Darkness Descending

by Harry Turtledove

  He led the wing back to the latest temporary dragon farm, which lay at the edge of a good-sized estate a little east of Sommerda. The manor at the heart of the estate hadn’t suffered; the Algarvians had taken it by surprise, overrunning the area before King SwemmePs men could decide to use it for a strongpoint. They’d fought hard in Sommerda itself. Spiraling down toward the farm, Sabrino could see how his own countrymen had had to level half the town before finally clearing it of the stubborn Unkerlanter defenders.

  On the ground, he was glad to let the handlers tend to his dragon. The beast liked them better than him, anyhow; he worked it hard, while they gave it the meat and brimstone and quicksilver it craved. It liked no one very much, though. Sabrino knew dragons too well to have any doubts on that score.

  He ate hastily roasted mutton himself, along with hard bread, olives, and a nasty white wine the cooks who ran the field kitchen should never have bothered stealing. “Too sweet and too sour at the same time,” he said, staring at his cup in dismay. “Tastes like a diabetic’s piss.”

  “If you say so, sir,” Captain Domiziano said innocently. “Myself, I wouldn’t know.” Sabrino made as if to throw the mug at him. He almost did it for real; it wouldn’t have been a waste of the wine. But he was laughing even as he reared back, and so were the officers who ate with him.

  “Hello!” Captain Orosio pointed toward the manor house. “Looks like the old boy in there has finally decided to come out and see what we’re up to.”

  Sure enough, an elderly Unkerlanter approached the dragonfliers. Sabrino had ordered the manor house and whoever lived in it left alone, except for taking what he needed from the flocks to keep men and dragons fed. Until now, the Unkerlanter noble--for such Sabrino assumed him to be--had also ignored the Algarvians.

  He was straight and spry and, for an Unkerlanter, tall. He wore a bushy white mustache, a style outmoded in his clean-shaven kingdom since the middle of the century, the days before the Six Years’ War. And he proved to speak excellent Algarvian, saying, “I never expected to see your folk come so far into my land.”

  Sabrino got to his feet and bowed. “Here we are, sir, nonetheless. I have the honor to be the Count Sabrino; very much at your service.” He bowed again.

  A small, bitter smile crossed the Unkerlanter’s face as he returned the second bow. “In my younger days, I had some considerable experience with Algarvians,” he said. “I see the breed has changed little during my retirement.”

  “And you are, sir?” Sabrino asked politely.

  “I doubt my name would mean anything to you, young fellow,” the Unkerlanter replied, though Sabrino was not so young as all that. “I am called Chlodvald.”

  Not only Sabrino but some of his officers exclaimed at that. “Powers above!” the wing commander said. “If you are that Chlodvald, your Excellency”--and he had no doubt the old man was--”you were the best general your kingdom had during the Six Years’ War.”

  “You compliment me too highly. I had good fortune,” Chlodvald said with a shrug. In his place, an Algarvian would have preened and boasted.

  “Will you give us the privilege of dining with us?” Sabrino asked. Several of the junior officers added eager agreement.

  Chlodvald raised an eyebrow. “Generous of you to offer to share with me what is mine.”

  “Sir, it is war,” Sabrino said stiffly. “Did you never feast from the fruits of victory?”

  “There you have me,” the retired general admitted, and sat down among the dragonfliers. His kingdom’s enemies fell over one another to give him food and drink. When he tasted the wine, that eyebrow rose again. “This did not come from my cellars.”

  “Your Excellency, with all my heart I should hope not,” Sabrino said. After Chlodvald had eaten and drunk, the wing commander asked him, “How is it that you live quietly here, sir, and are not engaged in helping Unkerlant against us?”

  “Oh, I have lived quietly here a good many years, and I did not expect King Swemmel to call me into his service even when war broke out anew,” Chlodvald replied. “You may not recall, but I fought for Kyot in the Twinkings War.”

  “Ah,” Sabrino whispered.

  Captain Orosio blurted what was in Sabrino’s mind: “Then how come you’re not dead?”

  Chlodvald smiled that bitter smile again. “King Swemmel didn’t spare many. I’d known both the young princes well back in Cottbus, of course, before their father died and they went at each other. Maybe that had something to do with it. I don’t know; he slew others he knew as well as me. But he said he was letting me live because of my earlier service to Unkerlant, which partly excused my madness. Anyone who opposed him was and is in his mind mad.”

