    




    ARRY TURTL
           "One of the geniuses of this cleman
                      SCIENCE FICTION AGE
    
             *MA-
    E 0
    ing field"

    





    




             INTO THE
    HARKNESS

    




               INTO TIRE
    DARKNESS
    HARRY TURTLEDOVE
    
    I
    
    I
    
    I
    
    ----------
    
    E A R T H L I G H T
    
    LONDON - SYDNEY - NEW YORK - TOKYO - SINGAPORE - TORONTO
    
    www.earthlight.co.uk

    




               First published in Great Britain by Earthlight, 1999
                      An imprint of Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
                                 A Viacom Company
    
    Copyright (0 Harry Turtledove, 1999
    
                This book is copyright under the Berne Convention
                        No reproduction without permission
            9) and (0 1998 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
      Earthlight & Design is a registered trademark ofSimon & Schuster Inc.
    
    The right of Harry Turtledove to be identified as author of this work has
       been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 ofthe Copyright
                          Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
    
    1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
    
                             Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
                                   Africa House
                                  64-78 Kingsway
                                 London WC213 6AH
    
                            Su-non & Schuster Australia
                                      Sydney
    
                A CIP catalogue record for this book is available
                            from the British Library.
    
    ISBN 0-684-85825-8
    
             This book is a work offiction. Names, characters, places
     and incidents either are products ofthe author's imagination or are used
     fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or
                        locales is entirely coincidental.
    
                   Typeset by SX Composing DTP, Rayleigh, Essex
            Printed and bound in Great Britain by The Bath Press, Bath
                                     
    
    




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    DRAMATIS PERSONAE
    
    Algan,e
    Alardo
    Alcina
    Balastro
    Balozio
    Bernbo*
    Borso
    Cilandro
    Corbeo
    Dalinda
    Domiziano
    Dudone
    Elio
    Evadne
    Falsirone
    Fiametta
    Frontino
    Gabrina
    Galafrone
    Ippalca
    Ivone
    Larbino
    Lurcanio
    Mainardo
    Martusino
    Mezentio
    Mosco
    Ornbruno
    Oraste
    
    Duke of Bari
    Gardener in Tn*can*co
    Marquis; Algarvian rminister to Zuwayza
    Man of Kauman blood in Tricarico
    Constable in Tricarico
    Corm-nandant of dragon farm outside Trapani
    Colonel of footsoldiers near Tricarico
    Dragonflier in Sabrino's wing
    Gardener in Tricaiico
    Captain-squadron commander in Sabrino's wing
    King Mezentio's predecessor
    Lieutenant in Tealdo's regiment
    Kaunian woman in Tricarico; Falsirone's wife
    Kaunian hair stylist in Tn*can'co; Evadne's husband
    Courtesan in Tn'can'co
    Warder in Tn*carico
    Slattern in Tricarico
    Captain replacing Larbino
    Algarvian noblewoman
    Grand duke commanding Alga ian forces in Valmiera
    Captain in Tealdo's regiment
    Count and colonel occupying P kule
    Mezentio's brother, named King ofJelgava
                      P i ~anufi
    
                        .ck I
    
    Thief in Trican'co
    King of Algarve
    Captain; Colonel Lurcanio's adjutant
    Colonel commanding officer of Tealdo's regiment
    Constable in Tricarico

    




    Orosio   Senior lieutenant in Sabrino's wing
    Panfilo  Sergeant in Tealdo's regiment
    Pesaro   Constabulary sergeant in Tricanico
    Procla   Gardener in Trican*co
    Sabrino* Count and colonel of dragonfliers
    Saffi    Constabulary sketch artist in Tricarico
    Sasso    Constabulary captain in Tricanico
    Spinello Major commanding occupiers in Oyngestun
    Tealdo*  Common soldier
    Trasone  Common soldier; Tealdo's friend
    Forthweg
    Agmund   Master of Algarvian, Gromheort
    Arnulf   Firstman in village in eastern Forthweg
    Bede     Master of classical Kaunian, Gromheort
    Beocca   Leofslg's squadmate
    Bri'vibas                                  Vanal's grandfather
    Brorda   Count of Gromheort
    Burgred  Laborer in Leofsig's gang
    Ceolnoth Magecraft master at Ealstan and Sidroc's academy
    Conberge Ealstan and Leofsig's sister
    Cynfrid  Brigadier; senior offiter in captives' camp
    Ealstan* Student in Gromheort; Leofsig's younger brother
    Elfryth  Ealstan and Leofsig, and Conberge's mother
    Elfsig   Felgilde's father
    Felgilde Leofsig's girlfriend
    Frithstan                                  Professor of ancient history
    Gutauskas                                  Kauman war captive
    Hengist  Sidroc's father; Hestan's brother
    Hestan   Ealstan, Leofsig, and Conberge's father - a bookkeeper
    Leofslg* Soldier in King Penda's levy; Ealstan's older brother
    Merwit   War captive
    Odda     One of Ealstan's classmates
    Osgar    Master of herblore in Gromheort
    Penda    King of Forthweg
    Sidroc   Ealstan's first cousin
    Swithulf Headmaster of Ealstan and Sidroc's academy

    




    I
    
    I i
    
    Tamulis
    Vanai*
    Womer
    Wulfher
    
    Gyongyos
    Arpad
    Borsos
    Gergely
    Horthy
    Istvan*
    jokai
    Kisfaludy
    Kun
    Szonyi
    Turul
    
    The Ice People
    Doeg
    
    jelgava
    Adomu
    Ausra
    Balozhu
    
    Donalitu
    Dzimavu
    Laitsina
    Snu*lsu
    Talsu*
    Traku
    
    Vartu
    
    Kuusamo
    Alkio
    Elimaki
    Ilmarinen
    
    Kaumian apothecary in Oyngestun
    Young Kaunian woman in Forthweg
    Linen merchant in Groniheort
    Ealstan's uncle
    
    Ekrekek (King) of Gyongyos
    Dowser on Obuda
    Borsos's wife
    Gyongyosian minister to Zuwayza
    Common soldier on island of Obuda
    Sergeant in Istvan's company
    Major in Istvan's battalion
    Soldier on Obuda; former mage's apprentice
    Soldier on Obuda
    Dragonkeeper
    
    Caravan master
    
    Colonel of Talsu's regiment, replacing Dzirnavu
    Talsu's younger sister
    Colonel commanding Talsu's regiment, replacing
    Adomu
    King ofjelgava
    Count and colonel of Talsu's regiment
    Talsu's mother
    Talsu's friend
    Common soldier in Bratanu Mountains

    




    Talsu's father, a tailor
    Colonel Dzirnavu's servant
    
    Theoretical sorcerer; Raahe's husband
    Pekka's sister
    Raffish elderly master theoretical sorcerer

    




    joromen   One of the Seven Princes of Kuusamo
    Leino     Pekka's husband; a practical mage
    Olavin    Eliruaki's husband - a banker
    Pekka*    Professor of theoretical sorcery, Kajaam City College
    Pulls     Theoretical sorcerer
    Raahe     Theoretical sorcerer; Alklo's wife
    Risto     Admiral fighting in the Bothnian Ocean
    Sluntio   Elderly master theoretical sorcerer
    Uto       Pekka and Leino's son
    Lq~oas
    Brinco    Secretary to Grandmaster of Lagoan Guild of Mages
    Ebastiao  Naval captain in Setubal
    Fernao*   First-rank mage
    Pinhiero  Grandmaster of the Lagoan Guild of Mages
    Ramalho   Naval lieutenant in Setubal
    Ribiero   Naval commodore in Setubal
    Rogelio   Captain of the Leopardess
    Shelomith A spy
    Sibitt
    Burebistu King of Sibiu
    Cornelu*  Commander and leviathan-rider, Sibian navy
    Costache  Cornelu's wife
    Delfirm   Commodore, Sibian navy
    Propatriu Captain of the Impaler
    Vitor     King of Sibiu
    
    Unkerlant
    
    Agen     A peasant in Zossen
    Annore   Garivald's wife
    Ansovald Unkerlanter minister to Zuwayza
    Berthar  One of Leudast's squadmates ,
    Dagulf   A peasant in Zossen; Ganivald's friend
    Droctulf General commanding Unkerlanter attack on Zuwayza
    Garivald*                                  Unkerlanter peasant in the village of Zossen
    Gernot   Soldier in Leudast's squad in Forthweg

    




    I
    
    Gurmun
    Herka
    Herpo
    Huk
    Ibert
    Kyot
    Leuba
    Leudast*
    Magnulf
    Merovec
    Nantwin
    Rathar*
    Roflanz
    Swenimel
    Syrivald
    Trudulf
    Uote
    Urgan
    Waddo
    Werpin
    Wisgard
    Zaban
    
    Valmiera
    Bauska
    Enkuru
    Erglyu.
    Gainibu
    Gedominu.
    Kestu
    Krasta*
    Marstalu
    Merkela
    Raunu
    Rudninku
    Skarnu*
    Valnu.
    
    Droctulf s successor in command in Zuwayza
    Firstman Waddo's wife
    A traveling spice seller
    Soldier in Leudast's squad in Forthweg
    Deputy foreign minister
    Swernmel's deceased twin brother
    Gari'vald and Annore's baby daughter
    Common soldier
    Sergeant in Leudast's company
    Major; Marshal Rathar's adjutant
    A soldier in Leudast's company
    Marshal of Unkerlant
    Colonel commanding regiment in western Forthweg
    King of Unkerlant
    Gan*vald and Annore's son
    Soldier in Leudast's company in western Forthweg
    An old peasant woman in Zossen
    Leudast's company commander
    Firstman of Zossen
    General in the attack over the Wadi Ugeiga
    One of Leudast's squadmates
    Foreign ministry official
    
    Krasta's maidservant
    Count in southern Vahniera
    Public affairs officer in the war ministry
    King of Valmiera.
    Elderly farmer near Pavilosta; Merkela's husband
    Valmieran duke
    Marchioness in Priekule; Skarnu's sister

    




    Duke of Klaipeda; commander of the Vahnieran army
    Gedominu's young wife
    Senior sergeant in Skarmi's company
    Captain fighting in southern Valmiera
    Marquis; captain; Krasta's brother
    Viscount in Priekule

    




    Yanina
    
    Cossos    One of Tsavellas's stewards
    Gyzis     Varvakis's clerk
    Tsavellas King of Yanina
    Varvakis  Purveyor of delicacies
    Zuwayza
    H aJj aj- *                   Foreign minister of Zuwayza
    Hassila   Haijaj I s middle wife
    Jamila    HajaJ's daughter
    Kolthoum  HajaJ's senior wife
    Lalla     HaJjaJ's junior wife
    Mithqal   Military mage of the second rank
    Shaddad   HijaJ's secretary
    Shazli    King of Zuwayza
    Tewfik    HaJjaJ's elderly majordomo
    
    *denotes a viewpoint character

    




    I
    
    i
    
    i
    
    i
    
    Ealstan's master of herblore droned on and on about the mystical prop-
    erties of plants. Ealstan paid him no more attention than he had to, no
    more attention than any other fifteen-year-old boy would have given of
    a warm summer afternoon. He was thinking about stripping off his tunic
    andjumping in the stream that flowed past Gromheort, about girls, about
    what his mother would fix for supper, about girls, about the health of the
    distant and ancient Duke of Bari, about girls ... about everything under
    the sun, in short, except herblore.
     He was a little too obviously not thinking about herblore. The master's
    voice came sharp as a whipcrack: "Ealstan!"
     He started, then sprang to his feet, almost knocking over the stool on
    which he'd been perched. "Master Osgar!" he said, while the other boys
    whom Osgar taught snickered at his clumsiness - and in relief because the
    master had caught him instead of them.
     Osgar's gray-streaked beard seemed to quiver with indignation. Like
    most men of Forthweg - Eke Ealstan himself - he was strong and stocky
    and dark, with an imperiously curved nose and with eyes that, at the
    moment, flashed fire a wardragon might have envied. His voice dripped
    sarcasm. "Perhaps you win do me the honor, Ealstan, of rerminding me of
    the chiefest property of the herb snake's-grass." He whacked a switch
    into the palm of his hand, a hint of what Ealstan would get if he did not
    do him that honor.
     "Snake's-grass, Master Osgar?" Ealstan said. Osgar nodded, anticipa-
    tion on his face: if Ealstan needed to repeat the question, he hadn't been
    listening. And so, indeed, he hadn't. But his uncle had used snake's-grass
    the year before, which meant he knew the answer: "May it please you,
    Master Osgar, if you set the powder of snake's-grass and three-leaved
    
    1

    




    2
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    grass under a man's pillow, he will not dream of himself afterwards ever
    again.
     It did not please the master of herblore. His expression made that plain.
    But it was the night answer. Reluctantly, Osgar nodded and said,
    "Resume your seat - without making the countryside fear an earthquake,
    if that be possible. And henceforth, make some effort to appear as if you
    
    care what passes here."
     "Aye, Master Osgar. Thank you, Master Osgar." Ealstan sat as care-
    fully as he could. For a little while, till the master of herblore stopped
    aiming glances sharp as a unicorn's horn his way, he paid attention to
    Osgar's words. There were apothecaries in his family, and he'd thought
    more than idly of going into that trade himself one day. But he had so
    many other things to think about, and ...
     Thwack! The switch came down, not on his back, but on that of his
    cousin Sidroc. Sidroc had been thinking of something else, too, and
    hadn't been lucky enough to get a question he could handle with what
    he already knew. All the boys in Osgar's class looked diligent then,
    whether they were or not.
     After what seemed like forever, a brazen bell released them. As they
    filed out, Osgar said, "Study well. We meet again tomorrow afternoon."
    He contrived to make that sound like a threat.
     To Ealstan, tomorrow afternoon felt a million miles away. So did his
    morning classes in Forthwegian literature and ciphering. So did the work
    he would have to do tonight for all of those classes4nd more besides. For
    now, as he left the gloomy corridors of the academy and stepped out into
    bright sunshine, the whole world seemed his - or, if not the whole world,
    at least the whole town of Gromheort.
     He glanced back over his shoulder at the whitewashed stone keep
    where Count Brorda made his residence. As far as he was concerned,
    neither Brorda nor Gromheort got their due from King Penda, nor from
    anyone else in Eoforwic, the capital. To them, Gromheort was just a
    medium-sized town not far from the border with Algarve. They did not
    grasp its magnificent uniqueness.
     That this was also Count Brorda's view of the situation, and one he
    assiduously cultivated in the folk of Gromheort, had never crossed
    Ealstan's mind.
     It didn't cross his nuind now, either. Sidroc made as if to hit him,

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    3
    
    saying, "Curse you, how did you come up with that about snake's-grass?
    When I strip off for the baths, everyone's going to tease me about the
    welt on my back.
     "Uncle Wulffier used the stuff, remember, when he thought he had a
    sending of nightmares," Ealstan replied.
     Sidroc snorted. He didn't want an answer; he wanted sympathy.
    Ealstan was his cousin, not his mother, and had scant sympathy to give.
     Bantering with their friends, they made their way through the streets
    of Gromheort toward their homes. Ealstan blinked against the impact of
    the strong northern sun against whitewash and red tile roofs. Until his
    eyes got used to the light, he sighed with relief whenever he ducked
    under an olive tree or one full of ripening almonds. Goodbyes came
    every couple of blocks as one boy after another peeled off from the
    group
     Ealstan and Sidroc were halfway home when one of Count Brorda':
    constables held up a ceremonial sword to halt foot traffic and wagons I
    
    their street. He shouted curses at a luckless man who didn't stop fast
    enough to suit him. "What's going on?" Sidroc asked, but Ealstan's ears
    had already caught the rhythmic clip-clop of cavalry.
     Both boys shouted cheers as the unicorns trotted by. One of the
    officers made his mount rear for a moment. The sun shone bright as silver
    off its iron-shod hom and off its spotless white coat, a white that put
    whitewash to shame. Most of the troopers, though, had sensibly daubed
    their mounts with paint. Dun and sand and even muddy green were less
    likely to draw the notice of the foe and a streak of spurting fire, even if
    they seemed less magnificent than white.
     A couple of slim, fair, trousered Kaunians, a man and a woman,
    cheered the cavalry along with everyone else. In their hatred of Algarve,
    they and the rest of the folk of the Kingdom of Forthweg agreed. After
    the constable waved traffic forward, Ealstan watched the wom an's hips
    work in those revealing pants. He licked his lips. Forthwegian women
    went out in long, loose tunics that covered them from neck to ankles and
    kept their shapes decently disguised. No wonder people talked about
    Kaunians the way they did. And yet the woman strode along as if
    unaware of the spectacle she was creating, and chattered with her com-
    panion in their own sonorous language.
     Sidroc watched her, too. "Disgusting," he said, but, by his avid voice

    




    4
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    and by the way he eyes kept following her, he was perhaps not altogether
    disgusted.
     "Just because they dressed that way in the days of the Kaunian Empire,
    they think they have the right to keep on doing it," Ealstan agreed. "The
    Empire fell more than a thousand years ago, in case they hadn't noticed."
     "Because the Kaunians de-gen-er-ated from wearing clothes like
    that." Sidroc pronounced with exaggerated care the long word he'd
    learned from the history master earlier in the year.
     He and Ealstan had gone a couple of more blocks when someone came
    running up the street behind them shouting, "He's dead! He's dead!"
      "Who's dead?" Ealstan called, but he was afraid he knew.
      "Duke Alardo, that's who," the man answered.
      "Are you sure?" Ealstan and Sidroc and several other people asked the
    question at the same time. Alardo of Bari had been at death's door more
    than once in the nearly thirty years since his domain was forcibly
    detached from Algarve in the aftermath of the Six Years' War. He'd been.
    vigorous enough to pull through every time. ff only, Ealstan thought, he'd
    been vigorous enough to sire a son ...
      But the man with the news was nodding vigorously. "I have it straight
    from my brother-in-law, who has it from Count Brorda's secretary, who
    heard the message with his own ears when it reached the keep by
    crystal."
      Like everyone else in Gromheort, Ealstan fancied himself a connois-
    seur of rumors. This one sounded highly probable. "King Mezentio will
    claim Bari," he said grimly.
      "If he does, we'll fight him." Sidroc sounded grim, too, grim and
    excited at the same time. "He can't fight Forthweg and VaIrmiera and
    jelgava all at once. Not even an Algarvian would be crazy enough to try
    that. "
      "Nobody knows what an Algarvian is crazy enough to try," Ealstan
    said with conviction. "He may have more enemies than that, too - Sibiu
    doesn't like Algarve, either, and the islanders are supposed to be tough.
    Come on - let's hurry home. Maybe we can be first with the news."
    They both began to run.
      As they ran, Sidroc said, "I bet your brother will be glad to get the
    chance to slaughter some stinking Algarvians."
      'Not my fault Leofsig was born first," Ealstan panted. "If I were nirk-

    




    I
    
    INTo THE DAR-KNESS
    
    5
    
    teen, I'd have gone into the King's levy, too." He pretended to spray fire
    around, so recklessly that, had it been real, he would have burned down
    half of Gromheort.
     He dashed into his own house shouting that Duke Alardo was dead.
    "What?" His sister Conberge, who was a year older than he, came in
    from the courtyard, where she'd been trying to keep the flower garden
    flourishing despite Forthweg's savage summer heat. "What win Mezentio
    do now?"
     ,'He will seize the Duchy." That wasn't Ealstan; it was his mother,
    Elfryth: She'd hurried out of the kitchen, and was wiping her hands on a
    linen towel. "He will seize it, and we will go to war." She did not sound
    excited, but about to burst into tears. After a moment, she gathered her-
    self and went on, "I was about your age, Conberge, when the Six Years'
    War ended. I remember the uncles and cousins you never got to know
    because they didn't come home from the war." Her voice broke. She did
    begin to cry.
     Ealstan said, "Leofsig will fight for Forthweg. He won't be dragooned
    into Algarve's army, or Unkerlant's, either, the way so many
    Forthwegians were in the last war."
     His mother looked at him as if he'd suddenly started speaking the lan-
    guage of the Lagoans, whose island kingdom lay beyond the isles of Sibiu,
    far southeast of Forthweg. "I don't care under which banner he fights,"
    she said. "I don't want him to fight at all."
     "Losing the last war didn't teach the Algarvians their lesson," Ealstan
    said. "This time, we'll hit them first." He smacked a fist into the palm of
    the other hand. "They won't stand a chance." That should have con-
    vinced his mother; none of his masters could have faulted his logic. For
    some reason, though, Elfryth looked less happy than ever.
     So did Hestan, his father, when he came home from casting accounts
    for one or another of Gromheort's leading merchants. He had already
    heard the news. By then, very likely, all of Gromheort, all of Forthweg
    but for a few peasants and herders, had heard the news. He didn't say
    much. He seldom said much. But his silence seemed ... heavier than
    usual as he drank his customary evening glass of wine with Elfryth.
     He had a second glass of wine with supper, something he rarely did.
    And, all through supper, he kept looking, not east toward Algarve but to
    the west. He had nearly finished his garlicky stew of mutton and eggplant
    
    I
    I

    




    6
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    when, as if unable to contain himself any longer, he burst out, "What will
    Unkerlant do?"
     Ealstan stared at him, then started to laugh. "Your pardon, sir," he said
    at once; he was, on the whole, a well-mannered boy. "The Unkerlanters
    are still digging out from their Twinkings War, and trying to fight
    Gyongyos in the far west, and snapping and snarling at Zuwayza, too.
    Don't you think they have enough on their plate?"
     "If they hadn't fought themselves in the Twinkings War, they would
    still rule most of Forthweg," Hestan pointed out. Ealstan knew that, but
    it felt like history as old as that of the Kaunian Empire to him. His father
    resumed: "Anyhow, what I think doesn't matter. What matters is what
    King Swemmel of Unkerlant thinks - and, by all I've heard, he doesn't
    know his own mind from day to day."
    
     Tealdo studied himself in the little hand mirror. He muttered some-
    thing vile under his breath: one of the spikes of his mustache was not all
    it might have been. He applied a little more orange-scented wax, twisted
    the mustachio between thumb and forefinger, and studied the result.
    Better, he decided, but kept fiddling with the mustache and with his
    imperial even so. Better wasn't good enough, not here, not now. Even
    perfection would be barely good enough.
     Panfilo came swaggering up the aisle of the caravan coach. His own
    mustaches, even more fiery of hue than Tealdo's, swept up and out like
    the horns of a bull. Instead of a chin beard, he favored bushy side
    whiskers. He paused to nod at Tealdo's primping. "That's good," he said.
    "Aye, that's very good. All the girls in the Duchy will want to kiss you."
     "Sounds fine to me, Sergeant," Tealdo said with a grin. He patted the
    sleeve of his drab tan uniform tunic. "I just wish we could wear some-
    thing with a little style to it, the way our fathers and grandfathers did."
     "So do I, and I'll not deny it," Panfilo said. "But our fathers went into
    the Six Years' War in gold tunics and scarlet kilts. They looked like they
    were already blazing, and they burned - how they burned! " The sergeant
    went on up the aisle, snarling at soldiers less fastidious than Tealdo.
     The caravan hummed south along the ley line. A few rminutes later,
    Lieutenant Elio came through the coach and snapped at a couple of men
    Panfilo had rm'ssed. A few rm'nutes after that, Captain Larbino came
    through and growled at men Elio had missed - and at a couple he hadn't.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    7
    
     Nobody growled at Tealdo. He leaned back in his seat and whistled an
    off-color song and watched the Algarvian landscape fiow by outside the
    coach. Red bn*ck and timber had long since replaced whitewashed plas-
    ter; the southern part of the realm was cool and cloudy and not well
    suited to the aiiier forms of architecture in fashion farther north. Here, a
    man wanted to be sure he stayed warm of nights - and of days, too, a
    good part of the year.
     Halfway through the afternoon, the almost sublirminal hum of the
    caravan deepened as it drew less energy from the line over which it
    traveled. It slowed to a stop. Captain Larbino threw open the door to the
    coach. "Forin up in order of march outside," he said. "Remember, King
    Mezentio has done us great honor by allowing this regiment to take part
    in the return of the Duchy of Ban' to its rightful allegiance. Remember
    also, any man failing to live up to this honor will personally answer to
    me." He set a hand on the basket hilt of his officer's rapier; Tealdo did
    not doubt he meant that. The captain added, "And finally, remember that
    we are not marching into a foreign country. We are welcoming our
    brothers and sisters home."
     "Hang our brothers," said the soldier next to Tealdo, a burly fellow
    named Trasone. "I want one of our sisters in Ban' to welcome me home,
    and then screw me till I can't even walk."
     "I've heard ideas I liked less," Tealdc, said as he got to his feet. "Lots
    of them, as a matter of fact." He filed toward the door, then jumped
    down from the coach, which fioated a couple of feet above the ground,
    and took his place in the ranks.
     Captain Larbino's company was not the first in the regiment, but was
    the second, which let Tealdo see ahead well enough. In front of the first
    company stood the color guard. He envied them their gaudy ceremonial
    uniforms, from gilded helms to gleaming boots. The man in the rmiddle of
    the color guard, who had surely been chosen for his great height, bore the
    banner of Algarve, diagonal slashes of red, green, and white. The soldier
    to his left carried the regiment pennon, a blue lightning bolt on gold.
     just ahead of the color guard stood a squat brick building also flying
    the Algarvian national banner: the customs house on the border - what
    had been the border - between Algarve and Bari. Its turnstile was raised,
    inviting the Algarvian soldiers forward. An almost identical brick build-
    ing stood a few feet farther south, on the other side of the border. Bari's

    




    8
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    banner, a white bear on orange, floated on a staff beside it. Its wooden
    turnstile still made as if to bar the road into the Duchy.~
     Out of that second building came a plump man in uniform. His tumic
    and kilt were of different color and cut from those of the Algarvians: not
    tan, but a brown with green mixed in. Duke Alardo, powers below curse
    his ghost, had liked running his own realm; he'd been the perfect cat's-
    paw for the victors of the Six Years' War.
     But he was dead now, dead without an heir. As for what his people
    thought ... The plump man in the mud-and-moss uniforin bowed to the
    Algarvian banner as the color-bearer brought it up to the border. Then
    he turned and bowed to the Ban*an banner before running it down from
    the pole where it had floated for a generation and more. And then he let
    it fall to the ground and spurned it with his boots. He raised the turnstile,
    crying, "Welcome home, brothers!"
     Tealdo shouted himself hoarse but could hardly hear himself, for every
    man in the regiment was shouting himself hoarse. Colonel Ombruno,
    who commanded the unit, ran forward, embraced the Barian - the
    former Ban'an - customs officer, and kissed him on both cheeks. Turning
    back to his own men, he said, "Now, sons of my fighting spirit, enter the
    land that is ours once more."
     The captains began singing the Algarvian national hymn. The men
    joined them in a swelling chorus ofjoy and pride. They marched past the
    two customs houses now suddenly made useless. Tealdo poked Trasone
    in the ribs and murmured, "Now that we're ~ entering the land, let's see if
    we can enter the women too, eh, like you said." Trasone grinned and
    nodded. Sergeant Parifilo looked daggers at both of them, but the singing
    was so loud, he couldn't prove they hadn't taken part. Tealdo did start
    singing again: lustily, in every sense of the word.
     Parenzo, the Banian town nearest this stretch of the border with
    Algarve - no, nearest this stretch of the border with the rest of Algarve -
    lay a couple of miles south of the customs houses. Long before the regi-
    ment reached the town, people began streaming out of it toward them.
    Perhaps the fat Banian customs officer had used his crystal to let the baron
    in charge of the town know the reunion was now official. Or perhaps
    such news spread by magic less formal but no less effective than that by
    which crystals operated.
     Whatever the reason, the road was lined with cheering, screaming men

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    I
    
    9
    
    and women and children before the regiment got halfway to Parenzo.
    Some of the locals waved homemade Algarvian banners: homemade
    because Alardo had forbidden display or even possession of the Algarvian
    national colors in his realm while he lived. In the handful of days since the
    Duke's death, quite a few Banians; had dyed white tumics and kilts with
    stripes of green and red.
     The crowds didn't just line the road, either. In spite of Colonel
    Ombruno's indignant shouts, men dashed out to clasp the hands of the
    Algarvian soldiers and to kiss them on the cheeks, as he had done with
    the customs officers. Women ran out, too. They pressed flowers into the
    hands of the marching Algarvians, and national banners, too. And the
    kisses they gave were no mere pecks on the cheeks.
     Tealdo did not want to let go of a sandy-haired beauty whose tunic
    and kilt, though of perfectly respectable cut, were woven of stuff so filmy,
    she might as well have been wearing nothing at all. "March!" Panfilo
    screamed at him. "You are a soldier of the Kingdom of Algarve. What
    will people think of you?"
     "They will think I am a man, Sergeant, as well as a soldier," he replied
    with dignity. He gave the girl a last pat, then took a few steps double-
    time to resume his place in the ranks. He twirled his mustache as he went,
    in case the kisses had melted the wax out of it.
     Because of such distractions, the two-mile march to Parenzo ended up
    taking twice as long as it should have. Colonel Ombruno went from
    apoplectic at the delay to placid when a statuesque woman in an outfit
    even more transparent than that of the girl who'd kissed Tealdo attached
    herself to him and showed no intention of letting go till she found a bed.
     Trasone snickered. "The good colonel's wife will be furious if word
    of this ever gets back to her," he said.
     "So will both his mistresses," Tealdo said. "The bold colonel is a man
    of parts - and I know the part he intends using tonight."
     "The same one you do, once we billet ourselves in Parenzo," Trasone
    said.
     "If I can find that same lady again - why not?" Tealdo asked. "Or even
    a different one."
     A shadow flicked across his face, and then another. He craned his neck.
    A fiight of dragons, their scaly hides painted red, green, and white, flew
    down from Algarve into Bari: one of many entering the Duchy, no

    




    10
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    doubt. High as they flew, the rhythnuic whoosh of their wingbeats was,
    easy to hear on the ground.
     Tealdo made as if to clap his hands when the dragons flew past
    Parenzo. "Dragonfliers always get more than their share of women," he
    said. "For one thing, most of them are nobles. For another, they've got
    the lure of the beasts."
     "Not fair," Trasone agreed.
     "Not even close to fair," Tealdo said. "But if they don't land anywhere
    close to us, it doesn't matter."
     In the town square of Parenzo, the local baron stood on a wooden ros-
    trum. He had the intent look of a man who was either going to make a
    speech or run for the latrine. Tealdo knew which he would have pre-
    ferred, but no one consulted him.
     The speech, inevitably, was long and boring. It was also in the fast,
    clucking Barian dialect, so that Tealdo, who came from the foothills of
    northeastern Algarve, not far from the jelgavan border, rmissed about one
    word every sentence. Duke Alardo had tried to make the Barian dialect
    into a language of its own, further sundering his people from the rest of
    Algarve. He'd evidently had some luck. But when the count led the regi-
    ment in singing the national hymn, he and King Mezentio's soldiers
    understood one another perfectly.
     Colonel Ombruno ascended to the rostrum. "Noble Baron, I thank
    you for your gracious remarks." He looked out over the neat ranks of
    soldiers. "Men, I grant you perrmission to fraternize with your fellow
    countrymen of Parenzo, provided only that you return to this square for
    billeting before the chimes of midnight. For now - dismissed!"
     He came down and slipped an arm around the waist of the woman in
    the filmy tunic and kilt. With whoops and cheers, the regiment dispersed
    Tealdo did his share of backslapping and wrist clasping with his fellow
    countrymen, but that wasn't the only thing on his mind.
     Having been blessed with a good sense of direction, he went farther
    from the central square than did most of his comrades, thereby reducing
    his competition. When he walked into a cafe, he found himself the only
    soldier - indeed, the only customer - in the place. The serving girl was
    pretty, or even a little more than pretty. Her smile was friendly, or even
    a little more than friendly, as she came up to him. "What can I get you,
    hero?" she asked.

    




    INTo THE DAR-KNESS
    
    11
    
     Tealdo glanced at the bill of fare on the wall. "We're not far from the
    sea," he answered, smiling back, "so how about the stewed eels with
    onions? And a yellow wine to go with them - and a glass for yourself,
    sweetheart, if you'd like one."
     "I'd like one fine," she said. "And after supper, would you like to get
    your own eel stewed? I have a room upstairs." Her sigh was low and
    throaty. "It's so good to be in Algarve again, where we belong."
     "I think it'll be good, corming into Bari," Tealdo said, and pulled the
    serving girl down on to his lap. Her arms twined around him. Suddenly,
    he didn't care whether he got supper or not.
    
     Krasta peered into her closet, wondering what she had that was suit-
    able to wear to a declaration of war. That problem had never before
    vexed the young marchioness, although her mother had surely had to
    make the same difficult choice at the outset of the Six Years' War, when
    Valmiera and her allies last sought to invade and subdue Algarve.
     Her mouth thinned to a narrow line. She could not make up her mind.
    She picked up a bell and rang it. Let a servant figure out the permuta-
    tions. That was what servants were for.
     Bauska hurried in. She was wearina a sensible gray tunic and trousers:
    sensible and boring. "What shall I put on to go to the palace, Bauska?"
    Krasta asked. "Should I be cautious with a tunic, or show our grand
    Kauman heritage by wearing trousers and blouse?" She sighed. "I really
    fancy a short tunic and kilt, but I don't suppose I can wear an Algarvian
    style when we're declaring war on that windbag, Mezentio."
     "Not unless you care to be stoned through the streets of Priekule,
    Bauska replied.
     "No, that wouldn't be good," Krasta said peevishly. She plucked a
    cinnamon-flavored sweet fi7orn a gold-chased bowl on the dresser and
    popped it into her mouth. "Now - what should I do?"
     Not being a hereditary noble, Bauska had to make her wits work. She
    plucked at a loose wisp of pale hair - but not so pale as Krasta's - while
    she thought. At last, she said, "Tunic and trousers would show solidarity
    with jelgava, and to some degree with Forthweg, though folk of Kaunian
    blood don't rule there "
     Krasta sniffed. "Kaunians in Forthweg bore me to tears, with their
    endless chatter about being oldest of the old."

    




    12
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "Those claims hold some truth, milady," Bauska said.
     "I don't care," Krasta said. "I don't care at all. They're still dull."
     "As you say, milady." Bauska held a finger in the air. "But tunic and
    trousers might offend the envoys from the islands of Sibiu and from
    Lagoas, for their ancestors have close ties to the ancestors of the
    Algarvians."
     "They all spring from the same pack of barbarian dogs, you mean,
    even if some of them rmight be on our side now." Krasta barely refrained
    from boxing Bauska's ears. "You still haven't told me what I ought to
    wear! "
     "You cannot know till you reach the palace whether or not you have
    made the perfect choice," her servant answered, mild as ever.
     "It's not fair!" Krasta cried. "My brother doesn't have to worry about
    things like this. Why should 1?"
     "Lord Skarnu has no choice in his apparel because he wears King
    Gainibu's uniform," Bauska said. "I am sure he will make Valmiera proud
    of his brave service."
     "I am sure I don't know what to put on, and you're no help at all,"
    Krasta said, Bauska bowed her head. "Get out!" Krasta shouted, and the
    servant fled. That left Krasta alone with her choice. "I can't get good
    help," she fumed, taking gray wool trousers and a blue silk top from their
    hooks and putting them on.
     She studied the effect in the mirror. It didn't satisfy her, but then very
    little satisfied her. A few pounds lighter, a couple of inches taller ... and
    she probably would have remained dissatisfied, though she didn't think
    so. Grudgingly, she adrulitted to herself that the blue of her tunic set off
    the almost matching blue of her eyes. She belted the trousers with a rope
    of white gold and put a thinner rope around her neck. They played up
    the paleness of her hair.
     She sighed. This would have to do. She went downstairs and called
    loudly for the carriage. Her estate had sat by the edge of Priekule for
    centuries, long before all the ley lines around the power point at the heart
    of the city were charted and exploited, and so stood near none of them.
    Even if it had, she would not have cared to nide a public caravan to the
    palace and subject herself to the stares of barmaids and booksellers and
    other vulgar, common folk.
     She got more stares niding in the carriage, but she didn't have to notice

    




    JIL
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    13
    
    those; they weren't so intimate as they would have been in the cramped
    confines of a caravan coach. The horses clopped along the cobblestones
    past square modem buildings of brick and glass (at which she sneered
    because they were modem); past others whose marble colonnades and
    painted statues inuitated fornis &orn the days of the Kaunian Empire (at
    which she sneered because they were limitations); past some a couple of
    hundred years old, when the omate Algarvian architectural influence was
    strong (at which she sneered because they looked Algarvian); and past a
    few true Kaunian relics (at which she sneered because they were decrepit).
     The carriage had just passed the famous Kaunian Column of Victory
    - now at last fully restored after fire damage during the Six Years' War -
    when a green-uniformed fellow held up a hand to bar the way. "What is
    the meaning of this?" Krasta demanded of her driver. "Never rmind that
    oaf - go on through."
     "Milady, I had better not," he answered cautiously.
     She started to rage at him, but then the first Valmieran footsoldiers
    started tramping through the street from which she'd been barred. The
    river of men in dark green trousers and tunics seemed to take forever to
    flow past. "If I am late to the palace because of these soldiers, ~ shall be
    very unhappy - and so shall you," she told the driver, tapping her foot on
    the carpeted floor. She smiled to see him shiver; all her servants knew she
    meant what she said when she said things like that.
     Great troops of horse cavalry and unicom cavalry followed the
    infantrymen. Krasta curled her lip to see umicorns made as ugly as horses.
    And then she curled her lip again, for a squadron of behemoths followed
    the unicorns. They were ugly already, and thus did not need to be made
    so. Except for their homs - as long as those of the unicorns, but far
    thicker, and wickedly curved - they resembled nothing so much as great,
    hairy, thick-legged pigs. Their sole virtue was strength: each effortlessly
    carried not only several niders but also a heavy stick and a thick blanket
    of mail.
     At last, men and beasts cleared the road. Without Krasta's having to say
    a word, the driver whipped the horses up into a gallop as soon as he
    could. The carriage shot through the narrow, winding streets of Pniekule,
    almost mowing down a couple of women unwise enough to try to cross
    in front of it. They shrieked at Krasta. She angrily shouted back: had the
    carnage hit them, she might have been late to the palace.

    




    14
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     As things were, she did arrive in good time. A bowing servant took
    charge of the carriage. Another helped her alight and said, "If milady the
    marchioness will be good enough to accompany me to the Grand
    Hall . . ."
    
     "Thank you," Krasta said, words she seldom wasted on her own servi-
    tors. Here in the palace, though, she was not the ruler, nor even of more
    than slightly above middling rank. The gold and fiirs and splendid por-
    traits of kings past reminded her of that. So did the princesses and
    duchesses who looked down their noses at her as she was accustomed to
    looking down on the rest of the world.
     As soon as she saw a woman who outranked her wearing trousers, she
    relaxed: even if that proved a mistake, the duchess would get the blame,
    not she. But, in fact, more women in tunics looked nervous about their
    outfits than did women in trousers. Safe from censure, she let out a small,
    invisible sigh of relief
     Almost all the noblemen coming into the Grand Hall were in trousers
    and short tunics. Many of them were in uniform, with glittering badges
    showing both military and social rank. Krasta looked daggers at a man in
    a tunic and pleated kilt till she heard him speaking Valmieran with a
    rhythmic, trilling accent and realized he was the minister from Sibiu in
    his native costume.
    
     A horn's clear note pierced the chatter. "Forth comes Gainibu III," a
    herald cried, "King of Valmiera and Emperor of the provinces and
    colonies across the seas. Give him great honor, as he deserves!"
     Krasta rose from her seat and bowed very low, as did all the nobles and
    diplomats in the Great Hall. She remained standing till Gainibu had taken
    his place behind the podium at the front of the hall. Like so many of his
    nobles, he wore a uniform, the chest of which was almost hidden by a
    great profusion of medallions and ribbons. Some of those showed
    honorary affiliations. Some were true rewards for courage; while still
    Crown Prince, he had served with distinction against Algarve during the
    Six Years' War.
     "Nobles and people of Valrmiera," he said, while artists sketched his
    picture and scribes scribbled down his words for news sheets to reach the
    people whose villages were too poor and too far from a power point to
    boast even one crystal, "the Kingdom of Algarve, in willful violation of
    the ternis of the Treaty of Tortush, has sent armed invaders into the

    




    INTo THE DARKNEss
    
    15
    
    sovereign Duchy of Bari. The Algarvian minister to Valmiera has stated
    that King Mezentio has no intention of withdrawing his men from the
    said Duchy, and has positively rejected my demand that Algarve do so.
    When this latest outrage is added to the many others Algarve has com-
    mitted in recent years, it leaves me no choice but to declare that, from
    this moment forth, the Kingdom of Valmiera considers itself to be at war
    with the Kingdom of Algarve."
     Along with the other nobles King Gainibu had summoned to the
    palace, Krasta applauded. "Victory! Victory! Victory!" The shout filled
    the Grand Hall, with occasional cries of "On to Trapam'!" thrown in for
    good measure.
     Gainibu held up his hand. Slowly, silence returned. Into it, he said,
    "Nor does Vahniera go to war alone. Our allies of old are our allies yet."
     As if to prove as much, the minister from jelgava came and stood beside
    the king. "We too are at war with Algarve," he said. Krasta understood his
    words with no trouble, though to her ear they had an odd accent: jelgavan
    and Valmieran were so closely related, some reckoned them dialects rather
    than two separate languages.
     The tumic the swarthy nimlister from Forthweg wore could not dis-
    guise his blocky build. Instead of Valn-iieran, he spoke in classical
    Kaunian: "Forthweg, free not least because of the courage of Valmiera
    and jelgava, stands by her friends in bad times as well as good. We too
    war with Algarve." Formality fell from him like a mask. He abandoned
    the ancient tongue for the modem to roar, "On to Trapani!" The cheers
    were deafening.
     "Bani in Algarvian hands is a dagger aimed at Sibiu's heart," the
    minister from the island nation said. "We shall also fight the common
    foe."
     But the minister from Lagoas, which had been Valmiera's ally in the
    Six Years' War, stayed silent now. So did the slant-eyed envoy from
    Kuusamo, which ruled the eastern, and much larger, part of the island it
    shared with Lagoas. Lagoas was nervous about Kuusamo; Kuusamo was
    fighting a desultory naval war far to the east against Gyongyos, - though
    not, strangely, in any real alliance with Unkerlant. The Unkerlanter
    minister also sat on his hands, as did the envoys from the nuinor powers
    between Unkerlant and Algarve.
     Krasta hardly noticed the ornissions. With her allies, Valmiera would

    




    16
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    surely punish the wicked Algarvians. They had brought the war on them-
    selves - now let them see how they liked it. "On to Trapani!" she yelled.
    
     Count Sabrino elbowed his way through the crowd in Trapani's
    Royal Square, toward the balcony from which King Mezentio would
    address the people and nobles of Algarve. He wanted to hear Mezentio's
    words with his own ears, not read them later on or, if he was lucky, catch
    them from a crystal some nearby sorcerer was holding.
     People gave way before him, men with nods that would have to make
    do in the crush for bows, women, some of them, with inviting similes.
    Those had nothing to do with his noble rank. They had everything to do
    with his tan uniform, with the three silver pips of a colonel on each
    shoulder strap, and, most of all, with the prorminent Dragon Corps badge
    just above his heart.
     Close by, a man with his mustache going from red to white spoke to
    a younger woman, perhaps a daughter, perhaps a mistress or new wife: I
    was here, darling, night here, when King Dudone declared war on
    Unkerlant all those years ago."
     "So was I," Sabriino said. He'd been a youth then, too young to fight
    until the Six Years' War had nearly run its course. "People were afraid
    then. Look now." He waved, ending with a typically flamboyant
    Algarvian twist of the wrist. "This nuight be a festival!"
     "We're taking back our own this time, and everybody knows it," the
    older man said, and his female companion nodded vigorous agreement.
    Noticing the silver dragon coiled on Sabrino's chest, the man added,
    "And the greatest good luck to you in the air, sir. Powers above keep you
    safe. "
     "For which you have my thanks, poor though they be." Crush or no
    crush, Sabrino bowed to both the man and his lady before pressing on.
     He brought a chunk of melon wrapped in a parchment-thin slice of
    ham from a vendor with an eye for the main chance, and advanced with
    only one elbow to clear his path while he ate. He hadn't come quite so
    far as he wanted when King Mezentio appeared on the balcony: a tan,
    lean man, his golden crown glearming even more brightly in the noonday
    sun than his bald scalp would have.
     "My friends, my countrymen, we are invaded!" he cnied, and Sabrino,
    to his relief, found he had no trouble hearing. "All the Kaunian countries

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    17
    
    want to gnaw our bones. The Jelgavans are attacking us in the mountains,
    the Valrm*erans have swarmed out of the marquisate on this side of the
    Soretto they stole from us in the Treaty of Tortusso, and Forthweg's
    fierce cavalry sweeps over the plains in the northwest. Even Sibiu, our
    own blood kin, plunges the dagger into our back, assaulting our ships and
    burning our harbors. They think - they all think - we shall be meat for
    their butchering. My friends, my countrymen, what say you about that?"
     "No!" Sabrino shouted it at the top of his lungs, along with everyone
    else. The roar was terrific, overpowering.
     I "No," Mezentio agreed. "We have done nothing but take back that
    which is rightfully ours. Even doing that, we were calm, we were
    reasonable. Did we war with the traitor Duke of Ban', Alardo the lick-
    spittle? We had every reason to war with him, but we let him live out his
    long and worthless span of days. Only after the flames claimed his carcass
    did we reclaim the Duchy - and the people of Bani welcomed us with
    flowers and kisses and songs of joy. And for those songs of joy, we are
    plunged into a war we do not want.
     "My friends, my countrymen, did we claim the Marquisate of
    Rivaroli, which Valmiera cut from the body of our kingdom after the Six
    Years' War for their foothold on this side of the Soretto? We did not. We
    do not, though King Gainibu's men mistreat the good Algarvians who
    live there. I thought no one could doubt the justice of our claim to Bari.
    It seems I was wrong.
     "It seems I was wrong," Mezentio repeated, bringing his right fist
    down on the waist-high marble balustrade. "The Kaunians and their
    jackals sought any excuse for war, and now they think they have one. My
    countrymen, my friends, mark my words: if we lose this struggle, they
    win ruin us. Jelgava and Forthweg will j oin hands in the north across the
    corpse of our kingdom, cutting us off forevermore from the Garelian
    Ocean. In the south, the Treaty of Tortusso gave barely a taste of what
    Valmiera and Sibiu, aye, and Lagoas, too, would do to us if only they
    could."
     Sabrino frowned a little. Since the Lagoans had not declared war on
    Algarve, he would not have mentioned them. He did not for a moment
    think King Mezentio wrong about what Lagoas wanted, merely a trifle
    impolitic.
      Mezentio went on, "As I speak here, our enemies bum our fields and

    




    18
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    farms and villages. Their dragons carry eggs of devastation and destruc-
    tion and death to our towns and cities. My friends, my countrymen, shall
    we do what is in our poor power to throw them back?"
     "Aye!" Again, Sabriino yelled as loud as he could. Again, he could
    hardly hear himself for the outcry around him.
     "Valmlera has declared war on us. Jelgava has followed like a dog on
    a leash. Forthweg has declared war. So has Sibiu." This time, Mezentio
    raised his fist in the air. "They seek to chop us off at the knees. My
    friends, my countrymen, people of Algarve, here is my vow to You: it
    shall not be!"
     Sabrino yelled yet again. He too pumped his fist in the air. A woman
    beside him stood up on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. He gathered her
    into his arms and made a proper job of the kiss.
     King Mezentio held both hands high, palms out toward the crowd.
    After a little while, quiet returned. Into it, he spoke with simple deter-
    mination: "We shall defend Algarve."
     "Algarve! Algarve! Algarve!" The chant echoed through the square,
    through all of Trapani, and, Sabrino hoped, throughout the kingdom.
    Mezentio bowed stiffly from the waist, acknowledging in his own person
    the cheers for his kingdom. Then, with a final wave, he withdrew from
    the balcony. Sabrino saw one of his iministers come forward to clasp his
    wrist in congratulation.
     "You'll help save us, Colonel," said the woman who'd kissed him.
     "Milady, I shall do what I can," Sabrino answered. "And now, much
    as I would sooner linger with you" - she dropped him a curtsy for that -
    I must go and do it."
     The dragon farm lay well outside Trapani, so far outside that Sabrino
    had to take a horse-drawn carriage for the last leg of the journey, as no
    ley caravan reached such a distance from the power point at the heart of
    the capital. "Good of you to j oin us," said General Borso, the firin com-
    mandant, giving Sabriino ajaundiced stare.
     "My lord, I am not tardy, not by my orders, and I had the honor of
    hearing with my own ears King Mezentio casting defiance in the face of
    all those who wrong Algarve," Sabrino said, respectfully defiant of higher
    authority.
     Higher authority yielded, Borso saying, "Ali, my friend, in that case I
    envy you. Being confined here on duty, I heard him through the crystal.

    




    INTo THE ARKNESS
    
    19
    
    He spoke very well, I thought. The Kaunians and their friends would be
    
    wrong to take us lightly."
    
     "That they would," Sabrino agreed. "The crystal is all very well when
    required, but everything in it is tiny and tinny. In person, the king was
    
    agnificent."
    
    "Good, good." Borso bunched his fingertips and kissed them
    
    "Splendid. If he was magnificent, we too must be magnificent, to live up
    to his example. In aid of which, my dear fellow, is your wing fully pre-
    
    i)ared for action?"
    
     "My lord, you need have no doubts on that score," Sabrino said. "The
    fliers are in fine fettle, every one of them eager for duty. And we are well
    supplied with meat and brimstone and quicksilver for the dragons. My
    
    report of three days past goes into full detail on all these matters."
    
     "Reports are all very well," Borso said, "but the impressions of th
    men who write them are better. And I have orders for you, since all is in
    such excellent readiness. You and your entire wing are ordered northwest
    to Gozzo, from which point you are to resist the invading Forthwegians;
    
     "Gozzo? If I remember the place nightly, it is a Miserable excuse for
    town," Sabrino said with a sigh. "Will they be able to keep us supplied
    
     "If they cannot, the count's head will roll and so win the duke's and
    so will the nuartermaster's " Borso answered "We are as readv for this
    
     11 ur foes surround us," Sabrino said. "They tried to destroy us in the
    Six Years' War and came too close to succeeding. We need to be readv
    
     He saluted the farm commandant, then went out to his win Th
    dragons were tethered in long rows behind Borso's office. When they
    saw him, they hissed and raised their scaly crests - not in greeting, he
    
    I-PnT ]~"t- in o Aro onish mix of on er and alarm and hun er
    
     Some people romanticized unicorns, which were beautiful and quite
    bright as amimals went. Some people romanticized horses, which were
    pretty stupid. And, sure as sure, some t)eoDle romanticized dragons, which
    
    were not only stupid but vicious to boot Sabrino chuckled Nobody as
    
    far as he knew, romanticized behemoths - and a good thing, too.
    
    He shouted for an orderlv. When the voung subaltern came running

    




    20
    
    Harty Turtledove
    
    up, Sabriino said, "Summon the men of my wing. We are ordered to
    Gozzo, to defend against the cursed Forthwegians, as soon as may be."
    The subaltern bowed and hurried away.
     A moment later, a trumpeter blared out half a dozen harsh, imperative
    notes: the opening notes to the Algarvian national hymn. As he played
    them over and over again, men spilled from tan tents and ran, kilts flap-
    ping, to form an eight-by-eight square in front of Sabrino, four captains
    standing out ahead of it. The dragons hissed and moaned and spread their
    enormous wings. Stupid though they were, they'd learned an assembly
    meant they were likely to fly soon.
     "It's war," Sabrino told the fliers in his wing. "We are ordered to
    Gozzo, to fight the Forthwegians. Is every man, is every beast, ready to
    depart within the hour?" A chorus of Aye! rang out, but one flier, nuisery
    on his face, raised a hand. Sabriino pointed to him. "Speak, Corbeo!"
     "my lord," Corbeo said, "I regret to report that my dragon's tom
    wing membrane has not yet healed enough to let her fly." He hung his
    head in shame. "Had the war but waited another week-'
     "It was not your fault, and it can't be helped," Sabriino said, adding,
    "Cheer up, man! A week's not such a long time. You'll see our share of
    action, never fear. They may even throw you aboard a fresh mount
    before then, if they decide they need trained fliers in a hurry."
     Corbeo bowed. "May it be so, lord!"
     Sabrino shook his head. "No, for that would show our beloved king-
    dom was in great danger. I hope you relax and drink wine and pinch the
    pretty girls till your dragon heals." Corbeo bowed again, grinning now.
    Pleased with himself, Sabrino addressed the whole wing: "Men, prepare
    to fly. My captains, to me."
     One of the captains, Domiziano, asked the question Sabrino was about
    to address: "My lord, will we have force enough to turn back the
    invaders',"
     "We iriust," Sabriino said simply. "Algarve depends on us. We yield as
    little ground as we can. Whatever we do" - he remembered Mezentiols
    words from the balcony - "we don't let Forthweg andjelgavajoin hands.
    To block that, our lives mean nothing. Do you understand?" Domiziano
    and the other three squadron commanders nodded. Sabriino slapped each
    of them on the back. "Good. Splendid. And now we needs must ready
    ourselves as well."

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    21
    
     When he was mounted at the join of his dragon's neck and shoulders,
    when he spurred the soft skin there and the beast sprang into the air,
    when the ground fell away beneath him and the dragon's wings thun-
    dered, he could understand for a moment why some people sighed over
    the great beasts. When the dragon twisted and tried to bite till he
    whacked it in the snout with a long-handled goad, he cursed those
    people, who knew nothing about real dragons, as a pack of fools.
    
     The Elsung Mountains formed the land border between Unkerlant
    and Gyongyos. Precisely where they formed the border was a matter on
    which King Swerrimel of Unkerlant and Ekrekek Arpad of Gyongyos had
    trouble agreeing. Because they had trouble agreeing, some thousands of
    young men from each of the two kingdoms were settling the question for
    them.
     Leudast wished he were back on his farm, not far from the
    Forthwegian border, rather than sitting around a campfire here in the
    rock-strewn middle of nowhere. As far as he was concerned, Arpad was
    welcome to every one of these boulders if he was crazy enough to want
    them.
     He didn't mention his opinion. Sergeants took a dim view of such sen-
    timents. Officers took an even dimmer one. From what people said
    (whispered, actually), King Swemmel took the dimmest view of all.
    Having finally won the long civil war with his twin brother, Kyot,
    Swernmel thought anyone who disagreed with him a traitor. A lot of
    people had disappeared because Swemmel held that opinion. Leudast did
    not want to add his name to the list.
     He leaned for-ward to toast a piece of sausage skewered on a stick over
    the fire. He twirled the stick between the palms of his hands to get the
    hard, peppery sausage done on all sides. His sergeant, a veteran named
    Magnulf, nodded approval, saying, "Very efficient, Leudast."
     "Thank you, Sergeant." Leudast beamed. That was high praise. He'd
    never heard the word efficiency before the impressers pulled him off his
    farm and put him in a rock-gray uniform tunic, but King Swernmel was
    wild for it, which meant everyone beneath Swemmel was wild for it, too.
    Along with learning how to slaughter the foes of Unkerlant, Leudast had
    learned to mouth the phrases: "Time and motion - least and fewest."
     "Least and fewest," Magnulf agreed around a mouthful of his own

    




    IF
    
    22
    
    Harty Turtledove
    
    sausage. Leudast had a little trouble understanding him, but waiting to
    swallow would have been inefficient. Magnulf scratched his formidable
    nose - though it was less formidable than those of Leudast and half the
    other troopers in his squad - and went on, "The stinking Gongs are liable
    to try something tonight. That's what we hear from prisoners, anyhow."
     Leudast wondered how they'd squeezed out the news. Efficiently,
    without a doubt. His stomach did a slow flipflop as he thought- about how
    efficient interrogators could be.
     One of his squadmates, a fellow named Wisgard who was shm. by
    Unkerlanter standards, spoke up: "Back home, it would be midnight or
    so, and here the sun's barely down."
     "We are a great kingdom." Magnulf thumped his broad chest with a
    big, thick-fingered fist. "And we are going to be a greater kingdom still,
    once we drive the Gongs off the mainland and over to the islands they've
    taken to infesting."
     "That'd be easier if they hadn't stolen this stretch of land from us
    during the Twinkings War," a trooper named Berthar said.
     "Proves how important efficiency is," Magnulf said. "A kingdom gets
    on fine with one king - that's efficient. Try to put two in the space meant
    for one, and everything goes to pieces. "
     That wasn't efficiency, not the way Leudast saw things. It was just
    common sense. If either Swerninel. or Kyot had admitted he was the
    younger twin, Unkerlant would have been spared a lot of grief Armies
    had marched and countermarched across Leudast's farm - it had been his
    father's then, for he'd been born just as the civil war was finally petering
    out - stealing what they could and burning a lot of what they couldn't.
    The countryside had been years recovering.
     And now, when it finally had recovered, here was another war on the
    far frontier of the kingdom. For the life of him, Leudast couldn't see the
    efficiency of that. Again, though, he could see the inefficiency of saying
    
    SO.
    
     Captain Urgan came up to the fire and said, "Be alert, men. The
    Gyongyosians are planning something nasty."
     "I've already warned them, sit," Magnulf said.
     "Efficient," Urgan said crisply. "I have more news, too: over in the far
    east, all of Algarve's neighbors have jumped on her back."
     "His Majesty was as efficient as all get-out to stand aside from that

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    23
    
    war," Magnulf said. "Let all those tall bastards kin each other."
     "Forthwegians aren't tall bastards," Berthar said with fussy precision.
     Magnulf gave him a glare undoubtedly practiced in front of a mirror.
    "They may not be tall bastards, but they're bastards just the same," the
    sergeant growled. "If they weren't bastards, they wouldn't have thrown
    off Unkerlanter suzerainty during the Twinkings War, now would
    they?"
     His tone strongly suggested that giving any kind of answer would be
    inefficient. Berthar didn't need to be a first-rank mage to figure that out.
    He kept his mouth shut. Captain Urgan added, "And Forthweg has its
    own share ofKaunians. They're tall bastards, every bit as much as the lousy
    Algarvians."
     Berthar did his best to look as if he'd never been so rash as to open his
    mouth. Leudast wouldn't have been so rash himself He did ask, "Sir, any
    word on what the Gongs have in rmind?"
     "I'm afraid not," Urgan said. "I don't look for anything overwhelm-
    ing, though - with so few ley lines charted in this powersforsaken stretch
    of the world, and with even fewer properly improved, they have as much
    trouble moving men and supplies as we do. This isn't the most efficient
    war ever fought, but Gyongyos started it, so we've got to respond."
     A brief hiss of cloven air was the only warning Leudast had before an
    egg burst about fifty yards from the campfire. The blast of light and heat
    from the energies it released knocked him off his feet and made him won-
    der if he'd been blinded: all he saw for a moment were purple smears in
    front of his eyes.
     He did not need to hear the screech of a swooping dragon to know it
    would attack the men around the fire. Nor did he need to see it to know
    it would be able to see him if he stayed close by the flames. He rolled
    away, bumping over rocks and over little spiky-leafed mountain shrubs
    whose name he did not know: before the impressers took him away, he'd
    always been a man of the fladands.
     He saw the flame that burst from the dragon's jaw, saw it and smelled
    the brimstone reek, too. Somewhere behind him, Wisgard shrieked. A
    moment later, a pale, thin beam of light shot from the ground toward the
    dragon. Leudast wished he'd had his own stick slung on his back. Then
    he could have blazed at the enemy, too, instead of seeking only to hide.
     But the Gyongyosians, like the folk of most other realms these days,
    
    . I Z~_ -

    




    24
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    were sly enough to silver their dragons' bellies and the undersides of their
    wings. The beam that would have burned a hole in man was harmlessly
    reflected away. The dragon belched forth fire again. Another scream
    arose. No one blazed back at the beast as it fiew off to the west. The wind
    from its great wingbeats blew Leudast's hair all awry.
     Blinking frantically, he scrambled toward the sticks. As he groped for
    his own, Magnulf and Berthar came crawling up. "Where's the captain?"
    Leudast asked.
     "Back there, toasted like bread you forget over the fire," Magnulf
    answered. Somewhere west of them, someone kicked a rock. Magnulf
    cursed. "And here come the Gongs. Let's see how expensive we can make
    ourselves. Spread out - we don't want them getting around our flank."
     Leudast scuttled toward a boulder fifteen or twenty feet away. A beam
    like the one poor Captain Urgan had aimed at the dragon zipped close to
    him, but did not strike. He dove behind the boulder, almost knocking
    the wind out of himself Then, peering out into the night, he tried to find
    the spot from which the enemy had blazed at him.
     The big disadvantage to using a stick at night was that, if you missed,
    the flash of light could tell the enemy where you were. If you were smart,
    you didn't stay there long. If you moved, though, you were liable to
    expose yourself, or to make some noise.
     Leudast heard some noise off to his night: running footsteps. He
    whirled. Straight at him came a Gyongyosian trooper who must have
    noted the thud and clatter he'd made diving for cover. With a gasp,
    Leudast thrust his forefinger into the recess at the base of his stick.
     As much by luck as by good aim, his beam caught the Gong square in
    the chest. just for a moment, Leudast saw the enemy's broad, staring face,
    made animal-like - at least to a clean-shaven Unkerlanter - by a bushy
    yellow beard. The fellow let out a grunt, more of surprise than of pain,
    and toppled.
     "The stick," Leudast muttered, and scurried over to grab it. He didn't
    know how much power his own had left. This far from a ley line, with
    no first-rank mage close by, when that power was gone, it was gone.
    Good to have a second stick handy.
     He scowled at the Gyongyosian's body, from which rose a faint smell
    ofburnt meat along with the latrine odor of suddenly loosed bowels. The
    bastard was already dead, sure as sure. A mage didn't have to be of the

    




    first rank to draw energy from a sacnifice. Soldiers who gave themselves
    up to power their comrades sticks won the Star of Efficiency - post-
    humously, of course - but expending a captive was more efficient still.
      t 1 n t matter, not here. For one   ng, e a     p
                      first-ran
    crawled back b
    
     For several minutes, they didn't. Maybe they weren't sure how much
    damage the dragon attack had done. Or maybe they weren't any more
    enthusiastic about the war than Leudast was. He listened to somebody,
    presumably an officer, haranguing them in their unintelligible twittering
    language. Knowing what an Unkerlanter officer would say in such a spot,
    Leudast guessed the fellow was telling them they'd get worse from im
    than from their foes if they didn't start moving.
    
     Here they came, the fuzzy bastards, some of them blazing, others dar
    ing forward while the rest made the Unkerlanters keep their heads down.
    Leudast popped up, took a couple of blazes with his beam, and then
    ducked again be re t e ongs cou puncture in as e punc ure
    
     When he h         9   9
                       to him,
    11.1    Ir-        n  11 11   A
    
    s ce. ut t en e was n goo cover again, and blazing back at the
    
    ing up from the rear, shouting King Swernmel's name as they advanced.
    The Gyongyosians shouted, too, in dismay. Their chance was gone, and
    they knew it. The reinforcements even had a small portable gg
    with them. How the Gongs howled when they were on the receiving
    
     "Forward, men!" an Unkerlanter officer shouted. "Let's drive them
    out of the mountains and into the flat. King Swernmel and efficiency!"
     As far as Leudast was concerned, thinking a couple of platoons o
    soldiers could drive Gyongyos out of the Elsung Mountains wasn t very
    efficient. He lay panting behind his heap of rocks. e een in t
    mountains for a while. No overeager fool was go ng to get im e
                     9        n one p   ay g
    is efficient, too," he muttered, and sat tight.

