“I could order you out of my land this very instant,” Tjiimpuu growled. “Perhaps I should, for your insolence.”
“Go ahead,” Park said cheerfully. “I’m sure you will make the Son of the Sun happy by disgracing Tawantiinsuuju before all Skrelleland, and for showing it thinks itself above the International Court. You and the Emir had me brought down here to do a job, and by God-Patjakamak, Allah, or plain old Father, Son, and Holy Ghost — I’m going to do it.”
Someone behind Park spoke up: “Well said.”
He turned. The newcomer was a tall, smiling man, dark but not Skrelling-colored and wearing a neat black beard no Skrelling could have raised. He had on flowing cotton robes and a satin headscarf held in place by an emerald-green cord. He was, in short, a Moor.
Bowing to Park, the fellow said, “Allow me to introduce myself, sir, I pray: I am Da’ud ibn Tariq, ambassador from the Dar al-Harb to the pagans of Tawantiinsuuju. I greet you in the name of Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful. He is himself perfect justice, and so loves those who end disputes among mankind.” His Ketjwa was elegant and eloquent.
Park got to his feet. Even with the coca tea, it took a distinct physical effort. Also in Ketjwa, he replied, “I am honored to meet you, Your Excellency.”
Tjiimpuu had risen too, his face like thunder. Da’ud smiled, a smile, Park guessed, intended to get further under the skin of his rival. The ambassador suddenly shifted to English: “He’s a rick ugly misbegot, isn’t he?”
Park glanced at Tjiimpuu. He hadn’t understood, but he didn’t look happy about Da’ud’s using a language he didn’t know. Park decided he couldn’t blame him.
He stayed in Ketjwa as he bowed to Da’ud: “If you admire justice so much, Excellency, you will see it is only just to keep to a language all of us know.”
“As you say, of course,” Da’ud agreed at once. “I hope, though, that you have also applied yourself to learning the tongue of the Dar al-Harb, for where is justice if the judge knows one speech and not the other?”
He was smooth where Tjiimpuu was blunt, Park thought, but he looked to be equally stubborn. Park kept a poker face as he sprang his surprise: “I am working on it, yes,” he said in the Berber-flavored Arabic of the Emirate.
“Inshallah, I shall succeed.”
Tjiimpuu burst out laughing. “He has you there,” he told Da’ud, also in Arabic. Park had figured he would know that language.
“So he does.” Da’ud plucked at his whiskers for a moment as he studied Park. “Tell me, Judge Scoglund, did you know either of these tongues before you were assigned our dispute?”
Park shook his head. This world had no international diplomatic language. The dominance of English and French in his own world sprang from the long-lasting might and prestige of those who spoke them. Power here was more fragmented.
“How does it feel, studying two new languages at the same time?” Tjiimpuu asked.
Park thumped his temple with the heel of his hand, as if trying to knock words straight into his head. The minister and ambassador both laughed. Park was pleased with himself for defusing their hostility. Maybe that would prove a good omen.
It didn’t. Tjiimpuu’s frown returned as he rounded on Da’ud. “I got a report on the wirecaller this afternoon that raiders from the Emirate attacked a town called Kiiniigwa in Tawantiinsuujan territory. They burned the sun-temple, kidnapped several women from the sacred virgins there, and fled back toward the border. How say you?”
Taller than Tjiimpuu, Da’ud looked down his long nose at him. “I could answer in several ways. First, my ruler, the mighty Emir Hussein, does not recognize your seizure of Kiiniigwa. Second, surely you do not claim this was carried out by the army of the Dar al-Harb?”
“If I claimed that,” the Tawantiinsuujan foreign minister growled, “my country and yours would be at war now, International Court or no International Court, and you, sir, would be on the next train out of Kuuskoo.”
“Well, then, you see how it is.” Da’ud spread his hands. “Even assuming the report is true, what do you expect my government to do?”
“Tracking down the raiders and striking off their heads would be a good first step,” Tjiimpuu said. “Sending those heads to the Son of the Sun with a note of apology would be a good second one.”
“But why, when they’ve broken no law?” Again Da’ud smiled that silky, irritating smile.
“Wait a bit,” Allister Park broke in sharply. “Since when aren’t arson and kidnapping — and probably rape and murder too — against the law?”
“Since they are worked against pagans by Muslims seeking to extend the sway of Islam,” answered Da’ud ibn Tariq. “In that context, under the shari’a, under Islamic law, nothing is forbidden the ghazi, the warrior of the jihad.” He meant it, Park realized. He’d read about the holy war Islam espoused against what it called paganism, but what he’d read hadn’t seemed quite real to him. Jihad smacked too much of the Crusades (which hadn’t happened in this world) and of medieval times in general for him to believe the concept could be alive and well in the twentieth century. But Da’ud, a clever, intelligent man, took it seriously, and so, by his expression, did Tjiimpuu.
“Ghazi.” The Tawantiinsuujan made it into a swear word. “The Emirate uses this as an excuse to send its criminals and wild men to the frontier to work their crimes on us instead of on its own good people — if such there be — and to lure more criminals and wild men to its shore from the Emirate of Cordova, from North Africa, even from Asia, so they too can kill and steal in our land to their hearts’ content.”
“The answer is simple,” Da’ud said. Tjiimpuu looked at him in surprise. So did Allister Park. If the answer were simple, he wouldn’t have been here, halfway up the Andes (Antiis, they spelled it here). Then the ambassador went on, “If your people acknowledge the truth of Islam, the frontier will no longer be held against pagans, and strife will cease of its own accord.”
“I find my faith as true as you find yours or the one-time Bishop Scoglund here finds his,” Tjiimpuu said. Park had the feeling this was an old argument, and sensibly kept his mouth shut about his own occasional doubts.
“But it is false, a trick of Shaitan to drag you and all your stubborn pagan people down to hell,” Da’ud said.
“Aka.” Tjiimpuu pronounced the word as Eric Dunedin had, but he did so deliberately. “Patjakamak is the one real god. He set the sun aflame in the sky as a token of his might, and sent the Sons of the Sun down to earth to light our way. One day the whole world will see the truth of this.”
The ache that started pounding inside Park’s head had nothing to do with the altitude.
“Gentlemen, please!” he said. “I’ve come here to try to keep the peace, not to see you fight in the hall.”
“Can there be true peace with pagans?” Da’ud demanded. “They are far worse than Christians.”
“Thank you so much,” Park snapped. The Moor, he thought angrily, was too fanatical even to notice when he was insulting someone.
Tjiimpuu, though, was every bit as unyielding. “One day we will rid Skrelleland of you hairy, sun-denying bandits. Would that we were strong enough to do it now, instead of having to chaffer with you like potato merchants.”
“Potatoes, is it? One fine day we will roast potatoes in the embers of Kuuskoo.” Da’ud ibn Tariq whirled around and stormed off. His exit would have been more impressive had he not bumped into the envoy from Araukanja, the Skrelling land south of Tawantiinsuuju, and knocked a mug of corn beer (aka in the other sense of the word) out of said envoy’s hand. Dripping and furious, Da’ud stomped out into the chilly night.