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
When 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.”
“It went so well, I’m getting drunk to celebrate.” Spinello took another swig from the mug. “Want some?” Without waiting for an answer to match his own. “I’m glad you’re here, sweetheart. I can tell you more of the truth than I can my own men. Isn’t that funny?”
“I don’t know.” The brigade’s mascot took a small sip. She made a face, but then sipped again. “What is the truth?”
“The truth,” Spinello said grandly—aye, he’d poured down some spirits, all right—”is that we’re in trouble. They’re going to try to smash us flat, and they have a pretty bloody good chance of doing it.” He emptied the mug and then filled it again.
“Oh.” Jadwigai took a longer pull from her own mug of spirits. She looked west, sighed, and drank again. When she spoke once more, it was to herself, and in the classical Kaunian that was her birthspeech: “Well, I bought myself a little extra time.”
Spinello eyed her profile, the way her pale lashes fluttered, the pulse in the hollow of her throat. She thinks the luck is gone, went through him. So do I. And if it is … He used classical Kaunian, too: “Will you do something for me?”
“What?” she asked, but her eyes said she already knew before he asked the next question.
He did ask it, but, for some reason, in Algarvian: “Will you sleep with me? I won’t touch you if you say no—by the powers above, I won’t—but I want you, and I don’t think we’ve got much time.”
Jadwigai set the mug down on a stool. “Aye,” she whispered. “You could force me. We both know all about that. Since you don’t, since you haven’t— why not?”
It wasn’t much of a recommendation, but Spinello decided he would take it—and Jadwigai. Altogether sober, he might not have. He might have thought that, no matter what he said, she couldn’t very well tell him no, not unless she wanted to go from pampered mascot to cursed Kaunian in the blink of an eye. With spirits coursing through him, with Jadwigai unbuttoning her Algarvian-issue tunic, such thoughts never once entered his mind.
When she was naked, she lay down on the Algarvian-issue cot he used in lieu of the benches lining the walls of the hut. He shed his own uniform in a hurry. “I’ll do my best to make you enjoy it, too,” he promised.
Rather to his surprise, his best turned out to be good enough. He’d never managed to kindle Vanai. Of course, she’d despised him, which was half the fun of bedding her. The only time she’d shown any warmth was the last time, when he told her he’d been sent to Unkerlant—and that, without a doubt, was because it was the last time.
Jadwigai might have feared him, but she didn’t hate him. Maybe that made the difference. “You see?” he said, grinning at her after she let out a gasp that sounded distinctly startled.
She nodded. “Aye. I do see.” Sure enough, she seemed astonished.
“My turn now.” Spinello mounted her. He’d wondered if he would find her a maiden, as he had Vanai, but no. What had happened there in western Forthweg before she became the brigade’s pet? Maybe—no, certainly—such questions were better left unasked. Considering how much pleasure she gave him, Spinello didn’t want to ask any questions just then.
Afterwards, she said, “You were gentle. You were kind. You have been, all along. All the soldiers here have been kind to me. And yet…”
“What?” Spinello asked lazily. He felt too pleased with the world, too pleased with himself, to worry about any question Jadwigai might put.
Or so he thought, till she said, “How can you be like this with me and … the other way with so many Kaunians?”
Spinello shrugged. “It’s war. It’s revenge. It’s just one of those things.” He could afford to answer like that. His people built the special camps. They didn’t have to dwell in them.
Jadwigai might have had something sharp to say about that. She’d never been shy, and letting him have her might have made her think she could be frank—and she’d been drinking, too. But, before she could reply, thunder rolled in from the west. Only it wasn’t thunder. It was countless eggs, all bursting at once.
“Oh, by the powers above!” Spinello exclaimed, and sprang from the cot. He dressed with frantic haste. Jadwigai clothed herself almost as fast as he did. Even so, he hadn’t finished buttoning his tunic before eggs started bursting in and all around Gleina, too.
“It’s the attack, the one we’ve been waiting for,” Jadwigai said.
“It certainly is.” Spinello didn’t think he’d ever heard so many eggs burst all at the same time—it might have been a continuous wall of noise, and it went on and on. He’d never imagined he would hear worse than what he’d known in Sulingen, but this fit the bill.
Someone pounded on the door to the hut, shouting, “Colonel Spinello! Colonel Spinello, sir!”
“I’m here.” Spinello opened the door. The crystallomancer outside looked as if he’d just taken a punch in the jaw: he was wobbling, glassy-eyed. “Are you all right? What’s going on?”
“Sir, there are at least three breakthroughs on our brigade’s front, and I’m getting shouts for help from the north and south,” the mage answered.
“Tell ‘em no,” Spinello said. “We’ve got nothing to give.”
“I know that, sir,” the crystallomancer said. “One of the mages … one of ‘em got killed while I was talking with him, sir. The energy, it’s … hard for a man to take.” That no doubt explained his punch-drunk state.
More eggs burst, all over Gleina. Spinello smelled smoke and heard flames crackling. A metal fragment of eggshell buried itself in the doorframe a few inches from his head. He hardly even flinched. “We’ve got to fight back as hard as we can,” he said. “If the Unkerlanters break through our lines, the powers below will eat our whole army in the north.”
The crystallomancer nodded, but just then a man on a unicorn splashed with green and brown paint galloped through the village shouting, “Behemoths! Unkerlanter behemoths! There’s millions of’em, and they’re all heading this way!”
Spinello peered west. The cloud of dust there wouldn’t hold millions of behe
moths, but it would hold dozens or hundreds. And it wasn’t the only such cloud he saw. “We aren’t going to hold Gleina,” he said, and then, “I wonder if we can hold Waldsolms.” One more thought flashed through his mind: I wonder if we can hold anywhere. He looked back over his shoulder at Jadwigai. “You ready to move fast, sweetheart?” She nodded, her eyes enormous but less afraid than they had been before Spinello first lowered his mouth to her pink-tipped breasts. “Good,” he told her. “Now we have to see if we can stay ahead of Swemmel’s little chums till we’re able to throw them back. If we ever are. Come on.” More dragons painted in Unkerlanter rock-gray flew low over Gleina as they fled the burning village.
News-sheet vendors cried their wares as Ealstan came home from Pybba’s pottery works. “Heavy fighting in northern Unkerlant!” they shouted. “Algarvians inflict heavy losses on Swemmel’s savages in fierce defensive battles!”
Ealstan fumbled in his belt pouch and came up with a couple of coppers for a sheet. The redheads had occupied Forthweg for close to five years now. He’d learned to read between the lines of their lies to get some notion of the truth hiding behind them. When they talked about “fierce defensive battles,” that meant the Unkerlanters were hitting them hard. He was always willing—no, eager—to read about anybody hitting the Algarvians hard.
With his nose in the news sheet, he almost walked past his block of flats. He almost broke his neck going upstairs, because he kept trying to read and climb steps at the same time. He almost walked too far down the hall and gave the coded knock on the door to the wrong flat. And he still had the news sheet in front of his face when Vanai opened the right door.
She looked indignant when he finally lowered the sheet. Kissing her didn’t mollify her much. But when he said, “I think the redheads are really in trouble this time,” she was suddenly all smiles.
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