Vanai sighed. “I don’t think that has anything to do with why it might be out of fashion. If people thought like that, we never would have had much trouble. But the Algarvians hated Kaunians, and everybody hates the redheads right now, so whatever they did must have been wrong.”
With a sigh of his own, Ealstan nodded. “You’re probably right. I wish you weren’t, but you probably are.” Elfryth called them to supper then, which meant they dropped it. That also meant they had to capture Saxburh, who sometimes thought having to sit in a high chair was as cruel a punishment as going to the mines. This was one of those nights, which made supper, however tasty, something less than a delightful meal.
When Ealstan went off to cast accounts with Hestan the next morning, he noticed strangers on the streets of Gromheort-hard-faced, businesslike men who eyed how traffic went and who cast unhappy, suspicious glances toward every balcony and window above street level. After he spotted two or three of them, a lamp went on inside his head. “They must be King Beornwulf’s bodyguards, coming to make sure nothing goes wrong when he has his parade.”
“Mm, I daresay you’re right,” Hestan replied. “How-efficient of the new king.” He and Ealstan both made faces. Beornwulf was Swemmel’s puppet, and everyone knew it. The choice was between Swemmel’s puppet and Swemmel undiluted by a puppet, and everyone knew that, too. Swemmel was rumored to think his own shadow plotted against him. If Beornwulf imitated him there, too, why should anyone be surprised?
More and more of Beornwulf’s bodyguards came into Gromheort as the parade grew nearer. The afternoon before the King of Forthweg was supposed to go through the town, Ealstan stopped in surprise. “What is it, son?” Hestan asked.
“I know one of those fellows,” Ealstan answered. “Why don’t you go on ahead? I’d like to talk to him, but I don’t want him to see what any of my kin look like.”
His father plainly wanted to argue with him. After just as plainly wrestling with himself, Hestan didn’t. “You make altogether too much sense,” he said.
“I wonder where I got that from,” Ealstan said. “Go on. I won’t be long.” Shaking his head and muttering to himself, Hestan went up the street.
After his father had turned a corner and got out of sight, Ealstan walked up to the bodyguard, stuck out his hand, and said, “Hello, Aldhelm. It’s been a little while.”
The guard studied him in some concern; he obviously hadn’t expected to be recognized. Then his face cleared. “Ealstan, by the powers above!” He clasped Ealstan’s hand. “I didn’t know you were here. Last I saw you, we were both trying not to surrender to the cursed Algarvians back in Eoforwic.”
“That’s right.” Ealstan nodded. “I managed to stay out of their hands, but I, ah, went into the Unkerlanter army a little while later.” He didn’t want to say anything too nasty about that, not if Aldhelm served Beornwulf and Beornwulf served Swemmel.
“Knew you weren’t around.” Aldhelm nodded himself. He looked Ealstan up and down. “Don’t mean to pry, but did I notice a limp?”
“Aye,” Ealstan said. “I got blazed in the leg in the street fighting here, and the Unkerlanters discharged me. I’ve been here ever since.” He didn’t say that Gromheort was his home town. True, he had an eastern accent, but this wasn’t the only city in the eastern part of Forthweg. He went on, “It’s not so bad these days. I get around on it pretty well.”
“That’s good. Glad to hear it.” Aldhelm sounded more or less sincere. He continued, “You can guess what I’m up to these days.”
“Unless I’m daft, you’re one of Beornwulf’s men,” Ealstan said, and his former comrade in arms nodded again. Ealstan asked, “How does serving the king stack up against serving Pybba?”
“Ah, Pybba.” A reminiscent smile spread over the guard’s face. “He was a whoreson and a half, wasn’t he?”
“He sure was. But he was our whoreson.” Ealstan sighed. “I suppose the fornicating redheads blazed him once they got their hands on him, even if they promised they wouldn’t. You never could trust those bastards.”
“No, you couldn’t,” Aldhelm agreed, “but they didn’t break their word there. You’ve been here in Gromheort all this time, have you?” He waited for Ealstan to nod, then continued, “After the war ended, Pybba came back to Eoforwic. He was skinny as a pencil and he’d lost most of this teeth, but he came back.”
“Running his pottery again, is he? Good for him,” Ealstan said.
But Aldhelm shook his head. “No, he’s dead now. The Unkerlanters blazed him for treason, just a few weeks after he got home.” He scowled: the expression of a man who feared he’d said too much. Sure enough, the next words out of his mouth were, “Listen, it’s good to see you, but I’ve got business to take care of here. So long.” He hurried away.
Pybba, dead? Pybba, surviving Mezentio’s men to perish at the hands of Swemmel’s? Slowly, Ealstan nodded. Pybba had risen against Algarve without leave and without help from Unkerlant. If that didn’t make him a man who might rise against Unkerlant itself, what would? It was logical, if you looked at it the right-or was it the wrong? — way.
“Powers above,” Ealstan said softly. But it wasn’t the news of Pybba’s death that made him exclaim, or not that alone. Six years earlier, he’d been here, right here, when the news racing through Gromheort that Alardo, the Duke of Bari, was dead had caught up with him: the death that had sparked the Derlavaian War. A death before the war, a death after the war. Ealstan kicked a stone. It spun away. And too cursed many deaths in between.
He hurried after Hestan. Back at home, Elfryth and Saxburh and Vanai would be waiting.