“Aye, that’s so.” Leofsig slid into the water himself. He rubbed at his hide. By the time he got through, he was three shades lighter than when he’d begun. The plunge wasn’t so warm as to make him want to linger, though, as it would have been in happier times. He climbed up the steps and headed for the soaping room.
The liquid soap in the troughs wasn’t what it had been before the war, either. It was cheap and harsh with lye and smelled nasty. When he rubbed it into a little cut on his arm, it burned like fire.
An enormous rub stood in the rinsing room. He grabbed a bucket with a pierced bottom, filled it in the tub, and hung it from a hook at a level above his head. As the water in it streamed out through the holes, he stood under it and let the soap run off down the drain. A man in a hurry could make do with one bucket. Tonight, Leofsig used two.
On the other side of the brick wall, women were rinsing. As every man of Gromheort had surely done, Leofsig imagined that wall suddenly made transparent. Imagining Felgilde, his almost-fiancee, bare and wet and slick made the water seem warmer than it was. Imagining the screech she’d let out if the wall did turn transparent made him laugh. He set the bucket back by the tub for another bather to use, then got a towel from a Kaunian attendant who’d been there as long as he could remember--and as long as his father could remember, too.
When Leofsig was younger, he’d once said, “Maybe he’s been handing out towels since the days of the Kaunian Empire.”
Hestan had laughed, but then, precise as always, he’d shaken his head and said, “No. People bathing together is a Forthwegian custom, and an Unkerlanter one, too, but not a Kaunian one.”
Dry and clean now, Leofsig threw his towel into a wickerwork basket and went up to the antechamber to get his tunic. He hated to put it back on; it was grimy and smelly. But he was no Zuwayzi, to walk unconcerned through the streets of Gromheort without a stitch on. I’ll change when I get home, he thought.
He’d gone only a block or so when a chubby Algarvian in tunic and kilt of cut somewhat different from the army’s spoke to him in Algarvian. “I don’t know your language,” he said in Forthwegian. That wasn’t quite true, but, unlike his brother Ealstan and cousin Sidroc, he hadn’t had to learn it in school. Plainly, the redhead didn’t follow him, either. Leofsig tried classical Kaunian: “Do you understand me now?
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he wondered if he’d made a bad mistake. The Algarvians despised everything in any way connected to Kaunians. But this fellow, after frowning, answered in halting, thickly accented Kaunian: “Understanding little. Not using when . . . after . . . since school.” He beamed at coming up with the right word.
Leofsig nodded to show he understood, too. “What do you want?” he asked, speaking slowly and clearly.
“Not finding,” the Algarvian said. After a moment, Leofsig realized he meant lost. The redhead pulled a sheet of paper out of a tunic pocket. It turned out to be a map of Gromheort. He pointed. “Going here, please?” Here was a barracks where soldiers had been garrisoned. The Algarvian waved, one of his people’s extravagant gestures. “I now where?” He made a comic display of frustration and embarrassment.
“I will show you,” Leofsig said. He’d started to help before remembering he hated the conquerors. He had trouble hating this particular one, who was rumpled and funny and had asked for help instead of demanding it. And so, instead of sending him the wrong way, Leofsig traced the route back to the barracks on the map.
“Ah.” The Algarvian swept off his hat and bowed as deeply as his rotund frame would allow. “Thanking.” He bowed again. Leofsig nodded in return; Forthwegians were a less demonstrative people. Peering at the map, the redhead went off down the street. Maybe he would find the barracks. He was headed in the right direction, anyhow. He looked back to Leofsig and waved. Leofsig gave him another nod and headed on toward his own home.
He mentioned the affable Algarvian over supper. His father nodded. “That must be one of the constables they’re bringing in,” Hestan said. “If they use constables to keep order hereabouts, they can put more soldiers into the attack on Unkerlant.” He glanced over to Uncle Hengist, as if he’d just proved a point.
By the way Hengist fidgeted, maybe Hestan had. Hengist said, “They’re still moving forward. By the news sheet, they’ve trapped a big army west of the capital of the Duchy of Grelz--forget the cursed place’s name. After a while, Unkerlant will run out of armies.”
“Herborn,” Ealstan put in.
