Savages

by K. J. Parker

  When the beak of a ship suddenly burst through the planking three feet from where he was sitting, Teudel decided he’d had enough. He let go of his oar (which ripped out of the hands of the man next to him on the bench and slammed into the chest of the top man on the row behind) jumped to his feet and looked round for the paceman. No problem there; a fallen spar had got him at some point, and he wasn’t going to be any trouble to anyone. Teudel took a deep breath and yelled, “It’s all right, the screw’s down, let’s get out of here.” If they heard him, they ignored him, carried on heaving on their oars; as though it mattered, as though surviving and winning might give them a chance. Idiots, he thought. Let them drown.

  “You.” A sergeant of marines, who quite definitely hadn’t been there a moment ago. He was terrifying; six feet tall, parade armour polished to a blinding finish, a real soldier rather than a convict in fancy dress; had the lunatic volunteered for this, or was he here because he’d been given no choice by a court martial? Not that that mattered, either. He was very frightening, but not nearly as frightening as a billion gallons of water.

  Teudel wasn’t a fighter, never had been. But the sergeant was closing on him, and the dead paceman had a sword. He was lying on it, which didn’t help, and he was no featherweight. Teudel hauled him out of the way just in time, drew the sword and took two long paces back. Water was spurting in through the hole in the side, from which the horrible iron beak had just withdrawn, but nobody seemed prepared to acknowledge the fact.

  Old proverb; only idiots fight on board a sinking ship. Well.

  The sergeant lashed out at him; a massive blow, propelled by the biggest arm he’d ever seen, an arm like a leg; negated and rendered entirely safe by taking a step backwards. The sword sliced the air in a whistling arc, just as the ship lurched and shifted, its balance compromised by the incoming water. Teudel dropped his sword, flung both arms in the air and managed to brace his hands against the decking overhead. The sergeant, recovering for another haymaker cut, toppled forward and brained himself against a vacant bench.

  Time to go; all very well saying that, but how was he supposed to get out of this thing? His feet were under water. Obviously, you’re not supposed to get out; they intend you to stay here, keep rowing, drown. He remembered; they’d come in through a hatch, which was closed, probably bolted or nailed down. No other way out, except for the monstrous gash in the side. No chance of getting through there. If he tried, the jet of water coming in through it would probably splatter him onto the bulkhead.

  Why is nobody else panicking except me? But they weren’t. They were still rowing, God help us all, with no paceman and no sergeant-at-arms, and the ship doing its best to roll onto its side, like a cow about to calve. Exact replica of a Second Kingdom man o’war, he’d heard them say. The bilge pump wasn’t invented until the Fourth Kingdom. Indeed. Just possible that his fellow criminals hadn’t done a year of military history at the Institute and didn’t know that. But they had eyes, and possibly even brains. Ah well.

  The ship lurched again. His hands slid nine inches before he could stop himself; he felt splinters go in to his palms, which made him flinch. The poor fools on the right were up to their knees now, barely able to row because they couldn’t slide their arses on the bench. But the left side had lifted up quite some way; the left-side oarsmen were straining, presumably only their blades in the water. In which case—

  He had to judge it just right, because if he got it wrong, he’d probably bash his own head in. Unfortunately, he had absolutely no data on which to base any form of geometrical calculations. The next lurch would break his grip. Hell. He let go, staggered, crouched and threw himself sideways.

  He didn’t see any of what came next. The idea was, to throw himself onto an oar, crawl along it out through the oar-port and then, since the left-side oars were lifted up and clear of the water, simply drop off, splash, start swimming. It can’t have happened like that. Something hit his shoulder a terrific crack, so that his whole left arm went numb; but his head—his eyes were shut, but he knew by the movement of the air and the wet chill of spray on his cheek; his head was outside. Sod it, he thought, and kicked with his feet. He felt an unendurable pressure on his back, surely enough to snap his spine like a twig. It stopped. He was falling. Something whacked him. Water. Then he started to drown.

