Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  Tzimisces. For a moment he considered the possibility that the whole thing was simply a device for getting Tzimisces into Permia and giving him an excuse to wander about the place, doing whatever it was he had to do, without drawing undue attention to him. Colonel Tzimisces, political officer; sent by the Bank, or the Temple or the rump of the military, to outbid the Permians for the services of the Aram Chantat. He disappears, Aram Chantat horsemen wipe out an Imperial column. No, it didn’t feel right. Almost, but not quite.

  A single intake of breath from the crowd, followed by a tremendous roar. Bad news for somebody, presumably. Not that it mattered. All that mattered, he now knew, was how you lost.

  “Giraut?” He turned his head and saw Addo. “What are you doing up here?”

  “Watching the fight,” Giraut replied.

  Addo nodded. “Me too. It’s not looking too good, I’m afraid.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Giraut that Phrantzes might lose. He peered down, but he couldn’t even tell which of the insects was his colleague and which was the enemy. In just such a way, of course, the Irrigator would have looked down from the heights of the Verjan mountains, while judging the perfect moment to open the sluices. “He’ll be all right,” Giraut said.

  “Let’s hope so,” Addo said. “God forgive me if anything happens to him. It was me who talked him into it, after all.”

  Phrantzes was very nearly there. He’d reached the point every traveller recognises, towards the end of a long journey, between the first distant sight of the familiar landmarks of home and actually getting there: comfort, of a sort, in the knowledge that his road is now obvious and undisputed; weariness and frustration because there’s still some way to go.

  He blocked, again; clumsy and hopeless, but just enough to keep the other man’s cutting edge off his skin. His block invited a low thrust, which came, which he put aside, just about, which made inevitable a rising cut to the chin, which he caught, just about, on his crossguard. He had no strength left at all. He couldn’t slow his monstrous hyperventilation; he was drowning in air, unable to get enough breath no matter how hard he tried. Very soon, either he’d black out and collapse or the other man would finally make good on him. His defence had degenerated into an instinctive scramble, with no form or design to it. There was no way he could win from here. He was a man who couldn’t swim thrashing about in deep water; he was in a flooded room standing on tiptoe to keep the gradually rising water out of his nose and mouth. He was very nearly at the stage where he couldn’t be bothered to defend any more, but he wasn’t quite exhausted enough, and his opponent wasn’t quite good enough, and his reflexes wouldn’t let him knock over the king quite yet. He blocked again, realised he’d misjudged and left himself wide open; but the fool opposite didn’t see the gap until it was too late and he’d closed it. Idiot, he wanted to shout, but he didn’t have nearly enough breath, even though he was sucking in air by the barrelful.

  Another cut: from-the-roof, lots and lots of strength behind it, all wasted because the angle was rubbish. He deflected it, but he couldn’t possibly lift his sword enough to make the counterthrust. Instead he left it vaguely hanging, and the clown smacked at it, and the vibration ran up the handle and made the tendons of his elbows sing. If he’d had enough strength left to pick a flower, he could’ve drawcut the moron’s throat from there; instead, he blocked another wild swish, and another, and his fingers on the hilt were the fingers of a man dangling from a cliff, or an archer holding a too-strong bow at full draw. The enemy was hardly blown at all, but he’d given up trying to think, he was flailing like a beginner vainly trying to breach the guard of his instructor, who grins smugly as he flicks away each mighty buffet. It’s not like that, you clown, you’ve won. But he couldn’t see that, evidently.

  Another cut: number four in the book, horizontal, left to right, crossed hands; weak, slow, not recommended; usually compared to a man cutting hay with a scythe. Phrantzes tried to lift his sword to block but it was simply too heavy. He took a step back, and somehow the idiot contrived to miss; the useless force of his blow made him stagger – he was being dragged along by his sword, like a man with an unruly dog on a bit of string – and he landed on the side of his foot, turned his ankle over, wobbled for a moment and fell sideways. Phrantzes tried to get his sword out of the way, but by now the hateful thing weighed at least a ton. All he could do was keep the point down, so that when the idiot lurched into it, he didn’t actually skewer himself. Instead, he sort of sat down on the edge – the false edge, worse luck, not the true edge, which was blunt as a pole from two dozen feckless blocks. Phrantzes let go, but the damage had been done. The edge had sliced deep into the halfwit’s buttock, and he was leaking blood like a broken dam.

