Jaws of Darkness d-5

by Harry Turtledove

  The wagon rattled east out of Pewsum. The trees-the ones still standing after the fighting in winter and spring-were in full leaf. Men and behemoths sheltered under the cover of those leaves. So long as day stayed in the sky, they didn’t move. Men and behemoths sheltered under trees and in barns and huts and under mats that looked like grass for many miles back of the line of battle. When night came, they moved forward from one place of concealment to the next.

  “This is all very good,” Rathar said to the colonel commanding a brigade at the front line. “The redheads still don’t seem to realize just how much we’ve built things up here.”

  “They will.” Anticipation was naked and hungry inGeneralGurmun ’s voice. “Before very long, by the powers above, we’ll show them.”

  Worry in his voice, the colonel said, “The brigade opposite me has a good commander. Spinello, his name is. He’s always active. You never can tell what he’ll do next.”

  “Are you worried about a spoiling attack?” Rathar asked.

  Gurmun’s laugh was hungry, too. “It’d be a sorry-looking attack after it tried biting down on everything we’ve got in the neighborhood.”

  “Oh, we’d beat the bastards back-I’m not worried about that,” the colonel said. “I’m more afraid he’ll try raiding along my front and learn from the captives he takes that we’re a lot stronger than he thinks right now.”

  MarshalRatharnodded. That was a sensible worry to have. A lot of Unkerlanter officers wouldn’t have fretted about such things. This fellow was someone to watch. Rathar said, “The best way to keep anything like that from happening is to make sure only the regiments the redheads already know about are in the forwardmost positions. That way, they won’t take captives from any units they’d expect to find somewhere else.”

  “Aye, Marshal. I’ll see to it,” the colonel said earnestly.

  “Good.” Rathar glanced over to Gurmun, and wasn’t unduly surprised to find Gurmun eyeing him. He spoke one more word: “Soon.” The commander of behemoths nodded.

  Muttering under his breath, Hajjaj buttoned his Algarvian-style tunic. Just putting on the garment made sweat pour from him. At this season of the year in Bishah, the sun stood as close to straight overhead as made no difference. He would have been hot nude but for sandals and a hat. Muffled in tunic and kilt, he felt as if he were stifling. “The things I do for Zuwayza,” he said.

  Qutuz-who, being but a secretary, could remain comfortably unclothed-came in and announced, “The Algarvian minister is here to see you, your Excellency.”

  “Send him in,” Hajjaj answered.

  “Shall I bring tea and wine and cakes?” Qutuz asked.

  Hajjaj had used his kingdom’s rules of hospitality to delay discussion with Marquis Balastro a good many times. Today, though, he shook his head. “No, by the powers above,” he said. “The sooner I am out of this cloth bake oven, the happier I shall be.”

  “As you say.” Qutuz sounded as if he disapproved. Technically speaking, the secretary was right to disapprove. Hajjaj didn’t care about technicalities. As foreign minister, he could ignore them if he so chose-and, every so often, he did so choose. Not quite shaking his head, Qutuz went out to bring the Algarvian minister into Hajjaj’s office.

  By the way Marquis Balastro strode in, it might have been three years before. Algarve might have been invincible, unstoppable, leaping from one triumph to another in the east of Derlavai and about to embark on the campaign that would surely bring Unkerlant to heel. Balastro’s stride hadn’t changed in those three years. The world? The world had.

  After polite bows and handclasps and professions of mutual esteem, Balastro plopped himself down on the carpet and made himself at home with a mound of cushions. He adapted to Zuwayzi customs more readily than most foreigners. This once, Hajjaj wouldn’t have minded his coming to call without his clothes, even if that meant having to stare at his pale skin and his circumcision.

  Balastro was no fool. He noted the absence of the ritual food and drink, and drew the proper conclusion from it: “You must be suffocating in your clothes.”

  “I am,” Hajjaj admitted.

  “Well, let’s get down to business, then, Your Excellency,” Balastro said. “What’s on your mind?”

  “His Majesty, KingShazli, asked me to invite you here to get Algarve’s view of the present situation in light of recent developments,” Hajjaj replied.

  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 arenot. 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 fromGeneralIkhshid ’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 attache, too,” Balastro said-aye, he might have been humoring a child.

  Icould 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. “MinisterIskakis’ 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 dul
l 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. “KingTsavellas isn’t going to run off and embraceKingSwemmel 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 whereyour 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 thatKingMezentio isn’t going to lose any sleep over it, either. I would adviseyou 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 itwas 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 toKingShazli ’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, KingShazli 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 proofKingSwemmel 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 fromMinisterIskakis, 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.”KingShazli 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

  WhenColonelSpinello 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. Imight, 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, “Howare 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?”