The Chernagor Pirates

CHAPTER TWO

Grus hated riding horseback. He wished he could reach the Chernagor city-states by river galley. He’d been a sailor—a galley captain, a commodore—for years. Aboard ship, he knew what he was doing. On a horse, he felt like a buffoon. Very often, the horse he was riding thought he was a buffoon, too.

Unfortunately, if he wanted to bring an army into the lands of the Chernagors, he had to go by horseback. Rivers in Avornis came out of the Bantian Mountains in the west, and flowed east and south to the sea. A low spur of the Bantians ran west from their northern extremity. Thanks to that watershed, no one could travel from Avornis to the Chernagor country by river.

And so, muttering under his breath, Grus turned to General Hirundo and said, “There has to be another way to do this.”

Hirundo was a cavalry officer. Grus tried not to hold it against him. Grinning, he said, “Oh, there is, Your Majesty.”

“By Olor’s beard, what is it?” Grus was ready to grasp at any straw.

“Instead of riding, you could walk like a pikeman,” Hirundo said.

“Thanks so much. I’m glad I asked you for advice,” Grus said. Hirundo laughed out loud.

The army moved north, horses’ hooves and the feet of marching men kicking up a cloud of dust that clung to everything and left eyes and mouths feeling as though they’d been dipped in grit. Out in the fields, farmers plowed the rich black soil. Down in the south, where Grus and Hirundo had spent their younger days, crops went into the ground with the fall rains and were harvested in the spring. Things were different here.

Some things were different, anyhow. Most of the farmers, though, fled as soon as they saw soldiers. Grus had seen that countless times before, in the south and here, not far from the capital. Some farmers took Avornan soldiers for the enemy. Some simply weren’t inclined to take chances. Avornans were also known to pillage, to rob, and to kill for the sport of it.

Grus said, “We aren’t running things as smoothly as we ought to. Our farmers shouldn’t think they have to run away from our soldiers. If it weren’t for the soldiers, the farmers would have plenty of worse things to worry about.”

“Well, yes,” Hirundo said. “My best guess is, they already know that. But they know our boys can turn on ’em, too. I wish it didn’t happen as much as you do. You know what wishes are worth, though. Give men swords and spears and bows and pay ’em to fight, and you’ll find they’ll go into business for themselves along with fighting for you.”

“ ‘Go into business for themselves,’ ” Grus echoed. “That’s the politest way to say ‘turn brigand’ I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh, I’m polite, Your Majesty,” Hirundo said. “In fact, I’m about the politest son of a whore you’re ever likely to meet.”

Laughing, Grus said, “So I see.”

Wagons full of grain and a shambling herd of cattle accompanied the army on the march. This early in the year, the only way the men could have lived off the countryside was by stealing every cow and sheep and pig for miles around. That wouldn’t have endeared them to the peasants they were supposed to protect.

When they camped for the night, some of them slept on bare ground under the stars, others in little tents of canvas or leather. Grus and Hirundo had fancy, airy pavilions of silk, the king’s larger than the general’s. Grus ate the same porridge and beef as his soldiers, though. Eating with them was the best way to make sure they got food worth eating.

After supper, Hirundo poked his nose into Grus’ tent and said, “Ask you a couple of things, Your Majesty?”

“Of course. Come in.” Grus picked up a folding chair and unfolded it. He pointed to a jug of wine with a couple of cups beside it. “Have something to drink.” The wine was better than what his soldiers drank.

“Don’t mind if I do.” After looking a question at Grus, Hirundo poured the king a cup, too. “What do you think we can do when we get up to Nishevatz?” the general asked after they’d both sipped.

“I hope we can knock down whatever faction the Banished One’s backers have put together there,” Grus answered.

“That would be good,” Hirundo agreed. “But how likely is it? The Banished One has a long reach. We’ve seen as much.”

“Haven’t we just?” Grus agreed. “But the Chernagor country is right at the end of it. We’ll be on the spot. That will make a difference. I hope it will, anyhow.”

“It had better,” Hirundo said. “If it doesn’t, we’re in a lot of trouble, you know.”

