The Two of Swords, Volume 2

by K. J. Parker

  “I’m not on my own,” she said. “I’m with you.”

  He sighed. “Who are you?”

  “My name’s Eufro.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Mphm.”

  He rode on for a while, trying to pretend she wasn’t there. Too difficult. “I can only assume,” he said, “that the object of the exercise is for me to know I’m being watched.”

  “Every move you make, yes. Well done.”

  “And you think that because you’re a woman, when we’re out in the wild somewhere and I finally lose patience, I won’t bash your head in and leave you for the crows. That’s so naïve it’s rather sweet.”

  “You can try.”

  “Ah.” He nodded. “A tough girl. A warrior maid, a chick in chain mail. I’ve read about your sort.”

  “Have you now?”

  “Oh, yes. And I’ve read even more about dragons, and they don’t exist either. Women are rubbish at fighting: they’ve got more sense. Go home. Before your mother starts worrying about you.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that, I’m afraid.”

  “Trust me, I’ve barely started.” His head was hurting quite a lot now. “You’ll find this hard to credit, but I can be quite obnoxious when I try.”

  “Do what you like. I’m under orders.”

  Corason sighed loudly and kicked his horse into a gallop. The road wasn’t really suited to it, and he slowed down again before the horse cast a shoe or broke a leg or something equally tiresome. She was, needless to say, still there.

  “Of course there’s the reasonably well-documented case of the Emperor Hyastes’ bodyguard,” he said. “Six hundred virgins, trained from birth in the warrior arts, head to toe in shimmering mail like a load of fish. Only I seem to recall that most of them were over fifty and stank like goats, and wasn’t Hyastes assassinated in his bath?”

  “Before my time, I’m afraid. I dare say you’re right.”

  No luck so far. He kept at it. “Well,” he said, “you’re a bit on the young side and I can’t smell you from here. Virgin?”

  “You meet so few attractive men in this line of work.”

  “From what I gather, Hyastes’ amazons weren’t all that interested in men. I gather it’s good for esprit de corps, though there’s not enough reliable data to draw any firm conclusions. In any case, I don’t need a bodyguard, thanks all the same.”

  She didn’t reply straight away. Then she said, “I gather your Lodge uses women as field agents. Quite highly thought of, some of them. Are you offensive to them, too?”

  “Dear God, no.” A terrible thought struck him. “You’re not—”

  “Lodge? No. For what it’s worth, I regard your organisation as sinister, disloyal, parasitical and a threat to Imperial security. I think you hide a rather unpleasant political agenda behind a smokescreen of superstition and garbage-grade mysticism, and if I had my way you’d be rooted out and dealt with once and for all. But that’s just my personal opinion, which does not necessarily reflect the views of my superiors.”

  “Ah,” Corason said. “I’m glad we got that straight.” He turned and looked at her. “What are you doing here? Real reason.”

  She smiled at him. It wasn’t meant to be friendly. “Would you believe me if I told you I had pressing business somewhere between here and Rasch Cuiber, and a woman riding on her own wouldn’t be safe and would attract too much attention? Like those little fish who hitch rides on sharks.”

  “Surely you’ve got people for that.”

  “Nobody was available. This is an elegant use of opportunity. An eye is kept on you, and I get to where I need to be.”

  “Plausible,” Corason admitted. “Tell me, was I right about the chain mail? What have you got on under that cloak?”

  She gave him a very slight frown. “If you must know, I’m a political officer attached to the Directorate of Archives and Observances; which is, as I assume you know, one of the few branches of the Service that employs women. I’m a widow, my husband died in the war, and I have a nine-year-old son who lives with my mother-in-law. Nominally, I’m a deaconess in holy orders, which is why I’m allowed out on my own, and it means I can earn money in my own right, instead of it being paid to my nearest male relative. If needs be, I’m under orders to cross the border into hostile territory, which is another reason for tagging along with a man, particularly one with a safe conduct order personally signed by the emperor. I’m assuming you’ve got similar papers for the West. Now, will that do you, or are you going to carry on acting like a pig all the way to Rasch?”