  “What is in himself, he sees in others,” Sabrino said. Chlodvald did not disagree.

  Captain Domiziano said, “Algarve is the broom that will sweep him away. King Mezentio will arrange this kingdom as it should be.”

  For the third time, the strange smile appeared on Chlodvald s face. “If only you had come twenty years ago, we should have welcomed you with open arms. But now it’s too late. We were just getting back on our feet after the Six Years’ War and the Twinkings War, and now you come and throw us back so we shall have to start all over again. Now we are fighting for Unkerlant, and in that cause we are all united.”

  Sabrino eyed his officers. They all looked amused, as he felt amused. Politely inclining his head to Chlodvald, he said, “Your Excellency, Unkerlant may be united, but we would not be here by Sommerda were that doing King Swemmel any enormous amount of good.”

  “Perhaps not,” the retired--forcibly retired--Unkerlanter general replied. “But then again, while you are winning, you have not yet won. Tell me: has the fight been easy for you?”

  Sabrino started to nod. In some ways, the fight had been very easy. The Unkerlanters weren’t skilled, either in the air or on the ground. They blundered into traps that would have fooled no Valmieran or Jelgavan officer. Sometimes, though, they battered their way out of those traps, too, as the Valmierans or Jelgavans would not have even tried to do. They fought hard all the time; if they were doomed to defeat, they did not admit it even to themselves.

  “You have not answered me, Count Sabrino,” Chlodvald said.

  “Easy enough,” Sabrino said, and tossed an egg of his own: “How is it that all of Unkerlant’s neighbors have joined against her? That speaks volumes about how well King Swemmel is loved throughout Derlavai.”

  “All of Algarve’s neighbors joined against her, too,” Chlodvald observed. “And what does that say about King Mezentio?”

  “Yanina marches with us!” Captain Domiziano blurted.

  Chlodvald raised his snowy eyebrow and said not another word. After a moment, Domiziano turned red. Sabrino had all he could do not to laugh at his squadron leader. He still wasn’t sure having the Yaninans as allies helped Algarve more than it helped Unkerlant.

  Chlodvald got to his feet. Rather stiffly, he nodded to Sabrino. “You Algarvians were a polished lot when you fought us in the Six Years’ War. I see that has not changed. But I will take the liberty of telling you one thing more before I leave you: Unkerlant is a kingdom--Unkerlant is a land--that rubs the polish from invaders no less than from its own folk. Good night.” He turned away.

  “Good night,” Sabrino called after him. “We may not meet again: before long, we shall be advancing once more.”

  Chlodvald did not reply; Sabrino wondered if the old man heard. He watched Chlodvald walk through deepening twilight back toward the manor house and go inside. No lamps showed at the windows; the Unkerlanter general was too courteous to try to betray his foes in such a way. Even so, Unkerlanter dragons came over that night, dropping eggs all around the Algarvian dragon farm. They killed only a couple of dragons and no fliers, but their stubbornness made Sabrino thoughtful.

  Lalla stamped her foot. The angry gesture set her bare breasts bouncing prettily. “But I already ordered that emerald necklace!” she said. “What do you
mean, I can’t have it? The jeweler will deliver it soon.”

  “No, he won’t,” Hajjaj said wearily. “As for you can’t,’ my dear, don’t you speak Zuwayzi? I told you before you went and ordered it that you might not have it, for it cost too much. If you ignore my instructions, you must expect me to ignore your desires. I have had too many of these scenes with you.”

  His third wife set her hands on her hips. “Old man, you have been ignoring my desires since our wedding night. You might expect me to minister to the pleasure of your body, but you will not even let me adorn mine. Please?” She went from vicious to cajoling in the space of a couple of sentences.

  Hajjaj eyed her body. It was well worth adorning: broad-hipped, wasp-waisted, full-breasted. He’d wed her in the hope of sensual pleasure, and he’d had more than a little from her. But he’d also had more than a little--too much more than a little--aggravation from her. Because she pleased him in the bedchamber, she’d grown convinced he was assotted of her and would grant her every wish, no matter how extravagant. Anyone who had such ideas about the Zuwayzi foreign minister knew him less well than she imagined.

