Doldasai made a peculiar noise, half bitter mirth, half. . . disappointment? Leofsig gave her a couple of coins. “Here. Take this,” he said. “I wish I could afford to give you more. I don’t want anything from you.” That wasn’t quite true, but it kept things simpler.
She stared down at the small silver coins, then abruptly turned her back on him. “Curse you,” she said, her voice thick and muffled. “I didn’t think anyone could make my cry any more, not after everything I’ve had to do. Go on, Leofsig”--she knew who he was, all right--”and if the powers above are kind, we’ll never see each other again.”
He wanted to help her with something more than a little money. For the life of him, though, he couldn’t think of what he might do. And so, ingloriously, he left. He didn’t look back over his shoulder, either, for fear he would see Doldasai propositioning some other Forthwegian who might part with cash for a few minutes’ pleasure.
“You made good time coming home,” Elfryth remarked as she unbarred the front door to let him in.
“Did I?” he said, not wanting to tell his mother he’d fled Doldasai as the Forthwegian army had ended up fleeing the Algarvians.
“Aye, you did.” To his relief, his mother didn’t seem to notice any false note in his voice. “You have time to wash a little”--which meant he remained rank in spite of the rain shower--”and drink a glass of wine before supper. Conberge even came up with some meat to mix in with the peas and beans and pulses.”
“What kind of meat?” Leofsig asked suspiciously. “Roof rabbit?” He meowed.
Elfryth shook her head. “The butcher called it mutton, but I think it’s got to be goat. It’s been in the pot for hours, and it isn’t close to tender yet. But even tough meat is better than no meat at all.”
Leofsig couldn’t argue with her. He wondered how long it had been since Doldasai and her family had eaten meat. His family was going through hard times. Hers was going through catastrophe. He grabbed a towel off the rack and went off to use the pitcher and basin in his room. It wouldn’t be a bath, but would be better than nothing.
Ealstan looked up from a page of work: not problems from their father, for once, but verses of a poem. “Why the grim face?” Leofsig’s younger brother asked.
“I didn’t know I had one,” Leofsig answered as he started to wash.
“Well, you do,” Ealstan said. “How come?”
“Do you want to know why?” Leofsig considered. Ealstan wasn’t a baby anymore. “I’ll tell you why. I ran into Daukantis’ daughter coming home--remember, the olive-oil merchant?” He told the tale in a few words.
Ealstan clicked his tongue between his teeth. “That’s hard,” he said. “I’ve heard other stories like it, but not anybody we know. You ought to tell Father--if anyone can do anything for them, he can.”
“Aye, that’s so,” Leofsig said through the towel he was using to dry his face. He looked over it at his brother. “It’s a good idea, in fact. You’re getting a man’s wits faster than I did, I think.”
“Living under the redheads pushes everybody along faster--except for the people it pushes under, like the Kaunians,” Ealstan said. “Did you see the broadsheet for what the Algarvians are calling Plegmund’s Brigade?”
“Aye, I saw it. You’d have to be blind not to see it; they’ve slapped up enough copies,” Leofsig answered. “Disgusting, if you ask me.”
“Well, I think so, too, but Sidroc says he’s dead keen on joining.” Ealstan held up a hand before Leofsig could burst like an egg. “I don’t think he loves Mezentio. I think he just wants to go out there and kill something, and this would give him the chance.”
“What do Father and Uncle Hengist have to say about it?” Leofsig asked.
“Uncle Hengist was shouting at him just before you got here,” Ealstan said. “He thinks Sidroc’s flown out of his bush. Father hasn’t said anything that I know of; maybe he figures Sidroc is Hengist’s worry.”
With practicality so cold-blooded it alarmed even him, Leofsig said, “Maybe he ought to join Plegmund’s Brigade. If he’s off marching on Cottbus, he can’t very well tell the Algarvian constables here that I broke out of the captives’ camp.”
His brother looked horrified. Before Ealstan could say anything, Conberge came by in the courtyard, calling, “Supper’s ready.” Ealstan hurried off to the dining room with transparent relief. As Leofsig followed, he decided he was just as well pleased not to have that conversation go any further, too.
Whatever the meat in the stew was, it wasn’t mutton. He knew it at the first bite. It might have been goat. For all he could prove, it might have been mule or camel or behemoth. It didn’t taste spoiled; he’d had to choke down spoiled meat in the army and in the captives’ camp. He wouldn’t have taken Felgilde to a fancy eatery to dine off this, but it helped fill the enormous hole in his belly.
He kept glancing over at Sidroc. His cousin seemed as intent on eating as he was himself. Leofsig wondered if he really wanted Sidroc to join the Algarvians’ puppet force. If Sidroc joined of his own free will, what could be wrong with that?
After a sip of wine, Leofsig s father turned to Uncle Hengist and remarked, “The news sheets talk about heavy fighting in the west.”
“Aye, Hestan, they do,” Hengist said. Neither of them looked at Sidroc. Hestan was less ostentatious about not looking at him than Hengist was. Up until today, Hengist would probably have added some comment about how the Algarvians were still moving forward in spite of the hard fighting. Now he just nodded, still not looking at his son. He wanted Sidroc to think about what hard fighting meant. The trouble with that was, Sidroc had never experienced it. Leofsig, who had, hoped he never did again.
In a musing voice, Hestan went on, “Heavy fighting’s bound to mean a lot of men dead, a lot of men hurt.”
“Aye,” Hengist said again. Again, he said no more. A couple of days before, things would have been different, sure enough.
Sidroc spoke up: “A lot of Unkerlanters stomped down into the mud, too. You’d best believe that.” He glowered at Hestan, as if defying him to disagree.
But Leofsig’s father only nodded. “Oh, no doubt. Still, would King Mezentio want Forthwegians to do his fighting for him if he weren’t running low on redheads?”
“If we don’t show we can fight, how will we ever get our kingdom back?” Sidroc said. “If you ask me, that’s what Plegmund’s Brigade is all about.”
Now no one else at the table wanted to look toward Sidroc. “Fighting is all very well,” Leofsig said at last, “but you have to remember for whom you’re fighting and against whom you ought to be fighting.” He didn’t see how he could put it any more plainly than that.
Ealstan found a way. Very quietly, he asked, “Cousin, who killed your mother? Was it Swemmel’s men or Mezentio’s?”
Uncle Hengist drew in a sharp breath. Sidroc stared. In spite of everything he could do--and he fought hard--his face began to work. His eyes screwed shut. He let out a great sob. Tears poured down his cheeks. “Curse you, Ealstan!” he shouted in a grief-choked voice. “Powers below eat you, starting at the toes!” He sprang to his feet and ran blindly from the room. A moment later, the door to the bedchamber he shared with his father slammed. In the silence enveloping the table, Leofsig could hear his weeping even through the thick oak portal.
Leofsig leaned toward Ealstan and murmured, “That was well done.”
“Aye, lad, it was,” Uncle Hengist said. He shook himself. “Sometimes we lose track of what matters. You did right to remind Sidroc--and me, too, I’ll own.”