Out of the Darkness

nearby was bound to be an inspector. The mines always needed fresh blood, despite the great glut of captives in them now. Inside a couple of years, most of those captives would be dead.

Behind Rathar came a block of footsoldiers. Behind them trudged weary, hungry-looking Gyongyosian captives. Most of those men would probably head for the Mamming Hills after their display here. Or maybe Swemmel had canals he wanted dug or rubble that needed carting away. The possibilities, in a kingdom ravaged by war, were endless.

After the Gongs marched a regiment of unicorn-riders, and then a regiment of behemoths. Rathar could hear the chain-mail clanking on the great beasts through the rhythmic thud of marching feet. Hearing that clank reminded him of reports the islanders had come up with behemoth armor better at stopping beams than anything his own kingdom had. One more project to keep the mages busy-as if they didn’t have enough.

More behemoths hauled egg-tossers of all sizes through the square. Another shambling throng of Gyongyosian captives came after them, followed by more Unkerlanter footsoldiers. Those Gongs and soldiers might have to watch where they put their feet. Dragons painted rock-gray flapped past overhead. They were incontinent beasts, too; Rathar hoped none of them chose the wrong moment to do something unfortunate.

As he passed the reviewing stand-which, along with Swemmel and his guardsmen, held Unkerlanter courtiers and foreign dignitaries and attaches (the latter sure to be taking notes on the parade)-Marshal Rathar met the king’s eye and saluted him. King Swemmel gave back his usual unwinking stare. But then, to the marshal’s surprise, he deigned to return the salute.

Rathar almost missed a step. Did a formal, public salute from Swemmel mean the king truly trusted him? Or did it mean Swemmel wanted to lull his suspicions and put him out of the way? How could he tell, till the day came or didn’t?

You could rebel, he thought. Plenty would back you. But, as always, he rejected the idea as soon as it crossed his mind. For one thing, he didn’t want the throne. For another, he was sure Swemmel would win in a game of intrigue. He was doing what he wanted to do. He did it well. The crown? If Swemmel wanted it so badly, he was welcome to it.

Out of the square marched Rathar, out of the square and down Cottbus’ main avenue. The sidewalks there were packed, too; only a continuous line of constables and impressers held the crowd back. Men and women cheered much more enthusiastically than Unkerlanters usually did. If they were proud of what their kingdom had accomplished, they’d earned the right to be. And if they were relieved Unkerlant had survived, they’d also earned that right. How many of them had tried to flee west when Cottbus looked like falling to the Algarvians almost four years before? More than a few-Rathar was sure of that. How many would admit it now? Next to none, and the marshal was sure of that, too.

People who didn’t have the pull to get into the central square shouted Swemmel’s name more often than they shouted Rathar’s. These are the poor people, the ignorant people, Rathar thought. They don’t really know who did what.

That thought salved his vanity. Even so, he wondered how much truth it really held. Aye, Rathar had been the one who’d made the plans and given the orders that led to the defeat of the redheads and the Gyongyosians. But King Swemmel had been the one who refused even to imagine that Unkerlant could be beaten. Without such an indomitable man at the top, the kingdom might have fallen to pieces under the hammer blows the Algarvians struck during the first summer and autumn of the war.

Of course, if we hadn‘t been readying our own attack on Mezentio ‘s men, if we’d paid more attention to defending our kingdom against them, they might not have been able to strike those hammer blows. Rathar shrugged. It was years too late to worry about such things now.

After the parade ended, a carriage waited to take Marshal Rathar back to the palace. Major Merovec waited in his office. Rathar set a sympathetic hand on Merovec’s shoulder: no one cared about adjutants in victory parades. No one would ever know how important a job Merovec had had or how well he’d done it, either.

Perhaps not quite no one: Merovec said, “Thank you, sir-my promotion to colonel has finally come through.”

“Good,” Rathar said. “I put that in for you more than a year ago. One thing nobody can do, though, is hurry his Majesty.”

“No, of course not,” his adjutant replied. “What do they say, though? A rising tide lifts all boats? That’s how things are right now.”

“My boat has lifted me as far as I care to rise, thank you very much,” the marshal said. He didn’t know for certain that King Swemmel could sorcerously listen to his conversations, but had to assume the king could manage it. And there was only one higher rank to which a rising tide could lift him: the one Swemmel now held. He didn’t want the king believing he aspired to the throne. Such notions, as he’d thought during the parade, were dangerous. He nodded to Merovec. “After putting up with me for so long, you deserve a promotion.”

“Thank you, sir,” Merovec said. “What rank do you suppose I’ll have when the next war comes down the ley line at us?”

“The next war?” Rathar echoed.

His adjutant nodded. “Aye, sir. The one against the islanders, I mean. Whoever wins that will have all of Derlavai in his beltpouch.”

“If it comes soon, we won’t win it,” Rathar said. “If it comes soon, they’ll serve Cottbus as they served Gyorvar, and we can’t hit back the same way. They can make us back away from whatever we try. “We’d have to.”

I hope we’d have to, the marshal thought. If Swemmel gets a sudden attack of pride, he could throw this whole kingdom down the sewer. He would have worried less with a calmer, more sensible ruler-not that Unkerlant had enjoyed a lot of calm, sensible rulers in her history.

A young lieutenant stuck his head into the office, spotted Marshal Rathar, and brightened. “There you are, lord Marshal,” he said, as if Rathar had been playing hide-and-seek. “His Majesty wants to confer with you. At once.”

At once should have gone without saying where Swemmel was concerned. Being king meant never having to wait. “I’m coming,” Rathar said. That also went without saying. Merovec saluted as the marshal left the office. As always when summoned by Swemmel, Rathar wondered if he would ever come back here again.

He surrendered his ceremonial sword to Swemmel’s guards, let them frisk him, and then abased himself before his sovereign. “You may rise,” the king said. “Did you see the Kuusaman and Lagoan vultures perched on the reviewing stand with us when you marched past?”

“Aye, your Majesty,” Rathar replied. “I noticed the islanders’ ministers and their attaches.”

“What do you think they made of our might?” King Swemmel asked.

“Your Majesty, no matter how strong we are in soldiery, we dare not cross Lagoas and Kuusamo in any serious way till we can match them in magecraft, too,” Rathar said. “They have to know that as well as we do.”

Grimly, Swemmel nodded. “And so they laugh at us behind their hands. Well, we shall set our own mages to work, as indeed we have already done, and we shall see what spying can bring us, too.”

“That will not be so easy,” Marshal Rathar said. “How can one of our people pretend to come from Lagoas or Kuusamo?”

“One of our people would have a difficult time,” the king agreed. “There are, however, some few Algarvians who speak Lagoan without a trace of accent. Some of them were Mezentio’s spies. Paid well enough-and with their families held hostage to guard against betrayal-they should serve us well, too.”

“Ah,” Rathar said. “If we can bring that off, it will serve us well.”

“Many Algarvians are whores who will do anything for money,” Swemmel said. Rathar nodded. The king went on, “Our task is to find the ones who will be able to understand what they need to learn, and to slip them into the Lagoan Guild of Mages. It may not be easy or quick, but we think it can be done. As they say in cards, one peek is worth a thousand finesses.”

Rathar laughed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard King Swemmel crack a joke. Then he realized the king wasn’t joking. He nodded again all the same. Joking or not, Swemmel was right.