Harry Turtledove - The Scepter's return

"First thing we'll do is get you a robe, Brother Grus," Pipilo said. "You'll feel more at ease when you look like everybody else. It will be warmer than that nightshirt, too. You were taken by surprise, I gather?"

"Oh, you might say so." Grus' voice was as dry as he could make it. Pipilo chuckled appreciatively. "How did you become a monk?" Grus asked him, meaning, I don't remember sending you here.

"As a matter of fact, I've been here since the very end of King Mergus' days," Pipilo replied, understanding what he hadn't said as well as what he had. "I was a young man then, but he thought I had too much ambition. I dare say he was right, or I wouldn't have risen to become abbot, would I?"

One ambition he evidently didn't have was escape. Even if he had had it, it wouldn't have done him much good, so he was just as well off without it. A vegetable garden filled much of the monastery's large courtyard. Some of the monks weeding and pruning there looked up from their labors to stare at Grus. They wore brown robes with hoods like Pipilo's. Grus would have felt as out of place here in his royal regalia as he did in his nightshirt.

Wearing that nightshirt didn't keep him from being recognized. A man of about his own age with a wild gray beard came up to him and wagged a finger in his face. "See how it feels, Your Majesty? Do you see?"

"That will be enough of that, Brother Petrosus," Pipilo said. "You did not care to have people revile you when you first joined us here. Kindly extend Brother Grus the same courtesy you wanted for yourself."

Grus' former treasury minister didn't care to listen. "Is Ortalis king now?" he demanded of Grus, who couldn't help nodding. Petrosus chortled. "Then I'll get out! I know I will! Limosa will see to it."

Would Ortalis listen to Petrosus' daughter about this? He might, certainly, but Grus had his doubts. And he didn't want Petrosus to think he could get away with anything. He said, "Listen, my former friend, if Ortalis will send his own father into exile, why would he care even a copper's worth about his father-in-law?"

Petrosus scowled at him. "Because I wouldn't tell him what to do every minute of the day and night."

"No?" Grus laughed, not pleasantly. "Do you know how many scars he's put on your daughter's back?" He didn't tell Petrosus that Limosa had enjoyed getting her welts. Maybe

Petrosus already knew about his daughter's tastes. If he didn't… Grus was aiming to hurt him, but that went too far.

"And that will be enough of that from you also, Brother Grus," Pipilo said with the air of a man who had the authority to give such orders. "Brother Petrosus, kindly return to your gardening." Petrosus went, though his face was crimson and he ground his teeth in fury. That he went proved to Grus what a power Pipilo was here.

The abbot led the king to a storeroom where, as promised, a monk issued him a brown robe and a pair of stout sandals. The robe was as comfortable as anything he'd worn. The sandals would need breaking in.

A bell rang. "That is the call to midmorning prayer," Pipilo said. "We gather together at daybreak, midmorning, noon, midafternoon, and sunset. Come along, Brother. You are one of us now, and this is required of you."

"Is there any way I can get out of it?" asked Grus, who had trouble imagining the gods in the heavens paying much attention to prayer.

"It is required," Pipilo repeated. "Anyone who does not conform to the rule here will find his stay much less pleasant than it might be otherwise."

With that not so veiled threat ringing in his ears, Grus followed Pipilo to the chapel. Monks streamed in from all over the monastery. It held more of them than Grus had expected. He was relieved to see they weren't all men he'd sent into exile here. That would have made his stay even less pleasant than it was liable to be otherwise. All he could do now was try to make the best of things.

"Welcome, brethren, welcome," Pipilo said from the pulpit. "A new brother has joined us today, as some of you will already know. Please welcome Brother Grus to our ranks."

"Welcome, Brother Grus!" the other monks chorused. Some of them actually sounded as though they meant it. Others stared at him with the same vindictive relish Petrosus had shown. He could read their faces with no trouble at all. Here is the man who put me here, and now he's here himself, they were thinking. Let's see how he likes it!

Whatever they were thinking, they got no chance to say it to Grus' face. Abbot Pipilo led them in prayers and hymns to King Olor and Queen Quelea. Grus knew the prayers and the words to the hymns. Coming out with them was easier than staying silent. He didn't think they would do any harm. On the other hand, he didn't think they would do any good, either.

When the prayers ended, the monks went back to their labors. Grus looked around, wondering what to do next. Pipilo came up to him. "This way, Brother, if you please," he said. Shrugging, Grus followed.

Pipilo took him to the kitchens. They were almost as large as the ones for the royal palace. The abbot introduced Grus to Brother Neophron, the chief cook. "Have you had any practice working with food?" Neophron asked.

"Not for a good many years," Grus answered.

Neophron's sigh made several chins wobble. Like most cooks who were good at their job, he was a hefty man. "Well, why don't you start off peeling turnips and chopping them up?" he said. "You can't do much harm there."

Several baskets of white-and-purple turnips stood on a counter. With another shrug, Grus got to work. From the Scepter of Mercy to this, he thought. Thank you, Ortalis. After a while, though, he found he minded the work less than he'd expected. It wasn't exciting, but it struck him as worthwhile. He was helping to feed people, himself among them. How could that be bad?

After half an hour or so, Neophron casually strolled over to see how he was doing. The chief cook nodded, which also made the flesh under his jaw shake. "I've seen neater work," he said, "but that comes with doing it. You're willing enough, by Olor's beard."

Grus got a break for noontime prayers and then for the midday meal. It was quite plain: bread and cheese and beer. But there was enough of it. The monks ate at long tables in a large dining hall. Grus recognized fewer men than he'd expected. Not recognizing them, and not being recognized by them, came as something of a relief.

After lunch, Grus went back to the kitchens. He cut up more turnips, which went into great pots of stew for supper. He washed dishes. He chopped firewood. Along with the turnips, the stew had barley and onions and peas and beans and, for flavor, a little sausage finely chopped. A cook who served it in the palace would have been on the street the next minute. For soldiers in the field, though, it would have done fine. It filled Grus up.

The cell to which Pipilo led him after sunset prayers was just that. It was barely big enough to turn around in. The latrine was down the corridor. His nose would have told him which way if Pipilo hadn't. The bed was a straw-stuffed pallet on a ledge at the back of the cell. The wool blanket was rough and scratchy, but it was thick.

Grus lay down. The only light came from a distant torch. The straw rustled under him. He'd slept very little the night before in the boat with Gygis. He'd worked hard since coming to the monastery. He yawned. He could have lain there brooding and plotting. He fell asleep instead.

Sosia was furious, and didn't even try to hide it. "He can't do this!" she snarled at Lanius in the near-privacy of their bedchamber. "He can't! You're not going to let him get away with it, are you?"

"Well, as long as the soldiers do what he tells them to, and as long as the people here don't start throwing rocks at him whenever he sticks his nose outside the palace, I'm not sure what I can do," Lanius said reasonably. "How long that will be, I don't know. Not too long, I hope."