Dan Chernenko - The Scepter_s Return

That was more like it. "I was thinking the same thing," Grus said. "Maybe they'll turn on Korkut. Maybe they'll even do it before.." His voice trailed away.

"Before what?" Hirundo asked.

"Before we try something else," Grus said – an answer that was no answer.

Hirundo, nobody's fool, realized as much at once. "What sort of other things have you got in mind, Your Majesty? From what you and the engineers and Pterocles have said, undermining the walls doesn't look like it'll work. I'm ready to try to storm them again whenever you give the word, but I don't know how good our chances are there. Or…" He snapped his fingers and grinned at the king. "You've figured out some way to give our men wings after all."

"I wish I had," Grus said. "It would make this business of war a lot easier – until the Menteshe and the Chernagors and the Thervings figured out how to fly, too."

"There's always that," the general agreed. "It wouldn't take long, either. But what have you got in mind, if they're not shipping wings down from the city of Avornis?"

Grus found himself oddly reluctant to go into detail. He shook his head. Reluctant wasn't the right word. Embarrassed came much closer to the truth. "When I start – if I start – I'll tell you, I promise," he said. "Right now… well, who knows if.. he's listening?"

"I know what you're telling me. You're telling me you don't want to talk about it," Hirundo said. "You've come up with something strange, haven't you? I bet I know what it is. I bet it's something King Lanius dredged out of the archives, isn't it?"

"No," Grus said. "That it isn't. I can tell you the truth there, and I'll take oath on it if you like."

Hirundo only shrugged. "Never mind, Your Majesty. If King Lanius isn't getting strange, then I expect you are. I'm not so sure I want to know about that." Still shaking his head, he walked off.

Grus laughed. If Hirundo had really worried about the state of his wits, the general wouldn't have been shy about saying so. Hirundo was rarely shy about saying anything. For now, he seemed willing to believe Grus knew what he was doing. Grus wished he were so sure of that himself.

After he went to bed that night, the Banished One appeared to him in a dream. Seeing those coldly perfect features before him, Grus had another wish – that there was a better word to describe these manifestations. Dream didn't begin to do them justice.

"You plot against me," the exiled god declared without preamble.

"Well, of course I do." Grus saw no point in denying it.

"You think you can outsmart me." The Banished One fleered laughter. "As well think a cat can outsmart you. You are nearer to a cat – you are nearer to a worm – than you are to me.

He was probably right about that. Grus had never partaken of divinity. All the same, plenty of cats had outsmarted him at one time or another. He didn't say that to the Banished One.

Having the exiled god thinking along those lines was the last thing he wanted. All he did say was, "I'll take my chances."

"You raise up serpents behind you, and you know it not," the Banished One said.

"I'll take my chances," Grus repeated stolidly. The less he gave, the better.

"Whatever you seek to bring against me, I will seize it before it reaches you."

"Maybe." Grus knew he was still asleep. He felt himself shrugging all the same, as though he and the Banished One really were face-to-face and not separated by miles and by the barrier of consciousness. "If you could do everything you say you can, though, you would have conquered Avornis a long time ago."

"You will see what I can do. You will see what your own flesh and blood, your own kith and kin, can do. And may you have joy of it." More laughter burst from the exiled god. Grus woke up with sweat running down his face. His heart thudded as though it would burst from his chest.

Slowly, ordinary awareness returned. A lamp burned inside the pavilion, casting a dim, flickering light and filling the air with the smell of hot olive oil. Grus got to his feet. A mosquito whined.

He cocked his head to one side and listened. Here and there, men talked quietly. A little farther off, a horse – or possibly a mule – snorted. It was the middle of the night. Everyone and everything with any sense was asleep.

The sentries outside Grus' pavilion had to stay awake and alert. One of them spoke in a low voice to the others. After a moment, Grus made out what he was saying. The king laughed softly. He'd first heard that joke when his beard was no more than fuzz on his cheeks. Some things grew new again for each generation.

He pulled his nightshirt off over his head and put on tunic and baggy breeches again. The nightshirt was more comfortable, but he would scandalize the guards if he stayed in it. When he stepped out of the pavilion into the darkness beyond, he scandalized them anyhow. "What are you doing up, Your Majesty?" one of them demanded, as though he were a toddler caught running around in the night by its mother.

"Bad dream." Grus' answer sounded like the one a toddler might give, too.

"You should go back to sleep." But the sentry couldn't pick him up and put him into bed, the way a mother could with a wandering little boy. When the king walked out into the night, his guardsmen could only accompany him at a discreet distance.

Grus looked toward the walls of Yozgat. Torches flickered along them. In the light those torches cast, he could see men moving here and there. He'd thought about a night attack against the Menteshe in the city. That didn't look like a good idea. The defenders seemed much too alert. What a shame, he thought.

He hadn't planned to go over to Pterocles' tent, but his feet had a mind of their own. He wasn't astonished when the tent flap opened and the wizard came out, either. Pterocles was in his nightshirt – he didn't care what people thought. Nor did he seem surprised to see Grus. "Hello, Your Majesty," he said; they might have been meeting at breakfast.

"Hello." Grus also sounded matter-of-fact. "Bad dream?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact," the sorcerer said. "You, too, I gather?"

"That's right." Grus nodded. "He's… annoyed at us." He managed a wry shrug. "Breaks my heart."

"Mine, too." Pterocles also tried to seem casual. He didn't have such good luck. "Uh – do you know why he's annoyed at us?"

"I have some idea, yes," Grus admitted. Pterocles sent him an annoyed look. "Would you care to tell me why?"

"Because we're trying to get the Scepter of Mercy back."

Now annoyance turned to exasperation. "Thank you, Your Majesty. I already suspected that. Why is he particularly annoyed now?"

"Because we're going to try something new and different," Grus replied.

"Aha! Now we come down to it," the wizard said. "What are we going to try that's new and different?"

"Certainly is warm tonight, isn't it?" Grus said.

He waited for Pterocles to splutter and fume. That was one of the more engaging spectacles of camp life. But Pterocles disappointed him. All he said was, "Since I'm alleged to be a sorcerer, and even a fairly decent one, don't you think I have the right to know?"

Grus smiled. "Why, when this has nothing to do with sorcery?"

"I see." Pterocles' bow was a masterpiece of sarcasm. "You're just going to walk in, pick up the Scepter of Mercy, say, 'Thank you very much, Your Highness,' to Prince Korkut, and saunter on out again."

"As a matter of fact," Grus answered, "yes."

Lanius was putting the finishing touches on a sketch when Ortalis came into the little north-facing audience chamber he was using as a studio and looked over his shoulder. "What's that?" Grus' legitimate son asked.

"What does it look like?" Lanius said.

"A mess." Ortalis rarely bothered with tact. After further study, he added, "It's not the city of Avornis. What's the point of drawing anywhere else?"