Authors: Harry Turtledove
The room was just getting back to tolerable warmth when someone knocked on the door. Pekka thumped her forehead with the heel of her hand, again recalled to the real world. “Leino’s going to clout me!” she said as she leaped to her feet.
Sure enough, it was her husband standing there in the hall. He didn’t clout her; that sort of behavior was for Unkerlanters and Algarvians (though Algarvians were likely to slip on a glove before hitting a woman). He did give her a severe look, which, among Kuusamans, more than sufficed. “Have you forgotten the reception at your sister’s tonight?” he demanded.
“I had, aye,” Pekka answered, hoping she sounded as embarrassed as she felt. “I hate acting out a cliche: the absent-minded mage. But since you remembered, I’m sure we’ll be there in good time. Here, let me get my cloak.”
Mollified, Leino grumbled only a little more as they crossed the Kajaani City College campus and took the ley-line caravan to the stop nearest their house. Not enough snow lay on the ground to give the caravan any trouble. The real storms hadn’t started roaring in out of the south. Drifts sometimes got as high as the top of a floating caravan car, not the base.
Slogging up the hill to take Uto back from Elimaki, Pekka didn’t want to think about snowdrifts. “Powers above be praised, you’re here!” Elimaki exclaimed when she and Leino got to the door.
Leino laughed. “I don’t need to be a mage to divine that you felt like stuffing our son and heir into the rest crate today, do I?”
“Well, no,” Pekka’s sister said, adding defensively, “It
is
hard to clean house with a small boy underfoot.”
“It’s not hard—it’s impossible,” Pekka said. “Come on, Uto. Let’s get you out of here.” Elimaki let out a small, involuntary sigh of relief. Pekka rounded on her son. “What
have
you been doing today?”
“Nothing.” Uto, as usual, was the picture of innocence. Pekka, as usual, found him unconvincing. So did Leino, but his obvious amusement didn’t help instill discipline in the boy.
They took Uto next door, fed him salty venison sausage—one of his favorites—and put him to bed. When he did sleep, he slept like a log. He was a risk to do a great many appalling things, but getting up in the middle of the night and making trouble wasn’t one of them. With sorcerous wards in and around the house—commercial ones, Leino’s, and her own—and with her husband and herself only a door away, Pekka didn’t feel nervous about leaving Uto asleep by himself. If anything went wrong, she and Leino would know, and would be back in seconds. But she didn’t expect anything to go wrong. Kuusamans were, on the whole, an orderly, law-abiding folk.
Pekka changed out of the long, drab wool tunic she’d worn to Kajaani City College while Leino was taking off his own shorter tunic and trousers. Being of neither Algarvic nor Kaunian stock, Kuusamans wore what they pleased and what pleased them, and did not turn tunics and kilts and trousers into politics. Pekka put on a long skirt of sueded deer-hide and a high-necked white wool tunic heavily embroidered with bright, colorful fantastic animals: a costume out of Kuusamo’s past. Leino’s nearly matched it, save that his skirt was knee-length and he wore woolen leggings beneath it. They both wore sensible modern boots.
“Let’s go,” Leino said. Pekka nodded. They wouldn’t even be late, or not very. And no one with any social graces showed up on time for a reception.
Elimaki’s husband was a short, burly fellow named Olavin. Being one of Kajaani’s leading bankers, he earned more by himself than Pekka and Leino did together. He never tried to rub their noses in his gold, though, for which Pekka was duly grateful.
After handclasps and embraces, Olavin said, “I’m very glad you could come tonight.”
“We wouldn’t miss it,” Pekka said loyally.
“It’s not as if we have far to come, either,” Leino added with a smile. “No, indeed.” Olavin laughed. “But I am particularly glad you could come tonight. I am not certain, you understand, but I have hopes that Prince Joroinen may join us. You should be here for that, if it happens.”
“Husband of my sister, you are right.” Pekka’s eyes sparkled. “And you are truly coming up in the world if you expect one of the Seven Princes to visit your home. No wonder Elimaki wanted to wallop Uto.”
“I don’t expect it. I hope for it.” In some ways, Olavin was as precise as a theoretical sorcerer. “I learned at the bank that he would be in Kajaani for a few days, and took the chance of tendering the invitation. We have met before, he and I, and done some business together, so there is some reasonable chance he will accept.”
“I
would
like to meet him,” Pekka said.
