Harry Turtledove - After the downfall

"And what do you do — what did you do — afterwards?" Hasso asked.

"I pitched his sorry arse into a hog wallow, and better than he deserved, too," Scanno answered. "I've had a couple of other run-ins with those walking chamber pots since, and they've never been able to bother me."

"I see." Actually, Hasso wished he did. He'd taken Scanno's immunity to magic as part and parcel of what made spells falter near Falticeni. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was personal. Well, that could be interesting, too. "How do you suppose this happened? Spells work on most Lenelli, yes?"

"Sure," Scanno said. "I always figured it was because I was such a tough bastard." He would have seemed tougher if his hands didn't shake and if his eyes didn't look like a couple of pissholes in the snow.

Instead of pointing that out, Hasso said, "If you ever see why, talk to me. Talk to Drepteaza. Talk to Lord Zgomot. The Bucovinans want to know — they need to know — how to keep magic from biting on them when they get far from Falticeni."

"Tell me about it, the poor, sorry bastards." Scanno laughed. "Can you see Bottero's face if it didn't bite?" That made Hasso laugh, too, because he could. Then Scanno said, "Boy, wouldn't it make the goddess on earth pee in her drawers?"

Hasso didn't deck him. That only proved he had even more discipline than he'd ever imagined. He did make a growling noise down deep in his throat — he couldn't help it. The worst of it was knowing Scanno was right. If magic did fail against Bucovin, Velona would be incandescent.

She was gone, lost. She wanted him dead. He wanted her back. The Grenye in Drammen had plenty of reasons to get drunk. So did Hasso, in Falticeni.

Lenello raiders went on harrying Bucovin's western villages all through the winter. They kept some of the towns they seized. That bothered Lord Zgomot, who said, "They are going to jump off from those places when they really pick up the war again come spring."

"Well, of course," Hasso said when word of the Lord of Bucovin's comment got to him through Drepteaza. He heard everything second- and third- and fifth-hand, when he heard of it at all.

"This is not what the Lenelli usually do," she said.

"I wonder why not," Hasso said. "Are they really so stupid? I did not think so when I was with them."

That got him summoned before Zgomot. "Did you give the blonds the idea of biting and holding on instead of biting and letting go?" the Lord of Zgomot demanded.

"I don't know, Lord," Hasso answered. "I don't think so. I don't remember talking about it with them, not like that. King Bottero just thinks one fast campaign will break Bucovin." Hasso had thought the same thing. Why not? He hadn't known any better. Hitler had thought the same thing about the Russians. Well, so much for that. So much for this, too.

"Maybe you made them think about the way wars are supposed to work," Lord Zgomot said. "Lavtrig knows you've done that with us. We don't see things the way we did before we caught you — all the gods know that's so."

Was that praise? Hasso supposed it was, though he suspected the Lord of Bucovin wasn't sure, either. "You were going to send out raiders, Lord," the German remembered. "Any luck with them?"

"Not much," Zgomot answered. "The border is… the border. Magic works there — it works just fine. We could not gain surprise."

"Ah." Hasso wondered whether this clever little Grenye would ask him to give the raiders some kind of sorcerous smoke screen. He thought he might be able to figure out how to do that. He wasn't a trained wizard, but he'd seen that he could make magic work.

But Zgomot asked him nothing of the sort. Hasso remembered what he'd heard about the natives and sorcery. A wizard who'd work magic for them would decide that, as the seeing man in the country of the blind, he ought to show them which way they should go. And, if they didn't feel like going that way, he would try to make them do it. No, their experience with sorcery was far from happy.

Instead, the Lord of Bucovin said, "Will we have enough gunpowder to fight the big blond bastards — excuse me, Hasso Pemsel: the big blond Lenello bastards — when they invade us this spring? Because they will — or do you doubt it?"

"No, Lord, I don't," Hasso answered. For a long time, Hitler had disguised his aggressive plans. Bottero didn't waste any time trying. The Lenelli were very direct in their dealings with Grenye. You have it. I want it. I'm going to take it.

"The gunpowder?" Zgomot prompted.

"Sorry, Lord. My thoughts go somewhere else. Yes, we should have enough. If their wizards figure out how to set it off at a distance, though… What we have then is trouble."

Lord Zgomot took that in stride. "When did Grenye have anything but trouble since the big blond bastards first washed ashore here? Never once. And there are all kinds of trouble, too. You know King Bottero is married to old King Iesi's daughter?"

Hasso knew Queen Pola came from the Lenello realm just north of Bottero's. He'd forgotten Iesi's name, if he ever knew it. But he could say, "Yes, Lord," without stretching things too far.

"Well, I hear Iesi may move east, too," the Lord of Bucovin said. "I don't know whether his army will come separately under his command or march along with King Bottero's in one big host. But they may move."

"If they come by themselves, we should hit them first," Hasso said.

"Oh? Why?"

"Because Bottero already knows some of my tricks," the German replied. "We can surprise Iesi and his men — or I hope we can, anyhow. If we drive him back, then we deal with Bottero." Try to deal with Bottero. But he kept that to himself.

"You don't think Bottero will have told Iesi about the kinds of things you do?" That will have told perplexed Hasso for a moment; he didn't hear a future perfect every day. Before he could answer, Zgomot took care of it for him: "No, of course he won't. If he ever had to fight Iesi or one of the other blond kings, he would want to be able to give him a surprise. Fair enough. If Iesi comes by himself, we try to hit him first and knock him out of the fight."

He might be mindblind, but he was nobody's fool. Neither was Bottero, come to that. If you were going to make a halfway decent king, brains were an asset.

"Do you let me fight your enemies, Lord?" Hasso shook his head in exasperation. He felt mindblind himself, fighting with languages he didn't speak well enough. "Will you let me fight your enemies, Lord?"

Zgomot looked pained. Hasso knew things he didn't and could do things he couldn't. That made the Wehrmacht officer valuable. It made using him necessary and losing him unfortunate. It also made him dangerous. As if that weren't obvious enough anyway, Hasso came in a large, blond package.

"I do not want you hurt." The Lord of Bucovin picked his words with care. You didn't want to offend the captive genie, lest it turn on you. After gnawing at the inside of his lower lip for a moment, Zgomot added, "I do not want to take the chance that you will desert to the Lenelli again, either."

He must have decided that Hasso could see that he could see the possibility. It was, in the mildest possible way, a compliment. It was one Hasso could have done without. "If you don't trust me to fight, why do you trust me to make gunpowder for you?" he asked. "Maybe I blow the palace to the sky." He'd thought about it.

"Maybe you will," Zgomot said steadily. "My thinking is, you are less likely to do that if you stay inside the palace yourself."

Hasso gave him a crooked grin. "My thinking is, you're right." He remembered Russians who'd killed without caring for their own lives. Before things really fell to pieces in the Reich, the papers had stories about Japanese pilots who flew their airplanes into American warships. Hasso admired their courage without wanting to emulate it. He liked living. Dying at the age of 103, shot by an outraged husband, struck him as a good way to go.