by K. J. Parker
She gazed into his eyes for maybe two heartbeats, then lunged at the food like a jackal. He perched on the end of the bed while she ate, occasionally picking out something for himself. She ate solidly for quite some time. Then she looked at him again. “I don’t suppose you thought to bring anything to drink,” she said.
“Depends.” From the baggy sleeve of his gown he produced a small stone bottle. “I know you don’t usually touch the hard stuff,” he said. “But there aren’t any pockets in this rag, so I had to make do with what I could fit in.”
She frowned at him. “There’s water in the jug.”
“Fine.” He stood up, found the jug and brought it to her. “No cup, glass or beaker,” he said. “Same in my room, oddly enough. I don’t think the Blemyans drink in their rooms.”
“Doesn’t matter.” She grabbed the jug and tried to drink from the side of the spout. Some of the water found its way into her mouth; the rest ran down her chin and then her neck. She pulled a face. “Tastes funny.”
“I think it’s for washing in,” Oida said mildly. “My understanding is, drinking water comes from the well, or the rainwater tank on the roof. That stuff’s probably been six times round the heating system, in lead pipes. Still, I don’t suppose a few mouthfuls will kill you.”
“I’ve had worse,” she mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
“I know you have,” he said mildly, and dabbed at his forehead with the hem of the antimacassar. “You’re right, it gets quite stifling after a bit. I think I’ll go out on the balcony and cool down.”
She ate what was left, then went out to join him. “I wish there was some way of making it stop,” she said.
“Ah.” He smiled. “I asked one of the palace nobs about it, actually it’s quite interesting. On the ground floor, the hot air from the furnace rises and passes through corridors of bitumen-coated brick under the flooring slabs. To get heat to the upper storeys, they run boiling water through miles of thick lead pipe laid alongside the rafters of the floors. They’ve got this system of pumps, with two dozen men working them all day and all night. Apparently, it takes five tons of charcoal—”
“In other words, you can’t make it stop.”
“No. Hell of an undertaking, though. The whole building is honeycombed with pipes and flues and hypocausts, which is why everything looks so chunky and solid. This chap was telling me, they had exactly the same system in the Old Palace in Rasch, except that it stopped working about ninety years ago, and now nobody remembers that it’s there.”
“Good,” she said. “It’s a menace. Did you bring the water jug?”
“No. Have a pull of this instead.”
“What is it?”
“Local speciality. Distilled from peach stones.”
“No, thank you.” She started to get up but he was quicker than her; he came back a moment later with the jug. She held it awkwardly with the handle at the back and poured water into her mouth. “What kind of lunatic installs round-the-clock heating in a town built on the edge of the desert?”
“Ah.” He grinned. “The empire had it, so the Blemyans had to have it, too.” He cracked the wax round the spout of the bottle, drew the stopper and took a small swig. “Not bad,” he said. “You can get it in Rasch occasionally, but it’s not as good. Sure?”
She nodded. No way was she going to drink strong drink with Oida in her bedroom. “Have you found out any arrangements yet?”
“For the concert?”
“For getting me out of here.”
“I’m working on it, I promise. Meanwhile, the concert’s tomorrow evening, and then the presentation’s the afternoon after that.”
“I can’t stay in this oven two whole days. I’ll fry.”
He nodded. “Do as I suggested and sleep out here,” he said. “Apparently, that’s what the locals do when they can’t stand it any more. If you haven’t got enough cushions, there’s plenty in my room.”
In the early hours of the morning, she had occasion to remember the first thing they tell you about the desert: boiling hot during the day, freezing cold at night. She went back inside, stayed there until the sweat was dripping off the end of her nose, went back outside and shivered. A bit like the fancy public baths in Rasch, with the difference that you could leave the baths if you wanted to.
“I want you to be honest with me,” she said.
The sun was shining in the formal garden at the back of the Baths of Uxin, and Oida was drinking white wine flavoured with honey and mint. He had a straw hat tilted over his eyes. “I’m always honest with you,” he said. “Nearly always.”