  With a sigh, he said, “I am an old man. Whether you grasp it or not, however, I am not necessarily a fool. If I were a fool, I would let you buy that necklace even after I told you not to do it. Instead, I shall send you back to the head of your clan. You may see how well you cajole him.”

  Lalla stared, realizing too late that she’d gone too far. “Have mercy, my lord, my husband!” she cried, and threw herself down on her knees before him, beseeching and inviting him at the same time. “Have mercy, I beg!”

  “I have shown you too much mercy--and too much cash,” Hajjaj replied. “I shall pay out your divorcee’s allowance till you remarry--if you do. If you want more than that, you may either earn it or pry it loose from your clan chief. Since custom and law forbid him from touching you, you will have fewer inducements than you did with me.”

  “You wicked old scorpion!” Lalla cried. “I curse you! I curse the powers above for setting me in your hands! I--”

  She scrambled to her feet, snatched a vase from a wall niche, and threw it at Hajjaj. Rage made her aim poor; he didn’t even have to duck. The vase shattered against the wall behind him. The crash brought servants running to see what had happened. “Do escort her away,” Hajjaj said, “and make everything ready to return her to the house of her clan head.”

  “Aye, lord,” the servants said. By the way they smiled, they’d hoped for that order for some time. Lalla saw as much, too. She cursed them and then kicked one of them. They escorted her away much less gently than they might have otherwise.

  Tewfik made his slow way into the chamber. He bowed as well as age and decrepitude allowed, then said, “My lord, Marquis Balastro of Algarve awaits without. He craves audience with you.”

  “By all means, Tewfik, let him in.” Hajjaj s joints clicked as he stretched; he knocked one of the pillows on the floor aside with his foot. “I suppose you have a kilt and tunic waiting for me somewhere. Gauzy ones, I hope.”

  The longtime family retainer coughed. “Mufflings will not be necessary today, sir, the count having chosen to affect the habiliments of Zuwayza: hat--an Algarvian hat, but the brim is wide enough--sandals, and only himself between.”

  “And he’s waiting outside, you said? Powers above, he’ll bake! He’s light-skinned and not hardened against the sun.” Hajjaj hurried toward the entrance-way. He was not so nimble as he once had been, but still easily outdistanced Tewfik.

  From behind him, the majordomo called, “A suggestion, my lord.”

  As usual, Tewfik’s suggestions had the force of commands. “And that is?” Hajjaj asked over his shoulder.

  “Until the wench Lalla returns to her clan head’s house, she ought not to be alone, lest valuables of this house go thither with her,” Tewfik told him.

  Till that moment, Lalla had been junior wife in Tewfik’s mouth and used as respectfully as either of the wives senior to her. Hajjaj wondered whether the majordomo was finally expressing his own opinion or echoing what he presumed to be his master’s. Then he wondered if Tewfik saw any difference between those two. Either way, he gave good advice. “Aye, see to it,” Hajjaj said.

  “As you say,” Tewfik replied, though he’d done the saying. “I presume you will entertain the Algarvian minister in the library?” He did not bother waiting for an answer to that, but continued, “I shall have tea and cakes and wine sent there directly.”

  “I thank you,” Hajjaj said, still over his shoulder. Almost to the entranceway, he paused. “Algarvian vintages for the minister, not date wine.”

  “Of course.” Tewfik sounded offended that his master should judge he needed reminding.

  Hajjaj threw open the strong-barred door--like many clan centers, his home could double as a fortress. Sure enough, there stood Balastro, bare and pale and sweating in the sun. With a jaunty gesture, he swept off his hat and bowed. “I am pleased to see you, your Excellency,” he said.

  “I am pleased to see you at least had the sense to travel here in a closed and covered coach,” Hajjaj said. “Come inside, before my cooks decide you’re done and put you on a serving platter.”

  “You follow my customs when you call on me at the ministry,” Balastro said. He did sigh with relief when he stepped into the shade; the thick mud-brick walls fought the heat as well as anything could. “I thought it the least I could do to follow yours while visiting you.”

