After the downfall

by Harry Turtledove

  There was the marsh where Hasso had come into this world, pictured with a stippling of dots. There was the road on the causeway — at least, he presumed that was what the thin, straight red line meant. And there was Bucovin, to the east. The capital was a place called Falticeni; Hasso sounded it out a syllable at a time. Lenello used one character for a sound that needed four in German. Had Hasso been writing it, he would have spelled it Faltitscheni.

  One of Bottero's marshals stabbed a forefinger at the place. He was a middle-aged fellow named Lugo. By local standards, he was short — about Hasso's height. But he was almost twice as wide through the shoulders. If you hit him and he decided to notice, he'd rip your spleen out.

  "We'll burn it and sow salt so nothing grows there again," he rumbled, his voice half an octave lower than even the king's basso.

  A Grenye servant came in, set a tray full of mugs of beer and wine and a plate of sausages baked in dough — a local delicacy — on the table, and then strolled out again. Hasso pointed to him as he went and asked, "Why he listen?"

  "Who? Sfintu? What's wrong with Sfintu?" Bottero asked, genuine puzzlement in his voice.

  Hasso wanted to bang his head against the wall. They'd never heard of security. They didn't even suspect they'd never heard of it. How to spell things out in words of one syllable, especially when words of one syllable were almost the only kind he knew?

  "Sfintu is a Grenye." He stated the obvious. "Bucovin is Grenye. If Sfintu listens, if Sfintu talks to someone from Bucovin, they know what you do before you do it."

  "A spy!" Velona got it. "He's saying Sfintu is a spy."

  "Well, Sfintu bloody well isn't," Bottero declared. "He was born here. He's as loyal as the day is long. He likes Lenelli better than his own grubby kind."

  Maybe that was true. Hasso wouldn't have bet anything he cared about losing on it — his neck, for instance. It wasn't what he wanted to argue about, though. Patiently, he said, "Even if Sfintu is loyal, he can talk to someone not loyal. Not even know someone he talk to is not loyal. But Bucovin learn things anyway."

  Bottero and Velona and Lugo and the other big shots in the Kingdom of Drammen thought about that. Hasso could almost hear wheels turning and gears meshing. The Lenelli weren't stupid, even if they were naive. "You don't trust anyone, do you?" Bottero said.

  "No," Hasso answered. "War too big — too, uh, important — for trust."

  "Your kingdom must win a lot of wars," Lugo remarked.

  That hurt too much to laugh, and Hasso didn't want to cry in front of the Lenelli. Germany had twice astonished the world with what her armies could do — and she would have been better off never to have fought at all. What would happen to her after this war was finally lost hardly bore thinking about.

  Instead of thinking about it, Hasso said, "Keep secrets, better chance. Tell enemy, not better chance." He was pretty much stuck in the present indicative. Sooner or later, he would figure out other verb forms. He was starting to understand them when he heard them. Using them himself was a different story.

  King Bottero plucked a hair from his beard. "You know some things we don't, plainly. How would you like to be in charge of keeping things quiet?"

  How would you like to be security minister? Bottero didn't even have the words to say what he meant. How would you like to be Heinrich Himmler? Bottero didn't have the name, either, which probably wasn't the worst thing in the world.

  "Can I do job?" Hasso asked. "Not know magic."

  Several of the marshals sneered at that. "You'd be worrying about the Grenye," Lugo said. "They don't know any more about magic than pigs know about poetry."

  The Reich had learned some bitter lessons about underestimating its enemies. Operation Barbarossa should have knocked the Soviet Union out of the war by the first winter. And it would have, too, if only the Russians had cooperated. They hadn't.

  "Two things," he said in his slow, bad Lenello. "One thing is, if Grenye have no magic, why Lenelli not conquer Bucovin before this? Two thing is, Lenelli have Bucovin for enemy. King Bottero have — uh, has — also other Lenelli for enemy. I keep things quiet, I keep things quiet from Grenye and from other Lenelli. And Lenelli have magic for sure. Bucovin?" He turned to Velona. "What has Bucovin?"

