Through the Darkness

The doorman at Ethelhelm’s block of flats still hadn’t resumed his post outside the building. Ealstan supposed the fellow could use the cool, rainy fall weather as an excuse. His own opinion was that the doorman lacked the nerve to show his face on the street after the latest riots. But no one much cared about his opinion. He’d seen that too many times to have any doubts.

“And a good day to you, sir.” The doorman nodded to him. “Ethelhelm told me I was to expect you, and here you are.” If Ethelhelm said it, it had to be true--so his tone implied.

“Here I am,” Ealstan agreed in a hollow voice. He wished he weren’t. But Ethelhelm was too good a client to throw over, even if he’d turned out not to be such a good friend. Sighing, Ealstan climbed the stairs to the drummer and bandleader’s flat.

Ethelhelm swung the door open as soon as he knocked. The musician didn’t seem to notice that Ealstan’s liking for him had cooled. “Good to see you,” he said. “Aye, very good to see you. Come in. Drink some wine, if you care to.”

“I wouldn’t turn down a cup, thanks,” Ealstan said. Ethelhelm always had something smooth and rich to drink in the flat. Why not? Ealstan couldn’t think of many Forthwegians who could afford it better.

Today, he poured from a jar of a splendid, tawny vintage. Peering into his glass, he said, “That’s just about the color of a Gyongyosian’s beard, isn’t it?”

“If you say so, I won’t quarrel with you,” Ealstan answered. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Gyongyosian in the flesh.” He paused, thought, and shook his head. “I’m sure I haven’t. Can’t imagine what a Gyongyosian would have been doing in Gromheort.” Ethelhelm already knew where he was from.

“Ah, well, if you want to get technical, I’ve never seen a Gyongyosian, either,” Ethelhelm admitted. “I’m just going by what everybody says.”

“People do that too often,” Ealstan said. If Forthwegians didn’t go so often by what everybody said, the Kaunians in the kingdom would have had an easier time. He wished he could say so to Ethelhelm’s face. He didn’t dare, especially not after the bandleader had seen Vanai in her Forthwegian semblance and drawn his own conclusions from it.

Ethelhelm fed him olives and crumbly white cheese that went well with the wine. Then he said, “Now you’d better see if I’ve got any money left.”

He’d made that joke before. The more often he made it, the more he seemed to prosper. Ealstan assumed the same would hold true again. But when he finished casting Ethelhelm’s accounts, he stared at his client. “Powers above, where’s your silver going?”

“You’re the bookkeeper. You tell me.” Ethelhelm’s voice had an edge to it. So did his smile.

“That’s hard to do when you haven’t got much in the way of receipts, and when you’re calling most of what you’ve spent ‘miscellaneous expenses.’ “ Ealstan studied the books he’d just worked up, then glanced at the musician. He’d seen that sharp, sour smile on other people, his father among them. When he’d seen it on Hestan’s face . . . “Are you paying the redheads that much?”

Ethelhelm started, then let out a rueful chuckle. “Well, I knew you were clever. I wouldn’t want you working for me if you weren’t clever. Now I have to live with it. Aye, I’m paying the redheads that much.” He bared his teeth in what wasn’t a smile at all anymore. “I’ll probably be paying them twice as much before too long, too.”

“But why?” Ealstan asked, bewildered. “Up till now, they weren’t hitting you anywhere near this hard.”

With seeming irrelevance, Ethelhelm answered, “When I saw you in the park with your Forthwegian lady friend--her name’s Thelberge, isn’t that right?--I thought you were a pretty clever fellow. You’d had a liability, or I think you had, and you disposed of it. Times like these, that’s what you’ve got to do ... if you can.”

A liability. He was talking about Vanai, of course. She wasn’t a person in his mind, only a problem. Ealstan glanced at his wineglass. It was empty. If it hadn’t been, he might have dashed its contents in Ethelhelm’s face.

“What’s Thelberge got to do with . . . this?” he asked, tapping the ledger cover with a fingernail.

“You disposed of your liability,” Ethelhelm repeated. He stood up. He was several inches taller than Ealstan, if narrower through the shoulders. “Aye, you disposed of yours. How do I get rid of mine?”

No matter how sharp he was, Ealstan needed a couple of heartbeats to understand. When he did, ice ran through him. He said, “They’re squeezing you on account of your blood?”

“Nothing else but,” the bandleader agreed mournfully. “And once Algarvians start garbage like that, it never gets better. No, it never gets better. It just gets worse.” His laugh might have had broken glass in it. “Of course, if I don’t like them squeezing me, I can always go to the Kaunian district. That’d be jolly, wouldn’t it?”