Out of the Darkness

by Harry Turtledove

  “I can walk,” he answered, and he did, though his knees wobbled from the fear he fought not to show. They led him to a courtyard and bound his wrists and ankles to a metal pole. He could smell terror seeping out from the old bricks behind him.

  “Blindfold?” asked the guard captain. Lurcanio shook his head. A dozen men aimed sticks at him. The captain raised his hand, then let it fall. The Valmierans blazed. Even as Lurcanio braced himself, he thought, How useless. He cried out once. Then it was over.

  “What’s this?” Krasta asked irritably as the butler handed her an envelope on a silver tray.

  “I don’t know, milady,” he answered, and did his best to vanish.

  Muttering something unpleasant about the quality of help available these days, Krasta opened the envelope. It bore no return address, and she didn’t recognize the hand that had written out her name and address. She was tempted to throw the envelope away unopened, but curiosity got the better of her.

  The script of the letter inside was different from that of the address--different and familiar. By the time you read this, Krasta read, I expect I shall be dead. I make no special plea for myself--what point to it? You know what you did, and you know what we did. You will try to deny it now, especially to yourself, but you went into our affair with your eyes open as wide as your legs.

  “Powers below eat you, Lurcanio,” Krasta snarled. She almost tore the letter to pieces, but that first sentence kept her reading.

  I have a favor to ask you--a deathbed favor, you might say, Lurcanio wrote. It has nothing to do with me, so you need feel no pain in granting it. Again, Krasta almost tore up the letter. Even beyond the grave, was the Algarvian trying to tell her what to do? Then she laughed unpleasantly. She could finish the whole wretched thing, find out exactly what he wanted, and then do just the opposite. She nodded to herself. The more she thought about it, the better that sounded.

  “No one gives me orders,” she said. “No one.” She spoke louder than she had to, as if to persuade herself. For close to four years, Lurcanio had given her orders, and she’d--mostly--obeyed. She would be a long time forgetting that, however hard she tried.

  You bore my son, Lurcanio wrote. Krasta’s scowl darkened. She wished she could forget that, too. The little bastard’s yowling made forgetting impossible, though. So did the shocking things being pregnant had done to her figure. For the moment, little Gainibu was mercifully asleep. Pretty soon, he would wake up and start being noisy again.

  Even thinking about Lurcanio was easier than thinking about the baby. Because of the baby, because of what he’d turned out to be, she still had to wear this hot, uncomfortable wig whenever she appeared in public. Aye, Lurcanio and his bastard boy both had a lot to answer for.

  What I ask you is, try to forget he is mine, the letter continued.

  Krasta’s lip curled. “Not bloody likely!” she said.

  Try to treat him as you would have treated him were the charming Viscount Valnu indeed his sire, Lurcanio wrote. You may think of me as you please. I made life inconvenient for you, I know, for I did not let you do just as you pleased--and what crime could be worse than that? Krasta studied his words. She suspected a cut was hiding among them, but couldn’t quite find it. Lurcanio had always enjoyed being obscure.

  Moreover, he went on, you were too friendly with me during the war to suit Valmiera as it is now. This, I know, has caused you some embarrassment. You must be sure the said embarrassment is all my fault, and so you will hate me for it.

  Krasta nodded savagely. “I certainly do!”

  She could almost see Lurcanio shrugging. Hate me if you will, then, he wrote. I can do nothing about it in any case. But I beg you, my former dear, do not hate the baby. Nothing that has happened here is the baby’s fault.

  “Oh, you lying son of a whore,” Krasta exclaimed. If little Gainibu hadn’t been born with sandy hair, people now wouldn’t think she herself had been a collaborator. Even Skarnu’s peasant cow of a wife wouldn’t have been able to keep scorning her, wouldn’t have been able to crop her hair right after she gave birth. No, Lurcanio didn’t understand much.

  Or did he? I know that, with his hair as it is, he will not have an easy time in your kingdom. During the war, some Kaunians tried to disguise themselves as Algarvians by dyeing their hair red. Going in the other direction might serve the child well here, at least for a time. Later, when passions have cooled, people may be better able to accept him for what he is.

