by K. J. Parker
“Agreed,” Luzir said, after a long silence. “But do we want to?”
Joiauz nodded vigorously. “Yes,” he said, “I think we do. I think we want to move our people away from here, across the Essa, into Crebriand and then west, as far as we want to go. The no Vei and the Rosinholet and the Chantat want our land; I say let them have it. They need to move on, because they’ve got the Goida breathing down their necks. The Goida are on the move because way out east somewhere there’s someone even bigger and nastier than they are, pushing up against them. If we all stay still, I can tell you what’ll happen. Us, the no Vei, the Chantat, all the Aram will wear ourselves out fighting each other, and then the Goida will come and slaughter what’s left, and we’ll all be dead. So, let’s not fight. Let’s not have a war; at least, not the war we don’t want, against people we can’t beat. If we’ve got to fight, let’s fight someone we know is weaker than us, and take what we need, and maybe the Cosseilhatz will still be around in a hundred years’ time. Really, I believe it’s as simple as that. What do you think?”
Nobody spoke or even moved for a very long time. Then Semplan said, “It’s not up to us, though. Is it?”
Joiauz nodded wearily. “That’s right,” he said. “It’s up to Chauzida, and he’s just a kid. But you all know I’m right, don’t you? It’s not like we’ve got a choice. The Goida are coming, tomorrow or the next day, or the day after that. If it wasn’t for Calojan, I don’t think any of us would hesitate.”
Autet shivered. “They say he’s never lost a battle.”
“That’s the other thing.” Joiauz lifted his head; his eyes were glittering, as though he had a fever. “I think there’s a good chance Calojan won’t fight. Well, why should he? He knows us. He knows taking us on would be completely different from fighting the Sashan. For him to fight us would be like the head declaring war on the hands; and it’s the hands that hold the weapons. I think he’d refuse, and then the emperor wouldn’t have any choice. He’d have to let us take as much land as we want—and there’s plenty of room for us, that’s the thing. We could live inside the empire and be their dogs, if that’s how it has to be. We could live in their house and chase away the wolves from their door, it’d be a good thing for all of us. Calojan will tell Sechimer that, and Sechimer will have to listen. He’s not a fool. He’ll have to.”
Luzir nodded. “And if he doesn’t?”
“We take what we want anyway,” Joiauz replied. “But I don’t see it coming to that. It’s like we’re challenging Calojan to a fight, and we’ve got his sword. Without us, he can’t fight. Simple as that.”
“What about these new people he’s got?” Autet said. “These northerners?”
Joiuaz’ face relaxed into a broad grin. “There’s only five thousand of them,” he said. “And they’re footsoldiers. Since when have the Aram been scared of anyone who hasn’t even got a horse?”
“All right.” Semplan looked round, as if hoping someone would contradict him, then went on, “We need to tell the boy.”
“We need him to make the right choice,” Autet added. “Joiauz, you’ll have to talk to him first.”
Joiauz nodded. “He’s a very smart kid,” he said. “I believe I can make him understand. He’ll listen to me. It’s not like he’s got anyone else to talk to.”
Chauzida stared down at the terrible thing he’d just done, and groaned out loud.
There it lay, in nine pieces, on the floor of the tent. It was just his rotten luck that it should have fallen, not on the soft rug which might have cushioned its fall, but on the projecting claw-shaped foot of the stupid folding table, which shattered it instantly and beyond all hope of repair. He gazed at it, hating it, desperate with guilt. His father had brought it back from the war, his most valued trophy, a genuine Mezentine porcelain wine cooler; look, he’d announced, what I’ve got. They’d gawped at it—it’s a pot, big deal—and he’d explained; it’s a very old pot, it’s really rare, it’s from a very long way away; then (as an afterthought) it’s very beautiful; then, when nobody seemed particularly convinced, it’s a very valuable old rare pot. It’s worth six imperial gold coins, and Calojan gave it to me personally.
And now, Chauzida reflected, I’ve killed it. His father had explained about that. With very old, rare, valuable pots, if they get broken, they aren’t valuable any more, even if you wire them back together. It’s the not-being-broken-after-having-been-around-all-that-time that makes them desirable; that and the exquisite beauty, which barbarians like themselves would have to take on trust.
I’m going to be in so much trouble, Chauzida thought.
His first instinct was to gather up the fragments of pottery corpse and bury them somewhere, and fall back on the what-me? defence. But it had never worked in the past, not once; they could always tell he was lying just by looking him in the eyes, and the lie, apparently, just made it all so much worse. He cast about for other options. A sudden gust of wind. The dog did it. (But if the dog was in the tent, that would be his fault too; in fact, it would be an exacerbating factor rather than a defence.)
