Harry Turtledove - Darkness Descending

“You have not answered me, Count Sabrino,” Chlodvald said.

“Easy enough,” Sabrino said, and tossed an egg of his own: “How is it that all of Unkerlant’s neighbors have joined against her? That speaks volumes about how well King Swemmel is loved throughout Derlavai.”

“All of Algarve’s neighbors joined against her, too,” Chlodvald observed. “And what does that say about King Mezentio?”

“Yanina marches with us!” Captain Domiziano blurted.

Chlodvald raised his snowy eyebrow and said not another word. After a moment, Domiziano turned red. Sabrino had all he could do not to laugh at his squadron leader. He still wasn’t sure having the Yaninans as allies helped Algarve more than it helped Unkerlant.

Chlodvald got to his feet. Rather stiffly, he nodded to Sabrino. “You Algarvians were a polished lot when you fought us in the Six Years’ War. I see that has not changed. But I will take the liberty of telling you one thing more before I leave you: Unkerlant is a kingdom--Unkerlant is a land--that rubs the polish from invaders no less than from its own folk. Good night.” He turned away.

“Good night,” Sabrino called after him. “We may not meet again: before long, we shall be advancing once more.”

Chlodvald did not reply; Sabrino wondered if the old man heard. He watched Chlodvald walk through deepening twilight back toward the manor house and go inside. No lamps showed at the windows; the Unkerlanter general was too courteous to try to betray his foes in such a way. Even so, Unkerlanter dragons came over that night, dropping eggs all around the Algarvian dragon farm. They killed only a couple of dragons and no fliers, but their stubbornness made Sabrino thoughtful.

Lalla stamped her foot. The angry gesture set her bare breasts bouncing prettily. “But I already ordered that emerald necklace!” she said. “What do you mean, I can’t have it? The jeweler will deliver it soon.”

“No, he won’t,” Hajjaj said wearily. “As for you can’t,’ my dear, don’t you speak Zuwayzi? I told you before you went and ordered it that you might not have it, for it cost too much. If you ignore my instructions, you must expect me to ignore your desires. I have had too many of these scenes with you.”

His third wife set her hands on her hips. “Old man, you have been ignoring my desires since our wedding night. You might expect me to minister to the pleasure of your body, but you will not even let me adorn mine. Please?” She went from vicious to cajoling in the space of a couple of sentences.

Hajjaj eyed her body. It was well worth adorning: broad-hipped, wasp-waisted, full-breasted. He’d wed her in the hope of sensual pleasure, and he’d had more than a little from her. But he’d also had more than a little--too much more than a little--aggravation from her. Because she pleased him in the bedchamber, she’d grown convinced he was assotted of her and would grant her every wish, no matter how extravagant. Anyone who had such ideas about the Zuwayzi foreign minister knew him less well than she imagined.

With a sigh, he said, “I am an old man. Whether you grasp it or not, however, I am not necessarily a fool. If I were a fool, I would let you buy that necklace even after I told you not to do it. Instead, I shall send you back to the head of your clan. You may see how well you cajole him.”

Lalla stared, realizing too late that she’d gone too far. “Have mercy, my lord, my husband!” she cried, and threw herself down on her knees before him, beseeching and inviting him at the same time. “Have mercy, I beg!”

“I have shown you too much mercy--and too much cash,” Hajjaj replied. “I shall pay out your divorcee’s allowance till you remarry--if you do. If you want more than that, you may either earn it or pry it loose from your clan chief. Since custom and law forbid him from touching you, you will have fewer inducements than you did with me.”

“You wicked old scorpion!” Lalla cried. “I curse you! I curse the powers above for setting me in your hands! I--”

She scrambled to her feet, snatched a vase from a wall niche, and threw it at Hajjaj. Rage made her aim poor; he didn’t even have to duck. The vase shattered against the wall behind him. The crash brought servants running to see what had happened. “Do escort her away,” Hajjaj said, “and make everything ready to return her to the house of her clan head.”

“Aye, lord,” the servants said. By the way they smiled, they’d hoped for that order for some time. Lalla saw as much, too. She cursed them and then kicked one of them. They escorted her away much less gently than they might have otherwise.

Tewfik made his slow way into the chamber. He bowed as well as age and decrepitude allowed, then said, “My lord, Marquis Balastro of Algarve awaits without. He craves audience with you.”

“By all means, Tewfik, let him in.” Hajjaj s joints clicked as he stretched; he knocked one of the pillows on the floor aside with his foot. “I suppose you have a kilt and tunic waiting for me somewhere. Gauzy ones, I hope.”

The longtime family retainer coughed. “Mufflings will not be necessary today, sir, the count having chosen to affect the habiliments of Zuwayza: hat--an Algarvian hat, but the brim is wide enough--sandals, and only himself between.”

“And he’s waiting outside, you said? Powers above, he’ll bake! He’s light-skinned and not hardened against the sun.” Hajjaj hurried toward the entrance-way. He was not so nimble as he once had been, but still easily outdistanced Tewfik.

From behind him, the majordomo called, “A suggestion, my lord.”

As usual, Tewfik’s suggestions had the force of commands. “And that is?” Hajjaj asked over his shoulder.

“Until the wench Lalla returns to her clan head’s house, she ought not to be alone, lest valuables of this house go thither with her,” Tewfik told him.

Till that moment, Lalla had been junior wife in Tewfik’s mouth and used as respectfully as either of the wives senior to her. Hajjaj wondered whether the majordomo was finally expressing his own opinion or echoing what he presumed to be his master’s. Then he wondered if Tewfik saw any difference between those two. Either way, he gave good advice. “Aye, see to it,” Hajjaj said.

“As you say,” Tewfik replied, though he’d done the saying. “I presume you will entertain the Algarvian minister in the library?” He did not bother waiting for an answer to that, but continued, “I shall have tea and cakes and wine sent there directly.”

“I thank you,” Hajjaj said, still over his shoulder. Almost to the entranceway, he paused. “Algarvian vintages for the minister, not date wine.”

“Of course.” Tewfik sounded offended that his master should judge he needed reminding.

Hajjaj threw open the strong-barred door--like many clan centers, his home could double as a fortress. Sure enough, there stood Balastro, bare and pale and sweating in the sun. With a jaunty gesture, he swept off his hat and bowed. “I am pleased to see you, your Excellency,” he said.

“I am pleased to see you at least had the sense to travel here in a closed and covered coach,” Hajjaj said. “Come inside, before my cooks decide you’re done and put you on a serving platter.”

“You follow my customs when you call on me at the ministry,” Balastro said. He did sigh with relief when he stepped into the shade; the thick mud-brick walls fought the heat as well as anything could. “I thought it the least I could do to follow yours while visiting you.”

“Aye, you’ve been known to do it before,” Hajjaj agreed. “You are the only diplomat who ever does--Algarvian panache, I daresay. But truly, your Excellency, you are not equipped with a hide of the proper color . . . and yours will turn several improper colors if you stay out too long.” He could not quite take Balastro’s nudity for granted, as he did nudity among his own people. Not only was Balastro the wrong color, as Hajjaj had said, but he also displayed the distinctive Algarvian mutilation. Hajjaj’s eyes kept coming back to it; it made the redhead look deformed. To cover his queasy fascination, the Zuwayzi foreign minister added, “All your hide.”