Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  She was quite wrong about the pain. It did apply to her, after all.

  Two men were helping Iseutz, each of them holding an elbow, helping her to shuffle along, like a very old woman supported by her grandsons. The violent tremor of relief he felt when he saw her surprised Addo, shocked him somewhat, but he didn’t have the time or the spare attention to do more than note it and recognise that there would be implications, if he lived that long. Still, he thought, she’s alive, and standing, that’s what matters.

  He felt empty as he walked through the gate, still holding the messer in his left hand. As he emerged into the light, there was a sudden, extraordinary silence, as ten thousand Permians got their first look at the son of the Irrigator. Then a roar; a bursting of sound from overhead, like – he shrugged off the obvious, inevitable simile that his mind had found for him. Yes, like the sound the water must have made, thundering down the mountainsides. Fine. He didn’t know if the sound was hostile or friendly; probably both, he decided. Anyhow, it wasn’t important. Iseutz was alive, so at least something was probably going to be all right. They wouldn’t murder an injured woman in cold blood, no matter what. Would they?

  Define murder. He looked round, but he was alone in the arena; the ten thousand in the stands didn’t count. Then the sound nearly crushed his head, as the people of Luzir Beal welcomed the arrival of the Permian champion.

  It would’ve been a good idea, Addo realised, to have tried to find out something about the opposition beforehand. But there hadn’t been time, nobody to ask, and it had slipped his mind. Now he saw him, the opponent, the enemy, the other man. Addo resisted the temptation to smile. If he’d been given the job of making a Permian messer champion out of clay, and he’d had the necessary skill, working from first principles but without drawings and sketches, this was what he’d have come up with.

  He was about six feet, very broad across the shoulders, about thirty years old; in fact, he looked like Suidas Deutzel with a beard. He wore a green linen shirt with big puffy sleeves, blue breeches and white woollen stockings, fencing pumps with silver buckles. He had a friendly sort of a face, very hard to read. He would undoubtedly have been in the War. His messer was the double-fuller pattern, relatively short and broad in the blade. Without that thing in his right hand he’d probably be a sensible, reasonable sort of fellow. He stopped just outside long measure and bowed. Addo responded in kind. The arena was suddenly quiet, so quiet that Addo could hear a bird singing a very long way away.

  Concentrate, he told himself, but he was finding it difficult to keep his mind on this, and not the other thing. Slowly the Permian straightened up out of the bow. When his back was straight, the fight would be on.

  Fight messer like you’d play a chess game. His father’s only observation on the subject, and from what he’d seen of messer-play, entirely wrong and inappropriate. Still, in the absence of any supervening instructions from a source of equivalent authority, those were presumably his orders. He wondered if his father had ever seen a messer, let alone picked one up; but he opened with a mildly aggressive gambit and took a long pace forward, into middle distance.

  The Permian swung at him. Cut number four, left-to-right horizontal; weak with any other weapon, practically unanswerable with a big, sharp knife. He jumped back out of the way, landed on both heels, traversed a half-pace left. The missed cut had become the potential for either a middle thrust or a number seven cut, rising from the right, kneecap or shin. He traversed another half-step left, crowding into the Permian’s attack, the way you would with a civilised weapon. He tried to make it look like a mistake, but the Permian wasn’t that stupid; he traversed right and restored the balance.

  The solution to the riddle dropped neatly into place, and Addo cursed himself for not spotting it earlier. A simple matter of emphasis. Fight messer like you’d play a chess game. Of course.

  So he dropped into a low back guard; left knee and shoulder forward and exposed, sword-hand back behind his right leg, see-me-I’m-the-target. Maybe a little bit too subtle; the Permian swung again, his lead foot following the blade, turning so he was practically hiding behind the sword as he hauled his body into the attack. Really? In the fraction of a second available, there was only one way to find out. Addo pivoted on the ball of his right foot, a textbook broadsword volte, stabbing for the Permian’s ribcage as he went.

