by K. J. Parker
The Two of Swords: Part Two
K. J. Parker
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For David Barrett, with thanks
6
The Thief
Captain Guifres watched the sail until it was hard to see. Then he turned to Musen.
“Well now,” he said. “What are we going to do with you?”
Musen’s mouth felt dry, as though he’d been working in the sun all day. “How about you let me go?”
Guifres shook his head. “Can’t do that,” he said.
“Oh. What can you do?”
Guifres pulled a face. “It’s depressing how little discretion I’ve got, actually,” he said. “Well, that’s not strictly true. For instance, I could have you killed, right now, and nobody would say a word; it’d come under general expediency in the field. But if I let you go, they’d have me up in front of a board of enquiry and I’d be lucky to keep my commission. And if you can make any sense of that, please enlighten me.” He scratched his chin. He’d lost his razor. Actually, Musen had taken it, the day before yesterday, while the captain was talking to Teucer; it had an ivory handle, and could at a push serve as a weapon. He’d hidden it in one of the troopers’ saddlebags, wrapped in a spare scarf. “No, as I see it, I’ve got two options. I can turn you over as an ordinary prisoner of war, or I can find someone on the staff here to take you off my hands.”
“A craftsman.”
“Well, yes, obviously. But that wouldn’t be a problem. Plenty of them.”
Musen relaxed a little. They might be savages, but they took the craft seriously; far more than anyone had done back home. He wondered, not for the first time, what he’d have done in Guifres’ shoes. Kill them both, probably, and spared himself all the inconvenience. After all, who’d ever have known?
“Do that, then,” Musen said.
“It’s not as simple as that.” He was getting on Guifres’ nerves. “For a start, what would anyone possibly want you for? Sorry.” He smiled. “No offence. But really. You aren’t a skilled man, you don’t have a trade, and I can’t see any of my brother officers wanting you as a servant.”
“I can read.”
“Yes. So can every soldier in the army. I’m sorry,” he repeated, “but you can see, it’s a problem. Even for a fellow craftsman, there are limits as to what can be done.” He thought for a moment. “You could always escape.”
“But I thought you said—”
A sort of give-me-strength look. “Yes, that’s right. I can’t let you go. But if you escape, I can quite legitimately take a command decision that I can’t spare the manpower to chase after you and catch you. Once you’re two miles from here, what the hell difference will it make if you’ve escaped or I let you go?”
“I wouldn’t have a safe passage.”
“Well, no,” Guifres conceded. “There’s that. But you’re a smart fellow, you can look after yourself.”
“I’ll get caught again. By your lot.”
“Not necessarily. You only got caught the first time because I was looking for your friend. But for him, you’d probably be home free and clear by now.”
“I’d have starved to death on the moor.”
“God, you’re hard to do favours for. All right, you don’t want to escape and I can’t let you go. You suggest something.”
Musen gave him a flat, stupid look. It was one of his best, versatile and effective. “We’re craftsmen,” he said. “You’ve got to look after me.”
“Actually, that’s not what it says in the rules—” Guifres stopped. “All right. I can leave you here in the custody of the garrison commander, who just happens to be a craftsman, too. Then you can be his problem. How about that?”
Musen thought for a moment. The sad fact was, he wasn’t really sure what he wanted any more. Going home to Merebarton, alone, the only man under fifty in the village; be realistic, no future in that. At first, after the slaughter at the river, he’d had such visions – all the unclaimed land, the huge estate there for the taking; then the sober thought, as they’d crossed so much empty space, that land is useless without men to work it, and by the look of it there were no more people; because he knew for a fact, ten years ago the country they’d crossed, from Merebarton to Spire Cross and then on towards Carney, had been a settled, prosperous network of hill farms and small villages, all duly marked on the maps, and where the hell were they all now? So, no labour to be hired in from outside, no value, no point in all that land that should have been his for the taking. Waste; useless. In which case, why the hell go back? Nothing there but hard work and sorrow. But if he didn’t, what was he supposed to do?
And the answer, coiled seductively round the base of his mind like a fat snake; these people obviously have far more things than they need, and plenty of money—
“Fine,” he said. “After all, I wouldn’t want to be a burden to anyone.”
The city was a miserable place, hostile, empty and miserable, but eventually he found a buyer, a short man (they were all so short), in a coat even older than he was, sitting in a doorway. The man had called out, “Hey, want to buy? Good stuff, very cheap.” He hadn’t bothered looking up.
“Not buying,” Musen said. “Selling.”
“Uh.” The man looked up at him. “You’re not a soldier.”
“No.”
“What’re you doing here, then? You’re not from these parts.”
“I ran away from home to seek my fortune.”
That got him a grim look. “What you got?”
Musen dropped down beside him, looked round and fished in his pocket. “Here,” he said, and unrolled the cloth bundle.
“Where’d you get that from?”
“Family heirlooms. Been handed down from father to son, twenty generations. Where do you think?”
Sixteen bone buttons, various. A small folding knife, bone handle, some pitting, the blade missing the tip. A man’s ring, small, almost certainly gilded bronze, the blue stone slightly chipped. A man’s razor, best quality, ivory handle. A silk handkerchief, some slight bloodstaining. “Well?”
