Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  He stopped, as if he’d completely run out of words. Iseutz studied him for a moment, then said, “Does he know?”

  “That it was me who put him in the way of those Permians? No, of course not. If he knew, I’d be dead. But Carnufex knew, of course – he forgave me, because he won the battle, he thought it was a huge joke. Tzimisces knows, I’m sure of it. Presumably that’s why I was chosen for this job. If I put a foot wrong, if I don’t do exactly what they want, he’ll turn me over to Suidas, and that …” He stopped. “So you can see why I was terrified when Cuniva gave Addo the book.”

  Iseutz nodded. “So you stole it.”

  “God, no. I tried, but you can’t just creep up unawares on Addo Carnufex. No, for some reason he got rid of the book and told Cuniva he’d lost it.” He shook his head. “I’m hoping and praying it was compassion, but he’s Carnufex’s son, I can’t believe …” He lifted his head and smiled. “So now you know. They used my wife to get me here, cooped up in a coach with Suidas Deutzel, and now I’m here, they’ve got me so I daren’t disobey them. And Suidas is slowly going to pieces, which they must’ve known would happen, and when he finally snaps there’ll be hell to pay, and I’m guessing the reason I’m here is to carry the can, because I’m supposed to be in charge of the team. It’ll be my fault. Which it is, of course. That’s the truly horrible thing. I look at Suidas and I know it was me that put him through all that. He’s my fault, there’s no getting away from it. It’s justice.”

  Above all, Iseutz realised, she was embarrassed. A respectable middle-aged man suddenly disintegrating into a wreck no more than a yard away from her was horribly unnerving, the sort of thing that shouldn’t be allowed, grossly and intolerably intimate. She wanted to make some excuse and get rid of him, push him out into the corridor so he could self-destruct in dignified privacy and spare her the misery of watching him. But that didn’t seem to be an option. She took a deep breath, choked down the disgust and contempt, lowered her voice and squeezed out a drop of compassion. “He’s not going to find out,” she said. “Tzimisces won’t tell him. It’d ruin the mission. His job’s to make sure it all goes well. It’s just a bluff, to scare you.”

  Phrantzes laughed, a horrible grating noise. “I don’t think so. I don’t think this thing’s about peace and reconciliation. I think we’re here to start another war.”

  “That’s silly,” she said. “How could we …?”

  “By getting killed,” Phrantzes said. “Or else Suidas will go berserk and start slaughtering people. You know what he did during the riot, he was out of control. He got a messer in his hand and he started cutting people to pieces, just because they were there. For pity’s sake, you stupid girl, can’t you see it for yourself? It was a ridiculous idea from the very start, sending a sports team to Permia. It was never going to achieve anything. They must’ve known how bad the situation is here. And they deliberately sent a high-profile diplomatic mission right into the heart of Permian territory. They want a war.”

  Iseutz forced herself to smile. “So who’s this they?”

  “The military aristocracy,” Phrantzes answered immediately. “Carnufex, that lot. They hate the Bank, but the people love it and hate them. But if there’s a war, the Bank will have failed. It can’t wage war, it wouldn’t know how. They’d have to bring back the military. They know the Permians are weak, on the point of tearing themselves apart with a civil war, it’s the perfect opportunity. Carnufex’s people only lost power because they ran out of money, but if they can win a quick victory, annex the DMZ, do a deal with the disaffected mine owners, then there’ll be plenty of money from the mineral deposits; they can sell the rights, restore their lost fortunes, they’ll be back in power for the next thousand years. What I can’t understand is why nobody else can see it, it’s so painfully obvious.” He turned to her and gave her a death’s-head grin. “And if you want proof, ask yourself: why else would they have chosen me? I’m useless, I can’t do this. They wanted me because they knew I’d screw up and I’m eminently expendable. Well? Can’t you see I’m right?”

  She looked at him, making herself stay calm and strong. It was like holding a door shut when someone was desperately pushing from the other side. “You’re an idiot,” she said. “You’re overlooking something really important. And it’s so obvious.”

