The Chernagor Pirates

CHAPTER TWENTY

Outside the royal palace, the wind screamed. Snow blew by almost horizontally. Braziers and hearth fires blazed everywhere inside, battling the blizzard. Despite them, the palace was still cold. From the lowliest sweeper on up, people wore robes of wool or furs over their everyday trousers and tunics. The noise of chattering teeth was never far away, even so.

Lanius’ teeth chattered more than most. The king sat in the archives. He had a brazier by him, but it did less than he would have wished to hold the chill at bay. No hearth fire here. Even the one brazier made him nervous. With so many parchments lying around, a single spark escaping could mean catastrophe.

But he wanted—he needed—to do research, and the archives were simply too cold to tolerate without some fire by him. Now that Pterocles had—or thought he had—brought one thrall out from under the shadow the Banished One’s spell had cast over him, Lanius was wild to learn more about all the earlier efforts Avornan wizards had made to lead thralls out of darkness.

He found even more than he’d expected. The archives held dozens, maybe hundreds, of spells intended to cure thralls. They held just as many descriptions of what had happened once the spells were tried. The spells themselves were a monument to ingenuity. The descriptions were a monument of a different sort, a monument to discouragement. Lanius read of failure after failure after failure. He marveled that Avornan wizards had kept on trying after failing so often.

Before long, he realized why they’d kept on trying. Kings of Avornis could see perfectly well that they had no hope of defeating the Menteshe in any permanent way if they couldn’t cure thralls. They kept the wizards at it.

What the present king found gave him pause. Every so often, a wizard would claim to have beaten the spells that made thralls what they were. Reports would come into the capital of thralls being completely cured and made into ordinary men. Every once in a while, the cured thralls themselves would come into the capital.

That was all very well. But none of the wizards had won enduring fame, for most of the thralls proved not to be cured after all. Some gradually drifted back into their previous idiocy. Others—and these were the heartbreakers—turned out to be the eyes and ears of the Banished One.

The more Lanius thought about that, the more he worried. After a while, he couldn’t stand the worry anymore, and summoned Pterocles not to the archives but to a small audience chamber heated by a couple of braziers. He asked, “Are you sure this thrall is cured, or could the Banished One still control him?”

“Ah,” the wizard said. “You wonder about the same thing as I do, Your Majesty.”

“I have reason to.” Lanius spoke of all the reports he’d found of thralls thought to be cured who proved anything but.

Pterocles nodded. “I know of some of those cases, too. I think you’ve found more than I knew of, but that doesn’t matter so much.” Lanius had to fight not to pout; he thought his thoroughness mattered. The wizard went on, “What matters is, by every sorcerous test I know how to make, the thrall is a thrall no more. He’s a man.”

“By every sorcerous test you know how to make,” King Lanius repeated. The wizard nodded again. Lanius said, “You’re not the first to make that claim, either, you know.”

“Yes, I do,” Pterocles replied. “But I am the first to make that claim who knows from the inside what being emptied by the Banished One is like. I know the shape and size of the hole inside a man. I know how to fill it. By the gods, Your Majesty, I have filled it, at least this once.”

He sounded very sure of himself. Lanius would have been more sure of him if he hadn’t read reports by wizards years, sometimes centuries, dead who’d been just as sure of themselves and ended up disappointed. Still, Pterocles had a point—what he’d gone through in front of Nishevatz gave him a unique perspective on how the Banished One’s wizardry worked.

“We’ll see,” the king said at last. “But I’m afraid that thrall will need to be watched to the end of his days.”

“I understand why you’re saying that,” Pterocles answered. “If we can cure enough other thralls, though, maybe you’ll change your mind.”

The only way to cure other thralls was to cross the Stura and take them away from the Menteshe; as far as Lanius knew, the thrall Pterocles had cured (or believed he had cured?) was the only one left on Avornan soil. “I think the war against the Chernagors will come first,” Lanius said.

“I think you’re probably right,” Pterocles replied. “That does seem to be what His Majesty—uh, His other Majesty—has in mind.”

“His other Majesty. Yes,” Lanius said sourly. Pterocles hadn’t intended to insult him, to remind him he was King of Avornis more in name than in fact. Intended or not, the wizard had done it. If anything, the slight hurt worse because it was unintentional.

