Darkness Descending (20 page)

“You must do better. Unkerlant must do better,” Rathar said. “If you’d been into Cottbus lately and seen the burnt-out blocks, you would know Unkerlant must do better.” He did not want to blame the dowsers, who were trying as hard as they could—and whose work had led to a good many Algarvian dragons knocked out of the sky. Something else occurred to him: “Are our dragons using these strips of paper, too, to confuse the Algarvian dowsers?”

“Lord Marshal, you’d have to ask the dragonfliers, for I’m sure I can’t say,” Morold replied.

“I’ll do that,” Rathar said.
Maybe I’ll do that. If I remember, I’ll do that.
He scrawled a note. He’d scrawled a lot of notes on the little pad of paper he carried in his belt pouch. Eventually, he hoped to do something about each and every one of them. The way things had been going lately, he wrote new notes faster than he could deal with old ones.

The dowsers’ spirits seemed high, which cheered the marshal of Unkerlant. As long as the soldiers thought the war could be won, it could. That was not to say it would be won, not with the Algarvians still advancing in the north, the south, and in the center—in the direction of Cottbus. But if the Unkerlanter army despaired of throwing back the redheads, the fight was lost without hope of recovery

Morold said, “We need more crystals, lord, and more heavy sticks to blaze down the enemy’s dragons. The Algarvians talk back and forth among themselves more than we do, and it shows in all the fighting.”

“I know that.” Rathar did not take out the little pad again. He’d scribbled that note before. “The mages are doing everything they can. We need too many things at the same time, and have not enough mages to make all of them at once.”

Morold and the other dowsers looked unhappy to hear that. Rathar was none too happy to say it, either. But he did not want to lie to them, either. News sheets put out plenty of pleasing lies, and put the best face they could on the truth. That was fine for townsmen. Soldiers, Rathar thought, deserved the truth unvarnished.

He commandeered a fresh horse from among those tied near the dowser’s hut and rode back toward Cottbus. A single bodyguard rode with him. He would have done without even the one retainer, but the idea scandalized every other general—and Rathar’s adjutant. At least he’d made sure he had a solid veteran at his side, not a relative he was holding away from the fighting or some pretty boy.

Heading to Cottbus, he passed a troop of behemoths trotting east, toward the battle lines. They kicked up a great cloud of dust. Because they were still far from the fighting, they did not wear their heavy mail, but carried it in carts they pulled behind them. Whatever color their long, shaggy hair had been before, it was dust-brown now. A couple of the soldiers mounted on them waved to Rathar. Coughing, he waved back. His tunic was scarcely fancier than theirs; they more likely thought him just another soldier than the highest-ranking officer in the Unkerlanter army.

He rode past a dead Algarvian dragon. An old man—too old to go to the front—was stripping the harness from it. Rathar nodded. Anything his kingdom could steal from the redheads was one thing fewer its artisans would have to make.

Few people, and most of them women, were on the streets of Cottbus. As he trotted through a market square, he saw a long queue to buy pears and plums, and an even longer one in front of a stern-faced woman with a basket of eggs. There looked to be plenty of fruit; the eggs were going fast, and the people at the end of that line would have to do without.

When Rathar strode into his office, his adjutant hurried up to him with a worried look on his face. “Lord Marshal, his Majesty urgently requires your presence,” Major Merovec told him.

“Of course the king shall have what he requires,” Rathar replied. “Do you know why he requires me?” Merovec shook his head. Rathar let out a silent sigh. He wouldn’t know whether King Swemmel intended merely to confer with him or to sack him or to take his head till he got to the audience chamber. “I shall go see him at once then.”

Swemmel’s guardsmen in the antechamber were as meticulous as ever, but did not seem hostile to Rathar. The marshal took that as a good sign. No more guards awaited him in the audience chamber. He took that as a better sign.

“Arise, arise,” King Swemmel said after Rathar completed the ritual prostrations and acclamations before his sovereign. Swemmel sounded impatient and angry, but not angry at the marshal. “Do you know what that swaggering popinjay of a Mezentio has done?” he demanded.

King Mezentio had done any number of things to Unkerlant’s detriment. Evidently, he’d just done one more. Rathar answered with simple truth: “No, your Majesty.”

“Curse him, he has raised up a false King of Grelz down in Herborn,” Swemmel snarled.

