The Scepter's Return

by Harry Turtledove

  Petrosus came up to Grus. “He is a charming fellow, isn’t he?” said the former treasury minister.

  “He’s my son,” Grus answered. “I’m tied to him however he is. You yoked your daughter to him when you didn’t have to. What does that say about you?” And she fell in love with him, where nobody else in the world could. What does that say about her?

  Petrosus glared at him. “You’re still as charming as you were when your backside warmed a throne, aren’t you?”

  “No doubt,” Grus said. “And you’re still as ambitious as you were when you dreamed of a throne. Don’t you see how foolish that is when you’re here?”

  “Not if I don’t have to stay here,” Petrosus said.

  “Do you think Lanius will let you out? Don’t hold your breath,” Grus said. “You were the one who held back his allowance while I was campaigning. He’s never forgotten that, you know.”

  “You told me to. I did it at your order!” Petrosus exclaimed.

  He was right, of course. Back in those days, Grus had worried about any power coming into Lanius’ hands. He’d kept the other king weak every way he could, including not giving him enough money. And what had that gotten him? At the time, it won him security on the throne. In the end? In the end, power came into Lanius’ hands anyhow. Grus looked down at his own hands, and at the coarse brown wool on the sleeves of the robe he wore now.

  “The difference between us is, I don’t mind being here, and you do,” Grus said.

  “The difference between us is, you’re out of your mind and I’m not,” Petrosus retorted.

  Grus shook his head. “The reason I don’t mind being here is that I did everything I wanted to do, everything I needed to do, out in the world. Because of what I did, people will remember me for years after I’m gone, maybe even forever. Who will remember you, Petrosus?”

  “After I’m dead, what difference does it make?” Petrosus said, which also held some truth. But it held only some, and Petrosus proved as much by snarling curses at Grus and storming away. Grus looked after him and shook his head. The monastery wasn’t as calm as he wished it were.

  Lanius was grateful to Sosia for not nagging him about releasing Grus. Ever since they wed, she’d inclined more toward him than toward her father. She understood the reasons why he wouldn’t want Grus to come back to the palace. Whether she agreed with them or not, she respected them enough not to be difficult over them.

  But she didn’t—or perhaps couldn’t—talk her mother out of asking Lanius to order Grus out of the monastery. “Don’t you owe him that much?” Estrilda said with the peculiar certainty older people often show when talking to younger ones. “Don’t you, after everything he did for the kingdom? If he hadn’t done all that, you wouldn’t be on the throne now, you know.”

  “No, I suppose not,” Lanius said. If Grus hadn’t become king, if he himself had had to marry King Dagipert’s daughter instead of Grus’, the fearsome old King of Thervingia probably would have shoved him aside more violently and more permanently than Grus had.

  “Well, then,” Estrilda said, as though that were the only thing that mattered. “Don’t you have any sense of gratitude?”

  “Shall I be grateful that he put my mother in a monastery and never let her out?” Lanius inquired acidly.

  “Certhia tried to kill him,” Estrilda said, which was also true. “He never tried to kill her.”

  “Well, I’m not going to try to kill him, either. On that you have my word,” Lanius said. If his gratitude ran no further … then it didn’t, that was all.

  “You’re not listening to me.” Estrilda sounded surprised—almost astonished. As wife to the more powerful king, she’d gotten used to people following her slightest whim.

  “I am listening,” Lanius said politely. “But I decide what to do now—no one else.”

  She stared at him. Plainly, he was sole King of Avornis now. If he weren’t, why would she ask him to let Grus go? Just as plainly, the idea that nobody could tell him what to do now hadn’t fully sunk in until this moment. Shaking her head, Estrilda walked out of the audience chamber.

  As Lanius and Sosia were going to bed that night, she said, “I am sorry about what happened earlier today. I told Mother I didn’t think that would be a good idea, but she went ahead and did it anyhow.”

  By then, Lanius had had the chance to gain a little perspective on things. “It’s all right,” he said. “It could have been worse, anyhow.”

  “Oh?” Sosia raised an eyebrow. “How?”

