Authors: Harry Turtledove
“They’ll be leaving Setubal day after tomorrow,” Pinhiero said, scratching at one end of his graying, sandy mustache. “The demon of getting them ready, of course, was making sure none of them would start whispering in Mezentio’s ear. Would you believe it, we found one mage the Algarvians planted on us twenty-five years ago? He’d had a past made up that was perfect rill you looked really hard, and he speaks Lagoan better than I do.”
“I’m glad you found him,” Fernao said. “Now—can you find someone to take over for me here? I think I’ve done about as much in Kuusamo as I can do.”
Pinhiero shook his head. “In a word, no. In two words, definitely no. I don’t care if your affair with that Kuusaman mage didn’t work out the way you hoped. This is more important than you, my boy. This is for the Guild and the kingdom. You stay right where you are.”
Fernao scowled. He might have known Pinhiero had a peephole of some sort into the gossip here. “Aye, Grandmaster,” he said, and broke the etheric connection with no more of a good-bye than that.
King Swemmel glared out of the crystal at Marshal Rathar. Rathar stolidly stared back; he much preferred dealing with the King of Unkerlant at a distance to trying to deal with him face-to-face. “We are not amused, and we are not pleased,” Swemmel said in his harsh, high-pitched voice.
“I’m sorry to hear that, your Majesty,” Rathar replied. That, on the whole, was true; when Swemmel felt aggrieved, he was even more hair-raisingly erratic than in his calmer moods.
“They mocked us,” the king snarled. “They mocked us most unforgivably—Count Gusmao and in especial Lord Moisio. Were they not ministers of kingdoms also at war against Algarve”—he couldn’t bring himself to say,
friendly kingdoms
—”their heads should answer for it. We do not tolerate insolence.”
Rathar wondered when anyone had last dared be insolent to Swemmel. Not for a good many years; the marshal was sure of that. But the ministers from Lagoas and Kuusamo had the advantage of not being Unkerlanter subjects. Swemmel risked real wrath if he abused them. Of course, even that might not stop him if he reckoned himself provoked enough.
“They have the gall to say, ‘I told you so,’ to us. To
usl”
Swemmel snapped, still fuming.
Gusmao and Moisio
had
told Swemmel what was going to happen. And they’d told him the truth. He hadn’t seemed much interested in hearing it at the time—he’d actively resisted believing it at the time—but it had turned out to be true. And … “Your Majesty, now that the Lagoans and the Kuusamans finally are on the Derlavaian mainland, that can only help us,” Rathar said. “The redheads can’t concentrate all their strength against Unkerlant alone.”
“That is so.” Swemmel sounded unhappy about admitting even that much. But Rathar had distracted him. “Aye, that
is
so. And we shall make the Algarvians pay.” He stabbed a finger out at Rathar; even though it was only an image in the crystal, the marshal had all he could do not to flinch. “Do you suppose that, if they capture the Algarvian pretender in Jelgava, they shall use him as we used the Algarvian pretender in Grelz?”
“I … don’t know, your Majesty.” Rathar tried to imagine the Kuusamans boiling King Mainardo alive. The picture refused to form in his mind. But he couldn’t very well tell his sovereign that.
“Well, never mind.” Swemmel waved a hand. “You carry on with what you have been ordered. And mind you, Marshal—we expect to see results.” His image vanished. The crystal flared, then went back to being an inert glass globe.
As often happened after a conversation with the king, Rathar needed to shake himself to return to the real world. The commandant’s headquarters in Pewsum weren’t so very much, not as the real world went. Rathar got up, stretched, and walked out onto the street. No one followed him. No one dared disturb his privacy. Who would disturb the most powerful man in Unkerlant save Swemmel alone?
After a little while, General Gurmun dared. Gurmun, from everything Rathar had seen, had as much daring as any officer needed, and a little more besides. “What news from the king?” he asked.
Marshal Rathar eyed him. Gurmun also had as much ambition as any officer needed, and a little more besides. One of the posts to which an ambitious Unkerlanter general might aspire was the one Rathar held. Even so, the question was reasonable. Picking his words with care, Rathar replied, “His Majesty is irked at the Kuusaman and Lagoan ministers for not being as polite as they might have when talking about their invasion of Jelgava.”
