Darkness Descending

“Trying to figure out what the Yaninans will do is always foolish because half the time they don’t know themselves till they do it,” Fernao answered. That was how Lagoans usually thought of Yaninans. Having been in Patras, the capital of Yanina, Fernao understood how much truth the cliche held.

“Can they hire enough Ice People to give us a hard time?” Affonso asked.

That was a better question, and one with a less certain answer. Fernao only shrugged and kept walking. The idea worried him. By what he’d seen in Heshbon, King Tsavellas’ men hadn’t gone out of the way to endear themselves to the natives of the austral continent. On the other hand, gold could be endearing all by itself. And the Yaninans hadn’t had much luck attacking the Lagoan army on their own.

Two evenings later, just as the Lagoans were making camp, half a dozen Ice People rode up to them on camels plainly a cut above the common stock. One of them proved to speak Yaninan. Not many Lagoans did, so Lieutenant General Junqueiro summoned Fernao to interpret for him. Fernao’s Yaninan was also less than perfect, but he thought he could make himself understood in the language.

The man of the Ice People who spoke Yaninan said, “Tell your chief I am Elishamma the son of Ammihud, who was the son of Helori, who was the son of Shedeur, who was the son of Izhar, who was the son of...” The genealogy went on for some time, till Elishamma finished, “... who was the son of a god.”

He necessarily used a word from his own language for that last. Instead of abstract powers, the Ice People believed in men writ large on the face of the universe. Fernao found the notion ludicrous, to say nothing of barbarous. He hadn’t come to argue such notions with Elishamma, though, but to translate for Junqueiro. Having done so, he added in Lagoan, “Give him all your forefathers, too.” He started to say, Whether they’re real or not, but refrained. No telling if some of Elishamma’s companions understood Lagoan.

Junqueiro did him proud, naming a dozen generations of ancestry. If any of them was fictitious, Fernao couldn’t have proved it. The lieutenant general said, “Ask him what he wants from us.”

Fernao did. Elishamma told him, complete with histrionics centuries out of fashion anywhere but the austral continent: not even the Algarvians indulged in so much boasting and bragging. Fernao couldn’t try to hurry it along, not without mortally insulting the chieftain.

At last, Elishamma ran down. That let Junqueiro ask once more, “And what do you want with us?”

“The mangy ones”--so Ice People spoke of men less hairy than themselves--“of Yanina will pay us gold to fight you. How much gold will you pay us to stay calm?”

“Before I answer, you will allow me to speak with my wise man here,” the Lagoan commander said, pointing to Fernao. Junqueiro had chosen just the right lordly tone; Elishamma inclined his head in acquiescence. “You may remain here,” Junqueiro told him. “My mage and I shall leave the tent to confer.” After Junqueiro had turned that into Yaninan, he got up and went outside with the general. Junqueiro muttered, “Powers above! Don’t they ever wash?”

“From all I’ve seen--and smelled--no, Your Excellency,” Fernao said. Junqueiro rolled his eyes. The mage went on, “In justice, this is a cold country. Washing in a stream here, even when the streams aren’t frozen, fairly begs for chest fever.”

“Feh.” Junqueiro dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand, which proved that Lagoans, though at war with Algarve, were of Algarvic stock themselves. It also proved he couldn’t smell himself anymore. His hazel eyes sharpened. “To business. Have the Yaninans really made this offer? If they have, how much have they offered? Is it worth our while to pay the Ice People more? How much harm can they do us?”

“As for the first, I’d say it’s likely,” Fernao answered. “The Yaninans haven’t had much luck fighting us by themselves, so why shouldn’t they pay somebody to do the job for them?”

“You’d say it’s likely.” Lieutenant General Junqueiro clicked his tongue between his teeth. “Can’t you use your sorcery to know for sure?”

Fernao s sigh brought forth a large cloud of fog. “In this country, sir, the spells of mages not born here have a way of going awry. They have a way of going dangerously awry, in fact.”

Junqueiro gave him a dirty look. “Then why did we bring you hither?”

“Because Colonel Peixoto, back in Setubal, has more enthusiasm than brains,” Fernao answered. “Sir.”

By the expression on Junqueiro’s face, that was mutiny, or as close to mutiny as made no difference. The commanding general visibly contained himself. “Very well,” he said, though Fernao knew it wasn’t even close to very well. “By your best estimate, sir mage, however you arrive at them, what do you think the answers to my other questions are?”