And not only had he learned something about himself, he’d also learned something about Grus. The other king got high marks for cleverness. Lanius also had a better idea why Grus sometimes bedded other women. Sosia wouldn’t care for that bit of insight, or how he’d gotten it. Neither would Estrilda. Lanius shrugged. He had it, come what might.
Another tall-masted, high-pooped ship burned in the waters off Nishevatz. It lit up the night. The Chernagors had quit trying to resupply the city during the day; Pterocles’ magic made that impossibly expensive. They’d tried to sneak the merchantman past the wizard under cover of darkness. They’d tried, they’d failed, and now they were paying the price—he’d found that setting ships alight with sorcerously projected ordinary fire worked at night as well as using sunlight did in the daytime.
Standing beside King Grus, Prince Vsevolod folded his big, bony hands into fists. “Cook!” he shouted out to the sailors aboard the burning ship. “You help my son, the scum, you get what you deserve. Cook!”
“I think we’re getting somewhere, Your Highness,” Grus said.
“I know where I want to get.” Vsevolod turned to the gray stone walls of Nishevatz, now bathed in flickering red and gold. “And I know what I want to do. I want to get hands on son.”
“What would you do with Vasilko if you had him?” Grus asked.
“Make him remember who is rightful Prince of Nishevatz,” Vsevolod answered, which didn’t go into detail but did sound more than a little menacing.
“I wonder how much food they’ve got in there,” Grus said in musing tones. “Maybe not so much, if they thought they could bring in fresh supplies whenever they needed them. They’re going to get hungry by and by, if they aren’t hungry already.”
Vsevolod shook his fist at the city-state he’d ruled for so many years. “Starve!” he shouted angrily. “Let them all starve. I take bodies out, bury in fields, raise cabbages from them. Then I bring in new people, honest people —not thieves who take away crown from honest man.”
Grus didn’t argue with him. He’d long since seen there was no point to arguing with Vsevolod. The exiled prince knew what he knew, or thought he knew what he knew, and didn’t care to change his mind.
Sure enough, Vsevolod demanded, “How soon we attack Nishevatz?”
“When we’re sure the defenders are too hungry and too weak to put up much of a fight,” Grus answered. “We fought too soon and too hard year before last, if you’ll remember. We want to win when we go in.”
Vsevolod made a noise down deep in his chest. It wasn’t agreement, or anything even close to agreement. The prince sounded like a lion balked of its prey. He didn’t want to wait. He wanted to spring and leap and kill.
Grus also wanted Nishevatz. What he didn’t want was to pay a crippling price for the Chernagor city-state. He’d done worse than that on his earlier campaign against it—he’d paid a high price and failed to take the place. Another embarrassment of that sort would be the last thing he—or Avornis—needed.
Vsevolod’s thinking ran along different lines. “When do you attack?” he asked again. “When is Nishevatz mine once more?”
“I told you, I’ll attack when I think I can win without bankrupting myself.”
“This is coward’s counsel,” Vsevolod complained.
“Oh?” King Grus sent him a cold stare. “How many men are
The deposed Prince of Nishevatz returned a glance full of fury—full of something not far from hate. “Traitors. My people are traitors,” he mumbled, and slowly and deliberately turned his back on Grus.
An Avornan who did something like that to his sovereign would find himself in trouble in short order. But Grus wasn’t Vsevolod’s sovereign. Vsevolod was, or had been, a sovereign in his own right. The way he acted in exile made Grus understand why the people of Nishevatz had been inclined to give Vasilko a chance to rule them. Since Vasilko relied on the Banished One for backing, that choice hadn’t been a good one. But Vsevolod hadn’t been the best of rulers, either.
Sighing, Grus wished
“Traitors,” Vsevolod muttered again. He swung back toward Grus. “Your wizard can find way over wall, yes?”
“Maybe.” Grus wasn’t sure himself. “I’d better see, though.”
He sent a messenger to find Pterocles and bring the wizard to him. Pterocles came promptly enough. The wizard seemed more cheerful than he had since being felled in front of Nishevatz during the last siege. Succeeding with his spells had buoyed him, the same way a string of victories would have buoyed a general.
“What can I do for you, Your Majesty?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” Grus answered. “Prince Vsevolod has asked what you can do to help take Nishevatz away from Vasilko. It strikes me as a reasonable question.”
“Set walls afire, like you set ships afire,” Vsevolod said eagerly. “Roast Vasilko like saddle of mutton in oven.”
Pterocles shook his head. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but I can’t manage that. The ships are wooden, and burn easily. I’m not wizard enough to set stone afire. I’m not sure any mortal could do that.”
“Burn gates, in that case,” Vsevolod said, which was actually a good suggestion.
Grus looked at Pterocles. Pterocles looked toward the gates, which were of timbers heavily plated with iron. “Maybe,” the wizard said. “I could try, anyhow, when the sun comes out again. For that, I’d want the strongest, purest sorcery I can work, and sunlight is stronger and purer than earthly fire.” The day, like many around Nishevatz, was dim and overcast, with fog rolling in off the Northern Sea.
“Get ready to try, then,” Grus told Pterocles. “We’ll see what happens.” He didn’t say anything suggesting he would blame the wizard if the magic failed. He wanted to build up the other man’s confidence, not tear it down.
Vsevolod cared nothing for such concerns. Glowering at Pterocles, he demanded, “Why you have to wait for sun?”
“As I said, it gives the best fire to power my spells,” Pterocles replied.
“You want fire?” Vsevolod pointed toward the rows of cookfires throughout the Avornan encampment. “We have plenty fires for you.”
“You may think so, but the magic is stronger with the sun,” Pterocles said. “For a ship that’s very easy to burn, the other fire, I’ve found, will do. For the gates, which will be much harder, I have to have the strongest fire I can get. Do I tell you how to run your business, Your Majesty?”
Vsevolod muttered something in the Chernagor language. Grus didn’t understand a word of it. All things considered, that was probably just as well. Before the Prince of Nishevatz could return to Avornan, Grus spoke up, saying, “We have to trust Pterocles’ judgment here. When he’s ready, he can cast the spell. Until then, he would do better to wait.”
More mutters from Vsevolod. “Thank you, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said.
“You’re welcome,” Grus answered, but he couldn’t help adding, “I hope you don’t have to wait too long.”
Later, he wished he hadn’t said that. He couldn’t help wondering whether he’d jinxed the wizard and his magic. Day after day of gloom and fog followed, with never more than a halfhearted glimpse of the sun. Such stretches of bad weather could happen here, sure enough. Was this one natural, though?
At last, Grus grew impatient and frustrated enough to ask the question aloud. Pterocles only shrugged. “Hard to know for certain, Your Majesty. I will say this once more, though—weatherworking’s not easy, not for mortals.”
“Not for mortals.” The king chewed on that. “Is the Banished One turning his eye this way again, then?”
“I haven’t noticed any sign of it.” Pterocles’ sigh sent more fog into the cool, moist air. “I think I would. A
