Harry Turtledove - Through the Darkness

“Your versatility does you credit,” the Algarvian officer said. Valnu sniggered and waved him out of the entry hall and into the enormous front room.

An Algarvian musician tinkled away on a harpsichord. That made Krasta want to yawn. She took a glass of sparkling wine from a maidservant who circulated with a tray. The servant was pretty, and wore the shortest kilt Krasta had ever seen on anyone, man or woman. When she bent down to give an Algarvian in a chair a glass of wine, Krasta noted she wore nothing under the tunic. Quite a lot of Valnu’s male guests noticed that, too. Krasta muttered under her breath. She was a long way from shocked, but didn’t care for such blatant invitations to infidelity. As if men needed them!

“Can’t you afford drawers on what he pays you, dear?” she asked when the maidservant came by again. Valnu was in earshot. She’d made sure of that.

But the serving girl only sighed and replied, “He pays me more when I don’t wear them, milady.” Krasta scowled and turned away. There was no sport in an answer like that.

And there was no sport at the entertainment, either. It was as flat as a glass of sparkling wine left out too long. Now and again, it would come close to livening up. But then someone somewhere in the big room would say the name “Sulingen,” and the freeze that had come to the Algarvian wing of Krasta’s mansion would fall over the entertainment as well. It was as frustrating as a clumsy lover’s caresses.

Having drunk several glasses of wine by the time she noticed that, Krasta wasn’t shy about tracking down Valnu and complaining. “You’ll ruin your reputation for proper parties as thoroughly as you’ll ruin that serving wench’s reputation for-well, for anything,” she said.

Valnu laughed at her. “Darling, I didn’t think you thought servants could even have reputations to ruin.”

In the normal run of things, Krasta didn’t. But this wasn’t normal. She said, “She’ll have more fingerprints on her backside than a shop window does when they put a big SALE! sign in it.”

“You’d better be careful,” Valnu warned her, laughing still. “People will say you’re growing a conscience, and where would you be then?”

“I know what I’m doing,” Krasta said loudly. She waved a forefinger under Valnu’s long, blade-thin nose. “And I know what you’re doing, too, powers below eat me if I don’t.”

She meant no more than that he was mocking her. To her astonishment, he reached out and clapped the palm of his hand over her mouth, hissing, “Then shut up about it, will you, you stupid little slut?”

Krasta opened her mouth to bite him. He jerked his hand away. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“I might ask you the same question,” he replied. Suddenly, his lean face acquired a grin that seemed altogether too wide for it. “Instead, I think I’ll do this.” He gathered her in and kissed her with a passion that struck her as altogether unfeigned. She started to bite his probing tongue as she’d almost bitten his hand, but discovered she was enjoying herself. With a small, nasty purr, she pressed her body against his.

He made the most of the embrace, clutching her backside with both hands and sliding his fingers toward her secret place. She rocked her hips forward and back and from side to side. Whatever Viscount Valnu’s other tastes might have been, she was utterly certain he wanted her at the moment.

And she wanted him, too, as much to score one off Colonel Lurcanio as for himself. Having an Algarvian protector was useful, even vital at times-all the more reason for Krasta to chafe at the short leash Lurcanio set her. Or so she told herself, at any rate.

“Well, here we have a charming picture, don’t we?”

The amused contempt in that trillingly accented voice made Krasta spring away from Valnu like a soaked cat. She stared at Lurcanio with fear and defiance in her eyes. Fear won, and quickly. Pointing an accusing finger at Valnu, she exclaimed, “He molested me!”

“Oh, I doubt it not at all.” Lurcanio rocked back on his heels as he laughed mockingly. “Were you any more molested, you would have been wearing lingerie instead of your out-on-the-town clothes.”

“My dear Count-” Valnu began.

Colonel Lurcanio waved him to silence. “I am not your dear, regardless of whether or not certain of my countrymen can make the same statement. I do not particularly blame you-a man will try to get it in. You, I gather, will try to get it in almost anywhere.” He paused. “Aye? You still wish to say something, Viscount?”

“Only that variety, as I am in the habit of remarking, is the life of spice.”

“A point to which my sweet companion would surely agree.” Lurcanio turned to-and turned on-Krasta and bowed. Algarvians could be most wounding when they were most polite. “And now, milady, what have you got to say for yourself?”

Krasta didn’t usually think fast, but self-preservation gave her strong incentive. Haughtily drawing herself up, she replied, “Only that I was having a good time. Isn’t that why one comes to an entertainment: to have a good time?”

Lurcanio bowed again. “I do admire your nerve. Your good sense leaves something to be desired. I am certain I am not the first to tell you this. I am just as certain I am unlikely to be the last. But I am also certain that if you embarrass me in public, I must do the same to you.” Without warning, without wasted motion, he slapped her face.

Heads whipped around at the sound of the slap. Then, very quickly, everyone pretended not to notice. Such things happened now and again. Krasta had seen them. She’d laughed at women foolish enough to get caught. Now, no doubt, other women would laugh at her.

She hated that. But she didn’t think of slapping Lurcanio back, not even for a moment. She’d slapped him once, when she still thought of him as a social inferior rather than a conqueror. He’d slapped her back then, stunning her and establishing a dominance he’d held ever since. What would he do if she dared rebel in any real way? She didn’t have the nerve to find out.

To Valnu, Lurcanio said, “As for you, sir, try your luck elsewhere.”

Valnu bowed low. He wore an Algarvian-style kilt tonight, as he often did, and he also aped Algarvian manners. “As you say, my lord Count, so shall it be.”

“Of course it shall.” Now Lurcanio sounded as smug as if Algarve truly were on top of the world in every way, as if her armies had not fallen short outside of Cottbus the winter before, as if King Swemmel’s men weren’t squeezing another Algarvian army in a mailed fist now, far off in the southwest.

He believed in himself. Because he did, he made Krasta believe in him, too. And he made her forget all about whatever it was she’d said that had so alarmed Valnu.

In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on the red mark on her cheek. Then she had to spend more time repairing her powder and paint. She got drunk afterwards, as she often did at entertainments, but stayed more circumspect than she was otherwise likely to have done.

After the driver brought her and Lurcanio back to the mansion through the cold, slippery streets of Priekule, the Algarvian went up to her bedchamber with her. That took her by surprise; she’d thought he would sleep in his own bed as a sign of his anger. Instead, he used hands and mouth to bring her to a quick, abrupt peak of pleasure. He was always scrupulous about such things.

And then he surprised her again by rolling her onto her belly. When he began, she let out an indignant squawk. “Be still,” he snapped. “Let us call this … a salute to Valnu.”

She had to lie there and endure it. It hurt-not too much, but it did. And it humiliated her, as Lurcanio no doubt intended. When it was over, he patted her on one bare cheek and laughed a little, then dressed and left the bedchamber. Go ahead and laugh, Krasta thought. You don’t know everything there is to know, and I’ll never, ever tell you.