The Two of Swords: Part 8

by K. J. Parker

  Two of the soldiers were scowling at him. “Yes, why not?” Pleda said. Musen nodded. The archer shrugged and said, “Go on, then.” Axeo gathered the cards. “I won, so I deal,” he said. “Let’s make it interesting. Stuiver in and raises are a quarter.”

  Pleda didn’t watch him shuffle. For his open cards, he got the Three, Four and Five of Shields, an open run. Covered, Seven of Shields, Hope and the Ten of Swords.

  There is no suit of Swords. Not in a normal pack.

  “Tens are wild,” Axeo said. “Right, who’s in?”

  The soldiers and Musen looked at Pleda’s open cards and decided not to bother. Axeo threw a stuiver into the middle, then another one. His open cards were rubbish. “Well?”

  “Tens are wild, did you say?” Musen picked up three stuivers from the pile in the grass beside him. A week’s money where he came from. “I’m in.”

  Axeo beamed at him. “Right,” he said. “Since it’s just you and me, your two stuivers and double it.”

  Another week’s pay. “Meld,” he said. He turned over his cards. “Three to Seven of Shields, plus the trump.”

  Axeo picked one card out of his hand and turned it face outwards. It was the Ace of Swords. “Sorry,” he said, and scooped up the money.

  Musen frowned. “Just a second, that’s not—”

  “Eastern rules,” Pleda said quickly. Musen stared at him, then shrugged.

  “Aces high in the East, remember?” Axeo said. “You know what, I’m enjoying this. How about another? Or we could play Cats and Buckets.”

  Pleda stayed awake all night – he couldn’t have slept if he’d wanted to – but Axeo made no attempt to talk to him privately; he rolled himself up in a thick blue blanket, with the archer’s pack for a pillow, and went straight to sleep. Pleda toyed with the idea of sending Musen to steal the ivory box from his pocket, but decided against it. He’d seen enough, anyway.

  Ace of Swords. The Ace, for crying out loud.

  Just before first light, he hauled himself up and shuffled a few yards the other side of the cart for a pee. When he got back, under his blanket, he found the ivory box. He covered it up and looked at Musen, who appeared to be fast asleep. He crawled under the blanket and opened the box by feel. It was empty.

  If Axeo missed his treasure the next morning, he gave no sign of it. They resumed their places in the cart and set off down the miraculous road. Thirty miles, maybe less, to Merebarton.

  “Another good game,” Axeo was saying, “is Blind Chopper. Do you know that one? We used to play it a lot in the army. It goes like this. Dealer deals five cards face down, you’re not allowed to look at them—”

  Pleda was having second thoughts about Axeo’s men. At first he’d assumed they were deserters, with Axeo as their officer; it was common enough, a platoon or half-platoon deciding it had had enough of the war, or finding itself in trouble on account of some breach of military law, or simply unable to resist the commercial opportunities of the total breakdown of civilisation. That might in some part explain the unswerving obedience, and the way Axeo took them so completely for granted. Pleda was still fairly sure that the four silent men were soldiers – the way they walked, talked and moved, they couldn’t be anything else – but unless there were provinces of the Eastern empire he knew nothing about, which was rather unlikely, they most definitely weren’t Easterners. Possibly they were the other lot, which would make sense of Axeo’s remark about all being patriots, and there was a degree of logic in a group of Western deserters moving east, where the ferociously keen military proctors couldn’t follow them. It was the loyalty thing that bothered him most; more than loyalty, it was rather a sort of involuntary devotion. It reminded Pleda of a shepherd he’d known; horrible man, who used to take his bad temper out on his dog, but the more he kicked the dog for no reason, the more it worshipped him. That and the business with the cards— Well. Axeo had cheated on the deal, he’d seen it quite plainly. To win, of course, to make money. But the hands he’d dealt; oh, he was a clever man, sure enough. And the pack (yes, but it had been Pleda who’d suggested a game of cards), and the Ace of bloody Swords. He made a quick interpretation of the two hands; inconclusive. Pleda didn’t really believe in fortune-telling, because with a bit of skill and sophistry you could make a deal of cards mean anything you wanted it to. The cards Axeo had chosen for him could have meant he’d reached the end of his journey and now it was time to hand his burden on to a better, stronger man; even that would be a bit too vague and convenient to base a decision on. Of course, he had no way of knowing that the handsome man really was Axeo, though if you were going to assume someone’s identity, there were a lot of better ones you could choose. One thing he was sure of. No way in hell could Axeo be the Ace of Swords—

  Could he?

