Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  “What’s happened?”

  “There’s nobody here,” Iseutz said crisply. “The place is deserted, doors locked, shutters down. Deutzel reckons the way-station people put the plank of wood there before they left, though why he thinks he’s such an expert I really couldn’t say. Phrantzes was absolutely useless. I said to him, perhaps you’d care to explain why a bunch of government servants suddenly take it into their heads to abandon their post, without a word to anybody, and take off into the night …”

  Giraut could think of a reason. How stupid would it be, how grossly in keeping with his life so far, if between their departure from the City and their arrival here, war had been declared and the way stations closed, leaving them to wander cheerfully in their dainty little coach into the first tidal wave of Blueskins and Aram Chantat? Clearly the same thought had occurred to the political officer, which was why the lantern had gone out so abruptly, and why they’d spent the night hiding behind a wall. “Excuse me,” he said, “I think I’ll go over and see what’s happening.”

  “Suit yourself,” Iseutz said angrily (he had no idea what he’d done). “Don’t expect to get any sense out of those morons, though.”

  He passed the coach, and saw that the horses had been taken out of the shafts; he couldn’t see them, and wondered if anybody else had noticed they weren’t there. As he got closer to it, the building depressed him. It was grey stone, giving an impression of monstrously thick walls and tiny, grudging windows behind sheet-iron shutters. Iron? The door was sheet iron too, closed with two broad, flat bars secured by padlocks as big as his hand.

  Phrantzes was sitting on an upturned box beside the door. He lifted his head as Giraut approached, and nodded politely.

  “What’s going on?” Giraut asked.

  “I’m sorry to say I have no idea,” Phrantzes replied. “According to what I was told, this station is open and functioning. Unless this isn’t C9, of course. But Suidas Deutzel says it is, and he was here in the War.”

  “Where is Suidas?”

  “Seeing to the horses,” Phrantzes replied. “There’s a stable out back. It was locked up, but he was able to break the lock off. Luckily there was some hay in the loft, because there’s no grazing around here to speak of.” Phrantzes smiled bleakly at him. “I’m afraid I’m not making a very good job of being your team manager,” he said. “It’s fortunate Suidas Deutzel seems to know what to do. I asked him if there was any way I could help, but he didn’t seem to think there was.”

  Giraut looked away. He wasn’t really in the mood for granting absolutions. “So what do we do now?”

  “I really don’t know,” Phrantzes said. “Suidas doesn’t think the improvised axle will get us back to the City, and we can’t stay here, we’ve got no food, we can’t get into the building. I suppose we could sleep in the stable, but what would that solve? We don’t even know if the authorities are aware this station’s been abandoned, so we can’t rely on them sending anybody to find us. The next station is thirty miles further down the road, on the border of the DMZ. But if this one’s been closed, we can’t rely on the next one being open. And it’s twenty-seven miles back to the City.”

  None of which, Giraut reflected, answered the original question. “Where’s the political officer?”

  Phrantzes frowned. “He went off with the coachman, didn’t say where they were going. I asked him if he knew any reason why the station would be closed, but …” He shrugged. “The thing is,” he said, “they’ve got my wife in a convent. I don’t suppose they’d actually do anything to her, but you really don’t know with these people, they’re capable of anything.”

  Giraut pretended he hadn’t heard any of that. “So you think we should walk back to the City?”

  “I don’t know,” Phrantzes snapped, as though the question was totally unreasonable. “I have no idea why we’re here or what we’re supposed to be doing, or why everything is suddenly my fault. I’m a wool merchant. What do they expect me to do, grow wings and fly them all to Permia?”

  Giraut decided that none of this was helping. “I think I’ll go and look at the coach,” he said, and walked away.

  The stable was just the main blockhouse in miniature, except with no windows and a wooden door. It was open, and Giraut saw a closed padlock dangling from the mangled wreck of a hasp still bolted to the frame. Suidas Deutzel, he guessed, had found something to take his feelings out on. He went inside, and found Suidas forking hay out of the loft.

