The King of Thervingia gasped at the honor the Avornans had done him. And it was an honor. But it was also a test. If he wanted to steal the Scepter, wouldn't it sense as much and not let him hold it? So Lanius reasoned, anyhow.
But King Berto had no trouble holding the Scepter. An exalted look spread over his face. "In my hands," he murmured. "In my hands.." He bowed deeply to Lanius and to Grus, then returned the Scepter of Mercy to Lanius. "I prove myself worthy of it by giving it back."
At that, Lanius and Grus both bowed to him. "We realized the same thing, Your Majesty," Lanius said respectfully. "If the Scepter has a secret, that is it." And it was a secret the Banished One would never, ever understand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Ortalis was convinced that if he'd been any more bored, he would have been dead. His father and Lanius and the visiting barbarian were making such a fuss over the Scepter of Mercy, he more than half wished it would have stayed down in Yozgat. Had his father – had anyone – ever made such a fuss over him? He didn't think so.
Lanius, of course, was crazy for old things, and now he had his hands on something as old as the hills. It all made Ortalis want to yawn. So the Scepter was here. Kings could pick it up and do things with it. When I'm king, I'll pick it up and do things with it, Ortalis thought. Until then, who cares?
"Do you like to go hunting?" Ortalis asked Berto at a feast the evening after the King of Thervingia came to the palace.
Berto paused to gnaw the meat off a roasted duck drumstick before answering, "Not very much, I'm afraid, Your Highness. I find prayer and contemplation more pleasant ways to pass the time."
"Oh," said Ortalis, who found prayer and contemplation even duller than all the unending chatter about the Scepter, if such a thing was possible. He thought for a moment, then tried again, asking, "What do you like in a woman?"
"Well, piety, to begin with," Berto said, and Ortalis gave up. Even if the Therving had no.. special tastes, he could have come up with something more interesting than that. But he made his answer seem the most natural thing in the world.
Once more, Ortalis fought to stifle a yawn. He reached for another chunk of duck himself. The dead bird had to be more interesting than the Therving.
"What of you, Your Highness?" Berto asked. "How did you aid your father and your sister's husband in recovering the Scepter of Mercy?"
"In… recovering it?" Ortalis could hardly believe his ears. He couldn't have cared less about getting the Scepter back. As far as he was concerned, the Banished One was welcome to it. But King Berto would have dropped the leg bone if he'd said that. The only thing he did say was, "Well, any way I could, of course."
That did the job, and with room to spare. The King of Thervingia beamed at him and raised his winecup in salute. "Spoken like the true son of a great father!" He gulped down the sweet red wine.
So did Ortalis, who needed little excuse, or sometimes none at all, for some serious guzzling. A serving girl poured his cup full again after he drained it. He smiled at her. She quickly found something to do somewhere else. He laughed; he'd drunk enough to make even that funny. He wanted to tell Berto that of course he was Grus' true son, that Grus' bastard son was a nice enough fellow but of no real consequence. He wanted to, but he didn't. To Grus, he was of no real consequence himself. He knew that – knew it and hated it.
"I'll show him," he muttered. "I'll show everybody, I will."
"What's that, Your Highness?" King Berto asked. Why wasn't he too drunk to pay attention to someone else's private mutterings?
"Have you ever listened to a voice? A Voice, I mean?" Ortalis said in return. "A Voice that told you – that showed you – the way things were supposed to be?"
Berto frowned, which made his bushy eyebrows almost meet above his long, straight nose. "Are you talking about your conscience? I know I try to listen to mine. I am only a man. I do things I wish I hadn't later on. But I do try."
They both used Avornan, but they didn't speak the same language. Ortalis was no more talking about his conscience than he'd thought of looking for piety in a woman. He almost told Berto so to his face, just to see the barbarian splutter. But something – maybe even the Voice – warned him that wouldn't be a good idea.
He endured the rest of the banquet, then staggered off to bed. After blearily kissing Limosa half on the mouth, half on the cheek, he fell deep into sodden slumber. And then, as he'd hoped he would, he dreamed.
