by K. J. Parker
“Actually,” Joiauz said gently, “that’s not so far from what I had in mind.”
Everyone was silent for a while. Then Semplan said, “I don’t think I like where this is going.”
“The Essa,” Joiauz said firmly. “Yes, it’s Imperial territory. Yes, the last time we tried to go there, we got the shit kicked out of us by the Imperial heavy infantry. But guess what. That was a hundred and twenty years ago, things were very different. There’s nearly twice as many of us now. And the empire is weak.”
They looked at him. “Tell the Sashan that,” Luzir said.
Joiauz smiled. “Can’t,” he said, “there’s none left. And who killed them all? We did. Not the empire, because the Imperials lost so many men fighting the Sashan before Calojan came along that they couldn’t make up three full battalions without enlisting old men and boys. The empire may look stronger than it’s ever been, but the truth is, they’re on their knees. They’re desperately short of manpower, and a large part of their national wealth is sitting in big pottery jars on the carts out there, waiting for me and the boy to bury it. Forget the military strength of the empire; the military strength of the empire is us.”
“And Calojan,” Autet said quietly. “Do you really want to start a fight with him?”
Joiauz shook his head vigorously. “Not if I can possibly avoid it,” he said. “Believe me, I’ve met him, I’ve spent hours in his company. I watched him take apart the Sashan, and I still couldn’t tell you exactly how he did it. He scares the life out of me, and that’s the truth.”
“Well, then,” said Semplan.
Joiauz took a deep breath. “I think we’re at cross purposes,” he said. “I said we should move across the Essa. I didn’t say we should take it by force. I say we should ask Sechimer to give it to us.”
Another dead silence. Autet broke it. “Are you out of your mind?”
“I don’t think so,” Joiauz said quietly. “I’ve just come through there, on my way home. The place is practically deserted. The emperor before Sechimer, the red-head, he forcibly enlisted tens of thousands of men from the farms and villages, and those poor buggers never came home. The people that’re left simply can’t work the land any more. They’re moving out in droves, heading for the cities or the lowlands. It won’t be long before all that lot is just moorland. It’s no earthly good to Sechimer like that. But what would be useful to him—more to the point, what’d be useful to Calojan, would be a large, friendly nation living there who’d be no trouble, stand ready to fight his wars for him, and keep the door firmly shut against the really ugly bastards who may start pouring over the mountain passes any day now. See? It’s good for them, and it’s good for us. Right now, we’re being eaten alive by the no Vei. So, we give them what they want, and we go where they’d never dare bother us again. They don’t know the state the empire’s in. All they know is, the emperor just wiped the Sashan off the face of the earth. Catch them picking a fight with someone who could do that.”
Autet smiled at him. “I can see why you didn’t want the boy to hear all that,” he said.
“Quite.” Joiauz grinned. “It’s at least three distinct counts of treason against the Ancestors, and he’s been taking an unhealthy interest in the law recently. Anyway, what do you think? Honestly, I don’t see we’ve got much of a choice, and if we do nothing, we’re screwed. Come on, Partetz, you’ve been very quiet. What do you reckon?”
The old man was sitting at the back, almost outside the circle of light cast by the charcoal brazier. “I’d be inclined to agree with you,” he said, “if it wasn’t for one thing. We can’t just give up the Northfold. It’s not ours to give away. It belongs to the Cosseilhatz, not us.”
“If we don’t,” Joiauz said gently, “it’ll be taken from us.”
Partetz shrugged. “That’s different,” he said. “That wouldn’t be our fault. Just giving in would be. Come on, Joiauz, you’re an intelligent man, like your father was before you. You understand what I’m saying.”
“What I understand is that if we try and hold on to it, a lot of our people will get killed and the outcome will be the same. No, I take that back. The outcome won’t be the same, because if we lose too many men defending the Northfold, we won’t have the strength to bargain with the emperor, and we won’t get the Essa valleys. Then what?”
Partetz shook his head. “I’m not getting at you,” he said. “You’re a brave, clever man trying to do the right thing. But you simply can’t do this. It’s not an option.”
