The Chernagor Pirates

by Harry Turtledove

  The wizard eyed the clouds and swirling mist overhead. He spread his hands in apology—or started to. His mule chose that moment to misstep, and he had to make a hasty grab for the reins. Some people really do ride worse than I do, Grus thought, amused. Pterocles said, “Your Majesty, I can try that spell. But it works best with real sunshine to power it. It may well fail.” He rode on for half a minute or so before something else occurred to him. “The Chernagors may have worked out a counterspell by now, too. These things do happen. Spells are often best the first time you use them, because then you catch the other fellow by surprise.”

  “I see.” Trouble was, Grus did; what Pterocles said made altogether too much sense. Now the king rode thoughtfully for a little while before saying, “Well, when you see the chance, take it.”

  “I will, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said.

  As though to mock Grus’ hopes, a fine drizzle began sifting down out of the sky. Grumpily, he put on a broad-brimmed felt hat to keep the water off his face and to keep it from trickling down the back of his neck. “Remind the men to grease their mail well tonight,” he called to Hirundo. “Otherwise, it will rust.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Hirundo promised.

  But the drizzle also made it harder for the Chernagors aboard ship to watch the Avornan army. They had to come closer and closer to the shore, until finally they were almost within bowshot. Curses wafted across the water when one of them ran aground. Grus cursed, too, for he couldn’t do anything about it. There was no point to assembling his catapults to pound the ships when they would be as useless with wet skeins of hair as a bow with a wet string.

  Hirundo shared his frustration, but said, “They’re still in trouble out there, whether we put them in trouble or not.”

  “I suppose so,” Grus said. “I wish we could take better advantage of it, though.” He shrugged ruefully. “I wish for all sorts of things I won’t get. Who doesn’t?”

  “Best way to take advantage is to take Nishevatz,” Vsevolod said. “When we take Nishevatz, we punish all traitors. Oh, yes.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of doing just that.

  Grus wondered how much like Vsevolod his son Vasilko was. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Vasilko took after his father a great deal indeed. And if Vsevolod had followed the Banished One, would Vasilko have fled to the city of Avornis and bowed down to Olor and Quelea and the rest of the gods in the heavens? Grus wouldn’t have been surprised there, either. Whatever one of them chose, the other seemed to want the opposite.

  That didn’t mean Vsevolod was wrong here. “We’ll do our best, Your Highness,” Grus said. “Then you should do your best.”

  “Oh, I will,” Vsevolod said. “I will.” His tone suggested that what he meant by best was likely to be different from what Grus meant by the word. Whether what he thought best for him would also prove best for Nishevatz was liable to be an … interesting question.

  I’ll worry about that later, Grus told himself. One thing at a time. Getting Vasilko out of Nishevatz, getting the Banished One’s influence out of Nishevatz—that comes first. Everything else can wait. If Vsevolod turns out to be intolerable, maybe I’ll be able to do something about it.

  He rode on toward Nishevatz for a while. Then something else occurred to him. If a lot of people in Nishevatz hadn’t already decided Vsevolod was intolerable, would they have banded together behind Vasilko and helped him oust his father? Grus sighed. He looked over to the white-bearded Prince of Nishevatz. The longer he looked, the more he wished he hadn’t thought of that.

  “Excuse me,” Limosa said. Ortalis’ wife got up and left the supper table faster than was seemly. When she came back a few minutes later, she looked more than a little green.

  “Are you all right?” Lanius asked.

  Sosia found a different question. She asked, “Are you going to have a baby?”

  Limosa turned from one of them to the other. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she told the king. A moment later, she said the same thing to the queen, adding, “Until this”—she gulped—“I managed to keep it a secret. I wanted to see how long I could.”

  “Well, you did,” Lanius said. “Congratulations!” Sosia echoed him. Lanius turned to Ortalis and congratulated him, too. He hoped he didn’t sound grudging. Ortalis had behaved … pretty well lately.

  “I thank you.” Grus’ legitimate son raised his wine cup. “Here’s hoping it’s a boy.”

