Seeing it put a new thought in his mind. “Keep watching overhead,” he called to his men. “If the Unkerlanters haven’t put some snipers in the trees, I’m an even bigger fool than you think I am.”
Up ahead, Kun said something. Istvan thought he heard the word impossible, but he wasn’t sure. He decided not to find out.
Heading east and not getting turned around in this dim, shadowless world kept the whole squad--and probably the whole army--busy. Kun’s sorcerous training, though scanty, did come in hand there. From somewhere or other, he’d got a chunk of lodestone. He tied it on the end of a string and chanted over it. It swung in a particular direction. “That’s south,” he said confidently, and made half a turn to his left. “So this is east.” He pointed.
“How does the lodestone know where south lies?” Istvan asked.
“Curse me if I can tell you,” the former sorcerer’s apprentice said. “But I know that it does, which is what we need.”
“What we need is to bump up against the Unkerlanters, so we can knock ‘em out of the way,” Istvan said. “All this waiting is making my belly gripe.”
“It’ll loosen up when the fighting starts, that’s certain,” Szonyi said. “If you’re anything like me, you’ll thank the stars that you don’t foul yourself.”
That was no way for a member of a warrior race to talk, but Istvan just chuckled and nodded. Maybe some heroes didn’t think about what might happen to them when they went into action, but he did. He couldn’t help it.
Twilight under the trees was darkening toward real twilight when he and his countrymen ran into the first positions the Unkerlanters had built to block their path. “Down!” Kun shouted, and everyone in the squad threw himself flat. A beam zipped past above Istvan’s head. Whether it would have caught him had he not gone down, he didn’t know. It struck a tree trunk behind him and blazed through the bark deep into the wood. Aromatic steam gushed from the wounded pine.
Istvan scuttled over behind another tree. Ever so warily, he glanced around it. He saw nothing but more trees ahead. “Where are they?” he called softly.
“Up ahead somewhere,” Kun answered, which was doubtless true but imperfectly helpful. Sounding exasperated, the point man went on, “They’re Unkerlanters, curse it. They’re good at hiding to begin with, and they’ve had plenty of time to get ready for us.”
Shouts and curses and screams rang out all through the forest, as the Gyongyosian army ran into the concealed Unkerlanter defenders. The Unkerlanters had egg-tossers hidden among the trees along with their soldiers and started using them as soon as their foes collided with them.
And King Swemmel’s men had left forces in the woods who’d waited and stayed hidden while the Gyongyosians went past, then attacked from the rear after Istvan and his comrades bumped into the main defensive line. Istvan found out about that when one of them blazed at him from behind. He’d thought he had good cover, but suddenly a charred hole appeared in the tree in back of which he was hiding and only bare inches from his head.
He whirled and threw himself down on his belly. Where had the beam come from? Shouts of “Swemmel!” echoed through the darkening woods. For a moment, panic filled him. Was the whole Gyongyosian force surrounded and about to be cut to pieces? If it was, the Unkerlanters would have to go through a lot of stubborn men like him. Maybe there was something to springing from a warrior race after all.
Was that a rock-gray tunic? Istvan blazed. An Unkerlanter groaned and tumbled out from behind the trunk of a spruce. Istvan yanked a folding shovel off his own belt and began digging a hole in the soft dirt. He’d named himself rear guard for the squad. That meant he was the one who had to be first defender against threats from behind.
He smelled smoke. No matter how moist the forest was, all the blazes and bursting eggs had set it afire. He dug harder than ever, but wondered even as dirt flew whether he was doing anything more than digging his own grave. He also wondered whether anyone, Unkerlanter or Gyongyosian, would come out of the forest alive.
As Krasta came downstairs from her bedchamber, Colonel Lurcanio was pacing back and forth in the hall at the bottom of the stairway. His green eyes sparked as he glared up at her. “What took you so long, milady?” he growled. But then, however unwillingly, he bowed over her hand and kissed it. “You do look very lovely tonight, I must say, which almost makes the delay worthwhile.”
Had he left off the almost, Krasta would have known she’d created just the effect she wanted. Lurcanio was difficult--sometimes impossible--to manage. But she didn’t wish she’d got Captain Mosco instead, not anymore. Off in the trackless wilds of Unkerlant. . . She didn’t want to think about that.
