“Screwing you!” he muttered to Burgred, one of the other young men in the work gang, doing his best to imitate the redhead’s way of speaking.

  Burgred chuckled as he let a round stone thump into place. “You’re a funny fellow,” he said, also in a low voice. The laborers weren’t supposed to talk with one another, but the Algarvian, a decent enough man, usually didn’t give them a hard time about it.

  “Oh, aye, I’m funny, all right.” Leofsig also dropped a stone in the roadway. “Funny like a unicorn with a broken leg.”

  Burgred headed back toward a cart piled high with cobblestones and rubble. The animals that drew it were not unicorns but a couple of scrawny, utterly prosaic mules. Returning with a new stone, Burgred said, “It’s all the cursed Kaunians’ fault, anyway.” He fitted the stone into place. “There we go. That whore’s in good.”

  Leofsig grunted. He swiped at his sweaty forehead with a tunic sleeve. “I don’t quite see that,” he said. A moment later, he wished he’d kept quiet. Even so little might have been too much.

  “Stands to reason, doesn’t it?” Burgred said. “If it wasn’t for the Kaunians, we wouldn’t have gotten into the war in the first place. If we hadn’t gotten into it, we couldn’t very well have lost it, now could we?”

  Broadsheets plastered all over Gromheort said the same thing in almost the same words. The Algarvians had put them up; a Forthwegian who presumed to put up a broadsheet in his own city was liable to be executed on the spot if the redheads caught him doing it. Leofsig wondered if Burgred even knew he was spitting back the pap the Algarvians fed him.

  Burgred went on, “And a plague take the Kaunians, anyway. They may live here, but they aren’t Forthwegians, not really. They keep their own language, they keep their own clothes—and their women don’t come close to dressing decently—and they hate us. So why shouldn’t we hate them? Powers above, I haven’t had any use for Kaunians since I first knew they were different than regular people.”

  Leofsig sighed and didn’t answer. He saw no point to it. Burgred, plainly, hadn’t needed the redheads to shape his opinion of Kaunians. Like a lot of Forthwegians—maybe even most Forthwegians—he’d despised them long before the Algarvians overran Forthweg.

  “You work!” the Algarvian straw boss yelled. “No standing! No talking! Talking—trouble!” He spoke Forthwegian with a horrible accent. He had no grammar and next to no vocabulary. No one ever had trouble understanding him, though.

  As the day wound to an end, Leofsig queued up with the rest of the laborers to get his meager pay from an Algarvian sergeant who looked as pained at handing out the silver as if it came from his own belt pouch. At first, the Algarvians hadn’t paid anyone even a copper to work for them. In tones of dry amusement, Hestan had said, “They didn’t take long to discover people will work better if they have some reason to do it.”

  Wearily, Leofsig and the others in the gang trudged back toward Gromheort, the Kaunians (who earned only half as much as Forthwegians) a little apart from the rest. Most of the men walked by the side of the cobblestoned road, not on it. “Stupid redheads,” Burgred remarked. “A road like this is harder on people’s feet than a regular one made of dirt. Harder on horses’ hooves, too, and on unicorns’.”

  “They can use it during the rain, though, when a regular road turns to mud,” Leofsig said. With a certain sardonic relish, he added, “The Kaunian Empire had roads like these.”

  “And much good it did the cursed Kaunians, too,” Burgred said, a better comeback than Leofsig had expected from him. “May it do the cursed Algarvians as much good as it did the blonds however long ago that was.”

  Inside Gromheort, the work gang scattered, each man heading off toward his own home—or toward a tavern, where he could drink up in an hour what he’d made in a day. Some of the men who did that were their families’ sole support. Being very much his father’s son, Leofsig looked on them with nothing but scorn.

  Not that he would turn down a glass of wine—or a couple of glasses of wine—when he got home. But no one would go without food or firewood because he had some wine. He could even have afforded to spend a copper at the public baths beforehand. But the baths were always short of hot water these days. The Algarvians starved them for fuel—what did they care if Forthwegians stank? Leofsig didn’t care so much as he would have before the war. He’d discovered in the field and in the captives’ camp that no one stank when everyone stank.