“Unless Algarve runs out first,” Hestan added. Hengist snorted and gestured dismissively, almost as if he were an Algarvian himself. Hestan sipped from his cup of wine, then turned back to Leofsig. “And what was this constable like, son?”
“He didn’t seem too bad a fellow,” Leofsig answered: about as much as he would say for any Algarvian. “He thanked me when I showed him where he ought to go. None of their soldiers would have.”
“All their soldiers were good for were pinches on the bottom,” Conberge said.
“I never had that happen to me,” Leofsig observed.
“You’d best be glad you didn’t,” Sidroc said archly. Everyone laughed. It was easier and more comforting to think of the Algarvians as woman-chasers--which they were--than as warriors who had overwhelmed all their opponents--which, unfortunately for their neighbors, they also were.
“Would anyone like more of this beans-and-cheese casserole?” Leofsig’s mother asked, reaching out to touch the spoon in the bowl. “There’s plenty, for once; I went to the markets early, and got the cheese before it all disappeared.”
“I’ll take more, Elfryth,” Hestan said. Leofsig and Sidroc pushed their plates toward her, too. If his mother hadn’t said there was plenty and plainly meant it, Leofsig would have made do with one helping. He’d grown resigned to being hungry a lot of the time. Feeling full, as he did after his seconds, seemed strange, almost unnatural.
After supper, Ealstan came to him for help with a bookkeeping problem their father had set him. Leofsig looked at it, then shook his head. “I know I ought to know how to solve it, but I’m cursed if I can remember right now.” He yawned enormously. “I’m so tired, I can’t even see. That’s how I am most nights. You don’t know how lucky you are that Father decided to keep you in school.”
“It doesn’t teach much, not any more,” his brother answered. “I’m learning a lot more from Father than from the masters.”
“You’re missing the point,” Leofsig said. “You could be out hauling rocks instead. Plenty your age are. Then you’d be too tired to think, too.”
“Oh, I understand that,” Ealstan said. “What makes me sizzle is watching Sidroc not even working at the watered-down pap the Algarvians still let the schoolmasters teach.”
“If Sidroc wants the masters to stripe his back, that’s his affair,” Leofsig said. “If he wants to try to get through life on gab, that’s his affair, too. I don’t know why you’re wasting your time worrying about it.”
“Because he goes off and does what he pleases, and I have the masters’ work and Father’s, too, that’s why,” Ealstan snapped. Then he paused and looked sheepish. “It could be worse, couldn’t it?”
“Just a bit,” Leofsig said dryly. “Aye, just a bit.” But he paused, too. “It could be worse for me, too, now that I think on it.”
This time, Ealstan did not miss the point even for a moment. “Of course it could,” he said. “You could be a Kaunian.” He lowered his voice. “At least you know. So many people don’t even want to, or else say the blonds have it coming.” He looked around, then spoke more softly still: “Some of those people are right in this house.”
“Aye, I know that,” Leofsig said. “If you ask me, Sidroc wishes he were an Algarvian. Uncle Hengist, too, though not so bad.”
Ealstan shook his head. “That’s not it--close, but not right. Sidroc just wants to be on top, and the Algarvians are.”
“If he wants to be on top--” Leofsig broke off. Ealstan h
adn’t been through the army, and didn’t take crudity for granted. Leofsig shrugged. “You know him better than I do--and you’re welcome to him, too, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Thanks,” his younger brother said in a way that wasn’t thankful at all. They both chuckled. Then Ealstan grew serious once more. “I’d like to pop him right in the face for the way he rides me about the problems Father sets me, but I don’t quite dare.”
“Why not?” Leofsig asked. “I think you can thump him--and if you have trouble, I’ll pitch in. A set of lumps’ll shut him up.”
“Maybe I can, maybe I can’t, but that’s not it,” Ealstan said. “And if I ever do mix it up with him, I want you to stay out of it.”
Leofsig frowned. “I’m not following this. What are big brothers for, if they’re not for thumping people who give little brothers trouble?”
Ealstan licked his lips. “If you thump him, he’s liable to go to the redheads and remind them nobody ever let you out of that captives’ camp. I don’t know that he would, but I don’t know that he wouldn’t, either.”
