Dan Chernenko - The Bastard King

“Help me!” the thrall called to the Tigerfish . “Save me!”

Nicator looked at Grus. “What do we do, Captain?”

Grus didn’t hesitate. He wasn’t sure he was right, but he didn’t hesitate. “Lower the sail,” he commanded. “Drop the anchors. Send out the boat. But remember—not a man is to set foot on the southern bank of the river. We aren’t at war, and we don’t want to give the Menteshe an excuse for starting one when we’re not ready.”

“What if the thrall can’t get out to the boat?” Nicator asked. Grus shrugged. He intended to play the game by the rules. Nicator nodded.

“Help me! Save me!” the thrall cried. The boat glided toward him. Peering south past him, Grus spied a cloud of dust that meant horses—horses approaching fast. The Menteshe had realized a thrall was slipping from their power—or they were making a spy seem convincing.

Which? Grus didn’t know. Let me get the fellow aboard my ship, and then I’ll worry about it, he thought.

As the boat drew near him, the thrall waved for the sailors to come closer still. When they wouldn’t, he threw up his hands in what looked like despair. Grus’ suspicions flared. But then, as the horsemen galloped toward the riverbank, the fellow splashed out into the Stura. The sailors hauled him into the boat and rowed back toward the Tigerfish as fast as they could go.

The nomads reined in. Pointing toward the boat, they shouted something in their harsh, guttural language. When the boat didn’t stop, they strung their bows and started shooting. Arrows splashed into the river around it. One slammed home and stood thrilling in the stern. And one struck a rower, who dropped his oar with a howl of pain. Another man took his place.

“That thrall had better be worth it,” Nicator remarked.

“I know,” Grus said. By then, the boat had almost reached the Tigerfish. The arrows of the Menteshe began to fall short. The nomads shook their fists at the river galley and rode away.

Turnix, who was a healer of sorts, bound up the wounded sailor’s arm. It didn’t look too bad. Grus eyed the thrall, who stood on the pitching deck with a lifelong landlubber’s uncertainty and awkwardness. The fellow stared as Grus came up to him. “How do you move so smooth?” he asked.

“I manage,” Grus answered. “What are you?”

“My name is—”

Grus shook his head. “Not Who are you. What are you? Are you a trap for me? Are you a trap for Avornis? If you are, I’ll cut your throat and throw you over the side.”

“I do not understand,” the thrall said. “Something died in me. A deadness died in me. When I came alive”—he tapped his head with a forefinger—“I knew I had to get away. Everyone else in the village was dead like that, even my woman. I had to run. How could I be the only one who heard himself thinking?”

He said the right things. A thrall who somehow came out from under the Banished One’s spells would have sounded the way he did. But so would a spy.

“Turnix!” Grus yelled. The wizard hurried up to him, still scrubbing the wounded sailor’s blood from his hands. Grus pointed to the thrall. “Find out if the Banished One still lurks in his heart.”

“I’ll try, Captain.” Turnix sounded doubtful. “I’ll do my best, but magic is his by nature, mine only by art.”

And you haven’t got enough art, either, Grus thought, but he kept quiet. Turnix pointed at the thrall as though his finger were a weapon. He chanted. He made passes, some sharp, some slow and subtle. He muttered to himself and gnawed his lower lip. At last, he turned to Grus. “As far as I can tell, he is what he claims to be, what he seems to be.”

“As far as you can tell,” Grus repeated. Turnix nodded. Grus sighed. “All right. I hadn’t planned to put in at Anxa, but I will now. They have a strong fortress there, and several strong wizards. I’ll put him in their hands. If they find he’s clean, they’ll make much of him. If they don’t…” He shrugged.

“You think I still have—that—inside me,” the thrall said accusingly.

“You may. Or you may not. For Avornis’ sake, I have to be as sure as I can,” Grus replied. Even letting the fellow see Anxa was a certain small risk. No, Avornis wasn’t at war with the Menteshe, not now—but she was not at peace, either. With the Banished One loose in the world, there was no true peace.

Mergus felt helpless. He’d never had to get used to the feeling, as ordinary men did. But not even the King of Avornis could do anything while his concubine lay groaning in the birthing chamber and he had to wait outside.

How long have I been out here? he wondered, and shook his head. A steward came in with a silver carafe and cup on a golden tray. “Some wine, Your Majesty?”

“Yes!” Mergus exclaimed. The man poured the cup full and handed it to him. As he raised it to his lips, Certhia cried out again. Mergus’ hand jumped. Some of the wine slopped out of the cup and onto the polished marble floor. The king cursed softly. He didn’t want to show how worried he was. Rissa had said Certhia would bear a boy. She hadn’t said that the baby would live—or that his concubine would.

The steward tried on a smile. “Call the spilled wine an offering, Your Majesty.”

“I’d sooner call you an idiot,” Mergus growled. “Get out— but leave that pitcher.” The servant fled.

By the time the birthing-chamber door opened, the king was well on the way to getting drunk. He glowered at the midwife. “Well, Livia?”

“Very well, Your Majesty,” she answered briskly. Her wrinkles and the soft, sagging flesh under her chin said she was almost as old as Mergus, but her hair, piled high in curls, defied time by remaining black, surely with the help of a bottle. “I congratulate you. You have a son. A little on the small side, a little on the scrawny side, but he’ll do.”

“A son,” King Mergus breathed. He’d wanted to say those words ever since he became a man. When he was young, he’d never dreamt he would have to wait so long. When he got older and hope faded, as hope has a way of doing, he’d almost stopped dreaming he would be able to say them at all. That only made them sweeter now.

He looked into the carafe. It was empty. His cup was about half full. He thrust it at Livia. “Here. Drink.”

She would not take it, but shook her head. Those piled curls never stirred. Tapping her foot impatiently, she said, “Won’t you ask after your lady?”

“Oh.” Mergus had never had to get used to feeling embarrassed, either. “How is she?”

“Well enough,” the midwife said. She paused, tasting her words, and seemed to find them good, for she repeated them. “Yes, well enough. She did well, especially for a first birth. If the fever holds off”—her fingers twisted in a protective gesture—“she should do fine.”

Mergus offered her the wine again. This time, she took it. He asked, “Can I see the boy—and Certhia?”

“Go ahead,” Livia told him. “I don’t know how glad she’ll be to see you, but go ahead. Remember, she’s been through a lot. No matter how well things go, it’s never easy for a woman.”

Mergus hardly heard her. He strode past her and into the birthing chamber. The room smelled of sweat and dung and, faintly, of blood—a smell not so far removed from that of the battlefield. Certhia had managed to prop herself up against the back of her couch. She held the newborn baby to her breast. The stab of jealousy Mergus felt at seeing the baby sucking there astonished him.

Certhia managed a wan smile that turned into a yawn. “Here he is, Your Majesty. Ten fingers, ten toes, a prick—a big prick, for such a little thing.”