Harry Turtledove - Conan of Venarium

"Well, till now," answered Conan in thickly accented Aquilonian — though somewhat less so than when Stercus began coming to Duthil. Like a parrot, the boy could mimic the sounds his betters made.

And, as Stercus realized after a moment, Conan could also ape, or try to ape, the studied insults a grown man might offer. Had a grown man, one of his own countrymen, offered Stercus such an insult, he would have wiped it clean with blood. The code duello was ancient and much revered in Aquilonia. Dirtying his sword with the blood of a barbarous blacksmith's boy never once occurred to Stercus. But he did suddenly spur his horse forward, and the destrier would have trampled Conan if the youngster had not sprung to one side with an agility that belied his loutish size. Laughing, Stercus rode on to the house of Balarg the weaver, the house of Tarla, the house of what he conceived to be his affection.

Conan found his mother up and about, filling a pot from a great water jar and hanging it to boil above the hearth. "You should rest," he told her reproachfully.

"Oh? And if I rest, who will cook our food? I see no slave in the house," replied Verina. "And what's the point of rest? When your father begins to hammer, every stroke seems to go straight through my head." She raised a hand to press it to her temple.

"I'm sorry," said Conan, who could have slept sound and undisturbed were Mordec beating a sword blade into shape six inches from his ear. He set down the burden he had brought from the forest. "See the fine venison we'll have?"

His mother looked at it, sniffed, and coughed. To Conan's relief, the cough did not begin one of her spasms. "This will do for tomorrow, I suppose," she said indifferently. "For stew today, I killed the black hen who'd stopped laying. We may as well get some use out of her."

"Ah," said Conan, and then, a moment later, "All right." He did his best to make himself believe it was.

"If you want to be useful, you can cut up these turnips and parsnips and onions for the stew —and chop up this head of cabbage, too —not too fine, mind you, or it will cook too fast when I put it in," said his mother.

"Of course," said Conan. As the knife tore through the vegetables, he wished it were tearing through Count Stercus' flesh instead. He imagined blood spurting from every cut, not colorless turnip juice. The picture pleased him, so much that he sliced harder than ever.

"Easy, easy," said Verina. 'These are not heads to be set above the doorposts of our house, you know. No need for murder here."

"Oh, but there is," said Conan. "If ever a man wanted killing, that damned Aquilonian is the one."

"I doubt he's any worse than the rest of them," said Verina.

"He is," insisted Conan. "The way he sniffs around — around this village is nothing but a disgrace." He felt uncomfortable mentioning Tarla to his mother.

She understood what he was talking about even when he did not talk about it. With a toss of the head, she answered, "That one is a little hussy. If she weren't, the accursed Aquilonian wouldn't keep sniffing around her. I don't know why you worry about her. She isn't good enough for you."

Conan started chopping the vegetables even more savagely than before. His mother did not think anyone was good enough for him. Conan did not know what he thought. He only knew that, as he passed from boy to man, he cared less with each new day that went by whether a girl was good enough for him. Whether she was interested in him —that was another story, and one in which he had a burning interest.

"But don't mind me," said Verina. "After I'm dead and gone, you and your father will settle things to your own liking, I'm sure." She began to cough again, softly but steadily.

"Here. Drink some water, Mother." Conan hurried to dip some out of the jar and into a mug. He handed it to his mother and stood over her until she did drink. Not so long before, she had been taller than he; he remembered those days very well. Now he towered over her. Before too long, he would overtop his father, too. That was a truly dizzying thought. No one in Duthil could match Mordec's inches.

Mordec came back into the kitchen from the smithy, as if thinking of him were enough to conjure him up. Sweat ran down his fire-reddened face and forearms, washing clean rills through the soot that covered them. "I could do with some water, too, son," he rasped. "Fetch me a cup, if you'd be so kind."

"Aye, Father." Conan found a larger mug and dipped it full.

"My thanks." Mordec drained it in one long draught. Then he went to the water jar himself. He filled the mug again. Instead of drinking from it, he poured it over his head. "Ahhh!" he said: a long exhalation of pleasure. Water ran through his hair, ran through his beard, and dripped from the end of his nose.

"There you go, making part of my kitchen floor into mud," said Verina shrilly. As in the smithy, the floor here was only of rammed earth. When it got wet, it did turn muddy.

But Conan's father only shrugged. "Give it a little while and it will dry, Verina," he said. "As for me, though, I needed that, by Crom. I'm surprised I didn't hiss like hot iron quenched when I poured it over me."

"Did you see Count Stercus today, Father?" asked Conan.

Mordec's mouth thinned to a narrow line. "I saw him, all right. What if I did?"

Conan scowled blackly. "Is that not the face of a man who deserves death?"

"I've seen men I liked better at first glance," answered his father. "But my guess is, where he looks bothers you more than how he looks."

That shaft hit unpleasantly close to the center of the target. Conan flushed so hot that he longed for a mug of water to cool him. Stubborn as always, he said, "He's got no business here."

"He thinks otherwise," said Mordec.

"Well, I think he can — " But Conan broke off. He could not say what he wanted Count Stercus to do, not with his mother listening. He growled in frustration, down deep in his throat.

"What happens to him does not first depend on what you think," said his father. "We've been over this ground before. It depends on what Balarg thinks. He is the girl's father, after all." Verina tossed her head once more. Mordec took no notice of her.

"Why doesn't Balarg do something, then?" cried Conan.

His father frowned. "By now, I wish he would do more myself. And I wish Tarla would stop preening every time she sets eyes on the Aquilonian noble. Balarg should speak to her about that. But the world is as it is. It is not the way we wish it were. I suppose that's why Crom isn't the sort of god who makes a habit of granting prayers."

However earnestly he spoke, Conan hardly heard him. Mordec had presumed to criticize Tarla, which only served to infuriate his son. As far as Conan was concerned, Tarla could do no wrong—this despite the fact that she did not care to speak to him and showed Stercus far more sweetness, just as Mordec had said. Verina started to cough again. Conan scarcely noticed even that sound, which most of the time roused nothing but dread in him.

Mordec guided Verina back to the bedchamber. A glum frown on his heavy-featured face, the blacksmith returned to the kitchen and finished the supper his wife had begun.

At harvest time, almost everything in Duthil stopped. Even folk who did not farm went into the fields to help bring in the oats and rye. The ripe grain had to come in before bad weather could spoil it. On it depended the hopes of the village through the winter and into the following spring.

Conan and Mordec both swung scythes whose blades the blacksmith had forged. So did Balarg. Along with the other women of Duthil, Tarla helped gather the golden grain into sheaves. The Aquilonian soldiers watched the work from their encampment not far away. None of them came out to help the Cimmerians. The first autumn they had been here, and even the second, they had tried to join the villagers. Everyone in Duthil had pretended they did not exist. By now, the invaders had learned their lesson: they might be here, but they were not welcome.