Ice ran through Rathar. That was one of the nastier things Mezentio might have done. A good many people in the Duchy of Grelz still resented the Union of Crowns that had bound them to Unkerlant even though it was almost three hundred years old. If Algarve restored the old Kingdom of Grelz under a pliant local noble, the Grelzers might well acquiesce in Algarvian control. “Which of the counts or dukes did the redheads pick as their pretender?” Rathar asked.

“Duke Raniero, who has the dishonor to be Mezentio’s first cousin,” King Swemmel answered.

Rathar stared. “King Mezentio named an Algarvian noble to be King of Grelz?”

“Aye, he did,” Swemmel said. “None of the local lickspittles seemed to suit him.”

“Powers above be praised,” Rathar said softly. “He could have struck a harder blow against us with a Grelzer than with a man the folk down there will see as ... a foreign usurper.” He’d almost said
another foreign usurper.
Swemmel would not have been grateful for that, not even a little.

“You may be right.” Swemmel sounded almost indifferent to what was in Rathar’s eyes a blunder big as the world. A moment later, the king explained why: “But the insult is no less here. If anything, the insult is greater, for Mezentio to presume to set an Algarvian as king on Unkerlanter soil.”

“He did the same thing in Jelgava, when he made his brother Mainardo king there,” Rathar said. “The Algarvians have always been an arrogant lot.”

“Aye,” King Swemmel agreed. “If the Jelgavans are spineless enough to take Mezentio’s worthless brother as their sovereign, they deserve him. Unkerlanters will never accept an Algarvian for a king.” He looked sly; Rathar knew from long experience that he was never more dangerous—to his foes or sometimes to himself—than when he wore that expression. “We shall make certain that Unkerlanters do not accept an Algarvian for a king.”

“May it be so, your Majesty.” Rathar thought the course of the fighting itself more urgent than any political machinations. He pointed to a large map in the audience chamber. “We had better make sure Mezentio has no chance to proclaim a redheaded King of Unkerlant in Cottbus.”

“Even if he does, we will fight on from the west,” Swemmel said.

Would anyone follow orders from a king who’d fled to a provincial town one jump ahead of the Algarvians? Rathar had no idea. He didn’t want to have to learn by experiment either. He looked toward the map himself. The bites Gyongyos was taking in the far west were annoyances. In the north, Zuwayza hadn’t gone far beyond the borders she’d had before her first clash with Unkerlant. But the Algarvians aimed to tear the heart from the kingdom and keep it for themselves.

“We also have to hold Cottbus because of all the ley lines that converge here,” Rathar said. “If the capital falls, we’ll have a cursed hard time moving caravans from north to south.”

“Aye,” Swemmel said. “Aye.” His nod was impatient, absent-minded; ley-line caravans weren’t the topmost thing in his thoughts, or anywhere close to it. He walked over to the map. “We still have a corridor open to Glogau. The Lagoans have sent us some prime bull behemoths to improve our herds, and they came through.”

“So they did.” Rathar had heard that. It still left him faintly bemused. “The Zuwayzin could have pressed their attack on the port’s defenses harder than they have.”

“They love Mezentio little better than they love us,” Swemmel said, which evidently seemed clear to him but did not to his marshal. The king went on, “Were the black men but a little wiser, they would love Mezentio less than they love us.

“Had we treated them a little better, that might also be true,” Rathar remarked.

“We did not give them a tenth part of what they deserve,” Swemmel said. “Nor have we yet given the Algarvians a tenth, nor even a hundredth, part of what
they
deserve. But we shall. Aye, we shall.” Whatever else one said of Swemmel, he had no yielding in him. Maybe Unkerlant, or what remained of Unkerlant, would go right on obeying him even if the Algarvians ran him out of Cottbus. Marshal Rathar still hoped with all his heart he wouldn’t have to find out.

Dressed in holiday finery—ordinary trousers worn under embroidered tunics—Skarnu, Merkela, and Raunu came into the village of Pavilosta to witness the installation of Simanu, the late Enkuru’s son, as count over the local countryside. Neither Skarnu nor Raunu had a tunic that fit as well as it might; both theirs had formerly belonged to Gedominu. Merkela had altered them, but they remained tight.

“Waste of our time to come here,” Raunu grumbled, as a true farmer might have. “Too much work to do to care who’s over us. Whoever it is, he’ll take too cursed much of what we make.”

