Into The Darkness

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 flight of dragons, their scaly hides painted red, green, and white, flew down from Algarve into Bari: one of many entering the Duchy, no doubt. High as they flew, the rhythmic 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 rostrum. 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 preferred, 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, missed 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 regiment 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 permission 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.

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, coming 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 permutations. That was what servants were for.

Bauska hurried in. She was wearing 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.