Didn’t German propaganda go on and on about Jewish mouths and noses? Didn’t the Aryans of the Reich look down their straight noses at Italians because they were small and dark and excitable? Negroes? The less said about Negroes, the better. The Fuhrer hadn’t wanted to shake that colored sprinter and jumper’s hand even after he won all those gold medals at the Berlin Olympics.
And, coming back to this world, the Bucovinan priestess was dead right. Most Lenelli were as mindblind as her own folk. That didn’t turn them into Untermenschen in the eyes of their countrymen.
All that talk was … talk. The Lenelli didn’t like the Grenye because they looked different, they talked different, and they were in the way. Those were all common enough reasons for two folk not to like each other: Germans and Frenchmen sprang to mind. But the mindblindness gave the Lenelli an extra excuse to use the natives any way they pleased.
It all seemed as plain as a punch in the jaw to Hasso, who looked at the way things were here from the outside. Suddenly, out of the blue, he wondered what a Lenello dropped into his world would think of the Reich’s racial notions. Would they look as foolish to him as Bottero’s ideas did to Hasso?
He was damned if he could see why not.
Hell, some of those policies looked foolish even to a lot of Germans. If they’d used all the people in the USSR who hated Communism and Stalin instead of jumping on them with both feet and driving them back into the Red fold, they could hardly have done worse on the Eastern Front. And there were times when soldiers didn’t move because trains were busy hauling Jews around behind the lines. If you were going to deal with the Jews like that, wouldn’t after the war have been a better time?
Why didn’t I pay more attention to this while I was there? Hasso wondered. He hadn’t seen any need to: that was why. Everybody set above him, everybody beside him, and everybody below him seemed to have pretty much the same ideas.
“My God! We threw the stupid war away, and we didn’t even know it!”
“What?” Only when Drepteaza asked did he realize he’d spoken German.
“Nothing. Nothing I can do anything about now, anyway,” Hasso answered sheepishly. “Something from back in the world I come from.”
“Oh.” Drepteaza sent him a shrewd look. “Something that has to do with a woman there?”
She might be shrewd, but that didn’t make her right. He shook his head. “No, not with a woman. With my kingdom, and with its affairs.” The Reich wasn’t a kingdom, of course, but explaining what it was was beyond him in either Lenello or Bucovinan. It might have been beyond him in German, too.
Drepteaza didn’t press him, which was something of a relief. She just said, “I hope you’ll remember you’re here now.”
He nodded. “I’m not likely to forget it,” he said.
“Ha!” Scanno called when Hasso came down to the soldiers’ buttery a couple of days later. The renegade set down his spoon – he was eating tripe soup that morning. He went on, “They do let you out every now and again.”
“Yes, every now and again.” Hasso didn’t feel like talking to him – and then, all of a sudden, he did. “Can I ask you a question?”
Scanno spooned up another mouthful of soup. Then he said, “You can always ask. If I don’t like it, maybe I’ll kick you into the middle of next week.”
“You can always try,” Hasso said politely – too politely. He wasn’t afraid of Scanno, not even a little bit. The renegade scowled at him: Scanno was as arrogant and full of himself as any other Lenello. Hasso didn’t care. He asked, “When Aderno tries to put a spell on you in Drammen, how do you know he can’t?”
“Oh. That!” Scanno laughed. “On account of I’ve had other wizards try to ensorcel me, and not a one of ‘em could do it. Not since I was a kid, matter of fact.”
“Really?” Hasso said.
“Sure. Why the demon would I waste my time lying to you?” Scanno returned to his tripe soup, which seemed more interesting to him than Hasso was. “Makes your insides hurt not quite so bad, anyway,” he remarked.
“Yes, I know,” Hasso said, at which the renegade laughed. “Have you got any idea why this is so?” Hasso persisted.
Scanno started to shake his head, then thought better of it. Hung over, Hasso had made that same quick choice more than once. Just talking hurt less, and Scanno did: “Never even worried about it. It’s something about me, that’s all, like I’ll spend the night farting if I eat leeks for supper.”
“Right,” Hasso said – sometimes you could find out more about somebody than you really wanted to know. He tried a different angle: “Do you remember when this starts? Not when you are a child?”
“No, after that, like I told you.” Scanno frowned, trying to remember. “If you’re smart, you don’t want wizards trying to mess with you,” he observed. Hasso didn’t say anything. He’d already seen that Scanno wasn’t smart that way. And, sure as hell, the renegade continued, “Must’ve been about fifteen years ago. I called some high and mighty wizard a cocksucking son of a whore, and he told me he’d turn me into a pig for that. And the bastard tried, and he couldn’t.”
“And what do you do – what did you do – afterwards?” Hasso asked.
“I pitched his sorry arse into a hog wallow, and better than he deserved, too,” Scanno answered. “I’ve had a couple of other run-ins with those walking chamber pots since, and they’ve never been able to bother me.”
“I see.” Actually, Hasso wished he did. He’d taken Scanno’s immunity to magic as part and parcel of what made spells falter near Falticeni. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it was personal. Well, that could be interesting, too. “How do you suppose this happened? Spells work on most Lenelli, yes?”
“Sure,” Scanno said. “I always figured it was because I was such a tough bastard.” He would have seemed tougher if his hands didn’t shake and if his eyes didn’t look like a couple of pissholes in the snow.
Instead of pointing that out, Hasso said, “If you ever see why, talk to me. Talk to Drepteaza. Talk to Lord Zgomot. The Bucovinans want to know – they need to know – how to keep magic from biting on them when they get far from Falticeni.”
“Tell me about it, the poor, sorry bastards.” Scanno laughed. “Can you see Bottero’s face if it didn’t bite?” That made Hasso laugh, too, because he could. Then Scanno said, “Boy, wouldn’t it make the goddess on earth pee in her drawers?”
Hasso didn’t deck him. That only proved he had even more discipline than he’d ever imagined. He did make a growling noise down deep in his throat – he couldn’t help it. The worst of it was knowing Scanno was right. If magic did fail against Bucovin, Velona would be incandescent.
She was gone, lost. She wanted him dead. He wanted her back. The Grenye in Drammen had plenty of reasons to get drunk. So did Hasso, in Falticeni.
XIX
Lenello raiders went on harrying Bucovin’s western villages all through the winter. They kept some of the towns they seized. That bothered Lord Zgomot, who said, “They are going to jump off from those places when they really pick up the war again come spring.”
“Well, of course,” Hasso said when word of the Lord of Bucovin’s comment got to him through Drepteaza. He heard everything second- and third- and fifth-hand, when he heard of it at all.
“This is not what the Lenelli usually do,” she said.
“I wonder why not,” Hasso said. “Are they really so stupid? I did not think so when I was with them.”
That got him summoned before Zgomot. “Did you give the blonds the idea of biting and holding on instead of biting and letting go?” the Lord of Zgomot demanded.
“I don’t know, Lord,” Hasso answered. “I don’t think so. I don’t remember talking about it with them, not like that. King Bottero just thinks one fast campaign will break Bucovin.” Hasso had thought the same thing. Why not? He hadn’t known any better. Hitler had thought the same thing about the Russians. Well, so much for that. So much for this, too.