“Sometimes the stars shine on us,” Frigyes said. He was a big man, burly even by Gyongyosian standards, with a scar on his right cheek. “We have troubles out in the islands, the Unkerlanters have troubles off in the east. Put it all together and they don’t want to be fighting here and neither do we.”
Captain Tivadar might have said the same thing. Istvan missed his longtime superior, but Frigyes looked to be a solid officer—and he knew nothing of why Istvan and several of his squadmates bore scars on their left hands. Istvan looked around. All of his troopers were busy with other things. He could bring out a question perhaps improper for a man of a warrior race: “Why don’t we go ahead and make peace, then?”
“Because we would betray our Algarvian allies if we did, and they’ve struck some heavy blows at the accursed Kuusamans,” Frigyes answered. “Also, because King Swemmel hasn’t shown any interest in making peace, may the stars withhold their light from him.”
Anyone would reckon Swemmel the warrior, Istvan thought uncomfortably. But he’s just a madman. Everybody knows that. Even his own soldiers know it. But why do they fight so hard for a madman?
“Enjoy this while it lasts,” Frigyes told him. “It won’t last forever. Sooner or later, the Algarvians will strike their blow, as they do every spring. Then, odds are, they’ll drive the Unkerlanters back again, and then the Unkerlanters will hit us again here.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” Istvan frowned. “I don’t follow that.”
“How likely is Swemmel to get summer victories against Algarve?” Frigyes asked. “Not very, not if you look at what’s happened the past two years. So if the Unkerlanters want wins to keep their own people happy, they’ll try to get them against us.”
“Oh.” That made an unpleasant amount of sense. It was also an insult of sorts. “We’re easier than the Algarvians, are we? We shouldn’t be easier than anyone.”
“We’re easier than the Algarvians, aye.” Frigyes didn’t seem insulted. “They can bring their whole apparatus of war with them. We can’t. All we’ve got here in these woods are some of the best footsoldiers in the world.” He slapped Istvan on the back, climbed out of the redoubt, and went on his way.”
Istvan turned to his squad. “The captain says Gyongyos has some of the best footsoldiers in the world. He hasn’t seen you lazy buggers in action yet, that’s what I think.”
“There hasn’t been any action for a while,” Szonyi said, which was also true.
“Do you really want much?” Kun asked. Even if he did wear spectacles, he could ask a question like that: he’d seen as much desperate fighting as any man in the woods, Istvan possibly excepted.
Had one of the newer men put the question, Szonyi would have felt compelled to puff out his chest and act manly. As things were, he shrugged and answered, “It’ll probably come whether I want it or not, so what’s the point of worrying?”
A red squirrel was rash enough to show its head around the trunk of a birch. Istvan’s stick, ready for Unkerlanters, was ready for a squirrel, too. It fell into the bushes under the trees. “Nice blazing, Sergeant,” Lajos said. “Something good for the pot.”
Kun sighed. “By the time you skin it and gut it, there’s hardly enough meat on a squirrel to be worth bothering about.”
“That’s not why you’re complaining,” Istvan said as he left the redoubt to collect the squirrel. “I know why you’re complaining. You’re a born city man, and you never had to worry about eating things like squirrels before they sucked you into the army.” In the bushes, the squirrel was still feebly thrashing. Istvan found a rock and smashed its head a couple of times. Then he carried it back by the tail, pausing once or twice to brush away fleas. He hoped he got them all. If he didn’t, he’d do some extra scratching.
“Doesn’t seem natural, eating something like that,” Kun said as Istvan’s knife slit the squirrel’s belly.
“What’s not natural is going hungry when there’s good food around,” Istvan said. His squadmates spoke up in loud agreement. They came off farms or out of little villages. Gyongyos was a kingdom of smallholdings. Towns were market centers, administrative points. They weren’t the heart of the land, as he’d heard they were elsewhere on Derlavai. And stewed squirrel, no matter what Kun thought of it, was tasty.
Kun didn’t complain when it was ladled out to him. By then, it had got mixed up with everything else in the pot, mixed to where you couldn’t point at any one chunk of meat and say, This is squirrel. Off to the south, somebody started lobbing eggs at somebody else. Istvan had no idea whether it was the Unkerlanters or his own countrymen. Whoever it was, he hoped they’d stop it.
