Alkio pondered that and nodded. Even the quarrelsome Ilmarinen failed to find fault with it. Fernao came into the refectory just then. He carried his stick-he would always carry it-but he didn’t put much weight on it. He’d made a lot of progress getting around since first arriving in Kuusamo. “What’s wrong here?” he said in pretty good Kuusaman-he’d made a lot of progress with the language, too. “I see everybody nodding together, so something must be.”
No one seemed quite sure how to take that, either. Pekka said, “Nothing too serious: only a visit fromPrinceJuhainen.”
“Ah.” Fernao nodded. “Let me guess. Is he trying to make us hurry?”
Ilmarinen gave him a suspicious look. “How do you know that?”
“It’s what princes do,” Fernao answered. He frowned in thought, but evidently couldn’t come up with the words he needed in Kuusaman, for he switched to classical Kaunian to continue, “Princes do not bother to come when everything is fine. They come only to try to make changes. That is what they are for.”
“That is what Juhainen did, sure enough.” Pekka kept on speaking her own language. “I think it means we will invade the mainland soon.”
Ilmarinen raised an eyebrow. “Invade the mainland, eh?” He glanced over at Fernao. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
For a moment, Pekka had no idea what he was talking about, even though he’d spoken Kuusaman, too. Then she also turned toward Fernao, and watched him turn red-with his fair Lagoan skin, the flush was easy to trace. Raahe and Alkio must also have figured out what Ilmarinen meant, for they were busy looking at the ceiling or out the window or anywhere but at her and Fernao.
Her own ears felt hot. “That will be quite enough of that,” she told Ilmarinen in her frostiest tones. He laughed at her. She glared at him, which only made him laugh harder. Then she looked at Fernao again, and caught him looking at her. Their eyes jerked away at the contact, as if they’d been caught at something. We haven’t, Pekka insisted to herself. We really haven’t.
Six
Spring came early to Bishah and the surrounding hills. Hajjaj cherished it while it lasted, not least because it wouldn’t last long. Zuwayza was the kingdom of summer. Soon, all too soon, the sun would bake everything yellow and brown. The foreign minister savored the brief, brave show of greenery and bright flowers as much for its impermanence as for its beauty.
“You Algarvians are spoiled,” he remarked to Marquis Balastro at a gathering at the Algarvian ministry one evening. “You get to enjoy your gardens and woods through most of the year.”
“Well, so we do, your Excellency,” Balastro agreed. “Tell me, did you think we were spoiled when you went through your first winter at the University of Trapani?” His smile showed sharp teeth.
“Spoiled? No, your Excellency.” Hajjaj shook his head. “How could you possibly spoil when you froze solid for a couple of months every year?”
Balastro threw back his head and laughed uproariously. “Oh, you are a funny fellow when you choose. I could wish you chose to be more often.”
“I could wish I had more things to laugh about,” Hajjaj replied, and Balastro’s own mirth cut off as abruptly as if sliced by a knife. The war news from Unkerlant wasn’t good, and not all of the Algarvian minister’s verbal gymnastics could make it good. It wasn’t dreadfully bad, not lately, not with the spring thaw miring Mezentio’s men and Swemmel’s alike, but it wasn’t good. What little movement there was had the Unkerlanters pushing forward and the Algarvians falling back.
Over in one corner of the reception hall, a couple of stocky, swarthy men in Unkerlanter tunics were busily drinking themselves blind. If you asked them, they would insist they weren’t Unkerlanters: they were Grelzers, from the free and independent (and Algarvian-backed) Kingdom of Grelz. Of course, withKingRaniero horribly dead, their insistence mattered very little. The quondam Kingdom of Grelz mattered very little, too. Hajjaj sighed. Typical of the Algarvians to bring them up to Zuwayza and try to make something of them after the collapse and not before.
Doing his best to recover from the awkward moment, Marquis Balastro said, “I am glad our dragons have helped keep the Unkerlanter air pirates from troubling Bishah.”
“They have done that, and I do thank you for it.” Hajjaj bowed. The waistband of his kilt dug into his flesh as he moved. Nudity was far more comfortable. He went on: “Our own dragons, flying south into Unkerlant, have noted what looks to be something of a buildup of Unkerlanter soldiers in the northern regions ofKingSwemmel ’s realm.”
