Hirundo’s grin got wider. “Whichever you’d rather, of course.”
“I’m prouder of staying on and even keeping up,” the king said. “This little band of Menteshe was nothing special—beating them was like cracking an egg with a sledgehammer. They’re scattered over the countryside, raiding and looting. Until they come together again, we’ll win some easy victories like this.”
“We want to win as many of them as we can, too, before they do come together,” his general said. “The more of them we can get rid of that way, the fewer we’ll have to worry about then.”
“I know. Believe me, I know,” Grus said. “And even if we do hit them hard, they spatter like quicksilver. We won’t always be able to pursue the way we did here, either. If we split up to go after them, they’re liable to jump us instead of the other way around.”
“Well, Your Majesty, you certainly do understand the problem,” Hirundo said. “Now if you can figure out a way to solve it…”
Grus grunted and leaned forward to pat the side of his horse’s neck. Avornans had understood the problem ever since the Menteshe boiled up from the south centuries before. The nomads, trained since childhood to ride and to tend their flocks, were simply better horsemen than the Avornans. Not only did they carry more powerful bows, but they could also cover more ground. If Avornis hadn’t had the advantage of numbers… Grus didn’t care to think about what might have happened then.
Forcing himself to look on the bright side instead, Grus said, “Well, we solved it here, anyhow.”
“So we did.” Hirundo nodded. “How many more times will we have to solve it, though, before we finally drive the Menteshe back over the Stura?”
“I don’t know,” Grus answered with a sigh. He didn’t even know yet whether the Avornans could drive Prince Ulash’s men back over the river this year. That was something else he preferred not to think about. With another sigh, he went on, “The other question is, how much damage will they do before we can throw them out? They haven’t mounted an invasion like this for years.”
“Yes, and we both know why, or think we do,” Hirundo said. The response made the king no happier. Up until recently, Ulash had seemed both reasonable and peaceable, qualities Grus wasn’t in the habit of associating with the Menteshe. But he and his folk reverenced the Banished One—the Fallen Star, they called him. If he told Ulash to cause trouble for Avornis, Ulash would—Ulash had—no matter how reasonable and peaceable he’d seemed for many years.
“I wonder…” Grus said slowly.
“What’s that, Your Majesty?” Hirundo asked.
“I wonder if we can do anything to persuade Ulash he’d be better off worshiping the gods in the heavens than the Banished One.”
“I doubt it.” Hirundo, a practical man, sounded like one. “If the Menteshe haven’t figured out who the true gods are yet, we can’t teach ’em.”
He was probably right, no matter how much Grus wished he were wrong. But things were more complicated than Hirundo realized. Bang Olor and Queen Quelea and the rest were undoubtedly the gods in the heavens. That made them stronger than the Banished One, yes. Whether it made him any less a true god… was yet another thing Grus would sooner not have contemplated.
That evening, drums boomed in the distance. Grus knew what that meant—the Menteshe were signaling back and forth across the miles. The drumbeats carried far better than horn calls could have. The king wondered what the nomads were saying with those kettledrums. He kicked at the dirt inside his tent. He’d served down in the south for years, but he hadn’t learned to make sense of the drums. He knew no Avornans who had. Too bad, he thought.
The drums went on all through the night. Grus woke several times, and each time heard them thudding and muttering, depending on how far off they were. Every time he woke, he had more trouble falling back to sleep.
“A letter from King Grus, Your Majesty,” a courier said, and handed King Lanius a rolled and sealed parchment.
“Thank you,” Lanius said in some surprise; he hadn’t expected anything from Grus. He broke the wax seal and opened the letter. King Grus to King Lanius — greetings, he read, and then, I wonder if you would be kind enough to do me a favor. Does anyone in the royal archives talk about the drum signals the Menteshe use? Does anyone know what the different signals mean? If you can find out, please let me know as quickly as possible. Many thanks for your help. A scrawled signature completed the letter.
“Is there an answer, Your Majesty?” the courier asked.
“Yes.” Lanius called for parchment, pen, and ink. King Lanius to Grus — greetings, he wrote; he still hesitated to admit that Grus deserved the royal title. But that reluctance didn’t keep him from continuing, I do not know of any records such as you request, but I have never looked for them, either. I will now, and as soon as I can I will let you know if I find what you want— and, for that matter, if I don’t. He signed the letter, sealed it with candle wax and his signet ring, and gave it to the courier. “Take this to Grus in the south. I want him to know I will give it my full attention.”
“Yes, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty.” The courier bowed and hurried away.
Lanius, bemused, headed straight for the archives. Grus had never asked him for information before. He wondered if he could come up with it. He hoped he could. No Avornan could think of the southern provinces being ravaged without cringing. Lanius might still wish Grus didn’t wear the crown. That had nothing to do with whether he wanted Grus to drive the Menteshe out of the kingdom.
“Drum signals,” Lanius muttered. He knew where a lot of old parchments that had to do with the Menteshe in one way or another were stored. Maybe he could find what Grus wanted in among them.
He spent the rest of the day trying, but had no luck. He did discover there were even more documents in those crates than he’d thought. He vanished back into the archives after breakfast, and didn’t come out again until suppertime.
When he disappeared early the following morning, too, Sosia called after him, “I hope I’ll see you again before too long.”
“That’s right,” answered Lanius, who’d only half heard her. Sosia laughed and shook her head; she’d seen such fits take her husband before.
He found the best light he could in the archives. No one ever did a proper job of cleaning the skylights far above, which left the dusty daylight in there all the more wan and shirting. Lanius had complained about that before. He wondered whether complaining again would do any good. He had his doubts.
Then he started going through the parchments once more, and forgot about skylights and everything else but the work at hand. He had no trouble finding parchments mentioning the Menteshe drums. The Avornans hadn’t needed long to realize the nomads didn’t pound them for amusement alone. But what they meant? That was a different question.
The more Lanius read, the more annoyed he got. Why hadn’t his countrymen paid more attention to the drums? More than a few of them, traders and soldiers, had learned the spoken and written language of the Menteshe. Why hadn’t anyone bothered to learn their drum signals? Or, if someone had, why hadn’t he bothered to write them down?
Lanius kept plugging away. He learned all sorts of interesting things about the Menteshe, things he’d never known or things he’d seen once before and then forgotten. He learned the commands a Menteshe used with a draft horse. Those fascinated him, but they had nothing to do with what Grus wanted.