by K. J. Parker
“And the Treasury can give it to the navy as ordinary requisitions without going through the joint chiefs,” Kunessin said quickly. “Understood.” He smiled. “That’s rather clever. Your idea?”
Straton pulled a face. “Nothing personal.”
“Of course not.” Kunessin sighed. “It’s a shame you didn’t check the active lists. Spoilt the whole thing.”
Straton breathed out, like a diver surfacing. “Attention to detail,” he said. “Of course, we could have your name removed.”
Kunessin gave him a nice-try smile. “Not without leave from the army,” he said.
A dip of the head, by way of acknowledgement. “We’re stuck, in other words,” Straton said. “So, what are we going to do?”
Kunessin smiled at him. “Go home,” he said.
“Can’t,” Straton replied. “Come on, General Kunessin, let’s be realistic. I have a flawed case but actual possession. You’ve got a forged transfer deed. Let’s help each other out of this.”
Kunessin’s face didn’t change. “It’s not forged,” he said.
“No, strictly speaking it isn’t. Improperly obtained; better?”
Kunessin nodded. “But still valid until revoked by Central Command,” he said. “Which isn’t going to happen, with all this politicking going on.” He smiled. “It’s nice to know I’m helping the army.”
“Fortuitous,” Straton said drily. “But that’s beside the point. As I see it, your transfer deed and my procedural lapses cancel each other out. What’s left is the fact that I’ve got twenty armed men, which gives me actual possession.”
Kunessin beamed at him. “Fine,” he said. “If you want a bloodbath, I’ll be delighted; it’s years since I slaughtered a whole platoon before breakfast. Then all we have to do is fill your ship with rocks and scuttle it in the bay, and there’ll be nothing to show you ever reached here. Lost at sea with all hands, a maritime tragedy. Please, remember who you’re talking to. Now, shall we be sensible and start again?”
Straton thought about that. “Make me an offer,” he said.
Kunessin nodded. “There’s something quite important you don’t know about yet,” he said. “Take a look at this.”
From his inside pocket he took . . .
“A sock,” Straton said.
“Yes.” Kunessin untied the knot and spread the sock open on the palm of his hand. A faint yellow sparkle gleamed in the moonlight.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” Straton asked.
Kunessin grunted. “Get one of your men to open the door just a bit.”
Enough to let a beam of firelight out; and Straton’s eyes opened very wide. “Is that . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“Here? On Sphoe?”
“Yes. The river - have you seen a map? Half a mile upstream from here. We think it could well be a substantial strike.”
For a long time, Straton seemed to freeze, like an animal hibernating. “You’ll excuse me for saying so,” he said, his voice low and soft, “but surely that makes things worse for you, not better. There’s no way they’ll let you—”
“Quite,” Kunessin said. “And I don’t want it. You can have it, and welcome.” He moved away a little. “Even though the transfer deed quite explicitly includes the mineral rights.”
“The forged transfer deed.”
“We’ve been into that,” Kunessin said. “Don’t say you’re one of those tiresome people who won’t take yes for an answer. Listen to me. I could make it very awkward for you to get vacant possession. It could easily take a year, and by then, who knows? We’re hard grafters, Commissioner, we could clean the river out in a year. But that wouldn’t be right. Like I said, you can have it. Free, gratis, absolute in possession.”
Straton looked at him. “Go on,” he said.
Kunessin turned his head aside, looking over his shoulder. “It stands to reason,” he went on, “that if the government’s going to work this strike, it won’t want a dockyard on Sphoe. Too much risk, temptation; too easy for dockyard workers to nip out after dark and help themselves. Ships coming and going all the time. A security nightmare, in fact.”
“Quite.”
Smile. “So that puts paid to the navy’s plans, then. I’m sorry for all your hard work and ingenuity, but as an army man, naturally I’m biased. Of course, you won’t come out of it too badly, if you can give them a gold mine.”
Straton frowned. “Make your point.”
