And now here was Grus, telling him he not only could but had better do that. Oh, yes, there were worse usurpations, which didn’t mean Lanius liked this one. He didn’t. But what could he do about it? He could fume quietly, or he could die. Past that, nothing he could see. And there were worse fates than losing himself in the archives.
Arch-Hallow Bucco’s beard was white as snow. Age bent his back and made him walk with the help of a cane. A cataract clouded one eye. He had to cup a hand behind his ear when someone spoke to him.
But his wits still worked. Once Grus made him understand what he wanted, the arch-hallow grinned a wide and eager grin. Grus didn’t care that that grin showed several missing teeth. He cared much more that it was there.
“A pleasure!” Bucco said. “Yes, sir, it will be a great pleasure. I’d like it even better if you kicked the miserable little gods-despised bastard off the throne altogether. I’d truly like that, I would. Thinks he’s three times as smart as everybody else, too.”
Grus wondered exactly what had passed between King Lanius and Arch-Hallow Bucco. He didn’t ask Bucco; he wanted the prelate’s help. One day, I might ask Lanius, he thought, though that would only give me his side of it. He said, “I can’t afford to get rid of him. The people like the dynasty. If I killed the boy, I’d be ‘that bloody-handed murderer’ the rest of my days.”
“Well, you may be right,” the arch-hallow admitted. “Yes, you may be right. But I don’t have to like it, and I don’t.” He leaned forward. “What did you do with that miserable whore Certhia?”
What went through Grus’ mind was, Not everybody loves the dynasty. He answered, “She’s in the Maze. Deep in the Maze. She won’t come out again, either, not unless there’s worse treason than I can imagine.”
“In Avornis, there’s always worse treason than anyone can imagine,” Bucco said. “I marvel that the Banished One tries so hard to overthrow us, I truly do. If he left us to our own devices, some of us would sell him Avornis soon enough, so long as they saw even half a chance to pay back their enemies that way.”
Grus wanted to tell Bucco he was full of nonsense and bile. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He feared the arch-hallow all too likely knew what he was talking about. Instead, Grus said, “You will crown me, then?”
“I won’t just crown you, Commodore. I’ll enjoy doing it,” Bucco replied. “Let’s pick a day, and I’ll set the crown on your head. Do you want me to do it in the palace or in the cathedral?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” Grus said. “I’d like you to do it in the square in front of the palace. The more people who can crowd in, the better.”
“You’re right,” Arch-Hallow Bucco answered. “You’ll make a pretty good King of Avornis. You see how the pieces fit.”
“Let’s spread the news through the city and then hold the ceremony.”
“You do know how the pieces fit,” the arch-hallow said approvingly. “We’ll do it exactly like that. You ought to have Lanius come and be a witness, too.”
“He hates the idea,” Grus said.
“Too bad,” Bucco answered. “That isn’t what anyone will see.”
“Oh, no,” Grus agreed. “Lanius knows what he’s supposed to do, and what will happen if he doesn’t. He’s not stupid.”
“No, he’s not.” By the sour expression on Bucco’s face, he would have liked Lanius better had the young king been stupid. That would have made him easier to lead by the nose. The arch-hallow eyed Grus. “And since he isn’t stupid, and since you say he doesn’t like your stepping in front of him, he’s going to spend a good deal of his time from now on plotting against you. How do you propose to get around that?”
He does want me to get rid of Lanius. He wants it very much, Grus thought. Now he eyed Bucco. “You like twisting people this way and that so they do what you want, don’t you?” he said.
“Me, Commodore? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucco answered. Maybe he meant it; some men were curiously blind about their own character. More likely, though, he donned innocence as readily as his red ecclesiastical robes. “You may insult me if you please. It is your privilege, as the man who will be King of Avornis. But do remember, you have not answered my question.”
“How will I stop Lanius from plotting against me?” Grus echoed, and Bucco nodded. With a shrug, Grus went on, “I have some ideas about that. I’m not going to tell you what they are, because I will tell you they’re none of your concern.”
“All right. It’s your worry, not mine. The little bastard and his slutty mother discovered they couldn’t do without me,” Arch-Hallow Bucco said. “Now—when do you want the coronation?”
“As soon as you can arrange it and spread word through the city of Avornis that it’s going to happen,” Grus replied. “We do want a good-sized crowd there.”
“There’s the anniversary of the consecration of the cathedral—that’s coming up six days from now,” the arch-hallow said. “It’s not one of the major festivals on the calendar, but a lot of people do take the day off from work. They’d come to the square, or a good many of them would.”
“Perfect,” Grus said. “We’ll do it two hours after sunrise, to make sure everyone’s out of bed.”
“You may rely on me… Your Majesty,” Bucco said.
“Your… Majesty.” Grus tasted the words. After a moment, he nodded. “I’ll just have to get used to that, won’t I?”
Not being of age, King Lanius had never had true power in Avornis. He’d had influence with his mother and with Lepturus, though. With Grus he had none. The protector—the man who would make himself king—did listen to him; Grus was unfailingly polite. But Grus was also plainly a man who trusted his own judgment and no one else’s. The next suggestion of Lanius’ he took would be the first.
Grus did nothing to rob Lanius of his ceremonial role as king. Two days before the commodore was to steal a share of the title that by rights should have belonged to Lanius alone, the young king sat on the Diamond Throne to receive a party of merchants and ambassadors—with the Chernagors, the titles went hand in hand—from the folk who dwelt along the northern coast and on some few of the nearer islands in the Northern Sea.
The head of the embassy was a big, broad-shouldered man with a black beard—just beginning to be streaked with gray— that tumbled halfway down his chest. He wore his hair tied back in a neat bun at the nape of his neck. Fancy embroidery in vivid colors decorated his shirt. In place of trousers, he wore a wool kilt that showed off his knobby knees and hairy calves. His name was Yaropolk.
“Greetings to you, Your Majesty,” he said in fluent if gutturally accented Avornan. “Greetings from my sovereign, Prince Vsevolod of Nishevatz, and from all the princes of the Chernagors.”
“I greet you in return, and your prince through you,” Lanius answered. He said nothing about the other princes of the Chernagors. Yaropolk probably would have been astonished if he had. The Chernagors lived in independent city-states, and fought among themselves over trade or, sometimes, over what seemed to an outsider like nothing at all. The only time they pulled together was when outsiders threatened. Sometimes they didn’t do it then, either; several of those city-states had passed part of their history in Avornan hands.
Bowing, Yaropolk said, “You are very kind, Your Majesty, too kind to a stranger.”
“By no means,” Lanius said—this was all part of the ritual of dealing with Chernagors. “Behold—I have gifts for you and your companions.” He nodded to a servant, who came forward with a silver tray on which sat a plump leather sack for each of the men who’d come to the throne room. Yaropolk’s sack was a little plumper than the others.