Sixteen
Count Lurcanio bowed to Krasta. "By your leave, milady, I should like to invite a guest to supper with us tonight," he said. "A nobleman- a Valmieran nobleman, to be perfectly plain."
He was scrupulous about remembering that the mansion and the serving staff were in fact Krasta's. He was more scrupulous about such things than a good many of his countrymen; had he chosen to commandeer rather than ask, what could she have done about it? Nothing, as she knew all too well. That was the essence of being occupied. And so she said, "Well, of course. Who is it?" She did hope she wouldn't have to endure one of the savage backwoods boors who seemed so fond of Algarve's cause. The idea of Valmierans fighting under Mezentio's banner still left her queasy.
But Lurcanio answered, "A count by the name of Amatu- affable fellow, I find, if a bit full of himself."
"Oh. Amatu. I know him, aye." Krasta didn't sigh in relief, but she felt like it. "He's from right here in Priekule. But…" Her voice trailed away. She frowned a little. "I haven't seen him- or I don't recall seeing him- in a very long time."
That held an unspoken question, something on the order of, If he hasn't come to any of the functions that have gone on since Algarve occupied Valmiera, what's he doing here now? Some nobles in the capital still stubbornly kept themselves aloof from Mezentio's men. Krasta wondered how Lurcanio would have gone about inviting one of them for supper.
"He's been away from the capital for some time," Lurcanio replied. "He's very glad to be home again, though, I will say."
"I should certainly hope so," Krasta exclaimed. "Why would anyone who could live in Priekule care to go anywhere else?"
Lurcanio didn't answer, from which she concluded he agreed with her. Though nothing else in Valmiera seemed to, her sense of superiority remained invincible. She went off to browbeat the cook into outdoing himself for a noble guest.
"Aye, milady, nothing but the best," the cook promised, his head bobbing up and down with a show of eagerness to please. "I've got a couple of fine beef tongues in the rest crate, if those would suit you for the main dish."
"The very thing!" Krasta's smile was not without a certain small malice. Algarvians had a way of looking down their noses at robust Valmieran cooking. Lurcanio could eat tongue tonight and like it- or at least pretend. She made sure the rest of the menu was along the same lines: fried parsnips with butter, sour cabbage, and a rhubarb pie for dessert. "Nothing spare and Algarvian tonight," she told the cook. "Tonight the guest is a countryman."
"Just as you say, milady, so it'll be," he replied.
"Well, of course," Krasta said. As long as she wasn't dealing with Lurcanio, her word remained law on her estate.
Having made sure of the cook, she went up to her bedchamber, shouting for Bauska as she went. The maidservant never got there fast enough to suit her. "I'm sorry, milady," she said when Krasta shouted at her rather than for her. "My little girl had soiled herself, and I was cleaning her off."
Krasta wrinkled her nose. "Is that what I smell?" she said, which was unfair: Bauska took good care of her bastard by an Algarvian officer, and the baby was not only cheerful and happy but gave promise of good looks. Krasta, however, worried very little about fairness. She went on, "Count Amatu is coming to supper tonight, and I want to impress him. What shall I wear?"
"How do you want to impress him?" Bauska asked. Krasta rolled her eyes. As far as she was concerned, only one way mattered. Bauska set out a gold silk tunic that looked transparent but wasn't quite and a pair of dark blue trousers in slashed velvet with side laces to get them to fit as tightly as possible. She added, "You might wear the black shoes with the heels, milady. They give your walk a certain something it wouldn't have otherwise."
"My walk already has everything it needs," Krasta said. But she did wear the shoes. They were even more uncomfortable than the trousers, which Bauska took savage pleasure in lacing till Krasta could hardly breathe. The serving woman looked disappointed when Krasta condescended to thank her for her help.
The way Colonel Lurcanio's eyes lit up when Krasta came downstairs was its own reward. He set a hand on the curve of her hip. "Perhaps I should send Amatu away and keep you all to myself tonight."
"Perhaps you should," she purred, looking up at him from under half-lowered eyelids.
But he laughed and patted her and shook his head. "No, he'll be here any moment, and I truly do want the two of you to meet… so long as I am chaperoning. You may have more in common than you think."