    




    26
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Fernao stood at the bow of the Leopardess as she bounded north and
    west across the waves from Setubal, the capital of Lagoas, toward the
    Algarvian port of Feltre. The mage felt harassed. Not only did he have to
    bear in mind the pattern of ley lines on the sea - harder to read than they
    were on land - but he also had to be alert for any trace of Sibian warships,
    and perhaps for those of Valmiera, too.
     Captain Rogelio came up to him. "Anything?" he asked.
     "No, sir." Fernao shook his head, and felt the ponytail flip back and
    forth on his neck. Like most Lagoans, he was tall and on the lean side. In
    some lights, his hair was auburn; in others, a rich brown. His narrow eyes,
    with a fold of skin at the inner corners that made them look set at a slant,
    told of Kuusaman blood. "All seems as quiet as if we were still at peace."
     Rogelio snorted. "Lagoas is at peace, I'll thank you to remember. It's
    all the other fools who've thrown the world into the fire." He twiddled
    at his mustache: he wore a big waxed swashbuckler, in Algarvian style.
     "As if the world were at peace." Fernao accepted the correction; like
    any mage worth his salt, he craved precision. After a moment, he went
    on, "In the Six Years' War, we chose sides."
     "And a whole great whacking lot of good it did us, too," the captain
    of the Leopardess said with another snort. "What did we get out of it?
    Thousands - tens, hundreds of thousands - dead, even more maimed, a
    war debt we're just now starting to get out from under, half our shipping
    sunk - and you want to do it again? Here's what I think of that." He spat
    - carefully, over the leeward rail.
     "I never said I wanted to do it again," Fernao replied. "My older
    brother died in the woods in front of Priekule. I don't remember much
    about him; I was only six or seven. I lost an uncle - my mother's younger
    brother - and a cousin, and another cousin came home short a foot." He
    shrugged. "I know it's not anything special. Plenty of families in Lagoas
    have worse stories to tell. Too many families simply aren't, after the Six
    Years' War."
     " Thats the truth," Rogelio said with an emphatic nod. Everything he
    did was emphatic; he aped Algarvian style in more than his mustache. "So
    why do you sound so cursed glum about staying at peace, then?"
     "I'm not glum about our staying at peace," Fernao said. "I'm glum
    about the rest of the world going back to war. All the kingdoms of eastern

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    Derlavai suffered as much as we did."
     "And Unkerlant," Rogelio put in. "Don't forget Unkerlant.'
    
    27
    
     "Unkerlant is a kingdom of eastern Derlaval ... in a manner of speak-
    ing," Fernao said with a thin smile. The snuile soon slipped. "Thanks to
    the Twinkings War, they hurt themselves worse than Algarve ever man-
    aged, and Algarve hurt them plenty."
     Rogelio's lip curled scornfully. "They were efficient at hurting them-
    selves. "
     Fernao's chuckle had a bitter edge. "King Swernmel will make the
    Unkerlanters efficient about the time King Gainibu makes the
    Valmierans shy."
     "But Gainibu has a little sense - as much as you can expect from a
    Valmieran, anyhow," Rogelio said. "He doesn't try to make his people
    into something they're not." The captain waved a hand. "There! You
    see, my friend? Between us, we've solved all the problems in the world."
     "All but one: how to get the world to pay any attention to us," Fernao
    said. His sardonic streak made a good counter to Rogelio's extravagances.
     When it came to running the Leopardess, though, the captain was all
    business. "If we are sailing an evasive course, my sorcerous friend, should
    we not be shifting ley lines soon?"
     "If we really wanted an evasive course, we would sail, with canvas and
    masts, as they did in the days of the Kaunian Empire," Fernao said. "If we
    did that, we could slip by Sibiu close enough to spit, and we'd never be
    noticed. "
     "Oh, aye, no doubt," Rogelic, said, arching his eyebrows. "And if a
    storm b1cw up at the wrong time, it'd fling us on to the Rocks of Cluj,
    too. No, thank you! They might have been men in those days, but they
    were madmen, if anybody wants to know what I think. Sailing by wind
    and by guess, without the earth's energy matrix to draw on? You'd have
    to be a madman to try that."
     "No, just an ignorant man - or a yachtsman," Fernao said. "Not being
    either of those myself. . ." He drew from around his neck an amulet of
    lodestone and amber set in gold. Holding it between the palms of his
    hands, he felt of the energy flowing through the ley line along which the
    Leopardess cruised. He could not have put into words the sensation that
    passed through him, but he understood what it meant. "Three minutes,
    Captain, perhaps four, before our line intersects the next."

    




    28
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "Time enough for me to get to the wheel myself, then," Rogelio said.
    "That chucklehead of a helmsman we've got would likely be picking his
    nose or playing with himself when you signaled, and then we'd just keep
    barreling along, probably night down the Sibs' throats."
     Without waiting for an answer, he hurtied away. Fernao knew he was
    maligning the helmsman. He also knew Rogelio knew he was being out-
    rageous, and that the captain always used the fellow with great courtesy
    when they were together. Extravagant Rogelio was; simple, no.
     And then the mage forgot about Rogelio, forgot about everything but
    the sensation trickling out of the amulet and through him. He was not so
    much its interpreter as its conduit, in the same way that the ley line was
    a conduit for the energy the amulet sensed. He leaned a little as the trickle
    shifted, then thrust his right hand high into the air.
     The Leopardess swung to starboard, the deck heeling under Fernao's
    feet. No mere sailing ship could have turned so sharply; the motion was
    almost as if a geometer had scribed a right angle. Fernao could not see the
    crossing of the ley lines, but he did not need to see them. He had other
    senses.
     As soon as he was sure the turn was good and true, he slid the amulet's
    chain back over his head, returning the familiar weight to where it nor-
    mally rested, just above his heart. From the bridge, Rogelio waved to
    him. He waved back. He took pride in what he did, and in doing it well.
     And then, suddenly, he frowned. He yanked out the amulet once
    more and held it between his hands. He waved to the bridge again,
    urgently this time. "Captain!" he shouted. "We're going to have com-
    pany.
     "What's toward?" Rogelio shouted back, cupping his hands in front
    of his mouth to make a megaphone.
     "Quiver in the ley line, Captain - no, quivers." Fernao corrected him-
    self "Two ships on this line, heading our way. Maybe an hour out from
    us, maybe a little less."
    
     Rogelio cursed. "They'll know we're here, too?" he demanded.
     "Unless their mages are asleep, yes," Fernao answered.
     More curses came from the captain of the Leopardess. Then he grasped
    for a bright side to the unwelcome news. "They wouldn't by any chance
    by Algarvian ships come to escort us into port?"
     Fernao frowned once more; that hadn't occurred to him. He concen-

    




    INTo THE DAP-KNESS
    
    29
    
    trated on the amulet. "I don't think they're Algarvian," he said at last,
    "but I can't be sure. Sibiu and Algarve use about the same ley magic, not
    much different from ours. They aren't Valmierans; I'm sure of that.
    Valmlera andjelgava have their own style.'
     Rogelio came forward, to be able to talk without screaming. "They're
    going to be Sibs, all right," he said. "Now life gets interesting."
     "We're neutrals," Fernao said. "Sibiu needs our trade more than
    Algarve does: those islands don't come close to raising everything the
    Sibians want. If they try to block us, they go under embargo. You'd have
    to be a lackwit to think King Vitor would say something like that with-
    out meaning it, and the Sibs aren't lackwits."
     "They're in a war," Rogelio said. "You don't think straight when
    you re in a war. Anyone who doesn't know that is a lackwit, too, my dear
    mage.
     "As may be." Fernao bowed with exquisite courtesy. "I tell you this,
    though, my dear captain: if Sibiu interferes very much with Lagoan ship-
    ping, Vitor won'tiust embargo them. He will go to war, and that fight is
    one Sibiu can't win."
     "The Sibs against Algarve and us?" Rogelio pursed his lips, then
    nodded. "Well, you're night about that, though I'm hanged if I fancy the
    notion of allying with King Mezentio. "
     "We wouldn't be allies, just people with the same enemies," Fernao
    said. "Unkerlant and Kuusamo are both fighting the Gyongyos, but they
    aren't allles."
     "Would you ally with the Unkerlanters? I'd almost sooner pucker up
    and kiss Mezentio's bald head," Rogello returned. Then he bared his
    teeth in a horrible grimace. "If the Sibs could talk Kuusamo into jump-
    ing on our backs, though-"
     "That won't happen," Fernao said, and hoped he was right. He had
    reason to think so, anyhow: "Kuusamo won't get into two wars at the
    same time."
     Rogello grunted. "Mm, maybe not. Iwouldn't want to be in two wars
    at once. By the king's beard, I wouldn't even want to be in one war at
    oncc.
     A hail from the crow's nest made him turn: "Two ships on the west-
    em horizon, sir! They look like Siblan frigates."
      Rogello dashed for the bridge. Fernao peered west. The lean shark

    




    30
    
    Harry Turtlcdove
    
    shapes swelled rapidly: Sibian frigates sure enough, bristling with sticks
    and with egg-tossers whose glittering spheroids could disable a ship at a
    range of several miles. The Leopardess could neither fight them nor out-
    run them.
     "Master mage, they're hailing us," Rogelio called. "You speak Sibian,
    don't you? Mine is foul, and the bastard I'm talking to doesn't know
    much Lagoan."
     "Yes, I speak it." Fernao hurried toward the bridge. Sibian, Algarvian,
    and Lagoan were related tongues, but the first two were brothers, with
    Lagoan a distant cousin that had dropped inflections the others shared and
    borrowed words from both Kuusaman and the Kaunian languages. The
    mage stared into the Leopardess's crystal at a man in a sea-green Sibian
    naval uniform. Fernao identified himself in Sibian, then asked, "Who are
    you, and what do you require?"
     "I am Captain Propatriu of the Impaler, Royal Sibian Navy," the man
    replied, the words echoing from the glass. "You are to stop for boarding
    and inspection."
     Rogelio shook his head when the mage translated. "No," Fernao said.
    "We are on our lawful occasions. You trifle with us at your peril.
     "You are bound for Algarve," Captain Propatriu said. "We will search
    you.
     "No," Fernao repeated. "King Vitor has ordered us to allow no inter-
    ference with our commerce with any kingdom, on pain of embargo or
    worse against the violator. Can Sibiu afford that?"
     "Stinking, arrogant Lagoans," Propatriu muttered. Fernao pretended
    not to hear. The Sibian naval officer gathered himself and spoke directly
    into the crystal once more: "You will wait." The polished gem went
    blank.
     "What's he doing?" Rogeho asked.
     "Calling home for instructions, unless I'm wrong," Fernao answered.
    
    I
    
    If he was wrong, things were liable to get sticky in a hurry.
     But Captain Propatriu reappeared in the crystal a couple of minutes
    later. "Pass on," he growled, looking and sounding as if he hated Lagoans.
    He added, "My curses go with you," and vanished once more. Rogelio
    and Fernao let out sighs of relief The Lxopardess shd between the two
    Sibian frigates and sped on toward Algarve.

    




    HajaJ rode from King Shazli's palace to the Unkerlanter minist i
    Bishah with all the eagerness of a man going to have a tooth pulled. He
    like Kin Shazli like all Zuwa zin with a barleycorn's weight of sense I
    their heads re rded Zuwnvza's immense southern nelohbor with th
    
    wary attention any house cat rinight give a lion living next door
    
     The sun blazed down almost vertically from a blue enamel sky
    Zuwayza projected farther north than any other kingdom of Derlaval.
    Despite that tropic brilliance, most of the men and women on the streets
    wore only sandals and broad-brimmed hats, with nothing in between.
    With their dark brown skins, they took even the fiercest sun in stride.
     In deference to Unkerlanter sensibilities, HajaJ had donned a cotton
    tunic that covered him from neck to knee. He'd never seen any sense to
    clothes till his first winter at the university in Trapani, before the Six
    Years' War broke out. He still didn't see any sense to them in Bishah
 climate, but reckoned them part of the price he paid for being a diplomat.
     Unkerlanter soldiers stood guard outside the ministry. They wore
     tunics, too, dull gray ones jarringly out of place in a city of whitewash and
     glowing golden sandstone. Sweat stained and darkene t e tunics un er
     the men's arms and across their chests. T oug su ring in w at was r
     them dreadful heat, they held themselves motionless - all but t eir eyes,
     whic ungrily llowed every pretty young uwayz woman w ng
    
    past. HajaJ laughed, but only inside where it did not show
    
     Kin Swernmel's minister to Zuw za was a dour, middle-aged man
    named Ansovald. Maybe he had a magic that prevented sweat, or maybe
    he was lust too stubborn to permit any such mere human failing
    
    However he manaved it, his tunic and his forehead remained dry
    
    "In the name of my king, I greet you," he said to HajaJ after a servant

    




    32
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    had escorted the Zuwayzi foreign minister to his chamber. "That you are
    so punctual shows your efficiency.
     "I thank you. And in the name of my king, I greet you in return,"
    Hajaj* replied. He and Ansovald spoke Algarvian, in which they were
    both fluent. Ha~aj thought Swemmel would have been efficient to send
    to Bishah a minister who spoke Zuwayzi, but saying as much struck him
    as undiplomatic. He himself understood more of the Unkerlanter lan-
    guage than he let on. As would any Zuwayzi in sinuilar circumstances, he
    thought, I understand more Unkerlanter than I want.
     "Well, what is the point of this meeting?" Ansovald demanded.
     Abrupt as an Unkerlanter was a common Zuwayzi phrase. Had Ha~aj
    been visiting one of his countrymen, they would have shared tea and
    wine and cakes and small talk before eventually getting down to business.
    Had Ansovald come to the palace, Hajaj would also have gone through
    the leisurely rituals of hospitality, as much to annoy Swernmel's envoy as
    for the sake of form. Here, though, Unkerlanter rules prevailed. Hajaj*
    sighed, not quite invisibly.
     "The point of this meeting, your Excellency, is to convey my
    sovereign's displeasure with recent provocations along the border
    between our two kingdoms," Hajaj' said. King Shazli was hopping mad
    and scared green, both at the same time. Displeasure suggested that as
    diplomatically as possible.
     Ansovald's massive shoulders moved up and down in a shrug. "I deny
    that any such provocations have taken place," he said.
     Haijaj' reached into a leather case and produced a short scroll. "Your
    Excellency, I have here a list of Zuwayzi border guards and soldiers killed,
    border guards and soldiers wounded, and Zuwayzi property on Zuwayzi
    territory destroyed during Unkerlanter incursions this season, and
    Unkerlanter buildings and encampments erected on land rightfully under
    the rule of King Shazli."
     Ansovald read through the document - written, like most diplomatic
    correspondence, in classical Kaunian - and then shrugged again. "All of
    these alleged incidents took place on Unkerlanter soil," he said. "If any-
    one is the provocateur here, it is Zuwayza."
     "Now really, your Excellency!" Hajaj exclaimed, indignation over-
    coming diplomacy for a moment. He pointed to the map of Zuwayza on
    the wall behind Ansovald. "Please look again. Some of these incidents

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    33
    
    occurred as much as ten or fifteen miles north of the border between our
    two kingdoms established by the Treaty of Bludenz."
     "Ali, the Treaty of Bludenz." Ansovald's smile was anything but
    pleasant. "Kyot the traitor dickered the Treaty of Bludenz with you
    Zuwayzin, thinking to be efficient: by not fighting your secession, he had
    more resources to use against King Swemmel. Much good it did him."
    The unpleasant smile got broader. "Why should King Swemmel pay the
    least heed to anything the traitor did?"
     HaijaJ was no longer indignant. He was appalled. He briefly wondered
    whether Unkerlant would have been a more pleasant neighbor had Kyot
    won the Twinkings War. He doubted it: Unkerlanters, worse luck, were
    Unkerlanters. Speaking now with great care, he said, "King Swernmel
    has conformed to the terms of the Treaty of Bludenz since gaining sole
    rule over Unkerlant. You would not be here as his minister, your
    Excellency, did he not recognize Zuwayza as a free and independent
    kingdom. Would it be efficient for him to overturn a policy that has
    given him good results?"
     Not even the phrase that seemed so magic to Unkerlanter ears swayed
    Swernmel's envoy. Shrugging yet again, Ansovald said, "What is efficient
    changes with circumstances. In any case, the protest you have conveyed
    from King Shazli is rejected. Have you anything more, or are we
    through?"
    
    Y_
    
    cr-
    
     Even by Unkerlanter standards, that was brusque to the point of rude-
    ness. "Please inform King Swemmel that we shall defend our borders,"
    Ha~aj said as he rose to go. He added a parting blaze: "Our legitimate
    borders."
     Ansovald yawned. Legitimacy did not concern him. Spitefully, HajaJJ
    wondered if it had concerned his father.
     Outside on the street, the Zuwayzi foreign rmimster almost stripped off
    his tunic right there in front of the Unkerlanter ministry. That wouldn't
    have shown the stolid, sweating guards anything they wanted to see, but
    it would have relieved his feelings. Not without regret, he restrained
    himself. As he rode back to the palace, he morosely watched sweat darken
    the cotton.
     Once at the palace - a building whose thick walls of mud bn'ck helped
    fight the heat - he did pull the tunic off over his head. King Shazli's
    guardsmen grinned sympathetically as he sighed with relief "Out of the

    




    34
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    funeral wrappings, eh, your Excellency?" one of them said, white teeth
    shining in his dark face.
     "Even so." HaJjaJ rolled the tunic into a ball and stuffed it into his case.
    The breeze felt sweet on his skin. He waved to one of Shazli's servitors.
    "Can his Majesty see me now? I'm just back from consulting with
    Ansovald of Unkerlant. " Neither by word nor by expression did he imply
    the meeting with Ansovald had gone anything but well. That was no
    one's business but the sovereign's.
     "Of course, your Excellency," the servant answered. "He has been
    awaiting your return."
     Shazli received his foreign minister in a chamber off the throne room.
    HaijaJ bowed low to the king of Zuwayza, who, without his golden
    circlet of rank, might have been anyone: in the absence of clothes, status
    could be hard to gauge. Shazli was a medium-sized, rather pudgy man in
    his early thirties, a bit less than half HajaJ's age. His father had regained
    Zuwayza's freedom; some generations before, an Unkerlanter army that
    forced its way through the desert to Bishah had brought the land into the
    muscular embrace of its larger neighbor.
     A serving woman carried in ajar of wine, a teapot, and a plate of honey
    cakes fragrant with cinnamon. She was comely; HsjJaJ admired her as he
    admired the elegant ivory figurines adorning the chamber, and with hardly
    more desire. Being habitual to Zuwayzin, nudity did not inflame them.
     Driinking and eating and chatting with the king helped HajaJ relax; the
    thudding urgency he'd felt while meeting with the Unkerlanter minister
    receded, at least a little. After a while, Shazli said, "And how badly did
    Ansovald hurry you today? Efficiency." He rolled his eyes to show what
    he thought of the term, or at least of the way the Unkerlanters used it.
     "Your Majesty, I have never known worse," HaJjaJ said with feeling.
    "Never. And he rejected your protest out of hand. And he did something
    no Unkerlanter has ever done before: he questioned the legitimacy of the
    Treaty of Bludenz."
     The king hissed like a sand viper. "No, Unkerlant has never presumed
    to do that before," he agreed. "I mislike the omen."
     "As do 1, your Majesty, as do I," HaJjaJ said. "Up till now, we have
    been lucky in our relations with the Unkerlanters. They suffered
    hideously in the Six Years' War and then, as if they were not satisfied,
    they warred among themselves. That gave your father of splendid
    
    AMER-,
    W

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    35
    
    memory the chance to remind them we still remembered how to be our
    own masters. Afterwards, they were busy picking up the pieces they
    themselves had dropped."
     "And after that, for good measure, they marched straight into a sense-
    less war with Gyongyos," King Shazli added. "Were King Swernmel half
    as efficient as he thinks he is, he would be twice as efficient as he truly is."
     "Even so, your Majesty, and elegantly phrased." Hajaj smiled and
    sipped at his wine. "Of course, Ekrekek Arpad also took advantage of
    Unkerlant's internecine stn*fe to make his own realin grow at Swernmel's
    expense.
     "And Swernmel has spent the last several years trying to take his
    revenge," Shazli said. His eyes narrowed; he looked very crafty indeed.
    "Now, I appreciate revenge as much as the next man - I could scarcely
    be a Zuwayzi did I not, eh? But a man who does not weigh what he
    spends against what he gets is a fool."
     "Seen through King Swernmel's eyes, Gyongyos is not the only king-
    dom against which Unkerlant needs to be avenged," Hajaj said. "I sup-
    pose that explains some of Ansovald's insolence." He started to take
    another sip of wine, but paused with the goblet halfway to his lips. "I
    should attune my crystal to that of the Gyongyosian minister. No. I
    should pay a call on Horthy myself "
     "Why say you that?" King Shazli asked.
     "Because, your Majesty, if Unkerlant is seeking to patch up a truce in
    the far west - or if King Swernmel has already patched up such a truce -
    we may be next on the list for a visit from our friends," HaJjaJ replied. "I
    don't think even Swernmel is stupid enough to get into two wars at once.
    Should he abandon one . .
     Shazli's eyes widened. "Will Horthy tell you?"
     "I don't see why he shouldn't," HaJjaj said. "By the very nature of
    things, Gyongyos and Zuwayza can hardly be enermies. We are too far
    apart; all we have in common is a border with Unkerlant." He opened
    his leather case and took out the tunic he'd stuffed into it. With a mar-
    tyred sigh, he donned the garment once more. "I'd better go now, your
    Majesty. I don't think this will wait."
    
    ~ I
    
     Skarnu stood against a tree to ease himself. Since the tree was a few
    miles inside Algarve, the young Vahmieran marquis consoled himself by

    




    36
    
    Harty Turtledove
    
    thinking he was pissing on the enemies of his kingdom. He would have
    felt niore consolation, though, had the invasion pushed farther and done
    more.
     Atter buttoning his fly, he rejoined his company. His noble birth made
    him an officer. Till he was mobilized, he'd thought his noble birth also
    prepared him for command. He was certainly used to giving orders, even
    if he didn't enjoy it quite so much as his sister Krasta did. But he'd soon
    discovered the difference between giving orders in a mansion and giving
    them to soldiers: the former sort merely required obedience from the ser-
    vants, while the latter also needed to make sense.
     "Where now, Captain?" asked Raimu, the company's senior sergeant.
    He was senior enough to have a lot of silver threads in the gold of his hair,
    senior enough to have fought as a youth in the Six Years' War. But his
    father sold sausages for a living, so he was unlikely ever to rise above
    senior sergeant. If he resented that, he hid it very well.
    
     After scratching his head, Skarnu pointed west and answered,
    "Forward to the edge of open country. If there are any more Algarvians
    lurking here in the woods, we need to flush them out." He scratched
    again. He itched all the time. He wondered if he was lousy. The idea
    made his flesh crawl, but he knew it could happen to soldiers in wartime.
     Raunu considered, then nodded., "Aye, about the best thing we can
    do, I reckon." He turned Skamu's notion into precise, cautious reality,
    ordering scouts ahead and to either side and sending the rest of the com-
    pany forward by sections along three different game tracks.
     In fact, as Skarnu had quickly realized, Raunu ran the company. He
    knew how to do the job, whereas Skarnu's presence, while ornamental,
    was anything but necessary. That had mortified the marquis, seerming an
    offense against both propriety and honor.
     "Don't fret yourself about it, lord," Raunu had said when he broached
    the issue. "There's three kinds of noble officers. Some don't know any-
    thing and stay out of their sergeants' way. They're harmless. Some don't,
    know anything and give forth with all sorts of orders anyhow." He'd
    shuddered. "They're dangerous. And some don't know anything and try
    and learn. Give 'ern time, and they're apt to make pretty fair soldiers."
     Skarmi had never before heard such a blunt appraisal of his class. None
    of the servants back at his mansion would have dared speak to him thus.
    But he was not Raunu's master and employer; King Gainibu was. That

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    37
    
    made the sergeant's relationship with a noble also serving the king differ-
    ent from that of a cook or butler. Skarnu was doing his best to fall into
    the third class of officer. He hoped he was succeeding, but hadn't had the
    nerve to ask.
     Now, stick at the ready, he paced along the gloomy track. The
    Algarvians hadn't offered much resistance at the border, falling back
    before the advancing Valmierans toward the line of forts they'd built
    about twenty miles inside their territory. The Duke of Klaipeda, who
    commanded the Valmierans, was exultant; he'd published an order of the
    day reading, "The enemy, beset by many foes, ingloriously flees before
    our triumphant advance. Soon he must either give battle on our terms or
    yield his land to our victorious arms."
     That sounded splendid to Skarnu till he thought about it for a little
    while. If the Algarvians were ingloriously fleeing, why didn't the illustri-
    ous Duke of Klaipeda put more pressure on them? Skarmi knew himself
    to be imperfectly trained in the military arts. He hoped the same did not
    hold true for the illustrious duke.
     A beam from a stick struck the trunk of an elm a couple of feet above
    his head. Steam spurted from the tree, smelling of hot sap. Though
    imperfectly trained in the military arts, Skarmi knew what to do when
    people started blazing at him: he threw himself flat and crawled on his
    belly toward some bushes by the side of the track. If the Algarvian
    couldn't see him, he couldn't shoot.
     Another Valmieran went down, too, this one with a harsh cry of pain.
    From cover, Skarmi shouted, "Hunt the enemy down!" He got up into
    a crouch and then dashed forward, diving down on to his belly behind a
    stout pine.
     Another beam slammed into the tree. Its resinous sap had a tangy odor
    very different from that of the elm. Skarnu was glad the woods were
    moist; the fight would have fired drier country. He peered up over the
    top of a gnarled root. Spying a bit of tan among green bushes, he stuck
    his finger into the stick's recess and blazed away ~t it.
     The leaves the beam touched went sere and brown inan instant, as if
    winter had come all at once to that corner of the world. An Algarvian
    soldier had been hiding in those bushes, too. He let out a horrible cry in
    his ugly, trifling native tongue. Another Valn-iieran blazed at him from off
    to one side of Skarnu. That cry abruptly cut off

    




    38
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "Come on, men!" Skarnu shouted. "Forward! King Gainibu and
    victory!"
     "Gainibu!" his men shouted. They did not rush straight at the
    Algarvians lurking among the trees. Such headlong dash was all very well
    in an entertainment. In real war, it brought nothing but gruesome
    casualties. The Valimerans darted from tree to tree, from bush to rock,
    one group blazing to make the enemy keep his head down while another
    advanced.
     A couple of soldiers went staggering back with wounds, one with an
    arm over the shoulder of a healthy comrade. One or two men went down
    and would not get up again. The rest, though, drove the Algarvians, who
    did not seem present in any great numbers, before them. Once, by the
    shouts - no, the screams - the fighting came to such close quarters that it
    went on with knives and reversed sticks rather than with beams, but that
    did not last long. Valmieran voices soon rang out in triumph.
     Pushing forward as he did, paying more heed to what the enemy soldiers
    in tan kilts were trying to do than to exactly where he was, Skarnu was sur-
    prised when he burst out of the woods. He stood a moment, blinking in
    the bright afternoon sun that beat into his face. Ahead lay fields of barley
    and oats going from green to gold, and beyond them an Algarvian farming
    village. The sturdy buildings would have looked more picturesque had he
    not been able to make out Algarvian troops moving among them.
     Algarvian troops rather closer by could make him out. One of them
    blazed at him from the cover of the growing grain. The beam went wide.
    Cursing, Skarnu ducked back among the trees. He went some little dis-
    tance along the edge of the forest before peering out again. This time, he
    was careful to keep a screen of leaves and branches in front of his face.
     As if by sorcery, Sergeant Raunu silently materialized beside him.
    "Wouldn't want to try crossing that without a lot of friends along,"
    Raunu remarked in matter-of-fact tones. "Truth is, I wouldn't want to
    cross that even with a lot of friends along, but some of us might get to the
    other side if we did it like that."
     Skarnu's voice was dry: "I hadn't plann e-d on ordering us to cross those
    fields and seize that village."
     "Powers above and powers below' be praised," Raunu muttered.
     Not knowing whether he was supposed to have heard him, Skarnu
    pretended he hadn't. He pulled a map out of a tunic pocket. "That should

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    I
    
    em
    de.
    
    dis-
    ~ he
    
    ose
    
    39
    
    be the village of Bonorva," he said. "It's past those woods on the other
    wide that the Algarvians are supposed to have their main belt of fortifi-
    cations."
     Raunu nodded. "Aye, that makes sense, lord. The forts are too far
    back for us to fling eggs at 'em from our side of the border."
     Skarnu whistled thoughtfully. That hadn't occurred to him. Raunu
    might be a sausage-seller's son, but he was no fool. Many Valn-iieran
    nobles assumed all those below them to be fools: Skarnu chuckled, think-
    ing of his sister. He had less of that attitude in him, but he wasn't free of
    It, either.
     "They'll have to bring everyone up for the assault on the forts," he
    said. "That will make taking Bonorva look like a walk in Two Rivers
    Park by comparison."
     "It'll cost a deal of blood, all right," Raunu agreed. "I wonder how
    many who hit the forts from this side will make it through to the other."
     "However many they are, they'll be in position to peel the shell off
    Algarve, the way you do with a plump lobster," Skarnu said.
     "I wouldn't know about that, sir," Raunu said. "It's bread and sausage
    and fruit for the likes of me. But you can't peel anything if you don't get
    through. Anybody who fought in the Six Years' War would tell you
    that.
     All of Valmiera's generals, like those of any other kingdom, were vet-
    erans of the war a generation earlier. But Skarnu was not thinking of
    other kingdoms; he was thinking of his own. "That's why we haven't
    pressed our attacks harder!" he exclaimed with the air of a man who'd
    had a revelation. "The commanders dread the casualties they'd cost."
     "Commanders who don't dread casualties don't stay in command,
    either," Raunu said. "After a while, the troops won't stand any more.
    jelgava had mutinies during the Six Years' War. The Unkerlanter armies
    that were fighting Algarve mutinied so they could go off and fight each
    other - Unkerlanters are fools, you ask me. And finally the Algarvians
    mutinied, too. That's what won the war for us, more than anything else."
     It was history to Skarnu; Raunu had lived it. Skarnu said, "May they
    mutiny again, then. If they didn't want a war, they shouldn't have gone
    tramping into Ban'."
     "I suppose that's so, sir." Raunu sighed, then chuckled. "I'm an old
    soldier at heart, and I make no bones about it. I'd sooner be back in the

    




    40
    
    Harty TurtIcdove
    
    barracks drinking beer than here in the middle of this powersforsaken
    Country."
     "Can't blame you for that, but when the king and his rministers order,
    we obey," Skarnu said, and the sergeant nodded. Skarnu withdrew
    deeper into the woods, then scribbled a note describing his company's
    position and called for a runner. When a man came up, Skarnu gave him
    the note and said, "Take this back to headquarters. If they plan on bring-
    ing reinforcements forward, hurry back to let me know. That will ten me
    whether to prepare another attack or to settle in and defend what we've
    gained here."
     "Aye, sir -just as you say." The runner hurried off.
     "The Algarvians will have something to say about whether we attack
    or defend, too, sir," Raunu observed, pointing west.
     "Min, that's true," Skarnu said, not altogether happily. "That's one
    reason I wish we'd pressed this opening attack harder: the better to
    impose our will on the enemy."
     Raunu grunted. "The Algarvians have plenty of will of their own. I'm
    surprised they haven't tried imposing theirs on us."
     "They're beset from four sides at once," Skarnu said. "B~fore long,
    they'll break somewhere." Raunu grunted again. A few minutes'lat-er,"the
    runner came back with orders for Skarnu's men to consolidate their posi-
    tion. He obeyed, as he was obliged to obey. If he muttered under his
    breath, that was his business, and no one else's.
    
     High above Vanal's head, a dragon screamed. She craned her neck,
    trying to find the tiny dot in the sky. At last, she did. The dragon was fly-
    ing from west to east, which meant it belonged to Forthweg, not Algarve.
    Vanal waved, though the man aboard the dragon could not possibly have
    seen her.
     Brivibas walked on for several steps before realizing she was no longer
    beside him. He looked back over his shoulder. "The work won't wait,"
    he snapped, exasperated enough to speak Forthwegian instead of Kaunian
    without even knowing he'd done it.
       am sorry, my grandfather." Vanal spoke Kaunian. Her grandfather
    would have given her much more of the rough side of his tongue if she'd
    made his slip. He was so confident of his inalterable Kaunianity, he could
    slip its bounds now and then. If anyone younger slipped, though, he

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    would fret for days about dilution.
    
    e.
    
    ave
    
    ther
    he'd
    ould
    I he
    
    41
    
     Vanai hurlied to catch up with him. Her short, tight tunic and close-
    fitting trousers rubbed at her as she ran. She envied the Forthwegian girls
    her age their comfortable, loose-fitting long tunics. Such clothes suited
    Forthweg's warm, dry climate far better than what she wore. But the folk
    of the Kaunian Empire had worn short, tight tunics and trousers, and so
    their descendants perforce did likewise.
     "My grandfather, are you certain you know where this old power
    point lay?" she asked after a long, sweaty while. "We've walked more
    than halfway to Gromheort, or so it seems."
     "Say not Gromheort," Brivibas replied. "Say rather Jekabpils, the
    name the city knew in more glorious times." On he went, tireless for an
    old man: he had to be nearly sixty. To Vanal, at sixteen, that certainly
    seemed ancient.
     Her grandfather took from the pack he wore on his back an instrument
    of his own design: two wings of gold leaf suspended inside a glass sphere
    by gold wire. He murmured words of command in a Kaunian dialect
    archaic even when the Empire was at its height.
     One of the wings twitched, "Ali, good. This way," Briivibas said, and
    set off across a meadow, through an almond grove, and then into a nasty
    stretch of bushes and shrubs, most of which proved well equipped with
    spines and thorns. At last, after what seemed to Vanal far too long, he
    stopped. Both gold wings were fluttering, neither higher than the other.
    Btivibas beamed. "Here we are."
     "Here we are," Vanal agreed in a hollow voice. She had her doubts
    anyone else had ever been here before. In lieu of stating them more
    openly, she asked, "Did the ancient Kaunians truly know of this place?"
     "I believe they did," Brivibas answered. "The evidence from inscn*p-
    tions at the King's University in Eoforwic strongly suggests they did. But,
    so far as I know, no one has yet performed the sorcery which alone can
    transform supposition into knowledge. That is why we are here."
     "Yes, my grandfather," Vanal said resignedly. He was very good to
    her; he'd raised her since her parents had died in a wrecked caravan when
    she was hardly more than a baby. He'd given her a splendid education in
    both Kaunian and modern subjects. She found his work as an archaeo-
    logical mage interesting, sometimes even fascinating. ff only he didn't treat
    me like nothing but an extra pair of hands when we're in thefield, she thought.

    




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    Harry Turtledove
    
     He set down his pack. With a sigh of relief, she did the same with hers.
    "Now, my granddaughter," Briivibas said, "if you would be good enough
    to fetch me the green medius stone, we may begin
     You may begin, you mean, Vanai thought. But she rummaged through
    the pack till she found the weathered green stone. "Here you are," she
    said, and handed it to him.
     "Ali, thank you, my granddaughter. The medius stone, when properly
    activated, removes the blindness from our eyes and lets us see what other-
    wise could no longer be seen," Bnivibas said. But, as he chanted, and as
    Vanal unobtrusively wiped her hands on her trousers - handling the stone
    irritated her skin - she wondered if, when the spell was complete, it
    would show only ancient thorn bushes as opposed to modern ones. No
    matter what the fluttering gold leaves declared, she doubted any power
    point had ever existed here.
     Her mind was elsewhere, anyhow. When Brivibas paused between
    spells, she asked, "My grandfather, how can you so calmly investigate the
    past when all the world around you is going up in flames?"
     Bri'vibas shrugged. "The world will do as it will do, regardless,of
    whether I investigate or not. And so - why should I not learn what I can~
    Adding some small bits to the total of human knowledge may perhaps
    keep us from going up in flames, as you put it, some time in the future."
    His mouth twisted. "I would have hoped it had done so already, but no
    one sees all his hopes granted." After fiddling with the latitude screw and
    the leveling vernier on his portable sundial, he grunted softly. "And now,
    back to it."
     And now, Vanai, shut your trap, she thought. But her grandfather was
    expert at what he did. She watched closely as he evoked power from a
    power point forgotten since the days of the Empire. It was here after all,
    she thought. And then, at his word of command, the scene before her
    suddenly shifted. She clapped her hands together: she was looking back
    at the long-vanished days when the Kaunian Empire stretched over a
    great part of northeastern Derlavai.
     Naturally, Brivibas's use of power had summoned up the image of
    another time when power was used here. Vanai stared at ancient
    Kaunians. They went on about their business; they could not sense her
    or her grandfather. If she walked over the front edge of the stretch of
    cleared ground that had appeared before her, she wouldn't be able to turn

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    W,
    
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    her
    h of
    
    turn
    
    43
    
    around and see the other side of the scene from long ago. She would Just
    see the scrub through which she'd trudged to get here.
     The ancient Kaunians wore woolen trousers, baggier than hers; some
    had on tunics of wool, too, others of linen. Some of the tunics and
    trousers were undyed, some dark blue or muddy brown: no bright colors
    anywhere. Almost all the clothes were visibly dirty, and so were a fair
    number of the Kaunians. People who'd worked with archaeological
    magic tended to be less romantic about the glories of the past than the
    bulk of the populace.
     Bri'vibas sketched the scene, rapidly and accurately. Skill with a pencil
    was part of fieldwork. "The men are wearing beards," he remarked, "and
    the women have their hair piled high on their heads with curls," he
    remarked. "From what period would that make this scene date?"
     Vanai frowned as she thought. "About the reign of Verigas ll," she
    replied at last.
     Her grandfather beamed. "Very good! Yes, about two hundred years
    before the Algarvian Irruption - so-called - wrecked the Empire. Ali!"
    He readied a new leaf for sketching. "Here we have the action, I think."
     . Four Kaunian men carried in a woman who was lying on a litter. She
    looked not far from the point of death. A fifth man, in cleaner clothes
    than the litter-bearers, led a sheep after them. He drew a knife from his
    belt and tested the edge with his thumb. Evidently being satisfied, he
    turned so that his back was to the modern observers and began magic of
    his own.
      Brivibas exclaimed in frustration: "I wanted to read his lips!"
     After raising one hand to the sky and pointing with the other - the one
    holding the knife - to the power point, the ancient medical mage cut the
    sheep's throat. As blood poured down, the woman rose from the litter.
    She still seemed less than perfectly well, but far better than she had a
    moment before. As she was bowing to the man who had helped her, the
    scene faded away, to be replaced once more by modem underbrush.
     "Even then, they knew life force helps make sorcery stronger," Vanai
    said in musing tones. "But they didn't know about ley lines: they still
    traveled on horseback and carried things in oxcarts."
     "Our ancestors were splendid intuitive sorcerers," Brivibas said.
    "They had no true understanding of the mathematical relationships by
    which magic is harnessed though. Ley lines being a far more subtle

    




    44
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    phenomenon than power points, it is no wonder they failed either to dis-
    cover them or to predict their existence." He muttered something in
    Forthwegian that sounded angry, then returned to Kaunian: "A pity I
    could not learn more of the healing spell that fellow used." With what
    looked like deliberate effort, he forced himself back toward calm. "At the
    very least, though, I can now definitively document this power point and
    its use in imperial times. And let us see what the learned Professor
    Frithstan thinks of that!" He held out his hands in appeal to Vanai: I ask
    you, have Forthwegians any business meddling in Kaunian history?"
     "My grandfather, they say it is also the history of Forthweg," she
    answered. "Some of them, from the books and journals I have read, are
    scholars to be respected."
     "A few," Briivibas sniffed. "A handful. Most write for the greater glory
    of Forthweg, a subject, believe me, of scant intrinsic value."
     He fumed all the way back to the village of Oyngestun, about ten
    miles west of Gromheort, where he and Vanal made their home. Only
    when he started tramping along the dusty main street of the village did he
    fall silent; Forthwegians in Oyngestun outnumbered people of Kauman
    blood four or five to one, and failed to appreciate the way the elder folk
    looked down on them as barbarians.
     Falling silent didn't always help. A shopkeeper came out to stand on
    the board sidewalk in front of his sleepy place of business and call, "Hey,
    old man, have fun playing with your shadows and ghosts?" He set hands
    on hips and laughed.
     "Yes, thank you," Bn*vibas answered in reluctant Forthwegian. He
    stalked along stiff-backed, like a cat with ruffled dignity.
     That only made the shopkeeper laugh louder. He reached out with
    one of his big, beefy hands, palm up, fingers spread and slightly hooked,
    as if he were about to grab Vanal's backside. Rude Forthwegian men -
    often a redundancy - enjoyed aiming that gesture at trousered women of
    Kaunian blood. Vanal ignored it so ostentatiously, the shopkeeper had to
    lean against the whitewashed plaster of his front wall-to keep from falling
    over with what he reckoned rru'rth.
     Fewer young Forthwegian louts were on the streets and cluttering the
    taverns of Oyngestun than would have been true a few weeks earlier,
    though: the army had summoned them to fight the Algarvians. King
    Penda had also taken a fair number of men of Kaunian blood from

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    He
    
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    45
    
    Oyngestun into his service. As long as they dwelt in his realm and had
    blood in their veins, he didn't care what sort of blood it was.
     Brivibas's house was in the middle of the Kaunian section, on the west
    side of the village. Not all Kaunians in Oyngestun dwelt there, and a few
    Forthwegians lived among them, but for the most part each of the two
    peoples followed its own path through the world.
     Here and there, the two folk did mix. When Vanal saw a tall, lean man
    with a dark beard or a fair-haired woman who was built like a brick, she
    pitied their Kaunian ancestors. In a village like Oyngestun, such mingling
    was rare. It was not common in Gromheort, either. In worldly - Bri'vibas
    called it decadent - Eoforwic, though, from what Vanai had heard, it was
    in some circles taken for granted.
     "My grandfather," she said suddenly as they went inside, "you could
    be a scholar at the King's University, did you so choose. Why have you
    been content to stay here in Oyngestun all your days?"
     Brivibas stopped so abruptly, she almost ran into him. "Why?" he said,
    perhaps as much to himself as to Vanal. After a considerable pause for
    thought, he went on, "Here, at least, I know the Forthwegians who dis-
    like me because I have light hair. In the capital, I would ever be taken by
    surprise. Some surpnises are delightful. Some, like that one, I would
    sooner do without."
     At first, Vanai thought that was the most foolish answer she'd ever
    heard. The longer she thought about it, though, the more sense it made.
    
     All things considered, Istvan could have liked the island of Obuda. The
    weather was mild, or at least he thought so: having grown up in the
    domain of the Hetman of Zalaber in central Gyongyos, his standards of
    comparison were not stringent. The soil was rich - again, by his standards.
    He 1 not mind nuilitary discipline; his father had clouted him harder than
    his sergeant did. The Obudans were friendly, the women often delight-
    fiifly so. They said they preferred Arpad, the Ekrekek of Gyongyos, to the
    Seven Princes of Kuusamo as their overlord.
     When Istvan remarked on that in the barracks one morning, Sergeant
    jokal laughed at him. "They're whores, is what they are," jokai said.
    "Two years ago, before we bounced the Kuusamans off this rock, you'd
    better believe the natives were telling them how wonderful they were,
    
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    Harry Turtledove
    
     "It Could be, I suppose," Istvan said.
     "Could be, nothing - it is.". Jokal spoke with great assurance. "And if
    those slant-eyed whoresons throw us off of here again, the Obudans'll tell
    lem what great heroes they are. And if any of our boys didn't get away,
    they'll tell the Kuusamans where they're hiding."
     Arguing with a sergeant wasn't smart, not unless you were fond of
    latrine detail. Istvan wasn't. He poured down his morning beer - that was
    brought from home, for the stuff the natives brewed wasn't fit to drink;
    it was, in his view, barely fit for removing varnish - and went outside.
     The barracks layjust outside of Sorong, the biggest town on the island,
    which didn't boast more than three, plus a couple of smaller villages.
    Sorong was halfway up a hill the Obudans called Mount Sorong. That
    made Istvan want to laugh. If the natives ever saw a real mountain, like
    the ones that towered above his own home village, they'd take that name
    and throw it into the sea: the stubby little hill didn't come close to
    deserving it.
     But, since it was the highest gTound on Obuda, though, Istvan could
    see a long way from where he stood. Down below were small patches of
    timber and long stretches of wheat and barley fields and vegetable gardens.
    Out past them, the surf rolled up the beach, then slid back down again.
     Istvan had never seen the ocean before he went into the army. Its
    immensity fascinated him. He could spy a couple of other islands, blue
    and misty in the distance. Otherwise, the water went on forever: or as far
    as his eye could reach, which amounted to the same thing. He was used
    to looking up if he wanted to see the sky, not straight out.
     When he did look up, he spied a couple of dragons circling overhead,
    so high that, even with their enormous wingspans, they seemed only
    dots, midges seen at arm's length. They floated as high as any of the peaks
    serrating the skyline back home. Up there, the air got cold and thin. The
    fliers swaddled themselves in furs and leather, the way hunters did when
    they went after snow leopards or marauding mountain apes.
     His reveries were rudely interrupted when Sergeant jokai came out
    behind him. Sergeants were unlikely to know any other way to interrupt
    a revenie. "Time on your hands, eh?" Jokai said. "That's a shame. That's
    a crying shame. Why don't you go police the dragon pens? The scouts
    won't be back for a while, that's plain."
     "Have a heart, Sergeant," Istvan pleaded.
    
    i

    




    W__
    
         JW,
    
                 "I was breathing," Istvan answered bitterly.
    at           Turul chuckled again. "Don't do too much of that while you're work-
    e            ing, or you'll be sorry after-wards."
                 "I'm already sorry," Istvan said. All that did was make the dragon-
    to           keeper laugh louder than ever. Istvan himself was something less than
                 amused. Mucking out after horses or unicorns was nasty, smelly work.
    d            Mucking out after dragons was nasty, smelly, dangerous work.
    of           He shoveled dung and raked foul straw, doing his best not to let any
    ns.                               of                     e fetid stuff - and it was far more fetid than what horses and unicorns
                 produced - touch bare skin. The brimstone and quicksilver dragons ate
    Its          ~along with their meat made their wastes not just odorous but corrosive.
    lue          They also made their wastes toxic, for those who dealt with them over
    far          years. Mad as a dragonkeeper was a common expression, but not one Istvan
    sed               had the nerve to use around Turul.
                 Istvan cursed when a couple of drops of dragon piss splashed up and
    ad,          caught him on the arm above the gauntlet. The stuff burned like acid. It
    nly          was acid. He snatched up some clean straw from a comer of the pen and
    eaks         scrubbed it off. It left behind a nasty red welt.
    The                                                      A copper-skinned Obudan boy watched him, wide-eyed. Dragons fas-
     hen         cinated the locals. Even wild ones were rare all through the long reach of
                 islands between Kuusamo and the western mainland of Derlavai. None
     out         of the islanders had ever imagined taming them. That a man could nide
    rrupt        one high into the heavens left the locals astonished and awed.
    hat's        No matter how astonished and awed they were, Istvan didn't,feel like
    couts        being watched right now. He grabbed a ball of dragon dung with his
                 gauntleted hand and made as if to throw it at the Obudan boy. The boy
                 fled, shrieking with laughter.
    
    INTo THE DAR-KNESS
    
    47
    
     He might as well have asked for the moon. "Go draw your leathers
    and go get to work," jokai said implacably. He hated idleness in any form.
    Poor Istvan hadn't yet perfected the art of looking busy even when he
    wasn't.
     Cursing under his breath, he went over to the dragon pens - at the
    prescribed brisk march, because jokal was watching - and pulled on
    elbow-length leather gauntlets and leather shin protectors that fit over the
    tops of his shoes. He grabbed a rake and a broom and a pail.
     Turul, the head dragonkeeper, chuckled as Istvan donned the protec-
    tive gear. "And how did you win the prize?" he asked.
    
    I

    




    48
    
    Harty Turtledove
    
     Istvan laughed a little himself, some of his good humor restored. He
    brought the tools back to Turul and dumped the contents of the pails in
    a special slit trench that had been dug even farther away from the streams
    than the Gyongyosian soldiers' latrines. Then, with a sigh of relief, he
    stripped off the gauntlets and the shin protectors and hung those up, too.
     He hadn't even started to walk away when he saw one of the scout
    dragons spiralling down toward a pen he had just cleaned. He shook his
    fist at the great beast. "If you shit in there again, you can clean it up your-
    self," he called. Turul thought that was pretty funny. Istvan didn't. He
    meant it from the bottom of his heart.
     Down came the dragon, with a great fluttening of wings as it landed.
    The blast of wind from them almost knocked Istvan off his feet. The flier
    sprang off the beast's neck, secured its chain to the iron post in the center
    of the pen, and started to dash away. "Who set fire to your breeks?"
    Turul asked.
     "We're going to have company," the flier answered, and pointed west.
    He said no more, but humied away to give his superiors a detailed,
    account of what kind of company and how soon.
     Only one kind of company mattered, though: the Kuusamans. Several
    ley lines converged on Obuda. That was why Gyongyos and Kuusamo
    kept fighting over the island. The natives' sorcerers hadn't discovered ley
    lines. They sailed by wind and paddle; several fishing boats bobbed in the
    ocean off the island.
     "If we weren't fighting the Unkerlanters, too, we'd kick Kuusamo
    hard enough to make the Seven Princes leave us alone," Istvan said hotly.
     Turul shrugged. "If all seven of the Princes ever walked in the same
    line, they might do the same to us. Nobody's giving this war everything
    he had - and a good thing, too, says I. "
     Being young and from the back country, Istvan said, "Not bloody
    likely!"
     "I'll bet the recruiters smi'led when they got their hands on you."
    Turul smided, too, but not altogether pleasantly.
     Drums started thudding an alarm. Istvan forgot about the cynical
    dragonkeeper and ran to snatch up his stick and to assemble so an officer
    could send him to a battle station. He almost collided with several of his
    squadmates, who were also doing their best to seem seasoned soldiers.
    None of them had yet seen combat. Istvan was half eager, half terrified.

    




    INTo THE DAPKNESS
    
    r
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    49
    
     The Obudans had seen combat, even if they hadn't taken part in it.
    They had their own strong opinion on the subject, and showed it by flee-
    ing the town of Sorong. Some ran up toward the top of Mt. Sorong,
    othersjust headed off into the woods. A few carried sacks of coarse native
    cloth stuffed with their belongings; most didn't bother, and took off with
    nothing but the robes on their backs.
     "Have no fear, fierce warriors of Ekrekek Arpacl!" Major Kisfaludy
    cried. Every tawny strand of his beard seemed to quiver from great
    emotion. "We have a surprise in store for the Kuusamans, if those little
    slant-eyed demons ever dare set foot on the soil of this island." His gnin
    was both fierce and conspiratorial. "They can have no notion of how
    many dragons we've flown into Obuda since we took it back from
    them. "
     In his mind's eye, Istvan saw dragons dropping eggs around and then
    on Kuusaman ships that presumed to approach Obuda. He saw some of
    those ships burning and others fleeing east down the ley lines as fast as
    they could go. He joined the rest of the squad, the rest of the whole unit,
    in a rousing cheer.
     "And now, down toward the beach," Major Kisfaludy said. "If any
    Kuusamans are lucky enough to land on Obuda, we shall drive them back
    into the sea."
     Along with his comrades, Istvan cheered again. Wings thundered, off
    in the distance, as dragons hurled themselves and their fliers into the air.
    Istvan laughed to think of the dreadful surprise the enemy would get
    when flame and raw energy consumed them. If they were rash enough
    to set themselves against the will of Arpad the ekrekek, they deserved
    nothing better, not as far as he was concerned.
     He trotted down a path through the woods toward the beach. At the
    edge of the trees, sheltered among logs and rocks, stood egg-tossers and
    their crews, also ready to rain fire down on any Kuusamans who reached
    land. Istvan waved to the crews, then filed into a trench.
     After that, he had nothing to do but wait. He watched the dragons
    wing their way east against targets they could see, but which the bulge of
    the earth hid from his eyes. And then he watched in some surprise as
    dragons came out of the east toward those that had flown from Obuda.
    He scratched his head. Was a flight returning already?
      SergeantJokai cursed horribly. At last, the curses cooled to coherence:
    
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    Harry Turtledove
    
    "The slant-eyes have gone and loaded a ship full of dragons. Life just got
    uglier, aye, it did."
     Sure enough, while some of the Gyongyosian dragons arrowed down
    toward whatever Kuusaman ships lay below Istvan's horizon, others
    wheeled in a dance of death with the enemy's fliers. When a couple of the
    great beasts flew back toward Obuda, neither Istvan nor anyone else on
    the ground knew whether or not to blaze at them.
     One was plainly laboring, doing more gliding than stroking with its
    left wing. It crashed down on to the sand not twenty feet in front of
    Istvan, which let him see how badly that wing was burned. The blood-
    ied flier, a Gyongyosian, staggered toward the trench. "We drove 'em
    back!" he called, and fell on his face.
    
     A couple of soldiers ran out and scooped him up. SergeantJokal cursed
    again. "We drove 'em back this time," he said, "on account of we had a
    surprise to match their surprise, and because we spotted 'ern early. But
    flying dragons off a ship! The Kuusaman bastards have gone and compli-
    cated the war, curse 'em to powerloss. " Istvan was suddenly just as well
    pleased not to have received his initiation into combat, at least from the
    receiving end.
    
     Pekka looked out at the students filing into the auditorium. It was
    hardly the biggest hall at KaJ'aam City College, but that did not dismay
    her. Theoretical sorcery, unlike the more practical applications of the art,
    was not a ley line to fame or riches. Without theoretical sorcery, though,
    no one would ever have realized ley lines existed, let alone figured out
    how to use them.
     She set her hands on the lectern, took a deep breath, and began: before
    anything else, ritual. "Before the Kaunians; came, we of Kuusamo were
    here. Before the Lagoans came, we of Kuusamo were here. After the
    Kaunians; departed, we of Kuusamo were here. We of Kuusamo are here.
    After the Lagoans depart, we of Kuusamo shall be here."
     Softly, her students repeated the unadorned but proud phrases. A
    couple of the students were of Kaunian blood, from VaIrmi era or Jelgava;
    another handful were Lagoans. Their inches and beaky features and yel-
    low and auburn hair set them apart from the Kuusaman majority (though
    some who served the Seven Princes, especially from the eastern part of
    the realm, might almost have been Lagoans by looks). Regardless of their

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    51
    
    homelands, they joined in the ri tual. If they refused, they did not attend
    Pekka's lectures.
     "Mankind has used the energies manifested and released at power
    points since long before the beginning of recorded history," she began.
    Her students scribbled notes. Watching them amused her. Most of them
    took down everything she said, even when it was something they already
    knew. For those who advanced in the discipline, that would end.
    Theoretical sorcery was, after all, about the essential, not the accidental
    in which it was surrounded.
     "Only improvements in both the theoretical underpinnings of sorcery
    and in sorcerous instrumentation have enabled us to advance beyond
    what was known in the days of the Kaunian Empire," Pekka went on.
    She held up an amulet of amber and lodestone, such as a mage might use
    at sea. "Please note that these phenomena have gone hand in hand.
    Improved instruments of magecraft had yielded new data, which, in turn,
    have forced improvements in theory, making it correspond more closely
    to observed reality. And new theory has also led to new instruments to
    exploit and expand upon it."
     She turned and wrote on a large sheet of slate behind her the law of
    similarity - similar causes produce similar effects - and the law of contagion -
    objects once in contact continue to influence each other at a distance. Like her
    body, her script was small and precise and elegant.
     One of the students in the front row muttered discontentedly to her
    benchmate: "What does she think we are, morons? They knew that
    much back in the Kaunian Empire."
     Pekka nodded. "Yes, they did know the two laws back in the days of
    the Empire. Our own ancestors" - like her, the student was of Kuusaman
    blood - "knew them before the Kaunians crossed the Strait of Valmiera
    and came to our island. The ancestors of the Gyongyosians discovered
    them independently. Some of the savages in the distant jungles of equa-
    tonal Slaulia and on the island of the Great North Sea know them, too.
    Even the shaggy Ice People know them, though they may have learned
    them from us or from the folk of Derlaval."
     The student looked as if she wished she'd never opened her mouth. In
    her place, Pekka would have wished the same thing. But wishes had no
    place in theoretical sorcery. Pekka resumed:
     "What we have here is qualitative, not quantitative. The laws of
    
    d-
    
    in
    
   may
    art,
    ugh,
    out
    
    efore
    
    were
    r the
    here - ~ i
    
    es. A
    Igava;
    d yel-
    ough
    part of
    f their

    




    52
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    I
    
    similarity and contagion state that these effects occur, but not how they
    occur or to what d~qree they occur. That is what we shall be contemplat-
    ing during the rest of the term.
     She covered the sheet of slate with symbols and numbers a couple of
    times before the lecture ended, pausing to use an old wool rag to wipe it
    clean before cluttering it once more. When she dismissed the students,
    one of them came up to her, bowed, and asked, "Mistress Pekka, could
    you not have cleansed the slate by magecraft instead of bothering with
    that rag?"
     "A mage with a stronger practical bent than mine would have had an
    easier time of it, but yes, I could have done that." Pekka hid most of her
    amusement; she got this sort of question about every other term. She
    could see the followup gleaming in the young man's eyes, and forestalled
    it: "I use the rag instead of magic because using the rag is easier than any
    magic I could make. One thing a mage must learn is, that he can do some-
    thing does not necessarily mean he should do it."
     He stared at her, his eyes as wide as a Kuusaman's could be, nothing
    but incomprehension on his face. "What's the point of magic, if not
    doing things'," he asked.
     "Knowing what things to do?" Pekka suggested gently. No, the
    student did not understand; she could see as much. Perhaps he would
    begin to by the end of the term. Perhaps not, too, He was very young.
    And, being a man, he was likelier to think of limits as things to be over-
    come than to be respected.
     He went off shaking his head. Pekka permitted herself a small smile.
    She dealt with a couple of other questions of smaller import, though ones
    more immediately urgent to the students asking them: matters of text and
    examinations. And then, as a new group of chattering young men and
    women began corming into the auditorium for the lecture on crystal-
    lography that followed hers, Pekka neatly tucked her notes into a small
    leather valise and left the hall.
     The sun had come out while she was speaking, and puddles from the
    previous night's rain sparkled, sometimes dazzlingly. Even in summer,
    though, the sunlight had a watery quality to it. Kuusamo was a land of
    mists and fogs and dnizzles, a land where the sky went from gray to gray-
    ish blue and back again, a land where the rich and brilliant greens of forest
    and meadow and hillside had to make up for the drabness overhead.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    53
    
     And they did. So everyone in Kuusamo proudly boasted. Pekka was
    no different from her countrymen in that. But, four or five years before
    - no, it had to be five, because the war with Gyongyos hadn't started -
    she'd taken a holiday on the famous golden beaches of northern Jelgava.
    Her skin, not far from golden itself, withstood the fierce sun better than
    the pale hides of the Jelgavans who toasted themselves on the sand. That
    was one of the memories she'd brought home to KaJaam. Another - and
    she could still call it up whenever she chose, as if she lay naked on the
    beach again - was the astonishing color of the sky. Passages of Kaunian
    poetry that had been obscure suddenly took on new meaning for her.
     Here, though, such colors, such heat, were only memories. Kajaani,
    on the southern coast of Kuusamo, looked out across the Narrow Sea
    southeast toward the land of the Ice People and straight south toward the
    endless ice floes at the bottom of the world. Pekka straightened her slim
    shoulders. She enjoyed remembering Jelgava. She would not have
    wanted to live there. KaJ'aani was home.
     That mattered very much to a Kuusaman. Picking her way around the
    puddles, Pekka really noticed the buildings that more often just formed
    the backdrop before which she played out her life. Most of them were
    wooden: Kuusamo was a land of wide forests. Some of the timber was
    stained, some pale with weathering. Very little was painted, not on the
    outside; gaudy display was alien to her people. The handful of bn'ck
    buildings harmonized with the rest. They were brown or yellow-brown
    or tan - no reds or oranges to jar the eyes.
     "No," she said softly, but with no less pride than that, "we are no
    branch from the Algarvic stem, nor the Kaunian, either. Let them swag-
    ger and preen. We endure."
     She hardly knew when she left the college grounds and went into
    Kajaam itself The people on the streets here were a little older, a little
    more sober looking. The Lagoans and men from the Kaunian countries
    who leavened the mix were more apt to be sailors than students. Shops
    showed their wares, but the shopkeepers didn't rush out, grab her by the
    arm, and try to drag her inside, as happened in Jelgava. That would have
    been gaudy display, too.
     A public caravan hummed by her, the wind of its passage ruffling the
    rainwater in the gutters. The two coaches were also of wood, with their
    roofs overhanging the windows to either side to ward against the

    




    54
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    weather. In Lagoas or Sibiu, they would have been metal. In Valmiera or
    Jelgava, they would have been painted to look like marble, whatever they
    were made of.
     Pekka paid a couple of coppers for a news sheet and walked along
    reading it. She made a clucking noise of dismay when she saw that the
    Gongs had thrown back the fleet trying to retake Obuda. Admiral Risto
    was quoted as saying, "They had more dragons up their sleeve than we
    expected. We'll regroup and have another go at them sometime later."
     Swemmel of Unkerlant would have had Risto's head for a failure like
    that. The Naval Ministry issued a statement over the signature of the
    Seven Princes expressing full confidence in the adrmiral. Lopping off
    heads was not the Kuusaman style. Pekka wondered, just for a moment,
    whether the war would have gone better if it had been.
     In the war on the mainland of Derlavai, Valmiera and Jelgava and
    Forthweg all claimed smashing victories over the Algarvians. Algarve
    reported smashing victories over her foes, too. Somebody was lying.
    Pekka smiled wryly. Maybe everybody was lying.
     She walked up into the hills that rose swiftly from the gray, boorming sea.
    Gulls wheeled screeching, high overhead. Ajay in a pine sapling screeched,
    too, on a different note. A bright yellow brimstone butterfly fluttered past.
    This time, genuine pleasure filled Pekka's sn-ffle. Butterflies had only a brief
    stretch of summer to be on the wing, down here in KaJaami.
     Pekka turned off the road and down a narrower one. Her sister and
    brother-in-law dwelt next door to her, in a weathered wooden house
    with tall pines behind. Elimaki opened the door when she saw Pekka
    coming up the walk. Pekka's son dodged past her and ran to his mother
    with a shout of glee.
     She stooped down and took him in her arms. "Were you good for
    Aunt Elimaki, Uto?" she demanded, doing her imperfect best to sound
    severe. Uto nodded with grave four-year-old sincerity. Elimaki rolled her
    eyes, which surprised Pekka not at all.
     Pekka took the egg of terror disguised as a small boy by the hand and
    led him to their own home, making sure he did nothing too drastic along
    the way. When she went inside, she said, "Try to keep the house halfway
    clean until your father comes home from the college." Leino, her hus-
    band, was also a mage. This term, his last lecture came several hours later
    than hers.

