Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  He’s going to try and trap the blade, Addo thought; but he can’t because I messed up his right hand. He thrust anyway, not looking down, for fear of what he might see.

  He felt the messer go a little way and then stop, and Suidas cried out. But the messer hadn’t gone home. Instead, Suidas had closed his right hand around it; he was gripping furiously with half-severed fingers, his grip failing as its own force drove the razor-sharp edge through flesh, tendon and bone. Addo got his hip behind the base of his hand and pushed. He felt the messer slice meat and something harder. Suidas yelled, and the resistance failed, not because Suidas had let go, but because he no longer had anything to hold on with. But he’d won himself enough time and room to wriggle away from the thrust; it gashed his coat and drew a little blood, but that was all.

  Addo pulled away. Suidas stood upright, his mangled hand still a little way out from his body; two fingers were hanging by strips of skin, like ripe apples on a branch. He was out of position, backed into the angle of the wall and the door. A simple from-the-roof or a feint-high-stab-low would finish him, there was nowhere for him to go and he had nothing left.

  He looked at Addo. “Well?”

  Addo sighed: sad, disappointed, drained. It was as though he’d come back from the War and found his home burnt to the ground. “Too late now,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Out of time.” Addo shrugged. “Even if I kill you now, by the time I’ve found the key and unlocked the door, he’ll be gone. It’s too late. There’s no point.” A tiny flare of petulance; he turned slightly and threw the messer away behind him, as if somehow rebuking it. It skittered and clattered on the tiles, like it was laughing at him. “You stupid bloody fool,” he complained, “what did you have to go and do that for? You’ve ruined everything.”

  Suidas grinned at him; then he swayed, would’ve fallen if Addo hadn’t lunged forward and caught him. “You idiot,” Addo scolded him, “look what you’ve done to your hand, it’s a complete mess. There was no need for that. I could’ve killed you, for God’s sake. I thought we were friends.”

  He let Suidas slump gently to the floor. He saw him use his left hand to fold his right hand into a fist; not to punch with, but to keep the dangling fingers safe. He’s trying to press them back on, he told himself, but that’s not going to work.

  Suidas looked up at him, still grinning. “I was right, then.”

  “What?”

  “You were going to kill the Permian. Well, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “To start a war.”

  “Yes.”

  Suidas nodded, and closed his eyes. “You’re right,” he said, “I shouldn’t have bothered. Heroics, good idea at the time …” He winced, determined not to let the pain show. “I thought maybe I’d kill you, or you’d kill me. Anyhow, it’d be over, clean, finished. I hadn’t really thought about something like this …” He lifted his right hand a few inches. “Years and years and years to regret a few minutes of bloody stupidity,” he said. “Should’ve killed me, much kinder. Still.”

  Addo’s face was empty, as though his soul had fallen out, leaving nothing at all. “Come on,” he said, “we’ll find a doctor.”

  “Yes, good idea. A Blueskin, they’re the best.” Suidas made an effort to get up, not a particularly strenuous one. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re really going to be in the shit when you get home. Still, there it is. You should’ve stood up to the bastard from the start, instead of letting him shove you around.”

  Addo laughed, a sort of horrible release. “You can’t stand up to my father,” he said. “It doesn’t work like that. You’d just get washed away.” Gently, and with all his strength, he lifted Suidas until he could stand on his own. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know it’s meaningless and it doesn’t count for anything, but I really am.”

  Suidas shrugged. “You’re quite right,” he said, “it doesn’t, not worth shit. Still, it’s too late to do anything about it, so what the hell. It’s all right,” he added, “I can stand just fine on my own now.”

  Addo let go; Suidas tottered for a moment, then began to slide sideways. Addo caught him again, pulled his left arm over his shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I don’t want a war either,” he said. “But I couldn’t …”

  Suidas took a step forward. “Did he tell you, straight out to your face, you’re expendable? Well?”

  “Not in so many words,” Addo replied. “But it was sort of obvious from context.”

  “And you were all right with that?”

