“Aye, so I am,” Lurcanio agreed. “And one of the duties of a colonel and count is to command a regiment or brigade in the service of his king. A good many regiments and brigades want colonels to command them these days, because a good many colonels who commanded them in days gone by are dead.”
The chill that ran through Krasta had nothing to do with the weather. The war hadn’t come to Priekule, not in person; King Gainibu had yielded before the Algarvians attacked the capital of Valmiera. Here and now, though, the war was reaching into Priekule through the bursting eggs and blazing sticks on the far side of the world—which was how she viewed Unkerlant.
Lurcanio went on, “A good many people are pulling all the wires they can to stay in Valmiera. Given the choices involved, I must say I understand this. Would you not agree?”
“No one in his right mind would go to Unkerlant if he could stay in Priekule.” Krasta spoke with great conviction.
“You are right, even if you do not fully understand the reason,” Lurcanio said. With what looked to Krasta like a deliberate effort of will, he grew more cheerful. “I am given to understand that your Viscount Valnu is giving an entertainment this evening. Shall we go and see what new scandal he comes up with?”
“He’s not my Viscount Valnu,” Krasta said with a sniff and a toss of the head, “but I’m always game for scandal.”
“That I have seen.” Maybe Lurcanio was amused, maybe not. “You will, however, do me the courtesy of not making me wait for you tonight.”
Krasta thought hard about making him do exactly that. In the end, she didn’t dare. With Lurcanio’s temper uncertain, he might grow . . . unpleasant if crossed.
When she did come downstairs in good time, he nodded grave approval. He could be charming when he chose, and he did choose charm during the carriage ride to Valnu’s mansion. He made Krasta laugh. He made himself laugh, too. If his mirth seemed a little strained, Krasta didn’t notice.
“Hello, sweetheart!” Valnu cried when they arrived. He kissed Krasta on the cheek. Then he turned to Lurcanio and cried, “Hello, sweetheart!” again. Lurcanio got a kiss identical to Krasta’s.
“Your versatility does you credit,” the Algarvian officer said. Valnu sniggered and waved him out of the entry hall and into the enormous front room.
An Algarvian musician tinkled away on a harpsichord. That made Krasta want to yawn. She took a glass of sparkling wine from a maidservant who circulated with a tray. The servant was pretty, and wore the shortest kilt Krasta had ever seen on anyone, man or woman. When she bent down to give an Algarvian in a chair a glass of wine, Krasta noted she wore nothing under the tunic. Quite a lot of Valnu’s male guests noticed that, too. Krasta muttered under her breath. She was a long way from shocked, but didn’t care for such blatant invitations to infidelity. As if men needed them!
“Can’t you afford drawers on what he pays you, dear?” she asked when the maidservant came by again. Valnu was in earshot. She’d made sure of that.
But the serving girl only sighed and replied, “He pays me more when I don’t wear them, milady.” Krasta scowled and turned away. There was no sport in an answer like that.
And there was no sport at the entertainment, either. It was as flat as a glass of sparkling wine left out too long. Now and again, it would come close to livening up. But then someone somewhere in the big room would say the name “Sulingen,” and the freeze that had come to the Algarvian wing of Krasta’s mansion would fall over the entertainment as well. It was as frustrating as a clumsy lover’s caresses.
Having drunk several glasses of wine by the time she noticed that, Krasta wasn’t shy about tracking down Valnu and complaining. “You’ll ruin your reputation for proper parties as thoroughly as you’ll ruin that serving wench’s reputation for—well, for anything,” she said.
Valnu laughed at her. “Darling, I didn’t think you thought servants could even have reputations to ruin.”
In the normal run of things, Krasta didn’t. But this wasn’t normal. She said, “She’ll have more fingerprints on her backside than a shop window does when they put a big SALE! sign in it.”
“You’d better be careful,” Valnu warned her, laughing still. “People will say you’re growing a conscience, and where would you be then?”
“I know what I’m doing,” Krasta said loudly. She waved a forefinger under Valnu’s long, blade-thin nose. “And I know what you’re doing, too, powers below eat me if I don’t.”
She meant no more than that he was mocking her. To her astonishment, he reached out and clapped the palm of his hand over her mouth, hissing, “Then shut up about it, will you, you stupid little slut?”
