The air was warm and moist – sultry was the word that came to Grus' mind. He nodded to himself. That seemed right, even if it wasn't a word he got to use very often. He hadn't gone far south of the Zabat before he saw trees that put him in mind of outsized feather dusters. Their trunks were long, bare columns, some straight, others gracefully curved. Leaves spread out fanlike only from the top.
Hirundo and Pterocles stared at the curious growths along with the king. "Aren't those the most peculiar things you ever set eyes on?" Pterocles said.
"Not when we're riding with you," Hirundo told him, and the wizard sent the general a wounded look.
"I know what they are," Grus said suddenly, and Pterocles and Hirundo both turned toward him. "They're palm trees!" he declared. "They have to be."
"They don't have to be anything," Pterocles said, which was bound to be true. He eyed the strange trees. "They don't have to be anything, no, but I'd say they're more likely to be palm trees than anything else."
"What good are they?" Hirundo asked.
Grus wished Lanius were riding with them. The other king would have known what palm trees were good for if anybody did. Maybe they were nothing but overgrown ornaments. But then Pterocles said, "You get dates from them, don't you?"
"Personally?" Hirundo said. "No."
"I think he's right," Grus said. "I've heard of date palms, though I don't know if that's what these are."
"When we start freeing thralls, they'll be able to tell us," Pterocles said. "They'll probably think we're a pack of fools for needing to ask, but they'll tell us. Do you feel like being laughed at by men three steps above idiot?"
Before Hirundo could say anything, Grus coughed warningly. Hirundo kept his mouth shut. Grus felt as though the gods had doled out a miracle, if only a small one.
And then a scout came back shouting frantically for his attention. "Your Majesty! Your Majesty!"
"I'm here," Grus called. "What do you need?"
"Your Majesty, there's an ambassador from the Banished One behind me."
"From… the Banished One, you say?" Grus got the words out through lips suddenly numb with alarm.
"That's right, Your Majesty." The scout nodded. He didn't sound particularly afraid. Why should he? Any envoy from the Banished One wasn't his worry – not unless the whole army went down to ruin, anyway. "Will you see him, or shall we send him off with his tail between his legs?"
"I'll see him," Grus answered after no more than a heartbeat's hesitation. Avornis was at war with the Banished One and those who worshiped him, yes. But that didn't mean the forms were forgotten. It didn't mean insulting the exiled god in any small way wasn't dangerous, either.
The Banished One's envoy rode up to Grus a few minutes later. He gave his name as Tutush son of Budak. "I speak for the Fallen Star, and he speaks through me," he declared, and sounded proud that that was so.
Grus could imagine no greater horror. He asked, "How do I know that you speak the truth?"
Tutush looked at him – looked through him, really. "You will have dreamt of my master," he said.
Beside Grus, Pterocles inhaled sharply. The king had better self-control, but only barely. He no longer doubted Tutush. "Say on," he told the Menteshe. The words were harsh in his mouth.
"Hear the Fallen Star, then. Hear him and obey." Tutush looked almost as arrogant as he sounded. He had a hawk's proud face, with a scimitar of a nose and a slash of a mouth almost hidden by mustache and graying black beard. "The Fallen Star orders you from his lands. Go now, go in peace, and he will suffer you to leave unharmed." The envoy spoke fluent, slightly old-fashioned Avornan. "Should you flout his will, though, you shall have only yourself to blame for your destruction."
"I'll take the chance," Grus replied. "The way it looks to me, the Banished One wants to scare me into leaving when he and his puppets haven't been strong enough to make me leave. He knows where I'm going, and he knows why. I'm bound for Yozgat, and for the Scepter of Mercy. If Prince Korkut gives it to me, I will go home – or if Prince Sanjar does, for that matter." Maybe he could make the Banished One suspect Ulash's warring sons.
Or maybe not. Tutush threw back his head and laughed uproariously, as if Grus had just made some rich joke. "Fool! Do you think holding the Scepter of Mercy will make you happy? Even if you should touch it – which you never will – you would remain nothing but a puny mortal man, soon doomed to die and be forgotten."
Grus only shrugged. "I'll take the chance," he said again. "I'm not doing this for me – I'm doing it for Avornis, and for those who come after me."
Tutush laughed again, even more woundingly this time. "He who comes after you will never wield it – never, do you hear me? So says the Fallen Star, and he speaks the truth. So he says; so he swears. He would swear by the accursed so-called gods in the heavens that he speaks truth here."
"He can swear whatever he pleases, and take whatever oaths he pleases. That does not mean I would believe him, not when he is the fount from which all lies spring." Grus tried to hide how startled he was. Had the Banished One ever sworn an oath like that? The king doubted it.
"This being so, you see that it makes no sense for you to do anything but give up your vain and foolish adventure," Tutush said, as though the king had not spoken. "If you go on, you will only bring ruin to your kingdom, your army, and yourself. Go back, then, and enjoy what the Fallen Star permits you to retain as your own."
The exiled god's implacable arrogance came through in every one of his envoy's words. It chilled Grus, but also angered him. "I'll take my chances," he said one more time. "And whoever comes after me will have to take his chances with the Scepter of Mercy. I don't intend to worry about that. I want him to have the chance to take his chances."
"Do you presume to reject my master's mercy?" Tutush sounded as though he couldn't believe his ears.
"I don't think your master knows the meaning of the word," Grus replied. "He can't use the Scepter, after all. The only thing he can do is keep it away from people who can use it – and that does include the Kings of Avornis."
"You will live to regret this," Tutush said angrily. "But you may not live long."
"So tell me," Grus said, "who is the Banished One's favorite in the civil war?"
Tutush knew. Grus could see as much. And the ambassador started to answer. He started to, but he didn't finish. Grus had hoped to catch him by surprise and learn something important, something he could have used against both Menteshe princes. But all Tutush said was, "You'll find out – if you live so long. Good day." He rode off. Grus thought the day was better because he was gone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Lanius was not sorry to come back to the city of Avornis, even though he'd enjoyed himself out in the country.
Collurio and Pouncer stayed a while longer, working on what the moncat had to learn. The trainer seemed perfectly happy to remain. He'd gotten friendly with a washerwoman and his son had gotten friendly with her daughter, a neat arrangement that satisfied everyone except, perhaps, Collurio's wife.
As for the king, he was glad to return to the archives and the other moncats – even if they were neither as clever nor as exasperating as Pouncer. Returning to Sosia and his own children was pleasant, too, though he took longer to realize it. He did have the sense not to tell anyone, especially his own wife, that he took longer to realize it.
He also returned to a good deal of the petty business that surrounded a king, which for him was much less pleasant. He wished Grus were around to take care of it, but Grus, beginning a new campaign in the Menteshe country, had more urgent things to worry about. Appeals from lawsuits and from criminal cases did not appeal to Lanius. He had to take care of them, though; that was one of the things a king was for.