Out of the Darkness

If this doesn’t work, I’ll think of something else, he told himself. Still, this had to be his best chance. There was the building: farther into Eoforwic than he’d recalled. It didn’t look much worse than it had when he and his pals ducked into it to change from Algarvian tunics and kilts to Forthwegian-style long tunics. Ealstan ducked inside. The next obvious question was whether anyone had stolen the uniforms he and his comrades had abandoned.

Why would anybody? he wondered. Forthwegians didn’t, wouldn’t, wear kilts, any more than their Unkerlanter cousins would. Ealstan didn’t think anybody could get much for selling the clothes. And so, with a little luck . . .

He felt like shouting when he saw the uniforms still lying where they’d been thrown when he and his friends got rid of them. He picked up the one he’d worn. It was muddier and grimier than it had been: rain and dirt and dust had had their way with it. But a lot of Algarvians in Eoforwic these days wore uniforms that had known better years. Ealstan held it up and nodded. He could get away with it.

He pulled his own tunic off over his head, then got into the Algarvian clothes. The high, tight collar was as uncomfortable as he remembered. His tunic went into the pack. He took from his belt pouch first a small stick, then a length of dark brown yarn and another of red. He twisted them together and began a chant in classical Kaunian. His spell that would temporarily disguise him as an Algarvian was modeled after the one Vanai had created to let her--and other Kaunians--look like the Forthwegian majority and keep Mezentio’s men from seizing them.

When Ealstan looked at himself, he could see no change. Even a mirror wouldn’t have helped. That was the sorcery’s drawback. Only someone else could tell you if it had worked--and you found out the hard way if it wore off at the wrong time. He plucked at his beard. It was shaggier than Algarvians usually wore theirs. They often went in for side whiskers and imperials and waxed mustachios. But a lot of them were more unkempt than they had been, too. He thought he could get by with the impersonation--provided the spell had worked.

Only one way to learn, he thought again. He strode out of the building. He hadn’t gone more than half a block before two Algarvian troopers walked by. They both saluted. One said, “Good morning, Lieutenant.” Ealstan returned the salute without answering. He spoke some Algarvian, but with a sonorous Forthwegian accent.

He shrugged--then shrugged again, turning it into a production, as Algarvians were wont to do with any gesture. He’d passed the test. Now he had several hours in which to hunt down that son of a whore of a Spinello. The stick he carried was more likely to be a robber’s weapon than a constable’s or an officer’s, but that didn’t matter so much these days, either. If a stick blazed, Mezentio’s men would use it.

Algarvian soldiers saluted him. He saluted officers. Forthwegians gave him sullen looks. No one paid much attention to him. He hurried west toward the riverfront, looking like a man on important business. And so he was: that was where he’d seen Spinello. He could lure the redhead away, blaze him, and then use a counterspell to turn back into his proper self in moments.

He could ... if he could find Spinello. The fellow stood out in a crowd. He was a bantam rooster of a man, always crowing, always bragging. But he wasn’t where Ealstan had hoped and expected him to be. Had the Unkerlanters killed him? How would I ever know? Ealstan thought. I want to make sure he’s dead. And who has a better right to kill him than I do?

“Where’s the old man?” one redheaded footsoldier asked another.

“Colonel Spinello?” the other soldier returned. The first man nodded. Ealstan pricked up his ears. The second Algarvian said, “He went over to one of the officers’ brothels by the palace, the lucky bastard. Said he had a meeting somewhere later on, so he might as well have some fun first. If it’s anything important, you could hunt him up, I bet.”

“Nah.” The first redhead made a dismissive gesture. “He asked me to let him know how my sister was doing--she got hurt when those stinking Kuusamans dropped eggs on Trapani. My father writes that she’ll pull through. I’ll tell him when I see him, that’s all.”

“That’s good,” the second soldier said. “Glad to hear it.”

Ealstan turned away in frustration. He wouldn’t get Spinello today. Braving an Algarvian officers’ brothel was beyond him, even if murder wasn’t. He also found himself surprised to learn Spinello cared about his men and their families. But then he thought, Well, why shouldn’t he? It’s not as if they were Kaunians.