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Balastro gave back a seated bow. “I rejoice at pleasing you, your Excellency,” he replied. “I do my best to ‘treat my friend as if he might become an enemy,’ and I hope that precludes inflicting boredom.”
When he quoted the proverb, he did so in the original classical Kaunian. Hajjaj sipped at his cup of wine to keep from showing what he thought of that. Balastro was, and was proud to be, a man of culture. But he was also a man of Algarve, a man whose kingdom was tormenting the Kaunians who had shaped so much of the culture he displayed. Somehow, Balastro and his countrymen saw no contradiction there. Algarvians always wanted everything at once.
While partaking of tea and cakes and wine, Hajjaj could not say anything so serious without, by his own lights, becoming a boor. That he would not do. Presently, Qutuz took the tray away. Balastro smiled and said, “Well, shall we get on with it?”
“I am at your service, my lord Marquis,” Hajjaj replied. “As you must know, I am always pleased to see you, and I am always curious to learn what is in your mind.”
“Even when you don’t like it,” Balastro said, without much malice.
Hajjaj gravely inclined his head. “Just so, your Excellency. Even when I don’t care for what you say, how you say it never fails to fascinate me.” The Kaunian proverb crossed his mind again.
He won a chuckle from Balastro, but the Algarvian minister quickly sobered. “I can only speak simply here, for my message is of the plainest--Algarve needs your help.”
“My help?” The Zuwayzi foreign minister raised an eyebrow. “Truly your kingdom is in desperate straits if you expect a skinny old man to shoulder a stick for you.
“Heh,” Balastro said. “I thought we were coming to grips with things. I mean Zuwayza’s help, of course.”
“Very well, though my reply changes little,” Hajjaj said. “Your realm is also in difficulties if you expect a skinny young kingdom to shoulder many sticks for you.”
“Of course we are in difficulties,” Balastro said--he could, sometimes, be refreshingly frank. “If we weren’t, we would have taken Cottbus before winter froze us in our tracks.”
He could, sometimes, also be disingenuous. “Winter did rather more than freeze you in your tracks,” Hajjaj pointed out.
“Well, so it did,” Balastro said. “We had misfortunes; I can hardly deny it. But we have the Unkerlanters checked now, all along the line. And this year . . . this year, by the powers above, we’ll beat them once for all.” He sat up very straight, as if making his bearing serve as proof for his claims.
From what the Zuwayzi generals said to Hajjaj, and from what he could gather for himself, Balastro was telling the truth about what had happened: the Unkerlanters were no longer advancing against Mezentio’s men. How much the spring thaw had to do with that, Hajjaj wasn’t sure. He suspected no one else was, either. As for the future . . . “You said last summer that you would beat Unkerlant then. Since you were wrong once, why should I not think you’re wrong twice?”
“Because of everything we did to Unkerlant last year,” Balastro answered--he had answers for everything, as most Algarvians did. “If you hit a man once, he may not fall right away. But if you hit him again and keep hitting him one blow after another, he will go down.”
Unkerlant had hit Algarve one blow after another, too. Who would fall, as far as Hajjaj could see, remained anyone’s guess. But Balastro would doubtless have some compelling explanations as to why it wouldn’t be Algarve. Mentally stipulating as much, Hajjaj asked what he judged the more important question: “What sort of help do you need from us?”
“Our main effort this year will fall in the south,” Balastro replied. “We aim to finish taking away Unkerlant’s breadbasket; to lay our hands on the herds of horses and unicorns and behemoths she raises there and to seize the cinnabar mines in the far southwest. With all that gone, King Swemmel can hardly hope to keep standing.”
He was, Hajjaj judged, likely to be right; if Algarve could seize so much, Unkerlant would fall. Whether King Mezentio’s men could do what they had in mind to do, though, was another question. Hajjaj said, “I will not ask my sovereign to send Zuwayzi warriors to the far south. He would say no, and I would agree with him. If you need more men than Algarve can provide, you have Yaninan allies there.”
