Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  “I don’t suppose you remember me.” It was the old man who’d been on his left during the ceremony, and he was absolutely right. “Well, you wouldn’t,” he went on. “The last time I saw you, I think you were five years old. You were made to come down after dinner and recite The Last Survivor for your father’s guests.”

  “I remember that,” Addo said. “But I’m sorry, I don’t think I know …”

  “My name is Perceptuus,” the old man said. “And apparently I’m the new Abbot of Monsacer. At least, that’s what they’ve just told me. I hope it isn’t true, but I’m afraid it probably is.”

  Addo smiled. “You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic.”

  “I’m not,” the old man said. “Being abbot will mean administration, responsibility, decisions, paperwork. Politics. If I’d wanted all that sort of thing, I’d have stayed running the Bank.”

  “Ah,” Addo said. “You used to …”

  Perceptuus smiled. “Oh yes,” he said. “My name used to be Boioannes. I ran the Bank for a long time, until I managed to palm the job off on my nephew and retire, as I thought, to the peace and seclusion of a monastic cell. Fat chance of that now.” He turned his head and smiled to acknowledge a slight bow from one of the Permian ministers. “Someone’s going to have to tell me who all these people are,” he said, “before I offend someone and start a war. Although,” he added, lowering his voice a little, “seems like that’s not quite as easy to do as we previously thought.”

  “Actually,” Addo said, “now I think about it, I do remember you. You’d had a bit too much to drink and you caught hold of one of the housemaids, and the buttons of her dress came off. My father was rather annoyed, but he couldn’t say anything to you about it, obviously, so he took it out on my brothers and me later. Yes, I’m sure it was you.”

  “What a splendid memory you must have,” Perceptuus said.

  “Faces rather than names,” Addo replied. “Of course, you had rather more hair back then.”

  Perceptuus gave him a chilly smile. “Eighteen years,” he said. “A lot’s changed in that time. For one thing, the War’s over. And the Bank’s now running Scheria. And your father’s enjoying his well-earned retirement.”

  Addo gave him a weary look. “You’ll know when my father’s retired. You’ll be walking behind his coffin, carrying a wreath. Look,” he went on, “I don’t know what you think about me, but my father and I don’t get along terribly well. I know I’ve disappointed him, to the point where it’s probably too late to do anything about it. He’ll be livid with me when I get home.”

  “Because there isn’t going to be a war.”

  “Yes.”

  Perceptuus nodded. “He sent you here to start one.”

  “I don’t remember saying that,” Addo replied. “But it’s not exactly a secret that he doesn’t like the Bank and that he reckons the old army families should be running Scheria, like they always have done. A war would’ve put things back the way they were. We’d have beaten Permia, and once we’d got hold of the mines there’d be plenty of money to make up for what we all lost in the war, so there’d be no more need for the Bank. That’s how he sees it, anyway. You know that perfectly well.”

  “Is that how you see it?”

  Addo shook his head. “Not up to me,” he said.

  “He sent you here to get killed.”

  Addo breathed in deeply and out slowly. “My father and I don’t get along terribly well,” he repeated. “Duty’s important to him, and me too. I’ve spent my life trying to find a way to make him not disappointed in me. It looks like that’s not going to be possible now.” He shrugged. “I suppose I’ll have to live with it. My problem, not anybody else’s.”

  “Indeed.” Perceptuus looked down at his hands; they were calloused and split from gardening. “I imagine he’ll try and make the most of the situation, in spite of things not going exactly how he meant them to. That was always one of his great strengths as a strategist.”

  “He’ll win in the end,” Addo said. “He always does.”

  “Not if you stop him.” Perceptuus kept very still, the way a stockman keeps still when he’s trying to catch a skittish calf. “If you were to tell people back home exactly what happened here, how your father sent you to start a war, how he was quite prepared to see you die for it …”

  “Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Addo said.

  “Couldn’t you?”

  “Certainly not. He’s my father, it’d break his heart. And I don’t suppose anyone would believe me if I did. Besides, that’s not the way to handle someone like my father. Believe me, I know all about that.”

  Perceptuus tilted his head on one side. “You’ve got an alternative.”

