A moment later, a puff of steam roiled the seawater by him, and then another and another. Soldiers in the surviving landing boats were blazing at him, not sure whose side he was on and not inclined to take chances finding out. He ordered the leviathan to submerge once more. He didn't suppose he could blame the Kuusamans and Lagoans bobbing on the sea. Blame them or not, though, he didn't want them killing him.
They blazed at him again when the leviathan surfaced once more, but by then he was too far away for their beams to be dangerous. And by then, he was cheering again, for boats were beaching themselves on Sigisoara and soldiers scrambling out of them. He approved of the soldiers, as long as they were going after the Algarvians and not him.
More Algarvian patrol boats came forth, these from the harbor at Lehliu, the port on the southeast coast of Sigisoara. None got close enough to do the landing boats any harm, though their crews pressed the attack with typical Algarvian dash and courage. Kuusaman dragons sank a couple, while well-positioned warships wrecked the rest.
As the day drew to a close, Cornelu used his crystal to call the Lagoan officer in charge of leviathan patrols: the very man, as it happened, who'd introduced the plan for the attack on Sibiu to him and his fellow exiles in the Admiralty offices in Setubal. "How do we fare, sir?" Cornelu asked. "I am not going to approach a ley-line cruiser to try to find out. The sailors would slay me before they bothered asking questions."
"You think so, eh?" the Lagoan said- in Algarvian, which probably gave his security mages nightmares. "Well, you're probably right. We fare very well, as a matter of face. Mezentio's men weren't expecting us- weren't expecting us at all, by every sign we can gather. Sigisoara and Tirgoviste are ours already, or near enough as makes no difference. We'll hold all five islands by this time tomorrow, and we'll be able to hold them against anything Algarve is likely to throw at us. As far as I can see, Commander, your kingdom's on the way to being free."
Would Sibiu truly be free, with Lagoan and Kuusaman soldiers holding the Algarvians at bay? It was bound to be freer. For now, that would do. "Powers above be praised," Cornelu said. "I can go home again." He could, aye. He needed a moment to remember that he might not want to.
***
An early fall rain- early for Bishah, at any rate- had turned the road between Hajjaj's estate in the hills and the capital of Zuwayza to mud. The foreign minister was almost perfectly content to stay where he was. His contentment would have been complete had the roof not developed a couple of what seemed like inevitable leaks.
"There ought to be an ordinance against roofers, as against any other frauds and cheats," he fumed. "And, of course, they can't come out to fix the damage till the rain stops, at which point no one needs them anymore." He was content to be isolated from Bishah, aye. He didn't care so much to have Bishah isolated from him.
His majordomo didn't point that out. Instead, Tewfik said, "Well, young fellow, it's not so bad as it could be. When you get as old as I am, you'll realize that." Hajjaj was no youngster himself- was anything but a youngster, in fact. But he was likely to be dead by the time he got as old as Tewfik. The family servitor looked ready to go on forever.
A younger, sprier servant came up to them and told Hajjaj, "Your Excellency, your secretary would speak to you by crystal."
"I'm coming," Hajjaj said. "Run on ahead and tell him I'll be right there." The servant, perhaps a third of Hajjaj's age, hurried away. The Zuwayzi foreign minister followed at a more stately pace. Stately, he thought. That's a pretty-sounding word old men use when they mean slow.
Hajjaj's back twinged when he sat down on the carpet in front of the crystal. "Hello, your Excellency," Qutuz said from out of the globe of glass. "How are you today?"
"Fine, thanks, except that my roof leaks and the roofers are thieves," Hajjaj replied. "What's come up?" Something had to have, or Qutuz wouldn't have called him. On the crystal, unlike in person, he didn't have to go through long courtesies before getting to the point.
Qutuz said, "Your Excellency, I have waiting on another crystal Minister Hadadezer of Ortah. He wishes to speak with you, and was disappointed to learn you hadn't come down to the palace today. I have a mage waiting to transfer his emanations to your crystal there, if you give me leave."
"By all means," Hajjaj said at once. "Talking with the Ortaho is always a treat." Because of the swamps and mountains that warded Ortah, it had always been all but immune to pressure from the outside, even though it lay between Algarve and Unkerlant. Ortaho foreign relations were a luxury, not a necessity as they were in the rest of the world. Hajjaj couldn't help wishing Zuwayza might say the same. He asked, "Do you know what he has in mind?"
