by K. J. Parker
But not enough freedom to get her across the yard, through the gate and out the other side. For that she was going to have to spill blood, or be very clever, or athletic, or all three. She chose a doorway at random, climbed the stairs to the very top and barged open a long-closed door out on to the roof.
Having caught her breath, and making sure she kept her head down below the level of the parapet, she turned her mind to contemplation of the principles of military architecture. The aim of castle building is primarily to keep people out; but the same principles and functions do a very good job of keeping people in, which is why castles make such good prisons. Theoretically, she could spend the rest of the day getting hold of a rope and then, once night had fallen, lower herself down off the tower, swim the moat and run for it, if she still had the energy.
Alternatively—her mind went back to lectures at the Tactical Institute at Beal; fat, one-eyed General Tirza. The weakest part of any defensive structure is the man standing in front of it. There were two guards on the main gate: she could just see the tops of their helmets. The first one would be easy—walk up to him, say “Excuse me” in a little-girl voice, then stab him in the eye as he bent forward to listen to her. But the second one was stationed on the other side of the gateway (fifteen feet? There or thereabouts). Lesson one: space is time. Even if she was wonderfully quick about killing the first guard, she had no guarantee of getting to his colleague before he had time to realise what had just happened, lift his shield and level his spear. True, she didn’t actually want to fight him: she wanted to get past him and away, but—She did the mental geometry, and three times out of seven the numbers came out badly. And besides, stab the guard in the eye with what? She’d grown so used to having a knife up her sleeve that she’d forgotten it wasn’t there any more. No, too many conditions precedent. Think of something else.
Then, in the distance (no, be precise; in the Great Hall, on the other side of the yard) someone started to play the violin. Her eyes opened wide, and then she laughed.
She woke him up with the gentlest of pricks, from the tip of his own dagger, in the hollow under his left ear. He grunted and his eyes opened; otherwise he stayed perfectly still.
“Hello, Oida,” she said.
He moved his hand out from under the sheet, pinched the tip of the knife between forefinger and thumb and moved it away an inch or so. “You’re dead,” he said.
“Something of a grey area,” she replied. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He turned his head and looked at her. His eyes seemed much smaller than usual; and then the thunderbolt hit her. How long had she known him? And never noticed. “You wear eyeshadow.”
“What?”
“Admit it,” she said. “Go on.”
“That’s the most ridiculous—”
“Admit it.”
He sighed. “Yes, all right. Just a suggestion, to make my eyes look bigger. What’s that got to do with anything?”
“You wear make-up. Like a girl.”
“For crying out loud,” he said, and raised himself on one elbow. “Honestly,” he said. “They told me you were dead. I was upset.”
“You were playing the violin.”
“Well, I had to put on a show, obviously.”
A terrible thought struck her; she tried to shrug it off, but it clung like the mud of a newly ploughed field, and she had to ask. “Are you here to rescue me?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you would say that.”
He looked convincingly hurt. “It’s true.”
“You made a pig’s ear of it, then. I’m dead. You said so.”
“Only because you insisted on trying to escape and fell down a toilet. If you’d stayed put and waited, like a rational human being—”
“Make-up, for God’s sake.” She realised she was still holding the knife. She put it down on the bedside table; it rolled off and landed on her bare foot, fortunately pommel first. “That’s just so—”
“It’s an ancient tradition among performing artists,” he said irritably. “Goes right back to Perditus. Entirely legitimate.” He paused. “You won’t tell anyone.”
“Oida—” She got a grip and breathed out through her nose. “Tell me the truth. Did you come here to rescue me?”
“Yes. That and other things. But let the record show, I was here in plenty of time, and if you hadn’t screwed everything up—” He stopped and frowned. “How did you get in here?”
She nodded quickly over her shoulder. “Window. You needn’t have bothered,” she added sweetly. “I had the whole situation under control.”
He scowled at her. “Fine,” he said. “In that case, you carry on. See you in Rasch. You can buy me a drink.”
“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, though she knew there was no real need; the walls were stone, two feet thick, and the door was four-ply oak. “I’m sorry, I’m being ungracious. Of course you can rescue me, if you want.”
He swung his legs out of the bed, pushing her aside. “Easier said than done,” he snapped. “My idea was to intercede on your behalf, get you pardoned, and ride out of here in a coach in a civilised manner. Now, thanks to you killing a guard and then dying, that’s going to be rather difficult. Why do you always feel this morbid urge to take charge all the time?”
She looked straight at him. “You really did, didn’t you? Come here to rescue me.”
“Yes.”
“You clown.”
He flushed with anger, forced a grin. “Well, why not?” he said. “You’re a competent operative who happens to be female. And now, one of these days, you’ll feel obligated to do the same for me.”
Which was true. “In your dreams,” she said, but she decided she didn’t have the energy for much more sparring. “How are we going to get out of here?” she said.
“We,” he repeated. “Well, I’m going to ride out through the front gate in a coach.” He frowned; he’d thought of something, but decided against it. Now all she had to do was figure out what it was.
“Did you bring the spinet?”
