Out of the Darkness

by Harry Turtledove

  “Because King Tsavellas of Yanina chose exactly the right moment to change sides and suck up to Unkerlant and we didn’t,” Hajjaj answered. “That means Swemmel’s happier about the Yaninans than he is about us. And besides, Ansovald likes sticking pins in me to see if I’ll jump. Barbarian.” The last word was necessarily in Algarvian; Zuwayzi didn’t have a satisfactory equivalent.

  “Why doesn’t Iskakis leave it alone, though?” Kolthoum asked fretfully. “It’s not as if he wants her for herself. If she were a pretty boy instead of a pretty girl, he might. As things are?” She shook her head.

  “Pride,” Hajjaj said. “He has plenty of that; Yaninans are prickly folk. A Zuwayzi noble would want to get back a wife who’d run off, too.”

  “Aye, so he would, and something horrible would happen to her if he did, too,” Kolthoum said. “Plenty of feuds have started that way. Tassi doesn’t deserve to have anything like that happen to her. She can’t help it if her husband would sooner have had a boy.”

  “I wish Marquis Balastro had taken her back to Algarve with him when he had to flee Zuwayza,” Hajjaj said. “But he’d quarreled with her by then; that was what prompted her to come to me.”

  His senior wife gave him a sidelong glance. “You can’t tell me you’ve been sorry, and you know it.”

  Since Hajjaj knew perfectly well that he couldn’t, he didn’t try. What he did say was, “The latest is, Ansovald had the gall to tell me Yanina might declare war on Zuwayza if I don’t hand Tassi over.”

  “Yanina might,” Kolthoum said. Hajjaj nodded. “But we don’t border Yanina,” she went on. Hajjaj nodded again. She asked, “Did he say Unkerlant might declare war on us on account of this?” Hajjaj shook his head. “Well, then,” she told him, “we’ve got nothing to worry about. Enjoy yourself with her, and think of Iskakis every time you do.”

  “I wonder if she enjoys herself with me. I have my doubts,” Hajjaj said, a thought he never would have aired to anyone in the world but Kolthoum.

  “You’ve given her the pleasure of not having to live with Iskakis anymore,” his senior wife replied. “The least she can do is give you some pleasure in exchange.”

  Kolthoum’s brisk practicality made a sensible answer. It did not, however, fill Hajjaj with delight. He had pride of his own, a man’s pride. He wanted to think he pleased the pretty young woman who also pleased him. What he wanted to think and what was true were liable to be two different things, though.

  “I take it you told Ansovald the Yaninans were welcome to invade us whenever they chose?” Kolthoum said.

  “Actually, no. I’m afraid I lost my temper this time,” Hajjaj said. Kolthoum waved for him to go on. With mingled pride and shame, he did: “I offered Iskakis a camel he could use as he planned on using Tassi.”

  “Did you!” His senior wife’s eyebrows rose. After a moment’s calculation-- one almost too short for Hajjaj to notice, but not quite--she said, “Well, good for you. Unkerlant won’t go to war against us because Iskakis doesn’t get his wife back. King Swemmel’s a madman, but he’s a shrewd sort of madman.”

  “Most of the time,” Hajjaj said.

  “Most of the time,” Kolthoum agreed.

  “Iskakis is making himself troublesome, though,” Hajjaj said. “I keep wondering if he’ll hire some bravos to do me an injury.”

  Now Kolthoum’s eyebrows flew upwards. “A Yaninan hire Zuwayzi bravos to do you an injury? I should hope not, by the powers above! I should hope no one in this kingdom would take his silver for such a thing. Zuwayza wouldn’t be a kingdom if not for you.”

  That was, on the whole, true. Nevertheless, Hajjaj answered, “Men don’t turn into bravos unless they love silver first and everything else afterwards. And young men don’t remember--and probably don’t care--how we got to be a kingdom again. It would be just another job as far as they’re concerned, one that paid better than most.”

  “Disgraceful,” Kolthoum said. “A hundred years ago, our ancestors never would have thought of such treason against their own kind.”

  Hajjaj shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, my dear. I could say, ask Tewfik: he would remember. But he’s not so old as that, and I don’t need to ask him, because I already know. Unkerlant got hold of Zuwayza and held us as long as she did by playing our princes off against one another. These things have happened, and they can happen again.”