“Simply this.” Kunessin’s turn to pause. “Two documents,” he said, “two pieces of paper, and everything’s dealt with. I execute a transfer of mineral rights to the government, in return for a new transfer deed - a genuine transfer deed, as you would say - confirming my ownership of the freehold land. Which is all I want,” he added. “The land, to build a farm on, for my friends and me. That’s all I ever wanted.”
Dead silence; Kunessin could hear the guards breathing. Straton didn’t need air, apparently. Then he said, “I think we can come to an agreement along those lines. Just to recap: we get the gold strike, you keep the farmland.” He frowned. “Is that really what you want?”
“Yes,” Kunessin said firmly.
“You’re an interesting man, General,” Straton said. “That’s all—”
Kunessin laughed. “All right, then, I’ll add something else. Just as well you reminded me. I’d like a general pardon for any and all criminal acts and infringements of regulations, just in case it occurs to you to try the trumped-up-charges idea again at some point. I like things straightforward, you see. The less fuss, the better.”
For the first time, Straton smiled. It was a poor effort and didn’t mean the same as most men’s smiles. “I think I can do that for you,” he said. “I do have a certain amount of leeway. The documents . . .”
“You can draft them if you like. Or my colleague, Aidi Proiapsen; he took law at the Military College.”
“I’ll do it,” Straton said firmly.
“Tonight?”
“Why not?” A small shrug. “They’re both relatively simple. I used to do that sort of thing all the time when I was a young clerk.”
Kunessin yawned. “That’s settled, then,” he said. “Once the paperwork’s out of the way, we’ll all know where we stand. I’m glad we were able to sort it out.”
Straton pushed open the door, then turned back. “Your friends,” he said. “They’ll . . .”
“That’s fine,” Kunessin said. “Don’t let me hold you up.”
Straton went back into the house, closing the door behind him. Kunessin stayed where he was for the best part of a minute, then walked very quickly round the side of the house, to the lean-to where some of the tools were kept. He found what he was looking for, even though it was too dark to see properly: a long wooden box with rope handles and a plank lid. He opened it and knelt beside it, searching by feel, until his fingertips made out the shapes he’d had in mind. He took out five hand-axes - long, narrow heads on eighteen-inch handles, the special pattern made for splitting willow branches into withies for making hurdles and baskets. Very carefully he tucked them into his belt, the heads overlapping, with folds of his shirt wedged between the heads to stop them clinking as he walked. Then he replaced the lid and buttoned his coat up to the neck.
The second lieutenant was waiting by the door as he came back in. He still looked very scared, but he spoke loudly, as if he wanted everybody in the house to hear him. “You were a long time,” he said.
Kunessin smiled at him. “I went for a shit,” he said. “That’s all right, isn’t it?”
Somebody laughed. The lieutenant stood aside and let him pass.
“Well?” Aidi said, as soon as he’d joined them.
“Stand up, all of you,” Kunessin replied, his voice calm and quiet. “Follow me.”
He led them towards the corner nearest the door, where the women were sitting on the floor. “I can’t sit down,” he told Aidi. “Knock a table over, or something.”
Ai
di thought for a moment, then nodded. Chaere was sitting next to Dorun, though they weren’t talking; behind her was a stool with a big pitcher of water resting on it. Aidi nudged the stool with his hip, spilling the jug into Chaere’s lap. She yelped and jumped up, then started yelling at him.
“Sorry,” he said. “Get a cloth, someone. I’m terribly sorry, wasn’t looking where I was going.”
Chaere told him various things about himself, some of which were true, while he tried to look suitably ashamed, and Clea got a dishcloth from somewhere. “This is stupid,” Chaere was saying, “I can’t sit here in these wet things all night; I need dry clothes or I’ll catch my death. Make those soldiers go away while I get changed.”
Still with the sheepish look clamped on his face, Aidi backed away and joined the others, sitting in a knot near the middle of the room. Kunessin’s coat was lying on the floor next to him.
“Sit down,” Kunessin said. “Nicely done.”
Aidi acknowledged the tribute with a tiny nod. “What’s up?” he said.
Looking straight at him, Kunessin lifted a coat sleeve one inch; just enough to let him see a tiny sliver of steel underneath. “Just to make us all feel better,” he said.
