The Bastard King tsom-1 Page 6

  “He did what?” Commodore Grus said when news of the fiasco in the throne room got to Veteres.

  “He turned down Dagipert’s ambassador,” said the man with the news. “Turned him down flat, by the gods.”

  Grus gulped his wine. “Now what? Is it war with the Thervings?”

  “It had better not be war,” Nicator exclaimed. “If it is, how do we fight it? We haven’t got enough soldiers, and we haven’t got enough river galleys, either.”

  “You know that,” Grus said. “I know that. Why doesn’t King Scolopax know that?”

  “Beats me.” Nicator drained his mug and waved to the barmaid for another. “He’s king, after all. He’s supposed to know things like that. He’s supposed to know everything that’s going on in Avornis.”

  “I should say so,” Grus exclaimed. “I know everything that’s going on in my flotilla—that’s my job. The whole kingdom is his job.”

  “There’s a certain kind of captain who doesn’t think that way,” Nicator said. “You know the kind I mean. He’ll say ‘Do this. Do that. Do the other thing,’ but he won’t bother to find out if you’ve got the men or the gear or the money or the time to carry out his orders. That’s not his worry—it’s yours. But then you get the blame if what he says turns out to be impossible.”

  Grus nodded. “Oh, yes. I know officers like that. I run them out of my service just as fast as I can.”

  “I know you do, skipper,” Captain Nicator said. “A lot of buggers like that, though—they’re nobles, and they’re not so easy to get rid of.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Grus said. He’d come as far as he had because he’d proved he was good at what he did. Nobles who’d gotten their posts because of who their grandfathers were had to obey his orders. That didn’t keep them from looking down their noses at him.

  The barmaid came over to the table with a pitcher of wine. She filled Nicator’s mug. Grus shoved his across the table toward her. She poured it full, too.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” Nicator said, and patted her on the bottom.

  She drew back. “You can buy the wine,” she said, “and I’ll be glad to see your silver. But you can cursed well keep your hands to yourself. That’s not for sale. If I could line up all the bastards who make filthy jokes about barmaids so I could swing a sword once and take off all their empty heads, I’d do it.” She stomped away.

  “Whew!” Nicator said, and took a long pull at his mug. “She had steam coming out of her ears, didn’t she?”

  “Just a little,” Grus answered. “I think I’m going to keep my mouth shut for about the next ten years.” He’d been known to make jokes about barmaids. He’d been known to do more than joke. He had a bastard boy down in Anxa. Every quarter, he sent gold to the boy’s mother. Estrilda knew about that. She’d given him her detailed opinion of it when she found out, but she’d eventually forgiven him. Grus shook his head. That wasn’t true. She hadn’t forgiven him, but she had decided to stop beating him over the head.

  Three days passed before Zangrulf the Therving arrived on his return journey to King Dagipert. Escorting his party was an Avornan officer named Corvus, a fellow whose gilded armor, fancy horse, and supercilious expression said he had more land and more money than he knew what to do with. “Take these nasty fellows over the river,” he told Grus, an aristocratic sneer in his voice. “We’re well rid of them, believe me.”

  Zangrulf wasn’t supposed to hear that, but he did. He looked down his nose at Corvus. “We’ll be back one day soon,” he said. “See how you like us then.”

  The Avornan nobleman turned red. “I’m not afraid of you,” he said. “I’m not afraid of anything.”

  “Stupid twit,” Captain Nicator said in a low voice. Grus nodded.

  Aldo the wizard came up to Zangrulf and muttered something in the Thervings’ tongue. Zangrulf laughed out loud. Pointing at Corvus, he said, “He tells me you’ll get just what you deserve.”

  “Oh, he does, does he?” Corvus’ hand fell to the hilt of his sword. “Tell him to keep his stinking mouth shut, or I’ll give him just what he deserves.”

  “I’ll take you and your men across the river,” Grus said to Zangrulf, before a war broke out on the spot. King Dagipert’s ambassador nodded. All the way back to the ruined bridge, though, Aldo kept looking first at Grus, then back toward Corvus. He kept laughing, too.