Krasta opened her mouth to bite him. He jerked his hand away. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.
“I might ask you the same question,” he replied. Suddenly, his lean face acquired a grin that seemed altogether too wide for it. “Instead, I think I’ll do this.” He gathered her in and kissed her with a passion that struck her as altogether unfeigned. She started to bite his probing tongue as she’d almost bitten his hand, but discovered she was enjoying herself. With a small, nasty purr, she pressed her body against his.
He made the most of the embrace, clutching her backside with both hands and sliding his fingers toward her secret place. She rocked her hips forward and back and from side to side. Whatever Viscount Valnu’s other tastes might have been, she was utterly certain he wanted her at the moment.
And she wanted him, too, as much to score one off Colonel Lurcanio as for himself. Having an Algarvian protector was useful, even vital at times—all the more reason for Krasta to chafe at the short leash Lurcanio set her. Or so she told herself, at any rate.
“Well, here we have a charming picture, don’t we?”
The amused contempt in that trillingly accented voice made Krasta spring away from Valnu like a soaked cat. She stared at Lurcanio with fear and defiance in her eyes. Fear won, and quickly. Pointing an accusing finger at Valnu, she exclaimed, “He molested me!”
“Oh, I doubt it not at all.” Lurcanio rocked back on his heels as he laughed mockingly. “Were you any more molested, you would have been wearing lingerie instead of your out-on-the-town clothes.”
“My dear Count—” Valnu began.
Colonel Lurcanio waved him to silence. “I am not your dear, regardless of whether or not certain of my countrymen can make the same statement. I do not particularly blame you—a man will try to get it in. You, I gather, will try to get it in almost anywhere.” He paused. “Aye? You still wish to say something, Viscount?”
“Only that variety, as I am in the habit of remarking, is the life of spice.”
“A point to which my sweet companion would surely agree.” Lurcanio turned to—and turned on—Krasta and bowed. Algarvians could be most wounding when they were most polite. “And now, milady, what have you got to say for yourself?”
Krasta didn’t usually think fast, but self-preservation gave her strong incentive. Haughtily drawing herself up, she replied, “Only that I was having a good time. Isn’t that why one comes to an entertainment: to have a good time?”
Lurcanio bowed again. “I do admire your nerve. Your good sense leaves something to be desired. I am certain I am not the first to tell you this. I am just as certain I am unlikely to be the last. But I am also certain that if you embarrass me in public, I must do the same to you.” Without warning, without wasted motion, he slapped her face.
Heads whipped around at the sound of the slap. Then, very quickly, everyone pretended not to notice. Such things happened now and again. Krasta had seen them. She’d laughed at women foolish enough to get caught. Now, no doubt, other women would laugh at her.
She hated that. But she didn’t think of slapping Lurcanio back, not even for a moment. She’d slapped him once, when she still thought of him as a social inferior rather than a conqueror. He’d slapped her back then, stunning her and establishing a dominance he’d held ever since. What would he do if she
dared rebel in any real way? She didn’t have the nerve to find out.
To Valnu, Lurcanio said, “As for you, sir, try your luck elsewhere.”
Valnu bowed low. He wore an Algarvian-style kilt tonight, as he often did, and he also aped Algarvian manners. “As you say, my lord Count, so shall it be.”
“Of course it shall.” Now Lurcanio sounded as smug as if Algarve truly were on top of the world in every way, as if her armies had not fallen short outside of Cottbus the winter before, as if King Swemmel’s men weren’t squeezing another Algarvian army in a mailed fist now, far off in the southwest.
He believed in himself. Because he did, he made Krasta believe in him, too. And he made her forget all about whatever it was she’d said that had so alarmed Valnu.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on the red mark on her cheek. Then she had to spend more time repairing her powder and paint. She got drunk afterwards, as she often did at entertainments, but stayed more circumspect than she was otherwise likely to have done.
After the driver brought her and Lurcanio back to the mansion through the cold, slippery streets of Priekule, the Algarvian went up to her bedchamber with her. That took her by surprise; she’d thought he would sleep in his own bed as a sign of his anger. Instead, he used hands and mouth to bring her to a quick, abrupt peak of pleasure. He was always scrupulous about such things.
