by K. J. Parker
Suidas grinned. “I must’ve taken a wrong turning somewhere. I got lost. I’ve been wandering around this place for hours.”
“What happened to your hands?”
“Slipped and fell over in the dark, would you believe. Look, can you please tell them who I am and get me out of here? It’s filthy dirty, and I don’t have a change of clothes.”
Halfway across the yard, flanked by soldiers with halberds, Phrantzes said, “And you’re sopping wet.”
“It’s raining.”
“So what were you doing out of doors?”
“I told you, I got lost. This place is the size of a small town.”
Phrantzes gave him a sad look. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.
Suidas laughed. “No, of course not. Smell my breath if you want.”
“No, that’s fine, I believe you.” Phrantzes stopped dead. “Suidas, you haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”
“More times than you could possibly imagine.” Suidas grinned. “But not recently. At least, I don’t think so. Why? What am I supposed to have done?”
“We’ve been looking for you. You didn’t come down to the reception with the others.”
“That’s it? That’s my crime against humanity?” Suidas started to walk towards the steps. “Pull yourself together, will you? A man can go for a walk if he likes, even in bloody Permia.”
For as long as he could remember, Giraut had been trapped in a corner, talking to a tall, bald man and his spherical wife about gardening. He knew nothing at all about gardening and cared less, and he wasn’t entirely sure who these people were; they’d told him, but his mind had shed practically everything they’d said to him, the way a sheep’s fleece sheds rainwater. He had an idea they were something vaguely important, so he couldn’t just say, “Excuse me,” and walk away. He wished very much that he’d paid a little more attention when his cousin from the country had bored him half to death talking about roses; but he hadn’t, and it was far too late now.
Then, like the Invincible Sun bursting through clouds, Tzimisces appeared and grabbed him by the elbow. “Giraut,” he said, “there’s someone I want you to meet. Minister, you’ll excuse us, I’m sure.”
As simple as that: the siege was relieved. “Who was that?” Giraut whispered, as Tzimisces towed him across the room.
“Didn’t he say? That was Minister Balouche. You’ve been talking to the fourth most important man in Permia. Minister of Production. Why, what did he tell you?”
“A lot of stuff about ericaceous compost,” Giraut replied. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t taking notes or anything.”
Tzimisces laughed. “Come over here and look pretty for the war minister’s wife,” he said. “She likes beautiful young men half her age, and you’re the closest thing we’ve got. And I gather you’re good at chatting up inappropriate women.”
Giraut reckoned he deserved that. “I thought the government people weren’t arriving till tomorrow.”
“Change of plan. We got fed the official misinformation, same as everyone else. That’s her, the woman over there who looks like a hawk.” He gave Giraut a shove that nearly toppled him off his feet. “For Scheria,” he said, and disappeared.
The woman turned on him and smiled, showing all her teeth. “Who are you?” she said.
Giraut told her. “I’m not really interested in fencing,” she said. “Tell me, which one’s the Carnufex boy? I’d quite like to meet him.”
Giraut looked round, and caught sight of the back of Addo’s head. “I’ll introduce you,” he said.
The short, elderly man Addo was talking to proved to be the woman’s husband. Giraut made good his escape, quickly looked round to see if he was being pursued, then fell back in good order on the table with the food on it. There he found Iseutz, radiating a barrier of unfriendliness he could feel from five yards away. She relaxed it just long enough for him to approach.
“Have you seen Suidas?” she said.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “He came in with Phrantzes, just a moment ago. Why?”
“They’ve been looking for him. I don’t know why.”
“Well, they found him.” Giraut looked at the food and realised he wasn’t hungry. “I noticed his hands,” he said, “they were a real mess. Like he’d been fighting or something.”
Iseutz’s eyes opened wide. “Do you think he tried to make a run for it?”
Giraut shrugged. “No idea. I wouldn’t have thought so. I mean, this place must be harder to get out of than a prison. If he wanted to run away, he’s had plenty of better chances.”