  King Scolopax celebrated his third year on the throne with a party that lasted for eight days. He hated Mergus more than ever, for depriving him of this pleasure for so long. He’d spent too much of his life doing what Mergus told him to do. Now he was king, and everyone—everyone!—had to do as he said.

  In fact, only one thing still troubled him a little. “I wish I had a proper heir, an heir of my own body,” he complained to Aistulf one day. “That horrid wart Lanius gives me the shivers. His pointed little nose is always in one book or another, and he’s Mergus‘, not mine.”

  “An heir of your own body?” the king’s favorite murmured. “Well, there is a way to arrange that, you know, or at least to try.”

  Stroking him, Scolopax shook his head. “Not for me, or so it seems. I do try every now and again—by the gods, every wench in the palace throws herself at me these days—but I don’t rise to the occasion.”

  “Too bad, Your Majesty,” Aistulf said. “Women can be fun, too.”

  “I’ve got you, and I’ve got Waccho,” King Scolopax said. “If I had any more fun, I’d fall over.” Aistulf laughed. These days, everyone laughed when Scolopax made a joke. The king went on, “Besides, that wart won’t put his scrawny little backside on the throne till after I’m dead, and I don’t expect I’ll care about it then.”

  “That’s so,” Aistulf agreed. Everyone agreed with Scolopax these days. He liked that, too.

  He said, “Shall we go out to the meadow and knock the ball around?” He was an avid polo player. Considering his years and thick belly, he was a pretty good one, too.

  “Whatever you like, Your Majesty,” Aistulf said. Polo wasn’t high on his list, or on Waccho’s. But keeping Scolopax happy was.

  “Yes,” the king said—happily. “Whatever I like.”

  Before long, he was galloping across the meadow, wild as a Menteshe nomad. The cavalrymen who rode with him and his favorites played hard. Scolopax couldn’t be bothered with running Avornis—the Thervings had been ravaging the west for a year now, and he had yet to send much of a force against them; that was what he had generals for, after all—but polo was different. Polo was important. No one who thought otherwise got to play with the king twice.

  His horse thundered past his last opponent. He swung his mallet with the power of a man half his age. The mallet caught the ball exactly as he’d wanted. He couldn’t have aimed it any better if he’d rolled it into the net. “Goal!” he shouted joyously, and threw his arms up in triumph.

  “Well shot, Your Majesty,” said the defender he’d beaten.

  “A perfect shot, Your Majesty,” said Aistulf, who didn’t want anyone but himself—and perhaps Waccho—flattering the king.

  And then, quite without his bidding it, Scolopax’s mallet slipped from his fingers and fell to the trampled meadow. He swayed in the saddle. He tried to bring up his right hand to rub at his forehead, but it didn’t want to obey him. He used his left instead. He swayed again, and almost fell.

  “Are you all right, Your Majesty?” Aistulf asked.

  “I have a terrific headache,” Scolopax answered. His whole right side seemed numb—no, not numb, but as though he had no right side at all. He couldn’t keep his balance. Slowly, he slid off the horse. He gazed up at the sky in mild surprise, the smell of dirt and grass in his nostrils.

  “Your Majesty!” Aistulf shouted, and then, “Quick! Go fetch a healer!”

  Scolopax heard someone galloping away. He hardly noticed, for he saw, or thought he saw, a face full of cold, cold beauty staring down at him. “Too bad,” the Banished One said. “Oh, too bad. And I had such hop
es for you.” Scolopax tried to answer, but couldn’t. Though it was noontime, the sky grew dark. Very, very soon, it grew black.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lanius jumped into the air, as high as he could. “Mama!” he cried, and ran to her. He hadn’t seen her since his father died. In the life of a child, three years are an age. He’d sometimes wondered if he would even recognize her. But he did. Oh, he did!

  “Darling!” Queen Certhia squeezed the breath out of him. “You’ve gotten so big and tall,” she said. “But you’re too skinny. You need to eat more. You look like a boy made out of sticks.”

  “I’ll eat more,” Lanius promised. He would have promised his mother almost anything. “I’ll even eat—” He shook his head. He wouldn’t promise to eat his vegetables. That would be going too far.

  “You’re the king now, after all,” Certhia said. “The king has to be strong, so Avornis will be strong.”

