“Heh,” Ealstan said. Ethelhelm’s wit always had a bite to it. Rubbing his chin, Ealstan went on in musing tones: “Before the war ... It was only two and a half years ago, but it seems like forever.”
“Oh, longer than that.” Ethelhelm cocked his head to one side, waiting to see
Darkness Descending
how Ealstan took his reply. Ealstan laughed. A lot of people, he supposed--his cousin Sidroc assuredly among them--would have stared in blank incomprehension. Ethelhelm nodded, as if he’d passed an obscure test. “You’re hardly old enough to piss without wetting yourself, but you’ve got an old head on your shoulders, don’t you?”
“People say so,” Ealstan answered. “I’m cursed if I know. I take after my father is what I think it is.”
“I took after my father, too, once upon a time,” Ethelhelm said. “Took after him with a carving knife, as a matter of fact. Didn’t catch him, though.”
Ealstan couldn’t imagine going after his father with a knife. Uncle Hengist? That was a different story. Ealstan wondered how Sidroc was doing, if he was hale, whether he’d gone off to fight for the Algarvians yet. He rather hoped Sidroc had. That would be the easiest on everyone--except perhaps Sidroc.
“I’d better get back,” Ealstan said, rising to his feet. He couldn’t suppress a pang of disappointment at leaving Ethelhelm’s large, airy, elegantly decorated flat and having to go back to his own, which was none of those things. Ethelhelm was a wealthy young man; Ealstan knew to the copper just how wealthy the musician was. He’d made a fortune before the war broke out and had managed to hold onto most of it despite Eoforwic’s occupation first by the Unkerlanters and then by the Algarvians.
What with the business Ealstan had, not only from Ethelhelm but also from his other clients, he could have afforded better than the nasty little flat in which he and Vanai were living. He could have afforded better, but he didn’t dare move. If he went to a better neighborhood, Vanai would draw more notice. That was the last thing he wanted, especially now that the redheads had herded all the Kaunians into one cramped bit of Eoforwic.
Ethelhelm came with him to the door and set a hand on his arm. “You’re a good fellow, Ealstan. I wouldn’t mind seeing more of you--or meeting your lady, either.”
“Thank you,” Ealstan said, and meant it. Not all his father’s clients--probably not even half his father’s clients--dealt with Hestan socially, as opposed to on business matters. And for Ethelhelm to say that about Vanai. . . Ealstan bowed. “We’d like that, too. But with things the way they are, I don’t know how we’d manage it.”
Ethelhelm had never seen Vanai in person, and Ealstan made a point of not referring to her by name. But the musician had shown, as much by what he didn’t say and didn’t ask as by what he did, that he had a good notion she was a Kaunian. “With things the way they are,” he echoed. “Well, here’s hoping they don’t stay that way forever, my friend. You be careful, do you hear me?”
Ealstan laughed; it might have been his father’s laugh coming out of his mouth. “You’re talking to a bookkeeper, remember? If I weren’t careful, what would I be?”
“Who knows what you’d be?” Ethelhelm answered. He hesitated; maybe he was wondering how much he ought to say or whether to say anything. At last, he decided to: “You aren’t careful all the time, or you’d be somebody with a different lady, or with no lady at all.”
“I suppose so,” Ealstan said. “But I’m careful now, by the powers above. I have to be.” He didn’t wait for Ealstan to reply but stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Then he hurried downstairs. These stairs were carpeted, not bare, battered boards. They didn’t smell of cabbage and beans and occasionally of urine. Ealstan sighed. He liked comfort. He’d grown up in comfort. He’d thrown it aside for love--and if that wasn’t the hoariest cliche in bad romances, he didn’t know what was. Vanai made him happy--made him joyful--in ways he’d never imagined before, but that didn’t mean he was immune to missing his comforts.
Out on the streets, Eoforwic had the pallid, threadbare look of every other Forthwegian town in the third year of a war long lost. But Eoforwics was a more genteel, more splendid shabbiness than, say, Gromheorts. The white-bearded man who strode past Ealstan wore a herringbone wool tunic shiny with age at the elbows and seat and with a frayed collar, but a garment that would have cost a lot new.
All the capital was like that. Buildings ruined in one round of fighting or another still showed fine bones. Buildings that hadn’t been ruined also hadn’t been kept up. Brickwork was filthy; weeds pushed their way into the sunlight between paving slabs. But the memory of what had been persisted. If Ealstan let his eyes drift a little out of focus, he could imagine Eoforwic with King Penda ruling it, not an Algarvian governor general.
When he got back to his own neighborhood, he didn’t need to let his eyes go unfocused. This part of town had been grimy and unkempt during King Penda’s reign. Of that he had no doubt whatever. Even the stray dogs on the narrow, winding streets moved warily, as if afraid of