  Thought not: he’d misread the Permian’s line, which carried him wide and just in front of the thrust. Still, his position was awful, practically with his back to Addo, who traversed right as the Permian spun round through two-seventy degrees, cutting number four at chin height. All Addo could do about that was a rather clumsy block right in front of his nose; still, it worked, though the force of the blow knocked his hand back on to his face, crushed his upper lip against his teeth enough to draw blood. He darted backwards for living space, which gave the Permian all the time and room he needed to do whatever he liked.

  A man, luckily, of limited creativity; he went for a straight, tight middle-guard thrust, which a lifelong longswordsman like Addo had no trouble at all in batting away, like a cat with a ball of wool. He flicked out a half-hearted wrist cut at the Permian’s neck, just to keep him away, and converted it into a high middle guard while he tried to collect his thoughts.

  Not doing this right, Addo decided, wandering away from the plan. He tried the same again: low back guard, inviting the attack. The Permian just stood there and looked reproachfully at him.

  The hell with it, Addo thought, I haven’t got time for this, and I need to conserve my energy. He asked himself: what’s the worst, stupidest thing I could do from here, and how would I recover? Only one answer to that. He pivoted on his front foot and swung into a number one cut, right to left, diagonally down on the Permian’s neck.

  It was like controlling a puppet; no, it was like herding geese – you want them to go right, you take a step left. Immediately the Permian traversed left, making room to stab Addo in the stomach. Before he’d even completed the bound-to-fail cut, Addo let go of his messer – luckily it fell safe, instead of hitting his leg on the way down – and was nicely in time to clap his hands around the Permian’s blade about three inches away from his skin.

  It took him two inches to stop it – it would’ve been touch and go without the double fullers, which gave him purchase, something to press into – but after that it was a piece of cake. The Permian, who clearly didn’t know it was possible to do that, made no attempt at all to hold on to his sword, which Addo nipped out of his hand and sent flying away to his left. Then, with rather more force than was absolutely necessary (he regretted it later), he kicked the Permian in the balls and, as he doubled up and his head swung forward, punched him sweetly and precisely on the point of the chin. Checkmate in six moves.

  “Is that it?” the no Vei asked querulously. “That’s all?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s only been, what, a few minutes.” The Cosseilhatz clicked his tongue. “Not long enough to fry a pan of sausages. We came all this way just to see that?”

  The interpreter didn’t answer. He had a sort of dazed look, such as a lifelong atheist might wear after being jostled by God in the street. “Well?” the Auzeil demanded. “How was it? Was it a good fight?”

  The interpreter shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, the Carnufex boy definitely won, but I don’t know how. It’s almost as though he caught the blade in his bare hands.”

  The no Vei shrugged. “He did. I saw him.”

  “But that’s impossible,” the interpreter said furiously. “You can’t do that, it simply can’t be done. It’d cut through your fingers like slicing beans.”

  “Is there going to be a ceremony now?” the Auzeil asked. “Prizes and medals and so on?”

  The interpreter didn’t seem to have anything left to say. “Oh, I should imagine so, yes,” the no Vei answered for him. “Undoubtedly. For the ones who can still walk, anyway.”

  “Only,” the A
uzeil said, “the Carnufex boy left in a terrible hurry. You’d have thought he’d at least have taken a bow.”

  Addo ran up the stairs, three steps at a time. At the top he barged into Giraut, spun him round, yelled, “Sorry” over his shoulder.

  “Addo,” Giraut shoued after him, “where are you—”

  “Doctor,” Addo called back from the catwalk. “For Iseutz.”

  Along the catwalk, through the far archway, down the spiral staircase, along a covered walkway; short, agonised pause while he struggled to pull the fleeting glimpse of the ground plan back into his mind. See-it-once-and-remember memory. At the junction, he turned left. He still had the messer in his right hand.

  As he’d anticipated, there was nobody about; not in the corridor, not in the back lobby of the Governor’s mansion – he’d been there before, when the Guild officials had smuggled them in for the induction ceremony, a hundred years ago, yesterday. Lobby: in the far north corner, look for a discreet doorway, leading to a narrow stone staircase going down. He found it, ran down it far too fast, got away with it; found himself in a long oak-panelled gallery hung with portraits, turn right. At the end of the gallery, two doors. Left-hand door leads into the tunnel. The door might well have been locked, but it wasn’t. Into the tunnel. It was broad, straight and paved with blue and yellow tiles. He ran.

