Into the Darkness d-1, page 59
part #1 of Darkness Series
Now Lagoas had sent him and Eforiel down toward the austral continent. He wished the powers that be in Setubal had chosen to send him a couple of months earlier. Despite his rubber suit, despite the sorcery the Lagoan mages had added to the suit, he was chilly. Of course, the waters around the land of the Ice People weren’t warm even in high summer, such as it was down near the bottom of the world. Now… the sea hadn’t started freezing yet, but it wouldn’t be long.
Cornelu’s teeth might have felt like chattering, but Eforiel thought the Lagoans had sent her (and, incidentally, her rider) to a fine restaurant. For reasons mages had never been able to fathom, fish flourished in the frigid waters of the Narrow Sea. Eforiel put on more blubber with every mile she swam. It did a better job of keeping her warm than rubber and mage-craft did for her master.
Thanks to the Lagoans, he’d taught her a new trick. At his tapped command, she stood on her tail, thrusting the front part of her body up out of the water. That let Cornelu, who clung not far back of her blowhole, see farther than he could have from a couple of feet above the surface of the sea.
He sighed. The Lagoans were clever, no doubt about it. They hadn’t invaded his kingdom. They had taken him in as an exile. He wished he liked them better. He wished he liked them at all.
Whether he liked them or not, he preferred them to the Algarvians, whom he actively despised. Lagoas being the only kingdom still in the fight against Algarve, she perforce had his allegiance. He urged Eforiel up on her tail once more. Was that smoke he saw, there to the southwest?
“Aye, it is,” he said, and urged the leviathan toward it.
Mizpah was falling. Had the Yaninans put their full effort into the attack on the Lagoan towns at the edge of the land of the Ice People, Mizpah would have fallen long since. But King Tsavellas kept most of his men at home, to watch the border with Unkerlant. Cornelu wasn’t sure whether that made Tsavellas wise or foolish. King Swemmel was likely to go to war against Yanina. If he did, though, a few regiments wouldn’t do much to slow him down. They might have been used to better purpose on the austral continent.
King Tsavellas had chosen otherwise, though. Because of that, the Lagoans and their nomad allies still had a grip on Mizpah, even if the Yaninans finally had fought their way into egg-tosser range, which meant the outpost would not hold much longer. But the Lagoans had the chance to salvage some of what they thought important from Mizpah before it fell.
“A fugitive king and a mage,” Cornelu said to Eforiel. “I can see that. Both will be useful, and the Lagoans love what is useful. But I wager plenty of other people in Mizpah would sooner we were coming for them.”
Eforiel’s jaw closed on a good-sized squid that swam right in front of her. By the way she frisked under Cornelu, she would be delighted to visit these waters again. Cornelu gently patted the leviathan. By the time she took these men back to Lagoas, Mizpah would not be worth visiting, not for anyone with Lagoas’s interests in mind. He couldn’t explain that to the leviathan, and didn’t bother trying.
“A little spit of land east of the harbor,” Cornelu murmured. That was where the fugitives were supposed to be. He wondered if they could get there with the Yaninans investing Mizpah. He shrugged. If they weren’t there, he couldn’t very well pick them up.
He had Eforiel rear in the water again. If that wasn’t the right spit of land, there a few hundred yards ahead, he didn’t know what would be. He didn’t see any people on it. He shrugged again. The Lagoan officers who sent him forth had thought the fugitives would be there.
“Oh, aye,” one of them had said just before he and Eforiel left Setubal harbor. “The one of them has a name for getting out of scraps—and the mage isn’t supposed to be bad at it, either.” Cornelu remembered the fellow laughing uproariously at his own sally. Among Lagoans, it passed for wit.
Cornelu was harder to amuse. These days, nothing less than the prospect of King Mezentio’s palace going up in flames, and all of Trapani with it, would have set him to laughing uproariously. He would have howled like a wolf for that, laughed like a loon. Even thinking about it with no likelihood of its happening was enough—more than enough—to make him smile.
