Balastro said something uncharitable about camels-young male camels- and Iskakis. Then he said, “If Tsavellas stabs us in the back, Hajjaj, that doesn’t do you any good.”
“I never claimed it did,” Hajjaj replied. “But I also never said a word about what Iskakis discussed with me, nor do I intend to.”
“What else would a Yaninan talk about, especially when things have gone sour down in the south?” Balastro didn’t bother hiding his scorn.
“If you run low on Kaunians, perhaps you will be able to repair the front with the life energy you get from slaughtering the people of Patras or some other Yaninan town,” Hajjaj suggested, not in the least diplomatically.
Balastro glared. “Perhaps we will.” His voice was as cold as winter in Sulingen. “Perhaps you will recall on whose side you are, and whose friendship has let you-helped you-take back what is rightfully yours.”
That was, unfortunately, a straight blaze. “King Tsavellas, unlike my sovereign, is your ally only because he fears Swemmel more than you,” Hajjaj said. “We Zuwayzin like Algarvians-or we did, till you began what you began.” Many-maybe even most-of his people still did, but he forbore to mention that.
“If Tsavellas tries to diddle us, we’ll give him reason to fear us, by the powers above,” Balastro snarled. His eyes bored into Hajjaj’s. “And the same goes for King Shazli, your Excellency. You would do well to remember it.”
“Oh, I do,” Hajjaj said. “You may rest assured, I do.” He wasn’t sure Balastro heard that; the Algarvian minister’s image had disappeared after he delivered his threat. Hajjaj cursed softly. He would have loved to abandon Algarve. The only trouble was, King Shazli also feared Swemmel of Unkerlant more than Mezentio-and he too had good reason to do so.
Eighteen
Sleet and occasional spatters of pea-sized hail pelted Krasta’s mansion on the edge of Priekule. The mood inside the building was as cold and nasty as the weather outside. One of the things that had made Algarvians appealing and attractive to the marchioness was their panache, the sense that nothing could make them downhearted. That sense was conspicuously absent these days.
So were several of the redheaded military bureaucrats who had helped administer Priekule, to whose leers Krasta had resigned herself. And when they absented themselves, no one took their places. Their desks stood empty, abandoned, for day after day.
“Where have they gone? And when will you get replacements for them?” Krasta asked Colonel Lurcanio. “Those desks reflect poorly on you.” And, of course, anything that reflected poorly on Lurcanio also reflected poorly on her.
“Where? They are on holiday in Jelgava, of course,” Lurcanio snapped. Then, seeing Krasta believed him, he abandoned sarcasm (not without rolling his eyes) and gave her a straight answer: “They are bound for Unkerlant, to fight in the west. As for replacements. .” He laughed bitterly. “My sweet, I count myself lucky that I have not been packed aboard a ley-line caravan to join them. Believe me, I count myself lucky indeed.”
“You?” Krasta gestured as if telling him not to be foolish. “How can they pack you off to Unkerlant? You’re a colonel and a count, after all.”
“Aye, so I am,” Lurcanio agreed. “And one of the duties of a colonel and count is to command a regiment or brigade in the service of his king. A good many regiments and brigades want colonels to command them these days, because a good many colonels who commanded them in days gone by are dead.”
The chill that ran through Krasta had nothing to do with the weather. The war hadn’t come to Priekule, not in person; King Gainibu had yielded before the Algarvians attacked the capital of Valmiera. Here and now, though, the war was reaching into Priekule through the bursting eggs and blazing sticks on the far side of the world-which was how she viewed Unkerlant.
Lurcanio went on, “A good many people are pulling all the wires they can to stay in Valmiera. Given the choices involved, I must say I understand this. Would you not agree?”
“No one in his right mind would go to Unkerlant if he could stay in Priekule.” Krasta spoke with great conviction.
“You are right, even if you do not fully understand the reason,” Lurcanio said. With what looked to Krasta like a deliberate effort of will, he grew more cheerful. “I am given to understand that your Viscount Valnu is giving an entertainment this evening. Shall we go and see what new scandal he comes up with?”
“He’s not my Viscount Valnu,” Krasta said with a sniff and a toss of the head, “but I’m always game for scandal.”
“That I have seen.” Maybe Lurcanio was amused, maybe not. “You will, however, do me the courtesy of not making me wait for you tonight.”
Krasta thought hard about making him do exactly that. In the end, she didn’t dare. With Lurcanio’s temper uncertain, he might grow.. unpleasant if crossed.
When she did come downstairs in good time, he nodded grave approval. He could be charming when he chose, and he did choose charm during the carriage ride to Valnu’s mansion. He made Krasta laugh. He made himself laugh, too. If his mirth seemed a little strained, Krasta didn’t notice.
“Hello, sweetheart!” Valnu cried when they arrived. He kissed Krasta on the cheek. Then he turned to Lurcanio and cried, “Hello, sweetheart!” again. Lurcanio got a kiss identical to Krasta’s.
“Your versatility does you credit,” the Algarvian officer said. Valnu sniggered and waved him out of the entry hall and into the enormous front room.
An Algarvian musician tinkled away on a harpsichord. That made Krasta want to yawn. She took a glass of sparkling wine from a maidservant who circulated with a tray. The servant was pretty, and wore the shortest kilt Krasta had ever seen on anyone, man or woman. When she bent down to give an Algarvian in a chair a glass of wine, Krasta noted she wore nothing under the tunic. Quite a lot of Valnu’s male guests noticed that, too. Krasta muttered under her breath. She was a long way from shocked, but didn’t care for such blatant invitations to infidelity. As if men needed them!
“Can’t you afford drawers on what he pays you, dear?” she asked when the maidservant came by again. Valnu was in earshot. She’d made sure of that.
But the serving girl only sighed and replied, “He pays me more when I don’t wear them, milady.” Krasta scowled and turned away. There was no sport in an answer like that.
And there was no sport at the entertainment, either. It was as flat as a glass of sparkling wine left out too long. Now and again, it would come close to livening up. But then someone somewhere in the big room would say the name “Sulingen,” and the freeze that had come to the Algarvian wing of Krasta’s mansion would fall over the entertainment as well. It was as frustrating as a clumsy lover’s caresses.
Having drunk several glasses of wine by the time she noticed that, Krasta wasn’t shy about tracking down Valnu and complaining. “You’ll ruin your reputation for proper parties as thoroughly as you’ll ruin that serving wench’s reputation for-well, for anything,” she said.
Valnu laughed at her. “Darling, I didn’t think you thought servants could even have reputations to ruin.”
In the normal run of things, Krasta didn’t. But this wasn’t normal. She said, “She’ll have more fingerprints on her backside than a shop window does when they put a big SALE! sign in it.”
“You’d better be careful,” Valnu warned her, laughing still. “People will say you’re growing a conscience, and where would you be then?”
“I know what I’m doing,” Krasta said loudly. She waved a forefinger under Valnu’s long, blade-thin nose. “And I know what you’re doing, too, powers below eat me if I don’t.”
She meant no more than that he was mocking her. To her astonishment, he reached out and clapped the palm of his hand over her mouth, hissing, “Then shut up about it, will you, you stupid little slut?”
Krasta opened her mouth to bite him. He jerked his hand away. “What are you talking about?” she demanded.