The Company

by K. J. Parker

  “You’re going blind, you mean,” Aidi replied. “Terrible thing that must be, blindness. It’s the one thing I’ve always been really scared of. I feel sorry for you.”

  The man grunted. “The hell I am,” he said, picking up the paper and holding it a hair’s breadth from his nose. “The light’s so bad in here. What’s all these numbers?”

  Aidi drew in the deep breath that’s supposed to help you stay calm. “Stock at cost,” he said, “fixtures, goodwill, accounts due less accounts owed. Take it or leave it.”

  The man made a performance of staring at the paper, spinning it out for as long as he could. “What’s that?” he said. “Looks like a six.”

  “It’s a nine.”

  “Can’t do it,” the man said abruptly. “It’s not worth that to me. You know my offer. It’s that or nothing.”

  If I kill him, Aidi thought, it’d count as a breach of the peace. “All right,” he said. “Split the difference.”

  The man picked up his spoon. “I’ll have to think about it.”

  “No.” Aidi lifted the bowl out from under the man’s nose and put it down on the floor. “This is your one and only chance, and I’ll need the money in three days. Otherwise, no deal.”

  “Let me see those figures again.”

  Aidi screwed the paper into a ball and dropped it carefully into the soup bowl. “Yes or no.”

  “Ten thousand.”

  Aidi closed his eyes. “Fine,” he said. “Three days’ time, here, in silver money, and you can be absolutely fucking sure I’ll count it. All right?”

  The man sighed. “Soldiers,” he said. “Why do you always have to be so aggressive about everything?”

  Aidi turned to go, but as he reached the door, the man called him back. “Just out of interest,” he said. “Why?”

  “I’m leaving town.”

  “For good?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded. “Going somewhere nice?”

  He had his back to the man, who didn’t see him smile. “You bet,” he said. “By all accounts, it’s the earthly fucking paradise.”

  He slammed the door, presumably to make sure it shut properly. After he’d gone, the man picked his soup off the floor, fished out the scrap of paper, and finished his meal. Business and emotion, he fervently maintained, were all very well, but wasting food was a sin.

  Chapter Two

  When the Confederation stormed the enemy stronghold of Ieres, the leaders of the allies expressed their thanks to Colonel Kunessin by giving him the wife of the garrison commander, who’d been killed during the assault. She was, they told him, the only thing worth having in the place, and it was the least they could do to show their appreciation.

  Colonel Kunessin was, of course, notoriously shy around women, though the allies hadn’t known him long enough to be aware of it. He knew they’d put the wretched girl in his tent, and he spent an awkward evening finding excuses not to go there, though he was painfully tired after a long, difficult day. Eventually, he couldn’t hold out any longer. He rehearsed a little speech as he walked back through the camp, all about how he believed in treating civilians with proper respect and how magnanimity in victory was the mark of a civilised society. When he pulled back the tent flap and saw her sitting on the edge of the bed, however, all his well-chosen words evaporated like spit on a griddle, and he found himself stuck in the doorway, unable to go out again and desperately unwilling to go in. She turned her head to look at him; she’d been crying, understandably enough, and her make-up had run, leaving her with sooty black rings round her eyes, like a blacksmith.

  “Look,” he said, “I know you’ve had a rough day, but would you mind terribly sleeping on the floor? You can have all the cushions, and the rug. Only I really do need the bed.”

  She looked at him, and he was beginning to wonder if she could understand his dialect; then she said, “All right,” and smiled at him. It wasn’t forgiveness - he’d have been shocked if it was - but it acknowledged a gracious intention; and he realised she was the first person he’d met in a long time who actually came close to understanding how his mind worked.

  “Thanks,” he said, and sat down on the bed, just as his knees gave way. He heard the bed creak, and felt embarrassed. The best you could say for her was that she was attractively plain, but she did have rather fine grey eyes. “Is it all right if I put the lamp out now? I’ve got to get some sleep.”

