Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  Phrantzes and Giraut were black. They played five moves each. Then Addo moved a knight and said, “Checkmate.”

  They all stared at the board. Then Iseutz laughed, a little awkwardly. Giraut was gazing at the white knight in total confusion. “That’s crazy,” he said. “White can’t win.”

  “I think we just did,” Addo said gently.

  Phrantzes grabbed the black king, lifted it and looked down at the board. He was quite still for what seemed like a long time. Then he laid the king down carefully on its side, stood up and held his hand out to Addo. “Well done,” he said. “Thanks for the game.”

  Addo hesitated, then shook his hand. “My pleasure,” he said. “I promise you, it really was a fluke. Sheer luck.”

  Phrantzes nodded stiffly. “Four consecutive flukes,” he said. “A more likely explanation would be that you’re a very good player. As is only to be expected.”

  Gently, Addo pulled his hand free. “My father always says you can tell a really good chess player by the way he always loses so long as there’s no money at stake. He’d like this game, though. I must teach it to him when we get home.”

  Phrantzes’ face registered a sort of smiling frown, as though Addo had just made a rather good joke but in very bad taste. “Quite,” he said. “And when this is all over and we’re back in Scheria, you must all come over and have dinner with Sphagia and me. She’d love to meet you, I know.”

  Addo put the chess pieces back in their box and tucked it in his pocket. Iseutz yawned and stood up. “It’s got to be nearly noon by now,” she said. “I hope they’re going to feed us beforehand.”

  “I don’t think I could eat anything,” Giraut said with feeling.

  “Probably best if we don’t,” Addo said.

  “Nonsense.” Phrantzes crossed to a huge carved-oak chair by the door, sat down and put his feet up on a small table. “When I was fencing competitively, we always used to have a three-course lunch with a bottle of decent white wine beforehand, and it never did anyone any harm. Micel Zeuxis, who was the champion before me, used to insist on clear soup followed by saddle of lamb and a fruit pie. He was a magnificent fencer. Before your time, obviously.”

  “I know the name,” Addo said politely. Nobody else seemed to have been listening.

  “I beat him, of course,” Phrantzes went on. “I noticed he had a slight tendency to get square on when he was crowded on the outside. I’ll never forget the look on his face when I landed the winning touch. He lost heart after that and gave up completely, which is a shame. I’d have liked to fight him again, just to prove it wasn’t a fluke.”

  Iseutz shot Addo a why’s-he-doing-this glance, which he saw but didn’t react to. Giraut got up, crossed the room and leant against the marble rectangle that wasn’t a table, pretending to be interested in the inscription, though it was too badly worn to be legible. Phrantzes folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes. Giraut could tell by his breathing that he wasn’t asleep.

  Eventually, a steward came to tell them it was time to go. Phrantzes, who by that time really had fallen asleep, woke up with a ferocious grunt and looked round, terrified, until he realised what was going on. Iseutz, meanwhile, was pleading with the steward for time to go back to her room and fix her hair. Eventually Addo had to grab her by the shoulder and say, “Come on,” at which she sighed and fell in behind him. Giraut brought up the rear, feeling strangely cheerful; one more fight, said a voice inside his head, and then it’ll all be over and we can go home. The voice sounded just like his mother, on various occasions in his youth when she’d lied to him.

  “I didn’t even know they liked fencing,” they heard the Master whisper to the Minister of War. “I never heard of them taking an interest in it before.”

  “Well, apparently they do,” the Minister replied. “And there’s no need to whisper. They don’t speak our language.”

  He was, of course, entirely wrong about that; but the three Aram delegates (Auzeil, Cosseilhatz and no Vei) had guarded the secret carefully, and they’d learned not to grin, and where to look when someone said something especially unfortunate. There were times when the imbalance of knowledge made the delegates feel as though they were cheating. They knew everything they needed to know about the Permians, who’d never even bothered to ask them their names, on the assumption they wouldn’t be able to pronounce them.

  “What exactly is it we’re going to see?” asked the Auzeil, in Aram.

  “Swordfighting,” replied the no Vei.

