Garivald had tasted fire peppers a couple of times, and didn’t fancy them. He bought a couple of quills of cinnamon and some powdered ginger and slogged back to his house. Herpo was still doing a brisk business when he left.

  “Those will perk up the winter baking,” Annore said when he showed her what he’d bought. Leuba had calmed down by then, and was after the hens again. His wife went on, “What was this great news? I was making the baby shut up, so I didn’t get to hear it.”

  “Nothing very important.” Garivald gave another shrug. “We’re at war again, that’s all.”

  Istvan walked along the beach on the island of Obuda. Scavengers had taken most of the meat from the skeleton of the Kuusaman dragon that had fallen. It skull stared at him out of empty eye sockets. He bared his teeth in a fierce grin; a Gyongyosian might feel fear, but he wasn’t supposed to show it.

  A lot of the dragon’s fangs were missing. Some of Istvan’s comrades wore one or more as souvenirs of having thrown back the Kuusamans. More, though, had sold them to the Obudans. Since the islanders did not know the art of dragonflying, they had an exaggerated notion of how much magic it required and how potent a talisman a dragon’s tooth was.

  Chuckling, Istvan scaled a flat stone into the sea. Anyone who’d ever shoveled dragon shit would know better. He had. He did. The Obudans, in their ignorance, didn’t.

  He wondered if he should have used the stone to knock out a couple of the remaining fangs for himself. After a moment, he shrugged and kept on walking down the beach. Money mattered little to him here on Obuda; he couldn’t buy much with it. And the women, he’d heard, wouldn’t put out for dragon’s teeth: it was their menfolk who wanted them.

  A wave ran farther up the gently sloping sand than most of its fellows. He had to skip aside to keep it from splashing his boots. It still wasn’t very big. Out on the sea, Obudan fishing boats bobbed. Their sails were dyed in bright colors to make them visible from a long way off. Watching the wind push them along bemused Istvan. He’d never imagined such a thing, not while he was growing up in a mountain valley.

  The Bothnian Ocean was calm now, but he’d never imagined what it could be like in a storm, either. Then the waves leapt like wild things and went down the beach only sullenly, as if they wanted to drag Obuda down under the water with them. They seemed to have teeth then, great white teeth of foam that sought to tear chunks out of the land.

  He shook his head—he was getting as foolish as the Obudans. Their language had endless words to name and describe different kinds of waves. Gyongyosian, like any sensible speech, made do with one. Snow, now, Istvan thought, snow was something worth describing in detail. But the Obudans seldom saw snow.

  A red and yellow and black shell caught Istvan’s eye. He stooped and picked it up. Obuda boasted any number of colorful snail shells, all with different patterns. He didn’t think he’d seen this one before. Back in his valley, snails had plain brown shells. The only good thing he had to say about those snails was that they made fine eating when fried with garlic and wild mushrooms.

  Coming down from the barracks on the slopes of Mt. Sorong had been easy. Going back up took more work, even though the climb wasn’t too steep. Leaving the beach and returning to the barracks also transformed Istvan from tourist back into soldier, a transformation he would just as soon not have made.

  Sergeant Jokai descended on him like a mountain avalanche. “Good to have you back with us, your splendiferous magnificence,” the veteran sergeant growled. “Now you can go fix your bunk the way the army taught you, not the way your mama taught you—if she was the one who taught you, and not some goat in a pen.”

  Istvan fought to keep his face expressionless. By main force of will, he succeeded. Gyongyosians did not keep goats, reckoning them unclean because of their eating habits and their lasciviousness. Had Jokai offered Istvan such an insult in civilian life, it would have started a brawl if not a clan feud. But the sergeant was Istvan’s superior—thus his effective clan senior—and so he had to endure.

  “I am very sorry, Sergeant,” he said in a voice as empty as his features. “I thought I left everything in good order before I went on my morning’s leave.”

  Jokai rolled his eyes. “Sorry doesn’t get the cart out of the mud. Thinking doesn’t get the cart out of the mud, either, especially when you’re not good at it—and you’re not. A week’s labor policing up the dragon pens might do a better job of keeping your tiny little mind on what it’s supposed to be doing. If it doesn’t, we’ll find something really interesting for you.”