Grus took a long pull at his wine. He wanted to ease the situation with a joke, as Hirundo so often did. He wanted to, but couldn’t come up with one for the life of him. “We are in a lot of trouble,” he said at last. “The Banished One hasn’t tried interfering in affairs so openly in a long time—maybe not ever. Lanius says he never tried to kill Kings of Avornis before when they weren’t in the field against him.”

Hirundo smiled. “Lanius ought to know.”

“Oh, yes. He knows all sorts of things.” Grus let it go at that. The one thing Lanius didn’t know, as far as Grus could see, was what was important and what wasn’t. Grus went on, “You said you wanted to ask me a couple of things. What’s the other one?”

The general’s mobile features squeezed into a frown. After a moment, he brightened and said, “All right, now I remember. Once we settle this mess in Nishevatz, do you think we’ll be able to turn around and march home again? Or are we going to spend the next five or ten years putting out fires in the Chernagor country?”

“I hope we’ll be able to do this quickly and neatly and then go home again,” Grus said. “I don’t know whether that will happen, though. It’s not just up to me, you know. The Banished One will have something to do with it. So will the Chernagors. They like squabbling among themselves—and they don’t always like outsiders sticking their noses in on one side or the other.”

“Might as well be a family,” Hirundo said.

That startled a laugh out of Grus. He said, “You’re right. But it’s also what worries me most.”

As the army pushed north, the mountains climbed ever higher on the horizon. They were neither as tall nor as jagged as the Bantians proper. Snow was already melting from their peaks. In the range to the west, it would cling to the mountaintops all summer long.

Several passes gave entry to the Chernagor country on the far side of the mountains. Naturally, Grus led his men to the one closest to Nishevatz. He ordered scouts out well ahead of the main body of the army. If the Banished One’s backers (who might include Prince Vasilko) wanted to ambush them before they got to Nishevatz, the pass was the best place to try it. Grus remembered Count Corvus coming to grief against the Thervings because he didn’t watch out for an ambush. Had Corvus found it instead of the other way around, he likely would have made himself King of Avornis. As things were, he was a monk in the Maze these days, and would never come out.

No ambush waited in the pass. But one of the scouts said, “Your Majesty, we rode up to the watershed and then down a ways. When we looked to the north, we saw the whole country was full of smoke.” Several other riders nodded.

Grus and Hirundo exchanged glances. They both knew what was most likely to cause that. A company of cavalry around him, Grus rode out ahead of the army to see for himself. Sure enough, when he got to the top of the pass and peered north, it was just as the scout had said. Grus caught Hirundo’s eye again. “They’ve gone and started their war without us,” he said. “I’ll bet I can tell you which side Vasilko’s on, too.”

“Not ours,” Hirundo said. Grus nodded.

King Lanius hated being disturbed when he was with his moncats. Servants in the palace generally knew better than to bother him there. When someone knocked on the door to the moncats’ room, Lanius muttered in annoyance—he had Bronze on his lap. “Who is it?” he called. “What do you want?”

He sat on the floor with Bronze. The reddish female was one of the first pair Yaropolk of Nishevatz had given him several years before. She was about the size of an ordinary house cat, and of a temperament not far removed from that of an ordinary cat. But moncats’ paws were not those of ordinary cats. They had hands with real thumbs and feet with big toes that worked the same way. Even their tails could grip. They were made for life in the trees on their native islands somewhere out in the Northern Sea—just where, Yaropolk hadn’t said.

“It’s me,” came the answer from the other side of the door.

“And who are you?” Lanius knew he sounded irritated. He was irritated. He did his best not to show it to Bronze, stroking the moncats back and scratching at the corner of its jaw to try to coax a purr out of it.

The door to the room opened. That made Lanius spring to his feet in fury, spilling Bronze out of his lap. The moncat yowled at such cavalier treatment. Lanius whirled to see who besides Grus had the nerve to disturb him in here. Moncats were smarter than ordinary cats. They realized at once that an open door meant a chance to get away. With gripping hands and feet, they could go places ordinary cats couldn’t, too. A couple of escapes had proved that. One of the few rules Lanius had been able to enforce as though he really ruled was that servants were banned from his animals’ chambers.

But this wasn’t a servant. Prince Ortalis stood in the doorway. “Olor’s beard, shut that before they all get loose!” Lanius exclaimed.

