Into the Darkness d-1 Page 2

  Parenzo, the Barian town nearest this stretch of the border with Algarve—no, nearest this stretch of the border with the rest of Algarve—lay a couple of miles south of the customs houses. Long before the regiment reached the town, people began streaming out of it toward them. Perhaps the fat Barian customs officer had used his crystal to let the baron in charge of the town know the reunion was now official. Or perhaps such news spread by magic less formal but no less effective than that by which crystals operated.

  Whatever the reason, the road was lined with cheering, screaming men and women and children before the regiment got halfway to Parenzo. Some of the locals waved homemade Algarvian banners: homemade because Alardo had forbidden display or even possession of the Algarvian national colors in his realm while he lived. In the handful of days since the Duke’s death, quite a few Barians had dyed white tunics and kilts with stripes of green and red.

  The crowds didn’t just line the road, either. In spite of Colonel Ombruno’s indignant shouts, men dashed out to clasp the hands of the Algarvian soldiers and to kiss them on the cheeks, as he had done with the customs officers. Women ran out, too. They pressed flowers into the hands of the marching Algarvians, and national banners, too. And the kisses they gave were no mere pecks on the cheeks.

  Tealdo did not want to let go of a sandy-haired beauty whose tunic and kilt, though of perfectly respectable cut, were woven of stuff so filmy, she might as well have been wearing nothing at all. “March!” Panfilo screamed at him. “You are a soldier of the Kingdom of Algarve. What will people think of you?”

  “They will think I am a man, Sergeant, as well as a soldier,” he replied with dignity. He gave the girl a last pat, then took a few steps double-time to resume his place in the ranks. He twirled his mustache as he went, in case the kisses had melted the wax out of it.

  Because of such distractions, the two-mile march to Parenzo ended up taking twice as long as it should have. Colonel Ombruno went from apoplectic at the delay to placid when a statuesque woman in an outfit even more transparent than that of the girl who’d kissed Tealdo attached herself to him and showed no intention of letting go till she found a bed.

  Trasone snickered. “The good colonel’s wife will be furious if word of this ever gets back to her,” he said.

  “So will both his mistresses,” Tealdo said. “The bold colonel is a man of parts—and I know the part he intends using tonight.”

  “The same one you do, once we billet ourselves in Parenzo,” Trasone said.

  “If I can find that same lady again—why not?” Tealdo asked. “Or even a different one.”

  A shadow flicked across his face, and then another. He craned his neck. A flight of dragons, their scaly hides painted red, green, and white, flew down from Algarve into Bari: one of many entering the Duchy, no doubt. High as they flew, the rhythmic whoosh of their wingbeats was easy to hear on the ground.

  Tealdo made as if to clap his hands when the dragons flew past Parenzo. “Dragonfliers always get more than their share of women,” he said. “For one thing, most of them are nobles. For another, they’ve got the lure of the beasts.”

  “Not fair,” Trasone agreed.

  “Not even close to fair,” Tealdo said. “But if they don’t land anywhere close to us, it doesn’t matter.”

  In the town square of Parenzo, the local baron stood on a wooden rostrum. He had the intent look of a man who was either going to make a speech or run for the latrine. Tealdo knew which he would have preferred, but no one consulted him.

  The speech, inevitably, was long and boring. It was also in the fast, clucking Barian dialect, so that Tealdo, who came from the foothills of northeastern Algarve, not far from the Jelgavan border, missed about one word every sentence. Duke Alardo had tried to make the Barian dialect into a language of its own, further sundering his people from the rest of Algarve. He’d evidently had some luck. But when the count led the regiment in singing the national hymn, he and King Mezentio’s soldiers understood one another perfectly.

  Colonel Ombruno ascended to the rostrum. “Noble Baron, I thank you for your gracious remarks.” He looked out over the neat ranks of soldiers. “Men, I grant you permission to fraternize with your fellow countrymen of Parenzo, provided only that you return to this square for billeting before the chimes of midnight. For now—dismissed!”

  He came down and slipped an arm around the waist of the woman in the filmy tunic and kilt. With whoops and cheers, the regiment dispersed. Tealdo did his share of backslapping and wrist clasping with his fellow countrymen, but that wasn’t the only thing on his mind.

