“This was different,” Lanius said. “It wasn’t like what it was with Cristata.”
“Oh? How was it different?” his wife inquired acidly. “Did you find a posture you hadn’t used before?”
Lanius’ ears heated. “No,” he said, which happened to be the truth, but which wasn’t the part of the truth he wanted to get across. “I meant, I didn’t fall in love with Zenaida, or anything like that.”
Sosia stared at him across the gulf separating men and women. “Queen Quelea’s mercy!” she exclaimed. “Then why did you bother?”
“Why did I bother?” Lanius stared back; the gulf was as wide from his side as from hers. “Because…” Because it’s fun, came to mind. So did, Because I could. Even from across the gulf, he could see neither of those would strike her as a good enough explanation. “Just because,” he said.
His wife rolled her eyes. “Men,” she said in tones that wished half the human race would tumble into the chasm separating the sexes and never be seen again. “And my own father is the same way.”
“Yes, he is a man,” Lanius said, although he knew that wasn’t what Sosia had meant. He also knew, or at least had strong suspicions, that Grus had found company for himself while campaigning in the south. He didn’t say anything about that. If Sosia or Estrilda found out about it, he didn’t want them finding out from him. He had to get along with his father-in-law, and didn’t want the other king to think he’d told tales out of school.
But Sosia only snapped, “Don’t you play the fool with me. You’re a lot of different things, and I’m not happy with any of them, but you’re not stupid, and you don’t do a good job of acting stupid. You know what I meant. You both lie down with sluts whenever you find the chance.”
Lanius stirred at that. He didn’t think of Cristata as a slut, or Zenaida. He also didn’t think of Alca the witch as one, and he was sure Grus didn’t, either. If you lay down with a woman who would lie down with anyone, what made you special? The other side of that coin was, if you lay down with any woman yourself, what would make you special and worth lying down with to some other woman? To that side of the coin, Lanius remained blind.
“I’m sorry,” he said, later than he should have.
It might not have done him any good even if he’d said it right away. “You’ve told me that before,” Sosia answered. “You’re sorry I found out. You’re not sorry you did it. And I thought I could count on Zenaida!” She didn’t say anything about counting on Lanius. That stung.
“I am sorry,” the king said, and more or less meant it. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” He did mean that.
“You didn’t want to get caught,” Sosia said. “But how did you think you wouldn’t? Everybody knows everything that happens in the palace, and everybody usually knows it in a hurry, too.”
“I’m sorry,” Lanius said for the third time. If he kept saying it, maybe she’d believe him sooner or later.
Or, then again, maybe she wouldn’t. She said, “Are you sorry enough to promise me you’ll never do it again?”
“With Zenaida? Yes, by the gods, I promise you that,” Lanius said at once. He’d begun to tire of the serving girl anyhow.
“Oh, I’ve taken care of Zenaida. She’s not in the palace anymore,” Sosia said. Lanius wondered if she’d sent Zenaida to the Maze, as he’d threatened to. He didn’t think she meant the maidservant was no longer among the living anymore. He hoped it didn’t; his quarrel with her hadn’t been anywhere near bad enough for him to want her dead. Meanwhile, though, his wife went on, “That wasn’t what I meant. I meant, you’ll never run around again with anyone else. Promise me that.”
Had he been Grus, he would have promised right away, knowing that his promise didn’t mean anything if he saw another pretty face. Lanius almost made the same sort of promise himself. He almost did, but a sort of stubborn honesty made him hesitate. He said, “How can anyone know the future?”
Sosia looked at him as though she’d found him smeared on the bottom of her shoe. “Do you know what your future will be like if you fool around with another slutty little maidservant?” she asked.
“Nasty,” Lanius answered. He had no doubt Sosia could make that kind of future very nasty indeed. Of course, if life with the queen turned nasty, didn’t the king have all the more reason to look for consolation with someone else? So it seemed to Lanius. Somehow, he didn’t think Sosia would agree.
She said, “It’s not as though I haven’t given you whatever you’ve wanted from me. When we are together, you’ve tried to please me. I know that. And you can’t say I haven’t done the same for you.”
“You’re trying to shame me,” Lanius muttered, for she was telling the truth. She wasn’t the lover he would have picked for himself, but the King of Avornis didn’t always have the luxury of such choices. She did everything she knew how to do, everything he’d taught her to do.
And he still looked at, still looked for, other women every now and again. He didn’t know why, except for variety’s sake. He did know he was far from the only man who did. He also knew some women acted the same way.
He knew one more thing, too—he was glad Sosia wasn’t one of those women (or, if she was, that no one had caught her at it). If she were, he would have been even more upset with her than she was with him now. He was sure he would have.
With a sigh, he said, “I’ll try, Sosia.”
How would she take that? She didn’t seem to know how to take it for a little while. Then, slowly, her face cleared. “That’s as much as I’m going to get from you, isn’t it?” she said. “Maybe you even mean it.”
“I do,” he said, wondering if he did.
“You’ll try,” she said bitterly. “You’ll try, and every so often you’ll do what you please anyway. And you’ll be sorry afterwards. You’re always sorry afterwards, when it doesn’t do anybody any good. What should I do the next time you’re sorry afterwards? Practice my aim so I hit you with the first cup?”
Lanius’ ears burned. He looked at the broken crockery by his feet. Whether or not Sosia had hit him with a cup, her words had struck dead center. She saw what lay ahead the same way as he did. If he admitted as much, he delivered himself into her hands.
Instead of admitting it, he said, “I am sorry. I will try.” His wife nodded, as though she believed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the years since Grus first met Prince Vsevolod, the exiled lord of Nishevatz’s beard had grown whiter. His craggy features, always wrinkled, were now gullied like steep, bare country after hard rain. And his hands put the King of Avornis more in mind of tree roots than ever.
The one thing about Vsevolod that had not changed was the fire in his eyes. As winter reluctantly gave way to spring, the Prince of Nishevatz came up to Grus and said, “You get rid of Vasilko, yes?”
Grus had his problems with Ortalis. Set against Vsevolod’s problems with his son, they hardly seemed worth noticing. Ortalis, after all, had never tried to usurp the Avornan throne. Vasilko had not only tried to steal Nishevatz from Vsevolod, he’d succeeded. Grus replied, “We will go north this spring, Your Highness, yes.”
“This is good. This is very good. I go back to my own city. I rule in my own city. I do not have to live on charity of strangers, on charity of foreigners,” Vsevolod said.
“We have not kept you here out of charity, Your Highness,” Grus said.
“No. This is true. Charity is to help someone out of goodness of your heart,” Vsevolod said. “You do not do this. You help me because of what I can do for you.” He strode away, his back still straight—if stiff—despite his years. Grus stared after him, feeling obscurely punctured.