  “Ah.” The Auzeil frowned. “Some kind of trial by combat?”

  “I don’t think so,” the no Vei replied. “As far as I can gather, the fighters have no quarrel with each other. Quite often they’ve never even met before.”

  “Then why do they fight?” the Cosseilhatz asked.

  “So the people can watch,” the no Vei told him. “Apparently.”

  “That’s absurd,” said the Auzeil.

  “It’s barbaric,” the Cosseilhatz amended.

  “Yes.” The no Vei settled himself comfortably in his seat and folded his hands in his lap. He was ninety-one years old, and sitting still for any length of time made his knees ache. “But it’s their national obsession. Almost like a religion. It’s all the common people ever talk about, so they tell me.”

  “I’m curious,” said the Cosseilhatz. “Do they only fight foreigners, or do Permians actually fight Permians?”

  “Oh, this is an exception,” the no Vei said gravely, “a special occasion, the first foreign team to fight in Permia since before the War. Usually it’s Permian against Permian. Hence the excitement.”

  The Cosseilhatz shook his head. “Presumably they don’t use real weapons, though.”

  “They most certainly do,” the no Vei said. “Real and sharp. I understand that’s not the case in Scheria. But in Permia, most definitely.”

  “Then how do they keep from getting injured?”

  “With great difficulty, I would imagine. Ah, here’s the First Minister and his party. You’ve met him, haven’t you, Sichem?”

  “Briefly,” the Auzeil replied. “At a reception.”

  “What did you make of him?”

  “He’s an idiot.”

  The no Vei turned his head and bowed politely to the First Minister, who nodded back. “Yes,” the no Vei said. “But apart from that.”

  “Weak, indecisive and scared,” the Auzeil said. “Just intelligent enough to know what has to be done, but far too frightened of his own people to do it. Most of all, I think, he’s terrified that there might be another war. Talking of which …”

  “Not now,” the Cosseilhatz said pleasantly. “I have an idea that man over there, he’s something in the Treasury, might know a little Aram. Probably not enough, but let’s not take unnecessary risks. We’ll continue this discussion after the fighting’s over.”

  “Oh dear,” the Auzeil said. “I do hope there won’t be any blood. It makes me sick to my stomach, and we’re supposed to be ferocious savages who eat small children.”

  “Do your best,” the no Vei said firmly. “They’ll think it’s rather odd if you’re ostentatiously looking the other way.”

  “Look.” The Cosseilhatz sat up straight. “Something’s happening.” He shaded his eyes with his hand. “Is that the Carnufex boy, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t think so,” the no Vei replied, raising his voice to make himself heard over the roar from the benches all around them. “The first match is rapier, I believe, between—”

  “What’s rapier?” the Auzeil interrupted.

  “I gather it’s a long, thin sword with blunt edges. You can stab with it, but you can’t cut.”

  “How curious. I’m sorry, you were saying?”

  “Hush,” whispered the Cosseilhatz. “I think they’re starting.”

  Giraut completed the salute – a little stiff, but adequate – and composed himself into a high first guard. He wouldn’t be able to hold it for long, but he sincerely hoped he wo
uldn’t have to. The idea was to draw the enemy into a lunge from just an inch or so over middle distance, then volte or demi-volte and win the match in one play.

  Nothing happened. He looked past the hanging point of his rapier at the man standing opposite him. Terrified, Giraut diagnosed. Not good. He’d been counting on contemptuous aggression.

  The game is, white always loses. He’d made up his mind to play white.

  Quite some time ago, in fact: in the bell tower, when he’d been leaking blood by the pitcherful. The idea back then had been to cheat by dying before they could get to him. A bit like resigning as soon as you lose your first capital piece; white always loses, but at least you get out on your own terms, defeated but unbeaten – a subtle distinction, but none the worse for that, and subtleties are the most you can hope for, if you play white.

  The fool was just standing there. Annoyed, Giraut took a step back to cover the transition from high first to middle fourth; not a guard he favoured, but more comfortable for waiting in. It also sent a message: You had your chance and you missed it, so now you’re going to have to work for it. Somewhere in the vast distance, somebody coughed. Then it was dead quiet again.

