Out of the Darkness

Leudast went after Drogden without hesitation. Fun was one thing, fun at the expense of the fight something else. “Captain?” he called as he went around the house, which was indeed a great deal fancier than any he’d seen in his own village. “You there, Captain?”

Amidst the yellowish brown of dead grass, rock-gray stood out. There lay Drogden, his tunic hiked up to his waist--and a knife deep in his back. There was no sign of the woman he’d had with him, or of his stick. Leudast scrambled away in a hurry--she might be lying in wait, ready to blaze whoever came after Drogden. But no beam bit or charred grass near Leudast. Still, he shook his head in blank dismay. Drogden was a careful fellow, he thought, but this once he wasn‘t careful enough. He shivered. It could have been me.

Skarnu found himself restless and discontented in Priekule. He’d thought that, when he came back after the Algarvians abandoned his beloved city, he would simply resume the life he’d led before the Derlavaian War called him into King Gainibu’s service. But going to one feast after another palled fast. He didn’t mind drinking a bit, but getting drunk night after night seemed a lot less enjoyable, a lot less amusing, than it had in peacetime.

And, of course, he’d gone to those feasts not least looking for some pretty girl or another with whom he might spend the rest of the night. Plenty of pretty girls still came to those affairs. Several all but threw themselves at him: almost all women with reputations for having slept with one Algarvian or another during the occupation. Maybe they think they’ll look better by going to bed with me, he thought. Or maybe they just want to make sure they’ve taken care of both sides.

These days, though, Skarnu wasn’t looking for a pretty girl. He’d found one-- and one with a temper a good deal sharper than his own. “Thank you, my dear,” he told one noblewoman whose offer had left nothing to the imagination, “but it’s about even money whether Merkela would blaze you or me first if I did that.”

Her laughter was like tinkling bells. “You’re joking,” she said. Before Skarnu could even shake his head, she read his eyes. “You’re not joking in the slightest. How very . . . barbaric of your . .. friend.”

“My fiancée,” Skarnu corrected her. “She’s a widow. The Algarvians executed her husband. She hasn’t got much of a sense of humor about these things.” The noblewoman didn’t lose her bright smile. But she didn’t hang around long, either.

A mug of ale in her hand, Merkela came up to Skarnu a moment later. “What was that all about?” she asked, a certain hard suspicion in her voice.

“About what you’d expect.” He put his arm around her. “I know who I’m going home with tonight, though, and I know why.”

“You’d better,” Merkela said.

“I know that, too.” Skarnu chuckled. “I told Skirgaila you’d come after her--or maybe me--with a stick if she didn’t leave well enough alone. She didn’t believe me. Then she did, and turned green.”

“I ought to give her something to remember me by now,” Merkela said, with the same directness she’d used while hunting redheads.

Before she could advance on Skirgaila, Viscount Valnu came up, the usual mocking smile on his bony, handsome face. “Ah, the happy couple!” he said, and contrived to make it sound almost like an insult.

“Hullo, Valnu,” Skarnu said. Valnu didn’t seem to mind the endless rounds of feasts. But then, he’d been coming to them all through the Algarvian occupation, too. Aye, he’d been in the underground. Still, Skarnu was sure he hadn’t let that keep him from having a good time.

His arrival distracted Merkela. She didn’t know what to make of Valnu. But then, a lot of people don’t know what to make of Valnu, Skarnu thought. Skirgaila, meanwhile, had practically painted herself to the chest of another nobleman who hadn’t collaborated with the Algarvians. Skarnu nodded to himself. She wants to repair one sort of reputation, sure enough, and she doesn‘t care about the other sort.

With peasant bluntness, Merkela demanded, “Are you really father to the child Krasta’s carrying?”

Valnu’s blue, blue eyes widened. “Am I, milady? I don’t know. I haven’t looked inside there to tell.” That was bluntness of a sort Merkela wasn’t used to; she flushed. Chuckling, Valnu went on, “Could I be that father, though? Without a doubt, I could be.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Skarnu. “And now I’ll have the poor girl’s outraged brother coming after me with a club.”