made more checks still.
Leino had leftHabakkuk to find a painless way to break things off with Xavega. He still didn’t know exactly why she’d left-to get at the Algarvians, he supposed. And she’d seen having him around as one more comfort she’d grown used to.
And you-you really hate the idea of going to bed with her, Leino thought. He didn’t care for most of Xavega’s opinions or for large chunks of her rather bad-tempered character, but when they lay down together…
If I had any gumption, I would say, “No, put us apart. “He said not a word. He let the clerk finish the paperwork. The fellow pointed to a bench. “Wait there. Before long, a carriage or a wagon will take you to the ley- line caravan depot for your trip to the center. Things are a little crazy now.” Leino went over and sat down. Xavega perched beside him. With an inward sigh, he slipped his arm around her waist and drew her close. For once most obliging, she snuggled up against him.
“Are you almost ready?”ColonelLurcanio called up to Krasta from the foot of the stairs. “This is a reception at the royal palace, remember. KingGainibu will probably behead you if you are late.”
Krasta looked at herself in the bedchamber mirror. She tugged at the waistband of her trousers. Her pregnancy still didn’t show, not quite, but she knew she was heavier than usual. Her trousers should have been snug, but notthis snug. But they would have to do.
“I’m coming,” she said. She and Lurcanio hadn’t been invited to the palace for some months. She didn’t want to offendKingGainibu by being late, even if she didn’t worry about the headsman’s axe. As she grabbed a handbag, she wondered if she was fretting over nothing. Probably. Odds were, Gainibu would be too drunk to care, or even to notice, who arrived when. He’d stayed drunk most of the time since the Algarvians occupied Priekule.
By the way Lurcanio’s eyes lit up, she knew the trousers weren’t too snug the wrong way. And she also knew that she had rather more on top than she’d had before Lurcanio (or, curse it, was it Valnu?) put a baby in her. With men, that never went to waste.
Lurcanio handed her up into his carriage. His driver-another redhead, of course-picked his way through evening twilight and then through darkness toward the palace. No lights showed. Lagoan and Kuusaman dragons flew over the capital of Valmiera all too often these days. If patrolling Algarvians or the Valmieran constables who served them saw lights, they would sometimes start blazing without warning.
After getting lost a couple of times and grumbling in his incomprehensible language, the driver finally found the palace. Lights gleamed inside, with dark curtains making sure no stray beams leaked out.
“Colonel theCountLurcanio!” a flunky bawled out. “His companion, theMarchionessKrasta!” On Lurcanio’s arm, Krasta strode into the reception hall.
She’d gone into that reception hall on Lurcanio’s arm a good many times. At first, everything seemed the same as usual: Algarvian officers with their good-looking Valmieran companions, along with the Valmieran nobles who inclined toward Algarve and their ladies. KingGainibu stood in a receiving line withGrand DukeIvone, the redhead who really ran Valmiera these days.
But something in the hall was different tonight. Krasta sensed it at once, though she needed a little while to realize just what it was. Far fewer Valmieran nobles had come than would have been true a couple of years before: only those who’d most closely tied their fate to the occupiers. Krasta hadn’t paid a great deal of attention to the news sheets-she never did-but she knew the war news for Algarve wasn’t good.
The fair-weather friends are flying, she thought. She almost said it aloud, but caught herself in time. Lurcanio would not have taken it kindly; his temper had a way of slipping when some Algarvian position in Unkerlant or Jelgava did some slipping of its own.
Krasta got her second surprise when she and Lurcanio greeted the King of Valmiera in the receiving line. As usual, Gainibu had a glass in his hand. But it held only wine, not the stronger spirits he’d preferred since yielding to the redheads.
“Good evening, Colonel,” Gainibu said when Lurcanio made his polite bow. Krasta dropped a curtsy. “And a good evening to you, Marchioness,” the king added. His voice and his eyes seemed clearer than they had for years. As Lurcanio started to go on, Gainibu remarked, “There are a few things I should like to discuss with you tonight, Colonel.”
