The trainer only knew what the king wanted. He remained unsure why Lanius wanted it. Lanius didn't enlighten him. The less the trainer knew, the safer he was – and the safer Pouncer was. Collurio had already drawn the Banished One's interest. If the exiled god looked his way again…
"Have you had any more dreams?" Lanius asked. "Has Crinitus had any?"
"Dreams?" Collurio looked blank for a moment, but only for a moment. "Oh, those dreams! No, the gods in the heavens be praised, I haven't. That one was plenty to last me a lifetime. I don't think my son has. If he had, I expect he would have said so."
They returned to the business at hand the next morning. As Collurio had said he would, he put out only half as many rewards as usual for Pouncer. When the moncat got to where the first one should have been, it looked around in surprise on discovering the treat wasn't there. After a brief pause, though, it went on to where the next treat should have been – and was.
Collurio breathed a sigh of relief. "You're always afraid they'll just sit down and lick themselves when they run into something different," he said. "I didn't really expect that, but you can't know ahead of time."
Pouncer hesitated whenever a reward was missing, but kept on with the routine to get the ones that were there. When Collurio put the moncat through its paces again later in the day, it went straight from reward to reward, scarcely even slowing at the sites that had held treats but did no more.
"He's figured it out!" Lanius said happily.
"Looks that way," Collurio agreed. "Like I told you, we'll keep going until he's good and used to doing it this way, then stretch the distance between rewards again. We're going in the right direction, Your Majesty."
Lanius nodded. "Yes," he said. "I really think we are."
King Grus fanned himself with a fan made of peacock feathers. It was not only gorgeous but, in this sweltering weather, highly practical. Anything that stirred the air was welcome. Even now, with the sun sinking down in the west, it was hotter than it ever got in the city of Avornis.
"Your Majesty?" A sweating guardsman stuck his head into the pavilion.
"What is it?" Grus asked.
"One of our scouts just rode into camp. I think he's got himself a high-and-mighty Menteshe with him."
"Oh, he does, does he?" With a grunt, the king heaved himself up off the stool where he'd perched. "Well, I suppose I'd better come see what the fellow wants, then, hadn't I?"
He had no idea who the nomad would be or which faction he represented. Whatever the answers to those questions were, Grus could guess what the man would want – would demand, probably. He would tell Grus that the Avornans had to go back over the Stura, and that they must not join with whichever faction he didn't happen to favor. The Menteshe knew only one song, though they tried to disguise that by singing it in different keys.
"Your Majesty." The nomad bowed low before Grus.
And Grus found he recognized him. "Good day, Qizil son of Qilich. What does Prince Sanjar want with me?" he inquired.
The Menteshe bowed again, lower this time. "I am honored that you remember me, Your Majesty."
"Oh, yes. I remember you. And I know Sanjar's men have attacked mine this year. What have we got to say to each other?"
"When we last spoke, Your Majesty, you mentioned something in which you were interested." Qizil didn't name the Scepter of Mercy. Did that mean he was too close to Yozgat? Or was he too close to the Banished One's lair in the Argolid Mountains?
It didn't really matter. Whether Qizil named it or not, Grus knew perfectly well what he was talking about. "Well?" the king asked. "You're right. I am interested. Does Sanjar have it?" If the concubine's son had stolen the Scepter from his unloving half brother, Grus was ready to deal with him. Grus would have made almost any bargain for the Scepter of Mercy.
But, regretfully, the Menteshe emissary shook his head. "No, I must tell you that it still rests in Yozgat. But my principal will join his men to yours in the effort to take the city and the – prize."
Grus bowed. "My thanks. That is generous of Prince Sanjar, but it would be more generous if things were different. The way they are, the Banished One could make them turn against us without warning, the way they did when they fought us not long ago. Then it was Sanjar's men and Korkut's all together, and all against my army."
To his surprise, Qizil looked embarrassed. "That… was not what we expected to happen, Your Majesty. Our own shamans are looking into it."
"Are they?" Grus was surprised all over again. This was the first time he'd ever heard of Menteshe working against the Banished One's wizardry. He didn't know whether to believe it, either.
"They are. We are not puppets on strings. We are not thralls." Pride rang in Qizil's voice. "We serve the Fallen Star because we choose to serve him. If the choice is not ours – well, maybe we will choose differently."
"You tempt me," Grus said. "It's a pity you don't tempt me quite enough. If I could be sure you were your own men and would stay your own men – that might be different. But the way things are, my men can't trust Sanjar's men at their side or behind them. And so I think we'll just have to go on by ourselves."
'This could be the worst mistake you ever make," Qizil warned.
"Maybe," Grus said. "But it could also be one of the smarter things I've done lately, and so I'm going to do it. If you ever persuade me you're really broken free of the Banished One, we may have something to talk about. Until then, I'm afraid we don't."
Qizil winced at the name the Avornans gave the exiled god. That told Grus he might not be happy with his ultimate overlord, but he wasn't ready to break away from him, which meant Sanjar wasn't ready to break with the Banished One, either. It would have been nice if things were different.
"I will take your words back to my sovereign," Sanjar's ambassador said.
"Yes, do," Grus said. Unfortunately, to his way of thinking, Sanjar was only Qizil's superior; the Banished One remained his sovereign – and Sanjar's, too. They could see they were less free than they wanted to be, but they could not yet see how to get away.
After dismissing Sanjar's envoy, Grus summoned Pterocles. He told the wizard what Qizil had said. Pterocles stayed silent for some little while. "That is interesting," he said at last. His voice sounded far away; he was plainly still deep in thought. "I wonder what the Menteshe could do to block the Banished One's spells if they set their minds to it. They know his magic much better than we do."
'Than most of us except you do, anyhow," Grus said.
"Oh, I'm sure he gets into their minds sometimes, only to help them with their spells, not to knock them down," Pterocles said. "They ought to know him from the inside out, too, so to speak."
"What would a warding spell against him be like?" the king asked.
Pterocles started to laugh. "If I knew, Your Majesty, I'd use one," he said. "Since I don't know, since I'm just guessing, I'd say it would be something like the spell that frees thralls. Same principles, anyhow – probably a different way of using them."
"That sounds as though it ought to be true – which doesn't mean it is, of course." Grus plucked at his beard as he considered. "Would you do well to leave that spell written out someplace where the nomads might find it?"
"You do ask fascinating questions," Pterocles breathed. He paused again in thought. When he came out of his study, he said, "The way it looks to me, Your Majesty, that sword has two edges. Letting the Menteshe learn exactly how we free thralls might help them do something against the Banished One. The other edge is, it might help them – or him – figure out how to counter our spell. I'll do it if you order me to, but not unless you do."