  Corason was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “So it’s true. They really are ordaining women in the East.”

  She nodded. “Not enough men, because of the war. I take it you don’t approve.”

  “Whatever gives you that idea?” He pushed back his hood and loosened the scarf a little; he was starting to feel uncomfortably warm. “Is your name really Eufro?”

  “Actually it’s Eudaemonia Frontizoriastes, I’m Aelian. I don’t like being called by a shortening, it makes me feel like I’m somebody’s pet. But I’m a realist.”

  “I’ve never met an Aelian before,” Corason said. “What brings you all the way up here?”

  “Bad luck,” Eufro replied. “Where are you from?”

  “Leuctria. Down past Blemya, turn left, keep going until you get your feet wet.”

  “No wonder you feel the cold.”

  “Tell me about it. I haven’t been really warm since I was seven.”

  She nodded gravely. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she said. “You’re a known associate of Axio Scephantis, the highwayman and armed robber. Does that explain your antipathy to women?”

  Ouch. “I have no antipathy to women,” Corason said. “Just political officers.”

  She grinned. “Me, too. A complete waste of space, most of them. There now: we do have something in common, after all.”

  But Corason wasn’t ready to declare peace quite yet, even though he had a feeling he was outnumbered and surrounded. “You ride very well,” he said, “for a clerk.”

  “My father taught me. Women hunt in Aelia, and they ride in the horse races. And we beat off the empire when they tried to invade us. And we grow the best apples anywhere. Who was the boy?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The tall Rhus boy you had with you. You know, the sneak-thief. Some sort of lackey, or Axio’s packed lunch?”

  Corason breathed out through his nose. “Let me guess,” he said. “Archives and Observances is where you hide your spies.”

  “The civil side,” she said. “Military intelligence is separate.”

  “But you’re genuinely a deaconess?”

  “Genuinely. I can say a prayer for you, if you like.”

  Well. It’s always nice to have company, as the man said when he discovered he had fleas. It was nice to have someone to talk to on the road, someone he didn’t have to be polite to, someone who understood the references; someone he could be as rude as he liked to, a rare indulgence. If she really was wearing chain mail, she had exceptional self-discipline. You can’t help slumping in the saddle, because of the weight on your shoulders. Obviously he’d have to think of some way of shaking her off, because being marked like this all the time was intolerable; but at least he could take his time, wait for the right opportunity and do it properly, rather than rushing at it and making a botch of it.

  “Out of interest,” she said, after a rare silence, “which empire do you belong to? East or West?”

  He realised he didn’t know offhand. “East,” he said.

  “Really? Why?”

  “Well.” He thought quickly. “I was only a kid when my family came here from Leuctria, it was before the war. When the war started, we were in the East. Therefore, presumably, I’m an Easterner.”

  She nodded. “You’re not down on the census rolls as a citizen,” she said. “Therefore, you aren’t an Easterner. Which makes you
a Westerner or an enemy alien. I only mention it because it means you have no rights whatsoever and no protection under the law.” She smiled. “I thought you might like to know that.”

  “You’re making that up,” he said. “There’s no way you could’ve found that out so quickly.”

  She shrugged. “The central records are in the Green Stone temple in Choris,” she said. “The rolls are definitive: if you aren’t on them, you don’t exist. And my department has charge of the rolls, we know where to look things up. How old are you?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Ah. We guessed you were forty. But we checked six years on either side, just to be sure.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, indeed. Naturally we make allowances for records being incomplete once the war started. But since you’re pre-war, the records are reliable, and you aren’t in them. Not,” she added pleasantly, “that it matters very much. All I’m saying is, I could cut your throat while you sleep and the courts wouldn’t be interested.”

  “What courts?”

  “Oh, indeed. Still, I thought I’d mention it, out of interest.”

  He tried to think of a reply, but there wasn’t one. So he asked, “Who else did you look up?”