  “All right.” It didn’t seem real to Lanius. He was only eight years old. The one change he’d been able to notice was that palace servants called him Your Majesty now instead of Your Highness. Even his tutor called him Your Majesty. But he still had to go to lessons every day—not that he minded them. He said, “I’m sorry Uncle Scolopax died.”

  His mother’s face went hard and cold. “I’m not,” she said. “He was a stupid, nasty man, Lanius. You’ll make a much better king when you grow up. I’m sure you will.”

  “How are you sure, Mama?” Lanius asked, genuinely curious.

  “Because you couldn’t possibly be a worse one,” Queen Certhia snapped.

  “That isn’t logical,” Lanius said. “If I tried, I’m sure I could—”

  “But you wouldn’t try any such thing—that’s the point,” his mother answered. “All Scolopax wanted to do was throw down everything your father ever did, just because he did it. You wouldn’t do anything like that. You’re still a little boy, but you know better.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I would,” Lanius said. “But I could.”

  Certhia gave him an odd look. “Never mind,” she said. “I—”

  “Good day, madam.” Arch-Hallow Bucco stood in the doorway. He looked at Lanius’ mother as though he’d found her on the bottom of his sandal. “What are you doing inside the palace? Who gave you leave to come here?” His voice was chilly as winter in the mountains of Thervingia.

  “She’s my mama. I’m King of Avornis!” Lanius exclaimed.

  Bucco bowed. “Indeed you are, Your Majesty. But I am the head of the Council of Regents your uncle appointed to rule until you become a man. My word has weight here.”

  Certhia laughed scornfully. “And a fine Council of Regents it is, too. You and Waccho and Aistulf—”

  “And Torgos,” Bucco broke in. “Torgos is a wise and learned man.”

  “How did he put up with Scolopax, then?” Lanius’ mother demanded. She pointed a finger at Bucco. “It’s your council, and everyone knows it. You’re the one who will get blamed when things go wrong.”

  “I do not intend that things should go wrong,” the arch-hallow said, even more frigidly than before. “When your son becomes a man, Avornis will be strong for him. He is, after all, the only one left of our ancient dynasty.”

  “Yes, and you’ve called him a bastard, too,” Certhia said. “What do you propose to do about that?”

  “I’m not a bastard,” Lanius said. “You were Father’s queen. I was only little then, but I remember.”

  “It is not so simple as that, Your Majesty,” Arch-Hallow Bucco said. “Your mother was King Mergus’ wife, yes, but she was the king’s seventh wife.”

  Even Lanius, young as he was, knew what that meant. He stared at his mother. She scowled at Bucco. “Arch-Hallow Megadyptes declared he was legitimate.”

  Bucco coughed. He’d been ousted so Megadyptes could say that. He could hardly be expected to like it. “Arch-Hallow Megadyptes’ opinions were his own, not mine,” he said, and coughed again.

  Lanius saw the logical flaw there. “If I’m not legitimate, if I am a bastard, how can I be king?”

  Certhia pointed at the arch-hallow again. “And if he’s not king, how can you head the Council of Regents for him?”

  Bucco did some more coughing. “The entire situation is most irregular,” he said.

  “It certainly is,” Queen Certhia said. “And since it is, how dare you try to keep me from seeing my son?”

  “I head the regency council,” Bucco said stiffly. “I decide whom King Lanius should see.”

  “I’m the king, and I want to see my mama!” Lanius said.

  His mother said, “Who made a better arch-hallow for Avornis, Bucco? You or Megadyptes? Plenty of people would say he did, especially after the way Scolopax abused him. Do you want those people howling for your blood in the streets of the city? They will, especially if you keep calling Lanius a bastard.”

  “Don’t you threaten me!” Bucco said.

  “Don’t you think you can keep me away from my son!” Queen Certhia retorted. “You’re not the king. He is.”

  They glared at each other over Lanius’ head. The new king of Avornis felt as though they had hold of him by the arms and were trying to pull him in two.

  Commodore Grus didn’t like riding a horse. Some people got seasick. This animal’s endless rocking gait left him queasy. “I wish we could sail down to the south,” he told Nicator.

