Out of the Darkness

Oraste slapped him in the face. “Shut up,” he said again, this time in a flat, angry voice. “I said lucky, and I meant fornicating lucky. You’re hurt bad enough, they won’t keep you around here, on account of you won’t be good for a fornicating thing for a long time. That means you won’t be here when the Unkerlanters finally do come over the Twegen. And if that’s not lucky, what in blazes is? You want me to try splinting your leg, or you want me to wait for a healer?”

Bembo cursed him again, not quite so savagely as before. Then the pain made everything blurry for some little while. When he fully returned to himself, someone he didn’t recognize was leaning over him, saying, “Here, Constable, drink this.”

He drank. It tasted nasty-a horrible blend of spirits and poppy seeds. After a bit, the pain ebbed-or he felt as if he were floating away from it. “Better,” he mumbled.

“Good,” the healer said. “Now I’m going to set that leg.” Go ahead, Bembo thought vaguely. I won’t care. But he did. The decoction he’d drunk wasn’t strong enough to keep him from feeling the ends of the broken bone grinding against each other as the healer manipulated them. Bembo shrieked. “Almost done,” the healer assured him. “And you’ll be going back to Algarve to get better after that. They’ll take good care of you.”

“Oraste was right,” Bembo said in drowsy, drugged wonder. A couple of Forthwegians put him on a litter-and hauled him off toward the ley-line caravan depot. When he got there, another healer poured more of the decoction down him. He never remembered getting carried aboard the caravan. When he woke up, he was on his way back to Algarve.

Outside the royal palace in Patras, a blizzard howled. Marshal Rathar had little use for the palace or for the capital of Yanina. He wore a heavy cloak over his knee-length rock-gray tunic, and was none too warm even with it. “Why do you people not heat your buildings in the wintertime?” he growled at King Tsavellas.

The king of Yanina was a skinny little bald man with a big gray mustache and dark, sorrowful eyes. “We do,” he answered. “We heat them so we are comfortable. We do not turn them into ovens, as you Unkerlanters like to do.”

Both the King of Yanina and the Marshal of Unkerlant spoke Algarvian. It was the only tongue they had in common; classical Kaunian was much less studied in their kingdoms than farther east on the continent of Derlavai. Rathar savored the irony. Tsavellas had had no trouble talking with his erstwhile allies, the redheads. Now he could use his command of their language to talk with the new masters of Yanina.

“If you are indoors, you should be warm,” Rathar insisted. He enjoyed telling a king what to do, especially since Tsavellas had to listen to him. King Swemmel. . This time, Rathar’s shiver had nothing to do with the chilly halls through which he walked. The King of Unkerlant was a law unto himself. All Kings of Unkerlant were, but Swemmel more so than most.

“Warm is one thing,” Tsavellas said. “Warm enough to cook?” His expressive shrug might almost have come from an Algarvian.

Rathar didn’t answer. He was eyeing the painted panels that ornamented the walls. Yaninans in old-fashioned robes-but always with pompoms on their shoes-stared out of the panels at him from enormous, somber eyes. Sometimes they fought Algarvians, other times Unkerlanters. Always, they were shown triumphant. Rathar supposed the artists who’d created them had had to paint what their patrons wanted. Those patrons had lost no sleep worrying about the truth.

He couldn’t read the legends picked out in gold leaf beside some of the figures on the walls. He couldn’t even sound them out. Yanina used a script different from every other way of writing in Derlavai. Rathar reckoned that typical of the Yaninans, the most contrary, fractious, faction-ridden folk in the world.

“Here we are,” Tsavellas said, leading him into a room with more Yaninans painted on the walls and with maps on the tables. A Yaninan officer in a uniform much fancier than Rathar’s-his short tunic over kilt and leggings glittered with gold leaf, and even his pompoms were gilded-sprang to his feat and bowed. Tsavellas went on, “I present to you General Mantzaros, the commander of all my forces. He speaks Algarvian.”

“He would,” Rathar rumbled. He was hardly fifty himself-burly, vigorous, and dour. Any man who’d spent so much time dealing with King Swemmel had earned the right to be dour. When he held out his hand, Mantzaros clasped his wrist instead, in the Algarvian style. Rathar raised an eyebrow. “Have you forgotten whose side you’re on these days, General?”

“By no means, Marshal.” Mantzaros drew himself up to his full height, which was a couple of inches less than Rathar’s. “Do you seek to insult me?” Yaninans were some of the touchiest people on earth, too, without the style Algarvians brought to their feuds.

“No. I seek to get some use out of the rabble you call an army,” Rathar said brutally.