The Chernagor Pirates

“Maybe,” Grus said, “but he has enough enemies inside the walls, it would not be safe to have him go up to them.” He didn’t mention that most of the Chernagors inside Nishevatz had made it plain they preferred Vasilko to Vsevolod.

Beloyuz’s eyes said he knew what Grus was thinking. They also said he was grateful Grus had found a way not to come right out and say it. He bowed stiffly to the king. “All right, Your Majesty. Let it be as you say.”

With Avornan shieldmen accompanying him forward, Beloyuz approached the walls the next morning. One of the shieldmen carried a flag of truce, but they all remained very alert. They could not be sure the Chernagors would honor that flag. Beloyuz began to speak in the throaty, guttural, consonant-filled Chernagor language. Grus did not understand it, but he had a good idea of what the noble would be saying.

The defenders did not need to hear much before they made up their minds. They roared abuse at Beloyuz. Some of them shot arrows despite the flag of truce, but Grus didn’t think they were trying to hit the nobleman or his protectors. Beloyuz took no chances, but hastily retreated out of range. Grus didn’t see how he could blame him for that.

Vsevolod came over to Grus in high dudgeon, demanding, “Why I not go to wall?”

“I did not want the folk of Nishevatz to insult you, your Highness,” Grus replied, which was perhaps a tenth part of the truth.

“I do not worry over insults,” Vsevolod said. “I can tell folk of Nishevatz better than Beloyuz can.”

That’s what I was afraid of, Grus thought. He reminded himself he had to be tactful when speaking to Vsevolod. He needed to remind himself, because the temptation to tell the unvarnished truth was very strong. Choosing his words with care, then, he said, “The people of Nishevatz had heard you before, Your Highness, and did not decide to cast Vasilko out and bring you back into the city. I thought Beloyuz could give them a different slant on your virtues.” Such as they are, Your Highness. The only one Grus could think of offhand was Vsevolod’s genuine and sincere opposition to the Banished One.

With a sniff, Vsevolod drew himself up very straight. “I know my virtues better than any of my followers.”

“Yes, Your Highness.” Grus hoped his resignation wasn’t too obvious—but if it was, he intended to lose no sleep over it. He said, “No harm done. Beloyuz didn’t persuade them, either, but he got away safe. Now we’ll go on with what we were going to do anyhow. We’re going to take Nishevatz away from Vasilko. That’s what we came here for, and that’s what we’ll do.”

Prince Vsevolod didn’t want to let him off the hook. “You say this before,” the Chernagor grumbled. “You say before, and then something else happen, and then you change mind.”

“I am allowed to defend my own homeland,” Grus said mildly. “But, with a better fleet on our east coast to guard against Chernagor pirates and with the Menteshe caught in their own civil war, I don’t think we’ll have to break things off this time.”

“Better not,” Vsevolod rumbled in ominous tones. “By gods, better not.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Standing in his robe of crimson silk behind the magnificent altar of the great cathedral, Arch-Hallow Anser cut a splendid ecclesiastical figure. By his bearing and appearance, Lanius would readily have believed him the holiest man in all of Avornis. And then King Grus’ bastard waved and called, “Hang on for a minute, Your Majesty, and I’ll change into hunting togs.”

“No hurry,” Lanius answered. He wished Anser hadn’t bounded away from the altar with such obvious eagerness. The arch-hallow might seem like a very holy man, but he didn’t like playing the part.

When he returned, he looked more like a poacher than a prelate. He wore a disreputable hat, a leather jerkin over a linen tunic, and baggy wool trousers tucked into suede boots that rose almost to his knees. He also wore an enormous smile. He put on the crimson robe because his father told him to. Hunting togs were different. Lanius, on the other hand, felt as though he were in costume for a foolish show, although he looked much less raffish than Anser.

“Let’s see what we can bag, eh?” he said. “Pity Prince Ortalis couldn’t come with us today.”

“Why? Did you—?” Lanius broke off, shaking his head. “Never mind. Forget I said that. Forget I even started to say that.”

“I’d probably better.” Anser made a face. He said, “You’ll have a horse outside?”

“Oh, yes.” The king nodded. “I’m not going to walk to the woods— I’ll tell you that.”

“Let’s go, then.”

A couple of hours later, Lanius and the arch-hallow dismounted under the trees. Grooms took charge of the horses. The king, the arch-hallow, and their beaters and guards walked into the woods. “Maybe you’ll hit something this time, Your Majesty,” Anser said. “You never can tell.”

“No, you never can,” Lanius agreed in a hollow voice. Hitting a stag with an arrow remained about the last thing he wanted to do.

Birds chirped overhead. Looking up, the king wondered what kind they were. Being able to tell one bird from another when neither was a pigeon or a sparrow would be interesting, but he hadn’t gotten good at it yet. Learning to recognize them by their looks and by their songs necessarily involved staying out in the woods until he could. That made it more trouble than it was worth to him.

“Are you sure you want me to take the first shot, Your Majesty?” Anser said. “It’s very kind, but you don’t need to give me the honor.”

“My pleasure,” Lanius said, which was absolutely true. He went on, “Besides, you’re the one who’s liable to hit something. If I do, it’ll just be by accident, and we both know it.”

The beaters fanned out into the woods. Anser’s men vanished silently among the trees. Lanius’ guards were noisy enough to make the arch-hallow’s followers smile. But they did no more than smile. The two groups had tangled after earlier hunts. Lanius’ guards came out on top in tavern brawls.

Anser chose a spot on the edge of a clearing. Before long, a stag bounded out into the open space. The arch-hallow let fly. He cursed more or less good-naturedly when his arrow hissed past the deer’s head. The stag sprang away.

“Well, you won’t do worse than I did, anyhow,” Anser said to Lanius.

“No,” the king agreed. He’d never had the nerve to tell Anser he always shot to miss. He enjoyed eating venison, but not enough to enjoy killing animals himself so he could have it. He wouldn’t have wanted to be a butcher, either. He recognized the inconsistency without worrying about reconciling it.

Half an hour passed with no new game in the clearing. Lanius, who didn’t mind, said nothing. Anser, who did, grumbled. Then another stag, smaller and less splendid than the first, trotted out into the open space. It stopped not fifteen yards in front of Lanius and Anser.

“Your shot, Your Majesty,” Anser whispered.

Awkwardly, with unpracticed ringers, Lanius fit an arrow to the bowstring. Here was his dilemma, big as life, for he knew he could hit the stag if he but shot straight. Wouldn’t it have an easier death if he shot it than if it died under the ripping fangs of wolves or from some slow, cruel disease?

He drew the bow, let fly… and the arrow zoomed high, well over the stag’s back. The animal fled.

“Oh… too bad, Your Majesty,” Anser said, doing his good-natured best not to show how annoyed he was.

“I told you before—I’m hopeless,” Lanius answered. As a matter of fact, he was rather proud of himself.

Out on the Northern Sea, a ship made for Nishevatz, its great spread of sail shining white in the spring sun. On the shore, a tiny ship made from a scrap of wood, a twig, and a rag bobbed in a bowl of seawater. The spring sun shone on it, too. Hundreds of defenders on the walls of Nishevatz anxiously eyed the real ship. King Grus and Pterocles paid more attention to the toy in the bowl.

“Whenever you’re ready,” the king said.

“Now is as good a time as any,” Pterocles replied. He held his curved bit of crystal above the toy ship. A