The new veil was an improvement on the cheesecloth in that it didn’t smell of cheese, but it made her want to scream. Through it she could see her big, strong hands folded demurely in her lap. Her mother had hated them, declared that she’d never get a husband with paws like that. Keep them behind your back, she used to say, or pull your sleeves down over them. “I want you to tell me why you were at the castle.”
“To rescue you,” Oida said. She couldn’t see his face, because of the hat.
“There are good reasons, plausible reasons and the real reason,” she said. “I want the real reason.”
“You just had it.”
She sighed. “There’s a bit in one of my favourite books,” she said. “A man is drowning. Someone pulls him out. The man starts to thank his rescuer, but then the rescuer’s hood falls off and he sees his face. You’re Death, the man says. That’s right, says Death. Then why did you save me, asks the man, and Death says, for later.” The veil was tickling her neck; she scratched. “Well?”
Oida yawned. “I liked his earlier stuff better,” he said.
“That instrumental piece you played,” she said, picking at a hangnail. “The Procopius variations. Yours?”
He nodded. “Something I threw together for a concert I did the time before last I was here. The garrison commander heard it the first time and asked me to do it again. It didn’t go down very well, but what can you expect?”
He’d answered her question. “Real reason?”
“Good reason. Did you like it?”
“Actually, yes.”
He nodded. “More your sort of thing. I know you don’t think much of my songs.”
“I wouldn’t be a true friend if I wasn’t savagely honest. No, I don’t.”
“Ah, well. Most people do.”
“And most people pay more money, right. You know, you could write good music if you—”
He laughed. “Of course I could,” he said. “You want to know a secret? Writing what you call good music is easy, piece of cake. You’re writing for intelligent, educated people who are prepared to meet you halfway. It’s the army songs and the romantic ballads that made me sweat blood.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Because they’re simple and accessible? You don’t know anything about writing music. Simple and accessible is the hardest thing there is. It’s like designing a clock mechanism with only two moving parts. It’s working with both hands tied behind your back. You’re limited to a simple melodic line, which has to conform to strict form. You’ve got the voice and one instrument and that’s it, no orchestra, no counterpoint, nothing. It’s like explaining Saloninus’ theory of the Eternal Recurrence to a six-year-old rather than a tenured professor of Ethics.” He tilted the hat back and sat up a little. “And that’s why I earn good money,” he said. “Because I can give people what they want. Not just the smart ones. Everybody.” Suddenly he grinned. “I do actually work for a living,” he said.
“All right,” she said grudgingly. “If money is all that matters—”
“It’s the only reliable way of keeping score,” he said. “A thousand cultured folk will tell you they love your symphony, but can you believe them? But if a hundred thousand poor people decide they can afford two stuivers to hear you sing, that probably means you’re actually getting something right.” He shrugged. “Not that I mind the money,” he added.
“One of these days I might get to spend some of it. Who knows?”
“Fine,” she said. “But Procopius could write a symphony everybody would enjoy.”
“Maybe. So why hasn’t he?”
“Because he writes what he must. He’s not desperate to please everybody on earth. And Procopius will still be listened to when your stuff’s long forgotten. And I think that means that Procopius is the one who gets it right.”
He smiled. “Listened to by whom? No, forget it, I’m sure you’re right. I’m just a whore, selling my soul for money. Suits me. And, yes, I do like people to like me. It makes life so much easier.” He tilted the hat back over his eyes and relaxed. “One thing I will say for Procopius,” he said. “He’s a hell of a card player.”
When she got back to her room, she found a dress laid out on the bed. She spent a whole minute just staring at it. Then she tried it on.
There was a full-length mirror on the far wall; an amazing thing, Mezentine, probably five hundred years old, a few black clouds at the edges but the tone still absolutely perfect. She looked at herself and saw a thin, striking woman in a dress made for a fairy princess. It made her hands look like sides of pork. A sweet thought, she decided, but completely wrong. Therefore, Oida must have sent it.