  “She could have asked me to let your brother out, too, or instead.”

  “Oh,” Sosia said again, this time on an altogether different note. “That would have been awkward, wouldn’t it?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “This was awkward, because there could be reasons to let Grus out of the monastery. If she’d asked the other, I would have said no and then thrown her out if she asked me again.” To keep Ortalis from coming out of the monastery, he was ready to be as rude and stubborn as he had to. That went against his usual nature, but so did what he felt about his brother-in-law.

  At least he wasn’t afraid of offending his wife about Ortalis. Except for Limosa, Ortalis seemed to have alarmed everyone who ever knew him. That included Sosia. She’d never made any great secret of it, either. All she said was, “It’s over. You don’t need to worry about it anymore.”

  But she was wrong. The next morning, a servant came up to Lanius just as he and Sosia were finishing breakfast. “Excuse me, Your Majesty, but Arch-Hallow Anser would like to speak with you.”

  “Of course,” Lanius said. “I’m always happy to see him. Bring him in, and then fetch some wine for him, too.” The servant bobbed his head and hurried off.

  Anser came in a moment later. Lanius blinked when he did. Anser was wearing his red formal robes, something he hardly ever did when not conducting services in the great cathedral. “Your Majesty,” he said, and bowed to Lanius. Turning to Sosia, he repeated the words. He also bowed to his half-sister, not quite as deeply.

  “Sit down,” Lanius urged. As Anser did, the king went on, “I’ve got a servant bringing you wine. What can I do for you? You’re not usually out and about so early if you aren’t hunting.”

  Anser looked faintly embarrassed, which startled Lanius almost as much as the ceremonial regalia did. “I have a favor to ask of you, Your Majesty,” the arch-hallow said. “I haven’t asked many, have I?”

  “You’ve asked so few, it almost makes me suspicious,” Lanius answered. “Go ahead and ask, and we’ll see what happens then.” He wasn’t foolish enough to promise to grant favors no matter what. Kings had gotten themselves in a lot of trouble with promises like that.

  After a deep breath, Anser said, “Your Majesty, please let my father out of that monastery. If you do, I swear I’ll never ask another thing of you for as long as I live—not even to go hunting with me, if you don’t want me to.”

  “He would be pleased with you, to know you’ve asked this,” Lanius said. “He would be proud of you, too.”

  “He did everything for me,” Anser said simply. “Plenty of bastards don’t even know who their father is. But he made sure I always had enough. And then when he got the crown … Well, look what he did. Do you think I’d be wearing this”—he flapped the sleeve of his robe—“if not for him?” He snorted to show how unlikely that was, then went on, “So you see, Your Majesty, I’d do anything for him, too. I’m not too proud to beg you to set him free. Please.”

  With some regret, Lanius shook his head. “I’m not going to do that. I’m sorry, but I’m not. I’m the King of Avornis now. I didn’t expect to be, not until he’d lived out his days. Frankly, I thought I was sure to lose if I rose against him. Maybe I was wrong—who knows? But if I called him back to the city of Avornis, I couldn’t very well do it without seeing the crown go back on his head, too, could I? You may think I’m heartless, but I just don’t want to do that.”

  “I don’t think you’re h
eartless, Your Majesty. I would never think so,” Anser said. “You’ll do what you think you have to do, but please understand that I’ve got to do the same thing.”

  “I do understand that,” Lanius said. “And I think it’s sad that his legitimate son overthrew him and his bastard is pleading for me to turn the hourglass upside down again, but I can’t change that.”

  “Neither can I. I wish I could,” Anser replied. “Ortalis … Ortalis always knew he couldn’t live up to his father, and he couldn’t live up to what his father wanted from him. Me, I was further away. I didn’t have to live up to anything at all. I was glad enough just to live, and to live pretty well.”

  Lanius thought there was a lot of truth in what his half brother-in-law said—a lot, but not enough. “Not being able to live up to what Grus wanted of him wasn’t the only trouble Ortalis had,” the king said. “That mean streak, that taste for blood and pain, was all his own.”