  “Really? Please, enlighten me.”

  “Addo Carnufex,” she said gently. “If we’ve been sent here to die, or even if there’s a serious risk we might get killed, do you really think the Irrigator would’ve allowed his own precious son to be on the team? Well?” she added, imitating his tone of voice as cruelly as she could. “Do you? Really?”

  She could see him struggling with the thought, as if he was trying to wrestle it to the ground. “I don’t know,” he said. “He’s a ruthless man. And the loss of his own son – he’d be capable of it, for the sympathy.”

  “Bullshit,” Iseutz said. “And you know it. Come on, Phrantzes, use your common sense. General Carnufex is a great strategist, and you know why? He doesn’t waste resources. He doesn’t throw away men’s lives on half-chances and gestures, he conserves his forces, he does exactly what’s needed, no more and no less. And a man like that, a family like that, sons are a valuable resource. You need them, for jobs where you can’t trust anyone else. You need them for marriage alliances. You don’t just throw them away when you can get the job done by other means.” She paused. To let the argument seep through. “What you’re saying is ridiculous, it’s melodrama. No, one thing’s for sure. If Addo’s on this jaunt, it’s because his father thought it’d be safe. And if that’s true, your whole theory comes crashing to the ground. Doesn’t it?”

  “All right.” He rounded on her: hurt, angry. “So why’d they choose me? I’ve done nothing, all the time we’ve been here. I just sit in a coach and get in the way. They don’t need me. Tzimisces—”

  “Is a military intelligence officer posing as a diplomat,” Iseutz cut him off, “a spy, you know that. You’re here as a figurehead, that’s all. Ex-fencing champion, and a capable administrator; that’s why they chose you, not because they’re plotting to feed you to the lions. The Suidas thing’s just to keep you in line. And probably because Tzimisces likes torturing people, when it doesn’t interfere with business. He’s that sort of man, you can tell just by looking at him.”

  He turned away, and suddenly she thought about the old children’s story, where the stupid girl opens the box that God gave her, and all the evils of the world fly out, except Hope, which stays at the bottom; and she wondered what Hope was doing in there in the first place, in with all the bad things. Then the answer came to her, and she wondered how she could’ve been so stupid. Hope was in there because it was evil too, probably the worst of them all, so heavy with malice and pain that it couldn’t drag itself out of the opened box. “Think about it,” she said. “You’ve been scaring yourself to death for nothing, I promise you.”

  “I’m sorry.” He spoke the words as though they had jagged edges, slashing his tongue as he said them. “I guess I haven’t been thinking clearly. Of course the general wouldn’t let any harm come to Addo. They say he’s the only one of his sons he really cares about. And if Addo’s supposed to be safe, then I guess we all are.”

  “And they had to choose Suidas,” Iseutz said. “He’s the Scherian champion, the only one of us the Permians are likely to have heard of. Obviously they’d send him. And they knew they could get him to join, because he’s so desperate for money.”

  Phrantzes nodded gratefully. “Did you know he did an exhibition match at my wedding? It was meant to be a surprise, my business partner arranged it all. They thought I’d be pleased. If I’d known then who I’d got in my house, I’d have—”

  “When did you realise? That it was him, I mean.”

  “When we were in the coach, before we reached the border. He asked me what I’d done in the War. And after that, having to sit next to him in that bloody coach, day after day …”
>
  “There’s absolutely no reason for him ever to find out,” Iseutz said. “Trust me, it’s not going to happen.”

  “Addo—”

  “Addo got rid of the book because he’s a decent human being.” Had she really said that? Yes, apparently; in which case, presumably, she believed it was true. She was surprised, but on the whole not displeased. “What possible benefit would it be to him to do something that’d cause all manner of trouble and ruin at least two lives? It’s lucky he was smart enough to see the danger and take the necessary action, but I don’t see how he could’ve done anything else. It’s what I’d have done.”

