Into the Darkness (21 page)

Gloom settled over Skarnu like a winter fog in Priekule. King Gainibu had been more interested in starting the war against Algarve than his officers were in fighting it. They’d taken what the Algarvians were willing to yield. Now that the Algarvians had yielded everything up to their long-established defensive line, they weren’t going to be willing to yield any more. And going up against that line was, ever more plainly, the last thing any Valmieran commander wanted to do.

One of the boastful colonels upended his goblet once too often. He set his head down on the table and started to snore. Skarnu felt like getting that drunk, too.
Why not?
he thought.
Raunu runs the company just as well when I’m not there.

In the end, though, he refrained. He started to make his way over to the Duke of Klaipeda to say his farewells, but Marstalu seemed far gone in wine himself. Skarnu slipped out into the cool, dark night and headed east toward his company. All things considered, he would rather not have been invited to the feast. He’d hoped for reassurance. What he’d got was more to worry about.

Five

F
ERNAO STROLLED through the streets of Setubal, delighting in the life that brawled around him. The capital of Lagoas had long been the most cosmopolitan city in the world. Now, the mage thought sadly, it was, as near as made no difference, the only cosmopolitan city left in the world.

Lagoas was not at war with anyone. That made the island kingdom unique among the major powers. Oh, Unkerlant was not at war with anyone at the moment, but Fernao, along with everyone else, assumed that was only because King Swemmel, having helped himself to a large chunk of Forthweg, was looking around for his next neighbor to assault. Zuwayza affronted him merely by existing, as Forthweg had, but Yanina had taken in King Penda when he fled Eoforwic. One of them would go under soon. Maybe both of them would go under soon. Fernao guessed Yanina would go first.

But Lagoas, with any luck at all, could stay neutral through the whole mad war. Fernao hoped his kingdom could. Monuments in Setubal’s many parks and at street corners warned of wars past: recent monuments to the fight against Algarve in the Six Years’ War, older ones to war against Valmiera, older ones still to wars against Kuusamo and the pirates of Sibiu who were all the rage in Lagoan romances these days, even a couple of Kaunian columns from the days before the Empire brought its armies back home to the mainland of Derlavai.

What sort of monument might a kingdom erect to a war in which it hadn’t fought? Fernao visualized a marble statue, three times life size, of a man swiping the back of his hand across his forehead in relief. After a moment, he realized the man he’d visualized looked a lot like him. He laughed at that. He’d known he was vain. Maybe he hadn’t known how vain he was.

He turned into a tavern
(a good piece of magecraft, that,
he thought, now with a laugh that was more like a snort) and ordered a glass of Jelgavan red wine. When the taverner gave it to him, he took it over to a small table by the wall and sipped in leisurely fashion. The taverner gave him a sour look, as he might have done with any man likely to occupy space without bringing in much business.

Plenty of other people were drinking more than Fernao: Lagoans, slant-eyed Kuusamans, Valmierans in trousers, Sibians, even a few Algarvians who’d managed to run their foes’ blockade. The mage wondered what sort of shady deals they were cooking up. Since everyone could come to Setubal, anything was liable to happen here. He knew that very well.

Along with noting the conversation humming around him, he listened with a different part of his being to the power humming through Setubal. There were more power points in a smaller space here than anywhere else in the world; more ley lines converged on the Lagoan capital than on any other city. In a mage’s veins, the song of that power sometimes seemed stronger than his pulse.

A man slid down on to the ladderbacked chair across the table from Fernao. “Mind if I join you?” he asked with a friendly smile.

“It’s all right,” Fernao answered. He would sooner have been alone with his thoughts, but the tavern was crowded. He lifted his wineglass. “Your good health.”

“I thank you, sir. And yours.” The stranger lifted his mug in return. Steam and a sweet, spicy smell rose from it: hot mulled cider in there, unless Fernao’s nose had lost its cleverness. The stranger sipped, then nodded with the air of a connoisseur. “Powers above, that’s good,” he said.

Fernao nodded, politely but without intending to encourage further conversation. But, as he drank a little more wine, he could not help starting to size up the man across from him. And, once he’d started, he found he couldn’t stop. The fellow spoke unaccented Lagoan, but he didn’t look like a native of King Vitor’s domain. Lagoans were more various in their appearance than the folk of many kingdoms—Fernao’s slanted eyes said as much—but very few were dark and stocky and heavily bearded.

Even fewer wore trousers. That was a Kaunian fashion no kingdom sprung from Algarvic stock had ever adopted. Taken all in all, the stranger might have been put together out of pieces from three or four different puzzles.

He also noticed Fernao scrutinizing him, which he wasn’t supposed to do. He smiled again, a surprisingly charming smile from a man less than handsome. After another sip at his hot cider, he said, “Am I correct in understanding, sir, that you are more than a little skilled at getting into and out of places where others might possibly not want to go?”

A trip into Feltre despite the anger of the Sibian Navy qualified Fernao to answer aye. He did nothing of the sort, instead saying, “You are correct in understanding, sir, that my business is my business—and no one else’s unless I choose to make it so.”

The fellow across the table from him laughed gaily, as if he’d said something very funny. Fernao knocked back his wine—the taverner, no doubt, would be pleased—and started to get to his feet. Where nothing else had, that made the stranger lose his too-easy smile. “Please, sir, don’t go yet,” he said in a voice that, despite its polite tones, held iron underneath.

His right hand rested, broad palm down, on the tabletop. He might have had some sort of weapon—a cut-down stick, perhaps a knife -under it. But when he lifted it, taking care that Fernao and no one else could see •what he did, he revealed not a weapon but the sparkle of gold.

Fernao sat back down. “You have engaged my attention, at least for the time being. Say on, sir.”