“So we do, and we’ll use them.” Balastro’s expression said exactly what he thought of Algarve’s Yaninan allies, but Hajjaj already knew that. The Algarvian minister went on, “Nor would I ask King Shazli to send brave Zuwayzin to a land in which bare skin is hardly a fitting uniform, however well it may fit.” He laughed.
“What then?” Hajjaj asked, though by now he thought he knew. Balastro had glided down this ley line before.
Sure enough, the Algarvian marquis said, “King Mezentio would have you strike hard at the Unkerlanters here in the north, to tie down as many of their men as you can and to keep them from sending reinforcements to put in the line against us.”
“I understand why you say this,” Hajjaj answered slowly. “But I would remind you, your Excellency, that Zuwayza has already done everything in this war that she set out to do. We have taken back the line set up in the Treaty of Bludenz, and more land beyond it. That suffices. The clanfathers would not rejoice to hear that they needed to send their men into new battles.”
“Would they rejoice to hear that everything they’ve won might be lost again through dithering?” Balastro returned.
Hajjaj had to work to hold his face impassive. Balastro had unerringly found the best argument he could use. But Hajjaj said, “I think we understand the notion of ‘enough’ better than you Algarvians. Some of the things you’ve done in your fight against Unkerlant--” He broke off. He’d long since made his feelings about massacring Kaunians plain to Balastro.
The Algarvian minister quoted another proverb in the original Kaunian: “ ‘For a good cause, wrongdoing is virtuous.’ “
Hajjaj didn’t know whether to admire Balastro’s gall or to be horrified by it. After a moment’s struggle, horror won. “Your Excellency, considering what your kingdom is doing, how can you in good conscience let that language flow from your lips?”
“They would have done it to us if only they’d thought of it,” Balastro said. Hajjaj shook his head. The Kaunian kingdoms had had a good many Algarvians under their rule when the Derlavaian War began. They hadn’t slaughtered them. Maybe, as Balastro said, they hadn’t thought of it. Hajjaj s guess was that they never would have thought of such an appalling thing.
He poured himself another cup of wine and tossed it down. That showed more of what he thought than he was in the habit of doing, but he couldn’t help it. “We are your cobelligerents, your Excellency, not your servants,” he said at last.
Balastro said, “This will serve your own interest as well as Algarve’s. If we are beaten, will you be better for it?”
That would depend on how badly you hurt Unkerlant before Swemmel’s men took you down, Hajjaj thought. Saying as much aloud struck him as undiplomatic. What he did say was, “This is a proposition I can take to his Majesty. The final choice lies in his hands.”
“Oh, aye, likely tell,” Balastro said. “Anyone who’s neither blind nor deaf knows where Zuwayza comes by her dealings with other kingdoms.” He pointed straight at Hajjaj.
“You are mistaken,” said the foreign minister, who knew perfectly well Balastro wasn’t. “King Shazli is his own man. Mine is but the privilege of advising him.”
Balastro’s laugh was loud and long and merry. “I haven’t heard anything so funny since the story about the girl who trapped the eel, and I was only twelve years old then, so I doubt that one would hold up. Yours will.”
“You do me too much credit,” Hajjaj said.
“In a pig’s arse,” Balastro said cheerfully. “But all right: we’ll play it your way. Since you know King Shazli so well, what do you suppose he’s likely to say about what you’ll ask of him?”
“I think
he would be likely to ask the generals and the clanfathers for their views,” Hajjaj replied.
Balastro sighed. “I was hoping you--ah, that is, of course, King Shazli-- might make up ... his mind more quickly, but I suppose it can’t be helped. All right, your Excellency, I don’t suppose I can complain. But tell your generals and clanfathers not to take too long deciding, because this dragon is going to fly with you or without you . . . and Algarve will remember which.”
“I understand,” Hajjaj said. Unkerlant would not let Zuwayza out of the war; Algarve insisted Zuwayza go in deeper. Trapped, Hajjaj thought, not for the first time. Like all the rest of the world, we’re trapped.
Bembo and Oraste walked warily along the paths that meandered through the biggest park in Gromheort. The moon had set an hour before; they had nothing but starlight by which to see. No braver than he had to be, Bembo carried his stick in his hand, not on his belt. “Anything could be lurking in here,” the Algarvian constable complained. “Anything at all.”
