Through the Darkness

by Harry Turtledove

  And now he had, or he might have. And he’d eaten it with enjoyment, too. He gulped. Then he wasn’t gulping any more. He was running for the edge of the clearing the squad had taken from the Unkerlanters. He fell to his knees, leaned forward, and stuck a finger down his throat. Up came the stew, all of it, in a great spasm of sickness that left him dizzy and weak.

  Kun knelt beside him, puking his guts up, too. Benczur spewed a few feet away. Everyone in the squad vomited up the tasty but forbidden flesh.

  But that wasn’t enough. Tears in his eyes, the inside of his nose burning and full of the sour stink of vomit—the same nasty sourness that filled his mouth—Istvan knew it wasn’t enough. He got to his feet and staggered toward Captain Tivadar. “Make me pure again, sir,” he croaked—his throat burned, too.

  “And me.” Again, Kun was right behind him. “Make me clean again. I polluted myself, and I stand filthy below the stars.” The rest of the troopers echoed them.

  Tivadar’s face was grave. He would have been within his rights to turn his back and walk away. He could have left the squad outcast, to wander the trackless wood without any further aid till the Unkerlanters or their own righteous countrymen slew them. But he didn’t. Slowly, he said, “You did not kill the goat yourselves, nor did you knowingly eat of it.”

  Istvan and his comrades nodded with pathetic eagerness. All that was true. It might not be enough, but it was true. “Make me pure again, sir,” he whispered. “Please make me pure.” Szonyi and the other sentry came out of the woods, begging as he and the rest of the squad were begging.

  Captain Tivadar drew his knife again. “Give me your hand,” he told Istvan. “Your left—it will hinder you less.” Istvan did. Tivadar gashed his palm. Istvan stood silent and unflinching, welcoming the bright pain. Only when Tivadar said, “Bind it up now,” did he move. Had Tivadar ordered him to let the wound bleed, he would have done that, too.

  One by one, Tivadar purified the rest of the soldiers. None of them jerked or cried out. As he bandaged himself, Istvan knew he would wear the scar the rest of his days. He didn’t care. He might lose the worse scar on his soul. That mattered far, far more.

  Marquis Balastro made himself comfortable on the cushions that did duty for furniture in Hajjaj’s office. “Well, your Excellency,” said the Algarvian minister to Zuwayza, “aren’t you proud of yourself for taking in a pack of ragged Kaunians?”

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” Hajjaj answered coldly. “I thought it was quite clear that my king’s views on the subject of these refugees are very different from those of your sovereign.”

  “Clear?” Balastro nodded. “Oh, aye, that it is. But it is still not palatable to King Mezentio, who has ordered me to make that clear to you as well.”

  Hajjaj’s courtesy grew even more frigid. “I thank you,” he said, inclining his head. “Now that you have delivered your sovereign’s message, I assume you have no further business here. Perhaps I will see you again on a happier occasion. Until then, good day.”

  Balastro grimaced. “By the powers above, sir, I’ve known dentists who used me more gently than you do.”

  “Do you speak for yourself now, or as Mezentio’s man?” Hajjaj inquired.

  “For myself,” Balastro replied.

  “If I’m speaking to Balastro, then, and not to Mezentio’s minister—who could, after all, be anyone—I’ll say that your dentist figure is an apt one, because dealing with Mezentio’s minister is like pulling teeth.”

  “Well, if you think dealing with the Zuwayzi foreign minister is easy for King Mezentio’s minister—who could, as you say, be anyone—you’d better think again, your Excellency,” Balastro said. “I believed our kingdoms were supposed to be allies.”

  “Cobelligerents,” Hajjaj said, admiring the precision of the Algarvian language; the distinction would have been harder to draw in Zuwayzi. “We have had this particular discussion before.”

  Balastro’s sigh seemed to start at his sandals. “We’ve been friends a long time, you and I. Our side is winning this cursed war. Why are we quarreling more than we ever did when times were harder for us?”

  “We’ve had that discussion before, too,” Hajjaj replied. “The answer is, because some of the things Algarve has done make my blood run cold. I don’t know how to put it any more plainly than that.”

  “We will do whatever we have to do to win,” Balastro said. “We’ll have Sulingen soon, and all the cinnabar in the hills behind it. Let’s see King Swemmel keep fighting us then.”