“I thought that might do the trick,” the stranger said complacently. “You Lagoans have the name of being a mercenary folk. That you trade with both sides during the current unpleasantness does nothing to detract from it.”

“That we trade with both sides shows a certain common sense, in my view,” Fernao said. “That you sneer at my people does nothing to attract me to you. And, if we are to continue this discussion, give me a name to call you. I do not deal with nameless men.”
Unless I have no choice,
he thought but did not say aloud. Here, though, the choice was his.

“Names have power,” the man across the table from him observed. “Names especially have power in the mouth of a mage. But you may call me Shelomith, if you must stick a handle on me as if I were a hot pot.”

“If whatever notion you have in mind could not burn me, you would have approached me in a different way,” Fernao said. And
Shelomith
was not the name with which the stranger had been born. It sounded like one the barbarous Ice People used. Whatever blood ran in Shelomith’s veins, it was not from that stock. Fernao went on, “You have shown me gold. I presume you have in mind paying me some. How do you expect me to earn it?”

“This for listening,” Shelomith said, and shoved the coin he had concealed across to the mage. It showed the fuzzy-bearded king of Gyongyos, whose image was bordered by an inscription in demotic Gyongyosian script, which Fernao recognized but could not read. He did not think the coin’s origin said anything about what Shelomith had in mind. Gold circulated freely all across the world, and a crafty man could use it to conceal rather than to reveal. As if to point in that same direction, Shelomith spoke again: “For listening—and for your discretion.”

“Discretion goes only so far,” Fernao said. “If you ask me to betray my king or my kingdom, I will do nothing of the sort. I will shout for a constable instead.”

He wondered if Shelomith would find urgent business elsewhere on hearing that. The stranger only shrugged wide shoulders. “Nothing of the sort,” he said in reassuring tones. Of course, he would have said the same thing had he been lying. He went on, “You may remain apart from the proposal I shall put to you, but it could not offend even the most delicate sensibility.”

“Such a statement is all the better for proof,” Fernao said. “Tell me plainly what you want from me. I will tell you if you may have it and, if so, at what price.”

Shelomith looked pained. Fernao got the idea that asking him to speak plainly was like asking the Falls of Leixoes to flow uphill. At last, after another long pull at his cider, he said, as he had before, “You are, are you not, good at getting into and out of tight places?”

“This is where we began.” The mage made as if to get up again, this time with the goldpiece in the pouch on his belt. “Good morning.”

As he’d more than half expected, another goldpiece appeared under Shelomith’s palm. Fernao kept rising. “Good my sir,” Shelomith said plaintively. “Only sit, and be patient, and all will be made clear.” Fernao sat. The stranger passed him the second goldpiece. He made it disappear: a good, profitable morning. Shelomith looked even more pained. “Are you always so difficult?”

“I make a point of it,” Fernao said. “Are you always so obscure?”

Shelomith muttered under his breath. To Fernao’s disappointment, he could not make out which language the stranger used when angry. He sat quietly and waited. Maybe Shelomith would feed him still more gold for doing nothing. Instead, with the air of a man yielding himself up to a dentist, Shelomith said, “Does it not wring your heart to see a crowned king trapped in exile far from his native land?”

“Ah,” Fernao said. “Sits the wind so? Well, a question for a question: don’t you think King Penda is a lot happier sitting in exile in Yanina than he would be had the Algarvians or Unkerlanters caught him in Forthweg?”

“You are as clever as I hoped,” Shelomith said, slapping on the flattery with a broad brush. Fernao would have been naive to fail to get his drift. “The answer to your question is aye, but only to a degree. He is not only in exile; he might as well be in prison. King Tsavellas holds him close, so he can yield him up to King Swemmel if the Unkerlanter’s pressure grows too great.”

“Ah,” Fernao repeated. He fell into slow, sonorous Forthwegian: “And you want him taken beyond King Swemmel’s reach.”

“Even so,” Shelomith answered in the same language. “Having a mage with us will make us more likely to succeed. Having a
Lagoan
mage with us will make it less likely that King Swemmel can take reprisal against him.”

“A distinct point, from all I have heard of King Swemmel,” Fernao said. “The next question is, what makes you think I am the Lagoan mage you want?”

“You have gone into Algarve in time of war, why should you not go into Yanina in time of peace? You are a mage of the first rank, so you will have the strength to do whatever may be needed. You speak Forthwegian, as you have shown. I would be lying if I said you were the only mage at whom we are looking, but you are the man we would like to have.”

His friends were probably saying the same thing to the other candidates. As soon as someone was rash enough to say aye, they would lose interest in the others. Fernao wondered if he was rash enough to say aye. He’d never been to Yanina. Getting there would be easy enough, if King Swemmel didn’t invade; the small kingdom between Algarve and Unkerlant remained nervously neutral. Getting out—especially getting out with King Penda—was liable to be something else again.

Of course, Shelomith was liable not to care whether Fernao got out or not, so long as Penda did. That might make life interesting in several unpleasant ways. A sensible man would pocket the two Gyongyosian goldpieces and go about his business.

“When do we sail?” Fernao asked.

Marshal Rathar endured the search to which King Swemmel’s bodyguards subjected him with less aplomb than he usually showed. He had not conceived so high an opinion of himself as to think he was above searching. But he did begrudge the time he had to waste before being admitted to his sovereign’s presence.

Once he’d got past the guards, he also begrudged the time he had to. spend knocking his head against the carpet before the king. Ceremony was all very well in its place; it reminded people what a great and mighty sovereign ruled them. Rathar, though, already knew that well. Wasting time on ceremony, then, struck him as inefficient.

King Swemmel saw things otherwise. As always, how King Swemmel saw things prevailed in Unkerlant. Having at last been granted permission to rise, Rathar said, “May it please your Majesty, I am come at your command.”