  For the sake of politeness, Lanius drank to that. So did Sosia. But their eyes met with complete understanding and agreement. They both hoped Limosa had a little girl—had lots of little girls, if she conceived again. Boys would make the succession more complicated. Grus and his family had managed to graft themselves on to the ancient ruling dynasty. That was one thing. Uprooting it altogether—having the crown descend through Ortalis and his line—would be something else again.

  Ortalis had never shown any great interest in ruling Avornis. If he had a son, he might change his mind. That would make court intrigue all the more intriguing. Lanius hoped he didn’t, but how much was such hope worth?

  That evening, Sosia seemed not just willing but actually eager to make love for the first time since she found out about Zenaida. While she and Lanius caressed each other and then joined, he accepted that as good luck. Afterwards, she rolled over and went straight to sleep. The king smiled a little. She was doing what men were supposed to do, and he wasn’t.

  He lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. With no lamp burning, it was just part of the darkness. As he hadn’t before, he wondered what made Sosia act the way she had. He didn’t need to wonder long. What was likelier to drive her into his arms than a threat from outside?

  He would rather have believed his own charms had more to do with it. But, since she’d had no trouble resisting those charms before Limosa’s news, he couldn’t very well do that. Every so often, he wished he were better at fooling himself. This was one of those times.

  In the morning, he went to see Otus. Every time he did, the man from south of the Stura seemed more like an ordinary Avornan and less like a thrall. More and more, Lanius believed the guards who surrounded Otus’ chamber were unnecessary. He didn’t order them away, though. He might have been wrong, and being wrong here could have unfortunate consequences.

  “Good morning, Your Majesty,” Otus said, and bowed politely. His eyes went to the guards who came in with the king, too. He didn’t complain about them. As far as Lanius knew, he never complained. That did set him apart from ordinary Avornans.

  “Good morning to you,” the king replied. “You speak very well these days. You’ve learned a lot.”

  “I like to learn things,” Otus said. “I never had the chance before.” He paused and shook his head. “I never could before.”

  That let Lanius ask a question he’d wanted to ask for a long time. “What was it like, being a thrall? Now you have the words to talk about it, which you didn’t before.”

  Otus looked startled, another mark of how far he’d come. “Why, so I do,” he said. “It was hard. It was boring. If you had a cow that could talk, it would tell you the same thing, I think. As far as the Menteshe cared, I was a cow. Oh, I could do more than a cow. I was smarter than a cow. But they treated me like a beast. I was a beast, near enough.”

  “What made you decide to cross over the Stura, to come into Avornis?” Lanius asked.

  “I didn’t decide,” Otus said at once. He repeated that. “I didn’t decide. I just did it. It came into my head that I had to, and I went. I left my woman. I left my children. I went.” He stopped, biting his lip.

  Gently, Lanius asked, “Do you miss your wife?”

  “Woman,” Otus said again. “We weren’t—like people are. I couldn’t be with her now. She hasn’t … changed. It would be like … screwing a cow, almost. But if the wizard cured her, then—oh, then!” His face lit up. Plainly, the thought was crossing his mind for the first time. He was becoming a man, beginning to think beyond himself a
s men could—and did, though not often enough.

  Lanius wondered if the female thrall would care for him once she was fully herself. The king didn’t say anything about that. Even a man who had been a thrall was entitled to his dreams.

  Suddenly, Otus pointed at him. “One of these days, you go south of the river. Avornis goes south of the river.”

  “Maybe,” Lanius answered, embarrassed at being unable to say more. “That’s more for King Grus to decide than it is for me. I know he wants to go south of the Stura. I don’t know whether he thinks he can.”

  Otus paid no attention to him. The cured thrall—Lanius had an ever harder time thinking of him as the possibly cured thrall—went on, “You will go south of the river. You have the wonderful magic that set me free. You can use that magic on the other thralls, on the rest of the thralls. So many men, so many women, made into beasts.” He took Lanius’ hands in his. “Save them, Your Majesty! You can save them!”

