Sosia hurried up to Lanius. Some strong emotion was on her face. Had she found out he’d been dallying with serving women again? He didn’t want to go through another row.
But instead of screaming at him or trying to slap his face, Sosia burst out, “He does! Oh, Lanius, he does!”
Lanius knew he was gaping foolishly. He couldn’t help himself. “Who does?” he inquired. “And, for that matter, who does what?”
She stared at him as though he should have understood at once what she was talking about. “My brother,” she answered with a grimace. “And he does… what you’d expect.”
“Are you sure?” Lanius grimaced, too. That was very unwelcome news. “Ortalis is hurting serving girls again, even though he’s hunting? Even though he’s got a wife?”
“No, no, no!” Sosia’s expression said she’d been right the first time— he was an idiot. “He’s hurting Limosa.”
“You’re crazy.” The words were out of Lanius’ mouth before he had the chance to regret them. Even then, only part of him did regret them, for he went on, “I saw her yesterday. She looked as happy as a moncat with a lizard to chase. She’s looked—and sounded—that way ever since they got married. I don’t know why, but she has. She loves your brother, Sosia. She’s not pretending. Nobody’s that good an actress. And he does go out hunting. If he were hurting her, she could come to you or to me or to Anser and scream her head off. She hasn’t. She doesn’t need to do it, yes?”
“I don’t know.” Now his wife looked confused.
“What exactly do you know? And how do you know it?”
“I know Limosa’s got scars on her back, the same sort of scars… the same sort of scars Ortalis has put on other girls,” Sosia answered. Lanius grimaced again, remembering Cristata’s ravaged back. Sosia’s eyes said she noticed him remembering, and knew he was remembering the rest of Cristata, too. But she visibly pushed that aside for the time being and continued, “And I know because a serving woman happened to walk in on Limosa while she was bathing. She doesn’t usually let any servants attend her then, and that’s strange all by itself.”
The king nodded; it was unusual. Did it mean Limosa had scars she didn’t want anyone to see? Try as he would, he couldn’t think of anything else.
“But Limosa hasn’t said anything about this?” he asked.
“No.” Sosia shook her head. “She chased the maidservant away, and she’s been going on as though nothing happened ever since.”
“I wonder if the maid was wrong, or if she was making it up,” Lanius said.
“No,” Sosia repeated. “I know Zenaida. She wouldn’t. She’s reliable.”
“Well, so she is,” Lanius agreed, his voice as expressionless as he could make it. He wondered what Sosia would have called the serving woman had she known he was sleeping with her. Something other than reliable, he was sure.
He went through the palace the next morning looking for Limosa, and naturally didn’t find her. Then, after he’d given up, he came around a corner and almost bumped into her. She dropped him a curtsy, saying, “Hello, Your Majesty.”
“Hello, Your Highness.” Lanius had almost gotten used to calling Limosa by the title. He’d also paid her a bigger compliment than that— he’d almost forgotten she was Petrosus’ daughter. “How are you today?”
Her smile lit up her face. She wasn’t a beautiful woman, but when she smiled it was easy to forget she wasn’t. “I’m very well, Your Majesty, very well indeed. I hope you are, too.”
“Pretty well, anyhow,” Lanius said.
“Good. I’m so glad to hear it.” That wasn’t, or didn’t sound like, simple courtesy alone; it sounded as though Limosa meant it. “If you’ll excuse me…”
“Of course,” Lanius said. She smiled again, even more brightly than before. Fluttering her fingers at him, she hurried down the hall, her skirt rustling at each step.
She was radiant. That was the only word Lanius could find. And she’s supposed to bear the mark of the lash on her back? The king shook his head. He couldn’t believe it. He didn’t believe it. He didn’t know what Zenaida thought she’d seen. Whatever it was, he was convinced she’d gotten it wrong.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Pelagonia’s iron-shod gates swung open. The Avornan defenders on the wall—soldiers of the garrison in helmets and mailshirts, armed with swords and spears and heavy bows, plus a good many militiamen in leather jerkins, armed with daggers and with hunting bows good for knocking over rabbits and squirrels but with no range or punch to speak of—cheered Grus and his army as he led it into the town.
He waved back to the men who’d held Pelagonia against the Menteshe. He pasted a smile on his face. His heart pounded as though he were storming Yozgat and driving Prince Ulash from his throne. That had nothing to do with Pelagonia itself, so he didn’t want the people here noticing anything amiss. It had everything to do with one woman who’d come—been sent—to live here.
He wanted to see Alca as soon as he got the chance. And yet, he would be quietly setting up housekeeping with Alauda while he stayed here. He recognized the inconsistency. Recognizing it and doing anything about it were two different beasts.
A baron named Spizastur commanded in Pelagonia. He was a big, bluff fellow with gray eyes and a red face—an even redder nose, one that suggested he put down a lot of wine. “Greetings, Your Majesty!” he boomed. “Mighty good to see you, and that’s the truth!” Was he drunk? Not in any large, showy way, anyhow, though he did talk too loud.
“Good to be here,” the king replied.
“I’m not sorry to see the last of those thieving devils,” Spizastur declared, again louder than he needed to. “Been a long time since they came this far north. Won’t be sorry if I never see ’em again, either.”
Grus knew it was far from certain Pelagonia had seen the last of the Menteshe. He didn’t say that to Spizastur. It would only have disheartened the noble and the soldiers who’d held Prince Ulash’s men out of the city. He did say, “I hope you have billets for my men—and a place for me to stay.”
“Billets for some, anyhow,” Spizastur replied. “This isn’t the big city, where you can fit in a great host and never notice. For you yourself, Your Majesty, I’ve got rooms in the keep.”
“I thank you.” Grus would sooner have stayed with some rich merchant—odds were that would have been more comfortable. But he couldn’t tell Spizastur no. “I have a… lady friend with me,” he murmured.
“Do you?” The local commander didn’t seem surprised. “I’ll see to it.”
Grus didn’t pay much attention to Alauda until that evening. He was busy with Spizastur and Hirundo, planning where the army would go next and what it would try to do. And he kept hoping Alca would come to the keep.
Alauda yawned as the two of them got ready for bed. She said, “I need to tell you something.”
“What is it?” Grus, his mind partly on the campaign and partly on Alca, paid little attention to the widowed barmaid he’d brought along on a whim.
But she found half a dozen words to make him pay attention. “I’m going to have a baby,” she said. Any man who hears those words, especially from a woman not his wife, will pay attention to them.
“Are you sure?” Grus asked—the timeworn, and foolish, common response to such news.
She nodded, unsurprised. “Yes, I’m positive. My courses should have come, and they haven’t. My breasts are tender”—Grus had noticed that—“and I’m sleepy all the time. I had a baby girl, but she died young, poor thing. I know the signs.”