She took it off and laid it out carefully so it wouldn’t crease. He’d only done it so she’d have something respectable to wear to his concert, so she wouldn’t show him up. Weird, though, that he’d imagined she’d look anything other than strange in a dress like that; as if he didn’t see her the way the mirror did. She tried to remember just how long she’d known him, but couldn’t. He’d always been there, somehow. Not that it mattered a damn.
The concert was held in what had once been a temple, though so long ago that nobody knew for sure who or what had been worshipped there; the old frescos had all been painted over (with Blemya receiving the tribute of all nations, in a rather garish Triumphalist style that made her teeth ache) but a few worn bas-reliefs could still be seen in the upper galleries if you craned your neck; whether they were meant to be human, animal, divine or abstract was anybody’s guess. But the acoustic wasn’t bad at all.
Oida was trembling so much before the show that she was sure he wouldn’t be able to do it; ten minutes later he bounced on with a grin on his face and a violin, and began to play; a series of sonatas and fugues—Procopius, Alimbal, Lanaphe: if she’d chosen the programme it wouldn’t have been much different. At first she was stunned, then enraptured, then angry. Their conversation that morning; was he making fun of her? Or had he engineered it, to make her feel small and stupid? Somehow the anger didn’t spoil the music one bit.
There was a brief intermission, during which footmen brought round water and iced tea in silver jugs, which reminded her just how hot and thirsty she was (but the horrible veil meant she couldn’t drink). Then Oida came back and sang; arias from Truth and The Abdication of Rhixus, the Invocation from Luzir Soleth, that sort of thing. She was sure he wasn’t going to make the high notes in the Invocation, but he did, effortlessly. For an encore he gave them “Lord of Tempests,” which he sang at breakneck speed, the way Saiva is reputed to have done, though nobody believes it. He did it perfectly, and when he’d finished she realised she was on her feet along with everyone else, and her hands were sore.
Mercifully, there was no reception afterwards. She waited patiently for the crush to file out, then headed for the grand staircase. To get there, she had to pass a colonnade. A hand appeared from behind a column, grabbed her by the elbow and hauled her into the shadows.
“Quiet,” Oida said. He was still in his stage robe, but he had a small bundle wrapped in cloth. She recognised it. He pushed it into her hands. “Job for you.”
She stared at him. “What?”
He drew her further into the colonnade, out of sight. “But first, a conjuring trick.” His pack of cards appeared as if by magic in his hand. He fanned them (smooth as any professional) and held them under her nose. “Pick a card,” he said. “Any card.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Pick a fucking card.”
She chose one. “Look at it.” She turned it over and her heart stopped. Four of Swords.
There is no suit of Swords in an orthodox pack. And four was her next call sign; but only the abbot knew that.
“Listen carefully,” Oida said. “Ten paces to your left, up against the wall, is a flagstone with a ring in it. Lift it up and you’ll find steps going down. That puts you in the main hypocaust, which runs right across this floor. It’ll be a bit of a squeeze and I know you’re not wild about confined spaces, but I’m sure you can cope if you try. Go precisely ninety-two yards—you’ll have to count, it’ll be dark as a bag down there, not to mention hot as hell—you’ll find another slab with a ring in it, that’ll let you down one level. There aren’t any steps, you’ll just have to drop, so for God’s sake don’t hurt yourself, because nobody can come and fish you out if you get into trouble. With me so far?”
She couldn’t speak, so she nodded.
“Now I don’t know the exact distance, so you’ll have to feel for the hatches on the wall on your left-hand side. Hatch twenty-seven is the one you want; it opens inwards, so be careful. Crawl down that exactly eighty-seven yards, directly above you will be a trapdoor like the others, a slab you can lift. That’s where it could be tricky, because you’ll be coming up into a watch chamber, and there could well be a guard on duty. Deal with him if you have to, and pull the body down the hypocaust after you on your way back. Don’t leave the knife behind, remember, it can be traced to me.”
