by K. J. Parker
Not that she was afraid that Venart actually might get violent if he came back early. In the unlikely event of the door flying open to reveal him standing there with drawn sword and a face like thunder, all she’d have to do was giggle or say, ‘Ven, what do you think you’re doing with that thing?’ and he’d get frightfully embarrassed and back away, growling, like a dog from a red-ants’ nest. And besides, if he came right in and killed Gorgas Loredan in front of her eyes, it wasn’t exactly likely to ruin her life. What she couldn’t face was the prospect of Ven nagging and rebuking and drawing his breath in through his teeth in a pained manner for the next six months, and insisting on taking her with him or leaving her in the charge of their gods-accursed aunt.
‘Are you dressed yet?’ she said. ‘I thought it was women who were meant to be slow in the mornings.’
‘It’s all right, I’m going,’ the voice behind her replied. ‘Is there a side door to this place?’
‘I’ll show you,’ Vetriz replied. ‘Come on.’
And yet last night, it had all seemed so meant, somehow; at the dinner party, where she’d been boasting about how she’d met the Patriarch of the city – such a strange man, though really quite sweet – and been to a real swordfight in the lawcourts… and her neighbour had nudged her in the ribs and pointed to the top of the men’s table and said, ‘Don’t look now, but see that big, chunky one at the end? His brother’s a swordfighter in Perimadeia.’ And then she’d said the name, and it was the same man she’d seen, and the same man who’d been in that very funny dream she’d had at the Patriarch’s palace, or whatever it was called… And the wine had been passed round three or four times too often, and the man she’d gone with had been dying to give her the slip and go off with that Morozin trollop (good luck to both of them) and then…
Well. It hadn’t been that bad then, but now she wanted it over, done with and put away neatly. She closed the door after Captain Gorgas Loredan – nearly trapped the hem of his cloak in it, now that’d have added a redeeming touch of comedy to an otherwise rather dreary episode – and went through to the courtyard to have a bath.
It was nearly midday when Venart finally came home, looking tired and rather cross.
‘I know we’re descended from pirates,’ he grumbled as he kicked off his boots, ‘and I’m all for keeping alive old traditions. I just think the customs office shouldn’t feel obliged to rob me blind just out of a sense of cultural identity, that’s all. Is there any food?’
‘Of course there is,’ Vetriz replied. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing while you were away, throwing wild orgies?’
‘You might as well,’ he said, massaging his feet. ‘Better to blow the lot in dissipation and decadent frivolity than see it all go down the throats of those sharks down at the pool. I’ll be lucky to break even on that malted barley, what with the tariff they stung me for.’
‘Bread, cheese and an apple do you? Or are you going to insist on hot soup?’
‘Anything that isn’t fish,’ Venart said, with feeling. ‘If any fish comes in this house for the next six weeks, I’m leaving. There is nothing, I repeat nothing, to eat in Psattyra but raw bloody fish, unless you count the raw yellow fungus stuff as food, which I don’t.’
‘You poor lamb,’ Vetriz said absently. ‘Have a lie down for an hour while I get you something.’
The headache wore off quite quickly, helped on its way by willow bark steeped in rosewater and an orange, and the bath more or less removed Captain Loredan’s fingerprints from her person. Even so, she felt tired and listless – not enough sleep, only yourself to blame. No wonder you had nightmares, mixing mead, cider and strong wine.
Not exactly nightmares. A proper nightmare would have been better, somehow.
Bardas Loredan woke up sweating and cursing, saw the light through the shutters and scrambled for his clothes. His head was splitting; filthy, rotten, cheap, industrial-grade red wine on an empty stomach. Now then; if he really hurried, he could get to the Schools in time to be only a quarter of an hour late. Damn that wretched, weird, crazy girl for making him need a drink.
