“We have people who look like everything under the sun who think of themselves as Lagoans,” Fernao said. “For the past hundred years, people have been coming to Setubal to get away from wherever they were living. They think of themselves as exiles, but their children learn Lagoan. And we’re a mongrel lot, anyhow-we mostly look Algarvic, but you said it: we’ve got Kuusaman blood in us, too, and some Kaunian blood besides, from the days of the Empire’s province in the northwest of the island.”
Pekka snapped her fingers. “That reminds me,” she said. “Kuusamo is going to get some new Kaunian blood of its own. Remember the poor fellow from Jelgava whose wife wrote to Leino when he got thrown in a dungeon?”
“I translated the letter for you. I’d better remember,” he answered. “So you know what happened to him, do you?”
“Aye.” Pekka nodded. “The Seven Princes complained to King Donalitu. Donalitu let him out of the dungeon, all right, but he kicked him and his wife out of Jelgava altogether. They’ve just come to Yliharma. He’s a tailor, I think.”
“He’ll have to get used to doing some new things,” Fernao said with a chuckle. “Kaunians wear trousers, Algarvic folk wear kilts, and Unkerlanters and Forthwegians wear long tunics, but you Kuusamans throw on whatever you please.”
“We aren’t Kaunian. We aren’t Algarvic,” Pekka said. “And we don’t need our clothes to tell us who and what we are.”
Fernao reached out and patted her on the bottom. “I should hope not. Sometimes it’s more fun finding out things like that with no clothes at all.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Pekka said severely, but the corners of her mouth couldn’t help curling up. “If you move to Kajaani, will you stay in kilts all the time, or will you wear leggings and trousers now and again, too?”
“I don’t know,” Fernao answered. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“Well, maybe you should, if you’re talking about turning into a Kuusaman,” Pekka said. He did, quite visibly. After a bit, to her relief, he nodded.
Fourteen
Hajjaj had been going on about his business and doing his best to forget that a good many high-ranking Algarvian refugees had taken up residence in Zuwayza. He’d always known how much trouble that might cause. Till it did, though, he’d kept hoping it wouldn’t.
As so many of his hopes had been since Unkerlant attacked his kingdom more than five years before, that one was wasted. Without warning, a blocky Unkerlanter strode into the outer office of the foreign ministry. Hajjaj heard him arguing with Qutuz. That wasn’t hard; everyone along the whole corridor surely heard the Unkerlanter’s shouts in accented Zuwayzi.
Getting to. his feet, the foreign minister went out to the outer office, where he found his secretary nose to nose with the irate Unkerlanter. “What’s going on here?” Hajjaj asked mildly.
“This. . gentleman”-plainly not the description Qutuz had in mind- “desires to speak with you, your Excellency.”
“I do not desire. I demand,” the Unkerlanter said. “And I demand that you come to the Unkerlanter ministry at once. At once, do you understand me?” The man snorted like a bull. Either he was a better actor than any of his countrymen Hajjaj had seen, Minister Ansovald included, or he was genuinely furious.
If he was really that angry, Hajjaj knew what was likeliest to make him so. Alarm ran through the Zuwayzi foreign minister. This is too soon for them to have found out, he thought. Much too soon, in fact. He did his best to sound calmer than he felt: “A man does not make demands of another kingdom’s minister in his own office, sir.”
“That’s what I told him, your Excellency,” Qutuz said. “That’s just what I told him, curse me if it isn’t.”
“Shut up, both of you!” the Unkerlanter shouted. “You, old man, you can come with me right now, or we can have another war right now. There’s your choice, powers below eat you.”
“This is an outrage!” Qutuz exclaimed.
“Too bad,” the Unkerlanter said. He scowled at Hajjaj. “Are you coming or not? You say no, you watch what happens to this pisspot of a kingdom.”
They know, Hajjaj thought gloomily. They must know. With a sigh, he replied, “I will come with you-under protest. May I dress first, to match your custom?”
“Don’t waste the time. It’s inefficient,” the Unkerlanter said. “Get your scrawny old carcass moving, that’s all.”
