The Two of Swords, Part 4

by K. J. Parker

  Daxen stood up and tugged the map gently from his hands. “Why would they turn back?” he said.

  Silence; then a young lieutenant whose name Daxen should’ve known by now said, “Maybe they’ve got what they came for, or done whatever it was they wanted to do. You just don’t know, with people like that.”

  People like that – “Actually,” Daxen said, “he could be right. Since we don’t know what they want, we’re in no position to guess if they’ve got it yet.”

  “I thought the lodge man said they wanted to wipe us off the face of the earth,” Euxis said.

  “Maybe they do,” Daxen said. “It’d be so much simpler if we could just ask them.”

  The scouts came back from Laxen’s Ford. Everything seemed normal. They’d asked a couple of farmers if they’d seen anything of the invaders, and been met with blank stares. No invasion here, friend, sorry.

  Daxen gave orders to pitch camp. Someone pointed out to him that there was no water. They marched on another two miles until they came to an irrigation channel, and stopped there instead. Daxen announced that there would be a general kit inspection (which would give the men plenty to do) and retreated to his tent with all the maps. No interruptions, under any circumstances.

  With the flaps drawn, he lay on his bed, closed his eyes and tried to clarify his mind. So far, they’d marched into the desert and back again, visited a deserted town and city, passed by the dead bodies of an entire army, chased an invisible enemy who’d dissolved into mist for no apparent reason. In order to carry out this mission, he’d taken direct personal command of the armed forces. He had absolutely no idea what he was doing, or what was going on.

  So far, so good. He still had the army, nearly full strength, adequately supplied, undefeated in battle; the mighty Blemyan army, holder of the balance of power between empires, widely acknowledged as the finest fighting force in the civilised world. That should be enough, he thought, but somehow it wasn’t. He had the wretched feeling of having been found out, as though he’d forged a document or impersonated someone. All along, he’d reassured himself by saying that whatever happened, she’d understand; but now he wasn’t so sure. In his mind he could hear her: how could you, she was saying, how could you have been so stupid?

  Suddenly he grinned. She was funny when she got all pompous, and she couldn’t keep it up for very long. Then she’d break up laughing at herself, amused and angry and ashamed, and everything would be fine after that. He realised, for the first time, just how much stronger she was than him.

  Then the bright moment faded, because there was nothing at all she’d be able to do, if she was here, except quite possibly lose her throne; she couldn’t take charge, lead the army. If she tried to, the soldiers would just stare at her, red with embarrassment. Oh God, he thought, why does it have to be us? Why can’t we just offload it all on to someone else, a professional, a grown-up? Then he thought about the steelnecks and the politicians, and was forced to the unhappy conclusion that he was on his own.

  Still, once he’d accepted that, at least he knew what to do. He got up, pulled back the tent flap and yelled for Captain Euxis.

  “First thing tomorrow,” he said, “we’re going to the capital. I want to leave at dawn. Got that?”

  Euxis was about to say yes, but. At the last moment, he drew back from the precipice and said, “Yes, sir.”

  “I want you to send the cavalry on ahead,” he went on. “We won’t need them, and I want some sort of military presence near the City as soon as possible. And there’ll be despatches to the Joint Chiefs of Staff, so I’ll need the fastest rider we’ve got. All right?”

  After that, he went back and lay on the bed for a long time.

  They crossed the river at Laxen’s Ford and pressed on up the road. Mesajer had insisted on leaving him two squadrons of heavy cavalry – you can’t have an army of just foot soldiers, he’d said, it’s unnatural – and Daxen sent them on ahead to announce their arrival and gather any news at all of the invaders. At Coxin they found fresh fruit and vegetables waiting for them; at Piloessin they were joined by a convoy of a hundred and seventy carts, commandeered from the mines by a quick-thinking cavalry lieutenant. The military governor of the province rode out to meet them outside Argyra; what was the emergency, and what could he do to help? Daxen thanked him and told him to stand by, whatever that meant. Was it true that Erithry had been burned to the ground? Not quite. Just stand by, there’ll be an official communiqué in due course.