  Having been blessed with a good sense of direction, he went farther from the central square than did most of his comrades, thereby reducing his competition. When he walked into a cafe, he found himself the only soldier—indeed, the only customer—in the place. The serving girl was pretty, or even a little more than pretty. Her smile was friendly, or even a little more than friendly, as she came up to him. “What can I get you, hero?” she asked.

  Tealdo glanced at the bill of fare on the wall. “We’re not far from the sea,” he answered, smiling back, “so how about the stewed eels with onions? And a yellow wine to go with them—and a glass for yourself, sweetheart, if you’d like one.”

  “I’d like one fine,” she said. “And after supper, would you like to get your own eel stewed? I have a room upstairs.” Her sigh was low and throaty. “It’s so good to be in Algarve again, where we belong.”

  “I think it’ll be good, coming into Ban,” Tealdo said, and pulled the serving girl down on to his lap. Her arms twined around him. Suddenly, he didn’t care whether he got supper or not.

  Krasta peered into her closet, wondering what she had that was suitable to wear to a declaration of war. That problem had never before vexed the young marchioness, although her mother had surely had to make the same difficult choice at the outset of the Six Years’ War, when Valmiera and her allies last sought to invade and subdue Algarve.

  Her mouth thinned to a narrow line. She could not make up her mind. She picked up a bell and rang it. Let a servant figure out the permutations. That was what servants were for.

  Bauska hurried in. She was wearing a sensible gray tunic and trousers: sensible and boring. “What shall I put on to go to the palace, Bauska?” Krasta asked. “Should I be cautious with a tunic, or show our grand Kaunian heritage by wearing trousers and blouse?” She sighed. “I really fancy a short tunic and kilt, but I don’t suppose I can wear an Algarvian style when we’re declaring war on that windbag, Mezentio.”

  “Not unless you care to be stoned through the streets of Priekule,” Bauska replied.

  “No, that wouldn’t be good,” Krasta said peevishly. She plucked a cinnamon-flavored sweet from a gold-chased bowl on the dresser and popped it into her mouth. “Now—what should I do?”

  Not being a hereditary noble, Bauska had to make her wits work. She plucked at a loose wisp of pale hair—but not so pale as Krasta’s—while she thought. At last, she said, “Tunic and trousers would show solidarity with Jelgava, and to some degree with Forthweg, though folk of Kaunian blood don’t rule there—”

  Krasta sniffed. “Kaunians in Forthweg bore me to tears, with their endless chatter about being oldest of the old.”

  “Those claims hold some truth, milady,” Bauska said.

  “I don’t care,” Krasta said. “I don’t care at all. They’re still dull.”

  “As you say, milady.” Bauska held a finger in the air. “But tunic and trousers might offend the envoys from the islands of Sibiu and from Lagoas, for their ancestors have close ties to the ancestors of the Algarvians.”

  “They all spring from the same pack of barbarian dogs, you mean, even if some of them might be on our side now.” Krasta barely refrained from boxing Bauska’s ears. “You still haven’t told me what I ought to wear!”

  “You cannot know till you reach the palace whether or not you have made the perfect choice,” her servant answered, mild as ev
er.

  “It’s not fair!” Krasta cried. “My brother doesn’t have to worry about things like this. Why should I?”

  “Lord Skarnu has no choice in his apparel because he wears King Gainibu’s uniform,” Bauska said. “I am sure he will make Valmiera proud of his brave service.”

  “I am sure I don’t know what to put on, and you’re no help at all,” Krasta said. Bauska bowed her head. “Get out!” Krasta shouted, and the servant fled. That left Krasta alone with her choice. “I can’t get good help,” she fumed, taking gray wool trousers and a blue silk top from their hooks and putting them on.

  She studied the effect in the mirror. It didn’t satisfy her, but then very little satisfied her. A few pounds lighter, a couple of inches taller… and she probably would have remained dissatisfied, though she didn’t think so. Grudgingly, she admitted to herself that the blue of her tunic set off the almost matching blue of her eyes. She belted the trousers with a rope of white gold and put a thinner rope around her neck. They played up the paleness of her hair.

