The Scepter's Return (64 page)

That sent everyone within earshot hurrying toward the gate. Petrosus jumped up from the vegetable plot and pushed past Grus without a harsh word. Grus wondered what was going on, but not for long. They were about to get a new monk, or maybe more than one. And they couldn't know ahead of time who the new arrivals might be. After all, a king had joined them the last time.

Whatever answer came from beyond the monastery, that tall, thick wall muffled it. Abbot Pipilo pushed through the crowd of monks. “Let me by, Brothers,” he said. “Let me by. Tending to this is my duty.” When men didn't get out of the way fast enough to suit him, he wasn't too holy to move them aside with a well-placed elbow to the ribs.

He slipped through the inner gate by himself, closed it behind him, and walked up to the portcullis. Grus could hear him parleying with the men who brought the new monk or monks. The abbot's voice rose in surprise, but after a moment he sang out, “Open!”

Grunting monks turned a capstan. Chain rattled and clanked as it wound around the big wooden drum. Squealing, the portcullis rose. Monks oiled the iron every day to keep it from rusting. They got to leave the monastery. Only men Pipilo trusted had the privilege. Grus wondered if he would ever gain it. In Pipilo's sandals, he wouldn't have trusted himself.

“Close!” the abbot called. The monks grunted again as they bent to the bars of the capstan, although lowering the portcullis was easier work than raising it.

After the great iron grill thudded home, Pipilo said something else, too low for Grus to follow it. The answering voice was high and furious. Grus stiffened. That couldn't be … He looked at Petrosus, who also stood there in frozen astonishment.

But it was. When the gate opened, Pipilo said, “Brothers, I present to you our new colleague and comrade, Brother Ortalis!”

Now Grus did some elbowing to get to the front of the crowd of monks. “Well, well,” he said to his son. “What brings you here?”

Ortalis looked harried. Sullenly, he answered, “I couldn't pick up the miserable Scepter.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Grus jeered, and then realized he really
wasn't
surprised. The Banished One had told him his successor wouldn't be able to. The exiled god had sworn he was telling the truth. He'd even offered to take oath by his ungrateful descendants, something Grus had never imagined from him. And he hadn't lied, or not very much. The one thing he hadn't said was that the man who failed to lift the Scepter of Mercy would be Grus'
long-term
successor. Lying by omission was often more effective than coming out and saying that which was not true. Grus knew as much. He also knew he shouldn't have been surprised to discover the Banished One did, too.

“You
weren't going to let me have the throne at all,” Ortalis said.
“You
thought Lord Squint-at-a-scroll would make a better king than I would.”

“Yes, and by all the signs I was right, wasn't I?” Grus answered. “The Scepter of Mercy thought so, too.”

His son—his one legitimate son—suggested a use for the Scepter of Mercy at once illegal, immoral, and painful. Several monks of more fastidious temperament gasped in horror. Ortalis went on, “And a whole fat lot of good your scheming did you. You think Lanius will call you back? Don't hold your breath, Father
dear,
that's all I've got to tell you.”

“No, I don't expect him to call me back,” Grus answered calmly. “The difference is, I don't care.”

“You don't
care
? My left one, you don't!” Ortalis cried. “How couldn't you? You were
king,
by the gods! King! Now look at you, in that shabby brown robe—”

“It is a robe of humility,” Abbot Pipilo broke in. “Soon, Brother Ortalis, you will wear one, too.”

Whatever burned in Ortalis, humility had nothing to do with it. Ignoring the abbot, he raged on. “In that shabby robe, I tell you, mucking out the barn and pulling up weeds in the miserable garden. What joy!”

Shrugging, Grus answered, “They haven't let me weed yet. That seems to be work for men who've been here longer and know more about growing things. Brother Petrosus here gets to do that, for instance. I haven't had to muck out, either—not yet, though I expect I will. Mostly I've been peeling vegetables and washing dishes and helping out in the kitchens any other way the senior cooks need.”