  At the end of the tunnel, a door, exactly as shown on the plan. And, in front of it …

  “Excuse me,” the herald said, “but where’s the rest of you?”

  It took Phrantzes a moment to parse the enquiry. “I don’t know,” he said. “Giraut Bryennius was here a moment ago. I think Addo Carnufex went to find a doctor for Iseutz …” He realised he’d forgotten her second name. Didn’t matter. “I have no idea where she is.”

  “With the doctor,” the herald replied. Then he must have noticed that Phrantzes was lying down. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Phrantzes sighed. “I suppose I’ve got to be,” he said, and swung his legs off the table. “Presumably we’ve got to go somewhere and bow or something.”

  “There’s a short ceremony, yes,” the herald replied. “As soon as the First Minister arrives.”

  Phrantzes frowned. “What, you mean he wasn’t here for the fight?”

  “Oh yes, he saw the fight,” the herald replied. “Now he’s in his chambers getting dressed. Ceremonial robes. For the ceremony.”

  “Ah.” Phrantzes nodded. It sort of made a kind of sense. “How long do you think he’ll be?”

  The herald looked vaguely shocked. “That’s not for me to say. But they need you to be standing by, so that as soon as he gets here—”

  “Fine,” Phrantzes said. “Tell you what. I’ll stand by here, and you can go and round up the others. They can’t have gone terribly far, I don’t suppose.”

  “Suidas,” Addo said.

  He was sitting on the floor, his back to the door, a messer lying across his knees. There was a brown smear on the blade that might just as easily have been rust. He looked dirty, exhausted and ill. “There you are,” he said.

  “Suidas.” Addo couldn’t help staring. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “You first.”

  “Me?” Addo frowned. “Looking for a doctor. Iseutz …”

  “No doctors down here, sorry.” Suidas grinned at him. “This tunnel doesn’t go anywhere. No, I tell a lie. It leads to the back stairs to the old Audience Room. How do I know that?”

  Addo shrugged. “Suidas, I really do need to—”

  “Tzimisces told me. Well, he gave me a map. Cut him off there, he said – meaning right here, this door. Who? I asked him. I don’t know, he said, but whoever it is, he’ll be coming up the tunnel heading for this door.” He paused. “You know, I always thought I was quite bright, but I’m not, evidently. I was pretty sure it’d be Giraut. After all, he’s got form for killing statesmen.”

  “Suidas.” As though using the name gave him a measure of control. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You,” Suidas replied. “Your job. Sorry, your mission, you’re too posh to have a job. Through that door, up the stairs, kill the First Minister of Permia while he’s getting dressed for the presentation. Like you killed the politicians in the other cities. To start a war, for Daddy.”

  Addo took a deep breath, and let it go slowly. Then another. “That’s simply not true, Suidas,” he said. “Look, I don’t know what’s been happening to you since you—”

  “Exposure? Bang on the head? Yes, actually.” Without looking down, Suidas placed his hand on the messer handle, didn’t close his fingers. “And you’re right, I’m about this far from losing it completely. But I know you’re going to kill the Permian. No, scrub that. You’re not going to kill the fucking Permian. I’m not going to let you. Kill you if I have to.”

  “Suidas.” Addo was pleading. “I really do need to find a doctor. Iseutz was hit, badly. There isn’t time …”

  “So it’s you.” Suidas pulled a sad face. “I wish it’d been young Bryennius. He’s chicken, I could’ve dealt with him with one hand tied behind my back. You …” He shrugged. “God, I’m tired,” he said. “Ran most of the way here, and I really don’t like to run. Look, why don’t you just piss off back to the prizegiving and save us both a lot of unnecessary effort?”

  Addo’s face changed, very slightly. “Sorry,” he said.

  “Really? I don’t think—”

  “And please don’t play for time,” Addo went on briskly. “I haven’t got very long, and I need to go through that door.” He hesitated, as though he’d ordered his body to advance and it hadn’t obeyed him. “Look, I know you’ve got some crazy idea in your head, but really, I need to find a doctor, for Iseutz. If I don’t, she could die.”