“We have noted the same thing.” Balastro didn’t sound very concerned. “I assure you it is nothing we can’t handle.”
“I am glad to hear that,” Hajjaj said, and hoped the Algarvian minister was right.
“We do keep an eye on things,” Marquis Balastro said, as if Hajjaj had denied it. “We also do our best to keep enemy air pirates from ravaging Algarve itself.”
“Aye, of course,” Hajjaj said. If you hadn’t lost Sibiu, you’d have an easier time of it, too. He didn’t say that; it would have been most undiplomatic. But that didn’t make it untrue.
Balastro bowed again; Algarvians were a punctiliously polite folk, even if they didn’t spend so much time on it as Zuwayzin did. “KingMezentio has ordered me to express his thanks toKingShazli through you,” he said.
“I shall be happy to do so.” Hajjaj bowed in return. “Ahh… his thanks for what?”
“Why, for his help in keeping Kaunian bandits here and, more to the point, keeping them out of Forthweg, of course,” Balastro answered.
“Oh.” After a moment, Hajjaj nodded. “He is very welcome. I speak for myself at the moment, you understand. But I shall convey your sovereign’s words to mine, and I am certain I speak inKingShazli ’s name here.”
He also wished he weren’t sayingKingMezentio was welcome. As far as he was concerned, the Kaunians who’d managed to flee from Forthweg had every right in the world to try to hit back at the Algarvians. But when they hit back, they unquestionably hurt the Algarvians’ war against Unkerlant. That, in turn, hurt Zuwayza. As foreign minister, Hajjaj found himself forced to condemn what he personally condoned.
Marquis Balastro smiled. “Believe me, your Excellency, I do understand your difficulty.”
And he probably did. He was a civilized man, in the best traditions of civilization in eastern Derlavai. Had Hajjaj not admired those traditions, he never would have chosen to finish his education at the University of Trapani. That didn’t keep him from wondering how such an eminently civilized man as Balastro could approve of the way his kingdom slaughtered Kaunians. He did, though-Hajjaj had no doubt of it.
His certainty oppressed him. He bowed his way away from Balastro and went over to the bar, where an Algarvian servitor who was almost surely also an Algarvian spy gave him a goblet of date wine. He was almost the only one in the room drinking the sweet, thick stuff. Even the Zuwayzi officers the Algarvian military attache had invited to the reception preferred vintages pressed from grapes. Hajjaj enjoyed those, too, but the taste of date wine took him back to his youth. For a man with white hair, few things could work such magic.
Sipping the date wine, the Zuwayzi foreign minister looked around the hall. There stoodHorthy, the Gyongyosian minister to Zuwayza, in earnest conversation with Iskakis, his Yaninan counterpart. They were both speaking classical Kaunian, a language that had never been used in either of their kingdoms but the only one they had in common. Hajjaj took another pull at his goblet, savoring the irony of that.
After a moment, Iskakis, a short, bald man with a mustache that looked like a black-winged moth perched between his nose and upper lip, sidled away from the large, leonineHorthy and started chatting up an Algarvian captain, one of the men on the military attache’s staff. The captain, a stalwart, handsome young man, beamed at the Yaninan. Iskakis was partial to stalwart, handsome young men. He was even more partial to boys.
His wife, meanwhile, was talking to Marquis Balastro. She
was about half Iskakis’ age, and extraordinarily beautiful. Such a waste, that marriage, Hajjaj thought, not for the first time. Balastro, now, Balastro had the sleek look of a cat who’d fallen into a pitcher of cream. What Hajjaj saw as a waste, he saw as an opportunity. However civilized Balastro was, no Algarvian born had ever reckoned philandering anything but a pleasant diversion-unless, of course, he found himself wearing horns rather than giving them.
Balastro wouldn’t have to worry about that here. He stroked Iskakis’ wife’s cheek, an affectionate gesture that said he’d likely done other, more intimate stroking in private. Hajjaj wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d watched the two of them at a reception at the Gyongyosian ministry the autumn before.
Here, though, Iskakis’ wife twisted away. At first, Hajjaj thought that was playacting, and clever playacting to boot. Iskakis might prefer boys, but Yaninans had a prickly sense of honor. If Iskakis saw Balastro making free with the woman he thought of as his own, he would certainly call out the Algarvian minister. That their kingdoms were allies wouldn’t matter a bit, either.
