The Chernagor Pirates

by Harry Turtledove

  “Ah. Is good,” Vsevolod said, which only proved he didn’t know Ortalis well. “And I know King Grus is hunting man. Maybe here is not so bad. Maybe.”

  “I hope you will be happy here,” Lanius said again. “Now, can you tell me a little more about the gods your people worshiped before you learned of King Olor and Queen Quelea and the rest of the true dwellers in the heavens?”

  Vsevolod’s broad shoulders went up and down in a shrug. “I do not know. I do not care.” He heaved himself to his feet. “I have had too much of questions. I go look for hunt.” He lumbered away.

  Lanius knew he’d angered the Prince of Nishevatz, but didn’t understand why. Vsevolod had said he would answer questions. The king went off to console himself with his monkeys. If they could have answered questions, he would have asked even more than he’d put to Vsevolod. As things were, he could only watch them cavort through their chamber. A fire always burned there, keeping the room at a temperature uncomfortably warm for him. The monkeys seemed to like it fine. The Chernagor who’d given them to Lanius had warned they couldn’t stand cold.

  They stared at the king from the branches and poles that reached almost to the ceiling. Both male and female had white eyebrows and long white mustaches on otherwise black faces. They looked like plump little old men. Lanius eyed the female. He nodded to himself. She’d looked particularly plump these past couple of weeks. That Chernagor had said they would never breed in captivity, but maybe he was wrong.

  Behind Lanius, the door opened. He turned in annoyance. But it wasn’t Bubulcus or any other servant he could blister with impunity. King Grus stood there. He made a point of closing the door quickly, giving Lanius no excuse to grumble even about that. “Hello, Your Majesty,” he said. “How are your creatures here?”

  “I think the female’s pregnant,” Lanius answered.

  Grus eyed her, then nodded. “Wouldn’t be surprised if you’re right. You’d have fun with the babies, wouldn’t you?”

  “Oh, yes, but it’s not just that,” Lanius said. “If an animal will breed for you, you know you’re treating it the way you should. From what the fellow who gave it to me said, the Chernagors can’t get monkeys to breed. I’d like to do something they can’t.”

  With a judicious nod, Grus said, “Mm, yes, I can see that.” His right hand folded into a fist. “It’s not what I’d like to do to the Chernagors right now, but I can see it.” He chuckled. “I was pretty sure you’d question Vsevolod to pieces, you know. He just tried to talk me into going hunting. I sent him off to Anser. He has more time for it than I do.”

  “I told Vsevolod I wanted to ask him things,” Lanius said. “Didn’t he believe me?”

  “Nobody who’s never met you believes how many questions you can ask,” Grus said. “But that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got some questions of my own.”

  “Go ahead.” Lanius realized Grus wouldn’t have come here to talk about monkeys. The other king did show some interest in Lanius’ beasts, but not enough for that. “What do you want to know?”

  Grus let out a long sigh. “What about my son?”

  Lanius had known this was coming. He hadn’t expected it so soon. “What about him?”

  “Don’t play games with me.” Grus seldom showed Lanius how dangerous he could be. The impatient snap to that handful of words, though, warned of trouble ahead if he didn’t get a straight answer.

  “Have you spoken with a serving girl named Cristata yet?” Lanius asked.

  “Cristata? No.” Again, Grus sounded thoroughly grim. “What does she say? How bad is it this time?”

  Lanius reached around to pat himself on the back of the shoulder. “I don’t think those scars will go away. I don’t know what other marks she has—this was what she showed me.”

  “Oh,” Grus said, and then nothing more.

  He was silent long enough, in fact, to make Lanius ask, “Is that all?”

  “That’s all I’m going to say to you,” King Grus answered. But then he shook his head. “No. I have a question I think you can answer. Is this Cristata the same girl I heard about when I was up in the land of the Chernagors?”

  “I … don’t know,” Lanius said carefully.

  His father-in-law heard him speaking carefully, which he hadn’t intended. Frowning, Grus asked, “What do you think?”

  “I think that, since I don’t know, I wouldn’t be doing anyone any good by guessing.”

