“No, of course not,” his adjutant replied. “What do they say, though? A rising tide lifts all boats? That’s how things are right now.”
“My boat has lifted me as far as I care to rise, thank you very much,” the marshal said. He didn’t know for certain that King Swemmel could sorcerously listen to his conversations, but had to assume the king could manage it. And there was only one higher rank to which a rising tide could lift him: the one Swemmel now held. He didn’t want the king believing he aspired to the throne. Such notions, as he’d thought during the parade, were dangerous. He nodded to Merovec. “After putting up with me for so long, you deserve a promotion.”
“Thank you, sir,” Merovec said. “What rank do you suppose I’ll have when the next war comes down the ley line at us?”
“The next war?” Rathar echoed.
His adjutant nodded. “Aye, sir. The one against the islanders, I mean. Whoever wins that will have all of Derlavai in his beltpouch.”
“If it comes soon, we won’t win it,” Rathar said. “If it comes soon, they’ll serve Cottbus as they served Gyorvar, and we can’t hit back the same way. They can make us back away from whatever we try. “We’d have to.”
I hope we’d have to, the marshal thought. If Swemmel gets a sudden attack of pride, he could throw this whole kingdom down the sewer. He would have worried less with a calmer, more sensible ruler-not that Unkerlant had enjoyed a lot of calm, sensible rulers in her history.
A young lieutenant stuck his head into the office, spotted Marshal Rathar, and brightened. “There you are, lord Marshal,” he said, as if Rathar had been playing hide-and-seek. “His Majesty wants to confer with you. At once.”
At once should have gone without saying where Swemmel was concerned. Being king meant never having to wait. “I’m coming,” Rathar said. That also went without saying. Merovec saluted as the marshal left the office. As always when summoned by Swemmel, Rathar wondered if he would ever come back here again.
He surrendered his ceremonial sword to Swemmel’s guards, let them frisk him, and then abased himself before his sovereign. “You may rise,” the king said. “Did you see the Kuusaman and Lagoan vultures perched on the reviewing stand with us when you marched past?”
“Aye, your Majesty,” Rathar replied. “I noticed the islanders’ ministers and their attaches.”
“What do you think they made of our might?” King Swemmel asked.
“Your Majesty, no matter how strong we are in soldiery, we dare not cross Lagoas and Kuusamo in any serious way till we can match them in magecraft, too,” Rathar said. “They have to know that as well as we do.”
Grimly, Swemmel nodded. “And so they laugh at us behind their hands. Well, we shall set our own mages to work, as indeed we have already done, and we shall see what spying can bring us, too.”
“That will not be so easy,” Marshal Rathar said. “How can one of our people pretend to come from Lagoas or Kuusamo?”
“One of our people would have a difficult time,” the king agreed. “There are, however, some few Algarvians who speak Lagoan without a trace of accent. Some of them were Mezentio’s spies. Paid well enough-and with their families held hostage to guard against betrayal-they should serve us well, too.”
“Ah,” Rathar said. “If we can bring that off, it will serve us well.”
“Many Algarvians are whores who will do anything for money,” Swemmel said. Rathar nodded. The king went on, “Our task is to find the ones who will be able to understand what they need to learn, and to slip them into the Lagoan Guild of Mages. It may not be easy or quick, but we think it can be done. As they say in cards, one peek is worth a thousand finesses.”
Rathar laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard King Swemmel crack a joke. Then he realized the king wasn’t joking. He nodded again all the same. Joking or not, Swemmel was right.
Nineteen
When the door to Lurcanio’s cell opened at a time when he wasn’t scheduled to be fed or exercised, he bit down on the inside of his lower lip. A break in routine meant trouble. He hadn’t taken long to learn that. How many captives in Algarvian gaols learned the same lesson? he wondered. More than a few: of that he had no doubt. It didn’t matter. Now it was happening to him. That mattered more than anything else in the world.
One of the Valmieran guards who came in pointed a stick at his face. “Get moving,” he snapped.
Lurcanio got moving. He moved slowly and carefully, always keeping his hands in plain sight. The guards had made it very clear that they wanted him dead. He didn’t care to give them any excuse to get what they wanted. “May I ask where we are going?” he inquired.
He got a nasty grin from that guard. Another one replied, “The judges have your verdict.”
