“Kaunians, come forth!” the two constables shouted together. Nobody came forth. Bembo and Oraste looked at each other. They drew back a couple of paces, then slammed the door with their shoulders. It flew inward, the brackets in which its bar rested pulled out of the wall. Bembo sprawled on hands and knees in the front hall; he’d expected to bounce off his first try. Oraste kept his feet, but barely.
“They’ll pay for that, the scum,” Bembo muttered as he got to his feet. “Come on, let’s turn this place inside out.”
Sticks at the ready, he and Oraste swept through the house. They didn’t have to search long or hard: they found the Kaunians--a man and woman of about Bembo’s age, with two little girls too young to be interesting--cowering in a pantry in the kitchen. Oraste gestured with his stick. “Come out, every cursed one of you!” he growled.
“Aye, sir,” said the man, in decent Algarvian. He was, Bembo judged, frightened almost out of his wits, but doing his best not to show it for the sake of his family. In a low, urgent voice, he went on, “Whatever you want so you will say you could not find us, I will give it to you. I have money. I am not a poor man. All of it is yours--only let us live.”
“Kaunian,” Oraste said: an all-inclusive rejection. Bembo gave his comrade a dirty look. He’d wanted to see how much the blond would offer. But he couldn’t get away with that if Oraste didn’t go along.
The yellow-haired man whispered something to his wife. She bit her lip, but nodded. “Not money, then,” the Kaunian man said rapidly, desperately. “But anything you want. Anything.” He gestured to the woman. She undid the top toggle of her tunic. She wasn’t bad-looking--she wasn’t bad-looking at all--but. ..
“Out in the street, all of you,” Bembo barked. He was disgusted at himself, but more disgusted at the Kaunians for sinking so low and for reminding him how low he’d sunk. The blond man sighed. Now that he saw it was hopeless, he regained a measure of the dignity he’d thrown away. He put his arms around his daughters and shepherded them out. His wife set her tunic to rights before following.
“Good. You’ve got four,” Pesaro said, seeing the Kaunians Bembo and Oraste had found. A double handful more already stood glumly in the square. Before long, the constables had their quota from Hwinca.
Pesaro paid the Forthwegians who’d helped his men round up the blonds. One of the villagers said something in Kaunian as he got his money. Evodio translated: “He wants to know why we’re only taking this many, why we’re not cleaning out all of them.”
“Tell him this is what we got ordered to do, so this is what we’re doing,” Pesaro answered. “It’s just our job.” That was how he thought of it, too. Almonio’s conscience needed more of a shield. It all came down to the same thing in the end, though. The constables marched the Kaunians off toward Gromheort, off toward the caravans that would take them west.
Traku shook his head back and forth, back and forth, a man seemingly caught in the grip of nightmare. Before throwing his hands in the air in despair, he stared toward his son. “I have more cursed orders than I know what to do with,” he moaned.
They’d been facing different problems a few weeks before. “That one Algarvian liked the outfit you made for him, so he went and told his friends,” Talsu answered. “By everything I’ve seen, the redheads do like to talk.”
“I wouldn’t mind if. . .” Traku corrected himself: “I wouldn’t mind so much if I didn’t think all the talk going through Skrunda had to have some truth behind it. But if I’m slaving for the Algarvians while they’re doing horrible things to our folk, that’s hard to stomach.”
“Aye,” Talsu said, “but you know how rumors are. One day everybody says this was bound to happen, the next day it’s that, and then the day after it’s something else. In the war, the Algarvians weren’t any worse than we were, and that’s the truth. They might have been better.” He remembered Colonel Dzirnavu and the captive Algarvian woman he’d taken into his pavilion. Not a soul in the regiment had shed a tear when she cut Dzirnavu’s fat throat.
“Here’s hoping you’re right,” Traku said. “I don’t know that I think you are, but here’s hoping.”
Before he or Talsu could say anything further, the door to the tailor’s shop opened and an Algarvian officer came inside. Not just an Algarvian officer, Talsu saw, but the Algarvian officer: the one who’d made Traku popular among his countrymen garrisoned in Skrunda. “Good day, sir,” Talsu said, and then, on taking a closer look, “Are you all right?”