“I’m not worried about anything” Oraste answered. “Anybody, now--that’s a different business.” His head kept turning now this way, now that.
So did Bembo’s. The bushes by the edges of the paths were shaggy and untrimmed; dead grass from the winter before remained tall enough for people to hide in it. “You’d think they’d do a better job of keeping this place up,” Bembo said.
Oraste laughed. “If they haven’t got the silver to repair most of their miserable buildings, what are the odds they’re going to cut the grass?”
That made an unpleasant amount of sense to Bembo. Even so, he said, “How are we supposed to catch anybody in this miserable place if they don’t?”
With a shrug, Oraste answered, “As if anybody cares whether we catch these worthless buggers, unless they bother Algarvians. But if the bad actors know we walk through the park, they won’t be so likely to roost in it.”
“Huzzah,” Bembo said petulantly, and then, as he heard a rustle from the dead grass, “What’s that?” Startlement made his voice go high and shrill.
“I don’t know.” Oraste, by contrast, sounded quiet and determined. He didn’t have a lot of brains, he had no imagination at all, but he was a terrific fellow to have at your back in a brawl. He stepped off the path and moved purposefully toward the sound. “But we’d better find out, eh?”
“Aye,” Bembo agreed in hollow tones. As much to keep up his own courage as for any other reason, he went on, “Any whoreson out to ambush us wouldn’t make so much noise, would he?”
“Here’s hoping,” Oraste answered, which did little to reassure Bembo. The other constable added, “Now shut up.”
However rude that was, it was good advice. Like Oraste, Bembo tried to step as lightly as he could, though he could hardly help making some noise while walking through thick, dry grass. The rustling ahead grew louder as the constables drew nearer. The breeze picked up. It made the grass rustle, too. With luck, it helped mask the sounds Bembo and Oraste were making.
Bembo sniffed. He was no bloodhound, but any constable would have recognized that smell. Fear ebbed. “Just some cursed drunkard who’s gone and puked himself,” he said.
“Aye.” Almost invisible in the darkness, Oraste nodded. “Ought to beat the son of a whore to within an inch of his life for the turn he gave us. Stinking old Forthwegian bum.”
After another couple of steps, Bembo smelled spilled wine as well as puke. He
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thought about putting away his stick and taking his bludgeon off his belt instead. Sergeant Pesaro wouldn’t mind if he and Oraste did work out their alarm on a noisy drunk. Pesaro would just regret not being here to share the fun. Bembo pointed. “There he is.”
“I see him,” Oraste said. “Miserable white-haired bugger--why didn’t he die twenty years ago?”
Along with Oraste, Bembo stood over the drunk. He sniffed again, then let out a theatrical sigh of relief. “Powers above be praised, at least he hasn’t gone and shit his trousers.” He had to listen to his own words to realize what he was seeing. “He’s not a white-haired old Forthwegian. He’s a blond!”
“Well, curse me if you aren’t right,” Oraste exclaimed. He laughed out loud, the most joyous sound Bembo had ever heard from him. “Now nobody’ll care at all if we kick him to death. Let’s do it.”
“I don’t know . . .” Bembo had no great appetite for mayhem. All he wanted to do was get out of the park, finish his beat, and go back to the barracks so he could climb onto his cot again. “Let’s just leave him here. He’s so far gone, he won’t even know we’re stomping him, and the head he’ll have in the morning’ll hurt worse than a boot in the ribs.”
“No,” Oraste growled. “He’s not where he’s supposed to be, is he? You bet your arse he’s not--all these Kaunians are supposed to be in their own district. And if we catch ‘em outside when they aren’t working, they’re fair game, right? He looks like he’s working hard, don’t he?” He laughed.
But the Kaunian, however unsanitary he was, wasn’t so far gone as Bembo had thought. As Oraste drew back his foot for the first kick, the blond opened his eyes and sat up. He spoke in Kaunian, a line of poetry Bembo recognized and understood because he’d had to memorize it: “ ‘The barbarians are at the gates.’ “
“Shut up, fool,” Oraste said, and did kick him. An instant later--Bembo didn’t see how--his partner was lying in the grass. With a curse, Oraste scrambled to his feet. He hauled off and kicked the Kaunian again. Again, he went sprawling, too, this time with a howl of pain.