  By the way Grus cocked his head to one side, Lanius feared his real opinion was only too evident. But the older man didn’t press him on it. “Fair enough, Your Majesty. I daresay you’re right. The world would be a better place if people didn’t guess and gossip so much. It might be a duller place, but it would be better.” Again, he paused for so long, Lanius thought he’d finished. Again, Lanius proved wrong. Grus went on, “Never mind. One way or the other, I’ll find out.”

  Lanius didn’t like the sound of that. He suspected he would have liked it even less if he were Ortalis.

  King Grus turned to go. Over his shoulder, he said, “Have fun with your creatures. Believe me, they don’t cause nearly as much trouble as people do.” Before Lanius could answer that, Grus left the room.

  With no one else there, Lanius naturally turned toward the monkeys, saying, “Do you think he’s right?” The monkeys didn’t answer. They certainly made less trouble than a human audience, which might have given Lanius some reply he didn’t want to hear. Laughing, the king went on, “I bet you wish you could make more trouble. You make plenty when you get the chance.”

  Still no answer from the monkeys. Lanius took from his belt a small, slim knife. That got the animals’ attention. They chattered excitedly and swarmed down from the branches. One of them tugged at Lanius’ robe. They both held out beseeching little hands, as a human beggar might have.

  He laughed. “Think I’ve got something, do you? Well … you’re right.” He had a couple of peeled hard-boiled eggs he’d brought from the kitchens. The monkeys loved eggs, and healers assured Lanius they were good for them. Healers assured Lanius of all sorts of things he found unlikely. He believed some and ignored others. Here, because the monkeys not only enjoyed the eggs but flourished on them, he chose to believe.

  He cut a slice from an egg and gave it to the male, who stuffed it into his mouth. One ancient archival record spoke of teaching monkeys table manners. Lanius had trouble believing that, too. He gave the female some egg. She ate it even faster than the male—if she hesitated, he was liable to steal it from her. Lanius had tried withholding egg from him when he did that, but he didn’t understand. It just infuriated him.

  Today, the monkeys seemed in the mood for affection. One of them wrapped its little hand around Lanius’ thumb as he scratched it behind the ears with his other hand. The expression on the monkey’s face looked very much like the one Lanius would have worn had someone done a nice job of scratching his back. He knew he shouldn’t read too much into a monkey’s grin. Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help it.

  Prince Ortalis shuffled his feet. He stared down at the floor mosaic. He might have been a schoolboy who’d gotten caught pulling the wings off flies. Back when he was younger, he had been a schoolboy who’d gotten caught pulling the wings off flies. “Well?” Grus growled in disgust. “What have you got to say for yourself?”

  “I don’t know,” Ortalis answered sullenly. “I don’t really want to do things like that. Sometimes I just can’t help it.”

  Grus believed him. If he could have helped it, he wouldn’t have done—Grus hoped he wouldn’t have done—a lot of the things he undoubtedly had. But, while that explained, it didn’t justify. “I warned you what would happen if you ever did anything like this again,” Grus said heavily.

  Ortalis only sneered at him. Grus feared he understood that all too well. He’d warned his legitimate son about a lot of things. He’d warned him, and then failed to follow through on the warnings. No wonder Ortalis didn’t believe he ever would.
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  “How am I supposed to get it through your thick, nasty head that I mean what I tell you?” Grus demanded. “I know one way, by the gods.”

  “What’s that?” Ortalis was still sneering. He might as well have said, You can’t make me do anything.

  He looked almost comically surprised when his father slapped him in the face. “This—and I should have done it a long time ago,” Grus said, breathing hard.

  “You can’t do that,” Ortalis blurted in disbelief.

  “Oh, yes, I can.” Grus slapped him again. “It’s not a hundredth part of what you did to those girls. How do you like getting it instead of giving it?”

  Ortalis’ eyes went so wide, Grus could see white all around his irises. Then, cursing as foully as any river-galley sailor, Ortalis hurled himself at Grus. His churning fists thudded against his father’s ribs. “I’ll murder you, you stinking son of a whore!” he screamed.

