Unhappily, Grus eyed Ortalis, who had never shown any sign of respecting any argument whatsoever. “A serving woman is not a toy,” he growled, loud enough for his words to echo from the walls of the small audience chamber.
His son’s expression, and every line of the younger man’s body, said he didn’t believe that, not even for a minute. “We were only having fun,” the prince said sulkily.
Grus shook his head. “You were having fun. What she was having… I’d rather not think about some of that. The healers say she will get better, though.”
“Well, there you are, then.” Ortalis seemed convinced Grus was getting upset over nothing.
“I made a promise to you a while ago,” Grus said. “Do you remember?”
Ortalis plainly didn’t. Grus hit his son, hard, in the face. Ortalis fell back with a cry of pain and, especially, of shock. When he straightened, murder was in his eyes. Grus could see it all too clearly. He set his hand on the hilt of his sword. Ortalis checked the forward lunge he’d been about to make.
“That’s better,” Grus snapped. “And I only gave you a piece there, a little piece, of what I promised you the first time you did something like this. Count yourself lucky, by the gods.”
Again, Ortalis plainly didn’t. “You can’t do that to me,” he whispered in a deadly voice.
“I can. I did. And I’ll do more. I’m sending the girl back to her home village.” Grus wondered if walloping his son whenever he’d stepped out of line as a boy would have done any good. Too late to worry about that now, worse luck. “I’m taking the indemnity that I’m giving her straight out of your allowance, too.”
“That’s not fair!” Ortalis exclaimed. Whenever something touched him, he was quick enough to talk about what was fair and what wasn’t. Whenever something touched someone else, he might as well have been a blind man.
“Suppose I mark you just the same way you marked her?” Grus asked. “Would you think that was fair?” It was what he’d promised to do, but he didn’t have the stomach for it now. He wished he did.
In any case, it didn’t get through. Grus could see that it didn’t. His only son’s eyes remained shiny as glass, opaque as stone. If I die tomorrow, he’ll try to claim the throne. What happens to Avornis if he does? Grus didn’t care to think about that, so he shoved it to the back of his mind. He didn’t want to think about Ortalis in control of anything. I just have to make sure I don’t die tomorrow, that’s all— and make sure he doesn’t help me.
“That’s my silver, and you’ve got no business touching it.”
“I ought to touch you, and with a horsewhip, too,” Grus growled. “Get out of my sight—and if you abuse another girl like that one, by the gods, I think I will horsewhip you. You don’t blacken only your name when you do such things—you blacken mine, too, and I won’t stand for it.”
Without another word, Ortalis stormed off. Grus turned to a jar of wine sitting on a table close by. He poured a mug from it and gulped thirstily, wishing he could rinse the taste of his son out of his mouth. He’s what I’ve got, Grus thought, and took another swig from the wine. I have to make the best of him.
His fist slammed down on the table. The wine jug jumped. He had to grab it to keep it from falling over. What if there’s no best to make of Ortalis? That had occurred to him more than a few times. Whenever it did, he told himself his son just needed a few more years to finish growing up, and that everything would be fine once Ortalis did. Telling himself the same hopeful story over and over again got harder as the years went by. Lanius, on the other hand… But Lanius wasn’t of his own blood.
Estrilda walked into the room. “Well?” she asked.
Grus shook his head. “No, not very well,” he answered. “But we do the best we can—all of us do. I don’t know what else there is.”
Estrilda sighed deeply. “No, not all of us do the best we can,” she said. “Things would be easier if we did.”
That made Grus pour his mug full again. “Want one?” he asked his wife. When she nodded, he grabbed another mug and filled it for her. He stared toward the door through which Ortalis had left. “I suppose it could have been worse,” he said at last.
“Yes. He could have killed her. It wouldn’t have taken much more.”
“I know.” Grus moodily started on that second cup of wine.
Thinking about Ortalis—dealing with Ortalis—was going to turn him into a drunk. “What are we going to do about him?”
“I don’t know.” Estrilda sounded as gloomy as Grus felt. “We’ve been trying to do anything at all since he was little, and we haven’t had much luck. He’s got a streak of blood lust this wide in him.” She held her hands far enough apart to make Grus wince.
“Maybe I can get him interested in the chase,” Grus said suddenly. “If he’s killing stags and boar and tigers, maybe…” He didn’t quite know how to go on from there. “Maybe that will be enough to keep him happy,” he finished at last.
His wife raised her mug to her lips. She looked at him over the rim. Little by little, her expression went from dubious to thoughtful. “Maybe,” she said. “It has a chance, anyhow—as long as he thinks going hunting is his idea, not yours.”
“Oh, yes, I know that,” Grus said. “If it’s my idea, something must be wrong with it. I have to say, though, I was the same way with my father.”
Estrilda snorted. “With your father’s ideas, a lot of the time something was wrong.”
“You never said that when he was alive,” Grus said.
“I know I didn’t. What would the point have been? But are you going to tell me I’m wrong?”
Grus considered. Crex had started out with nothing. He’d been one more farm boy come to the city of Avornis trying to make something of himself. Unlike most, he’d actually done it. He deserved credit for that. Even so… “No, you’re not wrong,” Grus admitted. “He was a hardhead, first, last, and always. Maybe that’s where Ortalis comes by it.”
He sounded hopeful. If he could blame blood for the way his son behaved, he wouldn’t have to blame himself. He wouldn’t even have to blame his son so much. If it was in the blood, how could Ortalis help acting the way he did?
“Your father was stubborn, and he had bad ideas sometimes—well, more than sometimes—but he wasn’t… like that,” Estrilda said. “He never enjoyed… hurting things.” Even she shied away from saying hurting people.
She was probably right. No, she was certainly right. Grus sighed. He didn’t like to think of himself as a man who had a vicious son. That he didn’t like it, unfortunately, didn’t mean it wasn’t so.
Lanius was trying to coax Iron from a high perch near the door to the older male moncat’s room. Iron still lived by himself. He showed a regrettable tendency toward infanticide.
When living by himself, though, Iron wasn’t a bad-natured beast. People were too big for him to try to kill. Besides, they fed him and stroked him. For that, he was willing to tolerate their not being moncats.
“Come here,” Lanius urged. Talking to a moncat was as useless as talking to an ordinary cat. He could have talked sweetly to Iron till he was blue in the face, and the male would have kept on staring at him out of those amber eyes. It wouldn’t have come down to within arm’s length.
The chunk of raw meat Lanius held in his hand was a lot more persuasive. Iron made an eager little keening noise. Lanius knew what it meant—I want that. Give it to me!