After the Downfall (45 page)

He did notice that, just as he tried not to bathe while Drepteaza was in there, she also found ways not to come in while he was. If she was already washing when he came in, she hurried to get out. If he got there before her, she would wait till he finished.

She didn’t seem angry at him, not when they met for language lessons or to talk about gunpowder and other things he knew and the natives didn’t. Maybe she thought he wasn’t just seeing her nude - he was seeing her naked. If that was what was going on - he didn’t want to come right out and ask her - he admired her tact. He also admired her for understanding that foreigners had different ways of looking at things, whether literally or metaphorically.

And, if that was what she thought, she was dead right.

He wished she were interested. Laying Grenye women who gave themselves to him because they were supposed to was better than not laying anybody. But he remembered Velona too well. After going to bed with her, the natives didn’t seem like anything special. And, except as convenient bodies, he didn’t care much about Leneshul or Gishte.

Drepteaza would be different - he was sure of that. It wasn’t just that she was prettier than they were. She was smarter and livelier and....

And she wasn’t interested in him.

You can’t have too much of what you don’t want.
Somebody’d said that where Hasso could hear it, and he thought it was true. Screwing the Grenye women gave him physical relief, yes indeed. But it wasn’t what he wanted, so every time he did it he felt emptier inside. Yeah, Drepteaza would be different. He was sure she would ... except he was what she didn’t want. He wasn’t a Lenello. No matter what he was, he looked like one. For the priestess, the way he looked was plenty.

Not wanting somebody because of how he looked - wasn’t that surprising, not really. Hasso had judged plenty of people by their looks - Frenchmen (and -women), Jews, Ivans, Poles. It was much less enjoyable when other people judged him.

“You worked in Drammen, you say,” he said to Rautat, there in the baths. Anything was better than brooding about all the reasons Drepteaza wanted nothing to do with him.

“That’s right.” Rautat nodded, water dripping off his chin and the end of his nose. “Wanted to pick up the lingo, wanted to learn things the Lenelli know and we don’t. Did it, too, and came home.”

“What do you think of Lenelli, then?” Hasso asked.

“Bunch of big blond pricks,” Rautat said promptly. “No offense.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hasso said. They both grinned.

“Well, it’s the truth. They treat Grenye like donkey turds in the street,” Rautat said. “And the Grenye there, some of them are so beaten down, they feel like they deserve to get treated that way, poor sorry bastards. If they try to stand up, they get knocked down. Is it any wonder so many of ‘em stay plastered all the time? I guess it doesn’t get to you so much that way.”

“What about Lenello women?” No, Hasso couldn’t stay away from the sore spot.

“Big blond cows,” Rautat replied. “Who wants a gal taller than he is?”

Velona was damn near as tall as Hasso. He thought he would have wanted her if she were three meters tall. Whether she would have wanted him then, of course, was a different story. And Queen Pola was almost as tall as he was, too, and he didn’t want her for beans. If she were fifteen or twenty centimeters taller than he was, she would have made him want to run away.

“Maybe you have something there,” he said.

“You better believe it.” Like any good underofficer, Rautat was sure of himself. “I guess Lenello women are all right for you, ‘cause you’re a big blond guy yourself.” He didn’t say
big blond prick
again, which was something. “But me, I pick on somebody my own size.” Hasso thought that was what the idiom meant, anyhow; it might have been bawdier.

He didn’t want to leave the baths. Before long, it would be spring, and then summer. Bucovin would warm up. But it wasn’t warm now, even if Velona had been right: it didn’t get as cold as Russia. Dammit, he couldn’t get her out of his head. He didn’t want to be one of those men who spent years mooning after a lost lover and never did get on with their lives. He didn’t want to, no, but he didn’t know what he could do about it. He’d really and truly fallen in love with her. She’d warned him not to. How were you supposed to listen to a warning like that, though? If you were a male human being, how could you help falling hard for a gorgeous, sexy woman who screwed like there was no tomorrow?

Velona had warned of worse than a broken heart, but that was bad enough. But not many women none he knew of except her - could have come so close to frying his potatoes for him when she was in Drammen and he was in Falticeni. And yet...

