Out of the Darkness

And then a really nasty notion struck here. What if the other woman were a disguised Kaunian herself and, thinking Vanai a real Forthwegian, spoke out against blonds because she reckoned that expected of her? How would I know? I wouldn’t, any more than she knows what I am.

She had no proof. By the nature of things, she wouldn’t get any proof. But the thought, once lodged, wouldn’t go away. If it were true, it wouldn’t be Mezentio killing Kaunianity. No-Kaunianity would kill itself.

Vanai went back to her flat. Saxburh liked going upstairs; it felt different from walking on level ground. Vanai would have liked it better if she were carried instead of carrying, too.

“Judged never to have occurred,” she said again when she got inside. Did that mean she’d never had to go to bed with Major Spinello? Did it mean she’d never had to wear this sorcerous disguise? Did it mean the redheads had never captured her and thrown her into the Kaunian quarter here in Eoforwic? Did it mean they hadn’t killed tens, hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, of blonds? She wished it did. Wishing meant nothing, or perhaps a little less.

“Dada,” Saxburh said.

“No, I’m your mama,” Vanai told her. The baby said mama, but less often. Vanai said, “Your dada will be home soon.” Powers above, I hope he will.

“Dada,” Saxburh said again. Vanai laughed. It was either that or start to cry. She’d done too much crying over the course of this war. So long as I don’t have to do any more.

She went to the cupboard to see what she could make for supper. Barley, peas, turnips, beans, olives, cheese, olive oil-nothing very exciting, but enough to keep body and spirit together. Peasants in the countryside ate this kind of food their whole lives long. City people praised peasants for their healthy diet-and didn’t try very hard to imitate it. The way things were these days, though, having enough of any kind of food, no matter how boring, was worth celebrating.

In a few days, she’d have to go down to the market square to get more. She wondered if Guthfrith who had been Ethelhelm would be there with his band. She’d seen the drummer and singer and songwriter several times. She didn’t stop to listen to his music anymore; he made her nervous. But he noticed her; she’d seen him follow her with his eyes more than once. That was not the least of the reasons he made her nervous. It wasn’t the only one, though. He had a good notion that she was a Kaunian. With King Beornwulf ‘s edict, it shouldn’t have mattered. It shouldn’t have, but it did. Kaunians in Forthweg rarely assumed edicts concerning them meant everything they said-unless the edicts were threats. With threats, whoever happened to be lording it over Forthweg was commonly sincere.

I have a weapon of my own, Vanai thought. Guthfrith was a fellow who played for coppers in the square. Ethelhelm, despite Kaunian blood, had been famous all over Forthweg. But, because of that Kaunian blood, Ethelhelm had decided it was wiser to collaborate with the Algarvians. If he tried to tar her, she could tar him.

She made a sour face. She hated to have to think that way. She hated to, but she would. If she had to keep her baby and herself safe, she’d do what needed doing and worry about everything else later. Like so many others across Derlavai, she’d learned ruthlessness in the war.

Marshal Rathar looked up at the night sky. Thick gray clouds covered it. He turned toward General Vatran-and accidentally bumped one of the bodyguards King Swemmel had ordered him to use after the Algarvians came altogether too close to assassinating him. “Sorry,” he murmured.

“It’s all right, sir,” the bodyguard said. “Just think of us as furniture.”

They were large, well-muscled pieces of furniture. Peering around them, Rathar said, “Everything’s ready to go.”

“It had better be,” Vatran answered. “We’ve spent as much time building up toward things here as we did in the north last summer.”

“We can’t afford to have things go wrong,” Rathar said. “Once we get over the Scamandro, we storm straight for Trapani. It’s going to be ours, by the powers above. The islanders aren’t going to take it. We’ve paid the biggest bills, and we deserve the biggest prize.” That was what Swemmel said, and Rathar, here, emphatically agreed with him.

Vatran nodded, too. “With what all we’ve got here, sir, I don’t see any way the redheads can stop us, or even slow us down much. How much longer till the dance starts?”

“A quarter of an hour,” Rathar replied. “We get past the high ground on the east side of the river and everything should go fine from there.”

“Here’s hoping,” Vatran said. “If they don’t pull out any funny sorcery …”