"What would I do, Father Abbot?" Grus echoed. "I would be very surprised, that's what."
Pipilo sent him a reproachful stare. "You answer by not answering. Please don't evade, but tell me straight out — would you stay or would you go?"
"Yes," Grus answered, which made Pipilo stare more reproachfully still. Grus held up a hand, as though to ward off those sorrowful eyes. He said, "The truth is, I don't know what I'd do. And the other truth is, I don't expect that river galley, and I do think you'll be wasting your time if you expect it."
"All right, Brother," Pipilo said. Grus wasn't sure it was all right; the abbot liked things just so, and fumed when he couldn't get them that way. He went on, "I suppose I'll have to be satisfied with that. You may go."
"Thank you, Father Abbot," Grus replied. Any man who said he supposed he'd have to be satisfied was in fact anything but satisfied. Grus knew that perfectly well. He wondered whether Pipilo did, or whether the abbot hid resentment even from himself. Grus dared hope not; Pipilo knew well how other men work, and so he ought to have at least some notion of how he worked himself.
Bright sunshine in the courtyard made Grus blink until his eyes got used to it. Sparrows hopped in the garden. The monks argued about whether to shoo them out or not. Some said they ate grubs and insects, and so should be tolerated. Others insisted they stole seeds, and so should be scared off. Both sides were loud and excitable, no doubt because the question that roused the excitement was so monumentally trivial.
Petrosus let them stay when they hopped near him. Grus would have expected him to drive them away. He was the sort who drove away everything that came close to him. If he let the little birds come close, to Grus that was as near proof as made no difference that they really did some good in the garden.
The next day, a river galley pulled up to the monastery. Grus felt Pipilo's eye on him before the abbot went out to see why the ship had come. Grus shrugged, as though to say he'd had nothing to do with it — and he hadn't. He wondered what he would do if that galley bore a release from this new life he'd entered. He shrugged again. He still didn't know, and tried not to worry about it.
One thing he did know — his heart didn't leap and fly at the thought of escaping the monastery. He didn't hate the idea, but he wasn't passionate about it, either.
If he had been passionate, he would have been disappointed. The galley came not to let anyone out of the monastery but to put someone into it. The new monk was a baron — or rather, a former baron — named Numerius. Grus didn't remember his face; he wasn't sure they'd ever met. He did know Numerius squeezed his peasants for more than their due and paid his own tax assessments late and often only in part. Now he'd gone too far or done it once too often, and Lanius had made sure he wouldn't do it again.
He came up to Grus. He was a big, blocky man with a red blob of a nose and a bushy brown beard streaked with gray. "I heard you were in here," he said. "I figured that other fellow wouldn't give me any trouble." He sounded accusing, as though his sudden arrival at the monastery were somehow Grus' fault.
"Seems you were wrong, then, doesn't it?" Grus said. "By all the signs, Lanius makes a perfectly good king."
"I figured he was just a figurehead," Numerius said. "That's all he ever was."
"Now that you mention it," Grus said, "no."
"Huh?" The deposed baron gaped at him. "Come on. You know better than that. You called the shots. That weedy little bugger did what you told him."
"He did when I took the crown," Grus admitted. "But he was only a boy then, on the edge of turning into a man. As time went by, he gave more and more orders, and they were usually good ones." He didn't admit how much that had worried him when it first started. Instead, he went on, "You shouldn't be surprised he can go on by himself now that he's the only king."
"Shouldn't I?" Numerius rumbled. "Well, I bloody well was when his soldiers swooped down on me. I never had a chance." He spat in disgust.
He wasn't the first baron who'd discovered the Kings of Avornis were serious these days about holding on to royal prerogatives. Several of his colleagues were in this very monastery. Maybe they could form a club.
Pipilo had let Numerius talk with Grus. Now, though, he said, "Come along, Brother. Time for you to get your robe and learn what will be required of you in your new station in life."
"I don't want to be a bloody monk!" Numerius roared.
"Your other choice was to be shorter by a head. I'm sure of it," Grus said. "I may be wrong, but I'd guess you didn't want that, either."
By the way Numerius glared at him, he would have been happy to see Grus shorter by a head. When Abbot Pipilo spoke to him again, his voice held more than a little sharpness. "Come along, Brother Numerius. I told you that once, and I am accustomed to obedience. No matter what you were before you came here, you are only one brother of many in this monastery. Many who are here came from a station higher than yours. Brother Grus is a case in point, and he is contented with his lot. Come along, I say."
Numerius came. He looked surprised at himself, but Pipilo, like a good general, could make himself obeyed when he wanted to. Hirundo had the gift. Grus did, too. It had to do with speaking in a tone that suggested nothing but obedience was possible.
Half an hour later, Numerius emerged in the plain brown robe of an ordinary monk. With his dirty but fine secular garb went a lot of his arrogance. As the abbot had said, he was just one among many now. The robe emphasized that, both to others and to himself.
Pipilo came out, too, and walked over to Grus. "I hope he will not trouble you as some of the other brethren did," he said quietly.
"I don't think so," Grus answered. "I wasn't the one who ordered him here, after all. I couldn't very well be, could I? I was already here myself when he got in trouble once too often."
"Once too often?" Pipilo's eyebrows rose. "You sound as though you knew him."
"No, not really. But I knew of him," Grus said. "He was always a man who would grab for everything he could — and for quite a few things he wasn't supposed to. I hope he won't cause you trouble."
The abbot smiled an experienced smile. "Men of that sort are not rare, here as in the wider world. I have met more than a few. If Brother Numerius proves troublesome, rest assured I have ways to bring him to heel."
"All right, Father Abbot. You know your business best," Grus said. And it's not my worry. Not one bit of it's my worry, he thought. He'd carried the worries, the weight, of the whole kingdom for many years. Now that burden was gone. Getting sent here had lifted it from his shoulders. He felt as though he were straighter and taller without it.
He almost owed Ortalis a debt for taking the weight away. The trouble was, Ortalis hadn't really intended to put it on his own shoulders. He would probably have ended up dropping it somewhere and watching moss grow on it.
Well, Avornis wouldn't have to worry about that. Lanius' shoulders were on the narrow side, but he was a conscientious man. When he saw a burden that needed lifting, he picked it up. And he wouldn't set it down until they laid him on his pyre.
And then Crex would pick it up, as long as he stayed healthy. If he didn't, Sosia was going to have another baby — maybe she'd already had it — and she could have more. One way or another, things would go on. He missed Estrilda, but a lot of that was habit, too.
They'll go on without you, Grus said to himself, tasting how that felt. A few years earlier, it would have troubled him enormously. Now? He found himself shrugging. Things would have gone on without him before many years passed any which way. A little sooner, a little later — what difference did it make? None he could see.