The Scepter's Return (26 page)

“Oh, such thrilling news!” If Estrilda had used a different tone of voice, Grus might have thought she meant it. As things were, her sarcasm only stung the more.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The last time Limosa had a baby, there'd been a small scandal when all the rumors about lash marks and scars on her back proved true. By now, that was old news. When she disrobed for the midwife this time, no one would get—too—excited about it.

Lanius had other things to worry about this time around, chiefly whether she would have a boy or a girl. Ortalis had the same worry, even if his hopes and the king's ran in opposite directions.

It had just started to snow when Limosa's bag of waters broke. That was a sure sign of labor beginning in earnest, and servants hotfooted it from the palace to bring back the midwife. Lanius listened to Ortalis burble and babble for a little while, then excused himself and got as far away from his brother-in-law as he could.

He started to head for the archives, but changed his mind. He'd needed years to teach the servants not to bother him there. Someone would have to come with news of Limosa's baby. Better not to be with the moncats, either. And he also couldn't go to his own bedchamber, because Sosia was there. She still didn't appreciate his company.

That left … what? He ended up in one of the palace's several small dining rooms. Instead of eating, he caught up on correspondence. He felt virtuous. He also rapidly grew bored. This was the part of governing that Grus did better than he did.

Someone opened the door and stuck his head into the room. “Oh,” Grus said. “Sorry to bother you, Your Majesty. I was just looking for a quiet place where I could get a little work done until Limosa has her baby, however long that takes.”

Laughing, Lanius answered, “That's exactly what I'm doing here.”

“Oh,” Grus said again, and then, “Mind if I join you?”

“Not a bit,” Lanius told him. “And if you want to write some letters for me along with your own, I don't mind that, either. I was just thinking you're better at this part of being a king than I am.”

“Well, I don't know about that,” Grus said. “When something interests you, you get better at it than I ever could. When it doesn't, you don't bother with it so much, that's all.”

Lanius thought about that. He didn't need long to decide Grus was right. “I should do better,” he said.

“Probably,” Grus said. “Everybody has some things he should do better—and if you don't believe me, you can ask either one of our wives.”

“Ha!” Lanius said. “We don't need to ask them—they come right out and tell us.”

“Wives do that sometimes. Husbands do it to wives, too, I expect.” Grus sat down across the table from Lanius. He dumped a disorderly pile of letters and blank leaves of parchment on the table in front of him, pulled the stopper from a burnt-clay bottle of ink, dipped a goose quill, and began to write. The pile stayed disorderly. Lanius was much neater about the way he worked. But Grus dipped his pen and wrote, dipped his pen and wrote, dipped his pen.… He wasn't neat, but he got the job done, turning out letter after letter.

“I'm jealous,” Lanius remarked.

The other king only shrugged. “It's nothing very special,” he said. “Most of the time, the simplest answer will do. Yes, no, tell me more, whatever the local official decided also seems right to me. It's only on the odd things that you really have to slow down and think.” He passed a letter across to Lanius. “Will you read this to me, please? My sight hasn't lengthened too badly, but I have trouble when somebody writes as small as this.”

Lanius read it. It was an appeal of a conviction for theft. “Thanks,” Grus said. He wrote a few lines, set the letter aside, and went on to the next.

“What did you tell him?” Lanius asked.

“What would you have told him?” Grus asked in return.

“It doesn't seem likely that the victim and the captain and the city governor are all in league against the appellant,” Lanius said. “They would have to be for him to be innocent, seems to me.”

“Seems the same way to me,” Grus replied. “So I told him no. Not worth wasting a lot of time on it.”

“I suppose not.” Lanius had come up with the same answer as his father-in-law. He would have fussed much more over the letter, though. He wanted things to sound good. Grus just wanted to make sure no one could misunderstand what he meant. Lanius had rarely seen him fail to live up to that standard.

After a while, Grus stopped writing. He looked at Lanius and said, “I wonder how much longer it will be.”

“No way to know,” Lanius answered, having not the slightest doubt about what Grus meant. “Babies come when they feel like coming, not when you tell them to.”