    




    INTo THE DAKKNESS          55
    
     Uto promised. He always promised. A four-year-old's oaths were
    written on the wind. Pekka knew it. She took a duck from the rest crate.
    The Kaunians had developed that spell, and used it for paralyzing their
    foes - till both they and their neighbors found countermeasures for it.
    After that, it lay almost forgotten for centuries until, with greater under-
    standing of exactly how it worked, modem researchers began applying it
    both to medicine and to preserving food. In the rest box, the plucked and
    gutted duck would have stayed fresh for many weeks.
     Glazed with cranberry Jam, it had just gone into the oven when some-
    thing fell over with a crash. Pekka shut the oven door, splashed water on
    her hands, and hurried off to see what sort of atrocity Uto had committed
    this time.
    
    ka
    
    er
    
    her
    
    and
    
     Garivald was weeding - exactly what he was supposed to be doing -
    when King Swernmel's inspectors paid his village a visit. The inspectors
    wore rock-gray tunics, as if they were Unkerlanter soldiers, and strode
    along as if they were kings themselves. Garivald knew what he thought
    of that, but letting them know wouldn't have been efficient. Very much
    the reverse, in fact.
     One of the inspectors was tall, the other short. But for that, they might
    have been stamped from the same mold. "You!" the tall one called to
    Garivald. "What's the harvest going to look like here?"
     "Still a little too early to tell, sir," Garivald answered, as any man with
    an ounce - half an ounce - of sense would have done. Rain as the barley
    and rye were being gathered would be a disaster. It would be an even
    worse disaster than it might have otherwise, because the inspectors and
    their minions would cart off Swernmel's share no matter what, leaving
    the village to get by on the remainder, if there was any.
     "Still a little too early to tell," the short one repeated. His accent said
    he came night out of Cottbus, the capital. In Ganivald's ears, it was harsh
    and choppy, well suited to its arrogant possessor. Southerners weren't in
    such a big hurry when they opened their mouths. By talking slower, they
    made asses of themselves less often, too - or so they said when their over-
    lords weren't around to hear.
     "If this whole Duchy of Grelz were more efficient all the way around,
    we'd be better off," the tall one said.
      If Swernmel's men, and Kyot's, hadn't burned about every third
    
    i

    




    56
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    village in the Duchy of Grelz back around the time Gartivald was born,
    Unkerlant would have been better off. Being efficient was hard without
    a roof over your head in a southern winter. It was even harder with your
    fields trampled and your livestock stolen or killed. Even now, a genera-
    tion later, the effects lingered.
     The short inspector glared at Ganivald, who had stayed on his knees
    and so was easy to look down on. "Don't think you can cheat us by lying
    about how much you bring in, either," he snapped. "We have ways of
    knowing. We have ways of making cheaters sorry, too."
     Garivald had to answer that. "I am only one farmer in this village, sir,"
    he said, genuine alarm in his voice now. He knew Villages had vanished
    off the face of the earth after trying to hold out on Cottbus: that was the
    excuse King Swernmel's men used once the dirty work was done, any-
    how. He went on, "I have no way of knowing how much the whole
    village will bring in. The only one who could even guess would b e
    Waddo, the firstman. " He'd never liked Waddo, and didn't care what the-,
    inspectors did to him.
     They both laughed, nastily. "Oh, he knows what we can do," the tall
    one said. "Never fret yourself about that. But we want to make sure
    everyone else knows, too. That's efficient, that is." He folded his arms
    across his chest. "Everybody needs to know King Swernmel's will, not
    just that ugly lump of a Waddo."
     "Aye, sir," Ganivald said, more warmly than he'd expected. If
    Swernmel's inspectors could see that Waddo was an ugly lump, maybe
    they weren't asses after all. No. That, surely, gave them too much credit.
    Maybe they weren't such dreadful asses after all.
     "A lot of men in this village," the short one remarked. "A lot of young
    men in this village." He jotted a note, then asked Garivald, "When did
    the impressers last visit here?"
     "Sir, I don't really recall, I'm afraid." The peasant plucked a weed from
    the ground with altogether unnecessary violence.
     "Inefficient." The inspectors spoke together. Garivald didn't kno~v
    whether they meant him or the impressers or both at once. He hoped the
    village wouldn't have to try to bring in the harvest with half the young
    men dragged into the army to go off and fight Gyongyos. He hoped even
    more that he wouldn't be one of those young men.
     "Does this powersforsaken place boast a crystal?" the tall inspector

    




    At
    
     be
    dit.
    
                                        ng
                                       did
    
    om
    
    ow
    the
    
    Ling
    
    even
    
    ctor
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    57
    
    asked. "I didn't see one in your firstman's shack."
     Waddo owned the finest house in the village. Ganivald wished his own
    were half so large. Waddo had even added on half a second story to give
    some of his children rooms of their own. Everyone thought that a citi-
    fied luxury - everyone but the inspector, evidently. Ganivald answered,
    "Sir, we don't. We're a long way from the closest ley line, and-'
     'We know that," the short inspector broke in. "I'm so saddle-sore, I
    can hardly walk." He rubbed at his left buttock.
     And we like itjustfine, Garivald thought. That was one reason impressers
    and inspectors didn't come round very often. Nobody hereabouts rmissed
    them. Nobody hereabouts missed anyone from Cottbus. In the olden days,
    the Duchy of Grelz - the Kingdom of Grelz, it had been then, till the
    Union of Thrones - had been the most important part of Unkerlant. Now
    the men from the hot, dusty north lorded it over their southern cousins. As
    far as Gan'vald was concerned, they could go away and never come back.
    Bandits , that's what they were, nothing but bandits.
     He wondered if they were efficient bandits. If they happened to suffer
    unfortunate accidents, would anyone track them down and take the kind
    of revenge for which Swernmel had become all too famous? His
    shoulders worked in a large shrug. He didn't think the chance worth tak-
    ing, worse luck. Odds were no one else in the village would, either.
     The inspectors went off to inflict themselves on someone else. As
    Garivald kept on pulling weeds, he imagined their stems were the inspec-
    tors' necks. That sent him back to the village at the close of day in a better
    mood than he would have thought possible while the inspectors raked
    him over the coals.
     He never thought to wonder what the place looked like to the men
    from the capital. To him, it was simply home: three or four lines of
    wooden houses with thatched roofs, and a blacksmith's shop and a couple
    of taverns among them. Chickens roamed the dirt streets, pecking at
    whatever they could find. A sow in a muddy wallow between two houses
    looked out at Garivald and grunted. Dogs and children roamed the
    streets, too, sometimes chasing chickens, sometimes one another. He
    swatted at a fly that landed on the back of his neck. A moment later,
    another one bit him in the arm.
     In winter, the flies died. In winter, though, the livestock would stay in
    the house with him and his family. That kept the beasts warm, and helped

    




    58
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    keep him and his wife and his boy and baby girl warm, too. Winters in
    Grelz were not for the fainthearted.
     Annore was chopping up parsnips and rhubarb and throwing them
    into a stewpot full of barley and groats when he came into the house. "I'll
    put in the blood sausages in a little while," she said. When she sriffled, he
    still saw some of the pert good looks that had drawn him to her half a
    dozen years before. Most of the time, though, she just looked tired.
    
     Gari'vald understood that; he was bone-weary himself "Any beer left
    in the bucket?" he asked.
     "Plenty." Annore tapped it with her sandal. "Dip me up a mug, too,
    will you?" When her husband did, she murmured a word of thanks. Then
    she said, "People say the inspectors were buzzing around you out in the
    fields." The words came out with the usual mixture of hate and fear -
    and, as usual, fear predominated.
     But Ganivald shrugged his broad shoulders. "It wasn't too bad. They
    were being efficient" - he laced the catchword with scorn - 11 so they
    didn't spend too much of their precious time on me." He raised his
    wooden mug of beer to his lips and took a long pull. After wiping his
    upper lip on his sleeve, he went on, "The one bad part was when they
    asked if the impressers had been through this part of the Duchy any time
    latcly. "
    
     "What did you tell them?" Annore asked. Yes, fear predominated.
     He shrugged again. "Told 'em I didn't know. They can't prove 11 in
    lying, so that looked like the efficient thing to do." Now he laughed at
    King Swemmel's favorite term - but softly, lest anyone but his wife hear.
     Slowly, Annore nodded. "I don't see any better choices," she said. "But
    not all inspectors are fools, even if they are bastards. They're liable to
    figure out that I don't know means haven't seen 'emfor years. If they do ...
     If they did, sergeants would teach a lot of young men from the village
    the arcane mysteries of marching and countermarching. Garivald knew
    he was liable - no, likely - to be one of them. He'd been too young the
    last time the impressers came through. He wouldn't be too young now.
    They'd give him a stick and tell him to blaze away for the glory of King
    Swemmel, which mattered to him not in the least. The Gyongyosians
    had sticks, too, and were in the habit of blazing back. He didn't want to
    g
    go to the edge of the world to fight them. He didn't want to go any-
    where. All he wanted was to stay with his family and bring in the harvest.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    59
    
     His daughter Leuba woke up and started to cry. Annore scooped her
    out of the cradle, then slid an arm out of her tunic, bared a breast, and
    put the baby on it. "You'll have to chop the sausage," she said above
    Leuba's avid gulping noises.
     "All night," Garivald replied, and he did. He almost chopped off his
    finger a couple of times, too, because he paid as much attention to his
    wife's breast as to what he was supposed to be doing. Annore noticed, and
    stuck out her tongue at him. They both laughed. Leuba tried to laugh,
    too, but didn't want to stop nursing while she did it. She coughed and
    choked and sprayed milk out her nose.
     When the smell of the vegetables and blood sausage made his stomach
    growl more fiercely than any inspector from Cottbus, Ganivald went to
    the door and shouted for his son Syrivald to come in and eat supper.
    Syrivald came. He was covered in mud and dirt, and all the more cheer-
    ful because of it, as any five-year-old boy would have been. I could eat
    a bear," he announced.
     "We haven't got a bear," Annore told him. "You'll eat what we give
    you." And so Synivald did, from a child-sized wooden bowl, a smaller
    copy of the one from which his parents spooned up supper. Annore gave
    Leuba little bits of barley and groats and sausage on the top of her spoon.
    The baby was just learning to eat things that weren't milk, and seemed
    intent on trying to get as messy as her big brother.
     The sun went down about the time they finished supper. Annore did
    a little cleaning up by the light of a lamp that smelled of the lard it burned.
    Synivald started yawning. He lay down on a bench against the wall and
    went to sleep. Annore nursed Leuba once more, then laid her in the
    cradle.
     Before his wife could set her tunic to rights, Ganivald cupped in his
    hand the breast at which the baby had been feeding. "Don't you think of
    anything else?" Annore asked.
     "What should I think of, the impressers?" Garivald retorted. "This is
    better." He drew her to him. Presently, it was a great deal better. By the
    moans she tried to muffle, Annore thought so, too. She fell asleep very
    quickly. Ganivald stayed awake longer. He did think of the impressers,
    whether he wanted to or not.

    




    Bcnibo had never seen so many stars in the sky above Tricarico. But, as
    the constable paced through the dark streets of his home town, he did not
    watch the heavens for the sake of diamonds and the occasional sapphire
    or ruby strewn across black velvet. He kept a wary eye peeled for the
    swift-moving shapes ofJelgavan dragons blotting out those jewels.
     Tnicanico lay not far below the foothills of the Bradano Mountains,
    whose peaks formed the border between Algarve and Jelgava. Every so
    often, Bembo could spy flashes of light - momentary stars - in the moun-
    tains on the eastern horizon: the soldiers of his kingdom and the Jelgavans
    blazing away at one another. The Jelgavans, so far, had not pushed their
    way through the foothills and down on to the southern Algarvian plain.
    Bembo was glad of that; he'd expected worse.
     He'd also expected the Jelgavans to send more dragons over Tnicanico
    than they had. He'd been a boy during the Six Years' War, and vividly
    remembered the terror dropped eggs had spawned. There hadn't been so
    many then, but even a few were plenty and to spare. Jelgava's dragon
    farms had bee anything but idle since.
    
     A caravan hurnmed slowly past, sliding a couple of feet above the
    ground along its ley line. The lamps at the front of the coach had dark
    cloth wrapped around them so they gave out only a little light: with luck,
    too little to be spotted by Jelgavan dragonfliers high in the air.
     The caravan steersman doffed his plumed hat to Bembo. Bembo swept
    off his own to return the compliment. He smiled a little as he set the hat
    back on his head. Even in wartime, the courtesies that made Algarvian
    life endured.
     When he rounded a corner, the smile disappeared. A wineshop was
    not so securely shuttered as it might have been; light spilled out through

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    61
    
    the slats to puddle on the pavement. Bembo took the club off his belt and
    whacked the door with it. "Close up in there!" he called. A moment
    later, after a couple of startled exclamations, the shutters creaked as some-
    one adjusted them. The betraying light disappeared. Nodding in satisfac-
    tion, Bembo walked on.
     A Kaunian column of pale marble gleamed even by starlight. In
    ancient days, Tricarico, like a lot of northern Algarve, had belonged to
    the Kaunian Empire. Monuments lingered. So did occasional heads of
    blond hair among the red- and auburn- and sandy-haired majority.
    Bembo would just as soon have shipped blonds and monuments alike
    over the Bradano Mountains. The Jelgavans thought they gave a king-
    dom of Kaunian blood a claim to what Kaunians had once ruled.
     A woman leaned against the column. Her legs gleamed like its marble;
    her kilt was very short, scarcely covering the swell of her buttocks.
    "Hello, sweetheart," she called, peering toward Bembo as he
    approached. "Feel like a good time tonight?"
     "Hello, Fiametta," the constable said, lifting his hat. "Go peddle it
    somewhere else, or I'll have to notice you're here."
     Fiametta cursed in disgust. "All this dark is terrible for business," she
    complained. "The men can't find me-"
    
     "Oh, I bet they can," he said. He'd let her bribe him with her body a
    time or two, in the easy-going days before the war.
     She snorted. "And when somebody does find me, who is it? A con-
    stable! Even if you want me, you won't pay for it."
     "Not with money," Bembo allowed, "but you're out here on the job,
    not sitting in Reform sewing tunics or something."
     "Reform would pay me better than this - and I'd meet more interest-
    ing people, too," Fiametta came over and kissed Bembo on the end of his
    long, straight nose. Then she flounced off, putting everything she had
    into it, and she had quite a lot. Over her shoulder, she called, "See? I'm
    going somewhere else."
     Somewhere else was probably no farther than the other side of the
    column, but Bembo didn't follow her. She'd done what he'd told her,
    after all. One of these days, he might feel like telling her to do something
    different again.
     He turned on to a side street, one with houses and apartment houses
    on it, not shops and offices. Once or twice every block, he had to rap on

    




    62
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    a window sill or a doorway and shout for people to let lamps die or cover
    their windows better. Everyone in Tricarico surely knew the new
    regulations, but every Algarvian was born thinking regulations applied to
    the other fellow, not to him. A rotund man, Bembo fumed when he had
    to trudge up to the fourth floor of an apartment house to get some fool
    to draw his curtains.
     When he came out of the apartment house, someone disappeared
    down the dark street with remarkable haste. Bembo thought about run-
    ning after the footpad or whatever he was, but not for long. With his
    belly, he wouldn't have had a prayer of catching him.
     He came up to another house with a hand's breadth of open space
    between the edges of the curtains. He raised his club to whack the sill,
    then froze, as if suddenly turned to stone. Inside, a pretty young woman
    was getting out of her clothes and into a loose kilt and tunic for the night.
     Bembo had never felt so torn. As a man, he wanted to say nothing and
    keep watching: the more he saw of her, the better she looked. As a con-
    stable, though, he had his duty. He waited till she was sliding the night
    tunic down over herself before he rapped the wall and called, "Darken
    this house!" The womanjumped and squeaked. The lamp died. Bembo
    strode on. Duty had triumphed - and he'd had a good peek.
     He used the club several more times - though never so entertainingly
    - before emerging on to the Avenue 'of Duchess Matalista, a broad street
    full of fancy shops, barristers' offices, and the sort of dining establishments
    the nobility and rich commoners patronized. When he saw light leaking
    from places like those, he had to be more polite with his warnings. If a
    baron or a well-connected restaurateur complained about him, he'd end
    up on permanctit iiight duty M the nasty part of town.
     He had just asked - asked! it graveled a proud man - a jeweler to close
    his curtains tighter when a hiss in the air made him look up. He saw mov-
    ing shadows against the stars. Before he could fill his lungs to shout, the
    egg he'd heard falling burst a couple of hundred yards behind him. Others
    crashed down all around Trican'co.
     Bursts of light as their protective shells smashed sent shadows leaping
    crazily and chopped motion into herky-Jerky bits. The bursts were
    shatteringly loud. Bembo clutched at his ears. Blasts of suddenly
    released energies knocked him off his feet. The pavement tore his bare
    kiices.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    63
    
     Howling with pain, he scrambled up again and ran toward the nearest
    burst. The egg had come to earth on the Avenue of Duchess Matalista in
    front of an eatery where a supper for two cost about a week of Bembo's
    pay. It had blown a hole in the cobblestones and had blown in the front
    of the restaurant; he didn't know how the roof was staying up.
     The egg had also blown in the front of the milliner's shop across the
    street, but Bembo didn't worry about that: the milliner's was closed and
    empty. Screaming, bleeding people came staggering out of the restaurant.
    A woman got down on her hands and knees and vomited an expensive
    rneal into the gutter.
     Fire was beginning to lick at the exposed roof timbers. Careless of that,
    Bembo dashed into the restaurant to help whoever hadn't managed to
    escape. Shards of glass crunched under his boots. That glass had been
    almost as deadly as the raw energy of the egg itself. The first person the
    flickering flames showed him had had his head almost sliced from his
    body by a great chunk that still glittered beside the corpse.
     Someone farther in groaned. Bembo yanked up the table that pinned
    an old woman, stooped, got her arm around his shoulder, and half-
    dragged, half carried her out to the street. "You!" he snapped to the
    woman who'd thrown up. "Bandage this cut on her leg.."
     "With what?" she asked.
     "Your kerchief, if you've got one. Your scarf there. Or cut cloth off
    her tunic or yours - you'll have a paring knife in your bag there, won't
    you?" Bembo turned to a couple of men who didn't look too badly hurt.
    "You and you - in there with me. She's not the only one left inside."
     "What if the roof caves in?" one man asked.
     "What if an egg falls on us?" the other added. More eggs were falling.
    Sticks bigger and heavier than a man could carry had been set up along
    some of Tricarico's ley lines. They blazed spears of light up into the sky
    at the jelgavan dragons, but there weren't enough of them, not nearly
    enough.
     That didn't matter, not to Bembo. "We'll be very unhappy," he
    answered. "Now come on, or I curse you for cowards."
     "If you weren't a constable and immune, I'd call you out for that,'
    growled the fellow who'd fretted about eggs.
     "If you'd come without arguing, I wouldn't have had to say it,"
    Bembo returned, and plunged back into the eatery without waiting to see

    




    64
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    whether the two men would follow. They did; he heard them kicking
    through the broken glass that covered the floor.
     They worked manfully, once they got down to it. They and Bembo
    dragged out customers and servitors and, from the kitchens, a couple of
    cooks. As the flames began to take hold and the smoke got thicker,
    Bembo had to make his last trip out crawling and dragging a man after
    him. He couldn't breathe if he stood upright. He could hardly breathe
    while he crawled; his lungs felt scorched and filled with soot. The glass
    sliced the palms of his hands.
     A horse-drawn pumper clattered up and began pouring water on the
    flames. Hacking and spitting up lumps of thick black phlegm, Bembo
    wished the crew could turn the hoses on the inside of his chest.
     They were fighting a losing battle here; the eatery was going to bum.
    Before long, the crew realized as much. They began playing water on the
    buildings to either side, neither of which had yet caught fire. Maybe they
    wouldn't, now. Even if they didn't, though, the water would damage
    whatever they held.
     "I thank you, sir," the old woman Bembo had first rescued said from
    the sidewalk.
     He reached for his hat, only to discover he wasn't wearing it. It had to
    be back in the eatery, which meant it was gone for good. Bembo instead,
    he said, "Milady, it was my duty and" - another coughing spasm cut off
    his words - "my duty and my honor."
     "That's well said." The old woman - a noble, by her manners -
    inclined her head to Bembo.
     He bowed again. "Milady, liust hope we're giving thejelgavans worse
    than we're getting. The news sheets say we are. Every braggart blabbing
    out of a crystal says we are, but how do we know? The jelgavans' news
    sheets are bound to be telling them they're beating the stuffing out of us."
     "How long have you been a constable, young fellow?" the woman
    asked, a hint of amusement in her voice.
     Bembo wondered what was funny. "Almost ten years, milady."
     The old woman nodded. "That appears to be enough to have left you
    a profoundly cynical man."
     "Thank you," he said. She laughed out loud. For the life of him, he
    couldn't figure out why.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
     With the dawn, Talsu peered down from the Bratarm Mountains into
    Algarve. Smoke rose from the burning town of Tricarico. He smiled. His
    officers had assured him that jelgava was doing far more damage to
    Algarve than the cowardly Algarvian air pirates were inflicting on his own
    kingdom.
     His officers had also assured him that soon, very soon, jelgava's ever-
    victorious forces would sweep out of the mountains and across the plains
    of Algarve. The jelgavan army had visited fire and devastation on those
    plains in the last months of the Six Years' War. He saw no reason why
    jelgava should not do the same thing again.
     He saw no reason why jelgava should not already have done it again,
    in fact. All of Algarve's neighbors hated her. All of them that mattered
    were at war against her. They were many. She was one, and beset from
    east and west and south. Why, then, were his countrymen not yet out of
    the mountains and racing to Join hands with the Forthwegians? He
    scratched at his almost invisibly pale mustache, which he wore close-
    trimmed, not in any wild Algarvian style. It was a puzzlement.
     A delicious smell distracted him. Turning his head, he saw Colonel
    Dzirnavu's servant carrying a covered silver tray toward the regimental
    commander's tent. "Ha, Vartu, what have you got there?" he asked.
     "His lordship's breakfast - what else?" the servant answered.
     Talsu made an exasperated noise. "I didn't think it was the chamber
    pot," he said. "What I meant was, what will the illustrious count enjoy
    for his breakfast?"
     "Not much, if I'm anyjudge," Vartu said, rolling his eyes. "But if you
    mean, Mat is he havingfor breakfast? - I've got fresh-baked blueberry tarts
    here, and poached eggs and bacon on toasted bread with butter sauce
    poured over them, and some nice ripe cheese, and a muskmelon from by
    the seashore. And in the pot - not a chamber pot, mind you - is tea
    flavored with bergamot leaves."
     "Stop!" Talsu held up a hand. "You're breaking my heart." His belly
    rumbled. "You're breaking my stomach, too," he added.
     "See what you rruiss because the blood in your veins isn't blue
    enough?" Vartu said. "Red blood's good enough to spill for our dear
    jelgava, so it is, but it won't get you a breakfast like this at the front, no
    indeed. And now I've got to get moving. If the hot stuff gets cold or the
    cold stuff warms up, the other thing his lordship will bite off is my head."

    




    66
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Neither soldier had spoken loudly; the colonel's tent lay only fifteen
    or twenty feet away. Vartu ducked inside. "Curse you, what took you so
    long?" Dzirnavu shouted. "Are you trying to starve me to death?"
     "I humbly crave pardon, your lordship," Vartu answered, abject as a
    servant had to be in the face of a noble's wrath. Talsu jammed his own
    face against the brownish green sleeve of his uniform tunic so no one
    would hear him giggle. Dzirnavu was as round as a kickball. He looked
    as if he'd take years without food to starve to death.
     With the regimental commander's breakfast attended to, the cooks
    could get around to feeding the rest of the soldiers. Talsu lined up with the
    other men in tunics and trousers of the same horse-dung color as his. When
    he finally got up to the kettles, he held out a tin plate and a wooden cup.
    One bored-looking cook plopped a ladleful of barley mush and a length of
    grayish sausage on the plate. Another poured sour beer into the cup.
     "My favorites," Talsu said: "dead man's cock and what he pissed
    through it."
     "Listen to the funny man," said one of the cooks, who'd probably
    heard the stale joke two or three times already. "Get out of here, funny
    man, before you end up wearing this pot."
     "Your sweetheart's the one who knows about dead man's cock," the
    other cook put in.
     "Your wife, you mean." Laughing, Talsu sat down on a rock, took the
    knife from his belt, and cut off a bite-sized chunk of sausage. It was
    greasy, and would have been flavorless except that it was heading toward
    stale. Along with the porridge, it filled his belly. That was the most he
    would say for it. He wondered if Colonel Dzirnavu had ever tasted what
    his men ate. He doubted it. If Dzirnavu tasted sausage like that, the
    Algarvians in Tricarico would hear him screaming.
     Presently, the regimental commander deigned to emerge from the
    tent. With green-brown tunic and trousers stretched tight to cover his
    globular frame, with bejeweled medallions of nobility glittering on his
    chest, with rank badges shining from his shoulder straps, he resembled
    nothing so much as a heroic coconut. "My men!" he said, and the sag-
    ging flesh under his chin wobbled. "My men, you have not advanced far
    enough or fast enough to satisfy our most magnificent sovereign, his
    Radiant Splendor, King Donalitu V. Press ahead more bravely hence-
    forward, that he may be more pleased with you.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    67
    
     One of Talsu's friends, a tall, skinny chap named Smidsu, murmured,
    "You don't suppose it's ever crossed the king's mind that one of the
    reasons we haven't gone farther and faster is that we've got Colonel
    Dzimavu commanding, do you?"
     "He's Count Dzirnavu, too, so what can you do?" Talsu answered.
    "The only thing that would happen if we moved fast against the
    Algarvians; is that we'd leave him behind." He paused for a moment.
    "Might be the best thing that could happen to the regiment."
     Smilsu snickered, hard enough to draw a glare from a sergeant. Talsu
    loathed sergeants and pitied them at the same time. They made them-
    selves as hateful as possible to the men of their own estate under them,
    knowing all the while that the officers above them despised them for their
    low birth, and that, however heroically they might serve, they could not
    hope to become officers themselves.
     Colonel Dzimavu, perhaps exhausted at having addressed his soldiers,
    retreated behind canvas once more. Smilsu said, "You notice the king is
    displeased with us, not even with us and the colonel?"
     "So it goes," Talsu said resignedly. "When we win the war, though,
    he'll be pleased with the colonel and then, if he happens to recollect, with
    us, too."
     From inside the tent, Dzirnavu let out a bellow. Vartu hurried in to
    see what his master required. Then he hurried out again. When he
    returned, he was carrying a small, square bottle of dark green glass.
     "What have you got there?" Talsu asked. He knew the answer, but
    wanted to see what Dzimavu's servant would say.
      Sure enough, Vartu had a word for it: "Restorative.
     Talsu laughed. "Make sure he's good and restored, then. If he's back
    here snoring while the rest of us fight the Algarvians up ahead, we'll all
    be better off."
     "No, no, no." Smilsu shook his head. "Just restore him enough to get
    him fighting mad, Vartu. I want to see him go char ing between the
    91
    rocks, straight at the Algarvians. They'll run like rabbits - like little fluffy
    bunnies they'll run. They won't have figured we'd be able to bring a
    behemoth through the mountains."
     Vartu snickered. He almost dropped the dark green bottle, and had to
    make a desperate lunge for it. Fortunately for him, he caught it.
    Unfortunately for him, Colonel Dzirnavu chose that moment to bellow

    




    68
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
      - "Corif I                           ing out
    again: ound it, Vartu, you worthless turd, what are you doi
    there, fiddling with yourselP"
     "If you were fiddling with yourself, you'd be having more fun than
    you are now," Talsu told the servant. With a sigh, Vartu went off to
    deliver the therapeutic dose to his master.
     "If he liked the illustrious count better, we couldn't talk to him the
    way we do," Smilsu said.
     "If he liked the illustrious count better, we'd probably like the illustri-
    ous count better, too, and we wouldn't have to talk to him the way we
    do," Talsu said.
     His friend chewed on that, then slowly nodded. "Some nobles do
    make good officers," Sniilsu adrmitted. "If they didn't, we never would
    have won the Six Years' War, I don't suppose."
     "I don't know about that," Talsu said. "I don't know about that at all.
    The Algarvians have noble officers, too."
     "Heh." Smilsu shook a fist at Talsu. "Now look what you've gone and
    done, you lousy traitor."
     "What are you talking about?" Talsu demanded.
     "You've made me feel sorry for the stinking enemy, that's what." Smilsu
    paused, as if considering. "Not too sorry to blaze away at him and put him
    out of his misery, I guess. Maybe I won't have to report you after all."
    
     Talsu started to say it would be softer back of the front than at it, but
    held his tongue. The dungeon cell waiting for anyone reported as a traitor
    would make the front feel like a palace. Worse things would happen to a
    traitor back there than to a soldier at the front, too.
    
     By midafternoon, the regiment had taken possession of a little valley,
    in which nestled a village whose Algarvian inhabitants had fled, taking
    their sheep and goats and mules with them. Colonel Dzirnavu. promptly
    established himself in the largest and most impressive house there.
     His men, meanwhile, fanned out through the valley to make sure the
    Algarvians had not yielded it to set up an ambush. Talsu looked up at the
    higher ground to either side of the valley. "Hope they haven't got an egg-'
    tosser or two stashed away up there," he remarked. "That sort of thing
    could ruin a night's sleep."
    
     "That's not in our orders," one of his comrades said.
     "Getting myself killed for no good reason isn't in my orders, either,"
    Talsu retorted.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    69
    
     In the end, a couple of platoons did sweep the mountainside. Talsu
    made sure he got part of that duty, thinking, ff you want something done
    tigh t, do it yourse!f But he soon discovered even the whole regiment
    couldn't have done the job right, not without working on it for a week.
    Near the valley floor, the mountainsides were covered with scrubby
    bushes. He might have walked past an Algarvian company and never
    known it. Farther up, tumbled rocks offered concealment almost equally
    good. The sweep found no one, but none of the Jelgavans - save possibly
    their captain, a pompous marquis - had any illusions about what that
    proved.
     When Talsu got back to the village, he set out his bedroll as far from
    the handful of buildings as he could. He noted that Smilsu was doing the
    same thing not far away. The two men shared a wry look, shook their
    heads, and went on about the business of getting ready for the night.
     Talsu woke up at every small noise, grabbing for his stick. No soldier
    who wanted to live to get old could afford to be a heavy sleeper. But he
    did not wake for the egg flying past till it slammed into the fanning village.
    Three more followed in quick succession: not big, heavy, immensely
    potent ones, but the sort a crew might hurl with a light tosser a couple of
    men could break out and carry in and out with them on their backs.
     They knocked down three houses and set several others afire. Talsu
    and his company went out into the fields to keep the Algarvians from get-
    ting close enough to blaze at their comrades, who labored to rescue the
    men trapped in the building the egg had wrecked. Looking back, Talsu
    saw the house Colonel Dzirnavu had taken as his own now burning mer-
    fily. He wondered whether or not he should hope the illustrious colonel
    had escaped.
    
     Leofslg trudged east along a dirt road in northern Algarve, in the direc-
    tion of the town of Gozzo. That was what his officers said, at any rate,
    and he was wining to take their word for it. The countryside looked
    much as it did back in Forthweg: ripening wheatfields, groves of almonds
    and olives and oranges and limes, villages full of houses built from white-
    washed sun-dried brick with red tile roofs.
     But the stench of war was in his nostrils, as it had not been around
    Gromheort. Smoke blew in little thin wisps, like dying fog: some of the
    wheatfields behind him were no longer worth admiring. And dead horses

    




    70
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    and cows and unicorns lay bloating by the roadside and scattered through
    the fields, adding their sickly-sweet reek to the sour sharpness of the
    smoke. Forthwegians and Algarvians lay bloating in the fields and by the
    roadside, too. Leofsig did his best not to think about that.
     When he'd found himself included in King Penda's levy, he'd been
    proud, eager, to serve the king and the kingdom. Ealstan, his little
    brother, had been sick with jealousy at being too young to go off and
    smash the Algarvians himself Having seen what went into smashing a foe
    - and how the foe could smash back - Leofsig would have been just as
    well pleased to return to Gromheort and help his father cast accounts the
    rest of his days.
     What would please a soldier and what he got were not one and the
    same.
     A trooper mounted on a brown-painted unicorn came trotting back~l
    toward the column of which Leofsig was a tiny part. He pointed over his
    shoulder, gesturing and shouting something Leofsig couldn't understand.
    The gestures were plain enough, though. Turning to the soldier on his
    left, Leofsig said, "Looks like the Algarvians are going to try to hold us in
    front of Gozzo."
     "Aye, so it does," answered his squadmate, whose name was Beocca.
    Leofsig envied him his fine, thick beard. His own still had almost hairless
    patches on his cheeks and under his lower lip. When Beocca scratched
    his chin, as he did now, the hairs rustled under his fingers. "We've pushed
    lem back before - otherwise, we wouldn't be here. We can do it again."
     Before long, officers started shouting orders. The column deployed
    into skirrnish lines. Along with his comrades, Leofsig tramped through
    the fields instead of between them. The grain went down under the feet
    of thousands of men almost as if cut by a reaper.
     "One way or another, we'll make the redheads go hungry," Beocca
    said, stamping down the ripening grain with great relish. Leofsig, sweat-
    ing in the hot sun, hadn't the energy to stamp. He just nodded and kept
    marching.
    
     More shouts produced lanes between blocks of men. Unicorn and
    horse cavalry trotted forward to screen the footsoldiers who would do the
    bulk of the fighting. Forthwegian dragons flew overhead, some so high
    as to be only specks, others low enough to let Leofsig hear their shrill
    scrceches.

    




    ck
    
    in
    
    his
    
    d.
    his
    
    cca
    eat-
    kept
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    "I hope they drop plenty of eggs on Gozzo," Beocca said.
    
    71
    
     "I hope they keep the Algarvians from dropping eggs on us," Leofsig
    added. After a moment, Beocca grunted agreement.
     As the Forthwegians drew nearer to Gozzo, Leofslg kept cocking his
    head and looking up into the sky every so often. Even so, he was
    cautiously skirting a hedgerow when the Algarvian dragons came racing
    out of the east to challenge those of his kingdom.
     The first he knew of the battle overhead was when a dragon fell out
    of the sky and smashed to earth a hundred yards or so in front of him.
    The great beast writhed in its death agony, throwing now its silvered
    belly, now its back - painted Forthwegian blue and white - uppermost.
    Its flier lay motionless, a small, crumpled heap, a few feet away. Flame
    spurted from the dragon's jaw, cremating the man who had taken it into
    action.
     Leofsig looked up again: looked up and gasped in horror. He had seen
    very few Algarvian dragons till now. That had led him to believe the
    enemy had very few, or very few they could commit against the
    Forthwegians, at any rate. Since they were also fighting Jelgava and
    Valmiera and Sibiu, that made sense to him.
     It might have made sense, but it proved untrue. Suddenly, two or
    three times the Forthwegians' numbers beset them. Dragons tumbled to
    earth, burned or even clawed by their foes. Most were marked in blue
    and white, not Algarvian green, red, and white. Other dragons, their
    fliers killed by an enemy's stick, either flew off at random or, mad with
    battle, struck out at friends and foes alike.
     In what seemed the twinkling of an eye, the Forthwegian dragon-
    swarm was shattered. The remnant not sent spinning to their doom or
    flying wild without a man to guide them fled back toward Forthweg.
    They might fight another day. Against overwhelming odds, they would
    not fight above this field. Inside half an hour, Algarve, not Forthweg,
    ruled the skies.
     Beocca made a rumbling noise, deep in his throat. "Now we're in for
    it," he said. Leofslg could only nod. The same thought, in the same
    words, had gone through his mind, too.
     Most of the dragons that had driven off the Forthwegian swarm had
    flown without eggs, making them faster and more maneuverable in the
    air. Now still more flew in from the direction of Gozzo. Some of their

    




    72
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    fliers released their eggs from on high, as was the usual Forthwegian prac-
    tice - the usual practice everywhere, so far as Leofslg knew.
     But the enemy, with Algarvian panache, had also found a new way.
    Some of the Algarvian fliers made their dragons stoop on the
    Forthwegian forces below like a falcon stooping on a mouse. They loosed
    the eggs the dragons carried at what seemed hardly more than treetop
    height, then pulled out of their dives and flew away, no doubt laughing
    at their foes' discomfiture.
     One of them, off to Leofsig's night, misjudged his dive and smashed
    into the ground. The egg he carried erupted, searing flier and dragon
    both in its burst of flame. "Serves you right!" Leofsig shouted, though the
    flier was far beyond hearing. But the Algarvian's swooping comrades kept
    on, placing their eggs far more precisely than did those who did not dive;,
    they tore terrible holes in the Forthwegians' ranks.
     "Forward!" an officer shouted. Leofsig heard him through stunned
    and battered ears. "We must go forward, for the honor of King Penda and
    of Forthweg!"
     Forward Leofsig stumbled. Around him, men raised a cheer. After a
    moment, he J oined it. Turning to Beocca, he said, "Once we close with
    the Algarvians, we'll crush them."
     "Aye, belike," Beocca answered, "if there are any of us left to do the
    closing."
     As if to underscore that, more eggs started falling among the advanc-
    ing Forthwegians. Not all of them - not even most of them - came from
    the dragons overhead. The army had come into range of the egg-tossers
    outside Gozzo. Dragons carried larger eggs than the tossers flung, but
    could not carry nearly so many; Leofsig, head down and hunched
    forward as if walking into a windstorm, trudged past a broken-backed
    unicorn, one side of its body all over burns, that dragged itself along on
    its forelegs and screamed like a woman.
    
     Forthwegian egg-tossers answered the rain of fire as best they could.
    But they'd had trouble keeping up with the rest of the army: horse-drawn
    wheeled tossers clogged roads and moved slowly going crosscountry,
    while the retreating Algarvians had sabotaged ley lines as they fell back.
    Forthwegian mages had reenergized some, but far from all. And, to make
    matters worse, the diving dragons paid special attention to the egg-tossers
    that were on the field.

    




    INTo THE DAPLKNESS
    
    rac-
    
                                       ay.
                                       the
                                       osed
                                       crop
                                       hing
    
    hed
    agon
    the
    s kept
     dive;
    
    tined
    a and
    
     fter a
    e with
    
    do the
    
    dvanc-
    e from
    
    -tossers
    g, but
    unched
    acked
    ong on
    
     could.
    e-drawn
    country,
    11 back.
    to make
    g-tossers
    
    73
    
     Up ahead, Forthwegian cavalry was skirmishing with Algarvian troop-
    ers on horses and unicorns. Leofsig cheered when a Forthwegian officer's
    white unicorn gored an enemy horseman out of the saddle. He squatted
    down behind a bush and blazed at the Algarvian cavalry. The range was
    long, and he could not be sure his was the beam that did the job, but he
    thought he knocked a couple of redheads out of the saddle.
     And then, when he blazed, no beam shot from the business end of the
    stick. He looked around for a supply cart, spied none, and then looked
    around for a casualty. On this field, casualties were all too easy to find.
    Leofsig scurried over to a Forthwegian who would never need his stick
    again. He snatched up the stick and dashed back to cover. An Algarvian
    beam drew a brown line in the grass ahead of him, but did not sear his
    flesh.
     As more Forthwegian footsoldiers came forward to add their numbers
    to those of the cavalry, the Algarvian horsemen and unicorn riders began
    to fall back. Leofsig grunted in somber satisfaction as he advanced toward
    a large grove of orange trees. This skirmish, though bigger than most, fit
    the pattern of the fights that had followed Forthweg's invasion of
    Algarve. The Algarvians might have won the battle in the air, but they
    kept on yielding ground even so.
     Under the shiny, dark green leaves of the orange trees, something
    stirred. Leofsig was too far away to blaze at the motion, too far away even
    to identify what caused it till a great force of behemoths came lumbering
    out of the grove. Their armor glittered * in the sun. Each great beast bore
    several riders. Some behemoths had sticks larger and heavier and stronger
    than a man could carry strapped on to their backs. Others carried egg-
    tossers instead.
     Forthweg used behemoths to help break into positions infantry could

    




    not take unaided, parceling the animals out along the whole broad fight-
    ing line. Leofsig had never seen so many all gathered together before. He
    did not like the look of them. He liked that look even less when they
    lowered their heads, pointing their great horns toward the Forthwegian
    force, and lumbered for-ward. They moved slowly at first, but soon built
    up speed.
     They smashed through the Forthwegian cavalry as if it hadn't been
    there, trampling down horses and unicorns. As they charged, the crews
    of soldiers on their backs blazed and flung eggs, spreading havoc far and

    




    74
    
    Harty Turtledove
    
    wide. The behemoths were hard to bring down. Their armor warded
    them against most blazes, and, while they were moving, the men on their
    backs - who, Leofsig saw, were also armored - were next to impossible
    to pick off.
     The cavalry, or as much of it as could, fled before them, as the
    Forthwegian dragons had fled before those of Algarve. The Algarvian
    dragons now redoubled their attacks against the Forthwegians on the
    ground as the behemoths broke in among them. Leofsig blazed at the
    warriors aboard the closest one - blazed and missed. An egg burst close
    by him, knocking him off his feet and scraping his face against the dirt.
    
    He scrambled up again. Algarvian footsoldiers were advancing now,
    
    rushing toward the great hole the behemoths had torn in the
    Forthwegian line. He saw an officer close by - not a man he knew, but
    an officer. "What do we do, sit?"
     "What do we do?" the captain echoed. He looked and sourided
    stunned, bewildered. "We fall back - what else can we do? fhey've
    beaten us here, the bastards. We have to be able to try to fight them again,
    though how we're supposed to fight this-" Shaking his head, he stum-
    bled off toward the west, toward Forthweg. Numbly, Leofsig followed.
    
     Without false modesty, Marshal Rathar knew he was the second most
    powerful personage in Unkerlant. None of the dukes and barons and
    counts could come close to matching the authority of the man who
    headed King Swernmel's arrmies. None of the courtiers at Cottbus was his
    equal, either, and none of them had made the king believe Rathar a
    traitor, though many had tried.
     Aye, below Swemmel he was supreme. Envy filled men's eyes as he
    marched through the fortresslike palace on the high ground at the heart
    of the capital. The green sash stretching diagonally across his rock-gray
    tunic proclaimed his rank to any who did not recognize his hard, stem
    features. Women the world called beautiful called those features hand-
    some- lic couid have had many of them, including some whose courtier
    husbancls sought to lbringWlm   t0,)U&gt -,~iytv ctT-
    tainty which of them wanted him for himself, as opposed to for his rank,
     he might have enjoyed himself more.
      Or he might not have. Enjoyment, as most men understood it, he di
    
     not find particularly enjoyable. And he knew a secret no one else did

    




    ay
    rn
    d-
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    er-
    k,
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    75
    
    though some of his own chief underlings and some of King Swemmel's
    other ministers might have suspected. He could have told the secret with
    out danger. But he knew no one would believe him, and so kept silent.
    Silence suited his nature anyhow.
    Before he went in to confer with his sovereign, he unbuckled his
    sword and set it in a rack in the anteroom outside the audience chamber.
    King Swernmel's guards then searched him, as thoroughly and intimately
    as if he'd been taken captive. Had he been a woman, matrons would have
    done the same.
    He felt no humiliation. The guards were doing their duty. He would
    have been angry - and King Swernmel angrier - had they let him go
    through unchallenged. "Pass on, sir," one of them said at length.
    Rathar spent another moment adjusting his tunic, then strode into the
    audience chamber. In the presence of the king of Unkerlant, his stern
    reserve crumbled. "Your Majesty!" he cried. "I rejoice to be allowed to
    come into your presence!" He cast himself down on his hands and knees,
    knocking his forehead against the strip of green carpet that led to the
    throne on which King Swernmel sat.
    Any chair on which Swemmel sat was by definition a throne, since it
    contained the king's fundament. This one, while gilded, was far less spec
    tacular than the bejeweled magnificence of the one of the Grand Hall of
    Kings (Rathar reckoned that one insufferably gaudy, another secret he
    held close).
    "Rise, Marshal," Swernmel said. His voice was rather high and thin.
    Rathar got to his feet and honored the king yet again, this time with a
    low bow. Swernmel was in his late forties, a few years younger than his
    marshal. For an Unkerlanter's, his features were long and lean and
    angular; his hairline, which retreated toward the crown of his head,
    accentuated that impression.
    What hair he had left was dark - these days, probably dyed to stay so.
    But for that, he looked more like an Algarvian than a typical Unkerlanter.
    The first kings in Unkerlant, down in what was now the Duchy of Grelz,
    had been of Algarvic blood. Algarvic bandits, most likely, the marshal
    thought. But those dynasties were long extinct, often at one another's
    hands. And Swemmel was an Unkerlanter through and through - he just
    did didn't look like one.
    did,Rathar shook his head, clearing away irrelevancies. He couldn't afford
    
    I

    




    76
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    them, not dealing with his sovereign. "How may I serve you, your
    Majesty?" he asked.
     Swernmel folded his arms across his chest. His robe was gorgeous with
    cloth-of-gold. Pearls and emeralds and rubles caught the light and winked
    at Rathar one after another as the king moved. "You know we have con_
    cluded a truce with Arpad of Gyongyos," Swernmel. said. The we was
    purely royal - the king had done it on his own.
     "Aye, your Majesty, I know that," Rathar said. Swernmel had fought
    a savage little war with the Gongs over territory that, in the marshal's
    view, wasn't worth having in the first place. He'd fought it with great
    determination, as if the rocks and ice in the far west, land only a mountain
    ape could love, were stuffed to bursting with rich farms and quicksilver
    mines. And then, after all the lives and treasure spent, he'd thrown over
    the war with no gains to speak of Swemmel was a law unto himself
     He said, "We have found another employment for our soldiers, one
    that suits us better."
     "And that is, your Majesty?" Rathar asked cautiously. It might have
    been anything from starting another war to helping with the harvest to-
    gathering seashells by the shore. With Swemmel, there was no way to ten
    beforehand.
     "Gyongyos is far from the only realm that wronged us during our
    recent difficulties," Swernmel said, adding with a scowl, "Had the nurse-
    maids been efficient, Kyot would have known from birth we were the
    one destined for greatness. His destiny would have been the headsman's
    axe either way, but he would have spared the kingdom much turmoil had
    he recognized it sooner."
     "Aye, your Majesty," Rathar said. He had no way of knowing
    whether Swemmel or Kyot was the elder of the twins born to their
    mother. He'd Joined the one army rather than the other because
    Swernmel's impressers passed through his village before Kyot's could get
    to it. He'd been an officer within months, and a colonel by the time the
    Twinkings War ended.
     What would he be now, had Kyot dragged him into the fight instead?
    Dead, most likely, in one unpleasant way or another.
     Again, he cleared might-have-beens from his mind. Dealing with
    what was gave him trouble aplenty. "Is it now your will, your Majesty,
    to turn our might against Zuwayza? The provocations along the border

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    they have offered" - he knew perfectly well that Unkerlant had offered
    them, but saying so was not done - "give us every reason for punishing
    them, and-"
     Swemmel made a sharp, chopping gesture. Rathar fell silent and
    bowed his head. He had misread the king, always dangerous to do.
    Swernmel said, "We can punish the Zuwayzin whenever we like, as we
    can resume the war with Gyongyos whenever we like. More efficient to
    strike where the opportunity will not come round again so soon. We aim
    to lay Forthweg low."
     "Ahh," Rathar said, and nodded. No one could tell what Swemmel
    would come up with next. A lot of people had guessed wrong over the
    years. Not many of them were still breathing. Most of those who did sur-
    vive were refugees. Anywhere within Unkerlant, Swernmel could - and
    did - reach.
     Not all the king's notions were good. That was Rathar's private
    opinion. He remained safe because it remained private. But when
    Swernmel's notions were good, they could be very good indeed.
     Rathar's smile had a predatory edge to it, as it often did. "What pre-
    text shall we offer for stabbing the Forthwegians in the back?"
     "Do you really think we need one? We hadn't intended to bother,"
    Swernmel said indifferently. "Forthweg, or most of Forthweg, is our
    domain by right, and stolen away by rebels and traitors."
     Rathar said nothing. He raised an eyebrow and waited. Even such
    small disagreement with the king might mean his ruin. No one could tell
    what Swcmmel would come up with - in anything.
     In a testy voice, Swemmel said, "Oh, very well - if you like. You can
    dress up a couple of our men in Forthwegian frontier guards' uniforms
    and have them blaze a couple of soldiers or inspectors in a border town.
    We don't think it even remotely necessary, but if you will, you may."
     "Thank you, your Majesty," Rathar said. "Advancing a reason for war
    is customary, and the one you've given will do the job splendidly."
    Rathar doubted he would have thought of anything so devious himself
    Swemmel did have a gift for double-dealing. His marshal asked, "As we
     move forward against the Forthwegians" - Rathar had no doubt the
  Unkerlanters would move forward, not when they were hitting their
        foes from behind and by surprise - "shall we move into land that
    
    th
    
    rer           ed to Algarve before the Six Years' War?"

    




    78
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "No." Swernmel shook his head. "In no way do we intend to do that.
    We expect the Algarvians to take back their old dominions, and we do
    not wish to give them any excuse to attack our kingdom."
     "Very well, your Majesty," Rathar said, not showing how relieved he
    was. This truly did look to be one of Swernmel's good days, when the
    king was taking everything into account. Having fought the Algarvians
    in the Six Years' War before his regiment had mutinied and he'd gone
    home, Rathar was less than eager to face the redheads again. He went on,
    "By the accounts of the battle outside Gozzo, the Algarvians are liable to
    be invading Forthweg any day themselves."
     "Even so," King Swernmel said. "Nor do we judge that King
    Mezentio would halt his forces at the old frontier. Thus, if Unkerlant is
    to take back what is ours, we must move swiftly. King Mezentio, in our
    view, will not halt at anything, save where he is compelled."
     "Even by ley-line caravan, transferring our forces from the far western
    frontier to the border with Gyongyos will take some little while, your
    Majesty," Rathar warned. He did not disagree with Swernmel about
    Mezentio - on the contrary - but did not believe his own sovereign
    knew where to stop, either: another opinion he held close. "Your
    Majesty's wide domains prove your might, but they also make movement
    slower than it would be otherwise."
     "Waste not a moment." Anticipation filled Swerrunel's laugh. "Curse
    us, but we wish we could be a mosquito in Penda's throne room in
    Eoforwic, to see his face when he hears Forthweg is invaded from the
    west. They will have to clean a stain off the throne under him.
     "I obey, your Majesty." Rathar bowed. "Also, by your leave, I shall
    send some troops into the desert in the direction of Zuwayza, both to
    frighten the naked brown men and to mislead the Forthwegians."
    
     "Aye, you may do that," King Swernmel said. "We shall be in closest
    touch with you, ensuring that all motions are carried out with the utmost
    celerity. In this matter, we shall brook no delay. Do you understand,
    Marshal?"
     "Your Majesty, I do." Rathar bowed very low. "I obey.
     "Of course you obey," Swernmel said. "Unfortunate things happen to
    pcople who disobey me. Even more unfortunate things happen to r
    families. Obedience, then, is efficient." He waved a hand, a brusclue
    Unkerlanter gesture rather than an airy Algarvian one. "Go, and see to it."

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    ans
    
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     on,
    le to
    
    stem
    
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    reign
    Your
    ment
    
    Curse
    
    in in
    11 the
    
    I shall
    oth to
    
     st
     st
    tand,
    
    Pei] to
    o their
    
    rusquc
     to it."
    
    79
    
     Rathar went down on his hands and knees and knocked his head on
    the green carpet again. He could feel the fear-sweat on his skin as he did
    so. Swernmel commanded fear both by virtue of his office and by virtue
    of his person. Swernmel commanded fear - and fear obeyed.
     After escaping the audience chamber, Rathar reclaimed his sword
    from the bowing attendants in the anteroom. His spirit strengthened with
    every step away from his sovereign he took.
     His own aides bowed low and called him lord when he returned to his
    offices. They humied to obey the orders he issued, and exclaimed in
    excitement as they worked. He took a quiet pride in his own compe-
    tence. But all the while, the secret stayed in the back of his mind: being
    the second most powerful man in Unkerlant was exactly like being the
    next greatest whole number before one. Zero he was, and zero he would
    remain.
    
    I
    
    I
    
     Cornelu stood on the pier in Tirgoviste harbor, listening to last-
    minute orders. Commodore Delfirm sounded serious, even somber: "Do
    as much damage to the wharves at Feltre as you can, Commander. Do as
    much as you can, but come home safe. Sibiu has not got so many men
    that we can afford to spend them lavishly."
     "I understand." Cornelu bowed to Delfinu, who was not only com-
    modore but also count. "I will do what needs doing, that's all. The niis-
    sion is important, else you would not send me on it."
     Delfirm returned the bow, then took Cornelu's face in his hands and
    kissed him on both cheeks. "The mission is important. That you return
    is also important - you will undertake more missions as the war goes on."
    Afternoon sun glittered from the six gold stripes on the sleeves of
    Delfirm's sea-green uniform tunic and from the gold trim on his kilt. Had
    Comehi been in uniform, his tunic sleeves would have borne four stripes

    




    each. Instead, he wore a black rubber suit whose only marking was the
    impress of the five crowns of Sibiu above his heart. A rubber pack
    thumped on his back.
     He walked awkwardly to the edge of the pier; his feet bore rubber
    paddles that let him swim more swiftly than he could have without them.
    Waiting in the water for him was a medium-sized dark gray leviathan: the
    beast was five or six times as long as he was tall, as opposed to the great
    ones, which might reach twice that size.

    




    80
    
    Harty Turtledove
    
     One of the leviathan's small black eyes turned toward him. "Hello,
    Eforiel," he said. The leviathan let out a grunting snort and opened a
    mouth full of long, sharp teeth. They were shaped for catching fish. If they
    closed on a man, though, she could swallow him in about two bites.
     Cornelu slid into the water and grasped the harness wrapped around
    Efoniel's body and held in place by the leviathan's fins. He patted the
    beast's smooth skin, whose texture was not much different from that of
    his own rubber suit. It was not a pat that gave any order, merely one of
    greeting. He was fond of Eforiel. He'd named her after the first girl he'd
    bedded, but he was the only one who knew that.
     Under Eforiel's belly, the harness supported several eggs in strearrilined
    cases partly filled with air so as to make them no heavier than a corre-
    sponding volume of water. Cornelu bared his teeth in a fierce smile.
    Before long, he would deliver those eggs to Feltre. He hoped the
    Algarvians would be glad to have them.
     Commodore Delfinu leaned out over the edge of the pier and waved.
    "Good fortune go with you."
     "For this I thank you, sit," Cornelu said.
     He tapped Eforiel, more firnily than before. The leviathan's muscles
    surged under him. With a flick of the tall, Eforiel left Tirgoviste harbor
    and the five chief islands of Sibiu behind and set out across more than fifty
    miles of sea for the Algarvian coast.
     "Surprise," Cornelu muttered. He had trouble hearing himself; water
    kept slapping him in the face. Before he set out, Sibian wizards had set a
    spell on him that let him get air from water like a fish (actually, the savants
    insisted the spell worked differently from fishes' gills, but the effect was the
    same, and that was what mattered to Cornelu).
     Algarvian ships no doubt patrolled the ley lines, to keep the Sibian navy
    and that of Valmiera from raiding Feltre, which had been by far the most
    important Algarvian port on the Narrow Sea till King Mezentio got his
    hands on Bari. The Duchy boasted a couple of excellent harbors. With
    them under Algarvian rule, containing Mezentio's fleet got a lot harder.
     "But I'm not coining up a ley line," Cornelu said, and chuckled wetly.
    Unlike ships, Eforiel did not depend on the earth's energy matrix to take
    her from one place to another. She went under her own power, which
    meant she chose her own path. No one would be looking for her till
    she'd been there and gone.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    81
    
     That thought had hardly crossed Cornelu's mind before he got a nasty
    jolt: a spout rising from the sea a few hundred yards ahead of Eforiel. Had
    his path, by strangest chance, crossed that of an Algarvian leviathan nicler
    intent on working mischief at Tirgoviste or one of Sibiu's other harbors?
     Then the animal leapt out of the water. Cornelu sighed with relief to
    see it was only a whale. The leviathan's cousin was stocky, even chunky,
    and resembled nothing so much as an overgrown fish with an even more
    overgrown head. Eforiel and her kin were far slimmer and smaller-
    skulled, almost serpentlike except for their fins and tail flukes.
     "Come on, sweetheart." He tapped the leviathan again. "Nothing for
    us to worry about - only one of your poor relations."
     Eforiel snorted again, as if to say she too looked down her pointed nose
    at whales. Then she swam through a school of mackerel. Cornelu had a
    hard time keeping her on a straight course and not letting her swim every
    which way after the fish. She got plenty as things were, but seemed con-
    vinced she would have eaten many more if he'd let her go where she
    wanted.
     She could have gone, disobeying his commands, and he would have
    been able to do nothing about it. She never realized that. She was a well-
    trained beast, raised from the time she was a calf to do as the small, weak
    creatures who rode her ordered.
     Cornelu's greatest worry was not her going off in pursuit of mackerel
    but her diving deep after one. The spell would keep him breathing under
    water, but a leviathan could dive deeper than a man's body was designed
    for, and could rise from the depths so fast that the air in his blood would
    bubble. Leviathans were made for the sea in a whole host of ways men
    were not.
     After a while, though, the mackerel thinned out, and Efoniel swam
    steadily on. Once, in the distance, Cornelu caught sight of a ship sliding
    along a ley line. He could not tell whether it came from Sibiu or Algarve.
    In the waters where he was then, it might have belonged to either
    kingdom.
      Whosever ship it was, no one aboard noticed him or Efori*el. The two
     of them did not disturb the ley lines in any way. Had the ancient
     Kaunians thought of something like this, they might have done it, though
     they'd known nothing of eggs and lacked the sorcery to keep a man from
     drowning underwater.

    




    82
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Some few in Sibiu would sooner have joined with Algarve than with
    the Kaunian-descended kingdoms. Cornelu's snort sounded very much
    like Eforiel's. Some few in Sibiu were fools, as far as he was concerned.
    A small kingdom joined a large one in much the same way as a leg of
    mutton joined a man dining off it. And after his repast, only the bones
    would be left.
     No, Valmiera and Jelgava made better allies. If they sat down at the
    supper table with Sibiu, they thought of the island kingdom as a fellow
    guest, not as the main course. "If Sibiu sat off the Valmieran coast, things
    might be different," Comelu told the leviathan. "But we don't. We are
    where we are, and we can't do anything about it."
     Eforiel did not argue, a trait Cornelu wished were more common
    among the people with whom he dealt. He patted the leviathan's side in
    approval. And then, as if to prove him right even had Eforiel argued, he
    spied the southern coast of Algarve. He had to pause to get his bearings.
    He and Efon'el had come a little too far to the east. The leviathan swam
    along the coast till in the distance Cornelu spotted the lighthouse outside
    Feltre harbor.
     He let Eforiel rest then. Daylight was fading from the sky. He intended
    to enter the harbor at night, to make the leviathan as hard to see as he
    could. She would have to spout every now and then, of course, but in
    the darkness she would be easy to mistake for a porpoise or dolphin.
    People had a way of seeing what they wanted to see, what they expected
    to see. Cornelu smiled. He intended to take full advantage of that.
     No lamps began to glow as night fell over Feltre. The town got darker
    and darker along with the surrounding countryside. Cornelu's smile got
    broader. The locals were doing their best to protect Feltre against dragon
    r'ds f
    al rom Sibiu and Valmiera. What helped there, though, would hurt
    against attack from the sea.
     When the night had grown dark enough to suit Cornelu, he took a
    glass-fronted mask from the pack he wore and slid it on to his face. Then
    he tapped Eforiel, urging her ahead into the harbor. The leviathan's tai~
    pumped up and down, up and down, propelling her and the man who
    rode her forward.
     Cornelu slid off her back and clung to the harness from beside her.
    That way, he would be harder for the Algarvian patrol boats to notice.
    He knew they had swift little vessels sliding along the ley lines in the

    




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    83
    
    sheltered water inside the harbor. Every kingdom protected its ports the
    same way.
     But he had to stick his head out of the water to see where the Most
    valuable targets were berthed, and also to make certain he did not attach
    an egg to a trading ship from Lagoas or Kuusamo. He wanted to grind
    his teeth at the arrogance the folk on the great island displayed, assum-
    ing no one would dare stop them from trading with Algarve for fear of
    bringing them into the war on King Mezentio's side. The trouble was,
    they were right.
     He wished he could spot unquestioned naval vessels, but, save for the
    flitting patrol boats, he saw none. He did see three large freighters with
    the rakish lines the Algarvians so loved. They would do: not the haul he'd
    hoped for, but one that would hurt the enemy. He guided Eforiel up to
    within a couple of hundred yards of them, then gave her the signal that
    meant hold still. She lay in the water as if dead, the top of her head awash
    so she could breathe.
     She would be vulnerable if the Algarvian patrol boats spotted her.
    Comelu's command would hold her in place while she should be fleeing.
    He knew he had to work as fast as he could. Slipping under the water, he
    detached the four eggs his leviathan had brought to Feltre harbor and
    swam toward the merchant vessels.
     He had to lift his head above the surface a couple of times to get his
    bearings. Had the Algarvians on those freighters been keeping good
    watch, they might have spotted him. But they seemed confident nothing
    could harm them here inside Feltre harbor. Cornelu aimed to show them
    otherwise.
     Everything went as smooth as a caravan down a ley line. He attached
    one egg to the first merchant ship, two to the second - the largest - and
    one to the third. The sorcery in the shells would make them burst four
    hours after they touched iron. By then, he would be long gone. He swam
    back to Eforiel.
     They cleared the harbor even more easily than they had entered. None
    of the Algarvian patrol boats came near them. Not long after they reached
    the open sea, the moon rose, spilling pale light over the water. Along
    with the wheeling stars, it helped Cornelu guide the leviathan across the
    sea and back to Sibiu. They reached Tirgoviste harbor as the sun was
    rising once more.
    
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    84
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Commodore Delfinu waited on the pier. As soon as the weary
    Cornelu climbed out of the water, his superior kissed him on both
    cheeks. "Magnificently done!" Delfinu exclaimed. "One of those ships
    was full of eggs itself, and wrecked a good stretch of the harbor when it
    went up. Our mages have picked up nothing but fury in the Algarvian
    crystal messages they steal. You are a hero, Cornelu!"
     "Sir, I am a tired hero." Cornelu smothered a yawn.
     "Better a tired hero than a dead one," Deffinu said. "We also sent
    leviathans to the Barian ports, and have no word of success from them. If
    they failed they probably did not survive, poor brave men."
     "How strange," Cornelu said. "The Algarvians hardly kept any sort of
    watch over the approaches to Feltre. Why should they do any differently
    at the Banian ports?"
    
