I suggested to Essad Pasha that I review the Hassocki soldiers in Fushe-Kuqe. I didn’t suggest that I would turn Max loose on him if he said no. I let him figure that out for himself. He was a clever fellow; he could do all kinds of figuring for himself.
Gathering the troops together took a couple of hours. It shouldn’t have. Essad Pasha should have had them ready for me as soon as I stepped off the Gamemeno. I let him hear about that, too. He went pale again: not quite yogurt color, but about the shade of a man’s teeth after he’s smoked a pipe for fifty years. As long as I kept him worrying about things like his alleged discourtesy and unpreparedness, he wouldn’t think to worry about me. I hoped like blazes he wouldn’t, anyhow.
While we were waiting, he remarked, “I did not look for your Highness to be a man of such, ah, impetuous spirit.”
“Life is full of surprises,” I said, while Max suffered a coughing fit of truly epic proportions. What sort of man was the real Halim Eddin? A placid fool, someone Essad Pasha had expected to lead around by the nose? Someone who would reign over Shqiperi while Essad Pasha went right on ruling the Land of the Eagle?
Whatever he’d expected, he’d reckoned without Otto of Schlepsig. And, if Eliphalet and Zibeon were kind, he’d go right on reckoning without me, too.
After what seemed much too long, the lieutenant who’d led me here came back to Essad Pasha’s office to report that the men were drawn up in a square not far away. “About time,” I muttered, and Essad Pasha squirmed. I gave the lieutenant my fishiest, most carping stare. “Take me there, and be quick about it.”
“Y-Y-Yes, Your Highness.” The junior officer needed three tries before he got it out. He’d watched his ferocious boss crumble before me, and that was plenty to turn him from rock to sand.
As he led us toward this square, Max bent to murmur in my ear: “Do you know what the demon you’re doing?”
“Trust me,” I whispered back, which for some reason only set him coughing again.
“I fear your aide-de-camp may be consumptive, your Highness,” Essad Pasha said, looking up and up and up at Max.
“Oh, he consumes a good deal, being the size he is, but he’s worth it,” I answered blandly. Essad Pasha lifted his fez to scratch his head. Confusing him was almost as good as intimidating him.
Row upon row of soldiers in dust-brown uniforms, all stiff and straight, all with eyes front. A bugle blared out a flatulent note. “Salute the illustrious nephew of his Majesty, the Hassockian Atabeg!” Essad Pasha cried. His voice held a certain urgency. Do a good job, or you’ll watch my head bounce in the dirt. Someone once said, Nothing so concentrates the mind as the prospect of a six-foot-eight swordsman with an evil-tempered master. Perhaps I paraphrase, just a little.
“Highness!” the soldiers roared, all together: a great blast of sound.
Not even Halim Eddin could have found anything to complain about there, and so I didn’t. I strode forward and started the review. Max started coughing again. But here, for the first time since I got to Fushe-Kuqe, I really did know what I was doing. No, I’d never reviewed troops before. But I’d been reviewed, standing in those rigor-mortised ranks. Some of my reviews were less than flattering, too. This is bad in the theater. It’s worse in the army. Say what you will of the theater, but it has no dragonish platoon sergeants.
Now things were different. Now I was the one who went through the ranks making sure buttons were shiny and crossbow quarrels sharp. When I stopped in front of one man, I saw the poor fellow’s sergeant’s neck bulge, almost as if he were a cobra spreading its hood and getting ready to strike. And he would have struck, too, if I’d found anything wrong with the man’s gear or person.
But I didn’t. All I asked was, “Where are you from, soldier?”
“From outside a little town called Adapzari, Highness,” he answered, blinking to find that the likes of me could speak to the likes of him. “You won’t have heard of it, I’m sure.”
“I know Adapzari,” I said, and I did-I’d been stationed there. Even by Hassocki standards, the place is a dreadful hole, and Hassocki standards in such matters are exacting. I didn’t say that to this poor youngster. How could I, when he came from there and now found himself stuck in another dreadful hole? What I did do was wink and poke him in the ribs and ask, “Did you ever visit the Green Panther?”