  “Didn’t I hear this same song sung about Cottbus something less than a year ago?” Hajjaj asked. “Algarvians sometimes boast about what they will do, not what they have done.”

  Balastro heaved himself to his feet. That meant Hajjaj had to rise, too, even if his joints creaked. Bowing, Balastro said, “You make it very plain I’ve come on a bootless errand. Perhaps we’ll do better another time.” He bowed again. “No need to escort me out. Believe me, I know the way.” Off he went, strutting as if Algarve’s armies had taken Cottbus and Sulingen and Glogau, too.

  Hajjaj’s secretary stuck his head into the office, an inquiring look on his face. “Go away,” the Zuwayzi foreign minister snarled. His secretary disappeared. Hajjaj scowled, angry at himself for letting his temper show.

  A few minutes later, the secretary came in again. “Your Excellency, one of General Ikhshid’s aides would speak with you, if you are available to him.”

  “Of course, Qutuz,” Hajjaj said. “Send him in. And I am sorry I snapped at you a moment ago.”

  Qutuz nodded and went out without a word. He returned a moment later, saying, “Your Excellency, here is Captain Ifranji.”

  Ifranji was an intelligent-looking officer whose medium-brown skin and prominent nose suggested he might have had an Unkerlanter or two down near the roots of his family tree. He carried a large envelope of coarse paper: carried it very carefully, as if it might bite him if he didn’t keep an eye on it. When Qutuz brought in tea and wine and cakes, the captain took two token sips and one token nibble and gazed expectantly at Hajjaj.

  With a smile, Hajjaj asked, “Is something on your mind, Captain?”

  “Aye, your Excellency, something is,” Ifranji answered, not smiling back. He tapped the envelope with his forefinger. “May I show you what I have here?”

  “Please do.” Hajjaj opened a desk drawer, pulled out his reading glasses, and held them up while raising a questioning eyebrow. Ifranji nodded. Hajjaj slipped the spectacles onto his nose.

  Ifranji opened the envelope and pulled out a folded, rather battered broadsheet. He passed it to Hajjaj, who opened it and read,

  FORMATION OF A LEGITIMATE GOVERNMENT OF ZUWAYZA. By agreement with a number of nobles of Zuwayza and with Zuwayzi soldiers who refuse to fight further for their corrupt regime, a new government of Zuwayza—the Reformed Principality of Zuwayza—has been formed at the town of Muzayriq under the rule of Prince Mustanjid. All Zuwayzin are urged to give their allegiance to the Reformed Principality, and to abandon the insane and costly war the brigands of Bishah have been waging against Unkerlant.

  “Well, well.” Hajjaj peered over the tops of his spectacles at Captain Ifranji. “I have been called a great many things in my time, but never before a brigand. I suppose I should be honored.”

  Ifranji’s mouth set in disapproving lines. “General Ikhshid takes a rather more serious view of this business, your Excellency.”

  “Well, when you get down to it, so do I,” the Zuwayzi foreign minister admitted. He read the broadsheet again. “There’s more subtlety here than I would have looked for from Swemmel. Up till now, he’s always said Zuwayza has no business existing as a kingdom at all. Now he seems to be content with turning us into puppets, with him pulling a tame prince’s strings.”

  “Even so,” Ifranji said, nodding. “General Ikhshid knows no noble by the name of Mustanjid, and has no notion from which clan he might come. He charged me to ask if you did.”

  Hajjaj thou
ght, then shook his head. “No, the name is not familiar to me, either. Ikhshid knows our clans as well as I do, I am sure.”

  “He said no one knew them so well as you, sir,” Ifranji replied.

  “He flatters me.” And Hajjaj was flattered, which didn’t mean he thought the praise false. He thought some more. “My guess is, the Unkerlanters found some merchant or captive and gave him a choice between losing his head and becoming a false prince. Or perhaps there is no Prince Mustanjid at all, only a name on the broadsheets to seduce our soldiers.”

  “The seduction is what concerns General Ikhshid,” Ifranji said. “His thought marched with yours: King Swemmel has not tried a ploy like this before.”

  “How much have we got to worry about?” Hajjaj asked. “Are our soldiers throwing down their sticks and going over to King Swemmel in droves?”

  “Your Excellency!” Indignant reproach filled Ifranji’s voice. “Of course not. The men carry on as they always have.”

