier,” Grus said. “He’s brave, but not too smart. He’ll never even make sergeant, not if he lives to be a hundred. But he’s a good man at your back in a scrap.”

  “Is he?” Lanius said. Grus nodded. Lanius asked, “How many soldiers do you kno
w by name—and by what they can do, the way you did with him?”

  “I never thought about it.” Now Grus did. “I can’t tell you exactly,” he said at last. “But I’ve got some notion of who about every other man is. Something like that. I know more about some—a lot more about some—and not so much about others.”

  Lanius believed him. Lanius didn’t see how he could do anything else; Grus radiated conviction. “How do you manage that?” Lanius asked. “I couldn’t begin to, not to save my life.”

  “How do you remember all the things you find in the archives? How do you put them together in interesting patterns?” Grus returned, “/couldn’t do that.”

  “But knowing people, knowing how they work—that’s more important.” Lanius was sure it was more important, not least because he couldn’t do it himself. “I wish I were better at it.”

  “You’ve done all right, seems to me,” Grus said. “If you hadn’t, more people would have taken advantage of you by now.”

  “You did,” Lanius said. It was the first thing that came into his mind, and he brought it out with less bitterness than he would have expected.

  It still made Grus give him a sharp look. “I wouldn’t be where I am if your mother hadn’t tried to kill me by sorcery,” the other king said. Grus barked laughter. “I wouldn’t be where I am if she’d done it, either.”

  “Well, no,” Lanius admitted. Over the years, Grus had done any number of things he didn’t like. Lanius could hardly deny that Grus might have done far worse than he had. It was funny, if you looked at it the right way. He had to like Grus to a certain degree, because he couldn’t dislike him as much as he might have.

  “How’s my daughter?” Grus asked—a question any father-in-law might ask of a son-in-law.

  “She’s fine,” Lanius said. By and large, it was true. If Sosia sometimes had reason to throw things at him, that was none of Grus’ business. And it wasn’t as though Estrilda didn’t sometimes have reason to throw things at Grus.

  “And what about Ortalis?” Grus said. “That was some nasty news you sent me about him and the servant.”

  Carefully, Lanius said, “You will know that Ortalis and I don’t always get along as well as we might.” Grus nodded. Lanius went on, “Even I will say it wasn’t altogether Ortalis’ fault. Bubulcus provoked him—provoked him outrageously. Something should have happened to Bubulcus. What did happen, though, shouldn’t have.”

  “That’s about how it seemed to me from your letter,” Grus agreed. “At least he didn’t do it for sport. That was what I was afraid of.”

  “Oh, yes.” Lanius didn’t try to pretend he misunderstood. “That was what I was afraid of, too. I don’t know what I would have done then.” He gnawed on the inside of his lower lip. He was glad he hadn’t had to find out.

  To his relief, Grus let it go there. He said, “And I’ve got a new granddaughter?”

  “That’s right.” Lanius felt guarded there, too. If Capella had been a boy, what would that have done to the succession in Grus’ eyes? “Limosa thinks she’s the most wonderful baby in the world. I’d make a couple of exceptions myself.”

  King Grus chuckled. “Yes, I can see how you might.” But the older man’s grin slipped. “Limosa.” He said the name of Ortalis’ wife as though it tasted bad. “He finally found somebody who likes the welts he gives her.” Grus made as though to spit in disgust, then—barely— thought better of it.

  “She loves him,” Lanius said, which didn’t contradict Grus.

  “Does that make it better or worse?” the other king asked.

  Lanius thought it over. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Do you?”

  “What I know is… more about Ortalis than I wish I did,” Grus said—not a direct answer to what Lanius had said, but not an evasion, either.

  The last soldiers passed into the city of Avornis. They were happy to be home, looking forward to beds in their barracks, to wine, and to women. What went on in the palace meant nothing to them. If they had to go fight, they would. Until then, they’d enjoy themselves.

  Not for the first time, Lanius found himself jealous of men who could live for the moment. He sometimes wished he could do the same, without worrying about what would happen next. He laughed at himself. Given the nature he’d been born with, he might as well have wished for the moon while he was at it.

  Even though Grus had lived softer in the field than his soldiers had, he was glad to return to the comforts of the palace. He was older than his soldiers, too, and needed to live softer. So he told himself, anyhow.

  Estrilda greeted him cautiously, the way she did whenever he came back from campaign. Her look plainly said she wondered what he’d been up to in the land of the Chernagors. This time, he could look her straight in the eye, for he’d been up to very little. For one thing, the Chernagor women hadn’t much appealed to him. For another, he’d reached the age where conquests of that sort were less urgent than they had been in earlier years. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy them when they happened—Estrilda evidently hadn’t yet found out about his bastard boy by Alauda, for which he was duly grateful—but he didn’t go after them as energetically as he might have when he was younger.