Ortalis gave his father-in-law such a venomous, even murderous, stare that whatever Petrosus might have said to him curdled in his throat.
Ortalis could have been much more formidable if only he'd worked at it,
Grus thought sadly.
But he never wanted to work at anything.
There, in a nutshell, lay the difference between his son and himself—between Lanius and his son, too.

As usual, though, Ortalis saved most of his spleen for Grus. “What's the matter with you?” he demanded. “Do they put poppy juice in the wine here?”

“It's mostly ale,” Grus said.

“Good ale,” Pipilo said. “We brew it ourselves, Brother Ortalis, if the craft interests you.”

Except for a look on his face that said no craft interested him, Ortalis ignored that, too. He aimed a forefinger at Grus as though it were an arrowhead. “You're
happy
here!” he cried. By his tone, his own quirks sank into insignificance beside such a perversion.
“Happy!”

And Grus found himself nodding. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“How?”
The question from his son was a pain-filled howl.

“It's not that hard,” Grus answered. “There's enough to do. There's enough to eat. There's nothing much to worry about. I've been wondering for a while now what I could do that would come close to what I've already done. I didn't see anything. If you've already done the biggest things you're ever going to do, it's high time somebody put you out to pasture. Maybe I ought to thank you.”

“That is the proper attitude for a monk,” Abbot Pipilo said approvingly.

Ortalis, by contrast, turned very red and seemed on the edge of pitching a fit. “Olor's beard!” he cried. “Do you think I would have sent you here if I thought you were going to
like
it?”

“No.” Maybe Grus didn't completely have the proper attitude for a monk, for he couldn't resist a dig at his son and brief successor, saying, “And I'll like it even better now that you're here to keep me company.”

Several monks laughed at that, Petrosus loud among them. Even Pipilo smiled. He said, “Come, Brother Ortalis. Time to cast aside the raiment of the outer world for the robe that makes all of us one, all of us the same in the eyes of the gods in the heavens.”

What Ortalis had to say about the gods in the heavens was, to put it mildly, pungent and uncomplimentary. No one reproached him, not even the abbot. Grus would have bet quite a few of the monks had said similar things when they first came here. Maybe some of them still had those thoughts. But most would have been able to see by now that they couldn't do anything about them, so what was the point of holding on to them?

“Come, Brother,” Abbot Pipilo said again. And, even if Ortalis still fumed and cursed, he came.

Limosa dropped King Lanius a curtsy that bent her low. They were in Lanius' bedchamber, not the throne room, but she treated him with the greatest possible formality. And fear made her voice wobble when she said, “Y-Your Majesty.”

“Straighten up,” Lanius said impatiently. “You don't need to tremble like that. I'm not going to tie rocks to your feet and throw you in the river or stake you out for wolves—I promise you that.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Limosa did straighten, but remained wary. “Uh—what
are
you going to do with me?”

“Well, that's what we're here to talk about, isn't it?” Lanius said. Listening to himself, he thought he sounded a good deal like Grus. That
well
at the start of the sentence gave him the chance to work out what he ought to say next.

“I'm no trouble to Your Majesty, not now,” Limosa said. “With … with Ortalis put away, I'm no trouble to anybody.”

“Well …” Lanius repeated. Yes, that was useful. “I'm not so sure. For one thing, you might want revenge. For another, you're mother to King Grus' grandchildren. You could plot for them, if not for yourself.”

He thought Limosa would protest that she'd never do such a thing. He wouldn't have believed her, but that was the line he looked for her to take. Instead, she turned pale. “You wouldn't do anything to my children!”

“Not like that, no, of course not,” Lanius answered. “I'm not a monster, you know.” Did she? She'd been married to a monster of sorts, and loved him. What did
that
say?

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” Limosa said softly. But what else could she say? If she told Lanius he
was
a monster, she gave him all the excuse he needed to prove it on her person.
I'm King of Avornis. I'm the
only
King of Avornis,
he thought—he was still getting used to that, for it was true for the first time in his life.
If I don't want to bother with excuses, I don't need them.
Limosa was thinking along with him, at least in part, for she added, “Whatever you do, I know you'll be just.”