  An exhausted horseman appeared at the camp gate and was carried in to see him. Apparently, he’d been riding for four days, as fast as he could without killing the horse. He wasn’t even a soldier, it turned out, or not a proper one anyway. He was a mulberry grower, the second in command of a militia unit from a place called Outemida, a miners’ transit depot on the East Military Road. Early one morning he and his CO had been dragged out of bed by hysterical townspeople, who reckoned they’d seen a vast body of people and horses on the road, just as the sun was rising. When you say vast, he’d said; tens of thousands, they’d told him, maybe even hundreds of thousands, the line was three miles long, it took them nearly an hour to go past where we were hiding. There was no trace of booze on their breath, so he’d guessed they were telling the truth; his CO had sent him to tell the military governor, but when he got to Argyra he was told the governor was headed for Laxen’s Ford. He’d cut across country, but the governor hadn’t been there; so he’d followed the road looking for the army he’d been told about, and here he was—

  Daxen thanked him, made notes and dismissed what he’d heard from his mind. If the enemy had passed through Outemida four days ago, he had no chance of catching up with them this side of the desert, and there was no way he was going back there again. Now at least he knew something; the enemy were headed back where they’d come from, and they weren’t alone – people and horses, the mulberry grower had said, there were men and women on foot as well as the hostile cavalry. That could be interpreted as meaning that at least some of the prisoners from Erithry were still alive, at the very least. They take care of their prisoners, Genseric had said, like they take care of their other livestock. He shivered. Something else, about belonging to the god. Fine. If you’re that pious, enough to go to war over a perceived insult to a well, you’d take pretty good care of God’s property, now wouldn’t you?

  The ancient and beautiful city of Cortroche. Daxen had cousins in Cortroche, an elderly lady and her two jolly, stolid sons. He’d stayed with them once, seven or eight years ago; they had the most amazing pear orchard. Like a fool, he’d forgotten that this was the time of the celebrated Cortroche Goose Fair, to which people (and geese) flocked from miles around. Consequently the road was jammed with carts, people and several million geese, waddling in step like (the comparison wasn’t lost on him) a large but badly led army. They came so far that the geese had to be shod, with little wood-and-leather pattens that strapped under the foot. The army spent a morning causing chaos trying to force their way down the road, covered a whole mile and a half, scattered seventy thousand geese over a huge area; then Daxen made the decision to go round the city, across country. The outskirts of Cortroche are ringed by orchards, some of the finest in Blemya. Marching forty thousand men through orchards was easier than marching them through geese, but only just. The people they encountered didn’t seem pleased to see them; why don’t you go and play soldiers somewhere else?

  Back on the road, eventually. They were nine miles out of Cortroche and Daxen was thinking about where to camp for the night when someone told him there were riders up ahead. Not a big deal any more. He put them out of his mind until Euxis came and told him the riders were official, from the capital; from the queen.

  Daxen’s heart stopped for a moment. “Why the hell didn’t you say so earlier?” he snapped, quite unfairly, and scrambled through soldiers pitching tents and driving in palings until he found them: six smartly dressed kettlehats watering their horses at a stream.


  “Have you brought a letter?” he asked breathlessly. One of the kettlehats turned and looked at him for a moment, and asked if he was Grand Logothete Daxen.

  “Yes, that’s me. I’m expecting a letter from the queen. Have you—?”

  The kettlehat looked round, as if assessing some tactical issue. Then he made an obvious effort and took a step forward. The other five closed in behind him. “I have a warrant for your arrest,” he said.

  It wasn’t a cell, as such. As far as he could make out, it was an ante-room to the vestry of what had once been the private chapel used by the emperors of the united empire, before the civil war. Here, presumably, the supreme pontiffs of the one true faith had retired to meditate before performing the high sacraments in front of the emperor, the imperial family and the inner court; that would account for the exceptional quality of the mosaics that covered every square inch of the walls and ceiling. On all four sides of him was the Translation – the epiphany, the transmission of the holy flame, the miracle of the five red birds, the apotheosis of the Prophet and the transubstantiation of the flesh – while above him Our Lady of the Penitent Spirit stood in a posture of eternal supplication, her left hand raised, the single tear glistening on her mahogany cheek. If Daxen had been just a little bit more spiritual, he’d have said it was worth it just to be there, for hours on end, with nothing to do but sit and admire the artwork.