  “I’ll do it,” she said, and the light went out. He yawned before he could stop himself, and closed his eyes.

  Some time later, he wasn’t sure how long, he woke up and found he was sitting bolt upright with his eyes wide open.

  “Are you all right?” the woman’s voice said.

  He knew he was awake, because it was dark, and in his dream it had been broad daylight. “Sorry,” he said. “Did I wake you?”

  “You were having a nightmare,” she said.

  “Yes.” He lay down again, but kept his eyes solidly open, just in case. He had no desire whatsoever to go back into the sunlight. “I get them a lot. You can probably guess why.”

  She didn’t reply immediately; then she said, “If you like, I can tell you how to deal with that.”

  Naturally he was suspicious, but he said, “Can you?”

  “It’s quite simple,” she replied. “My mother taught me. She was a doctor.”

  That didn’t sound right, but then he remembered: they had women doctors in Coine Ariste, and women clerks and teachers and merchants. “I’d be very interested,” he said politely.

  “All you do,” she said, “when you fall asleep and find you’re in a dream, straight away you look round for a door. Doesn’t matter where you are: in a field, on a beach, in the middle of a forest or a desert. You look round for a door, and you’ll find one. Go straight through it, and as soon as you’re through, you can decide what the dream’s going to be; and if it starts getting nasty once you’re there, just do the same thing over again. Look for a door and go through it. It works, really.”

  He thought for a moment. “I get these recurring nightmares,” he said, “the same one every night for a week, sometimes, so I know them pretty well, and there’s never a door in them anywhere.”

  “You need to look for it,” she said. “Try it, it works. Only,” she went on, “you do need to be careful, because sometimes there’s two doors next to each other, and whatever you do, you must choose the left door - you’re right-handed, aren’t you?”

  “Left-handed, actually.”

  “Oh. In that case, always take the right door. If you go through the other one, you’ll find yourself in a memory, and you can’t always choose where you’ll end up. It’s never actually happened to me,” she added, “but my mother told me about it, and she was very firm.”

  He thanked her and lay back on the bed, trying to keep his eyes open, but he couldn’t. Very soon, they closed and he was back in the dazzling sun; but this time, as he looked round at the terrible sight, he saw a doorway, set into one of the granite outcrops. Oh, he thought, and walked towards it. As he got closer, he saw that there were two doors, side by side, identical. He tried to remember what the woman had said, but the words were already drifting away, like the fragments of a dream when you wake up. Look for a door and go through it. It works, really. Yes, but there’d been more to it than that. Whatever you do, you must choose the—

  Behind him, they were all looking at him. No, he thought, I really can’t face all that again. Then he heard his own voice: left-handed, actually; and he felt his left-hand fingers flex. He reached out and opened the left door.

  “General Kunessin,” the woman said. “Are you all right?”

  He opened his eyes. “What?” he said.

  “You were shouting.” She was tall and pale, with grey hair drawn tightly back in a bun. “I could hear you downstairs in the parlour.”

  Marvellous, he thought. “Sorry,” he said, “just a bad dream.” His left hand was numb; he’d been
lying on it. He’d been doing that a lot lately, and it gave him cramp the whole of the rest of the day. “What time is it?”

  She answered by pulling back the curtain and opening the shutters: broad daylight. “There’s breakfast in the common room,” she said, “or I could bring you something up.”

  She wasn’t to know, of course. “Thanks,” he said, “but I don’t eat breakfast. Did you manage to get my boots mended?”

  She looked at him. “He did the best he could,” she replied, “but he said the leather’s all perished, there’s nothing left to sew into. I don’t know why you don’t get yourself a new pair. There’s a very good cobbler in town, at the corner of Lattengate and the Ropewalk.”

  “I know,” he said, “but I like that pair. I’ve got awkward feet,” he lied. “It’s hard to find boots that fit me.”

  He knew why he lay on his left hand, of course: so he could-n’t use it. But it never worked. The pins and needles were starting now, particularly severe this morning. He’d been to see a doctor about it, the last time he was in Coine Ariste. Try lying differently, she’d said.