“Aye, that’s so,” Merkela agreed. “And Simanu’s been squeezing as hard as Enkuru ever did. He sucks up to the Algarvians as hard as his father did, too. That’s the only reason they finally decided to let him take over as count instead of putting in one of their own men.”

She didn’t bother keeping her voice down. People who heard her shied away. One of them hissed, “Powers above, you fool of a woman, put a shoe in it before Simanu’s men or the redheads drag you up into the count’s keep. Going in is easy. Coming out’s a different story—aye, it is.”

She lifted her chin. “It wouldn’t be, if the men around here deserved the name.”

Skarnu set a hand on her arm. “Easy, darling,” he murmured. “The idea isn’t to show how much we hate the redheads and the traitors who do their bidding. The idea is to hurt them without letting them know who did it.”

Merkela looked at him as if he were one of the enemy, too. “The idea is also to make more people want to hurt them,” she said in a voice like ice.

“But you’re not doing that. You’re just frightening folk and putting yourself in danger,” Skarnu said. Merkela’s glare grew harder and colder still. The next thing she said would be something they’d all regret for a long time. Seeing that coming, Skarnu quickly spoke first: “Simanu and the Algarvians do more in a day to make people want to hurt them than we could do in a year.”

He watched Merkela weigh the words. To his great relief, she nodded. To his even greater relief, she kept quiet or talked of unimportant things as they made their way into Pavilosta’s central square. Raunu muttered, “The Algarvians don’t want anybody starting trouble today, do they?”

“Not even a drop,” Skarnu muttered back. Redheads with sticks prowled the rooftops looking down into the square. More Algarvians guarded the double chair in which Simanu would be installed. “They aren’t stupid. They wouldn’t be so cursed dangerous if they were stupid.”

A small band—bagpipe, tuba, trumpet, and thumping kettledrum—began to play: one sprightly Valmieran tune after another. Skarnu watched some of the Algarvian troopers make sour faces at the music. Their own tastes ran more toward plinkings and tinklings that were, to Valmieran ears, effete. And then he watched one of their officers growl something at them in their own language. The sour faces disappeared. The smiles that replaced them often looked like bad acting, but were unquestionably smiles. The redheads didn’t offend except on purpose. No, they weren’t stupid, not even slightly.

After a little while, the band struck up a particularly bouncy tune, the drummer pounding away with might and main. “That is the count’s air,” Merkela murmured to Skarnu and Raunu. Had they grown up around Pavilosta, as she had, they would have heard it on ceremonial occasions all their lives. As things were, it was new to both of them. Skarnu assumed an expression that suggested it wasn’t.

“Here he comes,” someone behind him said. People’s heads turned toward the left: They knew from which direction Simanu would come. Skarnu didn’t, but again couldn’t have been more than half a heartbeat behind everyone else—not far enough (he hoped) for even the most alert Algarvian to notice.

Dressed in a tunic stiff with gold thread and trousers of silk with fur at the cuffs, the late Count Enkuru’s son advanced toward the double chair in which he would formally succeed his father. Simanu was somewhere in his mid-twenties, with a face handsome and nasty at the same time: the face of a man who’d never had anyone tell him no in his whole life.

“I’ve served under officers who looked like that,” Raunu muttered. “Everybody loved ‘em—oh, aye.” He rolled his eyes to make sure no one took him seriously.

Simanu bestowed his sneer impartially on the Valmierans over whom he was being set and the Algarvians who were allowing him to be set over those townsmen and villagers. Just for a moment, the cast of his features reminded Skarnu of his sister Krasta’s. He shook his head. That wasn’t fair. . . was it? Had Krasta ever really worn such a snide smile? He hoped not.

After Simanu came more Algarvian bodyguards and a peasant obviously cleaned up for the occasion. The fellow led two cows, one fine and plump, the other a sad, scrawny, shambling beast. Raunu muttered again: “Have to find out who that bugger is and make sure something bad happens to him.”

“Aye, we will,” Skarnu agreed. “He’s as much in bed with the redheads as Simanu is.” He turned to Merkela. “Why the beasts?” He held his voice down—one more thing a proper peasant from around Pavilosta would have known from childhood.

“Only watch, and you’ll see,” Merkela answered. She might not have seen this ceremony before—Enkuru had been the local lord for a long time—but it was second nature to her. It probably figured in tales the peasants in this part of the kingdom told their children. For all Skarnu could tell, diligent folklorists back in Priekule had composed learned dissertations about it.