Out of the Darkness

“No.” Horthy’s voice was sharp. “For one thing, my being here is in no way official. For another, with due respect to your successor, you are the man who knows things.”

“You honor me beyond my deserts,” Hajjaj said, though what he felt was a certain amount-perhaps more than a certain amount-of vindication.

“No,” Horthy repeated. “I know why you resigned. It does you honor. A man should not abandon his friends, but should stand by them even in adversity- especially in adversity.”

Hajjaj shrugged. “I did what I thought right. My king did what he thought right.”

“You did what you thought right. Your king did what he thought expedient,” Horthy said. “I know which I prefer. Therefore, I come to you. The Kuusamans have threatened us with some new and titanically destructive sorcery. Unkerlant masses men against us. How may we escape with honor?”

“Do you believe the threat?” Hajjaj asked.

“Ekrekek Arpad does not, so Gyongyos does not,” Horthy replied. “But there has been so much dreadful magic in this war, more would not surprise me. I speak unofficially, of course.”

“Of course,” Hajjaj echoed.

“Do you know-have you heard-anything that would lead you to believe the Kuusamans either lie or speak the truth?” the Gyongyosian minister asked.

“No, your Excellency. Whatever this magic may be-if, in fact, it is anything at all-I cannot tell you.”

“What of Unkerlant?”

“You already know that. You are the last foe still in the field against King Swemmel. He loves you not. He will punish you if he can. The time has come that he thinks he can.”

Horthy’s broad, heavy-featured face soured into a frown. “If he should think that, he may find himself surprised.”

“So he may,” Hajjaj agreed politely. “Still, your Excellency, if you thought your own kingdom’s victory certain, you would not have come here to me, would you?

He wondered if he’d phrased that carefully enough. Gyongyosians were not only touchy-which bothered Hajjaj not at all, coming as he did from a touchy folk himself-but touchy in ways Zuwayzin found odd and unpredictable. Horthy muttered something in his own language, down deep in his chest. Then he returned to classical Kaunian: “There is, I fear, too much truth in what you say. Can Gyongyos rely on your kingdom’s good offices in negotiating a peace with our enemies?”

“You understand, sir, that I cannot answer in any official sense,” Hajjaj said. “Were I still part of his Majesty’s government, I would do everything I could toward that end: of that you may be certain. You might have done better to consult with my successor, who can speak for King Shazli. I cannot.”

“Your successor would have asked me about what Gyongyos proposes to yield,” Horthy growled. “Gyongyos does not propose to yield anything.”

“My dear sir!” Hajjaj said. “If you will yield nothing, how do you propose to negotiate a peace?”

“We might discover that we had previously misunderstood treaties pertaining to borders and such,” the Gyongyosian minister replied. “But we are, we have always been, a warrior race. Warriors do not yield.”

“I … see,” Hajjaj said slowly. And part of him did. Every man, every kingdom, needed to salve pride now and again. The Gongs found odd ways to do it, though. Professing a misunderstanding was one way not to have to admit they were beaten. Whether it would do to end the Derlavaian War. . “Would Kuusamo and Lagoas and Unkerlant-especially Unkerlant-understand your meaning?”

“Your own excellent officials might help to make them understand,” Horthy said.

“I see,” Hajjaj said again. “Well, obviously, I can promise nothing. But you are welcome to tell anyone still in the government that I believe finding a ley line to peace is desirable. Anyone who wishes may ask me on this score.”

Horthy inclined his leonine head. “I thank you, your Excellency. This is the reassurance I have been seeking.”

He left not much later. As the sun sank in the west and the day’s scorching heat at last began to ease, Hajjaj’s crystallomancer told him General Ikhshid wished to speak with him. Perhaps because they were much of an age, Ikhshid had stayed in closer touch with Hajjaj than had anyone else down in Bishah. Now the white-haired officer peered out of the crystal at him and said, “It won’t work.”

“What won’t?” Hajjaj inquired.

“Horthy’s scheme,” Ikhshid replied. “It won’t fly. The Gongs aren’t going to be able to get away with saying, ‘Sorry, it was all a mistake.’ They’re going to have to say, ‘You’ve beaten us. We give up.’“

“And if they won’t?” Hajjaj said.

Ikhshid’s face was plump, and most of the time jolly. Now he looked thoroughly grim. “If they won’t, my best guess is they’re going to be very, very sorry.”