Leino nodded agreement, adding, “I would like to find out which way Kuusamo is likely to go now that Lagoas has joined the war against Algarve.” His chuckle was wry. “Husband of my wife’s sister, you need not look alarmed. I don’t look for an answer on the spot. If the Seven Princes argue about where they should meet, they will argue about higher things as well.”
“Even so.” Olavin laughed again. He worked hard at being jolly, perhaps because bankers had a name for being anything but. “As I say, he may be here and he may not. Either way, we will have interesting people here—besides the two of you, I mean—and there is plenty to eat and drink.”
“I am not shy,” Pekka declared. “I am not the most outgoing person in the world, but I am not shy.”
As if to prove it, she marched past her brother-in-law into the parlor of the house he shared with Elimaki. Leino followed in her wake. Pekka got herself a mug of hot spiced ale—Kuusamo was not a land where cold drinks flourished—and a plate of mushrooms stuffed with crab meat. Her husband chose mulled Algarvian wine and seaweed-wrapped boiled shrimp in a mustard sauce.
Some of the people at the reception were kin to Pekka and Elimaki, others to Olavin; some were neighbors; some were bankers; some were merchants and artisans who dealt with the banking firm Olavin served. Talk ranged from raising children to importing wine (Kuusamo’s climate did not encourage fine vintages, or even rough ones) to the war with Gyongyos.
“If anyone wants to know what I think,” one of Olavin’s cousins said, obviously sure everyone wanted to know what he thought, “I think we ought to cut our losses against the Gongs and get ready to pitch into the fight on the mainland of Derlavai.”
“On which side?” somebody asked. Pekka thought that a good question. With Lagoas in the war, Kuusamo could jump on her island neighbor’s back and regain land lost centuries before. If she did, though, Algarve would likely win the war on the mainland and dominate eastern Derlavai. No one had done that since the days of the Kaunian Empire. Pekka wondered if anyone should.
Olavin’s cousin had no doubts. Olavin’s cousin, apparently, had no doubts about anything, including his own wisdom. “Why, King Mezentio’s, of course,” he said. “A man like that doesn’t come along every day. We could use someone with that kind of energy, with that kind of vision, right here at home.”
Pekka thought of King Swemmel, and of what he had done with—and to—Unkerlant. But before she could mention the efficient monarch, Olavin gave his cousin an even more efficient comeuppance, saying, “I have the great honor to announce the presence of Prince Joroinen, not least among the Seven of Kuusamo.” None of the Seven was least, nor most. The arrangement, like Kuusamo itself, endured.
Men bowed from the waist. Like the other women, Pekka went to one knee for a moment. That gesture of respect had an earthy history behind it. Pekka didn’t let it offend her. The meaning had changed over the centuries. No one knew better than a theoretical sorcerer that symbols were only what people made of them.
Joroinen said, “Let the thought be taken for the deed for the rest of the evening,” which made him sound like a theoretical sorcerer himself. He went on, “One of the longstanding traditions of Kuusamo is that we pay attention to the longstanding traditions of Kuusamo only when it suits us.” Pekka blinked, then grinned. Maybe the prince wasn’t a theoretical sorcerer. Maybe he was an oracle instead.
Unlike Swemmel or Mezentio or Gainibu, Joroinen did not bother with the outward trappings of royalty. He wore an outfit of warm wool and leather much like Leino’s, if rather finer. He mingled with the crowd as if he were a banker or merchant himself. After a couple of minutes, everyone took his presence for granted.
He got hot ale and smoked salmon on flatbread from the refreshments table, then made Pekka’s acquaintance by stepping on her foot. “I beg your pardon,” he said, as if he were a commoner.
“No harm done, sir,” she said, and introduced herself and Leino.
Joroinen’s gaze sharpened. He was in his mid-forties, his black hair marked by the first few silver threads. “Ah, Elimaki’s sister and her husband,” he said, impressing Pekka. “The mages at the city college,” he added, impressing her more. Then, instead of impressing her, he astonished her: “I was hoping to meet the two of you here tonight. You’re one—or rather, two—of the reasons I accepted Olavin’s kind invitation.”
“Sir?” Pekka and Leino said together. Leino sounded as surprised as she was.
“Aye.” Prince Joroinen nodded. To Leino, he said, “Everyone is pleased and excited at your research. Very good things will come of it, I think, and soon. You have served Kuusamo well; we of the Seven shall not be ungrateful.”
“I thank you, sir,” Leino said, sounding as if he’d had several mugs of spiced wine, not just one. Pekka set a hand on his arm, proud of what he’d achieved.
