When the foreign minister got back to his office, Qutuz raised an inquiring eyebrow. “They will stay,” Hajjaj said. “All I have to do now is devise a convincing explanation for Marquis Balastro as to why they may stay.”
“No small order,” his secretary observed. “If anyone can do it, though, you are the man.”
Again, Hajjaj was bemused that others had so much more faith in him than he had in himself. Since Shazli had given him the task, though, he had to try to do it. “Bring me a city directory for Bishah, if you would be so kind,” he said.
Qutuz’s eyebrows climbed again. “A city directory?” he echoed. Hajjaj nodded and offered not a word of explanation. His secretary mumbled something under his breath. Now Hajjaj’s eyebrow rose, in challenge. Qutuz had no choice but to go fetch a directory. But he was still mumbling as he went.
Even though Hajjaj donned his spectacles, reading the small print in the directory was a trial. Fortunately, he had a good notion of the kinds of names he was looking for. Whenever he came across one, he underlined it in red ink and dog-eared the page so he could find it again in a hurry. He nodded at a couple of the names: they belonged to men he’d known for years. When he was done, he put the directory in his desk and hoped he wouldn’t have to pull it out again.
That that was a forlorn hope, he knew perfectly well. And, sure enough, less than a week later Qutuz came in and told him, “Marquis Balastro is waiting in the outer office. He came without seeking an appointment first, and he says he couldn’t care less whether you bother putting on clothes or not.”
Balastro no doubt meant it; he came closer to conforming to Zuwayzi usages than any other minister. Nevertheless, Hajjaj said, “Tell him that, for the sake of my kingdom’s dignity, I prefer to dress before receiving him. Getting into those ridiculous wrappings will also give me time to think, but you need not tell him that. Be sure to bring in tea and wine and cakes as quick as you can.”
“Just as you say, your Excellency,” Qutuz promised. “First, though, the Algarvian.”
Balastro usually had the hail-fellow-well-met air so many of his countrymen could don with ease. Not today. Today he was furious, and making no effort to hide it. Or, perhaps, today he donned a mask of fury with as much skill as he usually used while wearing a mask of affability.
Before Balastro could do much in the way in the way of blustering, Hajjaj’s secretary came in with the customary dainties on a silver tray. The Algarvian minister fumed to see them, but his manners were too good to let him talk business for a while. Hajjaj carefully hid his smile; he enjoyed turning the Algarvian’s respect for Zuwayzi customs against him.
But the small talk over refreshments could go on only so long. At last, Hajjaj had to ask, “And to what do I owe the pleasure of this unexpected visit?”
“Unexpected? I doubt it,” Balastro said, but some of the harsh edge was gone from his voice: Qutuz had picked a particularly smooth, particularly potent wine. Still, he did not sound accommodating as he went on, “Unless you can speak the truth when you tell me your kingdom isn’t taking in Kaunian fugitives.”
“No, I cannot do that, and I do not intend to try,” Hajjaj replied. “Zuwayza is indeed taking in Kaunian refugees, and will continue to do so.”
“King Mezentio has charged me to say to you that your giving haven to these fugitives”-Marquis Balastro clung to his own word-”cannot be construed as anything but an unfriendly act on the part of your kingdom.” He glared at Hajjaj; the wine hadn’t softened him so much after all. “Algarve knows full well how to punish unfriendly acts.”
“I am sure of it.” Hajjaj glared back. “Is Mezentio thinking of using us as fodder for his mages to kill to power their sorceries, along with however many Kaunians you have left?”
The sheer insolence of that, far out of character for Hajjaj, made Balastro lean forward in surprise. “By no means, your Excellency,” he replied after a pause for thought. “But you are an ally, or so Algarve has believed. Do you wonder that we mislike it when you clasp our enemies to your bosom?”
“Zuwayza is a small kingdom of free men,” Hajjaj replied. “Do you wonder that we welcome others who come to us looking for freedom they cannot find in their own lands?”
“I wonder that you welcome Kaunians,” Balastro growled. “And you know cursed well why I wonder that you welcome them, too.”