“Very well. I am at your service,” Hajjaj said. He nodded to Qutuz. “I’ll see you later.” I hope I will. I hope they let me leave the ministry. He took a broad-brimmed hat from the hat rack in the outer office and set it on his head. “Let us go.”
At this season of the year, even Zuwayzin went out as little as they could in the middle of the day. The sun smote down from as close to the zenith as made no difference. The palace’s thick walls of mud brick shielded against the worst of the heat. Out in the streets, the air might have come from a bake oven. Hajjaj’s shadow puddled at his feet, as if even it were looking for someplace to hide.
The Unkerlanter ignored the heat. He had a carriage waiting outside. The driver-also hatless, and a bald man to boot-sat steaming under that merciless sun. Hajjaj hoped he wouldn’t keel over halfway to the Unkerlanter ministry.
The fellow who’d stormed into his office spoke to the driver in their own language, then held the carriage door open for Hajjaj-one of the few formal courtesies he’d ever had from an Unkerlanter. By the way the man slammed it shut after getting in behind the Zuwayzi foreign minister, that courtesy hadn’t come easy.
They got to the ministry unscathed. The driver kept right on sitting out in the open. “You really should let him come inside and cool off,” Hajjaj remarked. “This weather can kill, you know.”
“You worry about your business,” the Unkerlanter told him. “We will tend to ours.”
“Zuwayza has been saying that very thing to Unkerlant for centuries,” Hajjaj said. “Somehow, you never seem to listen.”
The fellow escorting him didn’t seem willing to listen. Unkerlanters, as Hajjaj had said, never did listen to their northern neighbors. Being badly outweighed, Zuwayzin had to listen to Unkerlanters, no matter how little they cared to. This particular Unkerlanter took Hajjaj straight to Minister Ansovald, and spoke two words in his own tongue: “He’s here.” Hajjaj was far from fluent in Unkerlanter, but had no trouble understanding that.
Ansovald glared at Hajjaj. Hajjaj had met the Unkerlanter minister’s glares before, and bore up under this one. When he didn’t immediately crumple and admit guilt, Ansovald shouted, “You treacherous son of a whore!”-in Algarvian, because Hajjaj didn’t have enough Unkerlanter to carry on diplomacy-if such this was-in that language.
“Good day, your Excellency,” Hajjaj said now. “As always, I am delighted to see you, too.”
Irony was wasted on Ansovald. Like so many of his countrymen, he seemed immune to both shame and embarrassment. To serve King Swemmel, he needs to be, Hajjaj thought. But Unkerlanter boorishness was far older than the reign of the current King of Unkerlant.
“We’re going to hang all those Algarvian bastards,” Ansovald shouted now. “And when we’re done with that, we’re liable to hang you, too. How far will that scrawny neck of yours stretch?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hajjaj said.
“Liar,” Ansovald said. What would have been an ugly truth from another man sounded like a compliment from him. “You’re hiding Balastro and a whole raft of other redheads in a stinking little town called Harran. We want ‘em. We’re going to get ‘em, too-or you’ll be sorry, and so will everybody else in this tinpot kingdom.”
“Even if I were to admit their presence, which I do not, on what grounds could you want them?” Hajjaj asked.
“Conspiracy to violate the Treaty of Tortusso by annexing Rivaroli. Conspiracy to wage war against Forthweg, Valmiera, Jelgava, Sibiu, Lagoas, Kuusamo, and Unkerlant. Conspiracy to murder Kaunians from Forthweg,” Ansovald answered.
“Those will do for starters. We can find plenty more. Don’t you worry about a thing. We’ll try ‘em before we hang ‘em, so everything looks pretty.”
Hajjaj winced. He hadn’t expected Ansovald to come up with such a detailed, and damning, indictment. No doubt a good many of the Algarvian refugees were guilty of those things. Still, he said, “If they had won the war, they could charge you with as many enormities as you blame them for now.”
Ansovald didn’t even waste time denying it. All he said was, “So what? The bastards lost. You can turn ‘em over to us, or we can bring in soldiers to come and get ‘em. That’s the only choice you’ve got, Hajjaj. King Swemmel isn’t playing games here, believe you me he isn’t.”
The last thing Hajjaj wanted was Unkerlanter soldiers in Zuwayza. If they came, would they ever leave? Not likely, he thought. But he said, “There is no law between kingdoms governing whether one may make war on another or how to fight such wars.”
