After the downfall

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.

Now that he had to talk, he felt tongue-tied. How long had it been since he really talked to a woman? The last time you did with Velona, he answered himself. But that wasn't the same thing: they'd been lovers before they could talk to each other at all.

It had to be back before the war, then. After the fighting started, he'd sweet-talked French shopgirls and Russian peasants into bed with him, but that wasn't the same, either. With them, as with the Grenye women here, he wasn't doing anything but screwing. Life got complicated when you wanted more than that.

Well, if he chickened out now, he'd probably never get another chance with Drepteaza. Hell, if he chickened out now, he wouldn't deserve another chance. Faint heart never won fair lady. The worst that could happen if she told him to get lost was… he'd feel even more miserable than he already did.

He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "I am no Lenello," he declared. Was he getting it out in the open or just being clumsy? Damned if he knew.

"Yes, I've seen that," Drepteaza agreed gravely. "When you first got here, I wasn't sure what you were. Now I think you are what you say you are: a man from another world who joined the Lenelli because you found yourself among them — and because you looked like them."

Hasso could have done without that last. But, when he saw three little dark men chasing one tall blond woman, what was he supposed to think? Had he seen three Lenelli chasing one Grenye woman — well, who could say what he would have done? Life wasn't in the habit of letting you take it over.

He made himself nod. "Yes, I look like. But am not." He pointed at himself again.

"I told you, I know that," Drepteaza replied. "It matters less than you think, I'm afraid. You still do look like one. I don't see how I could want someone who looks like that."

There it was, plain as a wet fish in the face. "You look like a Grenye," Hasso said. "Doesn't bother me."

That surprised her — he could see as much. Her answering smile was sweet and sad. "Plenty of Lenelli have lain with Grenye women. Most men are less choosy than most women. When they want, they take whatever they can find."

"For screwing, sure." Speaking Bucovinan, Hasso had to be blunt, too. "If screwing all I want, I be happy with Leneshul and Gishte. More to life than just screwing, I think. Yes? No? Maybe?"

"Yes — sometimes," Drepteaza said. "You flatter me, you know?" She had to explain what flatter meant. When Hasso nodded, she went on, "I don't think a Lenello would waste his time talking like this. He would think I was his because he was a Lenello and I wasn't."

"Not a Lenello," Hasso said one more time. He slipped an arm around her, drew her close to him, and kissed her.

She didn't scream or beat him over the head or even try to get away. She just… didn't kiss him back. If a one-sided kiss wasn't the most useless thing in the world, Hasso had no idea what would be. He broke it off in a hurry.

"I'm sorry," Drepteaza said, his hand still dead on her shoulder. "It isn't there. I almost wish it were — things might be simpler. But I won't lie to you. Do you want me to leave you alone and have nothing to do with you from now on? Would that be easier for you? I'll do it if you want."

She would do almost anything if he wanted her to — except what he really wanted her to do. Lord Zgomot, dammit, wasn't as smart as he thought he was. Hasso shook his head. "What difference does it make?" he said dully. As if in afterthought, he lifted his hand.

Drepteaza didn't slide across the bench to put some distance between them. She sat where she was, confident he wouldn't do anything more than he'd already done. He had no idea where to go from there. He didn't see anything he could do or say that would make any difference. Muttering, he heaved himself to his feet and strode off.

"Hasso!" she called after him. "Hasso Pemsel!"

He kept walking. She said something no well-brought-up German woman would have imagined, let alone said. Was it aimed at him or at herself or at both of them at once? He didn't know, and he told himself he didn't care.

When he went back into the palace, he ran into Gishte — almost literally. She was carrying an armload of clean linens up a corridor. "Come with me," he said.

"Right now?" She sounded surprised, and maybe a little annoyed, too — couldn't he see she had other things to take care of?

But he nodded. "Right now."

She sighed. "Men!" She went with him, though.

Back in his chamber, he did what he chose to do. When it was over, she got up and squatted over the chamber pot to free herself of as much of his seed as she could, put on her clothes, picked up the linens, and left. He lay there, no happier than he had been before he went into her.

You can't get too much of what you don't want.

Now he knew exactly how true that was. He sure as hell did. And what good did knowing do him? No good at all. He couldn't think of one goddamn thing that did him any good at all.

"I think it is time for us to show the Lenelli what we have, time to show them they would do better to leave us alone," Zgomot said.

"Whatever you want, Lord," Hasso answered. Two days after Drepteaza turned him down, he still had trouble giving a damn about anything.