He urged Eforiel closer to the end of the spit of land. Maybe the mage and the king hadn’t got there yet. Maybe the mage would detect his arrival by some occult means and hurry out to meet him. Maybe, maybe, maybe…
He blinked. He would have taken oath … a proper oath, an oath on the name of King Burebistu—the spit was empty of people. Had he done so, he would have been forsworn. Suddenly, he saw two men there, one tall and lean and of Algarvic stock, the other shorter and stockier with, aye, a Forthwegian or Unkerlanter look. They saw him, too, or more likely the leviathan, and began to wave.
He had rubber suits along for men of their builds. If the mage knew his business, he’d be able to keep himself and his royal companion from freezing in this icy water. If he didn’t—Cornelu shrugged one more time. He himself would do everything he could. What he couldn’t do, he wouldn’t worry about.
He brought Eforiel in toward the land as close as he dared. Having her beach herself wouldn’t do, here and now even less than most other places and times. Cornelu slid off her back and swam toward the rocky, muddy land, pushing ahead of him a bladder that held the rubber suits.
When he came up on to the land, the mage greeted him with a slew of almost incomprehensible Lagoan. “Slow,” Cornelu said. “I speak only a little.” He pointed to the five crowns on the chest of his own rubber suit. “Cornelu. From Sibiu. Exile.” That was one word of Lagoan he knew very well.
“I speak Sibian,” the mage said, and he did, with a good accent—none of the variations on Algarvian that most Lagoans thought were Cornelu’s native language. The fellow went on, “I am Fernao, and here before you you see King Penda of Forthweg.”
“I speak Algarvian—not Sibian, I fear,” Penda said.
Cornelu bowed. “I also speak Algarvian, your Majesty: better than I would like,” he said. The king of Forthweg scowled at that, scowled and nodded.
“We are all speaking too much,” the mage said in Sibian, and repeated himself in what Cornelu presumed to be Forthwegian. Whatever language he spoke, he made good sense. Turning back to Cornelu, he went on, “I presume those are suits to keep us from coming back to Setubal as if packed in ice?”
“Aye.” Cornelu opened the bladder. “The suits, and whatever protective magic you can add to them. Warmth and breathing underwater would be useful, I expect.”
The mage said, “Aye, I expected as much. I can do all that. Useful, you call the breathing spell? A good word for it, I would say. I will have to drop the magic that keeps people from noticing much about the spit. I tried not to project much of it out to sea; I’m glad you could find us.”
“I can see how you might be,” Cornelu agreed, his voice dry. “And we shall surely have much to discuss—at another time. Do now what you must do, that we may leave this place and eventually gain the leisure in which to hold such a discussion. For we have none here and now.”
“There you speak the truth,” Fernao said. He translated the truth into Forthwegian for Penda’s benefit—though, if the king spoke Algarvian, he could probably follow some Sibian. Penda nodded and made an imperious gesture, as if to say, Well, get on with it, then.
Get on with it Fernao did. Cornelu knew the exact moment when the Lagoan mage abandoned the spell that drew eyes in Mizpah—and outside the Lagoan outpost—away from the spit of land. The Yaninan attackers, suddenly noticing people out there, began tossing eggs at them.
They were less than accomplished. Cornelu, accustomed to soldiers trained to higher standards, found their aim laughable and alarming at the same time. It was laughable because none of the eggs came very close to him. It was alarming because some of those eggs came down in the waters of the Narrow Sea—the waters where Eforiel waited. A spectacularly bad toss might prove as disastrous as a spectacularly good one. If, while missing Cornelu and the men he had come to take away, the Yaninans hit his leviathan, they would have done what they’d set out to do, though they might not know it.
“I suggest you make haste,” Cornelu said to Fernao.
“I am making haste,” the mage snarled through clenched teeth when he reached a point where he could pause in his incanting. Cornelu chuckled, recognizing the annoyance any good professional showed at having his elbow joggled. Cornelu understood and sympathized with that. Even so, he wished Fernao would make haste a little more quickly—or a lot more quickly.
After what seemed far too long—and after a couple of eggs had burst much closer than Cornelu would have liked—the mage declared, “I am ready.” As if to prove as much, he pulled off his tunic and stepped out of his kilt, standing naked and shivering on the little spit of land. Penda imitated him. The king’s body had more muscle and less fat than Cornelu would have guessed from seeing him clothed.