  Leofsig was almost home when a Kaunian youth in ragged trousers darted out of an alley and past him, plainly running for his life. Four or five Forthwegian boys pounded after him. One of them, Leofsig saw, was his cousin Sidroc.

  Tired though he was, he started running after Sidroc before he quite realized what he was doing. At first, he thought he was mortified because he was Sidroc’s close kin. After a few strides, he decided he was mortified because he was a Forthwegian. That hurt worse.

  Because it hurt, he wanted to hurt Sidroc, too. And he did, bringing his cousin down with a tackle that would have got him thrown off any football pitch in Forthweg—or even in Unkerlant, where they played the game for blood. Sidroc squalled most satisfactorily.

  “Shut up, you little turd,” Leofsig said coldly. “What in blazes do you think you were doing, chasing that Kaunian like a mad dog foaming at the mouth?”

  “What was I doing?” Sidroc squeaked. He was bleeding from both elbows and one knee, but didn’t seem to notice. “What was I doing?”

  “Has someone put a spell on you, so you have to say everything twice?” Leofsig demanded. “I ought to beat you so you can’t even walk, let alone run. My father will be ashamed of you when I tell him what you’ve done. Powers above, I hope Uncle Hengist will, too.”

  He thought Sidroc would cringe. Instead, his cousin shouted, “You’re crazy, do you know that? The little blond-headed snake cut the belt pouch right off me, curse him, and now I bet he’s got away clean. Of course I was chasing him. Wouldn’t you chase a thief? Or are you too high and mighty for that?”

  “A thief?” Leofsig said in a small voice. So often, people chased Kaunians through the streets for no reason at all. That people might chase a Kaunian through the streets for a perfectly good reason had never crossed his mind. If Forthwegians could be thieves, Kaunians certainly could, too.

  “Aye, a thief. You’ve heard the word?” Sidroc spoke with sarcasm Leofsig’s father might have envied. He also realized he’d been hurt. “What were you trying to do, murder me? You almost did.”

  Since Leofsig had been trying for something not far short of murder, he didn’t answer directly. He said, “I thought you were going after him for the sport of it.”

  “Not this time.” Sidroc got to his feet and put hands on hips; blood trickled down his forearms. “You’re worse than your brother, do you know that? He’s a Kaunian-lover, too, but he doesn’t kill people on account of it.”

  “Oh, shut up, or you’ll make me decide I’m glad I flattened you after all,” Leofsig said. “Let’s go home.”

  When they got home and went into the kitchen, Leofsig’s mother and sister both exclaimed over Sidroc’s battered state. They exclaimed again when he told them he’d had his belt pouch stolen, and once more when he told them how he’d come to get battered. “Leofsig, you should ask questions before you hurt someone,” Elfryth said.

  “I’m sorry, Mother—there wasn’t time,” Leofsig said. He realized he hadn’t apologized to Sidroc yet. That needed doing, however little he relished it. “I am sorry, cousin. Kaunians get the short end of the stick so often when they don’t deserve it, I just thought this was once more.”

  “Well, I can understand that,” Conberge said. Leofsig sent his sister a grateful glance. Sidroc sniffed loudly.

  As she might have to one of her own sons, Elfryth said, “Come here, Sidroc. Let’s get you cleaned up.” She wet a rag and advanced on Sidroc. “This may sting, so stand still.” Sidroc did, but yelped as she got to work.

  Drawn by the yelps, Ealstan came in to find out what was going on. “Oh,” was all he said when he found out why Sidroc was bleeding. “That’s too bad.”

  Leofsig had expected more from him, and was obscurely disappointed not to get it. After supper, when the two of them went out to the courtyard together, Leofsig said, “I thought you’d figured out that Kaunians were people, too.”

  “They’re people, all right.” His younger brother did not try to hide his bitterness. “When they get the chance, sonic of them lick the Algarvians’ boots the same way some of our people do.”

  Leofsig had already seen how some Forthwegians were perfectly content to do business with the occupying redheads. That disgusted him, but didn’t especially surprise him. But Kaunians—“Where could you find an Algarvian who’d want a Kaunian to lick his boots?” He could think of some other possibilities along those lines, but forbore from mentioning them in case his brother couldn’t.

