Algarvian soldiers guarded King Gainibu’s palace these days, as they had for more than two years. Seeing redheads in kilts there still irked Krasta. Turning to Colonel Lurcanio in the carriage they shared, she said, “You should have left the king an honor guard of his own people.”
“I?” Her Algarvian lover spread his hands. He had fine hands-an artist’s hands, or a surgeon’s, with long, slim fingers-and was vain of them. “My sweet, it was not my decision that put them there; it was Grand Duke Ivone’s, or perhaps King Mezentio’s. You may take your complaint to either one of them, and I wish you joy of it.”
“You’re making fun of me!” Krasta said shrilly.
“No, only of your silly idea,” Lurcanio answered. Most Algarvians were excitable. He was often excitable himself. Tonight, he stayed calm, probably because that annoyed Krasta more. He went on, “Do you not see that a Valmieran honor guard might easily decide its honor lay in rebellion? That would be a nuisance to us, and unfortunate for King Gainibu.”
As far as Krasta was concerned, Gainibu was already unfortunate: a prisoner in his own palace, with nothing better to do than drink till the fact of imprisonment blurred along with everything else. But, after a moment, she realized exactly what Lurcanio meant. “You’d kill him!”
“I?” This time, Lurcanio shook his head. “My countrymen? It could be. Mezentio’s brother is King of Jelgava. His first cousin is King of Grelz. I am sure he has some other near kinsman who could do duty as King of Valmiera.”
“Of all the nerve!” Krasta exclaimed. Lurcanio only smiled. He might not be so reliably excitable as some of his countrymen, but he had the full measure of Algarvian arrogance. Krasta wanted to slap him. But he would slap her back, and he wouldn’t care that he did it in public. She cursed quietly, but held still.
One of the Algarvian guards approached the carriage and called a soft challenge in his own language. Lurcanio’s driver responded, also in Algarvian. Krasta heard Lurcanio’s name and her own, but understood nothing of what the driver said. The guard laughed and withdrew. Lurcanio also laughed under his breath. Krasta looked daggers at him, but to no avail.
Agile despite his years, Lurcanio descended from the carriage and held out his hand to help Krasta down. “Step carefully, my dear,” he said. “You would not want to trip on the cobbles in the darkness and turn your pretty ankle.”
“No, I certainly wouldn’t.” Krasta’s voice was testy. “If you’d beaten the Lagoans by now, I wouldn’t have to fumble around in the dark. You could let lights shine without drawing dragons.”
“Once we settle Unkerlant, you may rest assured that Lagoas is next on the list,” Lurcanio said. The statement would have been more impressive had he not chosen that moment to stumble. He almost fell, but caught himself by flailing his arms.
Krasta didn’t laugh. Colonel Lurcanio, she’d learned, was as touchy about his dignity as a cat. She did say, “I wish Lagoas didn’t have to wait.”
“We had. . plans for Setubal. They did not work out quite as we would have wished.” Lurcanio shrugged. “Such is life.”
Something in his voice warned Krasta against asking questions about what sort of plans the Algarvians had had.
One thing, at least: Lurcanio hadn’t asked her any questions lately about her brother. And, though he’d left the mansion two or three times in the past few weeks, he’d always come back on the grumpy side. That told her he hadn’t caught Skarnu-if he’d gone out hunting her brother. It also told him he hadn’t caught some young, pretty Valmieran commoner, which relieved her nearly as much.
Once they’d passed into the palace through doors and curtains, Krasta paused and blinked till she got used to the explosion of light within. Beside her, Lurcanio was doing the same thing. With a wry chuckle, he said, “The lamps in this palace were made for happier, safer times, I fear.”
“Well, then, Algarve should go on and win the war-I’ve told you that already,” Krasta said. “That would bring back the good times-some of them, anyhow.” Things wouldn’t be so good as they had been if the Algarvians kept on occupying Valmiera, but Krasta didn’t know what she could do about that.