In the event, he was only ten minutes late; rather an achievement, all things considered, and he should have received the congratulations and admiration of his class rather than all those frosty stares.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘settle down, sorry I’m late. Now then, the footwork of the Old fence. Positions, please; not like that, Master Iuven, not unless you intend to confuse your opponent by falling over. Front foot in line with the blade, back foot square, come on, we’ve done this a hundred times…’
Why should I dream about him, after all these years? And that foreign girl and her brother from the tavern? And the Patriarch, of all people? That is definitely the last time I try and economise on a heavy-drinking session.
The girl, the sullen, unnerving pain-in-the-bum who was the cause of all this, was fencing magnificently today. Her movements were beginning to take on that deadly, graceful poise that all the best advocates had, something he’d seen in others but never himself. He’d always tended to associate it with a perverse pleasure in the act of killing and he didn’t really hold with it, but it certainly boded well for the girl’s future in the profession. For his part, he’d always fenced exactly like what he was, a highly skilled and intelligent coward who knew that his only way of staying alive was to kill someone else.
‘Hello.’ Athli had materialised behind him while he was watching the class do semicircles. ‘How did your tete-a-tete with little Miss Hatchet-face go last night? Did you still respect each other in the morning?’
‘Please don’t be arch at me, Athli, I have a slight headache. And for your information, you couldn’t have been further from the mark if you tried. I don’t know what that bloody woman’s after, but I’m delighted to say it’s not me.’
‘You sure about that?’
‘Convinced. As far as she’s concerned, I’m just someone who’s teaching her how to carve people up. Talking of which, you just watch her this morning. I hate to say this, but she’s going to be good.’
‘Teacher’s pet, huh?’
‘Oh, go away and count something, there’s a good girl.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘There’s one thing you could usefully do,’ he added. ‘Go and smile bewitchingly at Governor Modin. He doesn’t love me any more, and I can’t be doing with aggravation from the likes of him. You could do that little girl standing on one foot and twirling a lock of hair between your fingers act, like you used to do for that dirty old man from the palm-oil people.’
‘I never-’ Athli sounded offended, then relaxed. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Quits?’
‘Quits. But if you could try soothing Modin for me, it’d be a help. Apparently I’ve been abusing the governors’ trust by doing individual coaching after hours without permission.’
Athli nodded. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell him a dying-grandmother story and offer to pay money.’
‘Just so long as you don’t pay money.’
Athli grinned. ‘Trust me,’ she said, ‘I’m a lawyer.’
It was quite true, she reflected after she’d sorted out Governor Modin, about the standing on one leg and twirling a lock of hair (and fancy him having noticed). I shouldn’t really do that sort of thing, only it does make things easier sometimes, when there simply isn’t time to win an argument or make a case on its merits. I suppose all’s fair in love and litigation…
‘Excuse me.’
She turned round and managed not to squeak with surprise. She wanted to say, ‘Should you be up?’ or, ‘Oughtn’t you to be in bed?’ but of course she didn’t. What she did say was, ‘Patriarch, what can I do for you?’
‘I’m sorry to trouble you,’ the Patriarch said, ‘but are you Master Loredan’s clerk? The man on the door pointed you out to me.’
‘That’s right,’ she said. So the rumours had been true, she said to herself; he must have been ill, because he looks awful, poor man. ‘Would you like to se
e him? He’s teaching a class right now, but I’m sure it’d be no problem if-’
The Patriarch smiled. He had a nice smile. She was taken aback; usually he seemed so dignified and grand when he was taking part in some ceremony or civic function. But then he would, wouldn’t he?
‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘it’s not urgent. Would it be in order for me to wait until the midday break?’
‘If you’re sure you don’t mind…’ Athli felt rather flustered. She now had the responsibility of keeping a frail dignitary amused and comfortable for the next hour. Would she have to stand there making small talk, or would he rather just sit in a quiet corner and read a book? Always assuming she could find him a chair; further assuming he wanted to sit down. Damnation, Athli thought. My mother didn’t raise me to be a diplomat.
‘No, not at all.’ The Patriarch gestured for her to lead the way. (If he opens doors for me I’ll die of embarrassment.) ‘I do hope I’m not being a nuisance. I’m afraid I’m rather ignorant of the workings of this establishment.’