“Oh.” Leofsig pondered that. Slowly, he nodded. “When you lift up a rock, you find all sorts of little white crawling things under it, don’t you? That he’d do such a thing to his own flesh and blood . . . But he might, curse it. You’re right. He might.” He rubbed his chin. His black beard was a man’s now, thick and coarse, not soft fuzz like Ealstan’s. “I don’t want him having that kind of hold on me. I don’t want anyone having that kind of hold on me.”
“I don’t know what we can do about it,” Ealstan said.
“I’ve frightened him once or twice already, when he started blowing in that direction,” Leofsig said. “If I put him in fear of his life . . .” He spoke altogether matter-of-factly. Before going into King Penda’s levy, he’d been as mild as anyone would expect from a bookkeeper’s son. Now the only thing holding him back was doubt about how well the ploy would work. He clicked his tongue between his teeth. “The stinking worm might just run straight to the Algarvians.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Ealstan said. “I don’t know what to do.
Maybe sitting tight and waiting would be best. It’s always worked pretty well for Father.”
“Aye, so it has.” Leofsig gnawed at the inside of his lower lip. “I don’t like it, though. Powers above can’t make me like it, either.” He pounded a fist down onto his thigh. “I wonder if Uncle Hengist would sell me, too.”
Ealstan looked startled. “He’s never said anything--”
“So what?” Leofsig broke in. “Sometimes the ones who don’t blab beforehand are more dangerous than the ones who do.”
In Skrunda, as in so many Jelgavan towns, ancient and modern lived side by side. A couple of blocks beyond the market square stood an enormous marble arch from the later days of the Kaunian Empire celebrating the triumph of the Emperor Gedimainas over the Algarvian tribe known as the Belsiti. Below a relief of kilted barbarians being led away in chains, Gedimainas’ inscription declared to the world what a hero and conqueror he was.
Talsu took the arch and its inscription as much for granted as he did the oil-seller’s shop next to it on the street. He’d walked under it a couple of times a week ever since he’d got big enough to go so far from home. He rarely bothered looking up at the relief or at the vaunting inscription below it. He could barely make sense of the inscription, anyhow; he hadn’t studied classical Kaunian in school, and Jelgavan, like Valmieran, had drifted a long way from the old language.
He headed toward the arch this particular morning because he was carrying four pairs of trousers his father, Traku, had made for a customer who lived half a mile down the street the monument straddled. A crowd had gathered under the arch. Some were Jelgavans, some Algarvians in their broad-brimmed hats, tight tunics, kilts, and knee stockings.
“You can’t do that,” one of the Jelgavans exclaimed. Several ofTalsu’s countrymen nodded. Somebody else said, “That arch has stood there for more than a thousand years. Knocking it down would be an outrage!” More Jelgavans nodded.
“Why do they want to knock down the arch?” Talsu asked somebody at the back of the little crowd. “It’s not doing anything to anybody.” He consciously noticed it for only the third or fourth time since coming home to Skrunda after the Jelgavan defeat the year before.
Before the fellow could answer, one of the Algarvians did, in Jelgavan accented but clear: “We can destroy it, and we will destroy it. It is an insult to all the brave Algarvians of ancient days, and to the Algarvic kingdoms of today: to Algarve, to Sibiu, and even to Lagoas, that is misguided enough to be our foe.”
From the middle of the crowd, a woman called, “How is it an insult if it tells the truth?”
“Algarvians went on to triumph,” the redheaded officer replied. “That proves all the vile things this Kaunian tyrant said about our ancestors were false. They have stood too long. They shall stand no more.” He turned to a mage. Looking over the people in the crowd, Talsu saw that eggs had been affixed to the pillars upholding the arch. All of a sudden, he didn’t want to stand right there.
The oil seller didn’t like his shop standing right there, either. Bursting out of it, he cried, “You people are going to drop a million tons of rock right through my roof!”
“Calm yourself,” the officer said, a startling bit of advice from an excitable Algarvian’s mouth. “Buraldo there is very good at what he does, very careful. You should come through fine.”
