The Bastard King tsom-1

by Dan Chernenko

  “Who else would I be?” Grus’ laugh also sounded wrong.

  “I’m sure I don’t know,” Lanius answered. “I’m only telling you what she told me. Women are funny creatures sometimes.” He did his best to sound like the man of the world he wasn’t.

  The effort fell flat. Grus nodded soberly and said, “That they are. You can’t live with ’em, and you can’t live without ’em.” And he told nothing more of whatever was on his mind. A couple of further questions only brought out stares that made the first one seem warm and friendly by comparison. Lanius didn’t need long to give up.

  That evening, he told Sosia what little her father had said. “Men!” she said, as though writing off half the human race with one scornful word.

  “I found out more than you did,” Lanius said defensively.

  “But you didn’t find out enough,” Sosia replied.

  “Well, if you want to know more, you can ask him yourself,” Lanius said. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me. Or—” He broke off.

  “Or what?” his wife asked.

  “Or how he didn’t want to talk,” Lanius answered. That wasn’t what he’d started to say, or anything close to it. But, suddenly, he doubted he ought to suggest that she ask Alca.

  “Grus?” Estrilda’s voice was soft but determined. “There’s something we need to talk about, Grus.”

  This is what being wounded feels like, Grus thought. It’s been a long time, but I remember. First the shock, then, after a little while, the pain. As a man sometimes will, he vowed not to show the pain no matter how much it hurt—and no matter how much more it was likely to hurt soon. Nodding to Estrilda, he asked, “What is it?” Here it comes. Oh, yes, here it comes.

  And then she said, “We ought to find Ortalis a wife. High time he was married. Past time he was married, in fact. If he doesn’t get a wife before too long, people will… will start to wonder if something’s wrong with him.”

  More than once in the fighting against the Menteshe, arrows had hissed past Grus’ head, arrows that would have been deadly if they’d struck home. He’d been in the heat of battle then. He hadn’t had time to know relief. He did now. Almost giddy with it, he answered, “You’re right, dear. We ought to see what we can do.”

  This isn’t escape. This is only a reprieve. It may not even be a long one. She could find out tomorrow. Olor’s beard, she could find out this afternoon. She’s bound to find out before too long. So Grus told himself. He still felt as though he’d drunk three cups of strong wine, one right after another.

  “We should have started in on this a long time ago,” Estrilda said. “It may not be easy, even though you’re the king.”

  Even though you’re the king, plenty of fathers may not want to take the chance of marrying any daughter of theirs to your son. That was what she meant. Conversations about Ortalis were always full of things left out, things not spoken, blunt truths turned into euphemisms. Grus wished it were otherwise.

  “It’s… better since he took up hunting,” he said. Ortalis was flesh of his flesh, too, and he too talked around his son’s troubles.

  “Some,” Estrilda said. “Have you noticed, though, that he doesn’t hunt with Anser anymore? I don’t know why, but he doesn’t. And there’s nothing wrong with Anser… now.” She couldn’t resist tucking on that last word. Grus heard another arrow buzzing by him. Estrilda couldn’t help liking Anser. Hardly anyone could help liking him. But she couldn’t help remembering he was Grus’ bastard, either.

  How bad will it be when she finds out about Alca ? No sooner had Grus asked himself the question than he decided he didn’t want to know the answer. He might, he probably would, find out whether he wanted to or not, but not right now. Back to Ortalis, then. “Have you got anyone particular in mind?”

  “Doesn’t Marshal Lepturus have a granddaughter who’d be about the right age? That would be a good connection for our family.”

  “I think he does, yes,” Grus answered. “Shall I ask him?”

  His wife flashed him an annoyed look. “I wouldn’t have mentioned the girl if I didn’t want you to, now would I?”

  “No, dear,” Grus said dutifully.

  When he asked Lepturus to dine with him, he made it a private invitation, only the two of them. If Lepturus had some things to say, Grus wanted them to be for his ears alone. The head of the royal bodyguards put him in mind of an old bear—slower than he had been, sometimes almost shambling, but still able to break a man’s neck with one swipe of his paw.

