Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  “That’s stupid,” Suidas said. “He had a broken leg, that’s all.”

  “Presumably it was a bit worse than that,” Addo said gravely. “Still, there’s nothing we can do about it now. Suidas, you know about these things, you can drive one of these, can’t you?”

  “Sure.” He grinned at them. “Like old times,” he said. “This is a good coach, by the way. I suggest we keep it, if we can. Worth a bit of money back home, assuming we can get it there.” He vaulted up on to the box and grabbed the reins. “Come on, then,” he said, “if you’re coming.”

  Phrantzes was still staring at the driver’s body. Addo stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Internal bleeding, maybe,” he said. “Not that I know anything about medicine.”

  “I think it was probably us,” Phrantzes replied. “Wherever we go, people seem to die. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “My guess is, it’s more likely to have been internal bleeding,” Addo said briskly. “However, if you feel strongly about it, I suggest you consult a priest when we get home. I’m afraid religious stuff’s never been my strong suit.”

  Suidas was annoyingly cheerful that morning, singing and chattering, not seeming to notice if nobody was listening. Giraut reckoned it was probably a bad sign, but dismissed it as being Addo’s problem, since he’d apparently taken charge. He couldn’t understand why anyone should want to do such a thing, though he was glad that it was Addo who’d done it; the thought of Suidas being responsible for his safety wasn’t a comfortable one, Phrantzes was useless and Iseutz … You could see why the military aristocracy had run Scheria for so long, he thought. They might not be very good at it, but they’re probably better than anybody else we’ve got. Particularly if there’s got to be another war.

  Something caught his eye: a pretty thing, a sparkle, a little gleam of yellow-gold light. He sat up, and Iseutz must’ve read his face, because she said, “Giraut, what’s the matter?” He pointed. “Over there,” he said.

  “Wait up, Suidas,” Addo said, but there was no need. Suidas had seen it too and stopped the coach. Just when Giraut had convinced himself he’d imagined the whole thing, Addo said, “Well, what d’you make of that?”

  “I can’t see—” Iseutz started, but Suidas cut her off. “Imperials,” he said, “got to be. Who else prances about in poncey gilded armour?”

  “Agreed,” Addo said. “In which case, why are they over there, instead of on the road?”

  A sharp intake of breath from Phrantzes. “Who cares?” Suidas said. “The Imperials are on our side, aren’t they?”

  Addo looked at him. “That’s rather a big assumption,” he said.

  “No it isn’t,” Suidas replied. “They’re paid by the government, we’re the honoured guests of the government, therefore they’re obliged to protect us and get us safely to the capital. I say we go over and introduce ourselves.”

  “I’d agree,” Addo said quietly, “if I knew why they’re not using the road.”

  “I don’t know, do I?” Suidas snapped. “Maybe it’s a training exercise. They’re nuts about training, the Blueskins, and it’s peacetime. What else do soldiers find to do in peacetime? They train.”

  “I think it’s a very bad idea,” Iseutz said.

  “Nobody asked you,” Suidas snapped back, and Giraut saw Addo shiver a little. “Look, for all we know, there’s Aram Chantat out looking for us. If they catch us on the road, on our own, we’re dead. The Blueskins will be honour-bound to protect us, they believe in all that shit. It’s the obvious thing to do.”

  “It would be,” Addo replied calmly, “if they were marching along the road.”

  “I still can’t see anything,” Iseutz said. “Where are they?”

  Suidas made a vulgar noise. Addo pointed. “See there, where there’s a little dip in the ground? Follow that line, and you come to a—”

  “Got you,” Iseutz said. “Yes, you’re right. There’s a whole column of them.”

  “A hundred and twenty-five,” Suidas recited, “one company, standard Imperial heavy infantry quick-response detachment. A hundred and twenty men, four sergeants and a lieutenant.”

  “Usually deployed to back up a cavalry squadron where there’s an emergency,” Addo said. “And until we know what the emergency is …”

  “Look.” Phrantzes had shouldered past him, and was pointing at the skyline, where a cloud of dust was just faintly distinguishable.

  “That’ll be their cavalry,” Suidas said. “Our ride to Luzir.”

  “Let’s just sit still for a moment,” Addo said.

