by K. J. Parker
“Sorry, I couldn’t sleep, and then—” He broke off. Egles wasn’t alone.
“That’s him,” he heard Egles say. She turned round and smiled at him.
It was probably, he later decided, because he’d grown up in a small village out in the country. Nobody left, no strangers ever arrived; you knew everybody from birth. So, with regard to women, you’d seen them grow up, from kids to girls, from girls to mature women; people you know change gradually, and you don’t tend to notice, at least not consciously. Eventually the day comes when you discover you’ve known for some time that so-and-so isn’t a skinny little nuisance with sticking-out teeth any more, she’s now something quite other and extremely interesting, but nobody comes as a surprise.
“You’re Musen,” she said.
“That’s right. Who—?”
She turned back to Egles. “Mind if I borrow him for a minute? I’ll bring him back, I promise.”
Egles was trying so hard not to grin. “You go ahead, miss. Stay here if you like. I’m just going out back.”
Later, he realised she wasn’t really beautiful. Her face was a long oval, her eyes were very big and dark, there was something odd about her nose, which was long, thin and flat. Her mouth was rather low down, and her cheekbones were exaggeratedly high. Tall as a Rhus woman, but thin, narrow-shouldered, almost bony. Between thirty and thirty-five? Merebarton women didn’t look like that past twenty-four, but she was definitely older than that. Analysed objectively, though, not beautiful at all.
He was having trouble breathing. “Sorry,” he heard himself say, in a nervous, squeaky voice. “I don’t think I know you.”
“Of course you don’t.” Same accent as the major’s, but it suited her. A high voice, remarkably clear. “But I carry charcoal down to the fourth hearth.”
“You’re a—” He stopped, not sure what to say. “I didn’t think—”
“Women in the craft? All right. Ask me something.”
His mind, of course, went completely blank. The only question he could think of was about six minutes into the lesser office of the tongs, and he wasn’t sure he could remember what the correct answer was. Still. “What came after the seventh fold?”
“Easy.” She grinned. “He folded it seven times and laid it in the fire till it was white. Then he forged it five times with five hammers. Want me to tell you what they were?”
Perfectly right. As she said it, he remembered the Master, trying to teach him. “No, that’s fine. I’m sorry. Only, where I come from—”
“Now, please be quiet,” she said. “I haven’t got all day. You know a man called Teucer.”
“Yes.”
“You stole the handkerchief from him.”
“No, I—”
“Please,” she said. “Now, was there anything inside it? Wrapped up.”
He was going to say no, but instead he stopped and tried to remember. Teucer had been asleep. The corner of the handkerchief had been sticking out of his pocket, just the corner; it had snagged his eye, the way a bramble catches lightly on your sleeve and hooks in. He’d made sure Teucer was in deep – watched his eyes, listened to his breathing, the usual; then he’d pinched the visible corner between the thumbnail and forefinger-tip of his left hand and tugged, slowly and very gently, no more than half an inch at a time. It had taken a while. You learn to be patient, it’s like tickling fish. Every two inches he stopped, let go and counted to twenty, his eyes fixed on Teucer’s face – you never look at the thing itself, because if the sleeper wakes up, and there you are with your eyes glued to something half in and half out of his pocket, it’s hard to be plausibly innocent. He remembered that there were a couple of times when he’d come up against an obstruction, when the fabric jammed and he had to use extra strength. You have to be so careful; pull evenly, building in a straight, rising line, just like drawing a bow, and as soon as you feel the resistance overcome, stop pulling and have a rest. And those obstructions could have been—
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t know.”
“There could have been,” he said. “Maybe there was something in there, and it came out in his pocket while I was—”
“Right.” Something about how she said that suggested to him that he didn’t have to explain, not the technical stuff. She knew about taking things from people’s pockets, quite possibly rather more than he did. Another craft that women could belong to, apparently. “So it’d still be there, that’s what you’re saying.”
