When the Avornan army stopped for the evening south of the Stura, Hirundo always threw out sentries all around it. Whenever he found the chance, he had the men run up a rampart around the encampment, too, made up of whatever timber or stones and rubble they could get their hands on. They sometimes grumbled. Hirundo took no notice of that, not where they could hear.
"I know it's not the strongest defense, and I know it's work nobody likes to do," he said to Grus on an evening when the complaints were louder than usual. "But it's better than nothing, and it'll slow the nomads down, maybe even throw 'em into confusion, if they try hitting us at night."
"You're right. You couldn't be lighter," Grus said. "Do you want me to say a few words – or more than a few words – to the soldiers about that?"
Hirundo shook his head. "I think that would make things worse, not better. They're following orders. They just don't like them very much. If you start fussing about it, they're liable to decide they have to have their own way no matter what. That's how mutinies start."
"All right. You know best." Grus thought for a little while, then slowly nodded. "Yes, if I had grumbling sailors to deal with, I'd probably handle them the same way. As long as they don't think you think something's worth pitching a fit about, they won't get too excited themselves."
"That's it exactly," Hirundo agreed. "They need to be worrying about the Menteshe, not about earthworks and such. This should just be part of routine. And it is, pretty much. It's a part they don't care for, that's all."
"All sorts of things down here I don't care for." Grus looked back toward the north. "One of them is that we aren't getting as many wagonloads of supplies as I hoped we would."
Hirundo looked unhappy. The lamplight inside Grus' pavilion deepened the shadows in his wrinkles and made him seem even less pleased than he would have in the daytime. "Miserable nomads have been raiding the wagon trains. They've decided they can make trouble for us that way without meeting our main force face-to-face, strength to strength."
"And they're right, too, curse them," Grus said. Hirundo didn't deny it. Grus hadn't thought he would. The king asked, "What can we do about it?"
"We're doing what we can," Hirundo answered. "We've got solid guard parties going with the wagons. If they were any stronger, we'd start weakening the army here. We've built a line of real strongpoints back to the Stura. All of that only helps so much. The Menteshe get to pick and choose where they'll hit us. That gives them the edge."
Grus drew his sword. The blade gleamed in the buttery light. "I'd like to give them the edge of this, by the gods," he growled.
"We gain. In spite of everything, we gain," Hirundo said. "We've done better down here than I thought we would. Those thrall-freeing spells really work."
"They'd better, by Olor's strong right hand!" Grus said. "I wouldn't have had the nerve to stick my nose across the Stura without them."
Musingly, the general said, "Even if we lose here, we'll still have caused the Menteshe a lot of trouble. With the people who do their work for them able to think for themselves, the nomads won't have it all their own way anymore."
He was right, no doubt about it. Grus scowled even so. "I didn't cross the river to lose. I crossed the river to lay siege to Yozgat, take the Scepter of Mercy away from whichever Menteshe prince happens to be hanging on to it, and to bring it back to the city of Avornis where it belongs."
Hirundo stared south. "I don't know whether we'll be able to get there by the end of this campaigning season. That's a cursed long advance to make in one summer – and a cursed long supply line to protect, too. We're already seeing some of the joys there."
He was right about that, too. His being right made Grus no happier- – just the opposite, in fact. "We'll do what we can, that's all," the king said. "And if we don't get everything done that we hoped for…" He did some more scowling. "If that's how things work out, then we go back and try again next year. We had to keep going back to the Chernagor country till things finally turned our way. If that happens here… then it does, that's all."
"All right," Hirundo said evenly. "I did want to make sure you were thinking about all the possibilities."
"Thank you so very much," Grus said, and Hirundo laughed out loud, for he sounded anything but grateful.
Pouncer swarmed up a stick. When the moncat got to the top, it waited expectantly. Collurio gave it a bit of meat. Then Pouncer jumped to the next stick, which ran horizontally, and hurried along it. Lanius waited at the other end. "Mrowr?" Pouncer said.
The king gave the moncat a treat. Pouncer ate it with the air of someone who'd received no less than his due. Lanius turned to Collurio. "You've taught this foolish beast more in a few weeks than I did in years."
"He's a lot of things, Your Majesty, but he's not a foolish beast," the animal trainer answered. He eyed Pouncer with wary respect. "If these moncats ever learn to shoot dice and hire lawyers, you can start shaving them and docking their tails, because they'll be people just as much as we are."
"Mrowr," Pouncer said again. The moncat's yawn displayed a mouthful of needle teeth. It also declared that the idea of being a person struck Pouncer as imperfectly delightful.
Laughing, Lanius said, "He's got us to wait on him hand and foot. That must be how he sees it, anyway. And why wouldn't he? What do we do except give him things he likes to eat?"
"He has to perform for them," Collurio said.
"He probably thinks he has us trained, not the other way around. And who's to say he's wrong?" Lanius scratched Pouncer by the side of the jaw. The moncat rewarded him with a scratchy purr.
Collurio gave him a curious look. "Trainers say things like that all the time, Your Majesty. 'Oh, yes, that dog's taught me what I need to know,' they'll say, and then they'll laugh to show they don't really mean it – even when they do. But I've never heard anyone outside the trade talk that way before."
Astonishment spread over his face when Lanius bowed to him. "I thank you. I thank you very much, in fact," the king said. "You just paid me a great compliment."
"Your Majesty?" Now Collurio was frankly floundering.
"I'm nothing but an amateur, a hobbyist, at training animals, but you told me I talk like someone who makes a living at it," Lanius explained. "If that's not a compliment, what is?"
"Oh." Collurio's chuckle had a sharp edge to it. "I see what you're saying. Meaning no offense, but you wouldn't seem so proud of sounding like an animal trainer if you really were one."
"Maybe not, but you never know," Lanius said. "It's honest work. It has to be. The animals are out there on display. Either they'll do what you taught them or they cursed well won't."
"There are always times when they cursed well won't," Collurio said. "Nobody likes times like that, but everybody has 'em. Anybody who tries telling you anything different is a liar. Those are the days when you go home telling your dogs that they don't know a sheep from a wolf and your cats that they belong in rabbit stew."
That puzzled Lanius. "Why would a cat go in rabbit stew?"
This time, Cullurio bowed low to him. "There is a question a king would ask. When you tell your cooks you feel like rabbit stew, you're sure you'll get real rabbit. Anyone else, unless he's caught his bunnies himself – and cooked them himself, too – is liable to wonder whether he's eating roof rabbit instead."
"Roof rab -? Oh!" Lanius had always been fond of a good, spicy rabbit stew. Now he wondered how many times his rabbit would have meowed. Collurio had exaggerated notions about how much a king could influence his cooks. The crew in the kitchens might well laugh behind their hands at the notion of fooling their sovereign. "I don't know that I'm ever going to think about eating rabbit the same way again."