The Bastard King (2 page)

"Any court wizard could tell you," Certhia said.

"No court wizard could keep his mouth shut afterward," the king said. "Rissa here will. Rissa here had better, anyhow. Now come on. We haven't got all day down in this miserable hole."

Certhia started to argue more. Then
she
thought better of it. With a sigh that said she was still unhappy - and that she expected King Mergus to know it - she pulled her smock off over her head.

A heavy gold chain supporting an amulet hung in the shadowed valley between her breasts. They were larger and sagged a bit more than they had before she conceived.

Rissa paid no attention. She set her hands lower, on Certhia's belly. The king's concubine hadn't shown her pregnancy for long. Clothed, she hardly showed it even now. But the witch nodded as soon as she touched Certhia's flesh. "Yes," she breathed.

"Yes, what?" King Mergus' voice was hard and urgent.

"Yes, it will be a boy," Rissa answered matter-of-factly. Then, the palms of her hands still on Certhia, she stiffened. When she spoke again, she sounded nothing like herself. "I hate him. I shall punish him. Though he have a son, let him be impotent. Let his hope die before him. Let all laugh at what he has become. As I have ordained, so let it be." The brass of a slightly sour trumpet rang in her words.

Certhia gasped in terror. "That is the Banished One, cursing your son!" Her hand flashed to the amulet she wore. In danger, she forgot she was naked from the waist up. "King Olor, protect him! Queen Quelea, protect
me!"

Mergus' fingers twisted in a protective gesture every Avornan learned by the age of three. He murmured prayers, too. After his heart's first frightened lurch steadied, he also murmured defiance. "He'll not have him!" Now his hands folded into fists. "He'll
not!"
He'd been without an heir of his flesh too long. He would have defied worse than the Banished One to keep that heir... he would have,
were
there worse than the Banished One.

Rissa's hands fell away from Certhia. The witch blinked a couple of times, as though coming back to herself. She did not seem to remember what she'd said - what had been said through her - or Certhia and Mergus' replies. Only when she saw their faces did she ask, "Is something wrong?"

Words tumbled from the king and his concubine. The witch stared from one of them to the other, horror filling her face. Her fingers writhed in the same gesture as Mergus had used.

"I am unclean," she gasped when she could speak at all. "I am violated!" She pressed both hands against her crotch, as though the Banished One had used her body, not her mind. A moment later, Certhia put on her smock again. But she let the amulet hang outside the crimson silk now, where she could quickly seize it at need.

Mergus asked, "Can the taint be taken away?"

"I know not," the witch told him. "I shall speak to those set over me." The king's hand fell to the hilt of his sword. It was no ceremonial weapon, but a blade that had seen much use in war. Rissa's eyes followed the motion. She nodded. "If you doubt I will abide by their verdict, Your Majesty, strike now."

A couple of inches of the blade came out of the jeweled scabbard. But then Mergus shook his head. "No. I believe you. You will do what needs doing. Can you go to them by the way you came here?"

Rissa nodded again. "I can. I will. And I will say one last thing to you, if you give me leave."

"Go on." King Mergus' voice was rough as sandstone.

"Hear me, then: If the Banished One hates your son, if he curses your son, surely he also fears him."

Back and forth along the Stura, from the last cataract in the foothills of the mountains to the Sea of Azania and then upstream once more. This was the life the
Tigerfish
and the rest of the Avornan river galleys led when on patrol.

Grus had duly written up his dream of the Banished One and submitted it as part of his report to his superiors. For a while, he wondered if he would be summoned to the city of Avornis and questioned further. When no summons came, he began to wonder if it had been only a meaningless dream.

But part of him knew better.

Not many men, even aboard the
Tigerfish,
knew what had chanced that night. Grus had never been one to make much of himself or of what happened to him. He had told Turnix, though; he wanted the strongest protective amulets the wizard could make. And he'd told Nicator. If anything happened to him, his lieutenant needed to know why it might have happened.

They were drinking in a riverside tavern one day - on the north bank of the Stura, of course; the south was not for the likes of them - when Nicator asked, "You never heard a word about that, did you?"