"All right, then." By the Lord of Bucovin's tone, he hoped it was all right, but he wasn't a hundred percent sure. Also by his tone, he hoped Hasso wouldn't notice. What he said next explained why: "I shall send you to the west, Hasso Pemsel. This gunpowder is your… stuff. You know more about it than we do. You will use it best against the enemy."

"I do that," Hasso agreed. Will I do that? Or will I see whether Bottero and Velona — oh, Velona! — will take me back after all? Lying in Velona's arms, he would forget about Drepteaza. Lying in Velona's arms could make you forget your own name — but you'd sure be happy while you were forgetting.

"Rautat and some of the others who have worked with you will go along," Zgomot said. "They will learn from you and see how you do what you do. Then they will be able to do it for themselves."

Did that mean, Then we won't need you anymore? Maybe. Or maybe Lord Zgomot suspected Hasso knew more than he was telling. Hasso did, and he wouldn't have been surprised if Zgomot suspected — the native was one sharp cookie. The German was damn sure Zgomot meant, Rautat and the others will keep an eye on you. It made sense from the Lord of Bucovin's point of view. Hasso could be dangerous for Bucovin, or he could be dangerous to Bucovin.

He nodded now, as if blissfully unaware of everything Zgomot had to be worrying about. "Whatever you want, Lord," he repeated. He wasn't about to argue, not when Zgomot was letting him leave the palace, leave Falticeni, and get somewhere near the Lenelli once more.

The roads dried out enough for him to move with a wagon a few days later. The wagon carried jars full of gunpowder. He finally had fuses that worked well enough. Considerable experiment had shown that cord soaked in limewater and gunpowder did the job — better than anything else he'd found, anyhow.

"I want to see the Lenelli when things start going boom," Rautat said as they left Falticeni. He and Hasso rode horses; Hasso wasn't about to try to drive the wagon, an art about which he knew less than he did about Egyptian hieroglyphics. Rautat went on, "The noise will be plenty to scare them all by itself."

"Once, maybe. Maybe even twice. After that? No," Hasso said.

Catapults. His thoughts came back to them again. The Lenelli — and the Bucovinans, imitating them as usual — used them as siege engines, but not as field artillery. He wondered whether the natives or the renegades in Falticeni could flange up something that could travel with an army and would let him fling jars of gunpowder two or three hundred meters. Load them with scrap metal and rocks along with the powder, the way he had with these, and they'd make pretty fair bombs. In the meantime…

In the meantime, he'd have to lay mines and set them off with fuses. He whistled tunelessly. That might not be a whole lot of fun. How was he supposed to get away again afterwards?

Why didn't you think of these things sooner? he asked himself.

One obvious way around the problem was to use an expendable Bucovinan to touch off the fuses. The poor son of a bitch would probably even think it was an honor. The natives hated the Lenelli the way… Hasso didn't like completing the thought, but he did: the way the Russians hated us.

After Muresh and the calculated frightfulness of the winter attacks — and after years of similar things — the Bucovinans had their reasons for hate like that. And the Germans had given the Russians plenty of reasons of that sort, too. Looking back, Hasso could see it plain enough. Well, the Ivans got their revenge when the pendulum of war swung back toward the west.

Why am I helping this folk against that one, when I'm more at home over there? Hasso wondered. Was that why the Omphalos stone brought him to this world? He had trouble seeing how it could be.

Then the landscape started looking more familiar. "Somewhere not far from here, you catch me," he said to Rautat.

"That's right." The Bucovinan nodded. "We're only a little ways away from the battlefield. If you know how hard we worked to open up a gap in our line to make you aim your horses there without having it look like we wanted you to…"

"Nicely done," Hasso said. "You fool the Lenelli. You fool me, too."

Rautat grinned as if the idea were all his. But he said, "Lord Zgomot is a clever man. Better to use your own strength against you, he said."

Hasso nodded. It was good strategy — if you could bring it off. Manstein had, when the Red Army charged west after Stalingrad and then got an unpleasant surprise. And the Russians had at Kursk the next summer, letting the Wehrmacht bleed itself white trying to bang through defenses tens of kilometers deep. Nobody in the other world would ever hear about Lord Zgomot's ploy. Maybe nobody in this world would, either, not in any lasting way. The Lenelli did most of the writing here, and they were no fonder than anyone else of chronicling their own defeats.

But Hasso knew full well what Zgomot had done. He messed up my life along with Bottero's campaign, the German thought.

They came over the top of a low rise and started down the other side. Hasso started to laugh — it was that or pound his head against something. "You waited for us here," he said.

