Ortalis and Limosa had stayed back at the royal palace. Limosa could use her pregnancy as an excuse for not getting on horseback. Ortalis? Ortalis rarely showed any interest in Grus’ campaigns—or in doing anything that would please his father. In a way, that was a relief to Lanius. In another way, he thought it was too bad.
Scouts rode past, saluting Lanius and the rest of the royal family and the arch-hallow—who was also part of the royal family, even if he was on the wrong side of the blanket. More horsemen trotted by. Then Grus came into sight, guardsmen in front of him and behind him, Hirundo on his right, Pterocles on his left. The leading guardsmen reined in. So did Grus, when he was directly in front of Lanius. He inclined his head. “Your Majesty.”
“Your Majesty,” Lanius echoed. He hated giving Grus the royal title. He did it as seldom as he could. Grus seldom tried to force it from him. Here, though, he didn’t see what choice he had. If he insulted Grus by refraining in front of the army, which was the other king’s instrument … No good would come of that.
Still speaking formally, Grus went on, “We have taken the arms of Avornis beyond the Stura River. We have defeated the Menteshe in battle. We have taken the city of Trabzun, with many smaller towns. We have freed thralls beyond counting from the evil magic of the Banished One.”
Lanius had wondered if he would dare name the exiled god, and admired his nerve for doing so. Lanius also heard the pride under Grus’ formality. Like Grus or not, the other king had earned the right to be proud. No King of Avornis since the loss of the Scepter of Mercy could say what he had just said.
“It is well. It is very well,” Lanius replied. “All of Avornis rejoices in what you and your men have done.”
“I thank you, Your Majesty,” Grus said.
“I thank you, Your Majesty,” Lanius said. If he was going to give Grus his due, best to give with both hands. He went on, “The kingdom and the city of Avornis have remained at peace behind you.” After Grus’ vaunting claims, that one seemed small, but it was the most Lanius could offer.
Grus could have mocked him for it. He could have, but he didn’t. “That is the best news you could give me, Your Majesty,” he said. “May I never hear anything less.” Along with Hirundo and Pterocles and the guardsmen, he took his place with Lanius and the other members of the royal family.
Greeting Grus was hard enough for Lanius. Reviewing the soldiers who rode and marched into the capital was harder, in a different way; Lanius had to fight to keep boredom from overwhelming him. One thing court life trained him in, though—not showing what he thought. The men who saluted and received his answering salutes had no idea that he would rather have been almost anywhere else.
At last, there were no more soldiers. Lanius let out a silent sigh of relief. Grus still seemed fresh and resilient. “Shall we go into the city, Your Majesty?” he said.
“Yes, let’s.” Lanius’ voice showed only polite acquiescence, not the quivering eagerness he really felt.
As he and Grus had watched soldiers go by—endlessly—so the people of the capital lined up to watch the royal family and high functionaries return to the palace. Lanius didn’t care to have so many people he didn’t know staring at him. That was one reason he went out into the city of Avornis only rarely. Being the center of all eyes didn’t seem to bother Grus. Hirundo, for his part, reveled in it. He smiled and waved and, whenever he saw a pretty girl, blew kisses.
Under cover of the shouts from the people, Lanius said, “The spell to free the thralls works as it should, then?”
“So it would seem.” Grus nodded, partly to Lanius and partly, Lanius thought, to himself. “Yes—so it would seem. Pterocles and the other wizards did a fine job.”
“Very glad to hear it,” Lanius said. “Next campaigning season, then, you’ll … move farther south?” He didn’t want to speak of Yozgat, much less of the Scepter of Mercy.
“That’s what I have in mind, yes,” Grus answered. “I think we’ll also have to see what, ah, happens this winter, though.”
What the Banished One does, Lanius translated. “What do you think will happen?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Grus said. “That’s what I told you—we’ll just have to see.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Every time a cloud rolled across the sky, Grus worried. Every time rain fell, he frowned. Every time a funeral procession wound through the city of Avornis taking a body to its pyre, he bit his lip. Every time a fire broke out, he grimaced. Every time anything went on, he jumped more nervously than one of Lanius’ moncats.