Grus shook his head. "Sometimes you wonder if anybody back in the city of Avornis remembers how to read."

"Wouldn't surprise me if nobody did," Nicator agreed. "Wouldn't surprise me one bloody bit." He slammed his fist down on the tabletop for emphasis. He'd taken a lot of wine on board.

So had Grus, come to that. He said, "What do they care about the border? The king's going to have a baby - or maybe he's had it by now. That's
important,
if you live in the capital."

"I didn't know the king
could
have a baby. They must do things different in the big city," Nicator said. They both laughed, which proved they were drunk. He went on, "I don't care who's king. Our job stays the same any which way."

"Of course it does," Grus said. "We take care of what's real so they can worry about shadows back there."

Next morning, when the
Tigerfish
raised sail and glided on down toward the sea, his own headache seemed the realest thing in the world. He sipped at the rough red wine the river galley carried, trying to ease his pain. Nicator also looked wan. Grus tried to remember what they'd been talking about in the tavern. They'd been complaining about the way the world worked; he knew that much. But what else would you do in a tavern?

Turnix came up to him. Sweat poured down the wizard's chubby cheeks. This far south, summer was a special torment for a round man. "A quiet cruise we've had," Turnix remarked.

"Yes." Grus wished the wizard would keep quiet.

No such luck. Turnix went on, "Somehow, I don't think it'll stay that way." His eyes were on the southern shore; the shore that didn't belong to Avornis, the shore the Banished One claimed for his own.

"No," Grus said. Maybe, if he kept answering in monosyllables, Turnix would take the hint and go away.

But Turnix had never been good at taking hints. He said, "Something's stirring."

That got Grus' attention, however much he wished it wouldn't have. Like a miser coughing up a copper penny, he spent yet another syllable. "Where?"

"I don't know," the fat little wizard admitted. "I wish I did. So much that's closed to me would be open if only I were a little more than I am." He sighed and looked very sad. "Such is life."

Grus didn't answer that at all. He stood there letting the breeze blow through him. And then, of course, he too looked to the south.

Oh, trouble
might
come from any direction. He knew that. The Thervings dreamt of putting a king of their own in the city of Avornis. They always had. They always would. Maybe the Banished One worked through them, too. Maybe they would have been nuisances just as great if he'd never been banished. Grus wouldn't have been surprised.

And off in the north, the Chernagors plotted among themselves and with Avornis and against Avornis. Some of them wanted Avornan lands. Some of them wanted their neighbors' lands. Some of them, from some of the things Grus had heard, plotted for the sake of plotting, plotted for the sport of plotting.

So, yes, trouble might come from anywhere. But the south was the direction to look first. The Banished One was there. The principalities of the Menteshe who followed him were there. And, of course, the
Tigerfish
was there, too. Just their luck.

"What
do
you know?" Grus asked Turnix.

"Something's stirring," Turnix repeated helplessly.

"If I were foolish enough to put my faith in wizards, you'd teach me not to," Grus growled. He never could tell what would offend Turnix. That did the job. The wizard strode away, his little bump of a nose in the air.

But however vague he was, he wasn't wrong today. Trouble found the
Tigerfish
that very afternoon. It came out of the south, too. Had Grus wanted to, he could have patted himself on the back for expecting that much.

He didn't. He was too busy worrying.

When trouble came, it didn't look like much: A lone thrall ran up to the southern bank of the Stura and shouted out to the river galley, crying, "Help me! Save me!" The thrall didn't look like trouble. He looked like any thrall - or, for that matter, like the Avornan peasant his ancestors had surely been. His hair and beard were long and dirty. He wore a linen shirt and baggy wool breeches and boots that were out at the toes.

No matter how he looked, he was trouble. In lands where the Banished One ruled, most thralls - almost all thralls - forgot Avornis, forgot everything but getting in the crops for their Menteshe masters and for the One who was the master of the Menteshe. When the Kingdom of Avornis pushed back the nomads, her wizards sometimes needed years to lift the magic from everyone in a reconquered district. But every so often, a thrall would come awake and try to escape. Every so often, too, the Banished One would pretend to let a thrall come awake, and would use him for eyes and ears in Avornis. Much harm had come to the kingdom before the Avornans realized that.

