“All right,” he said warily. “I’ll… try.”
Years later, he realized Marila must have done a lot of acting in the next few minutes. He also realized how clumsy and puppyish he must have been himself. At the time, every moment brought a new discovery, a new astonishment, a new pleasure: a first kiss, the softness of Marila’s skin, the funny way the tips of her breasts crinkled up when he put his mouth on them, and then… He’d never imagined his body could feel like that.
“Let me up, Your Majesty,” Marila said from beneath him.
“Oh! I’m sorry!” If she hadn’t said something, Lanius would gladly have stayed there forever.
The serving girl dressed. More slowly, Lanius followed suit. She smiled at him again. “Everything’s fine,” she said. “You were sweet.”
She didn’t say he’d been good, or that she’d enjoyed it. He was too amazed to notice. “So this is why people sing about love,” he said.
“Of course it is. Didn’t you know?” Marila answered her own question before the king could. “No, you didn’t.” Lanius could never remember that without a blush, either.
At the time, he just answered, “No.” Then, slower than it should have, something else occurred to him. “When can we do that again?” he asked.
“Why, whenever you want to, Your Majesty.” Marila batted her eyelashes. “How could I say no to the king?”
“Nobody else in the palace seems to have any trouble,” Lanius answered.
This time, she definitely blinked. It wasn’t coquettish, only surprised. “But you’re the king!” she exclaimed.
“Sort of. After a fashion. In a manner of speaking,” Lanius said. “I can do whatever I want, all right, as long as it’s someone else’s idea.” Too late, he realized that lying down with Marila had been her idea, not his. He didn’t want her to think he hadn’t liked it. Oh, no—he didn’t want her to think that at all! He tried to make amends. “That’s the best idea anybody’s ever had.”
“I’m glad, Your Majesty. Maybe you’ll… think of me again, a little later.” Marila kissed him on the cheek, then slipped out of the archives.
“Now what did she mean by that?” Lanius asked himself. He was tempted to shuffle through parchments till he found the answer. A sated laziness he’d never known before fought against his wits but he didn’t need long before he found his answer. “She wants a present,” he murmured. Half the treasury seemed about right. But that would cause talk. A trinket of silver or gold would probably do the job.
He left the archives, too. As he closed the door behind him, he stopped as though frozen. If Marila had given herself to him, might other serving women—Prinia, say—do the same? “I’ll have to find out,” he whispered. “I really will.”
And then he suddenly started laughing again. A few years earlier, Arch-Hallow Bucco had said that when he became a man, he might find Princess Romilda of Thervingia more interesting and attractive than he thought. He’d mocked the notion. The marriage wouldn’t happen now. Even so, Lanius shook his head in slow, understanding wonder. “Gods curse you, Bucco,” he said. “Gods curse you, but you were right.”
CHAPTER NINE
The green-robed priest held out the torch to Grus. “As the flames and smoke rise to the sky, so may his soul ascend to the heavens,” he said as Grus took the torch and walked toward the pyre.
“So may it be.” Grus blinked back tears. Atop the pyre lay his father. Crex, to look at him, might have been asleep. An embalming spell had kept his body fresh while Grus came up from the south. From what Turnix had said while they watched the Thervings, such spells differed little from those the well-to-do used to keep their meat fresh longer than nature usually allowed. That was a bit of lore Grus could have done without.
Crex had been dead for almost a month. Grus had known his father was dead for half that time. He’d had to leave the fleet on the Tuola to come home. He should have been hardened to the knowledge by now—or so he kept telling himself. But his hand shook as he thrust the torch at the pyre.
He died easy, he told himself. You should be so lucky. He was sitting in that tavern with his disreputable friends, and he slumped over, and that was the end of it. Some of Crex’s disreputable friends—retired royal bodyguards, most of them—stood with his family to do Grus’ father honor.
“Have a drink up there for me, you old bastard,” one of them called to Crex. “And pinch the barmaid’s bottom after she fetches it for you.”
“You have to pinch ’em afterward,” another graybeard added. “Otherwise, they’re liable to spill the wine in your lap— accidentally on purpose, you know.”
In spite of himself, Grus smiled at that. He touched the torch to the oil-soaked wood. It caught at once, with a blast of heat that made him step back in a hurry. He held a hand up in front of his face. When he took it down, he couldn’t see his father’s body anymore. The flames had swallowed it.
He and his family had given the old man the best send-off they could afford. The pyre was of cedar and cypress and sandalwood, the oil scented with cinnamon, so even the smoke was sweet. “Good-bye, Father,” Grus whispered. “Gods keep you joyous forever—and I hope you do pinch that heavenly barmaid’s bottom.”
Estrilda came up to him. He put his arm around his wife. “He was a good man,” she said, and a tear slid down her cheek. “He was like my own father to me—he was nicer to me than my own father, if you want to know the truth. I’ll miss him.”
Sosia came up, too, and put her arms around Grus. His daughter was taller than his wife now, and starting to be shaped like a woman. That astonished him. Neither had been true the last time he saw her, half a year earlier. Sosia was a sweet-natured girl. She had to take after Estrilda there, he thought, for she surely didn’t take after him.
He glanced over at Ortalis. His son was well on the way to becoming a man, and a handsome man at that. At the moment, he was avidly watching the pyre. Grus’ mouth tightened. If I know him, he’s trying to see the body burn, he thought unhappily. That he’d gotten a vicious son surprised him as much as having a sweet daughter, and distressed him far more.
“If you will excuse me, Commodore, I must return to my sanctuary,” the priest said. “I shall pray to the gods to sustain you in the wake of your loss, and also to guard and honor your father’s spirit.”
Grus bowed. “Thank you for all you’ve done, Your Reverence. I’m grateful, and so is my family… Yes?” That last was aimed at a pair of newcomers. They were both solidly made men, with hard, watchful eyes, and a weathered look that came from spending a lot of time outdoors. Swords hung from their belts. Soldiers, Grus thought.
“You’re Commodore Grus?” one of them asked.
“That’s right.”
“You need to come with us right away,” the fellow said.
“Come with you where?” Grus asked in more than a little irritation. “I’ve just burned my father’s body. I’m off to his memorial feast. It isn’t something that can wait.”
The two soldiers looked at each other. The one who hadn’t spoken before said, “To the royal palace. Queen Certhia’s orders.” The other one nodded, relieved that his companion had come up with an answer.
He looked so relieved, in fact, he made Grus’ suspicions flare. “I’ll come as soon as the feast is done,” he said, as mildly as he could. He wasn’t carrying a sword. He hadn’t thought he would need one at his father’s farewell. How bad a mistake would that turn out to be?
“That’s not so good, Commodore,” one of the strangers said. “That’s not so good at all. Her Royal Highness won’t be happy with you, not even a little she won’t. Why don’t you just come along now, like you’re supposed to?”