Tirgoviste town, as it did into every other seaside city on the five major islands of Sibiu. Cornelu was out long after the curfew the Algarvian occupiers had imposed on his kingdom. He hoped, and had reason to hope, the Algarvian patrols that prowled his hometown would never set eyes on him. He didn’t want them to; they’d been looking for him up in the hills of central Tirgoviste, and no doubt they were looking for him down here, too.
But even if they did, he was pretty sure he could get away from them. He’d lived in Tirgoviste almost all his life; he knew its neighborhoods and alleys without having to see them. Mezentio’s men might get lucky and blaze him before he could slide round a corner or into a doorway, but he didn’t think so.
He exhaled, breathing out still more fog. He could hardly see that fog: no streetlights burned, lest they guide Lagoan dragons to their targets. Cornelu knew the houses and shop fronts past which he walked were made from mortared blocks of the rough gray local limestone. He knew they had steep roofs of red slate slabs to shed rain and snow. He knew all that because he’d seen it. He couldn’t see it now.
Shivering, he drew his ragged sheepskin jacket more tightly around him. He’d been a commander in the Sibian navy, as good a leviathan-rider as any officer who served King Burebistu. He’d had a fine wardrobe of tunics and kilts and cloaks of all weights. Now, as a woodcutter down from the hills, he wore the same clothes day in and day out, and counted himself lucky not to be colder than he was.
Carefully, he stepped forward. Aye, there was the curb. He started to step off the cobbles when he heard several men in heavy boots coming up the street toward him. He drew back. Somebody among those booted men stumbled and let out a couple of loud, vile curses. They were in Algarvian. He was fluent in the language, but likely would have understood most of them even if he hadn’t been: Sibian and Algarvian were as close as brothers to each other.
He did understand those curses could mean trouble. Moving as quietly as he could, he drew back again, ready to flee if the Algarvians heard him. They didn’t. They passed him by with no notion he was there. The fellow who’d stumbled was still grumbling: “--aren’t going to be any stinking Sibs out on a night like this. It’s a waste of time, that’s what it is. Anybody who’d come out tonight would break his fool neck five minutes later, and serve him right, too.”
“You almost broke yours, that’s cursed sure,” one of his comrades said. The others laughed. The grumbler cursed some more and kept cursing till the patrol passed out of earshot.
By then, Cornelu had already crossed the street--quite safely. Had the Algarvians been able to see his smile through the darkness and murk, they would not have enjoyed it. The streets got steep in the direction they were going. Maybe one of them really would break his neck. Cornelu hoped so.
He went on another couple of blocks, then turned left onto his own street and hurried toward his own house, the house in which he hadn’t lived, in which he hadn’t even set foot, since the Algarvian invasion. Costache and Brindza lived there still. So did the three Algarvian officers quartered on them.
All the houses on his block, like the houses and shops and taverns in the rest of Tirgoviste, were dark, for the same reason street lamps were: dragons from Lagoas could reach Sibiu. Cornelu understood why the Algarvians wanted to make it hard for them to drop their eggs accurately. Here as elsewhere, understanding failed to bring sympathy.
Here was his walk, leading up to his front porch. As he strode along the walk, he reached under his jacket and pulled out a short stick, one of the sort a constable might carry. The stick had cost him most of the silver he’d brought down from the hills, but he didn’t care. Even if it wasn’t such a powerful weapon as a foot-soldier’s stick, it ought to be good enough to dispose of the officers who’d settled down here. Then Cornelu could take Costache and Brindza away to the southern side of the island or maybe back up into the hills.
“And then,” Cornelu muttered under his breath, “then, by the powers above, I can be alone with my wife.” He ached for her, sometimes literally.
As quietly as he could, he stepped up onto the porch. He must have been quiet enough; no one inside called out in alarm. Once up there, he could tell lamps were lit within, though black curtains--new since he’d last seen the house--swallowed almost all the glare.
Cornelu paused a moment, pondering his next step. Did he knock? Would he do better to sneak in through a window? Could he break down the door, slay all of Mezentio’s men, and get Costache and Brindza away before the commotion drew neighbors or more Algarvians? That was what he most wanted to do, but he knew the risks.
While he pondered, Costache’s voice, bright and cheerful, came out through the window undimmed by the curtains: “Wait there, darling. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Rather than Brindza’s childish prattle, which Cornelu had expected, an Algarvian doing his best to speak Sibian answered, “All right, sweetheart, but you’d better not keep me waiting long.”
“Don’t worry,” Costache said archly. “I won’t be long, I promise. And you’ll be glad when I get there.” The Algarvian
