"Do you know what will be if Unkerlant beats Algarve?" Balastro demanded. "Do you know what will become of Zuwayza if that happens?"

There he had the perfect club with which to pound Hajjaj over the head. He knew it, too, and used it without compunction. With a sigh, Hajjaj said, "What you do not understand is that Zuwayza also fears what may happen if Algarve should beat Unkerlant."

"That would not be as bad for you," Balastro told him.

Hajjaj didn't know whether to admire the honesty of the little qualifying phrase at the end of the sentence or to let it appall him. He wanted to call for Qutuz to bring more wine. But who could guess what he might say if he got drunk? As things were, he contented himself with a narrow, rigidly correct question: "What do you seek from us?"

"Real cooperation," Balastro answered at once. "Most notably, cooperation in finally pinching off and capturing the port of Glogau. That would be a heavy blow to King Swemmel's cause."

"Why not just loose your magics against the place?" Hajjaj said, and then, because Balastro had well and truly nettled him, he could not resist adding, "I am sure they would serve you as well as they did down in the land of the Ice People."

Algarvian news sheets, Algarvian crystal reports had said not a word about the disaster that had befallen the expeditionary force on the austral continent. They admitted the foe was advancing where he had been retreating, but they never said why. Lagoas, on the other hand, trumpeted the botched ma.s.sacre-- or rather, the botched magecraft, for the ma.s.sacre had succeeded--to the skies.

Balastro glared and flushed. "Things are not so bad there as the islanders make them out to be," he said, but he didn't sound as if he believed his own words.

"How bad are they, then?" Hajjaj asked.

The Algarvian minister didn't answer, not directly. Instead, he said, "Here on Derlavai, magecraft would not turn against us as it did in the land of the Ice People."

"Again, this is easier to say than to prove," Hajjaj remarked. Even if it did prove true, slaughtering Kaunians still repelled him. He took a deep breath. "We have done what we have done, and we are doing what we are doing. If that does not fully satisfy King Mezentio, he is welcome to take whatever steps he finds fitting."

Marquis Balastro got to his feet. "If you think we shall forget this insult, I must tell you you are mistaken.

"I meant no insult," Hajjaj said. "I do not wish you ill, as King Swemmel does. But I do not wish quite so much ill upon Unkerlant as Algarve does, either. If only one great kingdom thrives, as you say, what room is there for the small kingdoms of the world, for the Zuwayzas and Forthwegs and Yaninas?"

"In the days of the Kaunian Empire, the blonds had no room for us Algarvians," Balastro answered. "We made room for ourselves."

Somehow, in the person of a plump, naked envoy, Hajjaj saw a fierce, kilted barbarian warrior. Maybe that was good acting from Balastro--or maybe the barbarian warrior never lay far below the surface in any Algarvian. Hajjaj said, "And now you condemn Zuwayza for trying to make a little room for ourselves? Where is the justice in that?"

"Simple," Balastro said. "We were strong enough to do it."

"Good day, sir," the Zuwayzi foreign minister said, and Balastro departed. But, watching his broad retreating back, Hajjaj nodded and smiled a little. For all Balastro's bl.u.s.ter, Hajjaj didn't think the Algarvians would abandon Zuwayza. They couldn't afford to.

But then Hajjaj sighed. Zuwayza couldn't abandon Algarve, either. Hajjaj would have been willing to make the break, provided he could have got decent terms from Swemmel. But Swemmel didn't care to give decent terms. Hajjaj sighed again. "And so the cursed war goes on," he said.

Twelve.

A stack of small silver coins and another of big bra.s.s ones, almost as shiny as gold, stood in front of Talsu. Similar stacks of coins, some larger, some smaller, stood in front of the other Jelgavans sitting at the table in a silversmith's parlor. A pair of dice lay on the table. If Algarvian constables burst into the parlor, all they would see was gambling. They might keep the money for themselves--being redheads, they probably would--but they'd have nothing to get very excited about.

So hoped Talsu and all the other men, some young, some far from it, at the table. The silversmith, whose name was Kugu, nodded to his comrades. He peered at the world through thick spectacles, no doubt because he did so much close work. "Now, my friends," he said, "let's go over the endings of the declension of the aorist participle."

