The Scepter_s Return см-3 Read online

  "Something else? Oh." Grus made a face that almost matched Hirundo's leer. "Maybe yours is that skinny. I hope mine's not."

  "What you do with it is as important as what you've got," the general declared in lofty tones.

  Grus pointed toward Trabzun. "Well? What are we going to do with it? That place can stand a proper siege, and we can't go on without reducing it. The garrison could sally and do horrible things in our rear."

  Hirundo could have risen to that, too, but he didn't. He said, "If you expected to get all the way to Yozgat in one campaigning season, you probably expected too much."

  "I'd be lying if I said I didn't have my hopes," Grus admitted.

  "Nothing wrong with hopes, as long as you don't let them ran away with you," Hirundo said.

  Did I let them run away with me when I came south of the Stura in the first place? Grus wondered. He shook his head. He refused to believe that. And if he had hoped to get all the way to Yozgat (and he had)… He'd known he would probably need to be lucky. He had been, up till now.

  "Maybe they'll surrender," he said, knowing he would have to be very lucky to see that happen.

  "It's just like pretty girls – never hurts to ask, but they don't say yes as often as you wish they would," Hirundo answered.

  "We won't have as much fun when they do here, either – if they do." In spite of saying that, Grus sent a herald up to the walls of Trabzun. The man shouted out a demand that the city open its gates to the Avornan army. He used both his own language and the guttural tongue of the Menteshe.

  Soldiers on the wall shouted insults at him. To leave the rest of the army in no doubt that those were insults, they emptied chamber pots into the ditch in front of the wall. Some of them flung the pots out at the herald. None struck home, but he quickly rode back to the Avornan lines.

  "They won't yield, Your Majesty," he reported.

  "Oh, yes, they will," Grus said. "They just don't know it yet."

  In the previous few years, he'd besieged several Chernagor towns. All of them were stronger than Trabzun seemed to be. This place didn't have the sea covering much of its perimeter. He sent his riders out to close the line around it. All the time, he hoped the Menteshe inside would sally. He would much rather have faced them out in the open than in the advantageous position the walls gave them.

  They sat tight, though. Maybe they were hoping for rescuers, or maybe they thought they could outlast the besiegers. Maybe they were right, too. That unappetizing thought made Grus scowl, but he kept at the siege all the same. The Menteshe would surely prove right if he didn't try.

  He didn't intend to storm the walls. That would be quick and decisive if it worked – and had about as much chance of working as he did of throwing double sixes back-to-back at dice. You could do it. He'd done it. But you were a fool if you counted on it, because it wasn't very likely.

  His men methodically dug a trench around Trabzun. They heaped up the excavated dirt inside the trench to serve as a breastwork to protect them from whatever the Menteshe inside the city might do. Then they dug another trench, this one beyond their encampment. The breastwork on the outer trench faced outward. Any relieving force would have to battle its way through the fieldworks to get at the Avornans.

  Even though Grus didn't try to storm Trabzun, he wasn't eager to wait till the defenders starved enough to submit. Summoning Pterocles, he said, "When I was besieging a rebel's castle, the witch who served me as chief sorcerer before you managed to stop up the castle's water supplies, and my foe had to surrender. Can you do the same here?"

  The witch who served me as chief sorcerer. He sighed. He'd loved Alca for a while. He hadn't loved her well enough to leave Estrilda, though. He sighed again. Nothing seemed sadder than the memory of a love that had fallen to pieces.

  Pterocles knew about Alca. He also knew better than to say anything about her, or about the way Grus hadn't mentioned her name. All he did say was, "I don't know, Your Majesty. I can try to find out, if you like."

  "Yes, please, if it's not too hard." Grus didn't add, And it had better not be. He and Pterocles had worked together long enough to let the wizard understand that without its being said.

  "I'll get right at it," Pterocles said. "Seems a pretty straightforward use of the law of similarity. Do we have an arrow that's been shot from the walls of Trabzun? A stone from a catapult would be even better."

  "If you want arrows, talk to the surgeons," Grus said. "As for stones, well, I don't think their catapults have done much, but maybe we could provoke them, if that's what you really want."

