No one said anything when he came out of the shadows to the cookfire, the luap at his heels. The onions in the stew had everyone belching. They can smell us in the king’s hall, right across the land, Gird thought, going out to the jacks, but he wasn’t worried. He would have to think about the luap, but not now. Now he had to think about the army, and the king’s army, and where would be best to meet them.
His one advantage was the willingness of the people to help him; he knew where the king’s army moved, but the king’s army must search for him. The king had left Finyatha again, and this time Segrahlin rode with him (so the word came), and every lord who could make magicks of any kind. And their well-fed soldiers, rank on rank of them, and their horsemen, who now had learned to armor the horses as well.
Thus he was in no mood to be cooperative when Selamis cornered him again the next night, and wondered, in too casual a tone, if Gird were going to name him a marshal in the coming campaign. Gird stared at him, momentarily speechless.
“I can’t give you any command now,” said Gird. “You can see that, I hope—”
Selamis glowered silently. When he was sulky, he did look almost aristocratic.
“And it’s going to be damned hard to explain why I’m not. Blast you, you might have thought—”
“Would it have done any good to tell you sooner?” Gird did not like the self-righteous whine in that voice. Selamis had lied, and liars had no right to be self-righteous.
“Whether it would or not, you didn’t. You didn’t tell me, and didn’t tell me, and if you hadn’t had that—that experience—” He couldn’t say it aloud, that Selamis had used magic, that he was a mage. It terrified him still, though he hoped he was concealing his reaction. The saying was that liars weren’t much good at spotting others’ lies. He hoped it was true.
“If I’d had no magic, it wouldn’t have done any good to tell you.”
“You think it’s done good?”
“Well, I meant—if I didn’t have magic, then my birth didn’t matter—”
Gird rounded on him. “By the Lady’s skirts, you’re still thinking of the throne, aren’t you? You still think your blood and your gods’ cursed stinking magic give you some sort of right to power?”
“It wouldn’t be the same—”
“You’re right it wouldn’t—because you’re not getting within leagues of that throne, my lad. Forget that. You can make pretty lights, and your father is the Finaarenisian king. And that means nothing, not one damn thing, to me or any other peasant—”
“It means something to the nobles,” said Selamis stubbornly. “You said that yourself. If they knew—”
“They’d slit your stupid throat. How can you be so dense? I’ve seen smarter stones, that had at least the sense to roll downhill. No. You’re the king’s bastard, and not alone in that, I’ll wager. You’ve got a bit of magic, enough to scare girls with—”
Light blazed around them, and a cold fist seemed to squeeze Gird’s heart in his chest.
“It scares you,” said Selamis, furious, his handsome face distorted. “Quit pretending it doesn’t. Admit it.”
But there was rage and rage, and Gird’s grew out of deeper roots than pique. He forced one breath after another out of stiff lips, and felt his heart settle once more into a steady rhythm. Without his thought, his powerful arm came up and smashed Selamis in the face. The light vanished, as Selamis measured his length on the ground.
“You stupid, stupid fool,” said Gird, almost calmly. He squatted, made sure that Selamis was still breathing, then looked around. Could they be lucky enough that no one had seen the light Selamis made? No: there in the gathering dusk someone hurried toward them. Gird sighed, gustily. He ought to kill Selamis, quickly and painlessly, before he woke. He should have done it before, when he first realized the man had lied, and lied again. The fool had renounced his claim before the gods; that alone should have settled him. Now he, Gird, would have to explain everything, and it was the worst possible time to tell everyone that they had the king’s bastard in their camp.
He was frowning over the supply rolls when he realized that Selamis was awake and staring at him. He glanced over and met a furious look.
“You hit me,” said Selamis, in a hoarse whisper. His head probably hurt; the bruise on his face made it look lopsided.
“That I did. You showed me what you were.”
“Why do you assume I’ll be bad—?”
Gird put down the notched tally stick reporting the grain harvest in Plumhollow Barton and looked hard at Selamis until he wilted. “You know what you did: you lied, and lied, and lied again, and then lost your temper and used your magicks on me. Is that what any of us would want in a king, if we wanted a king at all? Should I believe that a crown will make you honest, teach you patience and mercy, give you wisdom? You seem to think you’ll be a good king, better than your father. You might argue that it would be hard to be worse. But I’m not helping a liar, a lackwit, or a hotheaded fool onto a throne, where he can put his foot on my neck again. No.”
Selamis’s eyes closed, briefly, and the hand Gird could see stirred. Was he up to magicks again? But the eyes opened again, and the hand relaxed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have done that—”
“No more you should. Where’d you be if you’d killed me, eh?”
“I—I didn’t think—”
“True enough. And does not thinking make a good king?”
“No.” It sounded sulky, but then Selamis’s face must have hurt a lot. A sigh, then, long and gusty. Gird didn’t look up. “What are you going to do now?”
“I ask myself that,” said Gird, picking up the single tally from the smithguild and running his thumbnail along the nicks. “I should have killed you, back when I first realized you were lying, and I definitely should have killed you last night. But I’ll tell you what, lad, I’m a bad keeper of accounts, and you’re good at it—and sometimes the best milker is the worst for kicking the pail.”
“You’ll let me live because I can read and cast accounts?”
“For now. But use those magicks just once more and you’re dead.”
“Did I hurt you?”
Gird’s hand went to his chest before he thought; he glanced at Selamis and met his eyes. “Yes, and you might have killed anyone less stubborn. What did you think you were doing, eh?”
“I didn’t really know—it just seemed as if I could press—”
“Don’t. Don’t even think about it. As soon hand a child of three Midwinters a pike to play with, and hope no crockery breaks.”
“I’ll be loyal,” said Selamis, but it carried little conviction.
Gird put the tally down, and faced him squarely. “You will be loyal, lad, because I will break your neck myself if you’re not. You have no more choices, no more room to maneuver. I’ve told the marshals what they must know; what you must know is that your life depends on my good word. And if they think you’ve charmed me, magicked my good word, they will kill you. And if you try charming one of them first, the same. If you find that too harsh, consider your father’s way of dealing with traitors. We will kill you quickly as we may—but we will not let you loose again to misuse your talents.”