  “Well, they had better not, not to you, or whoever plays such games will answer to me.” Kolthoum sounded as if she meant every word of that. From some Zuwayzi women, it would have been an idle threat. From Kolthoum . . . Hajjaj would not have wanted his senior wife angry at him. Kolthoum arose from the nest of cushions she’d made for herself and flounced away in considerable annoyance.

  Why aren’t I more upset at the idea? Hajjaj wondered. Maybe because Iskakis is such a blunderer, any assassins he hires would likely make a hash of the job. Anyone who would let a woman as . . entertaining as Tassi leave him can’t be very bright. Of course, Iskakis looked for entertainments of that sort elsewhere. The more fool he, Hajjaj thought.

  Joints creaking, he got to his feet and went into the library. Surrounded by books in Zuwayzi, in Algarvian, in classical Kaunian, he didn’t have to think about man’s inhumanity to man . . . unless he pulled out a history in any of those languages. He didn’t. A volume of love poetry from the days of the Kaunian Empire better suited his mood.

  Motion in the doorway made him look up. There stood Tassi. Since becoming part of his household, she’d insisted on adopting Zuwayzi dress: which is to say, sandals and jewelry and, outdoors, a hat. To Hajjaj’s eyes, she always looked much more naked than a woman of his own people. Maybe that was because he was used to the idea that people of her pale color were supposed to wear clothes. Or maybe her nipples and her bush stood out more than they did with dark-skinned Zuwayzin.

  “Do I disturb you?” she asked in Algarvian, the only language they had in common.

  Aye, he thought, but that wasn’t how she meant the question. “No, of course not,” he said, and closed the book of poems.

  “Good.” She came into the library and sat down on the carpeted floor beside him. “Do I hear rightly? Iskakis is being difficult again? Difficult still?”

  That didn’t take long, Hajjaj thought. Kolthoum didn’t spread his business around the household, either. Servants going down the hall must have heard bits and pieces, and all the powers above put together couldn’t keep servants from gossiping. “As a matter of fact, he is,” Hajjaj replied. He wouldn’t lie to her, not on matters touching her as well as him.

  “Why not just”--she snapped her fingers--”send him away, tell King Tsavellas to pick a new minister? Then he will be gone, and so will the trouble.”

  “I can’t do that,” he said.

  Tassi snapped her fingers again. “King Shazli can. And he will do as you say.”

  That did hold some truth. Hajjaj had hesitated to ask Shazli to declare Iskakis unwelcome in Zuwayza. He was a purist, and did not feel personal problems had any place in the affairs of his kingdom. If, however, Iskakis had killing him in mind, the Yaninan minister was the one mixing personal affairs and diplomacy. “I may ask him,” Hajjaj said at last.

  “Good. That is settled, then.” Tassi took such logical leaps as easily, as naturally, as she breathed. “And I will stay here.”

  “Does that please you, staying here?” Hajjaj asked.

  She looked at him sidelong. “I hope it pleases you, my staying here.”

  Aye, Tassi looked very naked indeed. He didn’t think she let her legs fall open by accident just then, giving him a glimpse of the sweet slit between them. She used her naked flesh as a tool, a weapon, in ways that never would have occurred to a Zuwayzi woman who took nudity for granted.

  Age gave Hajjaj a certain advantage, or at least a certain perspective, on such things. “You didn’t answer what I asked,” he remarked.

  Tassi’s lower lip pooched like an indignant child’s, though that
pouting lip was the only childlike part of her. Her lisping, throaty accent made even ordinary things she said sound provocative. When she asked, “Shall I show you I am pleased?” . . . Hajjaj didn’t answer. Tassi got up and shut the door to the library.

  Some time later, she said, “There. Are you pleased? Am I pleased?”

  Hajjaj could scarcely deny he was pleased. He wanted to roll over and go to sleep. He wasn’t so sure about Tassi, not in that same sense. “I hope you are,” he said.

  “Oh, aye.” She dipped her head, as she often did instead of nodding. Her eyes sparkled. “And do you see? I do not ask for precious stones. They would be nice, but I do not ask for them. All I ask for is to stay here. You can do that for me. It is easy for you, in fact.”