“He’s got a right to be irked, too, if anybody wants to know what 1 think,” Gurmun answered. “We’ve been carrying the load against Algarve all by ourselves the past three years. And now the islanders are crowing like roosters because they’ve taken on a little? Powers below eat ‘em,
I
say.”
That held some truth. It certainly matched Swemmel’s view of things. Rathar said, “They haven’t been idle, not altogether.” Gurmun snorted. The marshal went on: “And, as I told his Majesty, the more the redheads have to put into fighting Lagoas and Kuusamo, the less they’ll have left to use against us.”
“Well, that’s true enough.” Gurmun nodded vigorously. “It should have happened last year, or maybe even the year before, but it is true now. We’ll make Mezentio’s men pay, too.”
“I expect we will,” Rathar agreed. “Our edge has always been in manpower and behemoths and dragons. Now it will be a bigger edge, and I intend to take advantage of it.” He pointed to General Gurmun. “You’re going to help me do it, too.”
Gurmun showed his teeth in a wolfs smile. “That’s just what I’ve got in mind, lord Marshal. I’m really looking forward to it.”
“We’re all looking forward to it, General,” Rathar replied. “We’ve been looking forward to it for a long time. If all goes well, we get to show the Algarvians what good scholars we’ve been these past three years.”
“Did the king say anything about the timing of what we’ve got laid on?” Gurmun asked.
“Not a word.” More than a little relieved at that, Rathar shook his head. “We’re still two weeks away, more or less. That’s always provided the redheads don’t do something we didn’t expect.”
“They’re not bloody likely to attack us first, not with everything they’ve got on their plate,” Gurmun exclaimed.
“I should hope not.” But then Rathar shook his head again. “No—I should hope so. If they want to waste their substance, they’re welcome to do it as far as I’m concerned. But that isn’t what I meant.”
“What did you mean, then, sir?” General Gurmun sounded suspicious. He didn’t care for Rathar’s seeing things he couldn’t.
Here, Rathar wasn’t sure what he was seeing, or whether he was seeing anything at all. He answered, “It’s just that … you never can tell with the redheads. They might pull some new sorcery out from under their kilts, they might not try to stand their ground, they might have ready lines farther east. …”
“No sign of it from the dragons,” Gurmun said. “No sign of it from the mages. No real sign they even know what’s building against them here in the north. As far as we can tell, they’re still worried most about the Duchy of Grelz.”
“Aye, as far as we can tell,” Rathar agreed. “I just hope we can tell far enough.” His chuckle held no mirth. Back in the days of the Twinkings War, he’d always had a good notion of what Kyot’s forces were likely to do. Like him, they were Unkerlanters; he’d understood how they thought. “Anybody who’s sure he understands what the Algarvians are up to deserves to get his head handed to him, and he probably will.”
“They aren’t as smart as they think they are, and we aren’t as stupid as they think we are,” Gurmun said. “We’ve used that against them a few times.”
Rathar nodded. Pretending to do something foolish in the hope the Algarvians would pounce on it and thus fall into a later trap they
hadn’t
foreseen, had worked well fairly often, in fact. Mezentio’s men were proud of their own cleverness. If they saw the ignorant Unkerlanters acting stupid, they felt duty bound to punish them—and ended up punishing themselves in the process. And, in their arrogance, they had trouble realizing what they’d done wrong.
“Are your behemoths in place?” the marshal asked.
Gurmun’s blunt-featured head bobbed up and down. “I’m right on schedule, lord Marshal. If we weren’t moving only at night, if we weren’t keeping quiet with our crystals, we’d be farther along still. Not being able to send a message ahead to let people prepare for the beasts slows us down.”
“I know,” Rathar said. “But all the emanations we’ve been able to intercept from the redheads show they don’t know what’s coming. That’s just how I want things to stay. The surprise will make up for everything.”
“I hope you’re right, sir.” Gurmun’s eyes flashed.
If you’re wrong, King Swemmel will hear about it. I’ll make sure he hears about it.
Rathar almost let his smile show on his face. One thing he’d seen was that Swemmel didn’t think he aimed at usurpation. He was content to be marshal; the idea of being king horrified him. Did Gurmun feel the same way? Rathar had his doubts. And, if he had doubts, Swemmel surely had deep, dark suspicions.
I
may not be so easy to topple as you think, General.