  “Hmm.” Krasta read that over again. It wasn’t such a bad idea. Oh, certainly, people who knew her also knew she’d had an Algarvian bastard. But, with little Gainibu’s hair dyed a safe blond, she would be able to take him out in public. She’d never before imagined being able to do that. Her free hand touched the curls of the wig. Before too long, she would be able to shed her disguise. Her son might have to keep his up his whole life long. “And that’s your fault, Lurcanio, yours and nobody else’s,” Krasta said, as if Gainibu hadn’t come forth from between her legs.

  If the boy has your looks and my wit, he may go far in the world, given any sort of chance at all, Lurcanio wrote, arrogant to the end. I hope you will give him that chance. My time is over. His is just beginning. The squiggle he used for a signature sat under his closing words.

  Now Krasta did tear the letter into tiny pieces. Once she’d done so, she put them down the commode, as she’d put the sheet in her brother’s writing down the commode while the redheads still occupied Priekule. Then she would have got in trouble if Lurcanio had found Skarnu’s words. These days, if anyone found Lurcanio’s . . . She shook her head. It wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it happen. She watched the water in the commode swirl away the soggy paper. Gone. Gone for good. She sighed with relief.

  A moment later, almost on cue, little Gainibu started to cry. Krasta gritted her teeth. As far as she could see, a baby’s cry was good for nothing but driving all the people within earshot out of their minds. Her first impulse, as always, was to turn around and get out of earshot as fast as she could. This once, though, she resisted that and went into the baby’s bedroom instead.

  Gainibu’s wet nurse looked up in surprise. She was changing the baby’s soiled linen and wiping his bottom. Krasta’s nose wrinkled. Gainibu had done something truly disgusting. “Hello, milady,” the wet nurse said. She deftly finished the job of cleaning and changing and picked up Krasta’s son. The baby smiled and gurgled. The wet nurse smiled, too. “He’s not a bad little fellow, even if . . .” She caught herself. “He’s not a bad little fellow.”

  “Let me have him,” Krasta said.

  “Of course, milady.” The wet nurse sounded astonished. Krasta had hardly ever said anything like that before. “Be careful to keep a hand under his head. It’s still a little wobbly.”

  “I’ll manage.” Krasta took her son from the other woman. He smiled up at her, too. Before she knew what she was doing, she smiled back. He tricked it out of me, she thought, almost as if realizing a grown man had seduced her. When she smiled at him, Gainibu laughed and wiggled. “He likes me!” Krasta said in surprise. Because she had no use for the baby, she’d thought he wouldn’t care for her.

  “He likes everybody,” the wet nurse said. “He’s just a baby. He doesn’t know anything about how mean people can be.” She held out her hands. “Let me have him back, please. I was going to feed him after I got him cleaned up.”

  “Here,” Krasta said. The wet nurse undid her tunic and gave the baby her right breast. Gainibu sucked eagerly. Krasta’s breasts were dry again, though they still seemed softer and slacker than they had before she gave birth. Not till now, hearing the small, happy noises Gainibu made, had she wondered whether nursing him might have been a good thing. She shook her head. When he came out with hair sandy, not blond, she’d wanted him dead. Nurse him herself? No, no, no.

  As casually as she could, Krasta asked, “Do you suppose he’s still too young to dye his hair?”

  “Dye his. . . ? Oh.” The wet nurse b
linked, then saw what Krasta was aiming at--what Lurcanio had been aiming at, though she wasn’t about to admit it. The other woman said, “I don’t know, milady. You might ask a healer about that. But when he gets a bit bigger, I’m sure it wouldn’t hurt. And it would make things easier for him, wouldn’t it?”

  “It might,” Krasta said. “I’m sure it would make things easier for me. I could show him in public without worrying about all the dreadful things that happen to ... people with babies that have the wrong color hair.” Her own convenience came first. That looking like everyone else might be better for little Gainibu was also nice, but distinctly secondary.

  “Sooner or later, things will ease up,” the wet nurse predicted. “People will get excited about something else, and then they won’t care so much about who did what during the war. That’s how it works.”

  “I hope so,” Krasta said fervently. “As far as I’m concerned, people have made much too big a fuss about that already.”

