“Here and now—somewhere off in a quiet room, anyhow— would do. It’s not that complicated.”
“All right, then. I really need to find out.” Grus shouted for the servants. He pointed to several of them in turn. “Bring me Prince Ortalis. If he’s in the palace, I want him here as fast as he can get here. Understand me?”
By the way they dashed off, they did. Alca ducked into a chamber close by. Ortalis came up to Grus only moments after the witch left the corridor. “What do you want?” Grus’ son asked, adding, “I didn’t do anything.”
Not lately, anyhow, the king thought. “I want to talk with you,” he answered, and pointed to the room into which Alca had just gone. “Let’s do it in there.”
“What do you think I’ve done now?” Ortalis asked. “You always think I’ve done something, and I haven’t, not this time. Not lately. I really haven’t.” He sounded as though he meant it.
“Well, then, everything’s fine, isn’t it?” Grus said smoothly. “Come on. You’ll see.”
Ortalis didn’t look happy, but he didn’t argue anymore, either. To Grus, that proved his son didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. Ortalis barely had time to notice Alca and start to turn toward her before the witch said, “Hold, Ortalis son of Grus son of Crex!” And Ortalis did hold—his feet might suddenly have frozen to the floor.
His expression froze, too. Grus didn’t like that reproachful stare. He was glad his son wouldn’t remember this. “May I ask him questions?” he said in a low voice.
“Go ahead,” Alca told him. “He will answer truthfully, and he will forget he’s done it.”
“Thank you.” Grus turned to Ortalis. “Do you hear me?”
“I hear you.” Ortalis’ voice was soft and dull.
“All right, then. What was your quarrel with Anser about?”
“Which quarrel with Anser?”
After some thought, Grus said, “The bad one. The one you don’t want anybody to know about.”
When the Prince was done, Grus knew much more than he wished he did. Quietly, Alca asked, “And did you truly mean this, or were you only joking?”
Even with the magic driving him, Ortalis was a long time silent. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “It would have been fun, but”—a shrug—“people don’t seem to like that kind of thing.”
“‘People don’t seem to like that kind of thing,’” Grus echoed bitterly. “Well, at least he’s noticed. Maybe that’s something. Maybe.” He gestured to Alca. “Wake him up. He’s given me what I wanted to find out.”
The witch murmured a charm. She slipped out of the room through a back door before Ortalis stirred, blinked, and nodded to his father. “Well, what do you want to talk about?” he asked.
“Never mind, Son,” Grus answered with a sigh. “It’s not important.”
“See? I told you. I didn’t do anything.” Ortalis swaggered to the front door and out.
As soon as that front door closed, Alca returned. “Well?” she asked.
“Well,” Grus said, “I don’t suppose he has to get married right away.”
The mustachioed monkeys looked out through the window at the swirling snow. A carefully screened fireplace kept their room warm. They didn’t know what the bad weather meant. It interested them just the same. Their black eyes swung to Lanius, as though asking what he had to do with it. “Sorry,” he told them. “I can’t make it go away.” By their expressions—so much more humanlike than those of the moncats—they didn’t believe him. He was in charge of their food and water. Why wasn’t he in charge of the weather as well?
“I wish I could change it,” he said. “Believe me, I would.” They didn’t believe him. He could tell. One of them turned its back, almost as though it were an affronted courtier. They both retreated closer to the fire. Remembering the warning from the Chernagor who’d given them to him, Lanius hoped he could bring them safely through the cold season of the year.
A knock on the door made the monkeys’ ears twitch. “What is it?” Lanius called. Servants had stopped charging into the rooms where his animals lived. He’d persuaded them he was deadly serious about that. Grus might rule Avornis, but in these few chambers, at least, Lanius was king in fact as well as name.
“Come quick, Your Majesty!” That was Bubulcus’ voice. If he’d learned his lesson, then surely they all had.
Lanius didn’t feel like leaving. “What is it?” he repeated.
“Come quick!” Bubulcus said again—that and no more.
Muttering under his breath, Lanius left the monkeys. The hallway outside was noticeably chillier than their room. His voice was also chilly as he repeated himself once more. “What is it? And why didn’t you tell me what it was the first time I asked you?”
“Why? On account of I didn’t want to yell it all over everywhere, is why.” As usual, Bubulcus was full of invincible self-righteousness. But before Lanius could lose his temper, the servant went on, “Prince Ortalis and Her Majesty the Queen— the queen your wife, I mean, not the queen your mother-in-law—are having a demon of a row. If you can help fix it—”
“Oh, by the gods!” Lanius set off at a dead run. Ortalis hadn’t fought with Sosia for a while now, but Ortalis in a temper was dangerous to everyone around him. Of that King Lanius had no doubt at all.
Sosia and her brother were shouting at each other when Lanius hurried into the chamber to which their racket had drawn him. Bubulcus prudently stayed several paces behind the king. To Lanius’ relief, it was just shouting; Ortalis didn’t seem to have struck out with open hand or fist. “What’s going on here?” Lanius demanded.
Grus’ son rounded on him. “Maybe she’s not the liar after all,” he said. “Maybe you are.”
“And maybe you’re a gods-cursed idiot,” Lanius snapped. Ortalis’ jaw dropped; Lanius was not in the habit of matching his rudeness. The king continued, “You’re certainly acting like one. What is all this senseless commotion about?”
“Somebody blabbed,” Ortalis said sullenly. “Somebody told Father what everybody promised nobody would say.”
“I keep telling you, I didn’t,” Sosia said.
“Neither did I,” Lanius said. “That leaves Anser.”
“He says he didn’t, either.” Ortalis’ eyes flashed furiously.
“But somebody did, because Father sure knows now. I can tell. He’s been giving me these looks, and these little lectures, and I can’t stand it anymore. He hardly even knows he’s doing it, but he is, and I’m about ready to pop.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Sosia said.
“I gave my oath I wouldn’t, as long as you kept your side of the bargain,” Lanius said, and then, “Have you kept it?”
“Yes!” Ortalis said—all but howled. “I’ve kept my mouth shut, and I haven’t done—anything. But Father found out. I don’t know how. Somebody must have told him. And it had to be one of you three.” He glared at Lanius, then at Sosia. Had Anser been there, he would have glared at him, too.
“We didn’t,” Lanius said, pointing first to himself, then to his wife. “And if Anser says he didn’t, too, then he probably didn’t. He wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
“Somebody did,” Ortalis repeated. “Somebody must have.”
“Maybe he found out by magic,” Lanius suggested. “He could have done that all by himself.”
Some—a little—of the rage faded from Ortalis’ eyes. “Maybe,” he said grudgingly. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe it’s true. I can try to find out, anyway.” Some of the tightness and stiffness seeped from his spine. He no longer seemed on the point of throwing himself at his sister—or at Lanius. In fact, he gave Lanius a nod that seemed almost friendly. “Thanks.”