“What?”
“Your stupid show-off portable spinet. Tell me you brought it. You never go anywhere—”
“No.”
“Liar.”
“Yes, all right, I brought it. It’s in its box, in the coach. But I’m damned if I’m going to—”
She gave him a beautiful smile. “That’s all right, then. We’ll have to drill air holes in the roof of the box, but you should be able to manage that. Perfect.”
“The hell with that,” he said angrily, “have you any idea how much that thing cost?”
“Two thousand angels,” she replied promptly. “You told me yourself. Several times. But that’s all right. You can buy another one. You’ve got plenty of money.”
He was floundering for an objection. “Fine,” he said. “So we smuggle you out in my box and leave the spinet behind. And, of course, nobody notices a unique, world-famous musical instrument lying about the place—”
“Oh, that’s not a problem. We can break it into small bits and toss it down the garderobe.”
Just for a moment she thought he might actually refuse. But then he said, “Oh, right. And how exactly do we get it up here?” and she knew she’d won.
“Oh, that’s easy. Tell them you want to practise, or tune it or something. They’ll bring it up here for you. In the box. And then they’ll carry it back down again, still in the box, and strap it on to the coach roof. And off we’ll go, and nobody need ever know anything.”
“Two thousand angels, Tel. Do you honestly believe you’re worth that much to anyone?”
She frowned at him. “That’s not a very nice thing to say.”
“I was thinking, I could lower you from a window on a rope.”
She didn’t hit him, though she was tempted. “Get dressed,” she said.
“Why? It’s the middle of the night.”
“Because you’re going to send down to the kitchens for som
e food. I’m starving. I haven’t eaten in days.”
“There you go again,” he sighed, “giving people orders. It’s not an attractive attribute, you know.”
“Who is there in this room I might possibly want to attract?”
A steward brought wheat bread, cheese, smoked pork sausage and a small slab of partridge terrine. “No apple,” she said, with her mouth full.
“Everyone knows I don’t eat apples.”
“That’s you all over. Self-centred as a drill-bit.”
He pulled on his boots. She noticed that they were new since she’d seen him last; the finest quality calf, decorated with seedpearls and little gold stars. “However much do you spend on clothes?”
“People expect it of me.”
“I don’t think I could ever respect a man who spends more on clothes than I do. And wears more make-up.”
“How would it be if you stopped talking for a while? Just to see if you can.”
She drank all the water in the bedside jug—“Hey, I was going to shave in that”; she gave him a pretty smile. “I’ll shave you if you like,” she said. “I’m good with blades.”
“Not likely. Dry shaving gives me a rash.”
“Well, we can’t have that.”
He sent for the spinet and she enjoyed herself tremendously breaking up the thin boards and pulling apart the exquisitely glued joints without making any noise at all. “I can’t lug all that down to the garderobe,” he said, pointing to the pile of wrecked timber. “I’d need a wheelbarrow.”
“Fine. Get a fire lit.”
“This time of year?”
“You’re an eccentric genius. You can have a fire if you want.”
He growled and knelt down by the hearth. “Won’t it look just a little bit strange,” he said, “a grate full of ash, and yet nobody delivered any fuel to this room?”
“You’ve always got to make difficulties, haven’t you?”
“You mean, I think things through before plunging in.”
She clicked her tongue. “Get it lit.”
“Tinder’s damp.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake. Give it here.”
The thin sycamore board burned very well indeed, but the ivory keys just charred and made a horrible smell. She scooped them out of the grate with the tongs and put them in the small velvet bag he kept his razor and toothpicks in. “Sling that down the garderobe on your way out,” she said. “Is it my imagination or is it hot in here?”
He was wet with sweat, and there was no water left to wash in. She could see how distressed being sweaty made him feel, and she tried to remember if she’d ever seen him with dirty hands or mud on his trousers. “If it matters that much to you, I’ll give you two thousand angels,” she said. “Just so long as you stop looking so miserable.”
He looked at her as though she’d just poked him with a stick. “You haven’t got that sort of money.”
“As a matter of fact I have.” She hadn’t meant to tell him that. It was something nobody knew. “Some of us save, you know, for our old age. We don’t spend it all on poncy boots.”
Something told her he wasn’t going to forgive her that easily, and she was right. “You seem to think you’re going to have an old age,” he said. “I wouldn’t bet on it, the way you go on.”
It was just fencing, but it stopped her short, like the botched parry that sticks your opponent’s unpadded leg. “I got caught. No matter. I was dealing with it. I could’ve managed without you.”
“No doubt.”
She looked at him curiously, as if a favourite book had just grown an extra chapter. “Did you really come here to rescue me?”
He rolled his eyes, but he was acting. “I told you so, didn’t I? Though, actually, I happened to be in the neighbourhood. I didn’t come all this way specially.”
“I didn’t think you did,” she said quietly. “There wouldn’t have been time for you to get here. But you made a detour. You went out of your way, a bit.” She paused, then added, “You inconvenienced yourself. Just to save me.”
He looked—what? Scared? “Forget about it, all right? It was just, you know. Fellow craftsmen—”
“Of course.”