For a wonder, Ortalis did. Grus’ legitimate son was a couple of years older than Lanius. He was taller, handsomer—and, most of the time, fouler-tempered. He looked around now with considerable curiosity; as far as Lanius knew, he’d never been in the moncats’ chamber before. “What peculiar beasts,” he said. “Are they good for anything?”

“No more—and no less—than any other cat is,” Lanius answered. “Did you come here to ask me that?”

Ortalis made a horrible face. The question must have reminded him of why he had come. “You’ve got to help me, Lanius,” he said.

Lanius’ heart sank. If Ortalis was in trouble, he feared he knew what sort. Hoping he was wrong, he asked, “Why? What did you do?”

“It wasn’t the way she says it was,” his brother-in-law answered, which proved he was right. Ortalis went on, “By the gods, she liked it as much as I did, up until…” He shook his head. “It’s all kind of fuzzy now. We both drank a lot of wine.”

“What happened?” Lanius wondered if he really wanted to know. He decided he needed to, whether he wanted to or not. “What did you do?”

“She… got hurt a little.” Quickly, Ortalis went on, “It’s not as bad as she says it is, though—I swear it’s not. And she wanted more while it was going on. I wouldn’t lie to you, Lanius. She did. She really did.”

“Your father won’t be very happy with you when he finds out,” Lanius said.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Ortalis howled. “You’ve got to help me make sure he doesn’t. If he does…” He tapped the back of his neck with a forefinger, as though the headsman’s ax were falling.

“What can I do?” Lanius asked. “I haven’t got the power to do anything to speak of. You ought to know that.” Even if he could have done something, he would have only for Sosia’s sake. Her brother repelled, revolted, and frightened him.

Ortalis said, “Money. She wants money.”

“Who doesn’t?” Lanius pointed to one of the moncats. “You know, I’ve been painting pictures of these beasts and selling them because the treasury minister doesn’t give me as much as I need.”

“Oh,” Ortalis said, as though Lanius had betrayed him when he needed help most. Maybe Lanius had. Grus’ son went on, “I was hoping you could talk to Petrosus and get whatever I need—whatever you need, I mean.”

“Not likely,” Lanius said, thinking, You meant what you said the first time. You’re the only one you ever cared about.

“But what am I going to do?” Ortalis sounded desperate. “What am I going to do? If she doesn’t get paid, she will blab. And then who knows what my father will do? He’s yelled at me before.”

Yes, and that’s because you’ve done nasty things to your women before— one more thing Lanius saw no point in saying. Ortalis never paid attention to anyone but himself, and turned nasty—nastier—when he was crossed. As much to get his brother-in-law out of his hair as for any other reason, the king said, “Maybe you ought to talk to Arch-Hallow Anser, instead. He heads the temples, so he can get his hands on money that doesn’t come through Petrosus.”

“Already tried him. He turned me down. My own flesh and blood, and he turned me down. Flat.” Anser was also Grus’ son, but a bastard. Despite his irregular past, Lanius—and everybody else—found him much more agreeable than Ortalis. The king wasn’t sure how bright Anser was. He was sure Grus’ bastard, unlike his legitimate son, had his heart in the right place.

More than ever, he wanted Ortalis gone. Spreading his hands, he said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t know what else to tell you now.”

“She’s got to disappear,” Ortalis muttered. “One way or another, she’s got to disappear.”

“By the gods, don’t make it worse than it is already!” Lanius exclaimed in alarm.

“It can’t get any worse than it is already,” his brother-in-law replied. “Just you remember, Lanius—you haven’t heard a thing.”

“I remember,” Lanius said. “If you think I want to walk into the middle of a quarrel between your father and you, you’d better think again.” He’d made promises to keep quiet about certain things before, made them and kept them. He didn’t promise now, and hoped Ortalis wouldn’t notice.

Full of other worries, Ortalis didn’t. “She’s got to disappear,” he said once more, and then rushed out of the chamber.

The king hurried after him. As Lanius had feared, Ortalis didn’t bother closing the door behind himself. Lanius did it before any of the moncats could get out. They did harm to their prey, too, but innocently and without malice. He wished he could say the same about Ortalis.