  “Well.” Addo looked away. “You see, I was brought up to believe that family matters: the honour of the house, its traditions, the way we do things. I believe that my father’s done wonderful things for our country, and he deserves to go down in history as a great and good man, whose motives were always pure and unselfish, and whose judgement was above reproach. Now I don’t think he’d want to be remembered as the man who led a military coup and set up a dictatorship against the wishes of the people. It’d spoil everything. I’m guessing he wouldn’t want that, but maybe his judgement’s a little clouded by what he sees as his duty to the state. You see, he thinks the Bank is a very bad thing, and maybe he’s the only one who can get rid of it and put things back how they should be. If that’s how he sees it, he’d willingly sacrifice his personal honour and reputation. He’s always realised that you can’t do the right thing without making sacrifices. It’s the greatest lesson he ever taught me.”

  Perceptuus frowned. “I’m not sure where this is leading,” he said.

  “Good,” Addo replied, and he smiled.

  The Aram Chantat left that night, suddenly, in the rain. The deep ruts left by the wheels of their carts filled with rainwater, which quickly dissolved into mud, which bogged down the grain and produce wagons coming into the City just before first light, which caused a gridlock at the major bottlenecks at Cornmarket and the Westgate, which blocked traffic in and out of the capital as effectively as a besieging army. The Imperials, sent by the City authorities to sort out the mess, closed the City gates until nightfall.

  “No big deal,” Tzimisces told them. “It’s just one more day and then we’ll be on our way out of here. That’s a promise.” He smiled. “But since we’re here, and since we’ve got nothing better to do, I’ve agreed to a couple of additional engagements just to round the tour off, capitalise on the goodwill, that sort of thing. Nothing arduous, you have my word.”

  The rain had set in hard; sideways rain brought in on a sharp east wind. Luzir Beal had been built by Imperial engineers who knew all about drainage. There were drainpipes on every building, emptying into open gutters in the streets leading to underground sewers, but the grilles had silted up and the gutters were overflowing; several main thoroughfares were ankle deep in water, and shops and stores in the market district were flooded out; might as well be in Flos Verjan, Addo overheard someone say. It was a joke and the speaker’s companion laughed, but Addo remained stony-faced.

  The first engagement was a reception for the Permian Mine Owners’ Association. There was white wine, hard biscuits and jars of pickled cabbage; the mine owners didn’t seem particularly interested in the fencers, but Tzimisces and the elderly priest who’d shown up just after the big match held court for quite some time. After that they had to go and watch an exhibition bout put on by the Permian Guild; Addo had to present the prizes. The standard was low and the Permian fencers were trying too hard. A young man fencing rapier tried to emulate Giraut’s trademark volte and got stabbed in the groin, apparently by accident, and a longswordsman lost a finger, trapped against the guard of his own sword in a high left block. The smallsword bout was won by the girl who’d fought Iseutz; she seemed to have made a remarkable recovery, but as she took her bow, Giraut could see blood on her clothes, where
she’d split her stitches. Addo got a standing ovation, and a trio of terrified-looking children presented him with a wreath of white flowers. Giraut watched Tzimisces while Addo bent double so that the children could get the wreath over his head: He’s punishing him, he thought, but couldn’t figure out what for. Iseutz, he decided, probably thought the same. She was scowling at the back of Tzimisces’ head, and when Addo eventually escaped and went back to his seat, she shot a quick, nervous smile at him that made him turn bright red.

  Suidas was waiting for them when they got back to the Guild house. He was sitting on a huge trunk, one of a dozen piled up in the entrance lobby. “For us,” he explained. “To replace all our kit and stuff. I haven’t looked inside, so God only knows what they’ve issued us with.” He grinned at Iseutz. “I hope for your sake they’ve finally established that you’re not a man,” he said. “Otherwise …”

  “Funny man,” Iseutz said. “Well, they definitely owe us something. I’ve been wearing these rags so long, they can practically stand up on their own.”

  “Maybe,” Suidas replied gravely, “but can they fence?”

  Iseutz couldn’t be bothered to reply to that. Giraut said: “Does all this mean they’re actually letting us go?”

  “Looks like it,” Suidas replied cheerfully. “Apparently they’ve cleared up the jam at the gate, so the road’s open again. So unless you lot’ve got any more ceremonies you want to go to, we can be on our way.”