  Lanius didn’t know what to say to that. What he did finally say was, “I’ll try.” Otus’ face lit up. That only made Lanius turn away so the other man wouldn’t see him blush. His words might have sounded like a promise—Otus had taken them for one—but he knew they were anything but. He still lacked the power to make a promise like that. Only Grus had it, and Grus was far off in the north.

  Watery sunshine—the only kind the Chernagor country seemed to know—did little to make the walls of Nishevatz seem anything but unlovely. The sunshine did help King Grus spot the town’s defenders; it sparkled off swords and spearheads and the tips of arrows and shone from helms and mailshirts. The men who followed Prince Vasilko looked ready to fight, and to fight hard.

  Whether they were ready might prove a different question. They hadn’t tried to keep the Avornans from shutting them up inside Nishevatz, preferring to stand siege rather than to come forth and challenge their foes. But how much in the way of supplies did they have? Grus dared hope it wasn’t so much.

  He also dared hope the other Chernagor city-states allied with Nishevatz had no luck shipping grain into the town. So far, they hadn’t had the nerve to try. If that wasn’t a compliment to Pterocles’ sorcery—and a sign they had no counterspell for it—Grus didn’t know what would be. The Chernagors presumed the wizard had come north with the Avornan army. That also made them presume he would burn their ships if they tried to feed their allies. Grus hoped they were right. (In fact, he hoped he didn’t have to find out. If the other Chernagors didn’t try to feed Nishevatz, he wouldn’t have to.)

  “Do you aim to assault the town?” Hirundo asked after the siege lines on land were as tight as the Avornans could make them.

  “Not right away,” Grus answered. “They’ve made us pay every time we did. Or do you think I’m wrong?”

  “Not me, Your Majesty,” the general said. “I’d rather be at the top of a wall pushing a scaling ladder over than at the bottom trying to get up the ladder before it tips and smashes.”

  “Yes. If it will.” Grus-looked out to the farmland that had fed Nishevatz. Now it would have to feed his men instead. Could it? He wouldn’t be taking grain from it, not this early in the year—and not much later, either, if it wasn’t cultivated in the meanwhile. Livestock was a different story, though. Cows and pigs and sheep—if need be, horses and donkeys—would feed Avornan soldiers well.

  After a little thought, Grus nodded to Hirundo. “Fetch me one of Vsevolod’s pals,” he said.

  “I’ll get you one,” Hirundo said. “I take it you don’t want Vsevolod to notice me doing this?”

  “How right you are,” the king said fervently, and his general chuckled.

  Hirundo brought Grus a nobleman named Beloyuz. He was one of the younger men who clung to Vsevolod’s cause, which meant his bushy beard was gray rather than white. “What do you wish of me, Your Majesty?” he asked in Avornan better than Prince Vsevolod’s.

  “I would like you to go up to the walls of Nishevatz, Your Excellency,” Grus replied. “I want you to tell the Chernagors in the city that they won’t have to go through this siege if they cast out Vasilko and give the throne back to Vsevolod.”

  Beloyuz plucked at that bushy gray beard. “His Highness should do this,” he said, his voice troubled.

  “Maybe,” Grus said, “but he has enough enemies inside the walls, it would not be safe to have him go up to them.” He didn’t mention that most of the Chernagors inside Nishevatz had made it plain they preferred Vasilko to Vsevolod.

  Beloyuz’s eyes said he knew what Grus was thinking. They also said he was grateful Grus had found a way not to come right out and say it. He bowed stiffly to the king. “All right, Your Majesty. Let it be as you say.”

  With Avornan shieldmen accompanying him forward, Beloyuz approached the walls the next morning. One of the shieldmen carried a flag of truce, but they all remained very alert. They could not be sure the Chernagors would honor that flag. Beloyuz began to speak in the throaty, guttural, consonant-filled Chernagor language. Grus did not understand it, but he had a good idea of what the noble would be saying.

  The defenders did not need to hear much before they made up their minds. They roared abuse at Beloyuz. Some of them shot arrows despite the flag of truce, but Grus didn’t think they were trying to hit the nobleman or his protectors. Beloyuz took no chances, but hastily retreated out of range. Grus didn’t see how he could blame him for that.