"Help me!" the thrall called to the
Tigerfish
. "Save me!"

Nicator looked at Grus. "What do we do, Captain?"

Grus didn't hesitate. He wasn't sure he was right, but he didn't hesitate. "Lower the sail," he commanded. "Drop the anchors. Send out the boat. But remember - not a man is to set foot on the southern bank of the river. We aren't at war, and we don't want to give the Menteshe an excuse for starting one when we're not ready."

"What if the thrall can't get out to the boat?" Nicator asked. Grus shrugged. He intended to play the game by the rules. Nicator nodded.

"Help me! Save me!" the thrall cried. The boat glided toward him. Peering south past him, Grus spied a cloud of dust that meant horses - horses approaching fast. The Menteshe had realized a thrall was slipping from their power - or they were making a spy seem convincing.

Which? Grus didn't know.
Let me get the fellow aboard my ship, and then I'll worry about it,
he thought.

As the boat drew near him, the thrall waved for the sailors to come closer still. When they wouldn't, he threw up his hands in what looked like despair. Grus' suspicions flared. But then, as the horsemen galloped toward the riverbank, the fellow splashed out into the Stura. The sailors hauled him into the boat and rowed back toward the
Tigerfish
as fast as they could go.

The nomads reined in. Pointing toward the boat, they shouted something in their harsh, guttural language. When the boat didn't stop, they strung their bows and started shooting. Arrows splashed into the river around it. One slammed home and stood thrilling in the stern. And one struck a rower, who dropped his oar with a howl of pain. Another man took his place.

"That thrall had better be worth it," Nicator remarked.

"I know," Grus said. By then, the boat had almost reached the
Tigerfish.
The arrows of the Menteshe began to fall short. The nomads shook their fists at the river galley and rode away.

Turnix, who was a healer of sorts, bound up the wounded sailor's arm. It didn't look too bad. Grus eyed the thrall, who stood on the pitching deck with a lifelong landlubber's uncertainty and awkwardness. The fellow stared as Grus came up to him. "How do you move so smooth?" he asked.

"I manage," Grus answered. "What are you?"

"My name is - "

Grus shook his head. "Not
Who
are you.
What
are you? Are you a trap for me? Are you a trap for Avornis? If you are, I'll cut your throat and throw you over the side."

"I do not understand," the thrall said. "Something died in me. A deadness died in me. When I came alive" - he tapped his head with a forefinger - "I knew I had to get away. Everyone else in the village was dead like that, even my woman. I had to run. How could I be the only one who heard himself thinking?"

He said the right things. A thrall who somehow came out from under the Banished One's spells would have sounded the way he did. But so would a spy.

"Turnix!" Grus yelled. The wizard hurried up to him, still scrubbing the wounded sailor's blood from his hands. Grus pointed to the thrall. "Find out if the Banished One still lurks in his heart."

"I'll try, Captain." Turnix sounded doubtful. "I'll do my best, but magic is his by nature, mine only by art."

And you haven't got enough art, either,
Grus thought, but he kept quiet. Turnix pointed at the thrall as though his finger were a weapon. He chanted. He made passes, some sharp, some slow and subtle. He muttered to himself and gnawed his lower lip. At last, he turned to Grus. "As far as I can tell, he is what he claims to be, what he seems to be."

"As far as you can tell," Grus repeated. Turnix nodded. Grus sighed. "All right. I hadn't planned to put in at Anxa, but I will now. They have a strong fortress there, and several strong wizards. I'll put him in their hands. If they find he's clean, they'll make much of him. If they don't..." He shrugged.

"You think I still have - that - inside me," the thrall said accusingly.

"You may. Or you may not. For Avornis' sake, I have to be as sure as I can," Grus replied. Even letting the fellow see Anxa was a certain small risk. No, Avornis wasn't at war with the Menteshe, not now - but she was not at peace, either. With the Banished One loose in the world, there was no true peace.

* * *

Mergus felt helpless. He'd never had to get used to the feeling, as ordinary men did. But not even the King of Avornis could do anything while his concubine lay groaning in the birthing chamber and he had to wait outside.