Through the Darkness

As soon as she started going through it, she realized how much trouble the servants saved her. Several pieces went into the wastepaper basket unopened. One ordinary-looking envelope almost joined them there, because she didn’t recognize the handwriting in which it was addressed. How likely was it that some stranger vulgar enough to write to her would have anything worth saying?

But then curiosity overcame disdain. With a shrug, she used a letter opener in the shape of a miniature cavalry saber to slit the envelope. When she unfolded the paper inside, she almost threw it out again. It wasn’t a letter at all, but some sort of political broadside.

Her lip curled in a sneer; it wasn’t even properly printed, but written out by hand and then duplicated by a sorcerer who was none too good at what he did--ink smudged her fingers and blurred the words as she held it. But some of those words seized her attention. The headline--KAUNIANITY IN PERIL--fit too well with the conversation she’d just had with Lurcanio.

Lurcanio, she knew, would have denied every smeary word on the sheet. He had denied that his countrymen were doing such things to Kaunians. Krasta had believed him, too, not least because disbelieving him would have made her look at things she didn’t care to face. But the story that unfolded on the broadsheet certainly sounded as if it ought to be true, whether it was or not. The details felt convincing. If they hadn’t happened, they seemed as if they could have.

And the sheet was written in a style she found very familiar, though she had trouble putting her finger on why. She’d got about halfway through it when she realized the style wasn’t the only familiar thing about it. She recognized the handwriting, too.

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s impossible. Skarnu’s dead.”

But if she didn’t know her brother’s handwriting, who would? She stared down at the sheet, then over toward the west wing, where Lurcanio was busy running Priekule for the conquerors. Slowly and deliberately, she tore the sheet into tiny pieces. Then she used the privy and flushed the pieces away. She washed her hands with great care: as much care as she might have used to get blood off them.

Skarnu’s alive, she thought dizzily. Alive. Lurcanio had asked after him not so long before. He’d known, or at least suspected, her brother hadn’t perished in the fighting. She’d thought he had. She’d been wrong. For once, she wasn’t even sorry to find out she’d been wrong.

Past that dizzy relief, she thought no more about what Skarnu’s being alive might mean till Lurcanio handed her up into the carriage for the trip to The Suckling Pig. Then she realized her lover might have been---no, surely had been--asking after her brother so the Algarvians could hunt him down and kill him. For Skarnu had to be one of the brigands and bandits who showed up in news sheets every now and again.

What would she do if Lurcanio started asking questions about Skarnu now? He won’t, she thought. He can’t. I got rid of everything. He can’t know anything.

She relaxed a little. Then--and only then--did another question occur to her: What would she do if Skarnu asked her questions about Lurcanio? What are you doing sleeping with an Algarvian? was the first of those questions to spring to mind.

They won the war. They’re stronger than we are. Surely everyone could see that. But if everyone could see it, why was her brother still fighting the Algarvians? She didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about anything.

When they got to The Suckling Pig, she ordered spirits instead of ale and with grim determination went about the business of getting drunk. Lurcanio raised an eyebrow. “That time I had you after you drank yourself blind wasn’t much fun for either one of us,” he said.

“That’s what you’ve told me.” Krasta shrugged. “I don’t remember anything about it but the headache the next morning.” Remembering the headache made her pause before her next sip, but not for long. The end of her nose turned numb. She nodded. She was on the way.

She ordered pork and red cabbage on a bed of noodles. Lurcanio winced. “I wonder that all you Valmierans aren’t five feet wide, the way you eat.” His own choice was crayfish cooked in a sauce flavored with apple brandy. “This, now, this is real food, not just stuffing your belly full.”

A few tables away, Viscount Valnu, in the company of a pretty Valmieran girl and an even prettier Algarvian officer, was demolishing an enormous plate of stewed chicken. Seeing Krasta looking his way, he fluttered his fingers at her. She waved back, then said to Lurcanio, “See how he’s eating? And he’s skinnier than I am.”