“I won’t say you’re wrong, because I think you’re right,” Hestan answered. “But having Sidroc off in the west somewhere far, far away won’t be the worst thing in the world for us, no matter what he ends up doing here.” He cocked his head to one side and waited to see how Leofsig would respond to that.
Seeing his father eyeing him made Leofsig think before he spoke. “No matter what happens to him there, you mean,” he said slowly.
Also slowly, Hestan smiled. “Hauling rocks hasn’t taken your wits away, anyhow. The Algarvians wouldn’t be recruiting Forthwegian soldiers if they didn’t intend to throw them into the fire. And the fires in Unkerlant burn hotter than they do anywhere else.”
From the kitchen came Elfryth’s call: “Supper’s ready!”
Leofsig grinned at his father. “The fires in Unkerlant burn hotter than anywhere else except under the supper kettle.”
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right,” Hestan answered. “And a good thing, too, says I. Come on.” They headed for the dining room together.
When they got there, Uncle Hengist did what he’d started doing again this summer: he waved a news sheet at Hestan. “Here, did you see?” he asked. “The Algarvians are driving everything before them down in the south.” Sounding as cheerful as if he were discussing a football match, he talked about soldiers and behemoths captured, soldiers and behemoths slain, provinces seized, and towns afire from eggs dropped on them from on high.
Beside Hengist, Sidroc sat listening to the recital with a broad grin. As Hestan and Leofsig sat down, neither of them said anything. That seemed to irk Sidroc, who growled, “No stopping the Algarvians. They’ll smash Unkerlant to powder.”
“If they were having everything their own way, why would they need Plegmund’s Brigade?” Leofsig asked. Sidroc didn’t answer him, not in words, but his scowl was eloquent. Leofsig smiled back as nastily as he could. Like most Forthwegians, Sidroc was swarthy, but an angry flush darkened his cheeks above the edge of his beard even so. Leofsig’s grin got wider and more provoking yet.
Before anything could come of that, Conberge and Elfryth brought in olives and bread and olive oil for dipping to start the supper. No matter how much Leofsig enjoyed baiting his cousin, he enjoyed eating more. A day on the roads always left him feeling empty. He noticed that Sidroc displayed the same sort of wolfish appetite, and wondered how hard the Algarvians were working him in the encampment they’d set up.
Both young men also dug into the mutton stew. There wasn’t quite so much mutton in it as Leofsig would have liked; times were hard. His mother and sister had stretched the stew with beans and turnips and parsnips. After two big bowls, he sopped up gravy with a thick slice of bread cut from the loaf. He drank three cups of wine, too.
He still had plenty of room for cheese and candied fruit afterwards. He could have eaten more than he got, but his belly had stopped snarling at him. “Enjoy it while you can,” he said to Sidroc. “When you head for Unkerlant, you’ll be lucky if you get barley mush.”
“We’ll do fine,” Sidroc retorted. “If there’s any food at all, well take it. That’s what being a soldier is all about.”
“That’s what being a thief is all about,” Leofsig said, ignoring his father’s warning look. “And if they send you down south, you’ll find out all about snow, the same way they did last winter. Good luck stealing when everything’s frozen up.”
This time, Hestan did more than send a warning look. His tone sharper that usual, he said, “Leofsig, what were we talking about before supper? Sidroc’s father dwells here, and Sidroc himself is a welcome guest.”
“Aye, Father,” Leofsig answered, but his face betrayed him-it showed exactly how welcome he thought Sidroc was.
Seeing that, Sidroc half rose from his chair. Breathing hard, he said, “I know you all hate me. Do you know what? I don’t care. Do you know what else? Every stinking one of you can kiss my arse.”
“Son-” Uncle Hengist began.
Sidroc cut him off. “Aye, you, too, Father. You were screaming at me to stay out of the Brigade as loud as anybody else. And you were wrong, you hear me, wrong!” His voice rose to a roar. “Best lot of mates I’ve ever found. So you can kiss my arse, too. Just like them!”
“Just like me, Sidroc?” Leofsig got up, walked round the table, and kissed his cousin gently on the lips. “There.”
For a moment, Sidroc simply stared. He wasn’t too bright. But then, with a bellow of rage, he realized what Leofsig had done. He swung on Leofsig without any shift in his eyes to warn what he was going to do-sure enough, the Algarvians had taught him a thing or two.
Leofsig saw stars. He reeled backwards, fetching up against the table. Sidroc swarmed after him, fists flailing. From furious, his cousin’s face had gone deadly cold.
He threw a punch at Sidroc, but his cousin blocked it with a forearm. His father and Uncle Hengist were brawling, too, but he could pay them no heed-he was indeed fighting for his life.
Conberge screamed curses as vile as any Leofsig had ever heard in the army, but Sidroc flung her back onto her mother when she rushed at him. Conberge and Elfryth went down in a heap. Leofsig grabbed a bowl and hurled it at Sidroc. He missed. The bowl shattered against the wall.
Sidroc kicked Leofsig. Leofsig kicked, too, trying to put Sidroc out of the fight with a well-aimed foot. But Sidroc twisted, quicker and smoother than Leofsig remembered him being, and took the kick on the hip, not between the legs.
Panic surged in Leofsig.
He sagged to the floor.
Five
Vanai heard what she thought were Ealstan’s familiar footfalls coming up the hall toward their flat. But when the knock on the door came, it was several harsh bangs, not the coded raps Ealstan always used.
Ice shot up Vanai’s back. Had someone betrayed Ealstan to the redheads? Had someone betrayed
She wondered if she would do better to come forth or to go out the window headfirst. It would be over in a hurry then, and it wouldn’t hurt much. Who could guess what the Algarvians did to Kaunians in their labor camps before they finally slew them? But while Vanai was wondering, the knock came again-the right knock, this time.
Cautiously, she approached the door. “Who is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“It’s me,” Ealstan answered. “Let me in.”
It was unquestionably Ealstan, but he didn’t sound right. Were a couple of Algarvians standing behind him in the hall, one maybe holding a stick to his head? What disaster would descend on her if she opened the door? She didn’t know, but she knew Ealstan wouldn’t have left her to face disaster alone. That decided her. She unbarred the door and pulled it open.
Ealstan stood there alone. Breath whooshed out of Vanai in a long sigh of relief. Then she saw the look on his face. She gasped as involuntarily as she’d sighed. “What is it?” she demanded. Ealstan didn’t answer. He didn’t move, either. She had to grab him by the arm and tug him into the flat and then tug him again so she could close the door. Once she’d barred it, she spun round to face him. “What is it?” she repeated.
Ealstan still didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he thrust a sheet of paper at her. She hadn’t even noticed he was holding it. Of themselves, her eyes went down to it. The Forthwegian script was exceptionally clear, but she hadn’t read more than a couple of lines before it seemed to blur. “Your brother,” she whispered.
“Aye. My brother. Dead.” The phrases jerked from Ealstan one by one, as if from a clockwork toy that was