After she’d offered him everything she could think of, he finally agreed to accept a chair next to a pillar and a view of the class. ‘And if I could trouble you for a drink of water,’ he added, ‘that would be very kind. I’m afraid I woke up this morning with rather an unpleasant headache.’
Oh, gods, where am I going to find him something to drink out of? ‘No trouble at all,’ she said firmly. ‘I won’t be a moment, if you’re sure you’re all right there.’
‘Perfectly comfortable, thank you,’ Alexius replied. ‘You really are most kind.’
Once he’d got rid of the clerk – a sweet girl, but inclined to fuss; or maybe she’s afraid I’ll turn her into a frog – Alexius slumped into the chair and caught his breath. He felt dreadful, quite apart from his headache, and he knew he shouldn’t have come; but it would have been equally impossible not to, after the dream he’d had last night.
Loredan’s brother. He felt an irrational surge of resentment towards Gannadius for not being there, although he knew perfectly well that his colleague had a meeting he couldn’t get out of that would last until the middle of the afternoon. But he desperately wanted to know what Gannadius had made of the dream, and whether he’d seen the same things. Still, that couldn’t be helped. More important to speak to Loredan himself, something he should really have done long before now, except that he couldn’t face having to tell Loredan what he’d done. But there really wasn’t any choice in the matter now. Heaven alone knew what he was going to say.
He opened his eyes and found he was looking at Loredan’s back, masking the group of energetic-looking young people who were hopping and prancing round in a semicircle in response to his brisk commands. He’d decided he’d seen enough of that when the semicircle turned and he could see the faces of the students-
Hell and damnation! Her!
With an effort, Alexius made himself stay calm and keep breathing, though the pain in his chest and arm was enough to make him want to cry out. One of Loredan’s students was that girl, the one who was the cause of all the trouble-
The one who wanted Loredan maimed; who’d been practising fencing exercises with him in that vision he’d had from the Islander woman – of course, how stupid of me not to have thought of it.
The one who was pointing a sword at Loredan’s throat right this very minute.
Well, of course; she was learning how to fence. She’d have to learn, if she wanted to be skilled enough to mutilate an experienced and highly talented swordsman. The logic behind it all made him feel cold down to the soles of his feet.
That decided him; he’d have to tell Loredan everything, warn him of the danger. Once he’d done that, it might be possible, with Gannadius helping, to lift the curse and get this dreadful mess cleared up once and for all. If only I’d had the sense and the courage to do it in the first place, instead of rushing off looking for naturals-Best not to think of that. And now this horrible puzzle of Gorgas, the intellectual who dressed like an Islander and turned up in his dream along with the only other two Islanders he’d had dealings with recently. If ever he did manage to get clear of this, it would make a wonderful case study: something that could be included in the foundation course as a dreadful warning of the dangers of misusing the Principle.
‘Here you are.’ It was the fussy girl again, holding out to him an incredibly ornate silver cup. ‘I’m sorry I was so long.’
He smiled, took the cup – heavens, it was some sort of fencing trophy – and drank deeply. ‘Might I ask,’ he said, ‘who that young lady is? The one in Master Loredan’s class.’
‘Oh, that’s-’ Athli froze. It was on the tip of her tongue, but however hard she tried she simply couldn’t remember the horrid girl’s name. ‘That’s our star pupil,’ she went on. ‘Bardas – Master Loredan thinks very highly of her. A natural talent, he reckons.’
‘I see,’ Alexius replied, trying not to react to her unfortunate choice of words. ‘And she’s a regular member of the class?’
‘Very much so,’ Athli replied, nodding vehemently. ‘We hope she’ll be a credit to us in years to come.’
A sharp crash of colliding metal made them both look up. Loredan was teaching a back-foot parry in the Old fence. To demonstrate it, he’d got the girl to lunge at him, while he flicked her blade away, took a neat back-foot step to the right and counterattacked in the same movement. But it hadn’t quite worked like that; the girl’s thrust had almost beaten his defence, and he was off balance, holding her blade off by brute strength.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘my fault. We’d better do that again.’