     Men going off to war had a sort of glamour to them. So thought Vanal I ;
    at any rate. Forthwegians in uniform had seemed quite splendid to her as'~,
    they tramped east through Oyngestun on their way toward Algarve. Had
    she seen them in their ordinary tunics, she would not have given them a
    second glance - unless to make sure they weren't seeking to molest her.
     No such glamour attached itself to men retreating from war. Vanai
    quickly discovered that, too. Retreating, they did not move in neat
    columns, all their legs going back and f6rth together like the oars of a war
    galley from the Kaunian Empire. They weren't all nearly identical, with
    only the occasional blond Kaunian head among the dark Forthwegians
    distinguishing a few from the rest.
     Retreating, men skulked along in small packs, as stray dogs did. Vanai
    feared they were liable to turn on her, as stray dogs might. They had that
    look, wild, half fierce, half fearful another rock or another blow from a
    club might knock them sprawling.
     They didn't look identical any more, either. Their tunics were
    variously torn and tattered, with spots of dirt and grease and sometimes
    bloodstains mottling the cloth. Some of them had bandages on anris or
    legs or head. They were almost uniformly filthy, filthier than the ancient
    Kaunians Vanai had viewed with Brivibas's archaeological sorcery. The
    nose-wrinkling odor that clung to them put her in rumd of the farmyard.
     Like the rest of the folk of Oyngestim, Forthwegians and Kaumans
    alike, Vanai did what she could for them, offening bread and sausage and

    




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    85
    
    water and, while it lasted, wine. "My thanks, lass," said a Forthwegian
    lance-corporal who was well-spoken enough but who hadn't bathed in a
    long, long time. He lowered his voice: "You folk here may want to get
    on the road to Eoforwic. Gromheort's not going to hold, and if it doesn't,
    this wide spot in the road won't, either."
     He spoke to her as an equal, not looking down his curved nose at her
    because she was of Kaunian blood. She found even the casual assumption
    that he was as good as she on the offensive side, but not nearly so much
    as the leering superiority so many Forthwegians displayed. Because of
    that, she answered politely enough: "I don't think you could pry my
    grandfather out of Oyngestun with a team of mules."
     "What about a team of behemoths?" the Forthwegian soldier
    demanded. For a moment, naked fear filled his face. "The Algarvians
    have more of the horrible things than you can shake a stick at, and they
    hit hard, too. What about a team of dragons? I've never imagined so
    many eggs could fall out of the sky on us." He gulped the mug of water
    Vanai had given him dry. She refilled it, and he gulped once more.
     "He's very stubborn," Vanai said. The lance-corporal finished the
    second mug of water and shrugged, as if to say it wasn't his problem. He
    wiped his mouth on his sleeve, gave the mug back to Vanai with another
    word of thanks, and trudged off toward the west.
     Brivibas came out of the house as Vanai was slicing more bread. "Yod
    were unduly familiar with that man, my granddaughter," he said severely.
    Reprimands sounded much harsher in Kaunian than in Forthwegian.
     Vanal bowed her head. "I am sorry you think so, my grandfather, but
    he was giving me advice he thought good. I would have been rude to
    scorn him."
     "Advice he thought good?" Brivibas snorted. "I daresay he was: advice
    on which haystack to meet him behind, I shouldn't wonder."
     "No, nothing like that, my grandfather," Vanai said. "His view is that
    we might be wise to abandon Oyngestun."
     "Why?" Her grandfather snorted again. "Because staying would
    mean we had Algarvians lording it over us instead of Forthwegians?"
    Brivibas set hands on hips, threw back his head, and laughed scornfully.
    "Why this should make a difference surpasses my poor understanding."
     "But if the fighting goes through here, my grandfather, whoever holds
    Oyngestun will be lording it over the dead," Vanal answered.

    




    86
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "And if we flee, the Algarvian dragons will drop eggs on us from
    above. A house, at least, offers shelter," Brivibas said. "Besides, I have not
    yet finished my article refuting Frithstan, and could scarcely carry my
    research materials and references in a soldierly pack on my back."
     Vanai was sure that was the biggest reason he refused even to think of
    leaving the village. She also knew argument was useless. If she fled
    Oyngestun, she would flee without Briivibas. She could not bear that.
    "Very well, my grandfather," she said, and bowed her head once more.
     Another soldier came up. "Here, sweetheart, you have anything for a
    hungry man to eat?" he asked, adding, "My belly's rubbing my back-
    bone." Wordlessly, Vanal cut him a length of sausage and a chunk of
    bread. He took them, blew her a kiss, and went on his way munching.
     "Disgraceful," Bri'vibas said. "Nothing short of disgraceful."
    
     "Oh, I don't know," Vanai said judiciously. "I've heard ten times
    worse from the Forthwegian boys in Oyngestun. Twenty times worse
    he was just ... friendly."
     "Again, undulyfamiliar is the term you seek," Bri'vibas said with pedan-
    tic precision. "That the local louts are more disgusting does not make this
    trooper anything but disgusting himself He is bad; they are worse.,,
     Then a soldier of unmistakable Kaunian blood came by and asked for
    food and drink. He poured down a mug of water, tore off a big bite of
    sausage with strong white teeth, and nodded to Vanai. "I thank you,
    sweetheart," he said, and walked off toward the west. Vanai glanced over
    to Brivibas. Her grandfather seemed to be studying the stitching in his
    shoes.
     Two soldiers came running into Oyngestun within a few seconds of
    each other, one from the north, the other from the south. They both
    shouted the same phrase: "Behemoths! Algarvian behemoths!" Each of
    them pointed back the way he had come and added, "They're over
    there!"
     Shouts of alarm rose from the Forthwegian soldiers. Some dashed off
    to the north, others to the south, to force open the ring the Algarvians
    were closing around Gromheort and, incidentally, around Oyngestun.
    Others, despairing, fled westward, to escape before the ring closed.
     Some of the folk of Oyngestun fled with them, bundling belongings
    and small children into wheelbarrows and handcarts and carriages and
    clogging the highway so soldiers had trouble moving. Rather more

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    87
    
    Forthwegians than folk of Kauman blood ran off in the direction of
    Eoforwic. As Brivibas had said, Kaunians were under alien rule regardless
    of whether Forthwegian blue and white or Algarvian green, white, and
    red flew above Oyngestun.
     "Should we not leave, my grandfather?" Vanal asked again. She trot-
    ted out the strongest argument she could think of. "How will you be able
    to go on with your studies in a village full of Algarvian soldiers?"
     Bn*vlbas hesitated, then firn-dy shook his head. "How will I be able to
    go on with my studies sleeping in the mud by the side of the road?" He
    stuck out his chin and looked stubborn. "No. It cannot be. Here I stay,
    come what may." He looked eastward in defiance.
     But then, with a thunder of wings, Algarvian dragons flew by low
    overhead. A few Forthwegian soldiers blazed at them, but did not seem
    to bring any down. Flames spurted from the dragons' jaws as they
    swooped down on the roadway packed with soldiers and villagers.
    Screams rose, faint in the distance but hardly less horrifying for that. The
    breeze from out of the west wafted the stench of burning back into
    Oyngestun. Some of what burned smelled like wood. Some smelled like
    roasting meat. It might have made Vanal hungry, had she not known
    what it was. As things were, it almost made her sick.
     More Algarvian dragons fell from the heavens like stones, dropping
    eggs on the road out of Oyngestun. The bursts smote Vanal's ears. She
    brought up her hands to cover them, but that did little good. Even
    though she could not see most of it, even if she muffled her hearing, she
    knew what was happening off to the west.
     "It is for this that you waved at the Forthwegian dragonfliers when we
    went to examine the ancient power point, my granddaughter," Brivibas
    said. "This is what King Penda sought to visit upon the kingdom of
    Algarve. Now that he finds it visited upon his own kingdom instead,
    whom has he to blame?"
     Vanai looked for such philosophical detachment inside herself. looked
    for it and found it not. "These are our neighbors who suffer, my grand-
    father, our neighbors and some of them folk of our blood."
     "Had they but stayed here rather than foolishly fleeing, they would be
    safe now," Brivibas said. "Shall I then praise them for their foolishness,
    cherish them for their want of wisdom?"
      Before Vanal could answer, the first eggs began falling inside

    




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    Harry Turtledove
    
    Oyngestun. More screams rose, these close and urgent. Algarvian dragons
    ruled the sky above the village; none painted in Forthwegian colors came
    flying out of the west to challenge them. More and more eggs fell. "Get
    down, you lackwits!" a Forthwegian soldier shouted at Vanai and
    Brivibas.
     Before Brivibas could move, a shard of glass or brickwork scored a
    bleeding line across the back of his hand. He stared at the little wound in
    astonishment. "Who is the fool now, my grandfather?" Vanai asked,
    speaking to him with more bitterness than she'd ever used before. "Who
    now wants wisdom?"
      "Get down!" the soldier yelled again.
     This time, Brivibas did, though still a beat behind his granddaughter.
    Cradling the injured hand to his chest, he said, "Who would have
    imagined, after the Six Years' War, that folk would be eager for molre~
    such catastrophes?" His voice was plaintive and without understanding.
     A Forthwegian officer called, "Build the rubble into barricades! If
    those redheaded whoresons want this place, they're going to have to pay
    for it."
     "That's the spirit!" Vanai shouted in Forthwegian. The officer waved
    to her and went on directing his men.
     In pungently sardonic Kaunian, Brivibas said, "Splendid! Encourage
    him to endanger our lives as well as his own." Still angry, Vanal ignored
    him.
     The Forthwegian soldiers briskly went about turning Oyngestun into
    a strongpoint, They beat back the first Algarvian probe at the town that
    afternoon. Wounded Algarvians, Vanal discovered, screamed no
    differently from wounded Kaunians or Forthwepans. But then, toward
    sunset, the Forthwegian crystallomancer cried in fury and despair. "The
    Unkerlanters!" he yelled to his commander - and to anyone else who
    would hear. "The Unkerlanters are pouring over the western border, and
    there's no one to stop them!"

    




    "Now this," Leudast said as he tramped through western Forthweg, "this
    is what efficiency is all about."
     Sergeant Magnulf nodded. "You had best believe it, soldier," he said.
    "Shows the Forthwegians need lessons. If you're stupid enough to start a
    war on one border when the kingdom on your other border can't stand
    you, seems to me you deserve whatever happens to you."
     "I hadn't even thought about that," Leudast said. "I was just thinking
    we're going to have a lot easier time than we did against the Gyong-
    yosians." He looked around. "A lot better country to fight in, too."
    
     "Aye, so it is," Magnulf agreed.
     "Remi'nds me of home, as a matter of fact." Leudast pointed west-
    ward. "My family's farm isn't that far on the other side of the border, and
    it looks a lot like this back there." He waved.
     Most of the farm buildings hereabouts were of sun-dried brick bn*ght-
    ened with whitewash or, less often, paint. Wheat ripened golden in the
    fields; plump, ripe olives made branches sag. The breeds of cattle and
    sheep the Forthwegians raised were similar to those with which Leudast
    had grown up back in Unkerlant.
     Nor did the Forthwegians themselves look that different from
    Unkerlanters. They were, most of them, stocky and swarthy, with proud,
    hook-nosed faces. Save that the men wore beards, Leudast would have
    been hard pressed to prove he'd entered another kingdom.
     Most of the beards he saw were grizzled or white; the young men were
    off in the east, fighting the Algarvians. Graybeards and women, those
    who had not fled, stared with terrible bitterness as the Unkerlanter
    soldiers marched past. Every so often, one of them would shout some-
    thing Leudast almost understood; the Unkerlanter dialect he spoke wasn't
    
    89

    




    90
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    that far removed from Forthwegian. It was close enough to make him
    certain the locals weren't paying compliments.
      Every so often, Forthwegian border guards and the small garrisons
    King Penda had left behind in the west would try to make a stand against
    the Unkerlanters, defending a line of hills or a town or sending out
    cavalry to nip at the thick columns of men King Swemmel had flung into
    their kingdom.
      They were brave. Leudast couldn't see that it did them much good. The
    Unkerlanters; flowed around them, surrounded them, and attacked them
    from all sides at once. Behemoths trampled Forthwegian cavalry underfoot.
    Unkerlanter officers would go forward under flag of truce to urge sur-
    renders, pointing out that the Forthwegians could not possibly hope to
    resist. Their foes sent them back and kept fighting as long as they could.
      "Inefficient," Magnulf said as his squad encamped one evening after
    pushing another fifteen or so miles into Forthweg - a typical day's
    advance. "They aren't stopping us. They're hardly slowing us down.
    What's the point to throwing their lives away
      "Stubborn fools," Leudast said. "They should see they're beaten and
    give up.
      'I heard one of them shout, 'Better to die under King Penda than to
    live under King Swemmel!"' Magnulf said, mimicking the Forthwegian
    tongue as well as he could. The sergeant shrugged. "I think that's what
    he said, anyhow. And now he's dead, and it's not going to keep the
    Forthwegians from living under King Swemmel, not one little bit it's not.
    We'll be knocking on the door at Eoforwic in another few days."
     Leudast looked east. "We don't quarrel with the Algarvians, though?"
      "Not if they stay on their side of what used to be the border before the
    Six Years' War," Magnulf answered. "We won't cross it - we're just
    taking back what was ours, not stealing from anybody else."
      That night, Forthwegian dragons dropped eggs on the Unkerlanters'
    forward positions. The noise from the bursts kept Leudast awake, but
    none of them came particularly close.
    
      The next morning, the Unkerlanters approached Hwiterne, a city
    whose stone keep would have been a formidable defense in the days
    before eggs were flung for miles or fell from dragons. Again, King
    Swernmel's officers went ahead to ask the town to surrender. Again, the
    Forthwegian garrison refused.

    




    I
    
    er
    
    y s
    
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    TNJ~f~ 7~     AT) V NTrIZIC
    
    91
    
     Before long, pillars of smoke rose into the sky from Hwiterne. Under
    cover of that barrage, Unkerlanter troops pushed through the patchily
    inhabited suburbs and into the town itself. Leudast discovered he had not
    only Forthwegian soldiers but also townsfolk blazing at him. He blazed
    back. He blazed at anyone he spied in Hwiterne who wasn't wearing
    Unkerlanter rock-gray. He suspected he rmight have wounded innocent
    bystanders. That was inefficient, but not nearly so inefficient as letting
    
    himself izet killed.
    
     He flopped down in the rubble that had been a house. A woman with
    a bandage on her head lay not far away from him. He didn't blaze her
    down; he could see she had no weapon. "Why?" she asked him. "Why
    did you cursed Unkerlanters come here? Why didn't you leave us alone?"
     Lendist followed that well enough. "We came to take back what's
    
    ours" he ans ered.
    
     She glared at him. "Can't you see we don't want you? Can't you see
    we" - a word he didn't know - "King Swemmel?" Whatever the wor
    
    meant he doubted it was nraise.
    
    "If you're not strong enough to stop us, what difference does that
    
    -L-~" T -1-t. -1-A ;- 1--t- -771~"t
    
     She cursed him then, her voice full of bitter hopelessness. He could
    have killed her for it. No one would have been the wiser. No one who
    iiiattcrcd to Leudast would have cared at all. She had to know as much.
    
    She cursed anyhow, as if defying him to do his worst.
    
     He shrugged his broad shoulders. She cursed again, harder than ever.
    His indifference seemed more wounding to her than rage would have
    been. Shruaging once more, he said, "You didn't curse when King Penda
    
    invaded Al arve What business have on ot doino, it now?"
    
    She stared at him. "The Algarvians deserve everything that happens to
    
    them We Aon't deserve anv of this "
    

    




     "That's not what King Swernmel thinks," Leudast said. "He's my
    king. I obey him." Dreadful things happened to Unkerlanters who didn't
    
    obey King Swermuel Leudast preferred not to dwell on those
    
     A Forthwegian egg burst not far away. Chunks of wood and mud
    bn*ck rained down on him and the woman with the bandaged head.
    Dreadful things, he realized, could also happen to Unkerlanters who did
    obey King Swernmel. For a moment he wondered why in that case he

    




    92
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     He didn't have to search hard for the answer. Dreadful things might
    not happen to him if he fought the Gongs or the Forthwegians. Nothing
    too dreadful had happened to him yet. If, on the other hand, he set his
    own will against the king's ... Swernmel had shown over the years that
    disaster surely befell anyone rash enough to do such a thing.
     The Unkerlanters rained eggs on the center of Hwiteme, from which
    resistance was fiercest. Officers blew whistles. Sergeants shouted. Leudast
    scrambled to his feet and dashed forward. For a couple of heartbeats, he
    heard the Forthwegian woman cursing him yet again. Then her voice
    was lost in the greater din of battle.
     He ran past the corpse of a behemoth, killed with most of its crew by
    a Forthwegian egg. A moment later, he dove for cover behind another
    dead behemoth. A strong stink of burnt meat rose from this one: the
    Forthwegians had concealed a stick heavy enough to blaze through the
    beast's armor in a building now wreckage. Leudast warily looked around
    for more such traps, though the Unkerlanters had driven the foe from this
    part of Hwiteme. Trying to use behemoths in the middle of a built-up
    area struck him as inefficient. He wondered if it would strike his officers
    the same way.
     Hwiterne fell. So did the keep at its heart, smashed to ruins by the
    miracles of modem sorcery. Filthy, dejected Forthwegian captives
    shambled off into the west, a handful of Unkerlanters guarding them. A
    good many corpses wearing civilian-style tunics rather than those of the
    Forthwegian army lay in the streets, each dead man with a neat hole
    blazed in the center of his forehead. Someone had painted a sign in
    Unkerlanter and what Leudast presumed to be Forthwegian (the
    Forthwegians used an alphabet different from his): IF YOU ARE NOT
    A SOLDIER, THIS IS WHAT YOU GET FOR BLAZING AT KING
    SWEMMEL'S MEN.
     Some few of the prisoners in Forthwegian uniform were tall, yellow-
    haired men, not short, swarthy ones. Pointing at them, a soldier in
    Leudast's company exclaimed, "Powers below! How did the ctrsed
    Gyongyosians get over here to the other side of the kingdom to help the
    Forthwegians?"
     "Those aren't Gongs, Nantwin, you goose," Leudast answered.
    "They're just Kaunians. They've been here since dirt."
     "What's a Kaunian?" Nantwin asked. He had a strong Grelzer accent,

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    93
    
    which meant he came from the far south of Unkerlant. No Kaunians in
    that part of the world, sure enough.
     "They used to run a whole lot of the northeast," Leudast said, "back
    before the Algarvians and Forthwegians smashed up their empire.,,
     "How come they look like Gongs?" Nantwin said.
    
     "They don't, really," Leudast said. "Aye, they're blond, but that's
    about it." The differences seemed obvious to him; there were Kaunians
    not far from his farming village. Not only were they tall and skinny, but
    their hair lay flat on their heads, where the Gyongyosians' sprang out
    wildly in all directions. Kaunians' hair ran to silver gilt, too, while that of
    the Gongs was a tawny yellow.
     Such subtleties were lost on Nantwin, who said, "Curse them, they
    look like Gyongyosians to me."
     "Fine," Leudast said. "They look like Gongs to you." Life was too short
    for arguments over things that didn't matter. "Inefficient," he muttered.
     A prisoner of Kaunian blood stared at him - through him. By the
    expression on the fellow's face, Leudast looked like scum to him. Leudast
    laughed. The Kaunian jerked as if he'd stepped on a thorn. Leudast
    couldn't have cared less about a worthless captive's opinion of him.
    
     "Why are you wasting your time gaping at these miserable bastards?"
    Sergeant Magnulf demanded. "Odds are King Swernmel will put 'em to
    work rmining brimstone and quicksilver, and they'll never come out from
    the holes again. They rmight as well be dead already. You get moving."
     "Sorry, Sergeant," said Leudast, who knew he would be wasting his
    time if he tried to explain to Magnulf that he'd been trying to show
    Nantwin the Kaunians of Forthweg were different from Gyongyosians.
    Magnulf didn't want explanations. Obedience was all he craved.
     He grunted now, satisfied that he'd got it. "Come on," he said. "We'll
    be breaking into Eoforwic in another few days." Leudast tramped after
    him- He would rather have been back on his farm. If he had to find him-
    self in the middle of a war, though, he was just as well pleased to find
    himself in the mid e of an ea-v one
    
     Colonel Sabrinc, ducked out of his tent. One of the tethered dragons
   at ffie temporary farm north of Gromheort flapped its wings and hissed at
    'V=.T~ie Algarvian dragonflier stopped in his tracks, as if a human foe
     had insulted him. He sent the most obscene gesture he knew back at the

    




    94
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    dragon, which hissed again; it might have been insulted in turn.
    Laughing, Sabriino swaggered off toward the officers' club.
     That too was housed in a tent. The tapman bowed when Sabrino came
    inside. "How may I please you, my lord?" he asked.
     "Ifyou'd turn into a beautiful woman, that would give you a head start
    on the j ob, no doubt about it, " Sabri no answered. A couple of fliers from
    his wing who were sitting around with drinks in front of them laughed.
    So did the tapman, though he remained resolutely male and on the
    homely side. With a sigh, Sabrino said, "I suppose I'll have to content
    myself with a glass of port. Put it on my scot."
     "Aye, my lord." The tapman pulled cork from bottle and poured.
    Sabrino sipped. The fortified wine was not of the best, but it would have
    to do. Wartime meant sacrifice.
     "Join us, Colonel, if you would," Captain Domiziano said. He tapped
    the stool beside him. Senior Lieutenant Orosio, who shared the table
    with Domiziano, nodded to show the invitation came from him, too.
     "Don't mind if I do." Sabrino perched on the stool and raised his glass.
    "Here's to a splendid little war."
     "A splendid little war," Domiziano and Orosio echoed. They drank
    with their commanding officer. Orosio said, "As near as I can see, sir,
    we've got Forthweg in a box with a pretty ribbon around it."
     "That's how things look to me, too," Sabrino said, nodding. "Pity we
    had to let them cross the border and do so much damage inside our king-
    dom, but we've paid them back and then some."
     "So we have," Domiziano agreed. He had a bandage over one ear,
    which a Forthwegian beam had cooked. But he'd accounted for four
    Forthwegian dragons and torn up the enemy's countryside; the small
    wound hardly seemed to upset him. He went on, "We'd have done the
    same even if the Unkerlanters hadn't sneaked up behind King Penda and
    kicked him in the arse."
     "No doubt about it," Sabrino repeated. "None at all. The
    Forthwegians are brave enough, but they haven't got enough behemoths
    and they haven't got enough dragons and they don't quite know what to
    do with the ones they have got. We'd have needed another couple of
    weeks to overrun the whole kingdom, but we'd have done it, all right."
     Orosio scratched at the edge of his goatee. "Sir, what do we do if we
    meet Unkerlanter dragons in the air?"

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    art
    
    ed.
    
    ave
    
    ass.
    
    ank
    
    sir,
    
   The
    oths
    at to
    le of
    
    &)'Xi NN t
    
    95
    
      "Pretend they don't exist," Sabrino said at once. "If the fliers blaze at
                          1               Mezentio
    you, evade. Not to put too fine a point on it, run away. IliKig_
    does not want a war with Unkerlant. I'm told that's going to be-the sub-
    ject of a general order in the next day or two. We have enough on our
    plate now without worrying about King Swenimel, too."
     "I don't think the Unkerlanters are any great worry," Dormiziano said.
    "We taught them enough of a lesson in the Six Years'War that Swernmel
    isn't likely to want to tangle with us, either."
     "Here's hoping," Sabriino said, and drank to the hope. His Jumior
    officers drank with him.
     An orderly stuck his head into the officers' club. Spying Sabriino, he
    immediately looked relieved. "Ali, here you are, sir," he said. "A mes-
    sage on the crystaIjust came in: your wing is ordered to join in the attack
    on the town of Wihtgara." He pronounced the uncouth Forthwegian
    syllables as well as an Algarvian rmight be expected to do.
     Sabriino drew a map from the vest pocket of his uniform tunic. He
    spread it out on the table so Domiziano and Orosio could study it, too.
    After a moment, Sabriino's forefinger stabbed out. "About fifty miles
    northwest of here," he said, and turned to the orderly once more. "Ten
    the crystallomancer to reply that we shall be flying within half an hour."
    He knocked back the rest of his port - it wasn't really good enough to
    linger over - and nodded to his companions. "Time to give the
    Forthwegians another dose, lads."
     As usual, Sabnino had to pick his way among the tethered dragons to
    keep from fouling his boots with their noxious droppings. As usual, his
    own mount had forgotten he'd been flying it for years. As usual, it hissed
    and flapped and spluttered, doing its best to keep him from climbing
    aboard. It did refrain from trying to flame him down; that was beaten into
    war dragons from hatchlinghood. For small favors, Sabrino gave thanks.
     He gave thanks again when the dragon's enormous batwings
    thundered behind him and the ground dropped away below. The view
    he got from on high was almost worth putting up with the stupidity and
    viciousness of dragons. The view of the rest of the dragons in his wing,
    bellies silvered, backs painted in red and white and green, was splendid,
    too.
       " Come on," he said, and tapped his dragon with the goad to bring its
      course farther north of west. "We can do it."

    




    96
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     The dragon, predictably, didn't want to. As far as it was concerned,
    was up in the sky to hunt. Sabrino's purposes mattered little to it. It hal
    been perfectly content to fly along in the direction it had chosen. Whei
    he tried to get it to change the small stubborn spot that passed for 11
    mind, it twisted its head back along the length of its long, sinuous nec
    and did its best to pluck him off his perch with its teeth.
     Even though it didn't flame him, its breath, full of the stinks of brirr
    stone and old meat, was nearly enough to knock him over. "Son of
    worm!" he shouted, and whacked it in the snout with the iron-she
    goad. "Daughter of a vulture! I am your better! You shall obey me!".,
     Every once in a while, a dragon forgot the most fundamental part
    its training - in which case, the dragonflier never got another chance I
    curse it. Sabn'no refused to let that risk enter his mind. He whacked tt
    dragon's scaly snout again. With an irate hiss, it straightened its neck on(
    more. He gave it another tap, and this time, however sullenly, it swur
    its path more in the direction of Wihtgara.
     Down below, Algarvian columns filed down roads and across fielc
    Here and there, scattered Forthwegian companies tried to withstal
    them. They had little luck. Sabrino shook his fist at them. "This is wh
    you get for invading Algarve!" he cried, though only his dragon cou
    hear him. "What you visited on us, we visit on you a hundredfold."
     He'd been worried when the Forthwegians approached Gozzo. H
    the city fallen, King Penda's soldiers could have spread across the plai
    of northern Algarve and done untold damage. But behemoths a:
    dragons had turned the battle in front of Gozzo, and turned every fig
    since, too. However brave the Forthwegians were, they could not sta
    up against such force.
     Here and there, the retreating Forthwegians had set fire in the fie.
    and woods to slow the Algarvians' advance. Had they done that in(
    systematically, they would have got more good from it. As things we
    occasional whiffi of smoke rose to Sabrino's nostrils: hardly what t
    enemy could have hoped to accomplish.
     More smoke rose above Wihtgara. Sabrino's countrymen I
    bypassed the town to the north and south and joined hands beyond it,
    they'd done with Gromheort a few days before. The Forthwegt
    trapped inside the jaws of the pincers still battled to break free, but tl
    had little chance. Unicorn cavalry, tiny as dots down below, chargei

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    ad
    
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    the
    
    had
    
    I as
    
    t they
     ged a
    
    97
    
    squadron of behemoths. The egg-tossers and heavy sticks the behemoths
    bore on their backs wrecked the charge before the Forthwegians got to
    close quarters.
     Dragons wheeled above Wihtgara. Till Sabrino drew near, he thought
    them Algarvian beasts dropping eggs on the defenders below. Then he
    saw they were painted in blue and white: Forthwegian colors. There
    were only a dozen of them or so. Without hesitation - or without any
    more hesitation than balky dragons usually caused - they hurled them-
    selves at his entire wing.
     Sabn'no waved to his dragonfliers. "If they want it, we'll give it to
    them!" he shouted, though he didn't think any of the other men could
    hear. That they would give it to the Forthwegians, he had no doubt.
    Even after losses in the fighting thus far, he still commanded four times as
    many dragons as the foe had.
     Like the unicorn cavalry down on the ground, the Forthwegian
    dragonfliers cared nothing about the odds. On they came. Sabrino's
    dragon made a noise that reminded him of hot oil sizzling in a frying pan
    about the size of a small duchy: a challenge. Sabriino raised his stick and
    blazed at the nearest Forthwegian. If he didn't have to fight at close quar-
    ters, he didn't want to, no matter how eager his mount was to flame the
    Forthwegian dragon out of the sky.
     But blazing straight wasn't easy, not with both him and the
    Forthwegian moving at high speed along courses that changed unpre-
    dictably as one dragon or the other took it into its ferocious, empty head
    to dodge a little. Fighting in the air wasn't just man against man. It was
    also dragon against dragon, and the beasts wanted nothing more than to
    bum each other and tear each other to shreds.
     Here came the Forthwegian. He had some idea of what he was about,
    and a dragon that, by Forthwegian standards, was decently trained: the
    beast rose to give him a clear blaze at Sabrinc, instead of simply trying to
    close with the Algarvian's dragon. Sabrino flattened himself against his
    mount's neck to present a harder target as he goaded his dragon to climb,
    too.
      And Forthwegian standards did not measure up to those practiced in
     `Km~ Mtze_ntio's domain. Moreover, Sabnino's dragon was larger and
      stronger and swifter than his foe's. He outclimbed the Forthwegian and
      got routid behind him, despite the enemy's best efforts to twist in the air.

    




    98
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    When Sabrino's dragon flamed, fire licked the other beast's back and left
    wing.
     The Forthwegian dragon's hissing shriek of anguish was music to
    Sabrino's ears. Very likely, the Forthwegian dragonflier shrieked, too, but
    his cry, if he made one, was lost in the greater cry of his mount. The
    enemy dragon plummeted out of the sky, not just burnt but burning.
    Because of the brimstone and quicksilver that had helped fuel it, dragon-
    fire clung and clung.
     Sabriino's dragon bellowed its triumph and spurted more flame. He
    whacked it with the goad to make it stop. It Inlight need that fire in future
    fights. His head swiveled as he tried to see which of his dragonfliers
    needed help. He spied none who did. Most of the Forthwegian dragons
    were falling in flames (so, he was sad to see, were a couple painted in
    Algarvian colors). A couple of the enemy flew west, off to the shrinking
    stretch of territory Forthweg still held. And one, its flier blazed off it,
    struck out at the dragons around it like the wild beast it was till it too
    tumbled out of the sky.
     More dragons were flying in out of the east, these lower, and with eggs
    slung under their bellies. As the eggs began falling on Wihtgara, Sabrino
    smiled broadly. "A splendid little war!" he cried, exultation in his voice.
    "Splendid!"
    
     Occupied. Ealstan had heard the word before the war, of course. He'd
    heard it, and thought he'd known what it meant. Now he was learning
    the bitter difference between knowledge and experience.
     Occupation meant Algarvian troops swaggering along the streets of
    Gromheort. They all had sticks at the ready, and they all expected every-
    body to understand Algarvian. People who didn't understand the ugly,
    trilling speech - in Ealstan's ears, it sounded like magpies' chatter - fast
    enough to suit them were liable to get blazed for no better reason than
    that. No one could punish the Algarvians for doing such things. Their
    commanders probably praised them.
     Occupation meant that Ealstan's mother and sister stayed inside their
    house and sent him or his father out when they needed errands run. The
    Algarvians hadn't perpetuated that many outrages, but they'd done
    enough to make decent Forthwegian women uninterested in taking
    chances.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    ce.
    
    ing
    
    s of
    
    than
     heir
    
    their
    The
    done
    aking
    
    99
    
     Occupation meant that Sidroc and his family crowded the house to
    overflowing. An egg had turned their home to rubble. Ealstan knew it
    could have been his as easily as not. Sidroc and his father - Ealstan's
    father's brother - still shambled around as if stunned, for his mother and
    sister had been in the house when the egg burst.
     Occupation meant broadsheets written in awkward Forthwegian
    going up on almost every wall that hadn't been knocked flat. THE
    KAUNIAN KINGDOMS YOU LED INTO THAT WAR, some of
    them said. Others asked, WHY DO FORTHWEGIANS FOR
    KAUNIANS DIE? Ealstan had never had any particular use for the
    Kaunians who lived within Forthweg's borders - except watching the
    blond women in their tight trousers. If the Algarvians wanted him to hate
    them, though, there had to be more to them than he'd thought.
     Occupation meant having no idea what had happened to his brother,
    Leofsig. That was worst of all.
     And yet, even with Count Brorda fled and an Algarvian officer
    ensconced in his castle, life had to go on. Ealstan's sister stuffed a chunk
    of garlicky sausage, some salted olives, a lump of hard white cheese, and
    some raisins into a cloth sack and thrust it at him. "Here," she said.
    "Don't dawdle. You'll be late for school."
     "Thanks, Conberge," Ealstan said.
     "Remember to stop at a baker's on the way home and bring us more
    bread," Conberge told him. "Or if the bakers are all out, get ten pounds
    of flour from a miner. Mother and I can do the baking perfectly well."
     "All right." Ealstan paused. "What if the millers are out of flour, too?"
     His sister looked a bit harried. "In that case, we all start going hungry.
    It wouldn't surprise me a bit." She raised her voice to a shout: "Sidroc!
    Aren't you ready yet? Your masters will beat you black and blue, and
    you'll deserve it."
     Sidroc was still running a tortoiseshell comb through his dark, curly
    hair when he hum*ed into the kitchen to receive a lunch similar to
    Ealstan's. "Come on," Ealstan said. "Conberge's right - they'll break
    switches on our backs if we're late again.9'
     "I suppose so," Sidroc said indifferently. Maybe he needed a thrashing
    to bring him out of his funk. Ealstan didn't, and didn't want to get one
    bccause his cousin remained in a daze. He grabbed Sidroc by the arm and
    hauled him out on to the street.

    




    Harry Turtledove
    
     No Algarvians were strutting past his house, for which he was duly
    grateful. The mere sight of kilts set his teeth on edge. Being unable to
    taunt the Algarvians hurt, too, but he didn't care to take his life in his
    hands. Women were not the only ones the occupiers outraged.
     Ealstan was sure Leofsig and his comrades had done no such things
    while on Algarvian soil. No: that Leofsig and his comrades could have
    done such things never entered his mind. And even if they had, the
    Algarvians. would have deserved it.
     When he turned the comer on to the main thoroughfare that led to
    his school, Ealstan could no longer pretend Gromheort remained a free
    Forthwegian city. For one thing, the Algarvians had checkpoints eve~y
    few blocks. For another, signboards written in their script - so sinuous as
    to be hard to read, especially for someone like Ealstan, who was used to
    angular Forthwegian characters - sprouted everywhere. And, for a third,
    heading up the thoroughfare toward the school showed him what a
    battering Gromheort had taken before it finally fell.
     The Algarvians had set gangs to work clearing the wreckage of ruined
    buildings. "Work, cursing you!" a kilted soldier shoute in bad
    Forthwegian. The Forthwegians and Kaunians the oc~opiers had
    rounded up were already working, throwing tiles and chunks of bricks
    and shattered timbers into wagons. A Kaunian woman bent to pick up a
    couple of bricks. An Algarvian soldier reached out and ran his hand along
    the curve of her buttocks.
     She straightened with a squeak of outrage. The soldier and his com-
    panions laughed. "Work!" he said, and gestured with his stick. Her face
    a frozen mask, she bent once more. He foridled her again. This time, she
    went on working as if he did not exist.
     Ealstan hustled past the work gang, lest the Algarvians make him Join
    it. Sidroc followed, but kept looking back over his shoulder. His eyes
    were wide and staring as he watched the solider amuse himself. "Come
    on," Ealstan said impatiently.
     "Powers above," Sidroc muttered, as much to himself as to his cousin.
    "Wouldn't you like to do that with a woman?"
     "Sure I would, if she wanted me to," Ealstan answered, even though
    thinking a woman might one day want him to do such a thing required
    all the imagination he had. But despite that, he noted a distinction Sidroc
    had missed: "That soldier wasn't doing it with her - he was doing it tc

    




    INTo THE DAPLKNESS
    
    to
    
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    up a
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    om-
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     she
    
    join
    eyes
    ome
    
    usin.
    
    ough
    uired
     idroc
     it to
    
    101
    
    her. Did you see her face? If looks could kin, she'd have wiped out all
    those stinking redheads."
     Sidroc tossed his head. "She was only a Kaunian."
     "You think the Algarvian cared?" Ealstan asked, and shook his head to
    give the question his own answer. "He would have done it to" - he
    started to say to your mother, but checked himself-, that hit harder than he
    wanted to - "to Conberge the same way. Everybody's fair game to
    Mezentio's men."
     "They won," Sidroc said bitterly. "That's what you get when you
    win: you can do as you please."
    
     "I suppose so," Ealstan said. "I never thought we could lose."
     "We cursed well did," Sidroc said. "We might even be worse off, you
    know? Would you rather we were off in the west, and King Swernmel's
    Unkerlanters came stomping through Gromheort? If I had to chose
    between them and the Algarvians-"
     "If I could make a choice, I'd choose to have all of them go far, far
    away." Ealstan sighed. "But magic doesn't work that way. I wish it did."
     They got to the school just as the warning bell clanged, and then ran
    like madmen to their first class. In spite of his lethargy, Sidroc didn't want
    to have his back striped after all. "Why couldn't the Algarvians have
    dropped an egg here?" he muttered fretfully as he flung his bottom on to
    his stool.
     But the master of classical Kaunian was not in the chamber to note -
    and to punish - his tardiness and Ealstan's. After a heartfelt sigh of relief,
    Ealstan turned to the scholar next to him and whispered, "Did Master
    Bede have to visit the jakes?"
     "Don't think so," the other youth answered. "I haven't seen him at all
    this morning. Maybe the Algarvians have him grubbing stones."
     "He'd be on the other end of the switch if they do," Ealstan said.
    Seeing the Kaunian woman molested had bothered him. He could
    contemplate the master's being put to hard labor without batting an
    eye.
     A man strode into the classroom. He was a Forthwegian, but he was
    not Master Bede, even if he did carry a switch in his left hand. "I am
    Master Agmund," he announced. "From this day forth, by order of the
    occupying authorities, all studies in classical Kaunian are suspended, the
    langauge beingiudged useless both because of its antiquated, outmoded

    




    102
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    nature and because folk of Kaunian blood have wickedly attempted to
    destroy the Kingdom of Algarve."
     He spoke as if reading from a script. Ealstan gaped. Master Bede and
    earlier masters of Kaunian had drilled into him - often painfully - that
    anyone in eastern Derlavai with the slightest claim to culture had to be
    fluent in the language, regardless of his own blood. Had they been lying?
    Or did Algarve have its own purposes here?
     Agmund answered that in a hurry, saying, "Instead, you shall be
    instructed in Algarvian, in which subject I am your new master. Attend
    me.
     One of Ealstan's classmates, a youth named Odda, thrust his hand in
    the air. When Agmund recognized him, he said, "Master, can we not
    learn Algarvian from the soldiers in the city? Why, already I can say 'How
    much for your sister?'Just from having heard them say it so much."
     A vast silence fell on the classroom. Ealstan stared, adrm*n'ng Odda's
    defiant bravado. Master Agmund's stare was of a different sort. He
    advanced on Odda and gave him the fiercest thrashing Ealstan had ever
    seen. Agmund said, "My clever little friend, if you were half as funny as
    you think you are, you would be twice as funny as you really are."
     When the beating was over, the lessons began. Agmund proved him-
    self a capable enough master, and was plainly fluent in Algarvian. Ealstan
    repeated the words and phrases the master set him. He had no desire to
    learn Algarvian, but he had no desire to be whipped, either.
     He and Sidroc took turns telling the story around the supper table that
    evening. "The boy did a brave thing," Sidroc's father said.
     "He certainly did, Uncle Hengist," Ealstan agreed.
    
     "Brave, aye," his father said. Hestan looked from Ealstan to Sidroc to
    Hengist. "Brave, but foolish. The lad suffered for it, as you and your
    cousin said, and his suffering is not over yet, either, unless I miss my guess.
    And his fanuily's suffering will barely have begun."
    
     Hengist grunted, as if Hestan had hit him in the belly. "You are likely
    to be right," he said. "Of course this new master is an Algarvian lapdog.
    What he hears, the redheads win hear.", He pointed to Sidroc. "We have
    suffered enough already. Whatever you think of this new language
    master, keep it locked in your head. Never let him suspect it, or we WA
    all pay."
     "I don't mind him so much," Sidroc said with a shrug. "And Alga

    




    "I
    
    INTo THE DAPKNESS
    
    looks to be a lot easier than classical Kaunian ever was."
     That wasn't what Hengist had meant. Ealstan understood as much,
    even if Sidroc didn't. Understanding such things went with being occu-
    pled, too. If Sidroc didn't figure them out pretty soon, he would be sorry,
    and so would everyone around him.
     Ealstan's mother understood. "Take care, all of you," Elfryth said, and
    that was also good advice.
     The next morning, Odda was not in the Algarvian class. He was not
    in any of his classes that day. He did not return to school the next day,
    either. Ealstan and Sidroc never saw him again. Ealstan understood the
    lesson. He hoped his cousin did, too.
    
    to
    
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    103
    
     King Shazli nibbled at a cake rich with raisins and pistachios. He licked
    his fingers clean, then glanced at Hajjaj from lowered eyelids. "It would
    seem King Swernmel did not purpose attacking us after all," he said.
     When his sovereign decided to talk business, Hajaj could with pro-
    priety do the same, even if his cake lay on the tray before him only half
    eaten. "Say rather, your Majesty, that King Swernmel did not yet purpose
    attacking us," he replied.
     "You say this even after Unkerlant and Algarve have split Forthweg
    between them, as a man will tear a peeled tangerine in half that he might
    share it with his friend?"
     "Your Majesty, I do," the foreign minister said. "If King Swernmel
    intended to leave Zuwayza alone, we would not see these continual
    proddings along the border. Nor would we see his envoy in Bishah
    lyingly denying that any fault attaches to Unkerlant. When Swernmel is
    ready, he will do what he will do."
     Shazli started to reach for his teacup. At the last moment, his hand
    swerved and seized the goblet that held wine. After drinking, he said, "I
    confess I am not sorry that King Penda chose to flee south instead of com-
    ing here." HajjaJ drank wine, too. Thinking of the King of Forthweg as
    an exile in Bishah was enough to make any Zuwayzi turn to wine, or per-
    haps to hashish. "We could not very well have turned him away, your
    Majesty, not if we cared to hold our heads up afterwards," he said, and
    then, before Shazli could speak, he went on, "We could not very well
    have kept him here, not if we cared to hold our heads on our shoulders."
    "You speak nothing but the truth there." Shazli gulped the goblet dry.

    




    Harry Turtledove
    
    "Well, now he is Yanina's worry. I tell you frankly, I am more glad than
    I can say that King Tsavellas has to explain to'911IMant how Penda came
    to go into exile in Patras. Better him than me. Better Yanina than
    Zuwayza, too."
     "Indeed." Hajaj tried to make his long, thin, IMI ly face look wide and
    dour, as if he were an Unkerlanter. "First, King -V,7emmel win demand
    that Tsavellas turn King Penda over to him. -.01"I when Tsavellas tells
    him no, he'll start massing troops on the border vioh Yanina. After that"
    - the Zuwayzi foreign minister shrugged - "he'll -Utobably invade."
     "If I were Tsavellas, I'd put Penda on a ship oo a dragon bound for
    Sibiu or Valmiera or Lagoas," Shazli said. M11 I might forgive him
    for harboring Penda just long enough to palm 11im off on someone
    else."
    
     "Your Majesty, King Swemmel never forgives Aiyone for anything,"
    Hajaj said. "He proved that after the Twinkings Vlar - and those were
    his own countrymen."
     King Shazli grunted. "There, I judge, you speak *Othing but the truth.
    Everything he has done since seating himself ITIMPOly on the throne ol
    Unkerlant goes toward confirming it." He i*T91M for his wine goblei
    again, so abruptly that a couple of his gold iisoll--ts clashed together
    Discovering the goblet was empty, he called for i servant. A womar
    came in with a jar and refilled the goblet. "Ali, Rkank you, my dear,'
    Shazli said. He watched her sway out of the -.-mmMinber, then turned hi
    attention back to Hajaj: Zuwayzin saw too much flesh to let it undul,.
    stir them. "If, as you seem to think, we are next on Swernmel's list, wha
    can we do to forestall him?"
     "Dropping an egg on his palace in Cottbus oii~& have some effect,
    Hajjaj said dryly. "Past that, we are, as your Majesty must know, in some
    thing less than the best position."
     "As I must know. Aye, so I must." Shazli's -weit-th twisted. "Findin
    allies would be easier if we were of the same 11 RMT111 as most of the oth(
    folk of Derlaval. If you were a tow-headed, Pir-skinned Ka'Umaj
    H aj aj - "
     The foreign minister presumed to interrupt his sovereign (not mu(
    of a presumption, not with an easygoing king 11.W Shazli): "If I were
    Kaunian, your Majesty, I'd long since be dead in Mes climate of ours. I
    no wonder the old Kaunian Empire traded with ARmayza but never tri,

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    han
    
    me
    
    an
    
                                       for
                                       him
    
    eone
    
    . I I
    ing,
    were
    
    ffect,"
    some-
    
    inding
    e other
    
    aunian,
    
    t much
    
    were a
    urs. It's
    er tried
    
    105
    
    planting colonies here. Even more to the point, the only kingdom with
    whom we share a border is Unkerlant."
     "Aye." Shazli looked at Hajjaj* as if that were his fault - or perhaps
    Hajaj was feeling the strain from continued Unkerlanter pressure, to
    imagine such a thing. "This also makes the search for allies more difficult
    than it might be otherwise."
     "No one will ally with us against Unkerlant," Hajaj said. "Forthweg
    might have, but Forthweg, as we have seen, as we have just discussed, is
    no more.
     "And, as we have seen, Unkerlant and Algarve had divided the king-
    dom between them as smoothly as two butchers chopping up a camel's
    carcass," Shazli said discontentedly. "I had hoped for better - better from
    our point of view, worse from theirs."
     "So had I," HajjaJ* said. "Given half a chance, King Mezentio can be
    as headstrong as King Swernmel. But, with Algarve so sorely beset from
    so many sides at once, Mezentio almost has common sense forced upon
    him."
     "What an unfortunate development." Shazli paused, looking thought-
    ful. "Of course, Mezentio no longer has to fret about his western frontier,
    which may leave him more room to maneuver."
     "If I may correct your Maj esty, King Mezentio no longer has a war on
    his western frontier," HaJjaj said. "With Unkerlant as his new neighbor,
    he would be a fool indeed did he not fret about it."
     "You have the night of it there, Hajaj, without a doubt," King Shazli
    admitted. "See how delighted we are, for instance, to have Unkerlant for
    a neighbor. And Unkerlant and Algarve are by no means enamored of
    each other. Have we any hope of exploiting that to our advantage?"
     "As your Majesty will know, I have had certain conversations with the
    Algarvian minister here in Bishah," HajjaJ answered. "I fear, however,
    that Marquis Balastro has not been encouraging."
      "What ofJelgava and Valmiera?" Shazli asked.
     "They are sympathetic." HajaJ raised an eyebrow. "Sympathy, how-
    ever, is worth its weight in gold." King Shazli pondered that for a
    moment, then laughed. It was not a happy laugh. HaJjaJ went on, "Also,
    the Kaunian kingdoms are not only warring against Algarve but very far
    away.
      Shazli sighed and drained his second goblet of wine. "We are truly in

    




    
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    106
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    a desperate predicament if King Mezentio offers our best hope of aid."
     "It is not a good hope," Hajjaj said. "It is, if anything, a very faint
    hope. Balastro has made it clear Algarve will not anger Unkerlant while
    the war goes on in the east and south."
     "A faint hope is better than no hope at all," Shazli said. "Why don't
    you pay another call on the good marquis today?" Seeing the foreign
    minister's martyred expression, the king laughed again, this time with
    something approaching real amusement. "Spending an afternoon in
    
    clothes will not be the death of you."
     "I suppose not, your Majesty," Hajaj replied in a tone that supp
    anything but. King Shazh laughed again, and gently clapped his hands
    together to show the meeting with the foreign minister was over.
     While Hajaj"s secretary spoke on the crystal with the Algarvian
    ministry to arrange a time for the appointment, Ha~aj himself went
    through his meager wardrobe. He did have some Algarvian-style tunics
    and kilts, Just as he kept tunics and trousers - which he truly loathed - for
    consultations with envoys from jelgava and Valmiera. After donning a
    blue cotton tunic and a pleated kilt, he examined himself in the mirror.
    He looked as he had in his student days. No - his clothes looked as they
    had then. He'd grown old since. But Marquis Balastro would be pleased.
     Hajaj sighed. "What I do in the service of my kingdom," he muttered.
     His secretary had set up the meeting with the Algarvian minister for
    midafternoon. Haij aj was meticulously on time, though the Algarvian set
    less stock in perfect punctuality than did the folk of Unkerlant or the
    Kaunian kingdoms. Outside the ministry, clothed and sweating Algarvian
    guards stood watch, as their Unkerlanter counterparts did outside the
    residence of King Swernmel's envoy. The Algarvians, though, were any-
    thing but still and silent as they watched good-looking Zuwayzi women
    saunter by. They rocked their hips and called lewd suggestions in their
    own language and in what scraps of Zuwayzi they'd learned.
     The women kept walking, pretending they hadn't heard. Such public
    admiration was anything but the style in Zuwayza. Ha~ajj had been
    shocked the first time he'd heard it when he'd gone off to Algarve for
    college. It didn't start clan feuds there, though. Algarvian girls giggled and
    sometimes gave back as good as they got. That had shocked him, too.
     He was harder to shock these days. And the Algarvian minister's
    secretary was a polished man by any kingdom's standards. Escorting

    




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    107
    
    HajaJ past the guards and into the nuinistry, he murmured in fluent
    Zuwayzi: "I do beg your pardon, your Excellency, but you know how
    the soldiers are."
     "Oh, aye," HaJjaJ answered. "I have learned to make allowances for
    the foibles of others, and hope others will make allowances for rmine."
     "What an admirable way to look at things," the foreign minister
    exclaimed. He ducked into a doorway and returned to his own native
    tongue: "My lord, the Zuwayzi foreign minister."
     "Send him in, send him in," Marquis Balastro said. He did not speak
    Zuwayzi, but, since HaJjaJ knew Algarvian well, they had no trouble
    talking with each other. Balastro was in his early forties, and wore a little
    stripe of hair under his lower lip and mustaches waxed till they were as
    straight and sharply pointed as the horns of a gazelle. Such adornments
    aside, he had as little of the fop in him as any Algarvian, and was, for a
    diplomat, forthright.
     He - or his secretary - also knew not to plunge too abruptly into busi-
    ness with a Zuwayzi. A tray of cakes and wine appeared as if by magic.
    Balastro made small talk, waiting for Hajaj to open: another nice
    courtesy. At length, Hajaj did begin, saying, "Your Excellency, it is
    surely destructive of good order among the kingdoms of the world when
    the large can with impunity bully and oppress the small for no better
    reason than that they are large."
     "With Algarve so grievously beset, I could hardly fail to admit the
    principle," Balastro said. "Its application, though, will vary according to
    circumstances.,,
     Algarve was hardly a small kingdom. HaJjaJ refrained from saying as
    much. What he did say was, "As you will have heard from me before,
    King Swernmel of Unkerlant continues to make unreasonable demands
    on Zuwayza. Since Algarve, from its own experience, understands such
    extortion-"
     Balastro held up a hand. "Your Excellency, let me be plain about this.
    Algarve is not at war with Unkerlant. King Mezentio does not now desire
    to make war on King Swernmel. This being so, Algarve cannot reason-
    ably object to whatever King Swernmel. chooses to do on frontiers distant
    from her. King Mezentio may privately deplore such deeds, but he will
    not - I repeat, will not - seek to hinder them. Do I make myself clear?"
      "You do, ummistakably so." HaJjaJ did his diplomatic best to hold

    




    108
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    disappointment from his voice. Balastro had not been encouraging
    before. Now he was blunt. Zuwayza would have no help from Algarve.
    Zuwayza, very probably, would have no help from anyone.
    
     Krasta was angry. When she was angry, people around her suffered.
    That was not how she thought of it, of course. As far as she was con-'
    cerned, she was making herself feel better. In any case, other people's
    feelings had never seemed quite real to her, any more than the idea that
    there could be numbers smaller than zero had. But the master who'd
    taught ciphering had been so marvelously handsome, she'd pretended to
    believe it harder than she would have otherwise.
     Now, though, the noblewoman had no reason to dissemble. Waving
    a news sheet at Bauska, she cried, "Why do they feed us such lies? Why
    don't they tell us the truth?"
     "I don't understand, milady," the servant said. She would not have
    presumed to read the news sheet before her nuistress saw it. Had she so
    presumed, she would not have been rash enough to admit it.
     Krasta waved the news sheet again; Bauska had to leap back hurriedly
    to keep from getting hit in the face. "They say only that we are advanc-
    ing in Algarve and moving on the enemy's fortifications. We've been
    moving on them for weeks. We've been moving on them since this
    stupid war started. Why haven't we moved past them yet, in the name of
    the powers above?"
     "Perhaps they are very strong, milady," Bauska replied.
     "What are you saying now?" Krasta's eyes sparked furiously. "Are you
    saying that our brave soldiers - are you saying that my brother, the hero
    - cannot break through whatever defenses the barbarians throw up
    against us? Is that what you're saying?"
     Bauska babbled denials. Krasta listened with only half an ear. Servants
    always lied. Krasta threw down the news sheet. As far as she was
    concerned, the war had gone on far too long already. It had grown
    boring.
     "I am going into town," she announced. "I shall spend the day in the
    shops and the cafes. Perhaps - perhaps, rmind you - I shall find something
    of interest there. Summon the coachmen at once."
     "Aye, milady." Bauska bowed and humied away. As she went, she
    muttered something under her breath. It could not possibly have been

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    red.
    
    ing
     hy
    
    109
    
    what it sounded like, which was, Out of my hair for a while. Krasta
    dismissed the possibility from her mind. Bauska would never have dared
    say such a thing, not where she could hear it. The servant knew what was
    liable to happen to her if Krasta found her even slightly disrespectful. All
    the servants at the estate knew.
     With a low bow, the coachman handed Krasta up into the carriage.
    "Take me to the Avenue of Equestrians," she said, narming the street with
    the most shops - and the most expensive shops - in Pn*ekule. "The
    corner of Little Hills Road will do. I shall expect to see you there again
    an hour before sunset."
     "Aye, milady," the coachman said, as Bauska had done before. Some
    nobles let their servants speak to them in tones of familiarity. Krasta was
    not one to make that mistake. They were not her equals, they were her
    inferiors, and she intended that they remember it.
    
    have                                                     The carriage went swiftly through the streets. Not much traffic was on
    e so                             them.                   Many common folk, Krasta knew, had had their horses and
                 donkeys impressed into the service of the kingdom. The public caravans
    edly                       that traveled the             ley lines were also far from crowded. Most of the
    anc-         passengers aboard them were women, so many men having been sum-
    been                moned into King Gaimbu's anny.
    this                                                     Like the traffic on its thoroughfares, Pn'ekule seemed a shadow of its
     e of        former self. Many shops and taverns were shuttered. Some of those shut-
                 ters no doubt meant the owners had gone off to war. And some shutters
                 were up because owners wanted to save their expensive glass if Algarvian
    e you        eggs burst in the capital of Valmiera. None had yet. Krasta was serenely
    hero                     confident none would.
       up        Workmen were piling sandbags around the base of the Kaumian
                 Column of Victory. Cloth sheathed the carved stone. Krasta giggled,
    rvants       thinking of lamb's-gut sheaths for other columns. A wizard walked
    e was        around the ancient monument, incanting busily. Perhaps he was fire-
      own        proofing the cloth or otherwise sorcerously strengthening it. Valmiera
                 could afford to do that for its treasures. Few nobles and even fewer com-
    ~n *1Z       moners could afford to do it for their private property.
    me~fiing     YWT-StS Snorting, the carriage pulled to a stop. Krasta stepped out on to
                 the Avenue of Equestrians. She did not look back, nor wonder even for
    went, she    a moment what the coachman would do till it was time to retn' eve her.
    have been    As far as she was concerned, he stopped existing when she no longer

    




    110
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    needed him. If he didn't start existing again the moment she required
    him, he would be sorry.
     Shops on the Avenue of Equestrians remained open. Clerks fawned on
    Krasta as she strutted into a jeweler's, a milliner's, a fancy lampseller's.
    The clerk in a fine tailor's shop did not fawn enough to suit her. She had
    her revenge: she ran the young girl ragged, trying on every pair of silk
    and leather and linen trousers in the place.
     "And which will nulady choose for herself today?" the sweating clerk
    asked when Krasta reclonned her own trousers at last.
     "Oh, I do not care to buy today," Krasta answered sweetly. "I wasiust
    comparing your styles to the ones I saw the other day at the House of
    Spogi." Out she went, leaving the clerk, slump-shouldered with dejec-
    tion, staring after her.
     Setting the commoner in her place immensely improved Krasta's
    mood. She hurried across the street to the Bronze Woodcock, a cafe
    she'd always favored. An old waiter with a bushy mustache of almost
    Algarvian impressiveness was leading her to an empty table by the fire
    when a man a couple of tables away sprang to his feet and bowed. "Will
    you join me, Marchioness?"
     The waiter paused, awaiting Krasta's decision. She smiled. "Of course
    I will, Viscount Valnu," she replied. With a tiny shrug, the waiter steered
    her to Valnu's table. The viscount bowed again, this time over her hand.
    He raised it to his lips, then let it fall. Krasta's smile got wider. "So good
    to see you, Viscount," she said as she sat down. "And since I hadn't seen
    you in a while, I thought you must have put on a uniform, as my brother
    has done."
     Valnu took a pull at the flagon of porter in front of him. Firelight
    played off his cheekbones. Depending on how it struck his features, they
    were either beautifully sculpted or skeletal: sometimes both at once. His
    blood, Krasta thought, was very fine. With a wry snuile of his own, he
    said, "I fear the rigors of the field are not for me. I am a creature of
    Priekule, and could flourish nowhere else. If King Gainibu grows so
    desperate as to need my martial services, Valnuera shall be in desperate
    peril indeed."
     "Porter, milady?" the waiter asked Krasta. "Ale? Wine?"
    
     "Ale," she said. "Ale and a poached trout on a bed of saffron rice.
     "And I will have the smoked sausage with vinegared cabbage," V11nu

    




                                  INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    ired          declared. "Hearty peasant fare." He himself was neither peasantish nor
                  hearty. As the waiter bowed, he went on, "You need not hurry the meals
    d on            overmuch, my good fellow. The marchioness and I shall amuse ourselves
    Her's.          in the meantime by talking about rank." The waiter bowed again and
    e had           departed.
    f silk                                                     Krasta clapped her hands together. "That is well said!" she cnied.
                  "Truly you are a man of great nobility indeed."
    clerk           "I do my best," Valnu said. "More than that, I cannot do. More than
                  that, no man can do."
    sjust           "So many of the superior class do not even try to come up to such
    use of        standards," Krasta said. "And so many of the lower order these days are
    ej ec-        so grasping and vulgar and rude, they require lessons in the art of dealing
                  with their better." She explained how she had dealt with the clerk in the
    asta's        clothier's establishment.
    a cafe          Valnu's delighted gnin displayed very white, even teeth and made him
    almost        look more like a skull than ever, save only for the glow of admiration in
    e fire        his bright blue eyes. "That is excellent," he said. "Excellent! You could
    "Will         hardly have done better without running her through, and, had you done
                  that, she would not have long appreciated what you'd taught her."
    
    course
    steered
    r hand.
    o good
    I t seen
    rother
    
    irclight
    es, they
    ce. His
    wn, he
    ture of
    ows so
    esperate
    
    rice.
     Valnu
    
     "I suppose not," Krasta agreed regretfully, "though that might have
    left a stronger impression on the rest of the vulgar herd."
     Valnu clicked his tongue between his teeth several times, shaking his
    head all the while. "People would talk, my dear. People would talk. And
    now" - he sipped his porter - "shall we talk?"
     Talk he and Krasta did: who was sleeping with whom, who was feud-
    ing with whom (two topics often intimately related), whose farmily was
    older than whose, who had been caught out while trying to make his
    family seem older than it was. That was meat and drink to Krasta. She
    leaned across the small table toward Valnu, so intent and interested that
    she hardly noticed the waiter bringing them their luncheons.
     Valnu did not at once attack his sausage and sour cabbage, either. In a
    sorrowful voice, he said, "And, I hear, Duke Kestu lost his only son and
    heir in Algarve the other day. When I think of how the Six Years' War
    cut down so many noble stems, when I think of how likely this war is to
    do the same ... I fear for the future of our kind, nuilday."
     "There will always be a nobility." Krasta spoke with automatic confi-
    dence, as if she had said, There will always be a sunrise in the morning. But

    




    112
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    her farrudy's male line depended on her brother. And Skamu was fighting
    in Algarve, and he had no heir. She did not care to think about that. To
    keep from thinking about it, she took a long pull from her flagon of ale
    and began to eat the trout and nice on the plate before her.
     "I hope everything goes as well as it can for you and yours, milady,"
    Valmi said quietly. Krasta wished he had not said anything at all. If he had
    to say something, that was more kindly and less worrisome than most of
    the other things she could think of
     He dug into the pungent cabbage and sausage - peasant fare indeed
    and made them disappear at an astonishing rate. However emaciated he
    appeared, it was not due to any failure of appetite.
     Nor, very plainly, was anything wrong with any of his other appetites,
    either. As Krasta ate, she was startled - but, given some of the things she'd
    heard about Valnu, not surprised - when, under the table, his hand came
    down on her leg, well above the knee. She brushed it away as she might
    have brushed away a crawling insect. "My lord viscount, as you yourself
    said, people would talk."
     His answering simile was hard and bright and predatory. "Of course
    they would, my dear. They always do." The hand returned. "Shall we,
    then, give them something interesting to talk about?"
     She considered, letting his hand linger and even stray upwards while
    she did. He was well-born, and was attractive in a bony way. While he
    would certainly be unfaithful, he would never pretend to be anything
    else. In the end, though, she shook her head and took his hand away
    again. "Not this afternoon. Too many shops I haven't yet visited."
     "Thrown over for shops! For shops!" Valnu clapped both hands over
    his heart, as if pierced by a beam from a stick. Then, in an instant, he went
    from melodrama to pragmatism: "Well, better that than being thrown
    over for another lover."
     Krasta laughed. She almost changed her mind. But she still had gold in
    her handbag, and plenty of shops along the Avenue of Equestrians she
    hadn't seen. She paid for her luncheon and left the Bronze Woodcock.
    Valnu blew her a kiss.
    