  No, the hell with that, I can swim. One arm out of action hindered him, but not as much as he’d have thought. He kicked with both feet, clawed with his right arm. Something huge and horribly charged with momentum swished past very close to his head. Oar-blades, for crying out loud. Sure and sudden death, thrashing about trying to swat him. Wishing he had a little air in his lungs, he dived down out of the way.

  It’s not fair, he thought, I only want to stay alive. You’ve changed your tune, said a voice in his head. Well, yes.

  A huge mass—an island, or a continent—loomed over him; swimming the wrong way, under the ship, stupid. An impartial mathematician inside his head carried out the necessary calculations and told him that, with no air in him, it was completely impossible for him to get to the surface before he either passed out or gave in and filled his lungs with water. Sorry, and all that. He jacknifed—his left arm was still dead; thank you so much—and flailed his legs. Accepted, that he wouldn’t get there in time; but, just for a laugh, let’s see how far he could get. Halfway? Two thirds? Bet you. He rose, the man who swallowed a volcano, through the roots of a forest, which turned out to be oars as he smashed through into the light.

  For a period of time not susceptible of measurement he stood in the water, head in the air, and gasped. He felt like he was burning up, as though he’d just swallowed a gorse bush, as though each draught of air came wrapped in brambles, nettles and bees. An oar-blade swung over his head, dripping water in his eyes. The water, incidentally, was foul, slightly oily, tasted disgusting; he had a good mind to write to his Representative about it. He opened his eyes (he’d closed them against the dripping water and the cruelty of the light) and saw a steel beak coming straight at him.

  Sledgehammer and nut, surely; that great big warship, just to ram insignificant him. It was horribly wide, with pulverising oars twelve feet long on either side. Its wake ran ahead of it like the way cloth tears. Nothing for it but to go back down there again. This time, he took a deep, deep breath.

  So much better when you take some air with you. He let himself sink for two seconds, then did a few dance steps to hold station. Overhead, the ship cruised silently past—he wondered, would that be what a god looks like, vast, unstoppable, murderous, oblivious, going about its self-ordained purpose way up there where the important stuff happens? He took his best guess, then swam slowly up. His left arm was back in business; it had come to life again at some point, and he hadn’t noticed. It probably hurt, but he wasn’t sure.

  He aimed for a floating plank of wood that turned out to be a dead man when he tried to climb onto it; the corpse bobbed and turned over, shedding him—thanks, you were a great help. He looked around. There were ships, one stuck deep in another, a safely long way away, thirty, forty yards. In the other direction, a clear, uncluttered line to the edge of the lake, and the solid wall of his fellow citizens, who’d come to eat pistachios and watch him die. He hesitated. If he swam to shore, he’d be—safe bubbled up in his mind, but a bubble is an illusion, you think it’s solid and real but it pops, leaving nothing behind. Not safe. There had been a generally-accepted communal hope in the holding pen the night before; the survivors will get a free pardon and go home. Had anybody actually said as much? No, and if they had, you’d be crazy to believe them. An amnesty, in keeping with the spirit of goodwill and joy, was possible; so was a five-legged mule. Come on, Teudel, you’re supposed to be clever. Think of something.

  But he couldn’t; and as he bobbed in the water trying and failing, a twenty-foot spar drifted up and nudged his thigh. He let it sidle past him, then threw his right arm over it and cuddled up grimly. They’d come round, of course,
when it was all over, in boats; fish out the floaters who came quietly, bash the rest over the head. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of a way round that; except—

  He groaned. Do I really have to? Sorry, yes.

  He peered over his spar. Sixty yards towards the centre of the lake was a ship. It looked in reasonable shape—not listing too much, moving rather than drifting. Its ensign was Imperial red, not Vesani white. Another survey suggested that the proceedings were winding down. He could only see four ships; three red, one white, and the white had a red grappled up on either side. The third red, the one he’d picked as his possible salvation, was hanging back, catching its breath. He let go of the spar, calculated an approximate bearing, and dived.