"What does that mean?" Krasta asked. "I don't like it when you make your little jokes and I don't know what's going on."
"You'll know soon enough, my sweet; I promise you that," Lurcanio said: more in the way of reassurance than he usually gave her.
Count Amatu knocked on the door a few minutes later. He bowed over Krasta's hand, then clasped wrists, Algarvian style, with Lurcanio. He was thinner than Krasta remembered, thinner and somehow harsher. He knocked back a brandy and nodded. "That opens your eyes," he said, and then, "I've had my eyes opened lately, by the powers above. That I have."
"How do you mean?" Krasta asked.
Amatu glanced over to Colonel Lurcanio, then asked her, "Have you seen your brother lately?"
"Skarnu?" Krasta exclaimed, as if she had some other brother, too. Count Amatu nodded. "No," she said. "I haven't seen him since he went off to fight in the war." That was true. "I've never been sure since whether he was alive or dead." That was anything but true, though she didn't think Lurcanio knew it. She knew her brother was alive and still doing something to resist the Algarvians. But what did Amatu know? She did her best to sound intrigued and pleased as she asked, "Why? Have you seen him? Where is he?"
"Oh, I've seen him, all right." Amatu didn't sound pleased about it, either. After muttering something under his breath that Krasta, perhaps fortunately, didn't catch, he went on, "He's down in the south somewhere, mucking about with those miserable bandits who don't know a lost cause when they see one."
"Is he? I had no idea." Krasta was very conscious of Lurcanio's eye on her. He'd invited Amatu here to see what she would do when she got this news. She had to let it seem a surprise. "I wish he'd chosen differently." And part of her did. Had he chosen differently, she wouldn't have had to think about how she'd chosen. One way and another, she'd learned too much about what the Algarvians were doing. That left her unhappy with herself: not a feeling she was used to having.
"They're hopeless, useless, worthless- the bandits, I mean," Amatu said with fine aristocratic scorn. "But your brother's having a fine time slumming, I will say. He's knocked up some peasant wench, and he couldn't be prouder if he'd taken one of King Gainibu's daughters to bed."
Now Krasta drew herself up very straight. "Skarnu and some woman off a farm? I don't believe you." She didn't think her brother immune to lust. Bad taste, however, was an altogether different question.
But Amatu said, "Only shows what you know. I heard him with my own ears- heard more than I ever want to, believe you me. He's as head over heels as if he'd invented this tart, and I'll take oath on that by the powers above."
He meant it. Krasta could see, could hear, as much. She asked, "How do you know all this? If he's with these bandits- were you with them, too?"
"For a little while," Amatu answered. "I spent some time down in Lagoas. When I came back across the Strait to Valmiera, I fell in with those people for a bit. But they haven't got the faintest idea what they're doing to the kingdom. They didn't want to listen to anybody who tried to tell them otherwise, either."
They didn't want to listen to you, and that's why you went over to the Algarvians, Krasta thought. She knew cattiness when she heard it; it came around too often in her own circle to let her mistake it. She was saved from having to say anything when a servant announced, "Milady, lords, supper is ready."
Amatu ate with good appetite, and did a good deal of drinking, too. When Lurcanio saw what the bill of fare was, he sent Krasta a reproachful look. She gave back her own most innocent s
tare, and said, "Don't you fancy our hearty Valmieran recipes?"
"I certainly do," Amatu said, and helped himself to another slice of tongue. He took a big spoonful of the onions the cook had boiled in the pot with the beef tongues. Lurcanio sighed, as if to say that even his own tool had turned in his hand and cut him. Krasta hid her smile.
After demolishing half the rhubarb pie himself, Amatu took his leave. Lurcanio sat in the dining hall, still sipping a cup of tea. He remarked, "You did not seem very excited about the news he had of your brother."
Krasta shrugged. "He seemed more interested in throwing it in my face than in really telling me anything about Skarnu, so I wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He doesn't like Skarnu much, does he?"
"One need hardly be a first-rank mage to see that," Lurcanio remarked. "Your brother, I gather, gave Amatu a good set of lumps before the count decided he might be better served on the Algarvian side."
"Did he?" Krasta said. "Well, good for him."