  “Go ahead and try.” Grus ducked a punch that would have flattened his nose. Ortalis’ fist connected with the top of his head. That hurt his son more than it did him. Ortalis howled. Grus hit him in the pit of the stomach. The howl cut off as Ortalis battled to breathe.

  He kept fighting even after that. He had courage, of a sort. What he lacked was skill. Grus had learned to fight in a hard school. Ortalis, who’d had things much easier in his life, had never really learned at all. His father gave him a thorough, professional beating.

  At last, Ortalis threw up his hands and wailed. “Enough, Father! In the names of the gods, enough! Please!”

  Grus stood over him, breathing hard. The king’s fists stayed clenched. He willed them open. If you don’t stop now, you’ll beat him to death, he told himself. Part of him wanted to. Realizing that was what made him back away from his son.

  “All right,” he said, his voice boulders in his throat. “All right. Get up.”

  “I—I don’t think I can.”

  “You can,” Grus ground out. “I know what I did to you. I know what I should have done to you, too—what you really deserved. And so do you.”

  Ortalis didn’t try to argue with him. Keeping quiet was one of the smarter things his son had ever done. Had he denied what Grus said, Grus might have started hitting him again, and might not have been able to stop. Tears and blood and snot smeared across his face, Ortalis struggled upright.

  “They—” The prince stopped. He might have started to say something like, They were just serving girls. Again, he was smart to keep quiet. That might have fired Grus’ fury, too. After a moment, Ortalis said, “I’m sorry.”

  That was better. It wasn’t enough, not even the bare beginnings of enough, but it was better. Grus said, “If you ever do anything like that again, you’ll get twice what I just gave you. Do you understand me, Ortalis? I’m not joking. You’d better not think I am.”

  “I understand you.” Ortalis’ voice was mushy. His lip was swollen and cut and bleeding. He glared at Grus as well as he could; one eye was swollen shut, the other merely blacked. Grus stared stonily back. His hands ached. So did his ribs, on which Ortalis had connected several times. And so did the heart thudding under those ribs. His heart ached worst of all.

  If he’d shown that, everything he’d done to Ortalis would have been wasted. Making his voice stay hard, he said, “Get out of my sight. And go wash yourself. You’ll want to stay out of everyone’s sight for a few days, believe me.”

  Ortalis inhaled and opened his mouth. Once more, though, nothing came out. He might have started to say, I’ll tell people my father beats me. Again, that would have been the wrong thing to throw at the king. Again, he realized it and kept quiet. Left hand clutched to his sore ribs, Grus’ son and heir turned away from him and made his slow, painful way out the door.

  Servants chattered among themselves. Their gossip, though, took a while to drift up through clerks and scribes and noblemen and finally to King Lanius’ ears. By the time Lanius heard Grus and Ortalis had had a falling-out, most of the evidence was gone from Ortalis’ person. A black eye fades slowly, but a black eye could also have happened in any number of ways. Lanius asked no questions. Ortalis volunteered nothing.

  Lanius thought about asking Grus what had happened. His father-in-law, though, did not seem approachable—which was, if anything, an understatement. Lanius resigned himself to never knowing what had gone on.

  Then one day he got word that Cristata wanted to see him. He didn’t mind seeing her at all, though he carefully didn’t wonder about what Sosia would have thought of that sentiment. After curtsying before him, Cristata said, “The gods have blessed Avornis with two fine kings.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” Lanius answered. Would I be happier if the gods had blessed Avornis with only one fine king? For the life of me, I don’t know. He made himself stop woolgathering. “Do you care to tell me why?”

  “Because you told King Grus about what happened to me, and he went and made his own son sorry he did what he did—and then he gave me gold, too,” the maidservant answered.

  “Did he?” Lanius said. Grus hadn’t said a word about doing any such thing.

  But Cristata nodded. “He sure did. It’s more money than I ever had before. It’s almost enough to make me a taxp—” She broke off.

  Almost enough to make me a taxpayer. She hadn’t wanted to say anything like that to someone who was interested in collecting taxes and making sure other people paid them. Most of the time, she would have been smart not to say anything like that. Today, though, Lanius smiled and answered, “I’ll never tell.”