Whenever Grus breathed in, he tasted smoke. When he spat, he spat black. He turned to Hirundo and said, “It’s so nice that we’re welcome in the land of the Chernagors.”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed.” The general spat black, too. Hirundo swigged from a cup of ale, swallowed, and said, “I’m also glad the men of Nishevatz invited us to their city-state. Just think what kind of a greeting they would have given us if they hadn’t.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not,” Grus said wearily. The Avornan army had yet to see the city of Nishevatz itself. It was still busy reducing forts south of the town. Had it left them behind, the garrisons in them would have fallen on Grus’ men as soon as they’d gone by, or else on his supply wagons later.

Varazdin, the latest of them, wasn’t much different from any of the rest. The local limestone was golden, which made the walls and the keep inside look deceptively cheerful. As Grus had already seen with three other fortresses, Varazdin’s looks were indeed deceiving. His men ringed the fortress, just out of range of the archers and catapults on the walls. Whenever they came close enough, the Chernagors inside started shooting and flinging things at them.

A handful of Chernagors of Prince Vsevolod’s party made their way toward Grus. Several more Avornan bodyguards accompanied them. The Chernagors said they were of Vsevolod’s faction. Up until now, they’d acted as though they were of his faction. But if Grus’ men trusted them on account of that, and if one of them really favored the rebels and Prince Vasilko, favored the Banished One who backed the rebels and the young prince… If that happened, Avornis would suddenly have Lanius on the throne, and then things would look very different.

Grus didn’t intend that things should look different. The Chernagors, fortunately, didn’t seem offended at guardsmen shadowing them wherever they went. They too played political games with knife and poison and dark wizardry. Their leader, Duke Radim, bowed to Grus. In gutturally accented Avornan, he said, “I have found out who commands in Varazdin, Your Majesty.”

“Have you? Good.” King Grus took a big swig from his mug of ale. He drank as much to wash the smoke out of his mouth as because he was thirsty. “Who is he?”

“He is Baron Lev, Your Majesty,” Radim answered. He was an old man, his beard white, his shoulders stooped. He put Grus in mind of a fortress much more ancient and weathered than Varazdin. What remained showed how mighty he must have been in his younger days. He added, “He is, or should be, loyal to Vsevolod.”

“He has an odd way of showing it,” Hirundo exclaimed.

Radim nodded gravely. “He was not reckoned an important man. No one told him Vsevolod would seek aid from Avornis. He thought your coming was a real invasion.”

“Doesn’t he know better now?” Grus asked.

“Oh, yes.” Radim nodded again. “But his honor is touched. How can he yield you passage when his sovereign insulted him?”

“We’re trying to help his sovereign,” Grus pointed out.

“He knows that. But the insult comes first.”

“Do you mean he’s gone over to Vasilko?” Hirundo asked.

Now Radim shook his head. The Chernagors with him seemed shocked. “Oh, no,” he said. “Nothing like that. Still, how can a man who has been treated as though he were of no account cooperate in any way with those who so abused him? Should a woman who is taken by force cooperate with her ravisher and lie with him as though they truly loved each other?”

King Grus’ head started to ache. He was a practical man. He’d always thought the Chernagors were practical men, too. Of course, most of the Chernagors who came to the city of Avornis were merchants. By the nature of things, merchants needed to be practical men. He wished the same held true for nobles. But it didn’t. He’d already seen that in Avornis.

“Well,” he said, “if we have to take the most honorable Baron Lev by force, that’s what we have to do.”

And, three days later, he did. He thinned his line around the fortress of Varazdin, using the men thus freed to form two storming parties. Just as dawn was breaking, the men of the first one rushed at the north wall, shouting Grus’ name—and, for good measure, Vsevolod’s, too. Archers rushed forward with them, shooting as fast as they could to make the Chernagors inside the fort keep their heads down.

Up went ladders against those golden walls. Up swarmed Avornans, and Chernagors who were not only loyal to the rightful Prince of Nishevatz but willing to admit it. Lev’s men inside Varazdin rushed to defend the fort. They pushed over some of the scaling ladders. They poured boiling water and hot oil on the men ascending others. They were as loyal to their commander, and as brave, as any soldiers Grus had ever seen.