"No, your Excellency." Qutuz shook his head. "But just let me give the word to the mage here, and you can find out for yourself." He turned away and said, "Go ahead," to someone Hajjaj couldn't see.
A moment later, Qutuz's image faded from the crystal. But light didn't flare from it, as it would have were the etheric connection broken. After a pause of a few heartbeats, a new image formed in the crystal: that of a man whose long white beard began to grow just below his eyes, and whose hairline was hardly separable from his eyebrows. Most savants reckoned the Ortahoin cousins to the Ice People of the austral continent.
Hajjaj gave Hadadezer a seated bow. "Good day, your Excellency," he said in Algarvian, a language the Ortaho minister also used. "As always, it is a privilege to speak to you. I should be delighted to enjoy the privilege more often."
"You are too kind," Hadadezer replied. "You will, I hope, remember our conversation this past winter."
"Aye, I do indeed," Hajjaj said. Sulingen had been on the point of falling then. "It was a worrisome time."
"Worrisome." The minister from Ortah nodded. "The very word. It surely was. You may perhaps also remember the concerns of my sovereign, King Ahinadab."
"I do recall them," Hajjaj agreed soberly. "You are perhaps wise not to speak of them too openly. It is probably that no one but ourselves is picking up these emanations, but it is not certain." Ahinadab had worried that, for the first time in generations, war might bear down on his kingdom in the aftermath of the Algarvian defeat. To Hajjaj, that proved the King of Ortah was no fool.
Now, speaking like a man in mortal torment, Hadadezer said, "What King Ahinadab feared has now come to pass. Algarvian soldiers have begun retreating into Ortah to escape the Unkerlanters, and King Swemmel's men are hard on their heels."
"Oh, my dear fellow!" Hajjaj said, as he had the winter before when Hadadezer spoke of his sovereign's concern. "Do I understand, then, that Ortah lacks the strength to keep them out?"
Ever so mournfully, the Ortaho minister nodded. "King Ahinadab has sent protests in the strongest terms to both Trapani and Cottbus." His eyebrows- they were separate from his hair after all- bristled in humiliated fury. "Ortah is a kingdom, not a road." More bristling. "But neither Mezentio nor Swemmel pays the least attention. Each, in fact, demanded that we declare war on the other."
"Oh, my dear fellow!" Hajjaj said again. Zuwayza lacked Ortah's natural defenses, and had had to suffer some generations of Unkerlanter overlordship. But King Shazli didn't have to worry about getting attacked by both sides at once. With real curiosity, Hajjaj asked, "What will your sovereign do?"
"I do not know," Hadadezer answered. "King Ahinadab does not yet know, either. If we say aye to either kingdom, we put ourselves in that king's hands and make an enemy of the other."
"And if you say no to both kings, you make enemies of them both," Hajjaj said.
"My sovereign is only too painfully aware of that as well," Hadadezer said. "As I told you last winter, I am no skilled diplomat. Ortah has no skilled diplomats. We have never needed skilled diplomats: the land is our shield. But with so many behemoths and dragons about, with so much more strong magecraft loosed in this war, we cannot be sure the land will ward us anymore."
"I think you are wise to worry," Hajjaj agreed. "In this war, men have taken nature by the neck and not
the other way round, or not nearly so much as when men knew less than they do today."
Oh, nature could still work its will, and he knew as much. Every Algarvian who'd fought through an Unkerlanter winter would have agreed with him, too. So would the Unkerlanters who'd invaded desert Zuwayza. Still, what he'd said was more nearly true than not.
Hadadezer said, "Because we of Ortah are no diplomats, my king bade me ask you, the finest of the age, what you would do in his place."
"You do me too much honor," Hajjaj murmured. As he had when Hadadezer's image first appeared before him, he bowed where he sat. The Ortaho minister inclined his head in turn. Carefully, Hajjaj said, "I am not in your king's place, nor can I be."
"I understand that. He also understands it," Hadadezer replied. "He makes no promises to follow what you propose. Still, he would know."