  "If you'd be so kind," Pterocles said. He and Grus had worked long enough to let the king understand that that meant, You'd cursed well better, if you expect me to work the magic you need.

  Grus concentrated a couple of dozen men beyond bowshot of the walls of Trabzun but within reach of a stone-thrower. They lingered out in the open, not doing very much but seeming fascinated with something on the ground. He wondered how long they'd have to wait for the Menteshe to notice them.

  It wasn't long. The nomads were alert to whatever the Avornans did. A stone the size of a man's head hissed through the air. But the Avornan soldiers were alert, too. They scattered. The stone thudded home harmlessly. One of them scooped it up and carried it away. They tried not to offer the Menteshe such a tempting target again.

  Pterocles briefly borrowed a hammer from a blacksmith and knocked chips off the ball of stone the catapult had shot. He mixed them in with the dirt he used to form walls and buildings and round towers that looked like a miniature version of Trabzun's. Catching Grus' eye on him, he nodded. "Yes, Your Majesty, it is a model of the city," he said. "Now it's a model of the city that includes something from the real city. That will make the magic more accurate."

  "Good," Grus said, and waited to see what Pterocles would do next.

  The wizard held a forked stick over his model, as though he were an ordinary dowser trying to find water for a farmer who wanted to dig a well. But an ordinary dowser would have let his stick rise and fall as it would. Pterocles didn't. He chanted a spell as he worked with it – an insistent charm set, Grus realized, to the tune of a song children sang in the streets of the city of Avornis.

  "Here we go," Pterocles murmured, as the tip of the stick dipped, and then dipped again and again and again, pointing now toward one part of the model of Trabzun, now toward another.

  "What does that mean?" Grus asked.

  After finishing the chant, Pterocles answered, "I'm very sorry, Your Majesty, but I'm afraid it means the town has a great many wells and cisterns and such inside it. We wouldn't be able to close off all of them at once."

  "Oh." Grus had been afraid he would say something like that. He'd watched ordinary dowsers at work any number of times. When their sticks dipped, it meant they'd scented water. The same evidently held true here, even if Pterocles, a better wizard than any ordinary dowser, didn't need to walk the whole territory he tested.

  "I am sorry," Pterocles repeated.

  "I believe you. So am I," Grus said. Sometimes – most of the time, it often seemed – being sorry didn't help. This looked like one of those occasions.

  "What do we do now?" the wizard asked.

  "What we would have done if the Menteshe hadn't tried to knock my men flat with a catapult ball," Grus replied. "We try to take Trabzun away from them without drying up those wells."

  "All right." Pterocles sent the model of the city a reproachful glance, as though he'd expected more from it than it wanted to give him. But then he brightened. "I won't knock this to pieces just yet. Maybe we'll find another way to use it."

  "Maybe." Gus did his best to stay polite; it wasn't Pterocles' fault that Trabzun was so well supplied with water. He nodded to the wizard. "You never can tell."

  When a cook burst out of the kitchens crying, "Your Majesty! Oh, your Majesty!" it was a good bet Pouncer had done something particularly brazen in there. If the cook wasn't upset about the moncat, then a couple of the m
eat carvers had probably gone after each other with knives. Given a choice like that, Lanius hoped Pouncer was the one to blame.

  The cook rounded a comer and bore down on him like a Chernagor pirate ship with a strong following wind. "Here I am," Lanius said mildly.

  "Your Majesty! Your Majesty!" The cook went right on yelling, now in Lanius' face.

  "Here I am," the king repeated, not quite as mildly this time. "What do you want?"

  "That… that… that horrible creature of yours!" The cook hadn't gotten any quieter.

  "What about that horrible creature of mine?" Lanius knew a certain amount of relief that the trouble did involve Pouncer. At least he wouldn't walk into the kitchens and find somebody dead on the floor. He wasn't relieved by the way the cook kept going on at the top of his lungs. "Tell me what the moncat's done. Try to tell me without making the top of my head fly off."

  "Well, Your Majesty, the nasty beast went and stole – " The cook stayed much too loud.

