Jaws of Darkness (49 page)

The language was fine and diplomatic. Nevertheless, it couldn’t completely hide the real meaning underneath the fine words.
The king wants to know just how much trouble you think you’re in.

Balastro understood that, too. His grin also flashed as jauntily as if Algarve remained on top of the world. “We are not beaten,” he said stoutly. “I repeat it: we are
not.
We are fighting hard in Jelgava; the enemy has not gone far from the beaches where he landed, and he will have a demon of a time doing it. And in Unkerlant, here it is summer, and still Swemmel’s soldiers stay silent. We have taught them what assailing Algarve costs.”

“Fair enough,” Hajjaj said. It was a more optimistic assessment than he would have made, but Balastro’s job was to be optimistic, and he did it well. Hajjaj’s job was to expose optimism with no visible means of support. He raised an eyebrow. “Suppose you’re wrong, Your Excellency.”

“All right. Suppose I’m wrong.” When Balastro smiled, his teeth seemed much too sharp to belong in his handsome, fleshy face. “In that case, you get to treat with Swemmel of Unkerlant, and I wish you joy of it.”

Hajjaj winced. The Algarvian minister had chosen a good moment to be undiplomatic. Negotiating with Swemmel was the last thing Hajjaj or any other sensible Zuwayzi wanted to do.
You will do as I tell you,
was the only style of negotiation the King of Unkerlant understood. With a sigh, Hajjaj said, “I shall hope you are right, then.” Hoping and believing were two different things, however much Hajjaj wished them one and inseparable.

This time Balastro’s smile looked less frightening. He said, “Believe me, we are in this fight for as long as it takes.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Hajjaj replied.
I hope it’s true.
“I do also want to bring to your attention once more the evidence our soldiers and sorcerers have gathered of an Unkerlanter buildup of some size here in the north. Details, I am sure, will have been passed from General Ikhshid’s office to your soldiers, but I would be remiss if I did not mention it myself.”

“Fair enough.” Balastro sounded almost amiable now—indulgent might have been a better word. “You’ve mentioned it. I’m sure our attache here knows about it, as you say, and he will have passed on to Trapani whatever he thinks important.”

And if he decides it isn‘t important, no one in your capital will hear about it,
Hajjaj thought. That was what being the junior partner in an alliance meant. Algarve could make Zuwayza dance to her tune. The reverse did not hold true. Like a child tugging at an adult’s arm, Zuwayza had to work hard to get Algarve to pay attention when she spoke.

Hajjaj did his best to tug: “Ikhshid and his staff reckon this a matter of some urgency, one you should take seriously.”

“I’ll pass that on to our attaché, too,” Balastro said—aye, he might have been humoring a child.

I
could point out how many times Algarve has already been wrong about Unkerlant.
But Hajjaj kept his mouth shut. Balastro had already made it plain he wouldn’t listen to much more. And Zuwayza had been wrong about Unkerlant, too.
If we’d been right, we would have stayed neutral when the war between the two behemoths started.

And then, suddenly, Balastro’s glass-green eyes sparkled. “And how are your own foreign relations these days, Your Excellency?”

“My—?” For a moment, Hajjaj didn’t know what the Algarvian minister meant. Then he did, and rather wished he hadn’t. “Minister Iskakis’ wife prefers to remain in seclusion at my home for the time being,” he said stiffly.

“I hope she’s not too secluded to keep you from enjoying yourself.” Balastro leered a very Algarvian leer. “Never a dull moment there, not between the sheets, but watch out when she loses her temper—and she will.”

“I wouldn’t know, not yet,” Hajjaj said. Balastro rolled his eyes, as if to say Hajjaj was obviously mad, if harmlessly so. Hajjaj wasn’t so sure Balastro was harmlessly mad. He went on, “You know, you’re learning such things about Tassi may have done more to hurt your kingdom’s ties with Yanina than several misfortunes on the battlefield could have.”

“Nonsense,” Balastro said. “King Tsavellas isn’t going to run off and embrace King Swemmel just because his minister here would sooner sheathe his lance in a handsome guardsman than in his own wife.”

