by K. J. Parker
Tzimisces looked straight at him. “I collect Cerian porcelain,” he said mildly. “Particularly the late Expressionist period.”
“I’ll remember that,” Addo said. “In case I come across any somewhere. I mean, you never know.”
Tzimisces turned to walk away, then paused and looked back. “Did you tell your mother?” he asked. “About the book?”
“Good heavens, no,” Addo replied. “My father, yes, but not my mother. I’m what passes in our family for a peacemaker. Is it expensive, by the way? Cerian pottery, I mean.”
“Porcelain,” Tzimisces said. “And yes, very.”
“That’s all right,” Addo said cheerfully. “Our family’s got plenty of money.”
Giraut, who’d fallen asleep in the coach, was woken by the sound of singing. At first he assumed it must be angels, but when he opened his eyes and looked out of the window, he realised it was a large body of Aram Chantat, riding in close formation around the coach, escorting it into Beaute. He’d never heard anything as beautiful in all his life.
They had to wait for the city gates to be opened. Then they rode through deserted streets, broad and lined with huge, tall buildings made from grey stone. On every intersection of major roads they saw soldiers: Imperials, mostly, but a few Aram Chantat – on foot, they looked like small groups of children playing at soldiers, smiling and laughing and jostling each other. Occasionally they saw bodies lying on the sidewalk, twos and threes, dragged there and laid neatly, face up, side by side. Mostly they were young men, but Giraut particularly noticed an old woman with thin grey hair and a hole in her throat he could’ve stuck his hand into. As they passed under some sort of triumphal arch (but so old and weathered that the bas-relief figures carved into it were just vague shapes with soft, round, featureless faces and no hands or feet), he saw a red banner stretched across it, on which were the words WELCOME SCHERIAN FENCING TEAM.
They climbed a hill and came into a square that was actually a rectangle. The far end was dominated by an enormous building like a castle, with a gate in the middle that was bigger than the city gate they’d just come in by. In through that gate they drove, and found themselves in a vast cobbled courtyard in the middle of the castle. A small group of old men in green velvet robes were waiting for them. There was a table, and a group of musicians in green livery, and some children holding garlands. The coach stopped. “Fencers’ Guild,” Tzimisces explained, as he reached across to open the door. “Best behaviour.”
They had to stand still while the old men made speeches. Giraut tried to listen, but the words were absurd in the context of what he’d just seen – peace and understanding between our two great nations, going forward together in a spirit of brotherhood and trust. Four of them said more or less the same thing. The fifth, gazing at a point in the air about eight inches over the top of Addo’s head, talked about the need for reconciliation and the moral beauty of forgiving our enemies, even though they’d done the most abominable things imaginable. The children then presented them with the garlands – the leaves prickled against Giraut’s neck and made him itch all over – and the musicians played something very long and slow, while the old men held perfectly still. Giraut never did find out what the table was for.
Predictably, Tzimisces somehow contrived to disappear at some point in the ceremony. Iseutz said later that she’d been watching him like a hawk all through the performance, but one moment he was there, the next he wasn’t, and how anybody could’ve got across that huge yard in a fraction of a second without using some form of magic she couldn’t begin to imagine. “And there’s strict laws against witchcraft in Permia,” she added, “I remember reading about them, and they’re still in force. Maybe we could get him arrested and burnt at the stake.”
A long, thin old man with a head like a skull showed them silently to their rooms, which were at the very top of one of the towers that flanked the gate. His room reminded Giraut of the cell he’d woken up in, after he’d killed the Senator, except that the window was smaller and higher up the wall, and the bed wasn’t quite as comfortable. Leaning up against the wall, he found a long, narrow rosewood box, with silver catch and hinges. Inside it was the most beautiful rapier he’d ever seen: cup rather than swept hilt, with a fluted ivory grip and a ball pommel the size of a crab apple. It seemed to float in his hand, barely making contact with his skin, and the point appeared to pull him, like an excited dog on a lead. He looked all over it for a maker’s mark but couldn’t find one. He put it back in its box and prayed to the Invincible Sun that his opponent wouldn’t have one like it.
That evening, there was a reception in one of the side rooms off the main hall. Iseutz, who’d never felt less like meeting new people in her life, set off in search of the food, which she eventually found, spread out on a table the size of a cornfield, in the corner furthest from the door. There she found Addo, looking sad and chewing his way through a mouthful of pickled cabbage.
“I can only conclude they like the stuff,” he said. “There’s no other possible explanation.”
There were seven – seven – different varieties of pickled cabbage, served in beautiful silver bowls engraved with the arms of past masters of the Guild. There was also a stack of brittle-looking bread rolls, and a yard-across wheel of cheese, armoured in snow-white plaster. “It’s all right,” Addo said quietly, as Iseutz stood wordlessly staring. “I had a word with Captain Cuniva, and he’s sending us up something from the guardhouse later. Apparently they’re having lamb in a sort of mustard and pepper sauce.”
Iseutz nodded gratefully. “Like the old fart said,” she muttered. “Reconciliation and the moral beauty of forgiving our enemies. I’d forgive a lot for a plate of roast lamb.”