  “In that case, Ikhshid hasn’t got much to worry about, has he?” Hajjaj said. His feeling was that Ikhshid didn’t have much to worry about as long as the war went well. If things went wrong, who could guess what might happen?

  Ifranji said, “Is there nothing we can do on the diplomatic front to weaken the force of these broadsheets?”

  “I don’t suppose King Swemmel will accept a formal protest,” Hajjaj said dryly, and General Ikhshid’s aide had to nod. Hajjaj went on, “Our men know what the Unkerlanters have done to us in years gone by. They know what the Unkerlanter invasion did to us a couple of years ago, too. That’s our best guarantee no one will want to have much to do with this Reformed Principality.”

  Now Captain Ifranji looked happier. “That is a good point, sir. I shall take your words back to the general.” He reached for the broadsheet. Hajjaj handed it to him, and he refolded it and put it back in its envelope. Then he got to his feet, which meant Hajjaj had to do the same. They exchanged bows; Hajjaj’s back clicked. Ifranji, young and straight, hurried away.

  With a sigh, Hajjaj sank back to the pillows behind his low desk. He sipped at the date wine left almost untouched during the ritual of hospitality. His face bore a scowl that drove Qutuz away when his secretary looked in after Ifranji left. Hajjaj didn’t know he seemed so grim. “Swemmel has no business trying anything new,” he muttered under his breath. Of itself, this ploy didn’t feel dangerous; if anything, it might even help incite the Zuwayzin against Unkerlanter domination. But, if Swemmel tried one new thing, who could say he wouldn’t try another one, one that might prove more effective?

  No doubt King Shazli would hear of the Reformed Principality of Zuwayza from General Ikhshid. Hajjaj inked a pen and set it to paper even so. He was sure the king would ask his opinion, and he would look good in his sovereign’s eyes if he gave it before it was asked.

  He’d almost finished when a horrible banging overhead made his hand jerk. Glaring at the ceiling, he scratched out the word he’d ruined. The banging went on and on. “Qutuz!” Hajjaj called irritably. “What is that hideous racket? Are the Unkerlanters dropping hammers on us instead of eggs?”

  “No, your Excellency,” his secretary answered. “The roofers are making repairs now against the winter rains.”

  “Are they?” Hajjaj knew he sounded astonished. “Truly his Majesty is a mighty king, to be able to get them out before urgent need. Most folk, as I know too well, have trouble persuading them to come forth even at direst need.” Doing his best to ignore bangings and clatterings, he wrote a sentence, then handed the paper to Qutuz. “Please take this to his Majesty’s secretary. Tell him the king should see it today.”

  “Aye, your Excellency.” As Ifranji had before him, Hajjaj’s secretary hurried away.

  The Zuwayzi foreign minister finished the goblet of date wine and poured himself another one. Normally a moderate man, Hajjaj felt like getting drunk. “Algarve or Unkerlant? Unkerlant or Algarve?” he murmured. “Powers above, what a horrible choice.” His allies were murderers. His enemies wanted to extinguish his kingdom—and were murderers themselves.

  He wished the Zuwayzin could have dug a canal across the base of their desert peninsula, hoisted sail, and floated away from the continent of Derlavai and all its troubles. If that meant taking along some Kaunian refugees, he was willing to give them a ride.

  Had he been able to float away, though, Derlavai would probably have come sailing after him and his kingdom. That was how the world worked these days.

  “Reformed Principality of Zuwayza.” Hajjaj tasted the words, then shook his head. No, that didn’t have the right ring to it. King Swemmel hadn’t figured out how to interest the Zuwayzin in betraying their own government—not yet, anyhow. But could he, if he kept trying? Hajjaj wasn’t sure. That he wasn’t sure worried him more than anything else about the whole business.

  Even though Bembo couldn’t read all of the message painted in broad strokes of whitewash on the brick wall, he glowered at it. He could tell it contained the word Algarvians. No whitewashed message containing that word in Gromheort was likely to hold a compliment.

  Bembo grabbed the first Forthwegian he saw and demanded, “What does that say?” When the swarthy, bearded man shrugged and spread his hands to show he didn’t understand the question, the constable did his best to turn it into classical Kaunian.

  “Ah.” Intelligence lit the Forthwegian’s face. “I can tell you that.” He spoke Kaunian better than Bembo did. Almost anyone who spoke Kaunian spoke it better than Bembo did.