“Nice to know it’s there, you mean,” Aidi replied. “Got you. Now, what did you and the civil servant find to talk about?”
Kunessin smiled at Aidi’s choice of words. “We’re staying,” he said.
“You’re kidding me,” Alces said. “How did you—?”
Aidi held up his hand. “Go on,” he said.
Kunessin explained briefly about the procedural flaw in Straton’s warrant. Muri laughed. Aidi nodded slowly. “That’s a good point,” he said. “So what do you want us to do?” he went on, glancing down quickly at the coat, then back up again.
“Not that,” Kunessin said pleasantly. “Not yet, anyhow. I did a deal with our man there. He nearly fell over when I suggested it.”
Kudei leaned in a bit closer. “I smell nettle soup,” he said. “What’ve you done, Teuche?”
Kunessin concentrated on a crack between two floorboards. “Traded,” he said. “They get the mineral rights, we keep the island.”
Muri started to say something, but broke off without actually framing a word. The others looked at him.
“You told him about the strike,” Aidi said.
“Showed him a sample,” Kunessin replied. “He’s over there drawing up the paperwork right now.”
“Teuche . . .” Alces paused, then shook his head. Muri was frowning. Kudei’s face was completely blank.
“What about the jars?” Aidi said.
Kunessin shook his head. “He didn’t seem to have taken that point,” he said. “Or maybe he didn’t want to upset the deal; I don’t know.”
For a full minute, nobody spoke. Then Aidi said, “You really shouldn’t have, Teuche.”
Kunessin was still gazing at the floor. “It’s what we came for,” he said. “And now we’ll have a cast-iron title, everything fair and square. It’s a good deal, in the circumstances.”
“Teuche’s right,” Muri said. “The gold was just . . . And we’ve still got the jars.”
“For now,” Aidi muttered. “That man’s not thick. He’ll want to know what we’ve been doing.”
Alces shifted a little, so he could look at the two jars out of the corner of his eye. “How much do you reckon those things weigh?” he said. “Aidi?”
“Enough,” Aidi said. “Really, Teuche, you should at least have told us first. That’s—”
“Wasn’t time,” Kunessin interrupted. “In case you hadn’t noticed, Aidi, they’re holding the high ground, I had to do something quick. It’s a good deal,” he repeated. “It solves a lot of problems.”
Aidi frowned. “That’s true,” he said, glancing sideways at the end of the room where the indentured men were gathered. “We should never have brought them in the first place.”
“Oh, sure.” Alces grinned. “And then we’d never have found the gold, let alone—” He broke off. “They’ve been useful,” he said. “But I’ll give you that, Teuche. It’s a neat way of getting rid of them.”
A pause; waiting for Aidi to speak. Then, when he didn’t, Kunessin said, “That’s settled, then. Which just leaves us with a transport problem.” He lifted his head. Nobody who didn’t know him well could have told he was looking round. “There’s no reason to suppose they know about the sloop,” he said.
Alces nodded. “Nice,” he said. “Well, at least we’ve whittled it down a bit. Now it’s just an engineering problem. Aidi, you didn’t answer my question. How much do you think those jars weigh?”
Aidi closed his eyes: mental arithmetic. “The full one’s got to be a ton,” he said. “Quarter-ton for the other one. Tucking them under our coats as we go past isn’t really an option.”
“Agreed,” Kunessin said. “Aidi, you’re the metalworker. Those jars are pretty solid. Do you think they could act as crucibles?”
Aidi blinked; then, almost immediately, smiled beautifully. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “There’s still the business of moving so much weight, with those buggers watching.”
“Easier, though,” Kunessin said.
“They’ll have other things on their minds, I grant you,” Aidi replied. “All right, why not? And if it screws up, we’ll kill them and sink them in their ship. Agreed?”
Kunessin hesitated, then shrugged. “It won’t screw up,” he said. “Right, we’ll need some straw.”