“I'm not going to say you're wrong. I can't very well when you're right, can I?” The other king inked his pen, started another letter, and then stopped once more. “Here's something you haven't heard from me. If you tell anybody I said it, I'll call you a liar to your face. Have you got that?”

By the way he said it, Lanius knew he was liable to do worse than call him a liar. “I won't blab. I
don't
blab.”

“Well, that's true, too—you don't.” Grus leaned forward and dropped his voice to something not much above a whisper. “I hope it's a girl.”

“Do you?” Lanius hoped he didn't squeak in surprise. Grus solemnly nodded. “Even though Ortalis is your legitimate son?” Lanius asked. Grus nodded again. Lanius couldn't believe he was telling anything but the truth. He also couldn't help asking, “Why?”

“It makes things simpler,” Grus told him. “When you get as old as I am, you decide simpler is better most of the time.”

His answer wasn't as simple as it might have been. Lanius had no doubt the other king knew as much. Had Grus been pleased with Ortalis, had he thought his legitimate son would make a good successor, he would have done whatever he needed to do to make sure the crown went to him and his descendants. If anyone—Lanius included—stood in his way, that would have been too bad for the person who proved an obstacle.

As things were, though … “Thank you,” Lanius said quietly, though he knew Grus' choice wasn't so much praise for him as a judgment on Ortalis.

“Don't worry about it,” Grus said. “You're not the boy I shoved aside to take the throne anymore. Don't think I haven't noticed. I don't believe you'll ever make much of a warrior—I don't see you taking the field and driving everybody before you. But except for that, you make a good king.”

Lanius didn't see himself as much of a warrior, either. Fighting wasn't something he was or wanted to be good at. He nodded to Grus all the same. “You haven't made a bad king yourself.” He wasn't sure he'd ever admitted even that much to the man who'd stolen more than half his throne.

Grus gave him a seated bow. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

“You're welcome, Your Majesty,” Lanius responded, every bit as seriously.

Grus seemed to be casting about for something else to say. Whatever it was, he didn't find it. Instead, he went back to the letter that he'd stopped halfway through. He finished it and went on to the next. Lanius started writing again, too. He still couldn't match his father-in-law for speed.

An hour later, or maybe two, shouts in the corridor outside made them both look up from their work. Someone knocked on the door to the dining room. “Come in,” the two kings said together.

“Your Majesty!” a servant said excitedly. He paused, blinked, and tried again. “Uh, Your Majesties, I mean. I have great news, Your Majesties! Princess Limosa has had a baby boy!”

Grus had to reward the servant who brought him word of Ortalis' son. He had to pretend it
was
good news. Things in the palace would have been even worse if he hadn't.

Ortalis gave money to every servant he saw. He kissed all the women, including those old enough to be his mother. He slapped all the men on the back. He didn't walk down the palace hallways. He danced instead.

“Marinus!” he said to anyone who would listen. “We'll call the baby Marinus!”

It wasn't a name from Grus' side of the family. Maybe it was connected to Petrosus'—or maybe Ortalis and Limosa had just decided they liked it. Grus didn't feel like asking. He said, “Congratulations,” to his legitimate son, and hoped his face wasn't too wooden while he did it. Evidently not, for Ortalis only grinned at him. Seeing Ortalis grin felt almost as strange as congratulating him. Ortalis' face frequently wore a frown or a scowl or a sneer. A grin? Grus wondered where those usually sour features found room for one.

Lanius did somewhat better, saying, “I hope Limosa is well?”

“Oh, yes.” Ortalis stopped cutting capers long enough to nod. “The midwife said she came through it as well as a woman can.”

“Good,” Lanius said.

“Wonderful,” Grus agreed, thinking nothing of the sort. But then, that wasn't fair. Say what you would of Petrosus, Limosa was an inoffensive creature. Her worst failing up until now had been the unfortunate taste for pain that made her such a good match for Ortalis. But bearing an inconvenient boy came close to being an unforgivable sin.

