Darkness Descending

For a moment, his laughter was almost was almost the only sound in Pavilosta’s central square. The peasants and townsfolk simply stared, having trouble believing anyone would pervert their ancient ceremony. Maybe the Algarvians had trouble believing it too. Their officers gaped like the Valmieran peasants around them--gaped and then started to curse. In their shoes, Skarnu would also have cursed. Their chosen puppet had just chosen to outrage the people they wanted him to control.

Someone threw an apple at Simanu. It missed, and smashed against the double chair. The fat cow took a couple of steps forward and crunched it up. Then someone else threw a cobblestone. That one didn’t miss: it caught Simanu in the ribs. He let out a yell louder than the cleaned-up peasant had.

More stones and fruits and vegetables whizzed past Simanu. Some of them didn’t whiz past, but thumped against him. He yelled again. So did the Algarvian officer in charge of the Valmieran noble’s kilted bodyguards: “You cursed idiot! Why did you not do the ceremony as it should be done?”

“They did not deserve it,” Simanu said, wiping blood from his face. “By the powers above, they still do not deserve it, not with how they treat me.”

“Fool!” the Algarvian started. “Make them happy in the small things and you can rule them in the large ones. This way--” He raised his voice to a shout that filled the square: “You Valmierans! Stop this riotous nonsense at once and peacefully go back to your ho--oof!” That last came when a cleverly aimed stone hit him in the belly and he folded up like a concertina.

“Nicely thrown,” Skarnu remarked.

“I thank you, sir,” Raunu answered. “Nice to know the arm still works.”

“Aye.” Skarnu looked around. He stood near the front of the crowd, but not so near that any Algarvian could easily see who he was. Drawing in a deep breath, he let it out in a shout of his own: “Down with the vicious count and the Algarvian tyrants!”

No redhead could have identified him in the moments following that cry, for Merkela grabbed him, pulled his face down to hers, and gave him the most savage kiss he’d ever had, a kiss that left the taste of blood in his mouth. Because of that kiss, he hardly noticed the Valmierans surging past him toward the scapegrace Count Simanu and his Algarvian protectors.

“Back!” the Algarvian officer shouted in Valmieran. “Back, or you will be sorry for it!” He had mettle; no man without it would have found his voice so fast after making the acquaintance of Raunu’s stone. But the townsfolk and peasants, roused by tradition flouted as perhaps by nothing else, did not go back. More stones flew--Skarnu flung one himself. It missed, which made him curse.

“Down with Simanu!” the Valmierans roared, a cry that echoed through the square. “Down with Simanu! Down with--”

“Blaze!” the Algarvian officer shouted, not about to let the outraged Valmierans overrun his men. “Blaze them down!”

Blaze them down the redheads did. A few men got in among the kilted soldiers, but they did not last long. Both the Algarvians around Simanu and those on the rooftops turned their sticks on the furious Valmierans. As men--and women--began to fall, the rest broke and fled.

Skarnu had to drag Merkela away by main force. “Let me go!” she kept shouting. “I want my crack at them!”

But he would not let her go. “Come on,” he said. “I don’t want you dead, curse it.” As if to underscore his words, a man beside them fell with a groan. Skarnu went on, “The Algarvians and Simanu have just done us a favor. Before, people would put up with them. No more--now they’ve found out what they get when they do. We’ll have five people willing to fight them for every one who would before. Do you see?”

Merkela must have, for she let him lead her out of Pavilosta. But she never admitted he was right, not out loud.

Five

Krasta rounded on her maidservant. “Curse you, Bauska, I ought to box your X i ears,” she said furiously. “It’s only the middle of the afternoon. If you think you can fall asleep on me, you had better think again.”

“I am sorry, milady,” Bauska said around a yawn. “I’m sure I don’t know what’s come over me the past few days.” Wise in the ways of servants, Krasta had no doubt she was lying, but couldn’t tell why. Bauska yawned again, yawned and then gulped. Her complexion, always pale, went distinctly green. After another gulp, she made a strangled choking noise, turned, and dashed out of Krasta’s bedchamber.

When she returned, she still looked wan but somewhat better, as if she’d got rid of what ailed her. “Are you ill?” Krasta demanded. “If you are, you had better not give it to me. Colonel Lurcanio and I are supposed to go to a banquet tomorrow night.”

“Milady...” Bauska stopped. A faint--a very faint--flush darkened her white, white cheeks. She resumed, picking her words with obvious care: “What I have, it is not catching, not between me and you.”

“What are you talking about?” Krasta asked. “If you’re ill, have you seen a physician?”