“Of course, your Majesty,” Lurcanio said, cat-courteous as usual. But he couldn’t quite keep the faintest hint of astonishment-or was it alarm?- from his voice. And he couldn’t keep from glancing over toGrand DukeIvone. Ivone’s smile looked as if it were held in place with carpet tacks.
“This may be an interesting reception after all,” Krasta said as they made their way toward the tables piled high with food and drink.
“So it may.” Lurcanio sounded anything but happy at the prospect. “What in blazes is wrong with Gainibu?”
“He seemed better than he has in a long time,” Krasta said.
“That is what I meant,” Lurcanio snarled. He took a glass of something potent and knocked it back at a gulp. Krasta chose a mug of ale for herself. She had less of an urge to drink herself blind at these affairs than she’d had before she found herself expecting a baby. She couldn’t decide whether that was good or not.
On a raised platform in one corner of the reception hall sat several musicians softly playing. They were Valmierans themselves, but played soft, delicate, tinkling, Algarvian-style music rather than the more emphatic rhythms and more raucous instruments-bagpipes and thumping drums-of their own kingdom. Krasta had got used to hearing the occupiers’ music in the royal palace. Now, for some reason, she noticed it again.
ColonelLurcaniodidn’t need long to notice it, either. “They must have got drunk up there,” he growled, pointing to the men (and one woman) on the low platform. “Either that or they are making a hash of things on purpose just to annoy us.”
“Why would they do that?” Krasta asked.
“It is called kicking a man when you think he is down,” her Algarvian lover answered. His eyes glittered; his smile seemed more carnivorous than usual. “You had better be right, or you will be very sorry.”
But Krasta hardly heard those last few words. Kicking a man when you think he is down. Much suddenly became clear: things she was seeing here, and things she had seen elsewhere. The Valmierans thought their occupiers were in trouble, and so they could afford to show insolence.
Some of them thought that way, anyhow. But a big, swag-bellied man with a provincial accent came up toColonelLurcanio and boomed, “Ho! Congratulations on your armies’ bold, brave defensive stand along the Twegen River.” By his tone, the Algarvians were still cocks o’ the walk.
Lurcanio bowed. “For which I thank you, your Excellency.”
Krasta had never heard of the Twegen River. She’d never heard of a lot of the western places that found themselves written into the chronicles of the war with letters of blood. She stared down into her mug of ale, wishing she felt like drinking more, while Lurcanio and the Valmieran noble from the back of beyond talked endlessly about the fighting and how it was going. After a while, she yawned and found a chair and sat down. Carrying a baby gave her an excuse for showing she was tired and bored.
The Valmieran baron or whatever he was talked loud enough to let the whole reception hall know his opinions-as if anyone cares, Krasta thought acidly. Still booming like a courting grouse, he went on, “Surely the Unkerlanter hosts will break themselves on the rock of your might.”
“May it be so,” Lurcanio answered with another bow. “And now, if you will excuse me-” He hurried off to get himself another drink.
By the time he got back, the Valmieran had gone off to boom in someone else’s ear. Lurcanio poured down the drink even so. “Whatwas he going on about?” Krasta asked.
“Something about which he knows much less than he thinks he does.” A certain amused malice in his voice, Lurcanio went on, “There are, I suspect, a great many things about which he knows much less than he thinks he does.”
Even though Krasta still hadn’t emptied her first mug of ale, that made her giggle. She might have said the same sort of thing herself. Then she quickly got to her feet and curtsied once more: KingGainibu was coming toward her and Lurcanio. The king’s walk had more purpose and less wobble in it than she’d seen for years.
Lurcanio noted the same thing, as he’d noted Gainibu’s unusual steadiness in the receiving line. His bow was politeness personified, but hard suspicion ruled his voice as he murmured, “Your Majesty.”
“Good evening, Colonel… and milady, of course,” Gainibu said. But after that, he might have forgotten Krasta was there. It irked her less than it would have from a lesser personage; the king was the king, and did as he