A few heads — skulls, now, pretty much — sat on poles, Lenello helmets atop them, as a memorial to the battle. The pits the Bucovinans had dug still yawned, unconcealed now. But the field had been efficiently plundered. Even the horses' skeletons were gone. What had the natives done with them? Burned them and smashed them to powder for fertilizer, he supposed.

"Yes, we did," Rautat said. "We were scared shitless. Blond bastards are bad enough anyway, and we didn't know if the thunder thing would hit us again."

"But you stood." Hasso had to respect that.

The Bucovinan underofficer shrugged. "Can't run all the time. Have to stand somewhere, or we lose."

Sometimes you stood and you lost anyway. Hasso knew all about that, the hard way. So, no doubt, did Rautat. They rode on.

Bucovinans had reoccupied the keeps on both sides of the bridge over the Oltet. They'd torn out the makeshift planking the Lenelli put down to force the crossing and replaced it with new, stronger timbers. As the wagon jounced and rattled and banged across, Hasso was glad. If it went into the river, he would have to start over.

Or would that be so bad? It would give me the perfect excuse not to fight the Lenelli.

Then he got over onto the west bank of the Oltet, and into what was left of Muresh. New shanties had gone up since Bottero's men sacked and plundered and raped and killed there, but plenty of devastation remained. The people stared without a word as a big blond rode through the place in the company of Bucovinans. Nobody threw anything at him, which was good.

But Hasso remembered what had happened the autumn before. Maybe there were reasons to fight the Lenelli after all.

Once they'd ridden out of Muresh, Hasso asked, "How far ahead are King Bottero's men?" In Bucovinan, the question needed only two words. German often made compound words. Bucovinan revolved around them.

"We still have a ways to go," Rautat answered — another two words. "They aren't even where we fought the first battle last fall. Not a strike at the heart this time. More like taking away a hand and half an arm."

Hasso nodded; he had the same impression of Bottero's strategy. The Lenelli had got themselves a bloody nose when they charged ahead too fast. Now Bottero seemed to want a digestible piece of Bucovin. Once he had it, he'd go and take another bite, and then, no doubt, one more.

That wasn't how Hasso would have gone about things, which wasn't the same as saying it wouldn't work. The rule here seemed to be that the Lenelli moved forward and the Grenye gave ground before them. Sometimes they didn't move forward very fast — sometimes the frontier stood still for years at a time. But they never seemed to move back.

Maybe I'll fix that, Hasso thought. Yeah, maybe I will. And maybe I'll do something else instead. Who knows what the hell I can do if I set my mind to it?

He himself had no idea. That should have alarmed him. Sometimes it did. Sometimes he thought it was blackly funny.

When he came to the first battlefield, he wondered whether he ought to comb the ground for the cartridges his machine pistol spat out. Could wizards do something nefarious if they found one? For the life of him, he couldn't see how, not when the Schmeisser would never work again.

"Do you know — did you know — a fellow named Berbec?" he asked suddenly. Rautat shook his head. Hasso asked the rest of the Bucovinans with him, but they didn't know Berbec, either.

"Who is he?" Rautat asked. "Sounds like one of our names."

"It is." Hasso explained how he'd acquired the native on the field here. "I don't know what happens to him after I get caught. Maybe he belongs to Velona now. I hope she treats him well."

"Velona?" one of the Bucovinans asked.

"She was my woman." Hasso would have left it there. Rautat, who knew more, shared the gossip with his countrymen. They all muttered back and forth, too low for Hasso to make out what they were saying.

Finally, the driver of the powder wagon, a stocky fellow named Dumnez, said, "The big blonds' goddess is strong."

"Yes," Hasso said. Nobody who'd ever come within a kilometer and a half of Velona would have dreamt of saying no.

"That woman the goddess lives in is strong, too," Rautat said, so maybe Dumnez hadn't been talking about Velona after all. Rautat went on, "I saw her in both battles last fall. I'm glad I didn't get within reach of her sword."

One of the other Bucovinans pointed at Hasso. "He must be pretty strong, too, then, if she was his woman."

"He is pretty strong — not the best swordsman, but pretty strong," Rautat said. "Pretty tricky, too. Lord Zgomot thinks well of him."

He does? Hasso almost blurted it out in surprise. If the Lord of Bucovin did think well of him, he kept it to himself mighty well. But if Zgomot didn't think well of Hasso, all he had to do was say the word and the German was a dead man.

The native who'd pointed said, "The priestess likes him pretty well, too, even if he is a blond."

Hasso stiffened. Rautat hissed like a snake. The other Bucovinan winced, though plainly he wasn't sure how he'd stuck his foot in it. Hasso was, worse luck. Maybe Drepteaza did like him, but she didn't like him enough, or didn't like him the right way. Rautat obviously knew as much. If the other fellow didn't, he had to be out of the loop.