The other king noticed. That told Grus how nervous he must have been, for Lanius failed to notice a good many things. “What is troubling you?” Lanius asked. “You should be happy. If you’re not happy now, seeing what you did south of the Stura, when will you be?”
“It’s because of what I did south of the Stura that I’m not so happy now,” Grus answered. Lanius looked baffled. Grus glanced around. You never could tell when a servant might be listening—or when someone else might be listening through a servant’s ears. “Where can we talk without being overheard?”
“Why, the archives, of course,” Lanius said.
Grus laughed, more in surprise than for any other reason. The archives weren’t of course to him; he could count on the fingers of one hand the times he’d gone into them since becoming king. But that didn’t mean Lanius was wrong. “Let’s go, then.”
Men bowed and women dropped curtsies as the two kings walked through the palace. Grus nodded back. So did Lanius, when he happened to see them—which was about half the time. The younger king chatted about this and that till he closed the heavy doors to the archives behind himself and Grus. Then his attention sharpened. “Well?” he asked.
Before answering, Grus looked up at the smeared skylights. The piles and crates of documents, the dusty sunshine, the musty smell … Yes, this was a place that suited Lanius. The other king belonged here, the way Grus belonged on the deck of a river galley. This was where Lanius would be at his best. Grus repeated, “Because of what I did south of the Stura.” He went on, “Now I have to wonder what the Banished One will do on account of it.”
“Ah.” Lanius might be vague when it came to people, but not to something like that. “Do you think we’ll have another one of those unnatural winters? Shall we start laying in extra grain again?”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Grus replied. “Or he might do something different. A pestilence, maybe. Maybe something else. No way to tell what, not until it happens. But something.”
He waited to see what Lanius thought. Yes, the other king might be blind to a lot of the human drama that went on around him, but he was nobody’s fool. He said, “I think you’re likely to be right. And I wish I could tell you that you were likely to be wrong.”
“So do I,” Grus said.
“What does Pterocles think of this?” Lanius asked.
“That I’m likely to be right,” Grus answered.
“Anything more? Does he have some better notion of what the Banished One might try?”
“He was the one who thought of a plague,” Grus said. “Past that, no.” He waved an arm, encompassing the archives in a single gesture. “Can you tell me more, Your Majesty? You know things nobody else does.”
“I doubt that. But here, sometimes, I can find things other people have trouble finding,” Lanius said. “And if I can’t find them here, sometimes I can find them in the archives under the cathedral.” Even here, where no one else could possibly be spying, he warily looked around before mouthing a single word: “Milvago.”
Grus had known he would name that name. So the Banished One had been called before he was cast down from the heavens. He had fathered the gods who later ousted him. He had been the mightiest god in the heavens—until he wasn’t anymore. If he ever found a way to use the Scepter of Mercy instead of just holding it … In that case, Avornis wouldn’t have to worry about anything as trivial as an ice-filled winter that lasted into spring or a pes
tilence.
Sighing, Grus said, “Well, see what you can learn. I’ll do the same, and so will Pterocles. And we’ll find out what happens. That’s liable to teach us more than we can learn any other way.”
Lanius looked unhappy, almost unhappy enough to tempt Grus into a smile. The other king wasn’t much for learning by experience. He wanted to find answers written down somewhere. That handbook on kingship he’d written for Prince Crex … Grus had glanced at it. It held a lot of information—and a lot of good advice, too. But so what? So much of the advice was only good if you had the experience to understand it … in which case you probably didn’t need it.
A scratching noise came from somewhere deep within the archives. Grus started in alarm. Maybe that was a mouse or a rat—if this place wasn’t a paradise for mice, he’d never seen one that was. But maybe it was something else. Maybe it was the Banished One somehow spying on him and Lanius across all these miles. Grus didn’t know if that was possible. Better, though, with the Banished One, to take no chances.
Then, to his amazement, Lanius started to laugh. Grus realized the other king recognized the noise, whatever it was. “I think you’d better tell me what’s going on,” Grus said carefully.