Captain Frigyes came back the next day with a mage in tow. That made Kun perk up; it always did. “Men,” the new company commander said, “this is Major Borsos. He’s going to be—”
“Well, by the stars, so it is!” Istvan exclaimed. “No offense, sir, but I figured you’d be dead by now.” He saw blank expressions all around him, including the one on Borsos’ face. He explained: “Sir, I fetched and carried for you on Obuda, when you were dousing out where the Kuusaman ships were.”
“Oh.” Major Borsos’ face cleared. He was a major by courtesy, so ordinary troopers would fetch and carry for him. He’d been a captain by courtesy out on the island in the Bothnian Ocean, so he’d come up a bit in the world. Istvan had been a common soldier then, so he had, too. “Good to see you again,” Borsos said, a beat slower than he might have.
Istvan suspected the mage didn’t really remember him. He shrugged. Borsos had seen a lot since then, as he had himself. And Kun looked as green with envy as the tarnished bronze dowsing rods Borsos had used on Obuda. Istvan smiled. That was worth something.
Frigyes said, “I didn’t expect it to be old home week here. But Major Borsos is going to do what he can to spy out the Unkerlanters.”
“Ah,” Istvan said. “How will your dowsing sort through all the moving beasts and especially the moving leaves to find the moving Unkerlanters, eh, Major?”
Borsos beamed. “Aye, by the stars, you did assist me, Sergeant, or some dowser, anyhow, and he listened when he ran on at the mouth.” Kun was standing behind his back, and behind Frigyes’, and looked to be on the point of retching. Istvan wanted to make a face back at him, but couldn’t. Borsos went on, “The answer is, just as I have a dowsing rod attuned to the sea, so I’ve also got one attuned to soldiers. It hardly cares about leaves, and it isn’t much interested in beasts, either, though mountain apes might confuse it. Here, I’ll show you.” He set down the leather satchel he was carrying. It clanked. He opened it and went through the rods, finally grunting when he found the one he wanted. “Doesn’t look like much, does it?”
“No, sir,” Istvan answered. The dowsing rod wasn’t of fresh, shiny bronze, or of the green, patinaed sort, either. It looked like a thin length of rusty iron—if those stains on it were rust. Kun was about to speak. Again, Istvan beat him to the punch, pointing and asking, “Unkerlanter blood?”
Borsos beamed again. Frigyes said, “My, what a clever chap you turn out to be.” Kun looked about ready to burst like an egg from rage and jealousy. That made Istvan happier than either officer’s reaction. He had to live with Kun all the time.
“Even so, Sergeant. Even so,” Borsos answered, beaming still. “By the law of similarity, when I dowse with this rod, I’ll sense motion from Unkerlanters, and very little from any other source.” He waved the rod as if it were a sword, then thwacked it into the palm of his hand. “It’s not perfect—dowsing isn’t—but it’s pretty good.”
“Go ahead, Major,” Captain Frigyes said. He wouldn’t have talked like that to a real soldier of rank higher than his own. “Let’s see what’s going on out there.”
Major Borsos didn’t take offense. He’d probably had officers—real officers, men of noble blood—treat him a good deal worse. He said, “Aye, Captain, just as you please.” Holding the handle of the dowsing rod in both hands, he swung it to the east, murmuring as he
did so. He hadn’t gone far before it dipped sharply. “Something in that direction—not far away, unless I miss my guess.”
“Oh, that’s where their scouts always hide, sir,” Szonyi said. “Nothing much to worry about unless you feel a whole lot of the buggers.”
“No,” Borsos said, looking down at his hands as if asking them to speak more clearly. After some thought, he nodded. “No, it doesn’t feel like a lot of men. One, not far away—that could well be so.”
Kun worked his little magic and said, “He’s not moving toward us.”
“No?” Borsos said. “What charm were you using there, soldier?” He shrugged. “Whatever it is, it won’t matter to me. I never have been able to do much in the way of magecraft save for dowsing. The art is in the blood, or else it’s not. With me, it’s not, unless I have a dowsing rod in my hand.”
“It’s very easy, sir,” Kun said, and ran through it.
Borsos tried the charm, then shrugged again. “I can’t tell if anyone is moving or not. You have your gift; I have mine. And now, I had better finish doing what I can do.” He started working the dowsing rod again.