  After a very long time the door opened; it was a footman with a silver tray. Cold beetroot and artichoke soup (very fashionable but he couldn’t be doing with it), duck terrine with cherries, something with noodles and bits of chicken in a creamy mushroom sauce, and nothing to eat it with; no knife, no spoon, even. He looked at it.

  “Can I get something to drink with that?” he asked. The footman looked over the top of his head and withdrew, and he heard a bolt grind in a hasp outside. Apparently not.

  He wasn’t hungry anyway. He put the tray down on the floor and sat down again. The chair was three hundred years old and hard as nails, but he was damned if he was going to sit on the ground. He tried to think, but he couldn’t; beyond anger, beyond fear. He just wanted something to happen.

  He must have dozed off, because a voice woke him. He sat bolt upright and opened his eyes, and found he had a headache. Wonderful.

  “I said,” said the voice, “didn’t you like your dinner?”

  Daxen looked at him. A very tall, broad man with a wide face, completely bald, an Imperial, in plain light grey academic vestments; he had forearms like legs, and the gold signet ring of the Royal Clerical order. Daxen had never seen him before. He took a deep breath.

  “You’re going to be in so much trouble,” he said.

  The man smiled. “My name is Carrhasian,” he said. “I’m the deputy chief clerk of the Observances office. You’re Daxen.”

  Daxen grinned back at him. “No, I’m not. You’ve got the wrong man. Can I go now?”

  Carrhasian nodded. “You queried the warrant,” he said. “I’ve consulted the precedents, and I can confirm the warrant was in order and your arrest was entirely lawful.”

  “Like hell,” Daxen snapped. “Clearly you don’t understand. I’m the queen’s authorised deputy; I answer only to her. As far as you’re concerned, I am her. Now, you’ve got one minute to let me out of here, or your neck is on the block. Have you got that?”

  But Carrhasian shook his head. “You were properly impeached in absentia on charges of treason,” he said. “You no longer hold any office of any kind.”

  Daxen breathed in deeply. “I’d like to see some paperwork, please.”

  Carrhasian shrugged. “In due course, maybe. I’ll see what I can do. Properly speaking, since you no longer hold office you don’t have clearance to view restricted government papers. But I have a certain degree of discretion.”

  “What have you done with the queen? Is she still alive?”

  A mighty eyebrow lifted. “Of course.”

  “You’ve got her locked up somewhere, then.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We are loyal servants of the queen.” He smiled gently. “You’re the traitor.”

  Daxen had a shrewd suspicion that this man could break his arms like twigs if he wanted to. The thought helped him cool his temper a little. “That’s not true,” he said. “What am I supposed to have done?”

  Carrhasian pursed his lips. “That’s also restricted,” he said.

  “Really. You’ve charged me with something, but you’re not allowed to tell me what because it’s a secret.”

  “Yes, essentially. It’s a problem in treason cases. I believe the Law Commission’s preparing a consultation document on it right now.”

  Daxen sighed. He wanted to smash Carrhasian’s face in, but without a weapon he knew he didn’t have a chance, and the frustration was building up inside him, the way fatigue builds up in your arms and legs when you’re doing exhausting work. The only option was to let it go, win by not fighting. (That always sounded good, but he wasn’t quite sure what it meant; never mind, try it anyway.) “Fine,” he said. “It seems to me that if you could simply get rid of me, you’d have done it already. Instead, I’m still alive, and banged up in a chapel instead of a dungeon. Therefore you want something or you need me for something, or else you’re not nearly as sure of your position as you say you are.” He made a vague gesture with his hands. “Oh, sit down, for crying out loud.Here, you can have the chair and I’ll sit on the floor.” He stood up and sat down again in the corner, his back to the wall. It worked; just for a moment, Carrhasian hesitated, then sat down, feeling (Daxen could see it) just a little bit foolish. “Now, then,” he said, “it’s just us, you and me. What the hell is all this about?”

