“Another fool, eh?” Balazs scribbled a note on a leaf of paper in front of him. “Well, I already told you-we have places for fools.”
Ilmarinen was not a hunter. He had no qualms about eating game or meat. He just saw no sport in killing beasts. Men were supposed to be smarter than animals, so where was the contest? (The way men had behaved during the Derlavaian War did make him wonder about his assumption, but he’d still never heard of a deer or a wolf picking up a stick and blazing back at a hunter.) Still and all, though, one hunting phrase he’d heard stuck in his mind:
If that meant leaving Torgavi, he wasn’t altogether sorry to go. He hadn’t had much fun there anyhow, not since the Unkerlanters figured out he was a mage and ordered him to stay on his own kingdom’s side of the Albi. He went instead to Scansano, where Mainardo, once King of Jelgava and now King of Algarve, headed what passed for his kingdom’s government these days.
Kuusaman and Lagoan soldiers-and a few Jelgavans-patrolled the streets of Scansano these days. Mainardo had ordered the Algarvian soldiers fighting in the northeast of his kingdom to lay down their sticks even before his brother, King Mezentio, died in the fall of Trapani. All that was left now was for Mainardo to order all the Algarvians still fighting to do the same.
Mainardo reigned not from a palace, not even from the local count’s mansion, but from a hostel, as if to underscore how temporary his power was likely to prove. Ilmarinen managed to arrange a room in the very same hostel for himself.
“How did you do that?” a Kuusaman news-sheet writer asked him at a tavern across the street. “They told me they were full up.”
“It wasn’t hard,” the mage answered. “I bribed them.”
“That really worked?” The writer’s narrow eyes widened. “I know they say Algarvians are like that, but I didn’t believe it.”
“Believe it,” Ilmarinen said. “It’s true.” He laughed at the look on the news-sheet writer’s face. Kuusamans were straightforward in their dealings with one another. When they said aye or nay, they commonly meant it. Offer one of Ilmarinen’s countrymen a little money on the side to change his mind about something, and he was much more likely to shout for a constable. Algarvians weren’t like that. They used bribes the same way mechanics used grease.
“Will the surrender come today?” the writer asked. “That’s what everybody is saying, anyhow.”
“I’ll tell you how you’ll know,” Ilmarinen answered. The writer leaned toward him. He said, “When there’s a ley-line caravan from out of the west, then you’ll know it’s really over.”
“Out of the west?” Now the young news-sheet writer looked confused.
Ilmarinen wondered how the fellow was allowed to run around without a nursemaid. As gently as he could, he spelled things out: “Mainardo has to surrender to the Unkerlanters, too, you know.”
“Oh. Aye.” The writer thought. “Do you suppose they’ll send Marshal What’s-his-name to the ceremony?”
“Marshal Rathar,” Ilmarinen said, holding on to his patience with both hands. The news-sheet scribbler gave him a bright nod. The name meant hardly more to him than that of some half-forgotten Kaunian Emperor. Unkerlant might have been-much of Unkerlant
“I suppose so.” The writer sounded magnanimous in agreeing to that much. With further magnanimity, he said, “They did do some of the fighting, too.”
“Some?” Ilmarinen choked on his wine. He had a notion of what Swemmel’s kingdom had paid first to halt the Algarvians short of Cottbus and then to drive them back-a small notion, a foreigner’s notion, a notion he was sure was ludicrously inadequate. Unkerlant had beaten the Algarvians, aye. How many years-how many generations- would she take to recover from her triumph? “Son, they did more of it than the Lagoans and us put together. Three times as much, easily.”
The writer stared at him. “You’re joking.”
Ilmarinen’s patience dropped and broke. “And you’re an idiot,” he snapped. “Do they really let you run loose without diapers? How do you keep from making messes on the floor?”
“Who do you think you are?” the news-sheet writer said indignantly.
“Someone who knows what he’s talking about,” Ilmarinen answered. “Obviously something you’ve never had to worry about.” He finished his wine and stalked out.
As he’d predicted, Marshal Rathar’s ley-line caravan came in the next morning. The caravan had had to pass through a few regions where the Algarvians were still supposed to be fighting. It wasn’t scratched. That, to Ilmarinen, was a telling sign that the war, at least here in the east of Derlavai, had almost come to an end.
When Rathar descended from the caravan car, Ilmarinen contrived to be in the first rank of those waiting to greet him. He would, he thought, have used sorcery if he’d had to, but it hadn’t proved necessary. His colonel’s emblems, his mage’s badge, and a few judicious elbows did the trick.
Rathar turned out to be younger than he’d expected. And, also to his surprise, the Marshal of Unkerlant paused and pointed to him. “You are the mage Ilmarinen, is it not so?” Rathar asked in Algarvian. Classical Kaunian wasn’t widely taught in his kingdom, and he must have known Ilmarinen wouldn’t speak his language.
“That’s right,” Ilmarinen answered in the same language as officers and dignitaries stared at him. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“What does Kuusamo do in the Bothnian Ocean?” Rathar asked.
“Fight the Gongs,” Ilmarinen answered. “Fish. Things like that. What anyone else does in an ocean.”
Rathar shook his head. He looked like a dissatisfied bear. “That is not what I meant. What magic does Kuusamo do in the Bothnian Ocean?”
“None that anyone’s told me about,” Ilmarinen said, which had the virtue of being technically true. He had some ideas about the sorts of things his colleagues back in the Naantali district of Kuusamo might be doing, but he couldn’t prove them. He hadn’t heard much from those colleagues since leaving to fight-which made sense, for if captured he couldn’t tell what he didn’t know.
“I do not believe you,” the Unkerlanter marshal said. Ilmarinen shrugged. So did Rathar. His shoulders were twice as wide as Ilmarinen’s. One of the junior officers accompanying him, a man with
The surrender ceremony took place that afternoon in the hostel’s dining room, the only chamber big enough to hold even a respectable fraction of all the people who wanted to be there. King Mainardo sat behind a table at one end of the room. A couple of Algarvian officers stood at his right and left hands, both of them looking extraordinarily glum. Grand General Nortamo of Kuusamo, Marshal Araujo of Lagoas, and Marshal Rathar of Unkerlant faced him. Their entourages crowded behind them. Ilmarinen stood among Nortamo’s followers, and had to go up on tiptoe to see over some of them.
Along with the soldiers of the three kingdoms that had done the bulk of the work in beating Algarve were smaller contingents from Valmiera and Jelgava and Sibiu. And Rathar had a man in Forthwegian uniform in his party. Ilmarinen looked to see if he also had a Yaninan in tow. He didn’t.
Nortamo spoke in Algarvian: “The Derlavaian War has gone on too long and cost too much. The allied kingdoms have prepared the instrument of surrender I hold for Algarve. Having caused so much torment for all surrounding kingdoms, having lost her own king in the fight, Algarve now acknowledges defeat and accepts responsibility for the consequences of her own dark deeds.” He walked over to Mainardo and set the surrender document in front of him.
“May I speak before I sign this paper?” the new King of Algarve asked.
“Say what you will,” Nortamo replied. “You must know, though, that it will not change the terms, which are no less than your complete and unconditional surrender.”
“Oh, aye, I know that,” Mainardo answered. Mezentio had been a fiery leader. His younger brother only