  “It happens.” Ealstan spoke with great conviction. “I’ve seen it happen. I wish I hadn’t, but I have.”

  “You’ve already said that much. Do you want to tell me about it?” Leofsig asked.

  His younger brother surprised him again, this time by shaking his head. “No. It’s not your affair. Not mine, either, really, but I know about it.” Ealstan shrugged, a weary motion Hestan might have used. Leofsig scratched his head. Some time after he’d gone into King Penda’s levy, his little brother had indeed turned into a man, a man he was beginning to realize he barely knew.

  “Come on.” Hestan shook Ealstan out of bed. “Get moving, sleepyhead. If you don’t go to school, what will you be?”

  “Asleep?” Ealstan suggested, yawning.

  His father snorted. “If you won’t wake up for me, you will when the master for your first class brings the switch down on your back because you were tardy. The choice is yours, son: my way or the master’s.”

  “Forthweg has a choice, too, these days: Algarve’s way or Unkerlant’s,” Ealstan said as he got to his feet and stretched. “If they had a true choice, the Forthwegians would take neither the one nor the other. If I had a true choice, I would go back to bed.”

  “Forthweg has no true choice. Neither do you, however well you argue.” Hestan no longer sounded amused. “You are the last one in the house up and moving. If you don’t make up for it, you may get my way and the master’s switch both.”

  Thus encouraged, Ealstan put on a clean tunic and his sandals and hurried to the kitchen. Conberge gave him porridge with almond slivers stirred through it and a cup of wine flavored with enough resin to put fur on his tongue, or so he thought. “If I can’t speak Algarvian today, I’ll blame it on this horrible stuff,” he said.

  “Better to blame it on not studying enough,” Hestan said. “You should be learning Kaunian instead, but you can learn whatever your master sets before you.” He turned to Ealstan’s cousin. “The same applies to you, young man.”

  With his mouth full, Sidroc had an excuse for not answering. He took advantage of it. Ealstan’s marks had always been higher than his. Lately, they’d been a good deal higher than his. Sidroc’s father was imperfectly delighted with that.

  Despite having sat down later than Sidroc, Ealstan finished his porridge and wine before his cousin did. He did not rub that in, which rubbed it in more effectively than anything else could have done. Hengist almost threw Sidroc out the door after him. They hurried off to school together.

  They’d gone only a couple of blocks when they passed four or five Algarvian soldiers half leading, half dragging a Kaunian woman into an empty building. One of them held a hand over her mouth. Sidroc chuckled. “They’ll have a good time.”

  “She won’t,” Ealstan said. Sidroc only shrugged. Angry at his cousin’s indifference, Ealstan snapped, “Suppose it was your mother.”

  “You keep my mother out of your mouth, or I’ll put my fist in it,” Sidroc said hotly. Ealstan thought he could lick his cousin, but this wasn’t the time or place to find out. He didn’t know why he bothered trying to make Sidroc see things as he did. Sidroc didn’t and wouldn’t care about Kaunians.

  Ealstan stopped caring about Kaunians for the time being the moment he walked into Master Agmund’s class. On the blackboard, someone had written—in what looked to him like grammatically impeccable Algarvian—KING MEZENTIO HAD NINE PIGLETS BY THE ROYAL SOW. “Powers above!” he cried. “Get rid of that before the master sees it and beats us all to death.” He tried to figure out whose script it was, but couldn’t; whoever had written it had done so as plainly as possible.

  Echoing that thought, one of his classmates said, “It was up there when we started coming in. Somebody must have snuck in during the night and put it up.”

  Maybe that was true; maybe it wasn’t. Either way, though … “It doesn’t matter who wrote it. Erase it!”

  “You think we haven’t tried?” Three boys said it at the same time.

  “Haven’t tried what?” Master Agmund strode into the classroom. Nobody answered. Nobody needed to answer. When the master’s head turned, he naturally saw the message on the blackboard. Despite his swarthy skin, he turned red. “Who wrote this seditious trash?” he rumbled. His finger shot toward Ealstan. “Was it you, young man?”

  That meant he judged Ealstan did not love the Algarvian occupiers. He was right, but Ealstan would sooner not have made such an obvious target. He was lucky here; he had only to tell the truth: “No, Master. My cousin and I just came in now, and saw it there as you did. I said we ought to erase it.”

