Then, to Hajjaj’s surprise, Balastro said, “But that isn’t what I came to discuss with you today.”
“No?” Hajjaj said. “Tell me what is in your thoughts, by all means do.” If he wouldn’t have to listen to Balastro haranguing him about how Algarvian victory was just around the corner despite whatever misfortunes the redheads had suffered at the moment, he would face anything else with heightened equanimity.
Leaning forward a little, Balastro said, “And so I shall, your Excellency. You’ve taxed my kingdom for being first to use certain strong sorceries in the Derlavaian War, is it not so?”
Hajjaj had never before heard multiple murder mentioned so delicately. He almost twitted Balastro about that, but held back. All he said was, “Aye, I have taxed you about it, and with reason, I think. Why do you mention it now?”
“Because my kingdom’s mages tell me that, down in Kuusamo or Lagoas, our foes have done something even more vicious,” Balastro answered.
“They do not even know just where?” Hajjaj asked, and Balastro shook his head. Hajjaj went on, “Do they know just what?” The Algarvian minister shook his head again. Hajjaj stared at him in some exasperation. “Then why should I not believe you are weaving this from whole cloth for no other reason than to make me happier with you and more inflamed against your enemies?”
“Because, if the reports I get from Trapani are anywhere close to true, half the mages in Algarve are tearing their hair out, trying to figure out what in blazes the islanders have gone and done,” Balastro answered.
Hajjaj studied him. He didn’t think Balastro was lying, though the Algarvian minister wouldn’t have let an untruth or six stop him from doing what he judged would serve his kingdom best. Hajjaj asked, “Do your mages think they’ll be able to learn?”
“How should I know?” Balastro returned. “They’ve got a war to fight, too; they can’t very well go haring after everything anybody else does. But this was big enough to set them in a tizzy over it, and I figured you ought to know.”
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.”
Probably didn’t want to make you afraid too soon, Leudast thought. But he didn’t say it out loud. Recared had learned fast, and made a pretty good officer now. If he hadn’t learned fast, he would have been dead by now. Even if he had learned fast, he might well have died. The war didn’t always respect such learning. Leudast had seen that too many times.
He pointed ahead, toward the ruins of what had been a ley-line caravan depot. “A good many of the buggers holed up there,” he remarked. “If we can drive ‘em out of that strongpoint, they’ll have to pull back to right and left, too.”
Recared nodded. “Making their perimeter shrink is a good thing. But by the powers above, Sergeant-the price we’ll pay!” He wasn’t hardened yet; his face still showed a good deal of what he thought. “The poor men!”
Leudast nodded. The regiment had taken a beating cutting off the Algarvians in Sulingen, and another one fighting its way into the city. “We’ve got to make them pay, sir. That’s the idea, you know.”
“Oh, aye.” Recared nodded, but reluctantly. He, too, pointed ahead: carefully, so as not to expose himself to snipers. “Not much cover up ahead there, though. The boys would take a horrible pounding before they could close with the redheads.”