  She sighed. This would have to do. She went downstairs and called loudly for the carriage. Her estate had sat by the edge of Priekule for centuries, long before all the ley lines around the power point at the heart of the city were charted and exploited, and so stood near none of them. Even if it had, she would not have cared to ride a public caravan to the palace and subject herself to the stares of barmaids and booksellers and other vulgar, common folk.

  She got more stares riding in the carriage, but she didn’t have to notice those; they weren’t so intimate as they would have been in the cramped confines of a caravan coach. The horses clopped along the cobblestones past square modern buildings of brick and glass (at which she sneered because they were modern); past others whose marble colonnades and painted statues imitated forms from the days of the Kaunian Empire (at which she sneered because they were imitations); past some a couple of hundred years old, when the ornate Algarvian architectural influence was strong (at which she sneered because they looked Algarvian); and past a few true Kaunian relics (at which she sneered because they were decrepit).

  The carriage had just passed the famous Kaunian Column of Victory—now at last fully restored after fire damage during the Six Years’ War—when a green-uniformed fellow held up a hand to bar the way. “What is the meaning of this?” Krasta demanded of her driver. “Never mind that oaf—go on through.”

  “Milady, I had better not,” he answered cautiously.

  She started to rage at him, but then the first Valmieran footsoldiers started tramping through the street from which she’d been barred. The river of men in dark green trousers and tunics seemed to take forever to flow past. “If I am late to the palace because of these soldiers, I shall be very unhappy—and so shall you,” she told the driver, tapping her foot on the carpeted floor. She smiled to see him shiver; all her servants knew she meant what she said when she said things like that.

  Great troops of horse cavalry and unicorn cavalry followed the infantrymen. Krasta curled her lip to see unicorns made as ugly as horses. And then she curled her lip again, for a squadron of behemoths followed the unicorns. They were ugly already, and thus did not need to be made so. Except for their horns—as long as those of the unicorns, but far thicker, and wickedly curved—they resembled nothing so much as great, hairy, thick-legged pigs. Their sole virtue was strength: each effortlessly carried not only several riders but also a heavy stick and a thick blanket of mail.

  At last, men and beasts cleared the road. Without Krasta’s having to say a word, the driver whipped the horses up into a gallop as soon as he could. The carriage shot through the narrow, winding streets of Priekule, almost mowing down a couple of women unwise enough to try to cross in front of it. They shrieked at Krasta. She angrily shouted back: had the carriage hit them, she might have been late to the palace.

  As things were, she did arrive in good time. A bowing servant took charge of the carriage. Another helped her alight and said, “If milady the marchioness will be good enough to accompany me to the Grand Hall …”

  “Thank you,” Krasta said, words she seldom wasted on her own servitors. Here in the palace, though, she was not the ruler, nor even of more than slightly above middling rank. The gold and furs and splendid portraits of kings past reminded her of that. So did the princesses and duchesses who looked down their noses at her as she was accustomed to looking down on the rest of the world.

  As soon as she saw a woman who outranked her wearing trousers, she relaxed: even if that proved a mistake, the duchess would get the blame, not she. But, in fact, more women in tunics looked nervous about their outfits than did women in trousers. Safe from censure, she let out a small, invisible sigh of relief.

  Almost all the noblemen coming into the Grand Hall were in trousers and short tunics. Many of them were in uniform, with glittering badges showing both military and social rank. Krasta looked daggers at a man in a tunic and pleated kilt till she heard him speaking Valmieran with a rhythmic, trilling accent and realized he was the minister from Sibiu in his native costume.

  A horn’s clear note pierced the chatter. “Forth comes Gainibu III,” a herald cried, “King of Valmiera and Emperor of the provinces and colonies across the seas. Give him great honor, as he deserves!”

  Krasta rose from her seat and bowed very low, as did all the nobles and diplomats in the Great Hall. She remained standing till Gainibu had taken his place behind the podium at the front of the hall. Like so many of his nobles, he wore a uniform, the chest of which was almost hidden by a great profusion of medallions and ribbons. Some of those showed honorary affiliations. Some were true rewards for courage; while still Crown Prince, he had served with distinction against Algarve during the Six Years’ War.