  She laughed. “Oh, we know all about Axio, so we didn’t need to. And the boy’s a Rhus, so he’s a definite enemy. If it’s any consolation, I’m not on there either. But Aelia’s neutral, so I’m all right.”

  It wasn’t something he’d ever given any thought to. However—“Are you serious?” he said. “No rights at all?”

  “Oh, well,” she said, “it’s not like any of that sort of thing counts for anything these days, not in the middle of a war. If the war ever ends you might want to do something about it, though.”

  He frowned. “Such as what?”

  “That’s a good question,” she said. “You’ve got no standing to apply for citizenship, you haven’t served in the Eastern military and you aren’t rich enough for mercantile status. You could always marry a citizen’s daughter, of course; that’d do it.”

  “That’s allowed?”

  “In the East,” she said. “In the West you’d be restricted by property class. Of course, in the West you’d be a friendly alien, and you did serve in their army. If I were you, I’d be a Westerner. Much less hassle, and no poor unfortunate girl would have to marry you.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be a Westerner,” he said, “not if they’re going to lose the war. Didn’t you say you’re a widow?”

  “Hm. No, thank you.”

  “I’ll pay you. Twenty angels.”

  Her face went blank. “You’ve got twenty angels.”

  “Yes. Wrapped up in an old sock in the vaults of the treasury of the Shining Path temple in Aia Propontis. It’s supposed to be for my old age, but the way things are going I don’t suppose I’ll have one.”

  “Twenty angels. Are you serious?”

  “I imagine your kid could use twenty angels, even if you couldn’t.”

  She looked away. “Maybe you weren’t listening,” she said. “I’m Aelian. Not on the register.”

  “No. But you did say your husband died in the war. Therefore, he was in the Eastern military. Therefore, you have a valid claim for citizenship. True, there’d be paperwork involved, but it’s still an easy way to earn twenty angels.”

  She turned and looked at him. “I hardly know you.”

  “You know more about me than I do, apparently. Besides, it’d be a purely commercial transaction.”

  “Quite. Like all your relationships with women, I would imagine.” She looked thoughtful. “It’s a long way to Aia Propontis,” she said. “And I’d need to see the money first.”

  “Naturally.”

  “This is just bizarre,” she said. “Anyway, couldn’t your precious Lodge take care of it for you? I thought they had their claws in everywhere. I’m sure they could fake you a few records if you asked them nicely.”

  That made him laugh. “You really don’t like us, do you?”

  “I don’t, no. I think you’re poisonous.”

  He shrugged. “That’s so perverse,” he said. “Still, if that’s what you choose to believe. The offer stays open as far as the border, by the way. Think about it. Twenty angels, pre-war. You’ll never get a chance like it again.”

  She snored.

  Not just ordinary snoring. It was like some monstrous industrial activity—a sawmill or a foundry, where the roof and the floor shake, but you put up with it because you have to. Out in the open it was bad enough; what it would be like in a confined space, he couldn’t bear to imagine. Her poor husband. The man was a saint.

  But you couldn’t fake a noise like that; therefore she was asleep, profoundly so. Fortunately it was a clear night with a bright, helpful moon. He got up slowly, watching her as he did so, stepped gently over to the horses, took great pains over saddling and bridling, because one clink or creak could spoil everything. When his horse was ready, he crept back, picked up her bridle, wrapped it carefully in his scarf and tucked it away in his saddlebag. A bit hard on her, he reflected, but much kinder than cutting her throat or hamstringing her horse.

  He could still hear that terrible noise a hundred yards away.

  She caught him up just after noon the next day.

  He was impressed. He wouldn’t have thought you could jury-rig a functional bridle out of a few bits of rope, a stick and strips of plaited cloth. And she must’ve ridden like the wind to make up the time.

  “You can’t have imagined you’d get away with it,” she said. “So I can only assume it was spite. Really rather petty, don’t you think? But, then, you’re a spiteful man.”

  “I never said I wasn’t,” Corason replied.