His eyes lit up. “North and south, east and west, your Highness, you do know Adapzari!” he exclaimed. Then he went on, “I’ve been by the place, but I was never in it.” That didn’t surprise me. The Green Panther is the best joyhouse in Adapzari-not that that says much-and you need piasters in your pocket to get past the door. This poor fellow likely wouldn’t have had two coppers to rub together before he got sucked into the army.
I clapped him on the back. “When you go home again, you’ll have plenty to spend there.” Then I turned to that venomous-looking sergeant. “This man is a good soldier, yes?” I hoped he was. He looked too ordinary to be a shirker or a thief, but sometimes looks will let you down.
To my relief, the underofficer nodded. “He is, Highness,” he replied, and his neck shrank till it was hardly more than half again as thick as an ordinary mortal’s. He wouldn’t want to admit he had a shirker or a thief in his squad, either.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. I’m sure part of the reason is that he has solid men set above him,” I said. The sergeant’s neck swelled again, but this time from pride rather than fury. I could tell because it didn’t turn so red.
Continuing on through the ranks, I stopped and talked with two or three other men. I didn’t find anything wrong with any of them. A reviewer who does that kind of thing has a cruel streak in him that I lack. Essad Pasha would have done it in a heartbeat, for sport.
I nodded to him when my inspection was done. “They’re fine men,” I said. “I’m sure I’ll get good use from them.”
“Your Highness?” he said doubtfully.
“Good use from them,” I repeated. I think Essad Pasha would have scratched his head again if he hadn’t been out there in front of the garrison. I looked at the soldiers-yes, at my soldiers. Some of them still stared straight ahead at nothing. But others had a gleam in their eye that hadn’t been there before. Prince Halim Eddin made a leader they would sooner follow than Essad Pasha.
Yes, I know this is like saying tastier than an oyster stew that’s gone bad. But think how downcast I would have been if they’d found me less inspiring than their current commander!
Essad Pasha sighed. “Well, your Highness, I am glad the soldiers are to your liking,” he said. “You may be right-you may get use from them after all. Considering Vlachia to the west, considering Belagora to the north, considering the wild Shqipetari of the mountains…Yes, you may indeed.”
More slowly than I should have, I realized he hadn’t just bought his wrinkles and lines in a shop in Fushe-Kuqe. He’d come by them as honestly as you can, from cares and worries. And he’d had plenty to worry about-and still did, for the Nekemte Wars dragged on here, and Belagoran troops were laying siege to Tremist, up in the north. They actually wanted a chunk of Shqiperi, which made them all but unique among the kingdoms of the earth. Not even the Shqipetari were enthusiastic about Shqiperi, or there wouldn’t have been so many of them living in Lokris.
But, such as it was, it was mine, and I aimed to keep it. Soldiers seemed a good start.
Once the review was over, Essad Pasha had his revenge on me. He proved himself a cruel, implacable Hassocki after all. No, he didn’t stake me out in the hot sun with trails of honey leading ants to my tender places. He didn’t sharpen a stake and stick it up my…Since he didn’t do that, I won’t go into detail about what he might have done. I don’t care to dwell on it.
No, his vengeance was subtler, more refined-and more vicious. After the review, Essad Pasha threw me to the scribes.
I wouldn’t have thought that particular breed of pest thrived in Shqiperi’s rugged, bracing climate. Few Shqipetari can read or write an
ything, let alone journals. Considering the way (or rather, ways, for there is no one standard school-yet another proof of lack of civilization) they spell their own barbarous jargon, it’s a wonder any of them can read or write at all.
But the vermin to whose tender mercies I was now exposed were foreigners embedded on the countryside-rather like ticks, as a matter of fact. Some had come to write stories proving the Hassocki were villains and monsters in the Nekemte Wars, and that the Belagorans, Vlachs, Lokrians, Plovdivians, and even Shqipetari were valiant, righteous heroes. Others-a smaller number-had come to write stories proving that the Belagorans, Vlachs, Lokrians, Plovdivians and Shqipetari were villains and monsters, and that the Hassocki were valiant, righteous heroes. A few freelancers had come to write stories that could go either way, depending on which journal decided to buy them.