“Just a minute,” she hissed.
Maybe he hadn’t heard her. “In the chamber, you’ll find a locked cabinet. You should be able to force the lock, or maybe you can pick it. I know you’re good at that. What you want is a ring with five keys on it, one of them almost twice as long as the others. If there’s more than one set answering that description, bring them all. Then it’s back the way you came and meet me here in one hour. Got that?”
She opened her mouth to refuse, then closed it again. Four of Swords. The hand can’t disobey the brain. Instead, she whispered, “So that’s why you came to rescue me.”
He gave her a look that stopped her in her tracks. “There are good reasons, plausible reasons and the real reason,” he said. “A beautiful girl once told me that, but I don’t think she loves me. Get moving, we’re on the clock.”
If there is a Hell, according to Saloninus in the Third Eclogue, it’s probably the absence of light. Far be it from her to disagree, but he couldn’t be more wrong. Hell, if there is one, is confined spaces.
That’s why they bury people: because most people lead wicked lives, and the good are enraptured from the flesh at the moment of death; and putting someone in a tight-fitting box and covering her with tons of earth is the worst possible punishment any mind, mortal or immortal, could possibly devise.
At least there was no box. She could move; and if she kept moving it wasn’t quite so bad; and if she kept counting, she couldn’t think about it. But if she stopped or lost count, she knew she’d be finished—astray, off the beacon, no way back, she’d be there for ever and ever, unless you believe in a Day of Judgement and the end of the world, which she didn’t.
She couldn’t stand upright, but if she bent forward until her elbows were on her knees, she could just about get by—the top of her head brushed the roof, which was the home of many spiders, and the gentle drag of the gossamer on her hair made her flesh crawl—and she could accurately measure distance by the number of paces taken. There were columns of bricks on either side of her (she’d found that out by scraping her forearms against them) and they were accurately, regularly spaced, two feet between them. By counting them as well, she could cross-check on the distance. Ninety-two yards. Was that to the edge of the flagstone or the middle, where the ring was?
Just as well she wasn’t relying on eyesight, because the sweat in her eyes would’ve made
it impossible to see.
The dress, now; at least the dress had been explained to her satisfaction. It fitted. How Oida had got her measurements she didn’t want to know, but it fitted and she could move in it, which was more than could be said for any of the other clothes at her disposal. The fabric had been well chosen, too. The hotter she got, the more it clung to her; the more it clung, the easier it was to move. Chosen by a man with a good working knowledge of women’s bodies. A smart man, Oida, the sort who knows all kinds of things.
In the event, she overshot by a good yard, realised she’d come too far by the brick-pile count, had to shuffle backwards, groping on the floor for the ring. She found it; there simply wasn’t room to straighten up enough to pull it. But it had to be possible, because the men who maintained the hypocausts could do it. Eventually, she got it figured: raise it a couple of inches and slide the knife in under it to keep it open, then get the other side of it, lie down and gradually lever it up until it slid away and clanged on the floor with a noise they must’ve been able to hear in Choris. She lay perfectly still and counted to a hundred, but she couldn’t hear footsteps on the floor above her. Would the sound carry through the marble slabs? She had no idea.
On the clock, she reminded herself. Oh, and be careful of the drop.
It was just as well she’d slipped off her boots first. Her idea had been to brace herself in the hole with her arms, grab the sides of the hole, dangle, then drop the last few inches, feet, whatever. It didn’t work like that. She slipped and caught herself from falling by her elbows, so that her full weight was supported by muscles that weren’t usually called on to do that sort of work. They objected, and she felt their displeasure; meanwhile, she was stuck. She tried lifting up again, but she wasn’t strong enough. All she could do was tuck her elbows in until she was free to fall.
For a moment or so after she landed, she was terrified that she’d broken something, just as Oida had said she would. But when she dared to wiggle her toes, she could feel them move, and she decided the pain in her ankles was just pain. A surge of relief left her too weak to move for a long time.