As the ley-line caravan glided east out of the Zuwayzi capital, Hajjaj smiled at his secretary and said, “Isn’t it astonishing how quickly I’ve recovered from the indisposition everyone thinks I have?”
Qutuz smiled, too. “Astonishing indeed, your Excellency. And I am very glad to see you looking so well.”
“I thank you, my dear fellow, though I think I ought to ask whether you need new spectacles,” Hajjaj said. “I don’t look particularly well. What I look is old.” He paused a moment in thought. “Of course, a man my age who does not look well is liable to look dead.”
“May you live to a hundred and twenty,” Qutuz replied, a polite commonplace among the Zuwayzin.
“I’ve been over halfway there for a while now, but I don’t think my private ley line will stretch quite so far,” Hajjaj said. “Tewfik, now, Tewfik seems bound and determined to take the proverb literally. I hope he makes it.”
“Someone does every now and then, or so they say,” his secretary answered.
“They say all sorts of things,” Hajjaj observed. “Every now and then, what they say is even true—but don’t count on it.” As foreign minister of a kingdom with a large, unfriendly neighbor and an arrogant cobelligerent, Hajjaj didn’t see the advisability of counting on much of anything.
Qutuz leaned back in his seat—King Shazli had laid on a first-class caravan car for Hajjaj and his secretary—and remarked, “The scenery is prettier than usual, anyhow.”
“Well, so it is,” Hajjaj agreed. “It was high summer the last time I traveled to Najran, and the sun had baked the life out of everything. Gray rock, yellow rock, brown thornbushes—you know what it’s like most of the year.”
“Don’t we all?” Qutuz spoke with a certain somber pride. In high summer, the sun of northern Zuwayza stood right at the zenith or even a little south of it, something seen nowhere else on the mainland of Derlavai. Except at oases and along the banks of the few streams that flowed down from the mountains the year around, life seemed to cease. Qutuz’s wave urged Hajjaj to look out the window. “Certainly not like that now, your Excellency.”
“No, it isn’t.” As his secretary had said, Hajjaj could for once enjoy peering through the glass. Late winter was the time for that in Zuwayza, if ever there was such a time: some years, there wasn’t. But, by Zuwayzi standards, this had been a wet winter. The thornbushes were green now. Flowers of all sorts carpeted the usually barren hills and splashed them with crimson and gold and azure.
Had the ley-line caravan halted, Hajjaj would have been able to spy butterflies, moving bits of color. Toads would be croaking and creeping in the wadis, the dry riverbeds, that weren’t quite dry now. Had Hajjaj been lucky, he might have spotted a small herd of antelope grazing on greenery whose like they wouldn’t see again for months.
He sighed. “It won’t last. It never does.” With another sigh, he added, “And if that’s not a lesson for anyone daft enough to want to be a diplomat, curse me if I know what would be.”
The ley-line caravan got into Najran late in the afternoon, gliding up over a last little rise before revealing the almost painfully blue sea ahead. The ley line that ran from Bishah to Najran continued on out into the Bay of Ajlun. If it hadn’t, Najran would have had no reason for being. As things were, its harbor was too small and too open to the elements to let it become a great port, or even a moderately important one. It was nondescript, isolated—a perfect home for the Kaunian refugees who’d fled west across the sea from Forthweg.
Their tents, these days, considerably outnumbered the ramshackle houses of the fishermen and boatbuilders and netmakers and the handful of merchants who called Najran home. Without the ley line, the Zuwayzin could never have kept them fed. Pale-skinned men and women in tunics and trousers were more common on the streets than naked, dark brown locals. But the Kaunians had universally adapted the wide-brimmed straw hats the Zuwayzin wore. If they hadn’t, their brains would have baked in their skulls.
Hajjaj had thought about putting on tunic and trousers himself when he came to visit the refugees. In the end, he’d decided not to. They were guests in his kingdom, after all, so he didn’t feel the need to go against his own usages, as he did when meeting diplomats from other, chillier lands.
A carriage waited for him at the caravan depot: much the largest building in Najran. As he and Qutuz climbed in, he told the driver, “The tent city.”