  The wet nurse nodded sympathetically. Maybe she’d had an Algarvian boyfriend during the occupation. For all Krasta knew, she might have a little bastard at home herself. The wet nurse said, “Plenty of women were friendly with the redheads. That was just how things were back then. A baby? A baby was bad luck.”

  “He certainly was,” Krasta said, giving her son a venomous stare. If he’d looked the way he was supposed to, or if he hadn’t come along at all, she wouldn’t have had nearly the troubles she’d had.

  But the wet nurse said the same thing Lurcanio had: “It’s not really his fault, milady. He can’t help what he looks like.”

  “I suppose not,” Krasta said reluctantly.

  “And he is a nice little baby,” the wet nurse went on. “Doing what I do, I see plenty of the little brats. He’s sweeter than most. I think dyeing his hair is a good idea. You must be very clever, to have thought of that. If he looks like everybody else, he should be able to get on fine.”

  “Maybe,” Krasta said. No, she wasn’t about to admit that dyeing Gainibu’s hair hadn’t been her idea. If the wet nurse thought it was clever, she would take credit for it. Lurcanio? She snapped her fingers. By the time you read this, I expect I shall be dead. She didn’t miss him. On the contrary; as long as he’d lived, she’d had to remember she hadn’t always been able to do exactly as she pleased. Few thoughts could have been less pleasant to her.

  “Let me have Gainibu again,” she said. The wet nurse burped the baby before handing him to her. Krasta peered down into his little face. But for the color of his hair, he did look like her, as best she could tell.

  He smiled again and then, without any fuss, spit up on her. The wet nurse hadn’t burped him quite well enough. For once, Krasta didn’t get angry. She kept studying the baby. With blond hair, he might do after all.

  If the boy has your looks and my wit, he may go far in the world. Krasta shook her head. She’d flushed those words down the commode. Since they were gone, they couldn’t possibly be true . . . could they?

  Leudast stood on the farther slopes of the Elsung Mountains, looking west into Gyongyos. No matter what his superiors said, he’d never expected to come so far so fast. He’d never expected the Gongs to lie down and surrender, either. He’d fought them before, and knew they didn’t do things like that. But they had.

  He also knew the Unkerlanters’ onslaught hadn’t been the only thing that made Gyongyos quit. Every new rumor said something different and horrible had happened to Gyorvar. Leudast didn’t want to believe any of the rumors, because they all sounded preposterous. But if something truly dreadful hadn’t happened to their capital, would the Gyongyosians have thrown in the sponge? He didn’t think so.

  His regiment had come far enough that, right at the edge of visibility, he could see the mountains sloping down toward the lowlands farther west still. He could also see the green in the bottom of a good many valleys. The Gongs, he’d heard, recruited a lot of their soldiers from such places. Unkerlant’s broad, almost endless plains yielded many more men. He wasn’t sure the average Unkerlanter made as ferocious a warrior as the average Gyongyosian, but that hadn’t turned out to matter.

  Captain Dagaric came up to stand beside him and look at the vast expanse of rock and snow and greenery. After staring a while in silence, Dagaric asked, “Do you know what you’ll do next, Lieutenant?”

  “No, sir,” Leudast admitted. “I’m afraid I don’t. I’ve been in the army a long time.” It wasn’t forever. It only felt that way.

  “Aye, you’ve been in the army a long time,” the regimental commander agreed. “If you were still a common soldier or a sergeant, I wouldn’t worry about it so much. But you’re an officer now, and you haven’t been an officer all that long. You ought to think about it.”

  “I have been thinking about it, sir,” Leudast replied. “If I weren’t an officer, I’d be on my way home now. “Well, trying to get home, anyhow. But. . . You don’t mind my saying so, you’re dead when they blaze you, regardless of whether you’re a sergeant or a lieutenant.”

  “That’s so,” Dagaric said. Had he tried to deny it, Leudast would have ignored everything else he said. The captain went on, “A couple of things for you to think about, though. For one, nobody’s going to be blazing at you for a while. After what we just went through, do you think anyone wants another war any time soon?”

  Who can tell, with King Swemmel? But Leudast didn’t trust Dagaric far enough to say that out loud. He did say, “You’ve got a point.”

