“I will give you a guarantee,” Duqaq broke in. “I will give you a guarantee Er-Tash is lying, and Korkut is lying, too.”
“Oh?” Again, Grus carefully didn’t smile, though he felt like it. “Does Sanjar want peace with Avornis? If he does, what guarantees will he give? We need guarantees. We have seen we cannot always trust the Menteshe.” He went no further than that. What he wanted to say about the Banished One would only anger both ambassadors.
“Sanjar wants peace,” Duqaq said. “Sanjar will pay tribute to have peace.”
“And try to steal it back again!” Er-Tash burst out. Duqaq snarled at him, no doubt because he’d told nothing but the truth.
“What will Korkut give?” Grus asked Duqaq.
“He too will pay tribute,” Korkut’s ambassador replied, at which Er-Tash laughed loud and long. Flushing under his swarthy skin, Duqaq went on, “And he will also give hostages, so you may be sure his intentions are good.”
“You may be sure he will cheat, giving men of no account who— whom—who he says are important,” Er-Tash said.
“Will Sanjar give hostages?” Grus asked. If he had hostages from the Menteshe, they might think twice about attacking Avornis. Money, he was sure, would not give him nearly as big an advantage.
Reluctantly, Er-Tash nodded. Now Duqaq was the one who laughed a raucous laugh. Er-Tash said, “Shut your fool’s mouth, you son of a backscuttling sheep.” The insult had to be translated literally from his own tongue; Grus had never heard it in Avornan. Duqaq answered in the Menteshe language. The rival envoys snapped at each other for a minute or two.
At last, Duqaq turned away from the quarrel and toward King Grus.
“You see, Your Majesty,” he said. “You will get no more from the rebel and traitor than you will from Prince Korkut, so you should recognize him.”
“You will get no more from the robber and usurper than you will from Prince Sanjar, so you should recognize him,” Er-Tash said.
They both waited to hear what Grus would say. He thought for a little while, then spoke. “As long as two sons of Ulash claim to be Prince of Yoxgat, I will not recognize either of them—unless one attacks Avornis. Then I will recognize the other, and do all I can to help him. When you have settled your own problems, I will recognize the prince you have chosen, however you do that. Until then, I am neutral—unless one of your principals attacks my kingdom, as I said.”
Duqaq said, “Sanjar’s rogues will attack you and make it look as though my master’s followers did the wicked deed.”
“You blame Sanjar for what Korkut plans himself,” Er-Tash said.
Again, they started shouting at each other in their own language. “Enough!” Grus said. “Too much, in fact. I dismiss you both, and order you to keep the peace as long as you stay in Avornis.”
“When we cross the Stura, this is a dead dog.” Er-Tash pointed to Duqaq.
“A mouse dreams of being a lion,” Duqaq jeered.
“Dismissed, I said!” Grus was suddenly sick of both of them. They left the throne room. Avornan guards had to rush in to keep the men from their retinues from going at one another as they were leaving.
But no matter how severe Grus’ expression while the rival Menteshe embassies were there to see it, the king smiled a broad and cheerful smile as soon as they were gone. Nothing pleased him more than strife among his foes.
Zenaida pouted prettily at King Lanius. “You don’t love me anymore,” the serving girl complained.
I never loved you, Lanius thought. I had a good time with you, and either you had a good time with me or you’re a better actress than I think you are. But that isn’t love, even if it can be a start. He hadn’t known as much when he fell for Cristata. Grus had been right, even if Lanius hated to admit it.
He had to answer Zenaida. “I’ve been busy,” he said—the same weak reply men have given lovers for as long as men have taken lovers.
This time, Zenaida’s pout wasn’t as pretty. “Busy with who?”
“Nobody,” he answered, which was true, as long as he didn’t count his wife.
The maidservant tossed her head. “Ha!” she said. “A likely story! You’ve found somebody else. You took advantage of me, and now you throw me aside?” She’d been at least as much seducer as seduced—so Lanius remembered it, anyhow. He didn’t suppose he should have been surprised to find she recalled it differently. She went on, “If Queen Sosia ever found out about what was going on…”
“If Queen Sosia ever finds out, my life will be very unpleasant,” Lanius said, and Zenaida smirked. He added, “But if she finds out from you, you will go straight to the Maze, and you won’t come out again. Not ever. Is that plain enough?”
“Uh…” Zenaida’s smirk vanished. Lanius could all but read her mind. Did he have the power to do what he threatened? Would he be angry enough to do it if he could? He could see her deciding he did and he would. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said in a very small voice.
“All right, then,” Lanius said. “Was there anything else?”
“No, Your Majesty,” she whispered.
“Good,” Lanius said.
Zenaida wasn’t pouting as she walked away from him. She was scowling, black as midnight. He sighed. An affair with love had complications. Now he discovered an affair without love had them, too. She thought he’d taken advantage of her, or said she did.
I’ll give her a present, Lanius thought. With luck, that would sweeten her. He’d have to do it in such a way that he didn’t look to be paying her for whoring. He nodded to himself. He could manage that.
Another problem solved, or so it seemed. He walked through the corridors of the palace suite smiling to himself. He liked solving problems. He liked few things better, in fact.
Guards came to stiff attention as he approached. He waved for them to stand at ease and asked, “How is Otus?”
“He’s fine, Your Majesty,” one of the guardsmen answered. “Couldn’t be better, as far as I can see. You wouldn’t know he was ever a thrall, not hardly you wouldn’t.”
“Bring him out,” Lanius said. “I’d like to talk to him.”
The guardsmen saluted. One of them unbarred the door, which could only be done from the outside. The guards kept their weapons ready. No matter how normal Otus acted, they didn’t completely trust him. Lanius could hardly quarrel with them on that score, not with what he knew about “cured” thralls from years gone by.
But things had changed for the man on whom Pterocles had worked his magic. When the door to Otus’ room opened, no thick barnyard reek poured out. Nor was Otus himself encrusted with ground-in filth. He looked like an ordinary Avornan, and was as clean as any of the guards. He’d been bathed and barbered and had his shaggy beard trimmed. His clothes were of the same sort as palace servants wore.
He’d learned enough to bow to the king without being told. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.
“Hello, Otus,” Lanius said. The thrall hadn’t even had a name before they gave him one. “How are you today?”
“Just fine, thanks,” replied the man brought up from the south. His accent didn’t just sound southern. It sounded old-fashioned, and was the one thing that could have placed Otus to the far side of the Stura. Thralls didn’t speak much, and their way of speaking had changed little since the Menteshe overran their lands. Over the past centuries, the currents of Avornan had run on without them. Though born a thrall, Otus had learned hundreds, maybe thousands, of new words since the shadow was lifted from his mind, but he spoke them all with his old accent.
“Glad to hear it,” Lanius told him. “What was it like, being a thrall?”