had been profanely inventive in explaining that things had gone wrong north of Sulingen not least on account of Yaninan cowardice. Hajjaj wondered if Balastro had been as inventive-and as profane-to Iskakis’ face. He wouldn’t have been surprised.
“What are we to do if the Algarvians piss away all the victories they have won?” Iskakis demanded.
He said nothing about the Yaninan army’s part in the Algarvians’ misfortunes, but then he wouldn’t. No matter what he didn’t say, the question was good. Hajjaj answered, “What other choice would we have but to make the best terms we could with Unkerlant?”
Iskakis tapped the back of his neck. “This is what Swemmel would give us.” The gesture made Hajjaj sure the Yaninans used an axe or headsman’s sword to dispose of miscreants. The minister tapped again. “This if we were lucky. Otherwise, we would go into the stewpot.”
Hajjaj would have been happier had Iskakis been wrong. He would also have been happier had the Algarvians made more pleasant allies. He doubted Iskakis cared about Kaunians one way or the other. On the other hand, King Mezentio’s men undoubtedly had a much tighter grip on Yanina than they did on Zuwayza. Hajjaj said, “I have no easy answers for you. What else is there to do but ride the camel we mounted till it will go no farther?”
“Together, have we not enough power to stop this war?” Iskakis said.
“No,” Hajjaj said bluntly. “We can hurt Algarve, aye, but how likely is Swemmel to show proper gratitude?”
That got through. Iskakis grimaced. He said, “I shall pass your words on to my sovereign.” Before Hajjaj could have even raise a finger, the Yaninan minister added, “You may rest assured, I shall pass them carefully.”
“You had better,” Hajjaj said. Yaninans were good at intrigue, better than they were at war. But the Algarvians had to know their allies felt restive.
Iskakis got to his feet, bowed, and left as grandly as if his kingdom’s soldiers had won triumphs by the dozen instead of embarrassing themselves far and wide. Hajjaj was still pondering the report he would give to King Shazli when Qutuz came in and said, “Your Excellency, Marquis Balastro is fain to speak to you by crystal.”
“Is he?” Hajjaj was anything but fain to speak to the Algarvian minister, but no one had asked his opinion. Having no real choice, he said, “I’m coming.”
Formal manners and polite delays went over the side in conversations by crystal. Without preamble, Balastro demanded, “Well, what did the little bald bugger want from you?”
“My recipe for a camel’s-milk fondue,” Hajjaj replied blandly.
Balastro said something uncharitable about camels-young male camels- and Iskakis. Then he said, “If Tsavellas stabs us in the back, Hajjaj, that doesn’t do you any good.”
“I never claimed it did,” Hajjaj replied. “But I also never said a word about what Iskakis discussed with me, nor do I intend to.”
“What else would a Yaninan talk about, especially when things have gone sour down in the south?” Balastro didn’t bother hiding his scorn.
“If you run low on Kaunians, perhaps you will be able to repair the front with the life energy you get from slaughtering the people of Patras or some other Yaninan town,” Hajjaj suggested, not in the least diplomatically.
Balastro glared. “Perhaps we will.” His voice was as cold as winter in Sulingen. “Perhaps you will recall on whose side you are, and whose friendship has let you-helped you-take back what is rightfully yours.”
That was, unfortunately, a straight blaze. “King Tsavellas, unlike my sovereign, is your ally only because he fears Swemmel more than you,” Hajjaj said. “We Zuwayzin like Algarvians-or we did, till you began what you began.” Many-maybe even most-of his people still did, but he forbore to mention that.
“If Tsavellas tries to diddle us, we’ll give him reason to fear us, by the powers above,” Balastro snarled. His eyes bored into Hajjaj’s. “And the same goes for King Shazli, your Excellency. You would do well to remember it.”
“Oh, I do,” Hajjaj said. “You may rest assured, I do.” He wasn’t sure Balastro heard that; the Algarvian minister’s image had disappeared after he delivered his threat. Hajjaj cursed softly. He would have loved to abandon Algarve. The only trouble was, King Shazli also feared Swemmel of Unkerlant more than Mezentio-and he too had good reason to do so.
Eighteen
Sleet and occasional spatters of pea-sized hail pelted Krasta’s mansion on the edge of Priekule. The mood inside the building was as cold and nasty as the weather outside. One of the things that had made Algarvians appealing and attractive to the marchioness was their panache, the sense that nothing could make them downhearted. That sense was conspicuously absent these days.
So were several of the redheaded military bureaucrats who had helped administer Priekule, to whose leers Krasta had resigned herself. And when they absented themselves, no one took their places. Their desks stood empty, abandoned, for day after day.
“Where have they gone? And when will you get replacements for them?” Krasta asked Colonel Lurcanio. “Those desks reflect poorly on you.” And, of course, anything that reflected poorly on Lurcanio also reflected poorly on her.
“Where? They are on holiday in Jelgava, of course,” Lurcanio snapped. Then, seeing Krasta believed him, he abandoned sarcasm (not without rolling his eyes) and gave her a straight answer: “They are bound for Unkerlant, to fight in the west. As for replacements. .” He laughed bitterly. “My sweet, I count myself lucky that I have not been packed aboard a ley-line caravan to join them. Believe me, I count myself lucky indeed.”
“You?” Krasta gestured as if telling him not to be foolish. “How can they pack you off to Unkerlant? You’re a colonel and a count, after all.”
“Aye, so I am,” Lurcanio agreed. “And one of the duties of a colonel and count is to command a regiment or brigade in the service of his king. A good many regiments and brigades want colonels to command them these days, because a good many colonels who commanded them in days gone by are dead.”
The chill that ran through Krasta had nothing to do with the weather. The war hadn’t come to Priekule, not in person; King Gainibu had yielded before the Algarvians attacked the capital of Valmiera. Here and now, though, the war was reaching into Priekule through the bursting eggs and blazing sticks on the far side of the world-which was how she viewed Unkerlant.
Lurcanio went on, “A good many people are pulling all the wires they can to stay in Valmiera. Given the choices involved, I must say I understand this. Would you not agree?”
“No one in his right mind would go to Unkerlant if he could stay in Priekule.” Krasta spoke with great conviction.
“You are right, even if you do not fully understand the reason,” Lurcanio said. With what looked to Krasta like a deliberate effort of will, he grew more cheerful. “I am given to understand that your Viscount Valnu is giving an entertainment this evening. Shall we go and see what new scandal he comes up with?”
“He’s not
“That I have seen.” Maybe Lurcanio was amused, maybe not. “You will, however, do me the courtesy of not making me wait for you tonight.”
Krasta thought hard about making him do exactly that. In the end, she didn’t dare. With Lurcanio’s temper uncertain, he might grow.. unpleasant if crossed.
When she did come downstairs in good time, he nodded grave approval. He could be charming when he chose, and he did choose charm during the carriage ride to Valnu’s mansion. He made Krasta laugh. He made himself laugh, too. If his mirth seemed a little strained, Krasta didn’t notice.
“Hello, sweetheart!” Valnu cried when they arrived. He kissed Krasta on the cheek. Then he turned to Lurcanio and cried, “Hello, sweetheart!” again. Lurcanio got a kiss identical to Krasta’s.
“Your versatility does you credit,” the Algarvian officer said. Valnu sniggered and waved him out of the entry hall and into the enormous front room.
