Harry Turtledove - Into the Darkness

“That would be quite bad enough,” Ibert said.

“Would it?” Rathar asked. “If we weaken the force with which we fight Algarve, we shall surely regret it, because it will mean we are less likely to beat the redheads. Once we have beaten the Algarvians, though, how can Zuwayza hope to stand alone against us?”

He studied Ibert. The man had held his post for some time, no mean achievement under King Swemmel. The easiest way to do so, though, was to do nothing but mirror the king’s thoughts and desires. Rathar waited to discover whether the deputy foreign minister had any thoughts of his own.

Ibert licked his lips. “Suppose you take no troops from the Algarvians, and they and the Zuwayzin defeat us anyhow?”

That was a very good question. Rathar wished Swemmel would ask such questions from time to time. So Ibert did have wits of his own: something worth knowing. The marshal said, “If that should happen—which the powers above prevent—it will be the redheads who beat us, not the black men. I would not wish to move soldiers away from the stronger foe to ward myself against the weaker.”

“That strikes me as a reasonable reply, my lord Marshal,” Ibert said. “I shall bear your words to his Majesty.”

And if Swemmel threw a tantrum and ordered an all-out assault on Zuwayza instead of the attack on Algarve… Rathar would obey him, and would obey him with a small sigh of relief. He did not relish the prospect of assailing King Mezentio’s men. He would have obeyed an order to attack Zuwayza with a large sigh of relief rather than a small one had he not begun to worry that the Algarvians were also contemplating an attack on Unkerlant.

But when he mentioned that to Ibert, the deputy foreign minister shook his head. “We’ve seen little evidence of it, aside from the attempted seduction of Zuwayza. Our ministries otherwise report unusually cordial relations with the redheads, in fact.”

“We are not the only ones moving soldiers toward our common border,” Rathar insisted.

“Neither the foreign ministry nor the king views these movements with alarm,” Ibert said. “His Majesty is confident we shall enjoy the advantages of surprise when the blow falls in the east.”

“Very well,” Rathar said, somewhat reassured. Swemmel saw conspiracies all around him. If he did not think the Algarvians suspected anything here, then the chance that they truly did not seemed pretty good to the marshal of Unkerlant. Of course, Swemmel had made mistakes before—about Rathar himself, for instance—but the marshal chose not to dwell on those.

Besides, Rathar told himself, then Swemmel was seeing danger where none existed. He wouldn’t miss danger where it truly lurked… would he?

Ibert said, “Submit to his Majesty a formal plan based on what you have discussed with me. I believe he will accept it.”

Rathar hoped the deputy foreign minister was right. King Swemmel, though, had an enormous attachment to Unkerlanter territory. Would he be willing to yield any, even temporarily, to gain more? The marshal had his doubts. He wished he were free of them, but he wasn’t. Still, he could only say, “He will have it before the week is out.” What he did with it… Whatever he did with it, the sooner he did it, the more time Rathar would have to try to set things to rights again.

Ibert departed, looking pleased with himself. He looked even more pleased as he strutted past Merovec. Rathar’s adjutant looked as if he wanted to see the deputy foreign minister shipped off to some distant village to keep a crystal going. As best he could, Rathar soothed Merovec’s ruffled feathers. That was part of his job, too.

“Come on,” Ealstan said to Sidroc. “New semester today. New masters. Maybe we’ll get some decent ones, for a change.”

“Fat chance,” his cousin answered, as usual dawdling over his breakfast porridge. “Only difference will be new hands breaking switches on our backs.”

“All right, then,” Ealstan said. “Maybe we’ll have a bunch of old men who can’t hit very hard.”

As he’d hoped it would, that made Sidroc smile, even if it didn’t make him eat any faster. After a swig of watered wine, Sidroc said, “Curse me if I know why we bother with school, anyhow. Your brother had a ton of it, and what’s he doing? Roadbuilding, that’s what. You could train a mountain ape to put cobblestones in place.”

Leofsig had already gone off to labor on the roads. “He would be helping my father, if it weren’t for the war,” Ealstan said. “Things can’t stay crazy forever.” Even as he said that, though, he wondered why not.

So did Sidroc. “Says who?” he replied, and Ealstan had no good answer. Sidroc got to his feet. “Well, come on. You’re so eager, let’s go.”

They both threw cloaks over their tunics. Snow didn’t fall in Gromheort more than about one winter in four, but mornings were chilly anyhow. So Ealstan thought, at any rate; maybe someone from the south of Unkerlant would have had a different opinion.

Ealstan was soon glad they had started out with time to spare, for they had to wait at a street corner while a regiment of Algarvian footsoldiers tramped by heading west. They weren’t men from Gromheort’s garrison; they kept looking around and exclaiming at the buildings—and at the good-looking women—they saw. Ealstan found he could understand quite a bit of their chatter. Master Agmund had a heavy hand with the switch, but he’d made his scholars learn.

At last, the redheads passed. Sidroc moved at a brisk clip after that. He didn’t like getting beaten. The trouble was, most of the time he didn’t like doing the things that kept him from getting beaten, either.

“We’re here in good time.” Ealstan knew he sounded surprised, but couldn’t help himself.

“Aye, we are,” his cousin answered, “and what does it get us? Not a cursed thing but the chance to queue up for the registrar.”

He was right. A long line of boys already snaked out of the office. Ealstan said, “We’d be even farther back if we were later.” Sidroc snorted. Ealstan’s cheeks heated. It had been a weak comeback, and he knew it.

Little by little, the line advanced. More boys took their places behind Ealstan and Sidroc. Ealstan liked that. It didn’t change how many boys were in front of him, but he wasn’t a tailender any more.

As he got nearer to the registrar’s office, he heard voices raised in anger. “What’s going on?” he asked the fellow in front of him.

“I don’t know,” the youth said. “They’re only letting in one at a time, and people aren’t coming out this way.” He shrugged. “We’ll find out pretty soon, I guess.”

“Something’s going on.” Sidroc spoke with authority. “This isn’t how they did things last semester, and that means they’re up to something. I wonder what.” His nose quivered, as if he were one of the dogs some rich nobles trained to hunt truffles and other extra-fancy mushrooms.

Ealstan wouldn’t have figured that out so quickly, but saw at once that his cousin was likely to be right. Sidroc had a gift for spotting the underhanded. Ealstan preferred not to wonder what else that said about him.

“It’s an outrage, I tell you,” the youth in the registrar’s office shouted. Ealstan leaned forward, trying to hear what kind of reply the scholar got. Whatever it was, it was too soft for him to make out. He slammed a fist into the side of his thigh in frustration.

Before long, the fellow in front of him in the queue went inside. Now Ealstan could hear whatever happened. But nothing happened. The scholar got his list of classes and didn’t say a word about it. “Next!” the registrar called.

Ealstan was in front of Sidroc, so he went in. The registrar looked up at him over a pair of half glasses. Having gone through this twice a year for a good many years, Ealstan knew what was expected of him. “Master, I am Ealstan son of Hestan,” he said. He didn’t think anyone at the school shared his name, but ritual required that he give his father’s name, too, and sticking to ritual was as important in registration as in sorcery. The registrar thought so, anyhow, and his was the only opinion that counted.