Through the Darkness

As soon as she started going through it, she realized how much trouble the servants saved her. Several pieces went into the wastepaper basket unopened. One ordinary-looking envelope almost joined them there, because she didn’t recognize the handwriting in which it was addressed. How likely was it that some stranger vulgar enough to write to her would have anything worth saying?

But then curiosity overcame disdain. With a shrug, she used a letter opener in the shape of a miniature cavalry saber to slit the envelope. When she unfolded the paper inside, she almost threw it out again. It wasn’t a letter at all, but some sort of political broadside.

Her lip curled in a sneer; it wasn’t even properly printed, but written out by hand and then duplicated by a sorcerer who was none too good at what he did-ink smudged her fingers and blurred the words as she held it. But some of those words seized her attention. The headline-KAUNIANITY IN PERIL-fit too well with the conversation she’d just had with Lurcanio.

Lurcanio, she knew, would have denied every smeary word on the sheet. He had denied that his countrymen were doing such things to Kaunians. Krasta had believed him, too, not least because disbelieving him would have made her look at things she didn’t care to face. But the story that unfolded on the broadsheet certainly sounded as if it ought to be true, whether it was or not. The details felt convincing. If they hadn’t happened, they seemed as if they could have.

And the sheet was written in a style she found very familiar, though she had trouble putting her finger on why. She’d got about halfway through it when she realized the style wasn’t the only familiar thing about it. She recognized the handwriting, too.

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s impossible. Skarnu’s dead.”

But if she didn’t know her brother’s handwriting, who would? She stared down at the sheet, then over toward the west wing, where Lurcanio was busy running Priekule for the conquerors. Slowly and deliberately, she tore the sheet into tiny pieces. Then she used the privy and flushed the pieces away. She washed her hands with great care: as much care as she might have used to get blood off them.

Skarnu’s alive, she thought dizzily. Alive. Lurcanio had asked after him not so long before. He’d known, or at least suspected, her brother hadn’t perished in the fighting. She’d thought he had. She’d been wrong. For once, she wasn’t even sorry to find out she’d been wrong.

Past that dizzy relief, she thought no more about what Skarnu’s being alive might mean till Lurcanio handed her up into the carriage for the trip to The Suckling Pig. Then she realized her lover might have been--no, surely had been-asking after her brother so the Algarvians could hunt him down and kill him. For Skarnu had to be one of the brigands and bandits who showed up in news sheets every now and again.

What would she do if Lurcanio started asking questions about Skarnu now? He won’t, she thought. He can’t. I got rid of everything. He can’t know anything.

She relaxed a little. Then-and only then-did another question occur to her: What would she do if Skarnu asked her questions about Lurcanio? What are you doing sleeping with an Algarvian? was the first of those questions to spring to mind.

They won the war. They’re stronger than we are. Surely everyone could see that. But if everyone could see it, why was her brother still fighting the Algarvians? She didn’t want to think about that. She didn’t want to think about anything.

When they got to The Suckling Pig, she ordered spirits instead of ale and with grim determination went about the business of getting drunk. Lurcanio raised an eyebrow. “That time I had you after you drank yourself blind wasn’t much fun for either one of us,” he said.

“That’s what you’ve told me.” Krasta shrugged. “I don’t remember anything about it but the headache the next morning.” Remembering the headache made her pause before her next sip, but not for long. The end of her nose turned numb. She nodded. She was on the way.

She ordered pork and red cabbage on a bed of noodles. Lurcanio winced. “I wonder that all you Valmierans aren’t five feet wide, the way you eat.” His own choice was crayfish cooked in a sauce flavored with apple brandy. “This, now, this is real food, not just stuffing your belly full.”

A few tables away, Viscount Valnu, in the company of a pretty Valmieran girl and an even prettier Algarvian officer, was demolishing an enormous plate of stewed chicken. Seeing Krasta looking his way, he fluttered his fingers at her. She waved back, then said to Lurcanio, “See how he’s eating? And he’s skinnier than I am.”

“Well, so he is,” Lurcanio admitted. “More versatile, too, by all appearances.” He rubbed his chin. “I wonder if I made a mistake, letting him take you off that one night. Who knows what he had in mind?”

“Nothing happened,” Krasta said quickly, though she’d wanted, intended, something to happen. To keep Lurcanio from seeing that, she added, “We both might have been killed if we hadn’t gone out just before that cursed egg burst.”

“Aye, I remember thinking so at the time.” Lurcanio scratched the scar on his face he’d carried away from that night. “A lucky escape for the two of you. We never have caught the son of a whore who secreted that egg there. When we do…” His handsome features congealed into an expression that reminded Krasta why she feared to cross him.

Hesitantly, she said, “If you Algarvians worked more to make us like you and did less to-”

Lurcanio didn’t let her finish. He burst out laughing, so uproariously that people from all over The Suckling Pig turned to stare at him. Ignoring them all, he said, “My dear, my dear, my foolish dear, nothing under the sun will make Kaunians love Algarvians, any more than cats will love dogs. If we do not use the strength we have, your people will despise us.”

“Instead, you make them hate you,” Krasta said.

“Let them hate, so long as they fear,” Lurcanio said. As he had a way of doing, he waggled a finger at her. “And with that, I give you a word of advice: do not believe everything that comes to you in the daily post.”

Krasta picked up her glass of spirits, knocked it back, and signaled for a refill. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The liquor had made her nose numb. Fear did the same to her lips. He’d made jokes about knowing what came to her before she got it. What if they weren’t jokes at all?

“Very well,” he said lightly now. “Have it your way. But you had better go right on not knowing what I’m talking about, or you will be most sorry. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“I think so,” Krasta answered. How did he know? How could he know? Did he have a mage monitoring her? Did the servants blab? They hadn’t sorted the afternoon post, but some of them might have seen the envelope she’d got. Did Lurcanio sort through everything that went down the commode, by the powers above? Krasta smiled. There were times when she thought he deserved to do just that.

Whatever he knew, he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know about Skarnu. He’d asked after her brother before, when she didn’t know about him, either. Whatever he knew, he hadn’t pulled all the pieces together. Krasta hoped he never would.

Ten

Marshal Rathar wished he were still at the front. Coming back to Cottbus meant coming back to King Swemmel’s constant complaints. It meant coming back to subordination, too. Away from the capital, Rathar gave orders and none dared say him nay. In Cottbus, Swemmel gave the orders. Rathar understood that very well.

He also understood why he’d been summoned to the capital. Major Merovec fiddled with the decorations pinned onto Rathar’s fanciest dress-uniform tunic. “The ministers-especially the Lagoan-will sneer at you if everything isn’t perfect,” Merovec said fussily. He sniffed. “I don’t care what anybody says: the whoreson looks like a stinking Algarvian to me.”

“He looks like an Algarvian to me, too,” Rathar answered. “There’s one difference, though: he’s on our side. Now am I pretty enough? If I am, kindly let me take my place beside the king.”

Still fussing, Merovec reluctantly stepped aside. Rathar walked from the antechamber out into the throne room. A murmur ran through the courtiers as they spied him. They wished he were at the front, too; his presence meant they had less room for jockeying among themselves.

He’d overstated things when telling Merovec he would stand beside Swemmel. The king, gorgeous in ermine and velvet and cloth of gold, sat on a throne that raised him high above the mere mortals who formed his court.