The dream felt and seemed more real than reality. These dreams always did. He looked out on the world the way it should have been. The biggest difference was that it was a world that recognized Ortalis as its rightful lord and master. The Voice said, "They mock you behind your back."
When the Voice said something, there was no room for doubt. "Oh, they do, do they?" Ortalis growled. "Well, I'll show them. I'll show them all. You just see if I don't."
"Time grows short," the Voice warned. "Chances grow few. You would do well to seize the ones you have."
"I will. Oh, I will," Ortalis said. "You don't need to worry about that. I'll take care of everything – just wait and see."
"Are your friends your true friends?" the Voice asked. "Are your enemies lulled and drowsy?"
Ortalis thought of Serinus and Gygis, and of the other young officers he'd cultivated since Marinus was born. "My friends are my true friends," he answered. "They know where their hopes lie."
"Good," the Voice said smoothly. "And your enemies? Are they lulled?"
At that, Ortalis laughed a raucous and bitter laugh, there in the middle of his dream. "Why should they need lulling? They don't think they do, not from the likes of me."
For a dreadful moment, he wondered if the Voice would laugh, too – laugh at him, not with him. But it didn't. Instead, it said, "Well, then, the time is coming, and coming soon, don't you think?"
"What time?" Ortalis asked, and the dream showed him. It was better than he'd imagined, better than he could have imagined before the Voice started speaking to him in the night. The time was coming soon? He could hardly wait.
Grus and Pterocles and Otus stood staring at the Scepter of Mercy. Grus could understand why King Berto had traveled so far to see the great talisman. If it had come to Thervingia, he thought he might have traveled there to see it himself. But it was here in the city of Avornis, and he could look on it, he could use it, whenever he liked. Somehow, that pleased him less than he'd thought it would. Maybe being able to leave it, as Berto had done, was better than keeping it.
Otus didn't think so. A smile on his face, the former thrall said, "It freed my folk." He shook his head and bowed to Grus and Pterocles. "Well, no. You two freed my folk. But the Scepter made sure they will stay free."
"So it did," Grus said. And the Scepter had let him impose his will on the Banished One. With it in his hand, he'd been, for a little while, as great as – greater than – the exiled god. He had been… but now, again, he wasn't. He snapped his fingers.
"What is it, Your Majesty?" Pterocles asked.
"Where do I go from here?" Grus had a question of his own.
The wizard frowned. "I don't understand."
"Where do I go from here?" Grus repeated. At last he did understand at least some of what was troubling him. "Where?" he said yet again. "What's left for me to do, after I've done this!" He pointed to the Scepter.
"Why, live happily ever after." That wasn't Pterocles but Otus. He went on, "By the gods in the heavens, if anyone's ever earned the right, you're the man."
Slowly, Grus shook his head. "This isn't a fairy tale, I'm afraid. I wish it were. I've spent a lot of years matched against the Thervings and the Chernagors and the Menteshe and our own nobles. I've fought and I've schemed and I've plotted. Lanius worked out how to get the Scepter back from Yozgat, and I went and did it. I did it, and I used the Scepter the way you said, Otus – and now what can I possibly do for the rest of my days that will matter even a tenth as much?"
"Oh," Pterocles said softly. "Now I see."<
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Otus still looked puzzled. He had what he wanted – his soul to call his own and his woman to call his own, too – and he was content. What Grus had was the certain knowledge that he'd already done the greatest deeds of his life. He was proud of them, yes, but they made everything that might come after feel like an anticlimax.
And how many years of anticlimax did he have to look forward to? No way for him to be sure, of course. Perhaps the gods in the heavens were sure of such things. If so, keeping it to themselves was one of the few kindnesses they showed mortal men.
Grus turned away from the Scepter of Mercy. Getting what you'd always wanted your whole life long was wonderful. Having it in front of you and knowing you would never want anything as much again as long as you lived – and also knowing that nothing you did want would be of any great consequence next to what you already had – was daunting.
For a moment, he imagined he heard laughter far off in the distance. Then he realized he wasn't imagining it; it was a servant somewhere halfway across the palace. A sigh of relief escaped him. He'd feared it was the Banished One, getting the last laugh after all.