  “It was,” Sosia said softly. “He always had it, as far back as I can remember.”

  “Well, I didn’t know him then—or you, Your Majesty,” Anser said to her. “I’ll have to take your word for that.” He turned back to Lanius. “But it doesn’t have anything to do with why you should or shouldn’t let my father come back. He didn’t do anything to deserve what Ortalis did to him. I should say not! Look how much Avornis owes him. The Scepter of Mercy back again! Could anyone have imagined that?”

  I had something to do with it, too, Lanius thought. He couldn’t have done it without Grus, but Grus couldn’t have done it without him, either. He said, “The Scepter accepts me, too, you know.”

  “Oh, of course, Your Majesty! I never said it didn’t,” Anser said quickly. “But …” He spread his hands. “You know what I mean.”

  “I do,” Lanius said. “But I’m the king now, and I intend to stay the king for as long as I last.”

  Anser sadly bowed his head. “Then there’s not much I can do about this, is there? Thanks for hearing me out, anyhow.” He bowed to Lanius, then to Sosia, and left the room.

  Sosia sighed. She quickly finished eating and also hurried out. She might understand why Lanius was doing what he was doing, but that didn’t mean she liked it, either. Lanius sighed, too. He poured his own cup of wine full again, and then again after that. He wasn’t a man in the habit of getting drunk before noon. Today, though, he made an exception.

  Grus had won a promotion. From peeling turnips, he’d advanced to measuring out grain and beans and dried peas, pouring them into big iron kettles full of boiling water, and stirring the stews with a long-handled wooden spoon. It wasn’t exciting work—he wasn’t sure such a thing as exciting work existed anywhere in the monastery—but it was a step up. When Neophron offered it to him, he took it.

  As long as he was in the kitchens or at whatever other work Abbot Pipilo set him, he was contented enough. It was something to do, something not too hard, something to keep him busy through most of the day. Things could have been worse.

  When he wasn’t at his labors, things were worse. He couldn’t avoid Ortalis and Petrosus; the monastery wasn’t big enough. Whenever he got near one of them, he got into a quarrel. He didn’t start the arguments, but he didn’t back away from them, either. If he hadn’t backed away from King Dagipert or the Banished One, he didn’t intend to back away from his son or a palace functionary, either.

  After the seventh or eighth shouting match in the courtyard, he did go to see Pipilo in the abbot’s office. Pipilo was scribbling something on a piece of parchment when Grus knocked on the open door and stood waiting in the doorway. “Come in, Brother,” Pipilo said. “And what can I do for you today?”

  His tone said, Let’s get this over with so I can go back to the important things I was doing before I had to deal with the likes of you. Grus fought to hide a smile. Sure enough, the abbot was a king in his own little realm. Grus couldn’t begin to remember how many times he’d used that same tone himself.

  “Father Abbot, isn’t this supposed to be a place of peace?” he asked.

  “Of course, Brother,” Pipilo answered. “But what a place is supposed to be and what it turns out to be aren’t always the same. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I don’t think you’ll say I’m lying.”

  “No, not at all,” Grus agreed. “Still, I would like to be able to get through a day without at least one screaming row.”

  “I can see how you might, yes,” the abbot said judiciously. “It was perhaps unfortunate that three men who have such strong reasons to disagree with one another were all gathered together in the same place.”

  “Perhaps it was.” Grus went along with the understatement. “Is there any chance one or two of us might be moved to another monastery?”

  Pipilo spread his hands, as though to show the limits of his domain. “I have not the authority to make such a transfer, Brother. It is possible to send a petition back to the city of Avornis, a petition I would endorse. But what my endorsement would do, if anything, I am not sure. This is the most, ah, secure monastery in the kingdom, which is why each of the three of you was sent here.”

  Why each of the three of you will stay here, he might as well have said. “By your leave, I will write that petition,” Grus said. “The worst I can hear is no, and no leaves me no worse off.”

  “By all means, Brother. You may have parchment and pen for the purpose,” Pipilo said. “And I wish you good fortune from it—not because I am not glad of your company here, for you have shown yourself a worthy monk, but because, if the king grants it, you will find more tranquility in your life.”

