The Bastard King (8 page)

"Because you couldn't possibly be a worse one," Queen Certhia snapped.

"That isn't logical," Lanius said. "If I tried, I'm sure I could - "

"But you wouldn't try any such thing - that's the point," his mother answered. "All Scolopax wanted to do was throw down everything your father ever did, just because he did it. You wouldn't do anything like that. You're still a little boy, but you know better."

"No, I don't suppose I
would
," Lanius said. "But I
could
."

Certhia gave him an odd look. "Never mind," she said. "I - "

"Good day, madam." Arch-Hallow Bucco stood in the doorway. He looked at Lanius' mother as though he'd found her on the bottom of his sandal. "What are you doing inside the palace? Who gave you leave to come here?" His voice was chilly as winter in the mountains of Thervingia.

"She's my mama. I'm King of Avornis!" Lanius exclaimed.

Bucco bowed. "Indeed you are, Your Majesty. But I am the head of the Council of Regents your uncle appointed to rule until you become a man. My word has weight here."

Certhia laughed scornfully. "And a fine Council of Regents it is, too. You and Waccho and Aistulf - "

"And Torgos," Bucco broke in. "Torgos is a wise and learned man."

"How did he put up with Scolopax, then?" Lanius' mother demanded. She pointed a finger at Bucco. "It's
your
council, and everyone knows it. You're the one who will get blamed when things go wrong."

"I do not intend that things should go wrong," the arch-hallow said, even more frigidly than before. "When your son becomes a man, Avornis will be strong for him. He is, after all, the only one left of our ancient dynasty."

"Yes, and you've called him a bastard, too," Certhia said. "What do you propose to do about that?"

"I'm not a bastard," Lanius said. "You were Father's queen. I was only little then, but I remember."

"It is not so simple as that, Your Majesty," Arch-Hallow Bucco said. "Your mother was King Mergus' wife, yes, but she was the king's seventh wife."

Even Lanius, young as he was, knew what that meant. He stared at his mother. She scowled at Bucco. "Arch-Hallow Megadyptes declared he was legitimate."

Bucco coughed. He'd been ousted so Megadyptes could say that. He could hardly be expected to like it. "Arch-Hallow Megadyptes' opinions were his own, not mine," he said, and coughed again.

Lanius saw the logical flaw there. "If I'm not legitimate, if I am a bastard, how can I be king?"

Certhia pointed at the arch-hallow again. "And if he's not king, how can
you
head the Council of Regents for him?"

Bucco did some more coughing. "The entire situation is most irregular," he said.

"It certainly is," Queen Certhia said. "And since it is, how dare you try to keep me from seeing my son?"

"I head the regency council," Bucco said stiffly. "I decide whom King Lanius should see."

"I'm the king, and I want to see my mama!" Lanius said.

His mother said, "Who made a better arch-hallow for Avornis, Bucco? You or Megadyptes? Plenty of people would say he did, especially after the way Scolopax abused him. Do you want those people howling for your blood in the streets of the city? They will, especially if you keep calling Lanius a bastard."

"Don't you threaten me!" Bucco said.

"Don't you think you can keep me away from my son!" Queen Certhia retorted. "You're not the king. He is."

They glared at each other over Lanius' head. The new king of Avornis felt as though they had hold of him by the arms and were trying to pull him in two.

Commodore Grus didn't like riding a horse. Some people got seasick. This animal's endless rocking gait left
him
queasy. "I wish we could sail down to the south," he told Nicator.

"So do I," Nicator answered. "My legs feel like they've been stretched on the rack. I'll walk bowlegged the next week, see if I don't." He had his own reasons for disliking horses.

Sighing, Grus said, "The gods chose to give us rivers that run from west to east. If we want to go north, we can either let the horses do the work or we can do it ourselves. Those are the only choices we've got."

"Who says I
want
to go from north to south?" Nicator asked. "I've got to, but I don't much want to. As soon as the Thervings are quiet for a little while, the Menteshe start tormenting us again. Feels like the two sets of bastards have got Avornis by the arms, and they're trying to pull us in two."

That comparison was too apt for comfort. Grus said, "It could be worse. If they both jumped on us at the same time, we'd have real trouble."

Captain Nicator spat. "You ask me, Skipper, this
is
real trouble. If it wasn't real trouble, why would they send us to take command down south again, eh? Answer me that, if you please."

