Out of the Darkness

Colonel Lurcanio: Greetings. I have read your appeal, King Gainibu wrote. The essence of it seems to have two parts: first, that you were only obeying the orders your superiors gave you; and, second, that you might have done far worse than you did. The first falls to the ground at once. A man who murders again and again under orders remains a murderer. As for the second, it is probably true. No, I have no doubt that it is certainly true. I would not claim that I have forgotten our acquaintance. You might indeed have done more and worse. That you did not was surely due to the fact that you wanted to keep Valmiera as quiet as you could, but does remain so. It being so, I must ask myself whether it constitutes an adequately mitigating circumstance. With some regret, I tell you that, in my judgment, it does not. Aye, you might have done worse. What you did was quite bad enough. The sentence shall stand. Gainibu, King of Valmiera.

Slowly, deliberately, Lurcanio folded the king’s letter and set it down. Nothing left now but to die as well as he could. The guards had watched him read the letter. He nodded to them. “You will not have to worry about my complaints on the quality of accommodations and the dining much longer,” he said.

“Did you really think his Majesty would let you off?” one of them asked.

Lurcanio shook his head. “No, but how was I worse off for trying?”

“Something to that,” the guard said. “Tomorrow morning, then.”

“Tomorrow morning,” Lurcanio agreed. “Can you give me something worth eating tonight? As long as I am here, I aim to enjoy myself as best I can.”

As the guards trooped out, one of them remarked, “Whoreson’s got guts.” Lurcanio felt a certain amount of pride. As soon as the door slammed shut, though, it evaporated. What difference did it make? When the sun came up tomorrow, he would stop caring-stop caring forever-what happened to him.

Time seemed to race. He’d hardly blinked before it got dark. His supper was no different from any other meal he’d had in gaol. He savored it just the same. He found himself yawning, but didn’t sleep. With experience about to end forever, he didn’t care to miss the little he had left. They wouldn‘t have brought me a woman, even if I’d asked for one, he thought. Too bad.

The sky, or the tiny scrap of it he could see through his window, began to grow light. The door opened. A squad of guards came in. Lurcanio got to his feet. “Can you walk?” the guard captain asked him.

“I can walk,” he answered, and he did, though his knees wobbled from the fear he fought not to show. They led him to a courtyard and bound his wrists and ankles to a metal pole. He could smell terror seeping out from the old bricks behind him.

“Blindfold?” asked the guard captain. Lurcanio shook his head. A dozen men aimed sticks at him. The captain raised his hand, then let it fall. The Valmierans blazed. Even as Lurcanio braced himself, he thought, How useless. He cried out once. Then it was over.

“What’s this?” Krasta asked irritably as the butler handed her an envelope on a silver tray.

“I don’t know, milady,” he answered, and did his best to vanish.

Muttering something unpleasant about the quality of help available these days, Krasta opened the envelope. It bore no return address, and she didn’t recognize the hand that had written out her name and address. She was tempted to throw the envelope away unopened, but curiosity got the better of her.

The script of the letter inside was different from that of the address-different and familiar. By the time you read this, Krasta read, I expect I shall be dead. I make no special plea for myself-what point to it? You know what you did, and you know what we did. You will try to deny it now, especially to yourself, but you went into our affair with your eyes open as wide as your legs.

“Powers below eat you, Lurcanio,” Krasta snarled. She almost tore the letter to pieces, but that first sentence kept her reading.

I have a favor to ask you-a deathbed favor, you might say, Lurcanio wrote. It has nothing to do with me, so you need feel no pain in granting it. Again, Krasta almost tore up the letter. Even beyond the grave, was the Algarvian trying to tell her what to do? Then she laughed unpleasantly. She could finish the whole wretched thing, find out exactly what he wanted, and then do just the opposite. She nodded to herself. The more she thought about it, the better that sounded.

“No one gives me orders,” she said. “No one.” She spoke louder than she had to, as if to persuade herself. For close to four years, Lurcanio had given her orders, and she’d-mostly-obeyed. She would be a long time forgetting that, however hard she tried.

You bore my son, Lurcanio wrote. Krasta’s scowl darkened. She wished she could forget that, too. The little bastard’s yowling made forgetting impossible, though. So did the shocking things being pregnant had done to her figure. For the moment, little Gainibu was mercifully asleep. Pretty soon, he would wake up and start being noisy again.

Even thinking about Lurcanio was easier than thinking about the baby. Because of the baby, because of what he’d turned out to be, she still had to wear this hot, uncomfortable wig whenever she appeared in public. Aye, Lurcanio and his bastard boy both had a lot to answer for.

What I ask you is, try to forget he is mine, the letter continued.

Krasta’s lip curled. “Not bloody likely!” she said.

Try to treat him as you would have treated him were the charming Viscount Valnu indeed his sire, Lurcanio wrote. You may think of me as you please. I made life inconvenient for you, I know, for I did not let you do just as you pleased-and what crime could be worse than that? Krasta studied his words. She suspected a cut was hiding among them, but couldn’t quite find it. Lurcanio had always enjoyed being obscure.

Moreover, he went on, you were too friendly with me during the war to suit Valmiera as it is now. This, I know, has caused you some embarrassment. You must be sure the said embarrassment is all my fault, and so you will hate me for it.

Krasta nodded savagely. “I certainly do!”

She could almost see Lurcanio shrugging. Hate me if you will, then, he wrote. I can do nothing about it in any case. But I beg you, my former dear, do not hate the baby. Nothing that has happened here is the baby’s fault.

“Oh, you lying son of a whore,” Krasta exclaimed. If little Gainibu hadn’t been born with sandy hair, people now wouldn’t think she herself had been a collaborator. Even Skarnu’s peasant cow of a wife wouldn’t have been able to keep scorning her, wouldn’t have been able to crop her hair right after she gave birth. No, Lurcanio didn’t understand much.

Or did he? I know that, with his hair as it is, he will not have an easy time in your kingdom. During the war, some Kaunians tried to disguise themselves as Algarvians by dyeing their hair red. Going in the other direction might serve the child well here, at least for a time. Later, when passions have cooled, people may be better able to accept him for what he is.

“Hmm.” Krasta read that over again. It wasn’t such a bad idea. Oh, certainly, people who knew her also knew she’d had an Algarvian bastard. But, with little Gainibu’s hair dyed a safe blond, she would be able to take him out in public. She’d never before imagined being able to do that. Her free hand touched the curls of the wig. Before too long, she would be able to shed her disguise. Her son might have to keep his up his whole life long. “And that’s your fault, Lurcanio, yours and nobody else’s,” Krasta said, as if Gainibu hadn’t come forth from between her legs.

If the boy has your looks and my wit, he may go far in the world, given any sort of chance at all, Lurcanio wrote, arrogant to the end. I hope you will give him that chance. My time is over. His is just beginning. The squiggle he used for a signature sat under his closing words.

Now Krasta did tear the letter into tiny pieces. Once she’d done so, she put them down the commode, as she’d put the sheet in her brother’s writing down the commode while the redheads still occupied Priekule. Then she would have got in trouble if Lurcanio had found Skarnu’s words. These days, if anyone found Lurcanio’s. . She shook her head. It wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t let it happen. She watched the water in the commode swirl away the soggy paper. Gone. Gone for good. She sighed with relief.

A moment later, almost on cue, little Gainibu started to cry. Krasta gritted her teeth. As far as she could see, a baby’s cry was good for nothing but driving all the people within earshot out of their minds. Her first impulse, as always, was to turn around and get out of earshot as fast as she could. This once, though, she resisted that and