Prince Vsevolod didn’t want to let him off the hook. “You say this before,” the Chernagor grumbled. “You say before, and then something else happen, and then you change mind.”
“I am allowed to defend my own homeland,” Grus said mildly. “But, with a better fleet on our east coast to guard against Chernagor pirates and with the Menteshe caught in their own civil war, I don’t think we’ll have to break things off this time.”
“Better not,” Vsevolod rumbled in ominous tones. “By gods, better not.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Standing in his robe of crimson silk behind the magnificent altar of the great cathedral, Arch-Hallow Anser cut a splendid ecclesiastical figure. By his bearing and appearance, Lanius would readily have believed him the holiest man in all of Avornis. And then King Grus’ bastard waved and called, “Hang on for a minute, Your Majesty, and I’ll change into hunting togs.”
“No hurry,” Lanius answered. He wished Anser hadn’t bounded away from the altar with such obvious eagerness. The arch-hallow might seem like a very holy man, but he didn’t like playing the part.
When he returned, he looked more like a poacher than a prelate. He wore a disreputable hat, a leather jerkin over a linen tunic, and baggy wool trousers tucked into suede boots that rose almost to his knees. He also wore an enormous smile. He put on the crimson robe because his father told him to. Hunting togs were different. Lanius, on the other hand, felt as though he were in costume for a foolish show, although he looked much less raffish than Anser.
“Let’s see what we can bag, eh?” he said. “Pity Prince Ortalis couldn’t come with us today.”
“Why? Did you—?” Lanius broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Forget I said that. Forget I even started to say that.”
“I’d probably better.” Anser made a face. He said, “You’ll have a horse outside?”
“Oh, yes.” The king nodded. “I’m not going to walk to the woods— I’ll tell you that.”
“Let’s go, then.”
A couple of hours later, Lanius and the arch-hallow dismounted under the trees. Grooms took charge of the horses. The king, the arch-hallow, and their beaters and guards walked into the woods. “Maybe you’ll hit something this time, Your Majesty,” Anser said. “You never can tell.”
“No, you never can,” Lanius agreed in a hollow voice. Hitting a stag with an arrow remained about the last thing he wanted to do.
Birds chirped overhead. Looking up, the king wondered what kind they were. Being able to tell one bird from another when neither was a pigeon or a sparrow would be interesting, but he hadn’t gotten good at it yet. Learning to recognize them by their looks and by their songs necessarily involved staying out in the woods until he could. That made it more trouble than it was worth to him.
“Are you sure you want me to take the first shot, Your Majesty?” Anser said. “It’s very kind, but you don’t need to give me the honor.”
“My pleasure,” Lanius said, which was absolutely true. He went on, “Besides, you’re the one who’s liable to hit something. If I do, it’ll just be by accident, and we both know it.”
The beaters fanned out into the woods. Anser’s men vanished silently among the trees. Lanius’ guards were noisy enough to make the arch-hallow’s followers smile. But they did no more than smile. The two groups had tangled after earlier hunts. Lanius’ guards came out on top in tavern brawls.
Anser chose a spot on the edge of a clearing. Before long, a stag bounded out into the open space. The arch-hallow let fly. He cursed more or less good-naturedly when his arrow hissed past the deer’s head. The stag sprang away.
“Well, you won’t do worse than I did, anyhow,” Anser said to Lanius.
“No,” the king agreed. He’d never had the nerve to tell Anser he always shot to miss. He enjoyed eating venison, but not enough to enjoy killing animals himself so he could have it. He wouldn’t have wanted to be a butcher, either. He recognized the inconsistency without worrying about reconciling it.
Half an hour passed with no new game in the clearing. Lanius, who didn’t mind, said nothing. Anser, who did, grumbled. Then another stag, smaller and less splendid than the first, trotted out into the open space. It stopped not fifteen yards in front of Lanius and Anser.
“Your shot, Your Majesty,” Anser whispered.
Awkwardly, with unpracticed ringers, Lanius fit an arrow to the bowstring. Here was his dilemma, big as life, for he knew he could hit the stag if he but shot straight. Wouldn’t it have an easier death if he shot it than if it died under the ripping fangs of wolves or from some slow, cruel disease?
He drew the bow, let fly… and the arrow zoomed high, well over the stag’s back. The animal fled.
“Oh… too bad, Your Majesty,” Anser said, doing his good-natured best not to show how annoyed he was.
“I told you before—I’m hopeless,” Lanius answered. As a matter of fact, he was rather proud of himself.
Out on the Northern Sea, a ship made for Nishevatz, its great spread of sail shining white in the spring sun. On the shore, a tiny ship made from a scrap of wood, a twig, and a rag bobbed in a bowl of seawater. The spring sun shone on it, too. Hundreds of defenders on the walls of Nishevatz anxiously eyed the real ship. King Grus and Pterocles paid more attention to the toy in the bowl.
“Whenever you’re ready,” the king said.
“Now is as good a time as any,” Pterocles replied. He held his curved bit of crystal above the toy ship. A brilliant spot of light appeared on the toy. Grus wondered how the crystal did that. He had ever since he first saw this sorcery. Now was not the time, though, to ask for an explanation.
Pterocles began a spell—a chant mixed with passes that pointed from the little ship in the bowl to the big one on the sea. On and on he went, until smoke began to rise from the toy ship. More and more smoke came from it, and then it burst into flame. Pterocles cried out commandingly and pointed once more to the tall-masted ship on the Northern Sea.
Grus’ eye went that way, too. The ship still lay some distance offshore, but Grus could spot the smoke rising from it. Before long, that smoke turned to flickering red-yellow flame, too. “Well done!” he exclaimed.
A loud groan rose from the walls of Nishevatz. The defenders must have hoped the supply ship would be able to get through, even though they had found no counterspell against Pterocles’ charm. If it had, the siege would have become much more difficult. As things were, the Avornans held on to the advantage.
A longtime sailor himself, Grus knew a certain amount of sympathy for the Chernagors aboard that burning ship. Nothing afloat could be a worse horror than fire. That had to be doubly true on the long seagoing voyages the northern men, formidable traders and formidable pirates, often undertook. And these flames, springing from magic as they did, would be all the harder to fight.
The sailors soon gave up trying to fight them. Instead, they went over the side and made for Nishevatz in boats while the ship burned. The boats could not hold all the men. Maybe more clung to lines trailing behind them. Grus hoped so. He wanted to stop the grain the ship carried, but had nothing special against the sailors.
Another Chernagor ship had come up over the horizon while Pterocles was casting his spell. When smoke and flame burst from the vessel nearing Nishevatz, the other ship hastily put about and sailed away from the besieged city-state. Pointing to it, Pterocles asked, “Do you want me to see if I can set that one afire, too, Your Majesty?”