"I never claimed Amatu was the most lovable man ever born, though he does love himself rather well, would you not agreed?" Lurcanio said.
"Someone has to, I suppose," Krasta said. "He makes one."
"Sweet as ever," Lurcanio said, and Krasta smiled, as if at a compliment. Her Algarvian lover went on, "What do you think of what he did have to tell you?"
"I can't believe my brother would take up with a peasant girl," Krasta said. "It's… beneath his dignity."
"It also happens to be true," Lurcanio said. "Her name is Merkela. We were going to seize her, to use her as a lure to draw your brother, but she seems to have got wind of that, for she fled her farm."
"What would you have done with Skarnu if you'd caught him?" Krasta didn't want to ask the question, but didn't see how she could avoid it.
"Squeezed him for what he knew about the other bandits, of course," Lurcanio answered. "We are fighting a war, after all. Still, we wouldn't have done anything, ah, drastic if he had come out and told us what we needed to learn. Does Amatu look much the worse for wear?"
"Well, no," Krasta admitted.
"There you are, then," Lurcanio said. But Krasta wondered if it were so simple. Amatu, unless she misread things, had had a bellyful of Algarve's foes and had gone to the redheads of his own accord. No wonder they'd taken it easy on him, then. Skarnu wouldn't have had that on his side of the ledger.
I went to the redheads of my own accord, too, Krasta thought. No wonder they've taken it easy on me, then. To her amazement- indeed, to something not far from her horror- she burst into tears.
***
Had Sidroc sat any closer to the fire, his tunic would have started smoldering. Fall here in southern Unkerlant was as bad as winter back in Gromheort. He'd seen what winter was like here. He never wanted to see it again, but he would, and soon… if he lived long enough.
He didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about anything. All he wanted was the simple animal pleasure of warmth. A pot atop the fire was starting to bubble. Pretty soon, he'd have the animal pleasure of food, too. For the moment- and what else mattered in a soldier's life? -things weren't so bad.
Sergeant Werferth got to his feet and stirred the pot with a big iron spoon that had come from an Unkerlanter peasant hut. "Pretty soon," he said, settling back down on his haunches again.
"Good," Sidroc said. A couple of other men from Plegmund's Brigade nodded.
Werferth let out a long sigh. "We were that close to smashing them," he said, holding up his thumb and forefinger almost touching. "That close, curse it."
Ceorl held up his thumb and forefinger the same way. "I'm about that close to starving," the ruffian said. "That close, curse it."
Everybody laughed: even Werferth, whose dignity as an underofficer was menaced; even Sidroc, who still despised Ceorl whenever the two of them weren't fighting the Unkerlanters. Werferth said, "I told you it'd be done soon. Did you think I was lying?"
Somewhere off in the distance- not too far- eggs burst. Everyone's head came up as the soldiers gauged the distance and direction of the noise. "Ours," Sidroc judged. He waited to see if anybody would argue with him. When no one did, he relaxed- a little.
Werferth said, "Powers below eat me if I know how we figure out who's tossing those eggs and what it means. The way things have been going, we're not even sure where in blazes we're at."
"Somewhere this side of the Gifhorn River," Sidroc said. "Somewhere this side of the western border of Grelz, too, or we'd have those fellows in the dark green tunics fighting on our side." They were somewhere a long way north and west of Durrwangen, but he didn't mention that. Everybody around the fire already knew it too well.
"We hope we would, anyhow," Werferth said. "From what I hear, the Grelzers are getting shaky."
"Fair-weather friends." Ceorl spat into the campfire. "Blaze a few of 'em to remind the rest who they work for and they won't give you much trouble."
Sidroc found himself nodding. Even though Ceorl was the one who'd said it, it made good sense to him. Werferth stirred the pot again, lifted out the spoon to taste a mouthful, and nodded. "It's done."
The stew was cabbage and buckwheat groats and turnips and meat from a dead unicorn, all boiled together with some salt. Back in Gromheort, Sidroc wouldn't have touched it. Here, he wolfed it down and held out his mess tin for more. His comrades were doing the same, so he didn't get much of a second helping.