When the battle in the north was well and truly joined, when the besieged Chernagors were fully engaged—or so Grus hoped—he ordered the second assault party forward, against Varazdin’s southern wall. This time, his men approached the wall without shouting anything. They couldn’t sneak across a quarter of a mile of open ground, but they did their best not to draw undue notice.

And it worked. Even though the handful of defenders who hadn’t run to the north wall cried out in alarm, nobody else inside the fortress paid much attention to them. Maybe, with the din and excitement of the fight on the far wall, none of the other Chernagors even heard them.

They were brave. Instead of running away or yielding, they did everything they could to throw back Grus’ storming party. Using more long, forked poles, they did manage to tip over some of the scaling ladders that went up against the wall. Avornans shrieked as they fell. The clank of chainmail-clad soldiers striking the ground made Grus flinch.

But more Avornans, and Chernagors with them, gained a foothold on the south wall. They began dropping down into the courtyard. Some of them rushed to seize the keep, so that Lev’s men would have no chance to make a last stand there. Seeing that, the defenders of Varazdin threw down their weapons, threw up their hands, and yielded.

Avornan soldiers brought Baron Lev, none too gently, before King Grus. The Chernagor noble had a red-soaked bandage tied around his forehead to stanch a cut. He also bled from a wounded hand. He glared at the king. Grus glared back. “Your Excellency, you are an idiot,” he growled.

“I would not expect an Avornan to know anything of honor,” Lev growled in return.

“Do you favor Vsevolod or Vasilko?” King Grus pronounced the Chernagor names with care; the hums and hisses were alien to Avornan, and he did not want to confuse the man he backed and the one he opposed.

“Vsevolod, of course,” Lev replied, as though to a half-wit.

“All right, then. I thought as much, but I was not sure. Did you know—do you know—I have come to aid him if I can?” Grus asked. He waited until Lev grudged him a nod. Then he threw his hands in the air and demanded, “In that case, why did you keep trying to murder my men?”

“I told you an Avornan would not understand honor. My countrymen do.” Lev spoke with somber pride.

“Honor? I have my own notions about that. I understand stupidity when I see it. I understand stupidity very plainly,” Grus said. “We should fight on the same side, against Vasilko. Instead, you delayed me, cost me men, cost yourself men, and helped the man you say you oppose. The Banished One understands that sort of honor. You are right when you tell me I do not.”

“We could have put down Vasilko without your interference,” Lev said sullenly.

“That’s not what Vsevolod thought. He was the one who asked Avornis for help.”

“He made a mistake. He made another mistake in slighting me,” Baron Lev said.

“I see.” Grus nodded. “And so you had to make a mistake in turn, to pay Vsevolod back.”

“Yes,” Lev said, and then, “No! It was not a mistake. I did what I had to do.”

Grus turned to Duke Radim, who was listening off to one side. Radim seemed not at all surprised at the way the conversation was going. Indeed, he’d seemed to understand why Lev hadn’t yielded Varazdin even before the fortress fell. If not for that, Grus would have wondered whether the Banished One was somehow clouding Lev’s thoughts, such as those were.

“Let me ask another question,” Grus said. “Now that we’ve peeled you out of your shell here”—he pointed to Varazdin, which dominated the horizon from where they stood—“will you and your men fight for Vsevolod?”

“Of course.” Now the baron sounded surprised. Grus glanced Radim’s way once more. Radim nodded. He believed Lev. Grus was not at all sure he did. Still, he’d just proved he didn’t understand how Chernagor nobles’ minds worked. If Radim was willing to rely on Lev, he supposed he would, too… up to a point.

He also looked toward General Hirundo. His own countryman seemed about ready to jump out of his shoes at the idea of trusting Lev. Grus saw that, but he’d known Hirundo for many years. He doubted the Chernagors would realize just how upset Hirundo was.

“Very well. I accept your service,” Grus said to Lev, and then, “Excuse me for a moment.” He took Hirundo aside and spoke in a low voice. “We’ll break up his men into small bands and put them among Avornans. If they turn their coats, we’ll slaughter them. Does that suit you?”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Hirundo said at once. “I was afraid you’d lost your mind, too.”

