“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.”
Alca shook her head. “I’m sorry, but wizardry won’t do. What you need is a miracle. The gods give those. You might get one from the Banished One. From me?” She shook her head again. “No.”
“A pestilence,” Grus said. “I really need to know.” He explained why, finishing, “Whatever this is, it’s keeping people from wanting to marry their daughters to Ortalis.” It probably wasn’t the only thing keeping them from wanting to marry their daughters to Ortalis, but Grus preferred not to dwell on that.
Alca’s eyebrows came down and together as she thought. “I can’t bring back the argument itself, Your Majesty. Maybe I could make your son remember it. Would that do?”
“It might,” Grus answered. “Could you make sure he didn’t remember remembering it?”
“I think so,” the witch said.
“Could you do it here and now, or would you need fancy preparations?”