  “Which suggests they left in a hurry,” Suidas said. “Standard procedure on evacuating a military facility, you remove all materials likely to be of use to an enemy. Which specifically includes animal fodder. Also, there’s a tin plate with a chunk of bread and a bit of cheese on the ledge over there, by the door. Someone didn’t stop to finish his dinner.”

  “Suidas,” Giraut said. “Do you think war has started?”

  Suidas considered his reply. “The thought crossed my mind,” he said. “Especially when I saw the bar in the road. But no, I don’t think so. If they’d declared war, they’d reinforce a strong-point like this, not just abandon it. I mean, two padlocks aren’t going to keep out the Aram Chantat. On the other hand, why the hell lock up a way station and just leave? I’ve thought about it and I can’t imagine why they’d do that.”

  “You don’t think so.”

  That made Suidas angry, though he made an effort to keep his temper. “I’m guessing, I could be wrong. Maybe some lunatic’s started a new war, I don’t know. I’m this close to getting on one of these horses and riding like hell for the City.” That seemed to have exhausted his anger; now he just looked worn out. “What do you think? Do you reckon that’s what’s happened?”

  Giraut shrugged. “I don’t know the first thing about it.” It occurred to him to confess, although he had no idea why. But it seemed important. “I should’ve been in the War,” he said. “I turned fifteen two months before the peace. But my dad knew someone who knew someone, and I got deferred. And then it was all over.”

  Suidas grinned at him. “You weren’t the only one, believe me. You know what? Nobody wanted kids that age. I should know, I was drafted at fifteen. At that age, you’re far more trouble than you’re worth. It screws up the whole platoon. You can’t keep up, you haven’t got a clue, you get on the guys’ nerves. Then someone starts yelling at you, someone else sticks up for you, leave the kid alone, and next thing you’ve got bad feeling, fighting, everything goes to hell. Everyone’s scared stiff that if there’s a scrap you’ll get yourself in trouble and they’ll feel obligated to look out for you, which means someone’ll get killed on your account. It’s bad enough in a fight, God knows, without having to look after some useless kid. The sergeants and the officers knew it, so did the brass. The politicians hated it, because for some reason the voters objected to having their fifteen-year-old children sent to the front. But the nobility insisted, talked about manpower shortages and having to make up their quotas somehow. Then again, all conscripts are basically useless in a war. That was a great advantage the Permians had, using mercenaries. We only got peace because they ran out of money. So,” Suidas said, turning aside to stick his pitchfork into the hay, “don’t beat yourself up about it, all right? It’s no big deal, really. I just wish my dad had known somebody.”

  Giraut nodded; he wished he hadn’t said anything. But he didn’t seem to be in control of what came out of his mouth. “But if there’s a war now, I’ll have to go.”

  Suidas lifted a load of hay on the fork. “In my day, cutting off your little toe was the favourite,” he said. “Of course, they put you on a compulsory labour detail, and you spend the war in a supply depot hauling sacks around. Another good one was criminal blasphemy. You piss on the steps of the altar, that’s five years. They tell me you get a better class of person in prison during a war, because all the hard cases take enlistment parole, so it’s only draft-dodgers and a few old men. And for criminal blasphemy they won’t even consider you for enlistme
nt, because it might bring down the wrath of the Invincible Sun on your unit. I knew a kid who chopped his balls off with a pair of shears. They wouldn’t even take him for compulsory labour, reckoned he was too weird. So no, you don’t have to go. It’s up to you what you think it’s worth. Me, I didn’t argue. Got me out of the house and away from my mother. We didn’t get on.” He leant the fork against the wall and sat down on the edge of the loft floor. “There’s worse things than war,” he said. “If you’re lucky, you’ll be all right.”

  An hour or so after sunrise, the political officer reappeared, though without the coachman; he’d sent him back to the City, he explained, to get another coach. In the meantime, they’d have to stay where they were.

  “But there’s no food,” Iseutz said slowly, as though to an imbecile. “We haven’t had anything to eat since we left home.”

  The political officer pulled a sad face. “Rest assured,” he said, “there’ll be plenty of food when we reach C11.”