“I’m sure your driver will be able to get us to the reception in good time,” she said. “He doesn’t dawdle over everything, the way mine does.”
“He is an Algarvian, and he is a soldier,” Lurcanio said. The angry rumble had left his voice; Krasta decided he’d put it there to see if he could make her afraid. This time, it hadn’t worked. And he didn’t push it, either, as he sometimes did. He slipped his arm around her waist. “Let us be off, then.”
His driver was indeed an Algarvian and a soldier. The fellow proved that by leering at Krasta as Lurcanio handed her up into the carriage. He was tall and young and handsome, but surely had no breeding at all. Krasta did not believe in rutting with her social inferiors.
Lurcanio spoke to the driver in their own language. The driver nodded, flicked the reins, and got the horses going. Despite what Krasta had said about him, he didn’t drive very fast, not when all the streets of Priekule were lit only by a sinking crescent moon. Lagoan dragons didn’t fly up to the capital of occupied Valmiera very often, but the Algarvians made things as hard as they could for tliem on principle.
Taking advantage of the darkness, Lurcanio set a hand on Krasta’s leg just above the knee and slowly slid it higher and higher along her thigh. “You’re in a bold mood tonight,” she said, amused.
“I am in a happy mood tonight,” Colonel Lurcanio declared, and moved his hand higher still. “And do you know why I’m in a happy mood tonight?”
“I can think of a reason,” Krasta said archly, setting her hand on his.
He chuckled. “Oh, that, too, my dear,” he said, “but I can get that anytime I want.”
Her back stiffened. “Not from me, you can’t. Not if you talk that way.”
“If not from you, then from someone else. Finding it isn’t hard, not in a conquered kingdom.” Lurcanio sounded annoyingly smug. The trouble was, Krasta knew he was right--and if she threw him out of her bed in a fit of pique, she would be left without an Algarvian protector. When she didn’t rise to his bait, Lurcanio went on, “No, the chief reason I am happy tonight is that we have smashed the attack the Unkerlanters made on our positions south of Aspang.”
“Good,” Krasta said, though she couldn’t have found the city on a map to save herself from the headsman’s axe.
“Oh, aye, it is,” Lurcanio replied. “Swemmel’s men spent most of the winter smashing us, which is the main reason Captain Mosco’s bastard will likely never see his--or even her--father. Had they kept on smashing us now that spring has come, it would have been a great deal less than amusing.”
“They’re only Unkerlanters, after all,” Krasta said.
Lurcanio nodded. “Even so. And they are once more proving they are only Unkerlanters, if you take my meaning.”
Krasta didn’t, not altogether. She didn’t trouble herself to go looking for it, either. Instead, she craned her neck for a better look at the skyline. “It still seems wrong not to have the Column of Victory standing tall and white and pretty there.”
“It wouldn’t be lit up now, not in wartime.” Lurcanio could be annoyingly precise. “Maybe one day King Mezentio will build a new and grander column in its place: an Algarvian Column of Victory, to last for all time, not just a paltry double handful of centuries.”
“In Priekule? That would be--” For once, K
rasta remembered in the nick of time who and what her companion was, and swallowed a remark that would have got her in trouble with Lurcanio.
A few minutes later, the carriage pulled up in front of the mansion that belonged to Sefanu, the Duke of Klaipeda’s nephew. The duke had commanded Valmiera’s beaten army in the war against Algarve. He’d since retired to his country estates. His nephew was quite happy playing host to the occupiers.
As usual at these affairs, Algarvian and Valmieran men were present in about equal numbers. All the women, though, were blondes, and all young and pretty: Krasta wasted no time before looking over the potential competition. Some of the Valmieran women were nobles like her, some commoners she’d seen at other functions, and some new faces. Her lip curled. The Algarvians could pick and choose and discard as they pleased, and they did.
Some of the new faces topped painfully thin bodies. Several of that type congregated at the buffet, exclaiming over meats and cheeses the likes of which they hadn’t seen for a long time. No noblewoman would have stuffed herself as they did. But their Algarvian escorts stood around watching with amused smiles. Probably brought them here just to fatten them up, Krasta thought spitefully.
