Words tumbled from the king and his concubine. The witch stared from one of them to the other, horror filling her face. Her fingers writhed in the same gesture as Mergus had used.
“I am unclean,” she gasped when she could speak at all. “I am violated!” She pressed both hands against her crotch, as though the Banished One had used her body, not her mind. A moment later, Certhia put on her smock again. But she let the amulet hang outside the crimson silk now, where she could quickly seize it at need.
Mergus asked, “Can the taint be taken away?”
“I know not,” the witch told him. “I shall speak to those set over me.” The king’s hand fell to the hilt of his sword. It was no ceremonial weapon, but a blade that had seen much use in war. Rissa’s eyes followed the motion. She nodded. “If you doubt I will abide by their verdict, Your Majesty, strike now.”
A couple of inches of the blade came out of the jeweled scabbard. But then Mergus shook his head. “No. I believe you. You will do what needs doing. Can you go to them by the way you came here?”
Rissa nodded again. “I can. I will. And I will say one last thing to you, if you give me leave.”
“Go on.” King Mergus’ voice was rough as sandstone.
“Hear me, then: If the Banished One hates your son, if he curses your son, surely he also fears him.”
Back and forth along the Stura, from the last cataract in the foothills of the mountains to the Sea of Azania and then upstream once more. This was the life the Tigerfish and the rest of the Avornan river galleys led when on patrol.
Grus had duly written up his dream of the Banished One and submitted it as part of his report to his superiors. For a while, he wondered if he would be summoned to the city of Avornis and questioned further. When no summons came, he began to wonder if it had been only a meaningless dream.
But part of him knew better.
Not many men, even aboard the Tigerfish, knew what had chanced that night. Grus had never been one to make much of himself or of what happened to him. He had told Turnix, though; he wanted the strongest protective amulets the wizard could make. And he’d told Nicator. If anything happened to him, his lieutenant needed to know why it might have happened.
They were drinking in a riverside tavern one day—on the north bank of the Stura, of course; the south was not for the likes of them—when Nicator asked, “You never heard a word about that, did you?”
Grus shook his head. “Sometimes you wonder if anybody back in the city of Avornis remembers how to read.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if nobody did,” Nicator agreed. “Wouldn’t surprise me one bloody bit.” He slammed his fist down on the tabletop for emphasis. He’d taken a lot of wine on board.
So had Grus, come to that. He said, “What do they care about the border? The king’s going to have a baby—or maybe he’s had it by now. That’s important, if you live in the capital.”
“I didn’t know the king could have a baby. They must do things different in the big city,” Nicator said. They both laughed, which proved they were drunk. He went on, “I don’t care who’s king. Our job stays the same any which way.”
“Of course it does,” Grus said. “We take care of what’s real so they can worry about shadows back there.”
Next morning, when the Tigerfish raised sail and glided on down toward the sea, his own headache seemed the realest thing in the world. He sipped at the rough red wine the river galley carried, trying to ease his pain. Nicator also looked wan. Grus tried to remember what they’d been talking about in the tavern. They’d been complaining about the way the world worked; he knew that much. But what else would you do in a tavern?
Turnix came up to him. Sweat poured down the wizard’s chubby cheeks. This far south, summer was a special torment for a round man. “A quiet cruise we’ve had,” Turnix remarked.
“Yes.” Grus wished the wizard would keep quiet.
No such luck. Turnix went on, “Somehow, I don’t think it’ll stay that way.” His eyes were on the southern shore; the shore that didn’t belong to Avornis, the shore the Banished One claimed for his own.
“No,” Grus said. Maybe, if he kept answering in monosyllables, Turnix would take the hint and go away.
But Turnix had never been good at taking hints. He said, “Something’s stirring.”
That got Grus’ attention, however much he wished it wouldn’t have. Like a miser coughing up a copper penny, he spent yet another syllable. “Where?”
“I don’t know,” the fat little wizard admitted. “I wish I did. So much that’s closed to me would be open if only I were a little more than I am.” He sighed and looked very sad. “Such is life.”
Grus didn’t answer that at all. He stood there letting the breeze blow through him. And then, of course, he too looked to the south.
Oh, trouble might come from any direction. He knew that. The Thervings dreamt of putting a king of their own in the city of Avornis. They always had. They always would. Maybe the Banished One worked through them, too. Maybe they would have been nuisances just as great if he’d never been banished. Grus wouldn’t have been surprised.
And off in the north, the Chernagors plotted among themselves and with Avornis and against Avornis. Some of them wanted Avornan lands. Some of them wanted their neighbors’ lands. Some of them, from some of the things Grus had heard, plotted for the sake of plotting, plotted for the sport of plotting.
So, yes, trouble might come from anywhere. But the south was the direction to look first. The Banished One was there. The principalities of the Menteshe who followed him were there. And, of course, the Tigerfish was there, too. Just their luck.
“What do you know?” Grus asked Turnix.
“Something’s stirring,” Turnix repeated helplessly.
“If I were foolish enough to put my faith in wizards, you’d teach me not to,” Grus growled. He never could tell what would offend Turnix. That did the job. The wizard strode away, his little bump of a nose in the air.
But however vague he was, he wasn’t wrong today. Trouble found the Tigerfish that very afternoon. It came out of the south, too. Had Grus wanted to, he could have patted himself on the back for expecting that much.
He didn’t. He was too busy worrying.
When trouble came, it didn’t look like much: A lone thrall ran up to the southern bank of the Stura and shouted out to the river galley, crying, “Help me! Save me!” The thrall didn’t look like trouble. He looked like any thrall—or, for that matter, like the Avornan peasant his ancestors had surely been. His hair and beard were long and dirty. He wore a linen shirt and baggy wool breeches and boots that were out at the toes.
No matter how he looked, he was trouble. In lands where the Banished One ruled, most thralls—almost all thralls—forgot Avornis, forgot everything but getting in the crops for their Menteshe masters and for the One who was the master of the Menteshe. When the Kingdom of Avornis pushed back the nomads, her wizards sometimes needed years to lift the magic from everyone in a reconquered district. But every so often, a thrall would come awake and try to escape. Every so often, too, the Banished One would pretend to let a thrall come awake, and would use him for eyes and ears in Avornis. Much harm had come to the kingdom before the Avornans realized that.
“Help me!” the thrall called to the Tigerfish. “Save me!”