Plainly, she knew, and could know, no such thing. She hoped reminding him of the possibility would turn it into reality. Lanius drummed his fingers on his thigh. “You were Queen of Avornis for a little while,” he said, perhaps more to himself than to Limosa. “How likely are you to forget that?”

“It wasn't my idea.” Limosa almost spat out the words in her haste to set them free. Her voice went shrill and high. “It was Ortalis' plan—all his. I didn't want anything to do with it.”

“No, eh?” Lanius said. She shook her head; her hair flipped back and forth with the vehemence of the motion. The king sighed sadly. One thing years at court did for a man—or maybe
to
him—they gave him a pretty good notion of when someone was lying. “I'm sorry, Your Highness”—he wasn't going to call her
Your Majesty,
not now—“but I don't believe you.”

She'd gone pale before. Now she went white. “But it's the truth, Your Majesty! It is! How can I persuade you?” She dug herself in deeper with every panicky word.

Lanius sighed again. Grus had had to make choices like these much more often than he had himself. When Grus saw trouble ahead, he'd made the hard choice, too—made it with everyone but Lanius himself, in fact, and Ortalis. He'd eventually paid for trusting Ortalis to be harmless. Lanius eyed Limosa. Could she be dangerous? Yes, without a doubt. One more sigh, and then Lanius said what he thought he had to say. “I'm very sorry, Your Highness, but I'm going to send you to a nunnery.”

“You can't!” Limosa gasped. “You wouldn't!” But Lanius could, and she could see he would. She went on, “I'd do anything—anything at all—to stay free.”

How did she mean that? The way it sounded? That seemed likely. She was an attractive woman, but she didn't do anything special for Lanius, even if she had tempted him once. Even if she had, he could find plenty of others to do whatever he wanted, and they would be in no position to strike at the throne. “I'm sorry,” he said again.

Limosa started to wail. As though that were a signal, a couple of the king's guardsmen—all of them, these days, vouched for by Hirundo—came into the bedchamber. As they took Limosa's arms, she cried, “The children! What about the children?”

“They'll be well taken care of,” Lanius promised. Marinus and Capella were too little to pose any threat for years to come. And, with both their father and their grandfather overthrown, they would have no connection to the ruling house of Avornis by the time they grew up. He nodded to the guards. “She is to go to the nunnery dedicated to Queen Quelea's mercy in the Maze.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” the men chorused. Limosa wailed louder than ever.

“It's the finest nunnery in the kingdom,” Lanius said, and then, biting his lip, “It's the nunnery where Grus sent my mother after she plotted against him.”

“I don't care! I don't want to be a nun!” Limosa shrieked.

“I'm afraid all your other choices are worse,” Lanius told her. She gave him a terrible look. Trying to soften her, he went on, “I
am
sorry. I truly am. This isn't how I would have wanted things to work out.”

“No? Why not?” Limosa said. “Out of everybody, you're the only one who's gotten just what he wanted.”

That held some truth—probably more than some. Lanius would have been happy enough if Grus had gone on sharing the throne. Grus was better at some things—things like this, for instance—than he was himself. But he could do these things if he had to. He proved it, telling the guards, “Take her away.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they said again. Limosa screamed and clawed and scratched, all of which turned her departure into a spectacle but delayed it by not even a minute. As the din finally faded, Lanius called for a maidservant and said, “Please fetch me a cup of wine—a large cup of wine.”

She curtsied, not as deeply as Limosa had. But then, she wasn't in trouble. She also said, “Yes, Your Majesty,” and hurried away to do Lanius' bidding.
Everyone in the palace will be doing my bidding now,
he thought. He'd come across ideas he liked much less.

Sosia walked into the bedchamber while Lanius was still waiting for his wine. “Well,” she said—maybe she'd borrowed the turn of phrase from Grus, too. “That must have been fun.”

“Just about as much as you think it was,” Lanius agreed. “I don't see what else I could have done, though. People get more ambitious for their children than they do for themselves.”

“I'm not arguing with you—not about this, anyhow.” Sosia made a very sour face. Lanius realized
she
wouldn't calmly accept anything he wanted to do. As if to underscore that, she continued, “You give me plenty of worse things to argue about.”