Darkness Descending

A lot of Unkerlanter husbands, especially after they’d started drinking, would have followed up that challenge by going over and smacking their wives around. Garivald didn’t. What restrained him wasn’t so much chivalry as the nagging fear that he’d wake up one morning with his throat slit if he got too rough with her.

She shrugged. “Maybe we did,” she said in grudging tones.

“No maybes about it,” Garivald exclaimed. “Aye, powers above curse the Algarvians, but they’re lousy thieves. Inefficient, I say. King Swemmel’s inspectors would have found a lot more of the hiding places where we squirreled things away.”

“Maybe,” Annore repeated.

“Maybe,” Leuba said gaily. She didn’t know what her mother and father were talking about--for which Garivald envied her--but she wanted to join in.

“No maybes,” Garivald said again. “They’re not up to a proper job of robbery, the way Unkerlanter inspectors would be.

Words formed inside his head. They’re lousy thieves, he thought, And who believes I They’re here to stay? I For Swemmel’s soldiers I Grow ever bolder I To drive them away. It wasn’t a great song. He knew that. But it was a beginning. Maybe he could turn it into something worth hearing. He hadn’t known he could make songs till the summer before. Now they kept springing into his mind all unbidden.

Softly, he sang those first couple of scrappy verses to Annore, setting them to the tune of a sprightly dance. She nodded approval, but warned, “You’ll have to be careful about letting people hear that one. Somebody’s liable to go to the Algarvians with it, and then where would you be?”

“I know,” Garivald said. “You’d best believe I know. But maybe our own soldiers will come back to Zossen before too long. The redheads are still retreating, they say.” They were his fellow villagers, who knew no more than he did, and roaming small bands of Unkerlanter soldiers still on the loose after being bypassed by the advancing redheads, who might.

“Here’s hoping they’re right,” Annore said, “but be careful anyhow, until the rightful king’s men take Zossen back.”

“What?” Now Garivald raised an eyebrow. “You don’t call Raniero your king?”

“This for Raniero,” Annore said, and made a rude noise. Delighted, so did Leuba. And so did Syrivald, who, these days, was almost as tall as his mother. Garivald laughed. After the redheads overran southeastern Unkerlant, Mezentio had proclaimed his cousin Raniero King of Grelz.

Once upon a time, Grelz had been a kingdom, before shrinking to a duchy in the Union of Crowns with Unkerlant. But Grelzers and Unkerlanters were closest kin; Grelz had never had an Algarvian king. As far as Garivald was concerned, it still didn’t: only an Algarvian cat’s-paw.

Leuba wasn’t likely to talk enough to get Garivald into trouble. He did eye his son. “You have to remember, Syrivald, nobody needs to hear what we say inside the house.”

“I know, Father,” Syrivald said seriously. After eyeing him, his father nodded. Syrivald, by now, was used to keeping his mouth shut. Before the redheads swept through this part of the kingdom, people hadn’t wanted Waddo to hear a lot of what they said. That became especially true after Zossen got a crystal of its own, a direct connection between the village and King Swemmel’s vast corps of inspectors and impressers. Now different people might betray things to the redheads, but the principle remained the same. Garivald was glad Syrivald understood it.

Outside, boots crunched on snow. Garivald grew alert. Visitors in dead of winter weren’t that common. People stayed indoors most of the time. He didn’t care to leave the house, to go outside in the cold and wind. He wondered who among his fellow villagers would.

When he heard the knock, he knew. Unkerlanter knocks, even worthless Waddo’s, were casual, friendly things. This one served notice: if he didn’t come to the door right away, whoever was on the other side would break it down.

Annore’s lips shaped a soundless word: “Algarvians.”

“Aye,” Garivald agreed. “But I’ve got to let them in.” He regretted saying they weren’t so bad. When they pounded on his door, they were very bad indeed.

Reluctantly, he went to the door. Even more reluctantly, he opened it. Sure as sure, three Algarvian soldiers stood there shivering and trying to look fierce. Their own kingdom hadn’t given them proper cold-weather gear; they’d added hats and cloaks stolen from villagers to their short tunics and kilts. That made them look less uniform and, somehow, less ferocious. It didn’t make them look much warmer.

“We coming in,” one of them said in bad Unkerlanter. The other two pointed their sticks at Garivald, as if to tell him he’d better not complain.