  For a long time he was sure he’d gone astray and missed the bloody thing; then, just as he was about to give up and head for the surface, he saw it, belly of a leaf-shaped sea monster, up and left a bit. He headed up and broke water a yard or so off the stern, arm’s length from the starboard rudder. He hooked his fingers round the rudder’s blade and let it take responsibility for him.

  At one point during the long drift that followed, he was sure a man on the ship saw him; identified him as alive, frowned, confused as to what to do (man overboard, yes, but did normal protocols apply?) decided it wasn’t his problem, looked away. Other than that, just tedium and catching up on the pain, which he’d neglected for some time. Actually, the pain (more or less everything hurt) didn’t seem to matter; it was an ocean of pain, and he floated on it, drawing reassurance from it that he was still alive. The only thing he objected to was the pounding headache, because it got in the way of thinking. Not much to think about right now, though, so no excessively big deal. The next bit, he knew, was going to be really hard, and he was in no hurry to start. Relax, therefore, enjoy the pull of the ship and the company of the pain, because quite soon enough it’s going to be bloody.

  The oars had been shipped and the galley was drifting gently to shore. Close enough now that the roar of the crowd was breaking up into different sounds—chanting, singing, a lot of general yelling; some laughter, which he was inclined to take personally. Twenty yards or so away, there were people drinking twelve-trachy-a-quart white wine, gobbling cashews and spitting out the shells, maybe so caught up in their conversations that they missed the good bits (ships colliding, wood splintering, men torn in half, men dying). At some later date he would definitely come back and slaughter the lot of them, cheerfully and deliberately, while eating a chicken salad. For now, though, he hoped with all his heart and soul that their attention was elsewhere. He let his feet trail, as though his legs were paralysed, until a bump against his toes told him he was practically there. Second Kingdom galleys were wonderful for the shallowness of their draught; float on a puddle of spit, the old builders used to say. They could sail in through the harbour and up the main canal practically to the watergate of the Old Palace. A gentle shudder. Close enough, he decided. He let go of the rudder, drew in as much air as he could, and dived one more time.

  He followed the line of the keel and found the sternpost. It was all precision stuff from now on, and he’d be guessing all the way.

  The idea was that the point where the sternpost meets the water was a blind spot. If he stayed right in close to it, the people on the shore couldn’t see him, and neither could anyone aboard the ship. He’d be vulnerable to boats out on the lake, but a head is a fairly small object, easily lost against the dark wood of the ship or mistaken for some other kind of flotsam. Stay put until it gets dark, then go ashore. Simple. Simple but very difficult and dangerous. For one thing, there was nothing to hold on to, so he’d have to tread water for hours and hours. No tides on an artificial lake, but plenty of backwash from the ship, other ships, boats, which caused him to bob up and down when he particularly wanted to keep still, because a moving object is so much easier to notice. Also, he was horribly, horribly tired, and there was a very real danger he might drop off to sleep; only for a moment, but that could easily be enough for him to drift out where he could be seen. The more he thought about it, the greater the odds stacked against him—wouldn’t it be so much more sensible to give in now, let himself be seen and picked up, or just sink down under the water and take a good, deep breath? He couldn’t help but consider the value of the life he’d been fighting so long, so hard to save. Worth it? A joke. Teudel; son of a clerk, on the far periphery of a good family; an educated man, got into the Institute, but thrown out for petty theft and dishonesty; discovered quite by accident that he had a certain degree of artistic flair and manual dexterity, just enough to enable him to engrave a coining die with a passable copy of the emperor’s head and the eagle-and-thunderbolt. Good money in counterfeit coins, excuse the pun. He’d learnt about standards and trussels, trefoils, martlets and die rotations. His mistake had been the understandable urge to improve on the original. The official portrait of the late unlamented emperor on the gold solidus had made him look like a constipated goat. Teudel’s version was rather more flattering. At his trial the judge had joked that he wasn’t sure whether to send him to the gallows or the Mint. Only kidding. Executions backed up nine months, shortage of qualified hangmen, typical government inefficiency. A life worth struggling for? Well, quite.

