“What was it… like?” Otus echoed, frowning. “It was… dark. I was… stupid. I still feel stupid. So much I don’t know. So much I ought to know. You say—all you people say—someone did this to me?”
“The Banished One,” Lanius said. “The Menteshe call him the Fallen Star.”
“Oh.” Otus’ frown remained, but now showed awe rather than puzzlement or annoyance. “The Fallen Star. Yes. I would see him in… in dreams they were. All thralls would. He was bright. Nothing in our lives was bright. But the Fallen Star… The Fallen Star made everything shine inside our heads.”
Did he mean that literally? Or was he trying to express something that didn’t lend itself to words? Lanius tried to get him to say more, but he wouldn’t. Maybe he couldn’t. The king asked, “How do you feel about the Banished One now?”
Yet another sort of frown from Otus, this one the kind a thoughtful man might use before speaking. “I feel… free of him,” the—former?—thrall said at last. “He has nothing to do with me anymore.”
“And how does that make you feel?” Lanius asked.
“Glad,” Otus said simply. “I am not an ox. I am not a donkey I am a man. Here, I can be a man. Before, I never knew what it meant to be a man.”
“Would you fight against the Banished One if you had the chance?”
“Give me a sword. Give me a spear.” Otus frowned thoughtfully again. “I stand here. I talk to you. I say what I think. When I do that, I fight the Fallen Star. Is it not so, Your Majesty?”
“I think it is,” Lanius answered. The thrall spoke against the Banished One. By all appearances, Otus was indeed cured of the exiled god’s baneful influence. But how much were those appearances worth? Below them, was the Banished One still watching and listening and laughing? Lanius didn’t know. He couldn’t tell. He wasn’t altogether sure whether Pterocles, for all his skill, could tell, either. That being so, he knew he wouldn’t trust Otus’ cure any time soon.
Grus read the letter from the south with a satisfaction he could hardly disguise. “You know what this says?” he asked the courier.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man answered. “I had to read it, in case it came to grief while I traveled.”
“Good.” Grus nodded. “Now—do you know anything more than what’s written here?”
“I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but I don’t,” the courier said. “I’ve never been down near the Stura. I only brought this the last thirty miles.”
“All right.” Grus did his best to hide his disappointment. “The news in here”—he tapped the parchment—“is plain enough, anyhow.”
He dismissed the courier and summoned General Hirundo. When Hirundo walked into the audience chamber, he looked grumpy. “Did it have to be right now, Your Majesty?” He sounded grumpy, too. “You spoiled what might have been a tender moment with a maidservant. She was certainly tender, and I didn’t have to do much more to get her to say yes.”
“This is more important than fooling around with a woman,” Grus declared.
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Hirundo’s words were perfectly obedient. Only a raised eyebrow reminded Grus of Alauda and all the other women the general might not happen to know about.
Grus felt himself redden. He passed Hirundo the letter that had just come up from the south. “Here,” he said. “See for yourself.”
Hirundo started the letter with the same perfect but sarcastic obedience he’d used to answer the king. He didn’t get very far, though, before the sarcasm disappeared. “Well, well,” he said when he was through. “You were right. Every once in a while, the gods do answer a prayer, don’t they?”
“I was thinking something along those very same lines, as a matter of fact,” Grus replied. “We couldn’t have asked King Olor for anything much nicer than a real civil war between Sanjar and Korkut.”
The general tapped the letter with his index finger. “Sounds like they’re going at it hammer and tongs, too.”
“Who do you suppose will win?” Grus asked.
“Beats me,” Hirundo said cheerfully. “Let’s sit back and drink some wine and watch and find out.”
“I don’t intend to do anything else,” Grus said. “I hope they spend the next five years smashing away at each other, and that all the other Menteshe jump into the fight and jump on each other, too. That way, with a little luck, they’ll stay too busy to bother Avornis. And after what they did to us this past year, we can use the time to heal.”
“If I could tell you you were wrong, that would mean we were stronger than we really are,” Hirundo said.
“We’ll have to strengthen the river-galley fleet on the Stura,” Grus said. “I was going to do that anyway, but now it’s especially important. I don’t want the Menteshe getting distracted from their own fight to go after us.”
Hirundo gave him a brisk nod. “Makes sense. You do most of the time, Your Majesty.” He paused, then added, “So does Lanius, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, so he does,” Grus admitted, a little uncomfortably. The more sense Lanius showed, the more worrisome he became. He also became more valuable to the kingdom; Grus consoled himself with that.
“With the Menteshe busy playing games among themselves, what do you aim to do about the Chernagors?” Hirundo asked.
“You’re thinking along with me. Either that means you make sense, too, or else we’re both crazy the same way,” the king said. Hirundo laughed. So did Grus, although he hadn’t been kidding, or at least not very much. He went on, “If Korkut and Sanjar are still bashing each other over the head come spring, I do aim to go north. We’ll never have a better chance to take Nishevatz without distractions from the south— or from the Banished One.”
“You’ll make Prince Vsevolod happy,” the general observed.
“I know.” Grus heaved a sigh. “I suppose I’ll have to do it anyhow.” Again, Hirundo laughed. Again, so did Grus. Again, though, he hadn’t been kidding, or at least not very much.
Lanius was pleased with himself as he walked back toward the royal bedchamber. He’d had a good day in the archives, coming up with a map of Nishevatz as it had been when it was the Avornan city of Medeon. Vsevolod, no doubt, would laugh at the map and go on about how much things had changed. But no one had been able to get Vsevolod to sit down and draw his own map of Nishevatz. Even old clues were better than no clues at all.
He opened the door. Sosia was standing by the bed, about fifteen feet away. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said, smiling.
Instead of smiling back, she picked up a cup and flung it at him. “Sweetheart!” she screeched. The cup smashed against the wall, six inches to the left of his head. A sharp shard scored his cheek.
“What the—?” Lanius yelped.
Sosia grabbed another cup. She let fly again. This one smacked against the door, about six inches to the right of Lanius’ head. “Zenaida!” Sosia shouted. She had one more cup handy. She threw it without a moment’s hesitation.
This one was aimed dead center. But Lanius ducked.
Now he knew what the trouble was. “Stop that!” he said, straightening up. He hoped Sosia would. She was, after all, out of cups. But the brass tray on which they’d stood remained handy. A moment later, it clanged off the wall. She didn’t aim well, “Stop that!” Lanius said again.
“I told you to stop that after Cristata, and see how you listened to me,” Sosia retorted. Now the closest available thing to throw was a table. Sosia looked tempted, but she didn’t try it. She said, “Why did I ever let you touch me?”
“Because we’re married?” Lanius suggested.
“That hasn’t made any difference to you. Why should it make any to me?” Sosia said. “I thought you weren’t going to wander around like a dog in heat anymore, and—”