He tried to think. He asked himself; in my shoes, what would general Calojan do? Various strategies flashed across his mind like shooting stars; he could be discovered lying on the ground, apparently unconscious, a fainting fit, they’d be so worried about him they wouldn’t care about a dumb old pot. Well, maybe not. He tried to picture himself standing upright and tall; I am your king and this was my pot, if I choose to break it—No. Hard to imagine anything that could make the situation worse, but that could well be it.
So, what would Calojan do? Answer; Calojan wouldn’t have broken it in the first place. Calojan wouldn’t have been practicing close-order hand-to-hand combat, with an imaginary axe against an imaginary opponent, and if he had he’d have looked where he was backhand-parrying an imaginary downward diagonal cut in fourth guard; and even if he’d not looked and broken the stupid pot, Calojan wouldn’t be in more trouble than anyone ever in the history of the world, because Calojan was a grown-up—
“Chauzida, there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”
He hadn’t heard Joiauz come in. He froze. On the ground at his feet, the potsherds looked bigger than mountains. He had one second to come up with a plausible lie—
“I’m so sorry,” he said; the words burst out of him. “It was an accident, really. I just sort of brushed against it, and—”
Joiauz caught sight of the potsherds. The corners of his mouth twitched. “That’s that horrible pot.”
“I just sort of touched it, and it fell. I’m really, really sorry.”
Joiauz shrugged. “You know what,” he said, “I never liked it much anyway. But the other one was always so mad keen on it, I never said anything.”
It was as though he was standing on a stool with a rope round his neck, and instead of kicking the stool away they’d grinned and said, Only kidding. He looked up at Joiauz’ face, and his heart went cold. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s happened?”
“I need to talk to you,” Joiauz said. “Tell you what. Let’s walk down to the river, see if we can get a couple of ducks.”
Chuazida hesitated for a moment, just in case it was a trick and Joiauz was about to start yelling about the pot. Then he dived into the long box in the corner of the tent and got out his bow. Joiauz didn’t like hunting, he didn’t have the patience. A voice in his head told him, something is very wrong, but he’d seen two dozen ducks down in the ox-bow that very morning. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be that bad.
The ducks were still there. Inevitably they put them up as they shoved their way through the tall reeds; they exploded off the water and soared into the air but that was all right, they’d circle for a while and then come back. Very carefully, so as to keep movement to a bare minimum, Chauzida teased the seven blunt-head arrows out of the quiver and laid them down beside him, locating them by feel so he wouldn’t have to look down when the time came. The air was perfectly still, and the only sound
was the river.
“Chauzida.” He wished his uncle would keep quiet. “There’s going to be a war.”
Well, he knew that. “Because of the soldiers attacking the Blue Flower.”
“That’s right.”
Well. It was bad news, he assumed, but no reason to scare the ducks. Still, his uncle felt the need to talk about it, so he did his best. “Is there anything we can do to stop it?”
A pause. Chauzida craned his head sideways, to look up without presenting the high-flying ducks with a warning flash of white face. “Yes,” Joiauz said. “We could negotiate, send an embassy, sort it out. The situation’s pretty bad, but there’s probably still time to fix it.”
“That’s good.”
Joiauz shifted a little. Cramp, presumably. “It’s entirely up to you, of course,” Joiauz went on. “You have to make the decision.”
“What’s there to decide?”
Out of nowhere, a duck swooped down, opened its wings to brake, and dropped onto the water. Not daring to breathe, Chauzida groped for an arrow, nocked it, drew swiftly and smoothly, took a sight along the arrowshaft, drew back a little more until he felt the tip of his middle finger graze the corner of his mouth. At that moment, just as it should, the force behind the string became too much for his hooked fingers to resist. The string slipped free, and for an everlasting fraction of a second, he watched the arrow loop and twist in the air. Then there was a clearly audible smack; the duck thrashed on the water, flapped desperately two or three times—it was already dead, but its wings hadn’t realised that yet—and sort of flopped sideways. A surge of joy filled him, but he remembered to look for the arrow, quickly sinking through the water, so he’d know where to dive for it later. “Shot,” Chauzida muttered, and for a moment, the whole world was a bright blaze of glory. Then he remembered, and said, “Sorry, what were you saying?”
“You need to decide,” Joiauz said. “Do we make peace, or do we go to war?”
Chauzida glanced up again. The ducks were still circling, tiny black footprints in blue snow. Maybe he’d missed something. “Why would we want to have a war?” he asked.
Joiauz explained. There was going to be a war, no question about it; the decision really was who they’d end up fighting. One enemy was strong, the other was weak. The future of the Cosseilhatz was at stake. It looked like a choice, but really it was something else; do the sensible thing, or make a bad mistake. You didn’t have to be a genius to work that out.
“Well?” Joiauz said.
Chauzida was vividly aware of the feel of the bow handle in his hand. A few minutes ago, he’d been so purely happy. “It’s not really up to me, is it?” he said. “I mean, it can’t be. I’m just a kid.”
