Out of the Darkness

“You flatter me,” he told his senior wife. “Ministers from great kingdoms write their memoirs. Ministers from small kingdoms read them to find out how little other people remember of what they said.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit,” Kolthoum said.

“There are more problems than you think,” Hajjaj said. “What language should I use, for instance? If I write in Zuwayzi, no one outside this kingdom will ever see the book. If I use Algarvian. . Well, Algarvian is a stench in everyone’s nostrils except in Algarve, and people there have more urgent things to worry about than what an old black man who wears no clothes has to say. And I’m so slow composing in classical Kaunian, the book would probably never get finished. I can write it, certainly-one has to-but it’s less natural to me than either of the other tongues.”

“I notice you don’t mention Unkerlanter,” Kolthoum remarked.

Hajjaj answered that with a grunt. Like anyone else who’d grown up back in the days when Zuwayza was part of Unkerlant, he’d learned some of the tongue of his kingdom’s enormous southern neighbor. He’d taken patriotic pride in forgetting as much of it as he could since. He still spoke a bit, but he wouldn’t have cared to try to write it. And even if he had, hardly anyone east of Swemmel’s kingdom understood its tongue.

But none of that was to the point. The point was that he wouldn’t have used Unkerlanter to save his life. Kolthoum knew as much, too.

Tewfik walked into the chamber where Hajjaj and his senior wife were talking. With a short, stiff bow, the ancient majordomo said, “Your Excellency, you have a visitor: Minister Horthy of Gyongyos has come up from Bishah to speak with you-if you’d be so kind as to give him a few minutes, he says.”

Horthy didn’t speak Zuwayzi. Tewfik didn’t speak Gyongyosian-or a lot of classical Kaunian, either. The Gyongyosian minister to Zuwayza must have had some work to do, getting his message across. But that was beside the point. Hajjaj said, “Why would he want to speak to me? I’m in retirement.”

“You may leave affairs behind, young fellow, but affairs will take longer to leave you behind,” Tewfik said. That young fellow never failed to amuse Hajjaj; only to Tewfik did he seem young these days. The majordomo went on, “Or shall I send him back down to the city?”

“No, no-that would be frightfully rude.” Hajjaj’s knees creaked as he got to his feet. “I’ll see him in the library. Let me find a robe or some such thing to throw on so I don’t offend him. Bring him tea and wine and cakes-let him refresh himself while he’s waiting for me.”

Unlike most Zuwayzin, Hajjaj kept clothes in his house. He dealt with too many foreigners to be able to avoid it. He threw on a light linen robe and went to the library to greet his guest. Gyongyos was far enough away for the political implications of kilt or trousers not to matter much.

When Hajjaj entered the library, Horthy was leafing through a volume of poetry from the days of the Kaunian Empire. He was a big, burly man, his tawny beard and long hair streaked with gray. He closed the book and bowed to Hajjaj. “A pleasure to see you, your Excellency,” he said in musically accented classical Kaunian. “May the stars shine upon your spirit.”

“Er, thank you,” Hajjaj replied in the same language. The Gyongyosians had strange notions about the power of the stars. “How may I serve you, sir?”

Horthy shook his head, which made him look like a puzzled lion. “You do not serve me. I come to beg the boon of your conversation, of your wisdom.” He sipped at the wine Tewfik had given him. “Already you have gone to too much trouble. The wine is of grapes, not of the-dates, is that the word? — you would usually use, and you have taken the time to garb yourself. This is your home, your Excellency; if I come here, I understand your continuing your own usages.”

“I am also fond of grape wine, and the robe is light.” Hajjaj waved to the cushions piled on the carpeted floor. “Sit. Drink as much as you care to, of wine or tea. Eat of my cakes. When you are refreshed, I will do for you whatever I can.”

“You are generous to a foreigner,” Horthy said. Hajjaj sat and used pillows to make himself comfortable. Rather awkwardly, Horthy imitated him. The Gyongyosian minister ate several cakes and drank a good deal of wine.

Only after Horthy paused did Hajjaj ask, “And now, your Excellency, what brings you up into the hills on such a hot day?” As host, he was the one with the right to choose when to get down to business.

“I wish to speak to you concerning the course of this war, and concerning possible endings for it,” Horthy said.

“Are you sure I am the man with whom you should be discussing these things?” Hajjaj asked. “I am retired, and have no interest in emerging from retirement. My successor would be able to serve you better, if you need his help in any official capacity.”