  “Sergeant!” Istvan said piteously. Jokai had come down on him before, but never like this. Something else had to be irking the sergeant, Istvan thought. Whatever it was, Jokai was taking it out on him. He could, too, because he had the rank.

  “You heard me,” he said now. “A week, and thank the stars it isn’t more. A mountain ape could have done a neater job here than you did.”

  Arguing more would only have got Istvan in deeper. With a sigh, he went into the barracks to inspect and repair the damage. None of his comrades wanted to look at him. He understood that. If they showed him any sympathy, Sergeant Jokai might land on them with both feet, too.

  As Istvan had expected, pulling straight a tiny crease in his blanket took but an instant. Had Jokai been in a decent humor, he wouldn’t even have noticed it. Maybe his emerods were bothering him. He was likely to have big emerods, because he was certainly a big…

  Istvan sighed. He could think Sergeant Jokai as much of a billy goat as he liked, and it wouldn’t change a thing. All that mattered was that Jokai was a sergeant and he wasn’t.

  Jokai inspected the repairs, then grudgingly nodded. “Now report to Turul. He’d better give you a good character at the end of the week, too, or you’ll wish you’d never been born.” Istvan was already inclining in that direction. Jokai added, “And I’ll have my eye on you, too—don’t think I won’t. Do you understand what I’m telling you, soldier?”

  “Aye, Sergeant.” Istvan said the only thing he possibly could. Jokai stomped off. Istvan hoped he would find someone else with whom to be furious. Misery loved company. Besides, he might get stuck with less work that way.

  Turul cackled like a laying hen when Istvan came slouching up to him. “I was waiting for Jokai to find somebody to give me a hand with the beasts,” the old dragonkeeper said. “How’d he happen to choose you this time?”

  “I was there,” Istvan answered bitterly.

  “That’ll do, that’ll do,” Turul said. “Now you’re here. The world won’t end, even if it will stink for a while. And after you’ve been on this duty for a bit, you won’t hardly even notice that.”

  “Maybe you don’t,” Istvan said, at which the dragonkeeper laughed again. Istvan didn’t think he’d been joking; after so much time around quicksilver and brimstone, dragon fire and dragon dung, how could Turul have any sense of smell left at all?

  At the moment, Istvan’s own sense of smell was working altogether too well to suit him. He and Turul stood down-wind of the pens of the dragon farm. Along with the brimstone reek of their fodder and droppings, he also inhaled the strong reptilian musk that was their own distinctive scent.

  Two of the beasts, both big males, began hissing and then shrieking at each other. They reared up and spread their wings, each trying to look as enormous and impressive as he could. The chains that secured them to their iron tethering posts rattled and clanked.

  Other dragons started hissing, too. Through the growing commotion, Istvan asked, “Can they break loose? Will they start flaming?” He knew he sounded anxious. He couldn’t help it. From everything he could see, anxiety made perfect sense.

  “They’d better not,” Turul said indignantly. He picked up an iron-shod goad, similar to the ones dragonfliers used but with a longer handle, and advanced on the closer male. The dragon swiveled its unlovely head on its snaky neck and stared at him out of cold golden eyes. In spite of his protective clothing, it could have flamed him to a cinder.

  It did nothing of the sort. He shouted at it, a shout without words but with strong overtones of the shrieks dragons aimed at one another. The male hissed and flapped its wings; Istvan wondered why the blast of wind from them didn’t knock Turul over.

  The old dragonkeeper shouted again. He whacked the dragon on the end of its scaly nose with the goad. And, as a big fierce hound will yield to a pampered lapdog that learned to dominate it when it was a puppy, so the dragon, trained from hatchlinghood to obey puny men, subsided now.

  Istvan admired Turul’s nerve without wanting to imitate it. The dragonkeeper picked his way between pens and walloped the other contentious dragon, too. A tiny puff of smoke burst from its mouth. Turul hit it again, harder this time. “Don’t you do that!” he yelled. “Don’t you even think of doing that! You do that when your flier tells you, not any other time. Do you hear me?” Whack!

  Evidently, the dragon did hear him. It crouched down, almost like a puppy that knew it had made a mess in the house. Istvan watched in fascination. Turul sent a few more yells at it, these wordless. Only after he was sure he’d established his mastery did he stamp back towards Istvan.

