"The glory that was," el Senoussi intoned. "Thus it was in Ilkazar in the Empire's prime."
Few of them had seen the like of the waterfront. The river traffic was incredible. Hellin Daimiel and Dunno Scuttari were becoming increasingly dependent on supplies brought in by ship. A river of wealth was flowing from the treasuries of the besieged cities to the coffers of Itaskian merchants.
The sergeant pushed and nagged and finally guided them to a kremlin at city's center. He took them into a building and up several levels to an anteroom where a gimpy old man snatched Haroun's letter of introduction. He disappeared through a fancily carved doorway. He was not gone long. "His Lordship will see you now. You." He indicated Haroun. "The rest stay out here."
"That was fast," Haroun breathed. He started toward the doorway. His followers milled uncertainly, paths blocked by the old man.
A thin, short, middle-aged man came to greet Haroun. He offered his hand. "They told me you were young. I didn't expect you to be this young."
"Count Ronstadt in Kendel suggested I see you."
"And direct. I like that, though you young people overdo it. I presume my cousin disappointed you?"
"The Duke of Greyfells. He was unpleasant."
"He usually is. Somebody forgot to teach him his manners. I never cease being amazed that he's built such a strong following. I was more amazed when he outmaneuvered me on the command appointment."
"I hear he's a good soldier."
"When it serves his purpose. I imagine he'll try to use this as a stepping-stone to the throne. He makes no secret of his long-range goal."
Haroun shook his head slowly. "What's the attraction? It's nothing but headaches and heartaches for me."
The Minister shrugged. "Come. Sit down. I think we've got agreements to agree."
Haroun sat. He studied the Minister. And the thin man considered him from behind steepled fingers.
Haroun saw someone in complete control of his destiny, someone as sure of himself as was El Murid. A hard man. He'd make a bitter enemy.
The Minister saw a boy compelled to become a man. The strain of paring was making him old before his time. Creeping cynicism had begun tightening his brow. It had given his young mouth the lemon-biting look.
And he sensed a hardness, an implacability that approached fanaticism.
"What agreements?" Haroun asked.
"First, tell me what you think of El Murid's goals. His war goals. I don't give a damn about the religious issues."
"Restoration of the Empire? It's a fool's dream. This isn't the world of yesterday. There're real countries out here now. And, geopolitically, Hammad al Nakir isn't suited to the role of the great unifier." He recounted some of Megelin's thoughts on the subject, dwelling on his homeland's lack of a centralized administrative tradition and the absence of an educated class capable of administering. Ilkazar had had those, and the peoples the Empire had conquered had, for the most part, been little beyond the tribal stage.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen."
"You had remarkable teachers, then. I know men with forty years experience in statecraft who couldn't put it that clearly. But you didn't tell me what I want to know. Do you subscribe to the imperial dream?"
"No. The Disciple and I come together only when he says we have to re-establish the dignity and security of the nation."
"Yes. You were well taught." The Minister smiled. "I suppose I can accept that. Let me confess to a small dream of my own. I want to make Itaskia the predominant state in the west. We're already the strongest, but conquest isn't my ideal. More an assumption of moral and mercantile dominion. Today's kingdoms are too diverse for unification."
They were speaking Daimiellian, Haroun's strongest foreign language. The Minister's confession made him determined to improve his Itaskian. "I believe the word you want is hegemony."
The Minister smiled again. "You may be right. Now, to the point. We can help each other."
"I know you can help me. That's why I'm here. But what can I do for you?"
"First, understand that I perceive El Murid as the principal threat to my dream. Yet he's also an asset. If he's defeated before he does much more damage, my hopes might come to life of their own accord. The destruction in the south, and the siege of Hellin Daimiel, have elevated Itaskia to a position of moral as well as military dominance. Economic domination is on its way. Cultural dominance shouldn't be far behind."
"I can help turn him back. But I need money, arms, and places for my people to live. Most especially, I need the arms."
"Even so. Listen. You have enemies who aren't mine. I have foes who aren't yours. And that's where we can help each other. Suppose we trade enemies? If you follow my meaning."
"I'm not sure I do."
"A man is more vulnerable to the dagger of an enemy he doesn't know, wouldn't you say?"
"I see. You want to trade murders."
"Crudely put, but yes. I'll give you arms and money if you'll make three commitments. The first is to go ahead and fight El Murid. The second is to abolish his imperialism if you win. And the third, bluntly, is to provide me with undercover knife work, or whatever, when I need to make a move from which I can dissociate myself."
A classic schemer, Haroun thought. What he wants is his own underground army. "Do you have designs on the Itaskian throne yourself?"
"Me? Good heavens, no! Why on earth would I? I'm safer and happier where I am, pulling the strings. I take it you have reservations."
"It sounds like a sweetheart deal. Too good to be true."
"Maybe from your viewpoint. But you don't know Itaskian politics. Or me. I'm not talking about cutting one throat tomorrow. I'm talking the long run. A lifetime of trade-offs. A perpetual alliance. Our problems aren't going to be resolved in a summer. Nor in ten summers, nor even by our achieving what we think we want. Do you see? Consider, too, the fact that I'm sticking my neck out here. I'm offering you a secret treaty. That could get me thrown out on my ear if certain parties got wind of it."
Haroun knew he might spend his life grasping for something beyond his reach. The old sorcerer in that ruined watchtower had shown him the possibilities.
He turned his inner ear to intuition and the Invisible Crown.
"I'll take the chance. You've got a bargain."
"Forever? It's said your father was a man of his word."
"Yes. And I'm my father's son."
The thin man rose, offered a hand. Haroun took it.
"This is all the contract we'll ever have," the Minister told him. "Nobody but you and me should know about it."
"And I'll never be able to invoke it for immunity, no doubt."
"Unfortunately. That's the nature of the game. But remember, you have me at the same disadvantage."
Haroun did not see it, but refrained from so saying. As the Minister had remarked, he did not know Itaskian politics. And he had searched the west and been offered no other deal at all. Beggars could not choose.
"What do you want right now?" he asked.
"Nothing. Just help stop El Murid. I have to survive that crisis first." The Minister turned, walked to a huge wall map of the west. He examined it briefly, one finger tracing a line from Itaskia toward Dunno Scuttari. "If you'll take some men to Hempstead Heath, about twelve miles south of the South Town Gate on the Octylyan Road, my people will meet you with a shipment of weapons. A gesture of good faith on my part. How does that sound?"
"Again, too good to be true. You don't know the disappointments we've suffered."
"But I do. Why do you think you got in so quickly? I've been studying this thing for eight months. These weapons. They're not the best. They're old, non-standard, captured arms. The kind we use for foreign aid and arming the militia. I can scatter them around without having to account for them."