He looked south, as he'd hardly done since coming back to the city of Avornis. Suppose the exiled god had gotten what he always wanted. Suppose he'd been able to master the Scepter of Mercy and regain rule in the heavens. Would he have lived happily ever after? Or would even limitless domination have palled after a while? Grus didn't know, of course. By the nature of things, he couldn't know how things would have gone for the Banished One. But he knew how he would guess.
It also occurred to him that the Banished One didn't know how lucky he was, not to have gotten his heart's desire. He could go on scheming and plotting and trying to come up with ways to get the Scepter of Mercy out of the hands of the Kings of Avornis. That wouldn't be so easy now, not since Grus had enjoined him against using any of the surrounding peoples against the kingdom. But the exiled god could keep on trying. Since he hadn't gotten his heart's desire, his existence still held purpose.
Grus wished he could be sure the same held true for his own.
Lanius also found himself wondering what to do now that the Scepter of Mercy had returned to Avornis. He was better than Grus at finding ways to occupy his time. He wrote a long, detailed account of King Berto's visit to the capital. He feared Crex wouldn't read the account; his son hadn't shown much interest in How to Be a King. But even if Crex never did glance at it, it would stay in the archives. Some other king might find it useful one day – or, if not that, it might help keep the future king awake on a long, warm summer afternoon. That was immortality, of a sort.
Immortality of another sort made Sosia's belly bulge. Lanius hoped for a second son. Things would feel… safer if Crex had a brother. And who could say? Maybe the new child would have the scholarly temperament Crex lacked.
Sosia didn't worry about any of that. "I want this baby to come out," she said. "I'm tired of looking like I swallowed a pumpkin. I'm even tireder of squatting over a chamber pot gods only know how many times a day."
"I'm sorry," Lanius said. "I can't do anything about that."
She sent him a glance half affectionate, half annoyed. "You did have something to do with this business, you know."
"Well, yes," he admitted.
"I just wish Queen Quelea had found a better way to go about it," his wife said. She eyed him again. "Can the Scepter of Mercy do anything about that! It would be a mercy if it could."
"I don't know, but I wouldn't think so," Lanius answered, flabbergasted. "There's nothing in the archives about using it for anything like that, anyhow."
Sosia sighed. "I might have known. Of course, men wouldn't think to use it against the pangs of childbirth. They're men!" She brightened, but only for a moment. Then gloom returned. "Their wives would have thought of it, though. I'm sure of that. So I suppose you're right. Too bad."
Remembering the cries he'd heard from women in labor, Lanius found himself nodding. "I'll use it when your time comes," he promised. "I'm sure of one thing – it can't hurt you."
"Thank you," Sosia said. "You do care about me, when – "
"Of course I do," Lanius interrupted.
But Sosia hadn't finished, and she intended to. "When you're not thinking about old parchments in the archives, or about your moncats -
"
He tried interrupting again. "If it weren't for Pouncer and things I found in the archives, we wouldn't have the Scepter of Mercy, I don't think we would, anyway," Grus might have been able to break into Yozgat, but even the other king didn't think it would have been easy.
Sosia waved Pouncer – and the Scepter – aside, too. "Or about your serving girls." That was where she'd been heading all along.
The funny thing was that, even if she didn't – and wouldn't – understand as much, she was right to lump the maidservants with the documents and the animals. They were a hobby. He enjoyed them, but after Cristata he'd never conceived a passion for any of them. But that wasn't what Sosia wanted to hear. Lanius knew exactly what she wanted to hear, and he said it. "I'm sorry, dear."
"A likely story." She didn't look too unhappy, though. That was what she'd wanted to hear, and he couldn't very well say anything more.
He was in the archives later that day – by himself – when rustling behind a cabinet way off in a dim corner of the room showed he wasn't quite by himself after all. He thought he knew what that rustling meant, and he proved right. In due course, Pouncer came out. The moncat walked up to the king and dropped most of a mouse at his feet.
"Mrowr," Pouncer said, as though making sure Lanius understood the magnitude of the gift. As far as the moncat was concerned, this was more important than the Scepter of Mercy. The Scepter had just been a thing. A mouse was food.