  “Not particularly,” Addo replied. “But I don’t think my opinion mattered terribly much.”

  Suidas nodded. “Well, your father and I agree on something. What you’re worth.”

  They made it to the end of the tunnel, but there was obviously no way that Suidas was going to be able to manage the stairs. “Stay here,” Addo said, “I’ll get someone. I’ll be as quick as I can.”

  Suidas sat down and settled his back against the wall. “You do what you like,” he said.

  Addo nodded and started up the stairs; then he paused. “Suidas …”

  “Oh for crying out loud.” Suidas looked at him. “No, I’m not going to tell anyone, because that’d defeat the object of the fucking exercise. Yes, I might deal with you later, it all depends on whether I can be bothered or not. Also, I’ve got to be practical. I can’t work any more and your father has a great deal of money. Now piss off and find someone. I’m sick of the sight of you.”

  “Well?” said the no Vei.

  The translator blinked and shook himself. “Well,” he said, “as far as I can make out, there was an attempt on the life of the First Minister. But he’s alive and safe …”

  The First Minister had just addressed the crowd. The no Vei sighed.

  “Well, obviously,” the translator said. “And apparently the attempt was foiled by the Scherians. Two of them, anyhow: young Carnufex, and Suidas Deutzel.”

  “Deutzel,” the no Vei replied. “The older man with the big sword.”

  “No, that was Jilem Phrantzes. Deutzel didn’t fence here today. It sounds like he got wind of this assassination plot and took it on himself to go after the men responsible. He’s been terribly badly injured but he’s going to be all right, the doctors are with him now. Young Carnufex came to his aid in the nick of time, and together they fought off the assassins.” The translator paused and wiped his forehead. “Unfortunately, the assassins got away, but the authorities know who they are and they won’t get far, the situation is completely under control, there’s no cause for alarm. Well, they always say that, don’t they? But isn’t that the most amazing thing? The Scherians saving Permia, I mean. Absolutely extraordinary.”

  The three Aram Chantat looked at each other. “Quite so,” the no Vei said mildly. “And such a satisfying conclusion, don’t you think?”

  The translator had to think about that. “Oh, I’m sure there’s more to it than they’re telling us,” he said sagely. “There always is. Still, I never thought I’d hear myself say it, but thank God for the Scherians. If it hadn’t been for them, who knows what could’ve happened?”

  Tzimisces appeared out of nowhere to give them the latest news. “The doctors have done what they could,” he said. “Imperials, naturally, they’re experts at this sort of thing. They aren’t promising anything, but they think they may have saved one of the fingers. They had to amputate the middle one. Six hours they were operating. Anyway, he’s in no danger. You’ll be able to see him quite soon.” He turned and looked at Iseutz. “How about you? How are you feeling? No, don’t try and talk. It’s really not that bad. Once the cut’s healed and the swelling’s gone down, they tell me there won’t be much of a scar. You were quite lucky, you know. Another inch and you’d have been dead.”

  Iseutz looked at him and turned away. Probably just as well, Giraut thought, that she wasn’t up to saying anything.

  “As f
or you.” Tzimisces was looking at Addo, who seemed distinctly uncomfortable. “What can I say?”

  “Please,” Addo replied, “don’t go on about it. It was Suidas.”

  “Yes, but on his own, he’d have …” Tzimisces shrugged. “What makes it so special, of course, is that it was General Carnufex’s son risking his life for Permia. I think I can safely say that that’s what’s going to make all the difference.” He smiled, warm as the sun. “They’re going to put up a statue,” he said, “in the middle of Catasia Square. I should say you’re the most popular man in Permia right now.”

  “That’s stupid,” Addo said. “All I did was—”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Tzimisces said firmly. “It’s what they believe that counts. And what they believe is that the Irrigator’s son beat off a dozen murderous assassins to protect the First Minister. Talk about your fairy-tale endings. It’s perfect.” He smiled. “I expect your father will be very pleased with you,” he said. “I know I am.”