"Very well." Now Hajjaj spoke with some relief. He wouldn't have wanted the responsibility for the Ortahoin blindly obeying whatever he said. After he thought for a bit, he started ticking off points on his fingers: "You could fight as best you can. Or you could flee into the most rugged parts of the land and let the rest be a road."
"No," Hadadezer said firmly. "If we did that, we would never recover the land we gave up once the fighting ended."
What makes you think you will keep it all anyhow? Hajjaj wondered. But he said, "That could be. You could stay neutral and hope for the best. Or you could pick one side or the other. If you choose the winner, you may not be devoured afterwards. If you pick the loser… well, with your landscape, you still may not be devoured afterwards. That is better luck than most kingdoms have."
Hadadezer said, "We have been at peace a long time. All we ask is to be let alone. But who will hear us when we ask it? No one. Not a soul. The world has become a cruel, hard place."
"I wish I could say you were wrong, your Excellency," Hajjaj answered sadly. "But I fear- worse, I know- you are right. I also fear things will get worse before they get better, if they ever get better."
"I fear the same," the Ortaho minister said. "You will give my king no advice?"
"I have set forth the courses he might take," Hajjaj said. "In propriety, I can do no more than that."
With obvious reluctance, Hadadezer nodded. "Very well. I understand how you might feel that way, though I would be lying if I said I did not wish you to go further. Thank you for your time and for your patience, your Excellency. I bid you good day."
His image faded out of the crystal. Once more, though, it did not flare: the etheric connection remained intact. After a moment, Hajjaj saw Qutuz's face again. "Were you able to listen to any of that?" the Zuwayzi foreign minister asked.
"Aye, your Excellency." Qutuz suddenly looked anxious. "Why? Would you rather I hadn't?"
"No, no. It doesn't matter. I doubt Marquis Balastro would kidnap you and torture you or offer you lickerish Algarvian lasses to find out what Hadadezer had to say. It's only that…" Hajjaj's voice trailed away. He was more than a little horrified to find himself on the edge of tears. "Wasn't it the saddest thing you ever heard?"
"That it was," his secretary said. "Poor fellow hasn't a clue. By the way he made it sound, his king hasn't a clue, either. Not a clue in the whole kingdom, or his Excellency wouldn't have come crying to you."
"No, none," Hajjaj agreed. "Ortah's been able to stay apart from the rest of Derlavai too long. Nobody there knows how to do anything else." With seeming irrelevance, he added, "I read an account once of an island the Valmierans- I think it was the Valmierans- found in the Great Northern Sea."
Qutuz's eyebrows rose. "Your Excellency?" he asked, obviously hoping Hajjaj would make himself clear.
The Zuwayzi foreign minister did his best: "It was an uninhabited island- uninhabited by people, anyhow. It was full of birds that looked like big doves, doves the size of dogs, so big they couldn't fly. If I remember rightly, the Valmierans called them solitaires, or maybe it was Solitary Island. I haven't thought of it in years."
"Why couldn't they fly?" Qutuz still sounded confused.
"They'd lost the need, you might say. They had no enemies there," Hajjaj replied. "The Ortahoin, who've lost the need to deal with their neighbors, put me in mind of them."
"Ah." Qutuz still didn't seem altogether clear about where his superior was going, but he found the right question to ask: "What happened to these big birds, then?"
Hajjaj grimaced. "They were good to eat. The Valmierans hunted them till none was left- they couldn't get away, after all. The island wasn't very big, and they couldn't fly to another one. All we know of them now, we know from a few skins and feathers in a museum in Priekule." He paused. "If I were you, I wouldn't tell this tale to Hadadezer."
"I promise," Qutuz said solemnly.
***
When Pekka walked into the refectory in the hostel in the Naantali district, she found Fernao fighting his way through a Kuusaman news sheet. What with the news sheet, a Kuusaman-Lagoan lexicon, and, almost incidentally, the grilled herring and scrambled eggs and hot tea in front of him, he was as busy a man with breakfast as Pekka had ever seen.
Somehow, he wasn't too busy to notice her come in. He smiled at her and waved the news sheet in the air, almost upsetting his teacup. "Habakkuk!" he exclaimed.
"Aye, Habakkuk." Pekka turned the word into a happy, three-syllable squeak.