  “No,” Iseutz said loudly. “No more ceremonies. Absolutely not.”

  Phrantzes looked at Tzimisces, who laughed. “I’d sort of promised we’d put in an appearance at the Finance Minister’s meeting with the mine bosses, but …”

  “No,” Addo said firmly. “We’ve done enough. It’s time we went home.”

  “Fair enough,” Tzimisces said. “Leave them wanting more, as they say. Actually, there’s talk of making this an annual event; and then there’s the reciprocal tour, them coming to us. One way or another, we’ll be seeing quite a bit more of the Permians than we’re used to.”

  “I’ve seen enough Permians to last me,” Suidas said, and nobody looked at him. “One way or another.”

  The rain started again as they walked to the coach, which was really a cart with an improvised roof, drawn by six massive horses. Inside were two plain wooden benches. “Inconspicuous,” Tzimisces explained. “I don’t suppose you really want to be mobbed by cheering crowds every step of the way to the DMZ.”

  “It looks like a hearse,” Giraut said.

  “Oddly enough, that’s exactly what it was this time yesterday,” Tzimisces said. “Inspired choice on the part of our hosts, because Permians always look the other way when a hearse goes by. Respectful. You draw these curtains here, and nobody’ll know the difference.”

  Iseutz wasn’t happy. “We’re riding back to Scheria in the pitch dark, are we?”

  “Well, you’ve seen all the scenery already. Don’t worry,” Tzimisces added cheerfully, “we can draw the curtains once we’re away from the city. And we’ll have a Blueskin escort to the border, so that’s all right.”

  Suidas said, “What about the luggage? There isn’t room for all that stuff they gave us.”

  “It’ll follow on in another cart.”

  Suidas sighed. “That’s the last we’ll be seeing of it, then. Pity. Probably worth a lot of money.”

  “That reminds me.” Tzimisces turned, and a footman in Guild livery appeared out of nowhere. He was holding a flat burr-walnut case about two and a half feet long, with silver hinges and catches. “Present for you,” he said. “From me. So you won’t want to stop at every town and village.”

  Suidas looked at him. “I’m guessing …”

  “Yes. Finest quality. Matched pair. Best maker in Permia. By appointment to the Guild. I asked the Master who was the best man to go to. Cost me a fortune, but what the hell, the Bank’s paying.”

  “No thanks.” Suidas gave him a look of pure loathing. “Already got one. Here, Addo, you can have the bloody things. No good to me.”

  “Thank you,” Addo said gravely. He took the box and threw it into the coach. It clattered as it hit the floorboards. “I’m sure they’ll come in handy for something.”

  When the Minister of the Interior had asked Addo at one of the receptions if there was anything he could do for him, Addo had said he’d be really glad of something to read on the way home. As soon as the coach was out of the city, therefore, and Tzimisces allowed them to draw the curtains, he fished in the pockets of his coat and produced a small heap of tiny books, all apparently identical, bound in cream-white vellum. “The complete works of Callianis,” he said, handing books to the others. “In twelve volumes. I suggest we read them and pass them round. Should make the journey go a little faster.”

  “Wonderful,” Suidas said. “Who the hell is Callianis?”

  “I don’t actually know,” Addo replied. “But I sort of got the impression I was supposed to have heard of him, so I said thank you very much. Well,” he added, “it’s got to be better than looking at the countryside.”

  Iseutz opened her book at random, squinted at the tiny lettering, opened her eyes wide and shut the book. “It’s …”

  “Yes,” Tzimisces said. “Illegal to own in Scheria, of course, but I gather it’s an exhaustive exploration of the subject.” He opened his book and flicked through the pages. “No pictures,” he said sadly. “Well, not to worry. I’m given to understand that the descriptions are incredibly evocative, so no great loss. Let’s see,” he added, turning to the title page. “I’ve got C to F. God bless the Minister of the Interior. Clearly a man of exceptional taste and judgement.”

  Addo closed his book and put it on the seat beside him. “I’ve still got my chess set,” he said.

