Authors: Harry Turtledove
“Thank you, Mistress Pekka,” Piilis said. “I ran into one of the crystallomancers on my way over here, so I’ve got some news.”
“Well, tell us,” Pekka said. “If it weren’t for the crystallomancers, we wouldn’t know any of what was going on till it was already gone. It’s not as if they send us news sheets every day.”
“The miserable Gongs tried something new when we landed on that Bothnian island called Becsehely.” Piilis pronounced the foreign name with care. “They were going to trot out the murderous magic the Algarvians use, but we overran them so fast, they didn’t have the chance to kill many of their own soldiers, so the magic wasn’t so big or so strong as it might have been, and Becsehely’s ours.”
“Ha!” Fernao said, and then, “Ha!” again. Piilis looked confused. He looked even more confused when Fernao wagged a finger at Alkio and declared, “I told you so.”
“Well, so you did.” Alkio clicked his tongue between his teeth. “The Gyongyosians are using this sorcery, too? That is not good at all.”
“And killing their own soldiers to power it?” Pekka added. “That may be even worse than what the Algarvians and Unkerlanters do.”
“Not to hear the Gongs talk about it,” Piilis said. “By the reports we’re getting from the captives we’ve taken, they won’t slaughter anyone who didn’t volunteer ahead of time—and a lot of men did. They think it’s an honor to let themselves get killed for their kingdom. It makes the stars shine on them, or some such nonsense.”
With profound unoriginality, Pekka said, “Gyongyosians are very strange people.”
“They think the same of us,” Fernao said, using classical Kaunian again. “All the other strong kingdoms share—more or less, and sometimes at several removes—the culture that springs from the Kaunian Empire. But the Gyongyosians have their own. When we bumped up against them a hundred and fifty years ago, they borrowed—”
“Stole,” Alkio put in.
Fernao nodded, accepting the correction. “They stole some of our fancy magecraft, nailed it onto everything else they already had, and they went right on to make nuisances of themselves.”
“More than nuisances,” Alkio said, and all the other Kuusamans at the table spoke up to agree with him. He went on, “We’ve been squabbling with them over the islands in the Bothnian Ocean ever since. They want everything they can get their hands on, and a little more, besides.”
“And what do they say about Kuusamans?” Fernao asked innocently.
“Who cares what Gongs say?” Alkio answered, proving he’d missed the point.
Pekka hadn’t, but she had other things to worry about. “The next time we try to take an island the Gyongyosians hold, we may not be so lucky as we were at this Besce-whatever place,” she said. “Prince Juhainen was right—all the more reason for us to get our own spells to the point where practical mages can use them.”
All the more reason for us to get our own spells to the point when Leino can use them.
Pekka wondered if her husband, wherever he was, was looking at other women, or even doing more than looking at them. Before she’d made love with Fernao, the idea would have horrified and infuriated her. It still horrified her, but in a way she almost hoped he was. Then, at least, they would both feel guilty when they finally got back together.
“Raahe and Alkio and I were talking about that before you got here,” Fernao said.
He didn’t sound as if he had any second thoughts about bedding her.
Why should he?
Pekka thought.
It’s not as if he betrayed his wife … At least, I don’t think it is.
She suddenly realized just how much she didn’t know about the Lagoan mage’s past and background.
What kind of fool was I, to go to bed with him?
One corner of her mouth quirked upward. The answer to that was only too plain:
a hot fool, a lickerish fool.
Again, she made herself think about what she had to do, not about what she’d already done. “What in particular were you talking about?” she asked.
“Ways to simplify the spell while keeping the energy level high,” Fernao replied. “Raahe has some good ideas, I think.”
Piilis said, “I’ve been doing some calculations of my own along those lines.” He took folded papers from his belt pouch and spread them out on the table—this just as Linna came out of the kitchen with his breakfast.
The serving girl gave him a severe look. “If you don’t eat, sorcerous sir, you won’t be strong enough to follow whatever it is you’ve written down there.”
“Sorry.” Piilis cleared some room in front of him. Linna set down his smoked salmon and eggs and went off. He promptly leaned over the plate of food so he could explain his line of thought. The other theoretical sorcerers leaned forward, too. The only heed Piilis gave the salmon and eggs was to keep from putting his elbow in the plate.