  He stood up, nodded to her and walked to the door. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with my problems. I was being stupid, and I lost my sense of perspective.”

  “Yes,” she said. “But it’s all right. Now why don’t you go away and make that Captain Cuniva find out exactly what’s going on, and when we can get out of here. If I have to stay in this revolting little room much longer, I’ll go mad.”

  Cuniva eventually escaped from Phrantzes long enough to get down to the gatehouse, where they told him what they knew. There had been messengers: rioting right across the city, but the Aram Chantat had stayed loyal and done a good job. Heavy casualties, yes, omelettes and eggs. By morning it ought to be possible to withdraw the Aram Chantat and replace them with Imperials, maybe even possibly the Permian local militia, but the city prefect wasn’t going to take any chances. If it looked like there was any danger of the riots breaking out again, he’d keep the Aram Chantat on the street, and never mind the body count. Meanwhile, they were doing everything they could to get the surviving ministers out of the Guild house, just as soon as they could be sure the surrounding streets were secure. The surviving ministers? Dear God, didn’t you know?

  “Here,” Cuniva repeated. “In the Guild house, both of them. Their throats were cut while they were getting changed after the reception. Well, everybody thought they’d be safe in here. After all, the place was locked right down. Nobody came in or out without being checked.”

  It took a long time for it to sink in. “They were killed by someone …”

  “Inside the building, yes.” Cuniva was trying to stay patient. It was a mark of great respect, and entirely undeserved. Phrantzes stared at him, opened his mouth and closed it again. “Which means, as far as we know, whoever did it’s still in the building, because nobody’s left. We’ve been round checking off names. We had a complete list of who was on the premises before the gates were closed, and they’re all still here. So the killer …”

  “My God,” Phrantzes said. “That’s appalling. You’ve got to—”

  “We’ve done everything we can,” Cuniva said (and his calm voice was starting to get brittle; work-hardened, like an over-flexed spring). “We made sure everybody was confined to quarters, with guards on the doors. Lucky for you, your people are all in the north tower, it’s airtight, nobody can get in or out without passing at least three guard positions. The government people are in the west tower, which is also pretty damn secure. At this stage we’re guessing the killer infiltrated the Guild staff, probably the kitchens. They took on a bunch of outside workers to handle the catering for the reception. They were supposed to have checked them all thoroughly beforehand, but checks aren’t foolproof, heaven knows. So, first thing we did, we rounded up all the servants in one of the drill halls, and we’re interrogating them one by one, so really it’s just a matter of time. And once we’ve identified the killer, with any luck we can find out who’s behind all this, and actually do something about it.” He paused for breath, then added, as casually as he could manage: “You wouldn’t happen to know where your political officer’s got to, Colonel Tzimisces? Only he sort of disappeared about two-thirds of the way through the reception, and nobody’s seen him since. In actual fact, he’s the only one we haven’t been able to account for. Not that he’s under suspicion or anything, but we ought to find out what’s become of him.”

  “He’s missing?” A wild hope spurted up in Phrantzes’ head; maybe Tzimisces was dead, murdered by the assassin; lying on a floor somewhere, or his body folded and stuffed in a cupboard, along with the mops and brooms. “No, I’m sorry, I haven’t seen him, not since the reception. He was definitely there for most of it, but after that, no, I can’t …”

  “We can cross him off the list of suspects,” Cuniva went on, “because we have a fair idea when the murders happened, from the state the bodies were in, and we’re pretty sure he’d still have been at the party; or at least, he’d still have been there when the ministers retired to their quarters and the guards closed off the corridors leading up there. So, unless he can walk through walls, he’s in the clear.” He shrugged. “For all I know, he’s been summoned to a briefing at the Prefecture and nobody’s bothered to tell me, so I shouldn’t worry too much. I mean, it’s not as if he’s a likely target or anything.”

  I can think of someone who wants him dead, Phrantzes thought. But he’s a coward, so we can forget about him. “Please let me know when you do find him,” he said, doing his very best to sound concerned.