Then Hajjaj saw the fury distorting the Yaninan woman’s delicately sculpted features. That wasn’t playacting, not unless she belonged on the stage. He hurried over toward her and Balastro. Yanina and Algarve were both allied to Zuwayza, too. The things I do for my kingdom, he thought.
“Everything’s fine, your Excellency,” Balastro said with an easy smile.
“This man is a beast, your Excellency.” Iskakis’ wife spoke fair Algarvian, with a gurgling Yaninan accent that made Hajjaj pause to make sure he’d understood her correctly. But he had. Her glare left no room for doubt.
“She’s just a trifle overwrought,” Balastro said.
“He is a swine, a pig, a pork, a stinking, rutting boar,” Iskakis’ wife said without great precision but with great passion. Then she said a couple of things in Yaninan that Hajjaj didn’t understand but that sounded both heartfelt and uncomplimentary.
Hajjaj said, “I gather the two of you have quarreled.” Balastro nodded. Iskakis’ wife dipped her head, which meant the same thing among Yaninans. Hajjaj went on, “You would be wiser not to show it. You would be wiser still not to show each other any kind of affection in public.”
Balastro bowed. “As always, your Excellency, you are a font of wisdom.”
Iskakis’ wife snarled. “You do not need to worry aboutthat.” Could looks have killed, the Algarvian minister would have died. Iskakis’ wife stalked away, arched nostrils flared, back ever so straight, hips working with fury.
With a sigh, Balastro said, “Well, it was fun while it lasted. Never a dull moment in bed, I’ll tell you that.”
“I believe you,” Hajjaj said: Half the men in the room were eyeing that swiveling backside with one degree of longing or another. Iskakis, otherwise preoccupied, was not among them. A good thing, too, Hajjaj thought.
“Aye, in bed Tassi’s splendid. Out of bed…” Balastro rolled his eyes. “A bursting egg for a temper and a razor for a tongue. I’m not all that surprised Iskakis would sooner stick it somewhere else.” He glanced over toward the Yaninan minister and the officer with whom he was talking. He made a face. “Though notthere, by the powers above.”
“No accounting for taste,” Hajjaj said, a profoundly unoriginal truth. Before too long, he took the opportunity to make his excuses and go back to his home in the hills above Bishah. Getting out of the clothes he’d worn and into the usual Zuwayzi outfit-sandals and, for outdoors, a hat-was, as usual, a great relief.
He was about to go down into the capital the next morning when someone knocked on the one door in the fortresslike outer wall to the sprawling compound that was as much clan center as dwellingplace. Tewfik, the ancient majordomo who presided over the residence, made his slow way out to see who was disturbing his master. He sent a younger, sprier servant hotfooting it back to Hajjaj. “Your Excellency, you’ve got to come see this for yourself,” the servant said, and would say no more even when Hajjaj barked at him.
And so, grumbling under his breath, Hajjaj went out to the gateway. There he foundTewfik looking, for once, quite humanly astonished. And there he also found Tassi, the wife of Iskakis the Yaninan minister. Polite as a cat, she bowed to him. “Good day, your Excellency,” she said. “I come to you, sir, seeking asylum from my husband, and from Marquis Balastro, and from everything and everyone outside Zuwayza.”
“Do-do-do you?” Hajjaj knew he was stammering, but couldn’t help it. He felt at least as astonished asTewfik looked.
Tassi dipped her head, as she had at the reception: sure enough, a Yaninan nod. “I do. You see? I already begin to follow your customs.” By that, she meant she stood before him wearing only sandals and a straw hat. Marquis Balastro occasionally aped Zuwayzi nudity. With Balastro, the effect was more ludicrous than anything else. With Tassi …
All at once, Hajjaj understood that the Algarvian wordsnude andnaked were not perfect synonyms. His own people, who took their bare skin for granted, were nude. Tassi was naked, using her skin for her own purposes. Sensuality came off her in waves.
And she knew as much, too, and relished the confusion-among other things-she paused. “Take me in, your Excellency, protect me,” she purred, “and I will do anything you like, anything at all. Take me in. I beg you.” Gracefully, she dropped to both knees. It wasn’t exactly, or solely, a begging gesture. It also promised something else. She bowed her head and waited.
