After the Downfall

Her eyes flashed as she inspected him. It wasn’t just a figure of speech; the spark in them seemed to light up the gloom inside the tent. Maybe he was imagining things, but he didn’t think so. Her gaze didn’t probe him the same way a wizard’s would have, which was not to say it didn’t probe him.

At last, grudgingly, she nodded. “All right. I believe you. But if you ever waste your seed with a Grenye woman…” She didn’t go on, not with words. She did create the strong impression that that wouldn’t be a good idea. And Captain Hasso Pemsel, veteran of five and a half years of war in Europe and a campaign season’s worth in this strange new world, shivered in his boots.

He didn’t shiver only because Velona intimidated him. (He tried not to admit to himself that she did – he tried for a good second and a half, and then gave it up as a bad job.) It was bloody cold in there. Winter was coming on, and the tent walls were about as good at keeping the chill out as they would have been on the Eastern Front. He threw more charcoal on the brazier, which might have raised the temperature half a degree: from arctic all the way up to frigid.

He breathed easier when Velona relented enough to ask, “Does the king think he can make the Bucovinans stand and fight?”

“He wants to.” Hasso was glad to talk about the campaign instead of anything that had to do with Sfmti’s charms. “Can’t conquer them unless they stand – or unless they let us walk into Falticeni.”

“They won’t,” Velona said flatly, and Hasso nodded. He didn’t think the Bucovinans would, either; they were fighting the Lenelli every way they knew how. And they had sense enough to see that pitched battles weren’t the best way to do it. Her gaze went far away. “It won’t be easy.” Her voice might have been coming from Beyond, too.

Was that prophecy? Could there be such a thing in this world? Once more, Hasso didn’t know. He did know his shiver, this time, had nothing to do with the cold outside.

XII

Two mornings later, a Bucovinan – noble? – approached the army to parley. He did it formally, with an escort of a dozen or so horsemen with armor as good as any Hasso had seen on a Bucovinan. As usual, they carried greenery in lieu of the white flags that served as truce signs in Hasso’s world.

Some of the Lenelli muttered at that. “Who do they think they are, acting like civilized men?” Marshal Lugo grumbled. “We ought to run this beggar off just to teach him proper manners.”

“Better to hear him,” Hasso said. “Let us find out what he and his master have in mind.” Hortatory subjunctive, he thought, pleased with himself. He hadn’t needed to come out with one of those since he was taking Latin a hell of a long time ago.

“Bring him here,” Bottero decided. “Listening to him doesn’t cost us anything, and we can always run him off later if we don’t like what he says.”

The Bucovinan envoy bowed in the saddle to the king. “I am Otset, your Majesty,” he said in excellent Lenello. “I bring you the words of Zgomot, Lord of Bucovin.” He didn’t claim Zgomot was a king; any Lenello sovereign would have either laughed or got furious at such presumption. “Hear my lord’s words and marvel at how generous and full of forbearance he is.”

King Bottero’s face turned the color of brick dust. “Do you want us to horsewhip you home, little man? You sound like you do.”

Otset bit his lip. He wasn’t very big, especially when measured against the enormous Lenelli. But he answered calmly enough: “If someone invaded your kingdom, your Majesty, would you greet him with cheers and flowers and bread and salt?”

When the Wehrmacht rolled into the Ukraine in 1941, some of the locals had greeted the Germans just like that. If the Germans had treated them better, the Ukrainians and other Soviet subjects might have stayed friendly, which would have made an enormous difference in the war. The measure of Stalin’s damnation was that close to a million of his citizens fought on Hitler’s side in spite of everything. And the measure of Hitler’s damnation was that almost the whole goddamn world fought on Stalin’s side in spite of everything.

Bottero rumbled, deep down in his chest. He could not and would not see any Grenye ruler as an equal. With the air of one making a great concession to a churl who didn’t come close to deserving it, he said, “Well, say your worthless say, and then you can go and get lost.”

“Thank you so much for your gracious kindness, your Majesty,” Otset said, deadpan. He might be a shrimp, but he had nerve. Bottero rumbled some more, but he didn’t seem to realize he’d been one-upped. The ambassador or herald or whatever he was went on, “Lord Zgomot says, you have his leave to return to your own realm. His brave armies will not harry you if you turn around and go home.”