  They ate. The chef outdid himself with quail stuffed with crayfish gathered from the river outside the city of Avornis. The honey-glazed torte filled with candied fruit that followed the main course was every bit as magnificent in its own way. Grus made sure the wine flowed freely.

  Lepturus emptied his goblet—not for the first time—then set it down. “Well, Your Majesty, if I were a pretty girl, you’d have seduced me by now,” he rumbled. “But I’m no girl, and I never was pretty. So tell me, what’s on your mind?”

  Grus told him. Lepturus listened carefully. After the king was done, Lepturus refilled his goblet himself. He sipped. He said not a word. At last, Grus had to ask, “Well?”

  “You do me a great honor, Your Majesty, me and my family,” Lepturus said. He sipped again. He said not another word.

  “Well?” Grus asked again when the silence stretched unbearably tight.

  “Well, Your Majesty, as I say, it’s a great honor, and mighty generous of you,” Lepturus said, and then fell silent once more.

  “What else do you have to say about it?” Grus asked.

  “Well, Your Majesty…” Lepturus punctuated that by draining the goblet yet again. He sighed, then resumed, “Well, Your Majesty, it’s a great honor, like I say. It’s a great honor, but I’m going to have to turn you down.”

  Now that Grus had an answer, he wished he didn’t. “Why?” he barked.

  “Why?” Lepturus echoed, as though he’d never heard the word before. He hesitated, perhaps looking for some polite way to say what he thought needed saying. He must not have found one, for when he went on he was as blunt as before. “It’s like this, Your Majesty. My granddaughter’s a sweet girl, and—”

  “And what?” Grus broke in. “Don’t you think she’d be happy with Ortalis?”

  “I don’t even think she’d be safe with Ortalis,” Lepturus said. “Some of the things I’ve heard about him…” He shook his big, heavy-featured head.

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Grus said quickly.

  “I don’t. I don’t believe half of it, or even a quarter. What’s left is plenty. I want to keep Sponsa happy, and I want to keep her healthy. So thank you very much, Your Majesty, but no thank you.”

  Whatever Grus had expected, he hadn’t expected Lepturus to turn him down flat. He didn’t even argue when the guards commander heaved himself to his feet and limped out of the little chamber where they’d dined. He didn’t leave himself, not right away. He stayed and got very drunk.

  He still remembered everything the next morning. He tried to use more wine to deal with his headache. It didn’t work very well. “He said no,” he told Estrilda. “Said he didn’t want Ortalis marrying her.”

  His wife’s lips thinned. “What are you going to do about that?”

  “I don’t know,” Grus answered, which was itself a confession of sorts. If I had a marriageable daughter, would I want her wedding Ortalis? He knew the answer to the question. He knew, but he didn’t want to admit it even to himself.

  “You need to do something ,” Estrilda said.

  “I know,” he said.

  He summoned Lepturus again the next morning. The guards commander nodded to him. “You decided you’re going to take my head because I don’t want Sponsa marrying your son?” He sounded more curious than afraid.

  “Well, that’s up to you,” Grus said.

  “I’m not going to change my mind, if that’s what you want. Do what you want to me, but leave m
y granddaughter alone.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Grus told him. “How would you like to go into retirement in the Maze?”

  “And if I say no, I get the other?” Lepturus tapped a finger against the back of his neck.

  “I’m afraid so,” Grus said. “I have to do something, you know. You’ve insulted me and my family. I can’t pretend it didn’t happen.”

  “I’ve got nothing in particular against you, Your Majesty,” Lepturus said. “You’ve turned out pretty well—better than I expected, to tell you the truth. But that son of yours…” He shook his head. “Anything I say’ll just get me in deeper, so I’ll shut up now.”

  “Yes, it probably will,” Grus said, though he doubted whether Lepturus could say anything worse about Ortalis than he’d thought himself. He held up a hand. “Wait. Don’t shut up yet. You are retiring?”

  “Oh, yes. I’ll do that, if you’ll let me. And I thank you for it. I wasn’t quite ready to say good-bye to the whole world just yet.”