  But then, he thought (terrible pain in his legs; if cramp were to set in, he’d be finished) what about money? Copper has its uses, but gold’s no good for anything, too soft, too heavy; you could use it in plumbing, or flashing for roofs, but you’d have to work a lifetime up to your waist in a river to get enough to make two feet of water pipe. But roll it into a sheet, punch out a bucketful of discs, put the discs between two dies, whack the top die with a hammer; stoop to pick up the result, suddenly you’re holding wealth equivalent to a small house or ten oxen or four carriage horses; the breathtaking miracle of reverse alchemy, which turns a small flattened blob of gold into any God’s amount of mundane but useful dross. What makes gold valuable is the struggle, the effort you put in to get it, the two years your average working man would have to give you before you paid him one gold solidus. Well, mostly gold; six parts in ten these days, thanks to the war, or five parts if it’s one of Teudel’s (though the artwork would be better). On that basis; such a life is worthless, unless and until given value by the effort to keep it. Nice thinking, Teudel. Thank you.

  The people were going home now, he could tell by the pitch and volume of their voices. He could picture them getting to their feet, looking around for their possessions, picking up their nutshells and apple cores and empty bottles. Far out to his right he could see a small boat. But it’d only take one over-observant bastard looking back just as he was climbing out of the water; a shout, a pointing finger, kettlehats running, and all that endurance and resourcefulness gone to waste. Unless—

  Why the hell not? Taking a deep breath, he dived again, swum wearily under the hull until he found the anchor chain. It was nearly as thick as his waist—clearly they took no chances back in the Second Kingdom. There was a gap between the chain and the hull, easily enough to squeeze into. He started to climb, each link a convenient ladder-rung, the chain between him and the shore, hiding him almost perfectly from sight. A reckless swing, grab and heave to get him over the rail; he was banking on the ship being deserted, the survivors having been marched away, the regular navy not yet arrived to take charge. His luck was in; he hadn’t been seen. Now for the imaginative part—

  He scrambled up onto the rail, as if engaged in some authentic nautical task involving rigging; leaned back a little, waggled his arms, rocked on his heels until he lost his balance, fell backwards overboard with a pitiful wail. Hit the water head-first, nearly knocked himself out (careless), came up spitting water and cursing; trod water for a moment or so, then breaststroked to shore, squelched dejectedly onto dry land, head down. And what did they all see? A shamefaced sailor who’s just fallen off his own ship with everybody looking.

  He kept going—squelch, squelch, every water-seeping footstep now a
witness for the defence rather than the prosecution—as far as the corner of Tanneries and Fletchers’. Left into Tanneries, left again into the first narrow ginnel. A wonderful place, the square quarter-mile just north of the Tanneries. You can do pretty much anything you want; a hundred people will see you do it, but if the kettlehats come asking, it’d be never seen this man before in my life. Provided you’ve got nothing worth stealing and you don’t tread on someone’s foot, it’s one of the freest, safest places in the world.

  But not for long. People move quickly there; they hardly ever run, but they walk fast and purposefully, eyes straight ahead, relying on peripheral vision to warn them of danger.

  The trouble with your son (said the Governor of the Institute, when implored by his mother to give him another chance) is that he’s thoroughly corrupt, right down to the core. Whenever he’s called upon to choose a course of action, he’ll always opt for dishonesty and deceit, even if the honest path would be easier and safer. He’s not criminal through force of circumstance, but by inclination and choice.

  Harsh words; mostly fair. Four blocks away, in the wall of an outhouse in the back yard of the Integrity Rewarded, there was a loose brick behind which he’d stashed twenty-seven best-quality reproduction solidi. The irony was that those coins contained eleven full ounces of pure, honest gold; a fortune, enough to set a man up for life. Not his gold, admittedly; it belonged to his backers, but two of them had been in the galley with him and were presumably now at the bottom of the lake, and the other three had to be long gone by now. They wouldn’t begrudge him. Well, they would, but tough. It’d be a desperate waste of his courage and determination if his intention to start a new, better life was frustrated at the outset for want of a little liquidity.