The girl disengaged her sword; Loredan resumed his position. Alexius could feel the pain of his fingernails digging into the palm of his hand.
‘And, now,’ Loredan said. This time he caught the blade perfectly, turned it, made his sideways move and brought the tip of his sword precisely up under the girl’s chin, all in a fraction of a second. It was quite beautiful to watch. He lowered his sword and turned to the class to explain.
The girl lunged again.
The speed of Loredan’s reaction was astounding. There was very little to see; a blur of reflected light, a clank and a bump and a crack as the girl’s sword was knocked out of her hand and landed on the flagstones. The tip of Loredan’s blade – it was the Spe Bref; Athli knew he kept it so sharp that it could pass through your skin into your flesh before you felt anything – was touching the soft, smooth skin just under the girl’s chin, applying enough pressure to prick without drawing blood. He gave her a long, puzzled look down the length of the blade, withdrew it with a short, economical movement, and turned back to the class.
‘As I was saying,’ he began, ‘it’s vitally important to keep the wrist and elbow level throughout the manoeuvre…’
The girl was white as a sheet and trembling, both hands around her neck. The rest of the class were staring at the two of them in fascinated horror, hardly daring to breathe. Athli, who’d have screamed if there had been time, had dropped her satchel, and the lid of her portable inkwell had come off, letting dark-brown ink seep through the cloth onto the floor. As for Alexius, it was only several seconds after the affair was over that he realised how bad the pain in his chest and arm had become. He tried to get up out of his chair, but that quickly proved to be impossible. He was about to panic when he felt the pain ebb rapidly away, like water out of a punctured skin. As if to redress the balance, his head was even more blindingly painful.
In a roughly similar way, though rather more slowly, the tension ebbed away too, as the brains of all present set about the task of revising what they’d just seen to make it more credible, fit to be stored in the memory. Even Alexius wondered for a moment whether he’d made it all up, seen what his melodramatic imagination secretly expected or hoped to see, rather than what had actually taken place. It might even have been a momentary relapse into the dream, a fragment of his vision interpolated like a scholar’s note scribbled in tiny hand
writing between the lines of a book. He had heard of such phenomena, particularly among the mentally disturbed and those who tried to enhance their meditations by chewing peculiar herbs; while you’re speaking to him, a man’s head can suddenly turn into that of a lizard or a bird, and then become human again in a fraction of a second. There were fortune tellers who reckoned that they saw into the future that way, and other charlatans and mystics who claimed they could tell if a man was guilty of murder, because there would be a split second when they could see the dead man’s blood on his slayer’s hands. Maybe it was something like that, Alexius told himself comfortingly. And maybe, he replied, it wasn’t.
At midday the class rested as usual. The girl walked quickly away towards the drinking fountain; the rest of the students immediately formed a close, whispering huddle. Loredan, looking painfully weary, sat down on a kitbox and stared at the floor, rubbing his forehead with his fingertips.
‘Bardas-’ Athli began.
‘Don’t tell me I imagined it,’ he interrupted savagely, not looking up. ‘She tried to kill me. I just don’t understand it. Why should…?’
‘Bardas,’ Athli repeated. ‘The Patriarch is here to see you.’
Loredan looked up, frowning. ‘Don’t be silly, Athli,’ he said. ‘What on earth would the Patriarch want to see me for?’
‘Come over here and ask him for yourself.’
Before Loredan could argue further, he caught sight of the man sitting in the chair in the shadows of the colonnade. ‘That’s him?’ he asked. ‘This is turning out to be quite a day.’
Athli nodded. ‘Shall I tell that girl to get lost?’ she said. ‘I’ll get her bill ready and-’
She broke off; Loredan was grinning. ‘You’re going to protect me from a crazed assassin with an invoice, are you? Don’t you dare. Fairly soon, that strange creature’s going to be a first-class advertisement for this school. Right fool I’d look slinging her out now.’
‘But she tried-’