  She'd gone in there. She must have hoped magic would protect her. It hadn't done the job, or she wouldn't have been running for her life when Hasso splashed into the swamp. If whatever gave her away to the Grenye in Bucovin wasn't magic, what the devil was it?

  "I don't know what they have there," she answered, her voice troubled. "Whatever it is, it doesn't show. The countryside looks like our countryside, with the Grenye on little farms. They keep ducks and partridges. They don't have many big animals — we brought those here when we landed. The ones they do have, they mostly stole."

  "Talk about magic," Lugo said impatiently. "Uh, goddess." Even if he was impatient, he remembered to be polite. Had he watched Bottero screw her? Or had he been screwing a mere mortal himself right then?

  "You can't talk about magic in Bucovin without talking about Bucovin," Velona said, and then, to Hasso, "You have to understand what a funny place it is. They have castles like ours along the roads — a lot like ours. They model theirs after the ones we build." Her mouth twisted. "Sometimes they have renegades helping them, too."

  Hasso thought again of the drunken Lenello in the Grenye section of Drammen, the one his escorts hadn't wanted to see. He wondered if he ought to haul the fellow in and grill him. Then he wondered something else. "They have renegade wizards help them?"

  Several men swore, including the king. So did Velona. Women here didn't have to speak modestly. He got the idea she would have sworn even if women were supposed to stay modest. It wasn't just that she was the goddess and could get away with it, either. It was her style.

  "There have been renegade wizards," Bottero said heavily. "We make examples of them when we catch them. We don't want that kind of nonsense" — he used a barnyard word instead — "spreading. But they aren't the problem, not in Bucovin."

  "No, they aren't," Velona agreed. "It's something else. I got into Suceava — "

  "Where?" Hasso asked.

  She showed him on the map. It was the nearest town east of the marsh. I might have known, he thought. "Their towns, now, their towns are truly strange. They're more like overgrown villages than proper cities. But they aren't like that, either. They're… different."

  One of Bottero's officers nodded. Hasso thought his name was Nolio. "I've been into Bucovin pretending to be a trader," he said. They do know something about spying, then, Hasso thought. Nolio went on, "You just feel wrong going there. Out of place. Like even the walls and the floor are staring at you, let alone the people. And the people are worse. They don't respect you the way Grenye are supposed to. They think they're as good as you are, the dogs."

  "They are free," Hasso said.

  "Wild," Bottero corrected. All the Lenelli around the table, Velona included, nodded solemnly. That was how it looked to them. How it looked to the Grenye… they didn't care. And if you've got any brains, you won't care, either — or you won't let on that you care.

  "What goes wrong when you visit Bucovin?" Hasso asked Velona. He'd tried to ask before, but he was getting better at the language now.

  Not good enough, though. "What went wrong when I visited, you mean?" she asked. That was what he meant. He was starting to recognize past tenses when he read them and even when he heard them, but they wouldn't come out of his mouth with any reliability. But Velona sounded as sheepish as she ever did when she said, "What went wrong? Everything, near enough." She threw her hands wide, and almost knocked a mug of beer out of Nolio's hand.

  "Why? How? You have magic. You are the goddess."

  "It's like Nolio says. In Bucovin, everything watches you. The towns, the people, I don't know what, but something there seems to suck the life out of magic. It works, and then you get deeper in and it doesn't work so well, and then it just… stops. Almost mak
es you think Grenye have their own magic. But they don't — they can't," Velona said.

  "That's so," King Bottero said. "When we fight there, it's us against them. Spells mostly fail — and the more we depend on them, the worse the time they pick to fail. One of us, mounted, in armor, is worth, four, five, six, eight of those stinking churls on foot. But they're starting to use more horsemen, and Bucovin's a big place, too." He pointed to the map again. "They have big armies, and they don't fight fair. They mostly won't give us standup battles. They skulk and they raid and they burn our wagons and — " He broke off, an angry flush rising all the way up to his scalp. "What's so cursed funny?"

  "Sorry, your Majesty." Despite the apology, Hasso had to work to make himself quit laughing. It was either laugh or cry, which would have surprised the king even more. Bottero's complaints sounded much too familiar. How many German generals had said those exact same things about the Russians? One Landser was always worth a couple of Ivans, sometimes more than that. Throw enough Ivans into the fight, though… Stalin put out a fire by smothering it in corpses. If you had enough corpses, it worked, too. Picking his words with care, Hasso said, "My people fight a war like that, too."