The Kaunian, who was having trouble staying in a seated position, spoke again, this time in understandable if slurred Algarvian: “Leave me alone and I will extend you the same privilege.”
“Leave you alone?” Oraste got up once more. “Powers below eat me if I will, you louse-ridden ...”
“Wait!” Bembo grabbed Oraste before his partner could try to kick the drunk again. A light had gone on in his mind, however dark his surroundings remained. “I think he’s a mage.”
“A mage, a stage, an age, an outrage,” the drunken Kaunian said, still in Algarvian. “If I were sober, I could do great things. If I were sober, I could . . . could . . .” He brought his hands up to his face and began to weep. Through his sobs, he went on, “But it is not enough. It could not be enough. Nothing could be enough.” He looked up at the constables. “For you, nothing is enough. Do you wonder that I am not sober?”
“Let’s get out of here,” Bembo whispered urgently. “I don’t want to tangle with a mage, even a drunk one, even a lousy one. Tangling with mages uses up a lot of constables.”
Oraste let Bembo lead him a few paces away, but then shrugged off his comrade. “That Kaunian sorcerously assaulted me,” he declared, as if before a panel of judges. “He has to pay the price.” He whirled around and pointed his stick at the drunken blond sorcerer.
But the Kaunian wasn’t there. Bembo stared. It wasn’t as if the fellow were hiding in the dead grass; it was as if he’d never been there. Only the lingering stink of vomit and Bembo’s memory said anything different.
Oraste said, “Nothing’s enough for us Algarvians, eh? I’ll show that blond what nothing’s all about.” And he blazed at the place where the Kaunian had been--the place where, Bembo realized, the Kaunian still had to be.
A shriek said his beam had found the mark. An instant later, the Kaunian reappeared--wounded, he couldn’t keep holding the masking spell. Oraste blazed him again. The blond jerked as if struck by lightning when the beam bit him.
With what was plainly dying effort, the mage pointed toward the two constables and began intoning a spell in Kaunian. Bembo understood only a couple of words of it, but knew it had to be a curse. Now he blazed at the drunken mage, too, and his beam caught the Kaunian in the face. With a last groan, the mage sank back and lay very still.
“That’s the way,” Oraste said, and thumped him on the back. “See? You are good for something after all.”
“He deserved what he got,” Oraste said. “Powers above, he deserved more than he got.”
“We’ll have to tell Pesaro about it when we get back to the barracks,” Bembo said. His stomach was lurching unpleasantly. He’d never killed a man before.
Oraste let out a couple of grunts probably meant for laughter. “Pesaro’ll give us each a shot of brandy, tell us we did good, and put us to bed--and you know it as well as I do, too.”
He was probably right. But Bembo’s stomach did another few lurches. Now that he thought about it--something he tried not to do--he’d sent plenty of Kaunians off to certain death. Blazing the drunken mage still felt different. He couldn’t pretend here, as he did there, that he really hadn’t had anything to do with their deaths. Blazing a man in the face left no room for doubt about what happened.
On the other hand, the Kaunian mage might--would--have harmed Bembo and Oraste if Bembo hadn’t blazed him. The Kaunians he hauled out of villages or off the streets of Gromheort hadn’t done anything to him or to anybody else.
Bembo shook his head. Thinking about it was much too complicated--and too unpleasant, too. “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll get out of here, we’ll finish our beat, and then we’ll go back to the barracks. The carrion there won’t be going anywhere till somebody comes and picks it up after we report in.”
“Now you’re talking sense,” Oraste said. “Come on. Shake a leg.”
The rest of the park was quiet. Even so, Bembo was glad to escape it. He didn’t know whether he’d been been talking sense or not. Like any constable with an ounce of brains or more than two weeks’ experience, he craved quiet shifts. He’d hoped for one tonight, hoped and been disappointed.
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