“How are you sure, Mama?” Lanius asked, genuinely curious.
“Because you couldn’t possibly be a worse one,” Queen Certhia snapped.
“That isn’t logical,” Lanius said. “If I tried, I’m sure I could—”
“But you wouldn’t try any such thing—that’s the point,” his mother answered. “All Scolopax wanted to do was throw down everything your father ever did, just because he did it. You wouldn’t do anything like that. You’re still a little boy, but you know better.”
“No, I don’t suppose I would,” Lanius said. “But I could.”
Certhia gave him an odd look. “Never mind,” she said. “I—”
“Good day, madam.” Arch-Hallow Bucco stood in the doorway. He looked at Lanius’ mother as though he’d found her on the bottom of his sandal. “What are you doing inside the palace? Who gave you leave to come here?” His voice was chilly as winter in the mountains of Thervingia.
“She’s my mama. I’m King of Avornis!” Lanius exclaimed.
Bucco bowed. “Indeed you are, Your Majesty. But I am the head of the Council of Regents your uncle appointed to rule until you become a man. My word has weight here.”
Certhia laughed scornfully. “And a fine Council of Regents it is, too. You and Waccho and Aistulf—”
“And Torgos,” Bucco broke in. “Torgos is a wise and learned man.”
“How did he put up with Scolopax, then?” Lanius’ mother demanded. She pointed a finger at Bucco. “It’s your council, and everyone knows it. You’re the one who will get blamed when things go wrong.”
“I do not intend that things should go wrong,” the arch-hallow said, even more frigidly than before. “When your son becomes a man, Avornis will be strong for him. He is, after all, the only one left of our ancient dynasty.”
“Yes, and you’ve called him a bastard, too,” Certhia said. “What do you propose to do about that?”
“I’m not a bastard,” Lanius said. “You were Father’s queen. I was only little then, but I remember.”
“It is not so simple as that, Your Majesty,” Arch-Hallow Bucco said. “Your mother was King Mergus’ wife, yes, but she was the king’s seventh wife.”
Even Lanius, young as he was, knew what that meant. He stared at his mother. She scowled at Bucco. “Arch-Hallow Megadyptes declared he was legitimate.”
Bucco coughed. He’d been ousted so Megadyptes could say that. He could hardly be expected to like it. “Arch-Hallow Megadyptes’ opinions were his own, not mine,” he said, and coughed again.
Lanius saw the logical flaw there. “If I’m not legitimate, if I am a bastard, how can I be king?”
Certhia pointed at the arch-hallow again. “And if he’s not king, how can you head the Council of Regents for him?”
Bucco did some more coughing. “The entire situation is most irregular,” he said.
“It certainly is,” Queen Certhia said. “And since it is, how dare you try to keep me from seeing my son?”
“I head the regency council,” Bucco said stiffly. “I decide whom King Lanius should see.”
“I’m the king, and I want to see my mama!” Lanius said.
His mother said, “Who made a better arch-hallow for Avornis, Bucco? You or Megadyptes? Plenty of people would say he did, especially after the way Scolopax abused him. Do you want those people howling for your blood in the streets of the city? They will, especially if you keep calling Lanius a bastard.”
“Don’t you threaten me!” Bucco said.
“Don’t you think you can keep me away from my son!” Queen Certhia retorted. “You’re not the king. He is.”
They glared at each other over Lanius’ head. The new king of Avornis felt as though they had hold of him by the arms and were trying to pull him in two.
Commodore Grus didn’t like riding a horse. Some people got seasick. This animal’s endless rocking gait left him queasy. “I wish we could sail down to the south,” he told Nicator.
“So do I,” Nicator answered. “My legs feel like they’ve been stretched on the rack. I’ll walk bowlegged the next week, see if I don’t.” He had his own reasons for disliking horses.
Sighing, Grus said, “The gods chose to give us rivers that run from west to east. If we want to go north, we can either let the horses do the work or we can do it ourselves. Those are the only choices we’ve got.”
“Who says I want to go from north to south?” Nicator asked. “I’ve got to, but I don’t much want to. As soon as the Thervings are quiet for a little while, the Menteshe start tormenting us again. Feels like the two sets of bastards have got Avornis by the arms, and they’re trying to pull us in two.”
That comparison was too apt for comfort. Grus said, “It could be worse. If they both jumped on us at the same time, we’d have real trouble.”
Captain Nicator spat. “You ask me, Skipper, this is real trouble. If it wasn’t real trouble, why would they send us to take command down south again, eh? Answer me that, if you please.”
Since Grus couldn’t, he didn’t. He did reach down and make sure his sword was loose in its scabbard. Smoke darkened the southern horizon. The Menteshe were burning fields and farmhouses and villages. If they got lucky enough to break into walled towns, they’d burn those, too. And, if they came across a couple of mounted Avornans, they would try to kill them.
Seeing the motion, Nicator laughed. “Oh, you’ll make a fine cavalryman, Skipper, same like me. You’re likelier to whack me with that sword than you are to hit one of the Banished One’s bastards.”
“Thanks so much, friend,” Grus said. “I’ll stay away from you, too. You see if I don’t.” He pointed. “Is that an inn up ahead?”
“Sure looks like one to me,” Nicator answered. “Shall we stop for the night? We won’t get a whole lot further even if we do go on.”
“Suits me,” Grus said. Once he and Nicator came into the common room, though, it didn’t suit him so well. The merchants eating and drinking in there were loudly arguing about whether Bucco’s faction or Megadyptes’ had a better right to the arch-hallowdom. Some of the men had drunk enough to seem ready to argue with fists and knives, not words.
“This is foolishness,” Nicator said. “Haven’t we got more important things to worry about?”
He’d pitched his words to Grus, who nodded. But a young merchant at the next table turned toward them and said, “The Banished One will seize us if we make the wrong choice.” His fingers writhed in a preventive sign.
Grus made the same gesture, but he asked, “Don’t you think the Banished One is more likely to seize us if we quarrel among ourselves?”
By the way the merchant stared at him, he might as well have started speaking the language of the far northern Chernagors. Unlike most of the men in the dining hall, Gras didn’t feel like arguing. He and Nicator finished their suppers—not so good— and their wine—worse—and went off to the cramped little room the innkeeper had given the two of them. Grus barred the door.
“That may not help,” Nicator said.
“I know,” Gras answered. “I don’t see how it can hurt, though.”
Somehow, the merchants didn’t come to blows. When Gras and Nicator rode south the next morning, they were both scratching themselves. Gras almost decided the Banished One was welcome to have the innkeeper. Almost. Like anyone who’d seen what life was like on the far bank of the Stura, he didn’t care to wish it on anybody else.
If the Menteshe won here—if their raids forced Avornan soldiers and wizards and priests off this land—the Banished One would bring his spells that much closer to the city of Avornis. We’d better not let that happen, Gras thought gloomily.