Free The Scepter's Return by Harry Turtledove

under the tree. “She is free,” he whispered. “Like me, she is free. Gods be praised for this.”
    Pterocles nodded to him, and to Grus, and to Artamus. To the other wizard, he said, “You see.”
    â€œYes, I see, or I hope I do,” Artamus answered. “Thank you for letting me watch you. That was a brilliant piece of sorcery.” He also bowed to Pterocles.
    â€œI’ve done it before. I knew I could do it now,” Pterocles said, and gestured toward the other thrall. “Let’s see you match it. Then we’ll know how brilliant it is.”
    â€œI’ll do my best,” Artamus said. He turned to the thrall, who’d stood there all through Pterocles’ spell, as indifferent to the marvel as he was to everything else in his miserable life. Artamus asked, “What is your name, fellow?”
    â€œLybius,” the scarred thrall replied.
    Artamus had his own bit of crystal on a silver chain. He began to swing it back and forth, as Pterocles had before him. Lybius’ eyes followed the sparkling crystal. Artamus waited for a bit, then began, “You are an empty one, Lybius.…”
    The spell proceeded as it had for Pterocles. Artamus wasn’t as smooth as Grus’ chief wizard, but he seemed capable enough. He summoned the rainbows into being and brought them into a glowing, spinning circle around Lybius’ head and then into and inside it.
    And, as Vasa had—and as Otus had before her—Lybius awoke from thralldom into true humanity. He wept. He squeezed Artamus’ hand and babbled what little praise he knew how to give. And Grus slowly nodded to himself. He did have a weapon someone besides Pterocles could wield.
    Lanius was studying a tax register to make sure all the nobles in the coastal provinces had paid everything they were supposed to. Officials here in the capital had a way of forgetting about those distant lands, and the people who lived in them knew it and took advantage of it whenever they could. But they were Avornans, too, and the kingdom needed their silver no less than anyone else’s. Lanius might not have wanted to raise taxes, but he did want to collect everything properly owed.
    Prince Ortalis stuck his head into the little room where the king worked. “Do you know where Sosia is?” he asked.
    â€œNot right this minute. I’ve been here for a couple of hours,” Lanius answered.
    â€œWhat are you working on?” Ortalis asked. When Lanius explained, his brother-in-law made a horrible face. “Why on earth are you wasting your time with that sort of nonsense?”
    â€œI don’t think it’s nonsense,” Lanius said. “We need to see that the laws are carried out, and we need to punish people who break them.”
    â€œThat’s work for a secretary, or at most for a minister,” Ortalis said. “A king tells people what to do.”
    â€œIf I don’t already know what they’re doing, how can what I tell them make any sense?” Lanius asked reasonably. “And secretaries do do most of this. But if I don’t do some, how can I know whether they’re doing what they’re supposed to? If a king lets officials do whatever they want, pretty soon they’re the ones telling people what to do, and he isn’t.”
    â€œYou’re welcome to it.” Ortalis went off down the hall shaking his head.
    Grus had tried to get his legitimate son to show some interest in governing Avornis. Lanius knew that. He also knew Grus hadn’t had much luck. Ortalis didn’t, and wouldn’t, care. In a way, that made Lanius happy. Ortalis would have been a more dangerous rival if he’d worried about—or even taken any notice of—the way government actually worked.
    Ortalis would also have been a more dangerous rival without the streak of cruelty that ran through so much of what he did. Hunting helped keep it down, which was one reason