Along with the others, Talsu recited the declensions--nominative, genitive, dative, accusative, vocative--of the participle for singular, dual, and plural; masculine, feminine, and neuter. He got through all the forms without a hitch, and felt a certain modest pride at managing it. Despite getting through them, he wondered how his ancient ancestors had managed to speak cla.s.sical Kaunian without pausing every other word to figure out the proper form of adjective, noun, or verb.

Jelgavan, now, Jelgavan was a proper language: no neuter gender, no dual number, no fancy declensions, a vastly simplified verb. He hadn't realized how sensible Jelgavan was till he decided to study its grandfather.

Kugu reached out and picked up the dice on the table. He rolled them, and got a six and a three: not a good throw, not a bad one. Then he said, "We are gambling here, you know, and for more than money. The Algarvians want us to forget who we are and who our forefathers were. If they know we're working to remember . .. They knocked down the imperial arch. They won't be shy about knocking over a few men."

"Curse aem, the redheads have never been shy about knocking over a few men, or more than a few," Talsu said.

Somebody else said, "They can't kill all of us."

"If what we hear coming out of Forthweg is true, they're doing their best," Talsu said.

Everyone stirred uncomfortably. Thinking of what had happened to Kaunians in Forthweg led to thoughts of what might happen to the Kaunian folk of Jelgava. Somebody said, "I think those stories are a pack of lies."

Kugu shook his head. Lamplight reflected from the lenses of his spectacles, making him look for a moment as if he had enormous blank yellow eyes. He said, "They are true. From things I've heard, they are only a small part of what is true. Algarve doesn't aim to kill just our memories. We are in danger ourselves."

Then why arenat we fighting back more? Talsu wanted to shout it. He wanted to, but he didn't. Aye, these men were here to study cla.s.sical Kaunian, which argued that they had no use for the redheads. But Talsu didn't know all of them well. He hardly knew a couple of them at all. Any of them, even Kugu himself, could have been an Algarvian spy. Back before the war, King Donalitu had had plenty of provocateurs serving him--men who said outrageous things to get others to agree with them, whereupon those others vanished into dungeons. A man would have to be insanely foolhardy to think the Algarvians couldn't match such ploys.

"We'd be better off if the king hadn't fled," said someone who might have been thinking along with him, at least in part.

But Kugu shook his head. "I doubt it. King Gainibu's still on the throne down in Priekule, but how much does that do our Valmieran cousins? They're probably easier to rule than we are, because they haven't got a foreigner sitting on the throne."

By a foreigner, he meant an Algarvian. Several people nodded, taking the point. King Mezentio's brother wasn't the man whom Talsu had in mind as a proper King of Jelgava, either, but he just sat there, doing his best to look none too bright. If Kugu was a provocateur, Talsu didn't intend to let himself be provoked--not visibly, anyhow.

With a sigh, the silversmith said, "It would be fine if the king came back to Jelgava. After a dose of King Mainardo's rule, plenty of people would flock to Donalitu's banner."

Again, Kugu got nods. Again, Talsu wasn't one of the men who gave them. He knew exactly how the redheads would judge such words: as treason. Hearing them was dangerous. Being seen to agree with them was worse.

Maybe Kugu realized as much, too, for he said, "Shall we go over some sentences that show how the aorist participle is used?" He read a sentence in the sonorous ancient tongue, then pointed to Talsu. "How would you translate that into Jelgavan?"

Talsu leaped to his feet, clasped his hands behind his back, and looked down at the floor between his shoes: memories of his brief days in school. He took a deep, nervous breath and said, "Having gained the upper hand, the Kaunian army advanced into the forest."

Even if he was wrong, Kugu wouldn't stripe his back with a switch. He knew that, but sweat trickled from his armpits anyhow. Maybe that too was left over from memories of school, or maybe it just sprang from simple fear of reciting in public.

Either way, he needn't have worried, for Kugu beamed and nodded. "Even so," he said. "That is excellent. Let's try another one." He read the sentence in cla.s.sical Kaunian and pointed to the fellow next to Talsu, a red-faced, middle-aged merchant. "How would you translate that?"

The man made a hash of it. When Kugu set him straight, he scowled. "If that's what they mean, why don't they come out and say it?"

"They do," Kugu said patiently. "They just do it differently. They do it more precisely and more concisely than modern Jelgavan can."

