After the Downfall

If I got back to Bottero’s kingdom and Velona took me back, would I be happy? Would I want to pick up where we left off? As soon as he asked the question, he saw the answer. Bet your ass I would.

It wouldn’t be the same, though. Oh, maybe for her it would. She wouldn’t have changed any – well, a little, or she wouldn’t take him back no matter what. But he’d spent as much time by now in Bucovin as he had in Bottero’s realm. He’d seen the other side of the hill. And, like Scanno, he’d seen things weren’t quite so simple as most Lenelli thought.

Velona and Bottero and the rest of the colonists from across the sea thought Grenye were little and ugly and stupid and mindblind – the last two weren’t the same, but each amplified the other. And they thought that, because of all those things, they could push the Grenye aside like so many animals, domesticating some and killing the rest and using the land they took any way they pleased.

Well, the Grenye were little. No matter what Rautat thought, Hasso liked Lenello looks better. As far as he knew, the natives were mindblind … but so were almost all of the big blonds.

Dammit, the Grenye were people. Some of them were stupid, but so were some Lenelli. Lord Zgomot and Drepteaza were as smart as anybody he’d run into in Drammen. Did they deserve to get pushed to the wall?

Hasso wondered why he hadn’t wondered about any of that stuff when he rolled into Russia in a halftrack on 22 June 1941. The Ivans turned out to be as smart as anybody else, too. Did they ever! Hitler should have spent more time wondering about that stuff, too.

“The other side of the hill…” Hasso muttered.

“What’s that? More of your language?” Rautat asked, which made him realize he’d slipped into German. “What does it mean?” the Bucovinan went on.

“It means I see Drammen, and I see Falticeni, too,” Hasso answered. “I get to know Drammen and Falticeni both.”

“Well, so have I,” Rautat said. “So have lots of Bucovinans. Not so many Lenelli here – some like Scanno, and some traders, and some spies. Most of them just want to get as much from us as they can. They don’t give a turd what we want.” He cocked his head to one side, as he had a way of doing. “I used to figure you were like that. Now I’m not so sure. Sometimes you act like a human being.”

There it was again – somebody who speaks our language. And they were still speaking Bucovinan. Hasso managed a wry smile. “Well, I try.”

“Yeah, I know,” Rautat said seriously. “Not a fart of a lot of big blond pricks who do.” He gave back a smile that matched the German’s. “Like I always say, no offense.”

“Tell me another one, you little prick,” Hasso retorted – little dark prick just didn’t sound right. Rautat splashed him. He splashed back. They ducked each other and raised hell like a couple of six-year-olds. Hasso had never imagined having fun in Falticeni, but this sure felt like it.

XX

When spring came, King Bottero’s men stopped harrying Bucovin – for a while, anyhow. Hasso wasn’t surprised. Like fall, spring was the mud time. Rasputitsa, the Ivans called it. They needed a word for it, because they had a godawful one. All of winter’s snow melted there, and for six weeks nothing moved. It wasn’t so bad here, but it wasn’t good.

And reports came back from the west that the Grenye peasants in Bottero’s realms were kicking up their heels. Hasso felt good and bad about that at the same time. It took some of the pressure off Bucovin, which was why he’d proposed it to Lord Zgomot. But the Lenelli were bound to give the rebellious natives a hard time.

“We have to take care of ourselves first,” Zgomot observed. “And those Grenye aren’t Bucovinans anyway – I’ve said so before.”

“Yes, but they’re people,” Hasso answered.

Zgomot gave him an odd look. “That is the last thing I would expect to hear from a Lenello.” He held up a hand before Hasso could reply. “I know you are not a Lenello. By Lavtrig, Hasso Pemsel, I do. You look like one, though, and you cannot say you do not. And so I naturally think – ”

“I understand, your Lordship. It’s an easy mistake to make. Lots of people here do it.”

Hasso had made plenty of mistakes along those lines himself. He thought he kept his tone smooth here. He must not have done such a good job, though, for Zgomot’s gaze sharpened. “You wish some of those people looked at you in a different way. One person in particular, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Hasso agreed tonelessly. How much had Drepteaza told the Lord of Bucovin about that? What did Zgomot think of it? Whatever it was, it didn’t show on his face. Hasso went on, “Nothing I can do about it. I look the way I look, not any other way.”