“Maybe there isn’t, but there’s going to be,” the Unkerlanter minister to Zuwayza replied.
“Where is the justice in hanging a man for breaking a law that was not a law when he did what he did?” Hajjaj asked.
“Futter justice,” Ansovald said. “We’re not going to let those buggers get away, and that’s flat. You have three days, Hajjaj. Give ‘em up or we’ll come get ‘em.”
“I cannot guarantee your soldiers’ reception if you do,” Hajjaj said.
“Try and stop ‘em.” Ansovald relished being on top.
“We shall do what we have to do,” Hajjaj said coldly. “Your master will not thank you for starting a war here when he plainly has plans farther west.”
“Only goes to show you don’t know King Swemmel,” Ansovald said.
“Are we quite through here? Have you made all your demands?” Hajjaj asked. “If so, I shall take your words to King Shazli.”
“Go on. Get out.” Ansovald gestured contemptuously. Biting his lip, Hajjaj turned and left the minister’s chamber. The hard-faced young Unkerlanter waited outside, and escorted him to the carriage in stony silence. The carriage, he saw, had a new driver. He didn’t remark on it. He wanted nothing more than to get away from the Unkerlanter ministry.
Back at the palace, he hurried to King Shazli’s private audience chamber. He had to wait there, for the king was greeting the new minister from Sibiu. Shazli came in rolling his eyes. “I’m glad to be out of those clothes,” he said. “Would you care for tea and wine and cakes, your Excellency?”
“No, thank you, your Majesty,” Hajjaj answered. “Your Majesty, we have a problem.” He summed up what Ansovald had told him, leaving out only the coarse language and the shouts.
When he’d finished, Shazli frowned. “Do you think he means these threats?”
“Aye, your Majesty, I fear I do. I fear he does.”
“I was afraid of that.” Shazli let out a long, sad sigh. “When we took in these Algarvians, I made up my mind I would not let the kingdom suffer on account of them. I still hold to that. If Swemmel wants them so badly, I shall give them to him.”
That took Hajjaj by surprise. “Your Majesty!” he exclaimed. “Will you turn over men who helped in our revenge, who fought side by side with us for as long as they could? Where is the loyalty a man must show his friends?”
“I am willing to be loyal to my friends, in their place,” the king answered. “But their place is behind that of my own people. I will not go to war with Unkerlant to save these Algarvians. I will not even risk war with Unkerlant to protect them.”
“I don’t think Swemmel could fight much of a war to get these redheads,” Hajjaj said. “From everything we’ve been able to learn, he’s shipping soldiers west as fast as he can, to drive the Gyongyosians out of his kingdom.” In an aside, he added, “I have warned Minister Horthy of this-discreetly, of course.” He returned to the main topic: “While the Unkerlanters are busy in the west, they can’t bother us too badly.”
“I am sorry, your Excellency, but I dare not take the chance,” King Shazli said. “The Algarvians will be surrendered.”
Shazli had rarely overruled Hajjaj. Having it happen now hurt more than all the other times put together. “I must protest, your Majesty,” Hajjaj said stiffly.
“I’m sorry,” Shazli told him. “In this matter, my mind is made up.”
Hajjaj took a deep breath. “That being so, you leave me no choice but to offer my resignation.” He’d done that a handful of times in his long tenure; it had always persuaded the king to change his mind.
King Shazli sighed. “You have served this kingdom long and well, your Excellency. Without you, there might well be no Kingdom of Zuwayza today. But I shall do what I think I must do. I hope you will consult with me on my choice of your successor.”
“Of course, your Majesty.” Hajjaj bowed his head. He’d tried. He’d failed.
Now it was time to go. So he tried to tell himself. But the blood pounded in his ears. He suddenly felt very old, very shaky. Just as he’d been a part of Zuwayza for so very long, so Zuwayza was also a part of him. Had been a part of him. It’s over, he told himself. It’s all over.
Colonel Lurcanio sat across the table from a young Lagoan major who spoke Algarvian with such a thick accent, he would sooner have conversed with the fellow in classical Kaunian: he swallowed vowels and case and verb endings, as if he were still speaking his own tongue. “There’s. . some difficulty about your release, your Excellency,” the Lagoan said.