A plump Albionese named Bob wore one of the most pathetic excuses for a wig I’ve ever had the misfortune to see, and on the stage and in the circus I’ve seen some astonishing specimens. He asked me whether I wasn’t ashamed to belong to such a bloodthirsty pack of murderers as the Hassocki. I was glad he gave me so much trouble figuring out which camp he belonged to.
He asked me, of course, in Albionese. The islanders expect everyone to speak their language, and never bother learning anyone else’s. Now, I do speak Albionese, but I had no reason to believe Essad Pasha did. I bought a little time by asking Bob to translate his question into Schlepsigian. If a Hassocki will speak any foreign language, that is the one.
But he couldn’t, to my not very great surprise. Someone did it for him. “Ah,” I said, as if understanding him for the first time. “No, I am proud to be what I am. Any man should be proud of his kingdom. I hope the Shqipetari will be proud of their kingdom once it finally comes into being-and of their king, too.”
Once that was translated into Albionese, Bob said, “How can they be proud of their king when you aren’t of their people?”
Again, waiting for his words to be turned into Schlepsigian gave me time to think. “Your King of Albion comes from a line that springs from a Schlepsigian principality, doesn’t he?” I answered. “I don’t hear of people rioting in the streets because of it.”
When Bob was made to understand, he exclaimed, “Oh, but that’s different,” by which he meant, That’s Albion. He had a point, of sorts. Albionese will put up with a good deal of nonsense that would cause street fighting in Narbonensis, revolution in Tver, and civil war in Lokris.
“May I ask you a question?” I said to him in Schlepsigian. Once he had that rendered into his language, he nodded. His jowls wobbled. So did his wig; he made as if to tug at his hair to settle it back in place. I had to betray a little knowledge of Albionese to ask, “How is it that you have your name? I thought a bob was the float they use in these newfangled privies.”
Bob the scribe turned very red. I had the feeling that question would not appear in whichever journal he worked for. His colleagues laughed loud and long. They hunt in packs, scribes do, but you can tell them from wolves because they’re the ones who will also turn and devour their own kind.
“How will the new kingdom look toward Torino?” a Torinan scribe asked in Schlepsigian. The two languages are as different as wine and sauerkraut, so his accent was fierce, but he made himself understood, which was more than blundering, blustering Bob could do.
I gave back my blandest smile. “Why, sir, I expect we will look east across the Tiberian Sea, and there it will be.”
That got me another laugh. If you can make scribes like you, half your battle is won-more than half, in fact. I learned that early on. They usually write what they feel, not what they think-just as well, since most of them are none too good at thinking anyhow. An evening telling jokes over coffee or brandy-over coffee and brandy, usually-will win you more good reviews than a sterling performance.
“But when you look across to Torino, what will you see?” this fellow persisted.
“A neighbor. A good neighbor, I hope,” I answered, bland still.
“Shqiperi stands between Vlachia and the sea,” a Schlepsigian scribe said, proving he could read a map. “How do you feel about keeping Vlachia from gaining ports?”
Good, I thought. But that might have proved impolitic-a pity, but true. What I did say was, “Shqipetari live in Shqiperi. Vlachs don’t.” That was mostly true. I added, “Quite a few Shqipetari live in Vlachia, though.” That was most definitely true. The province of Polje, in southern Vlachia, holds more Shqipetari than Vlachs.
This is curious, because the province of Polje is the next thing to sacred ground to the Vlachs. There, more than five hundred years ago, the Hassockian Atabeg crushed their army and brought them under Hassocki rule. If he’d slaughtered that army to the last man instead of leaving a few survivors, they would probably still reverence him instead of Eliphalet and Zibeon. Vlachs are peculiar people.
“How do you like being king?” that same scribe asked.
“I’m not king yet-I haven’t been crowned. I’m sure Essad Pasha, having kindly invited me here, is making arrangements for that now,” I said. Essad Pasha hastily nodded. His jowls wobbled when he did, but not nearly so much as those of Bob the Albionese. I went on, “Besides, if I’d stayed in Vyzance, I never would have become the Hassockian Atabeg. I get to start my own dynasty here.”