“However,” Addo said, “it’d be indescribably rude if we didn’t eat something now.” He took a plate and dumped pickled cabbage on it out of a silver-gilt ladle in the shape of a preening swan. “Pretend to chew it, then swallow it whole. That way, you barely taste it.”
“What about the bread rolls?”
“I wouldn’t,” Addo said gravely. “I dropped one on the floor just now. It shattered. You could cut your tongue to ribbons on something like that.”
She gave him a mournful look, took the plate, separated two strands of sand-coloured cabbage from the general mass, and put them in her mouth. Addo nodded approvingly. “According to Phrantzes,” he said, “the fight’ll be in the main hall, tomorrow evening. Three thousand in the audience, and they’ll leave the big casement window open so someone can describe the action to the crowd in the courtyard. As far as I can gather, they’re expecting practically the whole city to show up.”
“Fine,” Iseutz said. “So far, I think I’ve seen about four people, apart from soldiers. Do you think anybody lives here?”
“Curfew.” Tzimisces had appeared out of nowhere, a few inches from Iseutz’s elbow. She jumped and nearly dropped her plate. “Nobody’s allowed on the streets before dawn or after noon. They’re lifting it tomorrow, so people can come and see the match. In the meantime, anybody caught out of doors faces having to explain themselves to the soldiers. It appears to be working,” he went on, “there’s been no trouble since they imposed it. They’re hoping the worst is over now.”
“So who are all these people?” Addo asked.
“Half of them are Fencers’ Guild, so they live here. The rest have got passes – local worthies, town councillors, nobody particularly special. The really important people, government ministers, mine owners, that sort of thing, won’t get here till tomorrow.” He took a plate and piled it with pickled cabbage. “Have either of you seen Suidas Deutzel since we got here?”
“Yes.” Iseutz frowned. “I think so. Actually, I’m not sure. I thought I saw him talking to some old man in a blue gown over by the door when I came in, but—”
“I haven’t seen him,” Addo interrupted. “Why, is there a problem?”
“With Deutzel? Yes, usually. Tell me,” he went on, lowering his voice, �
�have either of you seen him take a drink since we came on this jaunt? You know, wine, spirits, anything like that.”
Addo thought for a moment, then looked at Iseutz, who shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Nor me,” Tzimisces said. “That’s why I’m worried about him.”
“Because he’s not …?”
“Yes.” Tzimisces put down his plate. “We had a long talk with his girl, once we’d recruited him. Very interesting woman, quite intelligent. Anyhow, she said he did two kinds of drinking. One was basically just to take the edge off things, and she’d more or less cured him of it. The other was when something really got to him, or brought back a certain sort of memory. When that came on, she always made sure there was a bottle in the house. Lesser of two evils, you might say. Really, I can’t see how on earth she puts up with him.” He moved away; they could see him aiming himself at the door, like an arrow. Then he turned back and said, “If you do see him, you’ll let me know, won’t you?”
Subtle had been Suidas’ reaction when they showed him to his room, really subtle. He had no doubt whatsoever that Tzimisces had seen to it that his accommodation was ninety feet up in the air, accessible only by way of a winding single-track staircase, easily guarded by one sentry. It was just as well, he decided, that he relished a challenge, and was fairly buzzing with energy that needed to be got rid of.
He’d lost weight since he’d been with the fencing team, and that was fortunate, too. Three weeks ago he wouldn’t have been able to squeeze through the narrow window without losing a significant amount of skin.
Once outside, hanging on to the slightest of crevices with his fingertips as he balanced on the knife-edge sill, he considered his options and decided to go up. If he remembered right, from the quick glance that had been all he’d had time for, there was a square turret at the top of the tower. It could quite easily be ornamental, with no way down except the way he’d just come, or it might be functional, with access to the battlement (which might or might not have a catwalk leading to the opposite tower). He’d just have to find out when he got there. To make things more interesting, it was raining.
Suidas Deutzel hated climbing. Unfortunately, he was quite good at it, which meant it was a viable option when he needed to plan a course of action. He groped upwards, feeling for the grooves between the stone blocks. On old buildings like this, water gathered in the pointing and ate it away, just deep enough to hook a fingertip into. My hands’ll be useless tomorrow, he thought. Pity.
When he was just over halfway to the top, he came to a place where there were no handholds. He reached up as far as he could stretch and drew his fingers down lightly over the stone, but he could make out nothing but smooth, unbroken granite. At the same time, he could feel his feet beginning to slide out of the crack he was resting them in. No wonder: he was supporting his entire weight on the welted seam of the toes of his boots, where the sole was sewn to the upper. At that moment, it occurred to him that he could die because of that. It hadn’t crossed his mind before, but now he came to think of it, death was a perfectly plausible outcome. After all, there was no earthly reason why there should be convenient handholds on every wall in the world. There was no chance he’d be able to go down, with nothing to hold on to while he found his footings. Any moment now, his balance would fail, and that would be the end of it.