“Er… I meant no offense, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said quickly, realizing where he’d gone wrong.

“I know you didn’t.” Lanius still sounded sour. Just because the offense hadn’t been meant didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

Two messengers came north, each from a different town on the north bank of the Stura. They had left for the city of Avornis on different days. They’d both struggled through bad roads and blizzards and drifted snow. And, as luck would have it, they both came before King Grus within the space of an hour and a half.

The first messenger said, “Your Majesty, Prince Sanjar is sending you an ambassador to announce his succession to the throne Prince Ulash held for so long. The ambassador is trailing behind me, and should get to the city of Avornis before too long.”

“All right. Good, in fact,” Grus said. “I’m glad to know who came out on top there. When Sanjar’s ambassador gets here, I’ll be as polite as I can, considering that we’ve just fought a war with the prince’s father.” He dared hope Sanjar wanted peace. That the new Menteshe prince was sending an envoy struck him as a good sign.

Grus had just sat down to lunch when the second messenger arrived. The king asked the servant who announced the fellow’s presence if his news was urgent. The man said it was. With a sigh, Grus got up from his bread and cheese and wine. “I’ll see him, then.”

After bowing, the second messenger said, “Your Majesty, Prince Korkut is sending you an ambassador to announce his succession to the throne Prince Ulash held for so long. The envoy is on his way to the capital, and should get here in a few days.”

“Wait a minute. Prince Korkut, you say?” Grus wanted to make sure he’d heard straight. “Not Prince Sanjar?”

“No, Your Majesty.” The courier shook his head. “From what Prince Korkut’s ambassador said, Sanjar is nothing but a rebel.”

“Did he say that? How… interesting.” Grus dismissed the second messenger and summoned the first one again. He asked, “Did Prince Sanjar’s envoy say anything about Prince Korkut?”

“Why, yes, Your Majesty. How did you know that?” the first messenger replied. “He said Korkut was nothing but a filthy traitor, and he’d be hunted down soon.”

“Did he? Well, well, well.” King Grus looked up at the ceiling. “We may have some sparks flying when the embassies get here.”

“Embassy Your Majesty?” The courier, who didn’t know he wasn’t the only man to come to the capital with news from the south, stressed the last syllable.

“That’s right.” Grus nodded. “Korkut’s sending one, too. If you listen to his ambassador, he’s Ulash’s rightful heir and Sanjar’s nothing but a rebel.”

“Oh,” the courier said, and then, “Oh, my.”

“Well, yes.” King Grus grinned like a mischievous little boy. “And do you know what else? It ought to be a lot of fun.”

He did his best to make sure it would be fun, too. Korkut’s ambassador got to the city of Avornis first. Grus put the man—his name was Er-Tash—up in a hostel and made excuses not to see him right away. Sanjar’s representative, a Menteshe called Duqaq, reached the capital three days later. Grus invited both envoys to confer with him on the same day at the same time. He made sure neither saw the other until they both reached the throne room.

Er-Tash glared at Duqaq. Duqaq scowled at Er-Tash. Both of them reached for their swords. Since they were in the throne room, they’d been relieved of those swords and other assorted cutlery beforehand. They snarled and shouted at each other in their own language. Their retainers—each had a small handful—also growled and made threatening noises.

At Grus’ gesture, Avornan soldiers got between the two rival embassies, to make sure they didn’t start going at each other with fists— and to make sure nobody had managed to sneak anything with a point or an edge past the guards.

“Your Majesty!” Duqaq shouted in good Avornan. “This is an outrage, Your Majesty!”

“He is an outrage, Your Majesty!” Er-Tash cried, pointing at Duqaq. “How dare he come before you?”

Before Duqaq could let loose with more indignation, Grus held up a hand. “Enough, both of you,” he said. Several guards pounded the butts of their spears down on the marble floor of the throne room. The solid thumps probably did more to convince the Menteshe envoys to keep quiet than any of the king’s words. When Grus saw they would keep quiet, he went on, “Both of you came to me on your own. Don’t you think I ought to hear you both? If I do send one of you away, which one should it be?”

“Him!” Er-Tash and Duqaq exclaimed at the same time. Each pointed at the other. Both looked daggers at each other.

“One of you represents Prince Ulash’s legitimate successor,” Grus said. “One represents a rebel. How do I figure out which is which?”