“Chauzida—”
“Couldn’t do it either, even if he was old enough. I’m very sorry, but there it is.”
There was a very long silence. Then Autet said, “What about the emperor? He owes us. He could help us, against the no Vei.”
Joiauz scowled at him. “You haven’t been listening.”
“He could lend us Calojan,” Viatges said. “He could beat the no Vei. Then we’d give the emperor back his gold, to say thank you. That’d solve his problem, and he’d have solved ours.”
“Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” Semplan said. “Joiauz? Could Calojan beat the no Vei?”
“It’s possible,” Joiauz said. “I honestly don’t know. If any one man could, it’d be him.”
“Well,” Luzir said sharply, “now we’ve got two options. A moment ago, we only had one. I call that progress. You talk to Calojan, Joiauz, he’d have to listen to you. See what he says.”
“I can tell you that,” Joiauz replied. “He’ll say, he’s just finished one war, he doesn’t want to go straight into another one, certainly not against an enemy he doesn’t know, in a strange country, in a fight that’s nothing to do with him and his people.”
“That’s exactly what we did, though,” Semplan pointed out. “Fair’s fair. We’ve got merit against him. If he wants to be our friend, he’s got to help us.”
“I think he’d say the gold coins cover all of that,” Joiauz said. “That’s how the Imperials see things. They’re a bit hazy about concepts like merit.”
“You’re the regent,” Partetz said. “You have to decide. But I think I can safely say, the meeting’s against your idea, and we’d like you to try the other way.”
Joiauz held up his hands. “I’ll try,” he said. “I’ll do my best, I promise you. Just don’t hold your breath, is all I’m saying. But I’m warning you, even if we do it your way and it works, you’re just postponing the evil day. If the Goida are coming, we’ll face this problem all over again.”
“If they’re coming,” Semplan said gently. “One dragon at a time, isn’t that what they say nowadays? Eat what’s on your plate and worry about pudding later.”
Joiauz sighed. “All right,” he said. “Trouble with you is, you won’t take yes for an answer. Look, all of you, not a word about this where the boy might hear, all right? I’d really rather leave him out of it, until we’re quite sure what we’re going to do.”
On the other side of the tent flap, Chauzida backed away slowly until he was outside the light from the watch fire. Poor uncle, he thought; he’s right, and they won’t let him do what he wants, and I can’t help because I’m not supposed to know. He yawned. He was tired out and he had a busy day tomorrow. He crept back the way he’d come, nearly got seen by the night stockman but just about made it, and was fast asleep in bed by the time Joiauz came home.
Raffen walked north from the City for two days before he found a pair of boots. They were lying in a ditch. There was a man in them, but he was dead. Raffen considered him for a while. His face was buried in nettles but he had small hands and thick grey hair. His coat was northern homespun, and someone had tried valiantly to keep it going as long as possible. The boots were City-made, presumably from one of the five big companies who operated in the Tanneries. They were slightly too big, so he padded them out with grass. He wondered if he was now a thief, but he couldn’t come to a definite conclusion. Before he moved on he tore strips from the dead man’s shirt and wound them tight aro
und his feet. Two days of barefoot walking had made rather a mess of them, but the binding helped considerably. He had to take out some of the grass to compensate.
It wasn’t stealing, he told himself as he continued along the road, because soldiers in wars take boots and clothes and weapons from the bodies of their dead enemies, and that’s perfectly acceptable. The logic was flawed, he knew perfectly well, because the dead man wasn’t his enemy and he hadn’t killed him. Presumably somewhere the dead man had heirs, to whom the boots belonged, though it would be impractical to try and trace them; by the time you did that, assuming it was possible at all, the boots would’ve rotted through and be no use to anyone. His grandmother had told him when he was a boy that if he ever found himself in a position where he was uncertain about the proper course to pursue, all he needed to ask himself was, What would Bolverk the Dragonslayer do? Well, that was easy; he’d take the boots, and quite likely they’d turn out to be magic boots that made you fly through the air or walk unseen past your enemies. That still didn’t make it right, though. He’d crossed the line. He was now a thief.
