teeth. Krasta’s smile got wider. Sure enough, she’d hit a nerve.
“Hurry up,” she said. No, she wouldn’t make things easy for her maidservant. And here came Bauska, her tunic sleeves rolled up, her expression put upon. But when Krasta got a look at-and a whiff of-Bauska’s hands, her smile evaporated. “Powers above, go wash off that filth!”
“You did tell me to hurry, milady,” Bauska answered. “I always try to give satisfaction in every way.”
By the look in her eye, she thought she’d won the round. But Krasta wasn’t easily bested. “If you hadn’t given Captain Mosco every satisfaction, your hands wouldn’t stink now,” she snapped.
Bauska looked as if she were on the point of saying something more, something that likely would have landed her in real trouble with her mistress. And then, very visibly, she bit it back. After a deep breath, she asked, “How may I serve you, milady?”
Krasta hadn’t even thought about that. She’d called her maidservant to be annoying, not because she wanted anything in particular. She had to cast about for something Bauska might do. At last, she came up with something familiar: “Go down and tell the stablemen and the driver to get my carriage ready. I intend to do some shopping today.”
“Aye, milady,” Bauska said. “Have I your gracious leave to wash my hands first?”
“I already told you to do that,” Krasta said with the air of one conferring a large, undeserved boon. Bauska departed. Not until she was gone did Krasta wonder if she’d been sarcastic. The marchioness shook her head. Bauska wouldn’t dare: she was convinced of it.
She hadn’t really planned to go into Priekule, but the thought of a day spent on the Avenue of Equestrians, the principal street of shops and fine eateries, was too tempting to resist. Downstairs she went, and stood around fuming till the driver brought the carriage out of the stable. When she decided to do something, she always wanted to do it on the instant.
But even going into town didn’t make her so happy as it would have in the days before the war. Though she was sleeping with an Algarvian colonel, she didn’t like seeing kilted Algarvian soldiers on the streets, gaping like so many farmers at the sights of the big city or cuddling yellow-haired Valmieran women. The Algarvians had even presumed to put up street signs in their language to direct the soldiers to the principal sights. It was as if they thought Priekule would be theirs forever-and so, by all indications they did.
Krasta also scowled every time she saw a Valmieran, whether man or woman, in a kilt. In a way, that struck her as even worse than going to bed with the redheads: it abandoned the very essence of Kaunianity. She hadn’t worried about such things till she recognized her brother’s handwriting on that broadsheet. If Skarnu worried about them, she supposed she should, too.
But, set against the display windows of the Avenue of Equestrians, Kaunianity didn’t seem so important. “Let me off here,” she told her driver.
“Aye, milady.” He reined in. After he handed Krasta down from the carriage, he climbed back into his seat and took a flask from his pocket. Krasta hardly noticed. She’d already begun exploring.
Not only did she examine the display windows, she also poked her nose into every eatery on the Avenue of Equestrians. Captain Gradasso had said Lurcanio was here somewhere. If he wasn’t with his countrymen but with some little blond tart, Krasta would make sure he remembered it for a long time to come.
If he was with some little blond tart, he was more likely to be in a hostel bedchamber than in an eatery: Krasta recognized as much. But she couldn’t check bedchambers, while eateries were easy. And Lurcanio liked fancy dining. He might want to impress a new Valmieran girl-or fatten her up-before he took her to bed.
“Why, hello, you sweet thing!” That wasn’t Lurcanio-it was Viscount Valnu, who sat not far from the door of the fourth or fifth eatery into which Krasta peered. He sprang to his feet so he could bow. “Come on down and take lunch with me.”
“All right,” Krasta said. And if she and Valnu happened to end up in a hostel bedchamber-well, it wouldn’t be anything that hadn’t almost happened before. Swinging her hips, she walked downstairs and sat beside him. “What are you eating there?”
“Boiled pork and sour cabbage,” he answered, and then eyed her. “Why? What would you like me to be eating?”
“You are a shameless man,” she said. She eyed him, too, but just then a waiter came up and asked what she wanted. She ordered the same thing Valnu was having, and ale to go with it.
“You’re looking lovely today,” Valnu said with another carnivorous smile.
“I’m sure you say that to all the girls,” Krasta told him, which only made him grin and nod in delight. She didn’t want him to take anything for granted, and so, with a spark of malice, she added, “And to at least half the boys, as well.”
“What if I do?” Valnu answered with an expressive shrug. “Variety is the life of spice-isn’t that what they say?” He gave her a limp-wristed wave and some malice of his own: “I wouldn’t say it to your precious Lurcanio, I’ll tell you that.”
Where Krasta had been intent on cuckolding her Algarvian lover, now she found herself defending him: “He knows what he’s doing, as a matter of fact.”
“What if he does?” Valnu shrugged again, almost as an Algarvian might have done. And he was wearing a kilt-Krasta had noticed when he rose to greet her. Pointing to her, he went on, “But do you know what you’re doing?”
“Of course I do.” Doubt was not among the things that troubled Krasta. Again, she might have said more without the waiter’s interruption, but he distracted her by setting the ale on the table.
“Aye, you always know.” Valnu’s smile, instead of being hard as it had been a moment before, seemed strange and sweet, almost sad. “You’re always so sure-but how much good does that do you, with the avalanche thundering down on all of us?”
“Now what are you talking about?” Krasta asked impatiently. “Avalanches! There aren’t any mountains around Priekule.”
Viscount Valnu sighed. “No, not literally. But you know what’s happening to us.” Seeing Krasta’s blank look, he amplified that: “To our people, I mean. I know you know about that.” He studied her.
She didn’t think to wonder how he knew. “It’s pretty bad,” she agreed. “But it’s worse over in the west-and won’t it get better if the miserable war ever ends?”
“That depends on
“You don’t need to do that,” Krasta said. “I outrank you, after all.”
“Nobility obliges,” Valnu said lightly. He regained his leer. “And how obliging do
“Are you an Algarvian officer, to think you can buy me with a lunch?” Krasta retorted. They flirted through the meal, but she didn’t go to a hostel with him. Mentioning Algarvian officers made her think of Lurcanio again, and she found she simply did not have the nerve to be deliberately unfaithful to him.
Thirteen
Skarnu enjoyed going into Pavilosta with Merkela. In his days in Priekule, he’d scorned such little market towns like any city sophisticate. Had he stayed in Priekule, he was sure he would have gone right on scorning them. After some weeks on a farm out in the countryside, though, Pavilosta’s few bright lights-taverns, shops, gossip in the market square-seemed to shine all the brighter.
To Merkela, Pavilosta was the big city, or as much of it as she’d ever known. “Look-the ironmonger’s has some new tools in the front window,” she said. She was familiar enough with what he usually displayed to recognize the additions at once.
Since Skarnu wasn’t, he just nodded to show he’d heard. A couple of doors past the ironmonger’s was a cordwainer’s, but no new boots stood in his window. Nothing at all stood in his window, in fact. But three words had been whitewashed across it, with savage strokes of the brush: NIGHT AND FOG.