If I got back to Bottero’s kingdom and Velona took me back, would I be happy? Would I want to
pick up where we left off?
As soon as he asked the question, he saw the answer.
Bet your ass I would.
It wouldn’t be the same, though. Oh, maybe for her it would. She wouldn’t have changed any - well, a little, or she wouldn’t take him back no matter what. But he’d spent as much time by now in Bucovin as he had in Bottero’s realm. He’d seen the other side of the hill. And, like Scanno, he’d seen things weren’t quite so simple as most Lenelli thought.

Velona and Bottero and the rest of the colonists from across the sea thought Grenye were little and ugly and stupid and mindblind - the last two weren’t the same, but each amplified the other. And they thought that, because of all those things, they could push the Grenye aside like so many animals, domesticating some and killing the rest and using the land they took any way they pleased. Well, the Grenye
were
little. No matter what Rautat thought, Hasso liked Lenello looks better. As far as he knew, the natives
were
mindblind ... but so were almost all of the big blonds. Dammit, the Grenye were
people.
Some of them were stupid, but so were some Lenelli. Lord Zgomot and Drepteaza were as smart as anybody he’d run into in Drammen. Did they deserve to get pushed to the wall?

Hasso wondered why he hadn’t wondered about any of that stuff when he rolled into Russia in a halftrack on 22 June 1941. The Ivans turned out to be as smart as anybody else, too. Did they ever!

Hitler should have spent more time wondering about that stuff, too.

“The other side of the hill...” Hasso muttered.

“What’s that? More of your language?” Rautat asked, which made him realize he’d slipped into German.

“What does it mean?” the Bucovinan went on.

“It means I see Drammen, and I see Falticeni, too,” Hasso answered. “I get to know Drammen and Falticeni both.”

“Well, so have I,” Rautat said. “So have lots of Bucovinans. Not so many Lenelli here - some like Scanno, and some traders, and some spies. Most of them just want to get as much from us as they can. They don’t give a turd what we want.” He cocked his head to one side, as he had a way of doing. “I used to figure you were like that. Now I’m not so sure. Sometimes you act like a human being.”

There it was again -
somebody who speaks our language.
And they
were
still speaking Bucovinan. Hasso managed a wry smile. “Well, I try.”

“Yeah, I know,” Rautat said seriously. “Not a fart of a lot of big blond pricks who do.” He gave back a smile that matched the German’s. “Like I always say, no offense.”

“Tell me another one, you little prick,” Hasso retorted -
little dark prick
just didn’t sound right. Rautat splashed him. He splashed back. They ducked each other and raised hell like a couple of six-year-olds. Hasso had never imagined having fun in Falticeni, but this sure felt like it.
XX

When spring came, King Bottero’s men stopped harrying Bucovin - for a while, anyhow. Hasso wasn’t surprised. Like fall, spring was the mud time.
Rasputitsa,
the Ivans called it. They needed a word for it, because they had a godawful one. All of winter’s snow melted there, and for six weeks nothing moved. It wasn’t so bad here, but it wasn’t good.

And reports came back from the west that the Grenye peasants in Bottero’s realms were kicking up their heels. Hasso felt good and bad about that at the same time. It took some of the pressure off Bucovin, which was why he’d proposed it to Lord Zgomot. But the Lenelli were bound to give the rebellious natives a hard time.

“We have to take care of ourselves first,” Zgomot observed. “And those Grenye aren’t Bucovinans anyway - I’ve said so before.”

“Yes, but they’re people,” Hasso answered.

Zgomot gave him an odd look. “That is the last thing I would expect to hear from a Lenello.” He held up a hand before Hasso could reply. “I know you are not a Lenello. By Lavtrig, Hasso Pemsel, I do. You look like one, though, and you cannot say you do not. And so I naturally think - ”

“I understand, your Lordship. It’s an easy mistake to make. Lots of people here do it.”

Hasso had made plenty of mistakes along those lines himself. He thought he kept his tone smooth here. He must not have done such a good job, though, for Zgomot’s gaze sharpened. “You wish some of those people looked at you in a different way. One person in particular, perhaps.”

“Perhaps,” Hasso agreed tonelessly. How much had Drepteaza told the Lord of Bucovin about that?

What did Zgomot think of it? Whatever it was, it didn’t show on his face. Hasso went on, “Nothing I can do about it. I look the way I look, not any other way.”