And then he surprised her again by rolling her onto her belly. When he began, she let out an indignant squawk. “Be still,” he snapped. “Let us call this . . . a salute to Valnu.”
She had to lie there and endure it. It hurt—not too much, but it did. And it humiliated her, as Lurcanio no doubt intended. When it was over, he patted her on one bare cheek and laughed a little, then dressed and left the bedchamber. Go ahead and laugh, Krasta thought. You don’t know everything there is to know, and I’ll never, ever tell you.
Exile. In essence, Skarnu had been in exile from his own way of life ever since he joined King Gainibu’s army when the war against Algarve was young and fresh and still held the possibility of glory. After he found out what that possibility was worth, he’d made another life for himself, one in most ways more satisfying than that which he’d left behind. And now he’d had that one yanked out from under him, too.
Curse you, Krasta, he thought, staring up at the badly plastered ceiling of the cheap flat the irregulars in Ventspils had found for him. If not for his sister, how would that cursed Lurcanio have known to come hunting for him? He hoped Merkela was all right, Merkela and the child she was carrying. Hope was all he could do. He didn’t dare to post her even the most innocuous letter, lest some Algarvian mage use it to track him down.
Here in Ventspils, he felt suspended betwixt and between. Back in Priekule, he’d been a person of the capital, a man of the big city, who’d enjoyed everything it had to offer. On the farm, even in Pavilosta, he’d learned to find simpler contentments: a good crop of beans in the garden, a laying hen the envy of all his neighbors, a mug of ale after a hard day’s work. And he’d learned the difference between pleasure and love, a distinction he’d never bother drawing in Priekule.
He had no work in Ventspils, not yet. He had no friends here, only a handful of acquaintances among the irregulars who’d installed him in the flat. And Ventspils, off to the east of Priekule, had to be the most boring town in Valmiera. If it wasn’t, he pitied the place that was.
After a while, staring at the ceiling threatened to drive him mad. He got up and put on the coat the irregulars had given him to replace the sheepskin jacket he’d brought from the farm. With its wide lapels, the coat would have been years out of fashion in Priekule, but he’d seen plenty of people here wearing and even showing off equally unstylish garments. He also put on a broad-brimmed felt hat, and wished for one with earflaps like those the Unkerlanters wore.
Not many people were on the streets. The freezing rain had stopped a couple of hours before, but glare ice was everywhere, shining and treacherous. City workers should have been spreading salt to help melt it and to give better footing, but where were they? Nowhere Skarnu could see. He slipped and had to grab a lamp post to keep from falling.
A couple of Algarvian soldiers in hobnailed boots laughed at him. They had no trouble keeping their feet. “I hope you get sent to Unkerlant,” he muttered. “I hope your toes freeze and turn black and fall off.” He made sure the redheads didn’t hear him, though. They might have spoken Valmieran. He took no needless chances.
A news-sheet vendor shouted his wares, and no doubt shouted all the more lustily to help keep his teeth from chattering. “Another Algarvian victory north of Sulingen!” he bellowed, his breath steaming at every word. “King Swemmel’s barbarous hordes hurled back in dismay!”
Skarnu’s laughter sent smoke steaming from his mouth and nose, too. Mezentio’s men were good liars, but not good enough. They had supposedly won all the battles north of Sulingen long ago. Why were they fighting there again if they weren’t in trouble?
But how many people would notice that? How many people would care if they did notice? The Algarvians had to be winning the war, didn’t they? Of course they did. They’d beaten Valmiera. That meant they had to beat everyone else. If they didn’t beat everyone else, how could a Valmieran sleep easy after lying down on his back to expose his throat to the conquerors . . . or lying down on her back to expose something else?
Krasta. Sometimes Skarnu wanted to kill his sister. Sometimes he wanted to slap some sense into her silly head. He sighed. Somebody should have tried that years before. Too late now, more likely than not. Sometimes he just wanted to sit down beside her and ask her why.
Because I felt like it. He could hear her voice in his mind. She wouldn’t think past that. He knew her too well. She wouldn’t think much about betraying him to the Algarvian colonel to whom she gave herself, either. Skarnu would have guessed that beneath her, but evidently he was wrong.