  With a laugh, Hajjaj patted her round, smooth backside. On the surface, she spoke nothing but the truth. Below the surface . . . He’d never before heard anyone ask for jewels by not asking for them. She might even get some. And if she didn’t, how could she complain?

  Seven

  Colonel Lurcanio was not happy to find himself back in Algarve. But for a few brief leaves, he’d been away from his home kingdom for almost five years. Had the war gone better, he would have remained in Priekule, too. Nothing would have pleased him more. Here he was, though, in southeastern Algarve, doing his best to hold back the Kuusamans and Lagoans who’d swarmed through the Marquisate of Rivaroli and were pushing farther west every day.

  His own brigade left a good deal to be desired. It had lost far too many men and behemoths and egg-tossers in the failed counterattack against the islanders in western Valmiera. Lurcanio screamed to his superiors for replacements. Those superiors, when they didn’t scream back, laughed in his face.

  “Replacements?” a harried lieutenant general said. “We couldn’t afford to give you what we gave you the last time. How do you think we’re going to be able to make losses good now?”

  “How do you think I can stop the enemy with what I’ve got left?” Lurcanio retorted. “I can’t remember the last time I saw an Algarvian dragon overhead.”

  “Believe me, Colonel, you’re not the only one with troubles,” the lieutenant general replied. “Make do the best you can.” His image in the crystal in front of Lurcanio looked down at some papers on his desk. “There are several regiments of Popular Assault soldiers not far from your position. Feel free to commandeer them and add them to your force.”

  “Thank you for nothing . . . sir,” Lurcanio said. “I’ve already seen Popular Assault regiments. The men who aren’t older than I am are too young to have hair on their balls--some of them haven’t even been circumcised yet. They can’t stand up to real soldiers. They couldn’t even if they had anything more than hunting sticks to blaze with.”

  He waited for the lieutenant general to call him insubordinate or to say the soldiers in question were better than he claimed. Back in Trapani, a lot of men still clung to illusions that had died at the front line. But the officer only sighed and said, “Do the best you can, Colonel. I don’t know what else to tell you, except you’re not the only one with troubles.”

  “I understand that, sir, but--” The crystal flared and then went blank before he could get his protest well begun. He said something sulfurous under his breath. He surely wasn’t the only one with troubles. As best he could tell, the whole Kingdom of Algarve was falling to pieces before his eyes.

  Things hadn’t been this bleak even at the end of the Six Years’ War. Then Algarve had asked for armistice while her armies still mostly stood on enemy soil. Now . . . He imagined asking Swemmel of Unkerlant for an armistice. Swemmel didn’t want one. Swemmel wanted every Algarvian in the world dead. The way things were going, he was liable to get his wish, too. And the Lagoans and Kuusamans showed no sign of being in a dickering mood, either.

  Of course they don’t want to dicker with us, Lurcanio thought. We came too close to beating them all this time. They don’t want us getting another chance any time soon. They want to smash us flat instead. Had he been a Kuusaman, he supposed he would have felt the same way. Had he been an Unkerlanter . . . Lurcanio shook his head. Some things were altogether too depressing to contemplate.

  He strode out of the barn where his crystallomancer had set up shop. It was raining outside, a cold, driving rain on the edge of turning into sleet. Lurcanio pulled his hat down low to keep the rain out of his face. Eggs were bursting in the neighborhood, but not too many of them. The rain slowed down the enemy, too.

  A sergeant came up to him, a plump little man in civilian tunic and kilt at the underofficer’s heels. “Sir, allow me to present Baron Oberto, who has the honor to be the mayor of the town of Carsoli,” the sergeant said.

  Carsoli was the town just west of the brigade’s present position, the one Lurcanio was currently trying to hold. He bowed to Oberto. “Good day, your Excellency,” he said. “And what can I do for you this afternoon?”

  By the expression on Oberto’s face, it wasn’t a good day and was unlikely to become one. “Colonel,” he said, surprising Lurcanio by correctly reading his rank badges, “I hope you will not find it necessary to fight inside my fair city. When the time comes, as we both know it must, I beseech you to pull back through Carsoli, so that the islanders can occupy it without doing it too much harm.”

  Lurcanio gave him a long, measuring stare. Oberto nervously looked back. “So you think the war is lost, do you?” Lurcanio said at last.

