Harry Turtledove - Into the Darkness

He held an arm in front of his head, so that his sleeve drooped down and covered his eyes.

“I understand that,” Fernao said patiently. “Money shouldn’t be any trouble.” By all the signs, Shelomith had money coming out of his ears. He’d given Fernao a goodly sum, and he’d given Varvakis a goodly sum, too: Varvakis did not strike the mage as a man who would be very cooperative without a well-greased palm.

He proved that again, saying, “What I give to Cossos does not come from my fee. It will be redeemed.”

“I agree,” Fernao said at once. Why not? He wasn’t spending his own money. “Set up the meeting. Pay whatever you have to pay. We will reimburse you.”

Varvakis dipped his head in agreement. “Go, then. Take yourself out of here. We should not be seen together. When the meeting is arranged, you will hear from me. You will also hear how much you owe. You will pay before you see Cossos.”

Was that the edge of a threat? Probably. Varvakis could pocket the money and let Fernao walk into a trap. For that matter, he could pocket it and set up a trap for Fernao. The unpleasant possibilities were almost endless.

Back at the nondescript—indeed, dingy—hostel where he and Fernao were staying, Shelomith waxed enthusiastic. “This is just the chance we need!” he said, clapping Fernao on the back. “I knew that, sooner or later, one of my contacts would survey a ley line to his Majesty for us.”

Fernao mentally substituted I hoped for I knew. Aloud, he said, “Whatever this Cossos wants, he won’t work cheap.” Shelomith only shrugged. They were staying at a hostel less than of the finest to keep from drawing notice to themselves. Shelomith had plenty of gold—just how much, Fernao didn’t know. Plenty for all ordinary and most extraordinary purposes, that was certain.

And so, with Varvakis along as a go-between, Fernao approached King Tsavellas’s palace a couple of days later. Yaninan architecture ran to tall, thin watchtowers and to onion domes, all very exotic to a practical Lagoan. The guards at the entrance wore tights with red and white stripes and red pompoms on their shoes, but looked tough and determined despite the absurd costume. Recognizing Varvakis, they bowed in greeting, and accepted Fernao because he accompanied the purveyor of fancy foods.

Paintings on the walls showed Yaninan kings with odd domed crowns; long somber faces; and robes so thick with gold and silver threads, they had to be almost too heavy to wear. Other paintings celebrated the triumphs of Yaninan arms. Judging by those paintings, Yanina had never lost a battle, let alone a war. Judging by the map, those paintings didn’t tell the whole story.

“We can talk here,” Cossos said, escorting Fernao and Varvakis into a small chamber. Like Varvakis, he spoke good Algarvian. The Yaninans had learned a great deal from their eastern neighbors. Not all the lessons had been pleasant.

Varvakis said, “The two of you talk. What you talk about, I don’t want to hear. If I don’t hear it, I don’t have to tell lies about it.” He bowed first to Fernao, then to Cossos, and departed before either of them could say a word.

“No stones to that man,” Cossos remarked, tossing his head in a Yaninan gesture of scorn. He was about forty-five, wiry, shrewd-looking, with a nose like a swordblade. “Now, my friend, what can I do for you?”

“I doubt I am your friend,” Fernao said. “If all goes well, I may be your benefactor, though.”

“That will do well enough,” Cossos said briskly. “I ask you once again: what can I do for you?”

Fernao hesitated. Here was where the jaws of the trap might close on him. If someone besides Cossos was listening… If that was so, Fernao might find out more about the dark places of Yanina than he ever wanted to know. He could not sense anyone listening, but he could not gauge whether Yaninan wizards were masking a spy from his powers, either.

But he had not come here to be cautious. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I would like half an hour alone with Penda of Forthweg, with no one to know I have come to see him. I also require your studied forgetfulness that you ever arranged such an appointment for me.”

“Studied forgetfulness, eh?” Cossos bared his teeth in what was almost, but not quite, a smile of genuine amusement. “Aye, I can see how you would. Well, I can manage that. In fact, I’d better, or my head would answer it, after the other. But it’ll cost you.” He named a sum in Yaninan lepta.

After Fernao converted it into Lagoan sceptres, he whistled softly.

Cossos did not think small. But Shelomith had gold aplenty. “Agreed,” the mage said, and Cossos blinked, evidently having expected him to haggle. Fernao added, “I will take any oath you like that I mean Penda no harm.”

Cossos shrugged. “It’d cost you less if you did mean him harm,” he said. “King Tsavellas would just as soon see him dead. Then he wouldn’t have to worry about him any more. Bring me the money and—”

“I’ll bring you the first half,” Fernao broke in. “The other half comes afterwards, in case you’d just as soon see me dead.” Cossos bared his teeth. Fernao stood firm against all his complaints, saying, “You need a reason not to betray me.” In the end, grumbling, the steward gave in.

Well pleased with himself, Fernao headed back to the hostel. Shelomith would pay without blinking; he was sure of that. He was less sure he could walk out of the palace with Penda and with no one the wiser, but he thought so. Lagoan mages knew more than those in this benighted corner of the world. He’d already had a couple of good ideas, and more would come to him.

He rounded the last corner and stopped dead. Green-uniformed constables surrounded the hostel like ants at an outdoor feast. A couple of them carried a body out on a litter. Fernao knew it would be Shelomith’s before he got close enough to recognize it, and it was. The constables were laughing and joking, as if they’d found treasure. They probably had found treasure—Shelomith’s treasure. Fernao gulped. Now all he had was the money in his own pouch, and he was alone and friendless in a foreign town.

Dragons swooped low over Trapani. Marching in the triumphal procession through the streets of the Algarvian capital, Colonel Sabrino hoped none of the miserable beasts would choose the moment in which it flew over him to void. Long and intimate experience informed his mistrust of dragons.

No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than he had to step smartly to keep from putting his foot down on a pile of behemoth dung. Squadrons of the great beasts were interspersed among the marching troops, to give the swarms of civilians who packed the sidewalks something extra at which to cheer.

Sabrino marched with his shoulders back, his head up, his chin thrust forward. He wanted everyone who saw him to know he was a fierce fighting man, one who would never take a step back from the foe. Algarvians made much of appearances. And why not? Sabrino thought. Have the mages not proved that appearances help shape reality?

He also wanted people, especially pretty women, to notice. He was happy with his wife, he was happy with his mistress, but he would not have been broken-hearted had some sweet young thing adoringly cast herself at his feet. No, he would not have been broken-hearted at all.

Whether he would find himself so lucky after the end of the parade, he did not know. He was pretty sure a good many soldiers would, though. Women kept running out to kiss them as they tramped past. A lot of the cheers that washed over them weren’t the sort of cheers soldiers usually got. They sounded more like the ones excited followers usually gave popular balladeers or actors.