He walked past the news-sheet vendor, brusquely shaking his head when the fellow waved a sheet at him to try to tempt him to buy. The man couldn’t even curse him, for he might lay out a couple of coppers another time. The vendor could only shake his head and go on calling out the news in the hope that someone else would want to read it.
Half a block farther on, a beggar stood out in front of a jeweler’s. Even though he couldn’t have been more than twelve years old, the place was as much his as the shop full of trinkets belonged to the jeweler. He’d already driven off a couple of grown men, one after the other, to keep it. The placard by his little tin cup read, MY FATHER NEVER CAME HOME FROM THE WAR. PLEASE HELP.
Skarnu tossed him a coin. “Powers above bless you, sir!” the beggar boy cried as it rattled into the cup. Skarnu kept walking. He didn’t know whether the boy was telling the truth or not, but didn’t care to take the chance he was lying, either.
He turned and went into a tavern that called itself the Lion and the Mouse these days. Its signboard was newer than most of those on the frowzy street. Before the war, before the Valmieran collapse, it had been known as the Imperial Lion. Valmierans had been proud to remember the days of the Kaunian Empire. The Algarvian occupiers, though, wanted them to forget.
Thanks to a coal fire, the tavern was warm inside. Skarnu sighed with pleasure and shrugged off the jacket with the wide lapels. A couple of men stood at the bar. One of them was trying to chat up a raddled-looking woman. He wasn’t having much luck, not least because he looked poor. Three more men sat at a table, two of them drinking ale, one nursing a glass of spirits.
The fellow with the spirits nodded to Skarnu and waved for him to join them. He did, setting his backside on a stool that creaked. The raddled-looking woman turned out to be a barmaid. Moving no faster than she had to, she ambled over and asked him, “What’ll it be?” By the way she leaned toward him, and by the number of toggles undone on her tunic, he could have had her as long as he had the price, too.
“Ale,” he answered. “Just ale.” She gave him a sour look
, then went off to fetch him a mug.
“Hello, Pavilosta,” said the man with the glass of spirits. Names were in short supply among the irregulars. They called him by that of the village from whose neighborhood he’d had to flee. Considering how urgent his departure had been, even that came too close to identifying him to leave him quite comfortable with it.
“Hello yourself, Painter,” he said. No one could make much out of a nickname taken from a fellow’s job. He nodded to the other men. “Butcher. Cordwainer.”
They raised their mugs in greeting and salute. The barmaid came back with Skarnu’s ale. She pointedly stood by the table till he paid her. Then, her face still pinched with disapproval, she a walked back to the bar.
In a low voice, the fellow who made boots said, “You’re smart not to want any of her. She’s so cold, you’d freeze your joint off once you got it in there.” He sipped from his own mug, then added, “I ought to know.”
“You bragging or complaining?” asked the man who painted houses. Skarnu tried his ale. It wasn’t bad. He sat and waited. Ventspils wasn’t his town, not even by adoption. He couldn’t make plans here, as he had back near Pavilosta. He had to be part of other people’s plans. He didn’t care for that, but he didn’t know what to do about it, either.
“Tell him what you heard,” the bootmaker said, instead of coming back with a sally of his own.
“I’ll get round to it, never fear.” As Skarnu had been a power round Pavilosta, so the painter was a power in Ventspils. He did things his way, not the way anyone told him to do them. As if to say he wouldn’t be rushed, he finished his drink and waved for another one. Only after he’d got it did he remark, “The redheads will be bringing some captured Lagoan dragonfliers through town tonight, on the way to the captives’ camp outside Priekule.”
Lagoans were redheads, too, but nobody used the word to include them. Skarnu asked, “Can we filch ’em?”
“We’re going to try,” the painter answered. “I know you can use a stick, so I want you in on it.” Skarnu nodded. The underground knew he’d blazed Count Simanu, Count Enkuru’s even more unsavory son. Unfortunately, that meant the Algarvians were also good bets to know. Traitors everywhere, he thought. But some traitor to the Algarvian cause had let them know the dragonfliers would be coming. It evened out—though even wasn’t good enough to suit Skarnu. The man from Ventspils went on, “We’ll meet behind the clock tower a little before midnight.”
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