“Zossen,” Garivald answered.
“Zossen,” the stranger--a soldier who hadn’t surrendered?--repeated. “Zossen will hear from us one of these days.” He sketched a salute, as if to an officer, before slipping away between the trees. He was far better in the woods than Garivald and vanished almost at once.
Fernao didn’t know why he’d been summoned to the royal palace in Setubal. The bored functionary who’d linked crystals hadn’t explained, saying only, “All will be made clear upon your arrival, sir.” In a way, Fernao supposed his caution made sense: a good mage could spy on the emanations passing between two crystals. But not knowing why he had to go to the palace irritated him.
As he got off the caravan car in front of the palace grounds, an unpleasant thought crossed his mind: what if it had to do with the exiled King Penda of Forthweg? That was worse than irritating. It was downright frightening. He would have been perfectly happy--powers above, he would have been delighted--never to see Penda again.
He worried as he walked up the broad red-brick path toward the palace, worried so much that at first he paid little attention to the building itself. Having lived his whole life in Setubal played a part in that; he took die palace for granted, where a man who saw it but seldom would not have.
Even for him, it wasn’t easy. The Lagoan royal palace cried out to be noticed--cried out in a loud, piercing voice. It was built in the ornate Algarvian style of the century before last: the Algarvian style carried to an extreme only the royal treasury could have supported. Everything leaped toward the heavens, and everything was carved in incredible, maniacal detail. The entire history of Lagoas up till that time appeared on the walls and buttresses and towers, all of it perfect, much of it swathed in gold leaf. Fernao wondered how many stonecutters had gone blind while the palace rose.
If anything, the great bronze doors that led into the royal residence were even more astonishing than the building. On them was the Second Battle of the Strait of Valmiera--in which, not long before the palace went up, Lagoas had won a smashing victory over Sibiu--all picked out in enamelwork whose brilliance had not diminished a bit over the course of two centuries.
Muttering under his breath, Fernao passed through those brazen doors and into the palace. A dozen secretaries sat behind desks in the antechamber there. He went up to one of them and gave his name.
“A moment, sorcerous sir, if you please,” the fellow said. “Let me consult my list of appointments.” He ran his finger down the sheet. “Ah, here you are—and right on time, too. Your appointment is with Colonel Peixoto, in the Ministry of War. That is in the south wing, sir--go through this hall and take the corridor to your left.”
“Thank you very much,” Fernao said. The secretary bowed in his chair, almost as ceremonious as an Algarvian. Fernao walked through the antechamber with a new bounce to his stride. Only the splendor of his surroundings kept him from whistling as he walked. Whatever this was about, it had nothing to do with Penda.
As he got farther from the parts of the palace where King Vitor actually lived, interior decoration grew less grandiose. By the time he reached the offices of the Ministry of War--a good ten minutes’ walk from the antechamber--he’d come to surroundings in which he could actually imagine men doing serious work.
A uniformed clerk took charge of him. After making him touch his Guild card--had he been an impostor, the spot he touched would have glowed red--the clerk led him to Peixoto’s office. The Lagoan colonel was younger and leaner than Fernao had expected: within a couple of years of the sorcerer’s own age. He was also more enthusiastic than Fernao had looked for in a soldier.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir, a very great pleasure,” Peixoto said, springing from his seat to clasp Fernao’s hand. “Here, take a chair, make yourself comfortable. Will you drink a glass of wine with me?” Without waiting for an answer, he clapped his hands. The military clerk hurried in with a bottle and a couple of glasses.
The wine had the tang of oranges and lemons. “A Jelgavan vintage,” Fernao remarked without bothering to look closely at the bottle.
“Aye, so it is,” Colonel Peixoto answered. “The Algarvians make better, but I’ll be cursed if I want any of theirs now. I’d think I were drinking blood.” His face, which seemed sunny most of the time, clouded. “That’s a filthy trick they’ve pulled in Unkerlant.”
“You’re not a mage, Colonel--you have no notion how filthy it feels to me,” Fernao said. “If you’ve called me here to try to put a stop to it, I am your man, and with all my heart.” He emptied his wineglass, then poured it full again.
“Well, in a manner of speaking, sir mage, in a manner of speaking,” Peixoto said. “We aim to put a thorn under the wings of King Mezentio’s dragons, so we do. And from all I can see”--he rustled papers on his desk--”you are the perfect man--the perfect man, I tell you--for the job.”