"Yes, I know what a wonderful fellow you are," Lanius said. He scratched the moncat behind the ears and at the sides of the jaw and gently rubbed its velvet nose. In due course, Pouncer rewarded him with a rusty purr. That was about as big a reward as any cat ever gave. It made Lanius wonder why people kept them. He supposed the dead and mangled mouse on the floor represented a partial answer, but it didn't seem enough.
He never had found out how Pouncer got out of the moncats' room and roamed the narrow passages within the palace walls. Since Pouncer – and the Scepter of Mercy – returned to the city of Avornis, he'd stopped looking. That was his reward to Pouncer.
"Mrowr," Pouncer said again, and looked down at what remained of the mouse.
Lanius, being well trained by then, knew what was expected of him. He stroked Pouncer and praised his hunting talents some more, and then picked up the little corpse (fortunately, what remained included a tail, not too badly chewed). After holding it for a moment – which seemed to mean he would eat it if he only had the time – he gave it back to the moncat. Pouncer took the dainty in its clawed hands and ate another few mouthfuls. Lanius turned his head away.
He didn't miss the mouse. If Pouncer ate all the mice in the archives, he would have been delighted. But he didn't want to watch the moncat do it. That squeamishness had a lot to do with why he was such a reluctant hunter, too. Anser and Ortalis both found it funny.
He didn't mind Anser's teasing. Considering Ortalis' tastes, he was in a poor position to chide anybody about anything. That didn't stop him, of course. If it had, he would have been a different sort of person altogether. Too bad he's not, Lanius thought, and went back to an old tax register.
Hirundo bowed as he came into the small audience chamber where King Grus sat. "Thanks for seeing me, Your Majesty," the general said.
"As though I wouldn't!" Grus said, and waved him to a stool. "Here, sit down and make yourself at home. A servant is com – Ah, here she is now." The serving girl set a tray with wine and cakes and a bowl of roasted chickpeas on the table. After pouring wine for Grus and Hirundo, she curtsied and left.
Hirundo's gaze followed her. "Pretty little thing," he murmured. He raised his silver goblet in salute to Grus
. "Your good health, Your Majesty!"
"Same to you." Grus returned the salute. "We're both pretty lucky, for people our age. Most of the parts still work most of the time."
"That's not bad." Hirundo scratched his beard, which was not quite as gray as Grus'. "A lot of people my age are dead."
Grus chuckled, not that it was anything but truth wrapped in a joke. He ate some of the chickpeas, then washed them down with more wine. That meant he got to the bottom of his goblet. After he poured it full again, he asked, "Well, what's on your mind?"
Before answering, Hirundo got up and shut the door to the audience chamber. When he came back, he slid his stool closer to Grus'. In a low voice, he asked, "Your Majesty, who are your son's friends?"
Grus frowned and scratched his head. The idea that Ortalis had friends was enough – more than enough – to bemuse him. His legitimate son was not an outgoing sort. "I don't know," the king said. "What are you driving at?"
"Maybe nothing," Hirundo said. "In that case, I'll beg his pardon, and yours, too. But do you remember him hanging around with these guards officers before we went off to fight south of the Stura?"
"He hunts with some of them – I know that," Grus said. "Not with all of them," Hirundo said, which was true enough. "Do you really want him wasting time with them? What if he's not wasting it, if you know what I mean?"
"I know what you mean," Grus answered; the same thought had occurred to him. Even though it had, the king had trouble taking it seriously. "Ortalis likes hunting and… some other things." Grus didn't care to talk about those, although Hirundo knew what they were – come to that, half the city of Avornis knew what they were. "I've never really thought he liked politics."
"You might want to think again, then, Your Majesty," the general said. "People who don't like politics don't make friends like that."
"No?" Grus raised an eyebrow. "Who would Ortalis make friends with?" If he makes friends at all. He didn't – quite – say that out loud. Instead, he went on, "Priests? Not likely, not unless they're like Anser and enjoy going after deer. Scholars? He never cared for his lessons. I wish he'd cared more, but he didn't. Maidservants?"
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