by K. J. Parker
“Over there,” Cuniva said, pointing vaguely through the left-hand window, “are the Verjan mountains. You can just see them, look.”
Addo obediently craned his neck. Nobody else moved.
“And over there,” Cuniva went on, pointing in what appeared to be exactly the same direction, “behind the big ridge, is Lake Prescile. Of course, you can’t see it from here. But that’s where it is.”
“Good heavens,” Addo said mildly. He picked up his book (Pescennius’ Art of War, lent to him by Baudila; still, better than nothing) and made a show of reading it.
“It’s such a shame,” Cuniva went on, “that we’re behind schedule. Otherwise we could’ve taken a detour and had a look. I’ve been there myself, of course, many times. It’s a really rather beautiful place now, in a way; completely deserted, of course, even the main turnpikes are starting to grass over. The only thing you can see is the spire of the Orphans’ Hospital, sticking up out of the water bang in the middle like a great big pillar. Otherwise it’s just a big smooth lake, with the mountains reflected in it.”
He was quiet for a while after that, and Giraut was just starting to nod off when they passed a column of soldiers, Imperials, marching the other way. “The Seventeenth,” Cuniva informed them. “Headed for Beaute, presumably. They were due to go home later this month, but I guess they must’ve been rehired for the duration. Like they say, it’s an ill wind.”
Giraut could see Suidas clenching his fists, though his face was perfectly calm. Iseutz yawned. Addo turned a page. Phrantzes was looking out of the window on the other side, towards a distant range of hills.
“Actually,” Cuniva said, fixing Giraut with a piercing stare, “if it’s all right, there’s something I’d like to ask you fellows. It’s – well, a bit embarrassing, but I think we know each other well enough by now.”
He had Iseutz’s full attention, and Addo had lowered his book. “Oh yes?” Suidas said.
“The thing is.” Cuniva hesitated, then took a rush at it. “I’ve always wondered why you people call my lot Blueskins.” Everyone froze. “Not that it bothers me, you understand, it’s quite all right, but you see, our skins aren’t blue, they’re dark brown. It’s as if we went around calling you lot Redskins, when you’re a sort of apricot colour. It doesn’t actually make any sense.”
There was a brief silence. Then Addo cleared his throat. “Oddly enough,” he said, in a high voice, “I wondered the same thing, so I asked my father. He said that when our people encountered your people for the first time, they reported back that you had skins the colour of blueberries, just before they ripen. But Blueberryskin’s a bit of a mouthful, so it got shortened. That’s what he told me, anyway. I don’t know if it’s true or not.”
Cuniva looked blank for a moment, then smiled. “How perfectly delightful,” he said. “It so happens that I’m very partial to blueberries. Thank you. I wouldn’t have asked, except that it seemed so odd. Not insulting or anything, just inaccurate.”
That cut off any further conversation like the executioner’s axe. Giraut studied his shoes for a while. Addo went back to Art of War (where he read about direct frontal assaults on the enemy’s weakest point, and managed not to smile). Suidas closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, but his breathing was all wrong for that. Iseutz sat quite still, frowning. Phrantzes went back to gazing out of the window.
In the late afternoon the road began to climb, as they approached the foot of a massive escarpment. Cuniva told them (nobody had asked) that this was the Chauzida plateau. The main road went round it, but they’d be going over the top. “It’ll save us the best part of a day,” he promised them, “and that’ll put us back on schedule.”
Giraut stuck his head out of the window. As far as he could tell, they were driving straight at a sheer wall of vertical rock. “Are you sure?” he said.
“There’s a pass,” Cuniva said. “You can’t see it from here, it’s narrow and pretty well hidden. But it’s there all right. I’ve been this way loads of times.”
Addo closed his book. “Would that be a path through a steep-sided defile with a sharp turn in it about half a mile along?”
“Yes. You know this place?”
Addo shook his head. “Not personally. But my father got caught in this pass when he was a young lieutenant. The enemy – actually, I think it was your people, Captain – they let our lot get in about halfway, then cut the road at both ends with big boulders and shot us to pieces with bows and light artillery from the tops of the defile. My father was one of about a dozen who made it out alive, out of around three hundred.”