“All right? Of course I am all right. Why shouldn’t I be all right?” the redhead said in his accented Jelgavan. He staggered rather than walked, red tracked his eyes, and the stench of strong spirits came off him in waves. Pointing a peremptory finger at Traku, he said, “My good man, I require a cloak of the heaviest stuff you can buy, and I require it as soon as you can possibly turn it out, which had better be pretty cursed quick, do you hear me?”
“Aye, sir, I do,” Traku said, “though if you’ll forgive my saying so, a heavy cloak isn’t the sort of garment you’ll get much use from in Jelgava.”
“Jelgava?” the Algarvian officer cried. “Jelgava?” He might never have heard of the kingdom before. “Who said anything about cursed Jelgava? They’re shipping me to Unkerlant is what they’re doing. They haven’t had enough men killed there to satisfy them yet, so they’re going to try to put me on the list, too. Go ahead, tell me I won’t need a cloak like that in Unkerlant.”
“It’s supposed to be a cold kingdom, for true.” Traku turned brisk. “Now, then, sir, what will you pay me for such a cloak?”
‘As if money matters when I am going to Unkerlant!” the Algarvian exclaimed. As far as Talsu was concerned, that proved how drunk he was: money always mattered. The redhead fumbled about in his belt pouch and set two gold-pieces on the counter in front of Traku. “There! Does that satisfy you?”
“Aye,” Traku answered in a strangled voice. Talsu stared at the gold coins, both stamped with King Mezentio’s beaky visage. He didn’t blame his father for sounding astonished. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen gold. Traku gathered himself and asked, “When will you require the cloak, sir?”
“Day after tomorrow--no later,” the Algarvian answered. “The cursed ley-line caravan leaves the day after that. Unkerlant!” It was almost a howl of despair. “What did I do to make someone want to send me to Unkerlant?”
“Maybe Algarve is running short on soldiers,” Talsu said. He didn’t want to sound as if he was gloating but had trouble doing anything else. His father hissed at him in alarm, lest he queer the bargain. Traku might not want to serve the Algarvians, but he didn’t mind taking their money.
Fortunately, the officer paid Talsu’s tone no mind. “Someone still has to garrison Jelgava,” he said. “It might as well be me.”
This time, Talsu had the sense to keep his mouth shut. Traku said, “A cloak is not a complicated garment. I can make one for you in two days, sir. The heaviest wool I can lay my hands on, is that right?”
“Just exactly right.” The Algarvian officer snapped his fingers. “The heaviest light-colored wool you can lay your hands on. I don’t care to stand out like a lump of coal against the stinking snowfields.”
“Aye,” Traku said tonelessly. When Talsu glanced his father’s way, Traku wouldn’t meet his eye. Had he planned on giving the Algarvian a black cloak in the hope that it would get him killed? Talsu couldn’t prove it, and he couldn’t ask, either, no matter how drunk the redhead was. The fellow might note what he said and might remember it after leaving.
For now, the Algarvian just stood there, swaying gently. “Unkerlant,” he said again, his voice a mournful bleat. “What did I do to deserve being sent to Unkerlant?”
“I couldn’t say, sir,” Traku replied. “I’ll have your cloak ready day after tomorrow. Thick wool, light-colored. A very good day to you.”
He was, Talsu realized, trying to get the officer out of the shop. Rather to Talsu’s surprise, the Algarvian
took the hint, too. He lurched back out onto the street, slamming the door behind him. When he was gone, Talsu stared at the coins he’d set on the counter. “Gold, Father,” he murmured.
“Aye, and enough to buy him half a dozen cloaks,” Traku answered. “Well, I’ll give him a good one. I could face it with fur--powers above, I could cursed near face it with ermine--but he didn’t ask for that, so he’ll have to do without.”
“You ought to give him something shoddy,” Talsu said. “Who cares if the whoreson freezes? He’ll do it a long way from here.”
“Maybe I ought to, but I won’t,” his father said. “My pride won’t let me. I’ll dicker hard on price, but not on the quality of the goods once I have a price, and besides, the lousy bugger may write to his friends back here, or he may even come back here himself one day. The Algarvians are still moving ahead, or that’s what the news sheets say, anyhow.”