“Oh, no,” Grus said. “Not me.”

King Lanius wished he ruled Avornis instead of just reigning over it. When a courier came rushing into the palace and was brought before Lanius, he felt for a heady moment as though he did rule. The man looked weary unto death. Sweat streaked his dirty face. He stank of more sweat, and of horse.

“I hope my mount lives, Your Majesty,” he said around an enormous yawn. “It’s not the first beast I almost killed, coming up from the south with the news.”

“It must be important, then,” Lanius said gravely. The courier nodded. The king went on, “Suppose you tell me what it is.”

The courier looked flabbergasted. “King Olor’s beard,” he muttered. “I haven’t said, have I?”

“No,” Lanius said. “You haven’t.”

“I’d better, then. Here it is, Your Majesty—on the way up from the south behind me is an ambassador from Prince Ulash, the Menteshe lord.”

“Oh.” Lanius had to force the word out through lips suddenly numb. Ulash was far and away the most important of the princes ruling the southern nomads who bowed down to the Banished One—the Fallen Star, they called him. That wasn’t because he had the widest realm, though he did. It wasn’t because his capital, Yozgat, housed the Scepter of Mercy, though it did. It was because he’d held his place for almost forty years. He was a sly old fox who got what he wanted as much through guile as through the arrows and scimitars of his hard-riding horsemen.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the courier said. “I knew you and King Grus had to know as soon as you could.” He paused, seeming to realize for the first time that he was speaking with the ceremonial king, not the real one. “Where is King Grus?”

If he’d just ridden up from the south, he wouldn’t have heard. “He’s in the land of the Chernagors,” Lanius answered. “There’s civil war among them; we’re seeing what we can gain from it.”

Now the courier said, “Oh,” in a dispirited way. Lanius understood what that meant—he would have to deal with Ulash’s envoy himself. He wouldn’t have been disappointed then to have Grus back in the capital to take care of that for him.

It could be worse, he told himself, and then immediately asked, How? But that had an answer. Once, the Banished One himself had sent an ambassador to the city of Avornis—the first time he’d done so in more than a hundred years. The kingdom had gotten through that; Lanius supposed it would get through this, too.

He asked, “When will the Menteshe get here?”

“Not for a while, Your Majesty,” the courier replied. “Nobody down south’ll hurry him along. We know you need to get ready.”

“Good,” Lanius said.

“Will King Grus be able to get back in time to deal with him?” the courier asked hopefully.

“No.” That was the only answer Lanius could give. The courier looked disappointed. The king affected not to notice. This fellow had done all he could to help. What would Grus do for a man like that? He’d reward him, that’s what. Lanius said, “You’ll have gold for your hard ride.”

He was annoyed at himself. He should have thought of that without needing to think of Grus. The courier didn’t seem upset—of course, he couldn’t know what was in Lanius’ mind. He only knew he was getting a gift. Bowing low, he said, “Thank you very much, Your Majesty!”

“You’re welcome. You’ve earned it.” Lanius snapped his fingers.

“One thing more. Does Ulash’s ambassador have a wizard with him, or is he by any chance a wizard himself?”

“He had several servants with him when he crossed over the Stura, but I didn’t see one who looked like a wizard,” the rider said. “Of course, that doesn’t mean there isn’t one dressed up like an ordinary servant. And I have no idea whether he’s a wizard himself. I’m sorry, Your Majesty.”

“It’s all right. You’ve told me what you know, and you haven’t tried to make up stories to pad that out.” Lanius gestured in dismissal. The courier bowed again and left his presence. To stay on the safe side, I’ll have to have a wizard with me when the envoy gets here, Lanius thought.

He wished Alca the witch were still in the city of Avornis. She remained the best sorceress he’d known. He also wished Grus hadn’t taken Pterocles with him when he went north to the land of the Chernagors. Now he would have to find someone else, someone whose power and reliability he wouldn’t know nearly so well.

No help for it, though, not unless he wanted to face Ulash’s man without any wizard at his side. And he didn’t. Ulash was a powerful prince in his own right. That made him dangerous. But he was also a glove manipulated by the hand of the Banished One. That made him dangerous, too, but in a different way. “A wizard,” Lanius muttered. “I must see about a wizard.” The wizard he needed to see was Pterocles… and Pterocles, unfortunately, was far, far away.