Cuniva looked shocked. “I don’t remember that in any of the campaign histories.”
“You wouldn’t have. My father wrote them.” Addo grinned. “Not one of his most glorious moments. He was in command at the time. He told me that if there was any justice he’d have been court-martialled and strung up for making such a stupid mistake. He said, one look at the place and he should’ve known. It’s as though the Invincible Sun had designed it specifically for ambushing idiots.”
Cuniva’s eyebrows were practically touching his hair. “You do surprise me,” he said. “But this was early in his career, presumably, one of his first commands …”
“No, actually. He was thirty years old and should’ve known better, was what he told me. But his uncle was the area commander, so they covered it up.”
Cuniva shook his head, as if he’d just seen God throwing up in a shop doorway. “Ah well,” he said. “Just as well this is peacetime.”
The chieftain looked confused. “You’re a priest,” he said.
Brother Perceptuus decided it would be too complicated to explain the difference between a monk and a priest. “That’s right,” he said.
“A holy man.”
“Yes.”
Perceptuus was trying hard not to stare. The chieftain was a short man, five foot nothing; tiny little hands, like a girl. His face was round and deeply lined, almost completely bald on top, his long, thin back hair woven into a snow-white ponytail; somewhere between sixty and ninety; pale blue eyes and skin the colour of milk. His upper middle front tooth was missing. He wore a white shirt, spotlessly clean, with a lace collar, and velvet knee breeches, a style that had been fashionable in the Western Empire about seventy years ago. His feet were bare. He was sitting in a heavy folding chair made out of horses’ leg bones.
“Excuse me,” the chieftain said (he spoke perfect Imperial with an upper-class Eastern accent), “but I find that surprising. This is hardly a spiritual matter.”
Perceptuus smiled. “There are times when the line between spiritual and temporal gets a little blurred, don’t you find?”
The chieftain frowned. “No,” he said. “Where I come from, priests are concerned with moral and ethical issues. They don’t do politics. Or money. That’s strictly the province of the laity.” He shrugged. “Ah well,” he said, “it wouldn’t do if we were all the same. I’m terribly sorry, I’m forgetting my manners. Would you care for something to drink? I’m afraid we’re a bit rough and ready at the moment, but I can offer you a passable dry Vesani white.”
It had been many years since Perceptuus had had an opportunity to drink imported wine. “Thank you,” he said. “That would be most kind.”
The chieftain nodded, and someone in the far corner moved to the tent flap and crawled out.
“It was very good of you to see me,” Perceptuus said. “At such short notice.”
“My pleasure,” the chieftain said. “Now, how may I help you?”
He had a ring on his left middle finger, a huge red stone. Perceptuus was only an amateur, but he was sure it was genuine. If so, it was worth about twenty thousand nomismata. Don’t stare, he told himself. “It’s rather a delicate matter.”
“I thought it might be. Is that why your government sent a priest?”
“I’m not actually here on behalf of my government,” Perceptuus said, “not as such. I represent the College of
the Ascension; basically, the Scherian arm of the Studium. Nothing I say should be construed as coming from the Scherian authorities, or the Bank.”
“Oh.” The chieftain looked mildly confused. “Well, I’ll bear that in mind. What can we do for the Invincible Sun?”
Perceptuus shifted a little in his seat: a plain wooden stool with a single narrow upright bar for a back, but remarkably comfortable. “I understand that your current contract with the Permian government is about to expire.”
“In six weeks, yes.”
“We were wondering …” A man appeared at Perceptuus’ elbow. He held a brass tray, on which stood a cup, containing wine. It was made from a man’s skull, with the apertures filled in with silver and niello.
“My predecessor,” the chieftain said. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”
Perceptuus lifted it gingerly off the tray and held it up, taking care not to spill any wine. “You know, I’ve heard about these,” he said, “but I’ve never actually seen one. How do they do the silver infill without charring the bone, I wonder.” He rotated it in his hands. “Beautiful filigree work,” he said. “You must excuse me, I used to collect fine silver.”