  “Who likes playing nasty tricks on people.”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’ve had a lucky escape, haven’t I? Just think, I might have married you. Can I have my bridle back now, please?”

  Corason fished it out of his saddlebag. It only took her a minute or so to change over; good with horses, no doubt about it. “Thank you so much for waiting,” she said, as she swung lightly into the saddle and gathered the reins. “I’d hate to think I’d inconvenienced you in any way.”

  Later, after a period of stony silence, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, I really was trying to get rid of you.”

  “Not really, no. It means you were prepared to leave me to walk back to Choris, which for a woman on her own probably constitutes attempted murder. Also, you thought I was too stupid to improvise a bridle. On balance, I’d prefer it if it was just a mean-hearted prank.”

  “Ah. In that case, it was.”

  More silence; during which he concluded that she probably wasn’t wearing armour, because nobody could spring into the saddle like that carrying an extra thirty pounds dead weight, not even if they were used to it. Nor, in all likelihood, was there a sword under that cloak; he’d have seen it stick out when she bent her knee. Not that any of that meant he could downgrade the threat level. Was it really likely that she’d been sent to kill him? If so, when, or conditional on what event? It all seemed wildly improbable in the daylight; but, then, so did his way of earning a living, if he thought about it long enough.

  From the Cascanis plateau to the Horns is thirty-seven miles, and nobody enjoys that section of the road, not even in summer, when the sky is blue and the strange white flowers bloom in the shale. Before the war, elegant young ladies and artistic young men used to go as far as Laxas-in-Cascana to sketch the dramatic basalt outcrops; only professional silk-painters ventured beyond Laxas, to capture the majestic canyons, which look so well on those great long wall-hangings that drape all round a room. Eremite priests and cenobite monks occasionally set up cells in the strange egg-shaped caves in the rocks or on top of the inexplicable chimneys; mostly they never came back, which was probably just as well. There’s water, if you know exactly where to look for it, and from time to time desperate men have raised shee
p and goats there; occasionally, travellers driven off the road by thirst have come across their homes in the honeycomb caves, perfectly preserved, as though the occupiers had just stepped out for a moment. It’s one of the few places in the Western empire where you never see crows. Instead, you quickly get sick to death of the sight of the red-collared kites; big, noisy, clumsy, slow, living on snakes and lizards when they can’t get carrion. They aren’t afraid of humans, even when you throw rocks at them; they can judge range to perfection, and tend to gather, in groups of four or five, just over a stone’s throw away, waiting patiently for you to die of heatstroke.

  Imperial couriers, trained and mounted at public expense, cover this section of the road in one gruelling, breakneck day. Lesser mortals are strongly urged not to: don’t feed the kites, it only encourages them.

  “You can’t still be cold,” she said. “You just can’t.”

  She’d long since taken off her cloak, revealing no armour, just a sensible riding outfit, the sleeves of which she’d rolled up to the elbow. She’d tied a scarf round her head to keep the sun off, and kept shading her eyes with her hand.

  “I don’t know,” Corason replied. “There’s a bit of a nip in the air, don’t you think?”

  “You’re mad.”

  “It gets very cold at night.”

  In truth, he was starting to feel a trifle close; but the sight of his multiple layers seemed to irritate her beyond measure, so it was worth it. A drink of water wouldn’t be unwelcome, however. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was a freshwater spring just round the next bend, about four hundred yards up the slope. She could probably do with one, too; no water bottle, he’d observed, which showed how much she knew about the road east.

  “Won’t be long,” he said, dismounting briskly and handing her his reins.

  “What? Where are you going?”

  “For a shit in the rocks.”

  Some springs dry up unpredictably; others are infallible. This was one of the latter. It was somewhere between a drip and a trickle, but you could bet your life on it, as generations of travellers had. He was thirstier than he’d thought, and it took him a while to catch enough in his cupped hands. Then he began to fill his pewter pint flask, eagerly anticipating the grateful, angry look on her face when he produced water out of nowhere when she was truly desperate.