  Oberto’s head bobbed up and down, as if on a spring. “Of course I do,” he said. “Any fool can see as much.”

  Any fool could have seen as much two years earlier, when the Unkerlanters drove the Algarvians back from Sulingen. Lurcanio bowed again, then backhanded Oberto across the face. The mayor of Carsoli cried out and staggered. “Be thankful I don’t order you blazed on the spot. Get out of my sight. I have a war to fight, whether you’ve noticed it or not.”

  “You’re a madman,” Oberto said, bringing a hand up to his cheek.

  “I’m a soldier,” Lurcanio answered. In his own mind, he wasn’t so sure the two were different, but he would never have admitted that to the luckless, cowardly mayor of Carsoli. Admitting it to Oberto might have meant admitting it to himself.

  Hand still pressed to his face, Oberto staggered away. I wonder if I ought to draft an order of the day reminding the men they are still obliged to do their duty, Lurcanio thought. If they give up, what hope have we? A moment later, he grimaced and kicked at the muddy ground. Even if they don’t give up, what hope have we?

  He had been thinking about pulling back through Carsoli if enemy pressure grew too great. Now he resolved to fight in the place till not one brick remained atop another. That’s what you get, Oberto, curse you. You would have done better to keep your mouth shut, but what Algarvian could ever manage that?

  In a perfectly foul temper, he stormed off toward the farmhouse where he made what passed for his headquarters. Before he got there, though, another soldier called, “Colonel Lurcanio!”

  “What is it?” he snarled.

  “Er--” As the sergeant had done, this fellow had a civilian in his wake: no, not one civilian, but half a dozen or so. “These . . . people need to speak with you, sir.”

  “Oh, they do, do they?” Lurcanio snapped. “What in blazes do they want? And why do I need to say one fornicating word to them?” But then he got a good look at who came behind the soldier, and his fiery temper cooled. “Oh,” he said, and, “Oh,” again. He nodded. “Them. Aye, I’ll talk to them.”

  The four men and two women who came up to Lurcanio wore tunics and kilts in the Algarvian style, but they were blonds, their hair soaked and falling down stringily over their faces. “You have to help us, Colonel!” the tallest man exclaimed, his Algarvian fluent enough but accented with the more guttural consonants and flat vowels of Valmieran. “By the powers above, you have to!”

  Lurcanio had known him well enough back in Priekule. “I have to, eh? And why is that, Smetnu?” For a refugee without a kin
gdom to give him orders really was a bit much.

  Smetnu had an answer for him, though: “I’ll tell you why. Because I spent four years--more than four years--helping you, that’s why. Didn’t my news sheets sing King Mezentio’s song all over Valmiera?”

  “And my broadsheets!” another man added.

  “And my plays,” said a third.

  “And our acting,” one of the women and the fourth man said together.

  The other woman, whose name was Sigulda and who was either married or at least thoroughly attached to Smetnu, said, “If you don’t help us, they’ll catch up with us. And if they catch up with us . . .” She drew a thumb across her throat. Her nails were painted red as blood, which added to the effect of the gesture.

  And the Valmierans were right. That was all there was to it. Lurcanio bowed. “Very well, my friends. I will do what I can. But I can do, perhaps, less than you think. You will have noticed, Algarve is falling deeper into ruin and disaster with each passing day.”

  They nodded. Their own kingdom--the Algarvian version of Valmiera they’d promoted and upheld--had already fallen into ruin. And now that Algarve was breaking under hammer blows from west and east, few of Mezentio’s subjects could spare them any time or aid or effort. If anything, they were an embarrassment, a reminder of what might have been. They were, in spite of everything, Kaunians, and somehow not quite welcome even to watch Algarve’s death throes. The destruction of a great kingdom was, or at least should have been, a private affair.

  Unlike most of his countrymen, Lurcanio did feel a certain obligation toward them. He’d worked with them for a long time. Baldu, the playwright, had done some splendid work during the occupation. His dramas deserved to live-- unless the Valmierans flung them all into the fire because he’d written them under Algarvian auspices and because some of his characters (not all, by any means) had friendly things to say about the men who’d occupied his kingdom.

  Bowing again, Lurcanio asked, “Where would you go?”