Both men rapidly donned the rubber suits Cornelu had brought, and the flippers that went with them. “And now,” the Sibian exile said, “I suggest we delay no more. Eforiel awaits us in the direction from which I came up on to the land.” He pointed, hoping with all his heart that Eforiel did still await them there. He didn’t think the Yaninans had hit her, and didn’t think they could frighten her away if they hadn’t. He didn’t want to discover he’d been disastrously wrong on either of those counts.
As he turned and started for the water, King Penda said, “Eforiel? A woman? Do I understand you?”
“No, or not exactly,” Cornelu answered with a smile. “Eforiel—a leviathan.”
“Ah,” Penda said. “You in the south are much more given to training and riding them than we have ever been.”
“Another discussion that will have to wait,” said Fernao, who showed more sense than the fugitive king. Fernao splashed into the sea and struck out for Eforiel with a breast stroke that was determined if not very fast. Penda swam on his back, windmilling his arms over his head one after the other. He put Cornelu more in mind of a rickety rowboat than a porpoise, but he didn’t look like sinking.
Cornelu shot past both of them, which was just as well. They would not have been glad to meet Eforiel without him there to let her know it was all right. As he drew near the leviathan, or to where he hoped she was, he slapped the water in a signal to which she had been trained to respond.
Respond she did, raising her toothy beak out of the water. Cornelu took his place on her back, then waited for his passengers. They were gasping when they reached the leviathan, but reach her they did. Cornelu slapped her smooth hide and sent her off toward the northeast, toward warmer water, toward warmer weather.
Hajjaj never relished a visit to the Unkerlanter ministry. He particularly did not relish it when Minister Ansovald summoned him as if he were a servant, a hireling. People kept insisting Unkerlanter arrogance had its limits. The Unkerlanters seemed intent on proving people wrong.
With autumn having come to Bishah, Hajjaj minded putting on clothes less than he did in summertime. And long, loose Unkerlanter tunics were less oppressive than the garments in which other peoples chose to encase themselves. Having to wear the clinging tunics and trousers of the Kaunian kingdoms was almost enough by itself to make the Zuwayzi foreign minister glad Algarve had conquered them and relieved him of the need.
As usual, Ansovald was blunt to the point of rudeness. No sooner had Hajjaj been escorted into his presence than he snapped, “I hear you have been holding discussions with the Algarvian minister.”
“Your Excellency, I have indeed,” Hajjaj replied.
Ansovald’s eyes popped. “You admit it?”
“I could scarcely deny it,” Hajjaj said. “Discussing things with the ministers of other kingdoms is, after all, the purpose for which my sovereign sees fit to employ me. In the past ten days, I have met with the minister of Algarve, as you said, and also with the ministers of Lagoas, Kuusamo, Gyongyos, Yanina, the mountain kingdom of Ortah, and, now, twice with your honorable self.”
“You are plotting against Unkerlant, plotting against King Swemmel,” Ansovald said, as if Hajjaj had not spoken.
“Your Excellency, that I must and do deny,” the Zuwayzi foreign minister said evenly.
“I think you are lying,” Ansovald said.
Hajjaj got to his feet and bowed. “That is, of course, your privilege, your Excellency. But you have gone beyond the usages acceptable in diplomacy. I will see you another day, when you find yourself in better control of your judgment.”
“Sit down,” Ansovald growled. Hajjaj took no notice of him, but started toward the door. Behind him, the Unkerlanter minister let out a long, exasperated breath. “You had better sit down, your Excellency, or it will be the worse for your kingdom.”
One hand on the latch, Hajjaj paused and spoke over his shoulder: “How could Unkerlant treat Zuwayza worse than she has already done?” His tone was acid; he wondered if Ansovald noticed.
“Do you really care to find out?” the Unkerlanter minister said. “Go through that door, and I daresay you will.”
However much he wanted to, Hajjaj could not ignore such a threat. Reluctantly, he turned back toward Ansovald. “Very well, your Excellency, I listen. Under duress of that sort, what choice have I but to listen?”
“None,” Ansovald said cheerfully. “That’s what you get for not being strong. Now sit back down and hear me out.” Hajjaj obeyed, though his back was stiff as an offended cat’s. Ansovald paid no attention to his silent outrage. The Unkerlanter minister raised crude brutality almost to an art. He pointed a stubby finger at Hajjaj. “You are not to hold any more meetings with Count Balastro, on pain of war with my kingdom.”