As Pekka and Fernao leaned toward his papers, their knees and thighs brushed under the table. Pekka was acutely aware of it. If Fernao was, he gave no sign. He didn’t press himself against her to remind her of what they’d done. She nodded to herself. It wasn’t as if she didn’t know.
“Let me have a look at those,” Raahe said, and turned Piilis’ calculations so that she could read them—which meant they were upside down for Pekka. But when Pekka sighed and started to ease back in her seat, she brushed up against Fernao again. That kept her leaning forward. Then Raahe turned the leaves of paper back around once more, remarking, “That’s not the approach I was taking, but you could be on to the same thing.”
“No.” Fernao sounded regretful, but very sure. He sounded so sure, in fact, that all four Kuusaman mages around the table bristled at him. But then he reached out and tapped a line about halfway down the second leaf of paper. “This whole expansion sequence is forbidden in this context. Mistress Raahe’s approach will work. This …” He shrugged. “Following it will be like following a will-o’-the-wisp: you will never end up anywhere worth going, but only in the middle of a swamp.”
Pekka took a longer look at the calculations. “You … may be right,” she said.
“So you’ll believe Fernao even when he leads you into a swamp, eh?” The voice from behind her made her start and whirl. There stood Ilmarinen, looking down on her with a sardonic grin. He shook his head. “How very strange. You wouldn’t have said that even a little while ago.”
Before you went to bed with him,
was what he meant. Pekka glared. “See for yourself,” she snapped.
“I was trying to.” Ilmarinen didn’t bother with his spectacles, but read at long range. After perhaps half a minute, he let out a soft grunt. “Sorry, Piilis. I don’t think the Lagoan’s the least bit cute, but he’s right. You can’t expand it that way.”
For the life of her, Pekka didn’t know whether to thank him or to brain him with a teapot. By the look on Fernao’s face, he was even closer to swinging the teapot than she was.
“My, my,” Colonel Sabrino murmured as his wing came spiraling down to land at the new dragon farm in southern Unkerlant to which they’d been ordered. “Isn’t that fascinating?” He’d let the wind blow his words away, but now he activated his crystal and repeated himself for Captain Orosio: “Isn’t that simply fascinating?”
“That’s one word, Colonel,” the squadron commander answered. “Maybe not the one I would’ve used, but one word. Who would’ve thought we’d end up flying alongside Yaninans again?”
They’d been together a long time. Sabrino nodded. “We haven’t for a while now,” he said. “Not since we were down in the land of the Ice People.”
“I almost forgot the Yaninans were still in the war.” Orosio’s lip curled scornfully, as any Algarvian’s might have done while he contemplated his kingdom’s allies. His chuckle held scant mirth. “And don’t you just bet all the cursed Yaninans wish they could forget they were still in the war, too?”
“Heh,” Sabrino said—one syllable’s worth of bitter laughter. He did his best to look on the bright side of things: “I’ve seen plenty of dragon farms I liked less.”
Sure enough, this one was bigger than most of those from which his wing had been flying. It looked to have been here a while, too. Heavy sticks ringed it, sticks potent enough to blaze marauding Unkerlanter dragons out of the sky. The Yaninan dragonfliers lived in huts, not tents.
The only thing wrong with them is, they’re Yaninans,
Sabrino thought. Had their dragons been painted green, red, and white instead of just white and red …
But Sabrino shook his head. Even that wasn’t fair. Down on the austral continent, Colonel Broumidis’ dragonfliers had fought just about as well as the men Sabrino himself led. Yaninan footsoldiers… Sabrino shook his head again, this time for a different reason. He didn’t want to think about Yaninan footsoldiers. They’d proved less than Algarve would have wished in the land of the Ice People, and they’d proved even less than that here in Unkerlant. If they hadn’t given way at exactly the wrong time, the great disaster at Sulingen might not have happened.
If there were enough Algarvians to go around, Sulingen wouldn ‘t have happened,
Sabrino thought. A lot of other things wouldn’t have happened, either; he was certain of that. He was every bit as certain that there weren’t enough Algarvians to go around, though. Had there been, his wing’s true strength wouldn’t have stood at less than half of the sixty-four dragons it carried on paper—and that after reinforcement.
His own mount beat it’s great, membranous wings a couple of times and settled to the ground. His teeth clicked together; he’d known gentler landings. But he’d also known worse ones—at least he hadn’t bitten his tongue this time.
