“I told Vsevolod I wanted to ask him things,” Lanius said. “Didn’t he believe me?”
“Nobody who’s never met you believes how many questions you can ask,” Grus said. “But that isn’t what I wanted to talk to you about. I’ve got some questions of my own.”
“Go ahead.” Lanius realized Grus wouldn’t have come here to talk about monkeys. The other king did show some interest in Lanius’ beasts, but not enough for that. “What do you want to know?”
Grus let out a long sigh. “What about my son?”
Lanius had known this was coming. He hadn’t expected it so soon. “What about him?”
“Don’t play games with me.” Grus seldom showed Lanius how dangerous he could be. The impatient snap to that handful of words, though, warned of trouble ahead if he didn’t get a straight answer.
“Have you spoken with a serving girl named Cristata yet?” Lanius asked.
“Cristata? No.” Again, Grus sounded thoroughly grim. “What does she say? How bad is it this time?”
Lanius reached around to pat himself on the back of the shoulder. “I don’t think those scars will go away. I don’t know what other marks she has—this was what she showed me.”
“Oh,” Grus said, and then nothing more.
He was silent long enough, in fact, to make Lanius ask, “Is that all?”
“That’s all I’m going to say to you,” King Grus answered. But then he shook his head. “No. I have a question I think you can answer. Is this Cristata the same girl I heard about when I was up in the land of the Chernagors?”
“I… don’t know,” Lanius said carefully.
His father-in-law heard him speaking carefully, which he hadn’t intended. Frowning, Grus asked, “What do you think?”
“I think that, since I don’t know, I wouldn’t be doing anyone any good by guessing.”
By the way Grus cocked his head to one side, Lanius feared his real opinion was only too evident. But the older man didn’t press him on it. “Fair enough, Your Majesty. I daresay you’re right. The world would be a better place if people didn’t guess and gossip so much. It might be a duller place, but it would be better.” Again, he paused for so long, Lanius thought he’d finished. Again, Lanius proved wrong. Grus went on, “Never mind. One way or the other, I’ll find out.”
Lanius didn’t like the sound of that. He suspected he would have liked it even less if he were Ortalis.
King Grus turned to go. Over his shoulder, he said, “Have fun with your creatures. Believe me, they don’t cause nearly as much trouble as people do.” Before Lanius could answer that, Grus left the room.
With no one else there, Lanius naturally turned toward the monkeys, saying, “Do you think he’s right?” The monkeys didn’t answer. They certainly made less trouble than a human audience, which might have given Lanius some reply he didn’t want to hear. Laughing, the king went on, “I bet you wish you could make more trouble. You make plenty when you get the chance.”
Still no answer from the monkeys. Lanius took from his belt a small, slim knife. That got the animals’ attention. They chattered excitedly and swarmed down from the branches. One of them tugged at Lanius’ robe. They both held out beseeching little hands, as a human beggar might have.
He laughed. “Think I’ve got something, do you? Well… you’re right.” He had a couple of peeled hard-boiled eggs he’d brought from the kitchens. The monkeys loved eggs, and healers assured Lanius they were good for them. Healers assured Lanius of all sorts of things he found unlikely. He believed some and ignored others. Here, because the monkeys not only enjoyed the eggs but flourished on them, he chose to believe.
He cut a slice from an egg and gave it to the male, who stuffed it into his mouth. One ancient archival record spoke of teaching monkeys table manners. Lanius had trouble believing that, too. He gave the female some egg. She ate it even faster than the male—if she hesitated, he was liable to steal it from her. Lanius had tried withholding egg from him when he did that, but he didn’t understand. It just infuriated him.
Today, the monkeys seemed in the mood for affection. One of them wrapped its little hand around Lanius’ thumb as he scratched it behind the ears with his other hand. The expression on the monkey’s face looked very much like the one Lanius would have worn had someone done a nice job of scratching his back. He knew he shouldn’t read too much into a monkey’s grin. Sometimes, though, he couldn’t help it.
Prince Ortalis shuffled his feet. He stared down at the floor mosaic. He might have been a schoolboy who’d gotten caught pulling the wings off flies. Back when he was younger, he had been a schoolboy who’d gotten caught pulling the wings off flies. “Well?” Grus growled in disgust. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
“/don’t know,” Ortalis answered sullenly. “I don’t really want to do things like that. Sometimes I just can’t help it.”
Grus believed him. If he could have helped it, he wouldn’t have done—Grus hoped he wouldn’t have done—a lot of the things he undoubtedly had. But, while that explained, it didn’t justify. “I warned you what would happen if you ever did anything like this again,” Grus said heavily.
Ortalis only sneered at him. Grus feared he understood that all too well. He’d warned his legitimate son about a lot of things. He’d warned him, and then failed to follow through on the warnings. No wonder Ortalis didn’t believe he ever would.
“How am I supposed to get it through your thick, nasty head that I mean what I tell you?” Grus demanded. “I know one way, by the gods.”
“What’s that?” Ortalis was still sneering. He might as well have said, You can’t make me do anything.
He looked almost comically surprised when his father slapped him in the face. “This—and I should have done it a long time ago,” Grus said, breathing hard.
“You can’t do that,” Ortalis blurted in disbelief.
“Oh, yes, I can.” Grus slapped him again. “It’s not a hundredth part of what you did to those girls. How do you like getting it instead of giving it.”
Ortalis’ eyes went so wide, Grus could see white all around his irises. Then, cursing as foully as any river-galley sailor, Ortalis hurled himself at Grus. His churning fists thudded against his father’s ribs. “I’ll murder you, you stinking son of a whore!” he screamed.
“Go ahead and try.” Grus ducked a punch that would have flattened his nose. Ortalis’ fist connected with the top of his head. That hurt his son more than it did him. Ortalis howled. Grus hit him in the pit of the stomach. The howl cut off as Ortalis battled to breathe.
He kept fighting even after that. He had courage, of a sort. What he lacked was skill. Grus had learned to fight in a hard school. Ortalis, who’d had things much easier in his life, had never really learned at all. His father gave him a thorough, professional beating.
At last, Ortalis threw up his hands and wailed. “Enough, Father! In the names of the gods, enough! Please!”
Grus stood over him, breathing hard. The king’s fists stayed clenched. He willed them open. If you don’t stop now, you’ll beat him to death, he told himself. Part of him wanted to. Realizing that was what made him back away from his son.
“All right,” he said, his voice boulders in his throat. “All right. Get up.”
“I—I don’t think I can.”
“You can,” Grus ground out. “I know what I did to you. I know what I should have done to you, too—what you really deserved. And so do you.”
Ortalis didn’t try to argue with him. Keeping quiet was one of the smarter things his son had ever done. Had he denied what Grus said, Grus might have started hitting him again, and might not have been able to stop. Tears and blood and snot smeared across his face, Ortalis struggled upright.