  “All right. We’ll make the announcement in a day or two, then.”

  Lepturus nodded and ambled out. He and Grus might have been talking about crops and taxes, not about the choice between exile and execution. Lepturus understands how the game is played, Grus thought with relief. Now I just have to hope Estrilda thinks it’s enough.

  King Lanius knew about the royal we. He knew about it, but he could never remember using it before. He’d never found a time when he seemed to need it. He did now. Giving Grus his iciest stare, he said, “We are not pleased with you.”

  “No?” To Lanius’ endless frustration, Grus had a thick skin, and a slick one, too. Insult slid off him; it hardly ever pierced. Now he only shrugged and said, “Sorry to hear that, Your Majesty.”

  “How dare you exile Lepturus?” Lanius snarled, letting out the fury he couldn’t hold anymore.

  “How dare I?” Grus shrugged again. “That’s pretty simple— it was either send him to the Maze or kill him. I’m glad I didn’t have to do that.”

  “Why would you even want to?” Lanius asked. “He’s guarded me my whole life.”

  “I know,” Grus said patiently. “I’m not happy about it, but he insulted me. It wasn’t something I could smile and ignore, either.”

  “What did he do?” Lanius couldn’t imagine Lepturus offending the other king.

  But Grus answered, “I offered him a match between Ortalis and his granddaughter, Sponsa. He said no. If that’s not an insult, what is?”

  Good for him, was the first thing that crossed Lanius’ mind.

  He realized he couldn’t very well say that to Ortalis’ father. What he said instead was, “Oh.” He didn’t see how “Oh” could get him into trouble.

  And it didn’t. Grus nodded and said, “That’s right. I can’t ignore insults, you know.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Lanius said unhappily.

  “Lepturus thought I would take his head.” Grus sounded proud of his restraint.

  Maybe he even had reason to. All the same, Lanius thought, He was willing to die to keep his granddaughter from marrying Ortalis. Doesn’t that tell you something about your son? He didn’t see how he could say that to Grus, either. What he did say was, “I trusted Lepturus to keep me safe. He did the job for my father, and he always did it for me. Who will take his place?”

  “We can talk about that later, Your Majesty,” Grus answered. “It’s not something we have to worry about right away. You are safe here in the palace, eh?”

  Reluctantly, Lanius nodded. The one thing Lepturus would have done—would have tried to do—was protect him from Grus himself. But that, he had to admit, was a form of protection he didn’t need. Grus could have had his head at any time since proclaiming himself king. He’d never shown any interest in taking it.

  “I didn’t want to do this, Your Majesty,” Grus went on. “I didn’t ask Lepturus to supper with me intending to send him to the Maze. He hasn’t gone yet—you can ask him yourself about that. I asked him intending to make him my daughter-in-law’s grandfather. But when he said no…” He shrugged.

  Even more reluctantly, Lanius nodded again. Grus was doing what he could to solve the problem of Ortalis. He just didn’t quite realize how bad a problem he had. Lanius could have told him, but he’d made a bargain with Anser and Ortalis, and Ortalis hadn’t actually done what he’d talked about doing. Lanius hoped he hadn’t, anyhow.

  “So that’s how it was,” Grus said.

  “Oh,” Lanius said once more. It still seemed safe. He turned away. Grus let him go. As usual, Grus could have done much worse than he had. As usual, that was small consolation for Lanius. He wished no one else were running Avornis. Having someone relatively mild doing the job was better than having a frightful tyrant doing it, but that wasn’t the point.

  He doubted Grus would have agreed with him.

  As he often did when things went wrong, he shut himself away in the archives. No one would bother him there—or, at least, no one ever had. He wondered what would happen if he disappeared in this part of the palace. How long would it be before anyone came looking for him? Who except for Sosia and his children would even notice he was missing?

  For a while, he simply hid there, opening crates of records at random to have something to read under the dusty skylights. Then he began to search more systematically, for he grew curious about what the archives had to say about monkeys. To his disappointment, the answer seemed to be, not much.