  Agmund’s thick, dark eyebrows lowered like stormclouds, but several of Ealstan’s classmates spoke up in support of him. “Very well, then,” the master of Algarvian said. “Your suggestion was a good one. Those who came in earlier should have acted on it.” He seized the eraser and rubbed vigorously.

  But, however hard he rubbed, the message refused to disappear. If anything, the white letters got more distinct against their dark background. “Magecraft,” someone said softly.

  Agmund also spoke softly, but his quiet words held only danger. “Anyone daring to use magecraft against Algarve will pay dearly, for the occupiers reckon it an act of war. Someone—perhaps someone in this chamber now—will answer for it, and may answer with his head.” He stalked out.

  “Maybe we ought to run,” somebody said.

  “What good would it do us, unless we took to the hills?” Ealstan said. “Master Agmund knows who we are. He and the headmaster will know where we live.”

  “Besides, if anyone runs, Agmund will think he did it,” Sidroc added. He had a gift for intrigue, if not for scholarship. Once he’d spoken, everyone could hear the likely truth in his words.

  Footfalls in the hall warned that Agmund was returning. The students sprang to their feet, not wanting any show of disrespect to feed his suspicions. That proved wise, for with him came Swithulf, the headmaster of the academy. Agmund looked as if he disapproved of everything and everyone. So did Swithulf; as he’d practiced the expression for twenty or twenty-five more years, his gaze was downright reptilian.

  He read the graffito aloud to himself. Had he been a student, Agmund would have corrected his pronunciation, probably with a switch. As things were, the master of Algarvian said only, “The students deny responsibility.”

  “Aye—they would,” Swithulf grunted. As Agmund had, he tried to erase the rude words. As Agmund had, he failed.

  “Because of the magecraft I mentioned and you have now seen for yourself, sir, I tend to believe them in this instance.” Agmund sounded anything but happy at having to admit such a thing. That he admitted it anyhow made Ealstan, though equally reluctant, give him some small credit.

  Swithulf spoke to the scholars for the first time: “No gossip about this, mind you.” Ealstan and his classmates all nodded solemnly. He worked hard to keep his face straight. Swithulf might as well have ordered the boys not to breathe.

  “What shall we do about this, sir?” Agmund asked. “I can hardly instruct with such a crude distraction behind me.”

  “I shall go get Ceolnoth, the magecraft master,” Swithulf answered. “He is no first-rank mage, true, but he should be sorcerer enough to put paid to this. And he is discreet, and he will charge no fee.” The headmaster departed as abruptly as he’d arrived.

  Agmund made a good game try at teaching in spite of the comment about King Mezentio’s taste in partners—or, perhaps, his taste in pork. With nine piglets in back of the master, though, verbs irregular in the imperfect sense did not sink deep into the students’ memories.

  Master Ceolnoth stuck his head into the chamber. “Well, well, what have we here?” he asked. “The headmaster didn’t say much.” Agmund pointed to the blackboard and explained. Ceolnoth came all the way inside so he could read the offending words. “Oh, dear,” he said. “Aye, we need to be rid of that, don’t we? I doubt anyone in Gromheort would be in a position to know any such thing, I do, I do.”

  Ealstan looked at Sidroc. That was a mistake. It meant he had even more trouble not snickering than he would have otherwise. Sidroc looked about ready to burst like an egg.

  “That doesn’t matter,” said Agmund, whose sense of humor had been strangled at birth. “Just get the filth of my blackboard.”

  “Quite, quite.” Ceolnoth started out the door.

  “Where are you going?” Agmund demanded.

  “Why, to get my tools, of course,” Ceolnoth replied. “Can’t work without ‘em, no more than a carpenter can work without his. Swithulf just told me to come in here and look at what you had. Now I’ve looked at it. Now you’ve told me what the trouble is. Now I know I need to do something about it. So.” Out he went.

  “More comings and goings here than I’ve seen since the redheads ran the Forthwegian army out of town,” Ealstan whispered to Sidroc.

  His cousin nodded and whispered back: “I wonder if Ceolnoth worked that sorcery himself. He could look important that way, and say what he thought about the Algarvians at the same time.”