by K. J. Parker
Ziani shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I was planning to slip away as quietly as possible. I don’t suppose it’ll take them long to realise their commander-in-chief has gone absent without leave, and in the circumstances I’d be grateful for as much of a head start as I can get.”
Psellus nodded, but he seemed reluctant to move. “What about money?” he said. “You’ll need some for your journey, and—”
“Taken care of.” Ziani cut him off short. “They can add embezzlement of public funds to the list of charges at my court martial. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
Psellus took a step away, and saw Ziani put his hand to the latch again; he reached out and caught his wrist. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” he said. “You know what she did to you…”
Ziani took his fingers and prised them gently apart. “My daughter hasn’t done anything to anybody,” he said, “and I love her very much. And she loves her mother. That’s a good enough reason on its own.”
Psellus nodded. “That’s an eminently reasonable justification,” he said. “But it’s only half the truth. Less than half, quite possibly.”
“Goodbye, Chairman,” Ziani said. “And thank you. You’re a good man.”
“No,” Psellus said, and walked away.
Well, Ziani thought, and he pressed the thumbplate of the latch. Then he turned round quickly and called out, “Psellus.”
Psellus turned slowly. “Yes?”
“Down there, in the main hall,” Ziani said. “Those paintings on the wall. They’re…” He struggled for the word. “Allegories,” he said. “For the ideals of the Guilds, Specification and things like that.”
“That’s right,” Psellus said.
Ziani nodded. “Then why have they all got white faces?”
Psellus smiled. “It’s an old artistic convention,” he said. “Many years ago, the walls of public buildings were decorated with carved marble reliefs. Fashions changed, or it was too expensive. But the painters made everybody white to look like marble carvings.”
“I see.” Ziani dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Thanks. I don’t know why, but it seemed important. It’d have bothered me to death if I’d gone away without knowing.”
Psellus walked away, and this time no voice called him back, which was just as well. He respected Ziani’s intelligence, at least, and it wouldn’t be long before it occurred to him to wonder why, if the faces and skins were white to represent marble, the clothes and the objects they held were in colour.
He pressed the latch and pushed the door open.
They were sitting by the window. Moritsa was holding a book, and she was leaning over her shoulder, pointing at the page. She was teaching her to read.
“Hello,” Ziani said.
She looked up; and Moritsa dropped the book, screamed, looked at him, and ran across the room to hug him. He stayed still for a few seconds, letting her hold him, then gently moved her away. He walked past her to the window, picked the book up and gave it to her.
“Just go outside and look at your book for a minute, honey,” he said. “I need to talk to Mummy.”
Moritsa looked up at him, then went through the door. He heard the latch snick.
“Is she my daughter?” he asked.
“No,” she replied.
“His?”
“You mean Boioannes? No. That was much later.”
Ziani nodded. “It doesn’t matter,” he said.
“Falier,” she said. “I’d been seeing him for a long time before Maris came along.”
“I see.” Her eyes were fixed on him. “Falier’s dead, by the way,” he said. “He was killed on the embankment.”
“Oh,” she said.
“I’ve taken care of Boioannes,” he went on (and he watched how she reacted to the ambiguity; just a flicker of the eyes). “I had him sent away. He’ll be safe there now, and well provided for.” He waited, then smiled. “You were worried for him,” he said. “You thought I’d have him killed.”
“Yes.”
He shook his head. “I’m not a savage,” he said. “You don’t know me very well if you think I’d do something like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“It’s all right.”
“It was all his fault,” she said. “Boioannes. He—”
Ziani raised his hand. “I know,” he said. “He fell in love with you, or got obsessed with you, and you didn’t dare send him away because he was so powerful. Then it all got out of hand; he forced you to help him get rid of me, with the mechanical doll. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Her eyes were wide, round, wary, closed, like a fencer watching his opponent, trying to read his next move. “That’s right,” she said. “He made me do it all, and I was so scared. He said he’d hurt Moritsa if I didn’t do as I was told.”
He admired her for that, even though he was pretty sure it was a lie. It was strong enough to be the foundation for a reconciliation, and Boioannes could never deny it, not now. “He used you, you know,” he said. “He didn’t really love you; or if he did, it wasn’t the real reason he wanted you. I found out the truth – well, Chairman Psellus…”
“Oh,” she said. “Him.”
He couldn’t allow himself to smile, but that brief cold glare was priceless. “He investigated the whole thing,” he said, “which is how I know you’re telling the truth.” (She hadn’t expected that; but she hid it well.) “Boioannes wanted power; he was the chairman of Necessary Evil, but in peacetime it isn’t the same. It’s only when there’s a war on that the chairman has the power to run the City all by himself. Boioannes wanted a war that’d last a long time. It nearly went wrong when the Eremians attacked us and we wiped out their army in a few minutes; he knew that’d happen, which is why he had to go to such extreme lengths. He wanted the sort of war where we’d have to attack them, rather than just defending ourselves; he figured that the only way he’d get that was if someone broke the most sacred rule and defected to another country with Guild secrets. I was the perfect choice. I knew enough to do what I eventually did, but I was unimportant enough not to be able to defend myself or fight back when he framed me. Falier must’ve been in on it too. They fixed it so I’d have an opportunity to escape – I nearly screwed it up – and after that, it all worked out just how he wanted it to, except he never imagined I’d find a way to bring the savages into the war. But you can’t really fault him there. He had no reason to believe I’d be so resourceful. But of course, he was never really in love with you, not the way I was. That meant he couldn’t hope to understand me. Anyway,” Ziani went on, moving a little nearer, like a fencer closing the distance (coming close enough to hit and be hit; you can never attack without making yourself vulnerable), “let’s forget all about him now. I’ve sorted him out and put everything right, so we can start all over again, just the three of us.” He paused, then added, “If that’s what you want.”
