Up till then, Lanius hadn’t quite taken Grus seriously. But Grus’ display of chilly, purposeful rage—that, Lanius couldn’t ignore. He had no trouble at all imagining Grus turning it against him if he displeased his father-in-law. He did have trouble imagining what would happen after that, but only because he knew he wouldn’t be there to see it.
For the next several days, he spent most of his time either with his new bride (would Sosia prove any sort of shield against her father?), holed up deep in the royal archives, or with the moncats. Grus was unlikely to come after him in any of those places. In spite of his fears, Grus didn’t come after him.
The moncats fascinated Sosia as much as they did Lanius. She went to see them and play with them whenever she could. They soon became as used to her as they were to him. For one brief moment, that made him jealous—after all, Yaropolk had given Iron and Bronze to him. Then he thought about it and laughed at himself. He could imagine a lot of worse reasons to be jealous of his wife than that his pets also liked her.
He’d taken her into the archives, too, not long after they were wed. The great chamber full of books and scrolls and sheets of parchment proved to interest her not at all. She could read and write. She wasn’t stupid; Lanius had seen that almost at once. But Avornis’ past was a closed door to her. and she didn’t care to open it. He was disappointed, but he knew things could have been much worse.
Spider and Snitch grew by leaps and bounds—literally. When they first came into the world, they clung to Bronze’s fur and to her limbs all the time. They had to. Like any kittens, they were born with their eyes closed. Once they began to see, once their arms and legs and tiny almost-clawed hands began to gain some cunning…
Spider, in particular, seemed determined to kill himself before he grew up. Nothing fazed him, not even things that should have. He took dizzying leaps. Every so often, one of them proved too dizzying, and he would land on the carpeted floor of his room with a splat. He seemed to think that was funny. Up till then, Lanius had never imagined an animal with a sense of humor, but he was convinced Spider had one. The moncat would scramble up to the same perch and fall down in the same way two or three times in a row. Sometimes he would miss leaps he should have made, and miss seemingly on purpose, just for the fun of it.
He would beg for treats, as solemnly as any beggar on the streets of the city of Avornis. He would sit there and stare up at Lanius or Sosia with solemn eyes—bluer than Bronze’s—and hold out his little hands, palms up. Or he would stand on his head and hold out his. little gripping feet, soles up. Upside down and right side up were all one to him.
Snitch was more direct. She didn’t beg very often—she stole. That was how she’d gotten her name. She was good at it, too. She soon learned in which pocket Lanius carried the treats he gave the moncats. After that, those treats weren’t safe anymore. She would reach in with any of four hands, filch what she wanted, and then scramble up high where Lanius couldn’t catch her and take back the bits of dried meat. At least half the time, she picked Lanius’ pocket without his being any the wiser. The first he would know that she’d struck again would be the sight of her streaking to one of those high perches to enjoy what she’d won.
She could easily outclimb Lanius. Staying away from Spider—and from Bronze—wasn’t so simple. Unlike a mere human, her brother and her mother were as spry as she was. She had to eat fast or risk losing her gains and getting bitten.
Once Sosia watched her scamper away with a treat—this one given, not stolen—only to have Spider jump on her, thrash her, and take it away. To Lanius’ amazement, his wife left the moncats’ room in tears. He didn’t dare ask her what was wrong. That night, as they lay down and began to drift toward sleep, she said, out of the blue, “That reminded me too much of the way my brother and I were when we were little.”
“What did?” Then Lanius realized what she had to be talking about. “Oh!” he exclaimed.
Sosia nodded. “Yes. Ortalis could be… a handful.”
As far as Lanius was concerned, Ortalis remained a handful. He had taken Ortalis’ measure early on, and had as little to do with Grus’ son as he could. To his relief, that seemed to suit Ortalis, too. The prince showed no interest in affairs of the kingdom—only in his own affairs with an endless stream of serving women. Some he dropped when they began to bore him, which didn’t usually take long. Some abandoned him. A couple abandoned the palace and disappeared into the city or left for the provinces. Lanius wondered what Ortalis could have done to make them leave a situation they could hardly hope to improve upon. He never asked Ortalis—and the maidservants, of course, were no longer there to be asked.
King Dagipert, predictably, roared over the border. Grus’ response struck Lanius as tepid. His co-ruler sent horsemen out to harass the invading Thervings, but ordered his commanders not to try to bring on a general battle.
“Why don’t you want to fight them?” Lanius asked. “Didn’t you get summoned here as Avornis’ protector?”
“Yes, and I need to keep an army to be able to do any protecting,” Grus answered irritably. “Trying to deal with Dagipert and Corvus together is more than twice as hard as dealing with either one of the bastards by himself. Some of the soldiers I could use to fight the Thervings have gone over to Corvus, and they won’t follow my orders. And I can’t use all the men who are loyal to me to fight against that rebel bastard, or else Dagipert will ride roughshod over us again. Do you see what I’m saying, Your Majesty?”
In his mouth, Lanius’ royal title somehow became one of reproach. And, regretfully, Lanius had to nod, for he did see. “Corvus wouldn’t have rebelled against me,” he said.
“Maybe you’re right. On the other hand, maybe you’re not. Corvus wants to do what Corvus wants to do, first, last, and always. And Corax is just as bad.” Grus gave Lanius a sour stare. “I do hate to remind you, Your Majesty, but I never would have reached for the throne in the first place if your mother hadn’t come much too close to murdering me.”
Maybe he was right about whether he would have reached for the throne. On the other hand, maybe he wasn’t.
Grus went on, “I’m sure you don’t care about what happened to me.” Before Lanius could even try to deny it, the other king added, “Think about this, though—if your mother had slain me by sorcery, what do you suppose would have happened to Sosia right afterward?”
Lanius hadn’t contemplated that. Now he did. What would his mother have done to the kinsfolk of someone she’d toppled? He didn’t know, not for certain, but the histories he’d read offered several possibilities—none of them pretty. He thought about some of those things happening to his wife. He wasn’t head over heels in love with her, but he was fond of her. Imagining a couple of those things… His stomach flip-flopped. He turned away.
Grus’ voice pursued him. “You see what I mean. This isn’t a game, Your Majesty, or if it is, I’m playing for my life. And do bear one other thing in mind, if you please.”
“What’s that?” Lanius asked.
“I’m playing for yours, too,” Grus answered.
“Well, well,” Grus said to the smiling cavalry officer who stood before him. “I remember you, Colonel Hirundo. You’ve come up in the world a bit since we played hammer and anvil with the Menteshe.” Zangrulf had said the same thing to him.