Did she realize as much? If she did, she had the sense to hide the knowledge. Naïveté, here, worked to her advantage. Ortalis understood what she'd done, all right. He started dancing again, dancing and singing, “I have an heir! Thank you, King Olor! I have an heir!”

Lanius showed none of what he was thinking. Grus admired that, and hoped his own features were under something close to as much control. He wouldn't have bet on it, though. And then something occurred to him that actually let him smile.
He's calling on King Olor. He isn't calling on the Banished One.

That he should think such a thing about his own son … He shrugged. Yes, it was sad. But Ortalis had given him plenty of reason to worry about whose side he was on. Seeing and hearing such a worry come to nothing wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Grus studied his joyful legitimate son. Just because Ortalis didn't shout the Banished One's praises didn't mean he saw eye to eye with Grus and Lanius. The way he was carrying on showed he didn't, at least as far as the succession went. He could do the Banished One's work without acknowledging the exiled god as his overlord. He might work more effectively in the Banished One's behalf if he didn't acknowledge him. Few men got out of bed thinking,
I'm going to do something evil today.
Many more thought,
I'm going to do something good,
not seeing that what they reckoned good was anything but in the eyes of most of their fellows.

Prince Vasilko of Nishevatz, up in the Chernagor country, had been like that when he rose against his unloving and unlovable father. He saw all the things Vsevolod was doing, and didn't care where he looked for help to overthrown him. If men who backed the Banished One would help him overthrow Vsevolod, so much the better. And if they—and the exiled god—gained ever greater power in Nishevatz and then in the rest of the Chernagor city-states … well, Prince Vasilko hadn't worried about that. He'd gotten what he wanted, and nothing else mattered nearly so much to him.

Overthrowing him and others whom the Banished One had seduced had cost Avornis years of fighting. It also cost Grus the chance to take advantage of the civil war among the Menteshe for all that time. (Of course, the civil war down in the south cost the Banished One the chance to take advantage of Avornis' being busy in the north. Things evened out—except when they didn't.)

Would Ortalis lean toward the Banished One if he saw that as the only way to get what he wanted? Grus eyed his son again. He'd had that worry before, had it and dismissed it from his mind. Should he have? He didn't know. And asking Ortalis what he'd do would only put ideas in his mind—ideas that might not have already been there. Grus sighed. Nothing was as simple as he wished it were.

Ortalis, for his part, was glancing at Lanius. He didn't proclaim that Marinus was the rightful heir not just to him but also to the Kingdom of Avornis. If he had, he would have had trouble on his hands right away. But did the gloating look in his eyes say what Grus thought it did? He couldn't see what else it was likely to mean.

What Ortalis did say was, “It's a good thing the kingdom has another prince.” He didn't say Lanius should father more children. If he had, Lanius couldn't have been too unhappy. As things were, Ortalis made it sound as though Prince Crex was liable to be in perilous health. If he was, Ortalis was all too likely to be the one who made his health perilous.

“Maybe it is,” Lanius replied, in tones that couldn't mean anything but,
You must be out of your mind.

“Can we see the baby?” Grus asked. That seemed harmless enough.

“If the midwife lets you.” Ortalis rolled his eyes. Grus had all he could do not to laugh out loud. Ortalis and Limosa were no doubt using Netta, the midwife who'd also come when Sosia was brought to bed. She was the best in the city of Avornis. She was also probably the toughest woman Grus had ever met. She took no nonsense from anybody. Even Ortalis had figured that out. If he could, anybody and everybody could.

Sosia had given birth in a special palace room reserved for queens. Limosa, only a princess, had had to do it in her own bedchamber.
They'll need new bedclothes in there,
Grus thought. Ortalis knocked before presuming to go inside. He waited till he heard a gruff, “Come in,” too—only then did he open the door.

He came out with Marinus in his arms. Like any newborn, his son could have looked better. Marinus' head seemed misshapen, almost conical, and was much too big for his body. His face looked smashed. His eyes were squeezed shut. He was redder than he should have had any business being. Netta had put a bandage over the stump of the cord that had connected him to his mother.