Which, she reflected, was probably true, up to a point. The prison chaplain had risked his life and his career for her, a perfect stranger, for that one all-compelling reason; he’d been miserable and resentful as hell about it, but he did it, because not doing it would’ve been unthinkable. But there’s a fine line, thin as gossamer and just as strong. You save a fellow craftsman if asked to do so; you can’t refuse. But she hadn’t asked, had she? If she’d smuggled out a message to him to come at once, he’d have been obligated. But she hadn’t even known he was in the area.
“Right,” he said. “Get in the box.”
She looked at it, and it occurred to her that maybe the plan wasn’t going to work after all. The spinet had proved to be rather more compact than she’d remembered; also squarer, not as long. I’m not going to be able to get in that, she told herself; and we’ll have burned his beautiful spinet, all for nothing.
“Come on,” he said. Then he looked at her. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You have problems with confined spaces.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do, I can see it in your eyes. For God’s sake, woman, it was your idea.”
“I don’t have a problem. It’s just, the box isn’t as big as I thought it’d be.”
“It’s plenty big enough. You’ll just have to cuddle up a bit, that’s all.”
Getting in the box wasn’t the hardest thing she’d ever done, not by a deplorably long way. But when the lid went on she couldn’t help it; she kicked and punched at it and knocked it out of his hands. “You idiot,” he said, and she saw that the flying lid had hit him in the face; he’d have a fat lip for a day or so, disastrous for a singer with engagements lined up. “Now for God’s sake keep still. It’s all right, really. You’ll be fine.”
She tried, really hard, but her best proved to be not good enough. This time, at least he managed to avoid getting hurt.
“All right,” he said wearily, “we’ll just have to think of something else. Get up.”
She climbed out of the box, feeling deeply ashamed. And then he punched her, and she went straight to sleep.
She woke up in a coach. It took her a split second to figure out how she’d got there, and then she was furiously angry. “You hit me,” she said, without even looking to see if he was there.
He looked up from his book and marked the place with a feather. “You wouldn’t go in the box.”
“You hit me.” She realised her voice sounded funny. She felt her lip. It was huge.
“Me too,” he said, pointing to his face. True, his mouth was a little bit swollen as well. “It’s all right for you. How I’m going to sing tomorrow night in this condition I have no idea.”
“The way you sing, who’ll notice?”
He did his pained expression, which was as irritating as ever. “You wanted me to rescue you,” he said.
“I did not. For your information, I got out of the cell, I got past the guards and up on to the roof. I was doing just fine.”
“Indeed.” He sighed. “I shall just have to stick to instrumental stuff and hum. They won’t like it. I’m supposed to be entertaining the troops.”
She rubbed her jaw. It was aching. She hadn’t realised he could punch so well. “What are you reading?”
He showed her the spine of the book. “Saloninus on human frailty.”
Saloninus. She’d always assumed the books he read were mostly pictures. “You didn’t have to hit me.”
“Yes I did. You were kicking and thrashing about like a gaffed shark. You could’ve broken the box.”
Through the window she could see flat salt marsh. Nowhere she recognised. “You could’ve got a rope and lowered me down off the wall.”
“So I could,” he said sourly. “I’ll remember that for next time.” He put the book i
n the pocket of his coat. “You do realise, you haven’t once thanked me. That’s a bit—”
“Thank you? For what?”
“For saving a damsel in distress, you stupid cow.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat cushions. “We’ll be at the border in an hour or so,” he said. “You’ll have to hide under the seat. I’ll throw my rug over you. They won’t search the carriage, I’ve got diplomatic status.”
A map floated into her mind. “What border? Aren’t we headed for the coast?”
“Alas, no. We’re going to Blemya. Hope that’s all right.”
“I can’t go to bloody Blemya, I’m due in Rasch the day after tomorrow.”
He shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Besides, they won’t be expecting you in Rasch. They’ll think you’re dead.”
She started violently. Of course, they would think that, wouldn’t they? Intelligence would’ve picked up the news of her condemnation, attempted escape and miserable end. Then they’d write to her sister, who’d be devastated; and the landlord of her building, who’d sell all her things to cover the back rent and then relet her room; and the abbot, who’d grieve terribly for her and pray for her soul—
“How could you?” she said furiously. “How could anyone be so inconsiderate?”
He was frowning, genuinely mystified. “Oh, forget it,” she said. “But as soon as we reach the border, you’ve got to write and say I’m not dead. It’s vitally important.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “Tel, we’re going to Blemya. You haven’t forgotten what happened last time you were there? I can’t possibly write a letter naming you by name and then turn up with a female acolyte the same age, height, hair colour—”
Entirely valid point, which simply hadn’t occurred to her; she’d completely forgotten about her last visit, when she’d murdered a cabinet minister in cold blood—“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Your letters are diplomatic, they wouldn’t dare read them.”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. I have diplomatic status, but that’s a courtesy thing: I’m not accredited or anything. Besides, what makes you think they don’t read all the genuine diplomatic mail?”