  The woman was laying out his clothes for him, everything nicely pressed and folded, which made him feel ridiculous. He’d only started undressing to sleep six months ago.

  “There was someone asking after you earlier,” the woman said, draping his socks over the back of a chair. More holes than socks, she pointedly didn’t say. “A farmer, by the look of him. He said he’d call back at noon.”

  “Thank you,” he said, a little louder than he’d have chosen. “Tall man, broad shoulders, red hair, sunburnt, lots of lines round the eyes.”

  She seemed rather startled. “That’s him,” she said. “You know him, obviously.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “Since we were both three years old,” he said. “We grew up next door to each other, and we both started at the Military College on the same day. But he came home after the war, I stayed in the service.” I’ll shut up now, he thought.

  “Well, anyway,” the woman said, “he called.” The implication being: if he calls again, tell him to wipe his boots.

  “Thanks.”

  She looked at him as she left, and he spared a tiny flake of compassion for her; farmers, in their work clothes, calling at the Glory of Heroes. The world was indeed hastening to its end, and here she was, caught up in its dying throes. But never mind, he thought.

  Since we were both three years old. He frowned and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Scarcely a day out of each other’s sight for twenty-seven years. The intriguing question was (and he’d never been able to answer it): which of them was substantial, and which the shadow.

  Of course, he’d never be able to forgive him about the farm.

  He pulled on his clothes, dragged a comb through his hair and beard, and put on his boots. He felt thick-headed, stupid; too much sleep, he decided. Kudei would be back again at noon. Something to look forward to.

  He put on his coat, realised he’d forgotten something, took it off again, and picked up his sword-belt. Unlike most of his fellow generals, he’d never bothered with a special sword - blued and gilded blade, ivory grip, chiselled quillons, any of that. On the day he left the service, he’d sneaked into the armoury and helped himself to a standard Type Fourteen off the rack; hadn’t even bothered drawing it from its sheath to examine the blade. Since then, he’d had it out to oil it once a week, scrub off the fine pitting of rust under the rain-guard with a handful of steel swarf, because he’d been taught to do that in college and old habits linger. But he’d worn it every day. When he was young, old soldiers had told him that after a while, a soldier can’t walk properly without that three-pound weight on his left hip; you feel unbalanced, as though one leg’s suddenly become an inch shorter than the other. Unlike most things the old-timers had told him, that one had proved to be true. He’d chosen a long coat, so only the chape showed under the hem. He’d gone for a Type Fourteen rather than a Fifteen because it was shorter. Even so, some people noticed, and he didn’t like the way they stared at him, though he couldn’t blame them for it. The chape bumped on the treads as he went downstairs. That’s right, he thought, tell everybody in the building I’m coming.

  Outside the air was cold and slightly damp, the remains of a sea fret blowing over from the west. There was just enough mist left to soften the lines of the houses, and he felt drops of moisture forming in his beard and moustache. I’ve forgotten how to be cold, he thought; careless of me. He walked slowly down the Ropewalk, stopping from time to time to stare in through the doorways of shops, until he reached an old stone building with a weatherbeaten frieze of a bee carved over the lintel. The door was closed, unlike those of the ordinary shops.

  A young clerk scowled at him as he walked in. “Yes?”

  “I need to see the resident,” Kunessin said.

  The clerk’s face hardened, like red-hot steel quenched in water. “Is he expecting you?”

  Kunessin took a packet from his sleeve: a sheet of paper folded small and sealed with a dark red blob. The clerk recognised it, and immediately turned into someone else. “I’ll tell him you’re here,” he said brightly. “Please take a seat; he won’t be long.”

  “Hurry it up a bit, can’t you?” Kunessin said. “I haven’t got all day.”

  The resident turned out to be a short, wide man who looked like he was trying to carry a cushion wedged under his chin. The letter clearly bothered him.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “we don’t usually hold sums like this on the premises. I’ll have to send to Aeres for the balance.”

