Into The Darkness

Gloom settled over Skarmi like a winter fog in Priekule. King Gainibu had been more interested in starting the war against Algarve than his officers were in fighting it. They'd taken what the Algarvians, were wining to yield. Now that the Algarvians had yielded everything up to their long-established defensive line, they weren't going to be willing to yield any more. And going up against that line was, ever more plainly, the last thing any Valimeran commander wanted to do.

One of the boastful colonels upended his goblet once too often. He set his head down on the table and started to snore. Skarmi felt like getting that drunk, too. Why not? he thought. Raunu runs the company just as well when I'm not there.

In the end, though, he refrained. He started to make his way over to the Duke of Klaipeda to say his farewells, but Marstalu seemed far gone in wine himself Skarmi slipped out into the cool, dark night and headed east toward his company. All things considered, he would rather not have been invited to the feast. He'd hoped for reassurance. What he'd got was more to worry about.

Fernao strolled through the streets of Setubal, delighting in the life that brawled around him. The capital of Lagoas had long been the most cosmopolitan city in the world. Now, the mage thought sadly, it was, as near as made no difference, the only cosmopolitan city left in the world.

Lagoas was not at war with anyone. That made the island kingdom unique among the major powers. Oh, Unkerlant was not at war with anyone at the moment, but Fernao, along with everyone else, assumed that was only because King Swemmel, having helped himself to a large chunk of Forthweg, was looking around for his next neighbor to assault.

Zuwayza affronted him merely by existing, as Forthweg had, but Yanina had taken in King Penda when he fled Eoforwic. One of them would go under soon. Maybe both of them would go under soon. Fernao guessed Yanina would go first.

But Lagoas, with any luck at all, could stay neutral through the whole mad war. Fernao hoped his kingdom could. Monuments in Setubal's many parks and at street corners warned of wars past: recent monuments to the fight against Algarve in the Six Years' War, older ones to war against Valmiera, older ones still to wars against Kuusamo and the pirates of Sibiu who were all the rage in Lagoan romances these days, even a couple of Kaunian columns from the days before the Empire brought its armies back home to the mainland of Derlavai.

What sort of monument rmight a kingdom erect to a war in which it hadn't fought? Fernao visualized a marble statue, three times life size, of a man swiping the back of his hand across his forehead in relief. After a moment, he realized the man he'd visualized looked a lot like him. He laughed at that. He'd known he was vain. Maybe he hadn't known how vain he was.

He turned into a tavern (a good piece of magecraft, that, he thought, now with a laugh that was more like a snort) and ordered a glass of Jelgavan red wine. When the taverner gave it to him, he took it over to a small table by the wall and sipped in leisurely fashion. The taverner gave him a sour look, as he might have done with any man likely to occupy space without bringing in much business.

Plenty of other people were drinking more than Fernao: Lagoans, slant eyed Kuusamans, Vahnierans in trousers, Sibians, even a few Algarvians who'd managed to run their foes' blockade. The mage wondered what sort of shady deals they were cooking up. Since everyone could come to Setubal, anything was liable to happen here. He knew that very wen.

Along with noting the conversation humming around him, he listened with a different part of his being to the power humming through Setubal.

There were more power points in a smaller space here than anywhere else in the world; more ley lines converged on the Lagoan capital than on any other city. In a mage's veins, the song of that power sometimes seemed stronger than his pulse.

A man slid down on to the ladderbacked chair across the table from Fernao. "Mind if I join you?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"It's all right," Fernao answered. He would sooner have been alone with his thoughts, but the tavern was crowded. He lifted his wineglass.

"Your good health."

"I thank you, sir. And yours." The stranger lifted his mug in return.

Steam and a sweet, spicy smell rose from it: hot mulled cider in there, unless Femao's nose had lost its cleverness. The stranger sipped, then nodded with the air of a connoisseur. "Powers above, that's good," he said.