The Scepter's Return (67 page)

Shrugging, Grus answered, “Why should I? What else is there to do here but sit around twiddling my thumbs?”

“Some people would like that—you bet they would.” Neophron laughed. “Never thought I'd have a king working under me, and that's the truth.”

“You don't,” Grus said. The other man raised an eyebrow. Grus continued, “If I were still king, I'd be back in the city of Avornis. Since I'm here, I'm a monk like any other monk.” That was true enough; no one had tried to make life in the monastery any easier or any softer for him because of what he had been.

“Guess you're right,” Neophron said after a little thought. “Well, I never figured I'd have somebody who used to be a king working under me, either.” He eyed Grus to see if the formerly illustrious dishwasher would argue with that. Grus didn't. He just rinsed out another mug and set it on a rack to dry.

Once he'd leveled the mountain of earthenware, he went out into the courtyard. Petrosus was watering the garden. He eyed Grus, but again didn't speak to him. Petrosus had been snapping every time Grus came out of the kitchens. His silence seemed doubly welcome because it was so unexpected.

Here came Ortalis. He looked discontented—but then, he usually did. He minded work, but Abbot Pipilo didn't care whether he minded or not. He got it either way, and he got punished when he didn't do it well enough to suit Pipilo or whoever else was set over him. That did nothing to improve his temper.

He gave Grus a curt nod and kept walking. Caught by surprise, Grus nodded back. He and his son quarreled even more readily than he and Petrosus did. They had, anyway, ever since Ortalis' brief reign collapsed and he ended up here along with his father. Grus had looked for yet another barb from Ortalis. He scratched his head, wondering why he didn't get one.

After quiet persisted for a few days, Grus approached Pipilo in his office and asked him if he'd had anything to do with it. The abbot gravely shook his head. “No, Brother Grus, not I. I said not a word to either of them or to you, figuring whatever I said would do no good and might make things worse.”

“It wouldn't have made them worse with me. All I want is peace and quiet,” Grus said.

Pipilo smiled thinly. “One man's notions of peace and quiet are not always the same as another's.” He held up his hand before Grus could reply. “I don't intend to offend anyone by saying this.”

“Oh, you don't offend me, Father Abbot,” Grus said. “I know that's true. Anyone who's had anything to do with more than a few people will know it's true.”

The abbot smiled again. “Yes, you would have had that kind of experience before you, ah, joined us, wouldn't you? Well, Brother, if you've sent prayers up to the gods for tranquility, maybe you've had them answered.”

“Maybe I have.” Grus couldn't see how else he could respond to Pipilo, and he couldn't see where else to go from there. Since he couldn't, he bowed and left the office—which was, no doubt, just what Pipilo wanted him to do.

Even so, he grappled with the small problem—not that silence from Ortalis and Petrosus was a problem, even if the reason for their silence was—as stubbornly as he'd grappled with the problems King Dagipert or the Chernagor pirates posed for Avornis. Past their eventually delivering the Scepter of Mercy into his hands, he didn't see that the gods in the heavens listened to prayers very often, let alone answered them.

That left him shaking his head and laughing at the same time, which made his fellow monks send him puzzled, even wary, glances. He didn't care. He wondered whether any other monk in the long history of this monastery had ever had a less reverent attitude toward the gods in the heavens.

But if Olor and Quelea and the rest of the heavenly host hadn't inspired his son and his son's father-in-law to leave him alone, who or what had? Grus couldn't believe Ortalis and Petrosus had suddenly decided on their own to back off; that wasn't like either one of them, let alone both at the same time.

It was a nice puzzle. He realized he'd missed having something to ponder since he came here. Now he did, and found he was enjoying himself while he pondered. The more he did, the more perplexed he got. He didn't mind that; at least now he had something to wonder about.

Life at the monastery went on. One of the monks died—not an old man with a white beard, but one scarcely half Grus' age, of an attack of belly pain that led to fever. The surviving brethren, Grus among them, stood around his pyre and prayed that his soul might rise to the heavens with the smoke of his burning.
This will be my end, too,
Grus thought. The idea worried him less than he'd expected it to. He'd already lived a long life. And, while few people if anyone outside the monastery would remember poor Brother Mimus, his own name would last.

