Harry Turtledove: Out of the Darkness

“You understand that, your Excellency, and I also understand it,” Shazli said. “But if the Unkerlanters fail to understand it, they could make our lives very unpleasant. If they land soldiers at Najran …”

“Those soldiers can make the acquaintance of the Kaunians who managed to escape from Forthweg,” Hajjaj said. “I don’t know how much else they could do. Even now, when the weather is as cool and wet as it ever gets, I can hardly see them marching overland to Bishah. Can you, your Majesty?”

“Well, possibly not,” the king admitted. “But if they want an excuse to revise the agreement they forced on us …”

“If they want such an excuse, your Majesty, they can always find one.” Hajjaj didn’t often interrupt his sovereign, but here he’d done it twice in a row. “My belief is that this is nothing but Unkerlanter bluster.”

“And if you are wrong?” Shazli asked.

“Then Swemmel’s men will do whatever they do, and we shall have to live with it,” Hajjaj replied. “That, unfortunately, is what comes of losing a war.” The king grimaced but did not answer. Hajjaj heaved himself to his feet and departed a little later. He knew he hadn’t pleased Shazli, but reckoned telling his sovereign the truth more important. He hoped Shazli felt the same. And if not. . He shrugged. He’d been foreign minister longer than Shazli had been king. If his sovereign decided his services were no longer required, he would go into retirement without the slightest murmur of protest.

Shazli gave no sign of displeasure. Hajjaj almost wished the king had, for the next day Ansovald summoned him to the Unkerlanter ministry. “And I shall have to go, too,” he told Qutuz with a martyred sigh. “The price we pay for defeat, as I remarked to his Majesty. Given a choice, I would sooner visit the dentist. He enjoys the pain he inflicts less than Ansovald does.”

Hajjaj dutifully donned an Unkerlanter-style tunic to visit Ansovald. He minded that less than he would have in high summer. Calling on the Jelgavans and Valmierans means wearing trousers, he thought, and imagined he was breaking out in hives at the mere idea. Another sigh, most heartfelt, burst from him.

Two stolid Unkerlanter sentries stood guard outside the ministry. They weren’t so stolid, however, as to keep their eyes from shifting to follow good-looking women going by with nothing on but hats and sandals and jewelry. With luck, the sentries didn’t speak Zuwayzi-some of the women’s comments about them would have flayed the hide from a behemoth.

Ansovald was large and bluff and blocky. “Hello, your Excellency,” he said in Algarvian, the only language he and Hajjaj had in common. Hajjaj savored the irony of that. He had little else to savor, for Ansovald bulled ahead: “I’ve got some complaints for you.”

“I listen.” Hajjaj did his best to look politely attentive. Sure enough, the Unkerlanter minister fussed and fumed about the many shortcomings of Najran. When he finished, Hajjaj inclined his head and replied, “I am most sorry, your Excellency, but I did warn you about the state of our ports. We shall do what we can to cooperate with your captains, but we can only do what we can do, if you take my meaning.”

“Who would have thought you ever told so much of the truth?” Ansovald growled.

Staying polite wasn’t easy. Ido it for my kingdom, Hajjaj thought. “Is there anything more?” he asked, getting ready to leave.

But Ansovald said, “Aye, there is.”

“I listen,” Hajjaj said again, wondering what would come next.

“Minister Iskakis tells me you’ve got his wife-Tassi, I think the bitch’s name is-at your house up in the hills.”

“Tassi is not a bitch,” Hajjaj said, more or less truthfully. “Nor is she Iskakis’ wife: she has received a divorce here in Zuwayza.”

“He wants her back,” Ansovald said. “Yanina is Unkerlant’s ally nowadays, and so is Zuwayza. If I tell you to give her back, you bloody well will.”

“No,” Hajjaj said, and enjoyed the look of astonishment the word brought to the Unkerlanter’s face. He also enjoyed amplifying it: “If Iskakis had her back, he would use her as he uses boys, if he used her at all. He prefers boys. She prefers not being used so. Unkerlant is indeed Zuwayza’s ally, even her superior. I admit it. But, your Excellency, that does not make you into my master, not on any individual level. And so, good day. Tassi stays.” He enjoyed turning his back and walking out on Ansovald most of all.

Every now and again-more often, in fact, than every now and again-Istvan felt guilty about being alive. It wasn’t so much that he remained a Kuusaman captive on the island of Obuda. Gyongyosians reckoned themselves a warrior race, and knew that captivity might befall a warrior. But to have stayed alive after his countrymen sacrificed themselves to harm Kuusamo. . That was something else, something harder to bear in good conscience.

“We knew,” he said to Corporal Kun as the two of them chopped wood in the midst of a chilly rain. “We knew, and we didn’t do anything.”

“Sergeant, we did what needed doing,” Kun answered. His next stroke buried his axehead in the ground, not in the chunk of pine in front of him. Maybe his conscience bothered him, too, in spite of his bold words. Or maybe he just couldn’t see what he was doing: he wore spectacles, and the rain couldn’t be doing them any good. Indeed, he muttered, “Can’t see a cursed thing,” before going on, “We didn’t get our throats cut, either, and that puts us ahead of the game. Or will you tell me I’m wrong?”

“No,” Istvan said, though he didn’t sound altogether convinced. He explained why: “Half of me feels we should have told the Kuusamans what was coming, so our comrades would still be alive. The other half. .” He shrugged. “I keep wondering if the stars will refuse to shine on my spirit because I didn’t do everything I could to hurt the slanteyes.”

“How many times have we been over this?” Kun said patiently, as if he had the higher rank and Istvan the lower. “Did Captain Frigyes really hurt the Kuusamans? Not bloody much. You can tell by looking-well, you could if it weren’t raining.” His precision was a hint that he’d been a mage’s apprentice in Gyorvar, the capital, before getting conscripted into Ekrekek Arpad’s army.

Istvan sighed. Kunhegyes, his home village, lay in a mountain valley far in distance and even further in ideas from Gyorvar. He clung to the old ways of Gyongyos as best he could, not least because he hardly knew any others. He was a big, broad-shouldered man with a mane of tawny yellow hair and a thick, bushy beard a shade darker. Like a lot of his countrymen, he looked leonine. So did Kun, but he made a distinctly scrawny lion even when he wasn’t wearing his spectacles. Though he dwarfed the Kuusaman guards, he was neither tall nor wide by Gyongyosian standards, and his beard had always been and probably would always be on the patchy side.

With another sigh, Istvan said, “A pox on it. Let’s just work. When I’m chopping wood, I don’t have to think. Since everything happened, I don’t much feel like thinking.”

“Aye, I believe that,” Kun answered. In a different tone of voice, the words would have sounded sympathetic. Instead, as usual, Kun only sounded sardonic.

“Ahh, go bugger a goat,” Istvan said, but his heart wasn’t in the curse. Kun was as he was, as the stars had made him, and no one could change him now.

“You two lousy Gongs, you talk too much,” a Kuusaman guard yelled in bad Gyongyosian. The guards didn’t usually give their captives as much leeway as Istvan and Kun had; the patter of the rain and the curtain of falling drops must have kept them from noticing what was going on for a while. “To work harder!” the small, dark, slant-eyed man added. He carried a stick, which meant the Gyongyosians had to pay heed to him, or at least pretend they did.