Half an hour later, they came out of the chamber—Zenaida first, then Lanius, who was still setting his clothes to rights. He blew the maidservant a kiss as she went off on whatever business he’d interrupted when he smelled the sandalwood perfume. Laughing a happy little laugh, she fluttered her fingers at him and disappeared around a corner.
“Oh. The archives.” Lanius had to remind himself where he’d been going when he smelled Zenaida’s perfume. He suspected he wore a silly grin as he opened the doors that let him in and closed them behind him.
He sat down and started poking through old tax registers. After a moment, he realized he was paying no attention to them. Now he laughed. Thinking about Zenaida’s smooth, creamy skin, about the way she arched her back and moaned when pleasure took her, was more fun than finding out how many sheep villagers two hundred years dead had claimed they owned.
Thinking about that also made him realize he’d enjoyed lying with her as much as he ever had with Cristata. He wondered what that meant. Actually, he had a pretty good idea. It meant what he’d thought was love for the other serving woman had probably been nothing but satisfaction.
Grus had told him as much not long after sending Cristata off to a provincial town. Lanius hadn’t wanted to listen. Now… Now he had to admit to himself (he never would have admitted it to Grus) that his father-in-law had been right. Making love with Zenaida had taught him more than he’d imagined when he first sniffed sandalwood.
And not only had he learned something about himself, he’d also learned something about Grus. The other king got high marks for cleverness. Lanius also had a better idea why Grus sometimes bedded other women. Sosia wouldn’t care for that bit of insight, or how he’d gotten it. Neither would Estrilda. Lanius shrugged. He had it, come what might.
Another tall-masted, high-pooped ship burned in the waters off Nishevatz. It lit up the night. The Chernagors had quit trying to resupply the city during the day; Pterocles’ magic made that impossibly expensive. They’d tried to sneak the merchantman past the wizard under cover of darkness. They’d tried, they’d failed, and now they were paying the price—he’d found that setting ships alight with sorcerously projected ordinary fire worked at night as well as using sunlight did in the daytime.
Standing beside King Grus, Prince Vsevolod folded his big, bony hands into fists. “Cook!” he shouted out to the sailors aboard the burning ship. “You help my son, the scum, you get what you deserve. Cook!”
“I think we’re getting somewhere, Your Highness,” Grus said.
“I know where I want to get.” Vsevolod turned to the gray stone walls of Nishevatz, now bathed in flickering red and gold. “And I know what I want to do. I want to get hands on son.”
“What would you do with Vasilko if you had him?” Grus asked.
“Make him remember who is rightful Prince of Nishevatz,” Vsevolod answered, which didn’t go into detail but did sound more than a little menacing.
“I wonder how much food they’ve got in there,” Grus said in musing tones. “Maybe not so much, if they thought they could bring in fresh supplies whenever they needed them. They’re going to get hungry by and by, if they aren’t hungry already.”
Vsevolod shook his fist at the city-state he’d ruled for so many years. “Starve!” he shouted angrily. “Let them all starve. I take bodies out, bury in fields, raise cabbages from them. Then I bring in new people, honest people—not thieves who take away crown from honest man.”
Grus didn’t argue with him. He’d long since seen there was no point to arguing with Vsevolod. The exiled prince knew what he knew, or thought he knew what he knew, and didn’t care to change his mind.
Sure enough, Vsevolod demanded, “How soon we attack Nishevatz?”
“When we’re sure the defenders are too hungry and too weak to put up much of a fight,” Grus answered. “We fought too soon and too hard year before last, if you’ll remember. We want to win when we go in.”
Vsevolod made a noise down deep in his chest. It wasn’t agreement, or anything even close to agreement. The prince sounded like a lion balked of its prey. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to spring and leap and kill.
Grus also wanted Nishevatz. What he didn’t want was to pay a crippling price for the Chernagor city-state. He’d done worse than that on his earlier campaign against it—he’d paid a high price and failed to take the place. Another embarrassment of that sort would be the last thing he—or Avornis—needed.
Vsevolod’s thinking ran along different lines. “When do you attack?” he asked again. “When is Nishevatz mine once more?”
“I told you, I’ll attack when I think I can win without bankrupting myself.”
“This is coward’s counsel,” Vsevolod complained.
“Oh?” King Grus sent him a cold stare. “How many men are you contributing to this attack, Your Highness?”
The deposed Prince of Nishevatz returned a glance full of fury—full of something not far from hate. “Traitors. My people are traitors,” he mumbled, and slowly and deliberately turned his back on Grus.
An Avornan who did something like that to his sovereign would find himself in trouble in short order. But Grus wasn’t Vsevolod’s sovereign. Vsevolod was, or had been, a sovereign in his own right. The way he acted in exile made Grus understand why the people of Nishevatz had been inclined to give Vasilko a chance to rule them. Since Vasilko relied on the Banished One for backing, that choice hadn’t been a good one. But Vsevolod hadn’t been the best of rulers, either.
Sighing, Grus wished he had some other choice besides Vsevolod or Vasilko to offer the Chernagors inside Nishevatz. But, as he knew all too well, he didn’t. If only Vsevolod had a long-lost brother or cousin, or Vasilko had a brother or even a bastard half brother. But they didn’t. Grus was stuck with one or the other—was, in effect, stuck with Vsevolod, since Vasilko had chosen the Banished One. The King of Avornis sighed again. In a poem, some other candidate for Prince of Nishevatz would turn up just when he was needed most. In real life, this bitter old man, no bargain himself, was the only tool that fit Grus’ hand.
“Traitors,” Vsevolod muttered again. He swung back toward Grus. “Your wizard can find way over wall, yes?”
“Maybe.” Grus wasn’t sure himself. “I’d better see, though.”
He sent a messenger to find Pterocles and bring the wizard to him. Pterocles came promptly enough. The wizard seemed more cheerful than he had since being felled in front of Nishevatz during the last siege. Succeeding with his spells had buoyed him, the same way a string of victories would have buoyed a general.
“What can I do for you, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Grus answered. “Prince Vsevolod has asked what you can do to help take Nishevatz away from Vasilko. It strikes me as a reasonable question.”
“Set walls afire, like you set ships afire,” Vsevolod said eagerly. “Roast Vasilko like saddle of mutton in oven.”
Pterocles shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I can’t manage that. The ships are wooden, and burn easily. I’m not wizard enough to set stone afire. I’m not sure any mortal could do that.” Maybe the Banished One could hung in the air, unspoken but almost palpable.
“Burn gates, in that case,” Vsevolod said, which was actually a good suggestion.
Grus looked at Pterocles. Pterocles looked toward the gates, which were of timbers heavily plated with iron. “Maybe,” the wizard said. “I could try, anyhow, when the sun comes out again. For that, I’d want the strongest, purest sorcery I can work, and sunlight is stronger and purer than earthly fire.” The day, like many around Nishevatz, was dim and overcast, with fog rolling in off the Northern Sea.