by K. J. Parker
“Sure.” He took the rosewood box out of his bag and handed it to her. “What for?”
“So I can write you a letter for the fifty-six angels I owe you.”
“Oops,” he said, “well remembered, I’d forgotten about that. You’ll be wanting some paper.”
She scowled at him, picked what had once been his copy of Cellec’s Confessions off the seat and tore out the flyleaf. He winced.
“You do realise,” he said, “you just knocked twenty angels off the value.”
“I wasn’t planning to sell it.” She balanced the ink bottle on her knee, unscrewed the cap and wrote out a letter of credit on the Knights, her only account with that much in it. He blew on it to dry the ink, folded it and put it in his book as a bookmark.
Their ship turned out to be a wine freighter, carrying six thousand barrels of sweet mistella to Axa Khora, to be watered down and blended with domestic red for the better-class taverns in Rasch. It was an open-hold freighter, with only the stern decked over, but the crew rigged up a sort of tent for them next to the galley, and they spent the next ten days kippering in the fumes of frying fish. The crew, who’d been paid in Blemya, asked Oida to sing for them, which he was happy to do; then he suggested a friendly game of cards and took all their money. They seemed to regard this as a great joke and something of an honour.
“If I ask you a question,” she said, “will you give me a straight answer?”
Oida was sitting up with his back to the mast, a position which helped, a bit, when the sea was choppy. “Of course,” he said. His face was very slightly green, and it was fortunate that the wind was carrying the frying smells in the opposite direction.
“You’ve got lots of money,” she said, “and everybody adores you wherever you go and thinks you’re bloody wonderful, everybody from trawlermen to emperors, and you can write good music when you try, and the less said about you and women the better—”
“All true,” Oida said, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Fine,” she said. “So why do you do all this stuff? You know what I mean. For the Lodge.”
He frowned. “I do it for the Lodge,” he said. “Why do you do it?”
She thought she knew the answer to that. “Because the Lodge doesn’t give a damn that I’m a woman,” she said. “I can go places and see things. I get important work to do, things that matter. If I wasn’t a craftsman I’d be stuck in a farmhouse somewhere, making cheese.”
He nodded. “I have a proposition for you. I represent a vast secret organisation dedicated to undermining civilisation, disseminating lies and false doctrine and spreading the plague to all major population centres. I’m looking for an operative to undertake interesting, demanding work, I’m a good employer, offering health care and a pension, and I have no silly prejudices against women. And whatever you’re getting at the moment, I’ll double it. What do you say?”
She sighed. “That’s just silly,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Yes, I believe that the Lodge is a force for good in a dark and dangerous world, and that’s nice, yes, of course it is. And, no, I wouldn’t take a job with the forces of evil, no matter what. But I work for the empire. I’d do proper work for them, if they wanted me, not just the silly stuff I do now.”
He nodded. “Which one?”
“Either one.”
“Both? Remember,” he added. “That silly stuff nearly got you hanged.”
She shrugged. “I can be myself in the Lodge. I guess that’s what it means to me. What about you?”
“Indeed,” he said. “When the enemy catapult a ball of burning pitch into your camp, catapult it back. What does the Lodge mean to me?” He closed his eyes. The ship lurched slightly; he sat up and groaned, and she laughed.
“It’s not funny,” he said. “What does the Lodge mean to me? I guess, everything.”
She looked at him.
“All right, I’m being glib,” he said. “But it happens to be true. I believe in it, in its vast, complicated, self-contradictory ocean of doctrine, in its overcooked mysticism and its ice-cold, rock-hard approach to politics. A man must believe in something greater than himself, and I look round and ask, what is greater than me? Bear in mind, this is me talking; the choice is somewhat limited. So I belong to the Lodge, heart and soul. I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not craftsmanship more. All right?”
She shrugged. “I take it that’s the specious reason.”