Joiauz looked so unhappy. “No,” he said. “It’s got to be you. I can’t decide for you, I can only advise. Otherwise it’d be all wrong.”
“You decide. That’s my decision. I—” What was the word? “I authorise you to choose for me. I can do that, can’t I?”
“No.” Joiauz sounded—not angry, or at least not angry with him. “Look, I’m sorry, but that’s how it is. Some things you can cheat with, some things, you’ve got to do it absolutely straight or it comes out very bad indeed.”
“But nobody would know.”
“I’d know,” Joiauz said, “and so would you.” He sort of wriggled, as though he was itching. “Would you like me to explain it again? Maybe I didn’t make it clear.”
Chauzida shook his head. “You want us to start this war with the empire, don’t you?”
“It’s not—”
“No, please. You think that would be the best thing to do.”
Joiauz hesitated, then nodded firmly. “Yes.”
“I think you’re far more likely to be right than me.”
Joiauz breathed in deeply, then out again, slow. “You’re saying you don’t think we should do it.”
“I—” Chauzida felt his hand tighten on the bow handle, as if he was trying to squeeze a resolution out of it. “It’s really stupid, but no, I don’t. I think Calojan and the empire have always been our friends, and this thing with the Blue Flower, we both know it was really just an accident, even though they behaved very badly over it. But they lost more men, we won, so it sort of evens out. It’s definitely not something to fight a war over. It’d be an excuse. We’d be lying. And if it’s not all right to lie about whose decision it is,” he added quickly, “I don’t think it can be right to lie about the reason for doing it. Can it?”
Joiauz was looking past him. “A while back I sent a message to Calojan, and the emperor,” he said. “I asked, could we come and live in the empire, to protect them and be protected ourselves. They said no. So yes, you’re right, I’m saying we should use this stupid thing as an excuse for doing what I originally wanted to do. And yes, that’s a lie.”
“And you said,” Chauzida went on, “we shouldn’t lie about important things.”
“I did, didn’t I?” Joiauz was kneading the palm of his left hand with the thumb of his right. He did that sometimes, but Chauzida was never sure what it meant. “So you’ve decided.”
“I’m really sorry,” Chauzida said. “And I’d far rather you did what you think is right. You know so much more about it than me.”
“Yes,” Joiauz replied. “I do. And I know I’m right. But it’s not up to me.”
Chauzida felt terrible. All his life, as long as he could remember, his uncle had been on his side. When he’d done bad things and his father and mother were angry with him, Joiauz had spoken up for him, made a joke of it to calm them down. He’d always treated him as a grown-up, told him the truth; it was probably because he didn’t have any children of his own, or something like that. Now, for the first time, his uncle had asked him for something, and he’d refused. “I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I think we should do the war.”
Joiauz grinned at him. “Liar.”
“No, really.” He tried desperately to find some words. “I’ve decided that my first decision was wrong, and doing what’s best for our people is more important than not lying about why we do it. That’s my decision and I’m ordering you to respect it. All right?”
Joiuaz shook his head. “You can’t do that,” he said. “And you shouldn’t try, it’s not fair on me.” He stood up; there was a snapping sound, he’d stepped on one of Chauzida’s arrows. He should have sworn loudly, then laughed; that was what his uncle Joiauz would’ve done, the man he’d known all his life. This man, whoever he was, looked down as though he’d just trodden in something. “Come on,” he said. “We’d best get back. Your grandmother will be wondering where you are.”
He almost wanted to smile. A moment ago, he’d been a king; now he was a child whose grandmother fretted when she didn’t know where he was. “What about the duck?” he said.
“Forget the stupid duck.”
Uncle Joiauz had taught him that the hunter always retrieves the dead game; it’s part of the covenant, if you kill it, you don’t let it go to waste. It was a point of honour. Presumably he was supposed to forget about the arrow, too. He trudged back in Joiauz’ footsteps. It was one of the worst moments of his life.
A man he thought he recognised but couldn’t put a name to was waiting by the tailgate of the blue-painted wagon. When he saw Joiauz he loped forward and said something to him in a low voice. Joiauz listened intently, nodded, thanked him and sent him on his way. Suddenly he looked tired; like that time when the wagons got stuck in the deep mud crossing one of the northern fords, and it had taken all of them three days and two nights to dig them out. “Now there’s a thing,” he said.
“Uncle?”
Joiauz hesitated for a moment, then reached out and put his arm round Chauzida’s shoulder. “While we were sitting out there in the reeds talking about this important choice you’ve had to make, some stupid bugger’s been and made it for us. Last night, completely unprovoked and without telling anyone, thirty young idiots from the Long Arrow carved up a convoy o
f imperial merchants on the Lonazep road. Killed the lot of them, seventeen unarmed men, six boys and four convoy guards.” He opened his mouth and yawned widely, until Chauzida was afraid his mouth would split. “Well, then,” he said. “Now what?”