After the Downfall

But the wizard shook his head. After he translated the question, so did the king. This time, Aderno showed no hesitation in answering on his own: “It is not possible. They are Grenye, and mindblind. There are no wizards among them. There never have been. There never will be. There never can be.”

Slavs are Untermenschen. All we have to do is hit them a good lick and they’ll fall over, went through the German’s mind. How much baggage he brought from the world he’d fled! Would he ever escape it? How could he? It made him what he was.

Something he’d seen in this world occurred to him. “When we rode into Drammen, do you remember that drunken Lenello with the Grenye girlfriend we saw?”

By Aderno’s expression, he might have stuck pins under the wizard’s fingernails. Very unwillingly, Aderno nodded. Even more unwillingly, he said, “I remember.” The king barked a question. Most unwillingly of all, Aderno translated Hasso’s question. What Bottero said after that should have scorched paint off the walls. When the king ran down, Aderno found a question of his own: “Why do you ask?” In contrast to his sovereign’s words, his might have been carved off a glacier.

“I was wondering whether some Lenello renegade might have made magic for Bucovin if the Grenye couldn’t do it on their own,” Hasso said.

Again, King Bottero had to ask his wizard for a translation. When he got one, he did some more cursing, but then shook his head and answered the question. “There was no magic used against us,” he said flatly. “None. We failed anyhow, failed twice, failed badly. Our own magic faltered there. Other Lenello kingdoms have failed, too. Bucovin is … difficult. We have not sent an army there for a while. Maybe we will try again before too long – there has been talk of it. But we will be wary if we do.”

“I see.” Hasso wasn’t sure he did. Plainly, though, the Lenelli didn’t see what had gone wrong against the … difficult Bucovin, either.

Bottero gave him a crooked grin. “Now that you know my realm’s old shame, outlander, will you still take service with me against my enemies, whoever they may be?”

What would the king and the wizard do if he said no? They’d throw him out on his ear, that was what. And so would Velona, and he’d deserve it. What would happen to him them? Would he end up a drunken stumblebum in the Grenye part of town?

He hadn’t crossed worlds for that. He gave Bottero his own salute, arm thrust out ahead of him. “Yes, your Majesty!”

The ritual that followed came straight from the Middle Ages. Following Aderno’s instructions, Hasso dropped to both knees again and held out his hands clasped together. King Bottero enfolded them in his own big mitts. “I am your man,” Hasso said, prompted by Aderno. “I pledge you my full faith against all men who may live and die, so help me God.” A Lenello would have sworn by the goddess, he supposed. He wondered if Aderno would correct him, but the wizard let it go.

Bottero hauled him to his feet with effortless ease. The king wasn’t just a big man; he was strong, too. He leaned forward and kissed Hasso on both cheeks. They were big, smacking kisses, the kind a Russian might have given – no French sophistication here.

“You are my man. I accept your homage. By the goddess, I will do nothing to make myself not deserve it,” Bottero said through the wizard. “I welcome you to my service.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Hasso felt better because of the oath he’d sworn. Now he had a real place here. He belonged. He didn’t know all of what that place entailed yet, but he could find out. He wasn’t just somebody who’d fallen from nowhere. He was one of King Bottero’s men. All the Lenelli would understand that. So would the Grenye.

A couple of small, dark servants came into the throne room. They started sweeping and dusting. None of the Lenelli paid any attention to them; they might have been part of the furniture. As they worked, they chattered in low voices in a croaking, guttural language that sounded nothing like Lenello.

“What are they saying?” Hasso asked Aderno.

The wizard shrugged. “I have no idea. It could only matter to another Grenye.”

“Doesn’t your translation spell work on their language?” Hasso couldn’t imagine why it wouldn’t. Why have a translation spell if you weren’t going to use it to understand a tongue you didn’t speak?

“It would,” Aderno said with the air of a man making a great concession. “But why would I care to listen to Grenye grunting? I’d just as soon listen to what the king’s hunting hounds had to say.”

Hasso would have been interested to hear what dogs had to say, too. All the same … “Bottero’s hounds won’t plot to murder you in your bed one fine night.” He knew the risk of keeping Russian servants on the Eastern Front. Some Germans got by with it. A lot of Russians hated Stalin worse than Hitler. But Hasso had never been tempted. It would have been just his luck to draw somebody who was playacting.