  “Yes, and let them get even further away. No, I don’t think so. Look, we can’t take the coach over the open ground, the axles won’t handle it. We’re going to have to walk. They move pretty quickly. We have to go now, don’t you understand?”

  “Not quite yet,” Addo said.

  “Screw you, then.” Suidas jumped down and started walking at a furious quick march. Addo started to get up, but Phrantzes pulled him back. Addo shrugged off his hand, jumped down and ran after Suidas, who wasn’t looking round. When he was close enough, Addo jumped. He landed on Suidas’ back, shoved him down and got his elbow round his neck before he could reach for his messer.

  “Let go; you’re choking me.”

  Addo relaxed his grip; Suidas twisted round, kicked him in the chest, jumped to his feet and ran off.

  “Oh for God’s sake,” Iseutz said, and hurried after them.

  “The horses,” Phrantzes said.

  It didn’t make sense for a moment; then Giraut glanced across and saw the reins lying loose on the box. He threw himself across and grabbed them. “What do I do?” he called back.

  “I don’t know.”

  This isn’t happening, Giraut thought. He tightened his hands on the reins till they hurt, while keeping them as still as possible. “Be careful,” Phrantzes shouted at him; in context, possibly the most useless piece of advice ever. In his mind he could picture, as clearly as if it was a memory, the horses suddenly bolting, dragging the reins out of his hands; the coach hitting a stone, overturning, himself being thrown through the air …

  “It’s all right, I’ve got them.” Phrantzes was standing by the lead horses’ heads, holding the rings at the corners of their mouths. Giraut looked up and realised he was shaking. He really didn’t want Phrantzes to notice, not after the disgraceful way he’d behaved when the Aram Chantat attacked. “Can you see what’s happening?” he asked.

  “No.”

  Suidas was running towards the column waving his arms when the dust cloud turned into horsemen. That was more or less what he was expecting, so he didn’t stop. He carried on running when the horsemen proved to be Aram Chantat (because this was Permia, and the Aram Chantat and the Blueskins were on the same side). When the horsemen’s line split, peeled and swung round to envelop the column, he assumed it was just showing off, an exhibition of friendly antagonism, some kind of weird Aram Chantat thing that an expert like Tzimisces would’ve explained with a few words and a patronising grin.

  Presumably the Blueskins thought the same. They had carefully planned, frequently rehearsed drills for coping with horse archers, but they carried on marching in column, even when the first arrows were in the air. By the time they realised they were being attacked, of course, it was too late. A third of them were dead on the ground.

  They did their best. They formed squares, dropped to one knee, raised shields, hedged spears. The horsemen surged round them like a torrent of water in a flooded street, swirling and lapping against walls, searching for an open door or window. The tide drew out and swept back in again; not archers but lancers. It’s no reproach to the building that it’s not tall enough to hold off the water. The Imperials performed their drills flawlessly and kept perfect discipline almost to the bitter end.

  Suidas realised he was standing upright in open ground, and dropped like a stone. Uppermost in his mind, shouting down the thoughts he ought to have been thinking, was: I’m privileged
to be one of the few men still living who’s seen the Aram Chantat fight the Blueskins. Always wondered who’d win. Now I know.

  It made no sense. He was frozen and couldn’t move because it made no sense whatsoever: the Aram Chantat against the Blueskins, like the arms against the legs. He watched as the horsemen slowed to a trot, then a walk, as they picked through the bodies on the ground for survivors and meticulously speared or shot them, then dismounted and made extra sure (attention to detail, a laudable trait), turning them over one at a time; no looting or robbing the dead, just a careful medical examination to make sure all life was extinguished. They took their time. Then, job done, they picked up their own handful of dead, collected their arrows and broken lances, mounted and rode away.

  “Why?” Iseutz asked.

  Nobody spoke for a long time. Then Suidas said, “Civil war. It’s the only possible explanation.”

  “Not quite,” Addo said. “My guess is, we’re still two or three days away from that. I think what we just saw is preparations for a civil war, almost the same thing but not quite.”

  Suidas shrugged. “What makes you say that?”

  “The careful way they gathered up all the evidence,” Addo replied. “They even pulled out the arrows, did you notice? Like they didn’t want anybody to be able to prove they did it.”