She took a bread roll off the plate, picked at it and put it back. “You know earlier, in the coach. That stupid book Addo was reading.”
“The military commentary.”
“Did you happen to notice how nervous Phrantzes was acting? Something was really bothering him.”
Giraut wasn’t sure what to say. “I thought I was just imagining it.”
“So you saw it too.”
“And I think, on balance, I was right. Probably he was just fed up from sitting still for so long.”
“No.” Her eyes were shining. “I saw it too. He was definitely worried about something.”
Giraut let out a rather overdone sigh. “Do you spend your whole time watching the rest of us? I wouldn’t have thought we were that interesting.”
“You’re useless,” she snapped, so fiercely that he took a step backwards. “We’ve been dragged here and dumped in the middle of some stupid, horrible thing, and you’re just letting it happen to you. I can’t understand how anyone could think like that. For God’s sake, Giraut, there’s dead bodies lying about in the streets. Don’t you take anything seriously?”
“All right, there’s dead bodies,” Giraut replied, before he could stop himself. “But that’s their problem, not ours. We aren’t responsible, and there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s not our country. And …”
He’d stopped just in time. Well, maybe not. She gave him a cold stare. “And what?”
Well, if he didn’t say it, she’d say it for him. “And they’re the enemy. If they want to slaughter each other, let them.” He waited for a moment, but she didn’t say anything. “So? You can’t pretend the War never happened. And if they’re killing each other, they’re not killing us.”
Iseutz turned away, and Giraut got the distinct feeling that he didn’t exist. He felt profoundly tired, as though he’d been carrying a heavy weight all day and nobody seemed prepared to take it from him. “Look,” he said to the back of Iseutz’s head, “I don’t hate the Permians. They’re weird, and how they can eat what they cook I’ll never know, but they’re just people. But their politics is nothing to do with me. I don’t want to be here and I don’t want to get involved. I’d have thought you could understand that.”
She turned round so fast she nearly crashed into him. “Giraut, you clown,” she said, “don’t you get it? Something is going on, and we’re right in the middle of it. Tzimisces always disappearing. That man getting murdered. Everywhere we go, there’s trouble. It’s something to do with the War, and people wanting another one, and they’re using us. A fencing tour, for crying out loud; we were supposed to be here making things better, and now there’s dead people in the streets and soldiers everywhere, and I don’t understand …”
He sighed. “You’re imagining things,” he said. “You’re wound up and stressed out because of – well, just being here’s enough, and then we discover we’re fighting with real swords, which is downright barbaric, and then the riots and all this stuff. But I don’t think there’s anything dreadful and sinister going on in the shadows. It’s just a mess, that’s all.”
“You’re wrong,” she said. “You know that. It’s just a pity you’re such a coward you won’t admit it.”
He knew he ought to feel angry, but there wasn’t the faintest trace of anger or resentment in his mind; it was a luxury he knew he couldn’t afford. “I’m sorry you thin
k that,” he said. “And I hope you’re wrong.” He might as well have been talking to the wall. He turned away, and wondered how long it would be before they’d be allowed to leave. He looked round for someone to talk to. Suidas was in the centre of a ring of Permians; he was grinning and laughing, and they seemed delighted with him – fencing fans, presumably, thrilled to meet the Scherian champion. Phrantzes had been pinned in a corner by Minister Urosh and his wife (maybe he knew about gardening), and he couldn’t see Addo anywhere. While his attention was thus occupied, a short, square Permian with long grey hair in a ponytail materialised in front of him and accused him of being Giraut Bryennius.
“Yes, that’s me,” he said.
“You’re fencing rapier.”
“That’s right.”
The Permian nodded. “Why? Isn’t Suidas Deutzel your national rapier champion?”
Oh for crying out loud. “Yes, that’s right,” Giraut said, “but we needed Suidas to fight messer, so—”
“But he’s fighting longsword. Adulescentulus Carnufex is fighting messer.”
“Well, they swapped. Anyhow, Suidas can’t do longsword and rapier, so they got me instead.”