“Keep it,” the chieftain said, “please. You were about to say what you wanted.”
Perceptuus took a sip of the wine. It was delightful. “Would you consider coming to work for us?” he said. “Once your term with the Permians is over.”
The chieftain frowned. “I thought you said you weren’t the government.”
“We aren’t.”
“I see. And what would the Invincible Sun want with a mercenary army?”
Perceptuus finished his wine and took a moment to savour the aftertaste; dry, and with a hint of apples. “To protect our interests,” he said. “We have substantial holdings of land, much of it close to the border with the Demilitarised Zone. We also have long-standing claims within the Zone, although of course we haven’t been able to pursue them because of the war. Now, however, with mounting unrest in Permia and the possibility that the current regime may fall and the country might slide into chaos, we have to consider the risk to our tenants.” He ran the tip of his forefinger over the embossed acanthus- and scroll-work around the rim of the cup. Exquisite. “From bandits,” he went on, “wandering gangs, demobilised army units. You know the sort of thing that happens when a regime collapses suddenly.”
The chieftain nodded. “Won’t your government deal with all that?” he said. “That’s what they’re for, surely.”
“Of course,” Perceptuus said, “in theory. But the Bank may well have other priorities, and other calls on its resources. We like to take care of the people who depend on us. And, fortunately, we can afford it.”
“I admit, I was wondering about that,” the chieftain said. “To put it crudely, we aren’t cheap.”
Perceptuus put the cup down on the ground. “Our Order’s resources in Scheria are limited, naturally,” he said. “But we’ve discussed the situation with our brothers in the Western Empire, and any agreement you and I may make will be guaranteed unconditionally by the Studium; which means, in effect, by the Empire. So really, money isn’t an issue.”
The chieftain smiled. “You must excuse me,” he said. “I’m only a simple shepherd, so I don’t pretend to any understanding of international politics. Even so, I feel sure that for the established church of the Western Empire to underwrite the activities of a schismatic branch in a country still officially classed as in rebellion against the Empire, there must be something quite complicated going on, which no doubt you really wouldn’t want to discuss with strangers.” He lifted his hands and fluttered his fingers slightly; presumably that meant something, but Perceptuus had no idea what it might be. “You in turn must appreciate that the Aram no Vei have always maintained a strict policy of neutrality towards both empires, just as we are officially neutral as regards Scheria and Permia. Our presence here is a purely commercial arrangement. It doesn’t represent public policy in any way. I would be grossly exceeding my mandate if I did anything that might be construed as breaching that neutrality.” He turned the ring on his finger until the stone was underneath, and closed his fist around it. “In the circumstances, I think I’ll have to refer your proposal to my superiors. It shouldn’t take long,” he added. “We have a fairly efficient system of communications.”
Quite, Perceptuus thought. And in Scheria, how many simple shepherds would use words like construe and mandate? “I quite understand,” he said. “But assuming they decide that there are no far-reaching diplomatic implications, do you think it’s likely that they would agree?”
“That’s not for me to say,” the chieftain replied, and Perceptuus knew that all the siege engines and battering rams in Scheria wouldn’t make a dent in that smile. “But as soon as I hear from them, I’ll let you know, obviously. Meanwhile …”
Afterwards, in the tent they’d provided for him (he’d never spent the night in a tent before; the cushions were silk, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep lying on the ground), Perceptuus composed a very brief report for Abbot Symbatus. You were quite right, he wrote, they’ve had another offer, but who from and how much for I simply don’t know. I think he believed me about the Studium, but I wouldn’t put it past him to check up. What do you want me to do? When can I come home?
He read through what he’d written, then splashed a quarter of a pint of the delightful Vesani white wine into the skull cup (there was even a dear little tulipwood box to keep it in, with hinges in the shape of leaping stags) and drank two mouthfuls. The cup he’d have to hand over to the abbey bursar when he got back, but there wouldn’t be any of the wine left, he was quite resolved on that.