  “Visitors one at a time,” the doctor said. “And keep it short, for pity’s sake. The poor devil’s just had four of us sticking needles in him for six hours, he’s not at his best and brightest.”

  Nobody wanted to go in first. In the end, Giraut volunteered, to get it over with. As he pushed the door open, he tried to think of something to say. How are you? didn’t strike him as helpful or appropriate, but it was that or nothing.

  “Not so bad,” was Suidas’ reply. “Actually, it brings back a lot of memories, having a bunch of Blueskins sewing away at me like I’m a quilt or something.” He was lying on a low, narrow bed, his head propped up on a green silk cushion, his bandaged right hand on his chest. They’d washed and shaved him, combed his hair, even trimmed the nails of his left hand, but his face was as white as paper. He didn’t look a bit like Suidas. “I gather we did all right in the fencing.”

  “Not bad,” Giraut replied. “Phrantzes won, and Addo, and me. Iseutz drew. It went pretty well, I guess. Only Tzimisces is upset with me, because …”

  Suidas nodded. “I heard about that,” he said. “It happens, even in Scheria.”

  “Maybe it happens to me rather more than most people.”

  “There’s that. You know, you wouldn’t think from looking at you that you’re a killer.”

  “I didn’t mean to, it was …”

  Suidas gave him a little frown that meant shut up. “If I were you, I’d quit fencing,” he said. “In fact, you’d do well to avoid weapons of all kinds from now on. Seems to me they have a habit of leading you astray.” He laughed. “They can be your best friends, but sometimes they’re bad company. They keep you alive, but …”

  Giraut looked away. “I hoped I’d die in the bell tower,” he said, “after I killed the Senator.”

  “Didn’t, though, did you? And while the rest of us are marked up pretty bad, you’ve made it through all this shit with hardly a scratch. Sounds to me like you’re addicted to breathing,” Suidas said gravely. “You keep telling yourself you’ll quit, but you never quite manage. I suspect you’ll live for ever.”

  Giraut turned back to look at him. “Don’t say that.”

  Suidas laughed. “I’ve seen your type before,” he said. “You’ll be all right. Can’t say the same for those around you, but you’ll be just fine. It’s all right,” he said, leaning forward a little. “Nothing wrong with being alive. It’s what you’re for.”

  “They set me up.” Giraut was shocked to hear himself say it. “The Senator’s wife, whoever’s behind all this. They wanted the Senator killed, and they set me up. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’m sure that’s what happened. Then they sent me here, to get me out of the way, to get me killed. They thought I’d get killed. After all, I’m not a professional fencer, just an amateur, why else would they pick me for a team? They knew they fence with sharps here, and they thought I’d die and that’d help start another war. I think they meant for all of us to get killed. To start a war.”

  Suidas beamed at him. “That’s bullshit,” he said. “And you know it.”

  Iseutz was next. She looked down at him on the bed and said, “I can’t talk much, the doctor says, or I could split the stitches.”

  Suidas shrugged. “That’s fine,” he said. “Nice to be able to get a word in edgeways, though I guess I’d have preferred other circumstances. Feels like cheating.” He looked at her for a while, then said, “You know young Addo’s in love with you.”

  “Oh for—”

  “Shh,” Suidas said, “you’ll split your lip. Well, you should think about it, really. I mean, you’d never want for anything.”

  “Suidas …”

  “And there’ll be a scar,” he went on. “And it’s not like you can grow a moustache to cover it. Besides, you’d be good for each other.”

  “I’m not going to listen to this.” She’d gone bright red, apart from her knuckles, which were white. “You’re being completely—”

  “Listen.” He said it in the calm, irresistible voice he used for the horses. It’d work once, but no more than that. “I can’t say I’ve got much time for Addo Carnufex, and his father’s the biggest threat to the human race since the Great Flood. But if you marry him, you might just get to have a life, instead of growing old doing needlework and telling the cook to serve the leftover pork for dinner. If he marries you, it’ll be in direct contravention of his father’s orders, real never-darken-my-door-again stuff, so you’ll be spared the joy of being a member of the Carnufex household. You’ll get Addo away from that arsehole, and he’ll be so grateful he’ll worship you for the rest of your life. And be honest with yourself. You’re not likely to get a better offer, or any offers at all, and I don’t see you wanting to be the spinster daughter at home when you’re forty. Think about it,” he said through a big yawn. “He’s not so bad, I guess. Considering where he’s from and what he’s been through, he could’ve been a damn sight worse.”