     Skarmi stared in grim dismay at the line of fortresses ahead. Having
    seen them, the VaIrmieran captain no longer wondered why his superiors
    hesitated before hurling their army at those works. The Algarvians had

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    113
    
    lavished both ingenuity and gold on them. Whoever tried to smash them
    down, whoever tried to break through them, would pay dearly.
     "Come away, Captain," Sergeant Raunu urged. "Like as not, the
    stinking Algarvians'll put a hole through anybody who takes too long a
    look. "
     "Like as not, you're night," Skarnu said, and ducked back down into
    the barley that helped shield him from unfriendly eyes - and, east of
    where he crouched, there were no eyes of any other sort. East of where
    he crouched, too, were very few places to hide. Whatever else rmight
    happen to it, the Algarvians' defensive line would not fall to surprise
    attack.
     "In the last war, we'd throw eggs at forts and then just charge right at
    e" P     id. "Maybe they've learned something since."
     in, aunu sal                 1  1
     "If they'd learned anything since, we wouldn't be in a war now,
    Skarnu answered. The veteran sergeant blinked, then slowly nodded.
     Off to the north, Valmieran egg-tossers started lobbing destruction
    at the line of forts. The burst resounded like distant thunder. Skarnu
    wondered how much damage they were doing. Not so much as he
    would have liked: he was certain of that. The Algarvians had used stone
    and earth and cement and iron and bronze to fashion a line of death
    that ran for many miles north and south and was most of a mile deep.
    How long would soldiers batter their heads against that line, as Raunu
    had said, in search of a breakthrough that might not be there at all?
    Forever?
     Probably not. Even so, Skarmi sighed as he said, "They built that to
    dare us to try to go through it, to dare us to spend the men we'd need to
    get to the other side. They don't think we have the nerve to do it."
     "I wouldn't be sorry if they were night, either," Raunu said.
     "Would you rather fight inside Valmiera, the way we did for most of
    the Six Years' War?" Skarnu returned.
     "Sir, it's like you said: if you ask me what I'd rather, I'd rather not fight
    at all," the sergeant said.
     Skarnu clicked his tongue between his teeth. Sergeant Raunu had
    indeed used his own words to reply to him, which meant he could hardly
    take exception to what the veteran said. But he'd seen that a good many
    of the common soldiers had little stomach for the fight against Algarve in
    general, and even less for the assault on the forts. He said, "We should
    
    11

    




    114
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    have pushed harder, so we would have been through this line before,the
    Forthwegians collapsed."
     "Aye, I see what you're saying, sir, but I don't know how much dif~-
    ference that would have made." Raunu pointed ahead. "Doesn't look
    like the cursed redheads have put any new men in their lines, even if they
    don't have to worry about their western front any more."
     "They don't have to worry about Forthweg any more," Skarmi cor-
    rected. "Now they're face to face with Unkerlant. If they're not worried
    about that, they're fools."
     "Of course they're fools. They're Algarvians." Raunu spoke with an
    automatic scorn Skarnu's sister Krasta might have envied. But then, as
    Krasta would never have done, he changed course slightly: "They're fools
    most ways, I mean. They make good soldiers, whatever else you say
    about'em."
     "I wish I could tell you you were wrong," Skamu said. "Our lives
    would be easier." The Algarvians had resisted the Valmieran advance to
    the fortified line with only light forces, but they'd fought stubbornly.
    They'd also fought skillfully, perhaps more skillfully than the men he
    commanded. Had there been more of them, he wondered if his men
    would have been able to advance at all. Along with most of his other
    worries, he kept that one to himself.
     A runner came up to him. "My lord marquis?" the fellow asked.
     "Aye?" Skarmi said in some small surprise. Far more often these days,
    he was addressed by his military rank, not title. After a moment, a pos-
    sible reason for this exception came to mind.
     And, sure enough, the runner said, "My lord, his Grace the Duke of
    Klaipeda bids you sup with him and with some of the other leading
    officers of our triumphant army at his headquarters this evening. The sup-
    per shall begin an hour past sunset."
     "Please tell his Grace I am honored, and of course I shall attend him,"
    Skarnu answered. The runner bowed and hurried away.
     Raunu eyed Skarnu. He'd understood Skarnu was a noble, of course.
    That was one thing. An invitation extended to a captain to sup with the
    commander of an army of tens of thousands was something else again.
    Almost defensively, Skarnu said, "I went to school with his Grace's
    son.
     "Did you, sir?" the sergeant said. "Well, you'll get a good meal out of

    




    N
    
    the
    
    or-
     ed
    
    say
    
    men
    other
    
    days,
    pos-
    
    e of
    ading
    e sup-
    
    him,
    
    ourse.
   ith the
    again.
    race s
    
    out of
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    115
    
    it, and that's the truth. I will say, though, sir, the men think well of you
    for eating out of the same pot they use."
     "It's the best way I could think of to make sure they got decent food,"
    Skarnu said. "Nobody cares when a common soldier fusses and com-
    plains. When a captain grumbles, though, people start to notice."
     "Aye, sir," Raunu said, "especially when he's a captain who went to
    school with the Duke of Klaipeda's son." More than half to himself, he
    added, "It's a wonder you're just a captain and not a colonel."
     Skarmi wished he hadn't had to mention his connection with the
    duke, whose son, while not the depraved little monster so beloved of
    romancers without much imagination, had been one of the most boring
    youths he'd ever met. He also wished the duke were paying more atten-
    tion to the commanders who would lead great parts of the Valmieran
    army into battle and less to his son's social connections.
     But, regardless of the duke's shortcorruings, Skarnu spruced himself up
    and made his way back toward the village of Bonorva. The village was a
    good deal more battered than it had been when he'd first seen it from the
    woods that now lay on the far side from the front. The duke had taken up
    residence in one of the larger houses there. It still looked scarred and
    abused: no point cleaning it up and offering the Algarvians a target. Skamu
    chuckled as he drew near. After he wrote to Krasta, she'd be sick with
    jealousy at the exalted company he was keeping.
     When he went inside the unprepossessing building, Skarmi might
    have been transported to another world, the world in which the
    Valmieran nobility had idled away its time in Priekule and on estates out
    in the provinces. Lights blazed; dark cloth over the windows and behind
    the door kept it from leaking out and drawing the notice of Algarvian
    dragons overhead or the cunning snoops who kept trying to spy targets
    for the enemy's egg-tossers.
     Marstalu, the Duke of Klaipeda, stood just inside the door-way greet-
    ing new arrivals. He was a portly man in his late fifties, his complexion
    very pink, his hair gone white as snow: he looked like everyone's favorite
    grandfather. His uniform put Skarnu in rmind of those the Kaunian
    Emperors had won. So did the brilliant constellation of medals - some
    gold, some silver, some bejeweled, some with ribbons like comets' tails -
    spangling his chest.
      Skarnu bowed low, murmuring, "Your Grace."
    

    




    11

    




    116
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "Good to see you, lad. Good to see you," the duke said, beaming in a
    grandfatherly way. "Make yourself at home. Plenty of good things to eat
    and drink here - better than you'll find at the front, that's certain."
     "No doubt, sir." Skarmi felt out of place here despite Marstalu's
    friendly words. Most of the other noble officers present glittered hardly
    less than their commanders. Skarmi's unadorned uniform made him look
    and feel like a servant. It also made him feel like a real soldier in amongst
    a flock of popinjays. Perhaps that was what made him ask, "Sir, when will
    the attack against the Algarvian works go in?"
     "When all is in readiness," Marstalu answered easily. That might mean
    anything. It imight mean nothing. Skarnu suspected it meant nothing
    here. The duke went on, "Perhaps we could be more zealous now had
    we reached this position before the Algarvians finished their dismantling
    of Forthweg."
     Skarnu didn't know what to say to that. Marstalu was saying the same
    thing he had to Raunu. Raunu hadn't thought it would make a
    difference. Skarnu had to hope the sergeant was right and he and the
    commander of the army wrong. But, had the Duke of Klaipeda wanted
    to reach the fortified belt before Forthweg collapsed, he should have
    pushed harder. He could have. Of course, he couldn't have known
    Algarve's attack would shatter Forthweg, but everything Skamu had ever
    soaked up about the nulitary art suggested that wasting time was never a
    good idea.
     Pushing Marstalu further would accomplish nothing but getting him
    on the commander's black list. He could see as much at a glance. That
    being so, what better choice than enjoying the choice viands and potables
    set out on the tables before him? He sat down between a pair of
    bemedaled colonels. One of them jabbed a serving fork into the large,
    savory bird lying on a tray in front of him. juices spurted. "Have some,
    Captain," he said. "As you can see, we've finally gone and cooked
    Algarve's goose."
     The colonel on the other side of Skarnu laughed so uproariously at that
    sally, Skarnu was convinced he'd already emptied the crystal goblet
    before him several times. Lifting his own wine goblet, Skarnu said, "May
    we serve the king as we have served the goose."
     "Oh, well said, young fellow, well said," both colonels exclaimed in the
    same breath. They drank. So did Skamu. He carved off a thick slice of

    




    I
    
    in a
     t
    
    mean
    othing
    w had
    ntling
    
    e same
     ake a
    nd the
     anted
    d have
    known
    ad ever
    never a
    
    ng him
    e. That
    otables
    pair of
    e large,
    e some,
    cooked
    
     at that
    I goblet
    d, "May
    
    ed in the
     slice of
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    117
    
    goose, then spooned a good helping of parsmips seethed in cream and dotted
    with butter on to his plate. The salad was of fine lettuces and chopped
    scallions dressed with wine vinegar and walnut oil.
     One of the colonels boasted about the speed of the fine horses he had
    liberated from an Algarvian noble's stables. The other boasted about the
    agility of the fine mistress he had liberated from an Algarvian noble's bed-
    chamber. Skarnu tried to boast about the fighting qualities of the men in
    his company. Neither colonel seemed the least bit interested. They were
    fascinated with each other's brags, though. Sometimes it was hard to ten
    which one was talking about his new acquisition.
     Gloom settled over Skarrm like a winter fog in Priekule. King Gainibu
    had been more interested in starting the war against Algarve than his
    officers were in fighting it. They'd taken what the Algarvians, were win-
    ing to yield. Now that the Algarvians had yielded everything up to their
    long-established defensive line, they weren't going to be willing to yield
    any more. And going up against that line was, ever more plainly, the last
    thing any Valimeran commander wanted to do.
     One of the boastful colonels upended his goblet once too often. He set
    his head down on the table and started to snore. Skarmi felt like getting
    that drunk, too. "y not? he thought. Raunu runs the companyjust as well
    when I'm not there.
     In the end, though, he refrained. He started to make his way over to
    the Duke of Klaipeda to say his farewells, but Marstalu seemed far gone
    in wine himself Skarnu slipped out into the cool, dark night and headed
    east toward his company. All things considered, he would rather not have
    been invited to the feast. He'd hoped for reassurance. What he'd got was
    more to worry about.

    




    Fernao strolled through the streets of Setubal, delighting in the life that
    brawled around him. The capital of Lagoas had long been the most cos-
    mopolitan city in the world. Now, the mage thought sadly, it was, as near
    as made no difference, the only cosmopolitan city left in the world.
     Lagoas was not at war with anyone. That made the island kingdom
    unique among the major powers. Oh, Unkerlant was not at war with
    anyone at the moment, but Fernao, along with everyone else, assumed
    that was only because King Swemmel, having helped himself to a large
    chunk of Forthweg, was looking around for his next neighbor to assault.
    Zuwayza affronted him merely by existing, as Forthweg had, but Yanina
    had taken in King Penda when he fled Eoforwic. One of them would go
    under soon. Maybe both of them would go under soon. Fernao guessed
    Yanina would go first.
     But Lagoas, with any luck at all, could stay neutral through the whole
    mad war. Fernao hoped his kingdom could. Monuments in Setubal's
    many parks and at street corners warned of wars past: recent monuments
    to the fight against Algarve in the Six Years' War, older ones to war
    against Valmiera, older ones still to wars against Kuusamo and the pirates
    of Sibiu who were all the rage in Lagoan romances these days, even a
    couple of Kaunian columns from the days before the Empire brought its
    armies back home to the mainland of Derlavai.
     What sort of monument rmight a kingdom erect to a war in which it
    hadn't fought? Fernao visualized a marble statue, three times life size, of
    a man swiping the back of his hand across his forehead in relief. After a
    moment, he realized the man he'd visualized looked a lot like him. He
    laughed at that. He'd known he was vain. Maybe he hadn't known how
    vain he was.
    
    118

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    r a
    
    C
    
    ow
    
    k
    
     He turned into a tavern (a good piece of magecraft, that, he thought, now
    with a laugh that was more like a snort) and ordered a glass of jelgavan
    red wine. When the taverner gave it to him, he took it over to a small
    table by the wall and sipped in leisurely fashion. The taverner gave him a
    sour look, as he might have done with any man likely to occupy space
    without bringing in much business.
     Plenty of other people were drinking more than Fernao: Lagoans, slant-
    eyed Kuusamans, Vahnierans in trousers, Sibians, even a few Algarvians
    who'd managed to run their foes' blockade. The mage wondered what
    sort of shady deals they were cooking up. Since everyone could come to
    Setubal, anything was liable to happen here. He knew that very wen.
     Along with noting the conversation hurrirmng around him, he listened
    with a different part of his being to the power humming through Setubal.
    There were more power points in a smaller space here than anywhere else
    in the world; more ley lines converged on the Lagoan capital than on any
    other city. In a mage's veins, the song of that power sometimes seemed
    stronger than his pulse.
     A man slid down on to the ladderbacked chair across the table from
    Fernao. "Mind if I Join you?" he asked with a friendly smile.
     "It's all right," Fernao answered. He would sooner have been alone
    with his thoughts, but the tavern was crowded. He lifted his wineglass.
    "Your good health."
     "I thank you, sir. And yours." The stranger lifted his mug in return.
    Steam and a sweet, spicy smell rose from it: hot mulled cider in there, unless
    Femao's nose had lost its cleverness. The stranger sipped, then nodded with
    the air of a connoisseur. "Powers above, that's good," he said.
     Fernao nodded, politely but without intending to encourage further
    conversation. But, as he drank a little more wine, he could not help start-
    ing to size up the man across from him. And, once he'd started, he found
    he couldn't stop. The fellow spoke unaccented Lagoan, but he didn't
    look like a native of King Vitor's domain. Lagoans were more various in
    their appearance than the folk of many kingdoms - Ferriao's slanted eyes
    said as much - but very few were dark and stocky and heavily bearded.
     Even fewer wore trousers. That was a Kaunian fashion no kingdom
    sprung from Algarvic stock had ever adopted. Taken all in all, the stranger
    might have been put together out of pieces from three or four different
    puzzles.

    




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    Harry Turtledove
    
     He also noticed Fernao scrutinizing him, which he wasn't supposed to
    do. He smiled again, a surprisingly charming smile from a man less than
    handsome. After another sip at his hot cider, he said, "Am I correct in
    understanding, sir, that you are more than a little skilled at getting into
    and out of places where others might possibly not want to go?"
     A trip into Feltre despite the anger of the Sibian Navy qualified Fernao
    to answer aye. He did nothing of the sort, instead saying, "You are cor-
    rect in understanding, sit, that my business is my business - and no one
    else's unless I choose to make it so."
     The fellow across the table from him laughed gaily, as if he'd said
    something very funny. Femao knocked back his wine - the taverner, no
    doubt, would be pleased - and started to get to his feet. Where nothing
    else had, that made the stranger lose his too-easy smile. "Please, sit, don't
    go yet," he said in a voice that, despite its polite tones, held iron under-
    neath.
    
     His right hand rested, broad palm down, on the tabletop. He m ight
    have had some sort of weapon - a cut-down stick, perhaps a knife -
    under it. But when he lifted it, taking care that Femao and no one else
    could see what he did, he revealed not a weapon but the sparkle of gold.
     Femao sat back down. "You have engaged my attention, at least for
    the time being. Say on, sir."
     "I thought that might do the trick," the stranger said complacently.
    "You Lagoans have the name of being a mercenary folk. That you trade
    with both sides during the current unpleasantness does nothing to detract
    from it."
     "That we trade with both sides shows a certain common sense, in my
    view," Fernao said. "That you sneer at my people does nothing to attract
    me to you. And, if we are to continue this discussion, give me a name to
    call you. I do not deal with nameless men." Unless I have no choice, he
    thought but did not say aloud. Here, though, the choice was his.
     "Names have power," the man across the table from him observed.
    "Names especially have power in the mouth of a mage. But you may caH
    me Shelomith, if you must stick a handle on me as if I were a hot pot."
     "If whatever notion you have in mind could not bum me, you would
    have approached me in a different way," Fernao said. And Shelomith was
    not the name with which the stranger had been born. It sounded like one
    the barbarous Ice People used. Whatever blood ran in Shelornith's veins,

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    121
    
    it was not from that stock. Fernao went on, "You have shown me gold.
    I presume you have in mind paying me some. How do you expect me to
    earn it?"
     "This for listening," Shelomith said, and shoved the coin he had con-
    cealed across to the mage. It showed the fuzzy-bearded king of Gyongyos,
    whose image was bordered by an inscription in dernotic Gyongyosian
    script, which Fernac, recognized but could not read. He did not think the
    coin's origin said anything about what Shelomith had in mind. Gold cir-
    culated freely all across the world, and a crafty man could use it to conceal
    rather than to reveal. As if to point in that same direction, Shelomith spoke
    again: "For listening - and for your discretion."
     "Discretion goes only so far," Fernao said. "If you ask me to betray my
    king or my kingdom, I wiU do nothing of the sort. I will shout for a
    constable instead."
     He wondered if Shelomith would find urgent business elsewhere on
    hearing that. The stranger only shrugged wide shoulders. "Nothing of the
    sort," he said in reassuring tones. Of course, he would have said the same
    thing had he been lying. He went on, "You may remain apart from the
    proposal I shall put to you, but it could not offend even the most delicate
    sensibility."
    
     "Such a statement is all the better for proof," Ferriao said. "Tell me
    plainly what you want from me. I will tell you if you may have it and, if
    so, at what price."
    
     Shelomith looked pained. Fernao got the idea that asking him to speak
    plainly was like asking the Falls of Leixoes to flow uphill. At last, after
    another long pull at his cider, he said, as he had before, "You are, are you
    not, good at getting into and out of tight places?"
     "This is where we began." The mage made as if to get up again, this
    time with the goldpiece in the pouch on his belt. "Good morning."
     As he'd more than half expected, another goldpiece appeared under
    Shelomith's palm. Fernao kept rising. "Good my sit," Shelomith said
    plaintively. "Only sit, and be patient, and all will be made clear." Fernao
    sat. The stranger passed him the second goldpiece. He made it disappear:
    a good, profitable morning. Shelomith looked even more pained. "Are
    you always so difficult?"
     "I make a point of it," Fernao said. "Are you always so obscure?"
     Shelomith muttered under his breath. To Fernao's disappointment, he
    
    10
    
    r-
    
    ne
    
    aid
    
    no
    
    ing
    n't
    
    er-
    
    ght
    
    else
    old.
    t for
    
    ntly.
    trade
    tract
    
   n my

    




    tract
    me to
    ce, he
    
  erved.
      call
    pot."
    would
    ith was
    ke one
     veins,
    
    I
    
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    0
    
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    Harry Turtledove
    
    could not make out which language the stranger used when angry. He sat
    quietly and waited. Maybe Shelomith would feed him still more gold for
    doing nothing. Instead, with the air of a man yielding himself up to a
    dentist, Shelomith said, "Does it not wring your heart to see a crowned
    king trapped in exile far from his native land?"
     "Ali," Fernao said. "Sits the wind so? Well, a question for a question:
    don't you think King Penda is a lot happier sitting in exile in Yanina than
    he would be had the Algarvians or Unkerlanters caught him in
    Forthweg?"
     "You are as clever as I hoped," Shelomith said, slapping on the flattery
    with a broad brush. Fernao would have been naYve to fail to get his drift.
    "The answer to your question is aye, but only to a degree. He is not only
    in exile; he might as well be in prison. King Tsavellas holds him close, so
    he can yield him up to King Swemmel if the Unkerlanter's pressure
    grows too great."
     "Ah," Fernao repeated. He fell into slow, sonorous Forthwegian:
    "And you want him taken beyond King Swemmel's reach."
     "Even so," Shelomith answered in the same language. "Having a mage
    with us will make us more likely to succeed. Having a Lagoan mage with
    us will make it less likely that King Swenimel can take reprisal against
    him."
     "A distinct point, from all I have'heard of King Swemmel," Fernao
    said. "The next question is, what makes you think I am the Lagoan mage
    you want?"
     "You have gone into Algarve in time of war, why should you not go
    into Yanina in time of peace? You are a mage of the first rank, so you will
    have the strength to do whatever may be needed. You speak
    Forthwegian, as you have shown. I would be lying if I said you were the
    only mage at whom we are looking, but you are the man we would like
    to have."
     His friends were probably saying the same thing to the other candi-
    dates. As soon as someone was rash enough to say aye, they would lose,
    interest in the others. Fernao wondered if he was rash enough to say aye.
    He'd never been to Yanina. Getting there would be easy enough, if King
    Swernmel didn't invade; the small kingdom between Algarve and
    Unkerlant remained nervously neutral. Getting out - especially getting
    out with King Penda - was liable to be something else again.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
     Of course, Shelomith was liable not to care whether Fernao got out or
    not, so long as Penda did. That might make life interesting in several
    unpleasant ways. A sensible man would pocket the two Gyongyosian
    goldpieces and go about his business.
     "When do we sail?" Fernao asked.
    
     Marshal Rathar endured the search to which King Swernmel's body-
    guards subjected him with less aplomb than he usually showed. He had
    not conceived so high an opinion of himself as to think he was above
    searching. But he did begrudge the time he had to waste before being
    admitted to his sovereign's presence.
     Once he'd got past the guards, he also begrudged the time he had to
    spend knocking his head against the carpet before the king. Ceremony
    was all very well in its place; it reminded people what a great and mighty
    sovereign ruled them. Rathar, though, already knew that wen. Wasting
    time on ceremony, then, struck him as inefficient.
     King Swemmel saw things otherwise. As always, how King Swernmel
    saw things prevailed in Unkerlant. Having at last been granted perrilission
    to rise, Rathar said, "May it please your Majesty, I am come at your
    command."
     "It pleases us very little," Swernmel replied in his light, rather petulant
    voice. "We are beset by enemies on all sides. One by one, for Unkerlant's
    greater glory and for our own safety, we must be rid of them."
     He quivered a little on his high seat. He was quite capable of deciding
    on the spur of the moment that Rathar was an enemy and ordering his
    head stricken from his body. A lot of officers, some of high rank, had died
    that way during the Twinkings War. A lot more had died that way since.
     If he decided that, he would be wrong, but it would do Rathar no
    good. Showing fear would do Rathar no good, either. It might make
    Swemmel decide he had reason to be afraid. The marshal said, "Point me
    atyour foes, your Majesty, and I will bring them down. I am your hawk."
     "We have too many foes," Swemmel said. "Gyongyos in the far
    west-"
     "We are, for the moment, at peace with Gyongyos," Rathar said.
     Swemmel went on as if he had not spoken: "Algarve "
     Now Rathar interrupted with more than a little alarm, saying, "Your
    Majesty, King Mezentio's men have been most scrupulous in observing
    
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    Harry Turtledove
    
    the border between their kingdom and ours that existed before the start
    of the Six Years' War. They are as happy to see Forthweg gone from the
    map again as we are. They want no trouble with us; they have their hands
    full in the east."
     He needed a moment to decipher King Swernmel's expression. It was
    a curious blend of amusement and pity, the sort of expression Rathar
    might have used had his ten-year-old son come out with some very naYve
    view of the way the world worked. Swernmel said, "They will attack us.
    Sooner or later, they will surely attack us - if we give them the chance."
     If King Swemmel wanted to go to war with one of his small, weak
    neighbors, that was one thing. If he wanted to go to war with Algarve,
    that was something else again. Urgently, Rathar said, "Your Majesty, our
    armies are not yet ready to fight King Mezentio's. The way the
    Algarvians used dragons and behemoths to open the path for their foot in
    Forthweg is something new on the face of the world. We need to learn
    to defend against it, if we can. We need to learn to irmitate it, too. Until
    we do those things, which I have already set in motion, we should not
    engage Algarve."
     He waited for King Swernmel to order him to hurl the annies of
    Unkerlant against King Mezentio in spite of what he had said, in which
    case he would do his best. He also waited for his sovereign to curse him
    for having failed to invent the new way of fighting himself. Swernmel did
    neither. He merely continued with his catalogue of grievances: "King
    Tsavellas casts defiance in our face, refusing to yield up to us the person
    of Penda, who pretended to be king of Forthweg."
     Swernmel had recognized Penda as king of Forthweg until Algarvian
    and Unkerlanter arrm'es made Penda flee his falling kingdom. That was
    not the point at the heart of the matter, though. Rathar said, "If we
    invade Yanina, your Majesty, we collide with Algarve again. I would
    sooner use Yanina as a shield, to keep Algarve from colliding with us."
     "We never forget insults. Never," Swemmel said. Rathar hoped he
    was talking about Tsavellas. After a moment, Swernmel went on, "Atid
    there is Zuwayza. The Zuwayzi provocations against us are intolerable."
     Rathar knew perfectly well that Unkerlant was the kingdom doing the
    provoking. He wondered whether Swernmel knew it, too, or whether
    his sovereign truly believed himself the aggrieved party. You never could
    tell with Swernmel. Rathar said, "The Zuwayzin do indeed grow over-

    




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    125
    
    bold." If he could steer the king away from launching an attack on
    Yanina, he would.
     He could, which he reckoned hardly less a miracle than those a first-
    rank mage could sometimes produce. King Swernmel said, "The time has
    come to settle Zuwayza, so that Shazli may no longer threaten us." As he
    refused to accord Penda the royal title, so he also did with Shazli. He
         "P
    went on,                                     eady the army to fall upon Zuwayza at my order."
     "It is merely a matter of transporting troops and beasts and equipment
    to the frontier, your Majesty," Rathar said with relief "We have planned
    this campaign for some time, and shall be able to unleash our warriors
    whenever you should command - provided," he added hastily, "that you
    give us time enough to deploy fully before commencing.,,
     "You can do this and still leave a large enough force in reclaimed
    Forthweg to guard against Algarvian treachery?" Swernmel demanded.
     "We can," Rathar said. Unkerlanter officers had been planning for
    war against Zuwayza since the day Swernmel drove Kyot's forces out of
    Cottbus. Some of those plans involved fighting Zuwayza while holding
    the line against Algarve in the east. It was just a matter of pulling the right
    sheet of orders from the file, adapting them to the precise circumstances,
    and issuing them.
     "How soon can we begin to punish the desert-dwellers?" Swemmel
    asked.
     Before answering, Rathar reviewed in his mind the man he was like-
    liest to use. "Not so many ley lines leading up toward Zuwayza as we
    would like, your Majesty," he said. "Not many through the desert lead-
    ing toward Bishah, either. If we hadn't already established supply caches
    up there, we'd be a good while preparing. As things are ... We can move
    in three weeks, I would say." In practice, it would take rather longer, as
    such things had a way of doing, but he was sure he would be able to keep
    King Swernmel from actually ordering the assault till everything was
    ready.
     But, as he'd thought only a few minutes before, you never could ten
    with Swernmel. The king screwed up his face till he looked like an infant
    about to throw a tantrum. "We cannot wait that long!" he shouted. "We
    will not wait that long! We have been waiting for twenty years!"
     Rathar spoke in what he thought to be the voice of reason: "If you
    have been waiting so long, your Majesty, would you not be wise in
    
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    Harry Turtledove
    
    waiting just a little longer, to make sure everything goes forward as it
    should?"
     "If you show yourself a disobedient servant, Marshal, we shall find
    another to wield the righteous sword of Unkerlant," Swernmel said in a
    deadly voice. "It is our will that our army redeem the land the Zuwayzin
    stole from us beginning no later than ten days hence."
     If someone else suddenly became Marshal of Unkerlant, he would
    make a worse hash of the war against Zuwayza, and of any later wars, than
    P,athar would himself Rathar knew the men likeliest to replace him if he
    fell, and knew without false modesty that he was abler than any of them.
    Not only that, but he had his hands on the reins and knew exactly how
    to guide the horse. Anyone else would need a while to figure out how to
    do whatever needed doing.
     All that went through Pathar's mind before he worried about his own
    extinction. He was not sure his wife would miss him; they spent little
    time together these days. His oldest son was a Junior officer. His fall
    would injure the lad's career - or Swernmel might decide to destroy the
    whole family, to make sure no trouble arose later.
     Steadily, even stolidly, Rathar asked, "Would you throw away twenty
    years of waiting, your Majesty, because you cannot bear to wait twenty
    days?"
     Swernmel's chin was hardly the more prepossessing Rathar had ever
    seen. Nonetheless, the king stuck it out. "We shall not wait even an
    instant longer. Will you or will you not launch the assault in ten days'
    time, Marshal?"
     11 If we strike too soon, without all our regiments in their proper places,
    the Zuwayzin win be far better able to resist," Rathar said.
     King Swernmel's eyes bored into his. Rathar dropped his own eyes,
    staring down at the green carpet on which he stood. Nevertheless, he felt
    the king's gaze like a physical weight, a heavy, heavy weight. Swemmel
    said, "We would not have so much patience with many men, Marshal.
    Do you obey us?"
     "Your Majesty, I obey you," Rathar said. Obeying Swernmel
    would cost lives. Odds were, it would cost lives by the thousands.
    Unkerlant had lives to spend. Zuwayza did not. It was as simple as that.
    And with Rathar in command, the king's willfulness would not cost so
    many lives as it would under some other commander. So he told

    




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    127
    
    himself, at any rate, salving his conscience as best he could.
     When he looked up at Swernmel again, the king was relaxed, or as
    relaxed as his tightly wound spirit ever let him be. "Go, then," he said.
    "Go and ready the army, to hurl it against the Zuwayzin at our com-
    mand. We shall publish to the world the indignities Shazli and his burnt-
    skinned, naked minions have conirmitted against our kingdom. No one
    will lift a finger to aid them."
     "I should think not," Rathar said. With the rest of the world
    embroiled in war, who would even grieve over one small, distant
    kingdom?
     "Go, then," Swernmel repeated. "You have shown yourself to be a
    good leader of men, Marshal, and the armies you commanded did all we
    expected and all we had hoped in taking back Forthweg. Otherwise, your
    insolence here would not go unpunished. Next time, regardless of cir-
    cumstances, it shall not go unpunished. Do you understand?"
     "I am your servant, your Majesty," Rathar said, bowing low. "You
    have commanded; I shall obey. All I wanted was to be certain you fully
    grasped the choice you are making."
     "Every man, woman, and child in Unkerlant is our servant," King
    Swemmel said indifferently. "A marshal's blade makes you no different
    from the rest. And we make our own choices for our own reasons. We
    need no one to confuse our mind, especially when we did not seek your
    views on this matter. Do you understand that?"
     "Aye, your Majesty." Rathar's face showed nothing of what he
    thought. So far as he could, his face showed nothing at all. Around King
    Swemmel, that was safest.
     "Then get out!" Swernmel shouted.
     Rathar prostrated himself again. When he rose to retreat from the
    king's chamber, he did so without turning around, lest his back offend his
    sovereign. In the antechamber, he buckled on his ceremonial sword once
    more. A guard matter-of-factly got between him and the doorway
    through which he'd come, to make sure he could not attack the king.
    Sometimes the idea was tempting, though Rathar did not let his face
    show that, either.
     He went off to do his best to get the army ready to invade Zuwayza at
    King Swemmel's impossible deadline. His aides exclaimed in dismay.
    Normally as calm a man as any ever born, Rathar screamed at them. After

    




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    Harry Turtledove
    
    his audience with Swernmel, that made him feel a little better, but not
    much.
    
     Tealdo liked being stationed in the Duchy of Banijust fine, even if, as
    a man from the north, he found oncoming autumn in this part of Algarve
    on the chilly side. The folk of the Duchy remained thrilled to be united
    with their countrymen, from whom old Duke Alardo had done his best
    to sunder them. And a gratifying number of girls in the Duchy remained
    thrilled to unite with Algarvian soldiers.
     "Why shouldn't they?" Tealdo's friend Trasone said when he
    remarked on that. "It's their patriotic duty, isn't it?"
     "If I ever told a wench it was her patriotic duty to lay me, she'd figure
    it was her patriotic duty to smack me in the head," Tealdo said, which
    made Trasone laugh. Tealdo went on, "The other thing I like about
    being here is that I'm not blazing away at the Valmierans or the jelgavans
    - and they're not blazing away at me. 11
    
     Trasone laughed again, a big bass rumble that suited his burly frame.
    "Well, I won't argue with that. Powers above, I can't argue with that.
    But sooner or later we'll have to do some blazing, and when we do it's
    liable to be worse than facing either one of the stinking Kaunian
    kingdoms. "
     "Sooner or later will take care of itself," Tealdo said. "For now,
    nobody's blazing at me, and that's just fine."
     He strode out of the barracks, which were made of pine timber so
    new, they still smelled strongly of resinous sap. Off in the distance, waves
    from the Narrow Sea slapped against the stone breakwater that shielded
    the harbor of Imola from winter storms. Endless streams of birds flew past
    overhead, all of them going north. Already they were fleeing the brief
    summer of the land of the Ice People. Soon, very soon, they would be
    fleeing the Duchy of Bari, too, bound for warmer climes. Some would
    stop in northern Algarve and jelgava; some would cross the Garelian
    Ocean and winter in tropic Siaulia, which hardly knew the meaning of
    the word.
     Above the twittering flocks, dragons whirled in lazy - no, in lazy-
    looking - circles. Tealdo looked south, toward the sea and toward Sibiu.
    More dragons circled over the sea. Tealdo resented the dragonfliers less
    than he had when he was marching into the Duchy. They kept the Sibs

    




    ed
    
    he
    
    ans
    
    nian
    
    ow,
    
    r so
    
    aves
    elded
    
     past
    brief
    d be
    ould
    relian
    
    ing of
    
    lazy-
    Sibiu.
    rs less
    e Sibs
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    129
    
    from dropping eggs on his head. He heartily approved of that. They also
    kept the enemy's dragons from peering down on him and his comrades.
    He approved of that, too.
     A trumpeter on the parade ground in front of the barracks blew a
    sprightly flourish: the call to assembly. Tealdo dashed for his place.
    Behind him, men poured from the barracks as if from a bawdy house the
    constables were raiding. He took his assigned place in the ranks of the
    regiment ahead of almost everyone else. That gave him half a minute to
    brush a few specks of dust from his kilt, to slide his boots along his socks,
    and to adjust his broad-brimmed hat to the proper jaunty angle before
    Sergeant Panfilo started prowling.
     Prowl Panfilo did. He favored Tealdo with a glare sergeants surely had
    to practice in front of a reflecting glass. Tealdo looked back imper-
    turbably. Panfilo reached out and slapped away some dust he'd missed -
    or perhaps slapped at nothing at all, to keep Tealdo from thinking he had
    the world by the tail. Sergeants did things like that.
     "King Mezentic, doesn't want slobs in his army," Panfilo growled.
     "Told you so himself, did he?" Tealdo asked innocently.
     But Panfilo got the last word: "That he did, in his regulations, and I'll
    thank you to remember it." He stalked off to make some other common
    soldier's life less joyous than it had been.
     Colonel Ombruno swaggered out to the front of the regiment. "Well,
    my pirates, my cutthroats, my old-fashioned robbers and burglars," he
    called with a grin, "how wags your world today?"
     "We are well, sit," Tealdo shouted along with the rest of the men.
     "Diddling enough of the pretty girls around these parts?" Ombruno
    asked.
     "Aye!" the men shouted, Tealdo again loud among them. He knew
    Ombruno chased - and caught - the Barian women as frequently as he
    had farther north in Algarve.
     "That's good; that's good." The regimental commander rocked back
    on his heels, then forward once more. "No diddling for now, though,
    except that we're going to figure out how to diddle our enemies. Go load
    your packs, grab your sticks, and report back here in ten rminutes.
    Dismissed!"
    
     This time, Tealdo groaned. He knew what they would be doing for
    the rest of the day: the same thing they'd been doing most of the days

    





    




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    Harry Turtledove
    
    since they'd established themselves by Imola. Unless it involved a pretty
    girl, he soon got sick of doing the same thing over and over. He realized
    that, when the time for fighting came, all this practice was liable to help
    keep him alive. That didn't, that couldn't, make him enjoy it while it was
    going on.
     His pack sat at the foot of his cot, in precisely the prescribed place. His
    stick leaned against the wall at the left side of the bed, at precisely the pre-
    scribed angle. Panfilo hadn't been able to find a thing to complain about
    in the way he handled his gear, If Panfilo couldn't find it, it wasn't there.
     Tealdo slung the pack over his shoulder, grunting at its weight. When
    he picked up the stick, his finger accidentally slid into the blazing hole. It
    didn't matter here, not directly: in training, well away from any fighting
    front, none of the weapons carried a sorcerous charge. But it was not a
    good habit to acquire.
     He wasn't one of the first men back out to the parade ground. But he
    wasn't one of the last men out, either, the men at whom his superiors
    screamed. He enjoyed people screaming at him no more than he enjoyed
    endless practice. Practice he couldn't escape. He could keep people from
    screaming at him, could and did.
     "Form by companies!" Colonel Ombruno shouted: a useless order,
    since the regiment always formed by companies. "Form by companies,
    and report to your designated practice locations."
     The company commanders shepherded the men off to their own areas.
    Soon, when a new practice field combined all those areas, they would
    work together. In the meanwhile ...
     In the meanwhile, the company commanders got to puff out their chests
    and strut, like so many pigeons trying to impress mates. Captain Larbino's
    strut and his shouted orders did not impress Tealdo: he was no dimwitted
    female pigeon. But he had to obey, which a female pigeon did not.
     Larbino led his company to a cramped underground chamber that ha
    two stairways leading down into it, one broad, the other narrow. The
    men entered the chamber by the broad stairway. Only a few lantem~s,
    stinking of fish oil, cast a dim, flickering glow there. "Powers above, it's
    like failing back through a thousand years of time," Tealdo muttered.
     "Take your places!" Larbino's loud voice dinned in the small, crowded
    chamber. "Five minutes till the exercise begins! Take your places! No
    mercy on any man who's out of place when the whistle blows."

    




    is
    
    re-
    
    out
    
    re.
    
    hen
    e. It
    
    ting
    ot a
    
    t he
    
    nors
    
    rder,
    
    nies,
    
   areas.
    ould
    
    chests
    
   at had
    . The
    
    terns,
    e, it's
    ed.
    wded
    es! No
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    131
    
     The soldiers were already taking their places. They had been doing this
    for three weeks. They knew, or were convinced they knew, at least as
    much about their part of the operation as did Larbino. They formed a
    single serpentine line that led to the bottom of the narrow stairway and
    kinked at each earthen wall. Seen from above, it would have looked like
    a long string of gut twisted to fit into the abdorminal cavity.
     Shrill and deafeningly loud, the brass whistle screeched. "I love run-
    ning in full kit," Trasone said through the blast, and then, in a lower
    voice, "In a pig's arse I do." Tealdo chuckled. He felt the same way.
     "Out! Out! Out!" Larbino was screaming. "They'll be blazing at you
    when you do this for real! Don't stand around playing with yourselves."
     "I'd rather be playing with myself than doing this," Tealdo said. He
    didn't think anyone heard him. The line was uncoiling rapidly as soldier
    after soldier dashed up the narrow stairs. They'd had dreadful tangles the
    first few times they tried it. They'd got better with practice. Tealdo
    declined to adnu't that, even to himself
     His feet thudded on the timbers of the narrow stairway. Up he went.
    Anyone who tnipped here was a cork in the bottle for everyone behind
    him. Panfilo had a more expressive term for it: as far as he was concerned,
    anyone who tnipped on the narrow stairway was a dead man.
     Tealdo emerged into daylight. Before long, they'd be running the
    exercise at night, which would make it even more delightful. He dashed
    to a broad plank that spanned a deep trench and raced across it. Two men
    from his company had fallen into the trench. One managed to escape
    without being hurt. The other broke his leg.
     Cloth flags on stakes marked the narrow way he and his comrades had
    to take. He rushed along that narrow way till it suddenly widened out.
    Where it did, buildings - or rather, false fronts - defined streets through
    which they had to run. Soldiers with uncharged sticks "fought" from
    those false fronts, trying to impede the company's progress. Umpires with

    




    green ribbons tied to their tunic sleeves signaled theoretical casualties.
     Tealdo "blazed" back at the defenders. One after another, the umpires
    ruled them deceased. But Tealdo's comrades were taken out of action,
    too. He rather hoped he would be, as had happened during a couple of
    practice runs. Then he could lie down and grab a breather, and no
    sergeant would be able to complain.
     But, at the umpires' whim, he was allowed to survive. Panting, he

    




    132
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    raced left, right, and then left again before coming to the gateway for
    whose capture his company was responsible. More soldiers tried to keep
    the company from seizing the gate. The umpires ruled those soldiers
    failed and fell.
     The egg one of Captain Larbino's soldiers set against the gateway was
    only a wooden simulacrum. An umpire's whistle blew, signaling a blast of
    energy. A couple of defenders, nuiraculously revived from their "deaths",
    opened the gate to let the "survivors" of the company inside.
     More narrow ways lay beyond, some as twisted as the paths in a maze.
    Still more soldiers tried to keep Tealdo and his comrades from passing
    those ways to the end. Again, they failed. More whistles shrilled. Tealdo
    raised a weary cheer. He and enough of the other soldiers had reached
    the end of the practice area to have succeeded were this actual battle.
     "King Mezentio and all of Algarve will have reason to be proud of you
    when you fight this well with your lives truly in the pans of the scale,"
    Larbinc, declared. "I know you will. You need no lessons in courage,
    only in how best to use that courage. Those lessons will go on.
    Tomorrow, we will take the practice course in the dark."
     Weary groans replaced the weary cheers. Tealdo turned and saw
    Trasone not far away. "Marching into Bari was a lot more fun," he said.
    "All this running around looks too much like work to me."
     "It'll look even more like work when the bastards on the other side
    start blazing back for real," Trasone answered.
     "Don't remind me," Tealdo said with a grimace. "Don't remind me."
    
     Leofsig felt like a beast of burden, or perhaps an animal in a cage. He
    was not a Forthwegian soldier any more, the Forthwegian army having
    been crushed between those of Algarve and Unkerlant. Not a foot of
    Forthwegian soil remained under the control of men loyal to King Penda.
    From east and west, the enemies' forces had Joined hands east of
    Eoforwic; joined hands over Forthweg's fallen corpse.
     And so Leofsig languished with thousands of his comrades in x
    captives' camp somewhere between Gromheort and Eoforwic, not far
    from where his regiment, or what was left of it, had finally surrendered
    to the Algarvians. He scowled when he thought of the dapper Algarvian
    officer who'd inspected the dirty, worn, beaten Forthwegian soldiers
    still hale enough to line up for the surrender ceremony.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    side
    
    e.
    
    . He
    
    ng
    ot of
    nda.
    st of
    
                                       in a
                                      ot far
                                      dered
    
                                      arvian
                                      Idiers
    
    133
    
     "You fought well. You fought bravely," the Algarvian officer had said,
    trilling the slow sounds of Forthwegian as if they belonged to his native
    tongue. Then he'd hopped into the air, kicking up his heels in an
    extravagant gesture of contempt. "And for all the good it did you, for all
    the good it did your kingdom, you might as well not have fought at all.
    Think on that. You will have a long time to think on that." He'd turned
    his back and strutted away.
     Time Leofsig did indeed have. Inside these wooden fences, inside
    these towers manned by Algarvians who would sooner blaze a captive
    coming near than listen to him, time was very nearly the only thing he
    did have. He had the tunic and boots in which he'd surrendered, and he
    had a hard cot in a flimsy barracks.
     He also had work. If the captives wanted wood for cooking and wood
    for heating - not so great a need in Forthweg as farther south in Derlavai,
    but not to be ignored as winter drew nearer, either - they had to cut it
    and haul it back. Work gangs under Algarvian guard went out every day.
    If they wanted latrines to keep the camp from being swamped by filth and
    disease, they had to dig them. The place stank anyway, putting Leofsig in
    mind of a barnyard once more.
     If they wanted food, they had to depend on the Algarvians. Their cap-
    tives doled out flour as if it were silver, salt pork as if it were gold. Like
    most Forthwegians, Leofsig was on the blocky side. The block that was
    he had been narrowing ever since he'd surrendered.
     "They don't care," he said to his neighbor after yet another meager
    meal. "They don't care in the least."
     "Why should they?" the fellow with the cot next to his replied. He
    was a blond Kauman named Gutauskas, and already lean. "If we starve to
    death, they don't have to worry about feeding us any more."
     That was so breathtakingly cynical, Leofsig could only stare. The fel-
    low with the cot on the other side of his, though, a burly chap called
    Merwit, spat in disgust. "Why don't you shut up and die now, yellow-
    hair?" he said. "Weren't for you cursed Kaunians, we wouldn't have
    gotten sucked into this war in the first place."
     Gutauskas raised a pale eyebrow. "Oh, indeed: no doubt," he said,
    speaking Forthwegian without perceptible accent but with the elegant
    precision more characteristic of his own language. "Both his name and
    his looks prove King Penda to be of pure Kaunian blood."

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    for
    
    as
    of
    
    aze.
    
    saw
    said.
    
    r side
    
    me.
    
    e. He
    having
    foot of
    Penda.
    east of
    
   es in a
    not far
   endered
    garvian
    soldiers
    
    133
    
     "You fought well. You fought bravely," the Algarvian officer had said,
    trilling the slow sounds of Forthwegian as if they belonged to his native
    tongue. Then he'd hopped into the air, kicking up his heels in an
    extravagant gesture of contempt. "And for all the good it did you, for all
    the good it did your kingdom, you might as well not have fought at all.
    Think on that. You will have a long time to think on that." He'd turned
    his back and strutted away.
     Time Leofsig did indeed have. Inside these wooden fences, inside
    these towers manned by Algarvians who would sooner blaze a captive
    coming near than listen to him, time was very nearly the only thing he
    did have. He had the tunic and boots in which he'd surrendered, and he
    had a hard cot in a flimsy barracks.
     He also had work. If the captives wanted wood for cooking and wood
    for heating - not so great a need in Forthweg as farther south in Derlavai,
    but not to be ignored as winter drew nearer, either - they had to cut it
    and haul it back. Work gangs under Algarvian guard went out every day.
    If they wanted latrines to keep the camp from being swamped by filth and
    disease, they had to dig them. The place stank anyway, putting Leofsig in
    mind of a barnyard once more.
     If they wanted food, they had to depend on the Algarvians. Their cap-
    tives doled out flour as if it were silver, salt pork as if it were gold. Like
    most Forthwegians, Leofsig was on the blocky side. The block that w as
    he had been narrowing ever since he'd surrendered.
     "They don't care," he said to his neighbor after yet another meager
    meal. "They don't care in the least."
     "Why should they?" the fellow with the cot next to his replied. He
    was a blond Kaunian named Gutauskas, and already lean. "If we starve to
    death, they don't have to worry about feeding us any more."
     That was so breathtakingly cynical, Leofsig could only stare. The fel-
    low with the cot on the other side of his, though, a burly chap called
    Merwit, spat in disgust. "Why don't you shut up and die now, yellow-
    hair?" he said. "Weren't for you cursed Kaunians, we wouldn't have
    gotten sucked into this war in the first place."
     Gutauskas raised a pale eyebrow. "Oh, indeed: no doubt," he said,
    speaking Forthwegian without perceptible accent but with the elegant
    precision more characteristic of his own language. "Both his name and
    his looks prove King Pencla to be of pure Kaunian blood."

    




    134
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Leofsig snickered. Penda was stocky and swarthy like most
    Forthwegians, and bore a perfectly ordinary Forthwegian name. Merwit
    glared; he was the sort who fought with a verbal meat-axe, and wasn't
    used to getting pierced with a rapier of sarcasm. "He's got a bunch of
    Kaunian lickspittles around him," he said at last. "They clouded his
    mind, that's what they did, till he didn't know up from yesterday.
    Why should he care a fart what happens to Valmiera and Jelgava,
    Algarve can blaze 'em down, for all I care. I'll watch 'em burn and wavc
    bye-bye."
     "Aye, King Penda's lickspittles have done wonders for the Kaunians il
    Forthweg," Gutauskas said, sardonic still. "They've made us all ricl
    They've made all our neighbors love us. If there were ten of us for orl
    of you, Merwit, you'd understand better." He paused. "No. Yc
    wouldn't. Some people never understand anything."
     "I understand this." Merwit made a large, hard fist. "I understand I c:
    beat the stuffing out of you." He started toward Gutauskas.
     "No, curse it!" Leofsig grabbed him. "The redheads'll come down
    all of us if we brawl."
     Merwit surged in his grasp. "They won't care if we stomp these sne
    ing blond scuts. They can't stand 'em, either."
     "In the case of Mezentio's men, it is, I assure you, quite mutu
    Gutauskas said.
     When Leofsig didn't let go, Merwit slowly eased. "You just b(
    watch your smart mouth, Kauman," he told Gutauskas, "or one fine
    all of you stinking bastards in this camp'll have your pretty yellow h
    broken. You better pass the word, too, if you know what's goo(
    you." He twisted free of Leofsig and stomped off.
     Gutauskas watched him go, then turned back to Leofsig. "You
    find your head broken for having taken our part." He studied him
    natural philosopher examining some new species of insect. "Wb
    you? Forthwegians seldom do." The Kaunian's mouth twisted. "Fo
    of our blood seldom do."
     Leofsig started to answer, then stopped with his mouth h.
    foolishly open. He had no special love for Kaunians. His admirati
    Kaunians was principally limited to their women in clinging trous(
    needed to think for a bit before he could figure out why he hadn't
    Merwit against Gutauskas. At last, he said, "The Algarvians have,

    




    d
    ot
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    135
    
    in the palm of their hand. If we start squabbling in here, they'll laugh
    themselves sick."
     "That is sensible," Gutauskas said after his own pause for thought.
    "You would be astonished at how seldom people are sensible."
     "My father says the same thing," Leofsig answered.
     "Does he?" Gutauskas's eyebrow rose again. "And what, pray, does
    your father do, that he has acquired such wisdom?"
     Is he laughing at me? Leofsig wondered. He decided Gutauskas wasn't;
    it was merely the Kauman's manner. "He keeps books in Gromheort."
     "Ali." Gutauskas nodded. "Aye. I can see reckoning up that on which
    men spend their silver and gold would give a man vivid insight into the
    in* Id f
    anifo ollies of his fellow men."
     "I suppose so," said Leofsig, who hadn't thought about it much.
     He waited for Gutauskas to thank him for stopping the fight. The
    Kaunian did nothing of the sort. He acted as if Leofsig could hardly have
    acted differently. Kaunians never made it easy for their neighbors to get
    alone with them. Had they made it easy for their neighbors to get along
    with them, they wouldn't have been the Kaunians he knew. He won-
    dered what they would have been.
     Before he could take that thought any further, a squad of Algarvian
    guards tramped into the barracks. In bad Forthwegian, one of them said.
    "We search. Maybe you try escape, eh? You go out." The others sup-
    plemented the order with peremptory gestures with their sticks.
     Out Leofsig went, Gutauskas trailing after him. Crashes and thuds
    inside said the Algarvians were tearing the barracks to pieces. If anyone
    in there was plotting an escape, Leofsig didn't know about it. He did
    know what he'd find when the Algarvians let him and his fellow captives
    return: chaos. The Algarvians were good at tearing things to pieces. They
    didn't bother setting them to rights again. That was the captives'
    problem.
     He strolled toward the fence around the camp - carefully, because the
    guards there would blaze without warning Forthwegians who came too
    close. The fence itself wasn't particulary strong. Captives could rush it . .
    . if most of the ones who tried didn't mind dying before they got there.
    A few captives had escaped, the Algarvians discovering it only when their
    counts came out wrong. Leofsig didn't know how the escapees had done
    it. Had he, known- he'd have done it himself
    
    I

    




    136
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "You there, soldier!" a Forthwegian officer snapped at him. "If you
    haven't got anything better to do than waddle around like a drunken
    duck, draw a shovel and go fill in some slit trenches or dig some new
    ones. We've got no room in this camp for idle hands, and I'll thank you
    to remember it."
     "Aye, sit," Leofsig said resignedly. Even as captives, officers main-
    tained the tight to give common soldiers orders. The only difference was,
    even the brigadier who was the captives' commandant had to obey the
    orders of the lowliest Algarvian trooper. Leofsig wondered how the
    brigadier, who was also a belted earl and a proud and touchy man,
    enjoyed being on the receiving end of commands. Maybe the experience
    would teach him something about what a common soldier's life was like.
    Somehow, Leofsig doubted it.
     The shovels made a sadly rruismatched collection. A few were
    Forthwegian army issue; more, though, looked to have been looted from
    the farm surrounding the captives' camp. The officer in charge of the
    latrines, an intense young captain, had nonetheless arranged them in a
    neat rack he'd built from scrap lumber.
     "Ali, good," he said as Leofslg made his slow approach. "It's nasty
    work, to be sure, but someone's got to do it. Choose your weapon,
    soldier." He pointed toward the rack of shovels.
     "Aye, sit," Leofslg said again, and took as long as he could deciding
    among them. No one expected a captive to move fast; on what the
    Algarvians deigned to feed them, the captives couldn't move fast. Leofsig
    knew as much, and took advantage of it.
     "Now get to it," said the captain, who probably hadn't been deceived.
    As Leofsig started off toward the noisome trenches, the officer spoke
    again, this time with curiosity in his voice: "What did you do to get sent
    over here? The redheads mostly give this duty to Kaunians."
     "It wasn't one of the redheads," Leofsig said sheepishly. "It was one o
    our own officers. I don't suppose I looked busy enough to suit him."
     "Seeing how you went about getting a shovel there, I can't say I'hil
    surprised," the captain answered. He sounded more amused than a
    Leofsig hadn't done anything drastic enough to deserve more punish
    than latrine duty in a captives' camp. After a moment, the captain
    on, "Maybe it's just as well you got nabbed. Seeing you, the Kau
    won't think they're the only ones getting stuck with the shit detail."

    




    re
    
    in
    e
    
    ay I'm
    angry;
    hment
    went
    
    mans
    
    1.11
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    137
    
     "Just as well for you, maybe, sir," Leofslg said, "but I don't see how
    it's just as well for me."
     "Go on," the Forthwegian officer said again. "You're not going to get
    me to waste any more of my time arguing with you."
     Leofsig wouldn't have minded doing exactly that. Since he hadn't
    managed it, he went off to work. He wished he could hold his nose and
    dig at the same time. A couple of Kaunians in trousers were already
    working among the slit trenches. The captain in charge of the latrines had
    been right; they seemed surprised to have a Forthwegian for company.
    Leofslg started filling in a trench. Flies rose, resentful, in buzzing clouds.
    Seeing he was doing the same thing they were, the Kaunians went back
    to it themselves. Leofsig noted that with some small relief, then forgot
    about them. He was working as fast as he could now, to get the job over
    with. If the Kaunians liked that, fine. If they didn't, he thought, too
    cursed bad.
    
     "You've got the wrong man, I tell you!" the prisoner shouted as
    Bembo marched him up the stairs of the constabulary building in central
    Ttican'co. Bembo had clapped manacles on him; they clanked with every
    step he climbed.
     When the prisoner's complaints started to get on Bembo's nerves, he
    pulled the club off his belt and whacked it into the palm of his hand. "Do
    you want to see how loud you can yell with a mouthful of broken teeth?"
    he asked. The prisoner suddenly fell silent. Bembo similed.
     At the top of the stairs, Bembo gave him a shove that took him into
    the door face first. Clucking at the prisoner's clumsiness, Bembo opened
    the door and gave him another shove. This one sent him through the
    doorway.
     The constabulary sergeant at the front desk was at least as portly as
    Bembo. "Well, well," he said. "What have we here?" Like a lot of
     questions Algarvians asked, that one was for rhetorical effect. The next one
     wasn't: "Why'd you haul in our dear friend Martusino this time, Bembo?"
      "Loitering in front of a Jeweler's, Sergeant," Bembo answered.
      "Why, you lying sack of guts!" Martusino yelled. He addressed the
     sergeant: "I was just walking past the place, Pesaro - I swear on my
     mother's grave. That last stretch of Reform did the trick for me. I've
     gone straight, I have."

    




    138
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     He wasn't so persuasive as he might have been; the manacles kept him
    from talking with his hands. Sergeant Pesaro looked dubious. Bembo
    snarled. "Oh, he's gone straight, all right - straight back to his old tricks.
    After I spotted him, I grabbed him and searched him. He had these in his
    belt pouch." Bembo reached into his own pouch and pulled out three
    golden rings. One was a plain band, one set with a polished, faceted piece
    ofjet, and one with a fair-sized sapphire.
     "I never saw them before," the prisoner said.
     Pesaro inked a pen and started to write. "Suspicion of burglary," he
    said. "Suspicion of intent to commit burglary. Maybe they'll get sick of
    this and finally hang you, Martusino. It'd be about time, if anybody cares
    what I think."
     "This fat son of a sow is framing an innocent man!" Martusino cried.
    "He planted those rings on me, the stinking lump of dung. Like I just said,
    I never saw lem before in my life, and there's not a soul can prove I did."
     Being a constable required Bembo to take more abuse than most
    Algarvians would tolerate, as it let him deal out abuse with more
    impunity than most Algarvians. enjoyed. But he took only so much. Sack
    ofguts had come up to the edge of the line andfat son of a sow went over
    it. He pulled out his club again and hit Martusino a good lick. The
    prisoner howled.
     "Struck while resisting arrest," Pesaro noted, and scribbled another
    line on the form he was filling out. Martusino yelled louder than ever,
    partly from pain, partly from outrage. Pesaro shook his head. "Oh, shut
    up, why don't you? Take him for his pretty picture, Bembo, and then to
    the lockup, so I don't have to listen to him any more."
     "I'll do that, Sergeant. He's giving me a headache, too." Bembo ges-
    tured with the club. "Go on, get moving, or I'll give you another taste."
     Martusino got moving. Bembo escorted him to the recording section,
    to get the particulars on him down in permanent form. A pretty little
    sketch artist took his likeness. Bembo marveled at the way she could get
    a man's essence on to paper with a few deft strokes of pencil and char1coal
    stick. It wasn't sorcery, not in any conventional sense of the word, but it
    seemed rm'raculous all the same.
     He also marveled at the way the sketch artist filled out her tunic. "Why
    won't you go out to supper with me, Saffa?" he asked, not quite whin-
    ing but not far from it, either.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    er
    
    hy
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    139
    
     "Because I don't feel like wrestling," Saffa answered. "Why don't I
    just slap your face now? Then it'll be as if we'd gone to supper." She bent
    her head to her work.
     Martusino was rash enough to laugh. Bembo trod on his foot, hard.
    The prisoner yelped. Bembo did his best to grind off a toe or two, but
    didn't quite succeed. Saffa kept right on sketching. Such things happened
    all the time in constabulary stations. Sometimes worse things happened.
    Everyone knew that. No one saw any need to make a fuss about it.
     When she was done with Martusino's portrait, she told Bembo,
    "You'll have to take the manacles off him for a little while. He needs to
    sign the sketch, and we'll need fingermarks from him, too."
     One of the constables in the recording section covered Martusino with
    a small stick while Bembo unlocked the manacles. Unwillingly, the
    prisoner scrawled his name below the picture of him Saffa had drawn.
    Even more unwillingly, he let her ink his fingertips and set the impres-
    sions of the marks on the paper beside the sketch.
     "You're out of business for a while now, chum," Bembo said genially.
    "Walk off with anything else that doesn't belong to you, and our mages
    will lead us straight to your door." The manacles closed on Martusino's
    wrists again.
      "I didn't take anything this time," the prisoner protested.
     "Aye, and they get babies from out behind the fig trees," Bembo said.
    He and Martusino both knew a crooked wizard could break the link
    between a criminal and his sketch, signature, and fingermarks. Having
    signature and fingermarks to go with the image, though, made breaking
    the link harder and more expensive for the fellow who wanted it broken.
      "We're done here," Saffa said.
     Bembo took Martusino off to the lockup. Martusino knew the way;
    he'd been there before. As he and Bembo drew near, the bored-looking
    warder hastily closed a small book and shoved it into a desk drawer.
    Bembo caught just a glimpse of a bare female backside on the cover.
    "I've got a present for you, Frontino," he said, and gave the prisoner a
    shove.
      "Just what I always wanted." Frontino's expression belled his words.
     He examined Martusino. "This isn't the first time I've seen this lug, but
     I'll be cursed if I can remember his name. Who are you, pal?"
      Martusino hesitated for a split second. Before he could give a false
    
    I
    
    I

    




    140
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    name, Bembo hefted the club. Martusino abruptly decided playing the
    game by the rules would be a good idea. He answered the warder's
    questions without backtalk after that. Bembo had questions to answer,
    too, some of them duplicating the ones Pesaro had asked. When they
    were over, Frontino took a small stick out of the desk drawer - Bernbo
    got another glimpse of that interesting book cover - and aimed it at
    Martusino. At his nod, Bembo undid the manacles. The constable also
    held his club at the ready.
     "Strip off," the warder told Martusino. "Come on, come on -
    everything. You know the drill, so don't make me tell you anything
    twice."
     Martusinc, shed shoes and stockings, then pulled off tunic, kilt, and
    finally drawers. "Skin and bones," Bembo said disdainfully. "Nothing W
    skin and bones." The prisoner gave him a dirty look, but seemed to thin)
    another comment would earn him another clout. He was night.
     Frontino rose, gathered up the belongings, and stuffed them into
    cloth bag. Then he threw Martusino a tunic, a kilt, and cloth slippers 2
    striped in black and white - lockup garb. Sullenly, the prisoner put it a.
    It didn't fit very well. He knew better than to complain. "The Judl
    decides you're innocent, you'll get your own junk back then," d
    warder said. He and Bembo both grinned; they knew how unlikely tt
    was. He went on, "Otherwise, come see me when you get out
    Reform~ I may have some trouble remembering where I stashed it, bt
    expect I will if you ask me nice." kyou pay me off, he meant.
     Helpfully, Bembo said, "Pesaro thinks they may just up and hang
    this time."
     Martusino scowled. The warder shrugged. "Well, in that case he pr
    ably won't be coming back for it. It won't go to waste." Bembo nod(
    In that case, Frontino would keep what he wanted and sell the i
    Warders rarely died poor.
     "They won't hang me," Martusino said, though he sounded r)
    hopeful than confident.
     "Come on." Frontino unlocked the big iron lock on the outer do,
    the lockup. "Go on in." Martusino obeyed. Bembo and the wo
    watched him through the barred window. The inner door had a sor
    ous lock. The warder mumbled the words to the releasing spell. The 11
    door flew open. Martusinc, went in among the rest of the prisoners av

    




    INTO THE DARKNESS
    
    141
    
 ing their punishment. Frontino mumbled again. The door slammed shut.
     "What would happen if a prisoner who knew some magecraft went to
     work on that inner door?" Bembo asked.
     "It's supposed to be proof against anyone below a second-rank mage,"
    the warder answered, "and fancy mages don't go into the ordinary lockup
     you'd best believe they don't, Bembo my boy. We have special holes
    for them."
     "I've heard fancy whores say things like that," Bembo remarked.
     Frontino snorted and gave him a shot in the ribs with an elbow. "I
    didn't know you were such a funny fellow," he said.
     "I don't want too many people to know," Bembo said. "If they did,
    I'd have to go up on the stage and get rich and famous, and I don't sup-
    pose I could stand that. I'd rather stay a simple constable."
    
