The Chernagor Pirates (47 page)

“
I
will give you a guarantee,” Duqaq broke in. “I will give you a guarantee Er-Tash is lying, and Korkut is lying, too.”

“Oh?” Again, Grus carefully didn't smile, though he felt like it. “Does Sanjar want peace with Avornis? If he does, what guarantees will
he
give? We need guarantees. We have seen we cannot always trust the Menteshe.” He went no further than that. What he wanted to say about the Banished One would only anger both ambassadors.

“Sanjar wants peace,” Duqaq said. “Sanjar will pay tribute to have peace.”

“And try to steal it back again!” Er-Tash burst out. Duqaq snarled at him, no doubt because he'd told nothing but the truth.

“What will Korkut give?” Grus asked Duqaq.

“He too will pay tribute,” Korkut's ambassador replied, at which Er-Tash laughed loud and long. Flushing under his swarthy skin, Duqaq went on, “And he will also give hostages, so you may be sure his intentions are good.”

“You may be sure he will cheat, giving men of no account who—whom—who he says are important,” Er-Tash said.

“Will Sanjar give hostages?” Grus asked. If he had hostages from the Menteshe, they might think twice about attacking Avornis. Money, he was sure, would not give him nearly as big an advantage.

Reluctantly, Er-Tash nodded. Now Duqaq was the one who laughed a raucous laugh. Er-Tash said, “Shut your fool's mouth, you son of a backscuttling sheep.” The insult had to be translated literally from his own tongue; Grus had never heard it in Avornan. Duqaq answered in the Menteshe language. The rival envoys snapped at each other for a minute or two.

At last, Duqaq turned away from the quarrel and toward King Grus. “You see, Your Majesty,” he said. “You will get no more from the rebel and traitor than you will from Prince Korkut, so you should recognize him.”

“You will get no more from the robber and usurper than you will from Prince Sahjar, so you should recognize
him,”
Er-Tash said.

They both waited to hear what Grus would say. He thought for a little while, then spoke. “As long as two sons of Ulash claim to be Prince of Yozgat, I will not recognize either of them—unless one attacks Avornis. Then I will recognize the other, and do all I can to help him. When you have settled your own problems, I will recognize the prince you have chosen, however you do that. Until then, I am neutral—unless one of your principals attacks my kingdom, as I said.”

Duqaq said, “Sanjar's rogues will attack you and make it look as though my master's followers did the wicked deed.”

“You blame Sanjar for what Korkut plans himself,” Er-Tash said.

Again, they started shouting at each other in their own language. “Enough!” Grus said. “Too much, in fact. I dismiss you both, and order you to keep the peace as long as you stay in Avornis.”

“When we cross the Stura, this is a dead dog.” Er-Tash pointed to Duqaq.

“A mouse dreams of being a lion,” Duqaq jeered.

“Dismissed, I said!” Grus was suddenly sick of both of them. They left the throne room. Avornan guards had to rush in to keep the men from their retinues from going at one another as they were leaving.

But no matter how severe Grus' expression while the rival Menteshe embassies were there to see it, the king smiled a broad and cheerful smile as soon as they were gone. Nothing pleased him more than strife among his foes.

Zenaida pouted prettily at King Lanius. “You don't love me anymore,” the serving girl complained.

I never loved you,
Lanius thought.
I had a good time with you, and either you had a good time with me or you're a better actress than I think you are. But that isn't love, even if it can be a start.
He hadn't known as much when he fell for Cristata. Grus had been right, even if Lanius hated to admit it.

He had to answer Zenaida. “I've been busy,” he said—the same weak reply men have given lovers for as long as men have taken lovers.

This time, Zenaida's pout wasn't as pretty. “Busy with who?”

“Nobody,” he answered, which was true, as long as he didn't count his wife.

The maidservant tossed her head. “Ha!” she said. “A likely story! You've found somebody else. You took advantage of me, and now you throw me aside?” She'd been at least as much seducer as seduced—so Lanius remembered it, anyhow. He didn't suppose he should have been surprised to find she recalled it differently. She went on, “If Queen Sosia ever found out about what was going on …”

“If Queen Sosia ever finds out, my life will be very unpleasant,” Lanius said, and Zenaida smirked. He added, “But if she finds out from you, you will go straight to the Maze, and you won't come out again. Not ever. Is that plain enough?”