  The points are sharp, Giraut told himself. A man could die of impatience. Make him come to you, he’s a nervous wreck and you aren’t. Let him come. Let someone else do the decent thing, for once.

  White always loses; he really wished someone had bothered to tell him that earlier, because unless you knew, how were you supposed to make sense of anything? White wins by losing. It’s the rules.

  He knew, or at least he thought he knew, why the way station had been deserted, why the bandits had been allowed to roam unmolested through Scherian territory, why they’d been there, so improvidently close to a military outpost, at precisely that time. He had a good idea, or at least a plausible theory, about why Tzimisces kept wandering off, and why the Aram Chantat had turned on their allies the Imperials. He’d had his suspicions all along, but the revelation about white had allowed him to make the connections he’d overlooked, probably wilfully, up till now. He wondered if the Permian knew he was playing black. He didn’t look like he knew, but maybe he was simply aware that in the game, there’s always the possibility of a rogue element, as Addo had proved when they played the last hand. The points, he reminded himself, are sharp. But I have the advantage. You can’t kill a man who’s already dead.

  Not strictly true, of course; you can, if he gets careless, you can kill him very dead indeed, and we don’t want that to happen if it can be avoided, now do we? But if it does, at least we can console ourselves with the thought that it really doesn’t matter all that terribly much. Dead then, dead now or dead about half an hour after I get home; who really gives a damn, anyhow?

  He took a left-leg step forward; the Permian retreated. He leaned forward just far enough to enable him to tap the front two inches of the Permian’s blade with his own point. The crowd laughed. The Permian was shivering. How pathetic can you get.

  It had, of course, all been a trap, a set-up; a snare, excuse the pun. He wondered how they’d forced or manipulated the girl into agreeing to do it. Presumably they hadn’t told her that her father was going to die. Probably they’d made out that Giraut was the intended victim, or else the Senator was certain to kill him and thereby get himself in trouble. Like it mattered. He should’ve guessed, of course. Now he thought about it, the girl had been ludicrously easy to get into bed. At the time he’d put it down to his irresistible charm, so really he’d deserved everything he’d got.

  The Permian lunged. It was an apology for an attack, so carefully closed and guarded that aggression was very much an afterthought. He got out of the way with a simple step back, not even bothering to move his sword arm, and the Permian immediately retreated to exactly where he’d been. The crowd laughed again. He could see the enemy blushing with shame. Any minute now, he’ll burst into tears. This is stupid, Giraut thought. I’m white, I shouldn’t have to put up with this shit. Slowly he lowered his sword until the point was resting on the ground. The Permian just stood there and stared. The crowd were booing. They hated their own man. Even if he won now, they’d still despise him as a coward. Even if he won, he couldn’t win.

  Giraut tried not to laugh, but he couldn’t help it. He stood, sword lowered, laughing; and the Permian came at him. It was a good lunge, just inside middle distance, tending to his outside to make a volte problematic; he could only retreat and parry in single time, keeping the point upright, making the hand movement as small as possible. He forfeited the fraction of a second in which he could have riposted, and the Permian lunged again, but this time a little too fully. Before he realised it, Giraut’s back foot had moved, his body was twisting, he had no control over them. He did try and pull his sword out of the way, but he’d practised the volte too often for that. His arm knew what to do and was determined to do it, regardless of any contradictory orders from the brain. The Permian stepped into the point, which entered him just under the ribcage, his own impetus driving it in deeper than Giraut’s arm could ever have managed. Stupid fool’s killed himself, Giraut thought, and stepped smartly backwards to let him fall.

  “Oh dear,” the Auzeil whispered, his voice clear as a bell in the unnatural silence. “Was that supposed to happen?”

  The no Vei shrugged. “Yes and no,” he said.

  And then they cheered; which was obscene, Giraut thought, as he tugged on the hilt of his rapier (but the dead body was twisted, the blade was flexed, it wouldn’t come out clean; he let go of the hilt. Not his sword anyhow). They cheered him, they were in love with him – love doesn’t care what you do, it’s utterly amoral – and if he’d been able to, he’d have ordered his army of Aram Chantat to close the doors and not stop killing till they were all dead. To express his contempt he swept them a low bow, then walked across the sand to the door he’d come in through without looking back.

