The Chernagor Pirates (43 page)

“Why would anyone talk to a kitchen?” Lanius asked. “Ovens and pots and skewers don't listen very well.”

His wife gave him a severe look. “You know what I mean,” she said. “You've been talking to the people who work in the kitchens. There. Are you happier?”

“I couldn't be happier, not while I've got you,” Lanius answered.

Sosia smiled. “That's sweet,” she said. But then the smile slipped. “In that case, why—?” She stopped and shook her head. “No, never mind. Not tonight.”

Lanius had no trouble figuring out what she'd started to say.
In that case, why did you take Cristata to bed? Why did you want to make her your second wife?
To Lanius, it made good enough sense. He hadn't been unhappy with Sosia. He'd just wanted to be happy with Cristata, too. He still didn't see anything wrong with that. Grus' daughter, however, had a decidedly different opinion.

And what about Zenaida?
Lanius asked himself. He knew what Sosia's opinion of her would be. He didn't think he was in love with her, the way he had with Cristata. Maybe seeing that he didn't would keep Sosia from getting so furious this time. On the other hand, maybe it wouldn't do him any good at all.
She'd better not find out about Zenaida,
the king thought.

He smiled at Sosia. “Happy birthday,” he told her.

“You're even eating the kidney pie yourself,” she said in some surprise.

And so Lanius was. His thoughts full of maidservants, he'd hardly noticed he was doing it. Now that he did notice, he was reminded again that this was not his favorite dish—too strong for his taste. Still, he shrugged and answered, “I don't hate it,” which was true. As though to prove it, he took another bite. What he did prove, to himself, was that he didn't love it, either.

“I'm glad,” Sosia said.

Later that evening, Lanius made love with his wife. He didn't hate that, either. If Zenaida was a little more exciting … well, maybe that was because she wasn't as familiar as Sosia—and maybe, also, because the thrill of the illicit added spice to what they did. Nothing illicit about Sosia, but nothing wrong with her, nothing that made him want to sleep apart. He did his best to please her when they joined.

By the way she responded, his best proved good enough. “You
are
sweet,” she said, as though reminding herself.

“I think the same thing—about you,” he added hastily, before she could tease him about thinking himself sweet. That was what he got for being precise most of the time.

He waited there in the darkness, wondering if Sosia would ask why he'd gone after Cristata if he thought she was sweet. But she didn't. She just murmured, “Well, good,” rolled over on her side, and fell asleep. Lanius rolled over, too, in the opposite direction. His backside bumped hers. She stirred a little, but kept on breathing slowly and deeply. A few minutes later, Lanius also drifted off, a smile on his face.

A lieutenant from one of the river galleys on the Stura stood before King Grus. “Your Majesty, an awful lot of the Menteshe are sneaking south across the river. More and more every day, and especially every night. We've sunk half a dozen boats full of the stinking buggers, and more have gotten by us.”

This wasn't the first such report Grus had heard. He scratched his head. Up until a few days before, Prince Ulash's men hadn't been doing anything of the sort. Sudden changes in what the Menteshe were up to made the King of Avornis deeply suspicious. “What have they got in mind?” he asked, though the lieutenant wasn't going to know.

As he'd expected, the young officer shrugged and answered, “No idea, sir. We don't get the chance to ask them a whole lot of questions. When we ram 'em, we sink 'em.” By the pride in his voice, he wanted to do nothing
but
sink them.

That suited Grus fine. He wanted his river-galley officers aggressive. He said, “Thank you, Lieutenant. I'll see what I can do to get to the bottom of this.”

The officer bowed and left. Grus scratched his head again. He didn't shake any answers loose. He hadn't really thought he would. Being without answers, he summoned Pterocles. The wizard heard him out, then said, “That
is
interesting, Your Majesty. Why would they start going over the river now when they had seemed to want to stay on this side and fight?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” Grus said. “Has there been a magical summons? Has the Banished One taken a hand in things?”

“I haven't noticed anything out of the ordinary.” Pterocles spoke cautiously. Grus approved of that caution. Pterocles recognized the possibility that something might have slipped past him. He said, “I have spells that would tell me if something
has
gone on under my nose. A summons like that lingers on the ether. If it was there, I'll find out about it.”