“I don’t know,” he repeated, feeling ashamed. “Depends what it was.”
She was considering him as a problem to be overcome and there were several different ways of tackling it. “The village was called Old Street,” she said. “And there was a craftsman there, but it wasn’t the blacksmith. I know, it usually is, but not there. They’re a bit unfriendly in Old Street; they’re scared of the war, they don’t have anything to do with the outside world any more. So, nobody comes or goes. But the craftsman needed to send something out, it was quite urgent, and then you two turned up. So she wrapped it up in the handkerchief and stuffed it in your friend’s pocket while he was asleep. The idea was, when he was caught by the cavalry—”
“Hold on,” Musen said. “This—”
“Craftsman.”
“She knew Guifres’ troop was looking for us.”
“For Teucer, yes. It was ideal. Teucer would be picked up but not harmed, and a fellow craftsman could get the handkerchief back from him and pass it on where it had to go. Only,” she added, “you stole it. And nobody figured that out until now. Apparently it never occurred to them that friends would steal from each other in a situation like that.”
“I—”
She ignored him. “As soon as Diudat showed me the handkerchief—” She stopped. “The old fence. Didn’t you know that was his name?”
“I didn’t, no.”
“Soon as I saw it, I knew what had happened. Too late by then, of course. Teucer was on a ship. He’s arrived safely, by the way, in case you’re interested.”
“What’ll happen to him?”
“He’s fine,” she said. “But he hasn’t got it, what we’re looking for. You haven’t, either.” He wondered how she knew that. No, he knew how she knew that. When? Whoever it was that had searched him must’ve been very good. “I’m levelling with you,” she went on, “because you’re a craftsman, because you’re serious about it or you wouldn’t have made these.” She took them out of her sleeve – impossible, there wasn’t room for them in there – and fanned them in her hand with a casual skill he couldn’t help admiring. “Believe me when I tell you, this is all about the craft, and what we’re looking for is very important to us. If you love the craft, you’ll help me and not lie any more. Well?”
“Yes,” he said. His eyes were fixed on the pack in her hand.
“Fine.” She nodded. “So, you really haven’t got it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what it is.”
“You’d know,” she said. “It’s not the sort of thing someone like you would find in his pocket and mistake for something else.” She sighed and lowered her hand, still holding the cards. “It’s beginning to look like it’s got lost somewhere, genuinely lost. You didn’t sell stuff to anyone else, did you? Apart from Diudat?”
“No.”
“Fine. I know about everything he had from you. So, either Teucer lost it before you stole the handkerchief, or it was loose in his pocket and fell out. There wasn’t a hole in the pocket; we checked that.”
It occurred to him that this checking of pockets must’ve happened after Teucer arrived in the city across the sea, but she knew about it. How many days’ journey was it? Someone had told him, but he couldn’t remember. She was looking straight at him now. He wondered what she’d decided.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she said. “I’ll keep your cards, for now; sort of a hostage. I don’t think you’ll run away and leave them behind. If you’re very good, you can ha
ve them back.”
He considered taking them, but not for very long. “What have I got to do?”
“You? Nothing. Just stay put and keep out of trouble, and if you do happen to remember anything else, for God’s sake tell me.”
“How? How do I reach you?”
She sort of grinned. “When you read the cards for Sergeant Egles, rig the pack so he gets the Chariot, followed by Mercy, followed by the Drowned Woman. Then I’ll find you, all right?” The cards had gone back in her sleeve; he’d been looking at them, but he’d missed how she did it. “Don’t ask anyone about me, and stop thieving from the stores. You’re not very good at it, and you’ll get caught, and they’ll hang you, and we might need you again. All right?”
He knew that whenever he came up to a group of soldiers and they suddenly went quiet, they were talking about the war. The rest of the time, they were fine, like he was one of them, and he quite liked that. But people were going quiet on him rather a lot lately, from which he gathered that something was happening.
“We’re not supposed to tell you,” Egles said.