  “I don’t understand,” Iseutz said. “Why bother?”

  Addo leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. “I think the Imperials are still loyal to the government,” he said. “I’m assuming the column was on its way to Beaute, to take charge of the city from the Aram Chantat now that the riots have been put down.” He paused and grinned. “If they have been put down, that is; but that’s another issue entirely. But whoever sent those Aram Chantat didn’t want an Imperial garrison in Beaute, so they had them wiped out here in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be at least a day before anyone finds the bodies, another day before the news gets back to the government in Luzir; there’s no physical evidence that Aram Chantat did this, so whoever’s responsible can deny any involvement. They could even blame it on a third party – at a wild guess, Scheria. That’s at least three days, maybe four, in which they can get all their other pieces in place and start the war in earnest. That’s my interpretation, anyhow. I’m just guessing, obviously, but I think it covers most of what we know.”

  “You keep saying they,” Iseutz interrupted. “Who’s they?”

  Addo smiled. “Good question,” he said. “But, on the balance of probabilities, someone who wants a war with Scheria and who’s got enough money to buy the Aram Chantat out of their existing contracts. I don’t know enough about Permian politics to give you names, but you get the general idea.” He sighed and straightened his back. “Not the government, not the mine owners, so who does that leave?”

  “Does it matter?” Iseutz snapped, so violently that everyone looked at her. “To us, I mean? Oh come on, don’t stare at me like that. Look, I couldn’t give a damn right now about whether there’s going to be a war, or who’s playing what games, or any of it. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I stink like a pig, I’ve been wearing the same clothes since I can remember, my skin feels like it’s crawling with ants, I hurt all over and I want to go home. That’s all that matters, not stupid bloody politics. I’m so miserable I hardly feel scared any more, just completely bloody wretched. And I’m not a soldier, I’m a female civilian, so I really don’t deserve to be put through all this. Look, we’ve got a coach and horses, we’ve got a driver, and we don’t owe anybody anything. Can’t we just go home? Please?”

  Nobody spoke. Suidas was grinning, Phrantzes was gazing at his shoes, Giraut was waiting for someone else to say something, and Addo was looking at her with a fine blend of compassion, embarrassment and irritation on his face. She shrugged. “I guess not,” she said. “In which case, screw the lot of you. You’re all stupid.”

  Addo opened his mouth, and Giraut thought: he’s about to try and explain, which is probably the worst thing he could do, bar laughing, like Suidas is doing. But evidently he thought better of it. He shook his head and said, “I’m sorry,” and Giraut guessed it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do something like that. Hadn’t he had a girl back home, a girl he’d lost or who’d dumped him, shortly before he came away? He couldn’t remember, and naturally he couldn’t ask.

  “You’re sorry,” Iseutz repeated. “Fine. That’s an enormously huge lot of help, Addo. I thought you might be marginally less stupid than the others, but obviously I was wrong. Oh well.”

  Suidas smiled at her. “Have you finished?”

  “For now.”

  “Good.” He got rid of the smile and turned towards the others. “Now, as far as I can remember from the map, Luzir’s no more than half a day’s drive on the road from here, but obviously we can’t do that. I say we dump the coach and walk. The coach can’t go over the rough or outrun them anywhere, and it’s easier to hide if you’re on foot. Agreed?”

  He was looking at Addo. Phrantzes said, “Agreed. I mean, it makes sense, I can see that.” Suidas turned his head towards Giraut, who nodded and looked away. “Addo,” Suidas said. “What do you think?”

  “I’d rather not ditch the coach just yet,” Addo replied slowly. “I don’t like walking, and these boots are rubbing my heels.”

  “Addo …”

  “We can’t afford to waste time,” Addo said sharply. “We’ve got to eat and drink, for one thing. Look at it, will you? Does that look to you like country you can live off? I don’t think so. Also, we need to get to Luzir before the civil war starts in earnest. I’m not saying it’ll be safe for us there, but it’s got to be better than out in the open. You might be able to cope out there, Suidas, you’re a soldier, you’ve done this stuff before. The rest of us simply aren’t up to it. Besides,” he added, softening his voice a little, “we’re not a military unit or a government mission, we’re just four men and a girl in a coach. We don’t look anything like a target. Why would either side waste their time bothering us?”

