The farm put Hasso in mind of what he’d seen in Russia. If anything, it was even more backward, even more disorderly. The man of the family was chopping wood. Every few strokes, he would swig from a jug. Hasso wouldn’t have wanted to get lit up while swinging an axe, but the peasant didn’t seem to care. He paused to bow as the Lenelli went by, then attacked the wood with fresh ferocity.

His wife was weeding in the vegetable plot by the shabby, thatch – roofed farmhouse. Her butt stuck up in the air. Aderno mimed swatting it. Hasso chuckled. He and his men had played those games with peasant women. Some of the gals liked it. Others … Well, too bad for them.

A swarm of children, from almost grown to barely past toddling, worked around the farm. A boy with a beard just starting to sprout tended a handful of pigs in a stinking muddy wallow. He also bowed to his overlords. Hasso didn’t like the look in his eye when he straightened.

A girl a year or two younger tossed grain to some chickens. She might have been pretty if you fattened her up and scrubbed off a lifetime’s worth of dirt. Would anyone ever bother? Would it ever occur to anyone that he ought to bother? Hasso didn’t think so.

“You think these are bad, you should see the wild ones,” Aderno said. “These are partway civilized, or at least tamed. They know better than to yap at their betters, anyhow.”

Hasso wasn’t so sure of that. He cared for the way the peasant swung the axe no more than he liked the smoldering fury in the youth’s eyes. They might be cowed, but they seemed a long way from tame. And … “Those bastards who were chasing Velona – they were wild?”

“Wild, yes,” Aderno answered. “Without magic. Without hope of magic. Too stupid, too mindblind, to harness the Laws of Similarity and Contagion.”

There. Hasso finally had names for the Two Laws. Names alone didn’t help much, though. “What do they mean?” he asked.

Aderno clucked like a mother hen. He really couldn’t believe Hasso didn’t know. Plainly giving him the benefit of the doubt, the wizard said, “Well, you’re still a stranger here.” He might have been reminding himself. “The Law of Similarity says that an image is similar to its model, and if you do something to the image, the same thing will happen to the model. Actually connecting them in a magical way is more complicated, but that’s the idea. Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Hasso said. Gypsies and other frauds used the same notions in the world he knew, but they didn’t really work there. Here… Well, who could say? What was he doing here if magic was nothing but a load of crap? “And the Law of, uh, Contagion?”

“An obvious truth: that things once in contact remain in contact – in a mystical sense, of course,” Aderno replied.

“Aber naturlich” Hasso said dryly. And if that wasn’t real, pure, one hundred percent bullshit … then maybe it was something else.

“Little by little, we use our magic – and our strong right arms – to teach the Grenye that even dreaming of standing against us is far beyond their feeble abilities,” Aderno said. “Sooner or later, they will learn.”

“That would probably be good,” Hasso said. All the same, he wished he had eyes in the back of his head, a wish he’d also had many times in Russia. The squat, dark men who’d been chasing Velona hadn’t learned their lesson yet – he was sure of that. And, thanks to his Schmeisser, they never would now.

Later that afternoon, they stopped in a peasant village. It reminded Hasso too much of the hamlets he’d gone through in the Soviet Union. Oh, the details were different. And it wasn’t just that modern things were missing: no phone poles, no electric wires, no radios, no tractors or beat – up cars. The huts, of wattle and daub or of stones chinked with mud, didn’t look much like their Russian counterparts. And the Grenye looked more like gypsies or Jews than Slavic peasants.

But the air of rundown despair pervading the place could have come straight from the USSR. Much the biggest and finest building in the village was the tavern. Four or five men sprawled in drunken stupor near the entrance. A tipsy man staggered out singing something Hasso couldn’t understand. It sounded like a dirge, though. Another man with a pinched, worried face scuttled in. If he wasn’t on his way to drown his sorrows, Hasso had never seen anybody who was.

All the Grenye who could stay on their feet bowed to the Lenelli. Across the road from the tavern stood a smithy. The front was open to the air, the better to let smoke and heat escape. The smith wasn’t very tall, but Hasso wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with him – he was a mass of muscle. Heavy hammer in his right hand, leather apron and gauntlets warding him from sparks, he too bent double as his overlords rode past. What he thought while he did it… was perhaps better not contemplated.

“What would happen if we went into the tavern?” Hasso asked Aderno.

“The tapman would serve us,” the wizard answered. “If he thought we weren’t looking, he might spit in the beer. If he really thought we weren’t looking, he might piss in it. But he would serve us.”

“Is there any way you could make the Grenye like you?” the German asked, recalling Russia again.

Now Aderno laughed in his face. “Certainly, outlander. We could fall over dead right here. We could come down with a plague that makes the flesh drip off our bones. We could burst into flames. An earthquake could make the ground open up and swallow every last one of us. The Grenye would like us fine … after that.”

“Why do they feel that way about you?” Hasso knew why the Russians felt that way about his own folk. The Germans in the USSR had earned such feelings, since they felt the same way about Slavs – and acted like it. And now Stalin’s hordes were avenging themselves inside the Reich, something Hitler surely never imagined when he hurled the Wehrmacht and Waffen-SS at the Soviet Union in 1941.

“They’re only Grenye,” Aderno said. “Who cares why they feel the way they do? It doesn’t matter, not even a counterfeit copper’s worth.”

Plainly, he thought Hasso was wasting his time with such questions. The Wehrmacht officer tried one more: “How long have you ruled them here?”

“A couple of hundred years – something like that,” Aderno answered. “Velona would know better than I do. Long enough to teach them they can’t beat us. That matters. Who’s strong and who isn’t: once you know that, you know everything you need to know. I dare you to tell me it’s any different in your world.”

“Well… no,” Hasso said. “The answers aren’t always what you want, though.”

“They have been for us,” Aderno said. Remembering the grinding German retreat across Eastern Europe, remembering the doomed last stand in Berlin, Hasso envied the Lenello his certainty.

Instead of stopping in the Grenye village, the travelers rode on till they came to another Lenello garrison. Castle Kalmar was as close to identical to Castle Svarag as made no difference. Even the commandant might have been Mertois’ first cousin. He was deferential to Aderno and even more so to Velona. Because they vouched for Hasso, the commandant also treated him with tolerable respect.

Velona got the best guestroom in Castle Kalmar. Aderno’s, down the hall, was only half as big. Hasso wasn’t sure whether the Lenelli here thought he was Velona’s aide or her lover or her pet. For that matter, he wasn’t sure what she thought herself.

Her lover he certainly was. He’d never even dreamt of a woman like her before, brazen as a man, strong as a man, pretty in a way that made every movie star and chorus girl he’d ever seen seem insipid beside her. If you could trap fire and high explosives inside a sweetly curved skin, that was Velona. And she gave herself to him – and took from him – without the slightest reservation.

Heart slowing in the afterglow, he asked her, “Why?” There was another Lenello word he’d picked up.