  But, even though he didn’t find what he was looking for that day, the search was enough to calm him down, to ease the fear that had knifed through him when he heard of Lepturus’ exile. Life could go on. Life could even go on for Lepturus, if not in the way Lanius would have wanted.

  And life could go on for Sponsa. One day, she might marry someone who suited her. She probably had no idea how lucky she was. She wouldn’t have to find out, either. Maybe that made her the luckiest one of all.

  Sleet coated everything outside with ice. The sky was gray as granite. Grus’ mood matched the weather. He’d tried to arrange another match for Ortalis. This time, he’d thought he would try subtlety, hinting to the father of the prospective bride instead of coming right out and asking for her hand. That way, he could get some idea of how the noble felt without putting either one of them on the spot.

  He hadn’t been subtle enough. Before he could get around to asking the question that needed asking, the noble and his whole family had packed up and left—fled—for the countryside. Grus couldn’t very well ask him if he wasn’t in the city of Avornis to ask. If he wasn’t there to ask, he didn’t have to say no, either.

  In his bedchamber, Grus drummed his fingers on a bedside table. “I ought to send a letter after him,” he growled. “Then he’d have to give me a yes or a no.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Estrilda said, “not unless he’s someone you really want to get rid of.”

  She was right. Grus knew as much. That did nothing to improve his temper. “By the gods, the King of Avornis shouldn’t have this much trouble finding a wife for his only son.”

  “Only legitimate son,” Estrilda murmured.

  “Only legitimate son.” Grus accepted the correction. Throwing his hands in the air, he cried, “Is Ortalis that much of a monster?”

  Estrilda didn’t answer.

  Grus felt the silence stretch. He stared at her. “Is he?” he demanded. “He’s not that bad, and he’s been getting better.”

  “Yes, he has been,” Estrilda said. “But better isn’t the same as good. The stories about what he did with—to—those serving women haven’t gotten any smaller in the telling.”

  “That was a while ago now, and I think I put the fear of Olor’s judgment in him—or if not of Olor’s, then at least of mine,” Grus said. “He hasn’t done anything outrageous for a long time.” He didn’t like listening to his own words. He sounded like someone trying to make a bad case sound good.

  “Not so very long ago, he had an argument—
a loud argument—with Anser,” his wife said. “It was something to do with hunting, and I suppose it was why they stopped going out together. That’s all I know. Nobody who knows any more than that seems to want to talk about it.”

  “I wonder who could tell me,” Grus said.

  “Either of your sons could,” Estrilda said, a small taste of vinegar in her voice.

  Grus clicked his tongue between his teeth. “I’m not going to ask Ortalis.” He’d just passed judgment on the prince, but he didn’t realize it. Thoughtfully, he went on, “Maybe Anser would talk.”

  “Maybe he would.” Estrilda had trouble keeping that same sour edge to her tone. Yes, everyone liked her husband’s bastard boy.

  “I think I’ll find out,” Grus said.

  But when he paid a call on the arch-hallow a couple of days later, Anser only shrugged and said, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Grus said bluntly.

  “That’s… too bad, isn’t it?” his by-blow said. “I don’t know what else to tell you.” He looked nervous, as though he expected Grus to call for the torturer. And, had he not been flesh of Grus’ flesh, the king would have been tempted.

  Instead, Grus snapped, “You’re not doing anyone a favor by keeping silent.” Anser only shrugged—silently. Thwarted, Grus muttered something he never would have said in the presence of any other Arch-Hallow of Avornis. Grus stalked away.

  He was still steaming when he returned to the royal palace. Had he run into Ortalis, it might have gone hard for his legitimate son. He didn’t, though—he ran into Alca.

  He brightened at once. “By the gods, I’m glad to see you!” he said.

  “Are you, Your Majesty?” The witch seemed not at all sure she was glad to see him.

  “Yes, I am. Can you use your wizardry to figure out what was said in an argument between Ortalis and Anser a while ago?”

  “How long is a while?” Alca asked.

  “I’m not sure, not to the minute,” Grus answered. “Weeks, months—something like that. When we were down in the south.”