  She frowned at him for a few moments, as if he was written in a simple code that could probably be deciphered if she could be bothered. Then her face relaxed. “Suidas,” she said sweetly, “you’re so full of shit they ought to spread you on the strawberry beds. And the day I take advice from you about—Oh hell,” she added thickly, through the web of the fingers she was pressing to her mouth. “It’s started bleeding. Now look what you’ve …”

  Tzimisces said: “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Were you surprised? To find out it was the Carnufex boy.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. “Oh, I brought you some apples, by the way.” He reached in his coat pocket. Two apples, to justify the use of the plural. Suidas looked at them. “You choose one,” Tzimisces said, “I’ll eat the other. Then you’ll know they’re not poisoned.”

  “You know what you can do with your apples, Colonel. Assuming they’ll both fit in there.”

  “Suit yourself.” Tzimisces smiled at him. “Don’t feel bad about not guessing who it was,” he went on. “I didn’t know for sure, or I’d have told you. Still, with hindsight …”

  “Yes, I know.” Suidas yawned again. “Advantages to the Irrigator of sending his son: nobody suspects what he’s planning, because they can’t believe he’d send his own son to his death. If he succeeds, there’s a war. If he fails, there’s still a war. And no chance of Addo telling anyone or getting cold feet, because the son of the Carnufex does as he’s told. Disadvantage: his son dies. But so what? The family history’s just one long catalogue of sons buried by their fathers in a good cause. They’re proud of it, which I think is disgusting. But I’m guessing he never really liked the boy all that much.”

  Tzimisces waited for a moment. “So what happened?”

  “He won.” Suidas lay back and closed his eyes. “Proved himself the better man, you might say. But he ran out of time. Once he’d realised that, he gave up. Not a killer, you see. I could tell there was a precise moment when he knew it was too late, and he …” Suidas sighed. “Not a killer,” he sai
d. “Or he’d have finished me off to shut my mouth. Now, of course …”

  Tzimisces shook his head. “Nobody would ever believe you, your word against his.”

  “I realise that.” Suidas stretched, stifled a yawn with his bandaged hand. “I don’t think he does. But I reckon that’s beside the point. He knows, even if nobody else ever will.”

  Tzimisces grinned. “A financial settlement, then, presumably.”

  “Among other things.” Suidas frowned. “After all, it’s because of him that I’ll never be able to practise my one and only skill, so why not? Compensation. The Carnufex aren’t exactly short of money.” He sighed. “You know, it’ll be nice to have the excuse. I was getting sick to death of bloody swordfighting.”

  “Well,” Tzimisces said. “I’ve got something for you, by way of a reward.”

  “Money?”

  “No,” Tzimisces replied. “Better than that. Something money can’t buy, as they say.”

  “All the things I like cost money,” Suidas replied. “But go on.”

  Tzimisces drew closer; the closeness, and the intensity of his expression, made Suidas wonder if he was about to kiss him. But Tzimisces lowered his voice and said, “The first time, in the War, when you were a carter with the supply train, and some fool sent you on a collision course with a Permian column. You haven’t forgotten that, have you?”

  Suidas frowned. “What about it?”

  Tzimisces came nearer still, until his face was so close, Suidas could smell the rosewater he’d shaved with that morning. It reminded him of Sontha. “Haven’t you ever wanted to know the name of the officer who gave that order? And wouldn’t you like to meet him? In some quiet place, where no one really gives a damn? Well?”

  Suidas felt cold. “I can’t say the thought hasn’t crossed my mind.”