By now, though, he’d made a name for himself as one of the leadersof the fight against Algarve in his country. He wasn’t sure how he felt aboutthat. On the one hand, he was flattered that other Valmierans knew he was oneof those who hadn’t despaired of the kingdom. On the other, their knowing heremained a rebel against the occupiers made it more likely the redheads wouldfind out, too.

And so, when he strode into the town of Tytuvenai, he lookedaround to make sure no Algarvians were paying him any undue attention. To hissurprise, he saw hardly any of King Mezentio’s men on the streets. Valmieranconstables as blond as Skarnu patrolled them instead. In smart uniforms thatreminded him of the one he’d worn in the army, they eyed his homespun tunic andbaggy trousers with almost as much scorn as nobles in Priekule would have aimedat him.

“Come to see the bright lights, farmboy?” one of them called toSkarnu. The fellow’s partner laughed.

“Aye,” Skarnu answered with a wide, foolish grin. The role heplayed amused him: a city man pretending to be a country yokel to fool a coupleof other city men. But if the new audience criticized his performance, hewouldn’t get a bad notice in the local news sheet. He’d get killed.

He’d never been in Tytuvenai before, and so some of his curiositywas genuine. The town, he’d heard, had some monuments that dated back to thedays of the Kaunian Empire. He saw none. He did see some plots of ground thatlooked as if they’d recently held something or other but were now empty. Hewondered if Algarvian wreckers had got rid of monuments they didn’t fancy, ashe knew they’d done elsewhere in Valmiera.

After some searching, he found the tavern called the DrunkenDragon. The dragon on the signboard above the door certainly looked as if ithad had several too many. Skarnu smiled up at it. Before he went inside, hechecked to make sure no one had picked his pockets: the Drunken Dragon lay inthat kind of neighborhood. Valmieran constables didn’t come hereabouts.