  "I said, try to tell me without making the top of my head fly off!" Suddenly, Lanius shouted just as loud. The cook's eyes bugged out of his head in amazement. Lanius dropped his voice to more normal tones and went on, "I said it, and I cursed well' meant it, too." He folded his arms across his chest and waited to see whether the man was paying any attention at all.

  "I'll try, Your Majesty." Now Lanius could hardly hear the cook at all. That didn't bother him; he didn't mind leaning forward. "It stole a fine silver spoon and a marrow bone, and then it disappeared again. You should have drowned the miserable thing when it was a kitten."

  "A marrow bone, too, eh? It must have thought you were rewarding it for being clever enough to steal the spoon," Lanius said.

  "Well, then, it's pretty stinking stupid, isn't it?" The cook's voice rose again.

  "Easy, there. Easy, I say." Lanius might have been gentling a spooked horse. "Just don't go jumping out of your breeches. You'll probably get the spoon back sooner or later. Pouncer usually takes them someplace where people go. It's not as though some pawnbroker will give the beast a few coins for the silver in it."

  "Why does the gods-despised animal steal spoons in the first place?" the cook demanded. He didn't seem much gentled.

  "Pouncer is a great many things – willful, obnoxious, annoying, pestilential, mangy. Take your pick," Lanius said. "But one thing that moncat is not is gods-despised. I would stake a great deal on the truth of that."

  "Oh, you would, would you?" The cook didn't believe a word of it. "And why wouldn't the gods despise the rotten creature?"

  "Because Pouncer just may be the salvation of the kingdom," Lanius replied, and the cook's eyes bugged out of his head all over again. The king continued, "I am sorry about the marrow bone. Some soup or stew or gravy won't be all that it might have been. But I suppose you can probably find another."

  "This is no joking matter, Your Majesty," the cook protested.

  "Good, because I'm not joking," the king said. 'The spoon likely will come back. You can come up with a new bone. Do you have any other reasons to shriek in my ear, or was that everything?"

  The cook glowered. He scowled. He swelled up like a puffer fish. Lanius stood there waiting. As he'd expected, the cook deflated. "I'm sorry, Your Majesty," he said in a much smaller voice.

  "There. That's much better. You see? You can talk like a normal human being when you want to. Well done," Lanius said. "And now, what do you expect me to do about my willful, obnoxious, annoying, pestilential – but not, mind you, gods-despised – moncat?" Lanius was proud of himself for remembering all the nasty names he'd called Pouncer.

  By the way the cook gaped, the king's memory impressed him, too. He said, "If you can make sure the beast never comes back to the kitchens, that would be nice. If you can get the spoon back, that would be, too." He went out of his way to sound mild.

  "I don't think I can stop Pouncer from getting in," Lanius said. "I've tried, and I haven't had much luck. I won't lie to you about anything like that. But I already told you there's a pretty good chance the spoon will turn up."

  "All right, Your Majesty. Thank you, Your Majesty." The cook turned around and headed back toward the kitchen, a meeker and more subdued man than the bellowing hysteric who'd come roaring up to Lanius.

  The king laughed a little as he made for the archives. Turning excitable people into calm ones wasn't a skill most people thought of when they imagined things a sovereign ought to be able to do. That didn't mean it wasn't valuable, though. Oh, no – far from it.

  Lanius hoped he would find Pouncer in the archives with his prize. That would let him bring the spoon back to the kitchens in something approaching triumph. It would also let him feel virtuous for resisting the temptation to wallop the cook over the head with it – unless he yielded to the temptation instead, which offered pleasures of its own.

  But there was no sign of the moncat when Lanius got to the archives. He called Pouncer and even lay down on the dusty floor and thumped his chest, the way he did to summon Pouncer for a treat. Pouncer either was too far away to hear or didn't feel like coming. Lanius only shrugged. So much for neat endings, he thought, and went back to sorting through documents.

  King Grus suspected some generals tried to storm cities for no better reason than that sitting around besieging them was boring. Sitting down outside of Trabzun was boring. He wasn't inclined to complain even so. As long as dysentery didn't break out in his army, he thought he could take the city far more cheaply by siege than by storm.