Since Grus couldn't, he didn't. He did reach down and make sure his sword was loose in its scabbard. Smoke darkened the southern horizon. The Menteshe were burning fields and farmhouses and villages. If they got lucky enough to break into walled towns, they'd burn those, too. And, if they came across a couple of mounted Avornans, they would try to kill them.

Seeing the motion, Nicator laughed. "Oh, you'll make a fine cavalryman, Skipper, same like me. You're likelier to whack me with that sword than you are to hit one of the Banished One's bastards."

"Thanks so much,
friend,"
Grus said. "I'll stay away from you, too. You see if I don't." He pointed. "Is that an inn up ahead?"

"Sure looks like one to me," Nicator answered. "Shall we stop for the night? We won't get a whole lot further even if we do go on."

"Suits me," Grus said. Once he and Nicator came into the common room, though, it didn't suit him so well. The merchants eating and drinking in there were loudly arguing about whether Bucco's faction or Megadyptes' had a better right to the arch-hallowdom. Some of the men had drunk enough to seem ready to argue with fists and knives, not words.

"This is foolishness," Nicator said. "Haven't we got more important things to worry about?"

He'd pitched his words to Grus, who nodded. But a young merchant at the next table turned toward them and said, "The Banished One will seize us if we make the wrong choice." His fingers writhed in a preventive sign.

Grus made the same gesture, but he asked, "Don't you think the Banished One is more likely to seize us if we quarrel among ourselves?"

By the way the merchant stared at him, he might as well have started speaking the language of the far northern Chernagors. Unlike most of the men in the dining hall, Gras didn't feel like arguing. He and Nicator finished their suppers - not so good - and their wine - worse - and went off to the cramped little room the innkeeper had given the two of them. Grus barred the door.

"That may not help," Nicator said.

"I know," Gras answered. "I don't see how it can hurt, though."

Somehow, the merchants didn't come to blows. When Gras and Nicator rode south the next morning, they were both scratching themselves. Gras almost decided the Banished One was welcome to have the innkeeper. Almost. Like anyone who'd seen what life was like on the far bank of the Stura, he didn't care to wish it on anybody else.

If the Menteshe won here - if their raids forced Avornan soldiers and wizards and priests off this land - the Banished One would bring his spells that much closer to the city of Avornis.
We'd better not let that happen,
Gras thought gloomily.

"I hope Anxa hasn't fallen," he said.

"It better not have!" Nicator said.

"I know," Gras answered. "But there's a lot of smoke down in the south. That means a lot of Menteshe running around loose."

How right he was, he and his companion found out a couple of hours later. They'd just passed a burnt-out farm when a couple of horsemen came up the road toward them. Those weren't Avornans in mail shirts - they were Menteshe, tough little men on tough little ponies. Seeing Gras and Nicator, they yanked sabers from scabbards and spurred their ponies forward.

Gras wished he were wearing chain mail. He had a helmet on his head, but no other armor. His own sword came out. So did Nicator's. He booted his horse toward the enemy. With horses as with river galleys, you didn't want to be standing still while the other fellow charged.

"King, uh, Lanius!" Grus shouted - a feeble war cry if ever there was one. What would the king have done if he'd been there? He was a little boy. He would have gotten killed, and in short order, too.

One of the nomads chose Grus; the other, Nicator.
How do
I
keep from getting killed in short order?
he wondered. He wasn't so bad on horseback as Nicator had said, but he wasn't good, either. This wasn't his chosen way to fight. By the way his foe rode, the nomad might have been born in the saddle. Up came his saber.

Iron belled on iron as Grus parried the Menteshe's cut. Sparks flew. The nomad cut again, backhand this time. Again, Grus parried. He tried a cut of his own. The Menteshe beat it aside and slashed at his horse. Grus kept the foeman's blade away from the beast. He couldn't stop the next cut, not altogether, but he deflected it enough to make it slide off his helmet instead of laying his face open.

The longer he fought, the more the lessons his father and a couple of implacable swordmasters had given him came back. The Menteshe howled a curse at him. The nomad must have expected sport, not work.

A moment later, the Menteshe howled again, in pain. Blood ran down his leather sleeve - a cut of Grus' had gotten home. The nomad wheeled his pony and booted the animal up into a gallop toward the south.