  He glanced at him, then looked away quickly. The good looks, of course, the easy manner, commanding personality; you could add the honest and sincere conviction that he was the centre and sole purpose of the universe. And smart, too, almost as smart as he thought he was. And it would explain a number of otherwise inexplicable mysteries – why the war was dragging on, why both empires were going to hell, why nobody seemed to be doing anything. But no. Pleda didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it, just as he could never bring himself to believe it if someone told him the fire god created the heavens and the earth for a bet, and that plagues, wars, earthquake and famines were his idea of livening up a tedious afternoon. That’s the whole essence of faith. You wouldn’t believe something like that, even if it was true.

  All that day, oddly enough, Pleda had trouble staying awake. He yawned all the time, and only the ferocious bumps and jolts kept him from nodding off. That, he knew, would be a bad idea. Now that they’d found the road, his usefulness was at an end, whereas the cart was still every bit as valuable as it had been. Just because you’ve played cards with someone doesn’t mean they wouldn’t cut your throat in an instant, with something as precious and rare as a cart at stake.

  The soldiers had scabbed up nicely, no immediate prospect of infection, which suggested that the man he’d taken the sword from had kept it scrupulously cleaned and polished; not like an old soldier, who knows that rust and blood poisoning can make a valuable contribution to the war effort. From time to time he caught them looking at him; a hungry sort of look, like a dog watching a joint of meat just out of reach on the kitchen table. He hoped they were good dogs.

  He wanted to ask Musen if the countryside was starting to look familiar, but anything he said would be plainly heard by Axeo and his men, so he couldn’t. All he could see of Musen was his back. When Axeo made noises about stopping to stretch their legs and eat something, he put him off with a vague nearly there; the sun gave the lie to that as it lifted overhead and headed west, and still nothing to see except heather and gorse. Hell of a place to make a living, Pleda thought; don’t suppose the war’s helped much, either. At the very least there should be sheep at this time of year – summer grazing – and the shepherds living out at the shielings. But the only living things he’d seen had been larks and crows.

  “Your boots,” he said.

  Axeo had been gazing vacantly up at the sky. He sat up a little. “Sorry, are you talking to me?”

  “Yes. Your boots.”

  “What about them?”

  Pleda made him wait for a moment or so. “There you were, the five of you, miles from anywhere with no horses. So, wherever you came from, you must’ve walked.”

  “Correct.”

  “Not in those boots you didn’t. Soles are barely marked.”

  “Oh, I see.” Axeo beamed at him. “You’re quite right.” He lowered his voice, mock-furtive. “Entirely between you and me, strictly speaking, these aren’t my boots. Well, they are now, of course. Their previous owner had no further use for them.”

  Pleda studied him, as if learning him for an audition. A plausible enough explanation for a bandit to give. But, the night before they’d encountered Axeo and his gang, he�
��d looked all round to see if there was anyone, anyone at all, out on the moors with them, and he was absolutely sure he’d seen nothing and nobody. Impossible that anyone could have walked, particularly in the dark, from the horizon to where they’d stopped the cart in the space of one night. But when he’d woken up and found them sitting there on those idiotic chairs, there were definitely no horses. And boot soles that clean and unscuffed had barely touched heather at all.

  “Right,” he said. “That explains that, then.”

  “Glad to have set your mind at rest. I won’t go into details, if you don’t mind.”

  “No, that’s fine.”

  The cart stopped with a jolt. “What’s the matter now?” Axeo said. “We’re not stuck in the mud again, are we?”

  It meant taking his eyes off Axeo and his men, but Pleda twisted himself round. “What’ve you stopped for?” he said. Musen didn’t answer. The horses were still, their ears back, their heads up. Something’s wrong, Pleda thought; there’s something the horses don’t like, and they’ve stopped.

