For the first time in a very long while, the Marchioness Krasta made the acquaintance of someone who not only could outshout her but paid no attention to her desires whatever. Her maidservant Bauska’s bastard by the Algarvian Captain Mosco, a girl the mother had named Malya, howled as loud as she wanted whenever she wanted.
“Powers above,” Krasta complained to Colonel Lurcanio. “You’d think the mansion would be big enough to shield me from the racket of a squalling brat, but it isn’t. Doesn’t she ever shut up?”
“She is in training to become a woman,” Krasta’s lover replied in Valmieran with only a slight trilling accent. She glared, which only made the Algarvian nobleman laugh. He said, “Perhaps we will go out to supper tonight. Then you will not have to listen to this noise that so distresses you.”
“Good,” Krasta said. “Anything to get away. And Bauska is just useless- useless, I tell you. If this is what having a baby does to a woman, I’m glad I haven’t had any.”
“Even so.” Lurcanio scratched at the new pink scar on his forehead, one of the souvenirs of the concealed egg that had burst at a Valmieran noble’s mansion. The redheads still hadn’t arrested anyone for that. Krasta wished they would. For one thing, the egg might have harmed her, too. For another, Lurcanio grew quite tediously dull when he tried to track the culprit, whoever he was.
“Where shall we go?” Krasta asked, trying to decide what she felt like eating.
“I had in mind the Imperial,” Lurcanio answered. “I’ve seen talk about that place in romances two hundred years old. It would be a shame not to get to know it while I am in Priekule.”
“All right,” Krasta said. “I’ve heard the service is slow there, though.” Normally, she hated anything that smacked of delay, but now she brightened. “So much the better. The longer I’m away from the baby, the better I’ll like it.”
“Babies are enjoyable-in moderation,” Lurcanio said.
Krasta thought babies were enjoyable, too-at a distance, preferably a distance of several miles. With the prospect of supper before her, her mind turned to more important things. “What shall I wear?” she murmured. She couldn’t make up her mind down here in Lurcanio’s office; she needed to see what was in her closet. Making her excuses to the Algarvian, she hurried back to her own wing of the mansion and upstairs to her bedchamber.
For a wonder, Malya wasn’t screeching her head off. That let Krasta go through her wardrobe in peace. But it didn’t make her any more decisive than she would have been otherwise. She had so many clothes, she needed help narrowing down her choices.
“Bauska!” she shouted. If the brat was taking a nap, Krasta’s serving woman could start earning her keep again. When Bauska didn’t come right away, Krasta called for her again, even louder.
Malya started to cry. Krasta cursed. Bauska came into her bedchamber a moment later, carrying her daughter and wearing a resentful expression. Reproach in her voice, she said, “She was asleep, milady.”
“If she was asleep, you should have come in here faster,” Krasta answered, a retort that made perfect sense to her. She glowered at Bauska. The serving woman was still doughy and fat, with a pale face marred by purple circles under her eyes. Malya woke her up all the time. Malya sometimes woke Krasta, too, which infuriated the marchioness.
“How may I serve you?” Bauska asked through clenched teeth. She rocked the baby back and forth in the cradle of her arms.
“Help me pick an outfit,” Krasta said. She’d given that order any number of times before. Bauska was efficient about obeying it. Once she’d got Krasta to choose a pair of dark green trousers, picking three tunics that went with them let her mistress decide which one she wanted: a coppery shade brighter than that of Lurcanio’s hair, which was going gray. As Bauska withdrew, Krasta pursued her with words: “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
It was, in fact, easy enough that she could have done it herself. But what point to having servants if you didn’t use them?
When she came downstairs, Colonel Lurcanio beamed and kissed her hand. “Do you see?” he said. “You can, if you put your mind to it, look lovely even without making me wait.”
“I don’t want you to take me for granted,” Krasta answered. And that was true in ways she hoped Lurcanio didn’t fully grasp. If she began to bore him, all he had to do was crook a finger to get himself another mistress. That was how things were in occupied Valmiera these days. Of course, he might also crook his finger so if she angered him, a point that didn’t cross her mind.
He laughed now. “I may do many things,” he said, “but I would never be so rash as to do that. Let’s go.”
As always, Krasta missed the bright lights Priekule had shown before the war. Lurcanio’s driver, an Algarvian like his master, got lost a couple of times, and finally had to ask a patrolling Valmieran constable for directions to the Imperial. Even when he got there, Krasta wasn’t sure he had; the restaurant, like every other building in the capital, remained dark on the outside to make things difficult for Lagoan dragons.
The entry hall was dark, too. Only after a servitor closed the door did he open the black curtains at the other end of the hall. The sudden brilliance he revealed made Krasta’s eyes water, almost as if she’d looked up at the noonday sun.
Lurcanio blinked a couple of times, too. As a fawning waiter escorted Krasta and him to the table, he said, “Eateries with indifferent food keep things dark, so you don’t know exactly what you’re getting. The Imperial, now, the Imperial has confidence.”
“Yes, sir, we do,” the waiter said, drawing out Krasta’s chair so she could sit down. “I hope, sir, when your meal is done, you will be able to tell me our establishment deserves to have such confidence.”
“I hope so, too,” Lurcanio answered. “As a matter of fact, I had better be able to.” His smile had sharp edges, reminding the waiter who was occupier and who occupied. The fellow gulped, nodded, and fled.
When he returned, he brought menus and a list of potables. Krasta chose a dark ale, Lurcanio wine from the Marquisate of Rivaroli. “An excellent selection, sir,” the waiter said.
“I think so,” Lurcanio said. “Now that Algarve has taken Rivaroli back from Valmiera, the least I can do is take a bottle of her wine.” That sent the waiter away in a hurry again. Krasta stared across the table in some annoyance; she’d been ready to order supper, too, and now she couldn’t.
She looked around the Imperial. More than half of the men eating supper were Algarvians. The blond men with them had the sleek look of those who’d done well for themselves since Valmiera fell to King Mezentio’s men. Their yellow-haired lady friends were almost as elegant, almost as lovely, as those who accompanied the redheads.
Idly, Lurcanio asked, “Does the name Pavilosta mean anything to you?”
“Pavilosta?” Krasta shook her head. “It sounds like it ought to be a town. Is it? Out in the provinces somewhere, I suppose. Who cares where?” As far as she was concerned, the civilized world ended a few miles outside of Priekule. Oh, it had extensions in fashionable resorts, but she was certain Pavilosta wasn’t among them. She would have known more about it if it were.
“Aye, out in the provinces,” Lurcanio said. “You would not by any chance have got a letter from there lately?”
“Powers above, no!” Krasta exclaimed. She wasn’t clever in most senses of the word, but she did have a certain shrewdness to her. Pointing at her companion, she went on, “And if I had, you’d know about it before I did.”
Lurcanio chuckled. “Well, I hope I would, but you never can tell.”
He might have said more, but the waiter came back with his wine and Krasta’s ale. This time, Krasta got to order. She chose the pork chop stuffed with crayfish meat. “Ah, you’ll enjoy that, milady,” the waiter said. He turned to Lurcanio and dipped his head. “And for you, sir?”