Instead of going after him, Grus turned to see how Nicator was doing. The other river-galley captain traded sword strokes with his enemy. Neither seemed to have much of an edge. Nicator bled from a cut on his cheek. The very tip of the Menteshe's left little finger also poured blood. That had to hurt, but it would do the nomad no great harm.

Grus rode up to the fight. The nomad was so hotly engaged with Nicator, he didn't realize he had a new foe till too late. Grus' sword slammed into the side of his neck. Blood sprayed, then rivered out of him. He gave a gurgling cry of pain. His sword flew from his hand. He tried to ride south, as his comrade had. But he stayed in the saddle only a furlong or so. After he slid to the ground, his horse slowed to a walk.

"Thank you kindly, Skipper," Nicator said, dabbing at his cut with a scrap of rag. "That was a pretty bit of work."

"Only goes to show I'm good for something on land," Grus answered. "I wouldn't have bet on it, if you want to know the truth."

"Let's round up that pony. We can sell it," Nicator said. "And who knows what that Menteshe bastard's got on him?"

"All right," Grus said. "We're just lucky we didn't run into archers. They would have filled us full of holes, and we couldn't have done much about it."

"That's what the nomads say when we catch their rafts on the water in our galleys." Nicator grinned fiercely. "Here's hoping they say it plenty."

The Menteshe's sword would bring something, too. Grus got off his horse to pick it up and stow it in a saddlebag. Then he mounted once more and went after his friend. When Nicator dismounted, he squatted beside the dead Menteshe. He cut the nomad's pouch from his belt. Hefting it, he whistled. "Nice and heavy." He opened it and looked inside. "Silver, with a little gold."

"Make two piles," Grus told him. "If there's an odd coin, you take it. I've got his saber."

"Sounds fair," Nicator agreed, and did it. "Only thing I feel bad about is knowing he probably stole it from Avornans."

"He paid a bigger price than money," Grus answered. "What's that he's got around his neck?"

"One of their amulets, I expect, on a cord." Nicator drew it out and scowled. "A nasty one."

Grus nodded. "I'll say it is." The main ingredient of the amulet was the skull of some small animal with sharp teeth - a weasel, perhaps. What bothered him most was that the eye sockets, though empty, kept giving him the feeling they were looking at him. "Take it off the bastard. Let's get rid of it."

"Right." Nicator cut the rawhide loop that held the amulet in place. When he reached for the skull, he jerked back his hand with a startled curse. "Shit! It
bit
me!" Sure enough, blood dripped from his thumb.

"I'll take care of it." Grus used his sword to flick the amulet away from the dead Menteshe. Its teeth clicked on the blade, too, but uselessly. He stomped on it, hard. It shattered under his boot heel. Even then, he felt a tingling jolt of power. The hair on his legs and arms and at the back of his neck stood up for a moment. Then the sensation ebbed. "There. That's done it."

Nicator bandaged his thumb. "Hurrah," he said sourly.

"Come on. Let's get down to the river," Grus said. "As long as we meet them on land, we're playing their game. But once their miserable little boats start trying to sneak back over the Stura, they're playing ours." His smile showed teeth almost as sharp as the amulet's as he went on, "And their river galleys aren't worth much. They can make thralls row, but they're even worse on the water than people like us are on land."

"Right," Nicator said again. He held up his hand. The bandage was turning red. "I want to have a wizard look at this anyway. It's liable to fester."

"Don't worry about it, Your Majesty," Arch-Hallow Bucco said, reaching out to pat Lanius on the head. "The other regents and I have everything well in hand."

The King of Avornis was only nine, but Bucco couldn't have taken a worse tack with him if he'd tried for a year. "Really?" Lanius said. "Then why are the Menteshe tormenting the south while the Thervings arm for war? Do you not think you made some bad choices there?"

Bucco stared at him. Lanius had said such things before, but they never failed to surprise the grown-up on the receiving end. "Your Majesty, you are, ah, misinformed," the arch-hallow said slowly.

That was also a mistake. Lanius knew what he knew. And, as he had since he was a baby, he cherished facts. He could rely on them, unlike people, not to desert him. "Oh? How?" he said now. "Do you mean the Menteshe didn't raid us? Or do you mean the Thervings aren't arming for war? What exactly
do
you mean?"