Colours in the Steel f-1

by K. J. Parker

  ‘Oh. Anyone we know?’

  Alexius hesitated. Gannadius was frequently inopportune, often tedious, always pompous; but as far as Alexius knew he had no dark ulterior motives or savage ambitions, and his writings revealed a surprisingly perceptive and practical mind and a sharp intellect. And Alexius needed help if he was ever to get rid of this wretched affliction.

  ‘A fencer,’ he said, ‘by the name of Bardas Loredan. With whom, I might add, I have no personal quarrel whatsoever. The curse was on behalf of someone else, which is probably why I’ve taken it so badly.’

  Gannadius bit his lower lip, suppressing a grin. ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘I really must congratulate you on the quality of your work. I must remember to be extremely polite to you at all times.’

  Alexius raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  ‘Ah, you wouldn’t know, would you? It so happens that I have a small sum of money invested with a cartel that produces and sells charcoal. They’re in dispute with a rival concern, and the matter goes to court shortly. Our opponents have briefed one Bardas Loredan to represent them.’

  ‘I see. And?’

  ‘And we’ve retained Ziani Alvise,’ Gannadius replied. ‘You’ve heard of him, no doubt?’

  Alexius frowned. ‘I think so. I don’t follow the courts at all, but the name rings a bell. Is he good?’

  ‘You might say that. I understand that among the sporting fraternity, Loredan is being offered at a hundred and twenty to one and finding no takers.’

  ‘I see.’ Alexius nodded slowly. ‘In which case,’ he said, ‘I’d strongly recommend that you put your last quarter on Loredan. In fact, while you’re at it you could put fifty quarters on him for me.’

  Gannadius looked puzzled. ‘My dear friend,’ he said, ‘modesty is an admirable quality, but don’t you think you’re taking it a little too far? I would argue that the mere fact of the fight suggests that your curse is working very well indeed.’

  ‘You don’t understand. In my curse he’s committed to die at someone else’s hands. One person in particular. Not Ziani Alvise.’

  ‘Ah.’ Gannadius looked thoughtful. ‘That’s rather tiresome, since I’ve already backed Alvise quite heavily. Still, I suppose I can find a few more quarters to cover the bet. Thank you; you may well have rescued a poor man from abject poverty. In return…’

  Alexius acknowledged the offer with a slight tilt of his head. ‘I must admit,’ he said, ‘I could do with some help. This curse is proving confoundedly sticky. I think I must have done a rather better job than I thought.’

  ‘In cursing, as in cooking with garlic, it is best to resist the temptation to add just a pinch more for luck. Will you come to the Academy or shall I call on you here this evening?’

  Alexius considered. On balance, it would be better if the proceedings didn’t take place under the noses of his brothers in the Principle. ‘After dinner,’ he said, ‘at the Academy. All your people ought to be in Chapter by then.’

  ‘And I with them,’ Gannadius pointed out. ‘Still, a personal request from the Patriarch-’

  ‘I’d rather you said it was urgent affairs of the Order,’ Alexius replied. ‘Which isn’t that far from the truth. Ever since, I’ve had no end of difficulty in concentrating on anything. The paperwork is starting to get out of hand, to say nothing of my reading.’

  ‘This evening, then, after dinner. If you call at the side gate, I’ll make sure I open the door personally.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Gannadius trotted away, the soles of his fashionable slippers clacking on the flagstones. A curious man, Alexius reflected. He had been Archimandrite of the City Academy for seven years, a record tenure for an office that was generally regarded as a tedious preliminary formality on the highly structured road to the Patriarchate; yet in all that time he had never displayed any inclination to accept promotion, let alone scheme and contrive for it. He could have had the Patriarchate of the Canea for the asking three years ago, but preferred to allow his own archdeacon, whom he particularly loathed and despised, to advance on the vacant post like an invading army and virtually take it by direct frontal assault. And yet to all appearances he was the very model of the archetypal career man; younger son of a powerful city family, owning substantial estates and investments inherited from his mother’s family and assiduously courted by the small weevil-like men who spend their lives under the flat stones of district politics. Alexius shook his head; perhaps the cold winds and the sea frets of the Canea hadn’t appealed to him. Or perhaps he was an honest man at heart. Curiously enough, Alexius was inclined to believe the latter.