"That is brilliant sorcery. Brilliant, I say." Fernao spoke in classical Kaunian so he wouldn't have to pause and search for a word or two every sentence. "Sawdust and ice for strengthening the landing surface the dragons use. More magecraft, drawing energy from the ley lines to keep the icebergs frozen in warm seas. Aye, brilliant. Sea fights will never be the same, now that so many dragons can be carried across the water so quickly."
"You talk like an admiral," Pekka said. The term literally meant general on the ocean; the ancient Kaunian Empire had been far stronger on land than at sea.
Fernao waved the news sheet again. "I do not need to be an admiral to see what splendid magecraft went into this." He read from the sheet: " 'Not least because of their dominance in the air, Kuusaman and Lagoan forces had little trouble overwhelming the relatively weak Algarvian garrisons on the five main islands of Sibiu.' "
"You read that very well," Pekka said. "Your accent is much better than it used to be. How much did you understand?"
"Almost all- now." Fernao tapped the lexicon. "Not so much before I worked my way through it."
"All right." Pekka nodded. "If you stay here too much longer, though, we will make a Kuusaman of you in spite of yourself."
"Though I would have to clip my ponytail, there are probably worse fates. And I already have some of the seeming." Fernao rested his index finger by one narrow, slanted eye to show what he meant. Those eyes argued powerfully that he did have some Kuusaman blood. Then he waved to the seat across from his at the table. "Will you join me? You must have come here to eat, not to talk shop."
"Nothing wrong with talking shop," Pekka said as she did sit down. "But you will have to move that news sheet if I am to have enough room for my breakfast." When a serving girl came up to her, she ordered smoked salmon scrambled with eggs and her own mug of tea.
The tea arrived very quickly. She had to wait a little longer for the rest of her breakfast. As she sat chatting with Fernao, she noticed that neither of them said a word about Leino, though they both knew her husband had had a lot to do with the icebergs-turned-dragon-carriers that went by the name of Habakkuk. Fernao had praised the magecraft without praising the mages who worked it. As for her, she was proud as could be of Leino. But she didn't have much to say about him to Fernao, any more than she'd had much to say about Fernao when she went home to Leino.
But those shouldn't be inverses of each other, she thought. Before she had much chance to wonder why she'd acted as if they were, Ilmarinen came in and started raising a fuss. "Why are we here?" he said loudly. "What are we doing wasting our time in the middle of nowhere?"
"I do not know abou
t you," Fernao said, buttering a slice of dark brown bread. "As for me, I am eating breakfast, and enjoying it, too."
"So am I." Pekka looked up over the rim of her mug of tea at Ilmarinen. "Do you have anything in particular in mind that we should be doing but are not, Master? Or are you just angry at the world this morning?"
He glared at her. "You're not my mother. You're not going to pat me on the head and tell me everything's all right and get me to go back to work like a good little boy."
"No?" In fact, Pekka was in the habit of treating him rather as if he were Uto, but she'd never told him that. She was tempted now, just to see the look on his face. "What would you have me do, then?"
"Leave me alone!" Ilmarinen shouted, loud enough to make everyone in the refectory, mages and servants alike, stare at him.
Fernao surged to his feet. Pekka noted that he put only a little weight on his cane. Not so long before, he couldn't have done anything without it. "Now see here," he began, looming over Ilmarinen.
"Sit down," Pekka told him, her voice not sharp but flat. He looked astonished. Of course he's astonished, Pekka thought. He thinks he's helping me. She didn't look at him. She didn't repeat herself. She just waited. The Lagoan mage sank back into his seat. Pekka's gaze swung back to Ilmarinen. "I suggest you also sit down. Have breakfast. Whatever you are upset about will still be here when you have finished. Standing around and screaming at one another is a game for mountain apes or Algarvians, not for civilized men." She spoke in classical Kaunian, partly for Fernao's benefit, partly because it helped her sound dispassionate.
Like Fernao before him, Ilmarinen sat down before he quite seemed to realize he'd done it. Pekka waved for a serving girl. She wasn't sorry the one she got was Linna, for whom Ilmarinen still yearned. She hoped the master mage wouldn't want to make a bigger fool of himself in front of the girl. And he didn't; he ordered breakfast, much more like a civilized man than a shrieking mountain ape.
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