Sure enough, Rautat said, "Don't pay any attention of Peretsh. He doesn't know what the demon he's talking about."

"I can see that for myself," Hasso said.

They traveled west in silence for some little while.

When they started running into parties of Bucovinan soldiers, Hasso knew they had to be getting close to the marchlands Bottero's men were trying to occupy. Lord Zgomot wasn't going to give up his territory without a fight. In a way, seeing the soldiers made Hasso feel better — he wasn't out here by himself against everything the Lenelli could throw at Bucovin.

In another way…

Well, my life gets more complicated, he thought. He hadn't expected things to be simple. Every so often, he caught Rautat watching him when there was no earthly need for it. The underofficer always looked away in a hurry when he noticed Hasso's eye on him, but Hasso had a pretty good idea of what was going on in his head. The native had to be wondering what the big blond would do when it came time to fight the folk who looked so much like him.

Who could blame Rautat for wondering that? Who could blame him, especially when Hasso was wondering the same thing himself?

Hasso stared into the setting sun, shielding his eyes from the glare with the palm of his hand. The village in the distance was only blackened ruins. He didn't see any Lenelli moving around there, but they wouldn't be far off. He wished he'd had a pair of field glasses around his neck when he splashed down into the swamp. He knew something about gunpowder, but he'd never worried his head about optics.

The Lenelli up ahead — whether he could see them or not, they were there — couldn't see him. He and Rautat crouched side by side in thick bushes. The rest of the Bucovinan escort and the powder wagon waited behind the crest of a rise half a kilometer farther east.

"Somewhere around here, you'll start planting them, right?" Rautat said.

"Ja," Hasso answered absently. The Bucovinan accepted it; that was one word of German he'd learned. Hasso went on, "Run a fuse from here over to the road, wait, and watch for Bottero's men to ride forward…"

Rautat laughed in eager anticipation. "Then they'll find out they aren't so cursed smart!"

"Ja," Hasso said again, and then, "Let's go back. Plenty to do before we start to dig and to hide."

"Like eat, for instance." Rautat rubbed his belly. As if on cue, it growled like an angry dog. The Bucovinan laughed. So did Hasso.

They scooted back through the bushes. Hasso had learned his forest-fighting techniques in Russia, where any mistake was worth your life. Rautat was as good at moving silently as he was, maybe better. Of course, Rautat had been hunting in the woods since he got big enough to carry a bow. He'd had more practice than Hasso had.

A tiny, almost smokeless fire crackled ten meters or so away from the wagon with the jars of gunpowder. The Bucovinans understood that they couldn't get careless with fire around it. Hasso hadn't let anybody who didn't understand that come along with him. Dumnez was toasting a hare above the flames. Three more lay by the fire, already gutted and skinned and ready to cook. Yes, the Bucovinans could hunt, all right.

Hasso got his share of the tender meat. You couldn't keep going forever on hare and rabbit — not enough fat in them. But they made a good supper every so often.

As the sun set and darkness deepened, Hasso looked westward again. He didn't think the Lenelli would be able to spot the fire's glare over the rise ahead. Even if they did, odds were they wouldn't make much of it. They had to know the Bucovinans were keeping an eye on them. That wouldn't impress them, not for beans. Nothing the Bucovinans did impressed them. Bucovinans were only Grenye, after all.

Softly, Hasso began to chant. Some of the charm was in German, some in Lenello. He faced away from Rautat and the rest. They wouldn't hear his spell, or make anything of it if they did. He snorted — in rhythm with the spell. He wasn't sure there would be anything to make of it if they did. For one thing, he was an altogether untrained wizard. For another, he was still in Bucovin, even if he'd come back close to the border with Bottero's kingdom. If it didn't work… then it didn't, that was all. He would take a different tack in that case.

But it worked, all right. When he turned around, Rautat and Dumnez and Peretsh and the rest lay sprawled close to the little fire, all of them snoring softly. I really can do this! he thought, excitement surging in him. Along with the excitement went a little bit of shame. Bucovinans were only Grenye, after all — they couldn't work magic, and had no defense against it.

His knees clicked when he got to his feet. He wondered if he ought to cut the natives' throats before he went west. He couldn't make himself do it. They could have killed him, but they hadn't. He also wondered whether to take the powder wagon with him. They'd already unhitched the horses, though. He doubted he could harness them by dim firelight. He also feared that the noise would wake the Bucovinans, spell or no spell.