The countryside to the north of the outskirts of the City was flat; good black soil, large hedgeless fields of cabbages, beet, the dried-up helm of peas and beans. This was where they grew vegetables for nearly a million people, and the road was basically two deep ruts gouged out by the wheels of heavy carts. He walked on the raised platform between the ruts; it was smooth and level, having been planed down by axles and cart-beds for a thousand years. Halfway through the morning of the third day, he came to the first village out from the City—during the Sashan war, the City had been besieged five times, and all the nearby villages had been burnt down. It wasn’t much. There were a dozen large houses, maybe three times as many cottages, a flint-built shrine with a thin, high tower; a baker’s shop, an inn and a forge.
The blacksmith was making gate hinges. Raffen waited until the iron was back in the fire and walked in. The smith looked at him; coat, then boots, then face. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I’m looking for work.”
“Get lost.”
“I was a striker in the arms factory.”
The smith grinned. “See any trip hammers here? No. Go away.”
“I can do hand work. I had my own forge, back in the old country.”
“Piss off.”
“Your hinge is burning.”
White sparks were jumping out of the fire. “Shit,” said the smith, dragging a white-hot fused lump out of the coals. “Now look what you made me do. Get out of here before I smash your face in.”
So he tried the bakery. The baker was more polite—sorry, but we can’t use your sort here—and suggested he might try the quarry, where they had so much trouble keeping their men that they’d probably hire anyone. Raffen thanked him politely and walked on.
The quarry foreman was actually pleased to see him. Yes, we can use you. We had three of the buggers die on us last week, and we’ve got thirty-six tons to deliver by month’s end. They gave him a pick, and a bit of rag to tie over his face. Mind your eyes with the flying chips, they said, though they didn’t specify what you were meant to do to avoid them.
It wasn’t so bad. He stood in one place for a long time, which was good for his feet. After four days, the foreman promoted him to facing work, a lot of which you could do sitting down. You’re good at this, they said, and Raffen explained that he’d done a lot of it in the old country; there was a good stone pit on our farm, he said, we sold a lot of stone to the neighbours.
On the fifth day, when they stopped for the midday meal (three meals a day in the quarry; good wheat bread and some sort of appropriately hard cheese) the foreman came and stood over him, looked at him curiously for a while, and then told him he had visitors.
“Me?” Raffen looked up. “Don’t think so.”
“You. On your feet.”
So he scrambled up, put the rest of the bread carefully in his pocket, and followed the foreman to the rickety old shed behind the bunkhouse, where the foreman had his chequer-board and did the tallies. Inside were three men, a woman and one chair. The visitors were all standing. The men wore fine coats of red and blue broadcloth; the woman was dressed in a red gown with a fur collar. He thought for a moment that he recognised her. For some reason, they bowed as he walked in.
“That’s him,” the woman said. Then she looked straight at him and smiled. She said hello, and then a name.
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “My name is Raffen.”
“It’s all right,” said one of the men, tall with short white hair. “We’re not Sighvat’s people, we mean you no harm. Quite the reverse.”
They were—no, not frightened of him, but something quite close to that. The woman was nervous but trying not to show it. “It’s me,” she said. “Sitry. Your cousin.”
Which was a strange coincidence, because the other one had a cousin called Sitry, and it’s not a common name these days; a bit old-fashioned. The other one hadn’t seen her for twenty years, and she’d been a child then, no more than twelve years old. She’d married a man in Hammerfirth.
“We’ve had a devil of a job finding you,” said the youngest man; about forty, short but very strong, with a big red beard. “It was sheer fluke we came this way, and then the blacksmith described you exactly.”
“I’m sorry,” Raffen said again. “Who are you looking for?”
The older man said that name again. Raffen shook his head. “He’s dead, isn’t he? Lord Sighvat killed him.”
The woman gave him such a sad look. “No he didn’t,” she said.