“Of course,” she said immediately. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He nodded gently, his movements slow and even, like those of a hunter stalking a deer or a wolf. “We’ll have to go away, I’m afraid,” he said. “Psellus has made it clear we can’t stay in the City. But that’s all right,” he added, still watching her closely; he’d read all about it in King Fashion while he was staying at Orsea’s court. Keep eye contact, and the quarry won’t bolt. “We’ll go across the sea to the Old Country. I’ve got money. I’ll start a factory there, we’ll be rich in no time, far better off than we could ever have been here. And it won’t be like it was for me in Eremia and those places” (he let himself speak faster and more urgently), “where everybody could see I was a stranger just by looking at me. It’ll all be different there, which means we can start again completely fresh.”He paused to pull in a deep breath (the bombardier spanning the mainspring). “All I’ve ever wanted to do was look after the two of you, make it so you can have a better life, the sort you deserve. It was all my fault really, after all. I was working so ha
rd, we never saw each other, never talked, never made love. No wonder you started seeing Falier, and Boioannes; you must’ve thought I didn’t love you any more.”
As if he’d made a mistake and left his guard open. “You were never there. I was so lonely.”
“Of course,” he said. “So really, I’ve only got myself to blame. I was trying to do the right thing, but it made everything go wrong. You’d be surprised how often it works out like that. If only I hadn’t been so stupid, I’d have seen I was letting you down, losing you. But I didn’t, and now it’s taken so much pain and trouble to get back to you, and I’ll never make that mistake again, I promise you. Just so long…” He felt the mechanism drop into place. “Just so long as we love each other. You do still love me, don’t you?”
She looked at him, and her eyes were as cold as stone; and he thought of the carvings that were really paint, and the lies; and he told himself, a lie will be good enough, because I love her, because I have no choice.
Extras
Meet the Author
K. J. Parker is a pseudonym. Find more about the author at www.kjparker.com.
Introducing
If you enjoyed
THE ESCAPEMENT,
look out for
THE PLAYER OF GAMES
by Iain M. Banks
This is the story of a man who went far away for a long time, just to play a match. The man is a game-player called “Gurgeh.” The story starts with a battle that is not a battle, and ends with a game that is not a game.
Me? I’ll tell you about me later.
This is how the story begins.
Dust drifted with each footstep. He limped across the desert, following the suited figure in front. The gun was quiet in his hands. They must be nearly there; the noise of distant surf boomed through the helmet soundfield. They were approaching a tall dune, from which they ought to be able to see the coast. Somehow he had survived; he had not expected to.
It was bright and hot and dry outside, but inside the suit he was shielded from the sun and the baking air; cosseted and cool. One edge of the helmet visor was dark, where it had taken a hit, and the right leg flexed awkwardly, also damaged, making him limp, but otherwise he’d been lucky. The last time they’d been attacked had been a kilometer back, and now they were nearly out of range.
The flight of missiles cleared the nearest ridge in a glittering arc. He saw them late because of the damaged visor. He thought the missiles had already started firing, but it was only the sunlight reflecting on their sleek bodies. The flight dipped and swung together, like a flock of birds.
When they did start firing it was signaled by strobing red pulses of light. He raised his gun to fire back; the other suited figures in the group had already started firing. Some dived to the dusty desert floor, others dropped to one knee. He was the only one standing.
The missiles swerved again, turning all at once and then splitting up to take different directions. Dust puffed around his feet as shots fell close. He tried to aim at one of the small machines, but they moved startlingly quickly, and the gun felt large and awkward in his hands. His suit chimed over the distant noise of firing and the shouts of the other people; lights winked inside the helmet, detailing the damage. The suit shook and his right leg went suddenly numb.
“Wake up, Gurgeh!” Yay laughed, alongside him. She swiveled on one knee as two of the small missiles swung suddenly at their section of the group, sensing that was where it was weakest. Gurgeh saw the machines coming, but the gun sang wildly in his hands, and seemed always to be aiming at where the missiles had just been. The two machines darted for the space between him and Yay. One of the missiles flashed once and disintegrated; Yay shouted, exulting. The other missile swung between them; she lashed out with her foot, trying to kick it. Gurgeh turned awkwardly to fire at it, accidentally scattering fire over Yay’s suit as he did so. He heard her cry out and then curse. She staggered, but brought the gun round; fountains of dust burst around the second missile as it turned to face them again, its red pulses lighting up his suit and filling his visor with darkness. He felt numb from the neck down and crumpled to the ground. It went black and very quiet.