  Accordingly, Alexius slipped out while the evening meal was still raging below his cell, and made his way cautiously through the streets of the middle city to the northern stair. The gate was locked for the night but the porters knew him well enough; since the inhabitants of the upper city were never seen, the Patriarch was the closest thing the city had to a visible civic figurehead. For a man doing his best to cross the middle city incognito, this was a serious drawback; nevertheless, Alexius eventually managed to reach the City Academy without being either recognised or robbed, and rapped on the side gate with the pommel of his walking-sword.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ said Gannadius through the sliding panel in the door. ‘I was beginning to wonder if you were coming.’

  The Archimandrite’s lodging was about five times the size of Alexius’ own cell. There were valuable tapestries on the walls, five extremely fine carved and gilded chairs, a curtained bed on a low dais, several quite beautiful chests and coffers of well-figured walnut, a high desk inlaid with hunting scenes in mother of pearl, a footstool of highly polished whalebone and a handsome silver-gilt wine service; all quite new and smelling strongly of camphor and beeswax. Alexius had no doubt that his colleague would have been able to give an accurate up-to-date valuation, sale price or replacement cost, for each individual item or the whole as a job lot.

  ‘You disapprove,’ Gannadius said equably.

  Alexius shook his head. ‘Not in the least,’ he replied. ‘You live in the style appropriate to a great temporal lord, which of course you are. Myself, I’d find it all too distracting, but only a savage disapproves of beauty per se. And I’m sure you appreciate it all far more than the dried-fruit merchants and anchovy barons who need to fill their houses with such things simply to prove to themselves that they’re now men of stature.’

  ‘You disapprove, nonetheless. Personally, I’d gladly trade all of this clutter for the mosaics on your ceiling. But I doubt whether they’re for sale.’

  Alexius smiled. ‘One day you may well be sleeping under them as a matter of course,’ he replied. ‘Or do you still maintain that you have no ambitions in that direction?’

  Gannadius shrugged. ‘It’s more a question of whether I’m fitted to do the job,’ he replied. ‘And the fact is that I’m not. Not yet, at any rate.’

  ‘That’s a very honest reply to a rather snide remark. Mind you, I’m not saying for a moment that I believe you.’

  ‘Just because a remark is honest doesn’t necessarily mean it’s sincere,’ Gannadius replied with a grin. ‘Shall we stop fencing round each other and get to business?’

  ‘That would be best,’ Alexius said, and he told Gannadius what had happened, leaving nothing out. When he’d finished, the Archimandrite sat for a while in his rather magnificent chair, rubbing the bridge of his small, blunt nose with the forefinger of his left hand.

  ‘I think I see what’s happened,’ he said. ‘In the event, the curse you laid was not the right one.’

  ‘It wasn’t the curse the girl intended. Since it was her curse, and I was just the instrument by which she laid it, it could well be significant that I got it wrong. The result will have been an error in the Principle.’

  ‘Quite.’ Gannadius nodded. ‘In essence, you’ve taken a gap in nature and put into it something that doesn’t fit. You are now having to contend with the effects
of the disruption.’

  Alexius nodded slowly. ‘It makes sense, I agree. What I’m not sure about is how to put it right.’

  ‘Oh, but that’s simple,’ his colleague interrupted. ‘You must return to the moment and put it right. If you take off the wrong curse and replace it with the right one-’

  Alexius held up his hand. ‘Naturally, I’ve tried that,’ he said. ‘The only problem is that I can’t. After all, it’s not my curse, so I can’t lift it. All I can do is put a shield around the confounded man to prevent the curse working; and even that’s proving difficult. Every time I’ve tried, I’ve found it gone again by the next day. I really don’t relish the prospect of having to raise new shields around this fellow every day for the rest of my life.’

  ‘It’s a difficult problem,’ Gannadius said. ‘All I can suggest is that we try it together. And before you say anything, I quite agree that there’s no evidence for assuming that our joint efforts will be any more successful than your solitary attempts. What we really need, of course, is the girl.’