“Aye, your Excellency,” the man said, touching the brim of his own big hat. He flicked the reins and clucked to the horses. They were sad, skinny beasts, and didn’t seem in a hurry to get anywhere—they would pause to graze whenever they passed anything green and growing.
“Fellow ought to take a whip to them,” Qutuz grumbled.
“Never mind,” Hajjaj said. “We’re not going far, and I’m not in that big a hurry.” The truth was, he didn’t have the heart to watch the horses beaten.
Blond men and women, a lot of them sunburned despite their hats, greeted the carriage as it approached. Hajjaj heard his own name spoken; some of the people in the growing crowd recognized him from his earlier visit. They started taking off their hats and bowing—not theatrically, as Algarvians would have, but with great sincerity. “Powers above bless you, sir!” someone called to Hajjaj, and a moment later everyone took up the cry.
Irony smote: he’d learned classical Kaunian in Algarve before the Six Years’ War. He stood up in the carriage and bowed to the refugees in return. Letting them stay in Zuwayza sometimes felt like the single most worthwhile thing he’d done in the war. Had he given them to the Algarvians, they would surely be dead now.
A couple of blond men pushed their way through the cheering crowd. They, too, bowed to Hajjaj, who returned the courtesy. “Thank you for coming, your Excellency,” one of them said. “We’re grateful to you once more.”
“Which of you is Nemunas, and which Vitols?” Hajjaj asked.
“I’m Vitols,” said the man who’d spoken before.
“And I’m Nemunas,” the other one added. He was a couple of years older than Vitols, and had a nasty scar on the back of one hand. They’d both been sergeants in King Penda’s army before the Algarvians crushed Forthweg. Now they led the Kaunian refugees in Zuwayza.
Vitols pointed to a tent not far away. “We can talk there, if that suits you.”
“As good a place as any,” Hajjaj said. “This gentlemen with me is my secretary, Qutuz. He knows what we’ll be discussing.” The Kaunians bowed to Qutuz, too. He bowed back.
In the tent waited tea and wine and cakes. Hajjaj was touched again that the blonds favored him with a Zuwayzi ritual. He and Qutuz sipped and ate and made small talk; as hosts, Vitols and Nemunas were the ones to say when to get down to serious business. Nemunas didn’t wait long. “Will you let us sail back to Forthweg, like we asked in our letter?” he said. “Now that there’s a magic to let us look like Forthwegians, we can go back there and take proper revenge on the redheads.”
He and Vitols leaned toward Hajjaj, waiting on his reply. He didn’t leave them waiting long. “No,” he said. “I will not permit it. I will not encourage it. If Zuwayzi ships see Kaunians sailing east, they will sink them if they can.”
“But—why, your Excellency?” Nemunas sounded astonished. “You know what the Algarvians are doing to our people there. You’d never have let us stay here if you didn’t.”
“Every word of that is true.” Hajjaj. clamped his jaws shut tight after he finished speaking. He’d known this would be hard, brutally hard, and it was:
“Well, then,” Vitols said, as if he expected the Zuwayzi foreign minister to change his mind on the instant and give his blessing to the Kaunians who wanted to go back to Forthweg and cause trouble for Algarve there.
But Hajjaj did not intend to change his mind. “No,” he repeated.
“Why?” Vitols and Nemunas spoke together. Neither sounded as if he believed his ears.
“I will tell you why,” Hajjaj replied. “Because, if you go back to
your homeland and harass my cobelligerents, you make them more likely to lose the war.”
Both Kaunian refugee leaders spoke several pungent phrases of a sort Hajjaj’s language master had never taught him. He understood the sentiment if not the precise meaning of those phrases. At last, the Kaunians grew more coherent. “Of course we want to make them lose the war,” Vitols said.
“Why wouldn’t we?” Nemunas added. “They’re murdering us.”
“Why won’t you let us strike back at them?” Vitols demanded. “Why don’t you want them to lose the war? Why don’t you curse them the way we curse them?”
“Because if Algarve loses the war, Zuwayza loses the war, too,” Hajjaj said. “And if Zuwayza loses the war, King Swemmel is all too likely to serve my people as King Mezentio is serving yours.”
“He wouldn’t,” Vitols said. “You might lose, you might even have to go back under Unkerlanter rule again, but you wouldn’t get slaughtered.”
