“What made you decide to cross over the Stura, to come into Avornis?” Lanius asked.
“I didn’t decide,” Otus said at once. He repeated that. “I didn’t decide. I just did it. It came into my head that I had to, and I went. I left my woman. I left my children. I went.” He stopped, biting his lip.
Gently, Lanius asked, “Do you miss your wife?”
“Woman,” Otus said again. “We weren’t—like people are. I couldn’t be with her now. She hasn’t… changed. It would be like… screwing a cow, almost. But if the wizard cured her, then—oh, then!” His face lit up. Plainly, the thought was crossing his mind for the first time. He was becoming a man, beginning to think beyond himself as men could— and did, though not often enough.
Lanius wondered if the female thrall would care for him once she was fully herself. The king didn’t say anything about that. Even a man who had been a thrall was entitled to his dreams.
Suddenly, Otus pointed at him. “One of these days, you go south of the river. Avornis goes south of the river,”
“Maybe,” Lanius answered, embarrassed at being unable to say more. “That’s more for King Grus to decide than it is for me. I know he wants to go south of the Stura. I don’t know whether he thinks he can.”
Otus paid no attention to him. The cured thrall—Lanius had an ever harder time thinking of him as the possibly cured thrall —went on, “You will go south of the river. You have the wonderful magic that set me free. You can use that magic on the other thralls, on the rest of the thralls. So many men, so many women, made into beasts.” He took Lanius’ hands in his. “Save them, Your Majesty! You can save them!”
Lanius didn’t know what to say to that. What he did finally say was, “I’ll try.” Otus’ face lit up. That only made Lanius turn away so the other man wouldn’t see him blush. His words might have sounded like a promise—Otus had taken them for one—but he knew they were anything but. He still lacked the power to make a promise like that. Only Grus had it, and Grus was far off in the north.
Watery sunshine—the only kind the Chernagor country seemed to know—did little to make the walls of Nishevatz seem anything but unlovely. The sunshine did help King Grus spot the town’s defenders; it sparkled off swords and spearheads and the tips of arrows and shone from helms and mailshirts. The men who followed Prince Vasilko looked ready to fight, and to fight hard.
Whether they were ready might prove a different question. They hadn’t tried to keep the Avornans from shutting them up inside Nishevatz, preferring to stand siege rather than to come forth and challenge their foes. But how much in the way of supplies did they have? Grus dared hope it wasn’t so much.
He also dared hope the other Chernagor city-states allied with Nishevatz had no luck shipping grain into the town. So far, they hadn’t had the nerve to try. If that wasn’t a compliment to Pterocles’ sorcery— and a sign they had no counterspell for it—Grus didn’t know what would be. The Chernagors presumed the wizard had come north with the Avornan army. That also made them presume he would burn their ships if they tried to feed their allies. Grus hoped they were right. (In fact, he hoped he didn’t have to find out. If the other Chernagors didn’t try to feed Nishevatz, he wouldn’t have to.)
“Do you aim to assault the town?” Hirundo asked after the siege lines on land were as tight as the Avornans could make them.
“Not right away,” Grus answered. “They’ve made us pay every time we did. Or do you think I’m wrong?”
“Not me, Your Majesty,” the general said. “I’d rather be at the top of a wall pushing a scaling ladder over than at the bottom trying to get up the ladder before it tips and smashes.”
“Yes. If it will.” Grus looked out to the farmland that had fed Nishevatz. Now it would have to feed his men instead. Could it? He wouldn’t be taking grain from it, not this early in the year—and not much later, either, if it wasn’t cultivated in the meanwhile. Livestock was a different story, though. Cows and pigs and sheep—if need be, horses and donkeys—would feed Avornan soldiers well.
After a little thought, Grus nodded to Hirundo. “Fetch me one of Vsevolod’s pals,” he said‘.
“I’ll get you one,” Hirundo said. “I take it you don’t want Vsevolod to notice me doing this?”
“How right you are,” the king said fervently, and his general chuckled.
Hirundo brought Grus a nobleman named Beloyuz. He was one of the younger men who clung to Vsevolod’s cause, which meant his bushy beard was gray rather than white. “What do you wish of me, Your Majesty?” he asked in Avornan better than Prince Vsevolod’s.
“I would like you to go up to the walls of Nishevatz, Your Excellency,” Grus replied. “I want you to tell the Chernagors in the city that they won’t have to go through this siege if they cast out Vasilko and give the throne back to Vsevolod.”
Beloyuz plucked at that bushy gray beard. “His Highness should do this,” he said, his voice troubled.
“Maybe,” Grus said, “but he has enough enemies inside the walls, it would not be safe to have him go up to them.” He didn’t mention that most of the Chernagors inside Nishevatz had made it plain they preferred Vasilko to Vsevolod.
Beloyuz’s eyes said he knew what Grus was thinking. They also said he was grateful Grus had found a way not to come right out and say it. He bowed stiffly to the king. “All right, Your Majesty. Let it be as you say.”
With Avornan shieldmen accompanying him forward, Beloyuz approached the walls the next morning. One of the shieldmen carried a flag of truce, but they all remained very alert. They could not be sure the Chernagors would honor that flag. Beloyuz began to speak in the throaty, guttural, consonant-filled Chernagor language. Grus did not understand it, but he had a good idea of what the noble would be saying.
The defenders did not need to hear much before they made up their minds. They roared abuse at Beloyuz. Some of them shot arrows despite the flag of truce, but Grus didn’t think they were trying to hit the nobleman or his protectors. Beloyuz took no chances, but hastily retreated out of range. Grus didn’t see how he could blame him for that.
Vsevolod came over to Grus in high dudgeon, demanding, “Why I not go to wall?”
“I did not want the folk of Nishevatz to insult you, your Highness,” Grus replied, which was perhaps a tenth part of the truth.
“I do not worry over insults,” Vsevolod said. “I can tell folk of Nishevatz better than Beloyuz can.”
That’s what I was afraid of, Grus thought. He reminded himself he had to be tactful when speaking to Vsevolod. He needed to remind himself, because the temptation to tell the unvarnished truth was very strong. Choosing his words with care, then, he said, “The people of Nishevatz had heard you before, Your Highness, and did not decide to cast Vasilko out and bring you back into the city. I thought Beloyuz could give them a different slant on your virtues.” Such as they are, Your Highness. The only one Grus could think of offhand was Vsevolod’s genuine and sincere opposition to the Banished One.
With a sniff, Vsevolod drew himself up very straight. “I know my virtues better than any of my followers.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Grus hoped his resignation wasn’t too obvious—but if it was, he intended to lose no sleep over it. He said, “No harm done. Beloyuz didn’t persuade them, either, but he got away safe. Now we’ll go on with what we were going to do anyhow. We’re going to take Nishevatz away from Vasilko. That’s what we came here for, and that’s what we’ll do.”