“Crystallomancer!” Andelot bellowed. “Powers below eat you, where’s a crystallomancer?” No one answered. He cursed, loudly and foully. “The fornicating
Before he could embroider on that theme, Unkerlanter dragons dove on the enemy behemoths. Crystallomancer or not, someone back on the other side of the river knew what was going on. Under the cover of their aerial umbrella, the men in rock-gray moved forward again. Garivald ran past a couple of corpses in kilts, and past a redhead down and moaning. He blazed the Algarvian to make sure the fellow wouldn’t get up again, then ran on.
But Mezentio’s men hadn’t given up. A crash from behind Garivald made him whirl. There was the bridge on which he’d crossed, smashed by an egg. A moment later, another one went up. A tall column of water rose into the air. “They’re using those stinking sorcerously guided eggs again,” somebody exclaimed.
“They did this to us back by the Twegen, too, and we managed fine then,” Garivald said. But that bridgehead had been well established. This one was brand new. Could it stand against enemy counterattack? He’d find out.
Vanai hadn’t known peace, hadn’t known the absence of fear, since Algarvian footsoldiers and behemoths swept into, swept past, Oyngestun. Now Eoforwic was calm and quiet under the rule of King Beornwulf and the more obvious and emphatic rule of the Unkerlanters who propped him on his throne. She could go out without sorcerous disguise if she wanted to. Some Kaunians did. She hadn’t had the nerve to try it herself, not after having had her nose rubbed in how little so many Forthwegians loved the blonds who lived among them.
But lack of love was one thing. The desire to kill her on sight was something else again. For the first time in more than four years, she didn’t have to worry about that. Life could have been idyllic … if the Unkerlanters hadn’t hijacked Ealstan into their army.
Fear for her husband swirled around her and choked her like nasty smoke. “It’s not fair,” she told Saxburh. The baby looked up at her out of big round eyes-eyes that, by now, were almost as dark as Ealstan’s. Saxburh smiled enormously, showing a new front tooth. Now that it had come in, she was happy. She had no other worries. Vanai wished she could say the same herself.
In a way-in a couple of ways, actually-this was worse than worrying about her grandfather when Major Spinello set out to work him to death. She’d agonized over Brivibas more from a sense of family duty than out of real affection. And she’d been able to do something to keep her grandfather safe, even if letting Spinello into her bed had been a nightmare of its own.
But all the love she had in the world that she didn’t give to Saxburh was aimed at Ealstan. She knew he was going into dreadful danger; the Unkerlanters had beaten back Mezentio’s men more by throwing bodies at them than through clever strategy. And one of the bodies was his-the only body she’d ever cared about in that particular way.
If bedding an Unkerlanter officer could have brought Ealstan back to Eoforwic, she would have done it in a heartbeat, and worried about everything else afterwards. But she knew better. The Unkerlanters didn’t care what happened to one conscripted Forthwegian. And, for all their talk about efficiency, she wouldn’t have bet they could even find him once he went into the enormous man-hungry monster that was their army.
So she had to live her life from day to day as best she could. Fortunately, Ealstan had managed to save up a good deal of silver. She didn’t have to rush about looking for work-and who here, who anywhere, would take care of Saxburh even if she found it? One more worry, though a smaller one, to keep her awake at night. The silver, as she knew too well, wouldn’t last forever, and what would she do when it ran out?
What she did after yet another night where she got less sleep than she wished she would have was take Saxburh, plop her into the little harness she’d made so she could carry the baby and keep both hands free, and go down to the market square to get enough barley and onions and olive oil and cheese and cheap wine to keep eating a while longer.
The market square was a more cheerful place than it had been for a long time. People went about their business without constantly looking around to see where they would hide if eggs started falling or if dragons suddenly appeared overhead. The Algarvians had struck at Eoforwic from the air a few times after losing the city, but not lately-and their closest dragon farms had to be far away by now.
New broadsheets sprouted like mushrooms on fences and walls. One showed a big, clean-shaven man labeled unkerlant and a smaller, bearded fellow called forthweg advancing side by side against a mangy-looking dog with the face of King Mezentio. They both carried upraised clubs. The legend under the drawing said, NO MORE BITES.
Another had a drawing of King Beornwulf with the Forthwegian crown on his head but wearing a uniform tunic of a cut somewhere between those of Forthweg and Unkerlant. He had a stern expression on his face and a stick in his right hand, A KING WHO FIGHTS FOR HIS PEOPLE, this legend read.
Vanai wondered what sort of king he would end up making and how much freedom from the Unkerlanters he’d be able to get. She suspected-indeed, she was all but certain-she and Forthweg as a whole would find out. If King Penda didn’t live out his life in exile, if he tried coming back to his native land, he wasn’t likely to live long.
More food was in the market square and prices were lower than they had been for a couple of years. Vanai praised the powers above for that, especially since everything had been so dear during the doomed Forthwegian uprising against the redheads. She even bought a bit of sausage for a treat, and didn’t ask what went into it. Saxburh fell asleep.
Over in one corner of the square, a band thumped away. They had a bowl in front of them, and every now and then some passerby would toss in a couple of coppers or even a small silver coin. Forthwegian-style music didn’t appeal to Vanai; the Kaunians in Forthweg had their own tunes, much more rhythmically complex and, to her ear, much more interesting.
But the novelty of hearing any music in the market square drew her to listen for a while. Out here, in her sorcerous disguise, she wasn’t just Vanai: she was also Thelberge. She thought of the Forthwegian appearance she wore almost as if it were another person. And Thelberge, she thought, would have liked these musicians. The drummer, who also sang, was particularly good.
He was so good, in fact, that she gave him a sharp look. Ethelhelm, the prominent musician for whom Ealstan had cast accounts for a while, had also been a drummer and singer. But she’d seen Ethelhelm play. He had Kaunian blood in him. Half? A quarter? She wasn’t sure, but enough to make him tall and rangy and give him a long face. Enough to get him in trouble with the Algarvians, too. This fellow looked like any other Forthwegian in his late twenties or early thirties.
She couldn’t applaud when the song ended, not with her hands full. Several people did, though. Coins clinked in the bowl. “Thank you kindly, folks,” the drummer said; it was plainly his band. “Remember, the more you give us, the better we play.” His grin showed a broken front tooth. He got a laugh, and a few more coppers to go with it. The band swung into a new tune.
And he was looking at her, too. She’d got used to men looking at her, both when she looked like herself and in her Forthwegian disguise. It was, more often than not, an annoyance rather than a compliment. She’d felt that way even before Spinello did so much to sour her on the male half of the human race.
But the drummer wasn’t looking at her as if imagining how she was made under her tunic. He wore a slightly puzzled expression, one that might have said,
The song ended. People clapped again. Vanai still couldn’t, but she did set down some groceries and drop a coin in the bowl. One of the horn players lifted his instrument to his lips to start the next song, but the drummer said, “Wait a bit.” The trumpeter shrugged, but lowered the horn once more. The drummer nodded to Vanai. “Your name’s Thelberge, isn’t it?”
“Aye,” she said, and then wished she’d denied it. Too late for that, though. She countered as best she could: “I may know your name, too.”
He had to be Ethelhelm, in the same sort of sorcerous disguise she wore. His voice was familiar, even if that false face wasn’t. She