  Phrantzes was sitting on the stairs when Giraut burst through the door. He jumped up. “Well?” he snapped.

  “You’re on,” Giraut said and pushed past him.

  A short, wire-haired Permian with a big nose dropped down into the seat next to the no Vei. He was out of breath and sweating. “Terribly sorry I’m late,” he said, in passable Aram. “I’m your translator.”

  “Splendid,” the no Vei said, as the other two looked at each other. “You can tell us what’s going on. I’m afraid it’s all a mystery to us.”

  “No problem,” the Permian said. “As it happens, I follow fencing very closely, very closely indeed. Now then.” He leaned forward and peered down. “That’s Jilem Phrantzes, fighting longsword for Scheria. He’s a former All-Scheria champion.”

  “Isn’t he rather old, for a fencer?” the Cosseilhatz asked.

  “Ah.” The Permian grinned. “Fencers are like wine, they get better with age. I saw the great Mathin Dusan defending his title when he was seventy-one years old, against a boy young enough to be his grandson. Let me tell you, one of them left the arena feet first, and it wasn’t Mathin. Amazing man. So I’m expecting great things of this Phrantzes.”

  “Excuse me,” the Auzeil asked, “but don’t you want the Permian to win?”

  “What? Oh, yes, naturally. But let’s say I’m not exactly holding my breath. There’s our boy, by the way. Luga Dusan – that’s Mathin’s great-nephew. Got a bit of the old man about him, but I’ve always maintained he’s weak off the back foot.”

  The Cosseilhatz frowned. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “Shh.” The Permian was crouched forward. “They’re about to salute.”

  *

  Giraut carried on up the stairs, past Iseutz, who said, “How did it go?”; up to the landing at the top, through the door and out on to the catwalk. No sign of Addo, but he was on last. He looked down into the arena, where two tiny figures were moving about, like insects on the surface of running water. He had no idea what he was looking for, naturally.

  The perspective sobe
red him a little, and he ordered himself to think. Set up – well, yes: to kill the Senator, who was about to push through anti-slavery laws and other awkward measures. To kill him in as sordid a manner as possible, so his assassin couldn’t be a martyr to the opposition. Better still, don’t punish the assassin at all. Instead, send him to Permia. Only he won’t get there. None of them will.

  Think. The fencers are ambushed and killed by bandits, on Scherian soil, before they even get close to the border. Why? Because if they die in Scheria, they can’t die in Permia; if they don’t die in Permia, they can’t be martyrs and a reason for war …

  Because they can’t be allowed to get to Permia, because if they do—

  He heard a clank, loud enough to carry all the way up to the catwalk; steel on steel, a block, and not a very stylish one. He didn’t bother to look down.

  He’d been set up: to kill the Senator, yes, and then to die himself, two birds, one stone. And why him? What’s so special about Giraut Bryennius? Precisely because he’s nothing special, of no value to anyone, particularly once he’s been thoroughly disgraced. Therefore expendable. Therefore capable of being useful twice.

  A pretty good fencer at junior level, never bothered with it seriously, but good enough to look convincing in Permia, and then to die on a sharp point in a Guild house somewhere along the road to Beal. He thought about it and shook his head. It wasn’t quite enough.

  Looking at it from the wrong angle. All right, then, the others. Suidas Deutzel, because he’d had such a bad war, because he could be relied on to crack up when surrounded by messers and Blueskins and Aram Chantat – cause an incident, make a scene, start a war. Addo Carnufex, because he’s the son of the man who drowned Flos Verjan and all those women and children; and because there was no way his death would go unavenged. Iseutz, because they needed a girl, also expendable, because the Permians are so inhuman they kill young girls as well as grown men: no, that’s weak. But he couldn’t do any better, and it wasn’t essential to establish every part of the chain, not right now. Phrantzes: there had to be something about him, but he didn’t know what it was. Add Giraut Bryennius, the walking affront to common decency. No, he wasn’t there yet, not quite.