As Grus rode closer, he began to get a better look at how the scouts—and their horses—had died, and how their bodies had been used after they were dead… or while they were dying. “No,” he said, as though someone had told him about it and he didn’t believe the fellow. “No one would do that.” But his eyes, his treacherous, truth- telling eyes, insisted someone had. That they’d been mutilated was bad enough. That the dead men had also been violated…
“You see, Your Majesty,” the Avornan officer said heavily. “I’ve seen, and I wish I hadn’t.”
Grus didn’t answer. He rode through that scene of horror and torture. He felt he needed to see it all. He learned more about cruel ingenuity in those few minutes than he’d ever known, or ever wanted to know. At last, he said, “I didn’t think even the Menteshe did things like this.”
“They usually don’t,” the officer replied. “I’ve served in the south for years. This…” He turned his head away. “There are no words for this.”
“The Banished One,” Grus said in a voice like iron. “This is his doing. He’s trying to put us in fear.”
With a laugh on the ragged edge of hysteria, the Avornan captain said, “He knows how to get what he wants, doesn’t he?”
But Grus shook his head. “No. This—shakes me, but it doesn’t make me afraid. It makes me angry. I want revenge.” He paused. Did that mean paying back the Menteshe in their own coin? Could he stomach ordering his men to do something like this to their foes? If he did that, didn’t he invite the Banished One to take up residence in Avornis? “The best revenge I know is whipping them out of the kingdom.”
“What do we do about… this, Your Majesty?”
“We make pyres. We burn the dead. We’re all equal in the flames.” Grus paused again, then added, “This time, we burn the horses, too. They deserved what the Menteshe did even less than our troopers. They weren’t enemies, just animals.”
As he ordered, so it was done. The smoke of the great pyre mingled with the smoke from burning fields. To his relief, the men who made the pyres and laid the dead on them seemed to feel as he did. The bodies inspired horror and rage, but not fear. “We’ve got to whip the sons of whores who did this,” a soldier said. “We owe it to the dead.”
“We’ll give the Menteshe everything we owe,” Grus promised. “Everything.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
To Lanius’ surprise, he found himself missing King Grus. Yes, he’d chafed when Grus spent his time in the city of Avornis and held the kingdom in his own hands. With Grus down in the south fighting the Menteshe, Lanius pulled a lot of strings himself— but they were mostly the uninteresting strings. He’d wanted to administer Avornis… until he did it for a while. That made him decide Grus was welcome to the day-to-day drudgery.
But Grus was at war, which meant Lanius was stuck with it. He knew he was less diligent about it than Grus. It embarrassed him, even shamed him, to get a reminder from the provinces about something he should have dealt with the first time, weeks earlier. But he didn’t seem able to do anything about such mishaps.
He knew why, too. If he’d given administering Avornis all the time it needed, he wouldn’t have been able to dive into the archives or watch his monkeys or try to figure out how Pouncer kept getting out of its room and into the kitchens. Those were more enjoyable pastimes, and he had trouble thinking of them as less important.
He also would have had less time for amusing himself with maidservants. Keeping track of the kingdom was more important than that, but it wasn’t nearly as much fun. So far, Sosia hadn’t found out about his sport—or rather, hadn’t found out that he’d kept on with it after Grus sent Cristata away. That his wife hadn’t found out helped keep the sport pleasurable.
And he would have had less time for talks with Prince Vsevolod.
Having less time to talk with the Prince of Nishevatz, however, wouldn’t have broken his heart. He’d learned less about the Chernagors than he wanted to, and more about the way Vsevolod thought.
“When will war in south be over?” the Prince asked in his blunt, throaty Avornan. He cared nothing about fighting in the war in the south himself, only about how it affected things in the north—things that mattered to him.
“I don’t know, Your Highness,” Lanius answered. “I wish I did. I wish someone did.”
Vsevolod scowled. To Lanius, he looked more than ever like a scrawny old vulture. “He will win war?”
“By the gods, I hope so!” Lanius exclaimed.
“He will win war by wintertime?”
“I told you, Your Highness—I don’t know that. I don’t think anyone can. If the gods in the heavens let him do it, he will.” As usual, Lanius said nothing about the Banished One, who had been Milvago. As usual, the not-quite- god who no longer dwelt in the heavens wasn’t far from his mind.
“If Grus does not win war this winter, he fights again in south when spring comes?” Vsevolod persisted.
“I don’t know,” Lanius replied, his patience beginning to unravel. “I wouldn’t be surprised, though. Would you?”
“No. Not surprised,” the prince said darkly. “He cares nothing for Nishevatz, not really. All lies.” He turned away.
Lanius was tempted to kick him in the rear. The king didn’t, but the temptation lingered. If Vsevolod wasn’t the most self-centered man in the world, who was? All he cared about was Nishevatz, regardless of what Avornis needed. More testily than Lanius had expected to, he said, “We’ve been invaded, you know.”
“Yes, you are invaded. Yes, I know. And what of me? I am robbed. I am exiled,” Vsevolod said. “I live in strange place, eat strange food, talk strange, ugly language, with no one to care if I live or die.”
“We do care,” Lanius insisted, though he would have had trouble saying he cared very much himself. “But we have to drive the invaders from our own realm before we can worry about anyone else’s.”
Prince Vsevolod might not even have heard him. “I will die in exile,” he said gloomily. “My city-state will go down to ruin under accursed Vasilko, my own son. I cannot save it. Life is bitter. Life is hard.”
“We’ll do all we can for you, Your Highness.” Lanius’ voice was as gentle as he could make it. “Don’t worry. We’ll get Nishevatz back for you. By the gods in the heavens, I swear it.”
“The gods in the heavens are—” Vsevolod violently shook his head. “No. If I say that, if I think that, I am Vasilko. This I never do.” He got to his feet and stomped away, as though angry at Lanius for making him think things he didn’t want to think.
Grus relaxed in a roadside tavern. The barmaid, who was a young cousin of the fellow who ran the place, set a fresh mug of wine in front of him. He’d had several already. His men had driven the Menteshe off just as they were riding up with torches in their hands, ready to burn the tavern and everyone inside it.
“Thank you, sweetheart,” Grus told the barmaid.
“You’re welcome, Your Majesty,” she answered. “Plenty more where that came from. Don’t be shy.” She wasn’t shy herself. Her name, he’d learned, was Alauda. She was a widow; her husband had laid his leg open threshing grain, and died when the wound went bad. She wouldn’t take any silver for the wine, though Grus had offered. “No,” she’d said, shaking her head. “You saved us. This is the least we can do.”
Hirundo sat on another three-legged stool at the rickety table with Grus. “She’s not bad, is she?” the general said, eyeing her as she went to get more wine.
“No, not bad at all,” Grus agreed. Alauda had a barmaid’s brassy prettiness, wider through the hips and