  Alexius sighed. ‘I’m inclined to agree with you there,’ he said. ‘Still, if you’re willing to join me, I think it must be worth trying – provided you’re prepared to take the risk. I can’t recommend the state you’re likely to be left in if it backfires.’

  ‘Ah, well.’ Gannadius shrugged. ‘There’s no gain without risk. You forget, I haven’t named my price yet.’

  ‘A permanent view of my mosaics, presumably,’ Alexius replied. ‘I’m not sure I can make that promise; and besides, you’re about the same age as I am. There’s no guarantee whatsoever that you’ll live to collect your fee.’ He smiled. ‘I’m assuming you’re not planning on taking steps to collect it early.’

  Gannadius looked genuinely offended. ‘Actually, no,’ he said. ‘If I’d wanted the Patriarchate, be sure I’d have taken it by now; or at the very least I’d be coughing and blowing my nose in the Canea. My price is far more esoteric than that. I want you to tell me the seventh aspect of the Principle.’

  In spite of himself, Alexius was shocked. Knowledge of the seventh aspect was a secret shared only by the Patriarch of Perimadeia, the Primate of the Holy Pirates and the Abbot of the Academy of the Silver Spear; in effect, it was what defined high office in the Order. It was also the one secret that had always been kept, no matter how grave the circumstances or how venial the office-holder. ‘Why?’ he said quietly.

  Gannadius frowned. ‘Because I want to know,’ he replied. ‘Is that so remarkable? Whether you believe it or not, I joined the Order to learn how to understand the Principle, or what little of it there is that can be understood. Logically, I need to know all seven aspects if I’m even to begin my studies.’

  ‘I think I believe you,’ Alexius said. ‘That doesn’t make your request any less offensive.’

  ‘I’ve named my price. It goes without saying that the secret would be safe with me. After all, a man doesn’t steal a fortune in gold only to throw it out of his window in handfuls to the crowds below.’

  Alexius thought for a moment. ‘All I can suggest,’ he said, ‘is that in due course – it won’t be long now anyway, the poor man’s over eighty – you will succeed Teofrasto as Primate. Then you’ll at least be authorised to have the knowledge, and the practical effect will be the same.’

  ‘Must I? I really have no desire to leave this comfortable place and go and live on a rocky island in the middle of the sea with nothing but thieves and murderers for company.’

  ‘It’s a job men have killed and stolen for,’ Alexius replied, slightly nonplussed. ‘I’d have thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Certainly not. True, they have a good library there, but nothing to compare with what I have available to me in the city. Still,’ he went on, ‘once I know the seventh aspect, there won’t be very much left that books can teach me. Oh, very well then. You have my word, if that’s good enough for you.’

  Alexius allowed himself the luxury of a wry smile. ‘I suppose it’ll teach me to do favours for young girls,’ he said. ‘Payment in arrears, naturally; and nothing unless it actually works.’

  ‘Naturally. Shall we begin?’

  A thin, cruel blade of light forced its way between the shutters.

  ‘Wake up, it’s a lovely morning.’

  His hand already closed on the hilt of the Boscemar, Loredan countermanded his instinctive reaction and opened his eyes.

  ‘What the hell,’ he croaked, ‘do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Making you get up,’ Athli replied, throwing the shutters open. ‘Come on, rise and shine.’

  Loredan drew the blanket up under his chin. ‘What possible reason could I have for getting out of bed at this loathsome hour of the morning? Go away.’

  Athli half-filled a cup from the wine jug and topped it up with water. ‘You should have been up two hours ago,’ she said briskly, ‘instead of lounging there like a pig.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Training. Drink this and get some clothes on. I think we’ll start you off with ten laps of the city cloister before we head off for the Schools. Oh, come on, for pity’s sake. I’ve seen livelier-looking faces with apples in their mouths.’

  ‘Oh, for…’ Loredan closed his eyes, but all the sleep had gone. ‘Go away while I get dressed,’ he commanded.

  ‘All right. Don’t dawdle.’

  It had been a long time since he’d deliberately run any distance, and ten laps of the cloister left him with weak knees and a sharp pain in his chest, which he offered as reasonable grounds for going home. Athli was not impressed.