  Vsevolod came over to Grus in high dudgeon, demanding, “Why I not go to wall?”

  “I did not want the folk of Nishevatz to insult you, your Highness,” Grus replied, which was perhaps a tenth part of the truth.

  “I do not worry over insults,” Vsevolod said. “I can tell folk of Nishevatz better than Beloyuz can.”

  That’s what I was afraid of, Grus thought. He reminded himself he had to be tactful when speaking to Vsevolod. He needed to remind himself, because the temptation to tell the unvarnished truth was very strong. Choosing his words with care, then, he said, “The people of Nishevatz had heard you before, Your Highness, and did not decide to cast Vasilko out and bring you back into the city. I thought Beloyuz could give them a different slant on your virtues.” Such as they are, Your Highness. The only one Grus could think of offhand was Vsevolod’s genuine and sincere opposition to the Banished One.

  With a sniff, Vsevolod drew himself up very straight. “I know my virtues better than any of my followers.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Grus hoped his resignation wasn’t too obvious—but if it was, he intended to lose no sleep over it. He said, “No harm done. Beloyuz didn’t persuade them, either, but he got away safe. Now we’ll go on with what we were going to do anyhow. We’re going to take Nishevatz away from Vasilko. That’s what we came here for, and that’s what we’ll do.”

  Prince Vsevolod didn’t want to let him off the hook. “You say this before,” the Chernagor grumbled. “You say before, and then something else happen, and then you change mind.”

  “I am allowed to defend my own homeland,” Grus said mildly. “But, with a better fleet on our east coast to guard against Chernagor pirates and with the Menteshe caught in their own civil war, I don’t think we’ll have to break things off this time.”

  “Better not,” Vsevolod rumbled in ominous tones. “By gods, better not.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Standing in his robe of crimson silk behind the magnificent altar of the great cathedral, Arch-Hallow Anser cut a splendid ecclesiastical figure. By his bearing and appearance, Lanius would readily have believed him the holiest man in all of Avornis. And then King Grus’ bastard waved and called, “Hang on for a minute, Your Majesty, and I’ll change into hunting togs.”

  “No hurry,” Lanius answered. He wished Anser hadn’t bounded away from the altar with such obvious eagerness. The arch-hallow might seem like a very holy man, but he didn’t like playing the part.

  When he returned, he looked more like a poacher than a prelate. He wore a disreputable hat, a leather jerkin over a
linen tunic, and baggy wool trousers tucked into suede boots that rose almost to his knees. He also wore an enormous smile. He put on the crimson robe because his father told him to. Hunting togs were different. Lanius, on the other hand, felt as though he were in costume for a foolish show, although he looked much less raffish than Anser.

  “Let’s see what we can bag, eh?” he said. “Pity Prince Ortalis couldn’t come with us today.”

  “Why? Did you—?” Lanius broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Forget I said that. Forget I even started to say that.”

  “I’d probably better.” Anser made a face. He said, “You’ll have a horse outside?”

  “Oh, yes.” The king nodded. “I’m not going to walk to the woods—I’ll tell you that.”

  “Let’s go, then.”

  A couple of hours later, Lanius and the arch-hallow dismounted under the trees. Grooms took charge of the horses. The king, the arch-hallow, and their beaters and guards walked into the woods. “Maybe you’ll hit something this time, Your Majesty,” Anser said. “You never can tell.”

  “No, you never can,” Lanius agreed in a hollow voice. Hitting a stag with an arrow remained about the last thing he wanted to do.

  Birds chirped overhead. Looking up, the king wondered what kind they were. Being able to tell one bird from another when neither was a pigeon or a sparrow would be interesting, but he hadn’t gotten good at it yet. Learning to recognize them by their looks and by their songs necessarily involved staying out in the woods until he could. That made it more trouble than it was worth to him.

  “Are you sure you want me to take the first shot, Your Majesty?” Anser said. “It’s very kind, but you don’t need to give me the honor.”

  “My pleasure,” Lanius said, which was absolutely true. He went on, “Besides, you’re the one who’s liable to hit something. If I do, it’ll just be by accident, and we both know it.”