Clearly his answers were unsatisfactory. “I’ve been following the Scherian League for some time,” the Permian said, “and I don’t know you. Why didn’t they get Gace Erchomai-Bringas to fight rapier? He was the silver medallist in this year’s Trophy.”
“I guess he couldn’t make it,” Giraut said wearily. “But I was available, so …”
“Have you ever fenced professionally? Your name doesn’t appear in the Scherian Guild lists.”
“Not as such, no. I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”
“Tuchoman. Secretary of State for Culture and Religious Affairs.” Oh, Giraut thought. “Why is Carnufex fencing messer if Deutzel was selected? I don’t understand.”
“Well.” Giraut opened his mind in the hope of snagging a stray speck of inspiration. “Addo’s never tried messer before, but in practice we found he was so good at it—”
“He didn’t put up a very convincing performance at Joiauz.”
“He was nervous. Anyway, he’s been practising. You’re in for a treat tomorrow, I can promise you that.”
Minister Tuchoman looked dubious. “I hope so,” he said. “You’ll find the people here are a very discerning audience. I notice you tend towards the Vesani school.”
Do I? And what in hell is the Vesani school? “A bit, I guess. Mostly, though, I just make it up as I go along.”
He’d said the wrong thing. “I can’t accept that,” the minister said. “I read the transcript of your bout at Joiauz. You combined elements from four distinct Classical schools of fencing. It’s the main reason why I’ve come here to see you.”
Transcripts? “You came all this way just to see me?”
“To see post-orthodox Vesani straight-time techniques in action, yes. I’ve read about them all my life, but never actually seen them.” A severe look. “I do hope you won’t disappoint me.”
With that, the minister made a perfunctory excuse and stalked away, leaving Giraut mumbling post-orthodox Vesani straight-time under his breath, so he could look it up in Addo’s book. He hoped very much that it translated as keeping out of the way and not getting killed, because that was what he proposed to do, and the hell with the expectations of his audience.
“You know, they aren’t such bad people after all.” Suidas came up from behind him. He was holding a glass: clear water. “I’ve just been talking to a man who organises commercial tournaments, down in the south somewhere. Guess how much he offered me for five bouts, rapier, with foils.”
Giraut moved away a little. “No idea.”
“Five thousand nomismata. A thousand a bout, for rapier. And, guess what, he’s got no problem with foils, none whatsoever. Apparently it’s only the Guild that insists on using sharps, and they only control about a third of the fencing in this country. The punters don’t mind, it’s just a bunch of lunatic purists. There’s good money to be made here. And that’s not counting exhibition matches, private coaching, political endorsements …”
“Political …?”
“Oh, it’s big business here. They pay you a heap of money and you say how much you admire some politician. Five hundred nomismata, they reckon I could get, being Scherian champion and all. More, if I put on a good show in the last two matches of the tour. I must say, it throws quite a different light on it all. Eighteen months here and I’d be set up for life, I could retire, set up a fashionable salle, spend the rest of my life coaching the likes of – well, you, I suppose – and never have to fight anyone for real ever again. One of those men I was talking to, little shrivelled chap, he said that for five per cent he could set me up solid, and no sharps whatsoever.” He stopped, and frowned. “God, I hope there isn’t going to be another war. That’d screw everything up.”
Giraut stared at him. “You’re seriously thinking of staying in Permia?”
“You don’t understand.” Suidas’ voice was suddenly hard and quiet. “Sorry, Giraut, but you simply haven’t got a clue. Money’s never been a problem for you, has it? Always been there, you never give it a thought. It’s different if you haven’t got any, believe me. Well, I’m sick to death of being poor. It’s a drag and it drains you till you can’t think about anything else, and if I can get rid of it just by doing eighteen months in this shithole – frankly, I don’t have a choice.”
“But I thought you were—” Giraut cut the words off, but Suidas understood all right.