  "Ah?" the king said. "With all your tricks and ploys, I bet you had better luck than we ever managed to find."

  "Well," Hasso said, "no." He bit down hard on the inside of his lower lip. Tears bubbled very close to the surface. He turned back to Velona. "The goddess not help the, uh, the plain you?" He hoped she would follow what he meant.

  And she did, for she answered, "Even her power seems less there. Not gone, but less. To use it to go on — I couldn't. They sniffed me out as being something that didn't belong there. Maybe as a danger. I'm not so sure of that. When they were going to seize me, though, when I had to flee, then she gave me what I needed." Her smile almost dazzled him. "Then she led me to you."

  One of Bottero's officers swore softly. Hasso knew why. Any man who wasn't dead or a fairy would want that woman smiling at him that way and saying those things to him. And Hasso was convinced that even a fairy, seeing Velona, would reconsider. Seeing her smile that way, hearing her talk that way, to someone else had to burn like acid.

  "So," the king said, "will you help us keep secrets? You want help with the wizardry, I'll give you Aderno."

  The proud wizard would no doubt pitch a fit at working for a foreigner who'd literally fallen out of the sky. Hasso liked that idea. It wasn't what swayed him, though. The job needed doing, and he could likely do it better than any Lenello. "Yes, your Majesty," he said.

  Aderno was as thrilled about working under Hasso as the Wehrmacht officer figured he would be. Thanks to his translation spell, the wizard didn't have to pull any punches, either. "If you weren't sleeping with the goddess, King Bottero never would have given you this post."

  "I know," Hasso said calmly. That made the wizard's jaw drop. Still calmly, Hasso went on, "If I hadn't rescued the goddess, I wouldn't be sleeping with her. I didn't see you anywhere around when I did it, either. So why don't you just shut up?"

  "I ought to turn you into a — " Aderno broke off most abruptly, as any man with a gram of sense would do when somebody aimed a Schmeisser at his belly button. Unlike people from Hasso's own world, he didn't know exactly what the weapon would do, but it had killed three Grenye, after all, so he was convinced it would do something dreadful. And he wasn't wrong, because it would.

  "Don't mess with me," Hasso told him. "If you really can't stand this, go talk to the king. He gave you the job. Maybe he'll take you off it and assign me somebody civilized instead. But if you stay, you'll do what needs doing, and you'll do it the right way. What'll it be?"

  Sometimes the Lenelli reminded Hasso of Germany's Balkan allies — a well-timed show of arrogance would put them in their place… for a while. "I don't want to bother the king," Aderno said. "I'll do what you ask of me."

  "Good." Hasso hid a smile. He hadn't even had to threaten to sic Velona on the wizard. "First thing I want to do is talk to that drunk who lives with the Grenye."

  Aderno blinked. "Why?" he squawked, quite humanly surprised.

  "Because chances are he knows more about them than any three so-called experts here at the castle," Hasso answered. "And he'll know things they'd never think to try and find out."

  By the look on Aderno's face, he found that none too wonderful. But then he remembered his promise and nodded. "Whatever you want," he said with a shrug. "I'll send some soldiers to haul him out of his sty and drag him over here. He'll likely think we aim to throw him in the dungeon — but the scare will serve him right."

  Hasso shook his head. "No. I don't want to scare him. I want to win him over. No hauling, no dragging. I'll go to him."

  "Into the Grenye quarter?" The wizard looked revolted.

  Hasso only nodded. "Why not?" he said, and meant it. The Lenelli had fleas and lice, too. The Grenye were grubbier, but it was a difference of degree, not of kind. Before the war, Hasso would have hated how grubby he was himself. But after what he'd been through in the Wehrmacht, it was just one of those things.

  Not to Aderno. "They are Grenye," he said, as if that explained everything. Velona had been just as thrilled about wearing Grenye boots, Hasso remembered. He couldn't have disgusted an SS man more by suggesting a walk through a ghetto.