"By myself," he murmured in German. And wasn't that the sad and sorry truth? Wherever he went in this world, he was irrevocably by himself. Joining with Velona the way he had disguised the truth for a while, but it was there. Still and all, he came closer and closer to fitting in among the Lenelli than with the Bucovinans. And so… "Auf wiedersehen" He started west — by himself

He went up the road till he got close to the crest of that rise — no point making things hard on himself. Then he ducked into the undergrowth, for he didn't want any Lenello sentries to spot him coming up to the top of the high ground. Back in Russia, a sniper would make you pay if you did something stupid like that. The Lenelli didn't have scope-sighted rifles or machine guns, but he didn't want them thinking somebody was sneaking up on them in the dark. They could lay a trap for him before they realized he wasn't a Bucovinan.

He leaned against the trunk of a scrubby oak. Just for a second, he told himself. Or maybe a little longer — why not? He didn't want to sneak through the bushes toward King Bottero's men in pitch darkness. Maybe an Indian could do that in a movie and not make a godawful racket. Or maybe a Bucovinan hunter — or a Lenello poacher — could do it for real. Hasso knew damn well he couldn't.

And he didn't just want to tramp up the road in the dark, either. That was asking to get killed. And so… He yawned. He slumped down against that tree trunk. As he yawned again, he wondered if he was getting caught in the backwash of his own sorcery. He also wondered if he could do anything about it. As his eyes slid shut, he was — sleepily — doubting it.

The next thing he knew, it wasn't altogether dark. And the light filtering through the bushes was coming from the east, from behind him. "Christ!" he said. He was awake now, awake and sweating bullets. If Rautat and the rest had come after him, they could have gutted him like a trout.

Were they still sleeping? Hasso nodded to himself. They just about had to be. Otherwise, they damn well would have come after him, and he would have woke up with his innards ventilated one way or another. So his magic still had to be holding back there.

"Oh, yeah, I'm one hell of a wizard, I am," he muttered as he got to his feet. "I'm so good, I put a goddamn spell on me."

It might work out for the best, he thought, and tried to make himself believe it. Now he could approach the Lenelli in broad daylight. They would see he was no dark little Grenye. That would let him get close enough to explain what he was and who he was and how he'd escaped the barbarians. From then on, everything ought to go smooth as motor oil on a camshaft.

His stomach rumbled, almost as loud as Rautat's had the day before. He had a length of garlicky pork sausage in a belt pouch. The Lenelli would know he was coming out of Bucovin just by the smell. They ate onions, but to them garlic was fit only for Grenye. Hasso wasn't wild about it himself, but eating it made him feel like an Italian, not a savage.

He worked his way forward through the woods for a while, then stepped out into the road. He hadn't gone more than about a hundred meters before a Lenello stepped out from behind some thick bushes, sword in hand. Hasso's right hand fell automatically to the hilt of his own blade. He stopped where he was, perhaps twenty meters from the blond, who overtopped him by five or six centimeters.

"Who the demon are you? Where'd you sprout from?" the Lenello demanded.

"My name's Hasso Pemsel. I just escape — escaped — from the Bucovinans."

Hasso hadn't spoken much Lenello lately. It felt awkward on his tongue. Well, so did Bucovinan.

"Funny handle you've got. You talk weird, too," the big blond said. "Where are you from, anyway?"

"Another world," Hasso answered. "I am the fellow who comes — uh, came — here by magic. I am the goddess' lover for a while." And I want to be again, too. Whether Velona wants me to… Well, I'll just have to see, that's all.

The Lenello picket's eyes almost bugged out of his head. "It's the traitor! It's the goddess-cursed renegade!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. Then he swung up his sword and charged Hasso.

For a second, the German just stood there like an idiot. A millimeter from too late, he drew his own sword. He managed to turn a stroke that would have cut him in half from crown to crotch. Then he dropped the sword. The Lenello was still caught in his aborted follow-through. Hasso jumped in close. He grabbed the big blond's wrist and twisted. The Lenello dropped the blade.

"You can't do that!" he gasped.

"Says who?" Hasso twisted once more, cruelly this time. The Lenello gasped again, on a different note, above the sound of breaking bone. As he went white, Hasso brought a knee up into his crotch. He folded up on himself like a straight razor. Hasso kicked him in the face while he was falling. If you got into a fight like this, you didn't dick around.

Shouts came from the west. So did the thumps of men running in heavy boots. Hasso didn't wait to find out whether they had crossbows. Wherever he was going, it wasn't back to Bottero's kingdom. He grabbed his sword, dashed for the bushes, and did his unmagical best to vanish.