“It is possible that you are right,” Hajjaj admitted. “On the other hand, it is also possible that you are wrong. Knowing Swemmel, knowing the affront Zuwayza has given him, I must tell you that I do not care to take the chance. The things my cobelligerents have done horrify me. The things my foes could do if they get the chance horrify me more. I am sorry, gentlemen, but you cannot ask me to risk my people for the sake of yours.”
Nemunas and Vitols put their heads together for a couple of minutes, muttering in low voices. When they were done, they both bowed to Hajjaj. Vitols spoke for them: “Very well, your Excellency. We understand your reasons. We don’t agree, mind, but we understand. We’ll obey. We wouldn’t endanger your folk after you saved ours.”
“I thank you.” Hajjaj bowed in return. “I also require that obedience.”
“You’ll have it,” Vitols said, and Nemunas nodded. The meeting ended a few minutes later.
On the way back to the ley-line caravan depot, Qutuz remarked, “They’re lying.”
“I know,” Hajjaj said calmly.
“But …” his secretary said.
“I’ve done what I had to do,” Hajjaj said. “I’ve warned them. Our ships will sink some of them. That will make the Algarvians happy. And if some do get back to Forthweg and raise trouble … that won’t make me altogether unhappy.” He smiled at Qutuz. The carriage rolled on toward Najran.
Krasta had been to a good many entertainments since joining herself with Colonel Lurcanio. Having a companion from among the victorious Algarvians with whom to go to entertainments had been one of the reasons, and not, perhaps, the least of them, why she’d let Lurcanio into her bed. But this one, at a wealthy cheese merchant’s house in Priekule, struck her as the strangest of any of them.
After looking around at the other guests, she stuck her nose in the air, ostentatiously enough for Lurcanio to notice. “Is something troubling you, my sweet?” he asked, concern mostly masking the faint scorn in his voice.
“Something? Aye, something.” Krasta struggled to put what she felt into words. Except when inspired by spite, she wasn’t usually very articulate. What she came up with now was a horrified four-word outburst: “Who are these people?”
“Friends of Algarve, of course,” Lurcanio said.
“Powers above help you, in that case.” As soon as she spoke, Krasta realized she might have gone too far. She cared—Lurcanio, when annoyed, made life unpleasant for her—but only to a point. The trouble was, she’d spoken altogether too much truth.
Most gatherings since the redheads overran Valmiera featured mixed crowds. Krasta had grown to accept that. Some nobles, like her, made the best of things; others chose not to appear with the occupiers. Not all the female companions the Algarvians found for themselves were noblewomen, or even ladies. And a lot of the Valmieran men who worked hand in glove with Algarve conspicuously lacked noble blood.
But tonight’s crowd … Except for Lurcanio—possibly except for Lurcanio, Krasta thought with a sweet dash of spite—the Algarvian officers were boors, busy getting drunk as fast as they could. The women with them were sluts; half of them were making plays for men of higher rank than the ones who’d brought them.
One of them, in too much powder and paint and not enough clothes, sidled up to Lurcanio, who didn’t bother pretending he didn’t notice her. “Go away,” Krasta hissed at her. “You’ll give him a disease.”
“He already has one,” the tart retorted. “You’re here.”
“What’s your name?” Krasta asked sweetly. “Do you dare tell it? If they look in the constabulary records, how many solicitation charges will they find?”
She hadn’t meant to be anything but bitchy, but the other woman, instead of going on with the row, turned pale under her thick makeup and found something else to do in a hurry.
“I have better taste than that, I assure you,” Lurcanio said.
“Maybe you do.” Krasta’s eyes left her Algarvian lover’s face and slid down to the front of his kilt. “I’m not so sure about him.” Lurcanio threw back his head and laughed, for all the world as if she were joking.
She didn’t enjoy her little triumph long. It oozed away as she went back to contemplating the company she was keeping. The Algarvian officers were bad. The Valmieran women were worse. But the Valmieran men were worst of all.