  Iseutz dropped her book on the floor and wiped her hands on her sleeves. “Typical,” she said. “Sharp swords, dirty books and pickled cabbage. Why has everything on this trip got to be horrible?”

  Suidas leaned forward and picked up the book she’d dropped. He opened it, narrowed his eyes, held it almost at arm’s length. “It’s poetry,” he said.

  “Classic pre-Partition Imperial trochaic hexameters,” Tzimisces said. “We used it as a set book in our verse composition classes at the Academy. Fifty-five thousand lines and never a misplaced caesura.”

  Suidas closed the book and put it in his pocket. “I don’t go much on poetry,” he said.

  “That I can believe,” Tzimisces said. “How about you?” he said to Phrantzes, who was sitting opposite him, keeping very still. “Very much your sort of thing, I understand.”

  Phrantzes looked at him. “I’m afraid my eyesight’s not up to such tiny lettering.”

  “Ah well.” Tzimisces grinned. “Take it home. Maybe your wife could read it to you.”

  Phrantzes nodded; then he drew back his foot and rammed his heel into Tzimisces’ groin. Tzimisces gasped and his head shot forward, making it easy for Phrantzes to drive his left fist into his face. There was a cracking noise, and Tzimisces lolled back in his seat, clutching his head in both hands. Blood dripped from his chin into his lap. Iseutz whooped with joy. Phrantzes settled back into his seat, opened the book Addo had given him and started to read.

  Suidas set Tzimisces’ broken nose for him; not a particularly neat job, but, as he explained, the jolting and lurching of the coach made any sort of finesse difficult. “That’s the trouble with riding in a vehicle with no suspension to talk of,” he said. “You get thrown about all over the place, and accidents happen. Like just now.” He pressed his thumb gently on Tzimisces’ nose. “Isn’t that right?” Tzimisces groaned. “He agrees with me,” Suidas said, and wiped blood off his fingers. “Well, look at us,” he said. “We’ve all been in the wars, haven’t we?”

  “Except me,” Giraut said quietly.

  “I guess you were just born lucky,” Suidas said.

  Addo spoke to the escort commander, who was under the impression that they were go
ing home by way of Autet, Savotz, Bel Semplan and several other large towns. Addo quickly put him straight on that point. They were, in fact, taking the shortest possible route, avoiding all centres of population larger than a middling-sized farmstead, and under no circumstances letting anyone know they were the unbelievably famous Scherian fencing team. The commander sent a rider back to clarify the position, in case the authorities were under the same misapprehension and put out search parties when they didn’t show up. He also apologised about the supply situation. If they weren’t going to be stopping in large towns, the fencers would have no option but to take pot luck with the escort – plain military rations, nothing fancy. Addo, who had fond memories of Imperial plain military spit-roast lamb with pearl barley and apricots, said that he and his colleagues were prepared to rough it.

  Two days out from Luzir Beal, they crossed a wide, bare moor. The road was ruler-straight, with perfectly squared milestones every three and a quarter miles. They saw a few crows and, very occasionally, a lark bursting out of the heather as they passed; otherwise, nothing living. Eventually, as it was starting to get dark, they came to a grey granite blockhouse; they didn’t see it until they were practically on top of it, because somehow it blended perfectly into the black stems of the recently burnt heather. The door was open, the building was completely empty. As usual, the Imperials conjured up blankets, pillows and a disturbingly sophisticated set of cooking utensils out of their minimalist saddlebags. “Roast lamb again, I’m afraid,” the captain said sadly. Nobody complained.

  In the morning they started early, since they could all see a thick mass of iron-grey cloud directly behind them, softening the horizon until it was hard to tell sky from ground. “If we crack on a bit, we might well outrun it,” the captain said hopefully. “I’d rather not get caught out in the open by that lot.” But the rain swept over them shortly afterwards, carried in on a violent wind that tore open the curtains of the coach. The escort closed in on both sides to act as a human windbreak, but there wasn’t much they could do. After an hour, the whole party was wringing wet, wiping rainwater out of their eyes with the backs of sleeves sodden into felt. The fencers huddled forward in their seats, eyes closed, feeling each raindrop, while the Imperials fretted about the depth of the mud and the danger of the cart bogging down and getting stuck. Then, quite suddenly, the cart stopped.