“I won’t tell you what I’ve done,” Hansen said, raising his voice over the sound of snores and servants clearing dishes. “That’s little enough so far, here in your country. And I won’t boast about what I’m going to do in the next battle or the next hundred battles. But—”
Hansen turned to the cross-table. Taddeusz was—no, the warchief wasn’t asleep, for his eyes snapped firmly shut when Hansen stared at him. Golsingh was watching; and Krita, and Unn. . . .
“But Lord Golsingh, if it’s your true desire to bring peace to all your kingdom—peace that stands, not a battle here and a feud there, always and forever, for you to stamp out and go on to the next—”
The king was nodding. The women’s faces didn’t change.
“Then I can show you how to do it.”
“That isn’t a warrior’s part!” Taddeusz shouted, raising his head from his crossed arms. Golsingh looked at him with a frown.
“I’ll do a warrior’s job when there’s fighting,” Hansen snapped. “But I’ll let you do a king’s job, Lord Golsingh—if you really want that!”
He sat down abruptly, before he said too much—if he hadn’t already. The beer’s unpleasant taste covered a surprising kick.
Another warrior rose and maundered unintelligibly.
Hansen fell asleep while the last warriors spoke.
Clashing metal—a dropped cup—awakened him. The hearth had burned to coals, but there was still enough light to see forms hunched at the tables. Half the room was empty, but many of the warriors were continuing to drink and mumble to one another.
“Malcolm, where do I bunk?” Hansen asked, hoping he’d correctly identified the man to his right.
A servant stepped between the coals and Hansen. “More beer, hero?” she asked.
Not a servant. Krita.
“No,” Hansen said curtly. “And you can call me a hero when you believe it yourself. Not now.”
The black-haired woman laughed. “How good are you, Hansen?” she asked.
“Good enough,” he said. “As good as I—”
He paused. “I’ll tell you this, lady,” he said in sudden decision. “I’m the best there is. That’s how good I am.”
He turned his back on her throaty chuckle. He was pretty sure he remembered which cubicle he’d seen them carry the russet and black armor into.
Malcolm put a hand on Hansen’s shoulder. “That one,” he said, pointing to a doorway.
“Thanks.”
“Quite the lad,” Malcolm said. “You know, boy—”
Hansen paused at the doorway and looked back.
“—I’m not sure I’m going to want to know you,” Malcolm finished.
And he chuckled as he sat down on his bench again, but Hansen was pretty sure the comment had been more than a joke.
Chapter Ten
There was just enough sunlight percolating through the walls of the bed cubicle for Hansen to see his breath in a chill cloud.
Hansen straightened his arms; the heavy fur bedclothes resisted. He groaned and swung himself out of bed at once, because it wasn’t going to get better—and if he didn’t have the guts to face the morning, any morning, then he’d spent his life in a variety of the wrong businesses.
The parts of Hansen’s body that didn’t ache jabbed when he made them move. Twenty-nine was too old for this crap; he ought to leave it for the new crop of bright-eyed nineteen-year-olds who healed fast, who didn’t know how badly they could get hurt—
Who hadn’t seen enough other people die to realize that they would be among that number very soon themselves.
On the other hand, Taddeusz had been in the heart of the battle, and he was damned near old enough to be Hansen’s father. Which probably proved that older didn’t necessarily mean wiser . . . and that Hansen wouldn’t be ready to hang it up at Taddeusz’ age either.
Things had bitten him in the night. Hansen told himself he’d get used to that. He’d better. The jakes here were an open pit with a crossbar and a perfunctory windbreak—damned cold last night, and he’d get used to that too; though he figured either to find or invent a chamber pot before evening.
Hansen’s battlesuit stared blankly at him from the foot of his bed.