  “Because that’s what happens,” Suidas said. “I should know, I’ve done it. I’ve beaten up and killed civilians, just because I could. Force of habit, I guess,” he added, as Iseutz stared at him. “Once you start killing Permians, it can get hard to stop. And there’s always the chance their boots might fit you. Believe me, Addo, you really don’t want to get caught on the road when there’s people like me about.”

  “I said our chances would be better if we stuck with the coach,” Addo said. “I didn’t say they were good. We’re not you, we can’t march for six days on an empty stomach. And if we do meet soldiers on the road, there’s every chance they’d be Imperials, and they don’t do the bad stuff. Do they?”

  Suidas shrugged. “Not if there’s an officer watching, probably not. But you saw what happened to the Blueskins back there. Even if you meet some and they take you in, they can’t protect you, not if the Aram Chantat are on the loose. See sense, for crying out loud. We both know the others’ll do what you say, because you’re the fucking Irrigator’s kid. Stop pissing around and let’s get going.”

  “Half a day,” Addo said. “You said it yourself, we’re just half a day from Luzir on this road. How long’s it going to take to walk? Three days? Four?”

  “Cavalry thinking,” Suidas said, making it sound like the worst insult possible. “Get your head down and charge the massed archers. Well, you can if you like. I’ll see you in Luzir, if you make it.”

  He halted the coach, threw the reins to Addo and jumped down. “Hold on,” Addo said, “I can’t drive this thing.”

  “Learn,” Suidas called back over his shoulder. He was walking quickly, his legs stiff. “A clever boy like you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

  “Addo,” Iseutz wailed, but he sat perfectly still, watching Suidas’ back, until he was just a dot against the grey rocks, moving slowly and steadily towards the horizon, a long, low range of hills, one of which looked rather like an upturned bucket. “D
amn,” Addo said. Then, quite expertly, he urged the horses into a trot.

  “I simply don’t understand you,” Iseutz said, for the tenth time. “I can’t believe you just let him walk off like that.”

  Addo had given up replying, which only seemed to make it worse. He fixed his eyes on the road ahead, which was climbing slowly up a broad, slow escarpment. On the other side of the ridge, he devoutly hoped, was Luzir Beal.

  It was three hours since Suidas had walked away, and the road had been completely empty. Hardly surprising, since people don’t generally tend to go about their usual business in the early stages of a civil war; they’d seen a few dust clouds in the distance, but none of them had been coming their way. The horses had behaved themselves, the road was straight and well maintained, the sun was shining. Welcome to beautiful Permia.

  “We’ve got to go back,” Iseutz said.

  “Will you for God’s sake please shut up?” It was the first time Phrantzes had said anything for a very long time, and the words seemed to break out of him against his will. “I’m sorry, but you know as well as I do we can’t go back. It’d be madness.”

  “Actually, she’s right.” Addo’s voice sounded curiously detached, as though he was a spectator offering a commentary. “I should’ve gone after him, and we ought to have turned back. Unfortunately, I’ve left it rather too long. I don’t suppose we’d be able to find him now. It’s my fault. I made the wrong decision. I take full responsibility.”

  “Addo …” Whatever she’d been about to say, she thought better of it, or decided it was no longer necessary. She slumped back in her seat, just as the coach reached the top of the slope.

  “Well,” Addo said, “we’re here.”

  Below them, laid out like a model in a sandbox, was a city. It was perfectly, unnaturally square, surrounded on all four sides by a bigger square of green, neatly subdivided into smaller squares bordered by straight brown roads. Tzimisces, if he’d been there, would have told them about Imperial grid-plan modular construction, and how Luzir was the best example of it outside the home provinces. To Giraut it looked unreal, like a painting, the backdrop for a play. Even the straight, regularly spaced lines of the irrigation canals were a bright, cheerful blue. If anything as untidy as people was permitted down there, they’d have to be small clay figures, beautifully painted – model citizens, he thought, and tried not to smile – carefully positioned to set off the architectural features, illustrating the size of the buildings. It occurred to him to wonder if Flos Verjan had looked like that, from the Irrigator’s vantage point, just before he opened the sluices.