“I’ll do more than that,” Lanius replied. “I’ll show you.” He amazed Grus again by lying down on his back on one of the less dusty stretches of floor. Then he started thumping on his chest as though he were beating a drum. Grus wondered if he’d lost his mind.
But he hadn’t. A moncat came strolling up and climbed onto his chest. Lanius had a scrap of meat handy, and gave it to the animal. Grus gaped. He said, “Now I’ve seen everything.”
“Oh, this is nothing special. Pouncer gets in here every once in a while, and into other places where I need meat to lure him out.” Lanius sounded elaborately casual. “So I usually carry a few scraps with me. I have to remember to get fresh ones pretty often. Otherwise, he doesn’t want them.”
“I see,” Grus said. “I meant to ask you about some of the things you’ve been spending money on. I’ve heard about an animal trainer, an architect, and quite a few workmen. What haven’t I heard about?”
“Why I’m doing it,” Lanius answered, stroking Pouncer behind the ears. The moncat purred loudly.
“All right. Why?”
Lanius went on petting and scratching the moncat as he talked. The longer Grus listened, the more astonished he got. At last, the other king finished by asking, “What do you think?”
“What do I think?” Grus echoed. Lanius had told him a little of this the winter before, but only a little. Now that he’d heard it all, he thought he’d really heard it all. He said, “I think it’s crazy, that’s what. What could anybody who heard something like this think?”
“Now I’ll tell you something you don’t know,” Lanius said. “Not long after we started this, the Banished One sent Collurio a dream.”
Grus had to take that seriously. The Banished One sent dreams only to those who worried him. Some of the enemies who’d struck him heavy blows never saw him in their sleep. Hirundo was one of those, and had no idea how lucky he was. Grus whistled softly, trying to take this in. “He sent dreams … to an animal trainer?”
“By Olor’s beard, Your Majesty, he did.” Lanius might have been taking an oath. His use of the royal title impressed Grus much more than his calling on the current king of the gods.
Grus said, “He didn’t send one to the builder, though?”
“Not yet, at any rate,” the other king said. “The builder knows less of what’s going on than the trainer does. He would also be easier to replace than the trainer. That all makes him less essential and less dangerous.”
“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?” Grus laughed at himself. Of course Lanius had thought it through; that was what Lanius did best. Grus aimed a forefinger at the other king as though it were an arrow. “You can’t tell me the builder is less expensive than the trainer, by the gods. Oh, you can, but I won’t believe you.”
“I won’t even try. You’d know I was lying. Here, wait—I’ll stop lying.” He got up off the floor, still holding Pouncer. Grus made a horrible face. Lanius continued, “Even if he is more expensive, we need him. Will you tell me I’m wrong about that?”
“I’ll tell you that you could be wrong,” Grus said. Lanius considered that in his usual grave fashion, then slowly nodded. But Grus felt he had to add, “You could be right, too. We’ll find out. I hope we’ll find out. In the meantime … In the meantime, you’d better go on.”
The harvest was good. Rain didn’t fall at the wrong time. Wheat and barley poured into the city of Avornis by riverboat and, from nearby farms, by wagon. The granaries filled—if not to overflowing, then very full indeed. Watching the golden flood mount, Lanius grew confident the capital could ride out even the worst of winters. Reports that came in from the rest of Avornis said no one was likely to starve this year.
As more and more grain arrived, Lanius began to doubt the Banished One would use weather as a weapon against Avornis. The king didn’t doubt the exiled god would use something. What Grus had said made altogether too much sense for Lanius to doubt it. At some point, the Banished One would have to strike back against Avornis. Not striking back would be confessing weakness. Whatever else he was, he was not weak. His chosen weapons, the Menteshe, were for the moment of less use to him than he would have wanted. But he surely had others—had them or could devise them.
Lanius knew what he would do if he were in those southern mountains, all alone and furious. He summoned Pterocles. The wizard bowed low before him. “How may I serve you, Your Majesty?”