Hajjaj started to get up and walk out again. Ansovald’s demand was one no representative of any kingdom had the right to make on the foreign minister of another kingdom. But Hajjaj knew King Swemmel only too well. If he openly defied the Unkerlanter minister here, Swemmel would conclude he had good reason to defy him, and would hurl an army of men in rock-gray tunics toward the north.
Swemmel might even be right, though his minister here would not know that. Ansovald leaned back in his chair, smugly delighted to see Hajjaj squirm. One reason he was good at bullying was that he enjoyed it so much. Hajjaj temporized: “Surely, your Excellency, you cannot expect me to refuse all intercourse with the minister from Algarve. Should he order me to do such a thing in regard to you, I would of course refuse.”
Ansovald stopped leaning back and leaned forward instead, alarm and anger on his strong-featured face. “Has he ordered you to stop seeing me?” he demanded. “How dare he order you to do such a thing?”
What he did, he took for granted. That anyone else might presume to do the same thing was an outrage. Hajjaj might have laughed, had he not felt more like crying. “I assure you, it was but a hypothetical comment,” the Zuwayzi foreign minister said, and spent the next little while smoothing Ansovald’s ruffled feathers. When Hajjaj finally judged the Unkerlanter minister soothed enough, he resumed: “I can hardly avoid him at receptions and the like, you know.”
“Oh, aye—that sort of business doesn’t count,” Ansovald said. Hajjaj had been far from sure he would prove even so reasonable. The Unkerlanter pointed at him again. “But when you and Balastro put your heads together for hours on end—” He shook his own head. “That won’t do.”
“And if he invites me to the Algarvian ministry, as you have invited me here?” Hajjaj asked, silently adding to himself, He would be more polite about it, that’s certain.
“Refuse him,” Ansovald said.
“He will ask me why. Shall I tell him?” Hajjaj inquired. Ansovald opened his mouth, then abruptly closed it again. Hajjaj said, “Your Excellency, I think you begin to see my difficulty. If I, the foreign minister of a sovereign kingdom, am forbidden to see the representative of another sovereign kingdom, would not that second kingdom reckon the kingdom that had forbidden me guilty of insult against it?”
With a certain malicious amusement, he watched the Unkerlanter minister’s lips move as he worked his way through that. Ansovald was not swift, but he wasn’t stupid, either. He took a bit, but got the right answer: Algarve will think Unkerlant guilty of insult. Considering what the Algarvians had done to every foe they’d faced in the Derlavaian War, Hajjaj would not have wanted them thinking him guilty of insult.
By the expression on Ansovald’s face, he didn’t want that, either. Hajjaj politely looked away while the Unkerlanter minister coughed and tugged at his ear and pulled loose a small flap of skin by his thumbnail. At last, Ansovald said, “Maybe I was a little hasty here.”
From a Zuwayzi, that would have been a polite commonplace. From an Unkerlanter, and especially from King Swemmel’s representative in Bishah, it was an astonishing admission. When Ansovald didn’t seem inclined to come out with anything more, Hajjaj asked a gentle question: “In that case, your Excellency, what should my course be?”
Again, Ansovald didn’t answer right away. Hajjaj understood why: the Unkerlanter minister had just realized that following instructions he’d got from Cottbus was likely to lead him into disaster. But not following any order he got from Cottbus was also likely to lead him into disaster. As Ansovald dithered, Hajjaj smiled benignly.
With a sigh, Ansovald said, “I spoke too soon. Unless I summon you again, you may ignore what has passed between us here.”
Unless King Swemmel decides he doesn’t mind insulting the Algarvians, was what that had to mean. Now Hajjaj had to fight to hide surprise. Might Swemmel think of taking such a chance? Hajjaj had often wondered whether the king of Unkerlant was crazy. Up till now, he’d never thought him stupid.
He wished the state of King Swemmel’s wits didn’t matter so much to Zuwayza. Far easier, far more reassuring, to think of it as Ansovald’s problem and none of his own. He couldn’t do that, worse luck. If Unkerlant caught cold, Zuwayza started sneezing—and Unkerlant went as Swemmel went.