Even the handful of nobles depressed her. Backwoods counts and viscounts, they’d never shown their faces in Priekule before the Algarvians came—and there were good reasons why they hadn’t. Krasta knew a couple of them by reputation. The Valmieran nobility was and always had been reactionary. Krasta despised commoners and was proud of it. But, even by her standards, that count over there—the one who belted his trousers with a short, nasty whip—went too far.
She had little use for the commoners in the crowd, either. Some people came from families that had been prominent for generations, even if they weren’t noble. You could rely on folk like that. The ones here at the cheese merchant’s … Krasta hadn’t heard of any of them before the Algarvians took Priekule, and wished she hadn’t heard of most of them since.
“We shall prevail,” one of them told another not far away.
“Oh, aye, of course we shall,” the other man answered. “We’ll grind Swemmel into the dust. Plenty of time after that to settle with treacherous Lagoas.”
Both men wore kilts and tunics not merely Algarvian in style but modeled after those of Algarvian soldiers. They’d grown side whiskers and little strips of chin beard, too; one of them waxed his mustaches so that they stuck out like horns. But for being blond and speaking Valmieran, they might have been born in Mezentio’s kingdom.
Krasta nudged Lurcanio and pointed to the two men. “Buy them some hair dye and you could have a couple of new Algarvians to throw into the fighting against Unkerlant.”
He surprised her by taking her seriously. “We’ve thought about that. But in Forthweg and in Algarve, hair dye has caused us more problems than it’s solved, so we probably won’t.”
“What kind of trouble?” Krasta asked.
“People masquerading as things they aren’t,” the Algarvian colonel said. “We’ve pretty much put a stop to that by now—and about time, too, if you ask me.”
“People masquerading,” Krasta echoed. “The folk here are masquerading as things they aren’t—as important people, I mean.”
“Oh, but they are important,” Lurcanio said. “They are very important indeed. Without them, how could we run Valmiera?”
“With your own men, of course,” Krasta answered. “If you don’t run Valmiera with your own men, why have you taken half my mansion?”
“Do you know what the Algarvians in your mansion do?” Lurcanio asked. “Have you any idea?”
Krasta didn’t like his sardonic tone. She returned it, with venomous interest: “You mean, besides seducing the serving women? They run Priekule for your king.” Spoken baldly like that, it seemed less shameful that Algarve should run a city that had never been hers.
Lurcanio clicked
his heels and bowed. “You are correct. We run Priekule. And do you know how we run Priekule? Nine times out of ten, we go to some Valmieran and say, ‘Do thus and so.’ And he will bow and say, ‘Aye, your Excellency.’ And lo and behold, thus and so will be done. We have not the men to do all the thus and sos ourselves. We never did. With the war in the west drawing so many thither, having so many Algarvians here grows more impossible by the day. And so, as I say, we rule this kingdom and your countrymen run it for us.”
Valmieran constables. Valmieran caravan conductors. Valmieran tax collectors. Even, Krasta supposed, Valmieran mages. And every one of them in the service, not of poor drunken King Gainibu, but of redheaded King Mezentio and the Algarvian occupiers.
She shuddered. Before she thought—nothing new for her—she said, “It reminds me of sheep leading other sheep to the slaughter.”
Lurcanio started to reply, then checked himself. “There are times when I do believe that, given education and application, you could be formidable.” He bowed to Krasta, who wasn’t sure whether that constituted praise or dismissal. When she didn’t say anything, he went on, “As for your metaphor, well, what do you think a bell wether is sometimes called upon to do? And what do you think happens to a ram when he is made into a wether?”
“I don’t know,” Krasta said, irritable again. “All I know is, you’re confusing me.”
“Am I?” Lurcanio’s smile turned smug again. “Well, this isn’t the first time, and I doubt it will be the last.”
Krasta found one question more—one question too many, probably: “What will happen to all these people if Algarve loses the war?”
The smug smile slipped. “You may rest assured, my poppet, that will not happen. Life is not so easy as we wished it would be, but it is not so hard as our enemies wish it were, either. We struck Kuusamo a heavy blow not long ago—struck it from here in Valmiera, in fact.” Lurcanio seemed on the point of saying more, but turned the subject instead: “But I will answer you, in a hypothetical sense. What would happen to them? Not what will, mind you, but what would? It should be obvious even to you: whatever the victors wanted.”
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