“Not for that, no,” Hajjaj agreed. “But you, your Excellency, were altogether too public about where
your
lance found a sheath. Yaninans have long memories for that sort of slight, and they will avenge themselves, now and again, even when they would be wiser not to.”

Balastro shook his head. “Nonsense,” he repeated.

“I tell you, your Excellency, it is not,” Hajjaj said earnestly. “I understand them in this regard. They are very much like Zuwayzin there.”

“Ha!” Balastro said. “I’m not going to lose any sleep over this, and you can believe me that King Mezentio isn’t going to lose any sleep over it, either. I would advise
you
to lose a little sleep, though, your Excellency—enough to find out how tasty the treat is. What have you got to lose? Even if you’re right, Iskakis will blame me, not you.”

Hajjaj scratched his head. How strange to have his senior wife and the Algarvian minister telling him the same thing. And it wasn’t that he wasn’t tempted, either, or that Tassi had shown herself obviously unwilling.
What is it, then?\e
wondered. Back in the days of the Kaunian Empire, some philosophers had advocated fighting temptation just because it
was
temptation. That had never made much sense to Hajjaj, and he couldn’t see that it had done the ancient Kaunians much good, either.

Well?
he asked himself, and gave the best answer he could: “I think it would be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“I’m sorry for you.” Balastro got to his feet and bowed. “And I also think we’ve covered everything on account of which you summoned me. Good day, your Excellency. Always a pleasure.” He swept out of Hajjaj’s office with much less ceremony than the occasion called for.

In mild weather, Hajjaj might have been offended. As things were, he felt so glad to get out of his tunic and kilt that any other emotions ran a distant second. As soon as he was comfortably nude once more, he hurried to King Shazli’s audience chamber. Shazli was talking about taxes with the treasury minister; Hajjaj waited till that troubled-looking official departed.

“Well?” Shazli asked after Hajjaj had bowed before him. “What does the Algarvian say?”

“What you would expect, your Majesty—no more, no less,” Hajjaj replied. “He makes light of the enemy landings in Jelgava, says Algarve will triumph in spite of them, and predicts victory against Unkerlant, too.”

“That would be nice.” For a relatively young man, King Shazli could be dry when he chose. “The hope of victory against Unkerlant was what brought us into the war.”

“I know,” the foreign minister replied, in tones that could only mean,
Don’t remind me.

“Did he say why he thinks his kingdom will beat the Unkerlanters?” the king asked. “Or was it the usual promises with nothing behind them?”

“He offered the quiet front as proof King Swemmel has come to the end of Unkerlant’s strength,” Hajjaj said.

“Did you tell him what we have learned?” Shazli asked.

“Of course, your Majesty.” The question came close to offending Hajjaj. But Balastro’s attitude had annoyed him, too. “He thanked me most politely.

After all, though, we’re only naked savages, so what could we possibly know?” “The Algarvians are very clever. Their chief failing is how well they know it,” Shazli remarked. Hajjaj dipped his head in delight; he would have been pleased to claim the epigram for his own. The king continued, “I have also had another letter from Minister Iskakis, with him threatening to swell up like a skink if this Tassi woman isn’t delivered to him forthwith.”

“She does not wish it,” Hajjaj said. “Something bad—something very bad—would happen to her if she were delivered to Iskakis. And you know of Balastro’s role in this.”

“Aye.” King Shazli sighed. “The worst thing I can say about my foe is that he makes my friends look good.” That was another fair epigram—and a searing verdict against the whole world.

Eleven

W
hen Colonel Spinello went east to Waldsolms to report his brigade’s condition to Brigadier Tampaste, who commanded his division, he was not a happy man. “Sir,” he said, “I’ve got my men dug in east of Pewsum like so many moles. And if I had three times as many of them, and five times as many behemoths, and ten times as many dragons to back them up, I might be able to hang on when the Unkerlanters come down on me. I
might,
sir. I wouldn’t guarantee it.”