  (And that’s why you have to be so careful when you’re fencing, because accidents happen …)

  The fool hovered for a moment, then fell over. He ended up still sitting on Phrantzes’ sword, in the dirt, spouting blood from his lacerated arse. For a split second the world held its breath. Then the crowd began to cheer.

  Phrantzes was too exhausted to move, or he’d have fallen over too. But toppling himself would’ve required strength, and he had none at all. Slowly, like hemlock starting at the toes and creeping up to the neck, he realised he’d won. Which was ridiculous.

  The yelling of the crowd battered his head like waves against rocks, and he hated them. He was full to bursting with anger and hate, but there wasn’t anything he could do until his chest stopped heaving. As it was, his breathing seemed to have no effect. No matter how much air he dragged down, he desperately needed more and he wasn’t getting it. He tried to tip himself over, but he couldn’t even do that; just stood there, until eventually, about bloody time too, the gasping rate slowed and he realised he was going to make it.

  He looked at the fool, who hadn’t moved. He was sitting in a pool of blood, looking for all the world like a beetroot-eater who’s pissed himself. For a while, Phrantzes was at a loss to interpret the stupid look on his stupid face. Then he realised: that infuriating, half-witted stare was his way of begging for his life, which was the victor’s to give back or take away, as he saw fit.

  “Get up, you idiot,” Phrantzes said, and started to walk away. He managed five steps.

  When they carried him in through the door, Iseutz was sure he was dead. She felt a sharp pain in her stomach, her throat was blocked and for a moment her vision was blurred. Not what she’d been expecting.

  They carried him up the stairs to the landing, and Iseutz saw his lips move, though his eyes were closed. There was no blood that she could see. His skin looked a sort of bluish-grey.

  “Phrantzes?” she shouted. “Are you all right?”

  A faint, exasperated groan showed what he thought of that question, so she grabbed hold of one of the porters carrying (she noticed for the first time) the door he was lying on. “What’s the matter with him? Is he badly hurt?”

  The porter stared at her: useless. Phrantzes opened his eyes. His lips were moving again, but she couldn’t make out the words. “What?” she yelled at him. He looked at her, and she could tell how much effort trying to speak was costing him. “What?”

  Phrantzes spoke in a high, shattered voice. “You’re on,” he said.

  “What? Oh.” She’d forgotten all about that. “Look, are you …?” All right? No, obviously not. Likely to die, alone, in the next twenty minutes? She’d have to take a guess on that one. “Stay there and rest,” she said. “I’ll be back. Count on it.”

  He didn’t look utterly transported by joy, but she guessed that was a hurt man’s privilege. She looked around for the stupid sword, grabbed it, patted the back of her head to make sure her hair hadn’t burst free of its pins, and galloped down the stairs two at a time.

  “Good heavens,” the Auzeil said. “It’s a woman.”

  “Oh yes,” the interpreter said, nodding vigorously. “There’s been a ladies’ class in Permian fencing for, what, seventy years now. Of course t
hey only fence smallsword, but some of them are really quite good. And the Scherians …”

  “The swords aren’t sharp, are they?” The Cosseilhatz wasn’t really asking a question; more like seeking reassurance. But the interpreter nodded again.

  “Oh yes. It’s proper fencing. In Scheria I understand they use foils, though I find that hard to believe.”

  The no Vei frowned. “Foils?”

  The interpreter had to shout, because the Permian girl had just walked out. “Swords with buttons on the end, to make them safe. But we don’t. That’s just for kids, really.”

  She was about five foot six, slim, and beautiful. She was dressed from head to foot in red velvet, and her straight black hair was held back with an ivory comb. Her salute was the most graceful thing Iseutz had ever seen, and when she’d made it, she smiled. Not a mocking leer or any sort of a grin; a polite, friendly smile, from force of habit. I can’t fight that, Iseutz thought furiously.