“No, actually it’s the good reason. The specious reason is that everything else is too easy and I need real challenges to motivate me to carry on living. The real reason is, of course, it gives me a chance to spend time with you. Oh, God,” he added, as the ship wallowed and lifted; he jumped up, staggered and sprinted to the rail.
As the ship coasted in to the jetty, she asked him, “Did you get your letter?”
He was repacking his bag for the fifteenth time. Everything had fitted in there when they left Blemya City, and since then he’d lost two books and a full bag of pistachios, but now it was overflowing. He stuffed the surplus in his pockets and stood up. “From the captain of this tub, yes. Congratulations. You’re going north.”
“Where north?”
“Somewhere up in the Rhus country. Theoretically it’s still Western territory, but in practice I gather it more or less belongs to itself these days. I suggest you stock up on hardware first chance you get.”
She lifted her own bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an actual place name for me.”
“Mere Barton,” he said, and she frowned. “I know that name,” she said.
“You’ll know it a damn sight better before too long, I guarantee it. Going to be the most important place in the world some day, but I never told you that.” He lifted his bag and things fell out of the top. “This is what comes of rushing about,” he said. “They promised me faithfully they’d send on the rest of my stuff, but God knows when or if I’ll ever see it again. From the map it looks like you draw a straight line up from Beloisa to Spire, then veer off about five degrees east; when the snow is over the tops of your boots, you’re more or less there. I’d be amazed if that kid Daxin’s ever seen snow. Break it to him gently if you can.”
The ship nuzzled up to the jetty and bumped; he staggered, grabbed her shoulder then let go again. “I collected a specimen who said he was from there,” she said. “But I don’t suppose he’s gone back. It sounded like the sort of place you don’t go back to.”
“But it has the merit of being a long way from the sea,” Oida said firmly. “Who knows, I might just join you there. Anywhere the floor stays still seems good to me right now.”
She hopped up on to the rail, jumped down and turned to help him lift his bag over. He landed heavily beside her. “In case you were wondering,” he said, “this is the bulk cargo transit point at Asenbuth. Do you know it?”
“Never been here before.” She looked round and saw a customs shed, the masts of a few fishing boats, a coach drawn up beside a narrow, rutted road. Three guesses who the coach was for. “Give me a lift?”
“Sorry, but I’m off to Rasch. There’s bound to be a carter for hire in town. Oh, you’ll need this.” He put his bag down, pulled out most of the stuff he’d only just managed to cram in it, took out the heavy purse and handed it to her. “Expenses. There could be rather a lot. This isn’t from me,” he added, as she hesitated to take it, “from Division, so don’t go splurging and bring back the change.”
Now that it was just one more heavy thing to carry, she took it and put it in her bag. “Where to after Rasch?” she said.
He shrugged. “No idea. Back to horrible Blemya at some point, but not too soon, I sincerely hope. Look after yourself, Tel. The burns will heal, trust me.”
She had parted from him at least two dozen times over the years, carelessly or gratefully or seething with irritation. “Do something for me?” she said quickly, before he could start to turn away.
�
��Of course. What?”
“In Rasch, if you’ve got a moment, go and tell my landlord I’m not dead and I’ll be wanting my room when I get home. Would you?”
He looked at her. “I’m sure Division will have seen to it,” he said, “but I’ll check, I promise. I’ll go there myself and count your spoons.”
“You should be able to manage, I’ve only got one. Oh, and if you happen across the fifth book of Sensacuna, buy it and I’ll pay you back.”
“Sure,” he said, and then there was no more reason for him to stay. Then he grabbed her by both shoulders, pecked her high up on the cheek (well clear of the burns), flashed her a smile and walked briskly away. She waved as he climbed into the coach, but he wasn’t looking her way.
Read on in The Two of Swords: Part 10.
K. J. Parker is the pseudonym of Tom Holt, a full-time writer living in the south-west of England. When not writing, Holt is a barely competent stockman, carpenter and metalworker, a two-left-footed fencer, an accomplished textile worker and a crack shot. He is married to a professional cake decorator and has one daughter.
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