  Did he feel so friendly to her just because she was a pretty girl? Or was he also trying to show her not everyone in the royal family would behave the way Ortalis had, even if he chanced to get her alone? What I’d like to do if I chanced to get her alone … He shook his head. Stop that.

  “King Grus even said he was sorry.” Cristata’s eyes got big and round. “Can you imagine? A king saying he was sorry? To me? And he was so friendly all the time we were talking.”

  What would Queen Estrilda say if she heard that? Would she wonder whether Grus had shown his … friendliness in ways that had nothing to do with talking? Lanius knew he did.

  Oblivious to the questions she’d spawned, Cristata went on, “He’s going to see if he can send me to the kitchens. There’s room to move up there; it’s not like laundry or sweeping.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it would be.” Lanius’ voice was vague. He couldn’t have said which branches of palace service offered the chance to get ahead and which were dead ends. Grus knew. He knew—and he acted.

  Why don’t I know things like that? Lanius wondered after Cristata curtsied again and left the little audience chamber where they’d been talking. Not even the sight of her pertly swinging backside as she left was enough to make him stop worrying at the question. Up until now, knowing things like that had never seemed important the way the reign of, say, King Alcedo—who’d sat on the throne when the Scepter of Mercy was lost—had.

  Cristata knew the kitchens, and laundry and sweeping. Lanius would have fainted to learn she’d ever heard of King Alcedo. But Lanius was as ignorant of the world of service as Cristata was of history. Grus knew some of both—less history than Lanius, but also more of service. Lanius wished he had a manual to learn more of that other world.

  There was no such manual. He knew that perfectly well. He knew of every book written in Avornis since long before Alcedo’s day. He hadn’t read them all, or even most of them, but he knew of them.

  “I could write it myself,” he said thoughtfully. It wouldn’t be useful just for him; Crex and all the Kings of Avornis who came after him might find it interesting. First, though, he’d have to learn quite a bit he didn’t know yet. And if he needed to summon Cristata now and again to answer questions—well, it was all in the cause of advancing knowledge. Even Sosia would—might—have a hard time complaining.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Grus and Pterocles took turns looking through a peephole in
the ceiling of the palace room where the remaining thralls the king had brought back from the south were confined. The winter before, two thralls had gotten out. One of them had almost killed Lanius. The other had almost killed Estrilda, though Grus had no doubt the thrall wanted him dead and not his queen.

  The thralls paid no attention to the peephole. They might not have paid any attention even if he’d stood in the room with them. What made them thralls made them less than fully human. Their wits were dulled down to the point where they barely had the use of language. They were more than domestic animals that happened to walk on two legs and not four, but they weren’t much more than animals.

  They could, after a fashion, manage farms. Down south of the Stura River, in the lands the Menteshe ruled, they raised the crops that helped feed the nomads. The Menteshe didn’t have to worry about uprisings from them, any more than they had to worry about uprisings from their cattle.

  And yet, the thralls’ ancestors had been Avornans who were unlucky enough to dwell in the south when the Menteshe conquered the land. The magic that made them thralls came from the Banished One. Human wizards had had little luck reversing it. Avornan armies had tried to reconquer the lost southern provinces a couple of times—tried and failed, with most of the defeated soldiers made into thralls. After the last such disaster, more than two hundred years before (Lanius knew the exact date), Avornis had given up trying.

  Without some way to make thralls back into men and women of the ordinary sort, any reconquest was doomed to fail. Grus realized that, however much he wished he could have gotten around it. And so, leaning toward Pterocles, he asked, “What do you see down there?”

  Even if the Chernagor wizard in Nishevatz—or was it the Banished One himself?—had not laid Pterocles low, Grus would have had no enormous confidence that he had the answer. Avornan wizards had wrestled with curing thralls for centuries—wrestled with it and gotten thrown, again and again and again. Alca seemed to have had the beginnings of some good new ideas … but Alca was gone, and she wouldn’t be coming back. Pterocles was what the king had to work with.