“It’s not on the point of falling now,” Ansovald growled. “By this time next year, Trapani will be on the point of falling to our brave Unkerlanter soldiers. You and your chief who calls himself a king had best bear it in mind and behave yourselves accordingly.”
With dignity undamaged by creaking knees, Hajjaj got to his feet. Bowing to Ansovald, he said, “I had hoped to be dealing with a reasonable man.” Since the Unkerlanter came as King Swemmel’s envoy, that was probably optimistic, but he had hoped. He went on, “If you truly believe what you just told me, I can only conclude some malignant mage has stolen your wits.”
“King Mezentio’s armies are falling to pieces on the snow-covered plains of Unkerlant,” Ansovald insisted.
“We shall see,” Hajjaj said politely. “But I cannot tell you that I believe you are right, and I cannot see much point to any further discussions between us so long as we differ so widely.” He bowed again. “Your safe-conduct will carry you back through our lines to your own kingdom.” As a parting jab, he added, “You must remember, though, that it will not protect you from any Algarvian soldiers you may meet on your way back to Cottbus.”
Ansovald gave him a dirty look. It was also, Hajjaj judged, an alarmed look; Ansovald knew where the lines ran. Gruffly, the Unkerlanter put the best face on it he could: “Less snow up here than in the rest of the kingdom. But we’ll root the whoresons out of these parts, too; see if we don’t.”
“Good day, sir,” Hajjaj said, and left Ansovald’s chamber. He thought Ansovald said something after he closed the door but didn’t bother going back to find out; the Unkerlanter sounded unhappy with the world.
Sighing, Hajjaj went downstairs and out of the hostel. He was unhappy with the world, too. Zuwayza wouldn’t be able to get out of the Derlavaian War so easily as he’d hoped. He sighed once more. That, all too often, was the way things worked: easier to get into trouble of any sort than to get free of it afterwards.
He made his way back to the ley-line caravan depot. Lying on a ley line was Jurdhan’s reason for being. The next northbound caravan wouldn’t be heading back to Bishah for several hours. He didn’t have a special caravan laid on; the Algarvians might have noticed, and he--and his king--didn’t want them to find out he’d been talking with the Unkerlanters. The redheads would seek to become even more overbearing allies than they were already.
He wished Zuwayza could have gone on without any allies at all. Then he sighed one more time. That wasn’t the way things worked, worse luck.
Along with the rest of the Lagoan force on the austral continent, Fernao trudged west toward Heshbon, the easternmost colony the Yaninans had carved out for themselves on the northern coast of the land of the Ice People. He’d visited Heshbon before, after spiriting King Penda of Forthweg out of Yanina. He would willingly--eagerly--have forgone visiting the place again, but nobody’d asked his opinion.
“Well, you were right about one thing,” Affonso said as the two mages kicked their way through the snow.
Fernao eyed his colleague and tentmate. “I’m right about any number of things,” he said with a sorcerer’s almost unconscious arrogance. “Which one have you got in mind?”
“I wouldn’t eat camel meat if I had any choice,” Affonso answered, “and neither would anyone else in his right mind.”
“The Ice People like it.” Fernao paused meditatively. “Of course, that proves your point, doesn’t it?”
“Aye.” The younger mage’s sigh sent a foggy cloud out in front of him. “Cinnabar.” He made the word into a curse. “No one would ever come here if it weren’t for that. I wish I never had, I’ll tell you that.”
“There are furs, too,” Fernao said, as the Lagoans did whenever discussions of why anyone bothered coming to the land of the Ice People began. Affonso proceeded to tell him, in great detail, what he could do with the austral continent’s furs. His argument made up in intensity what it lacked in coherence. Fernao laughed loud and long.
After Affonso regained some of his temper, he said, “Do you suppose the Yaninans will come out and fight us this side of Heshbon?”
“Trying to figure out what the Yaninans will do is always foolish because half the time they don’t know themselves till they do it,” Fernao answered. That was how Lagoans usually thought of Yaninans. Having been in Patras, the capital of Yanina, Fernao understood how much truth the cliche held.
“Can they hire enough Ice People to give us a hard time?” Affonso asked.
That was a better question, and one with a less certain answer. Fernao only shrugged and kept walking. The idea worried him. By what he’d seen in Heshbon, King Tsavellas’ men hadn’t gone out of the way to endear themselves to the natives of the austral continent. On the other hand, gold could be endearing all by itself. And the Yaninans hadn’t had much luck attacking the Lagoan army on their own.
Two evenings later, just as the Lagoans were making camp, half a dozen Ice People rode up to them on camels plainly a cut above the common stock. One of them proved to speak Yaninan. Not many Lagoans did, so Lieutenant General Junqueiro summoned Fernao to interpret for him. Fernao’s Yaninan was also less than perfect, but he thought he could make himself understood in the language.
The man of the Ice People who spoke Yaninan said, “Tell your chief I am Elishamma the son of Ammihud, who was the son of Helori, who was the son of Shedeur, who was the son of Izhar, who was the son of...” The genealogy went on for some time, till Elishamma finished, “... who was the son of a god.”
He necessarily used a word from his own language for that last. Instead of abstract powers, the Ice People believed in men writ large on the face of the universe. Fernao found the notion ludicrous, to say nothing of barbarous. He hadn’t come to argue such notions with Elishamma, though, but to translate for Junqueiro. Having done so, he added in Lagoan, “Give him all your forefathers, too.” He started to say, Whether they’re real or not, but refrained. No telling if some of Elishamma’s companions understood Lagoan.
Junqueiro did him proud, naming a dozen generations of ancestry. If any of them was fictitious, Fernao couldn’t have proved it. The lieutenant general said, “Ask him what he wants from us.”
Fernao did. Elishamma told him, complete with histrionics centuries out of fashion anywhere but the austral continent: not even the Algarvians indulged in so much boasting and bragging. Fernao couldn’t try to hurry it along, not without mortally insulting the chieftain.
At last, Elishamma ran down. That let Junqueiro ask once more, “And what do you want with us?”
“The mangy ones”--so Ice People spoke of men less hairy than themselves--“of Yanina will pay us gold to fight you. How much gold will you pay us to stay calm?”
“Before I answer, you will allow me to speak with my wise man here,” the Lagoan commander said, pointing to Fernao. Junqueiro had chosen just the right lordly tone; Elishamma inclined his head in acquiescence. “You may remain here,” Junqueiro told him. “My mage and I shall leave the tent to confer.” After Junqueiro had turned that into Yaninan, he got up and went outside with the general. Junqueiro muttered, “Powers above! Don’t they ever wash?”
“From all I’ve seen--and smelled--no, Your Excellency,” Fernao said. Junqueiro rolled his eyes. The mage went on, “In justice, this is a cold country. Washing in a stream here, even when the streams aren’t frozen, fairly begs for chest fever.”
“Feh.” Junqueiro dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand, which proved that Lagoans, though at war with Algarve, were of Algarvic stock themselves. It also proved he couldn’t smell himself anymore. His hazel eyes sharpened. “To business. Have the Yaninans really made this offer? If they have, how much have they offered? Is it worth our while to pay the Ice People more? How much harm can they do us?”