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?"