Through the Darkness

By which he surely meant he had instructions from Trapani to let Hajjaj know. The Zuwayzi foreign minister said, “I shall consult with my own kingdom’s mages. Depending on what they say, I may or may not have more questions for you.”

“All right, your Excellency.” Balastro got up from the nest of cushions he’d made for himself on the floor of Hajjaj’s office. Hajjaj rose, too. They exchanged bows. Balastro went on, “I’ve come to tell you what I had to tell you, so now I’ll be on my way.” He bowed again and left.

He hadn’t come to talk about the military situation or the politics that sprang from it. He’d come to talk about this Lagoan or Kuusaman magecraft, whatever it was. Isn‘t that interesting? Hajjaj thought. If Balastro had some ulterior motive, he was putting a lot of art and effort into keeping it hidden.

Before Hajjaj could do more than scrawl a note to himself to check with some leading Zuwayzi mages, Qutuz came into his office. His secretary, for once, looked quite humanly astonished. “Well?” Hajjaj said. “Whatever it is, you’d better tell me.”

“I just had delivered to me a letter from Hadadezer of Ortah, requesting a few minutes of your time this afternoon,” Qutuz replied.

“That is something out of the ordinary,” Hajjaj agreed. “Of course I will see the Ortaho minister. How else am I to satisfy my own curiosity? Hadadezer has been minister to Zuwayza for twenty years, and I am not sure I have seen him twenty times in all those years. And I can count the times he has sought an audience on the fingers of one hand.”

“Some kingdoms are lucky in their geography,” Qutuz observed, to which Hajjaj could only nod. Ortah lay between Algarve and Unkerlant, but its mountains and the swamps surrounding them had always made it impossible to invade and overrun. Thanks to them, the Ortahoin had dwelt there undisturbed since before the days of the Kaunian Empire.

Hadadezer came at precisely the appointed hour. He had a white beard that rode high on his cheeks and white hair that came down low on his forehead. Some folk wondered if the Ortahoin were kin to the Ice People. Ethnography, though, would have to wait. After a polite exchange of greetings, Hajjaj spoke in Algarvian: “How may I serve you, your Excellency?”

“I would ask a question,” Hadadezer answered in the same language. Hajjaj nodded. The Ortaho said, “My sovereign, King Ahinadab, sees war all around him. With Algarve in retreat, he sees war coming toward him. It is a very great war. We have not got much skill in diplomacy. For long and long, we have had no need of such. Now .. . How do we keep the flames of war from setting our homeland ablaze? You are a most able diplomatist. Perhaps you will be able to tell me.”

“Oh, my dear fellow!” Hajjaj exclaimed. “Oh, my dear, dear fellow! If I knew the answer, I would tell my own king first, and after that would gladly share what I knew with you--and with the whole world. You’ve stayed neutral so far. Perhaps you can keep it up. And if not... if not, your Excellency, be as strong as you can, for strength will let you save more than pity ever would.”

Hadadezer bowed. “That is good advice. I shall convey it to King Ahinadab.” He paused and sighed. “Do not be offended, but I wish you had something better still to offer.”

“Offended? Not I, sir,” Hajjaj replied. “I wish I did, too.”

Leudast had seen the Algarvians running strong, like the floods that sent rivers out of their banks. They’d rolled west across Unkerlant two summers in a row. He’d seen them in stubborn defense, damming up the counterflow of Swemmel’s men the winter before.

Now, here in Sulingen, he saw them in despair. They had to know they were doomed. A man hardly needed the acumen of Marshal Rathar to see they were trapped. Their comrades farther north had tried to reach them, tried and failed. The redheads in Sulingen had tried to break out, tried and failed. Algarvians dragons had tried to bring them the supplies they needed, tried and failed. No real hope remained for them.

Yet they fought on. And they still fought as only Algarvians seemed to know how to fight. Every one of Mezentio’s troopers had his own all but invisible hiding place. Every one of them had comrades sited so they could get in a good blaze at anybody who attacked him. When they died, they died very hard.

But die they did. Leudast stirred a corpse with his foot. The Algarvian, his coppery whiskers all awry, had the look of a scrawny red fox that had been torn by a wolf. “Tough whoresons,” Leudast remarked. The admiration in his voice was grudging, but it was real.

“Aye, they are.” Young Lieutenant Recared spoke with more wonder than admiration. “When we trained, they said the Algarvians weren’t so much.” He shook his head. “I can’t imagine why they told us that.”