Though Ortalis went on leaving Grus alone, he got into a brawl with another monk. He broke one of his knuckles giving the man a black eye; the other man broke Ortalis' nose. Pipilo put them both on bread and water for a week. Dishonors were judged to be about even on both sides.

A couple of new monks came in. One of them, a skinny young man with a scraggly beard, really wanted to be there. He'd grown up not far away, and had wanted to join the monastery ever since he was a boy. Grus wondered how he'd like his wish now that he had it. The other was a city governor who'd thought living far from the city of Avornis let him get away with fattening his belt pouch. Grus was glad Lanius had proved him wrong, and took that as a good omen for his son-in-law's sole reign.

Lanius was a clever fellow, no doubt about it. Grus had always wondered whether the other king would be strong enough to rule on his own. He'd had his doubts about that. Maybe Lanius would prove him wrong after all.

And sometimes being clever sufficed. Grus was lying down on his thin mattress one evening when, instead, he sat bolt upright. The gods in the heavens surely couldn't care less if he and Ortalis and Petrosus squabbled. But the idea might bother Lanius, and the king knew there was trouble from Grus' petition. If he decided to pick up the Scepter of Mercy …

Would he use it for as small a thing as stopping a nasty quarrel? Grus nodded to himself, there in the darkness. Lanius didn't like unpleasantness. It was untidy. And he might well feel he owed Grus enough to make sure the other king got at least some peace now that he was king no more.

“Thank you,” Grus murmured. He wasn't supposed to speak after lying down, but he wasn't pious enough to get upset at breaking a small rule, either. If one of the other monks had caught him at it, he would have had to do something unpleasant for penance, but the brothers nearby were all snoring.

He nodded again. Now he was pretty sure he had an answer to his riddle. The world wouldn't have ended even if he hadn't gotten one—hardly!—but he still felt better knowing. Maybe he wasn't so different from Lanius after all. He rolled over and fell asleep.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Lanius was amazed at all the correspondence Grus had dealt with. Letters addressed to the other king kept coming in weeks and months after Grus went to the monastery. Now Lanius had to deal with them.

Some of them didn't get dealt with; Lanius wasn't the administrator Grus had been. He consoled himself by thinking people would write again if anything really important fell through the cracks. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn't. Either way, it made him feel better.

He did try to read everything that came in addressed to Grus. One letter, in a scrawl just this side of illiteracy, talked about how a boy named Nivalis was flourishing. It also complained—deferentially—that payment for the boy's expenses was overdue. It was signed by a woman named Alauda.

“Well, well,” Lanius said, and then again, “Well, well.” He'd never heard of Nivalis or Alauda.

So Grus had another bastard out there, did he? Did he? If he did, he must have fathered the boy when he was down in the south fighting the Menteshe. It wasn't impossible. Before sending money to a woman who might be trying to deceive, though, Lanius wrote to Grus in the monastery.

The answer came back as promptly as such things could.
Please pay her, Your Majesty,
Grus wrote.
The boy is mine, and I promised her she would not want. I do not care to be forsworn on something like this, and the expense is not large. And besides, who knows what Nivalis may grow up to become?

There was an interesting thought. The boy would know his heritage. His mother would make sure of that. He might come to the city of Avornis for an education, or to serve as a soldier. If he had any reasonable part of Grus' abilities, he could prove formidable. Avornis needed formidable people; there were never enough to go around.

And so Lanius wrote back to Grus, saying,
Have no fear. I will make sure your obligations continue to be met.
He ordered the treasury minister to send Alauda the usual payment. “Yes, Your Majesty,” the man replied. Unlike Petrosus, he'd never given Lanius any trouble. “I delayed until I learned what your intentions here were.”

He was smart enough to see he could have gotten into trouble for acting as easily as for not acting. Not acting could be mended. If he'd acted on his own, that would have been irrevocable, and would surely have landed him in hot water if he'd guessed wrong. He might not have been brave, but he'd been sensible.