     "You're pretty simple, all night," Frontino agreed.
     Bembo laughed, but not the way the warder thought he did: he'd
    expected Frontino to say something like that, and was amused to be right.
    Something else crossed his mind. "Say, what was that you were reading?"
    he asked. "It looked pretty interesting."
     "Talk about your fancy whores," the warder said, and pulled the book
    out of the desk. When Bembo could tear his eyes away from that arrest-
    ing cover illustration, he discovered the romance was called Putinai: the
    Emperor's Lady. Frontino gave it his most enthusiastic recommendation:
    "She does more screwing in a week than an army of cabinetmakers could
    in a year.
     11 Sounds good." Bembo read the fine print under the title: "Based on
    the exciting true history of the turbulent Kaunian Empire." He shook his
    head. "Kaunians have always been filthy people, I guess."
     "I'd say so," the warder agreed. "Putinai does everything, and loves
    every bit of it, too. You can borrow the book after I'd done with it - if
    you promise to give it back."
     "I will, I will," Bembo assured him, with something less than perfect
    sincerity.
     Frontino must have recognized that, for he said, "Or you could spring
    for one yourself Seems like every third romance these days is about how
    vile the Kaunian Empire was and how the bold, fierce Algarvian merce-
    naries finally overthrew it. Our ancestors were tough bastards, if half what
    you read is true."

    




    142
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "Aye," Beinbo said. "Well, maybe I win buy one. A little extra cash
    in my pockets wouldn't hurt, though."
     11 Maybe we can take care of that." Frontino got out the bag in which
    he'd stored Martusino's clothes and effects, and took from it the burglar's
    belt pouch. He and Bembo divided up the silver and the couple of small
    goldpieces they found inside.
     "I get the odd coin," Bembo said, scooping it up. "Pesaro's going to
    want his cut, too." Frontino nodded. That was how things worked in
    Tricarico.
    
     Dragons spiraled high above Tirgoviste harbor - above all the harbors
    of Sibiu - keeping watch against Algarvian attack from the air or from the
    sea. They reassured Commander Cornelu whenever he looked up into the
    heavens. No doubt mages behind closed doors also probed for any distur-
    bance in the ley lines that would mean an Algarvian fleet was setting forth
    against the island kingdom. But, because the mages were hidden away,
    Cornelu had to assume they were on the job. The dragons he could see.
     Today, he couldn't see them so well as he would have liked: mist and
    low, thin clouds made them almost disappear. The weather, which wol
    only worsen as autumn gave way to winter, would make it harder for
    dragons to give early warning and would put a greater burden on the
    mages shoulders.
     Cornelu frowned. Magic was all very well, but he wanted the eyes in
    the sky to be as effective as they could, too. Seamen who took chances:
    did not often live to take very many. That held equally true for fishermen,,
    in sailboats, sailors in cruisers skimming along the ley lines, and leviathan
    riders like himself
     Musing on the wisdom of taking few chances, Cornelu tripped on a
    cobblestone and almost rolled down the hill into the sea. Tirgoviste ro
     ily f
    wift rom the shore; some of the bright-painted shops set on hillsides
    showed noticeably more wall on the side nearer the Narrow Sea than on
    the other.
     A wine merchant had a QUITTING BUSINESS banner stretch~
    across his window. Cornelu. ducked in to see what bargains he migh" 1
                                              '114
    
                                             te,
                                             1h
    
    up. Sibiu was a merchant kingdom; lying where it did, it could scarc
    be anything else. The scent of a bargain fired Comelu's blood hardly
    than the scent of his wife's favorite perfume.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    ors
    the
    the
    
    ur-
    rth
    
    es in
    ances
    
    rmen
    than
    
    on a
    
    an on
    
    tched
    t pick
carcely
      less
    
    143
    
     He found few bargains in the wine shop, only empty shelves. "Why
    did you put the banner up?" he asked the merchant.
     "Where am I going to find any more stock?" the fellow answered bit-
    terly. "Almost all I sold were Algarvian vintages, and the war's blazed our
    trade there right through the heart. Oh, I can get in a few bottles from
    Valmiera andjelgava, but that's all I can get: a few. They're expensive as
    all getout, too - expensive for me to buy, and too expensive to sell very
    fast. Might as well pack it in and try another line of work. I couldn't do
    worse, believe me."
     "King Mezentio would be lording it over us if we didn't do something
    about him," Cornelu said. "We almost waited too long in the Six Years'
    War. We don't dare take that chance again."
     "You can talk like that - King Burebistu pays your bills." The wine
    merchant's scowl was gloomier than the weather. "Who will pay mine,
    when the war cuts me off from my source of supply? You know as well
    as I do: nobody."
     Cornelu left in a hurry. He wished he'd never gone into the shop. He
    wanted to think of Sibiu as united in the effort against Algarve. He knew
    that wasn't so, but thinking of it as being so helped him do his job better.
    Getting his nose rubbed in the truth had the opposite effect, one he didn't
    want.
     He hurried down the hill to the harbor. Gulls scavenging garbage from
    the gutters rose in mewing, squawking clouds as he strode past them. He
    hoped none of them would avenge itself on his hat or the sleeve of his
    tunic. As if to give that hope the lie, a dropping splashed on to the cob-
    bles only a yard or so from his shoe. He hurried on, and reached
    Commodore Delfirm's office unbefouled.
     After the two men exchanged salutes and kisses on the cheeks,
    Comelu asked, "Sir, have we had any better luck in getting leviathans
    into the Barian ports?"
     Glumly, Delfinu shook his head. "No, and we've lost more men try-
    ing, too, as you will probably have heard." When Cornelu nodded, the
    head of the Leviathan Service went on, "The Algarvians have Imola and
    Lungni as tightly locked up as if they were virgin daughters. They keep
    dragons in the air over them all the time, too, so we can't learn from
    above what they're doing, either."
     "Curse them," Cornelu said. Dragons above Tirgoviste were one

    




    144             Harry Turtledove
    
    thing, dragons above the ports the enemy had taken for his own some-
    thing else again - something onunous. Cornelu took a deep breath. "If
    you like, sir, Eforiel and I will cross the strait and see what they're up to
    - and, if you like, put down some eggs to keep them from doing it, what-
    ever it is."
     Delfinu shook his head again. "I am ordering no man across the strait
    to Lungri and Imola. I have lost too many. The Algarvians are not so
    skilled in using leviathans as we are" - pride rang in his voice - "but they
    have become all too skilled at hunting them down." The pride leaked
    away, to be replaced by chagrin.
     "My lord, you need not order me." Cornelu drew himself up to stiff
    attention. "I volunteer my leviathan and myself
     Delfinu bowed. "Commander, Sibiu is fortunate to have you in her
    service. But I will not take advantage of your courage in this way, as if I
    were a cold-blooded Unkerlanter or a calculating Kuusaman. The odds
    of success do notiustify the risk ... and your wife is with child, is it not
    so?"
     -Sir, it is so," Cornelu said. "But I am not with child myself, and I
    took oath to serve King Burebistu and his kingdom as best I could. What
    the kingdom requires of me, that shall I do."
     "This the kingdom does not require of you," Delfinu said. "I have n
    desire to make your wife grow old a widow, nor to make your child gro,
    up not knowing its father. I will send you into danger: indeed, I will set
    you into danger without a qualm. But I will not send you to almost c(
    tain death when no good to king or kingdom is likely to come from i
     Cornelu bowed in turn. "My lord, I am lucky to have you as
    superior. Unlike the no-" He stopped, unsure how Count Delf
    would take what he'd been on the point of saying.
     Even though he hadn't said it, Delfinu figured out what it
    "Unlike the nobles in the Kauman kingdoms, ours are supposed to k
    a little something before they put on their fancy uniforms? Is that
    you had in mind, Commander?" To Cornelu's relief, he laughed.
     "Well, aye, sir - something on that order, anyhow," Cornelu a
    ted.
     "Kaunian blood is older than ours, which makes them take mor(
    in it than we do," Delfinu said. "If you ask my opinion, being old,
    makes it thinner, but no Kaunian has seen fit to ask my opinion. '

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    e-
    ,qf
    
    trait
    
    so
    
    stiff
    
    her
    if I
    odds
    
    not
    
    nd I
     hat
    
    e no
    
    ow
    send
    
    t cer-
    om,it.
    
    as my
    Delfinu
    
    it was.
    
    o know
    at what
     admit-
    
    re pride
    der only
    For my
    
    145
    
    part, I confess to losing very little sleep over theirs. Personally, I feel more
    sympathy for Algarve, but I know my kingdom's needs come ahead o
    my personal sympathies."
     "Myself, I have no great use for the Kaunian kingdoms," Comelu said,
    "but I have no use at all for Algarve. Did King Mezentio get his hands on
    us, he would squeeze till our eyes popped out of our heads."
     "Since I think you are right about that, I can hardly argue with you,"
    Delfinu said. "But, for the time being, I cannot in good conscience send
    you forth against the Banian ports, either. Enjoy your time off duty,
    Commander, and keep in mind that it is not likely to last."
     "Very well, my lord." Cornelu saluted again. "I think I'll draw a
    bucket from the rest crate and pay Efoniel a visit in her pen. She'll think
    I've forgotten her, poor thing. I don't want that."
     "No, indeed." Count Deffirm returned the salute. "Very well,
    Commander, you are dismissed from my presence."
     The chamber in which the large Leviathan Services rest crate sat had a
    strong fish smell. The smell would have been much stronger had the rest
    crate been other than what it was. Comelu reached in and drew forth a
    big bucket full of mackerel and squid, all of them as fresh as when they'd
    been pulled from the sea. He lugged it down to the wire-enclosed pen
    where his leviathan slowly swam back and forth, back and forth.
    
     Efori'el swam to the little wharf that jutted out into the pen. She stuck
    her head out of the water and examined Cornelu first with one small
    black eye, then with the other. "Aye, it's me," he said, and reached out
    to pat Ine ena of her tapered snout. "It's me, all night, and I've brought
    you presents."

    




     He tossed her a squid. Those enormous jaws came open. They closed
     on the squid with a wet smacking noise. When they opened again, the
     squid was gone. Eforiel emitted a soft, pleased grunt. Cornelu fed her a
     mackerel. She approved of that, too. He kept tossing her treats tin the
     bucket was empty.
     He had to show her it was empty. "Sorry - no more," he said. Now
     the noise she made, though like nothing that could come from a human
     throat, was full of disappointment. "Sorry," he repeated, and patted her
     again. She didn't take his hand off at the wrist - or his arm at the shoulder.
     She was a clever, well-trained beast.
    
      Commodore Delfinu had as much as ordered Cornelli to h;ive n annrl

    




    146
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    time while he wasn't assailing the Algarvians. After taking the empty
    bucket back for scrubbing, he headed away from the harbor, off to the
    quarters he shared with his wife. He could think of no one in whose
    company he would sooner be.
     Costache was baking when he walked in; the spicy smell of cakes made
    the small, square rooms in which they lived seem anything but military.
    "I'm glad you're back," she said. "I didn't know whether Delfinu would
    send you out or not."
     "He didn't," Comelu said. That Delfinu had kept him in Tirgoviste
    because he judged going out to the Barian ports a suicide mission was
    nothing his wife needed to know. He walked over to Costache, took her
    in his arms, and gave her a kiss, leaning over the swell of her belly to plant
    it on her mouth. With a gnin, he told her, "I'm glad I'm taller than you
    are. Other-wise, I'd have to sneak up on you from behind instead of doing
    this the regular way."
     "If you'd sneaked up on me from behind instead of doing it the regu-
    lar way, I wouldn't be expecting now," Costache retorted. Her green
    eyes sparkled. Now that she wasn't throwing up every morning any
    more, pregnancy agreed with her. Along with her belly, her cheeks were
    rounder than they had been. To disguise that a bit, she let her red-gok
    hair fall straight to her shoulders, where she had worn it piled high on he
    head.
     Cornelu did step behind her. He reached around and cupped he
    breasts in his hands. They were fuller and rounder than they had beer
    too. They were also more tender - he had to be careful not to squee2
    too hard. When he was careful, they were more sensitive than they h,-
    been; Costache's breath sighed out.
     "You see?" Comelu murmured into her ear. "From behind isn't
    bad." Having murmured into that ear, he nibbled it.
     Costache turned and put her arms around him. "And how are thir
    from in front?" she asked.
     Things from in front were fine. In its generosity, the kingdom of Sit
    had furmshed them with two military cots, which they'd pushed togeth
    With Comelu and Costache both eager, the cots might have been a fi:
    soft bed at a fancy hostel. Before long, his wife gasped and quive
    beneath Cornelu, Her belly grew hard and firm as her womb tightei
    during her spasm of pleasure. Cornelu spent himself a moment later.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    147
    
     He didn't let his weight down on her, as he would have before she was
    with child. "We won't be able to do it like that much longer," he said,
    and set a hand on her belly to show why. "Someone in there is getting in
    the way." As if indignant, the baby kicked. Cornelu and Costache both
    laughed, as content as any two people could be during wartime.

    




    Pekka was working, and working hard, though no one could ha
    proved it by looking at her. She sat at the desk in her office at KaJaa
    City College, staring out the window at the driving rain. Every once
    a while, her eyes would slip down to the sheets of paper spread across t
    desk.
     Once, as the rain kept drumming down, she reached out, inked a pe
    and wrote a couple of lines below what was already on the last of t
    sheets. She didn't look at them again for several iminutes. When she di
    she blinked in surprise, as if someone else's hand, not her own, had do
    that writing.
     Partly recalled to herself, Pekka wondered what the students in h
    theoretical sorcery class would think if they could see her now. Th
    would probably laugh like loons. Comics had been making jokes abo
    absent-minded mages since the days of the Kaunian Empire. Some of t
    Kaunian jokes had survived to the present day, and sounded remarkab
    like their modern equivalent. Some of them had doubtless been ancie
    in Kaunian times, too.
     And then Pekka drifted away again, back into the haze of co
    centration that was the next thing to a trance. She noticed the rain o
    as background noise. Somewhere down at the root of things, the laws
    similarity and contagion were connected. She was morally certain of
    though wizards had been treating them as separate entities for as long
    men had been working magic. If she could link them together ...
     She had no idea what would happen if she could link them toftthe
    She would know something she hadn't known. She would know som
    thing no one in the world had ever known. That was enough. That w
    more than enough.
    
    148

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    Is
    
     She scribbled another line. She wasn't close to an answer. She had no
    idea how long she would need to get close to an answer. She was getting
    closer to designing a sorcerous experiment that might tell her whether she
    was on the right track.
     Someone knocked on the door. Pekka did her best not to hear. Her
    best was not good enough. She'd been about to write another line.
    Whatever she'd been on the point of setting down vanished from her
    mind.
     Fury roared in to take its place. Kuusamans were as a rule easygoing,
    especially when set alongside the proud and touchy folk of the kingdoms
    of Algarvic stock. But every mage had to keep in mind the difference
    between the rule and the exception.
     Spninging to her feet, Pekka dashed to the door and flung it wide.
    "What are you doing interrupting me?" she screeched, even before it had
    opened all the way.
     Her husband, fortunately, lived up to the Kuusaman reputation for
    calm. "I'm sorry, dear," Leino said. His narrow eyes didn't widen; no sur-
    prise showed on his broad, high-cheekboned face. He'd seen Pekka burst
    like a large egg before. "It is time to head home, though."
     "Oh," Pekka said in a small voice. The real world returned with a
    rush. She wouldn't unify contagion and similarity this afternoon, nor
    even figure out how to take that one step closer to finding out whether
    unifying them was even possible. With the real world's embrace came
    acute embarrassment. Looking down at her shoes, she mumbled, "I'm
    sorry I shouted at you."
     "It's all right." Leino's shrug made water dnip from the bri'm of his hat
    and the hem of his heavy wool rain cape; his office was in a different
    building from Pekka's. "If I'd known you were thinking hard, I'd have
    stood out here a while longer. We're not in that big a hurry, not that I
    know of "
     "No, no, no." Now Pekka turned briskly practical. She was that way
    most of the time: except when thinking hard, as her husband put it. She
    pulled on rubber overboots, took her cap from the peg on which it
    hung, and jammed her own broad-brimmed hat down over her straight
    black hair. "You're right - we'd better get back. My sister's been trying
    to corral Uto long enough - I'm sure she'd say so."
     "She loves him," Leino said.

    




    150
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "I love him, too," Pekka said. "That doesn't mean he isn't a handful
    - or two handfuls, or three. Come on. We can catch the caravan at the
    edge of the campus. It'll take us most of the way there."
     "Good enough." Amusement danced in Leino's eyes: watching Pekka
    go in the space of a few breaths from wooly-headed scholar to a planner
    who might have served on the Kuusaman General Staff never failed to
    tickle him.
     Raindrops pelted down on Pekka as soon as she stepped outside. She
    hadn't gone ten paces before her hat and cape were as wet as Leino's.
    She ignored the rain in a different way from the one she'd used while off
    in the realm of theory back in her office. Any Kuusaman who couldn't
    ignore rain had had the misfortune of being born in the wrong land.
     "How was your day?" she asked, squelching along beside her husband.
     "Pretty good, actually," Leino answered. "I think we've made a break-
    through on strengthening behemoth armor against beams from heavy
    sticks. "
    
     "They've had you working on that for a while," Pekka said. "I haven't
    heard you talk about breakthroughs before."
     "This is a whole new idea." Leino looked around to make sure no one
    was close enough to overhear before going on, "Ordinary armor I s just
    iron, of course, or steel. It can reflect a beam if it's polished enough, or
    spread the heat around so the beam won't burn through if it doesn't stay
    right in the same spot long enough."
     Pekka nodded. "That's how people have always done it, sure enough.
    You've found something different?" She cocked her head to one side and
    looked at her husband with approval, glad she wasn't the only one in the
    family straying off the beaten track.
     "That's what we've done, all right." Leino also nodded, enthusiasti-
    cally. "It turns out that, if you make a sort of sandwich of steel and then
    a special porcelain and then steel again, you get armor that'k a lot stronger
    than what we're using now without weighing any more."
     "YOU don't mean a sandwich with three separate layers, do yoii?"
    Pekka asked with a small frown. "I can't think of any kind of porcelain
    so special that it wouldn't be easy to break in large, thin sheets;"
     "You're absolutely right. I think that's why nobody's taken this
    approach before," Leino said. "The trick is sorcerously fusing the porce-
    lain to the steel on either side of it, and doing it so we don't wreck the

    




    INTo T14E DAP-KNESS
    
    temper of the steel in the process." He grinned at her. "We've wrecked
    a lot of other tempers in the process, I'll tell you that. But now I think
    we're getting the hang of it."
     "That will be good," Pekka said. "It will be especially good if we get
    drawn into the madness on the mainland of Derlaval."
    
     "Aye, though I hope we don't," Leino said. "But you're right again -
    not much place for behemoths in the island-hopping kind of war we're
    fighting against Gyongyos."
     "Oh!" Pekka muttered something worse than Oh! under her breath.
    "There goes the caravan. Now we'll have to wait a quarter of an hour for
    the next one."
     "At least we'll be out of the rain," Leino said. Every caravan stop in
    Kajaam - so far as Pekka knew, every stop in Kuusamo - was roofed
    against rain and sleet and snow. The stops wouldn't have been worth
    having if they weren't.
     A news-sheet vendor was taking advantage of the shelter when Pekka
    and Leino came in to get out of the wet. He waved a sheet at them, say-
    ing, "Want to read about the ultimatum Swernmel of Unkerlant has
    handed Zuwayza?"
     "Something unfortunate should happen to Swemmel of Unkerlant,"
    Leino said. That didn't keep him from handing the vendor a couple of
    square copper coins and taking a sheet. He sat down on a bench, Pekka
    beside hini.
     They read together. Pekka's eyebrows rose. "Swernmel doesn't ask for
    much, does he?" she said.
     "Let's see." Leino ran his hand down the page. "All the border forti-
    fications, all the power points halfway from the border to Bishah, the
    right to base a fleet at the harbor of Samawa. - and to have the Zuwayzin
    pay for it. No, not much: not much he deserves, I mean."
     "And all that on pain of war if Zuwayza refuses," Pekka said sadly. "If
    he were an ordinary man instead of a king, he' be up before a panel of
    judges on extortion charges."
     Leino had read a little more than she had. "Looks like another war,
    sure enough. Here, see a crystal report from Bishah quotes their foreign
    minister as saying that Yielding to an unjust demand is worse than making
    one. If that doesn't sound like the Zuwayzin intend to fight, I don't know
    what does."

    




    152
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "I wish them well," Pekka said.
      "So do V' her husband answered. "The only thing I'm sorry about is
    that, if they'd given in, Swernmel might have gone back to war with
    Gyongyos. As is, the Gongs are only fighting us, and that makes them
    tougher."
      "If a few islands out in the Bothman Ocean were in different places, if
    a few ley lines ran in different directions, we'd have no quarrel with
    Gyongyos," Pekka said.
    
      "Gyongyos would probably have a quarrel with us, though," Leino
    answered. "The Gongs enjoy fighting, seems like."
      'I wonder what they say about us," Pekka said in musing tones.
    Whatever it was, it did not appear in the Kajaani Crier or any other
    Kuusaman news sheet.
      A caravan hummed up to the stop. The conductor opened the door.
    A couple of people in hats and capes got off. Pekka preceded Lemo up
    the steps and into the car. They both plopped eight-copper silver bits in
    the fare box. Nodding, the conductor waved them back to the seats, as if
    it were only through his generosity that they had so many from which to
    choose.
      As the caravan began to move, Pekka said, "My grandmother said that,
    when she was a little girl, her grandmother told her how frightened she
    was when she was a little girl, the first time she got up on the step to go
    into a ley-line caravan. There it was, floating on nothing, and she couldn't
    see why it didn't fall down or tip over."
      "Can't expect a child to understand the way complex sorceries work,"
    Leino answered. "For that matter, back in those days ley lines were a new
    thing in the world, and nobody understood them very well - though
    people thought they did."
      "People always think they know more than they do," Pekka said. "It's
    one of the things that make them people."
      They got off at the road that led up to their house. No butterflies flitted
    now. No birds sang. Rain fell. Rain dripped from trees. Wet branch '
    slapped them in the face as they slogged uphill to pick up Uto from
    Pekka's sister.
     When Elimaki came to the door, she looked harried. Uto, on the
    other hand, seemed the picture of innocence. Pekka did not need
    grounding in theoretical sorcery to know appearances could deceive.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    "What did you do?" she asked him.
     "Nothing," he answered sweetly, as he always did.
    
     Pekka glanced to her sister. Elimaki said. "He went climbing in the
    pantry. He knocked over a five-pound canister of flour, and then tried to
    tell me he hadn't. He n-fight have gotten away with it, too, if he hadn't
    left a footprint right in the middle of the pile of flour on the pantry floor."
     Leino started to laugh. So did Pekka, in spite of herself She and her
    husband weren't the only ones in the farmily straying off the beaten track,
    either. Ruffling Uto's hair, she said, "You'll go a long way, son - if we
    decide to let you live."
    
    153
    
     Colonel Dzirnavu was not a happy man. So far as Talsu could tell,
    Dzimavu was never a happy man. Like a lot of common people, the
    Jelgavan count took out his unhappiness on everyone around him. Since
    he was an officer and a noble, the soldiers in his regiment couldn't tell
    him to jump off a cliff, as they surely would have if he'd been a com-
    moner like themselves.
     "Vartu!" he shouted one morning - he shouted the way singers went
    through the scales, to warm up his voice. "Confound it, Vartu, where
    have you gone and hidden yourselP Get your whipworthy arse into my
    tent this instant!"
     "Confound it, Vartu!" Talsu echoed as Dzirnavu's servant came by on
    the dead run. Vartu gave him a dirty look before ducking under the tent-
    flap and facing his principal's wrath.
     "How may I serve you, my lord?" he asked, his words clearly audible
    through the canvas.
     "How may you serve me?" Dzirnavu bellowed. "How may you serve
    me? You may get me that rascally cook, that's how, and serve me his guts
    for tripe at my luncheon today. Will you look at this? Will you look at
    this, Vartu? The hani-fisted thumbfingered son of a whore had the gall to
    serve me a plate of runny scrambled eggs. How in the names of the
    powers above am I supposed to eat runny scrambled eggs?"
     Talsu looked down at his own tin plate, which contained the usual
    breakfast scoop of mush and the equally usual length of cheap, stale
    sausage. He glanced over to his friend Smilsu, who was sitting on a rock
    close by. In a low voice, he asked, "How in the names of the powers
    above am I supposed to eat runny scrambled eggs?"

    




    154
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "With a spoon?" Smilsu suLuested. His breakfast ration was no more
    prepossessing than Talsu's.
     "I've got one of those, sure enough." Talsu held it up. "Now if I only
    had some eggs, I'd be in business."
     Smilsu sadly shook his head. "If you're going to grouse and grumble
    about every least little thing, my boy, you'll never get to be a colonel like
    our illustrious regimental commander." He set a finger by the side of his
    nose. "Of course, if you don't grouse and grumble, you'll never get to be
    a colonel, either. You haven't got the bloodlines for it."
     "Bloodlines are fine, if you're a horse." Talsu let his eyes slide toward
    Count Dzirnavu's tent. "Or even some particular part of a horse." Smilsu,
    who was in the middle of swallowing a mouthful of mush, almost choked
    to death on it. Talsu went on, "For picking soldiers, though . Now
    he shook his head. "If we had real soldiers leading us, we'd be down in
    Tricarico this time, instead of still slogging our way through these cursed
    hills." He snapped his fingers. "I bet that's why the stinking Algarvians
    haven't really counterattacked."
     He'd got a jump ahead of Smilsu. "What's why?" his friend asked.
    "What are you talking about?"
     Talsu dropped his voice to hardly more than a whisper, so only Smilsu
    would hear: "If the redheads hit us hard, they'd be bound to kill off a lot
    of officers. Sooner or later, we'd run out of nobles to take their places
    Then we'd have to start using men who knew what they were doing
    instead. We'd be sure to lick Algarve after that, so they're just playing it
    safe and smart."
     "I'd be sure you were right, if only I thought the Algarvians had that
    much upstairs." Without doing anything more than sitting a little
    straighter, Smilsu managed to convey the Algarvians' swaggering poin-,
    posity. As he slumped back down, he went on, "And you'd better not say
    anything like that around anybody you're not sure of, either, or you'l
    sorry for a long time."
     Vartu came out of Dzirnavu's tent just then. Talsu and Snii1su both
    silent. Talsu liked the colonel's servant, and trusted him fairly far, but no
    far enough to speak treason in front of him.
     Mumbling under his breath, Vartu stalked past the two soldiers. A
    moment later, Talsu heard him yelling at a cook. The cook yelled back.
    Smilsu's snicker was amused and sympathetic at the same time. "Poor

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    more
    
    i,only
    
    ~ard
    iilsu,
    Dked
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                                        Ding
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    11 be
    
    155
    
    Vartu," he said. "He gets it from both sides at once."
     " So do all of us," TaIsu answered, "from our officers and from the
    Algarvians."
     "Someone put vinegar in your beer this morning, that's plain," Smilsu
    said. "Why don't you go over there and scream at the cooks, too?"
     "Because they'd stick a carving knife in me or hit me over the head
    with a pot," Talsu said. "I can't get away with things like that. I'm not a
    count, or even servant to a count."
     "Aye, you're a no-account, all right," Smilsu said, whereupon Talsu
    felt like hitting him over the head with a pot.
     After their less than magnificent breakfast, the jelgavan soldiers cau-
    tiously advanced. Exhortations from King Donalitu. to move faster kept
    coming forward. Colonel Dzimavu would read them out whenever they
    did, and would blame the men for not living up to their sovereign's
    requests. Then he and his superiors would order another tiptoeing step
    ahead, and would seem surprised when King Donalitu found it necessary
    to exhort the troops again.
     The Algarvians did their best to make life unpleasant for their foes, too.
    The country through which Talsu and his comrades moved was made for
    defense. One stubborn soldier with a stick who found a good hiding place
    could hold up a company. There were plenty of good hiding places to
    find, and plenty of stubborn Algarvians. to fill them. Each redhead had to
    be flanked out and flushed from cover, which made what would have
    been a slow business slower.
     And the Algarvians had taken to burying eggs in the ground, and
    attaching to them trips lines that would rupture their shells. A soldier who
    didn't watch where he put his feet was liable to go up in a great gout of
    sorcerous fire. That slowed the jelgavans, too, tiR dowsers could find the
    eggs and mark paths past them.
     Most of the redheads who lived in the mountain country had fled to
    lower ground farther west. A few people, though, were obstinate, as
    jelgavan mountain folk also had a name for being. Talsu captured an old
    Algarvian with a bald head, a big white mustache, and knobby knees and
    hairy calves sticking out from under the hem of his kilt. "Come on,
    granips," he said, and gestured with his stick. "I'm going to take you back
    to our encampment so they can ask you some questions."
     "A dog should futter you," the old man growled in accented jelgavan.

    




    156
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    He added a couple of other choice oaths in Talsu's language, then fen
    back on Algarvian. Talsu didn't know any Algarvian, but he didn't think
    the captive was paying him compliments. All he did was gesture with the
    stick again. Cursing still, the old man got moving.
     Back at the camp, a bored-looking lieutenant who spoke Algarvian
    started questioning Talsu's captive. The old man kept right on cursing, or
    so Talsu thought. The lieutenant stopped looking bored and started look-
    ing harassed. Talsu hid a smile. He didn't mind seeing an officer sweat,
    even if it was because of an Algarvian.
     He was about to head off toward the front line again when a trooper
    from a different company brought in another cursing captive. Talsu
    stopped and stared. Everyone who heard those curses stopped and stared.
    The other soldier's captive (you lucky bastard, Talsu thought) was a good-
    looking - a very good-looking - woman of about twenty-five. Coppery
    hair flowed halfivay down her back. Her knees were not knobby, nor her
    calves hairy. Talsu examined them carefully to make sure of those facts.
     Her curses even drew from his tent Colonel Dzirnavu, who had been
    in there alone except, perhaps, for a bottle of what his servant called
    restorative. By the lurch in his stride, he was quite thoroughly restored.
    His eyes needed a moment before they lit on the captive. "Well, well,"
    he said when they finally did. "What have we here?"
     "That's what they call a woman," a soldier near Talsu muttered.
    "Haven't you ever seen one before?" Talsu coughed to keep from laugh-
    ing out loud.
     Dzirnavu advanced on her at a ponderous waddle. He looked her up
    and down, plainly imagining everything the tunic and kilt concealed. She
    looked him up and down, too. Her face also showed what she was think-
    ing. Talsu would not have wanted anyone, let alone a good-looking
    woman, thinking such things about him.
     "Where did you find her?" Dzirnavu asked the soldier who had
    brought her back to camp. "Spying on us, unless I imiss my guess."
     "Lord, she was going into a little cottage up ahead." The tro6per
    pointed. "My thought is, she was trying to take away a few last things,,
    before she fled for good."
     The Algarvian woman pointed at Dzirnavu. Where did you find
    him?" she asked the soldier who had captured her. Her jelgavan was
    accented but fluent. "I would say under a flat rock, but where would you

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    as
    
    u
    
    157
    
    find a flat rock big enough to hide him?"
     Like most jelgavans, Dzirnavu was quite fair. That let Talsu watch the
    flush mount from his beefy neck to his hairline. "She is a spy," he
    snapped. "She must be a spy. Take her to my tent." A murky light
    kindled in his bloodshot gray eyes. "I shall attend to her interrogation
    personally."
     Talsu could think of only one thing that might mean. He knew a
    moment's pity for the Algarvian woman, even if he wouldn't have
    minded having her himself Dzirnavu's "Interrogation," though, was
    liable to crush her to death - and he wouldn't learn anything while he
    was doing it.
     After a while, the soldier who'd captured the woman came out of the
    tent. His face bore a curious mixture of excitement and disgust. "He had
    me cover her while he tied her to the bed," he reported, and then, "He
    made her lie on her belly."
     Along with his comrades, Talsu sadly shook his head. "Waste of a
    woman, especially one so pretty," he said. "If that's what he's got in
    mind, he could do it with a boy instead."
     "Officers have all the fun," the other soldier said, "and they get to pick
    what kind of fun they have."
     Since Talsu couldn't argue with that, he started back toward the front
    line. He hadn't gone far before the Algarvian woman screamed. It
    sounded more like outrage than anguish. Whatever it was, it was none of
    his business. He kept walking.
     When he returned to the encampment at suppertime, no one had been
    into or out of the regimental commander's tent since he'd left. "You
    should have heard what he called me when I asked him if he needed any-
    thing an hour ago," Vartu said.
     "Is the redhead still screaming in there?" Talsu asked. Dzirnavu's ser-
    vant shook his head. Talsu sighed. Maybe she'd seen screaming did her
    no good. Maybe, too, she was in no shape to scream any more. From
    what he knew of Dzirnavu, he found that more likely. He stood in line
    for supper. If Dzirnavu was skipping a meal for the sake of his pleasure, it
    wouldn't hurt him a bit. No sound at all came from the tent. Eventually,
    Talsu rolled himself in his blanket and went to sleep.
     Dzimavu's tent was still quiet when Talsu woke up the next morning.
    When Vartu cautiously asked whether the count wanted breakfast, no

    




    W
    
    158
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    one answered. Even more cautiously, the servant stuck his head in
    through the flap. He recoiled, clapping a hand to his mouth. He choked
    out one word: "Blood!"
     Talsu dashed toward the tent. So did everyone else who'd heard Vartu
    There lay the naked and unlovely Count Dzirnavu, half on the bed, hal
    off, his throat cut from ear to ear. Blood soaked the sheets and the groun4
    below. There was no sign of the Algarvian woman, no sign she'd eve
    been d-lere but for the lengtii of rope tied to each bedpost.
      "An assassin!" Vartu gasped. "She was an assassin!"
     No one argued with him, not out loud, but expressions were elc
    quent. Talsu's guess was that Dzirnavu had fallen asleep because of h
    exertions, the woman had managed to work a hand free, and then ha
    found a tool to take her revenge. He did wonder how she'd managed t
    escape afterwards. Maybe she'd been able to sneak past the sentries. C
    maybe, in exchange for silence, she'd given out some of what Dzirnav
    had taken by force. Any which way, she was gone.
     Smilsu had the last word. He saved it till he and Talsu were headir
    up to the front: "Powers above, the Algarvians wouldn't want to murdi
    Dzirnavu. They must have hoped he'd live forever. Now we're liable 1
    get a regimental commander who knows what he's doing." Talsu coi
    sidered that, then solemnly nodded.
    
     Garivald's worn leather boots squelched through mud. The fall rai
    in southern Unkerlant turned everything into a swamp. Spring, when
    winter's worth of snow melted, was even worse - though the peasant d
    not think of it that way. The weather did what it did every year. F
    Ganivald, it was simply part of life.
     As a matter of fact, he was on the whole pleased with the way the ye
    had gone. King Swernmel's inspectors had gone away and not cor
    back, and no impressers had arrived in their wake. The villagers of Zos&
    had got in the harvest before the rains came. Waddo the obnoxious fir,
    man had fallen off the roof while he was rethatching it, and had brok
    his ankle. He was still hobbling around on two sticks. No, not such a b
    year after all.
     The pigs approved of the year, too, or at least of the rain. The whc
    village might have been a wallow for them now. They approved
    Garivald, too, when he threw them turnip tops from a wicker bask(

    




    ns
    
    or
    
    ~ar
    
    ne
    
    en
    ~ad
    
    I
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    159
    
    The only trouble was, each seemed to think its neighbors had got a better
    selection of greens, which made for snortings and snappings and loud
    grunts and squeals.
     Garivald had grain for the chickens, too. The chickens did not like
    rain, as their draggled feathers attested. A lot of them had taken shelter
    inside one peasant's house or another. Some of them were making a
    racket and a mess inside his house. If they annoyed his wife enough,
    Annore would avenge herself with hatchet and chopping block.
     When the blizzards came, all the animals would crowd into the houses.
    If they didn't, they'd freeze to death. The warmth they gave off helped
    keep the villagers alive, too. After a while, the nose stopped noticing the
    stink. Garivald chuckled. Had those hoity-toity inspectors come in win-
    ter, they would have stuck their noses into any old house, taken one
    whiff, and fled back to Cottbus with their tails between their legs.
     Synivald was playing in the mud when Ganivald got back to his family's
    house. "Does your mother know you're out here?" he demanded.
     Syrivald nodded. "She sent me out. She said she was sick of the way I
    was driving the chickens crazy."
     "Did she?" Ganivald let out a grunt of laughter. "Well, I believe it.
    You drive your mother and me crazy sometimes, too." Syrivald grinned,
    mistaking that for a compliment.
     Rolling his eyes, Garivald ducked inside. Even with Syrivald out get-
    ting filthy, the chickens remained in an uproar. Leuba was crawling
    around on the floor, doing her best to catch them and pull out their tall
    feathers. Gaiivald's little daughter thought that great sport; the chickens
    had a different opinion.
      "You're going to get pecked," Annore warned Leuba.
     Two years from now, Leuba might, on a good day, pay some
    attention to a warning. Now she didn't even understand it. Her mother's
    toile might have meant something, but not when she was intent on her
    game. "Ma-ma!" she said happily, and went right on after the closest
    chicken.
     The chickens were a lot faster than she was, but she had a singlemincled
    determination they lacked. Ganivald was heading toward her to pick her
    up when she did manage to grab a hen by the tail. The hen let out a
    furious squawk. An instant later, Leuba started crying: Sure enough, it
    had pecked her.

    




    160
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "There, see what you get?" Ganivald scooped her off the groun
    Leuba, of course, saw nothing of the sort. As far as she was concerne
    she'd been having a high old time, and then one of her toys unaccou
    ably went and hurt her. Garivald examined the injury, which was min
    "I expect you'll live," he said. "You can stop making noises like
    branded calf"
     Eventually, she did settle down, not so much because he'd told her
    as because he was holding her. When he set her down again, she start
    after the nearest chicken. This time, luckily for her and the fowl, it spi
    her and escaped.
     "She's a stubborn thing," Garivald said.
     Annore looked at him sidelong. "Where do you suppose she gets that
     Ganivald grunted. He didn't think of himself as stubborn, except ins
    far as a man had to work hard to scrape a living from the soil. "What's
    
    dinner tonight?" he asked his wife.
     "Bread," she answered. "What's left oflast night's stew is still in the po
    peas and cabbage and beets and a little salt pork thrown in for flavor."
    
     "Any honey for the bread?" he asked. Annore nodded. He grunte
    again, this time in satisfaction. "Well, that won't be too bad. And the ste
    was good last night, so it should be good again today." He sat down o
    a bench along the wall. "Get me some."
     Annore had been stuffing guts with ground meat for sausages. She se
    aside what she was doing, got a bowl and a spoon, went over to the iro
    pot hanging above the fire, ladled the bowl full, and brought it t
    Garivald. Then she went back to the counter, tore off a chunk of blac
    bread, and carried that and the honey pot over to him, too.
    
     He broke the bread, dipped some in the honey, and ate it. Anno
    went back to work. Garivald spooned up some of the stew, then ate
    another piece of bread. "In the cities," he said, "they make fancy flour so
    they can have white bread, not just black or brown." His broad shoulders
    went up and down in a shrug. I wonder why they bother. By what
    hear from people who've eaten it, it's no better than any other kina."
     "City people will do anything to be in fashion," Annore said, an
    Gari'vald nodded. People in the farrming villages where most Unkerla
    lived were deeply suspicious of their urban cousins. Annore went on,
    glad we live in the same way our grandparents did. Why borrow trouble?"
    
     Garivald nodded again. "That's right. I'm not sorry there aren't any ley

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    und.
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    n't any ley
    
    161
    
    lines close by, or that Waddo hasn't been able to put a crystal in his house.
    what can you hear on a crystal? Only bad news and orders from Cottbus."
     ,, Orders from Cottbus are bad news," his wife said, and he nodded
    
    once more.
     "Aye. If somebody there could tell Waddo what to do without com-
    ing here, Waddo would just up and do it, no matter how hard it was on
    the village," he said. "Waddo's one of those people who kicks every arse
    below him and kisses every arse above him."
     He waited for Annore to answer. She didn't; she was peering through
    tiny gaps in the shutters drawn tight against the rain. After a moment, she
    opened them wide so she could see better. Surprise in her voice, she said,
    "Herpo the spice man's here. I wonder what possessed him to come in
    the middle of the rains."
     "Some of those people just have itchy feet - they go when and where
    they choose," Ganivald said. "Never could see the sense of it myself-, I've
    always been happy to stay right where I am." But he finished eating in a
    hurry, while Annore was plopping Leuba in her cnib and putting on her
    own rain cape and hat. They started to go out together to see Herpo.
    Leuba squalled angrily. Annore gave a martyred look and went back to
    pick up the baby.
     Half the people in the village were out to see Herpo. Despite what
    Garivald had said about not wanting a crystal nearby and about being
    content where he was, he craved the news and gossip the spice seller had,
    and he was far from the only one.
     And Herpo had news: "We're at war again," he said.
     "Who is it now?" somebody asked. "Forthweg?"

    




     "No, we already fought Forthweg," somebody else said, and then,
    doubtfully, "Didn't we?"
     "Let Herpo speak his piece," Garivald said. "Then we'll know."
     "Thank you, friend," the spice man said. "I will speak my piece, and
    then I'll hold my peace. We are at war with" - he paused dramatically -
    the black people up in Zuwayza." He pointed north.
     "Black people!" a granny said scornfully. "Save your lies for folks who
    believe them, Herpo. Next thing you know, you'll tell us we're at war
    with the blue people over there or the green people over there." Laughing
    at her own wit, she pointed first to the east and then to the west.
     But a gray-haired man said, "Nay, Uote, these black men are real.

    




    162
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    There were a couple of 'em in my company in the Six Years' War. Brav
    enough, they were, but would you believe it, they had to learn to wea
    clothes. Their country is so hot, they said, that everybody there goes bar
    naked all the time, even the women." He smiled, as at the memory o
    something pleasant he hadn't thought of in a while.
     Uote's face looked like curdled milk. "You shut up, Agen! The ve
    idea!" she said. Gan*vald wasn't sure whether she disapproved of Agen'
    having the nerve to tell her she was wrong or of people - especia
    women - running around naked. Probably both, he thought.
     Herpo said, "I don't know about this naked business myself, but
    know we're fighting 'em. I expect we'll lick 'em pretty cursed quick, too
    just like we did the Forthwegians." He looked at Uote out of the come
    of his eye. "You going to tell me the Forthwegians ain't real, too?"
     She looked as if she wished he weren't real. Instead of answering him
    though, she showered more abuse on Agen. He was the one who'
    embarrassed her in front of her fellow villagers. He bent his head and It
    her curses run off him like the rain. Under the wide brim of his hat, he
    was grinning.
     "Along with the news," Herpo said, "I've got cinnamon, I've got
    cloves, I've got ginger, I've got dried pepper that'll make your tongue
    think it's on fire, and all for cheaper than you'd ever guess."
    
     Garivald had tasted fire peppers a couple of times, and didn't fancy
    them. He bought a couple of quills of cinnamon and some powdered gin-
    ger and slogged back to his house. Herpo was still doing a brisk busin
    when he left.
     "Those will perk up the winter baking," Annore said when he showed
    her what he'd bought. Leuba had calmed down by then, and was after the
    hens again. His wife went on, "What was this great news? I was making
    the baby shut up, so I didn't get to hear it."
     "Nothing very important." Garivald gave another shrug. "We're at
    war again, that's all."
    
     Istvan walked along the beach on the island of Obuda. Scavengers had
    taken most of the meat from the skeleton of the Kuusaman dragon that
    had fallen. It skull stared at him out of empty eye sockets. He bared his
    teeth in a fierce gnin; a Gyongyosian might feel fear, but he wasn't sup-
    posed to show it.

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    163
    
     A lot of the dragon's fangs were missing. Some of Istvan's comrades
    wore one or more as souvenirs of having thrown back the Kuusamans.
    More, though, had sold them to the Obudans. Since the islanders did not
    know the art of dragonflying, they had an exaggerated notion of how
    much magic it required and how potent a talisman a dragon's tooth was.
     Chuckling, Istvan scaled a flat stone into the sea. Anyone who'd ever
    shoveled dragon shit would know better. He had. He did. The Obudans,
    
    in their ignorance, didn t.
    
     He wondered if he should have used the stone to knock out a couple
    of the remaining fangs for himself After a moment, he shrugged and kept
    on walking down the beach. Money mattered little to him here on
    Obuda; he couldn't buy much with it. And the women, he'd heard,
    wouldn't out out for draLyon's teeth: it was their menfolk who wanted
    
    theni
    
     A wave ran farther up the gently sloping sand than most of its fellows.
    He had to skip aside to keep it from splashing his boots. It still wasn't very
    big. Out on the sea, Obudan fishing boats bobbed. Their sails were dyed
    in bright colors to make them visible from a long way off. Watching the
    wind vush them along bemused Istvan. He'd never imagined such a
    
    thing, not while he was growing up in a mountain valley.
    
     The Bothnian Ocean was calm now, but he'd never imagined what it
    could be like in a storm, either. Then the waves leapt like wild things and
    went down the beach only sullenly, as if they wanted to drag Obuda
    down under the water with them. They seemed to have teeth then, great
    
    white teeth of foam that soupht to tear chunks out of the land.
    
     He shook his head - he was getting as foolish as the Obudans. Their
    language had endless words to name and describe different kinds of
    waves. Gvonpvosian like anv sensible sDeech made do with one. Snow
    
    now, Istvan thought, snow was something worth describing in detail. But
    
    the Obudans seldom sa snow.
    
     A red and yellow and black shell caught Istvan's eye. He stooped and
    picked it up. Obuda boasted any number of colorful snail shells, all with
    different patterns. He didn't think he'd seen this one before. Back in his
    valley, snails had plain brown shells. The only good thing he had to say
    about those snails was that thev made fine eatinLy when fried with zarlic
    
    Conu*n down from the barracks on the slo es of Mt Soron had been

    




    164
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    easy. Going back up took more work, even though the climb wasn't to
    steep. Leaving the beach and returning to the barracks also transforme
    Istvan from tourist back into soldier, a transformation he would just a
    soon not have made.
     Sergeant Jokal descended on him like a mountain avalanche. "Goo
    to have you back with us, your splendiferous magnificence," the vetera
    sergeant growled. "Now you can go fix your bunk the way the ar
    taught you, not the way your mama taught you - if she was the one wh
    taught you, and not some goat in a pen."
     Istvan fought to keep his face expressionless. By main force of will, h
    succeeded. Gyongyosians did not keep goats, reckoning them unclea
    because of their eating habits and their lasciviousness. Had Jokal offere
    Istvan such an insult in civilian life, it would have started a brawl if not
    clan feud. But the sergeant was Istvan's superior - thus his effective cla
    senior - and so he had to endure.
    
      I am very sorry, Sergeant," he said in a voice as empty as his features
    "I thought I left everything in good order before I went on my morn
    ing's leave."
     Jokal rolled his eyes. "Sorry doesn't get the cart out of the mud
    Thinking doesn't get the cart out of the mud, either, especially whe
    you're not good at it - and you're not. A week's labor policing up
    dragon pens might do a better job of keeping your tiny little mind o
    what it's supposed to be doing. If it doesn't, we'll find something re
    interesting for you."
     "Sergeant!" Istvan said piteously. Jokai had come down on him before
    but never like this. Something else had to be irking the sergeant, Istv
    thought. Whatever it was, Jokai was taking it out on him. He could, to
    because he had the rank.
     "You heard me," he said now. "A week, and thank the stars it isn'
    more. A mountain ape could have done a neaterjob here than you did.
    
     Arguing more would only have got Istvan in deeper. With a sigh, he
    went into the barracks to inspect and repair the damage. None Z)f hi
    comrades wanted to look at him. He understood that. If they showe
    him any sympathy, Sergeant Jokal might land on them with both fe
    too.
     As Istvan had expected, pulling straight a tiny crease in his blanket took
    but an instant. Had Jokal been in a decent humor, he wouldn't even hav

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    t as
    
    )od
    
     he
    lean
    -red
    
    ~ot a
    clan
    
    ires.
    
    :)rn-
    
    and.
     rhen
     the
    
    fore,
    ;tvaii
    
    too,
    
    on
    ally
    
    isn't
    
    h, he
    if his
    iwed
    feet,
    
    took
    have
    
    165
    
    noticed it. Maybe his emerods were bothering him. He was likely to have
    big emerods, because he was certainly a big ...
     Istvan sighed. He could think Sergeant Jokai as much of a billy goat as
    he liked, and it wouldn't change a thing. All that mattered was thatJokal
    was a sergeant and he wasn't.
     Jokai inspected the repairs, then grudgingly nodded. "Now report to
    Turul. He'd better give you a good character at the end of the week, too,
    or you'll wish you'd never been bom." Istvan was already inclining in
    that direction. Jokal added, "And I'll have my eye on you, too - don't
    think I won't. Do you understand what I'm telling you, soldier?"
     "Aye, Sergeant." Istvan said the only thing he possibly could. Jokal
    stomped off. Istvan hoped he would find someone else with whom to be
    furious. Misery loved company. Besides, he might get stuck with less
    work that way.
     Turul cackled like a laying hen when Istvan came slouching up to him.
    I was waiting for Jokal to find somebody to give me a hand with the
    beasts," the old dragonkeeper said. "How'd he happen to choose you this
    time?"
     "I was there," Istvan answered bitterly.
     "That'll do, that'll do," Turul said. "Now you're here. The world
    won't end, even if it will stink for a while. And after you've been on this
    duty for a bit, you won't hardly even notice that."
     "Maybe you don't," Istvan said, at which the dragoinkeeper laughed
    again. Istvan didn't think he'd been joking; after so much time around
    quicksilver and brimstone, dragon fire and dragon dung, how could
    Turul have any sense of smell left at all?
     At the moment, Istvan's own sense of smell was working altogether
    too well to suit him. He and Turul stood downwind of the pens of the
    dragon farm. Along with the brimstone reek of their fodder and drop-
    pings, he also inhaled the strong reptilian musk that was their own
    distinctive scent.
    
     Two of the beasts, both big males, began hissing and then shrieking at
    each other. They reared up and spread their wings, each trying to look as
    enormous and impressive as he could. The chains that secured them to
    their iron tethering posts rattled and clanked.
     Other dragons started hissing, too. Through the growing commotion,
    Istvan asked, "Can they break loose? Will they start flaming?" He knew

    




    166
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    he sounded anxious. He couldn't help it. From everything he could se
    anxiety made perfect sense.
     "They'd better not," Turul said indignantly. He picked up an iro
    shod goad, similar to the ones dragonfliers used but with a longer handl
    and advanced on the closer male. The dragon swiveled its unlovely he
    on its snaky neck and stared at him out of cold golden eyes. In spite of h
    protective clothing, it could have flamed him to a cinder.
     It did nothing of the sort. He shouted at it, a shout without words
    with strong overtones of the shrieks dragons aimed at one another. T1
    male hissed and flapped its wings; Istvan wondered why the blast of win
    from them didn't knock Turul over.
     The old dragonkeeper shouted again. He whacked the dragon on tl
    end of its scaly nose with the goad. And, as a big fierce hound will yie
    to a pampered lapdog that learned to dominate it when it was a puppr
    so the dragon, trained from hatchlinghood to obey puny men, subside
    now.
     Istvan admired Turul's nerve without wanting to imitate it. Th
    dragonkeeper picked his way between pens and walloped the other co
    tentious dragon, too. A tiny puff of smoke burst from its mouth. Tu
    hit it again, harder this time. "Don't you do that!" he yelled. "Don't yo
    even think of doing that! You do that when your flier tells you, not a
    other time. Do you hear me?" "ack!
     Evidently, the dragon did hear him. It crouched down, almost like
    puppy that knew it had made a mess in the house. Istvan watched
    fascination. Turul sent a few more yells at it, these wordless. Only aft
    he was sure he'd established his mastery did he stamp back towar
    Istvan.
     "I didn't think they were smart enough to obey like that," Istvan s
    "You really made them behave themselves."
     "Smart hasn't got a whole lot to do with it," Turul answer
    "Dragon's aren't very smart. They never were. They never will be. .
    these bastards are is trained. They're almost too stupid to be trained, toG.
    If they were. we couldn't fly 'em at all. We'd have to hunt 'em down
    kill 'em, same as we do with any other vermin. Curse me if I don't some
    times think that'd be for the best."
     "But you're one of the people who do train them," Istvan exclai
    "Would you want to be out of a job?"

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    ut
    
    py,
     ed
    
    The
    
    on-
    urul
    
    you
     any
    
    ke a
    d in
    after
    ards
    
    said.
    
    ered.
    What
     too.
    n and
    some-
    
    aimed.
    
    167
    
     "Sometimes," Turul said, surprising Istvan again. "You put in so much
    work training dragons, and what do you get back? Shit and fire and
    screeches, that's all. If you didn't train 'ern so hard, the cursed things'd eat
    you. Oh, I'm good at what I do, and I make no bones about it. But when
    you get right down to it, lad, so what? Even a horse, which isn't the
    smartest beast that ever came down the pike, will make friends with you.
    A dragon? Never. Dragons know about food and they know about the
    goad, and that's about it. It wears thin now and again, that it does."
      "What would you do if you weren't a dragonkeeper?" Istvan asked.
     Now Turul stared at him. "Been a while since I thought about that. I
    don't rightly know, not now. I expect I'd have ended up a potter or a
    carpenter or some such thing. I'd be settled down in some little town
    with a fat wife getting old like me, and children, and maybe - likely -
    grandchildren by now, too. Don't have any get I know of, not unless my
    seed caught in one of the easy women I've had down through the years."
     Again, Istvan had got more answer than he'd bargained for. Turul
    liked to talk, and didn't look to have had anyone to listen to him for a
    while. Istvan asked another question: "Would that have been better or
    worse than what you have now?"
     "Blaze, how do I know?" the old dragonkeeper said. "It would have
    been different, that's all I can tell you." The net of wrinkles around his
    eyes shifted as they narrowed. "No, it's not all I can tell you. The other
    thing I can tell you is, there's lots and lots of dragon dung out there, and
    it won't go away by itself Put on your leathers and get to it."
     "Oh, aye," Istvan said. "I was just waiting for you to finish up here."
    That was close enough to true to keep Turul from calling him on it. With
    d stifled sigh, he went to work.
    
     Hajaj stood in front of the royal palace in Bishah, watching a parade
    of Unkerlanter captives shambling past. The Unkerlanters still wore their
    rock-gray tunics. They looked astonished that the Zuwayzin had cap-
    tured them instead of the other way round. Being herded by naked
    Zuwayzi soldiers seemed as demoralizing to them as being jeered by
    naked Zuwayzi civilians.
     Following the captives came Zuwayzi soldiers marching in neat ranks.
    The civilians cheered them, a great roar of noise in which HajaJ delight-
    edly joined. It picked him up and swept him along, as if it were the surf

    




    68
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    coming up the beach at Cape Hadh Faris, the northernmost spit of land
    in all Derlaval.
     A woman turned to him and said, "They're pretty ugly, these
    Unkerlanters. Do they wear clothes because they're so ugly: to make sure
    no one can see?"
     "No," the Zuwayzi foreign minister answered. "They wear clothes
    because it gets very cold in their kingdom." He knew the Unkerlanters
    and other folk of Derlavai had more reasons for wearing clothes than the
    weather, but, despite his study and his experience, those reasons made no
    sense to him, and surely would not to his countrywoman, either.
     As things turned out, he might as well have not bothered speaking.
    The woman followed her own caravan of thought down its ley h
    "And they're not just ugly, either. They're pretty puny fighters, to
    
    Everyone was so afraid of them when this war started. I think we can beat
    them, that's what I think."
     Plainly, she did not know to whom she was speaking. H~jjaj said only,
    "May the event prove you right, milady." He was glad - he was delighted
    - the Zuwayzin had won their first engagement against King Swemmel's
    forces. Unfortunately for him, he knew too much to have an easy time
    thinking one such victory would translate into a victorious war. Only
    few times in his life had he wished to be more ignorant than he was. This
    was another of those rare occasions.
     Another swarm of captives tramped glumly past the palace. Pe
    cursed them in Zuwayzi. The older men and women in the crowd, those
    who'd been to school while Zuwayza remained a province of Unkerlant
    cursed the captured soldiers in rock-gray tunics in their own languagi.,
    The old folks had had Unkerlanter rammed down their throats in the
    classroom, and plainly enjoyed using what they'd been made to leam.
     More Zuwayzi troops followed, these mounted on camels. From the
    reports that had come into Bishah, the camel niders had played a major
    part in the victory over Unkerlant. Even in the somewhat cooler south4
    Zuwayza was a desert country. Camels could cross terrain that defeated
    horses and unicorns and behemoths. Appearing on the Unkerlanters'
    flank at the critical moment, the niders had thrown them first into co
    fusion and then into panic.
     Someone tapped HaJjaJJ on the shoulder. He turned and saw it was o
    of King Shazli's servants. Bowing, the man said, "May it please y

    




    le
    
    se
    
    nt,
    
    ge.
    the
    
    the
    
    on-
    
    one
    
    our
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    169
    
    Excellency, his Majesty would see you in his private reception chamber
    directly the parade is ended."
     HaJjaJ returned the bow. "His Majesty's wish is my pleasure," he
    replied, courteously if not altogether accurately. "I shall attend him at the
    time named." The servant nodded and hurried away.
     As soon as the last captured egg-tosser had trundled past the palace,
    Ha~aj ducked inside and made his way through the relatively cool dim-
    ness to the chamber where he so often consulted with his sovereign.
    Shazli awaited him there. So, inevitably, did cakes and tea and wine.
    HajaJ enjoyed the rituals and rhythms of his native land; to him,
    Unkerlanters and Algarvians always moved with unseemly haste. There
    were times, though, when haste was necessary even if unseemly.
     Shazli felt the same way. The king broke off the polite small talk over
    refreshments as soon as he decently could. "How now, Hajjaj?" he said.
    "We have given King Swemmel a smart box on the ear. Whatever the
    Unkerlanters aim to extract from us, we have shown them they win have
    to pay dearly. We have shown the rest of the world the same thing. May
    we now hope the rest of the world has noticed?"
     "Oh, aye, your Majesty, the rest of the world has noticed," HaJaJ
    replied. "I have received messages of congratulations from the iministers
    of several kingdoms. And each of those messages ends with the warning
    that it is but a personal note, and not meant to imply any change of policy
    on the part of the minister's sovereign."
     "What must we do?" Shazli asked bitterly. "If we march on Cottbus
    and sack the place, win that get us the aid we need?"
     HajJaJ's voice was dry: "If we march on Cottbus and sack the place,
    the Unkerlanters will be the ones needing aid. But I do not expect that
    to happen. I did not expect such good news as we have already had."
     "You are a professional diplomat, and so a professional pessirmist,"
    Shazli said. HajaJ inclined his head, acknowledging the truth in that. His
    sovereign went on, "Our officers tell me the Unkerlanters attack with less
    force than they expected. Maybe they were trying to catch us by surprise.
    Wherever the truth lies there, they failed, and have paid dearly for
    failing."
     "Swemmel has a way of striking before he is fully ready," HaJjaJ
     replied. "It cost him in the war against his twin brother, it made him start
     the pointless war against Gyongyos, and now it hurts him again." ,

    




    170
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "Only against Forthweg did striking soon serve him well," Shazli sai
     "Algarve did most of the hard work against Forthweg," HajaJ sai
    "All Swernmel did there was jump on the carcass and tear off some me
    This is, of course, also what he seeks to do against us."
     "He has paid blood," Shazli said, sounding fierce as any warrior prin
    in Zuwayza's brigand-filled history. "He has paid blood, but has no
    to show for it."
     "Not yet," HaJjaJ said. "As you say, we have blooded one Unkerlant
    army. Swernmel will send others after it. We cannot gather so many in
    together, try as we will."
     "You do not believe we can win?" The king of Zuwayza look
    wounded.
     "Win?" Hajaj shook his graying head. "Not if the Unkerlanters pe
    sist. If any of your officers should tell you otherwise, tell him in retu
    that he has smoked too much hashish. My hope, your Majesty, is that
    can hurt the Unkerlanters enough to keep more of what is ours than th
    demand, and not to let them gobble us down, as they did before. Ev
    that, I judge, will not be easy, for has not King Swernmel shouted he ai
    to rule in Bishah?"
     "The generals do indeed speak of victory," Shazli said.
     HajaJJ bowed in his seat. ",You are the king. You are the ruler. Y
    are the one to decide whom to believe. If my record over the years
    caused you to lose faith in me, you have but to say the word. At my a
    I shall be glad to lay down the burdens of my office and retire to
    home, my wives, my children, and my grandchildren. My fate is in yo
    hands, as is the kingdom's."
     No matter what he said, he did not want to retire. But he did not wa
    King Shazli carried away by dreams of glory, either. Threatening to resi
    was the best way HaJjaJ knew to gain his attention. If the ploy failed
    then it failed, that was all. Shazli was a young man. Dreams of glory
    root in him more readily than in his foreign minister. To HajaJJ's way
    thinking, that was why the kingdom had a foreign rminister. Of'co
    Shazli might think otherwise.
     "Stay by my side," Shazli said, and HajaJ inclined his head in obe
    ence - and to keep from showing the relief he felt. The king went on,
    shall hope my generals are right, and shall bid them fight as fiercely a
    cleverly as they can. If the time comes when they can fight no more

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    171
    
    shah rely on you to make the best ternis with Unkerlant you may. Does
    that suit you?"
     "Your Majesty, it does," HaJjaJ said. "And 1, for my part, shall hope
    the officers are right and I wrong. I am not so rash as to reckon myself
    infallible. If the Unkerlanters make enough mistakes, we may indeed
    emerge victorious."
    
     "May it be so," King Shazli said, and gently clapped his hands in the
    Zuwayzi gesture of dismissal. Hajaj rose, bowed, and left the palace.
    When he was sure no one could see him, he let out a long sigh. The king
    still had confidence in him. Without that, he was nothing - or nothing
    more than the retired diplomat he had said he might want to become. He
    shook his head. Whom else could King Shazli find to do such a goodJob
    of lying for the kingdom?
     One of the privileges the foreign minister enjoyed was a carried at his
    beck and call. Hajaj availed himself of that privilege now. "Be so good
    as to take me home," he told the driver, who doffed his broad-brimmed
    hat in token of obedience.
     Hajaj's home lay on the side of a hill, to catch the cooling breezes.
    Bishah had few cooling breezes to catch, but they did blow in spring and
    fall. Like many houses in the capital, his was built of golden sandstone. Its
    wings rambled over a good stretch of the hillside, with gardens among
    them. Most of the plants were native to Zuwayza, and not extravagant of
    Water.
     The majordomo bowed when Hajaj went inside. Tewfik had been a
    family retainer longer than Hajaj had been alive; he was well up into his
    elahties, bent and wrinkled and slow, but with wits and tongue still
    unimpaired. "Everyone's still going mad with celebrating, eh, lad?" he
    croaked.
      He was the only man alive who called HajjaJ lad. "Even so," the
     foreign minister said. "We have won a victory, after all."
      Tewfik grunted. "It won't last. Nothing ever lasts." If anything refuted
     that, it was himself. He went on, "You'll want to see the lady Kolthoum,
     then." It was not a question. Tewfik did not need to make it a question.
     He knew his master.
      And HajaJ nodded. "Aye," he said, and followed the majordomo.
     KolthoUlD was his first wife, the only person in the world who knew him
     better than Tewfik. He'd wed Hassila twenty years later, to cement a clan
    
    ~6

    




    172
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    tie. Lalla was a recent amusement. One day before too long, he'd have
    
    decide whether she'd grown too expensive to be amusing any more.
    