  “I didn’t think they were smart enough to obey like that,” Istvan said. “You really made them behave themselves.”

  “Smart hasn’t got a whole lot to do with it,” Turul answered. “Dragon’s aren’t very smart. They never were. They never will be. What these bastards are is trained. They’re almost too stupid to be trained, too. If they were, we couldn’t fly ’em at all. We’d have to hunt ’em down and kill ’em, same as we do with any other vermin. Curse me if I don’t sometimes think that’d be for the best.”

  “But you’re one of the people who do train them,” Istvan exclaimed. “Would you want to be out of a job?”

  “Sometimes,” Turul said, surprising Istvan again. “You put in so much work training dragons, and what do you get back? Shit and fire and screeches, that’s all. If you didn’t train ’em so hard, the cursed things’d eat you. Oh, I’m good at what I do, and I make no bones about it. But when you get right down to it, lad, so what? Even a horse, which isn’t the smartest beast that ever came down the pike, will make friends with you. A dragon? Never. Dragons know about food and they know about the goad, and that’s about it. It wears thin now and again, that it does.”

  “What would you do if you weren’t a dragonkeeper?” Istvan asked.

  Now Turul stared at him. “Been a while since I thought about that. I don’t rightly know, not now. I expect I’d have ended up a potter or a carpenter or some such thing. I’d be settled down in some little town with a fat wife getting old like me, and children, and maybe—likely—grandchildren by now, too. Don’t have any get I know of, not unless my seed caught in one of the easy women I’ve had down through the years.”

  Again, Istvan had got more answer than he’d bargained for. Turul liked to talk, and didn’t look to have had anyone to listen to him for a while. Istvan asked another question: “Would that have been better or worse than what you have now?”

  “Blaze, how do I know?” the old dragonkeeper said. “It would have been different, that’s all I can tell you.” The net of wrinkles around his eyes shifted as they narrowed. “No, it’s not all I can tell you. The other thing I can tell you is, there’s lots and lots of dragon dung out there, and it won’t go away by itself. Put on your leathers and get to it.”

  “Oh, aye,” Istvan said. “I was just waiting for you to finish up here.” That was close enough to true to keep Turul from calling him on it. With a stifled sigh, he went to work.

  Hajjaj stood in front of the royal palace in Bishah, watching a parade of Unkerlanter captives shambling past. The Unkerlanters still wore their rock-gray tunics. They looked astonished that the Zuwayzin had captured them instead of the other way round. Being herded by naked Zuwayzi soldiers seemed as demoralizing to them as being jeered by naked Zuwayzi civilians.

  Following the captives came Zuwayzi soldiers marching in neat ranks. The civilians cheered them, a great roar of noise in which Hajjaj delightedly joined. It picked him up and swept him along, as if it were the surf coming up the beach at Cape Hadh Fans, the northernmost spit of land in all Derlavai.

  A woman turned to him and said, “They’re pretty ugly, these Unkerlanters. Do they wear clothes because they’re so ugly: to make sure no one can see?”

  “No,” the Zuwayzi foreign minister answered. “They wear clothes because it gets very cold in their kingdom.” He knew the Unkerlanters and other folk of Derlavai had more reasons for wearing clothes than the weather, but, despite his study and his experience, those reasons made no sense to him, and surely would not to his countrywoman, either.

  As things turned out, he might as well have not bothered speaking. The woman followed her own caravan of thought down its ley line: “And they’re not just ugly, either. They’re pretty puny fighters, too. Everyone was so afraid of them when this war started. I think we can beat them, that’s what I think.”

  Plainly, she did not know to whom she was speaking. Hajjaj said only, “May the event prove you right, milady.” He was glad—he was delighted—the Zuwayzin had won their first engagement against King Swemmel’s forces. Unfortunately for him, he knew too much to have an easy time thinking one such victory would translate into a victorious war. Only a few times in his life had he wished to be more ignorant than he was. This was another of those rare occasions.

  Another swarm of captives tramped glumly past the palace. People cursed them in Zuwayzi. The older men and women in the crowd, those who’d been to school while Zuwayza remained a province of Unkerlant, cursed the captured soldiers in rock-gray tunics in their own language. The old folks had had Unkerlanter rammed down their throats in the classroom, and plainly enjoyed using what they’d been made to learn.

