Free After the Downfall by Harry Turtledove Page B

inferiority complex the headache did nothing to dispel. He’d figured Bottero would be big - large men usually were large all over. But that big? The king had to have a horse lurking somewhere not too far down his family tree. No wonder Velona didn’t want to miss their date.
    She wasn’t in bed with him. All things considered, that might have been just as well. He got out of bed, pulled the chamber pot out from under it, and took an enormous leak. Then he put on his clothes and went to the buttery for something to eat - and for something to drink, to dull the pounding between his ears.
    He wasn’t the only one badly the worse for wear that morning. Passed - out Lenelli and Grenye sprawled together in the courtyard. The overlords and their subjects didn’t show that kind of camaraderie when they were conscious. Men who were up and about moved slowly and carefully, as if afraid their heads would fall off if they hurried. Hasso knew just how they felt - he felt that way himself. A cook standing behind a bubbling pot of porridge was taking pulls at a mug of beer. Hasso pointed at the pot. “Give me some of that,” he said. Then he pointed to the mug. “And give me some of that!”
    “Barrel’s over there. Help yourself.” The cook gestured with the ladle before filling a cheap earthenware bowl and plopping a horn spoon into it. “Here you go. Say, you’re the foreigner who sleeps with the goddess most of the time, aren’t you?”
    “That’s right. What about it?” If this guy was going to tease him about sharing her with the king, Hasso aimed to clean his clock. He was feeling just rotten enough to welcome a fight. But the cook only grinned at him. “You’re a lucky dog, you are. His Majesty gets your sloppy seconds.”
    He’d been worrying about getting Bottero’s. He hadn’t even thought it worked the other way around, too. Not knowing what to say, he didn’t say anything. He just went over to the beer barrel and dipped out a mug.
    The hair of the dog that bit him took the edge off his headache. The porridge - he thought it was barley, but it might have been oats - had bits of greasy, salty sausage in it. It helped coat his stomach and put some ballast in there. He got up and went back for a refill. He started feeling human again, but still wished he had some aspirin. Wish for the moon, too, he thought.
    He was almost done with the second bowl when King Bottero walked in. Along with everybody else sitting on the benches, Hasso jumped to his feet. He didn’t hurl himself at the king’s throat. Maybe the remains of a hangover had their uses after all.
    Bottero waved the warriors back to their seats. “As you were, men. As you were.” He seemed careful not to talk too loud. Maybe he was feeling it from the night before, too. Feeling it or not, the first thing Bottero did was dip himself out a mug of beer and drain it. He filled it again before he went up to the cook for some porridge. Then he ambled over and sat down by Hasso.
    “Your Majesty,” Hasso said unwillingly.
    “Morning,” Bottero said. “Quite a night last night, eh? Do they have holidays like that in the land you come from?”
    “Well... no.” Try as he would, the German couldn’t imagine the Führer playing the starring role in a fertility rite. Goring, on the other hand ... Hasso swigged from his mug. The Reichsmarschall was too damn fat to do it as well as King Bottero had.
    The king’s eyes were tracked with red, but shrewd all the same. “Didn’t think so,” he said. “Velona tells me you aren’t too happy about the rite. I didn’t do it to spite you. I don’t go around stealing my men’s women. But the rite ... We need the rite. Enjoying it is part of the rite.”
    “I understand, your Majesty.” Hasso tried not to sound too stiff. The king was going out of his way to be decent. He could have just ordered this foreigner with the funny ideas knocked over the head. Hasso didn’t think his skill at unarmed combat was