  She told herself: don’t look at the fencer, look at the sword. So she did; and it was thin and strong, triangular section with fullers, lighter than her colichemarde but just as good for parrying. The point was a needle, a geometric paradox, tapering by mathematical progression to the disputed place where nought-point-nought-nought-one subdivided into zero – an impossibility, but real nevertheless. I can fight that, Iseutz decided. Got to, in fact, or it’ll kill me.

  It occurred to her, suddenly and without warning, that the Permian woman was probably a better fencer than she was, and that she could well die. It wasn’t the first time in her life that she’d been aware that she was in danger, but on the other occasions she’d been too busy to dwell on it: the fight with the bandits, the fencing match at Joiauz, a couple of times during the riots at Beaute. But now here was Death, in red velvet, pretty as a picture, making a graceful salute and taking a middle guard in fourth; her assurance, her perfect balance, the steadiness of her extended right hand. This woman’s going to kill me, Iseutz thought, and there’s not really very much I can do about it.

  She thought about dropping the sword and running, tried to do it, failed. Her fingers were frozen to the handle, as though she’d grabbed metal outdoors in midwinter. Something she couldn’t understand wouldn’t let her run or give up; that made her furiously angry, mad enough to want to fight, but there was no escaping the fact: the Permian girl was better at it, and was bound to win. She couldn’t feel her feet. Paralysed.

  The Permian took a step forward, closing to long measure. Iseutz felt her own back foot slide out, her front foot following. The Permian edged towards her; she retreated. There was nothing else at all in the whole world apart from the point of the Permian’s sword. She stared at it, but she knew she wasn’t really concentrating. Her mind was a blank. She’d forgotten everything she’d ever known about fencing. Her feet moved without her orders or consent.

  The Permian lunged; Iseutz put it aside to the left, moving the hilt but keeping the point still. The Permian disengaged quickly and smoothly and lunged again; Iseutz had to parry high and force the point down, and when the Permian disengaged again and lunged hard, all she could do was bunny-hop backwards into long measure, which was no answer at all. She felt panic surging through her, drowning all her practised reflexes, her instinctive responses. She tried desperately hard to open her hand to let the sword fall, but her fingers were cramped shut. The Permian lunged, and she tried to demivolte, but she couldn’t remember how to do it; instead, she managed a clumsy right-and-back traverse that just about got her out of trouble, in time for another lunge to come in directly at eye level. She had no idea what to do about that, but her left hand flicked out at the last moment and backhanded the blade away. The Permian pulled back sharply, and Iseutz realised she’d just missed a perfect opportunity for a counterthrust in straight time.

  The Permian, however, seemed impressed, enough to back away and find a new line. Pull yourself together, Iseutz commanded herself, for crying out loud. Brave words; but it didn’t alter the fact that she was fighting a superior opponent, and had just used up a year’s supply of luck.

  Suddenly, she remembered Phrantzes, the way he’d gone for Suidas like a lunatic or a drunk – no skill to speak of, and Suidas was far and away the better fighter, but Phrantzes had won. Wouldn’t work, of course; the Permian woman would turn her aggression against her, and besides, you couldn’t win at smallsword that way. Ah yes – Iseutz suddenly grinned – but you’re not going to win. So that’s all right.

  The Permian was circling, choosing her line, clearly a perfectionist, resolved to make the most of the fight of her life, show off her skill in front of ten thousand connoisseurs. Iseutz kicked away from the sand with her back foot and shot out her right arm, as if she was trying to throw her hand at the Permian’s face. It was a stupid move, because it left her wide open; a volte or demi-volte would kill her, or a deflection and counterthrust in straight time. But her point was moving very fast straight at the Permian’s left eye. She parried and made space immaculately, but that didn’t matter. Iseutz lunged again, even harder, even wilder; she knew she was going to die, but really, so what? She felt a muscle in her forearm tear – you can’t lunge like that without doing yourself a mischief, so nobody does, so nobody practises a defence against it. A strong, sweetly economical parry put her blade aside, leaving her in direct line for a killing riposte. She ignored it and thrust again. The Permian parried, not quite so well this time, trying to bring herself round to Iseutz’s inside line. The hell with that. Iseutz lunged at full stretch, and the Permian woman’s point hit her in the mouth.