     For now, though, Kolthoum. She was embroidering with one
    Hassila's daughters when Tewfik led Hajaj into the room. One loo
    her husband's face and she told the girl, "Run along, jamila. I'll show
    more about that stitch later. Right now, your father needs to talk -V
    me. Tewfik-"
     "I shall fetch refreshments directly, senior wife," the majordomo s
     "Thank you, Tewfik." Kolthoum had never been a great beauty,
    had put on flesh as she aged. But men paid attention to her because of
    voice, and also because she made it very plain that she paid attentio
    them. As soon as Tewfik shuffled away, she said, "It's not as good as
    crystal makes it sound, is it?"
     "When is anything ever as good as the crystal makes it sound?" H
    returned. His senior wife laughed. He went on, "You aren't the only
    who thinks it is, though, and you have friends in high places." He t
    her about his conversation with King Shazli, and about what he'd ha
    do; when speaking with his wife, he did not need to wait through
    ritual of tea and wine and cakes.
     "A good thing he didn't take you up on it!" Kolthoum said ind
    nantly. "What would you do, underfoot here all day? And what wo
    we do, with you underfoot here all day?"
     Hajaj laughed and kissed her on the cheek. "Powers above be prai
    that I have a wife who truly understands me."
    
     "Well, of course," Kolthoum said.
    
     Fernao had visited Yanina a couple of times before what news she
    in Setubal were calling the Derlavaian War broke out. Unless his memo
    had slipped, Patras, the capital, hadn't been so frantic then. Yaninans
    frantic - or, at least, they looked that way to foreigners - but they
    seemed less on edge then.
     Of course, he thought, being a small kingdom sandwiched bitwe
    Algarve and Unkerlant went a long way toward helping to make a fo
    frantic. Having King Penda of Forthweg cooped up somewhere in t]
    royal palace couldn't have helped matters, either, not with King Swe
    breathing down King Tsavellas's neck to get his hands on Penda.
     And so broadsheets sprouted on every wall. Fernao couldn't re

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    173
    
    them; the Yaninans used a script all their own - as much to be difficult as
    for any other reason, as far as the Lagoan mage was concerned. But they
    were full of pictures of soldiers and dragons and red ink and the punctu-
    ation marks for excitement and urgency that a lot of scripts shared. If they
    didn't mean something like LOOK OUT! WE'RE GOING TO BE IN
    A WAR! - if they didn't mean something like that, Fernao understood
    nothing of symbols.
     Two Yaninans were quarreling on the plank sidewalk in front of the
    doorway to the shop Fernao wanted to enter. They were going at it ham-
    mer and tongs, getting madder by the minute. In Fernao's ears, Yaninan
    sounded like wine pouring out of a jug too fast, glug, glug, glug. He
    knew only a handful of phrases of it; it wasn't a tongue closely related to
    any other.
     A crowd gathered. Arguing and watching arguments seemed to be the
    Yaninan national sports. Men in tunics with pufFy sleeves and tights and
    women with kerchiefs on their heads egged on the two combatants. At
    last, one of the skinny, swarthy men grabbed the other's bushy side
    whiskers and yanked. With a shriek, the second man hit the first in the
    belly. They grabbed each other and rolled into the street, clawing and
    gouging and cursing. The crowd surged after them.
     With a sigh of relief, Fernao slid through the now vacant door-way of
    the gourmet-foods shop. Varvakis supplied King Tsavellas with delica-
    cies; selling him a shipment of smoked Lagoan trout gave Fernao an
    innocuous reason for coming to Yanina. The foodseller spoke fluent
    Algarvian, for which Fernao gave thanks. 'Just another day," the mage
    remarked, pointing to the commotion outside.
     "Oh, indeed," Varvakis answered. He was a short, bald man with a big
    black mustache and the hain'est ears Fernao had ever seen. Fernao's irony
    went past him; as far as he was concerned, it was just another day. Patras
    was like that.
     Fernao glanced around the shop. Varvakis did business with the whole
    world. jars of Algarvian liver paste stood beside hams and sausages from
    Valmiera, Jelgavan wines next to Unkerlanter apricot brandy, Kuusarnan
    lobsters and oysters by chewy strips of dried conch from Zuwayza, nuild
    red peppcrs from Gyongyos alongside fiery ones out of tropic Siaulia.
    The inage pointed to some large brown dried leaves he didn't recognize.
    "What are those?"
    
    Id
    
    sed
    
    een
                                       folk
                                       the
                                       mel
    
    read

    




    174
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "I just got them in, as a matter of fact," Varvakis answered. "The
    from one of the islands of the north, I forget which one. The na
    crumble them in a pipe and smoke them like hashish. But they speed
    up instead of slowing you down, if you know what I mean."
     "That might be interesting," Fernao said. "But now-" Befor
    could get down to business, a plump woman with a distinct must
    walked in. Varvakis fawned on her. They walked over to a bin of p
    and had a long discussion of which Fernao followed not a word.
    woman finally condescended to buy a few ounces' worth. Varvakis
    her a couple of coppers in change with the air of a man conferring a k
    dom-saving loan upon his sovereign. Femao let out a muffled snort.
    more than Algarvians, Yaninans overacted.
    
     "But now-" Varvakis said when the plump woman had
    Yaninans also had - and needed - a gift for picking up the threa
    interrupted conversation. "But now, my friend, I have, or think I
    good news for you. A steward of my acquaintance tells me that-'
    bowed himself double when a man came in and went over to exa
    the lobsters. At the prices he was charging for them, only a rich cust
    could have afforded any. Fernao quietly fumed till the transaction
    done.
      A steward of your acquaintance tells you what?" the mage a
    when Varvakis remembered he was there - he was learning to ha
    multiple interrupted conversations, too, although not to enjoy the
    some exasperation, he added, "Could you let a clerk handle peopl
    we're done here?"
     "Oh, very well." The fancy grocer sounded testy. "But custo
    want to see me. They come to deal with me." He puffed out his chest
    pride - and with air, which he used to shout, "Gyzis!" The clerk eme
    from the back room, wearing a leather apron over a Yaninan-style p
    sleeved tunic. Grudgingly, Varvakis put him in charge of the front
    shop and took Fernao into the back room.
     More delicacies lined the shelves there, some injars, others kept
    in rest crates. "About this steward-" Fernao prompted.
     "Aye, aye, of course." Varvakis's eyes flashed. "Do you take me
    halfwit? For a price, he says, he can get you in to see King Penda -
    Penda can moan that he's pining for smoked trout. What you do
    you see Penda, I know nothing about. I wish to know nothing abou

    




     hey're
    natives
    eed you
    
   fore he
    stache
    
    f prunes
    ord. The
    akis gave
    g a king-
    ort. Even
    
                                   ~I,ACN ki".
                                    threads of
                                    nk I have,
                                    that--2' He
                                    to examine
                                   ch customer
                                   saction was
    
    mage asked
    g to handle
    oy them. In
    e people till
    
                                   ut customers
                                  his chest with
                                   lerk emerged
                                   -style puff~-
                                  e front of the
    
    ers kept fresh
    
                                  take me for a
                                   enda - maybe
                                  t you do once
                                  ing about it."
    
    INTo THE DAR-KNESS
    
    175
    
    He held an arm in front of his head, so that his sleeve drooped down and
    covered his eyes.
     "I understand that," Fernao said patiently. "Money shouldn't be any
    trouble." By all the signs, Shelomith had money coming out of his ears.
    He'd given Fernao a goodly sum, and he'd given Varvakis a goodly sum,
    too: Varvakis did not strike the mage as a man who would be very co-
    operative without a well-greased palm.
     He proved that again, saying, "What I give to Cossos does not come
    from my fee. It will be redeemed."
     "k           -,tzmvz NN~-Oj xvzk~ kkt
    money. "Set up the meeting. Pay whatever you have to pay. 'We will
    -f e~=)Duyst N ou."
    
     Nayw'V~ys       "M       "Go, *itn. 'I   I=
    of here. We should not be seen together. When the meeting is arranged,
    you will hear from me. You will also hear how much you owe. You will
    pay before you see Cossos."
     Was that the edge of a threat? Probably. Varvakis could pocket the
    money and let Fernao walk into a trap. For that matter, he could pocket
    it and set up a trap for Fernao. The unpleasant possibilities were almost
    endless.
    
     Back at the nondescript - indeed, dingy - hostel where he and Fernao
    were staying, Shelomith waxed enthusiastic. "This is just the chance we
    need!" he said, clapping Fernac, on the back. "I knew that, sooner or
    later, one of my contacts would survey a ley line to his Majesty for us."
     Fernao mentally substituted I hoped for I knew. Aloud, he said,

    




    "Whatever this Cossos wants, he won't work cheap." Shelomith only
    shrugged. They were staying at a hostel less than of the finest to keep
    from drawing notice to themselves. Shelomith had plenty of gold -just
    how much, Fernao didn't know. Plenty for all ordinary and most extra-
    ordinary purposes, that was certain.
     And so, with Varvakis along as a go-between, Fernao approached King
    Tsavellas's palace a couple of days later. Yaninan architecture ran to tall,
    thin watchtowers and to onion domes, all very exotic to a practical Lagoan.
    The guards at the entrance wore tights with red and white stripes and red
    pornpoms on their shoes, but looked tough and determined despite the
    absurd costume. Recognizing Varvakis, they bowed in greeting, and
    accepted Fernao because he accompanied the purveyor of fancy foods.

    




    176
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Paintings on the walls showed Yaninan kings with odd domed crown
    long somber faces; and robes so thick with gold and silver threads, the
    had to be almost too heavy to wear. Other paintings celebrated th
    triumphs of Yaninan arms. judging by those paintings, Yanina had neve
    lost a battle, let alone a war. judging by the map, those paintings didn
    tell the whole story.
     "We can talk here," Cossos said, escorting Fernao and Varvakis into
    small chamber. Like Varvakis, he spoke good Algarvian. The Yaninan
    had learned a great deal from their eastern neighbors. Not all the lesson
    had been pleasant.
     Varvakis said, "The two of you talk. What you talk about, I don't w
    to hear. if I don't hear it, I don't have to tell lies about it." He bowed fi
    to Femao, then to Cossos, and departed before either of them could s
    a word.
     "No stones to that man," Cossos remarked, tossing his head in
    Yaninan gesture of scorn. He was about forty-five, wiry, shrewd
    looking, with a nose like a swordblade. "Now, my friend, what can I d
    for you?"
     "I doubt I am your friend," Fernao said. "If all goes well, I may b
    your benefactor, though."
     "That will do well enough," Cossos said briskly. "I ask you once agai
    what can I do for you?"
     Fernao hesitated. Here was where the jaws of the trap might close o
    him. If someone besides Cossos was listening ... If that was so, Ferna
    might find out more about the dark places of Yanina than he ever wante
    to know. He could not sense anyone listening, but he could not gaug
    whether Yaninan wizards were masking a spy from his powers, either.
     But he had not come here to be cautious. Taking a deep breath, h
    said, "I would like half an hour alone with Penda of Forthweg, with n
    one to know I have come to see him. I also require your studied forge
    fulness that you ever arranged such an appointment for me."
     "Studied forgetfulness, eh?" Cossos bared his teeth in What was almos
    but not quite, a smile of genuine amusement. "Aye, I can see how yo
    would. Well, I can manage that. In fact, I'd better, or my head woul
    answer it, after the other. But it'll cost you." He named a sum in Yanina
    lepta.
     After Fernao converted it into Lagoan sceptres, he whistled softly

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    :o a
    
    ns
    
    ns
    
    in a
    wd-
    I do
    
    y be
    
    gain:
    
    sc on
    ~rnao
    anted
    gauge
    her.
    
    th, he
    ith no
    orget-
    
                                      Imost,
                                      W you
                                      would
                                      aninan
    
    softly.
    
    177
    
    Cossos did not think small. But Shelomith had gold aplenty. "Agreed,"
    the mage said, and Cossos blinked, evidently having expected him to
    haggle. Femac, added, "I will take any oath you like that I mean Penda
    no harm."
     Cossos shrugged. "It'd cost you less if you did mean him harm," he
    said. "King Tsavellas wouldJust as soon see him dead. Then he wouldn't
    have to worry about him any more. Bring me the money and-"
     "I'll bring you the first half," Fernao broke in. "The other half comes
    afterwards, in case you'd just as soon see me dead." Cossos bared his
    teeth. Fernao stood firm against all his complaints, saying, "You need a
    reason not to betray me," In the end, grumbling, the steward gave in.
     Well pleased with himself, Femao headed back to the hostel.
    Shelomith would pay without blinking; he was sure of that. He was less
    sure he could walk out of the palace with Penda and with no one the
    wiser, but he thought so. Lagoan mages knew more than those in this
    benighted comer of the world. He'd already had a couple of good ideas,
    and more would come to him.
     He rounded the last comer and stopped dead. Green-uniformed con-
    stables surrounded the hostel like ants at an outdoor feast. A couple of
    them carried a body out on a litter. Fernao knew it would be Shelomith's
    before he got close enough to recognize it, and it was. The constables
    were laughing andjoking, as if they'd found treasure. They probably had
    found treasure - Shelomith's treasure. Femao gulped. Now all he had was
    the money in his own pouch, and he was alone and friendless in a foreign
    town.

    




    Dragons swooped low over Trapani. Marching in the triumphal proces-
    sion through the streets of the Algarvian capital, Colonel Sabriino hoped
    none of the miserable beasts would choose the moment in which it flew
    over him to void. Long and intimate experience informed his rmistrust of
    dragons.
     No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he had to step
    smartly to keep from putting his foot down on a pile of behemoth dung.
    Squadrons of the great beasts were interspersed among the marching
    troops, to give the swarms of civilians who packed the sidewalks some-
    thing extra at which to cheer.
     Sabn*no marched with his shoulders back, his head up, his chin thrust
    forward. He wanted everyone who saw him to know he was a fierce
    fighting man, one who would never take a step back from the foe.
    Algarvians; made much of appearances. And why not? Sabriino thought.
    Have the mages not proved that appearances help shape reality?
     He also wanted people, especially pretty women, to notice. He was
    happy with his wife, he was happy with his mistress, but he would not
    have been broken-hearted had some sweet young thing adoringly
    cast herself at his feet. No, he would not have been broken-hearted at
    all.
     Whether he would find himself so lucky after the end of the parade,
    he did not know. He was pretty sure a good many soldiers would,
    though. Women kept running out to kiss them as they tramped past. A
    lot of the cheers that washed over them weren't the sort of cheers soldiers
    usually got. They sounded more like the ones excited followers usually
    gave popular balladeers or actors.
     Behind Sabriino, Captain Domiziano must have been thinking alo
    
    178

    




    INTO THE DARKNESS
    
   hrust
    erce
    fo e.
    ught.
    
    e was
    d not
    ringly
    ted at
    
   arade,
    ould,
   past. A
    oldiers
    usually
    
    g along
    
    179
    
    similar lines, for he said, "If a man can't get laid today, sir, it's only
    because he's not trying very hard."
     "You're right about that," Sabrino answered. "You are indeed." He
    kept eyeing women, though he told himself that was foolish: the ones he
    passed here would be long gone by the time the parade ended. But his eyes
    were less disciplined than his mind - or, to put it another way, he enjoyed
    watching regardless of whether or not he could do anything but watch.
     People held up signs saying things like GOODBYE, FORTHWEG!
    and ONE DOWN, THREE TO GO! and ALGARVE THE INVIN-
    CIBLE! It hadn't been like that in the Six Years' War, Sabriino remem-
    bered. The kingdom had fought only reluctantly then. Now, with her
    neighbors declaring war on her after she had done no more than retrieve
    what was rightfully hers, Algarve was united behind King Mezentio - and
    behind the army that had won this triumph.
     The parade ended at the royal palace, men and behemoths tramping
    by under the balcony from which King Mezentio had announced that
    Algarve was at war with Forthweg and Sibiu, Jelgava and Valmiera.
    Mezentio stood there now, reviewing the troops who had won such a
    smashing victory. Sabriino doffed his hat and waved it in the direction of
    his sovereign. "Mezentio! " he shouted at the top of his lungs, his cry one
    of hundreds, thousands, aimed at the king.
     Around the palace to the far side, the side opposite the Royal Square
    and also out of sight of the crowd, the triumphal procession disintegrated.
    Behemoth ri'ders took their beasts off through alleys so narrow, they had
    to go in single file. Martinets led their companies and regiments back
    toward their barracks. Officers with more heart gave their men liberty.
    The released soldiers hum*ed back toward the Royal Square to see what
    arrangements they could make for themselves.
     Sabrino had just turned his men loose, and was about to follow them
    back toward the square and try his luck when someone tapped him on
    the shoulder. He spun, to find himself facing a man in the green, red, and
    white livery of a palace servant. "You are the Count Sabriino?" the
    servitor asked.
    
      "I am," Sabriino admitted. "What do you desire of me?"
     Before answering, the servant made a mark on the list, probably
    checking off his name. Then he said, "I have the honor, my lord, of
    inviting you to a reception in an hour's time in the Salon of King

    




    180
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    Aquilante V, wherein his Majesty shall express his gratitude to the
    nobility for supporting him and Algarve during our present crisis."
     "I am honored," Sabrino said, bowing. "You may tell his Majesty that
    I shall certainly attend him."
     He wondered if the servant even heard; the fellow had already turned
    away to look for the next man on his list. He must have assumed Sabrino
    would accept the invitation. And why not? Who in his right mind would
    refuse a summons from his sovereign? Sabriino hurried toward the nearest
    palace entrance.
     Guards there unsmilingly examined his uniform, his dragonflier's
    badge, and his badge of nobility. They ticked off his name as the servitor
    who'd tendered him the invitation had done. Irritated, Sabrino snapped,
    "I am not a Sibian spy, gentlemen, nor a Valmieran assassin, either."
     "We believe you, my lord," one of the guards said. "Now we believe
    you. Pass on, and enjoy the pleasures of the palace."
     Sabrino knew his way to the Salon of King Aquilante V; he had
    attended several other gatherings there. Nonetheless, he did not object
    when a serving woman stepped forward to guide him. He would have
    liked it even better had she guided him to her bedchamber, but walking
    along flirting with her was pleasant enough.
     "Count Sabrino!" a herald cnied in a great voice when he entered the
    salon. To his disappointment, the pretty serving girl went off to escort
    someone else. Faithless hussy, he thought, and laughed at himself
     Tables piled high with refreshments stood against one wall. He took a
    glass of white wine and a slice from a round of flatbread piled high with
    melted cheeses, salt fish, eggplant slices, and olives. Thus equipped, he
    sallied forth on to the social battlefield.
     Naturally, he did his best to put himself in the way of King Mezentio,
    who circulated through the reception hall. Being a resourceful man he,
    soon succeeded in drawing the king's notice. "Your Majesty!"
    and bowed low enough to gladden a protocol officer, s heart
    spilling a drop of wine or losing a single olive from his flatbread
     "Powers above, straighten up!" Mezentio said irritably. "Do yo
    I'm King Swemmel, to need all that head    'u tj
                            -knocking nonsense? He thi s
    it makes people afraid of him, but what does an Unkerlanter knowi
    Nothing to speak of - Unkerlanters grow like onions, with their heads ii)
    the ground."

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    181
    
     "Even so, your Majesty," Sabriino said, nodding. "If only there weren't
    so many of them."
     "By the harnhanded way he's fighting that war against Zuwayza,
    Swernmel is doing his best to make them fewer," the king answered.
    "And my congratulations, by the way, on how well you and your wing
    fought above Wihtgara. I was very pleased by the reports I read of your
    exploits. "
     "I shall pass on your praise to my dragonfliers," Sabrino said with
    another bow. "They, after all, are the ones who earned it for me."
     "Spoken as a good officer should speak," Mezentio said. "Tell me,
    Count, in your fighting above Forthweg, did you find many of Kaunian
    blood opposing you on dragons painted in Forthwegian colors?"
     "Speaking solely from my own experience, your Majesty, that's hard
    to say," Sabriino replied. "One often doesn't get close enough to the foe
    to see exactly who he is. When the dragons fly high, going up there's a
    chilly business, too, so the men who fly them are often bundled against
    the cold. I'm given to understand, though, that the Forthwegians set a
    good many obstacles in the way of Kaunians who seek to fly dragons, the
    same as they do against Kaunian officers of any sort."
     "I know for a fact that last is true." Mezentio frowned. "Curious how
    the Forthwegians look down their beaky noses at the Kaunians inside
    their own borders, but follow like lapdogs when the Kaunians in the east
    seek to savage us."
     "They've paid for their folly," Sabrino said.
     "Everyone who harms Algarve shall pay for his folly," Mezentio
    declared. "Everyone who has ever harmed Algarve shall pay for his folly.
    We lost the Six Years' War. This time, come what may, we shall win."
     "Certainly we shall, your Majesty," Sabrino said. "The whole world is
    jealous of Algarve, of what we are and of the way we've pulled ourselves
    up by the bootstraps even after everyone piled on to us in the Six Years'
    War."
     "Aye, the whole world is jealous - the whole world, and especially the
    Kaunian kingdoms," Mezentio said. "You mark my words, Count: those
    yellow-haired folk still hate us for destroying their cozy little empire
    more than a thousand years ago. If they could kill us all, they would.
    Since they can't, they seek to crush us so we may never rise again."
     "It won't happen." Sabriino spoke with great sincerity.

    




    182
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "Of course it won't," Mezentio said. "Are we as stupid
    Unkerlanters, to let them scheme and plot to destroy us without mak
    plans of our own?" The king laughed. "And the Unkerlanters are stu
    indeed, with Swernmel always bellowing 'Efficiency!' at the top of
    lungs and then blundering into one idiotic war after another." He tur
    away from Sabrino toward a noble who stood waiting to be recogniz
    "And how are you, your Grace?"
     Sabrino went back for another goblet of wine. That was more t
    than he'd enjoyed with the king in any other meeting. And Mezentio
    only knew who he was - which he'd expected - but also where his w
    had served - which he hadn't. He didn't fight to gain royal notice,
    he wouldn't turn down royal notice if it came his way.
     He drifted through the room, greeting men he knew, flirting
    serving women and the companions of nobles who happened to liv
    Trapani, and keeping his ears open for gossip. There was plenty; the o
    trouble was, he didn't always know to what it referred. When one wh
    goateed general said to another, "We have only to kick in the door
    the whole rotten structure win come crashing down," what door wa
    talking about? Whoever was standing behind it wouldn't care to hav
    kicked in on him. Of that Sabri'no was certain.
     A commodore in naval black spoke to a colleague: "Well, this ou
    to set the history of warfare on the sea back about a thousand years."
     Laughing, his friend answered, "They pay off on what you do. T
    don't pay off on how you do it." Then he noticed Sabrino was listen
    Whatever he said after that was in a voice too low for the dragonflie
    hear. Annoyed at having been caught, Sabrino took himself elsewhe
     A woman put a hand on his arm. She wasn't a servant; the green of
    silk tunic was darker than that of the national banner, and she wore
    gold and emeralds than a servant could even have dreamt of As Alga
    women sometimes did, she came straight to the point: "My frie
    drunk himself asleep, and I don't want to go back to my flat alone."
     He looked her up and down. "Your friend, my dear, is a fool.'Tell
    your name. I want to know whose fool he is."
     "I am Ippalca," she answered, "and you are the famous Count Sab
    the man in all the news sheets."
     "My sweet, I was famous long before the news sheets ever hear
    me," Sabrino said. "When we get back to your flat, I will show

    




    I
    
    as
    
    INTc) THE DARKNESS
    
    vitb
    
    e in
    
    Duly
    
     and
    is he
    ve it
    
    ught
    
    rhey
    ning.
    ~er to
    
    011 ine
    
    brino,
    
    ~ard of
    
    N YOU
    
    183
    
    why." Ippalca laughed. Her eyes glowed. Sabrii no slid an arm around her
    waist. Together, they left the Salon of King Aquilante V.
    
     "Efficiency." Leudast made the word into a curse. It had already
    doomed a lot of Unkerlanter soldiers. He looked around. After the
    homelike fields of western Forthweg, this Zuwayzi waste of sunbaked
    rock and blowing sand seemed a particularly cruel joke.
     He checked his water bottle. It was full. He'd filled it at the last water
    hole, only half a mile or so south of where he was now. The Zuwayzin
    hadn't poisoned that one. He'd seen men drink from it, and they'd
    taken no harm. The naked black savages hadn't missed many water
    holes, They weren't perfectly efficient themselves -just far too close for
    comfort.
     Sergeant Magnulf trudged by. His boots scuffed through sand. His
    shoulders slumped, ever so slightly. Even his iron determination, which
    had never faltered during the war against Gyongyos, was wearing thin
    here. "Tell me again, Sergeant," Leudast called to him. "Remind me
    why King Swemmel wants this land bad enough to take it away from
    anybody. Remind me why anybody who's got it isn't happy to give it to
    the first fool who wants it."
     Magnulf looked at him. "You need to be more efficient with your.
    mouth, soldier," he said tonelessly. "I know you didn't mean to call King
    Swernmel a fool, but somebody else who was listening might get the idea
    you did. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"
     Leudast considered. If they arrested him for disloyalty to King
    Swcmmel, they'd take him out of this Zuwayzi wilderness. He wouldn't
    have to worry about black men who wanted to blaze him - or, as arrny
    runior had it, to cut his throat and drink his blood. On the other hand,
    he would have to worry about Swernmel's interrogators. He might
    escape the Zuwayzin. The interrogators ... no.
    
     "Thank you, Sergeant," he replied at last. "I'll watch what I say."
     "You'd better." Magnulf wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his tunic.
    The Unkerlanters called the tunic's color rock gray, but it didn't match
    any of the rocks hereabouts, which were various ugly shades of yellow.
    That also struck Leudast as inefficient, but he kept his mouth shut about
    it. Magnulf went on, "I'll even answer your question. The king wants this
    land back because it used to belong to Unkerlant, and so it ought to again.

    




    184
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    And the Zuwayzin don't want us to have it on account of it blocks our
    path toward better country farther north."
     "is there better country farther north?" Leudast asked, again speaking
    more freely than he should have. "Or does this nuiserable desert go on
    forever?"
     "There's supposed to be better country," Magnulf said. "I suppose
    there must be better country - otherwise, the Zuwayzin couldn't raise so
    many soldiers against us."
     That made sense. Along with the rest of the men in his company,
    Leudast slogged north. Thornbushes grew here and there among the
    rocks. Very little else did. Very little lived here, either - snakes and scor-
    pions and a few little pale foxes with enormous ears. Scavenger birds
    circled overhead, their wings looking as wide as those of dragons. They
    thought the Unkerlanter army would come to grief in the desert. Leudast
    remained far from sure they were wrong.
     He tramped past a dead behemoth. The big beast hadn't been blazed;
    its corpse bore no mark he could see. Maybe it hadjust keeled over from
    trying to haul the weight of its armor and weapons and riders through the
    desert. Since he felt like keeling over himself, Leudast knew a certain
    amount of sympathy for the poor brute. The army had its own
    scavengers; they'd already taken away the ironmongery the behemoth
    had carried on its back.
     Magnulf pointed. "There's the line," he said: Unkerlanters crouching
    and sprawling behind stones, blazing away at the Zuwayzin who blocked
    their path. As Leudast got down behind a rock himself so he could crawl
    forward, one of his countrymen shrieked and clutched at his shoulder.
    This terrain was made for defense. A handful of men could hold up an
    army here - and had.
     "Come on, you reinforcements, take your places," an officer shouted.
    "We'll get those black bastards out of there soon enough - see if we
    don't." He ordered some of the soldiers already in line forward to flank
    out the Zuwayzin who'd stalled the advance.
     Leudast blazed away at the rocks behind which the enemy sheltered.
    He had no idea whether his beams hit anyone. At the least, they made
    the Zuwayzin keep their heads down while his comrades slid around by
    the night flank.
     But more Zuwayzin waited on the right. They hadn't been blazing,

    




    perhaps hoping to draw the very attack the officer had commanded. They
    broke it. After a few minutes, Unkerlanters came streaming back to the
    main line, some of them helping wounded comrades escape the enemy's
    beams.
     When the Zuwayzin attacked in turn, the Unkerlanters threw them
    back. That cheered Leudast - till he heard an officer say, "We're the ones
    who are supposed to be moving forward, curse it, not the black men."
     "Tell it to the Zuwayzin - maybe they haven't heard," somebody not
    far from Leudast muttered. That struck him as dangerously inefficient
    speech, but he wasn't inclined to report it. For the moment, he was con-
    tent to be able to hold his position and not have to retreat.
     He swigged from his water bottle. That wouldn't last indefinitely, and,
    except for the known water holes, the dowsers hadn't had any luck find-
    ing new supplies. Leudast found himself unsurprised: if no water was out
    there to find, the best dowsers in the world couldn't find it. That meant
    the army had to depend on the familiar holes and on what ley-line cara-
    vans and animals could bring for-ward. By the knots of mages Leudast had
    seen working along the ley lines, the Zuwayzin had done their best to
    make them impassable. That did nothing to add to his peace of mind.
     And then he stopped worrying about such minor details as perhaps
    dying of thirst in a few days. Off to the left, the west, eggs smashed against
    stone. Leuclast automatically hugged the ground. Hard on the heels of
    those roars came exultant cn'es in a language he did not know and
    despaining ones in a language he did: "The Zuwayzin! The Zuwayzin are
    on our flank!"
     "Camels!" Sergeant Magnulf used the word as vilely as Leudast had
    used efficiency before. "Bastards snuck around our cavalry again." He bit
    out a few curses of a more conventional sort, then gathered himself
    "Well, no help for it." He looked westward to gauge how close the
    attackers were. "Fall back!" he shouted. "Fall back - form a line so we're
    not enfiladed any more. Whatever happens, we have to hang on to that
    water hole back there."
     He was thinking about water, too, though in a more immediate sense
    than Leudast had been. In this sun-baked country, not thinking about
    water was impossible. No doubt the Zuwayzin were also thinking about it,
    and making for that water hole themselves. At least Magnulf was thinking,
    which seemed to be more than any of the Unkerlanter officers could say.
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    185

    




    186
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Leudast scrambled back toward a stone that offered good shelte
    against attack from the west. As happened whenever a force found itsel
    outflanked, some soldiers panicked and fled toward the rear. As ofte
    happened when they did, they paid the price for panic: Zuwayzi beam
    cut dicni down.
     Howling with triumph, the Zuwayzin stormed forward. Leudas
    blazed a black man who showed too much of himself Several othe
    Zuwayzin also went down, dead or shrieking in pain. Then the enem]
    started flitting from rock to rock again, having learned a good manj
    Unkerlanters still held fight.
     More eggs crashed down around Leudast. The Zuwayzin must hav
    taken apart some light tossers and carried them on camelback. Sand an(
    shattered rock pelted him. He wanted to claw a hole in the ground, juml
    in, and pull the hole shut over him. He couldn't. And, if he stayed curlec
    up behind this rock, the Zuwayzin could move forward and blaze him a
    their leisure.
     Understanding that wds easy. Making himself get up on one knee and
    blaze at the enemy was much harder, but he did it. He thought he
    wounded another Zuwayzi, too. But he could not stay where he was any
    more, for the Zuwayzin were still advancing. He slipped away to another
    stone, and then to another.
     "We have to save the water hole!" an officer shouted, realizing only
    now what Magnulf had seen at once. "If we lose that water hole, we lose
    our grip on this whole stretch of desert." He shouted orders pulling more
    men from what had been the advance and shiffing them to the turned flank.
     It wasn't going to be enough. Leudast could see it wasn't going to be
    enough. The Zuwayzin could see it wasn't going to be enough, too.
    They knew what forcing the men of Unkerlant away from the water hole
    would mean. They were more clever than the Gongs, probably more
    clever than the For-thwegians, too. When they struck, they struck hard,
    and straight for the heart.
     Leudast wondered if he had enough water to make it back to ihe
    next clean hole. It was, he knew, a long way to the south - a dreadfully
    long way, if a man was retreating with the enemy nipping at his heels.
    Maybe he could fill up the bottle before the black men reached this
    water hole.
     More eggs fell - but these fell on the Zuwayzin. Dragons overhead had

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    187
    
    made the scavenger birds fly off. As the dragons wheeled, he saw their
    upper bodies were painted rock-gray: the color Unkerlant used. Now he
    shouted in triumph and the Zuwayzin in dismay. Unkerlanter egg-tossers
    well back of the line began adding their gifts to the ones the dragons were
    delivering.
     A man in a rock-gray tunic took shelter behind the rock next to
    Leudast's. "How's it look, soldier?" he asked, an officer's sharp snap in his
    voice.
     "Not too bad, sir - not now," Leudast answered, glancing over at the
    newcomer. That tunic was one a common soldier might have worn, but
    the collar bore a large star. Leudast's eyes widened. Only one man in
    Unkerlant was entitled to wear that emblem. "Not too bad, my lord
    Marshal," he corrected himself, wondering what a man like Rathar was
    doing at the front.
     Rathar answered that question without his asking it: "Can't find out
    what's going on if I don't see for myself
     "Uh, aye, sir," Leudast said. The marshal hadn'tj'ust come to see. He'd
    come to fight, and carried a stick like any other footsoldier's. He used it,
    too, popping up to blaze at the Zuwayzin. Of course, he'd fought in the
    Six Years' War and the Twinkings War, which meant he'd been around
    combat longer than Leudast had been alive. His happy grunt had to mean
    he'd got a beam home.
     Looking around, Leudast saw Rathar had also brought his crystallo-
    mancer with him. The marshal barked out a stream of orders, which the
    mage relayed to his colleagues back with the reserves. Those orders sent
    men and egg-tossers and dragons up toward the battle. Anyone who dis-
    obeyed them or delayed by even a heartbeat speedily regretted it.
     For the first time since plunging into the Zuwayzin desert, Leudast
    began to feel hope. Up till now, the Unkerlanters' campaign had been
    b=gled. Listening to Rathar's crisp commands, he didn't think the
    bungling would go on much longer.
    
     It was Count Brorda's birthday, a holiday in Gromheort. An Algarvian
    dwelt in Brorda's castle these days, but he hadn't bothered canceling the
    holiday. Maybe he hadn't wanted to antagonize the Forthwegians over
    whom he sat in judgment, although Ealstan had a hard time imagining an
    Algarvian who cared a fig about what the folk of Gromheort thought.
    
    I
    
    I

    




    Harry Turtledove
    
    More likely, the occupiers were just too lazy to bother changing what
    they'd found when they overran the city.
     Whatever the cause, Ealstan was glad to escape school. He'd grown as
    sick of Algarvian irregular verbs as he had been of their classical Kaunian
    equivalents. And besides, the first fall rains had brought out the mush-
    rooms.
     Forthwegians were mad for mushrooms - not surprising, when so
    many good ones grew in their kingdom. They ate them fresh, they ate
    them dried, they ate them pickled, they ate them in salads, they ate them
    with olives: they ate them with any excuse, or none,
     Markets were always full of mushrooms, but Ealstan, like most
    Forthwegians, was convinced the ones he picked himself were better
    than any he could buy. Like most Forthwegians, he knew the differences
    between the edible varieties and the ones that were poisonous; like his
    schoolmasters, his father had operated on the principle that a warmed
    backside made blood flow more freely to the brain. And so, armed with
    a cloth sack, he sallied forth with his cousin Sidroc to see what he could
    find.
     "It will be good to get out of the city," Sidroc said. Lowering hi:
    voice, he went on, "It will be good to get away from the cursed redheadi
    too.
     "I won't say you're wrong, because I think you're right," Ealstan salij
    "I just hope they let us out. AN their checkpoints are still up."
     But the Algarvian soldiers at the checkpoint on the west side of to'A
    seeing the sacks they carried, waved them through. "Mushrooms?'
    soldier asked. Ealstan and Sidroc nodded. The Algarvian stuck out
    tongue and made a horrible face to show what he thought of them.
    spoke in his own language. His comrades laughed and nodded. T
    didn't fancy mushrooms, either.
     "More for us," Ealstan said as soon as he was out of earshot of
    guard who spoke Forthwegian. Sidroc nodded again.
     Before long, the two cousins split up. That way, they would br
    wider assortment of mushrooms back to the house they still shared.
    way, too, they wouldn't quarrel if they both spotted a fine one
    same time. They'd quarreled over mushrooms before, more than
    Now they knew better.
     Every so often, Ealstan would see someone else digging in a fie]

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
   hi~
    ds,
    
    aid.
    
    hey
    
    the
    
    or at
    
   n,
    a
    his
    He
    
    the base of a tree. He didn't offer to go and help any of these people.
    Some folks loved to chat and share. Rather more, though, were inclined
    to be surly, to say nothing of greedy. He learned that way himself If a
    pretty girl came along and wanted to give him a hand, he Might let her.
    He laughed at himself He liked the idea, but knew better than to find it
    likely.
    
     He worked his way north, getting his shoes soggy and his knees dirty.
    One of the reasons he enjoyed hunting mushrooms - aside from the plea-
    sure of eating them later - was that he never knew ahead of time what
    he'd find. He tossed a few meadow mushrooms into his sack, just to make
    sure he didn't come home empty-handed. They were good enough, but
    no better than good enough.
     Chanterelles were better than good enough. He picked some egg-
    yellow ones because of their fine flavor, and some vermilion ones because
    his father enjoyed them, even if he himself found them acrid. Then, in
    some open woods he found a clump of orange Kaunian Imperial mush-
    rooms. He studied them with care before plucking them from the
    ground; they were related to death caps and destroyers, both deadly poi-
    sonous. Only after he made sure they were safe did they go into the sack.
    They would be delicious.
     And he felt like cheering when he stumbled upon an indigo milky
    mushroom. It wasn't one of his favorites as far as flavor went, but his
    mother always clapped her hands when he came home With one because
    the exotic color made any dish in which she used it more interesting.
     Then he came to a stand of trees with oyster mushrooms and ear
    mushrooms growing on their trunks, especially on the southern sides
    where sunlight did not reach them. The oyster mushrooms were partic-
    ularly fine: fresh and grayish white, not old and tough and yellow. He
    went from tree to tree picking all he could; some grew higher than he
    could reach, even by jumping. He wondered what Sidroc would bring
    home - probably a mix altogether different from his.
     He was so intent on harvesting those mushrooms, he didn't notice
    anyone else was picking from the same stand of trees tin they came round
    from opposite sides of the same big oak and almost bumped into each
    other. Nearly dropping his sack of mushrooms, Ealstan jumped back in
    surprise.
      So did the other gatherer, a Kaunian girl not far from his own age.

    




    190
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    They both laughed shakily. "You startled me," they both said at the sa
    time, with identical pointing forefingers. That made them laugh again
     "There are plenty for both of us," Ealstan said, and the girl nodde
    She rmight have been a year or so older than he was. Doing his best n
    to be too obvious about it, he eyed her figure, which her Kaunian-s
    tight tunic and trousers revealed in more detail than the long, loose tuni
    Forthwegian women wore. The knees of those trousers were dirty; she
    come out for the same reason he had, all right.
     "Aye, there are." She nodded again. She was looking at his dirty knee
    too. Then, suddenly, she pointed to the sack he carried. "What have y
    got in there? Maybe we can trade a little, so we each have more differe
    kinds."
     Kaunians in Forthweg were no less fond of mushrooms than any oth
    Forthwegians. "All right," Ealstan said. He grinned at her and dug o
    some of the orange mushrooms he'd found. "What will you give me
    those Kaunian Imperials here? They ought to suit you."
     She studied him before answering, her blue eyes hooded. Kaunians, h
    knew, got touchy if you said what they thought was the wrong thing,
    even the right thing in the wrong tone of voice. He must have passed th
    test, for she nodded and showed him some dull brown mushrooms fro
    her sack. "I found these horns of plenty under dead leaves, if you'd li
    some of them."
     "All n*ght," he said again, and they made the trade. He went on, "Yo
    must have had sharp eyes to spot them. Sometimes you can walk throu
    a big patch and never even know it, because they're the same color as th
    leaves."
     "That's true. I've done it." The Kaunian amended her words with th
    precision of her people: "I've done it a couple of times and then see
    them, I mean. Who knows how many times I've done it without eve
    noticing?"
     After that, they started talking about mushrooms and, almost coinci
    dentally, about themselves. He found her name was Vanai, and that s
    lived in Oyngestun; she'd come east to hunt mushrooms, while he'
    gone west from Gromheort. "How are things there?" he asked. "Are t
    redheads any better than they are in the city?"
     "I doubt it," Vanal answered bleakly. She added a word in Kau
    word Ealstan knew: "Barbarians." Kaunians sometimes applied tha

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    191
    
    to Forthwegians. Hearing it slapped on the Algarvians made Ealstan
    chuckle and clap his hands together. Vanal looked sharply at him. "How
    much Kaunian do you speak?" she asked in that language.
     "What I have learned in school," he said, also in Kaunian. It was the
    first time he'd ever been glad he'd paid attention to his lessons. Only a
    couple of hours before, he'd laughed at himself for imagining he might
    meet a pretty girl while out picking mushrooms. Now he'd gone and
    done it, even if she was a Kaunian.
    
     "You speak well," she said, falling back into Forthwegian. "Not
    quickly, as you would your birthspeech, but well."
     Ealstan appreciated the praise all the more because she measured it so
    carefully. "Thank you," he said. Then he remembered the Algarvian
    soldier taking obscene liberties with the Kaunian woman in the rubble-
    clearing gang back in Gromheort. It suddenly occurred to him, almost
    with the force of getting spellstruck, that being a pretty girl could carry
    disadvantages. He picked his words with care, too: "I hope they haven't
    ... insulted you."
     Vanal needed only a moment to understand what he meant. "Nothing
    too bad," she said. "Shouts, jeers, leers - nothing I haven't known from
    Forthwegians." She turned red; with her fair skin, the blush was easy to
    see. "I don't mean you. You've been perfectly polite."
     "Kaunians are people, too," Ealstan said, repeating a phrase his
    father was fond of using. Ealstan sometimes wondered if that was why
    his father used it. Kaunians had dwelt in Forthweg since the days of their
    ancient Empire, even if Forthwegians greatly outnumbered them these
    days. His own distant ancestors had known nothing of stone keeps and
    theaters and aqueducts when they entered this country. He wondered if
    one of the reasons they despised Kaunians was that, somewhere down
    deep, Kaunians made them wonder if they were people themselves.
     "Well, of course," Vanai said. But it wasn't ofcourse, and they both knew
     it. A lot of Forthweglans didn't think of Kaunians as people, and a lot of
     Kaunians returned the favor. Vanai changed the subject: "Your brother,
     you said, is a captive? That must be hard for your family. Is he well?"
      "He says he is well," Ealstan replied. "The Algarvians only let their
     captives write once a month, so we've not heard much. But he is alive,
     powers above be praised." He didn't know what he would have done had
    
    he learned Leofslg was dead.

    




    192
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     He was about to add something more when, from not far away, a in,,
    called out in Kaunian: "Where are you, Vanai? Look! I've found a-
    Whatever he'd found, it wasn't a word Ealstan knew. Ealstan wonder(
    if he'd found trouble himself Was that Vanai's father? Her brothe
    Maybe even her husband? He didn't think she was old enough to we,
    but he might have been wrong, disastrously wrong.
     Then Vanal answered, "Here I am, my grandfather," and Ealstan
    worry eased: a grandfather seemed unlikely to be dangerous. Nor did ti
    man who came up a minute later look dangerous. He carried a fat puf
    ball in his left hand; puffiall, no doubt, was the Kaunian word Ealsta
    hadn't understood. In Kaunian, Vanai said, "My grandfather, this
    Ealstan of jekabpils" - the classical name for Gromheort. "We haN
    traded mushrooms." She shifted to Forthwegian: "Ealstan, here is in
    grandfather, Bri'vibas."
     Bri'vibas looked at Ealstan as if he were a stinkhorn or a poisonOL
    leopard mushroom. "I hope he has not troubled you," he said to Van,
    in Kaunian. He was, Ealstan saw at a glance, one of those Kaunians wh~
    automatically thought the worst of Forthwegians.
     "I have not troubled her," Ealstan said in the best Kaum*an he had.
     It was not good enough; Brivibas corrected his pronunciation. Vano
    looked mortified. Making a point of speaking Forthwegian, she said, "H
    has not troubled me at all. He speaks well of our people."
     Her grandfather looked Ealstan up and down, then looked her up an(
    down, too. "He has his reasons," Bnivibas said. "Come along with me. Wi
    must wend homeward."
     "I will come," Vanai said obediently. But then she turned back
    "Goodbye, Ealstan. The talk was pleasant, and the trade was good."
     "I also thought so," Ealstan said in Kauman. "I am glad I met you -
    and you, sir," he added for Brivibas's benefit. That last was a he, but on(
    of the sort his father called a useful lie: it would show up the oldej
    Kaunian's rudeness. Vanal would see it. Even Brivibas imight.
     He didn't. He stomped off toward the west, toward Oyngestun. Vanai
    followed. Ealstan watched tin trees hid her from sight. Then he started
    back in the direction of Gromheort. He laughed to himself The day had
    ended up a lot more interesting than it would have been had he spent it
    hunting mushrooms with Sidroc.

    




    F
    
    I
    
    ck.
    
    u -
    
    one
    Ider
    
    anai
    rted
    had
    nt it
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    193
    
     "Well, this is more like it," Talsu said to whomever would listen as the
    jelgavan forces pushed through the eastern foothills of the Bratanu
    mountains. Before long, he thought, he and his comrades really would
    get past the foothills and down into the plains of southern Algarve. If
    things kept going well, they'd be able to start tossing eggs into Tn'can*co.
     He wished the Forthwegians had put up a better fight against the red-
    heads. Then their army would have Joined the one of which he was a tiny
    part and cut Algarve in half That had been the plan - well, the hope -
    when jelgava went to war. Now King Donalitu and his allies would have
    to' settle for less.
     Smilsu banged Talsu in the ribs with his elbow. "Which do you mean
    is more like it? Having a colonel who knows what he's doing or moving
    forward instead of standing around all the time?"
     "You don't think there's a connection?" Talsu returned.
     "I'm not the one to ask," his friend said. "Why don't you find out
    what Vartu over there thinks about it?"
     "I'm still here," Vartu said, grinning a leathery grin. After Colonel
    Dzirnavu's untimely and embarrassing demise, his servant might have
    gone back to the family estate to tend to the needs of Dzimavu's heir.
    He'd chosen to stay on as a common soldier instead. What that said about
    the character of Dzirnavu's son was a point on which Talsu preferred not
    to dwell: how unfortunate that the new count should take after the old.
    Vartu went on, "There's one of the reasons I'm still here, too." He
    pointed to one side with his chin.
     "Come on, men, keep moving," Colonel Adomu called cheerily. He
    was a marquis himself, but wore the title more lightly than most jelgavan
    nobles. He was Just in his early forties, and not only kept up with the
    soldiers in his regiment but urged them to a better clip. "Keep moving -
    and spread out. We don't want the cursed redheads to hit us when we're
    all bunched together."
     Even marching in loose order, Talsu was nervous. The Algarvians had
    harvested these fields before their soldiers retreated through them, and
    the low stubble left behind offered little concealment for a prone man, let
    alone one up and walking. Algarvian civilians had fled along with the
    soldiers, and taken their livestock with them. But for the sound of boots
    crunching through dry grass and stubble and the occasional rustle of
    leaves in the breeze, the day was eerily quiet.

    




    Harry Turtledove
    
     Colonel Adomu. pointed to a pear orchard half a mide away. "That's
    where they'll be waiting for us, the sons of a thousand fathers. We'll have
    to see if we can find a way to flank them out - going straight at them win
    be too expensive."
     Talsu dug a finger in his ear to make sure he'd heard night. Dzirnavu
    would have sent his men lumbering straight at the redheads. They'd have
    p'd f
    al or it, too, but that wouldn't have bothered Dzirnavu. Well, now
    he'd paid for it himself
     Adomu sent the company to which Talsu belonged off to the right, to
    find a way around the pear orchard. "Come on, step it up," Talsu called
    to Smilsu as they trotted along. "The faster we move, the harder we are
    to hit."
     "We're hard to hit anyway, at this range," Smilsu answered. "You
    have to be lucky to blaze a man with a footsoldier's stick out past a
    couple-three furlongs. You have to be even luckier to hurt him very bad
    if you do hit him."
     As if to make him out a liar, one of his comrades fell, clutching at his
    leg and cursing. But most of the Algarvians' beams went wide or had dis-
    persed too widely to be damaging. A couple of them started fires in the
    grass. That made Talsu want to cheer: Smoke weakened beams, too.
     But then, with a roar and a blast of fire, an egg bunied in the ground
    burst under a jelgavan soldier. He had time for only the beginning of a
    shriek before the energies consumed him. The rest of the jelgavans
    skidded to a halt. Talsu dug in his heels and stood panting where he was.
    "They don't hide those things by ones and twos," he said. "They put'em
    down by the score, by the hundred." All the ground on which he was
    not standing at the moment suddenly seemed dangerous. Had he jus
    trotted past an egg? If he took one step back or to either side, would he
    suddenly go up in a sheet of fire?
     He didn't want to find out. He didn't want to stay where he
    either. If he kept standing here, the redheads in the pear orchard woul
    blaze him sooner or later. He threw himself down on the ground-, an
    didn't touch off an egg doing it. Slowly and carefully, he crawled for
    ward, examining every stretch of ground before he trusted his weight t
    it. If it looked disturbed in any way, he crawled around it.
     Colonel Adomu didn't take long to notice his flanking maneuver ha
    slowed. Colonel Dzirnavu, had he bothered making a flanking maneuve

    




    :o
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    195
    
    - in itself unlikely - wouldn't have kept such close ley of it once it got
    going. But the energetic Adomu not only saw the slowing but realized
    what had caused it. He sent an egg-dowser forward to find a clear way
    through the stretch of ground filled with hidden peril.
     Talsu watched the dowser - a tall, skinny man who managed to look
    disheveled despite uniform tunic and trousers - with the fascination any
    man gives to someone who can do something he cannot. The fellow held
    his forked rod out before him as if it were a pike. Dowsing was an ever
    more specialized business these days. Talsu's ancestors had found water
    with it in the days of the Kauman Empire. Now people all over Derlaval
    dowsed for water with it in the days of the Kaunian Empire. Now people
    all over Derlaval dowsed for water, for metals, for coal, for rock oil (not
    that the latter had much use), for things missing, and everywhere and
    always for things desired.
     And soldiers dowsed for dragons in the air and for eggs hidden under
    the ground. "How did you learn to find bunied eggs?" Talsu called to the
    dowser.
     "Carefully." The fellow's lips skinned back from his teeth in a humor-
    less grin. "Now don't jog my elbow any more, or I'm liable not to be
    careful enough. I wouldn't like that: in my line of work, your first mis-
    take is usually your last one." His rod dipped sharply downward. With a
    grunt of satisfaction, he took from his belt a sharp stake with a bright
    streamer of cloth at the unpointed end. He plunged it into the ground to
    show where the egg lay. The soldiers in the company followed him in as
    near single file as made no difference as he marked out a path of safety.
     Snudsu said, "I wonder what happens when the Algarvians come up
    with a new kind of egg, or with a new way to mask the eggs they have
    already." He kept his voice down so the dowser wouldn't hear him.
     Also quietly, Talsu answered, "That's when they start teaching a new
    dowser how to do the job." His friend nodded.
     Had the Algarvians; been present in large numbers, sergeants would
    have needed to start teaching a lot of newJelgavan soldiers how to do the
    job. But the redheads could not take advantage of the way they had
    stalled their opponents. Before long, the dowser stopped finding eggs to
    mark. The company started moving faster again. The dowser went along
    in case the men ran into - literally and metaphorically - another trouble-
    some belt of land.

    




    196
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     But they didn't, and soon began blazing into the pear orchard from t
    side. The Algarvians had been protecting themselves behind trees agair
    an attack from the front. And, as soon as Colonel Adomu realized
    flanking force finally was doing what he'd intended it to do, in went th
    attack from the front.
     That made the Algarvians stop paying so much attention to Talsu a
    his friends. Vartu let out a whoop, then howled, "Now we've got 'e
     Talsu hoped Colonel Dzirnavu's former servant was right. If he
    wrong, a lot of jelgavans would end up dead, Talsu all too probab
    among them. He howled, too, as much to hold fear at bay as for any oth
    reason.
     Then he and the rest of the jelgavans got in among the pear tre
    themselves, flushing out the Algarvians like so many partridges. Some
    the redheads, their positions overrun, threw down their sticks and thre
    up their hands in token of surrender. They were no more anxious to d
    than theirJelgavan counterparts.
     Smilsu cursed. "My beam's run dry!" he shouted angrily. A mome
    later, nothing happened when Talsu thrust his finger into the touch-ho
    of his own stick. Like Smilsu, he'd used up all the power in it whi
    reaching the pear orchard. Now, when he needed it most, he did n
    have it.
     "Where's that cursed dowser?" he called. "He can give us a hand.
    haven't sent all the captives to the rear yet, have we?"
     "No," Vartu said from behind him. "We've still got a few of them le
    with us." He raised his voice to a funi ous bellow, a good imitation of th
    of the late, unlamented (at least by Talsu) Colonel Dzirnavu: "Stake 'e
    out! Tie 'em down! Let's get some good out of 'em, anyway, the filt
    redheads."
     Some of the Algarvian captives understood jelgavan, either becau
    they came from near the border or because they'd studied classic
    Kaunian in school and could get the dnift of the daughter language. Th
    howled fearful protests. The jelgavans ignored those, flinging a coqle
    redheaded soldiers down on to their backs and tying their anns and le
    to stakes and tree trunks.
     "You'd do the same to us if your sticks were running low," a jel
    soldier said, not without some sympathy. "You know it cursed
    too."

    




    I
    
                                       i the
                                       ainst
                                       i his
                                       'mhat
    
    and
    
    !M! "
    
    was
    
    bly
    her
    
    TUS
    
    ~ of
    
    rew
    ~ die
    
    Lent
    tole
    hile
    
    not
    
    em
    thy
    
                                        ley
                                        ~ Of
    
    Tan
    ell,
    
    INTo THE DAPKNEss
    
     "Where's that dowser?" Talsu called again. The fellow shambled up
    just then, still looking very much like an unmade bed. Seeing the spread-
    eagled Algarvians, he nodded. He was no first-rank mage, but he didn't
    
    need to be, not for the sorcery the Jelgavan soldiers had in mind.
    
     "Set your dead sticks on them," he said, and Talsu and the others who
    could not blaze obeyed. The dowser drew a knife from his belt and
    stooped beside the nearer Algarvian captive. He yanked up the
    
    Algarvian's chin by the coppery whiskers that grew there, then cut his
    
    throat as if butchering a hog. Blood fount i d forth Th d
    chanted in classical Kaunian. When he was through - and when the
    Algarvian soldier he'd sacrificed had quit wrii thing - some of the Jelgavans
    snatched up their sticks from the dead man's chest.
     Talsu's stick lay on the second Algarvian. The dowser sacrificed him,
    too. Such rough magic in the field wasted a good deal of the captives' life
    energy. Talsu cared not at all. What mattered to him was that enough of
    the energy had flowed into his stick to rechar it full As soon as the
    
    dowser nodded, he grabbed the stick and humied forward to do more
    fighting. It blazedjust as it should have.
     Before long, the two-pronged Jelgavan attack drove the Algarvians
    from the pear orchard. But, just as victory became assured, a cry rose from
    the men who'd made the assault on the front of the orchard: "The
    
    colonel's down! The stinking redheads blazed Colonel Adomu!"
    
     "Powers above!" Talsu groaned. "What sort of overbred fool will they
    foist on us now?" He didn't know, He couldn't know, not yet. He was
    afraid of finding out.
    
    Brivibas gave Vanal a severe look, as he'd been doina for the t)ast
    
    couple of weeks. "My granddaughter, I must tell you yet again that you
    were too forward, much too forward, with that barbarian boy you met
    in the woods."
     Vanai rolled her eyes. Bnivibas had trained her to dutiful obedience,
    but his carping was wearing thin. No: by now, his carping had worn thin.
    
    "AD we did was swap a few mushrooms, my grandfather. We were polite
    while we did it aye. You have taught me to be polite to everyone have
    you not?"

    




    
     "And would he have stayed polite to you, had I not happened to come
    up when I did?" Briivibas demanded.

    




    198
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     "I think so," Vanai answered with a toss of her head. "He seemed p
    fectly well behaved - better than some of the Kaunian boys here
    Oyngestun."
     That distracted her grandfather, as she'd hoped it would. "What?"
    said, his eyes going wide. "What have they done to you? What have t
    tried to do to you?" He looked furious. Was he, could he possibly ha
    been, remembering some of the things he'd tried to do to girls before
    met Vanal's grandmother? That was hard to imagine. Even harder
    imagining him doing things like that u4th her grandmother.
     "They've tried more than that Ealstan ever did," she said. "Th
    couldn't have tried less, because he didn't try anything at all. He spen
    lot of time talking about his brother, who's an Algarvian captive."
     "I do pity even a Forthwegian in Algarvian hands," Brivibas said.
    his tone, he pitied Kaunians in Algarvian hands far more. But, again,
    found himself distracted, this time by a historical parallel: "The Algarvi
    have always been harsh on their captives. Recall how, under their chi
    tain Ziliante, they so cruelly sacked and ravaged the city of Adutiski
    He spoke as if the sack had happened the week before rather than in t
    waning days of the Kaunian Empire.
     "Well, then!" Vanal tossed her head again. "You see, you don't ne
    to worry about Ealstan after all."
     She'd made a mistake. She knew it as soon as the words were out
    her mouth. And, sure enough, Bnivibas pounced on it: "I would wo
    far less had you forgotten the young barbanian's name."
     Had he stopped nagging her about Ealstan, she probably would ha
    forgotten the Forthwegian's name in short order. As things were,
    looked more attractive every time her grandfather made a rude comme
    about him. If such a thing had happened to Brivibas during his long-a
    youth, it had fallen from his memory in the years since.
    
     "He was very nice," Vanal said. Even handsome, in the dark, blo
    Forthwegian way, she thought. Having made one mistake, she did n
    compound it by letting her grandfather learn of that thought.
     He did not need to learn of it to keep on carping. After a while, Va
    got tired of listening to him and went out to the courtyard around whi
    the house was built. She didn't stay as long as she'd thought she wou
    For one thing, a raw breeze made her shiver. The sun ducked in and o
    from behind gray, nasty-looking clouds. And the courtyard, no long

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    199
    
    bright with flowers as it had been through spring and summer, seemed a
    far less pleasant refuge than it would have been then. The alabaster bowl
    into which the fountain splashed was a genuine Kaunian antiquity, but it
    too failed to delight her. Her lip curled. Living with her grandfather was
    living with an antiquity. She needed no more examples.
     She wished she could have gone out on to the streets of Oyngestun.
    These days, though, with Algarvian soldiers patrolling the village, she
    went out as seldom as she could. The Algarvians had committed relatively
    few outrages: fewer, certainly, than she'd expected when they occupied
    the place. But she knew they could. She might speak well of a
    Forthwegian, but of a redhead? About Algarvians, she completely agreed
    with Brivibas.
     Why not? Indeed, how could she have done otherwise? He'd taught
    her. But that thought never crossed her mind, no more than the thought
    of water disturbed a swimming fish.
     "My granddaughter?" Brivibas called from his study, where they'd
    been quarreling. Far more slowly than he should have, he realized he'd
    really irked her. ff only some ancient Kaunian had written a treatise on how to
    bring up a granddaughter! Vanai thought. He'd do a betterjob.
     She didn't want to answer him. She didn't want to have anything to
    do with him, not just then. Instead of returning to the study, she went
    into the parlor through a different door. Brivibas had set his mark there,
    too, as he had through the whole of the house. Bookshelves almost
    overwhelmed the spare, classical - and none too comfortable - furniture.
    All the ornaments were Kaunian antiquities or copies of Kaunian
    antiquities: statuettes, painted pottery, a little glass vial gone milky from
    lying underground for upwards of a thousand years. She'd known them
    her whole life; they were as familiar to her as the shapes of her own
    fingernails. Now, suddenly, she felt like smashing them.
     On the wall hung a print of an old painting of the Kaunian Column
     of Victory in faraway Pnickule. Vanal sighed. Thinking of Kaumans vic-
     torious didn't come easy now. Neither did thinking of a kingdom nearly
     a1l Kaunian, as Valmiera was. What would living in a land where every-
     one looked more or less the way she did be like? Luxurious was the word
     that sprang to mind. The Kaunians of Forthweg, remnants left behind
     ~vhen the t1dc of ancient empire receded, enjoyed no such luxury.
      She went into the kitchen. A terra-cotta low relief of a fat little
    
    of
    
    ry
    
    go
    
    nal
    ich
    ild.
    Dut
    rer

    




    200
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    demon with a big mouth and a bigger belly hung on the wall there. Her
    imperial ancestors had fancied the demon of appetite looked like that.
    Sorcerous investigation had long since proved there was no such thing
    as the demon of appetite. Vanal didn't care what sorcerous investigation
    had proved. She liked the relief Had there been a demon of appetite, he
    would have looked like that.
     Had there been a demon of appetite, he would have turned up his nose
    at what he saw in that kitchen. Cheese, a little bread, mushrooms, strings
    of garlic and onions and leeks, an ever-shrinking length of sausage ... not
    much to keep a spirit dwelling in a body.
     Brivibas hardly cared what he ate, or sometimes even if he ate. His
    mind ruled; his body did strictly as it was told. Vanai sometimes wished
    she were the same way. Her grandfather assumed she was, though he
    would have been angry at others who judged people using themselves as
    a touchstone. But Vanai enjoyed good food. That was why, as soon as she
    grew big enough, she'd taken over the kitchen. Till the war came, she'd
    done as well as she could without much money.
     Now ... Now there wasn't much food of any sort to be had. Ley-line
    caravans carried what the Algarvians told them to carry, not what the
    towns and villages of Forthweg needed. The redheads plundered what
    they would. Fighting had wrecked many farms and left many farmers
    dead or captive.
     Vanai wondered where it would end. Forthweg hadn't known famine
    during her lifetime, but she'd read of it. If this went on ...
     The wood bin and the coal scuttle weren't so full as they should have
    been, either. Coal, especially, was hard to come by. She might reach the
    point where she had food but no fuel with which to cook it.
     With such gloomy reflections filling her, she didn't hear Bnivibas come
    into the kitchen. "Ali, here you are, my granddaughter," he said.
    
