Into The Darkness

But, regardless of the duke's shortcorruings, Skarmi spruced himself up and made his way back toward the village of Bonorva. The village was a good deal more battered than it had been when he'd first seen it from the woods that now lay on the far side from the front. The duke had taken up residence in one of the larger houses there. It still looked scarred and abused: no point cleaning it up and offering the Algarvians a target. Skarmi chuckled as he drew near. After he wrote to Krasta, she'd be sick with jealousy at the exalted company he was keeping.

When he went inside the unprepossessing building, Skarmi might have been transported to another world, the world in which the

Valmieran nobility had idled away its time in Priekule and on estates out in the provinces. Lights blazed; dark cloth over the windows and behind the door kept it from leaking out and drawing the notice of Algarvian dragons overhead or the cunning snoops who kept trying to spy targets for the enemy's egg-tossers.

Marstalu, the Duke of Klaipeda, stood just inside the door-way greet ing new arrivals. He was a portly man in his late fifties, his complexion very pink, his hair gone white as snow: he looked like everyone's favorite grandfather. His uniform put Skarmi in mind of those the Kaunian

Emperors had won. So did the brilliant constellation of medals - some gold, some silver, some bejeweled, some with ribbons like comets' tails - spangling his chest.

Skarmi bowed low, murmuring, "Your Grace."

"Good to see you, lad. Good to see you," the duke said, beaming in a grandfatherly way. "Make yourself at home. Plenty of good things to eat and drink here - better than you'll find at the front, that's certain."

"No doubt, sir." Skarmi felt out of place here despite Marstalu's friendly words. Most of the other noble officers present glittered hardly less than their commanders. Skarmi's unadorned uniform made him look and feel like a servant. It also made him feel like a real soldier in amongst a flock of popinjays. Perhaps that was what made him ask, "Sir, when will the attack against the Algarvian works go in?"

"When all is in readiness," Marstalu answered easily. That might mean anything. It might mean nothing. Skarmi suspected it meant nothing here. The duke went on, "Perhaps we could be more zealous now had we reached this position before the Algarvians finished their dismantling of Forthweg."

Skarmi didn't know what to say to that. Marstalu was saying the same thing he had to Raunu. Raunu hadn't thought it would make a difference. Skarmi had to hope the sergeant was right and he and the commander of the army wrong. But, had the Duke of Klaipeda wanted to reach the fortified belt before Forthweg collapsed, he should have pushed harder. He could have. Of course, he couldn't have known

Algarve's attack would shatter Forthweg, but everything Skarmi had ever soaked up about the military art suggested that wasting time was never a good idea.

Pushing Marstalu further would accomplish nothing but getting him on the commander's black list. He could see as much at a glance. That being so, what better choice than enjoying the choice viands and potables set out on the tables before him? He sat down between a pair of bemedaled colonels. One of them jabbed a serving fork into the large, savory bird lying on a tray in front of him. Juices spurted. "Have some, Captain," he said. "As you can see, we've finally gone and cooked Algarve's goose."

The colonel on the other side of Skarmi laughed so uproariously at that sally, Skarmi was convinced he'd already emptied the crystal goblet before him several times. Lifting his own wine goblet, Skarmi said, "May we serve the king as we have served the goose."

"Oh, well said, young fellow, well said," both colonels exclaimed in the same breath. They drank. So did Skarmi. He carved off a thick slice of [..in a t mean othing w had ntling e same ake a nd the anted d have known ad ever never a ng him e. That otables pair of e large, e some, cooked at that..].

I goblet [..d, "May ed..] in the slice of goose, then spooned a good helping of parsmips seethed in cream and dotted with butter on to his plate. The salad was of fine lettuces and chopped scallions dressed with wine vinegar and walnut oil.

One of the colonels boasted about the speed of the fine horses he had liberated from an Algarvian noble's stables. The other boasted about the agility of the fine mistress he had liberated from an Algarvian noble's bed chamber. Skarmi tried to boast about the fighting qualities of the men in his company. Neither colonel seemed the least bit interested. They were fascinated with each other's brags, though. Sometimes it was hard to ten which one was talking about his new acquisition.