“They say whatever the Algarvians want them to say,” Talsu pointed out. “They say Mainardo’s the best king Jelgava ever had, and everybody loves him.”
“Oh. That.” Traku shrugged. “Everybody knows that’s a lie, so what’s the use of getting upset about it? Most of the time, though, you can find out when they’re stretching things if you ask around a little. I haven’t heard anybody say the Algarvians aren’t still advancing. Have you?”
“No, not when you put it so,” Talsu admitted. “I wish I had.”
“That’s a different story.” Traku paused in thought. “Now, have I got the material he’ll need in stock, or am I going to have to scour Skrunda for it?” He went through what he did have, then called to Talsu: “Here, come feel this bolt of beige stuff. Do you think it would do?”
Talsu rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. “I think you could wear it instead of chainmail, matter of fact. You’d feel like you were carrying another man on your back with a cloak made from it.”
“He asked for heavy,” Traku said. “He can’t very well complain if it turns out even heavier than he looked for.” He reached under the counter and pulled out a stout pair of pinking shears. “Get me his measurements, will you, son? I want to make sure I have the length just right.”
When the Algarvian captain came into the shop to pick up the cloak, he was sober. He still looked no happier at the prospect of going off to fight in Unkerlant. From everything Talsu had heard about the weather in the huge western kingdom, he couldn’t blame the redhead for that.
Traku draped the cloak over the Algarvian’s shoulders, as fussy to get it right as if he’d made it for King Donalitu. “I put a lot of handwork into it, sir,” he said. “Not as much room to use magic in a cloak as there would be in, say, one of your kilts.”
Staggering a little under the weight of the garment, the redhead said, “Plain enough that you didn’t stint on the cloth.” Before the tailor could answer, the officer gave a shrug--an effort-filled shrug, with the cloak still heavy on his shoulders. “Fair enough. I will probably need all of this in Unkerlant.”
“I hope it is what you had in mind,” Traku said.
“Oh, aye, very much so.” The Algarvian shrugged again. “Even if it weren’t, I’d be stuck with it, because my ley-line caravan leaves before sunup tomorrow morning.” He took off the cloak and folded it with the sure hands of a man who knew how to care for clothing. “My thanks. I won’t be the only one, nor even the only one from Skrunda, heading down the ley lines, you know.”
“We hadn’t thought about it,” Traku said, including Talsu in his answer. To show he intended to be included, Talsu nodded.
“I am sorry for you,” the Algarvian said. “This gives your counts and dukes more power. From what I have seen of them, you would be better off if they had all fled with your coward of a king. You would be better off if we had decided to blaze all of them, too, but we didn’t.”
Talsu said, “They will still be taking orders from you.”
“And you don’t like that, either, do you?” the officer asked. Without waiting for an answer, he went on, “How often does anyone of rank care what the common people think?”
Not often enough, was the answer that sprang into Talsu’s mind. He would have said as much to his mother or father or sister or to a close friend; he had said as much to men he trusted in the army. But, even in the army, he’d been careful about speaking his mind. He was not about to unburden himself to one of the occupiers, a man on whom he had no reason to rely.
Maybe the Algarvian understood as much. With a nod, he said, “I’m off, then. We may see each other again one day.” He bowed to Traku and said, “You do good work.” With a comic shrug, he carried the cloak away.
“He’s not a bad fellow.” Traku spoke as if he hated to admit anything of the sort.
“No, he’s not,” Talsu agreed. “I saw that in the field. One by one, the redheads aren’t much different from us. But put a bunch of them together and they turn into Algarvians. I don’t know how or why that works, but it does.”
“Put a bunch of them together and they start knocking over monuments,” Traku said. “Every time I go near the market square, I miss the old arch.”
Talsu nodded. “Aye, me, too. Put a bunch of them together, let them go conquering, and--” He broke off. “--And who knows what they might do?” he finished, not really wanting to give the rumors substance after all.
His father knew what he meant. “I still don’t care to believe that,” he said. “Not even Algarvians would sink so low.”