“Very well.” Lurcanio did his best not to show the fear he felt. The judges could do whatever they pleased with him, and he had no chance of stopping them. He’d sung like a nightingale for his interrogators. Maybe that would count enough to keep him breathing. Of course, maybe it wouldn’t, too.
Bright sunlight outside the gaol made him blink. His eyes watered. Not much light leaked into his cell. The guards hustled him into a carriage that carried more iron than a behemoth. A four-horse team had to draw it. Locks clicked and snapped on the doors after he got in.
In the passenger compartment, an iron grill separated him from the guard who rode with him. As the Valmieran locked it, Lurcanio asked, “What if I were a wizard? Could I conjure my way out of here?”
“Go ahead and try,” the blond answered. “This here carriage is warded against anything a first-rank mage can do.”
Lurcanio didn’t believe him. Sorcerers were often more inventive than those who tried to stop them gave them credit for being. So were other people, come to that. Gaolers would have had an easier time were that not so. But Lurcanio himself was no wizard. He remained a captive. They hadn’t even let him clean up before hauling him off to court. He didn’t take that for a good sign.
He went into the courtroom through a hallway reserved for the accused- and even more lined with guards than usual today. When he entered, he found the place packed. Excitement filled the air. It was almost as palpable as sorcerous energy just before a major spell. The three judges, two in civilian costume, the third in uniform, strode in and took their places at the head of the courtroom. Everyone rose respectfully. Lurcanio bowed to them, as he would have done in an Algarvian lawcourt.
“Be seated,” the bailiff intoned.
The chief judge, the soldier, sat in the center. He rapped loudly for order. “We have reached a verdict in the case of the Kingdom of Valmiera against Colonel Lurcanio of Algarve,” he declared. “Is the accused present?”
“No, your Excellency. I am not here,” Lurcanio declared. The scribe recording his words gave him a reproachful look. A few people giggled. Lurcanio thought he heard Krasta’s voice. He looked around. Aye, there she was. She wants to see me pay, Lurcanio thought. She would likely get what she wanted, too.
Bang! The gavel stifled the giggles. “By speaking, the accused admits his presence,” the senior judge said. “His display of levity is out of order, and will not be tolerated again.”
“Will you do worse to me for making a bad joke than for any of the other things you claim I did while I served my kingdom?” Lurcanio asked.
“By no means, Colonel,” the judge replied. “But we will bind and gag you. If that is what you want, you have but to say the word.” He waited. Lurcanio said nothing. The judge nodded. “All right, then. Are you ready to hear the verdict of this court?”
Ready? Lurcanio thought. Powers above, no! But his dignity kept him from saying that out loud. He was sure they would bind and gag him. He was sure they would enjoy doing it, too. Refusing to give them the satisfaction, he nodded curtly. “I am ready, your Excellency, though I still insist this court has no legal jurisdiction over a soldier engaged in prosecuting a war.”
“We have rejected that argument for others, and we reject i
t for you as well.” The chief judge shuffled papers, then looked up at Lurcanio. “This court, Colonel, finds you guilty of facilitating the transportation of Kaunians through the Kingdom of Valmiera for the purpose of sacrifice. It also finds you guilty of facilitating the program known as Night and Fog, which seized Valmierans for the purpose of sacrifice. This court further finds that these programs constitute murder, not warfare. Accordingly, you are hereby sentenced to be blazed to death.”
Lurcanio had been braced for it. It still came like a punch in the belly. So did the baying applause from the crowd in the courtroom. “I appeal this false verdict,” he said, as steadily as he could.
“No.” The chief judge shook his head. “This court was set up to deal with cases of this kind. There is no court to which to appeal our verdict.”
“Very neat,” Lurcanio said. The sarcasm got through; the judge flushed. Lurcanio went on, “No court to which to appeal, you say? May I not appeal to King Gainibu himself? I got to know him well during the occupation.” He turned out not to be quite so sottish and worthless as I thought he was, too. You never can tell.
That request seemed to catch the panel by surprise. The judges put their heads together and argued in low voices. At last, the senior judge looked up. “Very well, Colonel. You will be furnished pen and ink for this purpose.” He turned to the guards. “Take him back to his cell. Let him write what he will. Take the appeal to the king and let his will be done.”
“Aye, your Excellency,” the guards chorused. They hauled Lurcanio from his seat. He blew Krasta a kiss as they led him away. Her scowl made him smile.