“Aye, you have told me that.” Lurcanio’s voice was sour. “What you have not told me is exactly how to gain the victory. That would be helpful, you know.”
When the war was young, before Valmiera was overrun, Krasta had come to the palace to present her ideas on winning the war to King Gainibu’s soldiers. They hadn’t listened to her, and what had their failure to listen got them? Only defeat. She wasn’t shy about speaking her mind to Lurcanio now: “The first thing you ought to do is quit fighting over that stupid Sulingen place. Powers above, how long can a battle for one worthless Unkerlanter city go on, anyhow?”
“Sulingen is not worthless. Sulingen is far from worthless,” Lurcanio answered. “And the battle shall go on until we have won the victory we deserve.”
“Sounds like foolishness to me,” Krasta said with a sniff. Having delivered her pronouncement, she stalked down the hall with her nose in the air. Lurcanio had to hurry after her, and couldn’t give her any more of his cynical retorts. She didn’t miss them; she’d already heard too many of that sort.
With her nose in the air, she got the chance to appreciate the ornate paintings on the ceiling of the hallway. Some looked back to the time of the Kaunian Empire; others showed Kings of Valmiera and their courts from the days when her kingdom was strong and the Algarvians to the west weak and disunited. Those days were gone now, worse luck. The paintings, though, were only to be properly seen with one’s nose in the air. To Krasta, that in itself justified the aristocratic attitude.
A Valmieran functionary checked her name and Lurcanio’s off the list of guests for King Gainibu’s reception. That cheered Krasta; at her previous visit, a redhead had done the job. But, before she could twit Lurcanio about this tiny sign of Valmieran autonomy, an Algarvian came up to check what her countryman had done. Again, she kept quiet.
She’d been in this hall many times, including the evening when Gainibu, along with representatives from Jelgava and Sibiu and Forthweg, declared war on King Mezentio. And now the Algarvians occupied all those kingdoms, and only lands that had stayed neutral then still carried on the fight. A lesson lurked there somewhere, but Krasta could not find it.
She and Lurcanio got into the receiving line that snaked toward King Gainibu-and toward the Algarvian soldiers and pen-pushers who really ran Valmiera these days. Lurcanio said, “We must be early-his Majesty is hardly even weaving yet.”
That was cruel, which didn’t make it wrong. From even a little distance, Gainibu looked every inch a king: tall, erect, handsome, the chest of his tunic glittering with decorations-most of which were earned in the Six Years’ War, not honorary. Only when Krasta got closer did she note the glass of brandy in his left hand and the broken veins in his nose and eyes that said it was not the first such glass, nor the hundred and first, either. She’d seen the king far deeper into the bottle than this. Here, now, he still showed traces of the man he’d once been. That wouldn’t last through too many more brandies.
“Marchioness Krasta,” the king said. Aye, he was better than usual-he didn’t always remember who she was. Gainibu turned his watery-or spirituous-gaze on Lurcanio. “And the marchioness’ friend.”
“Your Majesty,” Krasta and Lurcanio murmured together. Krasta sounded respectful, as a subject should. Lurcanio sounded aggrieved: the king hadn’t bothered remembering his name.
He got some of his own back by chatting in Algarvian with the redheads who really ran Valmiera. Since he was ignoring her, Krasta ignored him, too. She turned back to Gainibu and said, “There will be better days, your Majesty.”
“Will there?” The king-the king who didn’t even rule in his own palace any more-knocked back his brandy and signaled for another one. It arrived almost at once. He knocked it back, too. For a moment, his features went blank and slack, as if he’d forgotten everything but the sweet fire in his throat. But then he came at least partway back to himself. “The powers above grant that you be right, milady. But I would not hold my breath waiting for them.” As he had a moment before, he waved for a fresh glass.
Krasta left Lurcanio and made a beeline for the bar. Tears stung her eyes. She tossed her head so no one would see them. The servitor asked, “How may I serve you, milady?”