  “Aye, you’ve been known to do it before,” Hajjaj agreed. “You are the only diplomat who ever does--Algarvian panache, I daresay. But truly, your Excellency, you are not equipped with a hide of the proper color . . . and yours will turn several improper colors if you stay out too long.” He could not quite take Balastro’s nudity for granted, as he did nudity among his own people. Not only was Balastro the wrong color, as Hajjaj had said, but he also displayed the distinctive Algarvian mutilation. Hajjaj’s eyes kept coming back to it; it made the redhead look deformed. To cover his queasy fascination, the Zuwayzi foreign minister added, “All your hide.”

  “Ah.” Balastro took the point. “Can’t have him sunburned, can we? He’s got better things to do.”

  He followed Zuwayzi custom in the library, talking about books with Hajjaj instead of coming straight to his real business. He did not read Zuwayzi, but was as apt to choose a classical Kaunian title as one written in Algarvian. He seemed to have as much regard for Kaunians of imperial day as his kingdom had little for modern ones. That puzzled Hajjaj, who longed to ask him about it, but could not: it was too serious to discuss before the rituals of hospitality were completed.

  No sooner had Balastro sunk to the cushions tJian serving wenches brought in die inevitable refreshments. As part of his perfect care for his master’s guest, Tewfik had chosen a couple of the prettiest women to wait upon Balastro and Hajjaj. They eyed the Algarvian minister with no small curiosity, and looked to be fighting giggles, perhaps because of his race, perhaps because of the ritual of manhood he’d endured.

  He eyed them, too, with interest that soon became visible. That made them giggle more. After they’d left the room, he asked Hajjaj, “Powers above, your Excellency, how do you keep from, ah, rising to die occasion whenever you see a comely wrench?”

  “I am old,” Hajjaj answered, remembering Lalla’s taunt.

  Balastro sipped wine. “Not so old as that, and you know it cursed well.”

  Hajjaj inclined his head; the Algarvian was right. “If you see something often enough, it loses its power to excite.”

  “I suppose that’s so,” Balastro said. “Seems a pity, though.” He nibbled at a cake. “These are the nuts called cashews, aren’t they? Tastier than walnuts and almonds, I think.”

  “Generous of you to say so,” Hajjaj replied. “Not many of your countrymen would agree. I think you are right, but I grew up with cashews.” He chuckled. “Of course, I grew up with date wine, too, but I know better than to serve you that.�
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  Balastro’s fastidious shudder could have played on the stage. “For which mercy, your Excellency, I thank you.”

  Presently, with tea and wine drunk and cakes diminished, with books and nudity talked dry, Hajjaj could with propriety inquire, “And what brings you up into the hills today, sir?”

  “Past the desire for good wine and good company, you mean?” Balastro asked, and Hajjaj nodded. The Algarvian minister answered, “I was hoping we might get more aid from you 2’uwayzin for the assault on Glogau than we’ve had thus far.”

  Hajjaj frowned. “And you come to me for this? Surely it is a matter for your military attache to work out with his Majesty’s officers down in Bishah.”

  Now Balastro looked annoyed, a genuine expression rather than the play-acting he’d used before. “I pray you for both our sakes, your Excellency, do not be disingenuous with me. You must know that your officers have dissembled and delayed and done their best to keep from answering aye or nay. This reluctance must spring from the king or from the foreign ministry: from you, in other words, in either case.”

  “If you think I lead King Shazli around by the nose, I must tell you that you are very much mistaken,’’ Hajjaj said.

  “Aye, you must tell it to me, for your honor’s sake and your sovereign’s, but must I believe it?” the Algarvian minister to Zuwayza returned: a toss with a good deal of justice in it. “Let us here--merely for the sake of argument, if you like--imagine that you are the author of your kingdom’s treatings with its neighbors.”

  “For the sake of argument, as you say.” Hajjaj steepled his fingers and fought against a smile. He liked Balastro, which made the fight harder. “I might say, in that case, that Zuwayza, by now, has avenged herself in full against Unkerlant--in full and more. Glogau has never been ours; few if any Zuwayzin dwell there, or ever have.”

  “Zuwayza is our ally, and needs must aid our cause,” Balastro said.

  Hajjaj shook his head. “No, your Excellency. Zuwayza is your cobelligerent. We war against Unkerlant for our own reasons, not yours. And, since this discussion is hypothetical, I might add that the vengeance you are wreaking on your neighbors leaves me somewhat relieved not to be one.”