What was it like for the real Halim Eddin? There he was, in that ancient city, with his father’s older brother with a crown on his head. One of his first cousins would have it next. The only thing he would ever have was a mantle of suspicion. He was lucky he still had his father. Quite a few Hassockian Atabegs had massacred their brothers as soon as they claimed the throne. This was called not taking unnecessary chances. Maybe the present Atabeg was milder than some of his predecessors-though from what I knew of the old reptile, I doubted it. Maybe Halim Eddin’s father was too much of a rabbit to be dangerous.
Maybe I was spinning stories out of moonshine. I didn’t know the real Halim Eddin, and I hoped I never made his acquaintance.
That Schlepsigian scribe was persistent. He must have thought getting each day’s trivia down on paper mattered in the bigger scheme of things. We all have our illusions; who could get through life without them? “After you are crowned, what do you intend to do?” he inquired.
“Live happily ever after, and try to see that my subjects do, too,” I said.
That got me yet another laugh. Scribes are jaded. They mostly make their living off other people’s misfortunes. Someone living a long, quiet, prosperous life…Who could get a story out of that? But when there’s a battle or a flood or a scandal, you can talk about it for days-and then spend more days talking about what you’ve just talked about. And the wizards in the press room use the laws of similarity and contagion to run off sheets by the tens of thousands, sometimes till they fall over from weariness, and people in the street buy those copies as fast as they can.
I wonder if scribes aren’t related to vampires. They suck sorrows the way vampires suck blood. But garlic and roses won’t keep them away, and you can never drive a stake through a lying story’s heart.
“You will rule a small kingdom in a troubled part of the world,” another scribe said-he was looking for disaster even before it happened. “How will you keep your kingdom free?”
“North and south, east and west, the world is full of troubles,” I said, and the sorry old world has done nothing to prove me wrong in the years since, however much I wish it would. I also reminded them-and myself-that I followed the Quadrate God. “If troubles come here, I’ll do my best to drive them away. The Shqipetari love freedom. They will stand beside me.”
Most of the Shqipetari are entirely indifferent to freedom, save perhaps the freedom to plunder their neighbors. The Hassocki had ruled the region by holding the towns and killing anybody who got out of line. Not subtle, maybe, but more effective than any other way that’s been tried in those parts. Long ago, the Aeneans found the same recipe. It worked for them, too,
for a while.
“Thank you very much, gentlemen,” I said. Two thousand years ago, some Aenean Emperor was probably telling his scribes the same thing. No doubt it meant then what it means now. Go away, you nuisances. You’ve bothered me long enough. The Aenean Emperor could have made heads roll if his scribes hadn’t listened to him. All at once, I realized I could do the same.
But my pack did go away. Life is full of disappointments. There are, I suppose, bigger ones. I suppose.
Where I watched the scribes go with a certain bloodthirsty regret, Essad Pasha knew nothing but relief as they headed down toward the Consolidated Crystal office. “You handled them very well, your Highness,” he said. “Better than I expected, in fact.”
“Oh?” I said, and the air around me got ten degrees colder. Maybe fifteen. Up went my left eyebrow. That expression looks like I’ve practiced it in the mirror. There’s a reason for that: I have. I’ve practiced it for a reason, too: it works. “And why is it better than you expected, your Excellency?”
He went pale again. Nice to know he was convinced I meant business. “Me-Me-Meaning no offense,” he finally got out. “But they-they are infidels and foreigners, out to trip you up.”
He wasn’t wrong, though they would have been just as ghoulishly gleeful to trip up a follower of the Two Prophets. I said, “If we Hassocki are not more clever than foreign infidels, the Quadrate God will not smile upon the four corners of our land.” By the way the Hassockian Empire has been shrinking for the past 250 years, the Quadrate God hasn’t smiled much lately. I forbore from mentioning that.
And Essad Pasha, out here in what had been the remotest corner of the Empire and now would have to sink or swim on its own, nodded till his jowl-wobbling really did rival Bob’s. “Every word a truth worthy to be inscribed in letters of gold,” he said. When the compliments turn flowery, you know you’ve got your man just where you want him.
Knowing that, I changed the subject: “When had you planned to hold the coronation ceremony?” Behind me, Max inhaled sharply and started to cough.
Every Inch a King Page 13