Rather more Valmieran noblewomen than commoners wore Algarvian-style kilts. Krasta scowled when she noticed that. Some of the Valmieran men had taken to wearing the Algarvian style, too. Krasta liked that no better.
Sure enough, here came Viscount Valnu, in a kilt so short, he would have had trouble staying modest if he bent over. His bonily handsome face wore a dazzling smile. “Hello, darling!” he said, fluttering his fingers at Krasta. He hugged her and kissed her on the cheek, then hugged Lurcanio and kissed him on the cheek, too. “Hello, my lord Count! And how are you?”
“Well enough, thanks,” Lurcanio said, and kept his distance from Valnu from then on. Algarvian men were more apt to kiss than Valmierans, but they didn’t usually do it quite like that--though Krasta recalled seeing Valnu at one party with an Algarvian officer who was definitely like that.
Valnu, to her certain knowledge, wasn’t, or wasn’t altogether. “What have you been doing lately?” she asked him, more than a hint of malice in her voice.
“Why, whatever I can, of course,” he answered. “Come with me, and I’ll tell you all about it.” He turned to Lurcanio. “I wouldn’t steal your lady without your leave, my lord Count. That were rude indeed.”
“It’s all right,” Lurcanio said indulgently. By his tone, he thought he was safe enough entrusting Krasta to this creature of no obvious gender.
Krasta knew better, and the thought of being unfaithful to her redheaded lover suddenly looked delightful, not so much for Valnu’s sake as to put one over on Lurcanio. She took hold of Valnu’s arm. “Aye,” she gushed, “tell me everything”
Valnu’s smile grew brighter yet. “Oh, I will,” he said, and led her off through the crowd. Behind her, Lurcanio laughed. Krasta was laughing, too, but inside, where it didn’t show. You don’t know as much as you think you do.
She steered Valnu over to the bar so she could collect a mug of ale, then let him steer her out of the mansion and onto the street. “You do need to know that I came here with Lurcanio’s driver, not my own,” she murmured.
“Oh, I do, do I?” Valnu said. “And why is that?”
“Because you can’t have this fellow drive along some quiet road while we do whatever we want in the carriage,” Krasta answered. “He’d blab to Lurcanio, sure as sure.”
“While we do whatever we want?” Valnu laughed softly. “The last time we tried that, you shoved me out of the carriage and left me to walk home alone in the dark. I don’t know about you, my dear marchioness, but that isn’t what I had in mind when we started on the ride.”
Krasta shrugged impatiently. “You deserved it, for picking just the wrong time to start chattering about shopgirls.”
“I won’t say a word about them now, I promise you.” Valnu slid his arm around her. “Stroll with me. We can look up at the stars together, or do anything else we happen to think of.”
There were more stars to look at than there had been when Priekule was at peace. With the city dark, they shone in great, glittering profusion: multicolored jewels scattered across black velvet. After one brief glance, Krasta forgot about them. She hadn’t come out with Valnu to stargaze. She’d come out to enjoy revenge on an Algarvian keeper who took her for granted.
But Valnu really did feel like strolling, or so it seemed. Fuming a little, Krasta went along for a block or so. Then she got mulish. Planting her feet firmly on the slates of the pavement, she took hold of Valnu and said, “If you brought me out here to trifle, what are you waiting for?”
“To get a little farther away,” Valnu answered, which made no sense to her. “But this will do well enough.” He gathered her in. She kissed him more fiercely than she’d ever kissed Lurcanio. The Algarvian was a skilled and pleasing lover, but he also held the whip hand, and Krasta knew it. Not here, not now.
Valnu was nuzzling her neck and nibbling her ear when a thunderous roar behind her knocked both of them off their feet. The first thing Krasta noticed was that she’d torn a knee out of her velvet trousers. Only after cursing at that did she proclaim, “Powers above! What happened?”
“If I had to guess, I would say an egg burst in Sefanu’s mansion,” Valnu answered. He rose and, with startling strength, hauled her to her feet. “Come on.”
