The Scepter's Return (The Scepter of Mercy Book 3) by Harry Turtledove

Author:Harry Turtledove [Turtledove, Harry]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
ISBN: 9781504027489
Publisher: Open Road Media Sci-Fi & Fantasy
Published: 2015-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Grus munched on dates candied in honey. He couldn’t decide if they were the most delicious things he’d ever eaten or just the most cloying. Hirundo and Pterocles both licked honey and sticky bits of date from their fingers. Grus hesitated only a moment before imitating them. He didn’t know what local manners said about eating dates, but he did know his fingers were sticking together.

“We ought to import these,” Pterocles said—he evidently liked them.

“Now maybe we will,” Grus answered.

“Have to think up a fancier name than ‘dates,’” Hirundo said. “Have to think up a name that really makes people want to go out and spend their silver. How about something like ‘sugarfruit’?”

“How about ‘winefruit’?” Pterocles said. “They do make wine from them.”

“Have you tasted it?” Grus made a face. “It’s thick and it’s sweet and it’s nasty.”

“I didn’t mind it that much,” the wizard said. “I don’t think it’s up to what we make from grapes, but it’s not bad.” His sweet tooth had to be stronger than Grus’.

“And even if date wine is the foulest stuff this side of mule piss, who cares?” Hirundo said cheerfully. “Nobody north of the Stura’s going to know. A lot of the time, what things seem like is more important than what they really are.”

“I don’t know about that,” Grus said.

“Any wizard will tell you it’s true,” Pterocles said. “Illusion, appearance, belief … They’re the things that matter. How can you say for sure what’s real, anyhow?”

“Hrmm,” Grus said—a discontented rumble down deep in his throat. The flickering lamplight and the smell of hot olive oil from the lamps inside his pavilion were real. So was the buzz of the mosquitoes that got in despite the netting in front of the flap. So were the pressure on his backside from the stool where he perched and the ache in his thighs from another day in the saddle. He ate another date and spat out the seed. The taste was real, too, and so was the way the honey coated the inside of his mouth.

But then Hirundo said, “A lot of spells are nothing but illusion, aren’t they?”

“Not quite nothing but,” Pterocles answered, “but illusion’s no small part of them. A lot of spells make illusions turn real.”

“How can you say for sure what’s real?” Grus enjoyed throwing Pterocles’ words back at him. He enjoyed it even more when the wizard turned red and spluttered and didn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you what I want to be real,” Hirundo said. “I want one more good victory against the Menteshe to be real before we get to Yozgat. If we beat them again—do a proper job of beating them, I mean—they won’t be so hot to come breathing down our necks.”

“Do you want to provoke them into attacking us, then?” Grus asked. “Can we set an ambush for them?”

“I’d love to try,” Hirundo said. “I’ll laugh if we can bring it off, too. It’s what the cursed nomads always try on us. By the gods, paying them back in their own coin would be sweet.

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