     "Here I am," Vanai agreed resignedly.
     "I try my best to do what is right for you," her grandfather said. "I may
    not always be correct, but I do have your interest at heart." With no sm~ll
    surprise, she realized he was, in his fusty way, trying to apologize.
     "Very well, my grandfather," Vanal said; arguing with Brivibas was
    more trouble than it was worth. In any case, she would see Ealstan again
    only by accident. Sooner or later, Brivibas would realize that for himself,
    and then, with luck, he would stop bothering her. Hoping to get his

    




    te
    
    ras
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    201
    
    mind off the subject of the Forthwegian, she asked, "Can I cut you some
    bread and cheese?"
     "No, never mind. I have no great appetite," Briivibas said. Vanai
    nodded; that was true most of the time. Then, to her surprise, her grand-
    father brightened. "Did I tell you the news I had yesterday?"
     "No, my grandfather," Vanal answered. "What news is this? So little
    gets into Oyngestun these days, I'd be glad to hear any."
     "Well, I had a note from the Journal of Kaunian Studies in Jekabpils,
    her grandfather said, using the classical Kaunian name for Gromheort.
    "They tell me the Algarvian occupying authorities will allow them to
    resume publication before long, which means I shall have an outlet for
    my scholarship."
     "That is good news," Vanal said. If he could not publish his articles,
    Brivibas would grow even more peevish than usual. He would also have
    more leisure in which to try to oversee every facet of her life, which was
    nothing she wanted.
     "On the whole, it is good news," he said, donning an indignant
    expression. "The drawback is, all submissions must henceforth appear in
    either Forthwegian or Algarvian. Those offered in classical Kaunian, the
    language of learning, must be rejected unread, by order of the occupiers."
     Vanal shivered, though the kitchen was warm enough. "What right
    have the redheads to say our language is not to be used?" she asked.
     "The conqueror's right: the right they understand best," Bri'vibas
    answered bleakly. He sighed. "I have not attempted serious composition
    in Forthwegian for many years. Who would, with Kaunian to use
    instead? I suppose I must make the effort, though, if I am to continue
    setting my researches before any part of the scholarly community." Not
    setting his researches before the scholarly community plainly never
    occurred to him.
     Before Vanal could reply, shouts and the sound of running feet came
    ~Orn outside. She peered through the kitchen window, a narrow slit
    intended to give a little fresh air, not any great view: for views, all folk of
    Forthweg, regardless of their blood, far preferred their courtyards to the
    streets. She got a glimpse of a yellow-haired man running as if his life
     depended on his feet. And so it might have, for a couple of Algarvian
     soldiers pounded after him, sticks in hand.
    
    They shouted again, first in their langauge, then in Forthwegian: "Halt!"

    




    202
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    One of them dropped to a knee to take dead aim at the fleeing Kaunia
    The fellow must have ducked around a comer before he could bla
    though, for he sprang to his feet once more with what sounded like a cur
    "Halt!" his comrade yelled again. They both pounded after the fugitive.
     "I wonder what he did," Vanai said. "I wonder if he did anything.'
     "Probably not." Her grandfather's voice was weary and bitt
    "Having done something is by no means a requirement for pumishme
    not where the Algarvians are concerned." Vanai nodded. She'd alrea
    seen as much for herself
    
     Bembo tramped up and down the meadow outside Tricarico's munic
    ipal stadium. Though the day was on the chilly side, sweat ran down hi
    face and threatened to leave his mustache as limp as if he'd forgotten t
    wax it. The constable, a pudgy man, hadn't done much in the way o
    marching for a good many years.
     Not that the drill sergeant cared. "Powers below eat all of you!" he
    screamed, in a temper extravagant even by Algarvian standards. "I bite
    my thumb at you! I bite my thumb at your fathers, if you know who they
    are!" From a civilian, that would have provoked a flock of challenges. But
    a soldier in the service of King Mezentio enjoyed even broader immu-
    nity from having to defend his honor than did a constable.
     The sergeant waved the shambling column to a halt. Bembo had all he
    could do not to collapse on the grass. His legs felt like overcooked
    noodles. He could smell himself Beneath their perfumes, he could smell
    the men around him.
     "We'll try it again," the drill sergeant grunted. "I know you're stupid,
    but try and work at remembering which is your left foot and which is
    your right. If those stinking towheads from jelgava break out of the
    mountains, you get to go into line to throw 'em. back. Maybe you'll be
    able to fool them into thinking you're soldiers, at least for a little while.
    I doubt it, but maybe. Now ... forward, march!"
     Along with the rest of the men of Tricarico dragooned into~ this
    makeshift militia, Bembo started marching. The jelgavans hadn't broken
    out of the Bradano Mountains yet, though they'd come close a couple of
    times. Bembo hoped the regulars could hold them. If they couldn't, if
    Algarve had to rely on the likes of him to fight, the kingdom was in a lot
    of trouble.

    




    INTo THE DAPKNEss
    
     an.
    blaze,
    e a curse.
    gitive.
    thing."
    d bitter.
    shment,
    d already
    
    Is munic-
    down his
    rgotten to
    he way of
    
     11 he
      bite
      they
    
    enges. But
    der irnmu-
    
    o had all he
    overcooked
    could smell
    
    ou're stupid,
    nd which is
     out of the
     e you'll be
    a little while.
    
    ed into this
     adn't broken
    se a couple of
    y couldn't, if
    m was in a lot
    
    203
    
     "Left!" the drill sergeant roared. "Left! ... Left-right-left! Sound offl"
     "One! Two!" Bembo called, as he'd learned to do.
     "Sound offl"
     "Three! Four!"
     "Left-right-left!" The sergeant gathered himself for the next order:
    'To the rear, march!" Raggedly, the militiamen obeyed. The drill
    sergeant clapped a hand to his forehead. "You don't execute commands
    better than that, you'll all get fornicating executed if you have to go up
    to the line. Aye, the jelgavans are a pack of trouser-weaning scum, but
    they know what they're doing, and you, you milk-fed virgins, you
    haven't got a clue. To the left flank, march!"
     The fellow puffing along beside Bembo wheezed, "I'd like to see that
    loudmouthed oaf try to make pastries with no training, that's all I have to
    say.
     "That's your line of work?" Bembo asked, and the pastry chef nodded.
    
    With a calculating snuile, the constable found another question:
    
    "Whereabouts in the city is your shop at?"
     Before his comrade could answer, the drill sergeant screamed, "Silence
    in the ranks! Next man who squeaks out of turn will squeak soprano for
    the rest of his days, do you hear me?" Bembo was convinced the whole
    town of Tricarico heard him. The jelgavans in the western foothills of the
    Bradano Mountains probably heard him, too. And the pastry chef cer-
    tainly heard him, for he shut up with a snap.
     Bembo sighed. A constable who strolled into a pastry shop would
    surely come away with clainties full of almond paste and sweet cream and
    raisins and cherries, and he wouldn't have to set a copper on the counter
    to get them, either. And now he wouldn't be able to find out into which

    




    shop he should stroll. Life was full of small tragedies.
     At last, after what seemed like forever but couldn't have been longer
    than half that, the drill sergeant released his captives. "I'll see you again
    day after tomorrow, though," he threatened, "or maybe sooner, if the
    enemy does break through. You'd better hope he doesn't, on account of
    they haven't dug enough burial plots to hold all of you lugs yet."
     "Cheerful bugger, isn't he?" Bembo said, but the pastry chef had
    already turned away. Bembo sighed again. He'd have to stay ignorant of
    where the fellow labored, at least till two days hence. With another sigh,
    he started back toward the constabulary station. He didn't get time off for

    




    204
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    the militia drill; it was piled on to everything else he had to do. That
    struck him as monstrously unfair, but no one had asked his view of the
    matter. He'd received orders to report to that bellowing fiend in human
    shape, and he'd had to obey.
     A street vendor waved a news sheet. "Black men throw Unkerlanters
    back again!" he shouted. "Read all about it!"
     "Has King Swemmel started killing some of his generals yet, to per-
    suade the rest to fight harder?" Bembo asked. He approved of killing
    Unkerlanter generals - on general principles, he thought with a gnin at his
    own cleverness. For that matter, he approved of executions on general
    principles. He had trouble imagining a constable who didn't.
     "Buy my sheet here, and see for yourself," the vendor answered.
    Bembo didn't feel like buying a news sheet. He felt like having the fel-
    low tell him what he wanted to know. He and the vendor traded insults,
    more good-natured than otherwise, till he rounded a corner.
     A couple of men on the next street corner, one of them fair enough to
    have a good share of Kaunian blood, saw him coming and made them-
    selves scarce. He wasn't wearing his uniform tunic and k1h. Maybe one of
    them recognized his face. Maybe, too, both of them smelled him out as a
    constable even without seeing his uniform, even without recognizing his
    face. It wasn't quite sorcery on the part of the bad eggs, but it wasn't far
    removed, either.
     When he walked up the stairs and into the station, Sergeant Pesaro
    greeted him with, "Ah, here is another one of our heroes!" No one had
    thrown Pesaro into the militia. He might have been able to march. On
    the other hand, he might as readily have fallen over dead from an
    apoplexy.
     "A worn-out hero," Bembo said mournfully. "If I have to do too
    much more of this, I'll be a shadow of my former self " He looked down
    at his belly. It wasn't the size of Pesaro's, but he still made a pretty sub-
    stantial shadow.
     "You complain so much, you might as well already be in the army,
    not the constabulary," Pesaro said.
     "Oh, and you've never grumbled in all your bom days," Bembo
    retorted, wagging a forefinger at the fat man behind the desk. Pesaro
    coughed a couple of times and turned red, perhaps from embarrassment,
    perhaps just because he was a fat man who sat behind a desk all day: even
    
    I

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    205
    
    coughing was an exertion for him. Bembo went on, "I see in the news
    sheet that Zuwayza's giving Unkerlant another clout in the head."
     "Efficiency," Pesaro said with a laugh. "Don't know how long those
    naked burnt-skins can keep doing what they're doing, but it's pretty
    funny while it's going on."
     "So it is." Bembo hid his disappointment. He'd hoped Pesaro would
    tell him more than he'd heard from the news-sheet vendor. Maybe the
    sergeant hadn't felt like springing for a sheet today, either.
     Then Pesaro said, "Only trouble is, I heard on the crystal this morn-
    ing that we're not the only ones who think so. Jelgava and Valn-iiera have
    sent messages to the Zuwayzi king, whatever his cursed name is, con-
    gratulating him on giving King Swenimel a hard time."
     "Can't say I'm surpnised," Bembo answered. "When Swernmel
    jumped on Forthweg's back, that meant we wouldn't have to worry
    about our western front any more - or not about the Forthwegians there,
    anyway.
    
     "Oh, aye," Pesaro said. "Not that Unkerlant's any great neighbor to
    have. We've fought more wars with those bastards than anybody likes to
    remember, and it wouldn't surprise me one bit if they were thinking
    about another one."
     "That wouldn't surprise me, either," Bembo said. "Everybody's
    always plotting against Algarve. It's been like that since the days of the
    Kaunian Empire."
     "A lot you know about the Kaunian Empire," Pesaro said. Before
    Bembo could make an irate reply to that, the sergeant went on, "Talk
    about inefficiency - we might as well be Unkerlanters ourselves, the way
    we're using constables for militiamen."
      "Make up your mind," Bembo said. "You just called me a hero not
    
    five minutes ago."
      -remembered something else I heard on the crystal," Pesaro
    , answered placidly. "A dozen captives broke out of a camp in Forthweg,
    and they're on the loose in the countryside. What do soldiers know about
    keeping captives? About as much as constables know about fighting cam-
        that's what. If they're going to use constables to help the war
    
     along, they oug      I
            ght to use us to take captives and guard them, not to blaze
        o~A ~AAQ ftont line. That'd be proper efficiency. "
    
    "Not a bad idea at all," Bembo said. Pesaro preened as if he were a

    




    206
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    writer of romances suddenly receiving critical acclaim. With a s
    chuckle, Bembo added, "I never would have expected it from you."
     "Funny," Pesaro said. "Funny like a man walking with two cane
    that's what it is." He could take ribbing, could Pesaro, but only so muc
    Bembol evidently, had gone over the line. "Here's another idea that isn
    bad at all," Pesaro growled: "you getting into your uniform and doin
    some real work instead of hanging around and banging your gums wit
    me.
     "All right, Sergeant. All night." Bembo raised a placating hand. 'T
    going, l9m going." As he went, he muttered under his breath: "Fat ol
    fraud wouldn't know anything about real work if it paraded past hi
    naked. "
     After donning the regulation tunic and kilt, he paused in the reco
    ing section, where Saffa was sketching a portrait of a haggard-lookin
    miscreant. Bembo thought of the little artist parading past him naked
    definitely a more attractive prospect than real work. What he was thin
    ing must have shown, too, for Saffa snapped, "Drag your rmind out of th
    latrine, if you please."
     Bembo's ears heated. He glared over toward the wretch whose ima
    Saffa had been committing to paper. Had the fellow said a word - had h
    even smiled - Bembo would have taken out his rage on him. But the cap-,
    tive, wiser than Martusino, kept his mouth shut and his expression blank
    Doubly baulked, Bembo walked fuming to his desk.
     Plenty of forms and reports awaited him there, as was true for most
    constables most of the time. Bembo ignored them. He worked diligently
    enough when he felt like it, but not when work was forced upon him.
    As most Algarvians would have done, he avenged himself by disobeyin&
    He pulled a historical romance out of his desk and started reading. 'T
    show you what I know about the Kaunian Empire , he mumbled
    Pesaro's direction, though not loud enough for the desk sergeant
    anyone else - to hear.
     Mercenaries' Revolt, the cover screamed in lurid red letters, Vith a
    smaller subhead reading, Mighty Ziliante sets an empire afire! The bo
    showed a stalwart Algarvian, his coppery hair washed with lime to gn,c
    him a leonine mane, brandishing a sword. Clinging to him was a Kau
    doxy wearing no more clothes than she'd been born with. Her hand
    poised, as if about to reach under his kilt and caress what she found th

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    207
    
    The text lived up to, or down to, the cover. Bembo couldn't remember
    a romance he'd enjoyed more.
     The Kauman Emperor had just ordered Ziliante made into a eunuch.
    Bembo was sure that wouldn't happen; the virile hero had already got too
    many blond noblewomen's drawers down. Which of them would rescue
    him, and how? Bembo read on to find out.
    
    e
    
                                       age
                                        he
    
    ing.
    "I'll
    d in
    
      or
    
    ith a
    book
    
     give
    unian

    




    Krasta sipped cherry brandy laced with wormwood. A band thumped
    away in the background: tuba and accordion, bagpipes and thudding
                              1
    
    kettledrum. On the dance floor, Valmieran nobles swayed and spun to
    the loud, insistent beat.
    
     "This is the place to be," Valnu said, leering across the table at her.
    "Even if the Algarvians drop eggs on Priekule, they can't knock the
    Cellar down. We're already underground." He giggled as if he'd said
    something very funny.
     "This is the place to be because it's the place to be," Krasta replied
    with a shrug. Had the Cellar been built atop the Kauman Column of
    Victory, she still would have frequented the nightspot. Anyone who was,
    or who had pretensions of being, someone came here. People who
    weren't someone looked on from a distance and envied. That was the
    way the world worked.
     Valnu lifted his mug of porter. "So good to find you thinking as clearly
    as ever." Malice flavored the affection in his voice as the wormwood
    embittered Krasta's sweet brandy. I hope your brother is still safe, there
    in the west."
     "He was well, last letter I had from him." Krasta tossed her head, send-
    ing pale gold curls flying: old imperial styles had suddenly become the rage.
    "But this is too much talk about the war. I don't want to think about the
    war." The truth of the matter was, she didn't want to think at all.
     "Very well." Valnu's smile turned him into the most charming skull
    Krasta had ever known. "Let's dance, then." He got to his feet.
     "All right, why not?" Krasta said carelessly. The room spun a little as
    she rose: that spiked brandy was potent stuff. She laughed as Valnu slid an
    arm around her waist and guided her out on to the floor.
    
    208

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    skull
    
    tle as
    lid an
    
    209
    
                                       Valnu was a thoroughgoing predator. His principal virtue was that he
                never pretended to be anything else. As he and Krasta danced, his hand
                slid from the small of her back to close on the smooth curve of her left
                buttock. He pressed her tight against him, so tight that she could not pos-
                sibly doubt he had more than dancing on his mind.
                                       She rMight have loosened some of his white, pointed teeth for him
                because of the liberties he took with her noble person. She contemplated
                it, in fact, as well as she could contemplate anything in her rather fuddled
                state. But his mocking smile said he was waiting for her to do just that.
                Except when making sure commoners stayed in their place, she hated
                doing anything someone else expected of her. And, she realized, she was
                feeling randy herself She'd decide later how far she intended to let him
                go. For the moment, she simply enjoyed herself
                                       And it wasn't as if she were the only woman in the Cellar whose com-
    d           panion was feeling her up on the dance floor. It was not a place to which
                women who minded being rumpled in public commonly came. I can
    ed          always blame it on the brandy, she thought. But she didn't really need to
    of          blame it. on anything. She did as she pleased. No one could make her do
    as,         anything else.
    0                                  The music stopped. Krasta set her hand on the back of Valnu's head
    the         and pulled his face down to hers. She kissed him, open-mouthed. He
                tasted of porter: bitter, but not so bitter as the wormwood in her brandy.
                Halfway through the kiss, she opened her eyes. Valnu was staning at her.
                He was so close, his features blurred, but she thought he looked
    ere         astonished. She laughed, down deep in her throat.
                                       He broke the kiss and twisted away. Now she had no trouble reading his
    nd-                                expression. He was angry. Krasta laughed again. He must have realized he'd
    rage.                              gone from predator to prey, realized it and not cared for it at all. "You're
    t the       a fire-breather, aren't you?" he said, his voice rougher than usual.
    arly
    od
    
     "What if I am?" Krasta tossed her head again, as she had back at the
    table. She pointed toward the musicians. "They're going to start again in
    a rninute. Do you want to dance some more, or have we already done
    everything we can do standing up?"
     Valnu did his best to rally. "Not quite everything," he answered, more
    self-collected now. Bold as brass, he reached out and cupped her breast
    through the fabric of her tunic. His thumb and forefinger unerringly
    found her nipple. He teased it for a few seconds, then let her go.

    




    210
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Maybe he hadn't understood how hot and reckless Krasta was feeli
    Maybe she hadn't realized it herself, not till those knowing fingers furt
    inflamed her. She reached out, too, at a lower level.
     Had he pulled off his trousers and lain down on the floor, she imi
    have mounted him then and there. Such things were said to happe
    the Cellar now and again, though Krasta had never seen them there.
    Valnu, after shaking himself like a wet hound, went back to the tabl(
    four or five long strides. Krasta followed him. Her cheeks burned.
    
    heart raced. She breathed quickly, as if she'd just run a long way.
     Valnu gulped the porter left in his mug. He was looking at Krasta a
    he'd never seen her before. "Brimstone and quicksilver," he mutte
    more to himself than to her. "Dragon-bitch."
     After what she'd drunk, she took it as a compliment: indeed, she ne
    thought to wonder whether it might be anything else. Her own gob
    smaller than the earthenware mug from which he'd drunk, held bra
    yet. She poured it down. An egg might have burst in her belly.
    warmth flowed out of it: to her face, to her breasts, to her loins.
     With a rumbling blast from the tuba player and a thunder of dru
    beats, the band started up again. The rhythm seemed to be inside her,
    ing her to the brim; the laced brandy kicked like a wild ass. As if fr
    very far away, Valnu asked, "Do you want to go out on the floor agai
     "No." Krasta shook her head. The room seemed to keep moving a
    she stopped. "Let's ride around the town in my cam-age - or even
    into the country."
     "In your carriage?" Valmi frowned. "What win the coachman thin
     "Who cares?" Krasta said gaily. "Powers above! He's only a coachmai
    
     Valnu silently clapped his hands. "Spoken like the true woman
    nobility you are," he exclaimed, and got to his feet. So did Krasta, ho
    ing- the process looked smoother to him than it felt to her. They retriev
    their cloaks from the little antechamberjust outside the main room - t
    night had its full share of autumn chill - then went upstairs and out in
    the darkness.
     That darkness was well-nigh absolute. Though no Algarvian
    dragons had yet appeared over Priekule, the city encaped itself in blac
    A good many camages waited outside the Cellar while their nob
    owners reveled the night away. Krasta had to call several times before
    could sort out which one was hers.

    




    I
    
    of
    
    P_
    ed
    he
    
    Ito
    
    var
    ck.
    ble
    she
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    211
    
     "Where to, milady?" her driver asked when she and Valnu climbed up
    into the seat behind him. "Back to the mansion?"
     "No, no," Krasta said. "Just drive about for a while. If you happen to
    come on a road that leads out of the city - well, so much the better."
     The coachman stayed quiet longer than he should have. When at last
    he spoke, he said was, "Aye, milady. It shall be as you command." He
    clucked to the horses and flicked the reins. The carriage began to move.
     Krasta hardly noticed his words. Of course it would be as she com-
    manded. How could it be otherwise, when she was dealing with her own
    servitors? She turned to Valnu, a vague shape in the darkness beside her.
    She reached out for him as he was reaching out for her. The coachman
    paid no attention. He knew better than to pay attention ... or, at least,
    to be seen paying attention.
     Under the cover of their cloaks, Valnu's hand found the bone toggles
    that held her tunic closed. He undid a couple of them and reached inside
    the tunic to fondle her bare breast. Careless of the coachman, Krasta
    moaned. When her mouth met Valnu's this time, the kiss was so fierce,
    she tasted blood: his or hers, she could not tell.
     His hand slid out of her tunic. He rubbed at the crotch of her trousers.
    She thought she would burst like an egg then. Valnu chuckled. His hand
    dived under her waistband, His fingers, long and slim and clever, knew
    exactly where to go and exactly what to do when they got there. Krasta
    gasped and shuddered, for a moment blind with pleasure. Valnu chuckled
    again, as pleased with himself as he was with having pleased her. The
    horses plodded on, hooves clopping on cobbles, Stolid as the animals he
    drove, the coachman minded the reins.
      Krasta thought of ordering Valnu out of the carriage now that he'd
     given her what she wanted. But, sated and tipsy, she felt more generous
     than usual. She rubbed him through the wool of his trousers. After an
     abrupt inhalation, he murmured, "I do hope you won't make me explain
     myself to my laundryman."
      She laughed and rubbed harder. Nothing could have made her more
     inclined to do just that than his hoping she wouldn't. After a moment,
     though, still in that uncommonly kindly mood, she unbuttoned his fly
     and drew him forth. She stroked him some more.
      "Ahhh," he said softly.
      Had Krasta gone on for another minute or two, she would have made

    




    212
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    Vahm explain himself to his laundryman: of that she had no doubt.
    Instead, she lowered her head, saying, "Here. I will give you a treat you
    could have only from a noblewoman." She took him in her mouth. His
    flesh was hot and smooth.
     His fingers tangled in her hair. Above her busy lips and tongue, he
    laughed. "You are quite a lot of woman, my sweet," he said, "but what
    you're doing there hasn't been a secret of the nobility for a long, long
    time, if it ever was. Why, only last week this pretty little shopgirl-"
     In spite of his hands, she raised up so suddenly that the back of her head
    caught him in the chin. "What?" she hissed as he yelped in pain. Fury
    filled her as quickly and completely as lubriiciousness had. Before he could
    even start to set himself to rights, she pushed him with all her strength.
    He had time for only a startled squawk before he tumbled out on to the
    cobbles.
     "Milady, what on earth -?" he began.
     "Shut up!" Krasta snarled. Careless of her left breast peeping out from
    the undone tunic, she leaned forward and tapped the driver on the
    shoulder. "Take me home this instant. Make your stupid beasts move or
    you'll be sorry for it, do you hear me?"
     "Aye, nulady," the coachman answered: not a word more, which was
    wise of him. He flicked the reins. After what sounded like surprised
    snorts, the horses moved up into' a trot. Krasta looked back over her
    shoulder. Valnu took a couple of steps in pursuit of the carriage, then
    gave up. He vanished in the darkness behind her.
     Absently, Krasta did up the toggles he had opened. She wiped her
    mouth on her sleeve, again and again. Disgust filled her, so much that she
    almost had to lean out of the carriage and vomit it forth into the road-
    way. It wasn't what she'd been doing; she'd done that before, and always
    been amused how such a small thing could make a man behave as if
    treacle filled his veins.
     But that her mouth had gone where a commoner's - a pretty little shop-
    girl's, Valnu had said - mouth went before ... She could imagine nothilig
    more revolting. She felt ritually unclean, like a man of the Ice People,
    who had accidentally slain his fetish amimal.
     After she got back to the mansion, she routed Bauska out of bed
    had the servant fetch her a bottle of brandy. She rinsed her mouth sever
    times, then imperiously thrust the bottle back. Bauska took it aw,1

    




    INTo THE ARKNESS
    
    213
    
    without a word. Like the coachman, she'd learned better than to ask
    
    nuestions of her mistress
    
     With his comrades, Tealdo tramped along the wooden quay in the
    harbor of Imola toward the Ambuscade, from whose flagpole fluttered the
    Algarvian banner. All the army that had spent so long training was now
    filing aboard the ships that filled the harbor in the former Duchy of Ban'.
     Tealdo marveled to see the men all together. He marveled even more
    to see the ships A together. "We haven't put together a fleet like this for
    a cursed long time," he said over his shoulder to Trasone, who marched
    
    along behind him.
    
    "Not for a thousand vears the officers sav " his friend agreed
    
     "Silence in the ranks there!" Sergeant Panfilo bellowed. Someone
    fortunately, someone well away from Tealdo - made a noise that
    probably came from his mouth but sounded as if it had a different
    origin. Panfilo stormed off to see if he could catch and terrorize the
    nuscreant.
     Up the gangplank Tealdo went. His feet thudded on the timbers of the
    deck. The sailors scurrvina around there and the men who traveled the
    lines of the rigging like outsized spiders did not stnike him as an ordinary
    naval crew. That was only fair - they weren't an ordinary naval crew, nor
    anything close to it. Every one of them was a highly trained yachtsman,
    
     But that art was no longer obsolete, thanks to the ingenuity o
    Algarve's generals and admirals. Tealdo wished he would be able tc
    watch the great sails fill with wind as the fleet weighed anchor. Instead
    he went down to a poorly lit compartment with whose cramped dimen-
    sions he was all too familiar. There he and his company would stay til
    
    their journey ended ... or till something went wrong
    
     Maybe Captain Larbino had something similar on his mind, for h
    said, "Men, what we do here tonight will go a long way toward winnin
    the war for Algarve. The Sibians shouldn't realize we're corming till w(
    shop up on their doorstep - we'll catch them with their kilts down
    Nobody has gone to war with a fleet of sailing ships for hundreds of years
    They'll never expect it, and their mages likely won't be able to give 'err.
    much warning, either. If we sail over a ley line ... so what? We don
    draw any energy from it, so they won't notice us. We'll be as safe as w(
    
    I

    




    214
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    would on dry land till we get into Tirgoviste harbor. Make yourselves
    comfortable and enjoy the trip."
     Tealdo made himself as comfortable as he could, which wasn't very. He
    listened to more soldiers tramping into their assigned compartments, and
    to sailors running around and shouting things the thick oak timbers that
    surrounding him kept him from understanding. But tone carried, even If
    words didn't. "They sound like they're having a mighty good time, don , t
    they?" he said to Trasone.
     "Why shouldn't they?" Trasone answered. "Once they get us to Sibiu,
    their job is done. They can sit back and drink wine. We're the ones who
    get to pay the bill after that."
     He wasn't quite being fair. If the Sibs got the chance, they'd blaze at
    ships as well as soldiers. Before Tealdo could point that out, the motion
    of the Ambuscade changed. The pitching from bow to stem became more
    emphatic, and the ship began to roll from side to side as well. "We're
    off," Tealdo said.
     His stomach took the ship's motion in stride. Before long, though, he
    discovered that, as painstaking as the company's combat rehearsals had
    been, they hadn't covered everything. Several soldiers started puking.
    The compartment did have buckets to cope with such emergencies, but
    the emergency often arrived before the -bucket did. In spite of everyone's
    best efforts, the compartment became a very unpleasant place.
     The amused contempt the yachtsmen showed as they carried buckets
    away did not endear them to their passengers. "If I could move, I'd kill
    those bastards," a sufferer groaned.
     Nobody could move much. The compartment held too many men for
    that. Tealdo hoped no one would heave up dinner on to his shoes. Pa~t
    that, he squatted and chatted with the men around him and took breatlis
    as shallow as he could.
     Time dragged on. He supposed it had grown dark outside. Hc
    couldn't have proved it, not down here. Every so often, someone fed L
    lantern oil. Those flickering flames were all the light he and his conuades
    had. For A he knew, they were below the waterline, which would have
    made portholes a bad idea.
     He wished lie were a horse or a unicorn, so he could sleep while he
    wasn't lying down. A couple of soldiers did start to snore. He envicd
    them. Because he envied them, he laughed all the louder when -i roll
    
    "to

    




    t
    
    S
    
    ts;
    
    or
 ast
     s
    
    ave
    
    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    215
    
    bigger than usual made them topple over.
     After what seemed like forever, the Ambuscade heeled sharply. Sailors
    shouted in excitement. "Get ready, boys," Sergeant Panfilo said. "I think
    the shop is about to open for business."
     While Captain Larbino was saying the same thing in more elegant
    words, the Ambuscade proved him right by thudding against a quay -
    Tealdo hoped that was what had happened, at any rate, and that the ship
    hadn't struck a rock instead. The door to the compartment flew open.
    "Out! Out! Out!" a yachtsman screamed.
     Out the company went, and up the narrow stair-way that led to the
    deck. "Nobody falls!" Panfilo bellowed. "Nobody falls, or he answers to
    me." And nobody did fall. The men had rehearsed going up stairs like
    these so many times, they might have been stairs to the houses in which
    they'd grown up.
     Cold, fresh air smelling of sea salt and smoke slapped Tealdo in the
    face. Not far away, another Algarvian ship burned brightly, lighting up
    the darkened harbor of Tirgoviste. Tealdo hoped the soldiers had been
    able to get off the ship. Every man counted in this assault. If the
    Algarvians did not conquer Sibiu, they would not be going home again.
     After that, he stopped worrying about anything except what he was
    supposed to do. He followed the man in front of him over the gangplank
    and on to the quay. That too went off as it should have done. No one fell
    into the water. Had anybody done so, the weight of his kit would quickly
    have dragged him under.
     "Move!" Captain Larbino shouted. "We have to move fast! Don't
    stand there gaping. We've still got the headquarters building to take."
     No one was standing around gaping, either. That would have been
    handing the Sibians an invitation to blaze the men. Nobody with sticks had
    set up at the landward end of the quay, and Tealdc, and his comrades didn't
     propose to wait till someone did. "Easier than practice, so far," he said.
      "So far, maybe," Trasone answered. "But nobody who got killed in
    
     practice stayed dead. Won't be like that here."
      Sure enough, the Sibians began to wake up. They started blazing at the
     invaders from buildings by the port. But it was too late then, with
     Algarvians flooding into Tirgoviste from all their ships. Tealdo wondered
     ~0\v things were going at the other Sibian ports. Well, he hoped. Hope
     was all he could do.

    




    1
    
    216
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Shouts rose, up ahead. He could understand most of them. Sibian
    very close to the southern dialects of Algarvian, and not tremendous
    removed from his own more northerly accent. The Sibs were ye
    about stopping his pals and him. "Good luck," he snarled, a carnivo
    grin on his face.
     He hadn't realized how meticulously his superiors had reproduce
    environs of Tirgoviste harbor at the rehearsal sites near Imola.
    
    Sibians popped up to blaze at his comrades and him, they did so in
    places from which Algarvian "defenders" had fought during those I
    tedious practice runs. Tealdo knew where they would be almost be
    they got there. He knew where to take cover, and where to aim his s
    He didn't have to think. He just had to do, and to go on doing.
    
     "Keep moving!" Larbino yelled. "Don't let them gather themse
    Don I t let them make a stand. If we press them hard now, they'll br
    We have to keep them back on their heels!"
     "Listen to the captainl" Sergeant Panfilo bellowed, almost in Teal
    ear. "He knows what he's talking about." Panfilo shook his head
    spoke again, this time in a much lower voice: "Never thought I'd say
    about an officer."
     The strongpoint Larbino's company had been trained to cap
    turned out to be the naval offices at Tirgoviste. Till he flopped d
    behind some rubble not far away, Tealdo hadn't known what the ta
    was, nor cared much, either. His superiors told him what to do, an
    went out and did it. The arrangement struck him as equitable.
     "Covering blazes!" Larbino roared, and Tealdo aimed his stick
    second-story window from which a Sibian was liable to do some blaz
    of his own. No sooner had he done so than he saw, or thought he s
    motion behind that window. His stick sent a beam into the offices.
    Sibian blazed at the Algarvians from that spot, so Tealdo concluded
    hadn't been imagining things after all.
     Under the protection of the storm of blazes, a couple of men ran
    ward and set an egg against the iron door of the naval offices.'One
    them fell as he dashed away from the doors. His comrade stopped
    picked him up and started to carry him toward something more
    safety. Then he too went down.
     Tealdo cursed to see such courage wasted. He hoped somebody
    try to get him away if he got hurt. He hoped whoever it was would h

    




    e
    
    en
    the
    
    ture
    
    Own
    
    target
    nd he
    
     at a
     zing
    e saw,
    es. No
    dcd he
    
    an for-
    One of
    ed and
    ore like
    
     would
    uld have
    
    INTc) THE DARKNESS
    
    217
    
    better luck than the fellow from the egg crew, too.
     The egg burst then. Tealdo blinked frantically, trying to clear away the
    fuzzy, glowing green-purple spot in the center of his field of vision.
    When he could see straight ahead again, he whooped: the doors had not
    been able to withstand the energies unleashed against them. One leaned
    drunkenly on its hinges, while the other had been hurled into the build-
    ing, with luck smashing a good many Siblans in the corridor behind it.
     "Forward!" Larbino and Panfilo cn'ed the order at the same time.
    Larbinc, added "Follow me!" and dashed toward the opening torn in the
    naval offices. Tealdo scrambled to his feet and did follow the captain. An
    officer who 1--d from the front could pull his men after him: that was a
    lesson as old as war. An officer who led from the front was also horribly
    likely to die before his time: that was a lesson driven home during the Six
    Years' War.
    
     It held here, too. Larbino got through the niven doorway, but no more
    than a couple of strides farther. Then he crumpled bonelessly, blazed
    tbrorigh the head. But the soldiers on his heels killed the Sibian who'd
    blazed him. Howling like wolves and calling Larbino's name along with
    King Mezentio's, the Algarvians fought their way into and through the
    naval offices.
    
     "Hold it night there!" Tealdo screamed as a Sibian humied toward a
    window to escape. Firelight coming in through the window showed a lot
    of -old braid on the fellow's sleeves: an officer, but one intent on leaving
    the front, not leading from it.
     For a moment, Tealdo thought he would try to jump out the window.
    That would have been a mistake, a particularly fatal mistake. The Sibian
    officer must have realized it. He raised his hands. I am Count Delfinu;
    ray rank is commodore," he said in slow, clear Algarvian. I expect to be
    used with all the dignity due my rank and station."
     "That's nice," Tealdo said. He might have to act polite around his
    own nobles. He didn't care a fig for the fancy tides foreigners carried,
    though. Gesturing with the stick, he went on, "You come along with
    me, pal. Somebody'll figure out what to do with you." A captive com-
    modore was an excuse plenty good enough to let him leave the fighting
    for a little while. And if the rest of the fight was going as smoothly as this
    ... Tealdo laughed. "Come on, pal," he repeated. "Tirgoviste's ours.
    Way it looks to me, your whole cursed kingdom's ours."

    




    218
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     Comelu cursed. He and Efori'el had been out on a routine patrol, find
    ing nothing much. When the leviathan brought him back towarc
    Tirgoviste harbor, though . . . He cursed again, cursed and wept
    mingling his salty tears with the salt sea. "The harbor is theirs," he
    groaned. "The city is theirs."
     Fires burning up in Tirgoviste silhouetted the masts and spars of the
    Algarvian invasion fleet. Cornelu did not need long to figure out what
    King Mezentio's men had done. In an abstract way, he admired their
    nerve. Had a couple of Sibian ley-line cruisers happened on that fleet of
    sailing ships, they could have worked a ghastly slaughter. But they hadn't.
    The galleons, or whatever the old-fashioned name for them was, had
    ghosted across the ley lines with no one the wiser. The rest of the
    Algarvian navy, no doubt, would follow now.
     "Costache," Cornelu said: another groan. All he could do was hope
    his wife remained safe, and the child to whom she would soon give birth.
    He didn't think the Algarvians would deliberately outrage her - were
    they not civilized men? - but anything could happen during a battle.
     Efori'el rolled a little in the water, so she could look up at him from
    one large, dark eye. The leviathan let out what sounded like a puzzle'
    grunt. Cornelu understood why: he wasn't behaving as he usually did,
    when the two of them returned to their home port. Eforiel didn't
    understand that, if she blithely swam into Tirgoviste harbor now",
    Cornelu would get blazed and she would either have eggs tossed at her
    or would be captured and pressed into the service of King Mezentio'
    men.
    
     Instead of having her go into the harbor, Corneln started to guide her
    toward a little beach just outside Tirgoviste. There he could slip off her
    back, gain the shore, and ... And what? he asked himself What 1
    he do then? Go into town, rescue his wife, bring her back to Efori
    flee? The hero of an adventure romance might have managed th
    pausing somewhere in there to make love to her, too. In real life,
    tunately, Cornelu had no notion how to bring off such a coup.
                 If he couldn't rescue Costache, could he head inland and J oin what-
                                           e
                                           . Ll
    ever resistance to the Algarvian invaders might be brewing there?
    wondered how strong that resistance could be. Algarve was a much bi
    ger kingdom than Sibiu, and boasted a much, much bigger army. Si

    




    ~ INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    iu
    
    219
    
    had relied upon her ships to keep her safe, and Mezentio had found a way
    to hoodwink them.
     Besides, as a soldier Comelu was nothing out of the ordinary. He was
    far more useful to King Burebistu as part of a team with Efoniel than by
    himself. He wished the leviathan had several eggs in the harness under her
    belly. Were that so, he might have done the invaders some real damage.
     Eforiel grunted again, sensing his indecision: unlike dragons, leviathans
    liked men and understood them pretty well. "I need to know more, 11
    Comelu said, almost as if he were talking to Costache. "That's what I
    need more than anything else. For all I know - powers above grant it be
    so - the invasion has failed on the other four islands. If it has, I can help
    reconquer Tirgoviste."
     He patted the leviathan, steering her west toward Facacem, the island
    closest to his own. Eforiel obeyed, but more slowly than she might have.
    Had she been able to speak, she might have said something like, Are you
    sure this is what you want me to do? She was even more skeptical of any-
    thing that smacked of innovation than the briiniest old salt in the Sibian
    navy.
     Comelu wished with all his heart that some better course lay before
    him. He could see none, though. With no chance to be useful around
    Timoviste, he had to hope the island and port of Facacem remained in
    Siblan hands. If they did, well and good. If not ... He would not let him-
    self worry about that now.
     Dawn broke while Eforiel was still swimming west. Dragons flew high
    overhead - far too high for him to tell whether they bore Sibian colors
    or those of Algarve. None of them swooped down to drop an egg on the
    leviathan. For that, at least, Cornelu was grateful.
     It was the first thing he'd found for which he might be grateful since
    discovering his kingdom invaded. Before long, he became convinced it
    was the last thing for which he might be grateful for some time to come.
     Before he saw the hills at the center of Facaceni rise over the horizon, he
    
     spotted a great cloud of smoke towering higher than those hills. Unless
     Facaceni had suffered a natural disaster, it had suffered disaster at the
     hands of the Algarvians.
      Cornelia had never wished so hard for an earthquake. But wishes, no
     niatter how fervent, were sorcerous nullities. Cornelu had no skill in
     magecraft, any more than a mage was likely to have skill in niding

    




    220
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    leviathans. Learning to do one thing well was hard enough in this world;
    learning to do more than one thing well often pressed the limits of the
    possible.
     Not that even magecraft could annul what had already happened. As
    Efori'el drew Cornelu ever nearer the harbor of Facacem, he saw for him-
    self that King Mezentio's men were there before him. Sailing ships had
    emptied soldiers out on to the quays, as they had at Tirgoviste - as they
    had, probably, at every Sibian port.
     And, just as Cornelu had guessed, the rest of the Algarvian navy had
    followed the invasion fleet south. Algarvian and Sibian ships were tossing
    eggs at each other outside the harbor, and blazing with powerful sticks.
    Every time a beam went low, a great cloud of steam rose from the ocean.
     Eforiel shuddered beneath Cornelu. She paid no attention to the
    beams, but eggs bursting in the water frightened her. She had reason to
    fear, too; a burst too near might kill her. Cornelu dared approach
    Facacem no closer.
     A puff of steam rising only a couple of hundred yards away warned that
    he might already have come too close. It came not from a stick but from
    another leviathan spouting. A moment later, leviathan and rider broke
    the surface. "Who are you?" the rider called to Cornelu.
     Was he speaking Algarvian or Sibian? With only three words to go on,
    Comelu had trouble being sure. "Who are you?" he called back. "Give
    me the signal." He did not know what the signal was, but hoped to learn
    more by the way the other leviathan rider responded.
     Learn he did, for the fellow said, "Mezentio!"
     "Mezentio!" Cornelu answered, as if he too were an Algarvian, and
    delighted to find another one in this part of the world. But, while his
    mouth spoke the name with every sign of gladness, his hand delivered a
    different message to Eforiel: attack!
     The leviathan's muscles surged smoothly beneath him as she arrowed
    through the water toward the other rider and his mount. Calling
    Mezentio's name must have lulled the Algarvian, for he let Cornelu aiid
    Eforiel approach without taking any precautions against them.
     He learned his mistake too late. Eforiel's pointed snout rammed his
    leviathan's side, not far behind the creature's left flipper. The impact
    almost pitched Cornelu off Eforiel's back, though he was as well strapped
    and braced as he could have been. The Algarvian leviathan twisted and

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
    ad
    
    an.
    the
    to
    ach
    
     that
    from
    roke
    
    o on,
    'Give
     learn
    
    n, and
     e his
    ered a
    
    rrowed
    Calling
    elu and
    
    med his
     impact
    strapped
    isted and
    
    221
    
    jerked in startled agony, much as a man might have done if unexpectedly
    hit in the pit of the stomach.
     After delivering that first blow with her jaws closed, Efoniel opened
    them and bit the other leviathan several times. Blood turned seawater
    crimson. Cornelu laughed to see the Algarvian rider splashing in the
    ocean, separated from his mount. Efoniel did the Algarvian no harm. She
    had not been trained to hunt men in the water - too much likelihood of
    her turning on her own rider, should some mischance have separated the
    two of them.
    
     Had circumstances differed, Cornelu might have captured the other
    rider. But he doubted he had any place on Sibiu to which he could bring
    the Algarvian for interrogation. And he spied other spouts not far away.
    He had to assume they came from Algarvian leviathans.
     When he ordered Eforiel to break off the attack, he thought for a
    moment she would refuse to obey him. But training triumphed over
    instinct. She allowed the leviathan she'd wounded to flee into the depths
    of the sea. Cornelu did not think a Sibian-tramed animal would have
    abandoned its rider like that - but the Algarvians, as he'd seen to his sor-
    row, had tn*cks of their own up their sleeves.
     And they had these leviathans. "Mezentio!" their riders called, hurry-
    ing toward the commotion at least one of them had spotted.
     Comelu did not think he could fool them as he had the first Algarvian
    he'd encountered; few tricks worked twice. Nor, being outnumbered,
    was he ashamed to flee. He hoped to escape them and then go on look-
    ing for Sibians still resisting the invaders.
     In war, though, what one hopes and what one gets are often far
    removed from each other. The Algarvians pursuing Efoniel were better
    riders than most of their countrymen, and mounted on sturdier
    leviathans. They chased Comelu far to the south of Facacem, and seemed
    intent on driving him from Sibian waters altogether.
     To make matters worse, a dragon flew high over Eforiel, helping the
    Algarvians and their leviathans keep track of her. The dragonflier was sure
    to be speaking into a crystal. If one of the riders was likewise equipped
    ... If that was so, the Algarvians had devoted a great deal of effort to tying
    their forces togethcr in ways no one had thought of before.
    
     Another dragon came flapping up behind the first. This one carried a

    




    couple of eggs slung under its belly, and did its best to drop them on

    




    222
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    Eforiel. The flier's aim, though, was not so good as it might have been.
    Both eggs fell well short of their intended target; one, in fact, came closer
    to hitting the Algarvian leviathan riders than it did to Cornelu.
     He hoped that would make the enemy lose him, but it didn't. Cursing
    the Algarvians, he kept Eforiel headed southeast, the only direction in
    which they permitted him to travel. He shook his fist at them. "Force me
    to Lagoas, will you?" he shouted.
     Lagoas was neutral. If he came ashore there, he would be interned, and
    out of the fighting tin the war was over: a better fate than surrendering,
    but not much. He cursed the Lagoans even more bitterly than he did the
    Algarvians. In the Six Years' War, Lagoas had fought alongside Sibiu, but
    this time around her merchants had loved their profits too well to feel like
    shedding any blood.
     And then, as if thinking of Lagoans had conjured them up, a patrol
    boat came speeding along a ley line from out of the south. He could have
    escaped it. The ocean was wide, and the ship could not leave the line of
    energy from which it drew its power. But, if he was going to be interned,
    sooner struck him as being as good as later. This way, as opposed to his
    coming ashore on their soil, the Lagoans might heed his wishes about
    Eforiel. And so he waved and had the leviathan rear in the water and
    generally made himself as conspicuous as he could.
     The Algarvian leviathan riders turned and headed back toward Sibiu.
    Comelu shook his fist at them again, then waited for the Lagoan warship
    to approach. "Who might you be?" an officer called from the deck in
    what might have been intended for either Sibian or Algarvian.
     Cornelu gave his name, his rank, and his kingdom. To his surprise, the
    Lagoans burst into cheers. "Well met, friend!" several of them said.
     "Friend?" he echoed in surprise.
     "Friiend, aye," the officer answered in his accented Sibian. "Lagoas
    wars with Algarve now. Had you no heard? When Mezentio your
    country invaded, King Vitor declares war. We all friends together now,
    aye?"
     "Aye," Cornelu said wearily.
    
     Skarnu stood up before his company and said the words that had to be
    said: "Men, the redheads have gone and invaded Sibiu. You'll have heard
    that already, I suppose." He waited for nods, and got them. "You ask

    




                              INTo THE DARKNESS          223
    
               me," he went on, "they were fools. Lagoas is a bigger danger to them
               than Sibiu ever could have been. But if the Algarvians weren't fools, they
               wouldn't be Algarvians, eh?"
                 He got more nods, and even a couple of smiles. He would have been
               gladder of those smiles had they come from the best soldiers in the com-
               pany, not the happy-go-lucky handful who in the morning refused to
               worry about the afternoon, let alone tomorrow.
                 "We can't swim over to Sibiu to help the islanders," he said, "so we
               have to do the next best thing. King Mezentio must have pulled a lot of
    e          his soldiers out of the line here when he invaded Sibiu. That means there
    t          won't be enough men left in the redheads' works to hold us back when
    e          we hit them. We are going to break through, and we are going to go
               rampaging right into the Algarvian rear."
    01           Some of the men who'd smiled before clapped their hands and
               cheered. So did a few others - youngsters, mostly. Most of the soldiers
    VC
    0"         just stood silently. Skarnu had studied the Algarvian fortifications himself,
    ed,        studied them till he knew the ones in front of him like the lines on his
    his        palm. As long as they held any men at all, they would be hard to break
    out        through. He knew it. Most of the men knew it, too. But he had his orders
    and         about what to tell them.
    
                He also had his pride. He said, "Remember, men, you won't be going
    iu.         anywhere I haven't gone myself, because I'll be out in front of you every
    ship        step of the way. We'll do all we can for our king and kingdom." He raised
    k in        his voice to a shout: "King Gainibu and victory!"
                "King Gainibu!" the men echoed. "Victory!" They cheered enthusi-
     the        astically. Why not? Cheering cost them nothing and exposed them to no
                danger.
                Seeing that Skarnu had finished, Sergeant Raunu strode out in front of
    goas        the company. He glanced at Skarnu for permission to speak. Skarnu
    your        nodded. The company would have got on fine without him, but he
    now,        couldn't have run it without Raunu. The veteran underofficer affected
                not to know that. Skarnu understood perfectly well that the pose was an
                affectation. He wondered how many company officers really believed
    
    to be
    heard
    ou ask
    
    their sergeants thought them indispensable. Too many, odds were.
     Raunu said, "Boys, we're lucky. You know it, and I know it. A lot of
    officcrs would send us forward but stay in a hole themselves. If we won,
    th y'd take the credit. If we lost, we'd get the blame - only we'd be dead

    




    224
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    and they'd try again with another company. The captain's not like that
    We've all seen as much. Let's give him a cheer now, and let's fight like
    madmen for him tomorrow."
     "Captain Skarnu!" the men shouted. Skarnu waved to them, feeling
    foolish. He was used to accepting the deference of commoners because
    of his blood. Like his sister Krasta, he'd taken it for granted. The defer-
    ence he got here in the field was different. He'd earned it. It made him
    proud and embarrassed at the same time.
     "Whatever we can do, sir, we'll do tomorrow," Raunu said.
     "I'm sure of it," Skarnu said. That was a polite commonplace. He
    started to add something to it, then stopped. Sometimes Raunu, if given
    the chance to talk, came out with things he wouldn't have otherwise,
    things an officer would have had trouble learning any other way.
     This proved to be one of those times. "Do you really think we'll break
    the Algarvian line tomorrow, sir?" the sergeant said.
     "We've been ordered to do it," Skarnu said. "I hope we can do it."
    He went no further than that.
     "Mm." Raunu's wrinkles refolded themselves into an expression less
    forbidding than the one he usually wore. "Sir, I hope we can do it, too
    But if there's not much chance ... Sir, I saw a lot of officers with a lot
    of courage get themselves killed for nothing during the Six Years' War.
    It'd be a shame if that happenedto you before you figured out what wa
    what. "
     "I see." Skarnu nodded brightly. "After I figure out what's what,
    will be all right for me to get myself killed for nothing."
     "No, sir." Raunu shook his head. "After you know what' s w
    you'll know better than to go rushing ahead and get yourself killed
    nothing. "
     Skarnu quoted doctrine: "The only way to make an attack
    to go into it confident of success."
    
                                         succeed is
    
     "Aye, sir." Raunu frowned again. "The only trouble is, sometimes
    that doesn't help, either."
     Skarnu shrugged. Raunu looked at him, shook his head, and -W e
    off. Skarnu understood what the veteran was trying to tell him.
    Understanding didn't matter. He had his orders. His company Id
    break through the Algarvian line ahead or die trying.
    
     All through the night, egg-tossers hurled destruction at the

    




                               INTo THE DARKNESS         225
    
                positions. Dragons flew overhead, dropping more eggs on the redheads.
                Skamu. had mixed feelings about all that. On the one hand, slain enemy
                soldiers and wrecked enemy works would make the attack easier. On the
    9           other, the Valmierans couldn't have done a better job of announcing
    se          where that attack would go in if they'd hung out a sign.
    r-           The Algarvians made little reply to the eggs raining down. Maybe
    in          they're all dead, Skarnu thought hopefully. He couldn't make himself
                believe it, try as he would.
                 He led his men to the ends of the approach trenches they'd dug over
    Be          the previous couple of days. That new digging might also have warned the
    en          Algarvians an attack was coming. But Skarmi and his men would not have
    ise,         to cross so much open ground to close with the enemy when the assault
                began, and so he reluctantly decided it was likely to be worthwhile.
    eak                                                     "This is how we did it in the Six Years' War," Ramm said as the
                soldiers huddled in the trenches, waiting for the whistles that would order
                them forward. "We licked the redheads then, so we know we can do it
                again, right?"
    less         Some of the youngsters under Skarmi's command grinned and nodded
    too.         at the veteran sergeant. They were too young to know about the grue-
    a lot       some casualties Valrm'era had endured in that victory. Raunu deliberately
    War.        didn't mention those. The men hadn't suffered badly in this war, not yet,
    t was       not least because their leaders did remember the slaughters of the Six
                Years' War and had avoided repeating them. Now the risk seemed
    
    at, it
    
    I
    r
    
    ecd is
    
    ctimes
    
    walked
     him.
    would
    
    garvian
    
    acceptable ... to men who weren't facing it themselves.
     Off in the west, behind Skarnu, the sky went from black to gray to
    pink. Peering over the dirt heaped up in front of the approach trenches,
    he saw the enemy's field fortifications had taken a fearful battering. He
    dared hope that no Algarvian position during the Six Years' War had
    been so thoroughly smashed up.
    
     He said as much to Raunu, who also stuck his head up to examine the
    ground ahead. The sergeant answered, "Just where it looks like there
    couldn't be even one of the bastards left alive, that's where you'll find
    whole caravans full of 'em, and they'll all be doing their best to blaze you
    down."
    
     Raunu had been loud and enthusiastic while heartening the corrimon
    soldiers in the company. He spoke quietly to his superior, not wanting to
    dilute the effect he'd had on the men.

    




    226
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
     More eggs and still more eggs fell on the Algarvian entrenchments an
    forts. And then, without warning, they stopped falling. Skarnu pulled
    brass whistle from his trouser pocket and blew a long, echoing blast, on
    of hundreds ringing out along several miles of battle line. "For Valmiera!
    he cried. "For King Gainibu!" He scrambled out of the approach trenc
    and trotted toward the Algarvians' works.
     "Valmlera!" his men shouted, and followed him out into the open
    "Gainibu!" He looked to either side. Thousands of Valmierans, thou
    sands upon thousands, stormed west. It was a sight to make any soldie
    proud of his countrymen.
     Only aftu, hundred more yards, Skarnu thought. Then we'll be in amo
    the redheads, and then they'll be ours. But already flashes ahead warned tha
    some Algarvians had survived the pounding the Valn-tierans had give
    them. More and more enemy soldiers began blazing at Skarnu and hi
    comrades. Men started falling, some without a sound, others shrieking
    they were wounded.
     The Algarvians had endured all the eggs the Valmierans tossed at them
    without responding - till this moment, when the men attacking them
    were most vulnerable. And now they rained eggs down on the
    Valmierans. Skamu found himself on the ground without any clear
    memory of how he'd got there. One moment, he'd been upright. The
    next -
     He scrambled to his feet. His trousers were torn. His tunic was out at
    the elbow. He wasn't bleeding, or didn't think he was. Lucky, he thou
     He waved to show his men he was all right, and looked back over Iiis
    shoulder to see how they were doing. Even as he did so, a couple of them
    went down. They hadn't come very far - surely not halfway - but he'd lost
    a lot of them. If he kept losing them at that rate, he wouldn't have any me
    left by the time he got to the forwardmost Algarvian trenches. He probat
    wouldn't live to get to those trenches himself, an unpleasant afterthou
    to have.
     The headlong charge was simply too expensive to be bome. "T
    squads!" he shouted. "Blaze and move by squads!"
     Half his men - half the men he had left - dove into such cover as th
    could find - mostly the holes burst eggs had dug in the ground. The re
    raced by them. Then they flattened out and blazed at the Algarvians whil'
    the others rose and dashed past. Little by little, they worked their

    




    INTo THE DARKNESS
    
                                       pen.
                                       thou
                                      oldier
    
    among
    d that
    given
    nd his
    king as
    
    as out at
    thought.
     over his
     of them
     he'd lost
     any men
     probably
    erthought
    
    orne. "By
    
    vcr as they
    d. The Test
     lans while
     their way
    
    227
    
    toward the trenches from which the redheads were blazing at them.
     Skarmi took shelter in a hole himself, waiting for his next chance to
    advance. He looked around, hoping the order he'd had to give hadn't
    slowed his company too badly. What he saw left him wide-eyed with dis-
    may. As many Valmierans were running back toward their own lines as
    were still going forward against the enemy. Of the ones still advancing,
    most paid no attention to tactics that might have cut their losses. They
    kept moving up tin they went down. When they could bear no more,
    they broke and fled.
     "You see, sir?" Raunu shouted from a hole not far away. "This is how
    I feared it would be."
     "What can we do?" Skarnu asked.
     "We aren't going to break through their lines," Raunu answered.
    "We aren't even going to get into their lines - or if we do, we won't
    come out again. Best we can do now is hang tight here, hurt 'em a bit,
    and get back to where we started from after nightfall. If you order me for-
    ward, though, sir, I'll go."
     "No," Skarnu said. "What point to that but getting us killed to no pur-
    pose?" He assumed that, if he ordered Raunu forward, he would have to
    try to advance, too. "This is what you warned me about before the attack
    began, isn't it?"
     "Aye, sir. Good to see you can recognize it," Raunu said. "I only wish
    our commanders could." Skarnu started to reproach the sergeant for
    speaking too freely. He stopped with the words unspoken. How could
    R,aunu have spoken too freely when all he did was tell the truth?
    
     Leofsig still retained the tin mess kit he'd been issued when mustered
    into King Pencla's levy. As captives went, that made him relatively lucky.
    Forthwegian soldiers who'd lost their kits had to make do with bowls that
    held less. The Algarvians might have issued their own kits to men who
    lacked them, but that didn't seem to have entered their minds.
     What had crossed their minds was carefully counting the captives in
    each barracks in the encampment before those captives got anything in
    their mess kits or bowls. Leofsig would not have bet that the Algarvian
    guards could count to ten, even using their fingers. The endless recounts
    to which the captives had to submit argued against it, at any rate.
     Every so often, a captive or two really did turn up missing. That meant
    K`

    




    228
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    the redheads tore the encampment apart till they found out how the in
    had disappeared. It also meant a week of half rations for the escapee
    barracksmates. No one got fat on full rations. Half rations were slo
    starvation. Half rations were also an argument for betraying anyo
    thinking of getting away.
     This morning, everything seemed to add up. "Powers above
    praised," Leofslg muttered. He was cold and tired and hungry; standi
    in formation in front of the barracks was not his idea of a good tim
    Standing in line and waiting for the meager breakfast the cooks wou
    dole out didn't strike him as delightful, either. Eventually, though, he
    get food in his belly, which came close to making the wait worthwhile
     Plop! The sound of a large ladle of mush landing in his mess kit w
    about as appetizing as the stuff itself The mush was mostly wheat po
    ridge, with cabbage and occasional bits of salt fish or pork mixed in. T
    captives ate it breakfast, dinner, and supper. It was never very good. Th
    morning, it smelled worse than usual.
     Leofsig ate it anyhow. If it made him sick - and it did make people sic
    every so often - he'd go to the infirmary. And if anybody claimed he w
    malingering, he'd throw up in the wretch's lap.
     The handful of Kaumans in his barracks ate in a small knot by the
    selves, as they usually did. He would sometimes join them. So would
    few of his fellow Forthwegians. Most, though, wanted nothing to d
    with the blonds. And a few, like Merwit, still stirred up trouble eve
    chance they got.
     "Hey, you!" Merwit said now. Leofsig looked up from his mush. Sur
    enough, Merwit was staring his way with a smile that made him loo
    neither friendly nor attractive. "Aye, you, yellow-hair lover," the bu
    captain went on. "You going on latrine duty after breakfast? That'd gi
    you the chance to hang around with your pals?"
     "You ought to try it yourself, Merwit," Leofsig answered. "There'
    nobody else I know who's half so full of shit."
     Merwit's eyes went big and wide. He and Leofsig had quarreled Fefore
    but Leofsig hadn't given back insult for insult tin this moment. Carefu
    Merwit set down his own mess kit. "You're going to pay for that," he sa
    in matter-of-fact tones. He charged forward like a behemoth.
    
     Leofslg kicked him in the belly. It was like kicking a plank. Me
    grunted, but he slammed one fist into Leofsig's nibs and the other into

    




    top of Leofsig's head. He'd meant to hit him in the face, but Leofsig
    ducked. Merwit howled then. With any luck at all, he'd broken a
    
     Being smaller and lighter, Leofsl knew he'd need all the help of tha
    sorthecould et. He tried to end the fight in a hurry by kneeingMerwi
    in the crotch, but Merwit twisted away and took the knee on the hip. H(
    seized Leofsig in a bearhug. Leofsig knocked his feet out from under him
    Thev went down toizether, each doina the other as much damage witf
    
     "Halting! You halting!" somebody shouted in accented Forthwegian
    Leofsig did nothing of the kind, having a well-founded suspicion tha
    Merwit wouldn't. "You halting!" This time, the command had teeth
    
     That must have convinced Merwit because he stopped trying to work
    mayhem on Leofsig. Leofsig gave him one more inconspicuous elbow
    then pushed him away and got to his feet His nose was bleeding. A
    couple of his front teeth felt loose but they were all there. None was
    
    even broken - pure luck, and he knew it.
     He looked over at Merwit. Merwit looked as if he'd been in a fight
    one of his eyes was swollen shut, and he had a big bruise on the othe
    cheek. Leofsig felt as if he'd been pummeled with boulders. He hopec
    
     [he Algarvian guards who'd stopped the brawl were shaking thel
    heads. "Stupid, stupid Forthwegians," one of them said, more in sorrow
    
    Now you seeing just how stupid you being Come!'
    
    themselves Sometimes without rhyme or reason Leofsig could see the
    chose to make examples of them. He eased a little when he saw they were
    taking him and Merwit to Brigadier Cynfrid, the senior Forthwegian
    officer in camp, rather than to their own commandant. Cynfrid had far
    
     "What have we here?" the brigadier asked, looking up from some
    paperwork. With his gray hair and snowy mustache and beard he seemed
    more a kindly grandfather than a soldier. Had he been a better soldier -
    
    ha~ a lot of Forthwec~an commanders Ieen better soldiers - he miolt not

    




    01
    
    Harry Turtledove
    
    have ended up in a captives' camp, but might instead have kept th
    going.
     "These two, they fighting," one of the Algarvian guards said.
     "Oh, aye, I can see that," Cynfrid said. "The question is, why
    they fighting?" The guard gave back an extravagant Algarvian shru
    that declared he not only didn't know but found beneath him the i
    wondering why Forthwegians did anything. The brigadier sighed
    dently having encountered that attitude before. He examined Leofs
    Merwit. "What have you men got to say for yourselves?"
     "Sir, this stinking Kaunian-lover called me a filthy name,"
    said, his voice dripping with righteous innocence and indignation.
    sick of it, so when he started the fight, I did my best to give him
    for."
    
     "I didn't start the fight," Leofsig exclaimed. "He did! And he's,
    calling me names since we got here - youjust heard him do it again
    I finally called him one back. He didn't like that so much. Most
    are better at giving it out than taking it."
     "Conflicting stories," Cynfrid said with another sigh. He glance
    toward the guards. "I don't suppose you gentlemen know who di
    the fight?" The redheads laughed, not so much at the idea that
    should know, but at the notion that they might care. The Forthw
    brigadier sighed yet again. "Any chance of witnesses?"
     Now Leofsig had all he could do not to start laughing himself.
    low captives wanted as little to do with the guards as they coul
    would make themselves scarce and deny seeing anything ... or wo
    of them? Slowly, he said, "Sir, I think the Kaunians in my barracks
    tell the truth about what went on."
     "They'd lick your arse for you, you mean, like you
    Merwit snarled, his eyes blazing.
     Leofsig had succeeded in gaining the guards' attention. e
    nearly sure he wanted it. To Cynfrid, one of the Algarvians
    Kaunians, they is no to being trusted, eh?"
     "No, probably not," the Forthwegian brigadier said, "altliOUI
    haven't done nearly so much to Forthweg as you Algarvians, xou
    you think?"
     If the Algarvians thought any such thing, their faces didn't
    With a dismissive gesture, the one who did most of the talking said.
    