  “Tranquility,” Grus murmured. He’d had a lot of things in his life, but, up until now, rarely that. Did the abbot really think him a worthy monk? Pipilo must have. He didn’t need to keep Grus sweet. It was the other way around here. Grus hadn’t had many finer compliments than that.

  If only he didn’t have to worry about Ortalis and Petrosus … Yes, he would write that petition, as soon as he could.

  Brother Grus to King Lanius—greetings, Your Majesty. Lanius wasn’t used to getting letters from Grus without the royal seal stamped in wax to help hold them closed. This one had no seal of any sort. As usual, Grus came straight to the point. Here in this monastery, he wrote, Ortalis and Petrosus and I quarrel like so many crabs in a kettle with the water getting hot. I do not ask to be released from this place back into the world. I know you would say no at once. But could you please arrange it so the three of us are in three separate places? It would take a miracle for us to get along here, and miracles are in moderately short supply lately. I hope the kingdom runs smoothly. I know it is in good hands.

  “Well, well,” Lanius said under his breath. Grus had never been a man to show self-pity, and he showed even less now than the king would have expected. Lanius would have granted his petition without the least hesitation … if he weren’t in the strongest monastery in the Maze. He seemed content as a monk now, but how could anyone guess if he would stay that way?

  And Ortalis had a claim on the throne—had held it, if not for long and not well. And Petrosus was father to a princess who’d briefly been a queen (and was now a nun) and was grandfather to a young prince and princess. All three men could become problems if they found themselves in a place easier to escape from than that monastery.

  It would take a miracle for us to get along here. Lanius sighed when he read that again. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe it. On the contrary—it seemed much too likely. Ortalis had never gotten along with his father. Petrosus had no reason to.

  “A miracle,” Lanius repeated. A slow smile spread over his face. He didn’t know if he had a miracle handy. On the other hand, he didn’t know he didn’t, either, and that was more than most men could say.

  The guards in front of the Scepter of Mercy stiffened to attention when Lanius walked up. “Your Majesty!” they chorused.

  “As you were,” the king said, and the guardsmen relaxed. Lanius picked up the Scepter. Being able to pick it up
encouraged him; as King Cathartes had written centuries before it was stolen, it would not let itself be used for anything unrighteous.

  Lanius thought carefully about how to seek what he wanted from the Scepter. If he sought to make Grus and Ortalis and Petrosus suddenly love one another, he was sure his wish would go ungranted. There was such a thing as asking—and asking for—too much.

  Up until now, he’d used the Scepter of Mercy for things that would obviously help Avornis as a whole. Chief among them was seeking better harvests in the lands the Menteshe had ravaged in their invasion before Prince Ulash died. Even with that help, he feared the southern provinces would still be a long time recovering.

  This … This was something else. Whether he used the Scepter of Mercy or didn’t, Avornis wouldn’t change one way or the other. Few people outside the monastery would have any idea of what he’d done. This almost struck him as a task too small and trivial to bring to the Scepter’s notice, as it were.

  But there were small mercies as well as large ones. If Grus and Ortalis and Petrosus had to live together—and they did—couldn’t they live together without rubbing one another raw every day of their enforced cohabitation? It didn’t seem too much to ask. Grus particularly deserved peace and quiet, if that was what he’d found at the monastery.

  Lanius aimed the Scepter in the general direction of the Maze. He wasn’t sure that helped, but he didn’t see how it could hurt. He shaped the idea behind what he wanted until it was clear in his mind. Then he sent it forth, out through his will, out through his arm, out through the Scepter.

  He’d felt power thrum through the Scepter of Mercy when he used it to do what he could for the southern croplands. He felt it again now, but not nearly to the same degree. That made him smile at himself. Not even he believed this was as important as anything he’d done with the Scepter before. All the same, that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth doing.

  “What did you do, Your Majesty?” one of the guardsmen asked as Lanius set the Scepter of Mercy back on its velvet cushion.