Balastro wouldn’t have to worry about that here. He stroked Iskakis’ wife’s cheek, an affectionate gesture that said he’d likely done other, more intimate stroking in private. Hajjaj wouldn’t have been surprised. He’d watched the two of them at a reception at the Gyongyosian ministry the autumn before.
Here, though, Iskakis’ wife twisted away. At first, Hajjaj thought that was playacting, and clever playacting to boot. Iskakis might prefer boys, but Yaninans had a prickly sense of honor. If Iskakis saw Balastro making free with the woman he thought of as his own, he would certainly call out the Algarvian minister. That their kingdoms were allies wouldn’t matter a bit, either.
Then Hajjaj saw the fury distorting the Yaninan woman’s delicately sculpted features. That wasn’t playacting, not unless she belonged on the stage. He hurried over toward her and Balastro. Yanina and Algarve were both allied to Zuwayza, too. The things I do for my kingdom, he thought.
“Everything’s fine, your Excellency,” Balastro said with an easy smile.
“This man is a beast, your Excellency.” Iskakis’ wife spoke fair Algarvian, with a gurgling Yaninan accent that made Hajjaj pause to make sure he’d understood her correctly. But he had. Her glare left no room for doubt.
“She’s just a trifle overwrought,” Balastro said.
“He is a swine, a pig, a pork, a stinking, rutting boar,” Iskakis’ wife said without great precision but with great passion. Then she said a couple of things in Yaninan that Hajjaj didn’t understand but that sounded both heartfelt and uncomplimentary.
Hajjaj said, “I gather the two of you have quarreled.” Balastro nodded. Iskakis’ wife dipped her head, which meant the same thing among Yaninans. Hajjaj went on, “You would be wiser not to show it. You would be wiser still not to show each other any kind of affection in public.”
Balastro bowed. “As always, your Excellency, you are a font of wisdom.”
Iskakis’ wife snarled. “You do not need to worry aboutthat.” Could looks have killed, the Algarvian minister would have died. Iskakis’ wife stalked away, arched nostrils flared, back ever so straight, hips working with fury.
With a sigh, Balastro said, “Well, it was fun while it lasted. Never a dull moment in bed, I’ll tell you that.”
“I believe you,” Hajjaj said: Half the men in the room were eyeing that swiveling backside with one degree of longing or another. Iskakis, otherwise preoccupied, was not among them. A good thing, too, Hajjaj thought.
“Aye, in bed Tassi’s splendid. Out of bed…” Balastro rolled his eyes. “A bursting egg for a temper and a razor for a tongue. I’m not all that surprised Iskakis would sooner stick it somewhere else.” He glanced over toward the Yaninan minister and the officer with whom he was talking. He made a face. “Though notthere, by the powers above.”
“No accounting for taste,” Hajjaj said, a profoundly unoriginal truth. Before too long, he took the opportunity to make his excuses and go back to his home in the hills above Bishah. Getting out of the clothes he’d worn and into the usual Zuwayzi outfit-sandals and, for outdoors, a hat-was, as usual, a great relief.
He was about to go down into the capital the next morning when someone knocked on the one door in the fortresslike outer wall to the sprawling compound that was as much clan center as dwellingplace. Tewfik, the ancient majordomo who presided over the residence, made his slow way out to see who was disturbing his master. He sent a younger, sprier servant hotfooting it back to Hajjaj. “Your Excellency, you’ve got to come see this for yourself,” the servant said, and would say no more even when Hajjaj barked at him.
And so, grumbling under his breath, Hajjaj went out to the gateway. There he foundTewfik looking, for once, quite humanly astonished. And there he also found Tassi, the wife of Iskakis the Yaninan minister. Polite as a cat, she bowed to him. “Good day, your Excellency,” she said. “I come to you, sir, seeking asylum from my husband, and from Marquis Balastro, and from everything and everyone outside Zuwayza.”
“Do-do-do you?” Hajjaj knew he was stammering, but couldn’t help it. He felt at least as astonished asTewfik looked.
Tassi dipped her head, as she had at the reception: sure enough, a Yaninan nod. “I do. You see? I already begin to follow your customs.” By that, she meant she stood before him wearing only sandals and a straw hat. Marquis Balastro occasionally aped Zuwayzi nudity. With Balastro, the effect was more ludicrous than anything else. With Tassi …
All at once, Hajjaj understood that the Algarvian wordsnude andnaked were not perfect synonyms. His own people, who took their bare skin for granted, were nude. Tassi was naked, using her skin for her own purposes. Sensuality came off her in waves.
And she knew as much, too, and relished the confusion-among other things-she paused. “Take me in, your Excellency, protect me,” she purred, “and I will do anything you like, anything at all. Take me in. I beg you.” Gracefully, she dropped to both knees. It wasn’t exactly, or solely, a begging gesture. It also promised something else. She bowed her head and waited.
“What will you do?”Tewfik hissed in Zuwayzi.
“Powers below eat me if I know,” Hajjaj replied in the same tongue. He switched back to Algarvian: “Get up, milady. The least you can do is have breakfast here. Afterwards… Afterwards, we shall see.” He was an old man, aye. Was he too old for such amusements? And if he wasn’t, how much would domestic relations with Tassi hurt foreign relations with Yanina?
Fernao woke to the sound of dripping. He’d fallen asleep to the sound of dripping, too. He’d lived with it for the past several days. He would have to go right on living with it for a good many more days to come, no matter how much it made him want to go running to the jakes. All around the hostel in the Naantali district, the ice and snow were melting. They would take a while to finish the job, and the ground would stay soupy for a while afterwards: till the sun, which spent more and more time in the sky every day, finally dried up the accumulated moisture. As it did in Unkerlant and the land of the Ice People, spring announced itself in southeastern Kuusamo with a great thaw.
A malignant buzzing penetrated the drips. A mosquito landed on Fernao’s arm, which lay outside the covers. The buzzing ceased. He slapped. The buzzing resumed. He cursed. That meant he’d missed the miserable thing.
Mosquitoes and gnats bred in puddles, of course. During the spring thaw, the Naantali district was all over puddles. For some time thereafter, it was all over mosquitoes and gnats, too. No wonder birds coming back from the north chose this time to mate and lay their eggs. They had plenty of food for themselves and for their youngsters, too. The only trouble was, they didn’t, couldn’t, come close to catching all the bugs. Plenty were left to torment people.
With a sigh, Fernao got out of bed and splashed cold water on his face. That wasn’t torture, as it would have been during the winter. It still did help wake him up. He put on clean drawers and a fresh tunic, then pulled on his kilt, tucked in the tunic, and went downstairs to the refectory.
Ilmarinen already sat down there, eating smoked salmon and onions and drinking tea. “That looks good,” Fernao said, sitting beside him and waving to a serving girl.
“It is,” Ilmarinen agreed. “But it’s mine. You can bloody well get your own.”
“I did intend to,” Fernao said mildly. The serving girl came up. Fernao pointed to Ilmarinen’s plate. “I’ll have what he’s having.” Seeing a wicked glint in the other theoretical sorcerer’s eye, Fernao corrected himself: “Not his helping, but the same thing as he’s having.” Balked, Ilmarinen subsided.