Now Tinamus stared at him in a new way. Lanius realized the builder hadn't expected to hear anything like that from him. Lanius shrugged. Tinamus was getting all sorts of surprises today. After a dream from the Banished One, a complaint from the king most likely wouldn't loom so large. And, sure enough, Tinamus asked, "What – what do I do – what can I do – if… if he visits me again?"
"You can't do much," Lanius answered, "except remember that he can't hurt you in one of those dreams. He can scare you until you almost wish you were dead, but he can't hurt you. Otherwise, I would have died a long time ago, and so would some other people."
Tinamus nodded. "All right, Your Majesty. Thank you. That does help – some, anyhow. Uh, do you mind telling me who else, besides you and the animal trainer?"
"You might have less trouble from him if you didn't know." Lanius waited to see whether Tinamus would press him even so. The architect said not another word. The king wasn't the least bit surprised.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Whenever wagons reached the Avornan army besieging Yozgat, Grus let out a sigh of relief. The Menteshe did their best to harass his communications with the north. Sometimes that best was alarmingly good. In theory, he controlled everything between Yozgat and the Stura. Theory was wonderful. In practice, the nomads could nip in and raid when and as they chose.
To make them regret it, he ordered a special wagon train to come down to Yozgat. The wagons didn't carry sacks of wheat and beans. Instead, archers lay under the usual canvas covers. It was an uncomfortable trip for the men, but not an unprofitable one. Sure enough, the nomads attacked the wagons and the riders escorting them.
As always, the Menteshe were fierce and dashing and intrepid. They charged the wagons as though they were wolves and those wagons full of raw meat. Very often, that kind of charge routed the escorts and let the Menteshe do as they pleased with the wagons and the men who drove them.
Very often – but not this time. Avornan officers shouted words of command. Off popped the canvas covers. Up popped the archers, who hadn't had an easy or pleasant time of it in hiding. They were ready to make the Menteshe pay. They poured volley after volley into the onrushing nomads at close range.
The Menteshe, those who survived the trap, galloped away even more wildly than they'd advanced on the wagon train. Word of the ploy must have spread fast, because after that attacks on the wagons eased for a while. When the triumphant archers came into the lines around Yozgat, Grus gave every one of them a bonus of twenty silverpieces.
Meanwhile, the siege ground on. Grus decided against another all-out assault on the walls. The defenders had been too tough for him to find success at all likely. Instead, he tried something different. He had soldiers who spoke the Menteshe language shout to the men besieged in Yozgat that they could freely leave the city if they surrendered, and that the only thing they were defending was Prince Korkut's vanity.
He didn't expect immediate results – a good thing, too, for he didn't get them. He hoped the trapped nomads would start talking among themselves and eventually decide they didn't have much chance of getting out alive if they kept on fighting.
"They've got to be worried in there – don't they?" he asked Hirundo.
"Nobody has to be anything," the general replied, which wasn't what Grus wanted to hear. Hirundo did add, "I tell you, though, Your Majesty – if I was cooped up in there, I'd be worried."
That was more like it. "I was thinking the same thing," Grus said. "Maybe they'll turn on Korkut. Maybe they'll even do it before.." His voice trailed away.
"Before what?" Hirundo asked.
"Before we try something else," Grus said – an answer that was no answer.
Hirundo, nobody's fool, realized as much at once. "What sort of other things have you got in mind, Your Majesty? From what you and the engineers and Pterocles have said, undermining the walls doesn't look like it'll work. I'm ready to try to storm them again whenever you give the word, but I don't know how good our chances are there. Or…" He snapped his fingers and grinned at the king. "You've figured out some way to give our men wings after all."
"I wish I had," Grus said. "It would make this business of war a lot easier – until the Menteshe and the Chernagors and the Thervings figured out how to fly, too."
"There's always that," the general agreed. "It wouldn't take long, either. But what have you got in mind, if they're not shipping wings down from the city of Avornis?"
Grus found himself oddly reluctant to go into detail. He shook his head. Reluctant wasn't the right word. Embarrassed came much closer to the truth. "When I start – if I start – I'll tell you, I promise," he said. "Right now… well, who knows if.. he's listening?"
"I know what you're telling me. You're telling me you don't want to talk about it," Hirundo said. "You've come up with something strange, haven't you? I bet I know what it is. I bet it's something King Lanius dredged out of the archives, isn't it?"
"No," Grus said. "That it isn't. I can tell you the truth there, and I'll take oath on it if you like."
Hirundo only shrugged. "Never mind, Your Majesty. If King Lanius isn't getting strange, then I expect you are. I'm not so sure I want to know about that." Still shaking his head, he walked off.
Grus laughed. If Hirundo had really worried about the state of his wits, the general wouldn't have been shy about saying so. Hirundo was rarely shy about saying anything. For now, he seemed willing to believe Grus knew what he was doing. Grus wished he were so sure of that himself.
After he went to bed that night, the Banished One appeared to him in a dream. Seeing those coldly perfect features before him, Grus had another wish – that there was a better word to describe these manifestations. Dream didn't begin to do them justice.
"You plot against me," the exiled god declared without preamble.
"Well, of course I do." Grus saw no point in denying it.
"You think you can outsmart me." The Banished One fleered laughter. "As well think a cat can outsmart you. You are nearer to a cat – you are nearer to a worm – than you are to me.
He was probably right about that. Grus had never partaken of divinity. All the same, plenty of cats had outsmarted him at one time or another. He didn't say that to the Banished One.
Having the exiled god thinking along those lines was the last thing he wanted. All he did say was, "I'll take my chances."
"You raise up serpents behind you, and you know it not," the Banished One said.
"I'll take my chances," Grus repeated stolidly. The less he gave, the better.
"Whatever you seek to bring against me, I will seize it before it reaches you."
"Maybe." Grus knew he was still asleep. He felt himself shrugging all the same, as though he and the Banished One really were face-to-face and not separated by miles and by the barrier of consciousness. "If you could do everything you say you can, though, you would have conquered Avornis a long time ago."
"You will see what I can do. You will see what your own flesh and blood, your own kith and kin, can do. And may you have joy of it." More laughter burst from the exiled god. Grus woke up with sweat running down his face. His heart thudded as though it would burst from his chest.
Slowly, ordinary awareness returned. A lamp burned inside the pavilion, casting a dim, flickering light and filling the air with the smell of hot olive oil. Grus got to his feet. A mosquito whined.
He cocked his head to one side and listened. Here and there, men talked quietly. A little farther off, a horse – or possibly a mule – snorted. It was the middle of the night. Everyone and everything with any sense was asleep.