Harry Turtledove: Out of the Darkness

Skarnu hadn’t thought he would, either. “I didn’t do it for you,” he said harshly. “I did it for honesty’s sake. Take that, do whatever you need to do to register it with the clerks, and get out of my sight.”

“Aye, your Excellency.” The peasant woman didn’t take offense. She dropped Skarnu another unpracticed curtsy. “What they say is true-you are a just man.”

“I hope so,” Skarnu said. “I do try.” He gestured brusquely toward the door to the audience chamber. Latsisa, quite sensibly, left in a hurry. Skarnu sat where he was for a while, wondering if he’d done the right thing. At last, he decided he had, however little he liked it. That fortified him. He had the feeling he’d need fortifying.

Later that afternoon, Merkela asked, “What did the woman want?”

He tensed. “She had a bastard she wanted me to declare legitimate.”

“A bastard?” Merkela was quick on the uptake. “An Algarvian’s bastard?” Skarnu nodded. She said, “I hope you sent her away with a flea in her ear, the miserable, stinking whore.”

“No,” Skarnu said, and braced himself for trouble. “It’s not the little boy’s fault who his father was. If his father were Valmieran, there wouldn’t be any question about making him legitimate. And so I did.”

Merkek gave him a poisonous glare. “That’s terrible,” she said. “It’s not just the boy. You might as well have told the woman it was all right for her to play the slut during the occupation.”

“Even a whore can make a child legitimate,” Skarnu said. “I know that for a fact. It hasn’t got anything to do with whether she’s good or not, only with whether the child is hers and whether anyone else in the family makes a stink. Here, there isn’t anyone else in the family but her and the boy-she was a widow before she took up with the Algarvian.”

“Did the redheads blaze her husband before she spread her legs for this one?” Merkela asked.

“I don’t know the answer to that,” Skarnu said. “I don’t think so.”

“Disgraceful,” Merkela said.

“Is it? I don’t think so,” Skarnu said. “There are thousands of these bastards all over Valmiera. There’s one in this castle-Bauska’s little girl, remember? What are we going to do? Hate all of them for as long as they live? That’s asking for trouble. The war is over. We can start to show a little pity.”

“You can, maybe.” No, Merkela had no yield in her.

With a sigh, Skarnu said, “I have to do things here as I think right. I would have caused more trouble by telling her no than I did by saying aye.”

“I still think you made a mistake,” Merkela told him. That was milder than most of the things she might have said. And she pushed it no further. Maybe, a tiny bit at a time, she was mellowing. If she was, she would never admit it. And Skarnu knew better than to say anything about it, which would only put her back up. Over these past five years, he’d learned to get along with his hot-tempered, stubborn wife. And if that doesn’t suit me for running a marquisate, powers below eat me if I know what would. He gave Merkela a kiss, and wouldn’t answer when she asked him why.

When Ealstan came out of the shop where he and his father had been casting accounts, he looked around in surprise. “School was right over there,” he said, pointing down the street. “I didn’t even notice when we got here this morning- my wits must be wandering.”

Hestan looked over to the ruins of the academy-the Algarvians had used it for a strongpoint. “Not much left there, so I’m not surprised you didn’t notice. And your wits were working fine. If they weren’t, how did you catch that depreciation allowance I missed?”

“Oh. That.” Ealstan shrugged. “I did plenty of those, casting accounts for Pybba-he was a born thief, and he had me run them all the time, whether he deserved them or not.” He shook his head in memory half fond, half furious. The pottery magnate turned underground leader had never done things by halves.

“You’ve spoken of him now and again,” his father said. “He must have been something.”

“Something, aye, but I still wonder what,” Ealstan answered. “I would have liked him better if he’d had any use for blonds, but he was an old-line Forthwegian patriot-Forthwegians against the world, if you know what I mean.”

“What finally happened to him?” Hestan asked.

“He surrendered when we couldn’t hold out in Eoforwic anymore,” Ealstan answered. “The Unkerlanters just sat there on the other side of the Twegen and let Mezentio’s men put us down. The redheads promised to treat the fighters who yielded as proper war captives, but I don’t know what became of him after he went into the captives’ camp. I wouldn’t care to bet whether he’s still alive.”

“Depends on how good the Algarvians are at keeping promises.” His father pointed toward some broadsheets printed in blue and white-Forthweg’s colors- on a nearby wall. “Those weren’t here this morning. I wonder what people are trying to convince us of now.”

Ealstan only shrugged. “I’ve seen a million different broadsheets. I’m not going to get excited about another one.” But, despite his words, he and his father both craned their necks toward the broadsheets as they came up to them.

king Beornwulf comes to Gromheort! the sheets declared. Below the caption was a portrait of Beornwulf, looking younger and handsomer and more kingly than Ealstan remembered him being back in Eoforwic. Of course, Ealstan had been dragged into the Unkerlanter army right after seeing Beornwulf, so his memories were liable to be biased.

“A parade,” his father said, reading the smaller print below the King of Forthweg’s picture. “A week from today.” He glanced over to Ealstan. “We’ll have to make sure we don’t get stuck in traffic-unless you really want to go see him.”

“No thanks-I have seen him,” Ealstan said. “What with what happened to me after I did, I’m not all that excited about doing it again.” As if in sympathy, his wounded leg twinged. He took another look at the broadsheet. “No, we don’t have to worry about it. The day will be a holiday, so nobody will go to work.”

“Nobody who’s looking for an excuse to stay home, anyway.” Hestan took work very seriously indeed.

When Ealstan got home, he found that Vanai and his mother had already heard about the royal visit. “A crier was going through the streets shouting the news,” Elfryth said. “Didn’t you hear him?”

“Uh, no,” Ealstan admitted. Maybe he took work too seriously himself. If the crier had gone by-and he probably had-he’d gone by unnoticed. Ealstan glanced over to his father. Hestan looked blank, too. Who would have imagined columns of numbers could be so alluring? Ealstan thought. He looked from his father to Vanai; at least he had good reason for finding her alluring. “How are you?” he asked.

“Not bad,” she answered. “Breakfast stayed down. So did lunch. If dinner does, too, it will be a good day.”

“Dada!” Saxburh said gleefully, and grabbed Ealstan by the leg, the only part of him she could reach.

He picked her up and gave her a big smacking kiss. She giggled. “Have you been a good girl today?” he asked.

“No.” She sounded proud of herself. Then, as if to prove her point, she reached out for his beard with both hands.

He put her down in a hurry. “What else has she done? Or don’t I want to know?” he asked Vanai.

“About what she usually does.” His wife put a hand up to her mouth to hide a yawn. “The only trouble is, I’m so tired all the time, chasing after her wears me out more than it did.”

Ealstan kissed her. “After you get through the first three months or so, you won’t be so worn out any more. That’s how it worked when you were carrying Saxburh, anyhow.”