  “Drive on,” he said.

  Musen didn’t turn round. “Look,” he said.

  The cart shifted as Axeo stood up. “Where did they come from?” he said.

  “Who?” Pleda demanded; then Axeo dropped to his knees, not caring who or what he landed on. There was a yelp of pain from the man next to him. “Get down, you bloody fool,” he shouted. Who to? Then Pleda heard a sound he recognised, a sort of swish, followed by a solid noise. Missed, said a voice inside him, because nothing appeared to have happened. Then Musen fell sideways off the bench.

  He landed on his bad arm, but he didn’t make a sound. That wasn’t good.

  “Sod this,” Axeo said suddenly. He jumped up, snatched the sword from Pleda’s hand and vaulted out of the cart. His men followed as though tied to him by a rope. Another swish, this time so close that Pleda felt the slipstream as the arrow – he’d caught just a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, a shapeless blur going so fast he couldn’t really track it – passed by the left side of his head. He threw himself face down into the bed of the cart.

  The boy, he thought. He tried to get up, but fear was like a hand pressing him down, so instead he crawled down the cart and fiddled with the tailgate bolts; they were stiff and he couldn’t get them free. He used the heel of his hand as a hammer, and got cut. He tried again with his other hand, the bolts shifted and the tailgate dropped down with a bang. He slithered out over the back edge and landed on the heather with a thump that winded him.

  Musen was lying on his side, quite still. Beyond him, Pleda could see Axeo and his men, fighting – wrong word, it was too one-sided for a fight. They were outnumbered three to one at least, but the harvester faces far greater odds, one scythe against a hundred thousand stalks; it was like watching a skilled man cutting wheat, the same momentum, small, efficient movements, controlled deployment of strength, footwork, concentration and, above all, experience. Pleda thought, they weren’t anything like that when they were fighting me. He left them to it and crawled over to where Musen lay.

  He turned him over; he was breathing, which was good, but the arrow was through him and out the other side, the shoulder side of the collarbone. There was also a big smear of blood and an ugly graze on the side of his head – he must have bashed it falling off the cart, and that was what had put him out. Pleda realised he had no idea what he was supposed to do. Damaging people he’d learned about, but fixing them once damaged hadn’t been covered on the course he went on.

  He looked up. Axeo and two of his men were standing very still, their hands empty. Men with bows were walking towards them. Apparently they’d lost, after all.

  Pleda glanced over his shoulder; clear behind the cart, as far as he could tell. He could run, maybe get out of bowshot before he was noticed. Then what? Down the road to Merebarton – assuming the archers hadn’t come from there. He had no idea if Musen could be left, or if he needed urgent help, or if he was as good as dead already. The archers could’ve shot down Axeo and his two surviving men where they stood, but they hadn’t. He seemed to remember that you don’t pull an arrow out of a wound, you push it through, because of the barbs. The simple fact was, he was out of his depth. One of the archers had seen him; he was pointing, and now a couple of the others had seen him as well. Two seconds in which to run, and then the window of opportunity would be closed. He let them pass. Hell, he thought.

  Axeo was furious. “Bloody fools,” he was shouting. “You didn’t call out or anything, you just started shooting. And now two of my people are dead, and one’s got an arrow in him, and all because you can’t control your own men.”

  Difficult to gauge the reaction of the man he was shouting at, a big, stocky type in a grey hood, which covered a lot of his face. “Be fair,” he was saying; “you killed eight of mine.”

  “Yes, and whose fault is that? Only makes it worse. That’s ten men dead, thanks to your incompetence. There’s no excuse for it, do you hear? You’re an idiot.”

  “I was told not to take any chances.”

  “Oh, right. So, at the first possible opportunity, you pick a totally unnecessary fight and lose eight men.”

  It wasn’t, Pleda thought, the way prisoners usually speak to their captors. Two young men, very tall (like Musen, who seemed to have disappeared), stood behind him. They’d unstrung their bows and looked bored and sad.