  “Nobles and people of Valmiera,” he said, while artists sketched his picture and scribes scribbled down his words for news sheets to reach the people whose villages were too poor and too far from a power point to boast even one crystal, “the Kingdom of Algarve, in willful violation of the terms of the Treaty of Tortush, has sent armed invaders into the sovereign Duchy of Bari. The Algarvian minister to Valmiera has stated that King Mezentio has no intention of withdrawing his men from the said Duchy, and has positively rejected my demand that Algarve do so. When this latest outrage is added to the many others Algarve has committed in recent years, it leaves me no choice but to declare that, from this moment forth, the Kingdom of Valmiera considers itself to be at war with the Kingdom of Algarve.”

  Along with the other nobles King Gainibu had summoned to the palace, Krasta applauded. “Victory! Victory! Victory!” The shout filled the Grand Hall, with occasional cries of “On to Trapani!” thrown in for good measure.

  Gainibu held up his hand. Slowly, silence returned. Into it, he said, “Nor does Valmiera go to war alone. Our allies of old are our allies yet.” As if to prove as much, the minister from Jelgava came and stood beside the king. “We too are at war with Algarve,” he said. Krasta understood his words with no trouble, though to her ear they had an odd accent: Jelgavan and Valmieran were so closely related, some reckoned them dialects rather than two separate languages.

  The tunic the swarthy minister from Forthweg wore could not disguise his blocky build. Instead of Valmieran, he spoke in classical Kaunian: “Forthweg, free not least because of the courage of Valmiera and Jelgava, stands by her friends in bad times as well as good. We too war with Algarve.” Formality fell from him like a mask. He abandoned the ancient tongue for the modern to roar, “On to Trapani!” The cheers were deafening.

  “Bari in Algarvian hands is a dagger aimed at Sibiu’s heart,” the minister from the island nation said. “We shall also fight the common foe.”

  But the minister from Lagoas, which had been Valmiera’s ally in the Six Years’ War, stayed silent now. So did the slant-eyed envoy from Kuusamo, which ruled the eastern, and much larger, part of the island it shared with Lagoas. Lagoas was nervous about Kuusamo; Kuusamo was fighting a des
ultory naval war far to the east against Gyongyos—though not, strangely, in any real alliance with Unkerlant. The Unkerlanter minister also sat on his hands, as did the envoys from the minor powers between Unkerlant and Algarve.

  Krasta hardly noticed the omissions. With her allies, Valmiera would surely punish the wicked Algarvians. They had brought the war on themselves—now let them see how they liked it. “On to Trapani!” she yelled.

  Count Sabrino elbowed his way through the crowd in Trapani’s Royal Square, toward the balcony from which King Mezentio would address the people and nobles of Algarve. He wanted to hear Mezentio’s words with his own ears, not read them later on or, if he was lucky, catch them from a crystal some nearby sorcerer was holding.

  People gave way before him, men with nods that would have to make do in the crush for bows, women, some of them, with inviting smiles. Those had nothing to do with his noble rank. They had everything to do with his tan uniform, with the three silver pips of a colonel on each shoulder strap, and, most of all, with the prominent Dragon Corps badge just above his heart.

  Close by, a man with his mustache going from red to white spoke to a younger woman, perhaps a daughter, perhaps a mistress or new wife: “I was here, darling, right here, when King Dudone declared war on Unkerlant all those years ago.”

  “So was I,” Sabrino said. He’d been a youth then, too young to fight until the Six Years’ War had nearly run its course. “People were afraid then. Look now.” He waved, ending with a typically flamboyant Algarvian twist of the wrist. “This might be a festival!”

  “We’re taking back our own this time, and everybody knows it,” the older man said, and his female companion nodded vigorous agreement. Noticing the silver dragon coiled on Sabrino’s chest, the man added, “And the greatest good luck to you in the air, sir. Powers above keep you safe.”

  “For which you have my thanks, poor though they be.” Crush or no crush, Sabrino bowed to both the man and his lady before pressing on.