He was astonished at how calm he found he was. Fear of death had always energised him, making him move far more quickly than his body should have been capable of, accelerating his reactions and his thought process to a quite incredible level. This time, though, he only thought, Oh, and realised that he didn’t really care all that much. He could feel his responsibilities, the love of others towards him, the unfulfilled possibilities; they were like a child’s hand trying to pull him up, doing its best but simply not strong enough for the job. Above all, there was no blame. I tried to climb a wall, but I couldn’t, and there it is.
Then his left index fingertip lodged in a groove, and the other fingers found it, and he clenched his hand – he could feel the damage to the overstrained tendons, but no pain – and a strength that was nothing to do with him hauled him up, so that he was able to lift his knee and paw at the wall for a foothold, which he found; and not long after that he was lying on his stomach on the top of the battlement, shifting his weight to topple him forward on to the wet stone slabs of the turret floor. He lay in a heap for a moment, wondering, What was all that about? but he couldn’t make sense of it. He’d been closer to death than at any time since the War, and now he was safe, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what had happened in between.
Not to worry; he was here now, the place he’d expended so much energy and suffered so much damage to achieve. For a brief, panic-stricken moment he couldn’t remember why he’d wanted to get there; then he remembered. From the turret, maybe he could get on to the battlement, into the opposite turret, and down an unguarded staircase into the world.
Not quite that simple. The turret, as he’d feared, proved to be entirely ornamental; there was no trapdoor and no access to the battlement, just a leaded roof on a slight slope, surrounded by fatuous crenellations. He looked down at the stretch of battlement linking this turret with its neighbour; directly under it was the gate, and set above the gate, he suddenly remembered, was a clock. And the truth about clocks, he thought happily, is that they have to be wound; and since only fools and desperate men go in for unnecessary athletics, there was bound to be an easy way up to the clock, on the inner side of the wall. It was far too dark to see it from where he was, and maybe he was wrong, and the lay brothers of the Guild wound the stupid thing once a week using a very long ladder, but what the hell. If millions of people across the West could believe that the sun was a god, there was absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t believe in the existence of a clock-winder’s staircase. Faith, he told himself. Confident hope of a miracle.
There was no way he’d be able to climb down the side of the turret, but it wasn’t that much of a drop. The trick would be landing on a relatively narrow wall that he couldn’t actually see very clearly (and slippery, because of the rain). He grinned. A sane man would stay where he was, and as soon as the sun rose and people started moving about down below, would start yelling for help. Then men would come with ladders and get him down, by which time he’d have had a chance to think up some kind of story to account for how he’d got there. That’s what a sane man would do, oh yes. He wouldn’t scramble up on to the battlement, take his best guess and voluntarily jump …
For God’s sake, Suidas, his few remaining friends had been known to say to him, why do you insist on wearing those big clumping army boots? They make you look like a farmer. Because, he’d never replied, my feet are used to them, when I’m wearing them I know exactly what I can and can’t get away with; so, if at any point I’m called on to climb a sheer face or jump ten feet off a tower on to a narrow wall, say, I’ll have the best possible chance. As it happened, he landed just right, his knees folding up to absorb the shock of landing, leaving him squatting on top of the wall like a cat on a fence. He was amazed, and wonderfully relieved.
And because he’d had faith, there was a platform sticking out of the wall directly behind the clock, with a roof, with guttering; he hopped off the wall, slid down the roof, grabbed the guttering and swung himself on to the platform, as if it was a form he’d practised a hundred times in the salle d’armes. And there was a narrow staircase, with a handrail. Faith, you see. For two pins he’d have bowed three times to the Invincible Sun, except that it was well after sunset.
He scampered down the stairs with his hands in his pockets. He felt absurdly cheerful, as if he’d been proved right about something that mattered. On the far side of the courtyard, he could see yellow squares of light; the reception, of course. He smiled. Right now, he thought, I could murder a stiff drink. But I don’t do that any more, he quickly reassured himself. He brushed the dust and grime off his knees and sleeves,
instinctively felt for the hilt of his messer and remembered, no, I left it behind, on purpose; then he walked across the yard and walked up the steps that led to the great hall.
There was a guard on the door. “It’s all right,” Suidas said, “I’m one of the fencers.”
The guard looked at him. “Well, you would be. Fencers’ Guild. Invitation.”
“I haven’t got one.”
“Then you can’t go in.”
Suidas sighed. “They’re expecting me. I’m one of the guests. The Scherian fencing team.”
“Is that right.” The guard seemed very interested in the backs of his hands, which were bloody and raw. He couldn’t remember damaging them, but he’d had other preoccupations.
“Look,” Suidas said. “Get Phrantzes, or Tzimisces. They’ll vouch for me. I’ll wait here, all right?”
“Who?”
“Fine. Why don’t I talk to your superior officer?”
That, it turned out, could be arranged, but it took a certain amount of time, which Suidas spent locked in a charcoal cellar. Then, eventually, the door opened and Phrantzes stood in the doorway staring at him. “Where have you been? We’ve been so worried.”