Kun looked proud that he could do something the dowser couldn’t. He didn’t bother remembering that Borsos could do something he couldn’t—something a great deal larger. People, Istvan had noticed, were often like that.
After sweeping through the entire half-circle, Borsos turned to Frigyes and said, “I see no vast hordes of Unkerlanters set to sweep down on this redoubt. Of course, if they’re more than a mile or so away, I probably won’t see them. That’s the range I can get out of this rod.” With a shrug, he put it back into his valise.
“Thanks, Major,” Captain Frigyes said. “I didn’t really expect an attack, but it’s nice to know we haven’t got one building … here.” He corrected himself before Borsos could do it for him.
“Sir, you could sense Kuusaman ships out beyond the horizon,” Istvan said. “Why can’t you see that far with your Unkerlanter rod?”
“Mainly because a big moving warship creates a lot more disturbance than even a whole lot of moving men,” the dowser answered. “Men aren’t all moving in just the same direction. Some of them might even move away on purpose to confuse people like me. This is a funny business I’m in, no two ways about it.”
Istvan started to say that he’d trade in a flash, but checked himself. Borsos’ job brought him up to the front lines, too, and he was no great shakes at fighting back. Each sheep has its own pasture, Istvan thought. He looked up and laughed a little. His pasture came with altogether too many trees.
When Hajjaj walked into General Ikhshid’s office, the portly officer started to get to his feet so he could bow. “Don’t bother, General, I pray you—don’t bother,” Hajjaj said. “I am willing—indeed, I am eager—to take the thought for the act.”
“You’re kind, your Excellency, very kind,” Ikhshid wheezed. “Since you say I may, I’m more than content to stay down here on my arse, believe me I am.”
“Are you well, General?” the Zuwayzi foreign minister asked in some anxiety—if Ikhshid went down, he didn’t know who could replace him. As a soldier, Ikhshid was better than competent, but no more than that. But he had the respect of every clanfather in Zuwayza. Hajjaj couldn’t think of any other officer who did.
With another wheeze, the general answered, “I’ll last as long as I can—and a little longer than that, with any luck at all. But I didn’t ask you to drag your own set of old bones over here for that. I wanted you to take a look at the map and tell me what you see.” He gestured toward the map of Derlavai that took up most of one office wall.
“No tea and wine and cakes?” Hajjaj asked mildly.
“If you want to waste time on frivolities, I’ll send for’em,” Ikhshid answered. “Otherwise, I’d sooner talk about what’s what.”
“From your charm, anyone could guess you’d served in the Unkerlanter army,” Hajjaj murmured. That squeezed a breathy snort out of Ikhshid. Hajjaj said, “I suppose we can dispense with ritual.” He studied the map. “I am pleased to note the advances our bold Zuwayzi forces have made here in the north.”
Ikhshid snorted again, this time in derision. “Cut to the chase, your Excellency. By the powers above, cut to the chase. You see that big ugly bulge down around Durrwangen the same as I do. There can’t be a soldier on Derlavai—or on the island, either—who looks at the map and doesn’t see that bulge.”
“Not just soldiers,” Hajjaj said. “Some weeks ago, Marquis Balastro assured me the Algarvians would cut it off as soon as the ground dried.” He shook his head. “What a strange notion—ground getting too wet for armies to move across it, I mean.”
“I’ve seen it myself, matter of fact,” Ikhshid said. “It’d be like trying to fight in a tin of cake batter. That’s what the muddy season’s all about down there. But never mind that. The ground’s been dry enough to hold armies for a while now, and the Algarvians still haven’t moved. How come?”
“You would do better to ask Marquis Balastro or his military attaché,” Hajjaj replied. “I fear I cannot tell you.”
“I suppose not. But I can tell you, and I’m not an Algarvian,” Ikhshid said. “The thing of it is, you think Marshal Rathar doesn’t know what’s coming next? They might have come close to a surprise if they’d moved as soon as ever they could, but now?” He shook his head. “Now it’s a slugging match.”
“Ah.” Hajjaj studied the map. “If they strike there, they won’t have much of an advantage of maneuver, will they?”
Ikhshid beamed so widely, his face showed a net of wrinkles that didn’t usually appear. “Your Excellency, when I fall over dead, they can paint stars on your arm and you can take over for me.”