  More Zuwayzi troops followed, these mounted on camels. From the reports that had come into Bishah, the camel riders had played a major part in the victory over Unkerlant. Even in the somewhat cooler south, Zuwayza was a desert country. Camels could cross terrain that defeated horses and unicorns and behemoths. Appearing on the Unkerlanters’ flank at the critical moment, the riders had thrown them first into confusion and then into panic.

  Someone tapped Hajjaj on the shoulder. He turned and saw it was one of King Shazli’s servants. Bowing, the man said, “May it please your Excellency, his Majesty would see you in his private reception chamber directly the parade is ended.”

  Hajjaj returned the bow. “His Majesty’s wish is my pleasure,” he replied, courteously if not altogether accurately. “I shall attend him at the time named.” The servant nodded and hurried away.

  As soon as the last captured egg-tosser had trundled past the palace, Hajjaj ducked inside and made his way through the relatively cool dimness to the chamber where he so often consulted with his sovereign. Shazli awaited him there. So, inevitably, did cakes and tea and wine. Hajjaj enjoyed the rituals and rhythms of his native land; to him, Unkerlanters and Algarvians always moved with unseemly haste. There were times, though, when haste was necessary even if unseemly.

  Shazli felt the same way. The king broke off the polite small talk over refreshments as soon as he decently could. “How now, Hajjaj?” he said. “We have given King Swemmel a smart box on the ear. Whatever the Unkerlanters aim to extract from us, we have shown them they will have to pay dearly. We have shown the rest of the world the same thing. May we now hope the rest of the world has noticed?”

  “Oh, aye, your Majesty, the rest of the world has noticed,” Hajjaj replied. “I have received messages of congratulations from the ministers of several kingdoms. And each of those messages ends with the warning that it is but a personal note, and not meant to imply any change of policy on the part of the minister’s sovereign.”

  “What must we do?” Shazli asked bitterly. “If we march on Cottbus and sack the place, will that get us the aid we need?”

  Hajjaj’s voice was dry: “If we march on Cottbus and sack the place, the Unkerlanters will be the ones needing aid. But I do not expect that to happen. I did not expect such good news as we have already had.”

  “You are a professional diplomat, and so a professional pessimist,” Shazli said. Hajjaj inclined his head, acknowledging the truth in that. His sovereign went on, “Our officers tell me the Unkerlanters attack with less force than they expected. Maybe they were trying to catch us by surprise. Wherever the truth lies there, they failed, and have paid dearly for failing.”

  “Swemmel has a way of striking before he is fully ready,” Hajjaj replied. “It cost him in the war against his twin brother, it made him start the pointless war against Gyongyos, and now it hurts him again.”

  “Only against Forthweg did striking soon serve him well,” Shazli said.

  “Algarve did most of the hard work against Forthweg,” Hajjaj said. “All Swemmel did there was jump on the carcass and tear off some meat. This is, of course, also what he seeks to do against us.”

  “He has paid blood,” Shazli said, sounding fierce as any warrior prince in Zuwayza’s brigand-filled history. “He has paid blood, but has no meat to show for it.”

  “Not yet,” Hajjaj said. “As you say, we have blooded one Unkerlanter army. Swemmel will send others after it. We cannot gather so many men together, try as we will.”

  “You do not believe we can win?” The king of Zuwayza looked wounded.

  “Win?” Hajjaj shook his graying head. “Not if the Unkerlanters persist. If any of your officers should tell you otherwise, tell him in return that he has smoked too much hashish. My hope, your Majesty, is that we can hurt the Unkerlanters enough to keep more of what is ours than they demand, and not to let them gobble us down, as they did before. Even that, I judge, will not be easy, for has not King Swemmel shouted he aims to rule in Bishah?”

  “The generals do indeed speak of victory,” Shazli said.

  Hajjaj bowed in his seat. “You are the king. You are the ruler. You are the one to decide whom to believe. If my record over the years has caused you to lose faith in me, you have but to say the word. At my age, I shall be glad to lay down the burdens of my office and retire to my home, my wives, my children, and my grandchildren. My fate is in your hands, as is the kingdom’s.”