"But it's confusing," the merchant complained. Talsu wondered how many more lessons the red-faced man would come to. Rather to his own surprise, he didn't find cla.s.sical Kaunian confusing himself. Complex? Aye. Difficult? Certainly. But he kept managing to see how the pieces fit together.

After everyone had had a crack at translating a sentence or two, the lesson broke up. "I'll see you next week," Kugu told his scholars. "Powers above keep you safe till then."

Out into the night the Jelgavans went, scattering as they headed for their homes throughout Skrunda. Stars shone down from the clear sky: more stars than Talsu was used to seeing in his home town. Since the raid on Skrunda, the redheads had required the town to stay dark at night, which brought out the tiny sparkling points of light overhead.

It also made tripping and breaking your neck easier. Talsu stumbled over a cobblestone that stood up from the roadbed and almost fell on his face. He nailed his arms to stay upright, all the while cursing in a tiny voice. Though often ignored and hard to enforce because of the darkness shrouding Skrunda, the redheads' curfew remained in force. The last thing Talsu wanted was to draw one of their patrols to him.

He picked his way through the quiet streets. The first time he'd come home from Kugu's, he'd got lost and wandered around for half an hour till he came into the market square quite by accident. Knowing where he was had let him find his home in short order.

A cricket chirped. Off in the distance, a cat yowled. Those sounds didn't worry Talsu. He listened for boots thudding on cobbles. The Algarvians knew a lot of things, but they didn't seem to know how to patrol stealthily.

When he got to his house, he let himself in, then barred the door. If an enterprising burglar chose to strike on a night when he was studying cla.s.sical Kaunian, tlie thief might clean out the downstairs of Traku's shop and depart with no one the wiser.

To make sure Talsu wasn't a burglar, his father came partway down the stairs and called softly: "That you, son?"

"Aye," Talsu answered.

"Well, what did you learn tonight?" Traku asked.

"Having gained the upper hand, the Kaunian army advanced into the forest," Talsu declaimed, letting the sounds of the cla.s.sical language fill his mouth in a way modern Jelgavan couldn't come close to matching.

"Isn't that posh?" his father said admiringly. "What's it mean?" After Talsu translated, Traku frowned and asked, "What happened then--after it advanced into the forest, I mean?"

"I don't know," Talsu said. "Maybe the Kaunians kept on winning. Maybe the lousy redheads who lived in the forest ambushed them. It's just a sentence in a grammar book, not a whole story."

"Too bad," Traku said. "You'd like to know how these things turn out."

Talsu yawned. "What I'd like to do is go to bed. I'll still have to get up and work tomorrow morning. Come to that, so will you, Father."

"Oh, aye, I know," Traku answered. "But I like to be sure everything's all right before I settle down--and if I didn't, I'd hear about it in the morning from your mother." He turned and went back up to the top floor. Talsu followed.

His room had seemed cramped ever since he came home from the army after Jelgava's losing fight against the Algarvians. It still did. He was too tired to care tonight. He took off his tunic and trousers and lay down wearing nothing but his drawers: the night was fine and mild. He fell asleep with participles spinning in his mind.

Instead of advancing into the forest the next morning, he advanced on breakfast: barley bread, garlic-flavored olive oil, and the usual Jelgavan wine tangy with citrus juice. Afterwards, and before his father could chain him to a stool to work on a couple of cloaks that needed finishing, he ducked out and headed over to the grocer's shop to say h.e.l.lo to Gailisa and to show off the bits of cla.s.sical Kaunian he was learning. She didn't understand much of it herself, but it impressed her, not least because she did understand why he was studying it. "I'll be back soon," he promised over his shoulder as he left, to keep his father from getting too annoyed at him.

But he broke the promise. During the night, somebody--more likely several somebodies--had painted DEATH TO THE ALGARVIAN TYRANTS! on walls all over Skrunda: not in Jelgavan, but in excellent cla.s.sical Kaunian. Talsu might not have been able to understand it before he started studying the old language. He could now.

Unfortunately, so could the Algarvians. Their officers, as he'd seen, were familiar with the cla.s.sical tongue. And their soldiers were on the streets with jars of paint to cover up the offending slogan and with wire brushes to efface it. The redheads didn't aim to do the work themselves, though. They grabbed Jelgavan pa.s.sersby, Talsu among them. He spent the whole morning getting rid of graffiti. But the more he worked to get rid of them, the more he agreed with them. And he didn't think he was the only Jelgavan who felt that way, either.