  “Of course,” Cuniva replied. “Meanwhile, I guess I’d better carry on reporting to you, if that’s all right. We’re going to release your people from their quarters and put them in one of the reception rooms. We can still keep a close eye on them, and they won’t be quite so cramped and isolated. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to explain what’s been going on, so they won’t feel too hard done by.”

  The reception room Cuniva had in mind was the Porphy rotriclinium, and it proved to be almost unbearably beautiful. Forty fluted porphyry pillars tapered up from a red-veined marble floor; the lines of the fluting continued into the traceries of the vaulted ceiling, making them seem like the veins of leaves, with the pillars as the stems. The room was on the third floor at the end of the east wing, and there were stained-glass windows on three sides, flooding the room with coloured light that blended perfectly with the reds and pinks of the stone. The fourth wall was covered with mosaics of the Ascent by Fire, and the rippling water of a small fountain caught the red and gold light and made it dance like flames in the facets of the gilded tessara. In the centre of the room stood an empty pedestal of gilded alabaster; at noon, on a cloudless day, the sunlight shone through a particular window on to a mirror set into the wall at a precisely calculated angle, projecting a brilliant golden column on to the pedestal; the fire that burns but does not consume. The Guild, who’d taken over the building from the Fire priests during the Disestablishment crisis shortly before Independence, used the room as a closed file store, but it had been cleared out for the post-match reception, which would not now be taking place.

  “That’s one good thing, anyhow,” Suidas said, when they heard the news that the match had been officially cancelled. “Who knows, maybe they’ll see sense and let us go home now. It’s obvious there aren’t going to be any more matches, with the riots and everything.”

  “Not according to the Guild,” Phrantzes reminded him. “The fixture at Luzir Beal’s still very much on. They made a point of confirming it.”

  “That’s so stupid,” Iseutz said. “We’ll get there and they’ll call it off, and we’ll have had a long ride for nothing.”

  “They’re confident the rioting won’t spread to the capital,” Phrantzes said. “It’s the stronghold of the peace faction, after all. When the news of the murders reaches Beal, they’ll be dancing in the streets, not throwing rocks.”

  Addo, who’d been gazing at the mosaics with a puzzled expression on his face, turned round. “Unless there’s more trouble,” he said. “Further developments, I mean. For example, if someone decided to kill a couple of the peace faction leaders, as a reprisal …”

  “Don’t say that, for heaven’s sake,” Phrantzes wailed. “Look, nobody wants to go home more than I do, but at the moment, that’s not on the cards. So we’ll just have to make the best of it, and try and
put on a good show at Beal. Frankly, I couldn’t give a damn about the success of the mission. I think it’s fairly obvious it’s been overtaken by events and is now completely irrelevant. What matters is what they think of us at home, and if they decide we haven’t been doing our very best, they won’t be pleased.” He paused and breathed out, as if he’d just tried to lift a load that was far too heavy for him. “Captain Cuniva’s pretty confident that there’s no immediate threat to our safety, and once we’re out of here and on the road to Beal, we’ll be leaving the danger area and heading into relatively civilised territory. Beal’s not like the places we’ve been to, apparently, it’s not a mining town. People say it’s almost like being in the Empire.”

  Iseutz, who’d been looking at him for a while, said, “Where’s Tzimisces?”

  Phrantzes winced. “He’s meeting with the city Prefect,” he said. “He’s been sort of unilaterally promoted to Scherian ambassador, according to Cuniva. I have no idea what it’s all about, but it’s possible we won’t have him with us for the trip to the capital.”

  Iseutz beamed and Suidas let out a whoop of joy. “Now that really is good news,” he said. “It almost makes up for having to go to bloody Beal.” He paused and frowned. “He’ll be joining us there, I suppose.”

  “Probably.”

  “Oh well, can’t have everything, I guess. Even so.” He jumped up from the window seat he’d been perched in and paced across the floor. “So when do we get out of this dump and back on the road? Any word on that?”