Through the Darkness d-3

by Harry Turtledove

  As far as he could tell, everyone had fought splendidly. And the pot held plenty of stew: more than those Unkerlanters could have eaten by themselves, he was sure. He spooned out carrots and onions and big chunks of turnip and even bigger chunks of meat, all in a thick gravy that said the Unkerlanters had been cooking it for a long, long time.

  “Benczur,” he called to one of the troopers, “eat yours on the way back to the company’s encampment. Tell Captain Tivadar we’ve taken this clearing. Tell him we’ll save some of what’s in the pot for him, too.”

  “Aye, Sergeant,” Benczur said around a big mouthful of meat. “Seems a shame to waste such good stuff on officers, but what can you do?” He slipped off into the woods, heading west, the direction from which the Gyongyosians had come.

  Istvan also sent Szonyi and another soldier into the woods to the east, to give a little warning if the Unkerlanters counterattacked. Then he happily settled down by the fire and started spooning up stew himself.

  “Wouldn’t mind some ale or honeywine to wash it down,” he said. “They threw in too much salt.” He grinned as he spoke; too much salt or not, it was better food than he could have got from the cooks who accompanied the Gyongyosian army.

  In a similar vein, and even with a similar grin, Kun said, “And I don’t care how long they cooked this mutton, it wasn’t long enough. Might as well be chewing old clothes.”

  “Aye, it’s pretty tough,” Istvan agreed. “But are you sure it’s mutton? I think it tastes more like beef.”

  “I used to think all your taste was in your mouth, Sergeant,” Kun said, planting his barb with relish. “Now I see you haven’t got any there, either.”

  “Go ahead and argue, you two,” one of the ordinary troopers said. “I don’t care if it’s mountain ape, by the stars. Whatever it is, it’s a lot better than empty.” He took another mouthful.

  Istvan could hardly quarrel with that. His own mess tin had emptied with astonishing speed. He was working his way through a second helping when Benczur came out of the woods, Captain Tivadar right behind him. Istvan sprang to his feet and saluted. Tivadar spied the corpses at the edge of the firelight and nodded. “Nicely done,” he said. “And that stew does smell good.”

  “Have some, sir,” Istvan said. “Maybe you can tell us what’s in it. I say it’s beef, Kun here thinks it’s mutton.”

  “What I think is, you fellows can’t be very sharp if you don’t know what goes into a stew,” the company commander said. He held out his mess kit. “Give me some and I’ll tell you what I think.”

  After Istvan had filled the tin with stew, Tivadar sniffed it, eyed it, and poked at the pieces of meat with the tip of his knife. He speared on, started to bring it to his mouth, and then hesitated. Kun said, “Don’t be shy, Captain. The way you’re playing with it, anybody’d say you thought it was goat, or sometliing.”

  Tivadar wasn’t smiling any more. He put the chunk of meat back in the mess tin, then set the tin down. “Corporal, I’m afraid I do think that-or I think it may be, anyhow. You know the Unkerlanters eat goat. This isn’t beef-I’d take oath on that-and I don’t think it’s mutton, either.”

  Behind his spectacle lenses, Kun’s eyes went wide. Istvan’s stomach lurched like a ship in a storm. “Goat?” he said in a small, sick voice. The horror that filled the word was on the face of every other soldier in the squad. Istvan wouldn’t have eaten goat meat if he were starving and set down in the middle of a herd of the beasts. No Gyongyosian would have. Goats ate filth and were lecherous beasts, which made them unfit for a warrior race to touch. Only perverts and criminals proved what they were by touching goatflesh and sealing themselves away from all their countrymen.

  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 pla
inly 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 thought, 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 hangings 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.