Because he sounded sure of himself and acted as if he knew what he was doing, Krasta followed him back toward the mansion. His guess had been right on target, and so, she saw, had the egg. The mansion’s second and third stories had fallen in on themselves, and fire was beginning to spread in the ruins.
Shrieks from injured and trapped people inside made the night hideous. A few men and women, disheveled and bleeding, pulled themselves free of the rubble and came staggering away. Krasta yanked at an arm sticking out from under a pile of bricks. It came away, with no body attached to it. She dropped it with a horrified cry. Her stomach lurched, as if aboard a diving dragon.
“Lurcanio,” she muttered. It hadn’t been his arm--it had belonged to a woman. But what chance had he had to get away?
And then, from behind her, he said, “I am here.” He’d lost his hat. He had a cut over one eye, and another on his forearm. He also had most of his aplomb. Bowing, he said, “Good to see you intact, milady. Your pretty popinjay picked just the right time to entertain you there.”
“Aye,” Krasta said, and realized for the first time that she might easily have been inside the mansion when the egg burst. Her stomach lurched again. “Curse the Lagoan dragons!” she exclaimed.
“Dragons?” Lurcanio shook his head. “No dragons tonight. That egg didn’t drop, milady--it was smuggled in and left to burst. Plenty of ways to arrange such a thing. And when we find out who did it, we’ll arrange his guts as pretty as you please. Oh, he’ll take a long time to die.” He sounded as if he looked forward to seeing that. In some ways, Algarvians remained barbaric after all. No matter how fine and mild the night was, Krasta shivered.
Vanai laid her hand on Ealstan’s forehead. He was burning hot, as he had been an hour before, as he had been a day before, as he had been ever since he came down sick three days before. He thrashed and muttered and stared up at her from the bed. “Conberge,” he muttered.
Biting her lip, Vanai soaked a washrag in a bowl of cold water, wrung it out till it was nearly dry, and put it on his forehead. If he thought she was his sister, he was in a bad way indeed. No one in his right mind could have mistaken her for a swarthy, solidly made Forthwegian woman.
“What am I going to do?” she exclaimed. She’d managed to get occasional sips of water and broth down Ealstan, but that wasn’t nearly enough, and she knew it. And he needed something more than a cold compress to fight the fever, too. She turned the compress over. Already, the heat that came off him had gone a long way toward drying the side that had touched his skin.
He needs a phys
ician, she thought, or at least real medicine. She’d been thinking that for most of the past day, ever since it had become clear that the fever wasn’t going to leave anytime soon. He would have gone out for her. She knew that. But he didn’t face capture and worse if he stuck his nose outside the door to the flat.
“Chilly,” he said in conversational tones, and started to shake. He wasn’t chilly; he was as far in the world as he could be from chilly. But he thought he was freezing. His teeth started to chatter. Vanai piled blankets on him, but he kept shivering underneath them. He’d done that before, too. It never failed to appall Vanai.
With a grimace, she made up her mind. Ealstan had to have more help than she could give here with what little they had in the flat to fight fever. Taking care to speak Forthwegian so he wouldn’t fret, Vanai said, “I’m going out now. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” She did her best to sound as if everything were perfectly normal, as if she could go out anytime she chose, as if nothing could possibly happen to her when she went out into Eoforwic.
Maybe she even succeeded, for Ealstan said, “All right, Mother. Be careful out in the blizzard.” Because he thought he was cold, he thought the rest of the world had to be cold, too.
“I will,” Vanai promised. She took all the money she could find in the flat--a good deal more than she’d thought she and Ealstan had. Algarvians were famous for being bribable. She’d bribed Major Spinello with her body. Next to that, she didn’t worry about silver.
Stepping out into the hall, seeing walls that weren’t the walls of her flat, felt very strange. She wished she’d changed into the long tunic Ealstan had got for her, but it wouldn’t disguise what she was, not on a fine, bright spring day. She hurried downstairs and out of the block of flats.
Street noise hit her like a blow. Eoforwic dwarfed Oyngestun; she’d forgotten how big and brawling the capital was. She’d seen it briefly when she and Ealstan first came here from the east. Since then, she’d stayed high up, looking out through window glass at the world but taking no part in it.
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