“Fair enough,” Lanius said. “From now on, the woman Alauda is to have her usual allowance, and you are to continue your usual discretion about it.” He'd been so discreet, Lanius had had no idea that Sosia and Ortalis and Anser had another little half brother.

“Just as you say, Your Majesty, so shall it be,” the treasury minister promised. “As long as I have instructions, I shall carry them out to the best of my ability.” Without instructions, he would sit there and look up at the ceiling and gather dust; that was the corollary. But he was a useful and reasonably able official. Expecting someone in his place to have imagination, too, was no doubt asking too much.

“We'll let it go at that, then,” Lanius said. Alauda and Nivalis were taken care of. Lanius wondered what the boy was like. Grus had never said a word about him. The other king had always been able to keep secrets. Had Grus ever seen his newest bastard? He might have been able to, traveling to or from the wars with the Menteshe. If so, though, he'd never given the slightest sign.

In due course, another letter came from the monastery.
Thank you for your generosity toward this boy. It shows you deserve to use the Scepter of Mercy,
Grus wrote.
Thank you also for using it to help bring peace among the monks in this place. Nothing less than the Scepter of Mercy, I am sure, could have eased the strife that flourished here.

Lanius looked at that and slowly shook his head. Grus had no great amount of book learning. He was no scholar, and would have laughed at the idea of becoming one. But, as he always had, he saw how things worked. He got to the bottom of them. And when he did, he was rarely wrong. He certainly hadn't been this time.

Still bemused, Lanius summoned Hirundo. “What can I do for you, Your Majesty?” the general asked.

“Did you know Grus had a bastard son a few years ago?” Lanius asked.

To his surprise, Hirundo laughed. “Oh, yes. We were both in the tavern when he saw the boy's mother. Matter of fact, I saw her first. But he took a shine to her, so I backed off—he was king, after all. I've never set eyes on the boy, mind you, but I liked his mother.”

“No one ever said anything about it,” Lanius said.

“What's to say? These things happen.” Hirundo shrugged.

Since Lanius knew it was only luck that none of the serving girls he'd bedded had conceived, he couldn't very well argue with that. He did say, “A king's bastard makes for … certain problems, you might say.”

“Oh, no doubt about it,” the general replied. “But Grus isn't king anymore, and it doesn't sound like he wants to be king anymore. Since that's so, I expect you'll be able to handle anything that comes up. Odds are nothing will—the boy'll likely be grateful for as much of a head start as he can get in life.”

“I hope you're right.” Lanius eyed Hirundo. A general could make for … certain problems, too. If Hirundo had risen in Grus' name, he and his longtime friend might well have prevailed. And if he'd rebelled in his own name, he also might have won. He was and always had been popular with the soldiers.

But he seemed content not to wear a crown. Maybe, watching Grus, he'd seen how much work being king really was. Lanius wondered what Hirundo would have done if he thought Grus wanted to retake the throne. That, fortunately, seemed to be one thing he himself and Avornis didn't have to worry about.

Hirundo probably knew what he was thinking. A general also had to be a courtier. But if he did know, he gave no sign of it. He just dipped his head and asked, “Anything else, Your Majesty?”

“No, I don't think so,” Lanius answered. Hirundo sketched a salute and left the room. Lanius sat there scratching his head. “Nivalis,” he murmured. It wasn't a bad name—and, to his ear at least, it didn't sound the least bit kingly. That made him like it better.

Another day at the monastery, not much different from the one that had gone before. The one that came after probably wouldn't be much different, either. Grus didn't worry about it. He'd seen enough ups and downs. Steadiness, right now, suited him.

Some monks who'd spent much longer behind these frowning walls still couldn't abide it here. Petrosus wasn't the only one who schemed to get a royal order, or an ecclesiastical one, releasing him from his vows and letting him return to the secular world. Ortalis wasn't the only one who paced the courtyard and the hallways like an animal in a cage too cramped to suit it.

A break in routine came when Pipilo summoned Grus to his office. Grus tapped at the open door. “You wanted me, Father Abbot?” he asked respectfully. Monks were supposed to respect their abbot. Grus
did
respect Pipilo. He knew how hard being in charge of any community was. Pipilo did a good job of running the monastery, and deserved respect for it.