Tampaste couldn’t have been much more than Spinello’s age himself. “Do you know what, Colonel?” he said. “Over the past few days, our scouts and mages have concluded the Unkerlanters may be planning an attack here in the north after all.”

Spinello rolled his eyes. “About fornicating time … sir. We’ve been worrying about it for weeks.”

“All we are is the folk on the spot,” Tampaste answered. “If that doesn’t prove we can’t possibly know what we’re talking about, I don’t know what would.”

“How big an attack do they think is coming?” Spinello asked.

“They don’t know,” Tampaste said, and Spinello rolled his eyes again. The brigadier went on, “Swemmel’s boys have been doing their best to mask whatever it is they’re up to, so we’re having a hard time telling.”

“If it weren’t something bigger than we’d like, they wouldn’t be trying to hide it.” Spinello hoped Tampaste would tell him he was wrong, he was worrying too much. Instead, the brigadier solemnly nodded. Spinello said, “I don’t suppose there’s any hope of reinforcements?”

At that, Tampaste threw back his head and laughed as if at the best joke in the world. “Tell me another one, Colonel,” he said. “The odds would have been bad before the cursed islanders invaded Jelgava. Now? Well, my dear fellow, what can I say?” He spread his hands.

That said all that needed saying, or almost all, anyhow. Spinello asked, “How
are
things back in the east?”

“They’ve been on the ground in Jelgava for more than two weeks now. We haven’t thrown them into the sea,” Tampaste replied. “I’ve heard they’re moving on Balvi, the capital. That’s not official—all the reports from Trapani say the fighting is still by the beaches. But I’ve got a brother in Jelgava.”

“Oh.” Spinello whistled tunelessly. “Things can’t be going any too well if they think they’ve got to lie to us.”

“You have a nasty, suspicious mind,” Tampaste said. “I would have more to say about it if the same thought hadn’t occurred to me.” He nodded to Spinello. “Go back and set your men digging again. The more holes they have, the better their chances are. Good luck, Colonel. Powers above go with you.”

Spinello didn’t know what sort of dismissal he’d expected. Whatever it was, it was nothing so abrupt as that. He rose, saluted, and went out onto the dusty streets of Waldsolms. Here in the town, the streets were paved. Once the buildings stopped, though, the cobblestones did, too, and the wind blew hard across the endless plains. He climbed into his carriage. “Back to Gleina,” he told the driver.

The village between Waldsolms and Pewsum didn’t pretend to be anything it wasn’t. None of its streets had ever been paved. Spinello doubted any of them ever would be. A sergeant tramping along one of those dirt tracks called, “What’s the word, Colonel?”

“They’re going to hit us,” Spinello answered. “Don’t know how hard, don’t know how soon, but they’re going to hit us. If I had to guess, I’d say they won’t wait long and they won’t give us a little tap. Take it for what you think it’s worth.”

He could have said a lot of other things, but they would have amounted to more pungent versions of what he had said, so he didn’t see the point. He hopped down from the carriage. His wounded leg protested. He tried to ignore it, though he limped a little going to the hut that did duty for brigade headquarters.

Inside the hut sat a jar of raw Unkerlanter spirits that did duty for the fine brandy Spinello would have preferred. As he lifted it, he asked himself,
Do you think the Unkerlanters will hit us before you can sober up?
When the answer to that turned out to be no, he poured a mug’s worth out of the jar and started the serious business of getting drunk.

He hadn’t got too far when somebody knocked on the door. Muttering a curse, he set down the mug and threw the door open. “Well?” he growled.

Jadwigai flinched. “I—I’m sorry, Colonel,” the Kaunian girl stammered, turning red. “I’ll come another time.” She turned to go—more likely, to flee.

All at once, Spinello was ashamed of himself. “No, come back. Please, come in,” he said. “I’m sorry. There are plenty of people I don’t want to see, but you’re not any of them.”

Still wary, Jadwigai asked, “Are you sure?” When Spinello vigorously— just how vigorously proved he had some spirits in him—nodded, she said, “All right,” and walked past him into the hut. “I just wanted to ask how your meeting with Brigadier Tampaste went.”