  Carrhasian looked at him for a while. It wasn’t hatred exactly, or loathing, or contempt; it probably wasn’t much higher in the intensity scale than distaste, but there was an awful lot of it. But you don’t kill someone just because you dislike him. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be straight with you.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Carrhasian took a moment to order his thoughts. “We—”

  “Sorry, who’s we? I don’t know you.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Carrhasian said. “That’s not important.”

  “It is to me. Who are you? You’re not the government or the regular civil service. So either you’re military, which I’m inclined to doubt, you don’t strike me as a regular steelneck, or—” Suddenly he realised where he’d seen that same dislike before. “I’m guessing you might be the lodge,” he said. “Well?”

  Carrhasian’s face didn’t change at all. “We probably have the advantage of you, in that we know a certain amount about the desert people and the level of threat they represent. We also have intelligence about the activities of the insurgents which it would appear you do not. The threat is extremely serious.” He paused, then went on. “In fact, it would be hard to exaggerate the danger the kingdom is in, now that the desert people have declared war. We simply don’t have the resources, or the tactical expertise. All we can do is try and maintain the situation – hold the line, if you like – until a solution is found. In the meanwhile, it’s vitally important that public morale is maintained, and that the people have confidence in the government and the army. Your antics in the desert – we’ve managed to keep it quiet for the time being, but everything comes out eventually. The people will need to be reassured that the incompetent first minister and the incompetent commander-in-chief – you, in other words – had been replaced with men they can believe in. Since the queen refused to listen to our advice and replace you herself, we had no option but to impeach you. Since the queen wouldn’t hear of that either, we used the only resource open to us, which is treason.”

  Daxen felt numb, but he managed to nod his head gently. “So,” he said, “how does that work, exactly?”

  Carrhasian was very nearly smirking; clearly, he was proud of himself. “The queen is young, unmarried and female. We therefore have an overriding duty to
protect her from undue influence of, let’s say, a romantic nature; seduction, if you like. In such circumstances, where Her Majesty’s judgement might be affected and compromised, we have a prerogative jurisdiction to override her wishes in her name, on her behalf, as we might do if she was suffering from disease or mental illness. Your relationship with the queen—”

  Daxen stood up so sharply that, just for a moment, he could see that Carrhasian was intimidated. “No,” he said, “I’m not having that. There was never anything like that. It’s simply not true.”

  “Oh, come now.” Carrhasian had recovered. “We have a substantial dossier; private conversations, clandestine meetings in a secluded cloister—”

  “She’s my friend,” Daxen said. “Friends, that’s all. Since we were kids.”

  “The Commission sees it differently,” Carrhasian said. “We have found prima facie evidence of treason. Frankly, under normal circumstances, why the hell not? Queens have lovers, even unmarried ones. But, since you had to go, we’re grateful to you for making it easy for us. You should be grateful, too. It spared us the necessity of killing you, which was the other option.”

  Daxen sat down again. There was a deadly casualness about the way he’d said it. “She’ll have your heads,” he said. “Unless you’re going to kill her too. But if you could, you’d have done it already. You’ve got the proverbial wolf by the ears, if you ask me. You can’t get rid of her, and as soon as she’s figured out a way, she’ll have you.”

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” Carrhasian said, and he was casual about that too. “But we have to protect the kingdom. If people have to suffer – you, or us – it really isn’t important. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, so I’ll tell you straight. You’re alive because that’s easier for us, as things stand. We have the situation under review, and we’re exploring other possibilities. You would be advised to cooperate while things are as they are now. That’d be best for all concerned.” Carrhasian took a deep breath, and then went on. “Let me see if I understand you. I think I do, but maybe I’m wrong. You became Grand Logothete because, more than anything else, you wanted to help your friend, the queen. Is that right?”