“You can do what I ask of you, then?” Zgomot pressed.
“Sure. Only I don’t know if the bones’ll still be there, y’know? I haven’t had anything to do with ‘em for years and years, so you can’t scrag me – well, you shouldn’t scrag me – if they aren’t, like. It’s at the butt end of nowhere, too.”
“If my men believe you have led them to the right spot, no harm will come to you – by Lavtrig I swear it,” Zgomot said. “There should be some evidence of that, whether the bones remain or not. Is that fair?”
“I guess.” But Scanno’s whine got stronger. “What’s all this about, anyhow? How come you need dragon bones all of a sudden?”
Lord Zgomot looked at Hasso. Hasso looked back at the Lord of Bucovin. He didn’t think Zgomot would say anything. But the native did: “What you don’t know, Scanno, no one can drag out of you if misfortune comes.”
“You’ve got some kind of fancy reason for not telling me,” Scanno said, which was nothing but the truth. His red-tracked eyes swung to Hasso. “And fry my balls if it doesn’t have to do with magic.” He made as if to touch the amulet he wore, but dropped his hand before it got where it was going. “So you think the dragon bone really does have something to do with blocking spells, eh?”
Hasso and Zgomot looked at each other again. Scanno might have been – was – a renegade with a hollow leg, but that didn’t make him a jerk. With a weary sigh, Zgomot said, “Well, you have made sure you will not leave Falticeni until the bone hunters return with their quarry. We cannot have the Lenelli pulling this out of you.”
“I wasn’t going anywhere, Lord.” There was that whine again, this time thick enough to slice. Hasso eyed Scanno with imperfect trust. If Scanno brought word about dragon bones to King Bottero and his wizards, chances were the news would buy his way back into their good graces. And Hasso knew all about the impulse to switch sides. Fortunately, Zgomot didn’t know how well he knew it. Scanno went on, “I’ll let your people know where they can find the bones. My head will answer if they don’t bring back a cartload of ‘em, or at least find out where they were.”
“That is what I want. Go talk to the scribes. Tell them where the place is. Draw them a map. Do that now, while the thought is fresh in your mind,” Zgomot said.
“Whatever you want, Lord.” Scanno sketched a salute and hurried off.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Hasso said, “Keep an eye on him, Lord. Keep an eye on his wife, too. Watch them the same way you watch me.”
“I intend to keep an eye on him, and an eye on Nechemat as well,” Zgomot answered placidly. “And you have an interesting way of putting that.”
Shrugging, Hasso said, “I know you keep an eye on me. You need to. I hope I know the difference between what I like and what is. And now you really need to keep an eye on Scanno, too. He knows too much.”
“Yes. And he likes to talk, too. You do not have that vice, anyhow,” Zgomot said.
“In my world, I know how important keeping secrets is,” Hasso said. “Now some secrets to keep here, too.”
The Lord of Bucovin nodded. “Yes. I would not have thought that, but yes. And you realize you will not be leaving Falticeni, either, or not without guards, not until the bonehunters have returned.”
As steadily as he could, Hasso nodded back. “No one is ever going to trust me again. That is part of what is, too. Not what I like, but what is.”
“We will see what we can do about what you like.” Zgomot sent Hasso away without explaining himself – he had the ruler’s privilege of the last word.
Hasso didn’t think the Bucovinans had beauty contests. If they did, the girl who came to his room that night would have finished no worse than third runner-up. Her name, she told him, was Tsiam. Seriously, she added, “Lord Zgomot says I am to do anything you want.”
“Anything?” Hasso said.
“Anything.” Tsiam nodded, but she couldn’t keep a touch of fear from her voice. Who could guess what big blond foreigners might like?
“What would you do if it were up to you?” Hasso asked.
“Why, whatever Lord Zgomot told me to do, of course,” Tsiam answered.
“Let me say it a different way. Where would you be if Lord Zgomot didn’t tell you to be here?”
“With Otset. But he’s starting to get tired of me. That’s why Zgomot sent me to you.”
Otset was the Bucovinan who’d warned King Bottero to turn back not long before the natives laid their trap and captured Hasso. Up till now, Hasso had thought he was pretty smart. But if he was, why would he get tired of a girl as pretty as Tsiam? One more try: “Do you want to be here? If you don’t, you don’t have to be. You can go.”
“You don’t want me?” Tsiam seemed – affronted?
“Not unless you want me.”
She frowned. “How do we really know till we try?”
And what am I supposed to say to that? Hasso wondered. He found only one thing, and he said it: “Come on, then, and we try.”
Try they did. When it was over, neither one of them would have called it a success. Tsiam said, “You were thinking about someone else, weren’t you?”
“Afraid so,” Hasso answered. “I’m sorry. Don’t mean for it to show so much.”
She shrugged. “Nothing much to do about it. Do you want me to bother coming back?”
“No. It’s all right. Tell Lord Zgomot I am not angry at you – that is the truth. I thank you for your kindness. Tell Lord Zgomot I thank him for his. But this is not what I am after.”
“All right. I hope you find it, whatever it is.” Tsiam quickly dressed and slipped out of the room. Hasso made a fist and slammed it down onto the mattress. That didn’t do him any good, either.
He was eating a glum breakfast the next morning when Drepteaza set her bowl of mush down by his. “By Lavtrig, why doesn’t Tsiam suit you?” she asked. “She’s much prettier than I ever will be. And after spending a couple of years learning to please Otset, she’s bound to be better in bed, too.”
“Then why doesn’t he want her anymore?” Hasso asked.
“He’s had time to get bored with her. You gave her one night.”
Hasso shrugged. “She isn’t what I want.” He paused to spoon up some more of the mush, and to wash it down with bad Bucovinan beer. None of that changed his mind, so he went on, “You are. You know that.”
“Yes. I do know that. It only makes things harder for both of us.” Drepteaza looked down at the rough planks of the tabletop.
“I’m sorry. Not sorry, but – you know.” Again, Hasso hated stumbling through a language he didn’t speak well. “Curse it, do you fall in love just where you are supposed to?”
“I haven’t fallen in love at all, so I can’t really answer that,” Drepteaza answered. “But you, Hasso Pemsel – it seems to me that you look for the worst places to fall in love, and then go and do that.”
If she’d mocked him, he would have gone up like jellied gasoline. But she didn’t. She simply sounded as if she was telling him how things looked to her. And maybe she wasn’t so far wrong. He doubted he would have had a happy ending with Velona even if the Bucovinans didn’t capture him. Something else would have gone wrong, or she would have found somebody new. And then … No, that wouldn’t have been pretty. It might have been lethal. Velona herself had warned him.
He didn’t want to think about Velona. It still hurt. So did thinking about Drepteaza, but not the same way. Stubbornly, he said, “You are not a bad place to fall in love. You are the best place I know.”
“Here,” she said: one quiet word that hit him the way a Panzerfaust blew the turret off a Soviet T-34. His face must have shown as much, for she softened it a little: “Maybe I would not be such a bad place for you if I felt for you what you feel for me. But I don’t. I almost wish I did. It would make things easier for Bucovin.”