Harry Turtledove - Into the Darkness

As things turned out, he might as well have not bothered speaking. The woman followed her own caravan of thought down its ley line: “And they’re not just ugly, either. They’re pretty puny fighters, too. Everyone was so afraid of them when this war started. I think we can beat them, that’s what I think.”

Plainly, she did not know to whom she was speaking. Hajjaj said only, “May the event prove you right, milady.” He was glad—he was delighted—the Zuwayzin had won their first engagement against King Swemmel’s forces. Unfortunately for him, he knew too much to have an easy time thinking one such victory would translate into a victorious war. Only a few times in his life had he wished to be more ignorant than he was. This was another of those rare occasions.

Another swarm of captives tramped glumly past the palace. People cursed them in Zuwayzi. The older men and women in the crowd, those who’d been to school while Zuwayza remained a province of Unkerlant, cursed the captured soldiers in rock-gray tunics in their own language. The old folks had had Unkerlanter rammed down their throats in the classroom, and plainly enjoyed using what they’d been made to learn.

More Zuwayzi troops followed, these mounted on camels. From the reports that had come into Bishah, the camel riders had played a major part in the victory over Unkerlant. Even in the somewhat cooler south, Zuwayza was a desert country. Camels could cross terrain that defeated horses and unicorns and behemoths. Appearing on the Unkerlanters’ flank at the critical moment, the riders had thrown them first into confusion and then into panic.

Someone tapped Hajjaj on the shoulder. He turned and saw it was one of King Shazli’s servants. Bowing, the man said, “May it please your Excellency, his Majesty would see you in his private reception chamber directly the parade is ended.”

Hajjaj returned the bow. “His Majesty’s wish is my pleasure,” he replied, courteously if not altogether accurately. “I shall attend him at the time named.” The servant nodded and hurried away.

As soon as the last captured egg-tosser had trundled past the palace, Hajjaj ducked inside and made his way through the relatively cool dimness to the chamber where he so often consulted with his sovereign. Shazli awaited him there. So, inevitably, did cakes and tea and wine. Hajjaj enjoyed the rituals and rhythms of his native land; to him, Unkerlanters and Algarvians always moved with unseemly haste. There were times, though, when haste was necessary even if unseemly.

Shazli felt the same way. The king broke off the polite small talk over refreshments as soon as he decently could. “How now, Hajjaj?” he said. “We have given King Swemmel a smart box on the ear. Whatever the Unkerlanters aim to extract from us, we have shown them they will have to pay dearly. We have shown the rest of the world the same thing. May we now hope the rest of the world has noticed?”

“Oh, aye, your Majesty, the rest of the world has noticed,” Hajjaj replied. “I have received messages of congratulations from the ministers of several kingdoms. And each of those messages ends with the warning that it is but a personal note, and not meant to imply any change of policy on the part of the minister’s sovereign.”

“What must we do?” Shazli asked bitterly. “If we march on Cottbus and sack the place, will that get us the aid we need?”

Hajjaj’s voice was dry: “If we march on Cottbus and sack the place, the Unkerlanters will be the ones needing aid. But I do not expect that to happen. I did not expect such good news as we have already had.”

“You are a professional diplomat, and so a professional pessimist,” Shazli said. Hajjaj inclined his head, acknowledging the truth in that. His sovereign went on, “Our officers tell me the Unkerlanters attack with less force than they expected. Maybe they were trying to catch us by surprise. Wherever the truth lies there, they failed, and have paid dearly for failing.”

“Swemmel has a way of striking before he is fully ready,” Hajjaj replied. “It cost him in the war against his twin brother, it made him start the pointless war against Gyongyos, and now it hurts him again.”

“Only against Forthweg did striking soon serve him well,” Shazli said.

“Algarve did most of the hard work against Forthweg,” Hajjaj said. “All Swemmel did there was jump on the carcass and tear off some meat. This is, of course, also what he seeks to do against us.”

“He has paid blood,” Shazli said, sounding fierce as any warrior prince in Zuwayza’s brigand-filled history. “He has paid blood, but has no meat to show for it.”

“Not yet,” Hajjaj said. “As you say, we have blooded one Unkerlanter army. Swemmel will send others after it. We cannot gather so many men together, try as we will.”

“You do not believe we can win?” The king of Zuwayza looked wounded.

“Win?” Hajjaj shook his graying head. “Not if the Unkerlanters persist. If any of your officers should tell you otherwise, tell him in return that he has smoked too much hashish. My hope, your Majesty, is that we can hurt the Unkerlanters enough to keep more of what is ours than they demand, and not to let them gobble us down, as they did before. Even that, I judge, will not be easy, for has not King Swemmel shouted he aims to rule in Bishah?”

“The generals do indeed speak of victory,” Shazli said.

Hajjaj bowed in his seat. “You are the king. You are the ruler. You are the one to decide whom to believe. If my record over the years has caused you to lose faith in me, you have but to say the word. At my age, I shall be glad to lay down the burdens of my office and retire to my home, my wives, my children, and my grandchildren. My fate is in your hands, as is the kingdom’s.”

No matter what he said, he did not want to retire. But he did not want King Shazli carried away by dreams of glory, either. Threatening to resign was the best way Hajjaj knew to gain his attention. If the ploy failed—then it failed, that was all. Shazli was a young man. Dreams of glory took root in him more readily than in his foreign minister. To Hajjaj’s way of thinking, that was why the kingdom had a foreign minister. Of course, Shazli might think otherwise.

“Stay by my side,” Shazli said, and Hajjaj inclined his head in obedience—and to keep from showing the relief he felt. The king went on, “I shall hope my generals are right, and shall bid them fight as fiercely and cleverly as they can. If the time comes when they can fight no more, I shall rely on you to make the best terms with Unkerlant you may. Does that suit you?”

“Your Majesty, it does,” Hajjaj said. “And I, for my part, shall hope the officers are right and I wrong. I am not so rash as to reckon myself infallible. If the Unkerlanters make enough mistakes, we may indeed emerge victorious.”

“May it be so,” King Shazli said, and gently clapped his hands in the Zuwayzi gesture of dismissal. Hajjaj rose, bowed, and left the palace. When he was sure no one could see him, he let out a long sigh. The king still had confidence in him. Without that, he was nothing—or nothing more than the retired diplomat he had said he might want to become. He shook his head. Whom else could King Shazli find to do such a good job of lying for the kingdom?

One of the privileges the foreign minister enjoyed was a carried at his beck and call. Hajjaj availed himself of that privilege now. “Be so good as to take me home,” he told the driver, who doffed his broad-brimmed hat in token of obedience.

Hajjaj’s home lay on the side of a hill, to catch the cooling breezes. Bishah had few cooling breezes to catch, but they did blow in spring and fall. Like many houses in the capital, his was built of golden sandstone. Its wings rambled over a good stretch of the hillside, with gardens among them. Most of the plants were native to Zuwayza, and not extravagant of water.