“Fine. In that case, you can do your own readings.”
Egles gave him a hurt look. “Don’t be like that,” he said. “It’s an order, from the major.”
“Who’d know?”
The war wasn’t going well. General Belot had been recalled to deal with a new offensive in the South, which had turned out to be a feint specifically designed to get him out of the North. Now his brother, the enemy’s general Belot, was somewhere out on the moor with a large army, heading straight for Beloisa Bay. It’d be suicide to be there when he arrived, but if they withdrew from Beloisa they’d lose everything they’d gained over the last eighteen months; the lines would go back to where they’d always been and it’d be as though the big push had never happened. The area commander, General Lauga, was an experienced officer with a sound record and three or four good victories to his name, but he’d never fought Belot. He wouldn’t stand a chance. The question was, would the emperor make them stay and get slaughtered, or pull them out before Belot arrived? There was politics back home involved, apparently, so nobody had the faintest idea what was going to happen.
“That’s stupid,” Musen said. “It’s no good to anyone if you lose a whole army.”
“You don’t understand politics, boy. If we lose an army on the Optimates’ watch, it’s bad for them and the KKA look good. There’s war elections coming up in the city. So the KKA want us to stay here and get wiped out, the Optimates want us out of here soonest. Trouble is, the Optimates are the government.”
“That’s good, surely.”
Egles smiled at such innocence. “They pull us out, the KKA’ll say they’re running from a fight, really bad for morale and how foreigners see us. Could lose them the election. They leave us here, we die, the KKA give them all sorts of shit for a major defeat that could’ve been avoided. Fucked both ways.”
Musen frowned. “That’s really how things work?”
“Politics, boy. Our only hope is if the emperor makes the decision, because he can do anything he damn well likes. Sometimes he does, sometimes he leaves it to the government. Usually he only gets involved in stuff if he thinks’ll make him look good.”
The war, again. He’d hoped it had gone away. The stupid thing was, he felt at home in Beloisa, as much or maybe even more so than he’d done in Merebarton. There were craftsmen here, his people. Being a craftsman, he had a place, guaranteed; and he was better than the ordinary soldiers, who didn’t seem to be allowed into the craft under the rank of sergeant. Also, he liked them rather more than Rhus people, especially the Blueskins; they’d gone out of their way to be friendly, even though he was technically the enemy. And they had far more in the way of portable possessions, it went without saying, and if anything went missing they assumed they’d mislaid it. Nice people generally.
If they left, would they take him with them? He’d asked Captain Jaizo, Pieres’ second in command, about signing up, joining the Western army; he’d said he wasn’t sure, he’d have to look into it, and that was some time ago. Egles thought probably not; and if Musen did, he’d have to go to a training camp and go through basic, and probably a specialisation as well; he couldn’t just stay in Beloisa and carry on working in the stores. His best bet, Egles reckoned, if they were going home, would be to stow away on one of the ships and stay hidden until they were well out to sea. Trouble was, he’d never be able to fade away into the crowd back in the South, he was just too damn tall.
Just possibly, there was another option. So—
“Next card, Mercy,” he said, turning it over. “That’s good.”
“Is it?”
“Mercy’s always good,” Musen said. “And coming after the Chariot, that’s very good indeed. Definitely looks like you’ll be going home.”
Egles beamed. “That’s great,” he said. “Well, we should all be going home, because of Senza fucking Belot. But you predicted it,” he added. “Long before the news got out. You foresaw it in the cards.”
“Well.” Musen did the modest shrug. “What’s next? Ah, that’s good.”
“What, the Drowned Woman? That’s terrible, isn’t it? Means the ship’ll sink.”
“Not really,” Musen said. “Not following Mercy and the Chariot. You’ve got to remember, it’s all about context. The woman’s floating, remember. What it actually means is, once you get home, you’re going to get that extra stripe. Colour-sergeant Egles is what that means, unless I’m very much mistaken.”