“You are dead,” a crisp little voice told him.
He lay on the unseen desert floor. He could hear distant, muffled noises, sense vibrations from the ground: He heard his own heart beat, and the ebb and flow of his breath. He tried to hold his breathing and slow his heart, but he was paralyzed, imprisoned, without control.
His nose itched. It was impossible to scratch it. What am I doing here? he asked himself.
Sensation returned. People were talking, and he was staring through the visor at the flattened desert dust a centimeter in front of his nose. Before he could move, somebody pulled him up by one arm.
He unlatched his helmet. Yay Meristinoux, also bare-headed, stood looking at him and shaking her head. Her hands were on her hips, her gun swung from one wrist. “You were terrible,” she said, though not unkindly. She had the face of a beautiful child, but the slow, deep voice was knowing and roguish; a low-slung voice.
The others sat around on the rocks and dust, talking. A few were heading back to the club house. Yay picked up Gurgeh’s gun and presented it to him. He scratched his nose, then shook his head, refusing to take the weapon.
“Yay,” he told her, “this is for children.”
She paused, slung her gun over one shoulder, and shrugged (and the muzzles of both guns swung in the sunlight, glinting momentarily, and he saw the speeding line of missiles again, and was dizzy for a second).
“So?” she said. “It isn’t boring. You said you were bored; I thought you might enjoy a shoot.”
He dusted himself down and turned back toward the club house. Yay walked alongside. Recovery drones drifted past them, collecting the components of the destructed machines.
“It’s infantile, Yay. Why fritter your time away with this nonsense?”
They stopped at the top of the dune. The low club house lay a hundred meters away, between them and the golden sand and snow-white surf. The sea was bright under the high sun.
“Don’t be so pompous,” she told him. Her short brown hair moved in the same wind which blew the tops from the falling waves and sent the resulting spray curling back out to sea. She stooped to where some pieces of a shattered missile lay half buried in the dune, picked them up, blew sand grains off the shining surfaces, and turned the components over in her hands. “I enjoy it,” she said. “I enjoy the sort of games you like, but…I enjoy this too.” She looked puzzled. “This is a game. Don’t you get any pleasure from this sort of thing?”
“No. And neither will you, after a while.”
She shrugged easily. “Till then, then.” She handed him the parts of the disintegrated machine. He inspected them while a group of young men passed, heading for the firing ranges.
“Mr. Gurgeh?” One of the young males stopped, looking at Gurgeh quizzically. A fleeting expression of annoyance passed across the older man’s face, to be replaced by the amused tolerance Yay had seen before in such situations. “Jernau Morat Gurgeh?” the young man said, still not quite sure.
“Guilty.” Gurgeh smiled gracefully and—Yay saw—straightened his back fractionally, drawing himself up a little. The younger man’s face lit up. He executed a quick, formal bow. Gurgeh and Yay exchanged glances.
“An honor to meet you, Mr. Gurgeh,” the young man said, smiling widely. “My name’s Shuro…I’m…” He laughed. “I follow all your games; I have a complete set of your theoretical works on file…”
Gurgeh nodded. “How comprehensive of you.”
“Really. I’d be honored if, any time you’re here, you’d play me at…well, anything. Deploy is probably my best game; I play off three points, but— ”
“Whereas my handicap, regrettably, is lack of time,” Gurgeh said. “But, certainly, if the chance ever arises, I shall be happy to play you.” He gave a hint of a nod to the younger man. “A pleasure to have met you
.”
The young man flushed and backed off, smiling. “The pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Gurgeh… .Goodbye…goodbye.” He smiled awkwardly, then turned and walked off to join his companions.
Yay watched him go. “You enjoy all that stuff, don’t you, Gurgeh?” she grinned.
“Not at all,” he said briskly. “It’s annoying.”
Yay continued to watch the young man walking away, looking him up and down as he tramped off through the sand. She sighed.
“But what about you?” Gurgeh looked with distaste at the pieces of missile in his hands. “Do you enjoy all this… destruction?”
“It’s hardly destruction,” Yay drawled. “The missiles are explosively dismantled, not destroyed. I can put one of those things back together in half an hour.”
“So it’s false.”
“What isn’t?”
“Intellectual achievement. The exercise of skill. Human feeling.”
Yay’s mouth twisted in irony. She said, “I can see we have a long way to go before we understand each other, Gurgeh.”
“Then let me help you.”
“Be your protégée?”
“Yes.”
Yay looked away, to where the rollers fell against the golden beach, and then back again. As the wind blew and the surf pounded, she reached slowly behind her head and brought the suit’s helmet over, clicking it into place. He was left staring at the reflection of his own face in her visor. He ran one hand through the black locks of his hair.
Yay flicked her visor up. “I’ll see you, Gurgeh. Chamlis and I are coming round to your place the day after tomorrow, aren’t we?”
“If you want.”
“I want.” She winked at him and walked back down the slope of sand. He watched her go. She handed his gun to a recovery drone as it passed her, loaded with, glittering metallic debris.
Gurgeh stood for a moment, holding the bits of wrecked machine. Then he let the fragments drop back to the barren sand.