  “We’re going on, then.” Addo had spoken. “I thought—”

  “Of course,” the political officer said. “There’s absolutely no reason why we should alter our plans because of this. It’s unfortunate, of course, but I expect we can make up time once the new coach gets here.”

  “Excuse me.” Iseutz took a step forward. She was a head taller than him. “I’d like to know precisely who you are and what you’re doing on this stupid trip. Well?”

  “Certainly,” the political officer said. “My name is Yvo Tzimisces, I’m a facilitator working for the diplomatic service, and I’m here to smooth over any difficulties we may encounter once we get to Permia. That’s all,” he added, with a smile. “Really.”

  “Excuse me.” Addo looked as if talking was hurting him worse than a broken arm. “Are you any relation of Mihel Tzimisces, the Bank director?”

  “My second cousin,” the political officer said. “It’s a large family. Well, I think that’s more or less everything. I suggest we all make ourselves as comfortable as possible until the coach gets here.”

  *

  Giraut went back to the hay loft. It was dry there. He took off his coat – with difficulty; the sodden wool was starting to turn into felt, and it was as stiff as leather – and hung it over a rafter. There was no realistic possibility of it drying out, but he felt obliged to try. He buried himself in the hay, which was dusty and made his eyes itch. He was colder now than when he’d been sitting out in the rain, and he wondered if that was the first sign of a fever.

  After a while, Iseutz came in and sat down on a feed bin. She hadn’t seen him and he didn’t announce his presence. She took a book from her pocket and opened it, found that the pages were soaked through and dropped it on the floor. A little later, Giraut heard a strange noise, which he couldn’t immediately identify. At first he thought it was mice, but realised it was Iseutz, crying.

  That made him all the more determined to avoid detection, so he made himself stay perfectly still. The noise went on for what seemed like a very long time, then gradually died away.

  “I’ve been looking for you.” Suidas’ voice, though Giraut couldn’t see him from where he was lying. He closed his eyes. It made it easier to concentrate on listening, and if they saw him, he could pretend to be asleep.

  “Well?”

  “Our political officer,” Suidas said. “You reckoned there was something odd about him, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate to say this, but I think you may be right.” A short pause; presumably Suidas was finding something to sit down on. “Our political friend’s very well connected, isn’t he?”

  “Is he?”

  “Don’t you know anything about current affairs? Mihel Tzimisces is the chairman of the Bank.”

  Silence. He wished he could see her face.

  “And that’s not all,” Suidas went on. “I don’t suppose you noticed, but he’s got these marks on his neck …”

  “Like little red scars. Three on the left and two on the right.”

  “That’s right.” Suidas’ voice had changed; he was clearly impressed. “I’ve seen marks like that before.”

  His pause was presumably for effect. “Well?” she said impatiently.

  “During the War,” Suidas said. “High-ranking field officers wore these fancy breastplates. All-in-one jobs, not the scale stuff. It was a particularly stupid design. It was so young aristocrats could look like heroes of antiquity; you know, in statues and paintings.”

  “So?”

  “So,” Suidas went on, “the neck opening on this particular pattern was a bit too small, and they tended to chafe. People dealt with it by wearing scarves. That was fine for the staff, who spent most of their lives sitting around in meetings. But in the field, you got unbearably hot, so you dumped the scarf and put up with the chafing. And it left little scars. Yvo Tzimisces was a senior officer on active service; a senior captain, possibly even a major. A fighting officer, not a desk ornament.”

  Another pause; then Iseutz said, “I don’t quite see …”

  “Think about it. The chairman’s cousin, and in the War he was a senior officer. What’s he doing playing nursemaid to a sports team?”

  “He can see in the dark,” Iseutz said. “That’s creepy.”

  “What you mean is,” Suidas replied, “he’s used to night operations. Also his knack of making himself scarce. He’s not political, he’s military, must be. And a pretty unusual sort of military, come to that. The Tzimisces aren’t one of the old army families, they’re not noblemen. You didn’t get to be a major unless you were the right sort of person; not unless you were very good indeed at doing something that needed doing properly. I think we’re in very distinguished company. It’d be nice to know why, though.”