“Because Prince Ulash left my master—” Duqaq began.

“Liar!” Er-Tash shouted. “The land is Korkut’s!”

“Liar yourself!” Duqaq yelled. Grus reflected that they both could end up right, if Ulash’s sons split the territory their father had ruled. By the signs, they were more interested in splitting each other’s heads. That didn’t break the King of Avornis’ heart. Just the opposite, in fact.

None of what Grus thought showed on his face. Up there on the Diamond Throne, he remained calm, collected, above it all—metaphorically as well as literally. “Why should I recognize one of your principals and not the other?” he inquired, as though the question might be interesting in theory but had no bearing on the real world.

“Because he is the rightful Prince of Yozgat!” Er-Tash said.

Duqaq shouted, “Liar!” again. He went on, “Sanjar was Ulash’s favorite, Ulash’s chosen heir, not this—this thefter of a throne.” His Avornan wasn’t quite perfect.

Again, as though the question were only theoretical, Grus asked, “Which man does the Banished One prefer?” If the ambassadors knew—and if they would admit they knew—that would tell Grus which contender Avornis ought to support.

But Er-Tash answered, “The Fallen Star has not yet made his choice clear.” Duqaq, for once, did not contradict him.

How interesting, Grus thought. Did that mean the Banished One didn’t care, or that he was having trouble making up his mind, or something else altogether? No way to be sure, not for a mere man.

Then Er-Tash said, “If you recognize Korkut, he will promise peace with Avornis.”

“Will he?” Grus said. “Now you begin to interest me. How do I know he will keep his promises? What guarantees will he give me?”

“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 Sanjar, 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 Yoxgat, 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.

He opened the door. Sosia was standing by the bed, about fifteen feet away. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said, smiling.

Instead of smiling back, she picked up a cup and flung it at him. “Sweetheart!” she screeched. The cup smashed against the wall, six inches to the left of his head. A sharp shard scored his cheek.

“What the—?” Lanius yelped.

Sosia grabbed another cup. She let fly again. This one smacked against the door, about six inches to the right of Lanius’ head. “Zenaida!” Sosia shouted. She had one more cup handy. She threw it without a moment’s hesitation.

This one was aimed dead center. But Lanius ducked.

Now he knew what the trouble was. “Stop that!” he said, straightening up. He hoped Sosia would. She was, after all, out of cups. But the brass tray on which they’d stood remained handy. A moment later, it clanged off the wall. She didn’t aim well, “Stop that!” Lanius said again.

“I told you to stop that after Cristata, and see how you listened to me,” Sosia retorted. Now the closest available thing to throw was a table. Sosia looked tempted, but she didn’t try it. She said, “Why did I ever let you touch me?”

“Because we’re married?” Lanius suggested.

“That hasn’t made any difference to you. Why should it make any to me?” Sosia said. “I thought you weren’t going to wander around like a dog in heat anymore, and—”

“This was different,” Lanius said. “It wasn’t like what it was with Cristata.”

“Oh? How was it different?” his wife inquired acidly. “Did you find a posture you hadn’t used before?”

Lanius’ ears heated. “No,” he said, which happened to be the truth, but which wasn’t the part of the truth he wanted to get across. “I meant, I didn’t fall in love with Zenaida, or anything like that.”

Sosia stared at him across the gulf separating men and women. “Queen Quelea’s mercy!” she exclaimed. “Then why did you bother?”

“Why did I bother?” Lanius stared back; the gulf was as wide from his side as from hers. “Because…” Because it’s fun, came to mind. So did, Because I could. Even from across the gulf, he could see neither of those would strike her as a good enough explanation. “Just because,” he said.

His wife rolled her eyes. “Men,” she said in tones that wished half the human race would tumble into the chasm separating the sexes and never be seen again. “And my own father is the same way.”

“Yes, he is a man,” Lanius said, although he knew that wasn’t what Sosia had meant. He also knew, or at least had strong suspicions, that Grus had found company for himself while campaigning in the south. He didn’t say anything about that. If Sosia or Estrilda found out about it, he didn’t want them finding out from him. He had to get along with his father-in-law, and didn’t want the other king to think he’d told tales out of school.

