"Am I? That's nice." Grus thought about it for a moment and then said, "This isn't so bad."
"I certainly don't think so, but then my station was far less exalted than yours," Pipilo said. "Some of your fellow monks are, ah, surprised you show so little distress at being cast down."
Grus knew exactly what that meant — Petrosus was perturbed that he wasn't weeping and wailing and tearing out chunks of his beard. "It's not so bad," he said again. "It's even — restful in a way, isn't it? I don't have to tell anybody what to do, and I know what I have to do myself."
The abbot bowed to him. "You will make a good monk," he declared. "If you outlive me, you may make a good abbot."
"I wouldn't want to," Grus replied. "I told you — I've spent almost my whole life giving orders. Enough is enough."
"I wonder if you'll say that a year from now, when your duties no longer seem like a holiday from kingship."
Pipilo was shrewd, no doubt about it. But Grus said, "I think I will. What's left for me to do back in the city of Avornis? Nothing I can see."
"I hope for your sake that you're right," the abbot said. "You'll have an easier time of it if you are. But you're one of the people I worry about going over the wall. You might manage it, and you might get back to the city of Avornis, too. I don't say that about many of the men here."
"Thank you for the compliment, uh, Father." Grus was still getting used to that; he hadn't called anyone Father since laying Crex, his own father, on the pyre. "But even if I did, who would care? Whether it's Ortalis or Lanius on the throne, he won't want me back."
Pipilo raised an eyebrow. "Some of your followers might."
Would Hirundo rise against a king from a younger generation? Would Pterocles? They might possibly, against Ortalis. Against Lanius? Grus found it unlikely. And besides… "How do you know my followers aren't on the way here, or to another monastery, or in a dungeon, or dead? If you use that kind of broom, you're smart to sweep out all the dust." Was Ortalis that smart? Who could guess for certain? Sooner or later, one way or another, Grus would find out.
With a shrug, Pipilo said, "Well, it will be as it will be," which no one could possibly argue with. He added, "I am taking up too much of your time," and went on his way, leaving Grus to the dirty plates and bowls and spoons. Grus shrugged and ran a rag across the next bowl.
If his calm perplexed the abbot, it really did infuriate Petrosus. And what infuriated Ortalis' father-in-law even more was the lack of any command releasing him from the monastery. "Your pup is as ungrateful as you are," Petrosus snarled to Grus.
The deposed king, walking through the monastery courtyard, paused and bowed to the deposed treasury minister, on his hands and knees in the vegetable garden. "I love you, too, Brother," Grus said sweetly.
"I'm not your brother, and I wouldn't want to be." Petrosus spat on the pile of weeds he'd uprooted.
Grus had had a brother, a younger brother, but the other boy had died when he was so young, he hardly remembered him. "Don't worry," Grus said. "I don't want you for one, either. But with these" — he flapped the sleeves of his robe — "it's not like we've got much choice."
Petrosus came back with yet another unpleasantly. Before Grus could answer, a sentry on the wall — a wall undoubtedly built more to keep the monks in than to keep intruders out — called, "Who comes?"
That sent everyone within earshot hurrying toward the gate. Petrosus jumped up from the vegetable plot and pushed past Grus without a harsh word. Grus wondered what was going on, but not for long. They were about to get a new monk, or maybe more than one. And they couldn't know ahead of time who the new arrivals might be. After all, a king had joined them the last time.
Whatever answer came from beyond the monastery, that tall, thick wall muffled it. Abbot Pipilo pushed through the crowd of monks. "Let me by, Brothers," he said. "Let me by. Tending to this is my duty." When men didn't get out of the way fast enough to suit him, he wasn't too holy to move them aside with a well-placed elbow to the ribs.
He slipped through the inner gate by himself, closed it behind him, and walked up to the portcullis. Grus could hear him parleying with the men who brought the new monk or monks. The abbot's voice rose in surprise, but after a moment he sang out, "Open!"
Grunting monks turned a capstan. Chain rattled and clanked as it wound around the big wooden drum. Squealing, the portcullis rose. Monks oiled the iron every day to keep it from rusting. They got to leave the monastery. Only men Pipilo trusted had the privilege. Grus wondered if he would ever gain it. In Pipilo's sandals, he wouldn't have trusted himself.
"Close!" the abbot called. The monks grunted again as they bent to the bars of the capstan, although lowering the portcullis was easier work than raising it.
After the great iron grill thudded home, Pipilo said something else, too low for Grus to follow it. The answering voice was high and furious. Grus stiffened. That couldn't be… He looked at Petrosus, who also stood there in frozen astonishment.
But it was. When the gate opened, Pipilo said, "Brothers, I present to you our new colleague and comrade, Brother Ortalis!"
Now Grus did some elbowing to get to the front of the crowd of monks. "Well, well," he said to his son. "What brings you here?"
Ortalis looked harried. Sullenly, he answered, "I couldn't pick up the miserable Scepter."
"Why am I not surprised?" Grus jeered, and then realized he really wasn't surprised. The Banished One had told him his successor wouldn't be able to. The exiled god had sworn he was telling the truth. He'd even offered to take oath by his ungrateful descendants, something Grus had never imagined from him. And he hadn't lied, or not very much. The one thing he hadn't said was that the man who failed to lift the Scepter of Mercy would be Grus' long-term successor. Lying by omission was often more effective than coming out and saying that which was not true. Grus knew as much. He also knew he shouldn't have been surprised to discover the Banished One did, too.
"You weren't going to let me have the throne at all," Ortalis said. " You thought Lord Squint-at-a-scroll would make a better king than I would."
"Yes, and by all the signs I was right, wasn't I?" Grus answered. "The Scepter of Mercy thought so, too."
His son — his one legitimate son — suggested a use for the Scepter of Mercy at once illegal, immoral, and painful. Several monks of more fastidious temperament gasped in horror. Ortalis went on, "And a whole fat lot of good your scheming did you. You think Lanius will call you back? Don't hold your breath, Father dear, that's all I've got to tell you."
"No, I don't expect him to call me back," Grus answered calmly. "The difference is, I don't care."
"You don't care? My left one, you don't!" Ortalis cried. "How couldn't you? You were king, by the gods! King! Now look at you, in that shabby brown robe — "
"It is a robe of humility," Abbot Pipilo broke in. "Soon, Brother Ortalis, you will wear one, too."
Whatever burned in Ortalis, humility had nothing to do with it. Ignoring the abbot, he raged on. "In that shabby robe, I tell you, mucking out the bam and pulling up weeds in the miserable garden. What joy!"
Shrugging, Grus answered, "They haven't let me weed yet. That seems to be work for men who've been here longer and know more about growing things. Brother Petrosus here gets to do that, for instance. I haven't had to muck out, either — not yet, though I expect I will. Mostly I've been peeling vegetables and washing dishes and helping out in the kitchens any other way the senior cooks need."
Ortalis gave his father-in-law such a venomous, even murderous, stare that whatever Petrosus might have said to him curdled in his throat. Ortalis could have been much more formidable if only he'd worked at it, Grus thought sadly. But he never wanted to work at anything. There, in a nutshell, lay the difference between his son and himself — between Lanius and his son, too.