Grus’ army advanced through fog. Men muttered about the uncanny weather. As they came down into the seaside lowlands of the Chernagor country, they met these ghostly mists almost every morning. “Do they know what they’re talking about?” Grus asked his wizard. “Is there anything unnatural about these fogs?”

“Not that I can find, Your Majesty,” Pterocles answered. “We’re down by the Northern Sea, after all. It’s only to be expected that we have fog in the morning. Men who come from the plains and the uplands haven’t seen anything like it, and so they get upset. Foolishness, if you ask me. You don’t see the Chernagors jumping up and down and flapping their arms, do you?”

“Well, no,” Grus admitted. “As a matter of fact, I’d like to see the Chernagors jumping up and down and flapping their arms. That would be more interesting than anything that’s happened since we came down from Varazdin.”

Pterocles gave him a reproachful look. The wizard was a serious man. He wanted everyone else to be serious, too. Grus wasn’t, not often enough to suit him. The king missed Alca. She’d had a sense of whimsy. That was one of the things that had made her attractive to him—and one of the reasons he’d had to send her away.

He sighed. His breath made more fog, a little billow amidst the great cottony swirls of the stuff. It tasted like water and salt on his lips. Kisses and tears, he thought, and shook his head. Stop that.

The mist seemed to swallow most of his soldiers. He looked around. By what his senses told him, he had men close by him, wavering specters a little farther away, and creatures that made noise but could not be seen beyond those ghosts. He hoped his senses were wrong. He also hoped his outriders would note other creatures that made noise before they could be seen.

Pterocles was muttering to himself. He would drop the reins, make a few passes, and then grab for what he’d just dropped; he wasn’t much of a horseman. Alca had never had any trouble casting a spell and staying on her horse at the same time. Grus did a little muttering of his own. Law allowed a King of Avornis six wives. Estrilda, whom Grus had married long before he dreamt of becoming King of Avornis, had strong opinions on the subject—opinions that had nothing to do with what the law allowed.

When Pterocles went on muttering and mumbling, Grus pushed Alca out of his mind—a relief and a pain at the same time—and asked, “Something?”

“I don’t know,” the wizard answered, which was not at all what Grus wanted to hear. Pterocles went on, “If I had to guess, I’d say it was another wizard, feeling for me the same way as I’m feeling for him.”

“I… see.” Grus drummed the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. “You’re not supposed to guess, not on something like this. You’re supposed to know.”

“I work magic, Your Majesty. I don’t work miracles,” Pterocles said tartly. “If I had to guess” —he took an obvious sour pleasure in repeating the phrase— “that other groping wizard out there is as confused as am.”

No, you don’t work miracles, Grus thought. But the Banished One is liable to. He didn’t say that to Pterocles. His wizard had to know it already. Harping on it would hurt the man’s confidence, which wouldn’t help his magic.

From out of the mist ahead came a shout. “Who goes there?” Grus needed a moment to realize the call was in Avornan, which meant it had to have come from the throat of one of his own scouts. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword. He hated fighting from horseback. Whether he hated it or not, though, it was enormously preferable to getting killed out of hand.

An answering shout came back. Grus did some muttering and mumbling of his own. The fog played tricks with sound as well as with sight. Not only did he fail to make out any words in that answer, he couldn’t even tell in what language it had been. Logically, those had to be Chernagors out there… didn’t they? What do you expect? he asked himself. Menteshe to spring out of nowhere, here, hundreds of miles from their land?

He wished he hadn’t just thought that the Banished One might work miracles.

But it wasn’t the Banished One. A couple of minutes later, the scout came back to the main body of the Avornan army. “Your Majesty! Your Majesty! We’ve met Prince Vsevolod and his men!”

For a moment, Grus took that for good news. Then, realizing what it was likely to mean, he cursed furiously. “Why isn’t Vsevolod in Nishevatz, by the gods?” he demanded.

The answer was what he’d feared. The scout said, “Because Prince Vasilko’s cast him out.” Grus cursed again. He’d come too late. The man the Banished One backed had seized the city.