  Still somewhat suspicious, Estrilda said, “You were away for a long time.”

  “So I was,” Grus said. “There was a lot to do, and doing it wasn’t easy. If you paid any attention to my dispatches, you’d know that.”

  “Not everything you do ends up in your dispatches,” his wife answered. “I’ve seen that.”

  He wanted to tell her she was wrong, or at least foolish, but she would know he was lying if he did. All he did do was shrug and say, “Not this time.” If Estrilda felt like quarreling, she would.

  She didn’t. “It’s good to have you back,” she said.

  “It’s good to be back,” Grus said. “If I had to right now, I do believe I’d kill for a hot bath.”

  He soaked in a copper tub for more than an hour, scrubbing away the grime of the campaign and simply luxuriating in the water. Whenever it began to cool down, servants drained some and fetched in more jars of hot water from the kitchens. The king hated to get out. After scrubbing, he leaned his head back in the tub, wondering if he could fall asleep there. Not quite, he discovered, though he did come close.

  After the bath, supper. He’d had his fill of seafood up in the Chernagor country. Roast goose stuffed with bread crumbs and dried apples stuck to the ribs. He’d drunk a lot of ale in the north—better that than water, which often brought disease—but sweet wine was better. And, after that, lying down in his own bed might have been best of all.

  Estrilda lay down beside him. She had, he noticed, put on fresh perfume. He’d thought he would go straight to sleep. As things turned out, he didn’t. But when his eyes did close, he slept very soundly.

  He woke up in the morning feeling, if not younger than the day before, then at least oiled and repaired. Now that he was back, he had to get on top of things again. Otherwise, who was the real king? Was he? Or was Lanius?

  Before any of that, though, he saw his grandchildren. Crex and Pitta both wondered why he hadn’t brought them any presents from the Chernagor country. “Sorry, my dears,” he said. “I was worried about bringing me back. I didn’t worry much about presents.” He had tribute from Hisardzik and Jobuka, but he didn’t think silver coins with the faces of shaggy-bearded princes on them would fascinate children.

  Capella didn’t ask for presents. She waved her arms and legs in Limosa’s arms and smiled up toothlessly at the king. “She’s a pretty child, Your Highness,” Grus said.

  “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Limosa answered politely. “I wish her other grandfather could see her, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grus said. “I am sorry, but Petrosus isn’t coming out of the Maze.”

  “Even if he isn’t why your son and I got married?” Limosa said. “Even if we got married because—” She didn’t go on. She turned red and looked down at her baby.r />
  Grus had a pretty good idea of what she would have said. It made him want to blush, too, even if he hadn’t actually heard it. He was afraid she would show him her back. To his relief, she didn’t. He gathered himself. “Even then,” he told her. “If your father wasn’t plotting that, he was plotting something else. He’ll stay where he is.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Limosa whispered. She took Capella away, as though that was the only way she could find to punish Grus. And so it probably was.

  Ortalis didn’t come to pay his respects. Grus sent a servant after him. When the king finally saw his son, he said, “Well, now that you’ve finally done it, how does it feel to kill a man?”

  “I knew you were going to bother me about that,” Ortalis said sullenly. “I knew it. And I didn’t even enjoy sticking the knife in him. It just… happened, that’s all. I wish it hadn’t. But he got me angry, and then he said something really foul, and—” He shrugged.

  Eyeing him, Grus decided it could easily have been worse. Ortalis wasn’t consumed by remorse, but at least he had some idea of what it was. Grus said, “You should have just punched him.”

  “I suppose so,” his son said. “His woman and her brats are taken care of. Lanius made sure of that. Can I go now, or do you want to yell at me some more? I don’t kill servants for fun.”

  “All right,” Grus said, and Ortalis left. Grus sighed. Considering what Ortalis did do for fun, was it any wonder that Grus had wondered? He didn’t think so.

  Business, the king thought. If he was going to pick business, he wanted to pick interesting business to start with. He went to the chamber where Otus the former thrall dwelt. “Sorry, Your Majesty,” a guard said. “He’s not here right now.”

  “Where is he?” Grus asked.

  “He’s got a lady friend. He’s with her,” the guard answered.

  “At this hour of the morning?” Grus exclaimed. The guard smirked and nodded. Grus said, “If I were wearing a hat, I’d take it off to him. Shall I wait until he’s, ah, finished?”