  ‘You sound like my grandfather dozing in front of the fire,’ she said. ‘A morning in the Schools will do you a world of good.’

  By the time they’d climbed the long stair to the middle city, Loredan was feeling quite ill. He diagnosed the trouble as either a heart attack or a minor stroke.

  ‘Don’t be silly. And don’t dawdle.’

  The Schools were housed in a long, narrow single-storey building between the old circus and the rainwater tanks. Inside, the main floor was crowded with the usual clutter of fashionable young men and women in expensively impractical fencing suits, leaning on their sword-cases and watching the handful of professionals going through their practice routines. Attendants scurried to and fro with straw targets and buckets of wet clay, trainers shouted, the inevitable vendors wandered about on the edge of the crowd with their trays of wine and sausages, the sword dealers did quiet business between the pillars of the rear colonnade. ‘Did we have to come here?’ Loredan asked miserably. ‘I can’t stand this place.’

  ‘Practise,’ Athli replied.

  First, Loredan set up a mark. He decided to be realistic; show-offs and the truly skilful liked to use a silver halfpenny, but he’d never been that good, even in his prime. Instead he marked up a knot-hole on a target frame, which would do just as well for all practical purposes.

  ‘Seven out of ten?’ he suggested.

  ‘Make it nine.’

  ‘I don’t have to do what you say,’ he replied, ‘because I’m an advocate and you’re only a damn clerk.’ He measured off three paces back and drew the Boscemar out of its case.

  ‘Nine out of ten,’ Athli repeated. ‘Ready?’

  Loredan nodded. The object of the exercise was to lunge full stretch off two paces, transfixing the mark each time. The trick was to straighten the thrust as late as possible by turning the wrist. He made the mark seven times out of ten.

  ‘Now do it again,’ Athli said. ‘Only better.’

  Out of the next ten he registered six hits; six again from the next ten. On his fourth try, he connected with all ten thrusts.

  ‘You see?’ Athli said smugly. ‘Practice makes perfect.’

  ‘Oh, shut up,’ he replied, leaning against the target frame to catch his breath. ‘Now I suppose I’ve got to do the numbers.’

  The target itself was a woven straw boss about an arm’s length across. Dotted about it at random were numbers f
rom one to twelve, the figures being about a thumb’s length high. The drill was for the trainer to shout out a number, which the fencer would then impale with his sword-point off one pace. Fifteen out of twenty was a good score.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Sixteen, all right?’

  ‘Eighteen.’

  In the event he made eighteen at his first attempt. The second stage of the drill was the same but twice as fast. At this speed, ten out of twenty was tantamount to showing off. Loredan made all twenty.

  ‘All right, clever,’ Athli said. ‘Now we’ll do it with the plumb line.’

  The plumb line was a lead weight on a string, arranged to hang where the point of an opponent’s sword would be if he was standing with his back to the target face. The fencer had to knock the weight out of the way, make his lunge, withdraw and parry the weight again on the way back. A missed parry meant instant disqualification. Fourteen out of twenty at normal speed or half that at double speed was good enough going for anyone. Cutting the string didn’t count.

  ‘Not bad,’ Athli observed, when Loredan had scored nineteen hits at standard speed. ‘Now let’s do it the hard way.’

  A clear round at double speed; so Athli insisted that he do it again, and then one more time at triple speed. They’d got as far as fourteen out of fourteen when Loredan cut the lead bob in half with a sharp flick of his wrist, and refused to push his luck any further.

  ‘So you can do lunges,’ Athli said. ‘Now let’s try something you’re not so good at.’

  The quintain was designed to practise recovery from a parried cut. It consisted of four wooden spokes set at right angles to each other in a hub which rotated around an upright axle at about chin height. The fencer had to hit one spoke, then parry the next one as the hub turned. The faster and harder he hit, the quicker he had to be to parry the next spoke. The refinement on the standard course of play was to use only the second and fourth spokes, which meant having to lift the sword blade out of the way between strokes, as opposed to simply rolling the wrist back and forth.

  ‘My arm hurts,’ Loredan complained after four clear rounds of both courses. ‘It isn’t going to help matters if I go into court with a whole bunch of pulled muscles.’