The Scepter's Return by Harry Turtledove Page B

that.”
    â€œGood. You ought to. How well this would work was my biggest worry when we crossed the Stura,” Grus said. “It’s gone better than I dared hope. It’s gone better than anyone dared hope, I think. What do you suppose the Banished One is thinking right now?”
    â€œI don’t know. Please don’t ask me to try to find out, either.” Pterocles sounded even more earnest than usual. “For me to get inside his mind would be like one of Lanius’ moncats trying to understand my sorcery here. The Banished One … is what he is. Don’t expect a mere mortal to understand him.”
    â€œAll right.” Grus had hoped the wizard might be able to do just that. But he had no trouble seeing Pterocles’ point. “Let me ask it in a different way, then—how happy do you think he is?”
    â€œHow happy would you have been if the Menteshe had started turning peasants into thralls the last time they invaded Avornis?” Pterocles asked in turn.
    That had been one of Grus’ worst fears. One reason he’d counterattacked so hard and so quickly was to make sure the nomads’ wizards didn’t get settled enough to do anything of the sort. He muttered to himself. “How will he try to stop us?” he asked.
    Now Pterocles just looked at him. “I don’t have the faintest idea, Your Majesty. But I expect we’ll find out. Don’t you?”
    Grus didn’t answer. That wasn’t because he felt any doubts—he didn’t. On the contrary; he was so sure Pterocles was right that he didn’t think the question needed answering.
    He had expected the Banished One to bend every bit of his power toward making sure the Menteshe broke off their civil war and turned all their ferocity against the advancing Avornans. That didn’t seem to be happening … or maybe the Banished One’s puppets had escaped the control of their puppet master for the time being. Small raiding bands struck at Grus’ army—struck and, in classic nomad fashion, galloped away again before Grus’ less mobile forces could hit back. But those were pinpricks, fleabites. Menteshe prisoners affirmed that the nomads were still using most of their energy to hammer away at one another.
    A dispatch rider down from the north let Grus take his mind off the Menteshe for a little while. Among the letters the man brought was a long one from King Lanius. Lanius was conscientious about keeping Grus up to date on what he did in the capital. He probably feared Grus would oust him if he didn’t tell him what he was up to—and he might have been right.
    That afternoon, Grus frowned to see that Lanius hadn’t approved a tax hike. There would probably be a letter—an angry letter—from the treasury minister in this batch, too. I’ll look for it later, Grus thought, and read on. He ended up disappointed. That wasn’t because Lanius didn’t justify his reasons for opposing the increase. He did, in great detail. They even made a good deal of sense. But the bulk of the letter was an even more detailed account of how the other king was training a moncat. If Lanius wanted a hobby, Grus didn’t mind. If he wanted to bore people with it … That was a different story.
    The king went through the leather dispatch case. He was looking for the inevitable letter from Euplectes, but found one from the city of Sestus first. Unlike Lanius’, it was short and to the point. Alauda could scarcely write. She scratched out three or four lines to let him know she and her son, Nivalis, were both well. Grus smiled—he was glad to have the news. Nivalis was his son, too, a bastard he’d sired on Alauda a few years before, while he was driving the Menteshe out of the southern provinces.
    He did find the treasury minister’s letter then. Reading it came as something of a relief. Euplectes was indignant about Lanius’ stubbornness,