A sentry called out a challenge. The Forthwegians by the fire grabbed for their sticks. Nobody from Plegmund's Brigade ever left his weapon out of reach, not even for a moment. Anybody who did that in this country was asking to get his throat cut. But the answer came back in Algarvian: "You are Plegmund's Brigade, is it not so? I've got letters for you: soldiers' post."
They greeted him almost as enthusiastically as if he were a woman of easy virtue. He got whatever stew was left in the pot, and a swig of spirits from somebody's water bottle. Once he figured out which squad from which company they were, he started passing out letters. Some of them got passed back to him, with remarks like, "He's dead," or, "He got wounded and taken off a couple weeks ago," that took the edge off the excitement of seeing mail.
Sidroc leaped in the air when the Algarvian called his name. He hadn't heard from Gromheort in a long time. The only person there who cared to write him was his father. The rest of his family were either dead or hated him, and that ran both ways.
Sure enough, the envelope the redhead handed him bore his father's familiar handwriting. It also bore a prewar Forthwegian value imprinted in one corner, and a green handstamp that said MILITARY POST over it. People who collected envelopes might have paid a fair bit of silver for this one. Sidroc wasn't any of those people, and so he tore it open to get at the letter inside.
My dear son, his father wrote. It was good to hear from you, and good to hear that you came through the hard fighting around Durrwangen safe. I hope this finds you well. Powers above grant it be so. I am well enough, though a toothache will send me to the dentist when it gets bad enough.
After I got your last letter, I paid a call on your dear Uncle Hestan. Sidroc grunted at that; Ealstan and Leofsig's father wasn't dear to him these days, nor he to Hestan. His own father went on, I told him what you had to say to me about the Kaunian wench named Vanai, and about the way his precious son Ealstan had been panting after her for years. I also told him she was an Algarvian officer's plaything in Oyngestun.
He only shrugged and said he didn't know anything about it. He said he hadn't heard a word from Ealstan since the day you got hit in the head (however that happened) and the self-righteous little brat disappeared (however that happened).
I don't believe him. But you know Hestan too well, the same as I do. He never tells his face what he is thinking. A lot of people think he is clever just because they don't know what's going on inside his head. And he may even be clever, but he is not as smart as he thinks he is.
"Ha! That's the truth, by the powers above," Sidroc said,
as if his father were standing there beside him.
I am afraid I will never be able to get to the bottom of this by myself, the letter went on. Maybe I will see if the Algarvians are interested in getting to the bottom of it for me. Hestan is my own flesh and blood, but that gets hard to remember after all the names he's called me since things went sour between you and his sons.
You are everything I have left. Stay safe. Stay warm. Be brave- I know you will. Love, your father.
"Powers below eat Uncle Hestan," Sidroc muttered. "Powers below eat Ealstan, too. He'd always suck up to the schoolmasters, and I'd get the stripes."
"Who's it from, Sidroc?" Sergeant Werferth asked. "Anything juicy in it?" The soldiers who got letters from sweethearts often read out the livelier bits to amuse their comrades.
But Sidroc shook his head. "Not a thing. It's just from my old man."
"Well, is he getting any?" Ceorl demanded. Sidroc shook his head again and put the letter in his belt pouch. Ceorl looked to be about to say something else. Sergeant Werferth set him to gathering more wood to throw on the fire. Werferth knew Sidroc and Ceorl had no love lost between them. He did his best not to give them any chance to quarrel.
"Halt! Who goes there?" the sentry called again.
"I have the honor to be Captain Baiardo," another Algarvian answered. "Do you have the honor to be the men of Plegmundo's- no, Plegmund's- Brigade?"
"Aye," the sentry answered. "Advance and be recognized, sir."
Sidroc turned to Sergeant Werferth. "Too bad they wouldn't let you keep the company, Sergeant. You've done as well with it as any of the redhead officers they put over us."
"Thanks." Werferth shrugged. "What can you do? They give the orders."
But Baiardo, when he came up to the fire, proved not to be the new company commander. Along with his rank badges, he wore that of a mage- he was an officer by courtesy, not by blood. And it took a lot of courtesy to reckon him an officer: he looked like an unmade bed. "Who's in charge here?" he asked, peering from one Forthwegian to another.
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