After the Downfall

After some of the things Hasso had seen, he wasn’t sure she was wrong. But he wasn’t sure she was right, either. “The goddess almost lets the Grenye catch you,” he pointed out.

“So she did.” Trouble flicked across Velona’s face for a moment, but then it blew out like a candle in a hurricane. “Instead of letting them catch me, though, she sent you here. You saved me – or she saved me through you. And now Orosei tells me you’ve got a fine new scheme for smashing Bucovin.”

Orosei made a pretty fair politician. Hasso supposed that was part of the master-at-arms’ job, too. “Smashing? I don’t know.” He shrugged like a Frenchman, because the Lenelli liked overacting. “I hope we can win some battles with it. King Bottero has to say yes first.”

“Oh, I think we can arrange that.” She sounded confident again. How would she go about persuading the king, if that was what she needed to do? Do I want to know? Hasso wondered, and needed no more than a heartbeat to decide he didn’t.

VI

Hasso used coins on a tabletop to show King Bottero what he had in mind. He didn’t do much talking. He didn’t have to; Orosei, Nornat, and Sanfrat did it for him. They were more enthusiastic about his idea than he was, seeming filled with converts’ zeal.

Marshal Lugo stood by Bottero, listening to the cavalry officers bragging about what they’d do to Bucovin if the king turned them loose to fight the way they wanted to. The marshal looked like a man who’d just taken a big bite out of a horse-manure sandwich.

“You can do this?” Bottero asked when the officers finished their excited exposition.

“Yes, your Majesty!” Nornat and Sanfrat chorused. Carsoli wasn’t there. Maybe he’d go along if the king ordered it, but he was no convert.

King Bottero turned to Orosei. “What do you think?”

“It’s something we haven’t tried before, anyhow,” the master-at-arms answered. “What we have tried against Bucovin hasn’t worked real well, so why not trot out something different for a change?”

“We can use this against Lenelli, too,” Nornat said. “Once the lancers break the enemy line, it’s like breaking a turtle’s shell. What’s inside is meat. Our meat.”

“Mm.” The king plucked at his beard. “How about you, Lugo? You haven’t had much to say.”

“Everything sounds wonderful when you’re drinking beer,” the marshal said. “How well it’ll work when we really try it out … That’s liable to be a different story, and not such a pretty one.”

The crack held just enough truth to sting. Hasso gnawed on his lower lip. Perhaps noticing him look unhappy, Bottero asked, “What do you have to say to that, outlander?”

“Nothing is perfect, your Majesty. Some things is – uh, are – better, some worse,” Hasso said. “How good is what you do now? Bucovin is still here, so maybe not so good. Maybe try something different, something new.”

“A good answer,” King Bottero replied.

“No, not so good!” Lugo cried. “The foreigner will risk our men, risk good Lenelli. But where will he be? Someplace safe, that’s where. Someplace where he doesn’t need to take chances.”

“I am no lancer,” Hasso said. The marshal sneered. Hasso held up a hand. “Not done yet. I am no lancer, but I ride at the front, when the column charges.” He bowed to Lugo and clicked his heels. The Lenelli didn’t do that, but they recognized the formality of the gesture. “I ride there, yes. You ride beside me?”

Nornat and Sanfrat sucked in their breath together. Orosei chuckled and then politely tried to pretend he hadn’t. I’ll put my money where my mouth is, Hasso might have said. Have you got the balls to ride along?

Lugo looked as if he hated him. He likely did. But he was ruined if he looked like a coward in front of his sovereign. “If the king orders this foolish scheme to go forward, you will not see me hang back,” he said. “No miserable outlander will ever say he dares to go where a Lenello dares not come with him.”

“Good.” Hasso ignored the insult. “We ride together. Together, we crush the Grenye. Nothing else matters. You do not have to love me, Marshal. You only have to want to win. That is all I want.”

“Ha!” Lugo said. “You want to make a big name for yourself, to show everyone how smart you are. Be careful you don’t outsmart yourself.”

He wasn’t wrong there, either, no matter how little Hasso felt like admitting it. The German only shrugged. “What can I do? Where can I go? This is my land now. I want to see King Bottero win. If the king wins, I win. If the king loses, I lose. Better for everyone if the king wins.”

That last should have been a subjunctive. Hasso realized as much after the easier, more common indicative came out of his mouth. The grammatical error wasn’t all bad, though. It made King Bottero’s triumph sound more nearly inevitable, less doubtful, than the subjunctive, a mood made for showing uncertainty, ever could have.