But the vermin to whose tender mercies I was now exposed were foreigners embedded on the countryside-rather like ticks, as a matter of fact. Some had come to write stories proving the Hassocki were villains and monsters in the Nekemte Wars, and that the Belagorans, Vlachs, Lokrians, Plovdivians, and even Shqipetari were valiant, righteous heroes. Others-a smaller number-had come to write stories proving that the Belagorans, Vlachs, Lokrians, Plovdivians and Shqipetari were villains and monsters, and that the Hassocki were valiant, righteous heroes. A few freelancers had come to write stories that could go either way, depending on which journal decided to buy them.

A plump Albionese named Bob wore one of the most pathetic excuses for a wig I’ve ever had the misfortune to see, and on the stage and in the circus I’ve seen some astonishing specimens. He asked me whether I wasn’t ashamed to belong to such a bloodthirsty pack of murderers as the Hassocki. I was glad he gave me so much trouble figuring out which camp he belonged to.

He asked me, of course, in Albionese. The islanders expect everyone to speak their language, and never bother learning anyone else’s. Now, I do speak Albionese, but I had no reason to believe Essad Pasha did. I bought a little time by asking Bob to translate his question into Schlepsigian. If a Hassocki will speak any foreign language, that is the one.

But he couldn’t, to my not very great surprise. Someone did it for him. “Ah,” I said, as if understanding him for the first time. “No, I am proud to be what I am. Any man should be proud of his kingdom. I hope the Shqipetari will be proud of their kingdom once it finally comes into being-and of their king, too.”

Once that was translated into Albionese, Bob said, “How can they be proud of their king when you aren’t of their people?”

Again, waiting for his words to be turned into Schlepsigian gave me time to think. “Your King of Albion comes from a line that springs from a Schlepsigian principality, doesn’t he?” I answered. “I don’t hear of people rioting in the streets because of it.”

When Bob was made to understand, he exclaimed, “Oh, but that’s different,” by which he meant, That’s Albion. He had a point, of sorts. Albionese will put up with a good deal of nonsense that would cause street fighting in Narbonensis, revolution in Tver, and civil war in Lokris.

“May I ask you a question?” I said to him in Schlepsigian. Once he had that rendered into his language, he nodded. His jowls wobbled. So did his wig; he made as if to tug at his hair to settle it back in place. I had to betray a little knowledge of Albionese to ask, “How is it that you have your name? I thought a bob was the float they use in these newfangled privies.”

Bob the scribe turned very red. I had the feeling that question would not appear in whichever journal he worked for. His colleagues laughed loud and long. They hunt in packs, scribes do, but you can tell them from wolves because they’re the ones who will also turn and devour their own kind.

“How will the new kingdom look toward Torino?” a Torinan scribe asked in Schlepsigian. The two languages are as different as wine and sauerkraut, so his accent was fierce, but he made himself understood, which was more than blundering, blustering Bob could do.

I gave back my blandest smile. “Why, sir, I expect we will look east across the Tiberian Sea, and there it will be.”

That got me another laugh. If you can make scribes like you, half your battle is won-more than half, in fact. I learned that early on. They usually write what they feel, not what they think-just as well, since most of them are none too good at thinking anyhow. An evening telling jokes over coffee or brandy-over coffee and brandy, usually-will win you more good reviews than a sterling performance.

“But when you look across to Torino, what will you see?” this fellow persisted.

“A neighbor. A good neighbor, I hope,” I answered, bland still.

“Shqiperi stands between Vlachia and the sea,” a Schlepsigian scribe said, proving he could read a map. “How do you feel about keeping Vlachia from gaining ports?”

Good, I thought. But that might have proved impolitic-a pity, but true. What I did say was, “Shqipetari live in Shqiperi. Vlachs don’t.” That was mostly true. I added, “Quite a few Shqipetari live in Vlachia, though.” That was most definitely true. The province of Polje, in southern Vlachia, holds more Shqipetari than Vlachs.

This is curious, because the province of Polje is the next thing to sacred ground to the Vlachs. There, more than five hundred years ago, the Hassockian Atabeg crushed their army and brought them under Hassocki rule. If he’d slaughtered that army to the last man instead of leaving a few survivors, they would probably still reverence him instead of Eliphalet and Zibeon. Vlachs are peculiar people.

“How do you like being king?” that same scribe asked.

“I’m not king yet-I haven’t been crowned. I’m sure Essad Pasha, having kindly invited me here, is making arrangements for that now,” I said. Essad Pasha hastily nodded. His jowls wobbled when he did, but not nearly so much as those of Bob the Albionese. I went on, “Besides, if I’d stayed in Vyzance, I never would have become the Hassockian Atabeg. I get to start my own dynasty here.”

What was it like for the real Halim Eddin? There he was, in that ancient city, with his father’s older brother with a crown on his head. One of his first cousins would have it next. The only thing he would ever have was a mantle of suspicion. He was lucky he still had his father. Quite a few Hassockian Atabegs had massacred their brothers as soon as they claimed the throne. This was called not taking unnecessary chances. Maybe the present Atabeg was milder than some of his predecessors-though from what I knew of the old reptile, I doubted it. Maybe Halim Eddin’s father was too much of a rabbit to be dangerous.

Maybe I was spinning stories out of moonshine. I didn’t know the real Halim Eddin, and I hoped I never made his acquaintance.

That Schlepsigian scribe was persistent. He must have thought getting each day’s trivia down on paper mattered in the bigger scheme of things. We all have our illusions; who could get through life without them? “After you are crowned, what do you intend to do?” he inquired.

“Live happily ever after, and try to see that my subjects do, too,” I said.

That got me yet another laugh. Scribes are jaded. They mostly make their living off other people’s misfortunes. Someone living a long, quiet, prosperous life…Who could get a story out of that? But when there’s a battle or a flood or a scandal, you can talk about it for days-and then spend more days talking about what you’ve just talked about. And the wizards in the press room use the laws of similarity and contagion to run off sheets by the tens of thousands, sometimes till they fall over from weariness, and people in the street buy those copies as fast as they can.

I wonder if scribes aren’t related to vampires. They suck sorrows the way vampires suck blood. But garlic and roses won’t keep them away, and you can never drive a stake through a lying story’s heart.

“You will rule a small kingdom in a troubled part of the world,” another scribe said-he was looking for disaster even before it happened. “How will you keep your kingdom free?”

“North and south, east and west, the world is full of troubles,” I said, and the sorry old world has done nothing to prove me wrong in the years since, however much I wish it would. I also reminded them-and myself-that I followed the Quadrate God. “If troubles come here, I’ll do my best to drive them away. The Shqipetari love freedom. They will stand beside me.”

Most of the Shqipetari are entirely indifferent to freedom, save perhaps the freedom to plunder their neighbors. The Hassocki had ruled the region by holding the towns and killing anybody who got out of line. Not subtle, maybe, but more effective than any other way that’s been tried in those parts. Long ago, the Aeneans found the same recipe. It worked for them, too, for a while.