The old man brushed aside the buttons. “Don’t want them.” He picked up the ring, put it down again; unfolded the knife and tried to wobble the blade, but it was sound in its bolsters; sniffed the handkerchief and dropped it; didn’t even look at the razor, which meant he knew what a good piece it was. Thought so. “Ten rials.”
“Oh, please.”
“Nah.” The old man covered the stuff with the cloth. “Ten rials. I’m not bothered.”
He was so good at it that, for a moment, Musen almost believed him. He felt desperately provincial, but managed to keep his face straight. “No worries,” he said. “Thank you so much for your time.”
He’d got to his feet and was actually walking away when the old man said, “Fifteen,” in such a sad, weary voice that Musen couldn’t help feeling guilty for imposing on him so. He stopped, counted to three under his breath and said, “I don’t think so.”
“Twenty.”
Musen had no idea what a rial was. It could be tiny, like a fish scale, or big as a cartwheel. He was guessing
it was silver, but he didn’t know. “Oh, go on, then.”
Money changed hands. A five-rial turned out to be silver, about the size of his thumbnail but surprisingly thick. “That silk thing,” the old man said. “Got any more?”
“I know where I can get some.”
“Four rials each.”
“Five.”
“Four.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” He closed his fist around the coins. “Army stuff any use to you? I can get stirrups, horseshoes, pliers, spare plates for breastplates, that sort of thing.”
“Wouldn’t touch it, son. You neither, if you got any sense.”
Worth knowing. Clearly the Imperial army took a dim view of pilfering official stores. “Cheers,” Musen said. “You here tomorrow?”
“I’m always here.”
Depressing thought. He turned away and walked quickly till he was out of sight. Then he opened his fist. Four fat silver coins. He pulled off his boot, wedged the coins between his toes and pulled the boot back over them. Then he walked a couple of steps, stopped, removed the boot and the coins and put them in his pocket. Better poor than a cripple, his uncle used to say.
He walked back to the barn where Guifres’ men had stabled their horses. A soldier he’d talked to once or twice was sweeping the yard. “How much is a loaf of bread?” he asked.
“Rial. Why?”
Oh well, he thought. But quite possibly bread was dear and luxury goods were cheap right now. It’d be different, surely, if he could get to a proper town, somewhere where there wasn’t a war. The razor would’ve been useless in Merebarton. Nobody could have afforded it.
He thought about taking a quick scout round the hayloft where the men slept. There’d be nobody around, they were all out doing whatever soldiers do, and they were so trusting— Before he could make up his mind, a soldier he knew by sight came up to him and said, “Been looking for you.”
“Me?”
Nod. “Captain wants you.”
Surely not, Musen thought. And anyway, how could he prove anything? The razor was long gone by now. “Where is he?”
“I’ll take you.”
Didn’t like the sound of that. Still, he couldn’t let it show. “Thanks,” he said.
The captain wasn’t alone. There were two men with him, one Blueskin, one normal-sized man with red hair (for an instant, he’d seen Teucer; but it wasn’t him) in ordinary clothes, not army. They both had little hammer brooches on their collars. “That’s him,” Guifres said.
The Blueskin frowned. The redhead stood up and smiled. He was about thirty-five, with long hair and a short beard, and clothes that had been cut to look much cheaper than they actually were. Boots to last a lifetime.
“I’m Oida,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
Musen had absolutely no idea what to say. Fortunately, the red-headed man was just leaving. He smiled warmly at the two soldiers, nodded to Musen and left. When he’d gone, Guifres said, “Do you have any idea who that was?”
“No.”
Guifres and the other soldier looked at each other. “Fine,” Guifres said. “You’ve just met one of the most important men in the empire, that’s all.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Still, no harm done, let’s hope. This is Major Pieres, garrison commander. I’ve told him about you.”
Pieres was what Guifres would look like in ten years’ time, if he got plenty to eat. “He’s a craftsman.”
“Yes, believe it or not,” Guifres said.
“What for?” Pieres gave Musen a long, sad look. “What did you join for? I don’t suppose it was an unquenchable thirst for esoteric knowledge.”
“My dad was a craftsman,” Musen answered. “And my uncle.”
“He can read and write,” Guifres said, “after a fashion. I thought maybe you could use him in the stores.”
“What stores? They’re empty.” Pieres shrugged. “Oh, go on, then.” Musen managed not to smile at that. “What can he do?”
“Farm labourer,” Guifres said. “But he’s quite bright.”
“Doctrine and works,” Pieres sighed. The phrase was familiar. “Mind you, I reckon this ought to do me for works for the next five years.”
Doctrine and works, anvil and hammer; of course. Musen was to be Pieres’ good deed for the half-decade. Thank you so much. “Thank you,” he said.
Pieres flexed his left hand, a cursory hammer and tongs. “Quite all right,” he said. “Get over to the mess tent and have something to eat.”
Musen had already done that, without asking, some time ago. “Thanks,” he said, and got out of there quickly.
“Who’s a man called Oida?” he asked.