"New songs?" Ethelhelm shook his head and looked a little sheepish when Ealstan asked the question. "Haven't got a whole lot. The boys and I have been on the road so much lately, we haven't had very many chances to sit down and fool around with anything new."

Ealstan nodded, doing his best to seem properly sympathetic. He didn't want to say something like, Hard to write nasty songs about the Algarvians now that you've started cozying up to them. Even the last few new songs Ethelhelm had written had lost a good deal of their bite. But Ealstan needed the band leader's business. And Ethelhelm knew he had a Kaunian lady friend. Ealstan didn't think the musician would betray him to the redheads, but he didn't want to give Ethelhelm any excuse for doing something like that, either.

"Good to have things quiet in Eoforwic again," Ethelhelm said. "It got a little livelier than we really wanted for a while there."

"Aye," Ealstan said. No wonder Ethelhelm thought that way: the riots had made it into his district for a change. Ealstan started to remark that the Kaunian district had stayed very quiet; he wanted to remind Ethelhelm of the Kaunian blood the band leader was said to have. In the end, he didn't say that, either: talking about Kaunians with Ethelhelm might also remind him of Vanai. When Ethelhelm looked to be drifting toward the Algarvians, Ealstan didn't want to chance that.

He was my friend, Ealstan thought. And he was more than that--he was our voice, the only voice Forthwegians really had after the redheads overran us. And now he's not any more. What went wrong?

Looking around the flat again, Ealstan saw what he'd seen before. Nothing had gone wrong for Ethelhelm. No, too many things had gone right instead. The drummer and songwriter had everything he wanted. He liked having everything he wanted, too. If the price of keeping it was going easy on the Algarvians, he would.

Had some redheaded officer come up to Ethelhelm and told him straight out that he'd better go easy or he'd end up in trouble? Ealstan didn't know, and could hardly ask. He had his doubts, though. The Algarvians were smoother than that--unless they were dealing with Kaunians, in which case they didn't bother.

Oblivious to his bookkeeper's thoughts, Ethelhelm leaned forward and tapped the ledgers Ealstan had opened on the table in front of him. "Everything here looks very good," he said--no small compliment, not when he'd been casting his own accounts before hiring Ealstan. He knew his way around money almost as well as he knew his way around drums and lyrics.

"You haven't got all the silver in the world," Ealstan told him, "but you surely do have a good chunk of it."

"I never thought I'd end up with so much," Ethelhelm said. "It's nice, isn't it?"

Ealstan managed to nod. He'd been comfortable--looking back on things, he'd been more than comfortable--in his father's house in Gromheort. It certainly was nicer than the humbler circ.u.mstances in which he lived now. He'd saved a good deal of money here in Eoforwic, but what could he spend it on? Not much. And Ethelhelm didn't seem to have a hint about the sort of life Ealstan lived these days. He didn't act interested in learning, either.

But then the band leader flipped the ledgers closed, one after another. And he took a goldpiece from his belt pouch and set it atop one of them. "There you go, Ealstan," he said. "Aye, a job well done, no doubt about it, especially considering the state of the receipts I gave you. b.l.o.o.d.y leather sack!"

Ealstan picked up the coin and hefted it. It was, he saw, an Algarvian gold-piece, not a Forthwegian minting. It was almost worth more than twice what his fee would have been. "Here, I can make change," he said, and reached for his own belt pouch.

"Don't bother," Ethelhelm told him. "You can use it, and I can afford it. Always good to know I can rely on the people close to me."

By the powers above! Ealstan thought. He's buying me, the same way he buys off the Algarvians. He wanted to throw the coin in Ethelhelm's face. If it hadn't been for Vanai, he would have. Of course, if it hadn't been for Vanai, he'd still be living back in Gromheort. He put the goldpiece in his pouch and contented himself with saying, "Bookkeepers don't blab. They wouldn't keep any customers if they did."

"I understand that," Ethelhelm said. "You've certainly shown it to me." He could still be gracious. He could, in fact, still be very much what he had been, except when it came to the Algarvians. Somehow, that was particularly distressing to Ealstan. Ethelhelm went on, "There, you've taken it even so. Good."

