“We’ll do fine,” Sidroc retorted. “If there’s any food at all, well take it. That’s what being a soldier is all about.”
“That’s what being a thief is all about,” Leofsig said, ignoring his father’s warning look. “And if they send you down south, you’ll find out all about snow, the same way they did last winter. Good luck stealing when everything’s frozen up.”
This time, Hestan did more than send a warning look. His tone sharper that usual, he said, “Leofsig, what were we talking about before supper? Sidroc’s father dwells here, and Sidroc himself is a welcome guest.”
“Aye, Father,” Leofsig answered, but his face betrayed him-it showed exactly how welcome he thought Sidroc was.
Seeing that, Sidroc half rose from his chair. Breathing hard, he said, “I know you all hate me. Do you know what? I don’t care. Do you know what else? Every stinking one of you can kiss my arse.”
“Son-” Uncle Hengist began.
Sidroc cut him off. “Aye, you, too, Father. You were screaming at me to stay out of the Brigade as loud as anybody else. And you were wrong, you hear me, wrong!” His voice rose to a roar. “Best lot of mates I’ve ever found. So you can kiss my arse, too. Just like them!”
“Just like me, Sidroc?” Leofsig got up, walked round the table, and kissed his cousin gently on the lips. “There.”
For a moment, Sidroc simply stared. He wasn’t too bright. But then, with a bellow of rage, he realized what Leofsig had done. He swung on Leofsig without any shift in his eyes to warn what he was going to do-sure enough, the Algarvians had taught him a thing or two.
Leofsig saw stars. He reeled backwards, fetching up against the table. Sidroc swarmed after him, fists flailing. From furious, his cousin’s face had gone deadly cold. He’ll kill me if he can, Leofsig realized.
He threw a punch at Sidroc, but his cousin blocked it with a forearm. His father and Uncle Hengist were brawling, too, but he could pay them no heed-he was indeed fighting for his life.
Conberge screamed curses as vile as any Leofsig had ever heard in the army, but Sidroc flung her back onto her mother when she rushed at him. Conberge and Elfryth went down in a heap. Leofsig grabbed a bowl and hurled it at Sidroc. He missed. The bowl shattered against the wall.
Sidroc kicked Leofsig. Leofsig kicked, too, trying to put Sidroc out of the fight with a well-aimed foot. But Sidroc twisted, quicker and smoother than Leofsig remembered him being, and took the kick on the hip, not between the legs.
Panic surged in Leofsig. What can I do? He reached for the bread knife. At the same moment, Sidroc grabbed one of the chairs. He swung it as if it weighed nothing at all. His first swipe knocked the bread knife flying from Leofsig’s hand. The next caught Leofsig in the side of the head.
He sagged to the floor. Ihave to get up, he thought, but his body didn’t want to hear him. Ihave to… Sidroc hit him again. The lamps seemed to flare red, then guttered toward blackness. He never felt any of the blows that landed after that-or anything else, ever again.
Five
Vanai heard what she thought were Ealstan’s familiar footfalls coming up the hall toward their flat. But when the knock on the door came, it was several harsh bangs, not the coded raps Ealstan always used.
Ice shot up Vanai’s back. Had someone betrayed Ealstan to the redheads? Had someone betrayed her! Heart thudding, she waited for the harsh cry: “Kaunian, come forth!”
She wondered if she would do better to come forth or to go out the window headfirst. It would be over in a hurry then, and it wouldn’t hurt much. Who could guess what the Algarvians did to Kaunians in their labor camps before they finally slew them? But while Vanai was wondering, the knock came again-the right knock, this time.
Cautiously, she approached the door. “Who is it?” she asked in a low voice.
“It’s me,” Ealstan answered. “Let me in.”
It was unquestionably Ealstan, but he didn’t sound right. Were a couple of Algarvians standing behind him in the hall, one maybe holding a stick to his head? What disaster would descend on her if she opened the door? She didn’t know, but she knew Ealstan wouldn’t have left her to face disaster alone. That decided her. She unbarred the door and pulled it open.
Ealstan stood there alone. Breath whooshed out of Vanai in a long sigh of relief. Then she saw the look on his face. She gasped as involuntarily as she’d sighed. “What is it?” she demanded. Ealstan didn’t answer. He didn’t move, either. She had to grab him by the arm and tug him into the flat and then tug him again so she could close the door. Once she’d barred it, she spun round to face him. “What is it?” she repeated.
Ealstan still didn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he thrust a sheet of paper at her. She hadn’t even noticed he was holding it. Of themselves, her eyes went down to it. The Forthwegian script was exceptionally clear, but she hadn’t read more than a couple of lines before it seemed to blur. “Your brother,” she whispered.
“Aye. My brother. Dead.” The phrases jerked from Ealstan one by one, as if from a clockwork toy that was running down. But then, unlike such a toy,
Ealstan somehow found the energy to say more: “My stinking cousin killed him. Beat him to death the way you’d beat… you’d beat… I don’t know what.” Tears started running down his cheeks and into his beard. Vanai didn’t think he knew he was crying.
She made herself keep reading the letter Ealstan’s father had sent. “They didn’t do anything to him,” she said in disbelief. “They didn’t do anything to him at all.”
“To Sidroc, you mean?” Ealstan asked, and Vanai foolishly nodded, as if she might have meant someone else. Ealstan went on, “Why should they do anything to him? Leofsig was just a Forthwegian, and Sidroc’s in Plegmund’s Brigade. They’ll probably pin a medal on him for it.”
“Didn’t you tell me Plegmund’s Brigade was training outside of Eoforwic?” Vanai answered her own question: “Of course you did. That singer you like went out with his band and performed for them.”
“Ethelhelm.” Ealstan sounded amazed he’d come up with anything so mundane as the musician’s name. “Aye, the Brigade is here-or some of it’s here. Some of it’s gone off to train somewhere else. I found out about that from him.”
“But.. won’t the soldiers do something to your cousin?” Vanai was faltering, and she knew it. “They can’t want somebody who’s nothing but a murderer. . can they?”
“What do you think soldiers are?” Ealstan answered bleakly. “Especially soldiers who fight for King Mezentio. But it doesn’t matter anyhow. Look at the date on the letter.”
Vanai hadn’t. Now she did. “That’s-three weeks ago,” she said. “And it just got here now?”
Another foolish question. Ealstan, fortunately, took it as a matter of course. He said, “Aye. What do the Algarvians care about how the post runs in Forthweg, or even if the post runs in Forthweg? We’re lucky it got here at all- if you call that luck. But you’re right, or I hope you’re right-I want to go out and see if I can get the Algarvians to do something about Sidroc. If he’s still here, I mean. He’s liable not to be.”
“Don’t do that!” Vanai exclaimed.
“Huh? Why not?” Ealstan asked, as if he intended heading for the encampment of Plegmund’s Brigade that very moment. Shock had to have dulled his wits.
Patiently, Vanai answered, “Because you still might be wanted in Gromheort, that’s why. Do you plan to show up there and have them arrest you?”
“Oh.” Ealstan sounded astonished. No, that hadn’t crossed his mind at all. When it did, he nodded. “You’re right, curse it. Well, he might not even be there. Powers above, I hope he’s not there. I hope he goes out and the Unkerlanters kill him first thing. I wish I could do it myself. I wish I had done, it, back there in Gromheort. A million Sidrocs aren’t worth one of my brother.”