  Axeo had calmed down a little. He’d stopped shouting, which made it harder for Pleda to eavesdrop; he heard, “Yes, I see that, but even so,” and, “Well, yes, of course you must, but you should’ve—” and the man Axeo was talking to had stopped backing away. Just as well. Pleda couldn’t wait any longer. He went forward – his two shadows stayed where they were – and coughed loudly. Axeo and the hooded man turned and looked at him.

  “My friend,” Pleda said. “Where is he? Is he all right?”

  “He’ll be fine,” Axeo said. “They got the arrow out and they’ve stopped the bleeding. They took him on to the village. There’s a doctor there.”

  In Merebarton? That didn’t seem likely. Pleda looked at the hooded man, who nodded. “He was lucky,” he said. “And our doctors know what they’re doing.”

  At any other time he’d have been on to the plural like a dog on a rabbit. “I want to see him, now.”

  “Of course.” The hooded man was obviously pleased to be talking to someone who wasn’t Axeo. “That won’t be a problem. You can ride back with us if you like, or you can follow on in your cart.”

  Pleda looked at Axeo. “Fine,” Axeo said. “We’ll follow you. But I haven’t finished with you yet.”

  They walked back to the cart. Axeo’s two men were nowhere to be seen. “That man,” Axeo said, “is a halfwit.”

  “Who are they? Come to that, who the hell are you?”

  Axeo jumped up on to the bench and gathered the reins. “Untie the horses, there’s a good fellow.”

  “Do you mind? That’s my cart.”

  “Oh.” Axeo frowned slightly. “Did you particularly want to drive?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Fine. Untie the horses and we’ll be off.”

  Pleda did as he was told, then hauled himself up on to the bench, as Axeo moved the horses on. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You know all that. I’m Axeo, and I’m a thief. Well, actually, I rather like highwayman, it’s got a bit of tone to it.”

  “You’re lodge,” Pleda said.

  “Well, yes, of course. I mean, we’re all lodge here, that’s pretty obvious. Isn’t it?”

  Pleda’s turn to be angry. “You were going to kill us. Craftsmen are supposed to help each other.”

  “Of course we weren’t going to kill you. Just wanted to scare the boy a bit, that’s all. Not entirely sure whose side he’s on, to be honest. Of course, you’d know more about that.”

  If he hadn’t seen the way Axeo had laid into the archers, Pleda would’ve punched him off the cart. “It wasn
’t a coincidence, was it? And you did have horses.”

  “Well, of course.” Axeo frowned at him reproachfully. “I must say, I don’t know what you could’ve been thinking of, carrying on about my boots like that. The boy must have heard; what was he supposed to think? I assumed you were in the loop, and I thought the card game made it perfectly obvious. I don’t know, maybe you’re just not very quick on the uptake.”

  Maybe it’d be worth getting killed or beaten to a pulp, just for the sheer joy of breaking that beautiful straight nose. “You know. About what we’re here for.”

  Axeo shook his head. “The specifics, no. All I heard was, watch out for an Eight of Swords and some hick boy; they’re running an errand up your way. They neglected to mention whether the boy was secure, so I thought I’d play it safe and act the big, bad bandit. Gave me the shock of my life when you started carving up my men. That’s taking being in character too far, I thought.”

  “Who are you?”

  Axeo smiled at him. “Sorry,” he said. “You’d need clearance for that. For all I know you’ve got it, but that’s the point, I don’t know, do I? Any more,” he added, “than I know who these clowns are. Except that they’re lodge; high cards, no trumps. At least, none I’ve been shown yet.” He broadened his smile into a grin. “I never did see the point of everyone being face down. I mean, I know the fundamental reasoning behind it, but it makes life so damned difficult sometimes. As witness this latest balls-up.”

  The last line of defence. Defending what? Presumably that was face down as well. “You knew we were coming.”

  “I got a notification, yes, as a matter of courtesy. Also,” he added, “we genuinely were out of food. Mostly because of traipsing about after you in the wilderness. I don’t know where you got your map from, but it can’t be any good.” He shifted the reins into his left hand, so he could scratch the tip of his nose. “Out of curiosity, where are you going?”

  “Don’t you know?”