The sergeant stared at him. “Seriously?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”
The sergeant was a craftsman. He put down the chunk of bread dipped in gravy he’d been about to eat. “You’ve never heard of Oida.”
Musen found a grin from somewhere. “I’m the enemy, remember?”
“He’s famous on both sides,” the sergeant said. “Only musician in the world who’s played for both emperors. Great man. Great man.”
“A musician,” Musen said.
“Don’t say it like he’s just some fiddle player.” The sergeant was angry and amused at the same time. “Know what? Four years ago, something like that, he reckoned it was time to stop the war, right? They actually had peace talks. They actually sent ambassadors, both sides, just because he said so. Not just some fiddle player.”
“But the peace talks—”
“It was because your lot kept asking for stupid stuff. Wasn’t his fault. Kept asking for stuff they knew we couldn’t give them. Deliberate, like sabotage.”
“Oh,” Musen said. “What kind of—?”
“I don’t know, do I? Anyway, that’s beside the point. You said, who’s Oida. That’s who Oida is. Right?”
“I see,” Musen said. “Only, he was here.”
“What?”
“Here,” Musen repeated. “Just now. I saw him, in with the captain and Major Pieres.”
For a second or two, the sergeant was so stunned he couldn’t breathe. “You’re pissing me.”
“No, straight up. That’s why I asked who he is.”
“You saw Oida?”
Musen nodded. “He said he was pleased to meet me. Only because we’re both craftsmen, of course.”
“I’m a fucking craftsman,” the sergeant protested. “Here, you sure it was him?”
“The captain seemed to think so. You’ve just met one of the most important men in the empire, he said. That’s what made me curious.”
The sergeant tried to speak, but his feelings were beyond words. He shook his head, stood up and walked away, then and for ever a man who had been so near and yet so very far. He was so preoccupied that he went all the way back to his tent before he realised he’d left his horn and silver drinking cup (for ten years’ good service) behind in the mess tent. He hurried back but someone must’ve taken it away by mistake.
I don’t suppose it was an unquenchable thirst for esoteric knowledge, the bastard major had said. Which showed how much he knew.
As always, raw materials were the problem. Back home he’d tried wood first of all; birch bark, carefully flattened over time under flat stones, but it split; then thinly sawn oak, fifty years old, cut from the heart of an ancient gatepost, but the ink just drained away into it, and there was nothing to see. Then he’d hit on the idea of thick rawhide, and that was just right, once he’d smoothed it right down with brick dust. The only way was to pour the dust into the palm of his hand and rub. Brick dust cuts skin. Fine, because rawhide is skin, but so were the palms of his hands. He had a devil of a job explaining why his hands were always raw and bleeding. But before very long, he had twenty-six identical rawhide rectangles, a palm long and an index finger wide. Ink was just oak apple gall and soot; everyone knew that, but nobody had actually ever made any, so he had to figure out the propo
rtions by trial and error. It took an amazingly long time to get it right. For a brush, he used the pin feather from a woodcock’s wing – tiny little thing, hardly bigger than a needle, and he had to keep rinsing it out in water to keep it from getting clogged.
The first attempt was all right, but he wasn’t satisfied with it, so he made another one, and then two more, before he ended up with something he felt happy with. The problem was that you only got one shot at drawing the pictures. In theory, you could grind out your mistakes with brick dust, but he’d tried it and ended up with a horrible mess. He’d never drawn anything in his life before, went without saying. He tried practising beforehand, scratching on slates with a nail, but that was a totally different thing, it didn’t prepare you worth a damn for brush and ink. The fifth try, though; not perfect, for sure, nothing like the real thing the Master had shown him, with colours; but good enough. The first time he’d used them had been the happiest moment of his life.
That pack was somewhere by the river, in his abandoned rucksack, unless one of the savages had taken a fancy to it. Now he had the whole job to do again.
Instead of rawhide he used parchment. Not a problem. The city was full of the stuff. He broke into a merchant’s house and helped himself to a beautiful new roll, unused, milk-white. While he was there, he took two bottles of ink – black and red, for crying out loud – and three brushes, horsehair, and a stick with a fine steel blade shaped like a cut-off goose feather; a pen, he guessed. Wonderful thing.
Time wasn’t a problem, either. The less he was visible, the happier everyone was. He appropriated a hayloft over a stable in the yard of an inn. If he half opened the door there was loads of good light, particularly in the morning. He sat on a barrel of nails, with the work on his knee. So this is happiness, he thought.
Part of him wanted the pack finished as quickly as possible; part of him wanted the drawing to last for ever. Instead of starting at the beginning, with one, the Crown Prince, he began with the easiest: nine, the Gate (which is just a closed gate in a wall; arch, the boards of the gate itself, four ornate hinges, the bricks of the wall; nearly all straight lines, which he ruled with the back of a knife which some fool had left lying around in the barracks dormitory). That gave him the confidence to move on to seventeen, the Table – mostly straight lines, the legs and flat of the table itself, but with the hills and the city in the background, and the dog and the fox on either side. He got the dog more or less right, but the fox came out looking a bit like a polecat.