“I fear you may be serving all of Avornis before long, not just me,” the king answered. “What do you know of plagues begun and spread by sorcery?”
The corners of Pterocles’ mouth turned down. The lines that ran up from the corners of his mouth to beside his nose got deeper. Sorrow and worry filled his eyes. “I was afraid you would ask me that.”
“How can you be so sure of—?” Lanius broke off and pointed an accusing forefinger at the wizard. “You’ve been studying.”
“Ever since I got back to the capital,” Pterocles agreed. “I only wish there were more to study. This sort of thing is a lot like weatherworking—it’s too big for a mortal wizard to bring off, which means not many people have had much to say about it.”
“What do they say? The ones who speak at all, I mean,” Lanius said.
“That only a wizard without a heart would even think of trying one of those spells,” Pterocles said. “The trouble is, that fits the Banished One too well. They also say that the sicknesses behave like natural ones once they’re loose. If a wizard or a doctor can come up with a way to cure them or to keep them from killing, that will work as well as it would against an ordinary illness.”
“If,” Lanius said heavily. Pterocles nodded. The two of them shared an unhappy look. The trouble with the optimistic-sounding news the wizard had given was simple—plenty of natural illnesses had no known cure. Many people went to physicians only as a last resort, when they were desperately ill and nothing the doctor did to them was likely to make things worse.
“Maybe he’ll do something else,” Pterocles said. “Maybe it will be the weather. Maybe he can find some way to make the Menteshe stop fighting among themselves. Maybe … maybe almost anything, Your Majesty.”
He sounded like a man whistling past a still-smoking pyre. Lanius understood sounding that way, for it was also the way he felt. “And maybe he’ll send a plague, too,” the king said. “It would be about the best thing he could do, wouldn’t it?”
“Not as far as we’re concerned, by the gods!” Pterocles exclaimed. Then he got what Lanius was driving at. “Yes, I think from his way of looking at things a plague might be the best he could do. I see one thing that might help us, though.”
“Oh? What?” Lanius asked. “It’s one more than I see, I’ll tell you that.”
“Winter is coming,
” Pterocles said. “People don’t travel as much in the wintertime. Even if a plague starts, it won’t spread as fast as it would if it got going during the summer.”
“That will give us something to look forward to when the weather warms up, won’t it?” Lanius said.
The wizard winced. “I wish you hadn’t put it quite like that.”
Thinking about it, Lanius also wished he hadn’t said it like that. “Do the best you can, that’s all. And if I come across anything in the archives that has to do with plagues, I’ll pass it on to you.”
Anser and Ortalis would have laughed at him. Sosia would have rolled her eyes at the time he wasted in the archives (she would have done more than that if she’d known how he occasionally spent time there). Grus would have rolled his eyes, too, though he knew Lanius often found things worth knowing as he poked around. Pterocles nodded eagerly. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I appreciate that, believe me. You never can tell what might turn up.”
“No, you never can.” Some of the things Lanius had learned in the archives—both royal and ecclesiastical—he wished he never would have found. The name Milvago went through his mind again. This time, he didn’t say it aloud. Somehow, it seemed all too potent just the same.
Pterocles bowed to him once more. “I’m glad you and King Grus are alert to the possibilities,” he said. “That’s bound to help when … whatever happens, happens.”
Lanius wasn’t so sure. Suppose the plague killed both kings in the space of a few days. Then Crex would take the crown, assuming he lived—and assuming Ortalis didn’t try to steal it. Ortalis would be regent if he wasn’t king.
Lanius had been a little boy when his father died and King Mergus’ younger brother, Scolopax, succeeded him. Scolopax had ruled briefly and badly. Lanius didn’t see Ortalis doing any better. The king shivered. With luck—and, he hoped, with the aid of the gods still in the heavens—it wouldn’t come to anything like that.
He hoped Olor and Quelea and the rest of the gods in the heavens were paying attention to what was going on in the material world. They often seemed to give it as little notice as they could get away with. Would they have cast the Banished One down here if they’d taken seriously the material world and what happened in it? Lanius didn’t think so.
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