"Aye, and thanks," Ealstan said. He got to his feet and tucked the ledgers under his arm. "I'll see you in a couple of weeks, then, and odds are you'll be richer."

"There are worse problems to have," Ethelhelm said complacently, and Ealstan could hardly disagree with him.

Since the latest round of riots, the doorman at Ethelhelm's block of flats had taken to staying inside, in the lobby. He didn't position himself out where people could see him, as he had before--maybe he'd had a narrow escape. One more question Ealstan didn't feel like asking. The doorman got up and held the door open for him. "See you again," he said.

"Oh, that you will," Ealstan said. The prospect should have made him glad, especially if it meant he'd see more goldpieces. And it did--to a degree. But it saddened him, too, because Ethelhelm inarguably wasn't what he had been.

Only a block and a half away from Ethelhelm's elegant flat, a labor gang was clearing away the rubble of a burnt-out building. The laborers were Kaunians, some men, some women. Had their overseers been Algarvian soldiers or constables, Ealstan would have been angry but unsurprised. But the men holding the Kaunians to their tasks were Forthwegians armed with nothing more than bludgeons--and the certainty that they were doing the right thing.

Ealstan wanted to curse them. He wanted to persuade them they were wrong. He wanted to tell them they were playing into their conquerors' hands. In the end, he did none of that. He simply walked on, free hand curled into a fist tight enough to make his nails bite into his palm, belly churning with rage he dared not show.

More wrecked, burnt-out buildings lay in the poorer parts of Eoforwic. No one had started clearing them away. Ealstan wondered how long that would take. He also wondered if it would ever happen. He didn't intend to hold his breath.

Here and there, people went through the wreckage. Some were folk who'd lived and worked in those buildings, doing their best to salvage what they could. And some, no doubt, were nothing but scavengers. Ealstan glared at the gleaners, which did no good at all: it might have angered the people who had a right to search for what was theirs, but bothered the looters not at all.

He stopped in a baker's shop and bought two loaves of bread. It was nasty stuff, and had got nastier since the latest riots. He'd long since grown used to wheat flour cut with barley and rye. They made loaves thicker and chewier, because they rose less readily than wheat, but they didn't taste too strange. Ground-up peas and beans and buckwheat groats, on the other hand ...

"What's next?" he asked the baker. "Sawdust?"

"If I can't get anything else," the fellow answered, adding, "Listen, pal, I eat the same bread I sell. Times aren't easy."

"No," Ealstan agreed. Did the baker really eat the same bread he sold his customers? Ealstan doubted it. From everything he'd seen, anyone who got a position privileged in any way took advantage of it as best he could. Ealstan chuckled mirthlessly. If that wasn't an Algarvian way of looking at the world, he didn't know what was.

When he got back to his own part of town, he paused and marveled that all the buildings on his block had come through intact. Oh, some new windows on the bottom couple of stories were boarded up, but a lot of windows had been boarded up for a long time; gla.s.s, these days, was expensive and hard to come by.

Feet and hooves and wheels had worn away the fresh bloodstains from the crowns of the cobbles, but the red-brown still lingered between the gray and yellow-brown stones. Someone had left a b.l.o.o.d.y handprint on the wall of the building next to Ealstan's, too. He wondered what had happened to that fellow. Nothing good, he feared.

He paused in the lobby to get his mail from the bra.s.s bank of boxes against the wall opposite the door. The lock on his box was as stout and fancy as he could afford; he had one key, the postman the other. The rest of the boxes sported similar impressive pieces of the locksmith's art. Few people hereabouts trusted their neighbors' good intentions.

When Ealstan saw his father's precise, familiar script on an envelope, he grabbed it with a mixture of excitement and alarm. He didn't hear from home very often, and wrote back even less. But news, he'd discovered when he got the letter telling of Leofsig's death, could be bad as easily as good.

I'll open it upstairs, he told himself. I won't be able to do anything about it down here, anyhow. He laughed at himself, again without amus.e.m.e.nt. He wouldn't be able to do anything about it after he got up to his flat, either.

He had to set down the ledgers so he could knock on the door. Vanai let him in. "What have you got there?" she asked, pointing to the envelope.

"It's from home," he answered. "That's all I know right now." He held up the envelope to show her he hadn't opened it, then added, "I didn't have the nerve to do it down in the lobby."