“Good,” Grus said. “Let me know.”

When Pterocles came back that afternoon, he looked puzzled and troubled. “Your Majesty, if any sort of sorcerous summons came north, I can't find it,” he said. “I don't quite know what that means.”

“Neither do I,” Grus said. Had the Banished One deceived his wizard? Or was Pterocles searching for something that wasn't there to find? “If you know any other spells, you ought to use them,” Grus told him.

Pterocles nodded. “I will, though I've already tried the ones I think likeliest to work. You ought to try to take some Menteshe prisoners, too. They may know something I don't.”

“I'll do that,” Grus said at once. “I should have sent men out to do it when I first called you. A lot of the time, the Menteshe like to sing.”

He gave the orders. His men rode out. But Menteshe were starting to get scarce on the ground. Even a week earlier, discovering so few of them on the Avornan side of the Stura would have made Grus rejoice. He would have rejoiced now, if his men were the ones responsible for making the nomads want to get back to the lands they usually roamed. But his men hadn't driven the Menteshe over the Stura, and he knew it. That left him suspicious. Why were the Menteshe leaving—fleeing—Avornis when they didn't have to?

“I know what it is,” Hirundo said when a day's search resulted in no prisoners.

“Tell me,” Grus urged. “I haven't got any idea why they're going.”

“It's simple,” the general answered. “They must have heard you were going to put a tax on nomads in Avornis, so of course they ran away from it.” He grinned at his own cleverness. “By Olor's beard, I would, too.”

“Funny.” Grus tried to sound severe, but a smile couldn't help creeping out from behind the edges of his beard—it
was
funny, even if he wished it weren't. He wagged a finger at Hirundo, who kept right on grinning, completely unabashed. Grus said, “Do you have any
real
idea why they're doing it?”

“No,” Hirundo admitted. “All I can say is, good riddance.”

“Certainly, good riddance.” But Grus remained dissatisfied, like a man who'd just enjoyed a feast but had an annoying piece of gristle stuck between two back teeth. “They
shouldn't
be running away, though, not when we haven't finished beating them. They've never done that before.”

“Maybe they know we're going to win this time, and so they want to save themselves for fights next year or the year after,” Hirundo suggested.

“Maybe.” Grus still didn't sound happy—still wasn't happy. He explained why, repeating, “They've never done that before.” The Menteshe usually did the same sort of things over and over again. If they changed their ways, they had to have a reason … didn't they?

“Maybe the Banished One is telling them what to do,” Hirundo said.

“Of course the Banished One is telling them what to do,” Grus answered. He hated the idea, which didn't mean he disbelieved it. “They're his creatures. They're proud to be his creatures. But why is he telling them to do that? And how is he telling them? Pterocles can't find any of his magic.”

Hirundo considered, then brightened. “Maybe he's trying to drive you mad, to make you find reasons for things that haven't got any.”

“Thank you so much,” Grus said. Hirundo bowed back, as he might have after any extraordinarily meritorious service. The worst of it was, Grus couldn't be sure the general was wrong. The king knew he would go right on wasting time and losing sleep until he found an answer he could believe. He sighed. “The more we go on like this, the plainer it gets that we need prisoners. Until we know more, we'll just keep coming out with one stupid guess after another.”

“I don't think my guesses were stupid.” Mock anger filled Hirundo's voice. “I think they were clever, perceptive, even brilliant.”

“You would,” the king muttered. “When your men finally do bring back a captive or two, we'll see how brilliant and perceptive you were.”

“They're doing their best, the same as I am,” Hirundo said.

“I hope theirs is better than yours.” Grus made sure he smiled so Hirundo knew he was joking. The horrible face the general made said he got the message but didn't much care for it.

Along with the cavalry, the men aboard the river galleys got orders to capture Menteshe if they could. If they could … Suddenly, the lands on this side of the Stura began to seem like a country where the birds had just flown south for the winter. They had been here. The memory of them lingered. They would come back. But for now, when you wanted them most, they were gone.