He wondered whether they would bother following the judge’s orders, but they did. Lurcanio put his case as best he could. He wished he were writing Algarvian; being persuasive in a language not his own was hard. But then, how much difference would it make? Not much, he feared.
When he’d finished, he gave the appeal to the guards and asked for another leaf of paper. “What’s this one for?” one of them asked suspiciously.
Lurcanio looked at him. “I am going to fold it into a ladder, stick it out the window, climb down it, and escape,” he answered, deadpan. For a moment, the guards took him seriously; alarm flared on their faces. When they realized he hadn’t meant it, they started to get angry. He wondered if he’d earned himself a beating.
But then, to his relief, one of them laughed. “Funny boy, aren’t you?” the fellow said. “You aren’t going anywhere, not till-” He drew the edge of his hand across his throat. “Enough jokes now. Tell me what you want it for.”
“I want to write another letter,” Lurcanio said. “Your censors will read it. You will probably read it yourself. By all the signs, I will not have many more chances to write letters.”
“You’ve got that straight.” The guard thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Well, why the blazes not? If we don’t like what you write, the letter’ll never get out of gaol.”
“Exactly so.” Lurcanio bowed. “I thank you.”
He gnawed at the end of the pen when they gave him the new leaf of paper. He’d known exactly what he wanted to say to King Gainibu, even if he’d sometimes had trouble writing it in Valmieran. Here. . How do I even begin? he. wondered. But that solved itself. By the time you read this, I expect I shall be dead, he wrote. Coming out and saying that, even on paper, felt oddly liberating. He had an easier time going on from there than he’d thought he would.
The guards took away not only the letter but also the pen and the bottle of ink. “We don’t want you turning this into a stick, now,” one of them said, and laughed at his own joke.
Lurcanio dutifully chuckled, too. “If I could, I would,” he said. “But a man would have to be more than a first-rank mage to bring that off, I fear. He would have to be what the Ice People call a god.”
“Those stinking, hairy savages,” the guard said, nothing but scorn in his voice. He took the letter out of the cell. The door slammed shut. The bar thudded into place to keep it shut.
Two afternoons later, the answer from the King of Valmiera to Lurcanio’s appeal arrived. Lurcanio broke the seal and unfolded the leaf of paper. He recognized Gainibu’s script, though the writing looked less shaky than it had when the king drank himself into a stupor almost every night.
Colonel Lurcanio: Greetings. I have read your appeal, King Gainibu wrote. The essence of it seems to have two parts: first, that you were only obeying the orders your superiors gave you; and, second, that you might have done far worse than you did. The first falls to the ground at once. A man who murders again and again under orders remains a murderer. As for the second, it is probably true. No, I have no doubt that it is certainly true. I would not claim that I have forgotten our acquaintance. You might indeed have done more and worse. That you did not was surely due to the fact that you wanted to keep Valmiera as quiet as you could, but does remain so. It being so, I must ask myself whether it constitutes an adequately mitigating circumstance. With some regret, I tell you that, in my judgment, it does not. Aye, you might have done worse. What you did was quite bad enough. The sentence shall stand. Gainibu, King of Valmiera.
Slowly, deliberately, Lurcanio folded the king’s letter and set it down. Nothing left now but to die as well as he could. The guards had watched him read the letter. He nodded to them. “You will not have to worry about my complaints on the quality of accommodations and the dining much longer,” he said.
“Did you really think his Majesty would let you off?” one of them asked.
Lurcanio shook his head. “No, but how was I worse off for trying?”
“Something to that,” the guard said. “Tomorrow morning, then.”
“Tomorrow morning,” Lurcanio agreed. “Can you give me something worth eating tonight? As long as I am here, I aim to enjoy myself as best I can.”
As the guards trooped out, one of them remarked, “Whoreson’s got guts.” Lurcanio felt a certain amount of pride. As soon as the door slammed shut, though, it evaporated. What difference did it make? When the sun came up tomorrow, he would stop caring-stop caring forever-what happened to him.
Time seemed to race. He’d hardly blinked before it got dark. His supper was no different from any other meal he’d had in gaol. He savored it just the same. He found himself yawning, but didn’t sleep. With experience about to end forever, he didn’t care to miss the little he had left. They wouldn‘t have brought me a woman, even if I’d asked for one, he thought. Too bad.
The sky, or the tiny scrap of it he could see through his window, began to grow light. The door opened. A squad of guards came in. Lurcanio got to his feet. “Can you walk?” the guard captain asked him.
“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.
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