A Yaninan dragon handler, a swarthy little bandy-legged fellow with a big black mustache and bushy side whiskers, came hurrying up to the dragon and chained it to a stake so it couldn’t fly off whenever the notion came into its tiny, savage mind. The Yaninan did the job as well as any Algarvian could have. Sabrino had trouble taking him seriously, even so. His tights and his tunic with big, puffy sleeves were bad enough. The shoes with bobbling pompom ornaments—Sabrino had to look away, lest he burst out laughing and offend the little man.
As Sabrino descended from the dragon, a Yaninan officer strode up to greet him. The Yaninan had a crown and star on each shoulder strap, which made him a major. He saluted Sabrino and spoke in pretty good Algarvian: “Hello, Colonel. Welcome to Plankenfels.” His wave encompassed the dragon farm. “And I have the honor to be Major Scoufas, at your service.”
Sabrino returned the bow and gave his own name. “Happy to be able to help my kingdom’s allies,” he said politely.
Something sparked in Scoufas’ dark, almost fathomless eyes. “You are gracious,” he remarked. “If all Algarvians were like you, we would be happier in our alliance. Believe me, we already know we are your poor relations. Some of you want to remind us of it whenever you find the chance.”
Sabrino had seen that for himself. He’d also seen that some Algarvians had good reason for treating Yaninans with something less than perfect courtesy and respect. He didn’t say that; Scoufas wouldn’t have appreciated it. What he did say was, “I am sorry about that, Major. Of course, your kingdom’s other choice is Unkerlant. I’m sure King Swemmel’s men would prove the picture of politeness.”
Scoufas winced. “Savages,” he muttered; Yanina feared Unkerlant, but did not love her. The dragonflier pulled himself together. “Your wing will be of great help in holding the river line there.” He pointed west to show where the front lay.
“That’s why we’re here,” Sabrino agreed. “And now that we are here, maybe you can give me a little more in the way of a briefing.”
With a shrug—not an elaborate Algarvian shrug, but one in the Yaninan style, one that said things weren’t all they might be, but nobody could do anything about it—Scoufas replied, “This is where the front was when the thaw pinned things in place. We are trying to keep it here. We have not enough men, not enough behemoths, not enough egg-tossers—but we are trying.”
“Not enough dragons, either, I suppose.” Sabrino fought to keep irony from his voice. Yaninans weren’t the greatest warriors in Derlavai, but who came close to them when it got down to complaining?
“No, not enough dragons, either,” Major Scoufas said gravely. He bowed to Sabrino. “Your coming will make a difference there, of course.”
How big a difference?
Sabrino wondered, returning the bow. But thinking about dragons naturally led him to his next question: “How are you fixed for cinnabar?”
Scoufas shrugged again. “Not very well. Such is life, these days. The Unkerlanters have plenty. Their dragons can flame farther than ours, thanks to all the quicksilver they give them. We fly better than they do, though, which takes away some of their advantage.”
“All right.” It wasn’t all right—it wasn’t even close to all right—but Sabrino couldn’t do anything about it. “Let’s get my dragons seen to, let’s get my men settled, and then you’ll show me the map.”
“Everything shall be just as you say, of course,” Scoufas replied with another bow.
The Yaninan dragon handlers did seem capable enough. They fed the newly come Algarvian dragons chunks of meat rubbed in ground brimstone, and they gave them some meat rubbed in cinnabar—about as much, or rather as little, as their Algarvian opposite numbers would have had available. The Yaninans had huts waiting and ready for Sabrino’s dragonfliers. Sabrino could think of major generals who would be sleeping rougher than he was.
But when he got a look at the map, he forgot about everything else. “Powers above!” he burst out. “If they push hard—no, when they push hard—how in blazes do you propose to stop them?”
“I am not a major of footsoldiers,” Scoufas said, which wasn’t an answer. “We shall do everything in our power, I assure you,” he added, which wasn’t an answer, either. Then that rather nasty glint came back to his eyes. “Of course, you Algarvians have had a certain amount of trouble stopping the Unkerlanters, too.”
Sabrino would have resented that more if it hadn’t been true. From the freezing Narrow Sea in the south to the warm Garelian Ocean in the north, the Algarvians were stretched too thin against their bigger foe. This, though—what passed for the Yaninan line looked like a wool tunic after an army of moths had found it in a closet.