Harry Turtledove: The Scepter's return

Moncats crowded around him. They knew he often brought them treats. He doled out a few scraps of meat. A couple of snarling squabbles broke out; moncats had no more in the way of manners than any other animals (or, for that matter, small children) did. As Lanius fed the others, he kept looking around for Pouncer — and finally spotted the male at the top of the climbing apparatus.

Lanius lay down on his back. He thumped his chest with his free hand. Pouncer knew what to do when that happened. The moncat scrambled down and jumped up on top of the king. "That's a good boy," Lanius said, and scratched it under the chin and behind the ears.

Pouncer wasn't a bad-tempered beast, and put up with it. All the same, the moncat practically radiated impatience. I'm not doing this trick for your sake, it would have said if it could talk. Where's my meat?

"Here, you greedy thing." Lanius held out a piece. Pouncer took it from his hand with a clawed thumb and forefinger. The moncat didn't snatch, but was careful not to hurt the person giving it a reward.

Once Pouncer had the treat, what point was there to staying with Lanius any longer? Away the moncat went, back up on the boards. Lanius stared after it. I taught you an ordinary little trick, he thought. What could someone who really knows how to train animals do?

King Grus swung up into the saddle. General Hirundo, who was already mounted, grinned slyly. "You're getting pretty good at that, Your Majesty," he said. "Oh, shut up," Grus answered, and Hirundo laughed out loud. The trouble was, the general was right, and Grus knew it. Over the years, he had become a pretty decent horseman. He'd never intended to. On a river galley — even on one of the tall-masted ocean-going ships the Avornans were building in imitation of the Chernagor pirates — he knew what he was doing. He'd never planned on riding very much. He'd never planned on becoming King of Avornis, either. That had worked out pretty well, at least so far. As for horsemanship… When he shrugged, his gilded mailshirt clinked on his shoulders.

Instead of a stallion, he did ride a good-natured gelding. He'd done that even when he knew he was going to get in a fight. He valued control and obedience more than fire in a horse.

"Are we ready?" he asked.

"If we weren't, would we be doing all this?" Hirundo said reasonably.

"Let's go, then." Grus used the reins and the pressure of his knees to urge his horse into motion. Hirundo's high-spirited charger pranced along beside it.

As they rode out of the stables, mounted imperial lancers formed up around them. The guardsmen wore heavy shirts of mail and rode big, strong horses. Even the horses wore armor that protected their heads and breasts. The lancers' charge was irresistible at close range. The problem was getting the Menteshe, who usually kept but loose order on their ponies, to bunch together long enough to receive a charge.

"Your Majesty!" the guardsmen shouted. Grus waved to them. Under the bar nasals of their conical helmets, a good many of the troopers grinned at him.

He waved again. "Are we going to run the nomads ragged?" he called.

"Yes!" the lancers shouted. Grus waved again. I hope we are, anyway, he thought.

The rest of the army he would take south from the city of Avornis waited outside the walls. Before he could go out to it, though, he needed to take care of one loose end. "Where are Pterocles and Otus?" he asked.

"They were in there getting saddled up, too," Hirundo said. "What's taking them so long?"

"Well, if you think I'm a poor excuse for a cavalryman…" Grus said. Hirundo threw back his head and laughed. A minute or two later, Pterocles and Otus emerged. Both of them rode mules. Grus had hardly ever known a wizard who trusted himself on horseback, while the freed thrall (Grus hoped he was a freed thrall) hadn't had much chance to acquire the equestrian art.

Pterocles dipped his head to Grus. "Your Majesty," he murmured.

"Your Majesty," Otus echoed. He was a brown-haired, open-faced man approaching his middle years. He looked like anybody else, in other words. He sounded like anybody else, too. Oh, he had an accent that said he came from the south, but a lot of Avornans had that kind of accent. He also had a slightly old-fashioned turn of phrase. When thralls spoke at all, they spoke as ordinary Avornans had centuries before. They'd long been cut off from the vital, changing current of the language.

When he was a thrall, Otus might have had as many words as a two-year-old. He might not, too. He'd had to learn to speak as a child would after being freed from the charm that had held him down for so long. He'd learned far faster than a child would have, though. Only tiny traces of how he'd once talked lingered in his speech.

"Are you ready to head down to your homeland?" Grus asked him.

"Yes, Your Majesty," he answered. "I would like to see my woman freed. I would like to see all thralls freed."

"So would I," Grus said. "That's.. one of the things we're going to try to do. I hope we can." He glanced toward Pterocles. If they couldn't do that, and if they couldn't protect themselves from being made into thralls after they crossed the Stura, they would do better not to go over the river at all.

But Pterocles' magic had said that they would cross it. Not that they should, but that they would. If Grus was going to make the attempt, he wanted to make it on his terms. Pterocles nodded back. He had to know what was in Grus' mind. He seemed confident his sorcery could handle what was required. Grus didn't care whether he was confident. The king cared about whether he was right.

We'll find out, Grus thought. "Let's get moving," he said harshly. Flanked by the lancers, he rode toward the capital's southern gate. The streets that led from the palace to the gates were cobbled; most of the ones that ran into them weren't.

A few people came out to watch the king and his retinue go by. Men wore tunics and baggy trousers. Women had on either short tunics and skirts that reached their ankles or long tunics that fell just as far. In past years, Grus had drawn bigger crowds when he went out on campaign. He'd done it every year lately, though, and it didn't impress the jaded city dwellers anymore.

"Beat the lousy Chernagors!" somebody called, and waved a broad-brimmed felt hat.

Grus waved back without batting an eye. He had beaten the Chernagors the year before. Some people knew that. Others, like this fellow, hadn't gotten the word. These days, Grus took in stride things that would have infuriated him when he was younger.

The shout did infuriate Otus. "Don't they know what's going on, Your Majesty?" he demanded. "How can they not know? They're free. They don't have the Banished One clouding their minds. Why shouldn't they know?"

"They have their lives to lead," Grus answered with a shrug. "They don't care who the enemy is. As long as it's someone far away, that suits them fine. That's all most people want from a king, you know — to make sure enemies stay far away. Nothing else matters nearly as much."

"Except taxes." Hirundo and Pterocles said the same thing at the same time.

But Grus shook his head. "They'll even put up with taxes as long as things stay peaceful. If they get a fight on their doorstep, that's when they start thinking the king is squandering what they give him."

Out through the open gates they rode. The great valves had swung inward. The sun gleamed off the iron that sheathed the heavy timbers. No foreign enemy had ever stormed the city of Avornis. Back when Grus first took the throne, King Dagipert of Thervingia had besieged the Avornan capital. He'd had no better luck than any other invader. These days, King Berto — Dagipert's son — ruled the Thervings. Unlike Dagipert, he cared more for prayer than plunder. Grus hoped he had a long reign, and that he stayed pious. With trouble in the north and south, Avornis needed peace in the east.