  Suidas smiled at him and rose slowly to his feet. “I’ll try not to kill you,” he said. “If you die in Permia, there’ll probably be a war anyway. Presumably that was the plan.”

  Addo’s hand tightened on the hilt of his messer. “My father once told me—”

  “Fuck your stupid fucking father,” Suidas said. “And fuck you too.”

  Addo sighed, then swung, front foot and sword hand together. Suidas moved, fast and confident, but he’d misread the line completely, right up to the last possible moment, when he winced sideways. The messer hit him on the point of the shoulder, cutting away the seam of his coat and a circular patch of flesh the size of a five-nomismata coin. Before he could recover, Addo hit him in the face with the elbow of his sword hand, sending him sprawling against the wall. The back of his head hit the stonework with a thick, solid thump, and he whimpered.

  “Sorry,” Addo said. “I really am.”

  Suidas sprang at him. He’d dropped his messer, and he grabbed with both hands for Addo’s sword arm. Addo traversed about six inches left, smashing Suidas in the face with his left forearm as he fell past him. Suidas hit the door and bounced off it; his fingers were scrabbling on the floor for the hilt of his messer. Addo put his heel on Suidas’ hand and ground his fingers into the floor. “This is stupid,” he said. “Please, no more. I don’t want to—”

  But Suidas had got the messer in his left hand, a reverse grip, the way an amateur holds a dagger. He swung up to drawcut Addo’s shin, and got a kick to the forehead instead. He fell backwards, and the messer clattered on the tiles. Addo kicked it away down the corridor. “That’ll do,” he said. “That’s enough.”

  Blood was welling up from a cut just above Suidas’ eye, pouring down his face, flooding his eye socket; just the sort of wound you’d expect, Addo couldn’t help thinking, from the son of the man who drowned Flos Verjan. He reached with his left hand for the door handle and turned it. Locked.

  “Key,” Suidas said, and grinned.

  “Give it to me,” Addo commanded.

  “Ask nicely.”

  Addo aimed a kick at his face, but this time Suidas managed to get out of the way. He got both hands round Addo’s ankle, and pulled. For a mo
ment, Addo kept his balance, but Suidas was very strong; he felt his knee buckle, and then he was on the floor, lying on his side, on top of the messer, and Suidas’ fingers were fumbling aside the cloth of his collar. He tried to push him away with his left hand, but it was cramped tight to his body, he couldn’t get the leverage. Suidas’ fingers were touching his skin, grossly intimate, and his breath was in his face. He slammed his forehead against the cut on Suidas’ face, to cause pain; Suidas yelled, but his fingers tightened. I’m not going to get out of this, Addo thought, and it made him go cold all over. He flailed wildly with his feet, and his heel ripped down Suidas’ shin and on to his instep. Suidas howled and let go for a moment, just for the moment Addo needed to shift his weight, pull the messer out from under him. Suidas must’ve seen, or maybe he sensed that the messer was loose and free; he sprang back, somersaulting on to his heels and leaping up. Addo swung wildly at his feet, to keep him away. He could see Suidas staring at the messer – I’ve got one, you haven’t, as simple as that. He was frozen.

  “I’m going to stand up now,” Addo said, slow and clear. “Stay away from the door, and give me the key.”

  Suidas nodded slowly, and reached into his coat pocket with his left hand. He brought out a knife. He was holding it with his fingers extended, the thumb trapping the handle against his palm, the approved hold for knife-throwing.

  He might miss, Addo told himself. Especially if I move.

  He moved. Suidas threw. Addo felt something bash against the side of his face, but he was still alive and capable of movement. He swung the messer: feint to the head, turn the wrist for a horizontal cut to the left shoulder. Suidas read that one just fine. He traversed right, aiming a punch at Addo’s jaw that would’ve cracked it like a featherboard plank if it had only connected; but Addo wasn’t there. Somehow he’d managed to get out of the way and materialise just behind Suidas’ left shoulder, the messer levelled for an underarm thrust to the stomach.