“Uh …” Zenaida's smirk vanished. Lanius could all but read her mind. Did he have the power to do what he threatened? Would he be angry enough to do it if he could? He could see her deciding he did and he would. “Yes, Your Majesty,” she said in a very small voice.

“All right, then,” Lanius said. “Was there anything else?”

“No, Your Majesty,” she whispered.

“Good,” Lanius said.

Zenaida wasn't pouting as she walked away from him. She was scowling, black as midnight. He sighed. An affair with love had complications. Now he discovered an affair without love had them, too. She thought he'd taken advantage of her, or said she did.

I'll give her a present,
Lanius thought. With luck, that would sweeten her. He'd have to do it in such a way that he didn't look to be paying her for whoring. He nodded to himself. He could manage that.

Another problem solved, or so it seemed. He walked through the corridors of the palace suite smiling to himself. He liked solving problems. He liked few things better, in fact.

Guards came to stiff attention as he approached. He waved for them to stand at ease and asked, “How is Otus?”

“He's fine, Your Majesty,” one of the guardsmen answered. “Couldn't be better, as far as I can see. You wouldn't know he was ever a thrall, not hardly you wouldn't.”

“Bring him out,” Lanius said. “I'd like to talk to him.”

The guardsmen saluted. One of them unbarred the door, which could only be done from the outside. The guards kept their weapons ready. No matter how normal Otus acted, they didn't completely trust him. Lanius could hardly quarrel with them on that score, not with what he knew about “cured” thralls from years gone by.

But things had changed for the man on whom Pterocles had worked his magic. When the door to Otus' room opened, no thick barnyard reek poured out. Nor was Otus himself encrusted with ground-in filth. He looked like an ordinary Avornan, and was as clean as any of the guards. He'd been bathed and barbered and had his shaggy beard trimmed. His clothes were of the same sort as palace servants wore.

He'd learned enough to bow to the king without being told. “Your Majesty,” he murmured.

“Hello, Otus,” Lanius said. The thrall hadn't even had a name before they gave him one. “How are you today?”

“Just fine, thanks,” replied the man brought up from the south. His accent didn't just sound southern. It sounded old-fashioned, and was the one thing that could have placed Otus to the far side of the Stura. Thralls didn't speak much, and their way of speaking had changed little since the Menteshe overran their lands. Over the past centuries, the currents of Avornan had run on without them. Though born a thrall, Otus had learned hundreds, maybe thousands, of new words since the shadow was lifted from his mind, but he spoke them all with his old accent.

“Glad to hear it,” Lanius told him. “What was it like, being a thrall?”

“What was it … like?” Otus echoed, frowning. “It was … dark. I was … stupid. I still feel stupid. So much I don't know. So much I ought to know. You say—all you people say—someone did this to me?”

“The Banished One,” Lanius said. “The Menteshe call him the Fallen Star.”

“Oh.” Otus' frown remained, but now showed awe rather than puzzlement or annoyance. “The Fallen Star. Yes. I would see him in … in dreams they were. All thralls would. He was bright. Nothing in our lives was bright. But the Fallen Star … The Fallen Star made everything shine inside our heads.”

Did he mean that literally? Or was he trying to express something that didn't lend itself to words? Lanius tried to get him to say more, but he wouldn't. Maybe he couldn't. The king asked, “How do you feel about the Banished One now?”

Yet another sort of frown from Otus, this one the kind a thoughtful man might use before speaking. “I feel … free of him,” the—former?—thrall said at last. “He has nothing to do with me anymore.”

“And how does that make you feel?” Lanius asked.

“Glad,” Otus said simply. “I am not an ox. I am not a donkey. I am a man. Here, I can be a man. Before, I never knew what it meant to be a man.”

“Would you fight against the Banished One if you had the chance?”

“Give me a sword. Give me a spear.” Otus frowned thoughtfully again. “I stand here. I talk to you. I say what I think. When I do that, I fight the Fallen Star. Is it not so, Your Majesty?”