  “Going on,” Bembo urged.

  “It says”—the Forthwegian spoke with obvious relish—“Algarvian pimps should go back where they came from.” He spread his hands again, this time in a show of innocence. “I did not write it. I only translated. You asked.”

  Bembo gave him a shove that almost made him fall in the gutter. To the constable’s disappointment, it didn’t quite. He made as if to grab the bludgeon he carried. “Getting lost,” he growled, and the Forthwegian disappeared. “Pimp,” Bembo muttered in Kaunian. He switched to Algarvian: “Takes one to know one.”

  Before walking on, he spat at the graffito. Some Forthwegian or other thought himself a hero for sneaking around with a paint brush in the middle of the night. Bembo thought the Forthwegian, whoever he was, nothing but a cursed nuisance.

  Half a dozen Forthwegians in identical tunics came up the street toward him. After a moment, he realized they belonged to Plegmund’s Brigade. He eyed them warily, much as he would have eyed so many mean dogs running around outside a farm. They were useful creatures, no doubt about it, but liable to be dangerous, too. And, by the way they looked at him, they were thinking about being dangerous right now.

  He’d moved out of their way before he quite realized what he was doing. They realized it fast enough; a couple of them laughed as they tramped past. His ears burned. Forthwegians weren’t supposed to intimidate Algarvians—it was supposed to be the other way round.

  “Bugger ’em,” Bembo said under his breath. “They don’t pay me enough to be a hero.” He laughed a nasty laugh. They doubtless didn’t pay those young toughs in Plegmund’s Brigade enough to be heroes, either. All he had to do was pound the pavement here in Gromheort. The Forthwegians would get shipped off to the west to fight King Swemmel’s troopers. They might not make heroes, but a lot of them would end up dead.

  Serve ’em right, too, Bembo thought. Let ’em laugh now. They’ll be laughing out of the other side of their mouths soon enough.

  Once he’d got round the corner from the men of Plegmund’s Brigade, he started swaggering once more. Why not? No one who’d seen him embarrass himself was around now. As far as he was concerned, what had happened back there might as well have belonged to the days of the Kaunian Empire.

  No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he saw a Kaunian on the street. He reached for his bludgeon. A Forthwegian woman who saw him and the blond called out in Algarvian: “Make him wish the powers below had hold of him ins
tead of you!”

  “Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Bembo answered, even though the woman was ten years older than he was, shapeless, and homely to boot. She got even homelier when she smiled, which she did now. Bembo didn’t have to look at her for long, though. He swung his attention—and his anger—toward the Kaunian. “You there! Aye, you, you miserable son of a whore! Who let you out of your kennel?”

  The Forthwegian woman giggled and clapped her hands and hugged herself with glee. She stared avidly. If anything dreadful happened to the Kaunian, she wanted to watch. The blond turned out to speak Algarvian. Bowing to Bembo, he said, “I am sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry doesn’t cut it.” Bembo advanced on him, club upraised. The Forthwegian woman clapped her hands again. “Sorry doesn’t begin to cut it,” the constable growled. “I already asked you once, what are you doing running around loose? This isn’t your part of Gromheort, and you’ll pay for poking your nose out of the part that is.”

  “Do what you want to me.” The Kaunian bowed again. This time, he kept on looking down at the cobbles. “My daughter is sick. None of the Kaunian apothecaries has the drug she needs. And so”—he shrugged—“I went outside to find it. If you had a daughter, sir, would you not do the same?”

  Since he’d got out of the Kaunian district, odds were he’d already bribed one Algarvian constable. Bembo was as sure of that as he was of his own name. “Have you got any money left?” he demanded.

  “Aye, some,” the blond answered, and the Forthwegian woman let out an angry, thwarted screech. The Kaunian went on, “If it is all the same to you, though, I think I would sooner take a beating. I will need the money for more medicine, and for food.”

  Bembo stared at him. Either the blond was serious, or else he’d just come up with the most outlandish scheme to escape a beating Bembo had ever heard of. He didn’t know whether to admire the fellow’s nerve or to beat him to within an inch of his life to teach him not to try that sort of nonsense again. The Forthwegian woman had no doubts. “Wallop him!” she shouted at the top of her lungs. “He deserves it. He said so himself. Wallop him!”