“I think so, too,” Zgomot said. “But we could use a hedgehog against the Lenelli even without catapults and gunpowder, could we not?”

“No doubt about it, Lord.” And no doubt that Zgomot was one plenty sharp cookie indeed. Hasso added, “Archers would need better bows to fight knights. They would need training, too.” He knew of English longbows, but he didn’t know much about them.

“So this is not something we can do right away?” Zgomot said.

“No,” Hasso admitted. “War is a trade like any other. You have to learn how if you want to do it well.”

The Lord of Bucovin sighed. “I suppose so. If we get beaten before we can learn, though…” He sighed again. “That only means we should have started sooner, I suppose.” He was right, however little good being right might do him.

Hasso was eyeing the dragon’s tooth in the corridor on the way to the throne room when Drepteaza came up. She stopped when she saw him. “So,” she said. “You came back after all, Hasso Pemsel.”

“People keep telling me so,” Hasso said. “Here I am, so I suppose I have to believe them.” He gave her something more than a nod but less than a bow. “I am glad to see you.”

“And I’m glad to see you – here,” Drepteaza said, which wasn’t the same thing at all. “Lord Zgomot was worried about you.”

“Yes, I know.” Hasso frowned. Something in her voice wasn’t quite right. “Were you worried, too?”

“Not as much as Lord Zgomot was,” she answered.

Whatever was bothering her, it wasn’t aimed at him. “Why are you angry at the Lord of Bucovin?” Hasso asked.

Drepteaza gave him a sidelong glance. “You ought to know.”

“Me? What have I got to do with it?” Hasso had thought he was off the hook. Maybe he was wrong.

“I told you – Lord Zgomot feared you would run off, run back to the Lenelli.” It all made perfect sense to the priestess.

Not to Hasso. “What does that have to do with you?” he asked.

“You really don’t know? You really don’t understand?” Drepteaza sounded as if she couldn’t believe her ears.

In some exasperation, Hasso shook his head. “If I understood, would I be asking?”

“Well, you never can tell.” Drepteaza had to tilt her head back to look up at him. He always wondered if she was looking up his nose. With the air of someone giving a dull person the benefit of the doubt, she said, “If you had run off to the Lenelli, Lord Zgomot would have blamed me.”

“You? What could you do about me?” Hasso reached to scratch his head – and banged his knuckles on the ceiling. Dammit, he didn’t fit in castles built for Grenye. “You stay here in Falticeni.”

“Yes, and that’s part of the problem, too,” Drepteaza said. “Lord Zgomot worried you might go back to the blonds because I wouldn’t go to bed with you. He was angry at me because I didn’t.”

“Oh,” Hasso said. Yeah, Lord Zgomot was a sharp cookie, all right. Hasso didn’t like seeming so transparent, especially to a man he still thought of as more than half a barbarian. Like it or not, he evidently was. He tried to put the best face on it he could: “You see? You don’t have anything to worry about. Neither does he.” But only because King Bottero’s men had orders to kill one Hasso Pemsel on sight. If they didn’t … If they didn’t, I’d be back in Drammen now. Luckily, the Bucovinans didn’t know anything about that. Hasso’s little sleep spell accomplished so much, anyhow.

“I would screw you to keep you from going back to Bottero and Velona. If that is what it takes, I will do it,” Drepteaza said. Hasso’s jaw dropped. He knew the Bucovinans were blunt, but he hadn’t thought they were that blunt. When he didn’t say anything, Drepteaza went on, “If you want me to like you while I’m doing it, though, I think you would be asking too much.”

“Oh,” Hasso said again. Not even How about that? or Isn’t that interesting? seemed safe here.

“You may not care, of course. Some men only care about the screwing itself, not whether anything lies behind it. Some women, too, no doubt, but I think fewer,” Drepteaza said. “I got the idea you weren’t one of those, or you would have been happy enough with Leneshul or Gishte. But maybe I was wrong.”

You can have me. I’ll make nice, even if I really want to spit in your eye. Drepteaza was right. Plenty of men would have been happy enough with that bargain, or vain enough to be sure they were such wonderful lovers, she would melt with delight as soon as they got it in.

Had he been offered a woman like Gishte or Leneshul on terms like that, chances were he would have taken her. What she thought of him afterwards wouldn’t have mattered to him. With Drepteaza, it did. That was what made her different from the others.

Or maybe I’m just a damn fool. Shit, I wouldn’t be surprised.

“If you’re ever interested, likely you can find a way to let me know,” he said.

She looked at him for a long time. It seemed like a long time, anyway. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I am in your debt, and – under the circumstances – I have no easy way to pay you back.” She walked off without waiting for an answer.

“Under the circumstances. Ja.” Hasso said it in German, so she wouldn’t have understood it even if she heard it. But he didn’t think she did. She seemed determined to get away from him as fast as she could.

Under the circumstances … He’d barely found out what Velona’s name was before she gave him the time of his life. Drepteaza didn’t work like that – not with him, anyway. These people weren’t Catholics. There wasn’t anything here about priestesses having to be virgins. But…

He’d had his chance, and he’d blown it. He probably was a fool. He sure felt like one right this minute. Well, if he felt like one in the morning he could tell Drepteaza he’d changed his mind, and how about it, cutie?

In the meantime, he went down to the buttery and asked for the biggest beaker of beer in the place. He’d seen this coming, but maybe not so soon. The tapman didn’t even blink. He just handed Hasso a drinking horn with enough beer in it to drown a rhino. Hasso had to work to drain it, but drain it he did. Then he thrust it back at the Bucovinan. “Fill it up again,” he said. The beer made his brains buzz, but he remembered to use the imperative.

“Whatever you’ve got, you’ve got it bad,” the tapman said.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hasso said with exaggerated dignity. The native took that for a joke, and laughed. So did Hasso, right up until he started to cry.

XXIII

Hasso had had his share of rocky mornings since splashing down into the marsh by the causeway. This one was a rock like Gibraltar. He staggered down to the buttery for a little porridge and some beer. With luck, no one would talk to him, and he would have the chance to forget how badly he’d hurt himself.

As soon as he saw Scanno, he feared luck wouldn’t be with him. As soon as Scanno saw him, he knew all his fears would be realized. “You look like something the cat threw up,” the renegade remarked.

His loud, cheerful voice reverberated between Hasso’s ears. Anything loud and cheerful inclined Hasso toward suicide, or possibly homicide. “I’ve been better,” he said – quietly.

Scanno couldn’t take a hint. “Tied one on, yesterday, didn’t you?” he boomed. He wasn’t quite so loud as King Bottero would have been, but not from lack of effort.

“How did you guess?” The less Hasso said, the less he gave Scanno to grab on to, the better the chance the other man would shut up and go away. He could dream, couldn’t he?

But Scanno wasn’t going anywhere. “You’re a hero,” he said. “What do you need to go out and get plowed for? I mean plowed bad, not plowed happy – you hurt yourself, pal.”

“No kidding,” Hasso said, and then, “You ought to know. You get drunk all the time yourself.”

“Yeah, sure.” Scanno didn’t waste time telling him he was talking through his hat. “But I like getting drunk and sloppy. You mostly don’t. So what did you go and do it for yesterday?”