“Most of us are guilty of something like that,” Zgomot said. Hasso chuckled in spite of himself; the Lord of Bucovin had a refreshingly cynical view of the world. He added, “After a while, other people might even forgive you for it. One person in particular, again, might.”

“Really?” Again, Hasso did his best not to show too much with that – he hoped - casual-sounding question. Zgomot nodded. Did one corner of his mouth quirk up, just a little? Hasso thought so, but wouldn’t have sworn to it. He decided he needed to know more. “Did she tell you that?” he asked.

“Not in so many words. Women do not like to put things in so many words,” the Lord of Bucovin replied. “But you listen to what they do not say, and you watch them, and after a while maybe you start to know what is going on.” Now he
was
smiling, and smiling crookedly. “And sometimes you are right, and sometimes you are wrong, and that is what makes women women.”

“
Ja
,” Hasso said. “You can’t live with ‘em and you can’t live without ‘em.”

“They say the same kinds of things about us,” Zgomot said. “It would not surprise me if they were right, too.”

“No, wouldn’t surprise me, either,” Hasso agreed. “If you would excuse me, Lord...?”

“Where are you going?” A moment later, Zgomot waved aside his own question. “Never mind. I think I can guess. You will likely find her in the temple at this time of day.”

“Thank you, Lord.” The palace had its own temple. The palace had enough of its own things to be almost a city of its own within Falticeni. With its smithy and bakeries and storehouses and chapel (which Hasso recalled only too vividly), King Bottero’s palace was the same way. Were the Grenye imitating the Lenelli again, or was that just the nature of working palaces? Plenty of the ones back in Europe were cluttered places, too.

Paintings and statues - some in wood, others in stone - of Lavtrig and the other Bucovinan gods ornamented the temple. They weren’t a handsome pantheon like the gods of Greece and Rome, or even an impressively grim one like those of Scandinavia. Some of them looked like the forces of nature they were supposed to represent. Others were monstrous in one way or another. The god of death had a corpse-pale face and fangs like a viper. They got more macabre from there. Drepteaza was lighting a taper in front of a god - or perhaps goddess - whose earthly representation was a lump of brownish sandstone. After murmuring a prayer, she nodded. “Good day, Hasso Pemsel.”

“Good day,” Hasso answered. “What is that deity? What does he - she? - do?”

“Jigan endures,” Drepteaza told him. “Enduring is a useful thing for Grenye to be able to do these days, don’t you think?”

“Useful for anyone,” Hasso said. “Do you - will you - talk to me?” He tried to do his talking in Bucovinan. He still felt more fluent in Lenello, but he wanted his accent, which was not like the one the Lenelli had, to remind her he differed from them.

“I will talk with you,” she said. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Us,” Hasso said.

Drepteaza frowned. “I’m not sure there’s anything to talk about. Should there be anything to talk about?”

“I ... hope so.” Hasso started to say,
I think so,
but changed his mind halfway through. He didn’t want to sound like someone who was insisting. He was in no position to insist. If Drepteaza wanted him dead, all she had to do was speak to Lord Zgomot, and he would die - slowly, if she felt like it.

“No harm in talk,” she said now. “Shall we go out to the garden? No one will bother us there - or if anyone tries, we can send him away with a flea in his ear.” That was how Hasso translated the Bucovinan phrase, anyhow; the literal meaning was
a flea on his ass.
Bucovinan was an earthy language. Gardens were not an idea the natives had had for themselves. Along with so much else, they’d borrowed the notion from the Lenelli. Several nobles in Drammen had formal gardens behind their homes. Lord Zgomot had one on the palace grounds as much to show he was somebody as to admire the flowers.

A gardener trimming bushes took one look at the priestess and the tall foreigner and decided to find something to do in a different part of the palace. He was no fool; in his muddy sandals, Hasso would have done the same thing. Or maybe the fellow was - had he hung around, Hasso would have paid him to go away.

Hasso didn’t recognize many flowers. Big stretches of the garden weren’t blooming yet; not everything was even green. Drepteaza sat down on a bench of some hard, smooth reddish wood. After a moment, Hasso sat down beside her. She didn’t move away on the bench, which was - or at least might have been - reassuring.

She seemed as self-possessed - to say nothing of self-assured - as usual. “Well, Hasso Pemsel, what do you want to say?” she asked.