"You weren't going to let me have the throne at all," Ortalis said. " You thought Lord Squint-at-a-scroll would make a better king than I would."

"Yes, and by all the signs I was right, wasn't I?" Grus answered. "The Scepter of Mercy thought so, too."

His son – his one legitimate son – suggested a use for the Scepter of Mercy at once illegal, immoral, and painful. Several monks of more fastidious temperament gasped in horror. Ortalis went on, "And a whole fat lot of good your scheming did you. You think Lanius will call you back? Don't hold your breath, Father dear, that's all I've got to tell you."

"No, I don't expect him to call me back," Grus answered calmly. "The difference is, I don't care."

"You don't care? My left one, you don't!" Ortalis cried. "How couldn't you? You were king, by the gods! King! Now look at you, in that shabby brown robe – "

"It is a robe of humility," Abbot Pipilo broke in. "Soon, Brother Ortalis, you will wear one, too."

Whatever burned in Ortalis, humility had nothing to do with it. Ignoring the abbot, he raged on. "In that shabby robe, I tell you, mucking out the bam and pulling up weeds in the miserable garden. What joy!"

Shrugging, Grus answered, "They haven't let me weed yet. That seems to be work for men who've been here longer and know more about growing things. Brother Petrosus here gets to do that, for instance. I haven't had to muck out, either – not yet, though I expect I will. Mostly I've been peeling vegetables and washing dishes and helping out in the kitchens any other way the senior cooks need."

Ortalis gave his father-in-law such a venomous, even murderous, stare that whatever Petrosus might have said to him curdled in his throat. Ortalis could have been much more formidable if only he'd worked at it, Grus thought sadly. But he never wanted to work at anything. There, in a nutshell, lay the difference between his son and himself – between Lanius and his son, too.

As usual, though, Ortalis saved most of his spleen for Grus. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Do they put poppy juice in the wine here?"

"It's mostly ale," Grus said.

"Good ale," Pipilo said. "We brew it ourselves, Brother Ortalis, if the craft interests you."

Except for a look on his face that said no craft interested him, Ortalis ignored that, too. He aimed a forefinger at Grus as though it were an arrowhead. "You're happy here!" he cried. By his tone, his own quirks sank into insignificance beside such a perversion. " Happy!"

And Grus found himself nodding. "As a matter of fact, I am."

" How?" The question from his son was a pain-filled howl.

"It's not that hard," Grus answered. "There's enough to do. There's enough to eat. There's nothing much to worry about. I've been wondering for a while now what I could do that would come close to what I've already done. I didn't see anything. If you've already done the biggest things you're ever going to do, it's high time somebody put you out to pasture. Maybe I ought to thank you."

"That is the proper attitude for a monk," Abbot Pipilo said approvingly.

Ortalis, by contrast, turned very red and seemed on the edge of pitching a fit. "Olor's beard!" he cried. "Do you think I would have sent you here if I thought you were going to like it?"

"No." Maybe Grus didn't completely have the proper attitude for a monk, for he couldn't resist a dig at his son and brief successor, saying, "And I'll like it even better now that you're here to keep me company."

Several monks laughed at that, Petrosus loud among them. Even Pipilo smiled. He said, "Come, Brother Ortalis. Time to cast aside the raiment of the outer world for the robe that makes all of us one, all of us the same in the eyes of the gods in the heavens."

What Ortalis had to say about the gods in the heavens was, to put it mildly, pungent and uncomplimentary. No one reproached him, not even the abbot. Grus would have bet quite a few of the monks had said similar things when they first came here. Maybe some of them still had those thoughts. But most would have been able to see by now that they couldn't do anything about them, so what was the point of holding on to them?

"Come, Brother," Abbot Pipilo said again. And, even if Ortalis still fumed and cursed, he came.

Limosa dropped King Lanius a curtsy that bent her low. They were in Lanius' bedchamber, not the throne room, but she treated him with the greatest possible formality. And fear made her voice wobble when she said, "Y-Your Majesty."

"Straighten up," Lanius said impatiently. "You don't need to tremble like that. I'm not going to tie rocks to your feet and throw you in the river or stake you out for wolves – I promise you that."

"Thank you, Your Majesty." Limosa did straighten, but remained wary. "Uh – what are you going to do with me?"

"Well, that's what we're here to talk about, isn't it?" Lanius said. Listening to himself, he thought he sounded a good deal like Grus. That well at the start of the sentence gave him the chance to work out what he ought to say next.

"I'm no trouble to Your Majesty, not now," Limosa said. "With… with Ortalis put away, I'm no trouble to anybody."

"Well…" Lanius repeated. Yes, that was useful. "I'm not so sure. For one thing, you might want revenge. For another, you're mother to King Grus' grandchildren. You could plot for them, if not for yourself."

He thought Limosa would protest that she'd never do such a thing. He wouldn't have believed her, but that was the line he looked for her to take. Instead, she turned pale. "You wouldn't do anything to my children!"

"Not like that, no, of course not," Lanius answered. "I'm not a monster, you know." Did she? She'd been married to a monster of sorts, and loved him. What did that say?

"Of course not, Your Majesty," Limosa said softly. But what else could she say? If she told Lanius he was a monster, she gave him all the excuse he needed to prove it on her person. I'm King of Avornis. I'm the only King of Avornis, he thought – he was still getting used to that, for it was true for the first time in his life. If I don't want to bother with excuses, I don't need them. Limosa was thinking along with him, at least in part, for she added, "Whatever you do, I know you'll be just."

Plainly, she knew, and could know, no such thing. She hoped reminding him of the possibility would turn it into reality. Lanius drummed his fingers on his thigh. "You were Queen of Avornis for a little while," he said, perhaps more to himself than to Limosa. "How likely are you to forget that?"

"It wasn't my idea." Limosa almost spat out the words in her haste to set them free. Her voice went shrill and high. "It was Ortalis' plan – all his. I didn't want anything to do with it."

"No, eh?" Lanius said. She shook her head; her hair flipped back and forth with the vehemence of the motion. The king sighed sadly. One thing years at court did for a man – or maybe to him – they gave him a pretty good notion of when someone was lying. "I'm sorry, Your Highness" – he wasn't going to call her Your Majesty, not now – "but I don't believe you."

She'd gone pale before. Now she went white. "But it's the truth, Your Majesty! It is! How can I persuade you?" She dug herself in deeper with every panicky word.

Lanius sighed again. Grus had had to make choices like these much more often than he had himself. When Grus saw trouble ahead, he'd made the hard choice, too – made it with everyone but Lanius himself, in fact, and Ortalis. He'd eventually paid for trusting Ortalis to be harmless. Lanius eyed Limosa. Could she be dangerous? Yes, without a doubt. One more sigh, and then Lanius said what he thought he had to say. "I'm very sorry, Your Highness, but I'm going to send you to a nunnery."

"You can't!" Limosa gasped. "You wouldn't!" But Lanius could, and she could see he would. She went on, "I'd do anything – anything at all – to stay free."