Harry Turtledove: Into the Darkness

Just ahead of the color guard stood a squat brick building also flying the Algarvian national banner: the customs house on the border—what had been the border—between Algarve and Bari. Its turnstile was raised, inviting the Algarvian soldiers forward. An almost identical brick building stood a few feet farther south, on the other side of the border. Bari’s banner, a white bear on orange, floated on a staff beside it. Its wooden turnstile still made as if to bar the road into the Duchy.

Out of that second building came a plump man in uniform. His tunic and kilt were of different color and cut from those of the Algarvians: not tan, but a brown with green mixed in. Duke Alardo, powers below curse his ghost, had liked running his own realm; he’d been the perfect cat’s-paw for the victors of the Six Years’ War.

But he was dead now, dead without an heir. As for what his people thought. … The plump man in the mud-and-moss uniform bowed to the Algarvian banner as the color-bearer brought it up to the border. Then he turned and bowed to the Barian banner before running it down from the pole where it had floated for a generation and more. And then he let it fall to the ground and spurned it with his boots. He raised the turnstile, crying, “Welcome home, brothers!”

Tealdo shouted himself hoarse but could hardly hear himself, for every man in the regiment was shouting himself hoarse. Colonel Ombruno, who commanded the unit, ran forward, embraced the Barian—the former Barian—customs officer, and kissed him on both cheeks. Turning back to his own men, he said, “Now, sons of my fighting spirit, enter the land that is ours once more.”

The captains began singing the Algarvian national hymn. The men joined them in a swelling chorus of joy and pride. They marched past the two customs houses now suddenly made useless. Tealdo poked Trasone in the ribs and murmured, “Now that we’re entering the land, let’s see if we can enter the women too, eh, like you said.” Trasone grinned and nodded. Sergeant Panfilo looked daggers at both of them, but the singing was so loud, he couldn’t prove they hadn’t taken part. Tealdo did start singing again: lustily, in every sense of the word.

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.”