  “So do I,” Nicator answered. “My legs feel like they’ve been stretched on the rack. I’ll walk bowlegged the next week, see if I don’t.” He had his own reasons for disliking horses.

  Sighing, Grus said, “The gods chose to give us rivers that run from west to east. If we want to go north, we can either let the horses do the work or we can do it ourselves. Those are the only choices we’ve got.”

  “Who says I want to go from north to south?” Nicator asked. “I’ve got to, but I don’t much want to. As soon as the Thervings are quiet for a little while, the Menteshe start tormenting us again. Feels like the two sets of bastards have got Avornis by the arms, and they’re trying to pull us in two.”

  That comparison was too apt for comfort. Grus said, “It could be worse. If they both jumped on us at the same time, we’d have real trouble.”

  Captain Nicator spat. “You ask me, Skipper, this is real trouble. If it wasn’t real trouble, why would they send us to take command down south again, eh? Answer me that, if you please.”

  Since Grus couldn’t, he didn’t. He did reach down and make sure his sword was loose in its scabbard. Smoke darkened the southern horizon. The Menteshe were burning fields and farmhouses and villages. If they got lucky enough to break into walled towns, they’d burn those, too. And, if they came across a couple of mounted Avornans, they would try to kill them.

  Seeing the motion, Nicator laughed. “Oh, you’ll make a fine cavalryman, Skipper, same like me. You’re likelier to whack me with that sword than you are to hit one of the Banished One’s bastards.”

  “Thanks so much, friend,” Grus said. “I’ll stay away from you, too. You see if I don’t.” He pointed. “Is that an inn up ahead?”

  “Sure looks like one to me,” Nicator answered. “Shall we stop for the night? We won’t get a whole lot further even if we do go on.”

  “Suits me,” Grus said. Once he and Nicator came into the common room, though, it didn’t suit him so well. The merchants eating and drinking in there were loudly arguing about whether Bucco’s faction or Megadyptes’ had a better right to the arch-hallowdom. Some of the men had drunk enough to seem ready to argue with fists and knives, not words.

  “This is foolishness,” Nicator said. “Haven’t we got more important things to worry about?”

  He’d pitched his words to Grus, who nodded. But a young merchant at the next table turned toward them and said, “The Banished One will seize us if we make the wrong choice.” His fingers writhed in a preventive sign.

  Grus made the same gesture, but he asked, “Don’t you think the Banishe
d One is more likely to seize us if we quarrel among ourselves?”

  By the way the merchant stared at him, he might as well have started speaking the language of the far northern Chernagors. Unlike most of the men in the dining hall, Gras didn’t feel like arguing. He and Nicator finished their suppers—not so good— and their wine—worse—and went off to the cramped little room the innkeeper had given the two of them. Grus barred the door.

  “That may not help,” Nicator said.

  “I know,” Gras answered. “I don’t see how it can hurt, though.”

  Somehow, the merchants didn’t come to blows. When Gras and Nicator rode south the next morning, they were both scratching themselves. Gras almost decided the Banished One was welcome to have the innkeeper. Almost. Like anyone who’d seen what life was like on the far bank of the Stura, he didn’t care to wish it on anybody else.

  If the Menteshe won here—if their raids forced Avornan soldiers and wizards and priests off this land—the Banished One would bring his spells that much closer to the city of Avornis. We’d better not let that happen, Gras thought gloomily.

  “I hope Anxa hasn’t fallen,” he said.

  “It better not have!” Nicator said.

  “I know,” Gras answered. “But there’s a lot of smoke down in the south. That means a lot of Menteshe running around loose.”

  How right he was, he and his companion found out a couple of hours later. They’d just passed a burnt-out farm when a couple of horsemen came up the road toward them. Those weren’t Avornans in mail shirts—they were Menteshe, tough little men on tough little ponies. Seeing Gras and Nicator, they yanked sabers from scabbards and spurred their ponies forward.

  Gras wished he were wearing chain mail. He had a helmet on his head, but no other armor. His own sword came out. So did Nicator’s. He booted his horse toward the enemy. With horses as with river galleys, you didn’t want to be standing still while the other fellow charged.