“May you live to a hundred and twenty years, then,” Hajjaj exclaimed. “The only thing I want to do less than command a few soldiers in the field is command a lot of soldiers in the field. And that is nothing but the truth.”
“As may be,” Ikhshid said. “But you can see it, too. If Rather can’t, he’s dumber than I know he is.”
“Why are Mezentio’s men waiting, then?” Hajjaj asked.
“Only reason I can think of is to get everyone and everything into the fight,” Ikhshid answered. “Moving soldiers from every other part of the line, pulling animals off the breeding farms young and half trained … They’ve hit Unkerlant as hard as they could two summers in a row, and King Swemmel wouldn’t fall over. If they hit him again, they’ll try to hold a rock in their fist.”
“But finding the rock takes time,” Hajjaj said.
Ikhshid nodded. “We’ll know more about how things look once they finally get around to fighting the battle.”
“When Marquis Balastro speaks of this, he’ll guarantee Algarvian victory,” Hajjaj predicted.
“Of course he will. That’s his job,” Hajjaj said. “Your job, though, your job is to keep King Shazli from listening to a pack of lies.”
Hajjaj bowed where he sat. “I have seldom met a Zuwayzi with such a delicate understanding of what I do and what I’m supposed to do.”
“Delicate, my arse,” Ikhshid said. “If my men tell me they’ve seen thus and so in the Unkerlanter lines and it turns out not to be thus and so at all, I look like a fool and some good men end up dead. If you tell King Shazli what isn’t so, you can kill more Zuwayzin than I’d ever dream of doing.”
“That, unfortunately, is true.” Hajjaj got to his feet. He knees and back and ankles creaked. “Seriously, Ikhshid, I hope you stay well. The kingdom needs you—and I would enjoy harassing a new commander, a serious commander, much less than I like bothering you.”
“Well, you’re a wizened old thornbush, but Zuwayza’s got used to having you around,” Ikhshid said. Once more, he didn’t get up. He sat on his hams, his eyes turned to the map.
“Your Excellency,” Qutuz said when Hajjaj returned to his own office, “the Algarvian minister would confer with you.”
“Why am I not surprised?” Hajj
aj murmured, and then, “I will see him.”
“He says he will be here in half an hour,” Qutuz said.
“Time enough for me to get dressed.” Hajjaj let out a heartfelt sigh. “With the weather warmer than it was, I’m starting to feel that I’m martyring myself for the sake of diplomacy again.”
“What if he comes naked?” Qutuz asked. “What if he comes showing off his circumcision?” He sounded as queasy talking about that as a prim and proper Sibian would have sounded while taking about going naked.
“I don’t expect it,” the Zuwayzi foreign minister replied. “He’s only done it a couple of times, and then as much to startle us, I think, as to conform to our customs. If he does … if he does, I’ll get out of my own clothes again, and I’ll spend the time he’s in my office not looking between his legs.” The idea of mutilating oneself, and especially of mutilating oneself there, left him queasy, too. He went on, “Make sure you fetch in the tray of tea and wine and cakes. With Balastro, I may want to spin things out as long as I can.”
His secretary bowed. “Everything shall be just as you say, your Excellency.”
“I doubt it,” Hajjaj answered bleakly. “Not even a first-rank mage can make that claim. But we do what we can, so we do.”
He’d started quietly baking in his Algarvian-style clothes when Marquis Balastro came strutting into his office. The Algarvian minister, to Hajjaj’s relief, was himself clothed. After the handshake and bows and protestations of esteem—some of which approached sincerity—Hajjaj said, “You look extraordinarily dapper today, your Excellency.”
Balastro chortled. “How in blazes would you know?”
Hajjaj shrugged. “So much for diplomacy. Take a seat, if you’d be so kind. Qutuz will be here with tea and wine and cakes in a moment.”
“Will he?” The Algarvian minister sent him a sour look. “Which means there are things about which you don’t care to talk to me. Why am I not surprised?” But even as Balastro grumbled, he made a nest for himself in the pillows that took the place of chairs in Hajjaj’s office. “Tell me, my friend, since you can’t very well say a bare-naked man is looking dapper, what do you say for polite chitchat along those lines? ‘Hello, old fellow. Your wen’s no bigger than it was the last time I saw you’?”
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