“What will you do?”Tewfik hissed in Zuwayzi.
“Powers below eat me if I know,” Hajjaj replied in the same tongue. He switched back to Algarvian: “Get up, milady. The least you can do is have breakfast here. Afterwards… Afterwards, we shall see.” He was an old man, aye. Was he too old for such amusements? And if he wasn’t, how much would domestic relations with Tassi hurt foreign relations with Yanina?
Fernao woke to the sound of dripping. He’d fallen asleep to the sound of dripping, too. He’d lived with it for the past several days. He would have to go right on living with it for a good many more days to come, no matter how much it made him want to go running to the jakes. All around the hostel in the Naantali district, the ice and snow were melting. They would take a while to finish the job, and the ground would stay soupy for a while afterwards: till the sun, which spent more and more time in the sky every day, finally dried up the accumulated moisture. As it did in Unkerlant and the land of the Ice People, spring announced itself in southeastern Kuusamo with a great thaw.
A malignant buzzing penetrated the drips. A mosquito landed on Fernao’s arm, which lay outside the covers. The buzzing ceased. He slapped. The buzzing resumed. He cursed. That meant he’d missed the miserable thing.
Mosquitoes and gnats bred in puddles, of course. During the spring thaw, the Naantali district was all over puddles. For some time thereafter, it was all over mosquitoes and gnats, too. No wonder birds coming back from the north chose this time to mate and lay their eggs. They had plenty of food for themselves and for their youngsters, too. The only trouble was, they didn’t, couldn’t, come close to catching all the bugs. Plenty were left to torment people.
With a sigh, Fernao got out of bed and splashed cold water on his face. That wasn’t torture, as it would have been during the winter. It still did help wake him up. He put on clean drawers and a fresh tunic, then pulled on his kilt, tucked in the tunic, and went downstairs to the refectory.
Ilmarinen already sat down there, eating smoked salmon and onions and drinking tea. “That looks good,” Fernao said, sitting beside him and waving to a serving girl.
“It is,” Ilmarinen agreed. “But it’s mine. You can bloody well get your own.”
“I did intend to,” Fernao said mildly. The serving girl came up. Fernao pointed to Ilmarinen’s plate. “I’ll have what he’s having.” Seeing a wicked glint in the other theoretical sorcerer’s eye, Fernao corrected himself: “Not his helping, but the same thing as he’s having.” Balked, Ilmarinen subsided.
The serving g
irl ignored the byplay. She just nodded and went off to the kitchen. Fernao patted himself on the back. He didn’t win skirmishes with Ilmarinen all that often. Neither did anyone else.
Pekka walked into the refectory at the same time as Fernao’s breakfast arrived. Seeing him, she smiled and waved and came on over. He spoke quietly to Ilmarinen: “Could you let the two of us be for once? Life’s hard enough as is.”
“I could,” Ilmarinen said, but Fernao’s relief was short-lived, for he added, “That doesn’t necessarily mean I will.”
Pekka sat down by Fernao. The serving girl-Fernao was just as glad it wasn’t Linna-walked over and raised a questioning eyebrow. Pointing to Fernao, Pekka said, “I’ll have what he’s having.”
Without so much as looking at Ilmarinen, Fernao shoved his plate and teacup over to Pekka. “Here,” he said, deadpan, and nodded to the serving girl. “You can bring me more of the same.”
“All right.” Off she went again. The vagaries of mages fazed her not in the least.
“Something is going on here, and I don’t know what,” Pekka said darkly. She cast Ilmarinen a suspicious glance.
“I’m just sitting here,” he told her. “Why are you picking on me? If something is going on and you don’t understand it, you shouldn’t complain, anyhow. You should experiment to find out what it is.” His eyes flicked from her to Fernao and back again. “All sorts of interesting experiments you might try.”
Fernao kicked him under the table. Pekka couldn’t reach him to kick him, but looked as if she wanted to. Fernao had imagined some of those experiments. He didn’t dare say so. He wished he hadn’t given her his breakfast. Now he had nothing with which to busy himself.
Ilmarinen laughed, which only irked Fernao further-he knew he shouldn’t have asked the Kuusaman mage to go easy. “Why are you getting upset?” Ilmarinen asked. “I can’t be saying anything the two of you haven’t thought of for yourselves.”
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