Egles glowed slightly. “Well,” he said, “you were right about going home, I’ll give you that.”
“Trust me,” Musen replied. “We’re craftsmen, aren’t we?”
It worked. She didn’t come to the stores this time. She materialised in his hayloft, like an angel; he opened his eyes, and didn’t know if it was a dream.
“Well?” she said.
She’d brought a lamp, and the loft was filled with soft golden light. Number twenty-seven, he thought, Mercy. “You came.”
“Yes, and I’m in a hurry. You’ve remembered something.”
He looked at her. It was difficult. “You’ve got to get me out of here.”
“What?”
“When the enemy get here and we pack up and go home. You’ve got to get me on a ship.”
He’d said something that amused her. “Why should I?”
No suggestion that she couldn’t do it. “I can’t stay here,” he said. “I tried to join up, but I think there must be difficulties.”
“Why should I put myself out for you? You haven’t remembered anything. You don’t know where it is.”
“You’re wrong. But I’m not saying anything unless you get me on a ship.”
“Sorry.” She started to move away.
“I know where it is. I remembered.”
She hesitated. She didn’t believe him. “Well?”
“A place,” he said. “On a ship.”
“What is it? The thing we’re looking for. If you’ve remembered, you must’ve figured out what it is.”
“I didn’t see it clearly, just a shape—” He was losing. “About as long as my finger.”
“What?”
“It was about as long as my finger.” He pinched his forefinger and thumb together. “About this thick.”
She froze. “Go on.”
“Not till you get me a place.”
“You’re guessing,” she said. “You’re thinking, what shape would something be if you could wrap it up in the handkerchief.”
“It was something flat,” he said. “Thin and flat, rolled up.”
She looked at him for some time. “I’ll see what I can do,” she said. “You sure you want that, though? This is your home, surely. It’s your lot who’s winning.”
“Get me on a ship,” he said. “Please. Craftsman to craftsman.”
“Suit yourself.” She picked up the lamp. Just the usual red clay type, but it gave off far more light
than they normally did. “Soon as you’re on the ship, draw the pattern of six wedges on the rail.”
“The what?”
She sighed. “Wooden thing to stop you falling in the water. You’ll know what I’m talking about as soon as you see it. Got that?”
Bad news from the war. General Lauga had resolved that Beloisa must be defended at all costs. He’d asked for reinforcements from home; meanwhile, all units were being called in, and Beloisa was to be fortified and placed in a posture of defence. Meanwhile, Belot was reported to be at some place called Spire Cross, wherever that was; it didn’t show up on any of the maps.
“I know where Spire Cross is,” he told Captain Jaizo.
“Is that right?” Jaizo looked startled. “What about it?”
“That’s where Belot is, right?”
“You’re not supposed to know that.” He picked up a big brass tube, poked in one end with his finger. “Show me on the map,” he said.
Musen studied it. “This map’s all wrong,” he said.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s all wrong. Nothing’s where it’s supposed to be. Are you sure this is the right one?”
Jaizo nudged him out of the way. “All right,” he said, jabbing with his forefinger. “We’re here, Beloisa.”
“Yes, but the rest’s all wrong. There’s no mountains here, look, and they’ve missed out two rivers.”
“Impossible. This is the Imperial Ordnance.”
“There’s mountains marked here, look,” Musen said. “There’s no mountains anything like that anywhere in Rhus. This is all rubbish.”
“Yes, well.” Jaizo pursed his lips. “Yes, there’s problems with these maps, we know that. They’ve got proper maps back home, the old pre-war ones, but they won’t copy them. Restricted. So we’ve got to make do with these.”
“All right,” Musen said. “Got some paper?”
Musen had never drawn a map. It was such a strange idea, like drawing a picture of a thought, or a piece of music. “We’re here,” he said, squiggling a line for the sea. “Now, those hills you can see out the window are here, in a sort of horseshoe, like this—”