“Thank you so much, Major Simao, for informing me of this,” Lurcanio said, acid in his voice. “Without your telling me, I never should have noticed.”
Simao turned almost as red as his hair. “Your attitude, Colonel, is not helpful,” he said reproachfully.
Pride and annoyance rang in Lurcanio’s voice: “Why should I be helpful? I see the men I commanded being freed from this captives’ camp, and I see myself still confined. What I fail to see is the reason for it. I should like to return to Albenga as quickly as possible. My county is under Unkerlanter occupation, and I want to do everything I can to protect the people from King Swemmel’s savages.”
“You are speaking of my kingdom’s allies,” Simao said, more stiffly than ever.
“The more shame to you,” Lurcanio retorted.
“You are most uncooperative,” the Lagoan said.
Lurcanio threw his arms wide. “I have surrendered. I will not go back to war if you turn me loose. What more do you want? Do you ask me to love you? There, I fear, you ask for too much.”
“That is not the issue,” Simao said. “You spoke of your county under Unkerlanter occupation. My kingdom has a request from Valmiera to return you to Priekule to answer for what you did there while Algarve was the occupying power.”
“How thoroughly barbarous,” Lurcanio said, using scorn to hide the unease prickling through him. “The war is over. Will you blame me for fighting on my kingdom’s side?”
Major Simao shook his head. “No, Colonel. We have investigated that. When you were in the field, you fought as a soldier should fight. When you were on occupation duty, however.. Does the phrase ‘Night and Fog’ mean anything to you?”
That unease curdled into outright fear. How much did Simao know of the quiet, vicious war between occupiers and occupied? How much of it had been war, and how much murder? Lurcanio didn’t precisely know himself. He wondered if anyone else did.
“You do not answer my question, Colonel,” Simao said sharply.
“I’ve heard the phrase,” Lurcanio said. If he denied even that much, he was too likely to be proved a liar. “One heard all sorts of things during the war- don’t forget, I spent four years in Priekule. I fathered a child there, and not, I assure you, in a rape. That may be one reason for the Valmierans’ malice.”
Simao shrugged. “Then you object to being returned to Priekule?”
“Of course I object!” Lurcanio said. “You Lagoans and the Kuusamans- aye, and the Unkerlanters-beat us in battle. You earned the rig
ht to dictate to us. But the Valmierans?” He made a horrible face.
“Or is it that Algarve thought she would never have to answer for what she did there?” Simao asked. Before Lurcanio could answer, the Lagoan went on, “And, of course, there were the massacres of Kaunians from Forthweg-and other Kaunians from Valmiera and Jelgava-when you aimed your sorcery across the Strait of Valmiera at my island.”
“I know nothing of any of that,” Lurcanio said, which was a lie he thought he could get away with. He really didn’t know much about such things. He also hadn’t gone out of his way to find out. Better not to ask where groups of people pulled out of gaols were going.
Major Simao scribbled something on a leaf of paper. “I have noted your objection,” he said. “You will be notified as to whether it is heeded.”
“How?” Lurcanio asked. “Will you drag me out of here and haul me off to Valmiera?”
“Probably,” the Lagoan answered. “You are dismissed.”
As Lurcanio left the makeshift office in the captives’ camp, another worried-looking Algarvian officer went in. I wonder what he did during the war, Lurcanio thought. I wonder how much he’ll have to pay for it. We had our revenge on our enemies-and now they’re having theirs on us.
He mooched around the camp. More often than not, time hung heavy here. Even the interview, however unpleasant, had broken routine. He could look up to the sky of his kingdom, but more than a palisade separated him and his fellow captives from the rest of Algarve. Outside the camp, his countrymen had begun to rebuild. Here. .
Lurcanio shook his head. Rebuilding would come here last. Memory and misery reigned here, nothing else. Algarvian soldiers walked as aimlessly as Lurcanio did himself. For close to six years, they’d done everything they could do, and what had it got them? Nothing. Less than nothing. They’d had a thriving kingdom before the war. Now Algarve lay in ruins, and all her neighbors despised her.
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