“Getting paid for being on this tour, yes. Twenty-five thousand. That’s a lot of money, but it’s not enough. Sontha …” He stopped, and frowned, as though trying to remember something. “It’s not enough,” he said. “It’s enough to last me five years, and then where’ll I be? I need double that, for the salle, to be safe. Otherwise it’ll just make things worse, in the long run. No, this is the place. God bless Permia, I say. Wonderful country, beautiful people, and let’s just pray there isn’t going to be a war.” He took a deep breath, which came out as a kind of a laugh. “I never did hold with war,” he said. “Bloody stupid way to deal with a problem, always makes things worse, and people … Anyway.” He looked round, reached out and grabbed a decanter of wine off a nearby table. “I think this calls for a drink, don’t you?”
“Suidas …”
“Oh, screw you.” He hesitated, then put the decanter back. “I’ll give it some serious thought, anyway,” he said. “I mean, what’s eighteen months? You get longer than that for stealing apples.”
Finally, just when he’d given up hope, the reception came to an end. It thawed gradually, like a harsh winter, as the important people withdrew, leaving the lesser mortals to talk excitedly to each other about who they’d just met; at which point Giraut realised that for the purposes of diplomatic protocol he counted as an important person and was free to go. He headed for the door, where a pair of Imperials in gilded lamellar armour fell in beside him. The position they took up – dead level, about six inches behind his shoulders – brought back old memories.
“Am I under arrest?” he asked.
“Escort, sir. For your own safety.”
It was mildly unnerving to be told you were being protected when you hadn’t realised you were in danger, but he’d been in Permia long enough not to let that sort of thing prey on his mind. Feeling no more than mildly self-conscious, he allowed himself to be protected across the yard and up the narrow spiral staircase, where one guard went in front and the other brought up the rear – the true danger, he couldn’t help feeling, was treading or being trodden on by his protectors and tumbling down the lethal staircase to his death. They opened his door for him and stood back to let him go in. After the door had closed, he listened hard. He didn’t hear a key turn in a lock, but he didn’t hear footsteps clattering away down the stairs, either.
(Well, he thought, here we are again: trapped at the top of a tower, with the wat
ch only the thickness of a door away, and still stubbornly alive. He wondered whether his life chose to assume such obvious patterns as a way of making a point, or whether these were simply the shapes it was predisposed to adopt, the way a rope naturally falls in loops if you throw it.)
He couldn’t be bothered to undress, so he lay on his back on the bed (which would’ve made a smith a good anvil), closed his eyes and demanded to be sent to sleep. Sleep, of course, resolutely refused to happen. Instead, his mind picked over a wide range of issues, like a crow on an old carcass. He considered the death of two statesmen (one Scherian, one Permian), the unanticipated abandonment of a strategic way station on the Great East Road, Tzimisces’ ability to vanish into thin air, Addo’s loss of a borrowed book and the backs of Suidas’ hands. He drew a number of conclusions, but none of them made him feel better. Nevertheless, he resolved to try and make some sort of sense of them, and in doing so he fell asleep.
He was woken by yelling: an angry man with a loud voice shouting orders. He sat up, noticing that the lamp that had been burning when he came in had now gone out, and tried to make out words in the furious voices. Then his door opened. Light burst in like floodwater. Against it he could make out the silhouette of an Imperial helmet.
“What’s going on?” he mumbled.
“Sorry, sir. Nothing to worry about. Just checking you’re all right.” A different guard. “I’m fine. What’s all the noise?”
“Nothing to worry about,” the guard repeated. “You get some rest, sir, big day tomorrow.” The door closed, the light went out, and for a count of ten there was silence. Then someone else started shouting, from a slightly different direction, and he could hear running on the stairs.
The next door Lieutenant Teudel opened was that of Suidas Deutzel. He’d been told to keep his eye on that one, but found him sitting in a chair writing a letter, resting on a book balanced on his knee.
“What the hell’s going on?” Deutzel asked.
“Routine check, sir,” Teudel replied. “Just making sure you’re all right.”