“Indeed I do.” Hajjaj pulled the city directory out of the drawer where he had put it a few days before and opened it to one of the dog-eared pages. “I see here the name of Uderzo the florist, who has been here for thirty years now- since he got out of Algarve at the end of the Six Years’ War. And here is Goscinnio the portraitist. He has been here just as long, and got here the same way. Do you think Forthweg and Jelgava and Valmiera and Lagoas weren’t screaming at us for taking in Algarvian refugees? If you do, sir, you’re daft.” He opened the directory to yet another marked page. “I can show you a great many more, if you like.”
“Never mind. I take your point.” But Balastro didn’t look or sound happy about taking it. “I remind you, though, your Excellency, that you were not allied to any of those kingdoms at the time.”
“As I have told you before, we are your allies, we are your cobelligerents against Unkerlant, but we are not your servants or your slaves,” Hajjaj replied. “If you try to treat us as if we were, we shall have to see how long we can remain your allies.”
“If you bring in spies and enemies, we shall have to see whether we want you for allies,” Balastro said. “Remember how many dragons you have from us, and how many behemoths; remember how our dragonfliers help ward your skies. If you want to face Unkerlant on your own …” He shrugged.
Would Mezentio make good on such a threat? He might, and Hajjaj knew it; the Zuwayzi foreign minister dared not underestimate the hatred the King of Algarve had for Kaunians. “How long ago were you begging us for more help here in the north?” Hajjaj asked. “Not very, as I recall.”
“We didn’t get much of it, as I recall.” Balastro leaned forward again, this time with keen interest. “Might we get more, in exchange for looking the other way at certain things you do?”
Algarvians were good at looking the other way when there were things they didn’t want to see. Hajjaj usually found that trait dismaying. Now he might be able to use it to Zuwayza’s advantage. “That could be a bargain, or the start of one,” he said, hoping to escape this dilemma with honor after all.
Skarnu’s world had shrunk to the farm where he lived with Merkela and Raunu, the hamlet of Pavilosta, and the roads between those places. He’d had little reason and less chance to go far astray since washing up on the farm, one more piece of flotsam tossed adrift as Valmiera foundered.
By now, though, he’d made a name for himself as one of the leaders of the fight against Algarve in his country. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, he was flattered that other Valmierans knew he was one of those who hadn’t despaired of the kingdom. On the other, their knowing he remained a rebel against the occupiers made it more likely the redheads would find out, too.
And so, when he strode into the town of Tytuvenai, he looked around to make sure no Algarvians were paying him any undue attention. To his surprise, he saw hardly any of King Mezentio’s men on the streets. Valmieran constables as blond as Skarnu patrolled them instead. In smart uniforms that reminded him of the one he’d worn in the army, they eyed his homespun tunic and baggy trousers with almost as much scorn as nobles in Priekule would have aimed at him.
“Come to see the bright lights, farmboy?” one of them called to Skarnu. The fellow’s partner laughed.
“Aye,” Skarnu answered with a wide, foolish grin. The role he played amused him: a city man pretending to be a country yokel to fool a couple of other city men. But if the new audience criticized his performance, he wouldn’t get a bad notice in the local news sheet. He’d get killed.
He’d never been in Tytuvenai before, and so some of his curiosity was genuine. The town, he’d heard, had some monuments that dated back to the days of the Kaunian Empire. He saw none. He did see some plots of ground that looked as if they’d recently held something or other but were now empty. He wondered if Algarvian wreckers had got rid of monuments they didn’t fancy, as he knew they’d done elsewhere in Valmiera.
After some searching, he found the tavern called the Drunken Dragon. The dragon on the signboard above the door certainly looked as if it had had several too many. Skarnu smiled up at it. Before he went inside, he checked to make sure no one had picked his pockets: the Drunken Dragon lay in that kind of neighborhood. Valmieran constables didn’t come hereabouts.
Inside, the place was dark and smoky and crowded. People gave Skarnu, a stranger, a once-over as he made his way to the bar. “What’ll it be?” asked the taverner, a man missing a couple of fingers from his right hand- probably from a wound in the Six Years’ War, for he was old enough.
