men to protect himself if Vasilko turned treacherous, and he also brought Pterocles.
The wizard trembled a little—trembled more than a little—as he approached the walls of Nishevatz. “I hope I can protect you, Your Majesty,” he said. “If the Banished One puts forth all his strength through Vasilko…”
“If I didn’t think you could help me, I wouldn’t have asked you to come along,” Grus answered. “You’re the best I’ve got, and by now you have the measure of what the Banished One can do.”
“Oh, yes. I have his measure,” Pterocles said in a hollow voice. “And he has mine. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Grus clapped him on the back. Pterocles’ answering smile was distinctly wan. Grus tried not to let it worry him. His own curiosity was getting the better of him as he drew near the walls of Nishevatz. He’d been at war against Vasilko for years, but had never set eyes on him up until now. He peered up, trying to pick Vsevolod’s rebellious son out from the rest of the Chernagor defenders.
Nothing in Vasilko’s dress gave him away. Grus wished he’d taken that same precaution. Vasilko and the other Chernagors would have no trouble figuring out who he was if they wanted to try something nasty instead of parleying. With a shrug, Grus cupped his hands in front of his mouth and called, “I’m here, Vasilko. What do you want to say to me?”
The Chernagor who stepped up to the very edge of the battlement was older than Grus had thought he would be. The King of Avornis had expected to face an angry youth, but Vasilko was on the edge of middle age. Grus realized he need not have been startled; Vsevolod had died full of years. Still, it was a surprise.
Vasilko looked down at him with as much curiosity as he felt himself. “Why do you persecute me?” the usurper asked in Avornan better than Vsevolod had spoken.
“Why did you overthrow your father when you were his heir?” Grus answered. “Why do you follow the Banished One and not the gods in the heavens?”
Some of the Chernagors up on the walls of Nishevatz stirred. Grus supposed they were the ones who could understand Avornan. In a town full of traders, that some men could came as no great wonder. A few of them sent Vasilko startled looks. Did they think he still worshiped King Olor and Queen Quelea and the rest of the heavenly hierarchy? Maybe they were learning something new.
Vasilko said, “Avornis’ throne was not yours by right, either, but you took it.”
“I did not cast out King Lanius,” Grus answered, wishing Vasilko hadn’t chosen that particular comeback. Grus went on, “King Lanius is in the royal palace in the city of Avornis right now. And I never cast aside the gods in the heavens. They knew what they were doing when they exiled the Banished One.”
“And when did it become your business what god Nishevatz follows?” Vasilko plainly had a prince’s pride.
“The Banished One has tried to kill me more than once,” Grus said. “The nomads who follow him have worked all sorts of harm on Avornis. His friends are my foes, and if he is the sort of god usurpers follow, how safe are you on your stolen throne?”
That made Vasilko look around in sudden alarm, as though wondering which of his officers he might be better off not trusting. But then the Chernagor straightened once more. “We stand united,” he said loudly.
“Is that what you called me here to tell me?” Grus asked. Beside him, Pterocles stirred. Grus knew what the wizard was thinking—that Vasilko had called him here to launch a sorcerous attack against him. Grus would have been happier if he hadn’t found that fairly likely himself.
But some of Vasilko’s pride leaked out of him as he stood there and looked out on land he could not rule because the Avornan army held him away from it. He spoke more quietly when he replied, “No. I want to learn what terms you may have in mind.”
“Are you yielding? Is Nishevatz yielding?” Grus demanded, his voice taut with excitement.
“Not now. Not yet. Maybe not ever,” Vasilko said. “I told you, I want to know your terms.”
Grus hadn’t thought hard about terms until this moment. He had always assumed the siege would have to drag on until the bitter end, until his men either stormed the walls or starved Nishevatz into surrender—or, with bad luck, failed. Slowly, he said, “The people of the city are to acknowledge Beloyuz as Prince of Nishevatz. They are to let my army into Nishevatz, and to give up all their weapons except for eating knives and one sword for every three men. You yourself are to come back to Avornis with me, to live out your days in exile in the Maze.”
He waited to see how Vasilko would respond to that. He didn’t have to wait long. “No,” Vasilko said, and turned his back. “The fight goes on.”
“So be it,” Grus said. “You will not get a better bargain from me when we break into Nishevatz.”
That made Vasilko turn back. “You talk about doing that. Go ahead and talk. But when you have done it, then you will have earned the right. Not now.” He disappeared from Grus’ view; the king supposed he had gone down from the wall.
“So much for that,” Grus remarked as he returned to the siege line the Avornans had set up. “I’d hoped for better, but I hadn’t really looked for it.”
“You got more than I thought you would, Your Majesty,” Pterocles said. Grus raised a questioning eyebrow. The wizard went on, “This was a real parley, even if it didn’t work. I thought it would be nothing but a try at assassinating you.”
“Oh.” Grus thought that over. He set a hand on Pterocles’ shoulder. “You have a pretty strange notion of what goes into progress, you know that?”
“I suppose I do,” the sorcerer said.
“Any luck?” General Hirundo called when Grus came into the siege line.
The king shook his head. “Not a bit of it, except that Vasilko didn’t try to murder me.” Hirundo laughed. Grus would have meant it for a joke before Pterocles had spoken. Now he wasn’t joking. The siege went on.
“Back when I was your age,” King Lanius told his son, “the Thervings were a lot fiercer than they are now. They even laid siege to the city of Avornis a couple of times, though they couldn’t take it.”
Prince Crex listened solemnly. “How come they’re different now?” he asked.
Lanius beamed. “Good question! King Berto, who rules them nowadays, is a peaceable fellow. He wants to be a holy man.”
“Like Arch-Hallow Anser?” Crex asked.
“Well… in a way,” Lanius said. Anser wasn’t particularly holy; he just held a post that required the appearance of holiness from its occupant. From everything Lanius had seen, King Berto was sincere in his devotion to the gods. But how to explain that to a little boy? Not seeing how he could, Lanius continued, “Berto s father, King Dagipert, was more interested in fighting than in praying.”
Crex frowned. “So if the next King of Thervingia would sooner fight than pray, will we have wars with the Thervings all the time again?”
That was an even better question. “I hope we won’t,” Lanius answered. “But both sides have to want peace for it to stick. Only one needs to want a war.”
He waited to see what Crex would make of that. After another brief pause, Crex asked, “When is Grandpa coming home?”
“I don’t know,” Lanius said, blinking at the effortless ease with which children could change the subject. “When he’s taken Nishevatz, I suppose.”
“I miss him,” Crex said. “If he were a king who liked to pray instead a king who likes to fight, would he be home now?”
Maybe he hadn’t changed the subject after all. “I don’t know, son,” Lanius said again. “He might have to go fight anyhow, because up in the Chernagor country he’s fighting against the Banished One.”
“Oh,” Crex said. “All right.” And he went off to play without so much as a backward glance at his father.
