After the Downfall

“I heard about that one, too. Never saw it, ‘cause it never came this far south, goddess be praised.” Sca

“Tell me more,” Hasso urged. Sca

Before going on, Sca

“In the woods, ru

“Oh, yeah. I spotted this buck – a big old fat buck. Nice antlers on him, too, if you care about that kind of crap. Me, I was after meat. He was upwind of me, so my scent didn’t give me away. I did the best sneak ever – I mean ever – till I got close enough to draw and let fly. Hit the bastard, too.” He quaffed again.

“Then what happened?” Yes, Hasso was hooked in spite of himself.

“You know how it is. Only way you can kill clean is through the eye or maybe through the heart if you’re lucky. I got him maybe a palm’s breadth back of the heart. He was go

“How did you run into the dragon, then?” Hasso asked.

“How? With my head, that’s how. I was crashing through the bushes after the stag, and I tried crashing through one and crashed into the dragon’s skull instead. The bushes had grown up so you couldn’t see the bones – I guess all that dead dragon made good manure for them. I went wham! Next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground, and quite a while had gone by.”

“How could you…? Oh. The sun.” Hasso felt foolish. He was used to wrist-watches and clocks and always knowing just what time it was. Getting accustomed to slower, more approximate timekeeping hadn’t been easy.

Sca

“What about the buck?” Hasso asked.

“Gone,” Sca

“Right,” Hasso said. “It’s a good story.”

“But you don’t believe a word of it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Like you needed to.” Sca

“All right.” For all Hasso knew, the bit of bone came from a donkey. He didn’t want to argue with Sca

Or maybe he could, if he could master the truth spell Aderno had used. Would it work here in Falticeni? Most magic seemed to falter here. And Aderno’s spell, for that matter, had faltered against Sca

Instead of experimenting with sorcery, Hasso asked, “Do you want to throw me around for a while?”

“Sure!” Sca

Hasso used the baths in the palace almost every day. Sca

Rautat noticed his habits, too. “One more thing that says you really aren’t one of those people, even if you look like them,” the veteran underofficer remarked as he scrubbed in a hot pool of an afternoon. His scars weren’t puckered craters like Hasso’s; they were long, pale lines on his dark skin.

“I’m me, that’s all,” Hasso answered. They were both using Bucovinan. Hasso had got to the point where he could follow it pretty well. He spoke more hesitantly.

“Yeah, well, you aren’t so bad.” Rautat ducked his head under the water and came up blowing like a porpoise.

“Thanks.” Hasso submerged, too.

When he came up, a couple of women were walking past, heading for another pool. They chatted idly, paying Rautat no attention and Hasso hardly any; people in the palace were used to him by now. Neither of them wore any more than she’d been born with. The Bucovinans were easy in their skins, easier than the Lenelli and much easier than any Germans except a few resolute naturists.

Back in Germany, Hasso had always thought those people were nuts. When he landed in a country where everybody took nudity in stride, he had to think again. He’d been doing nothing but thinking again since he landed in this world. What was one more time?

He did notice that, just as he tried not to bathe while Drepteaza was in there, she also found ways not to come in while he was. If she was already washing when he came in, she hurried to get out. If he got there before her, she would wait till he finished.

She didn’t seem angry at him, not when they met for language lessons or to talk about gunpowder and other things he knew and the natives didn’t. Maybe she thought he wasn’t just seeing her nude – he was seeing her naked. If that was what was going on – he didn’t want to come right out and ask her – he admired her tact. He also admired her for understanding that foreigners had different ways of looking at things, whether literally or metaphorically.

And, if that was what she thought, she was dead right.

He wished she were interested. Laying Grenye women who gave themselves to him because they were supposed to was better than not laying anybody. But he remembered Velona too well. After going to bed with her, the natives didn’t seem like anything special. And, except as convenient bodies, he didn’t care much about Leneshul or Gishte.

Drepteaza would be different – he was sure of that. It wasn’t just that she was prettier than they were. She was smarter and livelier and….

And she wasn’t interested in him.

You can’t have too much of what you don’t want. Somebody’d said that where Hasso could hear it, and he thought it was true. Screwing the Grenye women gave him physical relief, yes indeed. But it wasn’t what he wanted, so every time he did it he felt emptier inside.

Yeah, Drepteaza would be different. He was sure she would … except he was what she didn’t want. He wasn’t a Lenello. No matter what he was, he looked like one. For the priestess, the way he looked was plenty.

Not wanting somebody because of how he looked – wasn’t that surprising, not really. Hasso had judged plenty of people by their looks – Frenchmen (and -women), Jews, Ivans, Poles. It was much less enjoyable when other people judged him.

“You worked in Drammen, you say,” he said to Rautat, there in the baths. Anything was better than brooding about all the reasons Drepteaza wanted nothing to do with him.

“That’s right.” Rautat nodded, water dripping off his chin and the end of his nose. “Wanted to pick up the lingo, wanted to learn things the Lenelli know and we don’t. Did it, too, and came home.”

“What do you think of Lenelli, then?” Hasso asked.

“Bunch of big blond pricks,” Rautat said promptly. “No offense.”