“I hope you’re right,” Talsu said, and then, in thoughtful tones, “I wonder just how many soldiers and officers they’re taking out of Jelgava to send to Unkerlant. I wonder if the ones who stay behind will be enough to hold down the kingdom. Of course, the other thing I wonder is if anyone would rise up for our nobles.”
“I don’t much fancy a cursed Algarvian calling himself my king,” Traku said. Talsu thought about that, then nodded again.
The wind howled and screamed like a mad ghost. Snow blew horizontally up from out of the south. Except in front of boulders and bushes, it had trouble staying on the ground. Istvan’s squad moved forward, leaning into that shrieking gale.
“What beastly weather!” Kun shouted. The scrawny little mage’s apprentice had tied his spectacles on with twine to keep them from blowing away.
“It’s only weather,” Istvan shouted back, into the teeth of the wind. “It’s like this every winter in my valley.”
“The stars must hate your valley, then,” Kun said. “In the capital, we have halfway decent weather in the wintertime.”
“It’s made you soft,” Istvan said. Kun gestured derisively. Istvan didn’t take the argument any further, but he felt he could have. Gyongyosians were a warrior race, weren’t they? What kind of warrior was a man who couldn’t even stand a blizzard?
Then Szonyi said, “I come from a little valley that’s as chilly as any die stars shine down on, and I’m stinking cold, too, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”
“I never said I wasn’t cold.” Istvan backed a little way up the ley line, but not very far. “I said it’s only weather, and it is, and I said we have to deal with it, and we do.” He slapped at his chest. “We’ve got the gear for it, eh?”
Snow flew from his long sheepskin coat. He wore a wool blouse under the coat, and a wool undertunic beneath that. The coat went down below his knees. His baggy leggings were wool, and so were his long drawers, which itched in places it was embarrassing to scratch. Fur lined his boots and his mittens; he wore a fox-fur cap with earflaps and had a wool muffler tied over his nose and mouth so that only his eyes showed. He carried slit goggles in his belt pouch, in case the sun came out. By the way the blizzard raged, he wondered if it would ever come out again.
Kun said, “I can get by in this.” He was as well protected against the storm as Istvan. “Curse me if I know how anybody’s supposed to fight in it, though, us or the Unkerlanters.”
“They manage, and so do we,” Istvan answered. “They know about cold, the
miserable whoresons, same as we do.” He peered ahead. All he could see was swirling whiteness. Discontentedly, he muttered, “I wish I knew exactly where we are. We could blunder into them without knowing it till too late.”
“Or some of them could be sneaking up on us, and we wouldn’t know that till too late, either,” Szonyi added.
“Aye, we would.” Even in the howling blizzard, Kun sounded smug. “I have a bit of magecraft, I’ll have you remember. It spotted Kuusamans and it spotted a mountain ape, so it should work even on brutes like Unkerlanters.”
Kun was proud of his little bit of magecraft. Istvan hoped he wasn’t prouder of it than it deserved. But it had worked, and more than once; no denying that. It wouldn’t work, though, if he didn’t use it. Istvan said, “Maybe you’d better check now, just on the off chance. Those goat-eating buggers could be half a blaze away, and we’d never know it, not through this.”
“Aye, Sergeant. That’s not the worst notion I ever heard.” By the way Kun said it, he managed to imply that Istvan had come out with most of the worst notions he’d heard.
“Don’t get clever with me,” Istvan snapped. He paused, appalled at how much like Sergeant Jokai he sounded. After a moment, he shrugged: where else to learn how to be a sergeant than from a sergeant? He hoped tlie stars treasured Jokai’s spirit. Whether they did or not, he had things to attend to here. “Squad halt!” he shouted over the howl of the wind. “All right, Kun--do what you need to do.”
“Aye,” Kun repeated, and set about it. “Whatever passes he made, his mittens hid. The wind blew away the words of his spell. After a couple of minutes, he turned to Istvan and said, “Sergeant, no Unkerlanters are moving toward us.”
“Well, that’s something,” Istvan said. “But you can’t be sure we’re not about to stumble over them?”
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