“Yes he did.” He hadn’t meant to raise his voice; no call for that. “Lord Sighvat had him thrown down a well. He’s dead.”
The third man, who hadn’t spoken yet, shook his head. “We looked in the well,” he said. “We sent men down on ropes, and then we dug through from the other side. There was no body down there. We figured out how you escaped. Amazing.”
“We’ve had the Companions scouring the whole country,” the younger man said. “They found the men who told you about getting work in the City. We’ve been there and talked to the people in that dreadful camp.”
“You made quite a name for yourself,” the older man said. “You’re quite a hero.”
That made no sense. “I didn’t do anything,” Raffen said. “And then someone robbed me and took my shoes.”
“He doesn’t know,” the third man said. “He can’t have heard.”
The woman looked at him again. He quite liked her. She was calm, and reasonably pretty. Kind eyes. “King Halfdan is dead,” she said.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he replied automatically. “What’s that got to do with me?”
“So are his sons,” the elder man went on, “and his brothers, and most of the family. There’s been a civil war while you’ve been away. Which means—” He stopped. Whatever it was, he didn’t seem to want to say it.
“You’re related to the royal family,” the woman said.
He laughed, then paused to choose his words. “The man you mentioned just now,” he said, “was sort of an off-relation. But very distant.”
“In direct line to the throne,” said the third man.
“Fourteenth in line,” Raffen said without thinking.
“Yes,” said the older man. “The other thirteen are all dead.” He lowered his head. “Which means that you—”
“Don’t be so bloody stupid,” Raffen said. His hands were shaking, and he wanted to run away. “The man you mentioned is dead, Sighvat killed him. I don’t know him. I never even met him.”
“It’s him all right,” the woman said. “I’d know him anywhere.”
“You’re lying.” Why was he shouting? “It’s not true.”
She was smiling. “He came to stay at our house when I was twelve,” she said. “I had a crush on him, because he was so handsome. I climbed an apple-tree and I fell out, and he caught me. The hobnails on my shoe gave him a deep gash on t
he side of his head.” She came forward and gently parted his hair with her fingers. They felt like fire. “There,” she said. “Here’s the scar.”
He looked at her, then the other three. His legs were going. “Would it be all right if I sat down?” he said.
The younger man actually brought the chair to him. He sat down. His head was swimming. The woman knelt down beside him and took his hand. He let her. “It’s all right,” she said. “We know what you’ve been through, it must have been terrible. You’ve put it all out of your mind, I can understand that. But you’ve got to come home now. You’re needed.”
He turned his head and looked at her. “She was your sister,” he said.
She nodded.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “It was all my fault.”
“No,” the third man said sharply. “It was Sighvat’s fault, and you’ll be pleased to hear he’s still alive and we’ve got him safe. You can deal with him as soon as we get home.”
He turned and looked at him. “Torcetil. From Laxriver.”
The man nodded. “And this is Einar Lefson,” he said, nodding toward the red-bearded man, “and this is Prince Cari Godmondson.”
“We have met,” the older man said, “a good many years ago. I knew your father quite well.”
The woman, Sitry, was still holding his hand. He gently pulled it free. “What do you want me to do?” he said.
“Come home,” Cari said. “The civil war’s more or less burnt itself out, but things are in a terrible state. Nothing like it’s ever happened before. It got quite vicious just before the end.”
Raffen looked up at him. “Who won?”
“Torsten Halfdanson,” Einar replied. “But he died of his wounds three days after the battle. He was the last of them. The whole thing was for nothing, just a complete waste. People are so shocked, they simply don’t know what to do. We’re all that’s left of the old Court. Cari was about to be strung up, I was on the run, hiding in barns. Torcetil stayed at Court and tried to keep things going, he’s the only one anybody would listen to, but there’s basically nothing left. That’s why you’ve got to come home. We need to see that the bodies get buried, find food for the people whose farms were burnt down. There’s hundreds of families living in the forest because they’re too scared to come out. We can’t deal with that, we need the king. Otherwise, I just don’t know what’ll happen.”