“What do you mean, there’s nothing you can do?” Lanius demanded. “My household needs more money. You’re the man in charge of the money. I know it’s in the treasury; tax receipts have been up lately. So kindly give me what I need. I’ll have to let some servants go unless you do.”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty,” Petrosus repeated, sounding not the least bit sorry. “There’s no allocation for any further funding for that purpose.”
“What do you mean, there’s no allocation?” Lanius was repeating himself, too. “Why in the name of the gods do you need an allocation, anyway? Am I the King of Avornis, or aren’t I? If I need money, do I get it or don’t I?”
Petrosus scratched the end of his pointy noise. His fingers were stained with ink. “Well, Your Majesty, it’s like this. You’re a King of Avornis, sure enough. But are you the King of Avornis? As a matter of fact, since you’re the one that’s asking, I have to tell you the answer is no.”
Lanius knew exactly what that meant. He’d had his not so pointy nose rubbed in it, the past few years. Grus was the one who gave the orders. Lanius understood that, no matter how little he liked it. But even so… “This is money for my household!” Yes, he was repeating himself.
So was the treasury minister. “You already told me that, Your Majesty. And I’m telling you there’s no allocation for any more money than you’re already getting.”
Voice dangerously calm, Lanius asked, “Are you saying King Grus doesn’t want his own daughter getting what she needs? Are you saying I can’t pay for the servants she has?”
But Petrosus didn’t seem to feel the danger. “I’m saying there’s no allocation. No allocation, no money. Simple as that, Your Majesty.” Simple as that, you moron, he might have said.
“Suppose I write to King Grus,” Lanius said. “Suppose I tell him how—how obstructive you’re being. What do you suppose he will have to say about that?”
“Probably something like, ‘Congratulations, Petrosus. Good job. You’re not supposed to spend any silver without an allocation,’ ” the treasury minister said cheerfully. “So if you want to write him, you just go ahead.”
That wasn’t the answer Lanius had expected or wanted. He stared at Petrosus, who squinted back. After a long pause, Lanius asked, “Are you telling me King Grus doesn’t want me to have the money I need?”
“Don’t ask me what he wants or doesn’t want. I’m telling you I don’t spend money without an allocation. That’s my job. No allocation, no money. That’s all I’m telling you, Your Majesty.”
“And how are you supposed to get an allocation?” Lanius asked.
“Why, from King Grus, of course,” Petrosus answered. If he’d been asked where light came from, he would have said, Why, from the sun, of course, in just that tone of voice.
“Well, if you don’t have an allocation from him, suppose you get busy getting one,” Lanius said.
“I already know what His Majesty wants me to spend money on—the things I have allocations for,” the treasury minister said.
King Lanius was not one who often lost his temper. This time, though, marked one of the exceptions. “You idiot!” he shouted. “You lazy, miserable, worthless, good-for-nothing bastard!”
“Takes one to know one, eh?” Petrosus said. That was the surest proof any man could give that he thought Lanius altogether powerless. Lanius proved him wrong—he punched him in his pointy nose, and blunted it considerably. Petrosus left the chamber dripping blood.
That done, Lanius also wrote to King Grus, explaining in great detail Petrosus’ incompetence and insolence. He was amazed his pen didn’t scorch the parchment as it raced along. His letter sped south by courier.
In due course, an answer came back. Petrosus, from all I have heard, is doing a good job on the whole, Grus wrote. I have no doubt he is attending to things the same way I would if I were back in the city of Avornis. I am sure you will be able to get along with him once you work a little harder. Without another word, Grus signed his name.
“By the gods,” Lanius muttered. “He really doesn’t want me to have the money I need.”
Up till then, he hadn’t believed that. He’d been sure Grus didn’t know what Petrosus was up to. He’d been sure—and he’d been wrong. Grus had known perfectly well. A rival king with less money posed a smaller danger than one with more money. It all seemed very obvious, when you looked at it the right way.
“I’ll make money by myself, then,” Lanius declared. He was most determined. That he hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about making money by himself or for himself worried him only a little.
Lanius’ annoyance didn’t worry King Grus. He had more important things on his mind. Whenever he looked over the Stura, he imagined Yozgat in his mind’s eye. He wanted the Scepter of Mercy so badly, he knew he wasn’t even close to being rational about it.
“How can you hope to get it, Your Majesty?” Alca asked one evening. “Whenever Avornans have tried, it’s always been a disaster. Why should it be any different now?”
“I don’t know,” Grus answered. “I truly don’t know. But I do know I’m going to see what I can do one of these days.”
“How many thralls were made from Avornan armies?” the witch said.
“Too many,” Grus admitted. “But there are plenty of other thralls on the far side of the border. If we can cure them—”
“It will be a miracle,” Alca said. “You know that as well as I do. We can’t even cure the ones who’ve fled over the river to us. Well, we can cure some of them, maybe, but how reliable is the cure? Not very, you ask me.”
“We have to get better at that,” he said. “If we’re ever going to reconquer the lands south of the Stura, we’ve got to be able to turn thralls into ordinary farmers again.”
Alca nodded. “That’s what we need, all right,” she agreed. “Whether we can get it is a different question.”
“Well,” Grus said, “there are plenty of thralls for you to practice on.”
“I wondered if you were going to tell me that,” she said. “For someone who claims to care about me—”
“I do more than care about you,” Grus broke in. “If you don’t know that—”
She interrupted in turn, saying, “For someone who claims to care about me, you keep doing your best to get me killed.”
“I want to be able to fight the Banished One,” Grus said. “I want to take back the lands the Menteshe stole from us.”
“If you try to fight the Banished One, strength against strength, you’ll lose, Your Majesty,” Alca said bluntly. “You have the strength of a man. He has the strength of an exiled god. If he puts it forth, you will lose. That’s all there is to it.”
She spoke with as much certainty as of tomorrow’s sunrise.
King Grus said, “Then any hope of taking land back from the Banished One is nothing but a foolish dream?”
“I didn’t say that,” the witch replied. “But if you do it, you have to do it so that he doesn’t put forth all his strength.”
“How?” Grus asked.
“Your Majesty, I don’t know,” she said. “This is the riddle Avornis has been trying to solve since the Banished One was cast down from the heavens.”
“Well, one step at a time,” Grus said. “I think the Banished One has been trying to see how strong and clever we are. Otherwise, why would he make all these thralls come over the river and into Avornis?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but went on, “Maybe we can make him pay for that. Wouldn’t it be poetic justice if we used the thralls to learn how to free people from thralldom?”