  Grus glanced toward the walls of Trabzun. Torches flared every few paces along them. By the flickering torchlight, the king could make out Menteshe archers and a few pikemen. The garrison wanted him to know – or at least to think – it was ready for anything. He let out a wry chuckle.

  "How long do you think the siege will last?" Pterocles asked.

  "I can't tell you, not within months," Grus said. "Depends on how much food the Menteshe have, on how much they want to starve ordinary people to feed the soldiers, on… oh, all sorts of things. It would have been over a lot sooner if you'd been able to shut off their water supply – I'll tell you that."

  "I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I am sorry," Pterocles said. "I can't help the way the springs and wells are laid out, though. You have to blame the gods for that."

  "I wasn't blaming you," Grus assured him. "I can see how you wouldn't be able to do anything about it. But I can wish it were different, though, too." He looked over toward Trabzun again. "I can wish a lot of things were different."

  "Your Majesty?" Pterocles made an inquiring noise.

  "Oh, nothing.. nothing," Grus repeated, a little annoyed that he'd shown so much of himself. Pterocles plainly didn't believe him – which seemed only fair, since he wasn't telling the truth. But he didn't want to tell the wizard just how much he wished his one legitimate son had turned out to be a decent, hardworking man instead of.. what he was. The older Grus got, the more he thought about what would happen after he wasn't here to rule Avornis.

  When he first seized the throne, he'd expected Ortalis to succeed him. Lanius could go right on wearing the crown; he was, after all, the last twig of the old, familiar dynasty. If he had a son by Sosia, that boy could be called king, too. But real power would flow through Ortalis and his descendants.

  That wasn't exactly how things looked anymore, however much Grus wished they still did. Lanius had proved more than Grus expected, Ortalis less. If I were to die now… Grus shook his head, shying away from the thought like a horse shying from a buzzing fly. Sooner or later, the fly would land. It would sting. Sooner or later – but please. King Olor, not yet.

  Things would only get more complicated if Ortalis had a son. Grus had heard from Lanius that Limosa was expecting another child. He hadn't heard from Ortalis. He couldn't remember whether Ortalis had ever written to him while he was in the field. Maybe a letter of justification or two, to try to put a good light on some palace scrape Ortalis had gotten into. Past that, no.

  It d
idn't necessarily matter. Grus knew that. Being able to write an interesting letter – indeed, being able to write at all – was no prerequisite for kingship. If people would do what you told them to do, and would do it even when you didn't watch over them to make sure they did, you had what you needed to be a king. And if what you told them to do worked most of the time, you had what you needed to be a fairly good king.

  "It isn't magic," Grus murmured.

  He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud till Pterocles asked, "What isn't?"

  "Oh," Grus said. "Being a king, I meant."

  "Not the kind of magic I do," the wizard agreed. "But a good king has magic of his own. A good king needs to have people like him and take him seriously at the same time. Plenty of people have one or the other. Having both at once isn't so easy."

  That wasn't far from Grus' thought. He said, "I wonder how you get them." He was thinking of Ortalis and Lanius again. There was no doubt people took Lanius seriously. How much they liked him was another question. As for Ortalis…

  Grus was just as glad when Pterocles broke into his train of thought by saying, "I can't tell you that, Your Majesty. I'm afraid nobody else can, either. Plenty of people besides kings wish they knew the answer there."

  "I suppose so." Grus did more than suppose it; he was sure it was true. He looked in the direction of Trabzun once more. "What could we do to make that place fall faster?"

  "Undermine the walls?" Pterocles suggested. "I'm no general, but I know besiegers often try that. It must work some of the time."

  "It does – some of the time," Grus said. "Times when it does, the men on the other side usually don't know you're doing it until things start falling down on their heads. With all this open country around the town, hiding the digging and getting rid of the dirt without the Menteshe noticing would be a neat trick." His gaze sharpened. "Or do you think you could help bring it off?"

  "Maybe." Pterocles made the word long and thoughtful. "It would depend on not letting the Menteshe sorcerers inside Trabzun know I was using a masking spell. Once they realize there's something to see through, they will, and in a hurry."