Harry Turtledove - Jaws of Darkness

“She was right,” Talsu whispered.

“Well, of course she was,” his father answered, also in a whisper. “But so what? Do you think she and Ausra-and now your wife, too, when Gailisa’s up there with ‘em and not working at her father’s grocery-don’t do the exact same thing when they figure we can’t hear ‘em?” Traku shook his head to show Talsu what he ought to think. “Not bloody likely, not when I’ve caught ‘em a time or two.”

“Have you?” Now Talsu was scandalized in a different way.

“Oh, aye,” Traku said. “They can be as foul-mouthed as we ever are, only they don’t want anybody knowing it. It’s their secret, like.”

Some of the things Gailisa had said made Talsu suspect his father had a point. He wasn’t about to admit as much, though. He had far fewer illusions than when he’d gone intoKingDonalitu ’s army. He cherished those he’d managed to keep.

Traku went back to work. Once he’d laid out all the remaining thread on the tunic, he began to mutter to himself and to make quick passes over the garment. He and Talsu hardly thought of what they did as magic; it was just a trick of the tailor’s trade. But magic it was, using the laws of similarity and contagion to make the unsewn thread conform to that which was sewn. The thread writhed and twisted, as if briefly coming to life. When the writhing stopped, the tunic was done.

Traku picked it up, tugged at the sorcerously made seams, and put on a pair of reading glasses so he could examine it closely. When he was done, he set it down and delivered his verdict: “Not bad, if I do say so myself.”

“Of course not, Father,” Talsu said. “You do the best work in town.” He lowered his voice again to add, “Better than the cursed redheads deserve, too.”

“It depends on how you look at things,” Traku said. “I’m not doing this just for the Algarvians, you know. I’m doing it for my own sake, too. I don’t think I could stand doing bad work on purpose, no matter who it’s for.”

“All right. I know what you mean.” Talsu waved, yielding the point. “And it means one more Algarvian who’s never coming back to Skrunda again.”

“That, too,” his father said.

The Algarvian in question, a captain, came into the tailor’s shop that afternoon to pick up the tunic. After trying it on, he nodded. “It being good,” he said in Jelgavan flavored with his kingdom’s trilling accent. “Cloth being nice and thick.” He dabbed at his forehead with a pocket handkerchief. “I sweating here. When I going down to frozen Unkerlant, I not sweating anymore.” He changed back into the thinner tunic he’d worn into the shop, set on the counter the price to which he and Traku had agreed, and carried away the garment he would need while fighting King Swemmel’s men.

“I hope he sweats plenty, down in frozen Unkerlant,” Talsu said after the redhead left.

“Oh, sure,” Traku agreed, as if surprised Talsu would have bothered saying anything like that. “Sooner or later, either the Algarvians or the Unkerlanters will run out of men. Here’s hoping it’s the Algarvians.” He scooped up the silver coins the redhead had left behind and put on his glasses again to examine them. “This Mainardo bugger the redheads call King of Jelgava’s got a pointy nose.”

“Aye, so he does,” Talsu said. “From what I remember of the Algarvian coins I got before things fell apart, Mezentio’s got a pointy nose, too.” He shrugged. “They’re brothers. No reason they shouldn’t look alike.”

“No reason at all,” his father said. “No reason they shouldn’t both be trouble, either. And they cursed well are, powers below eat ‘em.” He paused, got up off his stool, straightened, stretched, and twisted this way and that. Something in his back wentpop-pop-pop, as if he’d cracked his knuckles. He sighed. “Ahh, that’s better. I couldn’t get the crick out of there no matter how hard I tried.” He glanced over to Talsu. “How’s that kilt coming?”

“I’ve done a couple of pleats by hand, and I’ve got the thread laid out,” Talsu replied. “Now I’m going to put on the finishing touches.” The charm he wanted, part Jelgavan, part the classical Kaunian that was Jelgavan’s ancestor, part nonsense words was almost but not quite identical to the one his father had used with the tunic. Again, most of the kilt’s stitchery shaped itself.

Traku examined the finished garment and patted his son on the back. “Nice job. I still think kilts are ugly as all get-out myself, but the redhead who ordered this one’ll get what he paid for-and a free trip to Unkerlant besides.” Talsu’s answering grin was every bit as nasty as his father’s.

Out in the field, MarshalRathar most often wore a common soldier’s rock-gray tunic with the large stars of his rank on the collar tabs. That wouldn’t do for a formal court function. At the orders ofKingSwemmel ’s protocol officer-who plainly outranked even a marshal in such matters-he put on his most gorgeous dress uniform before repairing to the throne room.

“You look splendid, lord Marshal,”MajorMerovec said loyally.

Rathar eyed his adjutant. “I doubt it, if you want to know the truth. What I look like is a gaudy popinjay.” Unkerlanter military fancy dress, like that of the other kingdoms of Derlavai, was based on the regular uniforms of a bygone age, when officers needed to be recognizable at a distance and when cold-hearted snipers hadn’t been able to put a beam through their heads from half a mile away. Rathar’s uniform was scarlet and black, with ribbons and medals gleaming on his chest.

“Splendid,” Merovec repeated. “His Majesty commanded it, so how could you look less than splendid?”

“Hmm.” The marshal nodded. “When you put it that way, you’ve got a point.”

Having satisfied both his adjutant and the fussy protocol officer, Rathar made his way through a maze of palace corridors to the throne room at the heart ofKingSwemmel ’s residence. However magnificent the dress uniform he wore, though, he had to surrender his ceremonial sword to the guardsmen in the antechamber outside the throne room. He thought being without a blade detracted from the effect he was supposed to create, but his was not the opinion that counted. Swemmel’s, as always, prevailed.

Inside the throne room, the king dominated. That had always been true in Unkerlant, and would probably stay true till the end of time. The great throne raised Swemmel-as it had raised his predecessors and would raise his successors-high above his subjects and drew all eyes to him. Set against the king’s jewel- and pearl-encrusted robe and massy golden crown, MarshalRathar ’s uniform might as well have been simple rock-gray. Nothing competed with Swemmel here.

Lesser courtiers nodded to the marshal as he walked past them up the aisle leading to the splendid throne. To them, he was a person of consequence. To Swemmel, Rathar was what the other courtiers were: an ornament, a decoration, a reflection of his own magnificence and glory.

The marshal prostrated himself before Swemmel, knocking his head against the carpet and crying out the king’s praises as loudly as he could with his mouth an inch off that rug. “We suffer you to rise,”KingSwemmel said in his thin voice. “Take your place beside us. We are soon to receive the ministers from Kuusamo and Lagoas, as we have spoken of before, and would have you beside us that we might speak to them with greater efficiency.”

“That is my pleasure, your Majesty, and my duty,” Rathar replied, and stood to the right of the throne where Swemmel could easily seek his opinion. Whether Swemmel would want advice, or whether he would take it once he got it, were questions of a different sort.

A herald cried, “His Excellency, Count Gusmao, minister to Unkerlant fromKingVitor of Lagoas! His Excellency, LordMoisio, minister to Unkerlant from the Seven Princes of Kuusamo!”