You probably know more about the situation than I do, he wrote, but my man here believes the government will survive the crisis, assuming the trouble doesn’t spread to the capital. He says the majority of the Aram Chantat contracts expire at the same time as his, but he can’t see the unrest lasting anything like that long. I would say he’s in a good position to judge. I gather the Aram Chantat have blanket discretion to use all necessary force. They insisted on that, apparently; otherwise they refused to get involved. I get the impression they don’t really hold with the notion of rules of engagement, which they regard as a contradiction in terms.
He’d forgotten how strong real wine was. It was making him feel stupid. He was sure there was something else he needed to add, but he couldn’t think of anything relevant that Symbatus wouldn’t already know; assuming, of course, that the abbot was still alive. He shivered, and stood up to throw more charcoal on the brazier. If Symbatus was dead, would there be anybody back home who knew the whole of what was going on? He was inclined to doubt it; Symbatus was notorious for keeping things to himself, even in relatively trivial matters. Where something as big as this was concerned … For one thing, who was there he could safely confide in? He tried to think of anybody at all, himself included, and failed. But if Symbatus were to die partway through, with the complex mechanism he’d set up and which only he knew about still working towards its unknown ultimate objective, the result could be disastrous.
Well, he’d better still be alive, then, or we’re all screwed. He lay down on the heaped-up cushions and felt his head swim; bad idea, so he propped himself up against the tent pole. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, too much on his mind. For instance: who else was negotiating for the services of the Aram no Vei, why, and how much could they afford to pay? The Permian nobility, for example; with the Aram Chantat on their side they could overthrow the government in a matter of days. They had no money, of course, but did that matter? Once they’d got power back, they’d have the entire treasury at their disposal, not to mention the mineral futures in the DMZ. But would the Aram Chantat want payment in advance? He realised that he hadn’t asked that, and it was vitally important. Somebody else should be doing this job, he told himself, preferably someone with at least half a brain.
He sealed the letter; then he
stood up, went to the tent flap, lowered himself awkwardly to his knees (he was still stiff from weeding onions) and crawled out. A guard was looking down at him, with a tolerantly neutral expression on his face. Perceptuus levered himself upright and smiled at him.
“I need to …” He stopped; exactly how do you do I need to shit in sign language? But the guard gave him an understanding smile and pointed to the edge of the encampment. Intelligent fellows, the Aram Chantat, he thought. Not too intelligent, let’s hope, or we’re all in trouble.
He walked about twenty yards and squatted down in what he hoped was a convincing posture. He hadn’t been waiting long when he heard a soft cough and a quiet voice saying, “If you’re not just pretending, I can come back later.”
“There you are,” Perceptuus snapped back at him. “I’ve got a letter, for Abbot Symbatus. Urgent. Can you …?”
“Sure,” the voice replied. “Leave it on the ground when you go. How are you getting on?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Melodrama; still, why not? “What’s the situation like in Beaute, do you know?”
“Under control. The fencers have moved on. Everything’s fine. You’d better get back, unless you intend to feign intense constipation for the rest of your visit.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” He hesitated. It was dark, and he didn’t actually know the man. “It is Colonel, isn’t it?”
“I can’t tell you that. Get along with you, before they send out a search party.”
Tzimisces waited half an hour before retrieving the letter and making his way slowly and steadily back to the road, where he’d left his horse hobbled by a stream. He rode through the night, and as soon as there was enough light to read by, he took the letter out of his pocket and looked at it. Sealed, of course, but there are things you can do; a thin wire, red-hot, drawn through the wax was his favourite, with a smear of bow-maker’s fish glue to put it back afterwards. He couldn’t be bothered, though; he’d been listening outside the tent during the meeting, and the old fool had got nowhere, just as he’d anticipated. He could picture the look of mild annoyance on Symbatus’ face as he read the letter (assuming Symbatus was still alive, but let’s not go there) There was, in fact, no reason why it shouldn’t be passed on and delivered; it could do no harm and make no difference.