Grus had never imagined that winning a war could leave him so unhappy. He had questions he wanted to ask, questions he needed to ask, and nobody to whom to ask them. He'd snarled at Hirundo in play. He started snarling at people in earnest.

“They're gone,” Alauda said. “Thank the gods for it. Praise the gods for it. But, by Queen Quelea's mercy, don't complain about it.”

“I want to know why,” Grus said stubbornly. “They aren't acting the way they're supposed to, and that bothers me.” He'd been down this same road with Hirundo.

His new mistress had less patience for it. “Who cares?” she said with a toss of the head. “As long as they're out of the kingdom, nothing else matters.” That held enough truth to be annoying, but not enough to make Grus quit trying to lay his hands on some of the nomads.

When at last he did, it was much easier than he'd thought it would be. Like a flock of birds that had fallen behind the rest because of a storm, a band of about twenty Menteshe rode down to the Stura and then along it, looking for boats to steal so they could cross. Three river galleys and a regiment of Hirundo's horsemen converged on them. When Grus heard the news, he feared the nomads would fight to the death just to thwart him. But they didn't. Overmatched, they threw up their hands and surrendered.

Their chieftain, a bushy-eyebrowed, big-nosed fellow named Yavlak, proved to speak good Avornan. “Here he is, Your Majesty,” Hirundo said, as though he were making Grus a present of the man.

And Grus felt as though Yavlak were a present, too. “Why are you Menteshe leaving Avornis?” he demanded.

Yavlak looked at him as he would have looked at any idiot. “Because we have to,” he answered.

“You have to? Who told you you have to? Was it the Banished One?” The king knew he sounded nervous, but couldn't help it.

“The Fallen Star?” Now Yavlak looked puzzled. With those eyebrows, he did it very well. “No, the Fallen Star has nothing to do with it. Can it be you have not heard?” He didn't seem to want to believe that; he acted like a man who had no choice. “By some mischance, we found out late. I thought even you miserable Avornans would surely know by now.”

“Found out what? Know what?” Grus wanted to strangle him. The only thing that held him back was the certain knowledge that he would have to go through this again with another nomad, one who might not be so fluent in Avornan, if he did.

Yavlak finally—and rudely—obliged him. “You stupid fool,” he said. “Found out that Prince Ulash is dead, of course.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Prince Ulash is dead.”

King Lanius stared at the messenger who brought the word north to the city of Avornis. “Are you sure?” he blurted. He realized the question was foolish as soon as it came out of his mouth. He couldn't help asking, though. Ulash had been the strongest and canniest prince among the Menteshe for longer than Lanius had been alive. Imagining how things would go without him was nothing but a leap in the dark.

The messenger took the question seriously. That was one of the privileges of being a sovereign. “Yes, Your Majesty. There's no doubt,” he answered. “The nomads went south of the Stura when they didn't have to, and prisoners have told King Grus why.”

“All right. Thank you,” Lanius said, and then, as an afterthought, “Do you know who succeeds him? Is it Prince Sanjar or Prince Korkut?”

“That I can't tell you. The nomads King Grus caught didn't know,” the messenger said. “Grus is on his way back here now, with part of the army. The rest will stay in the south, in case whichever one of Ulash's sons does take over decides to start the war up again.”

“Sensible,” Lanius said, hoping neither the messenger nor his own courtiers noticed his small sigh. With Grus back in the capital, Lanius would become a figurehead again. Part of Lanius insisted that didn't matter—Grus was better at the day-to-day business of running Avornis than he was, and was welcome to it. But Lanius remembered how often he'd had power taken away from him. He resented it. He couldn't help resenting it.

He dismissed the messenger, who bowed his way out of the throne room. As the king descended from the Diamond Throne, the news beat in his brain, pulsing like his own blood, pounding like a drum.
Prince Ulash is dead.

What
would
come next? Lanius didn't know. He was no prophet, to play the risky game of foreseeing the future. But things wouldn't be the same. Neither Sanjar nor Korkut could hope to match Ulash for experience or cleverness.