Commissioner Straton woke up with a mouth full of smoke. Instinctively he tried to get to his feet, but a body lurched into him and shoved him back down again. As he opened his eyes, he heard a woman screaming. He could barely see across the room.
He scrambled to his knees, then stopped, pinned down by a violent burst of coughing. He was looking at a red glow, soft and hazy through the grey smoke. He could feel the heat. I’m not going to get out of this, he thought, and the certainty both shocked and calmed him. He tried to breathe in, but it was as though someone heavy was sitting on his chest. His head began to swim, like being drunk, and the fact he couldn’t breathe didn’t seem to matter so very much. This is where I get off, he thought, and his eyes closed.
Someone, some oaf, some idiot was manhandling him, hauling him about; he wouldn’t have minded, except the sudden movement made him swallow a big mouthful of smoke, which set off the coughing again. He could taste the raw lining of his own throat, and his whole chest burned, like indigestion only much worse. His weight was on his feet; he felt his knees buckle, and then the interfering fool lifted him before he could fall over, hit the floor, get some desperately needed peace and quiet. At least he was suffering too, the busybody; he was coughing horribly. You’d have thought someone in so much distress would have better things to do than molest a dying man. Stupid, he thought, and if he had the strength he’d have given whoever it was a fat lip. Ridiculous and uncalled for. If such things could happen in the world, he was glad to be leaving it.
Then a tearing sensation, as though his lungs had burst and split into shreds, as though he was sucking in iron and ice, and the pain in his throat blotted out everything else, so that he’d cycled two lungfuls of clean air before he realised it. And wet: some bloody fool had splashed water over him, he was drenched, soaked to the skin . . .
He landed on his back and opened his eyes, to see a pair of legs stepping over him, a boot narrowly missing his head. His eyes were cruelly painful, and he closed them again. The last time he’d felt anything like this was thirty years ago, when he’d run long-distance races. Like he’d been kicked in the chest by a very big horse.
He lay back. It made him sickeningly dizzy, but he no longer had the strength to move at all. To take his mind off the pain, he tried to listen to the noises all around him - shouting, mostly, with some unexplained thuds and crashes, cracking noises that could be timbers breaking under enormous strain, a noise that could have been axes. His head was splitting.
The house was on fire. It dawned on him like the solution to some abstruse, long-considered problem. The house he’d been in, the house on Sphoe, where he’d come to handle a nasty mess about a land transfer. He’d done a deal with General Kunessin, and then it was time to sleep: no bed, just a space on a hard plank floor and a few inadequate blankets. While he’d been sleeping, the house had caught fire. He’d nearly died in the smoke. Someone must’ve pulled him out.
Quite extraordinary, he thought; I nearly died. Would quite definitely be dead right now, if someone hadn’t . . . He was choking again; so stunned by what had just happened, forgotten how to breathe. Choking hurt like hell. He made an effort to stop.
But someone had got him out of there; someone who must also have been breathing in smoke, tearing his lungs to bits on the hard grey obstruction, but who nevertheless took the time and trouble to drag a living dead weight from the far end of the room to the doorway and out into the clean, sweet air. What a remarkable thing to have done. And if he hadn’t . . .
More coughing, driving out everything while it lasted, which was much too long. When the coughing stopped, he felt shattered, as though he’d just been in a fight. A fire, he thought; well, just the sort of thing that happens, though usually to other people. I nearly died, he thought, and shuddered.
Must have fallen asleep; woke up with bright light burning his scratchy, raw eyes. Tried to breathe in, hurt, coughing. Remembered.
“He’s awake,” someone yelled (loud enough to take the top of his head off. Headache, very bad, like a hangover). He could smell wood ash, and the metallic taste of water, and the revolting stink of burnt flesh. “Get the general.”
Curious, he thought. The general would have to be General Kunessin, but the voice sounded very much like one of the sergeants of his own detachment - who didn’t, it went without saying, answer to Kunessin. Or did he? He tried to think, but it was like trying to lift an anvil one-handed.
“Commissioner.” Kunessin’s voice, and here was Kunessin himself, his face, abnormally large, hovering over him. “How are you feeling?”