Through the Darkness

“I don’t want you to take me for granted,” Krasta answered. And that was true in ways she hoped Lurcanio didn’t fully grasp. If she began to bore him, all he had to do was crook a finger to get himself another mistress. That was how things were in occupied Valmiera these days. Of course, he might also crook his finger so if she angered him, a point that didn’t cross her mind.

He laughed now. “I may do many things,” he said, “but I would never be so rash as to do that. Let’s go.”

As always, Krasta missed the bright lights Priekule had shown before the war. Lurcanio’s driver, an Algarvian like his master, got lost a couple of times, and finally had to ask a patrolling Valmieran constable for directions to the Imperial. Even when he got there, Krasta wasn’t sure he had; the restaurant, like every other building in the capital, remained dark on the outside to make things difficult for Lagoan dragons.

The entry hall was dark, too. Only after a servitor closed the door did he open the black curtains at the other end of the hall. The sudden brilliance he revealed made Krasta’s eyes water, almost as if she’d looked up at the noonday sun.

Lurcanio blinked a couple of times, too. As a fawning waiter escorted Krasta and him to the table, he said, “Eateries with indifferent food keep things dark, so you don’t know exactly what you’re getting. The Imperial, now, the Imperial has confidence.”

“Yes, sir, we do,” the waiter said, drawing out Krasta’s chair so she could sit down. “I hope, sir, when your meal is done, you will be able to tell me our establishment deserves to have such confidence.”

“I hope so, too,” Lurcanio answered. “As a matter of fact, I had better be able to.” His smile had sharp edges, reminding the waiter who was occupier and who occupied. The fellow gulped, nodded, and fled.

When he returned, he brought menus and a list of potables. Krasta chose a dark ale, Lurcanio wine from the Marquisate of Rivaroli. “An excellent selection, sir,” the waiter said.

“I think so,” Lurcanio said. “Now that Algarve has taken Rivaroli back from Valmiera, the least I can do is take a bottle of her wine.” That sent the waiter away in a hurry again. Krasta stared across the table in some annoyance; she’d been ready to order supper, too, and now she couldn’t.

She looked around the Imperial. More than half of the men eating supper were Algarvians. The blond men with them had the sleek look of those who’d done well for themselves since Valmiera fell to King Mezentio’s men. Their yellow-haired lady friends were almost as elegant, almost as lovely, as those who accompanied the redheads.

Idly, Lurcanio asked, “Does the name Pavilosta mean anything to you?”

“Pavilosta?” Krasta shook her head. “It sounds like it ought to be a town. Is it? Out in the provinces somewhere, I suppose. Who cares where?” As far as she was concerned, the civilized world ended a few miles outside of Priekule. Oh, it had extensions in fashionable resorts, but she was certain Pavilosta wasn’t among them. She would have known more about it if it were.

“Aye, out in the provinces,” Lurcanio said. “You would not by any chance have got a letter from there lately?”

“Powers above, no!” Krasta exclaimed. She wasn’t clever in most senses of the word, but she did have a certain shrewdness to her. Pointing at her companion, she went on, “And if I had, you’d know about it before I did.”

Lurcanio chuckled. “Well, I hope I would, but you never can tell.”

He might have said more, but the waiter came back with his wine and Krasta’s ale. This time, Krasta got to order. She chose the pork chop stuffed with crayfish meat. “Ah, you’ll enjoy that, milady,” the waiter said. He turned to Lurcanio and dipped his head. “And for you, sir?”

“Roast chicken--dark meat, not white,” Lurcanio answered. “Very simple--just brush it with olive oil, garlic, and pepper. All the rich things you Valmierans eat, I marvel that you’re not round as footballs.”

“We’ll need a little time to prepare it that way, sir,” the waiter warned. Lurcanio nodded in acquiescence. The waiter departed once more.

“If you come to a place like this, you shouldn’t be simple,” Krasta said. Simplicity, to her mind, was anything but a virtue.

Lurcanio had different ideas. “Done well, simplicity makes for the highest art,” he said. Krasta shook her head again. No, that wasn’t how she looked at the world. With a whimsical shrug, Lurcanio changed the subject: “Shall we return to the uninteresting village of Pavilosta?”

“Why, if it’s so uninteresting?” Krasta asked, sipping her ale. “Let’s talk about interesting things instead. How many drops of poppy juice do you suppose I’d have to give Bauska’s little bastard to make her stop yowling so much?”

“I am a good many things, but an apothecary I am not,” Lurcanio replied. “You might silence the baby for good if you gave it too much. I do not think this a good idea.”