“I think it is,” Lanius answered. The thrall spoke against the Banished One. By all appearances, Otus was indeed cured of the exiled god's baneful influence. But how much were those appearances worth? Below them, was the Banished One still watching and listening and laughing? Lanius didn't know. He couldn't tell. He wasn't altogether sure whether Pterocles, for all his skill, could tell, either. That being so, he knew he wouldn't trust Otus' cure any time soon.

Grus read the letter from the south with a satisfaction he could hardly disguise. “You know what this says?” he asked the courier.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the man answered. “I had to read it, in case it came to grief while I traveled.”

“Good.” Grus nodded. “Now—do you know anything more than what's written here?”

“I'm sorry, Your Majesty, but I don't,” the courier said. “I've never been down near the Stura. I only brought this the last thirty miles.”

“All right.” Grus did his best to hide his disappointment. “The news in here”—he tapped the parchment—“is plain enough, anyhow.”

He dismissed the courier and summoned General Hirundo. When Hirundo walked into the audience chamber, he looked grumpy. “Did it have to be right now, Your Majesty?” He sounded grumpy, too. “You spoiled what might have been a tender moment with a maidservant.
She
was certainly tender, and I didn't have to do much more to get her to Say yes.”

“This is more important than fooling around with a woman,” Grus declared.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” Hirundo's words were perfectly obedient. Only a raised eyebrow reminded Grus of Alauda and all the other women the general might not happen to know about.

Grus felt himself redden. He passed Hirundo the letter that had just come up from the south. “Here,” he said. “See for yourself.”

Hirundo started the letter with the same perfect but sarcastic obedience he'd used to answer the king. He didn't get very far, though, before the sarcasm disappeared. “Well, well,” he said when he was through. “You were right. Every once in a while, the gods do answer a prayer, don't they?”

“I was thinking something along those very same lines, as a matter of fact,” Grus replied. “We couldn't have asked King Olor for anything much nicer than a real civil war between Sanjar and Korkut.”

The general tapped the letter with his index finger. “Sounds like they're going at it hammer and tongs, too.”

“Who do you suppose will win?” Grus asked.

“Beats me,” Hirundo said cheerfully. “Let's sit back and drink some wine and watch and find out.”

“I don't intend to do anything else,” Grus said. “I hope they spend the next five years smashing away at each other, and that all the other Menteshe jump into the fight and jump on each other, too. That way, with a little luck, they'll stay too busy to bother Avornis. And after what they did to us this past year, we can use the time to heal.”

“If I could tell you you were wrong, that would mean we were stronger than we really are,” Hirundo said.

“We'll have to strengthen the river-galley fleet on the Stura,” Grus said. “I was going to do that anyway, but now it's especially important. I don't want the Menteshe getting distracted from their own fight to go after us.”

Hirundo gave him a brisk nod. “Makes sense. You do most of the time, Your Majesty.” He paused, then added, “So does Lanius, as a matter of fact.”

“Well, so he does,” Grus admitted, a little uncomfortably. The more sense Lanius showed, the more worrisome he became. He also became more valuable to the kingdom; Grus consoled himself with that.

“With the Menteshe busy playing games among themselves, what do you aim to do about the Chernagors?” Hirundo asked.

“You're thinking along with me. Either that means you make sense, too, or else we're both crazy the same way,” the king said. Hirundo laughed. So did Grus, although he hadn't been kidding, or at least not very much. He went on, “If Korkut and Sanjar are still bashing each other over the head come spring, I do aim to go north. We'll never have a better chance to take Nishevatz without distractions from the south—or from the Banished One.”

“You'll make Prince Vsevolod happy,” the general observed.

“I know.” Grus heaved a sigh. “I suppose I'll have to do it anyhow.” Again, Hirundo laughed. Again, so did Grus. Again, though, he hadn't been kidding, or at least not very much.

Lanius was pleased with himself as he walked back toward the royal bedchamber. He'd had a good day in the archives, coming up with a map of Nishevatz as it had been when it was the Avornan city of Medeon. Vsevolod, no doubt, would laugh at the map and go on about how much things had changed. But no one had been able to get Vsevolod to sit down and draw his own map of Nishevatz. Even old clues were better than no clues at all.