After a while, he got fed up with that and called for Pterocles again. “You made a magic against the Chernagor transports,” he said. “Can you use the same spell against these snoops?”
The wizard eyed the clouds and swirling mist overhead. He spread his hands in apology—or started to. His mule chose that moment to misstep, and he had to make a hasty grab for the reins. Some people really do ride worse than I do, Grus thought, amused. Pterocles said, “Your Majesty, I can try that spell. But it works best with real sunshine to power it. It may well fail.” He rode on for half a minute or so before something else occurred to him. “The Chernagors may have worked out a counterspell by now, too. These things do happen. Spells are often best the first time you use them, because then you catch the other fellow by surprise.”
“I see.” Trouble was, Grus did; what Pterocles said made altogether too much sense. Now the king rode thoughtfully for a little while before saying, “Well, when you see the chance, take it.”
“I will, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said.
As though to mock Grus’ hopes, a fine drizzle began sifting down out of the sky. Grumpily, he put on a broad-brimmed felt hat to keep the water off his face and to keep it from trickling down the back of his neck. “Remind the men to grease their mail well tonight,” he called to Hirundo. “Otherwise, it will rust.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Hirundo promised.
But the drizzle also made it harder for the Chernagors aboard ship to watch the Avornan army. They had to come closer and closer to the shore, until finally they were almost within bowshot. Curses wafted across the water when one of them ran aground. Grus cursed, too, for he couldn’t do anything about it. There was no point to assembling his catapults to pound the ships when they would be as useless with wet skeins of hair as a bow with a wet string.
Hirundo shared his frustration, but said, “They’re still in trouble out there, whether we put them in trouble or not.”
“I suppose so,” Grus said. “I wish we could take better advantage of it, though.” He shrugged ruefully. “I wish for all sorts of things I won’t get. Who doesn’t?”
“Best way to take advantage is to take Nishevatz,” Vsevolod said. “When we take Nishevatz, we punish all traitors. Oh, yes.” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation of doing just that.
Grus wondered how much like Vsevolod his son Vasilko was. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Vasilko took after his father a great deal indeed. And if Vsevolod had followed the Banished One, would Vasilko have fled to the city of Avornis and bowed down to Olor and Quelea and the rest of the gods in the heavens? Grus wouldn’t have been surprised there, either. Whatever one of them chose, the other seemed to want the opposite.
That didn’t mean Vsevolod was wrong here. “We’ll do our best, Your Highness,” Grus said. “Then you should do your best.”
“Oh, I will,” Vsevolod said. “I will.” His tone suggested that what he meant by best was likely to be different from what Grus meant by the word. Whether what he thought best for him would also prove best for Nishevatz was liable to be an… interesting question.
I’ll worry about that later, Grus told himself. One thing at a time. Getting Vasilko out of Nishevatz, getting the Banished One’s influence out of Nishevatz— that comes first. Everything else can wait. If Vsevolod turns out to be intolerable, maybe I’ll be able to do something about it.
He rode on toward Nishevatz for a while. Then something else occurred to him. If a lot of people in Nishevatz hadn’t already decided Vsevolod was intolerable, would they have banded together behind Vasilko and helped him oust his father? Grus sighed. He looked over to the white-bearded Prince of Nishevatz. The longer he looked, the more he wished he hadn’t thought of that.
“Excuse me,” Limosa said. Ortalis’ wife got up and left the supper table faster than was seemly. When she came back a few minutes later, she looked more than a little green.
“Are you all right?” Lanius asked.
Sosia found a different question. She asked, “Are you going to have a baby?”
Limosa turned from one of them to the other. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she told the king. A moment later, she said the same thing to the queen, adding, “Until this”—she gulped—“I managed to keep it a secret. I wanted to see how long I could.”
“Well, you did,” Lanius said. “Congratulations!” Sosia echoed him. Lanius turned to Ortalis and congratulated him, too. He hoped he didn’t sound grudging. Ortalis had behaved… pretty well lately.
“I thank you.” Grus’ legitimate son raised his wine cup. “Here’s hoping it’s a boy.”
For the sake of politeness, Lanius drank to that. So did Sosia. But their eyes met with complete understanding and agreement. They both hoped Limosa had a little girl—had lots of little girls, if she conceived again. Boys would make the succession more complicated. Grus and his family had managed to graft themselves on to the ancient ruling dynasty. That was one thing. Uprooting it altogether—having the crown descend through Ortalis and his line—would be something else again.
Ortalis had never shown any great interest in ruling Avornis. If he had a son, he might change his mind. That would make court intrigue all the more intriguing. Lanius hoped he didn’t, but how much was such hope worth?
That evening, Sosia seemed not just willing but actually eager to make love for the first time since she found out about Zenaida. While she and Lanius caressed each other and then joined, he accepted that as good luck. Afterwards, she rolled over and went straight to sleep. The king smiled a little. She was doing what men were supposed to do, and he wasn’t.
He lay on his back, looking up at the ceiling. With no lamp burning, it was just part of the darkness. As he hadn’t before, he wondered what made Sosia act the way she had. He didn’t need to wonder long. What was likelier to drive her into his arms than a threat from outside?
He would rather have believed his own charms had more to do with it. But, since she’d had no trouble resisting those charms before Limosa’s news, he couldn’t very well do that. Every so often, he wished he were better at fooling himself. This was one of those times.
In the morning, he went to see Otus. Every time he did, the man from south of the Stura seemed more like an ordinary Avornan and less like a thrall. More and more, Lanius believed the guards who surrounded Otus’ chamber were unnecessary. He didn’t order them away, though. He might have been wrong, and being wrong here could have unfortunate consequences.
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Otus said, and bowed politely. His eyes went to the guards who came in with the king, too. He didn’t complain about them. As far as Lanius knew, he never complained. That did set him apart from ordinary Avornans.
“Good morning to you,” the king replied. “You speak very well these days. You’ve learned a lot.”
“I like to learn things,” Otus said. “I never had the chance before.” He paused and shook his head. “I never could before.”
That let Lanius ask a question he’d wanted to ask for a long time. “What was it like, being a thrall? Now you have the words to talk about it, which you didn’t before.”
Otus looked startled, another mark of how far he’d come. “Why, so I do,” he said. “It was hard. It was boring. If you had a cow that could talk, it would tell you the same thing, I think. As far as the Menteshe cared, I was a cow. Oh, I could do more than a cow. I was smarter than a cow. But they treated me like a beast. I was a beast, near enough.”