“And if I don’t?” the oil seller shouted. The Algarvian shrugged one of his kingdom’s extravagant shrugs. The oil seller shouted again, wordlessly this time.
Talsu shouldered his way through the crowd. A couple of Algarvian soldiers swung their sticks in his direction. They were only alert, though, not dangerous. He’d seen the difference on the battlefield. Holding up the trousers, he said, “Before you do whatever you’re going to do, can I get by to deliver these?”
“Aye, go on,” the officer said, and waved him through witli a laugh. He was glad of the arch’s shade against the summer sun; that was about as much attention as he usually paid it. More Jelgavans stood on the far side, some of them also grumbling about what the redheads were on the point of doing to the monument. He pushed his way past them and up the street.
“How can you be so uncaring?” a woman with yellow hair like his demanded.
“Lady, I don’t want the redheads to knock it down, either,” Talsu answered. “But I can’t do anything about it, and neither can you. If you have the time to stand around and moan, fine. Me, I’ve got work to do.”
She stared at him. By the cut and cloth of her clothes, she had more money than he. A tailor’s son, he could make a good guess at how much anyone made by what he wore on his back. These days, her wealth only meant the Algarvians could steal more from her than from Traku and his family.
Behind Talsu, the redheads started shouting, “Back! Everyone back! If you don’t go back, it’s your own cursed fault!”
“Shame!” somebody shouted. One by one, the crowd of Jelgavans took up the chant: “Shame! Shame! Shame!”
If the Algarvians felt any sense of shame, they didn’t let it stop them from doing what they had orders to do. Talsu hadn’t gone more than another few steps when a roar of bursting eggs made him want to dive for cover--again, reflexes honed in the field. An instant later, chunks of masonry thundered down like an avalanche in the mountains.
He turned to see what the redheads had wrought. Wind from the falling marble rustled his hair. The familiar square shape was gone. A cloud of dust kept him from seeing any more than that. When the dust settled, the street would be as unfamiliar to the eye as his lower jaw might be to the tongue after losing a couple of teeth. No one was shouting “Shame!” any more. He wondered if the collapse of the arch had caught any Jelgavans in it, or, for that matter, any of the Algarvian soldiers. He shrugged. He’d find out on the way back. Delivering the trousers came first.
Silver jing
led in his pockets as he headed home. By then, the dust was gone, and so was the arch. The Algarvians had been clever about dropping it; the marble lay in the street, but did not seem to have wrecked the houses and shops nearby. Talsu couldn’t see the oil-seller’s place, which lay on the far side of that great pile of rubble. Small boys had already started playing king of the mountain on top of it.
Their game did not last long. The Algarvian officer who spoke Jelgavan shouted, “Get off!” He followed that with some choice colloquialisms that set the children giggling as they scampered down. Then, to Talsu’s dismay, the officer and his soldiers (none of whom seemed to be missing) started pulling men off the street to get rid of the hill debris. One of the troopers nabbed him before he could make himself scarce.
He called, “Is this a paying job?” to the officer.
After a moment, the Algarvian nodded. “Aye, we’ll make it so.”
For the rest of the day, Talsu carried baskets of broken marble under the broiling summer sun. He dumped them into freight cars on the ley-line caravan that could get nearest the arch. That meant going halfway across town; people hadn’t known about ley lines in the days of the Kaunian Empire, and so hadn’t set their big buildings near them. The Algarvians didn’t stop him when he went into a tavern to buy a mug of ale, but one came in after him to make sure he didn’t linger or slip out the back door. He muttered curses under his breath; he’d had something like that in mind.
As evening twilight fell, he lined up to get his pay. He was worn and battered. Bruises covered his legs; he walked with a limp because a stone had done its best to smash his right foot. He had a couple of mashed fingernails, too, and half a dozen cuts and scrapes on his hands. “By the powers above, we earned whatever they give us,” he said.
When he got to the head of the line and held out an abused hand, the Algarvian officer slapped a couple of shiny new coppers into it. They bore the sharp-nosed image of King Mainardo, King Mezentio’s brother and now, by grace of Algarve, lord of Jelgava. Talsu looked from them to the redhead. “Go on,” the officer snapped. “Go on, and count yourself lucky you’re getting anything.”
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