But Sosia only snapped, “Don’t you play the fool with me. You’re a lot of different things, and I’m not happy with any of them, but you’re not stupid, and you don’t do a good job of acting stupid. You know what I meant. You both lie down with sluts whenever you find the chance.”

Lanius stirred at that. He didn’t think of Cristata as a slut, or Zenaida. He also didn’t think of Alca the witch as one, and he was sure Grus didn’t, either. If you lay down with a woman who would lie down with anyone, what made you special? The other side of that coin was, if you lay down with any woman yourself, what would make you special and worth lying down with to some other woman? To that side of the coin, Lanius remained blind.

“I’m sorry,” he said, later than he should have.

It might not have done him any good even if he’d said it right away. “You’ve told me that before,” Sosia answered. “You’re sorry I found out. You’re not sorry you did it. And I thought I could count on Zenaida!” She didn’t say anything about counting on Lanius. That stung.

“I am sorry,” the king said, and more or less meant it. “I didn’t want to hurt you.” He did mean that.

“You didn’t want to get caught,” Sosia said. “But how did you think you wouldn’t? Everybody knows everything that happens in the palace, and everybody usually knows it in a hurry, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Lanius said for the third time. If he kept saying it, maybe she’d believe him sooner or later.

Or, then again, maybe she wouldn’t. She said, “Are you sorry enough to promise me you’ll never do it again?”

“With Zenaida? Yes, by the gods, I promise you that,” Lanius said at once. He’d begun to tire of the serving girl anyhow.

“Oh, I’ve taken care of Zenaida. She’s not in the palace anymore,” Sosia said. Lanius wondered if she’d sent Zenaida to the Maze, as he’d threatened to. He didn’t think she meant the maidservant was no longer among the living anymore. He hoped it didn’t; his quarrel with her hadn’t been anywhere near bad enough for him to want her dead. Meanwhile, though, his wife went on, “That wasn’t what I meant. I meant, you’ll never run around again with anyone else. Promise me that.”

Had he been Grus, he would have promised right away, knowing that his promise didn’t mean anything if he saw another pretty face. Lanius almost made the same sort of promise himself. He almost did, but a sort of stubborn honesty made him hesitate. He said, “How can anyone know the future?”

Sosia looked at him as though she’d found him smeared on the bottom of her shoe. “Do you know what your future will be like if you fool around with another slutty little maidservant?” she asked.

“Nasty,” Lanius answered. He had no doubt Sosia could make that kind of future very nasty indeed. Of course, if life with the queen turned nasty, didn’t the king have all the more reason to look for consolation with someone else? So it seemed to Lanius. Somehow, he didn’t think Sosia would agree.

She said, “It’s not as though I haven’t given you whatever you’ve wanted from me. When we are together, you’ve tried to please me. I know that. And you can’t say I haven’t done the same for you.”

“You’re trying to shame me,” Lanius muttered, for she was telling the truth. She wasn’t the lover he would have picked for himself, but the King of Avornis didn’t always have the luxury of such choices. She did everything she knew how to do, everything he’d taught her to do.

And he still looked at, still looked for, other women every now and again. He didn’t know why, except for variety’s sake. He did know he was far from the only man who did. He also knew some women acted the same way.

He knew one more thing, too—he was glad Sosia wasn’t one of those women (or, if she was, that no one had caught her at it). If she were, he would have been even more upset with her than she was with him now. He was sure he would have.

With a sigh, he said, “I’ll try, Sosia.”

How would she take that? She didn’t seem to know how to take it for a little while. Then, slowly, her face cleared. “That’s as much as I’m going to get from you, isn’t it?” she said. “Maybe you even mean it.”

“I do,” he said, wondering if he did.

“You’ll try,” she said bitterly. “You’ll try, and every so often you’ll do what you please anyway. And you’ll be sorry afterwards. You’re always sorry afterwards, when it doesn’t do anybody any good. What should I do the next time you’re sorry afterwards? Practice my aim so I hit you with the first cup?”

Lanius’ ears burned. He looked at the broken crockery by his feet. Whether or not Sosia had hit him with a cup, her words had struck dead center. She saw what lay ahead the same way as he did. If he admitted as much, he delivered himself into her hands.

Instead of admitting it, he said, “I am sorry. I will try.” His wife nodded, as though she believed him.