  When Giraut saw Phrantzes collapse, he stood quite still for a moment, as if he’d been walking in a city and suddenly realised he was lost. Then he ran back along the catwalk. He assumed Addo would follow.

  The Permians who’d carried him out of the arena were putting him down on the floor when he reached the landing. He pushed one of them aside and knelt down. “Phrantzes,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “No. Yes, I’m fine, I’m just exhausted. What’s happening with Iseutz? How’s she doing?”

  Giraut had forgotten all about her. “I don’t know. I’ll go and look.” He hesitated. “You’ll be all right?”

  “Yes. Go on, quickly.”

  She’ll be fine, Giraut muttered under his breath as he scrambled down the stairs, she’ll be fine. He could hear gasps and shouts from the crowd, but that could mean anything; he knew they were perfectly capable of cheering for a Scherian. He reached the foot of the stairs and pushed the doors open, just in time to see …

  The Cosseilhatz, who was short-sighted, leaned forward. “What happened?” he asked.

  The interpreter frowned. “I’m not sure.”

  Addo, climbing back on to the catwalk, heard the deep rumble of the crowd gasping and froze. He glanced down, but there wasn’t time. My fault, he told himself, and ran.

  At the door, he stopped. He was covered in dust, and his shirt was ripped at the shoulder, where he’d caught it in a window stay, of all the stupid things. No fit state to go out in front of ten thousand people; but the noises the crowd were making suggested he’d run out of time for making himself look presentable. He patted helplessly at his knees and thighs, and told himself that everybody would be much too far away to see.

  He’d left his messer on the table, but Phrantzes was lying there. He couldn’t see any blood. “Have you seen my messer anywhere?” he asked. Phrantzes stared at him. “It was here on the table, but …”

  “On the floor,” Phrantzes said. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, I haven’t been watching.” Addo was on his hands and knees, looking under the table. “Ah, got it, thank goodness for that.” He stood up, the messer in his left hand. “Is Iseutz out there?”

  Phrantzes gave him a look he almost certainly deserved, and nodded. “I think you may be on now,” he said.

  “Right.” Addo nodded. It was a strangely false gesture. “How did you do, by the way?”

&
nbsp; “I won.”

  “Excellent. Right.” Addo put the messer between his knees and rubbed his hands together, working some of the dust into his wet-soft palms. Not too much. “Where’s Giraut?”

  “Down there, watching.”

  “Splendid. Well, wish me luck.”

  Phrantzes didn’t say anything. Addo turned and walked briskly down the stairs, like a clerk who’s slightly late for the start of his shift.

  “I’m guessing,” the interpreter said, “that the Scherian woman had her mouth closed. I don’t think it was a particularly strong thrust, so presumably her lips and teeth took most of the force out of it. Usually, a stab in the mouth is game over. She must’ve been lucky.”

  “And the Permian?”

  “Stuck through the upper left arm, just above the elbow. Well,” the interpreter went on, “they’re just standing there, so I suppose that means they’ve given up and it’s a draw. Simultaneous strike. Surprisingly rare. Ought to happen far more often than it does, if you think about it.”

  Iseutz spat out the mouthful of gravel that had been her front teeth. Her mouth was full of blood, welling out of her lips like floodwater. Strangely enough, it didn’t hurt – no, that wasn’t quite right. It hurt, but the pain was happening to someone else, the other Iseutz. She realised her sword was still a third of the blade deep in the Permian’s arm, but she wasn’t quite sure of the protocol for pulling it out. Should she ask permission first? It was such an intimate act.

  The Permian had gone milk-white and frozen. She’d dropped her sword – reflex, not deliberate; now she was standing dead still, pinned to the empty air. Academic anyway, Iseutz realised, I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to. It’d come out a sort of bloody-spitty mumble. As gently as she could, like taking away your hand when you’ve just laid the last card on the roof of a perfect card house, she pulled the sword out of the Permian’s arm. She saw her wince, and felt terrible about it. As soon as the blade was free, the sword dropped from her hand, like a ripe apple from a tree.