  He shrugged now. "The more we learn, the better the chance we have when King Bottero moves against Bucovin." Would Aderno be able to come up with an argument against that? Hasso would have bet the wizard couldn't, and he would have won his bet.

  They plunged into the Grenye quarter that very afternoon. They went on foot; Hasso wanted to be as inconspicuous as he could. That wasn't very easy. He was fairer than any Grenye, and at least fifteen centimeters taller than most of them. And Aderno, who was both fairer and taller still, walked on tiptoe all the way, as if afraid he would pollute himself if he planted his feet squarely.

  Here in their own district, the Grenye were bolder and noisier than at Castle Drammen. There they got very quiet whenever any Lenelli came into sight. Part of that was deference; part, Hasso judged, was fear. Among their own kind, the short, swarthy natives chattered and chaffered, both in the Lenello tongue and in what sounded like two or three of their own languages.

  Hasso stopped in front of a plump man who was selling wickerwork baskets. "Where can I find Scanno?" he asked — that was the drunken Lenello's name.

  The Grenye had been crying his wares in the blond men's tongue. Hearing the question, though, he looked elaborately blank. "What do you say?" he asked.

  Patiently, Hasso repeated himself. The basket-seller shrugged a fancy shrug. "I don't understand you." He added something in a language that wasn't Lenello and spread his hands as if in apology.

  "He's lying," Aderno said from behind Hasso.

  "Yes," Hasso agreed, because the phrase for No kidding didn't spring to mind.

  "I can make him sweat." Aderno sounded as if he looked forward to it.

  "No," Hasso said; Lenello could make him laconic. He turned back to the Grenye. "By the goddess, no harm to Scanno. Where can I find him?"

  "By the goddess?" the man said, watching his eyes.

  "By the goddess," Hasso said again. "Her name is Velona when she dwells in a woman. I know the woman."

  "Ah," the Grenye said, suddenly able to understand him — or more willing to admit he did. "You're that one. I wasn't sure before." What's that supposed to mean? Hasso wondered. The basket-seller went on, "He mostly drinks at Negustor's tavern." He rattled off directions too fast for Hasso to follow.

  Turning to the wizard, Hasso asked, "You have that?"

  "I have it," Aderno said grimly, sounding as if he wished he could throw it away. "We go there, we're asking to get knocked over the head."

  "Tell me — slow — how to go. I go by myself, then. You stay behind," Hasso said.

  "I ought to," Aderno exclaimed. But Hasso shamed him into leading the way, as he'd thought he might. When they left the r
oad to the east gate, everything got even smellier and dirtier and more crowded than it had before. The muddy streets were hardly wide enough to let Hasso stretch out his arms without hitting buildings to either side. He had to flatten himself against a wall when two Grenye led several heavily burdened donkeys up one alley.

  "Excuse us, masters," the men said, doffing their lumpy brown wool caps. The things reminded Hasso of cowflops.

  "We shouldn't get out of the way for Grenye," Aderno said.

  "Not do that. Get out of the way for donkeys," Hasso said, which left his companion scratching his head.

  Negustor's tavern stood next door to what seemed to be a pawnshop and across the street from what was undoubtedly a brothel. A bare-breasted Grenye woman in an upstairs window shouted an invitation to Hasso and Aderno, then mocked their manhood when they ignored her. Hasso thought it was a good thing the day was clear; had raindrops hit the wizard's skin, they probably would have burst into steam.

  Inside the tavern, Hasso had to duck his head. The ceiling was plenty high for Grenye, but not for him or Aderno. It was dark and gloomy and smoky enough to make his eyes sting. Along with the smoke from the torches, the place smelled of stale beer and sour piss.

  Hasso looked around. Grenye drank at the bar, and at several tables. They were looking at him, too, and not with anything approaching warmth. A new dog in the neighborhood would have got the same kind of once-over. He wondered whether somebody would be drunk and angry enough to pick a fight.

  Meanwhile, there was Scanno. He wasn't a big Lenello, which meant he was about Hasso's size. But, even sitting down, he was noticeably bigger — to say nothing of noticeably blonder — than the Grenye at the table with him. And he was also noticeably drunker, swaying on his stool as he poured down what was obviously at least one too many large mugs of beer.