  A longer silence this time. Then Iseutz said, “I think, when the coach gets here, we should insist they take us straight back to the City. If we all say we want to go home, they’ll have to let us go.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “The hell with you.” Her voice rose a little; brittle, and it had sharp edges. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you? You’re having fun. Ever since the stupid wheel came off the stupid cart. What’s wrong with you? You’re treating all this shit like it’s some sort of adventure. Of course they’ll have to let us go. We’re not prisoners.”

  “Actually.” Suidas’ voice was as cold as ice. “Two of us are – that’s Giraut and Phrantzes. The Carnufex boy’s here because Daddy told him he had to, which is much the same thing. I don’t know what they did to you.”

  “Fine. You?”

  “They’re paying me a very large sum of money. Which I need,” he added. “Desperately. All right?”

  Another silence; then Giraut heard a shout, from outside the stable. It was repeated, this time closer: “Suidas Deutzel? Are you in there?” Phrantzes’ voice.

  “Yes. What?”

  “Could you please come out here? Quickly.”

  Giraut gave them a moment, then jumped down from the loft and followed them outside. He found Phrantzes, Addo and Tzimisces.

  “There are twelve men approaching from the north-west,” Tzimisces said. “They aren’t soldiers, but they do have weapons. I would imagine they’re robbers, highwaymen, whatever you like to call them. They’ll know we’re here, because they’ll have seen the coach.”

  Iseutz broke the silence. “So what? We haven’t got anything worth stealing.”

  “I don’t suppose they’ll see it like that,” Tzimisces replied quietly. “Clothes, boots, anything at all. Times are hard in these parts, I’m afraid.”

  “Let them have them,” Phrantzes said. “So long as we cooperate, they have no reason to harm us.”

  “Ah.” Tzimisces shook his head, just a small movement. “That’s not how they do things, I’m afraid. We’re going to have to defend ourselves. Which shouldn’t be a problem,” he added briskly, before anyone could speak. “After all, you’re all trained swordsmen, are
n’t you?”

  “We haven’t got any weapons,” Suidas yelled at him.

  “On the contrary. The crate is in the coach.”

  “They’re foils,” Iseutz snapped. “Bits of wire with a knob on the end. They’re not real.”

  “Better than nothing,” Tzimisces said, and his tone of voice told them the discussion was closed. “I’ll open up the crate. If it’s all right with you, I’ll borrow one for myself.”

  “Go ahead,” Suidas shouted at him. “It won’t do you any good.”

  Tzimisces scuttled to the coach. “It must’ve been them,” Suidas said. “They put the bar there, to block the road.”

  “What’s going to happen?” Giraut asked.

  “Guess.”

  Tzimisces came back with a bundle of sheathed swords under his arm: three rapiers, a longsword and a smallsword. In his hand he carried another, short and wide, with a bare hilt, a pattern Giraut had never seen before. “Here you go,” he said. “I suggest we fall back to the blockhouse. If we fight with our backs to it, they won’t be able to take us in rear.”

  Giraut could see them now, a dozen shapes on the skyline. They appeared to be walking at normal speed, like ordinary people on their way somewhere; it was impossible, surely, that they were coming to do anybody any harm; that that was what death looked like. He watched them grow ever so slightly bigger. Ludicrous, he thought. Perfect strangers don’t just stroll up to you and start killing you. The world simply doesn’t work like that. He felt a nudge on his arm; Tzimisces was holding out a sheathed rapier, and he realised he was supposed to take it. He reached for it, but his fingers wouldn’t close properly, and he dropped it on the ground.

  “What the hell makes you think—” Iseutz said.

  “Go to the blockhouse, please.” Tzimisces’ voice was perfectly calm, and Giraut thought: Suidas is right, he’s a soldier. What the hell is going on here?

  “At least let’s try talking to them,” Phrantzes said.

  “I’m sorry.” Tzimisces put a hand gently on Phrantzes’ sleeve and towed him away, like a kindly child guiding a blind man. “Actually, it’s them I feel sorry for. For pity’s sake, gentlemen,” he added, with just a feather of an edge to his voice, “you’re fencers. There’s absolutely nothing for you to be worried about.”