  “You bet I do,” Dagaric told him. “And my other point is, we need good officers, and you are one. Common soldiers and underofficers are conscripts. Officers are the glue that holds things together, especially in peacetime. Losing you after all you’ve done, all you’ve learned, would be a shame.”

  “I’m still thinking, sir.” From his days as a common soldier and an under-officer, Leudast knew better than to come right out and tell a superior no.

  “You should also remember, Marshal Rathar has his eye on you,” Dagaric said. “Who knows how high you could rise with him behind you?”

  Leudast gave a truly thoughtful nod. In the army as anywhere else, whom you knew counted for at least as much as what you knew. That he should know the Marshal of Unkerlant--and that Rathar should know him--still left him astonished. No denying that Dagaric had a point. Officers without patrons were liable to watch their careers wither. He wouldn’t have to worry about that. But...

  “Sir, I don’t know that I want to be a soldier at all,” Leudast said. “This isn’t my proper trade.”

  “Well, what is your proper trade? Farmer?” Dagaric asked, and Leudast nodded again. The regimental commander snorted. “Do you really want to see nothing but your own village--whatever’s left of it--the rest of your days? Do you really want to push a plow behind an ox’s arse every year till you fall over dead?”

  “It’s what I know,” Leudast answered. “It’s about the only thing I do know.”

  Captain Dagaric shook his head. “You’re wrong, Lieutenant. You know soldiering. You were in the army at the start, and you came out alive at the end. Have you got any idea how unusual that is? Millions of men know farming. Not very many have experience to match yours.”

  He was probably right. The only trouble was, Leudast didn’t want most of the experience he had. He knew how lucky he was to have come through all the dreadful fighting he’d seen with only two wounds. But the wounds weren’t all of it--in many ways, weren’t the worst of it. Terror and hunger and cold and exhaustion and filth and the agony of friends . . . Did he want to stay in a trade that only promised more of the same?

  Something else occurred to him, too, something that had been in the back of his mind ever since the Gyongyosians yielded. “Sir, there was this girl, back in a village in the Duchy of Grelz.” Would Alize even remember who he was if he showed up there now, or would she be married to some local man? Plenty of wartime romances didn’t mean a thing once the war was done. Some did, though. No way to find out w
hich sort was which without going back there and seeing how things stood.

  “A girl, eh?” Dagaric said. “You serious about her, or are you just looking for another excuse?”

  “I’m serious, sir. I don’t know if she is. I’d have to go back to Leiferde to find out.”

  “In peacetime, you know, a married officer isn’t necessarily at a disadvantage,” Dagaric remarked. “And who knows? She may be looking for a way to get off the farm and out of her village.” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll tell you what. You want to court her, do you?”

  Leudast nodded. “Aye, sir, I do.”

  “You don’t need to resign your commission to do that,” Dagaric said. “I think the most efficient thing to do would be to give you, oh, a month’s leave so you can sort out your personal affairs. At the end of that time, you’ll have a better notion of what you want to do--and you’ll have an officer’s travel privileges to get to this Leifer-wherever-in-blazes-it-is. Does that suit you, Lieutenant?”

  “Aye, sir! Thank you, sir!” Leudast said, saluting. The military ceremonial let him hide his astonishment. Dagaric really must want me to stay in the army, or he wouldn’t go so far out of his way to help me. He still wasn’t sure he wanted to remain a soldier, but knowing his superior wanted him to was no small compliment.

  Leave papers in his beltpouch, he was two days in a wagon making his way back to the nearest ley line. Then he spent another nine days traversing Unkerlant from west to east, as he’d gone across the kingdom from east to west not so long before. The month of leave Dagaric had given him suddenly seemed less generous than it had when he’d got it: it left him about ten days in and around Leiferde.

  He found he could tell exactly how far the Algarvians had come. All at once, the countryside took on the battered look with which he’d grown so familiar during the war. How long would it take to repair? So many men were gone. Every glimpse he got of life in the fields confirmed that. The old, the young, the female: they labored to bring in the harvest. He shivered anew when the ley-line caravan passed through Herborn, the capital of the Duchy of Grelz. There among those ruins King Swemmel had boiled false King Raniero of Grelz alive. Thanks to me, Leudast thought, and wondered if he would ever get the smell of Raniero’s cooking flesh out of his nostrils.