  Kunessin frowned. “How long will that take?”

  “Two days there,” the resident replied, “three, maybe four days back. The roads at this time of year . . .”

  “How much can you let me have right now?”

  The resident thought about it for a moment. “We can probably find you twelve thousand in ready cash,” he said.

  Kunessin nodded. “Write me bills of exchange for the balance,” he said, “in units of one thousand. I take it they’ll be good here in town.”

  “Of course,” the resident said. Kunessin noticed that he was sweating slightly. “Will you be staying long?”

  “Not six days,” Kunessin said. “I’m disappointed,” he added. “Your resident in Intera said you’d have the whole lot on deposit here.”

  “Under normal circumstances we would, General Kunessin,” the resident said. “But with the milder weather, the farmers put off the cull, which means—”

  Kunessin stood up. “I’ll be back about mid-afternoon,” he said. “If you can have it all ready for me by then, that’d be a big help.”

  One problem solved, at any rate. The two hired mules would be able to carry twelve thousand silver thalers reasonably easily. He’d have been reluctant to burden himself with a third mule; two would be bad enough. He tried not to think about the money as money, only as dead weight, heavy boxes needing to be transported from one place to another. Besides, he thought, it won’t be long now, and I’ll be rid of it for good. Is it possible for a human being, relatively sane and not in the grip of religious fervour, to hate money? Illogical, since money doesn’t actually exist. A silver coin is simply a representative, like a delegate at a conference, participating in the general exchange on behalf of goods and labour. It’s not to be held responsible for what it’s exchanged for, any more than for how it was originally come by. Accordingly, hating money is like killing a herald: pointless, counterproductive and in poor taste. Even so, the thought of himself as a rich man had always bothered and disturbed him. Once it was all gone, he’d be relieved, like a man who’s just carried a heavy sack up a mountain.

  Down the Ropewalk to Spangate, Fish Street, North Quay, to the huge black shed at the end. The tide was in, and the slipway that led to the shed’s enormous back doors was mostly under water, giving the impression that the shed was trying to drink the sea. Outside sat a stack of oak trunks, twenty or more, none less tha
n five feet in diameter. A giant lives here, Kunessin thought.

  He walked up to the front door, which was slightly open, and went inside. Nobody about; but in the middle of the floor, in a cradle of massive beams, lay the bones of a ship, a carcass picked clean by scavengers. The air was thick with floating dust.

  “Hello?” Kunessin called. His voice echoed back off the high roof.

  An old man appeared, apparently out of nowhere. He was small and thin, in clothes many sizes too big and lacquered like armour with tar. He looked at Kunessin with barely disguised horror.

  “Good morning,” Kunessin said. “I’d like to buy a ship.”

  The old man looked at him as if he was dangerous. “You don’t look like a fisherman.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Or a trader.”

  Kunessin shook his head. “I’m not a trader,” he said. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “Can’t say I do.”

  He smiled. “I’m Teuche Kunessin,” he said. “Heloria’s son.”

  For a moment, the old man was perfectly still. Then he nodded, as though reluctantly agreeing to a deal that would end up costing him money. “You’re back, then.”

  “Not stopping,” Kunessin said. “More like a brief visit.”

  The old man frowned. “I heard you were still in the army.”

  “Retired.”

  At last, he’d said something the old man could bring himself to endorse. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s no kind of a life. What did you say you wanted?”

  Hard to believe, Kunessin told himself, that his mother and this creature had shared a grandfather. “A ship,” he said. “For choice, I’m after a ketch, around a hundred and fifty tons’ burden, square-rigged on the foremast, with the mainmast stepped well aft, and I need it as soon as possible.”

  The old man blinked twice. “You got any idea how much something like that’d cost you?”

  Kunessin grinned. “About eight thousand,” he said. “With all canvas, ropes and gear.”

  “Can’t help you,” the old man said. “I got nothing like that at all. Could build you one, take about three years.”