A wagon in no way out of the ordinary pulled up. The driver asked, “Ready to go on up to the front?” Rathar nodded and climbed in, Gurmun right behind him. Lots of wagons went up to the front. Both Rathar and Gurmun wore uniform tunics ordinary but for their rank badges; not even a dragonflier at treetop height would judge them anything but common soldiers.
Of course, even common soldiers get attacked,
Rathar thought. He shrugged. Life didn’t come without risks. If Gurmun worried, he didn’t show it. Rathar had never had any reason to doubt his courage.
The wagon rattled east out of Pewsum. The trees—the ones still standing after the fighting in winter and spring—were in full leaf. Men and behemoths sheltered under the cover of those leaves. So long as day stayed in the sky, they didn’t move. Men and behemoths sheltered under trees and in barns and huts and under mats that looked like grass for many miles back of the line of battle. When night came, they moved forward from one place of concealment to the next.
“This is all very good,” Rathar said to the colonel commanding a brigade at the front line. “The redheads still don’t seem to realize just how much we’ve built things up here.”
“They will.” Anticipation was naked and hungry in General Gurmun’s voice. “Before very long, by the powers above, we’ll show them.”
Worry in his voice, the colonel said, “The brigade opposite me has a good commander. Spinello, his name is. He’s always active. You never can tell what he’ll do next.”
“Are you worried about a spoiling attack?” Rathar asked.
Gurmun’s laugh was hungry, too. “It’d be a sorry-looking attack after it tried biting down on everything we’ve got in the neighborhood.”
“Oh, we’d beat the bastards back—I’m not worried about that,” the colonel said. “I’m more afraid he’ll try raiding along my front and learn from the captives he takes that we’re a lot stronger than he thinks right now.”
Marshal Rathar nodded. That was a sensible worry to have. A lot of Unkerlanter officers wouldn’t have fretted about such things. This fellow was someone to watch. Rathar said, “The best way to keep anything like that from happening is to make sure only the regiments the redheads already know about are in the forwardmost positions. That way, they won’t take captives from any units they’d expect to find somewhere else.”
“Aye, Marshal. I’ll see to it,” the colonel said earnestly.
“Good.” Rathar glanced over to Gurmun, and wasn’t unduly surprised to find Gurmun eyeing him. He spoke one more word: “Soon.” The commander of behemoths nodded.
Muttering under his breath, Hajjaj buttoned his Algarvian-style tunic. Just putting on the garment made sweat pour from him. At this season of the year in Bishah, the sun stood as close to straight overhead as made no difference. He would have been hot nude but for sandals and a hat. Muffled in tunic and kilt, he felt as if he were stifling. “The things I do for Zuwayza,” he said.
Qutuz—who, being but a secretary, could remain comfortably unclothed—came in and announced, “The Algarvian minister is here to see you, your Excellency.”
“Send him in,” Hajjaj answered.
“Shall I bring tea and wine and cakes?” Qutuz asked.
Hajjaj had used his kingdom’s rules of hospitality to delay discussion with Marquis Balastro a good many times. Today, though, he shook his head. “No, by the powers above,” he said. “The sooner I am out of this cloth bake oven, the happier I shall be.”
“As you say.” Qutuz sounded as if he disapproved. Technically speaking, the secretary was right to disapprove. Hajjaj didn’t care about technicalities. As foreign minister, he could ignore them if he so chose—and, every so often, he did so choose. Not quite shaking his head, Qutuz went out to bring the Algarvian minister into Hajjaj’s office.
By the way Marquis Balastro strode in, it might have been three years before. Algarve might have been invincible, unstoppable, leaping from one triumph to another in the east of Derlavai and about to embark on the campaign that would surely bring Unkerlant to heel. Balastro’s stride hadn’t changed in those three years. The world? The world had.
After polite bows and handclasps and professions of mutual esteem, Balastro plopped himself down on the carpet and made himself at home with a mound of cushions. He adapted to Zuwayzi customs more readily than most foreigners. This once, Hajjaj wouldn’t have minded his coming to call without his clothes, even if that meant having to stare at his pale skin and his circumcision.
Balastro was no fool. He noted the absence of the ritual food and drink, and drew the proper conclusion from it: “You must be suffocating in your clothes.”
“I am,” Hajjaj admitted.
“Well, let’s get down to business, then, Your Excellency,” Balastro said. “What’s on your mind?”
“His Majesty, King Shazli, asked me to invite you here to get Algarve’s view of the present situation in light of recent developments,” Hajjaj replied.