Joroinen turned to her, saying, “I also know somewhat of your present work, if less than I might like. I bear you a message from others who know more than I, some of them examining related areas.” Pekka raised an eyebrow, waiting. The prince leaned close to her and spoke in a low voice: “For the sake of the safety of the realm, it is strongly suggested that you seek to publish no further findings.”
Pekka’s other eyebrow flew upwards. “Why ever not?” she demanded. A scholar who could not publish was like a singer forced into a vow of silence.
“For the safety of the realm, I said,” Prince Joroinen answered. “I shall say no more, not here, not now. But of this please let me assure you: I do not speak lightly.”
Fernao felt trapped in Patras. Fernao
was
trapped in Patras. With Lagoas and Algarve now at war, he would have had trouble leaving Yanina even without King Penda. Yanina inclined strongly toward Algarve. The only other possible course for King Tsavellas would have been to incline strongly toward Unkerlant. He preferred his eastern neighbors to those to the west. Fernao was glad he didn’t have to make such an unpleasant choice himself.
He had very little else about which to be glad. Since Shelomith’s untimely demise, he’d lived with an eye on every copper. No doubt Shelomith had had friends in Patras who were helping him get Penda out of the palace. But Fernao had met only a couple of them, and Varvakis and Cossos were about as eager to aid him as they would have been to wash a leper’s sores.
That didn’t mean they weren’t aiding him. Varvakis fed him delicacies from his gourmet emporium, not least because Fernao had hinted he would sing a song to Tsavellas’s men if the fancy grocer didn’t feed him. Blackmail was a language Yaninans understood.
These days, Fernao wore clothes he’d got from Varvakis, too. He consoled himself with the notion that tights were more nearly hose than trousers, but found the Yaninan tunics with their puffy sleeves almost laughably absurd. Local costume didn’t go far as disguise, either. His height, his red hair, and his narrow, slanted eyes all made him stand out from the Yaninans, who were generally small, swarthy, and big-nosed.
Nor did he need to be the first-rank mage he was to divine that Varvakis was a great deal less than delighted to see him when he walked into the fellow’s shop. “Good day,” Fernao said in Yaninan, of which he’d picked up a fair smattering since getting stuck in these parts.
“And to you, good day,” Varvakis answered grudgingly. Most places, from what Fernao had seen, learning the local language made the locals like you better. His learning Yaninan hadn’t ingratiated him to Varvakis, who growled, “The day would be even better if you weren’t here.”
“Aye,” Fernao said. He dropped back into Algarvian, which he still needed to get complex ideas across: “If you take me to see Cossos one more time, maybe I won’t be here much longer after that.”
Varvakis glared at him. “Too much to hope for. Better I should take you to see King Tsavellas’s bodyguards instead.”
Better I should betray you,
he meant. Fernao smiled. “Let’s go. I’ll see them, all right. They’ll talk with me. I’ll talk with them, too.”
Betray me and I betray you.
“Mages can be very hard to kill outright, you know.”
I’ll make a point of betraying you.
Could looks have killed, Varvakis would have sorely tested his assertion. Had the fancy grocer kept a stick in his shop, he might have tested it another way. As things were, he snapped, “Ah, very well—once more.” He waved a sausagelike finger in Fernao’s face. “But only once more, you understand me?”
“I understand you,” Fernao said. Varvakis was a great many things, but never unclear.
“You had better,” he said now. “Come back tomorrow night. Either I take you to him then, or I tell you when I can take you to him.”
“It is good,” Fernao said in Yaninan. He wasn’t sure whether it was good or not. Varvakis might be setting up an ambush. But Varvakis could have done that several different times, could have and hadn’t. And, by now, Fernao had acquired by one means or another some specialized sorcerous gear. He’d lost what he’d brought from Lagoas when Shelimoth got killed. Replacing all of it would have been impossible. Replacing even a small part of it would have been impossible had the Yaninans who sold him this and that realized they were selling him sorcerous paraphernalia. But the art had traveled different roads in Lagoas and Yanina, and the Lagoans had traveled rather farther along theirs.
When Fernao returned to the fancy grocery the next evening, then, he was ready for trouble. But Varvakis, despite mutterings and mumblings his mustache muffled, led him to the palace. By then, Fernao had given up on expecting any Yaninan to do anything without grumbling. As soon as Varvakis saw Fernao and Cossos clasp hands, he departed. “I do not know what you do here,” he said. “I do not wish to know what you do here.”