by K. J. Parker
‘Our rescuer,’ Alexius replied over his shoulder. ‘That big bald man.’ He sighed. ‘Just think,’ he added, ‘I honestly thought matters were sorting themselves out. We’ve hardly seen the beginning of it yet.’
‘Alexius, if you’re going to turn oracular on me I shall give you up as a lost cause. Explain, for pity’s sake.’
The Patriarch smiled bleakly. ‘Gannadius, you surprise me, I always thought you were an observant man. I was sure you’d have recognised him.’
‘Recognised who? The bald man, you mean? I thought you said he’d recognised us.’
‘He did.’ Alexius halted for a moment to catch his breath. ‘He recognised us, and I recognised him. And, since I don’t believe in coincidences to the point of blind idolatry, I can only conclude that somehow or other he caused us to be there.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I suppose it explains my sudden urge to go drinking in taverns after twenty years. I wonder how he managed it?’
‘Alexius…’
‘He was in that dream we all shared. You really don’t remember?’ Alexius took a deep breath and let it go, slowly, through his nose. ‘That was Gorgas Loredan.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
War preparations meant more trade. More trade meant more litigation. More litigation meant more lawyers. And, since the turnover in the profession was necessarily high, newly qualified advocates were getting their chance to stand up in court for the first time rather earlier than usual.
Because justice must be seen to be done, the court listings were pinned up on the courthouse door every morning, four hours before the first session, to give the general public a certain amount of notice of the cases to be decided, to enable them to exercise their civic right to witness the proceedings and lay their bets.
Since Venart and Vetriz had gone home, taking with them enough rope to tie the Island to the city several times over, Athli had nothing in particular to do. When she happened to pass the courthouse and glance at the listings and the names of the advocates, she rapidly revised her plans for the day and joined the queue. There was a certain advocate making her first appearance in whose career Athli was personally interested.
The case was a rather complicated matter concerning a shipload of beans. The plaintiff alleged that the defendant, a ship’s master who had contracted to carry the said beans from Perimadeia to Nissa for the sum more particularly specified in the charter party, had failed to exercise proper care and attention in stowing the said beans during the voyage, in that he had allowed the said beans to become damp, with the result that they had sprouted and become valueless, thereby rendering the plaintiff in breach of his contract to supply the said beans to a third party in Nissa, in consequence of which the plaintiff had lost the value of his contract and of the said beans, and further was liable to the said third party in damages.
The defendant alleged that the said beans had sprouted as a result of the plaintiff’s own negligence in packing the said beans in barrels that were badly fitted and inadequately sealed; further or in the alternative it was a term of the plaintiff’s contract with the said third party that risk in the said beans passed to the said third party on the ship’s departure from Perimadeia, and that accordingly the said plaintiff had not breached the said contract and had suffered no loss at the hands of the defendant even if (which was not admitted) the defendant had been negligent in his stowing of the said beans.
While this rigmarole was being read out by the clerks, the audience sat in good-natured silence, broken only by the usual gentle coughing and the furtive munching of apples. It was a large crowd; lady advocates weren’t exactly a novelty in the courts, but they weren’t an everyday spectacle either, and a rumour had spread that this lady advocate was also young and pretty. On the strength of this rumour, several large bunches of flowers and baskets of fruit had already been handed in at the side door of the courthouse.
Not pretty, exactly, Athli said to herself; striking-looking. The girl – even now Athli couldn’t remember her name, though she’d recognised it immediately when she’d seen it written down – was dressed for the occasion in the traditional court costume of a male advocate; not what lady fencers usually wore, and the defendant’s clerk had tried to argue the point to the judge before the boos and hisses from the spectators had drowned out his words. The judge, an ex-fencer whom Athli recognised, had threatened to clear the court if the disturbance continued, but had disallowed the point of procedure. The trial was therefore about to begin.
The defence advocate was the first to take guard, adopting the bent-knees crouch of the City fence. Athli knew of him; he was no novice, and his reputation was for an energetic style of fencing that relied as much on the edge of the blade as the point. He was no more than average height, but his broad shoulders and thick forearms suggested that his wristwork would be strong and fast. The girl took her guard in the Old fence, standing up straight with her heels almost together and her sword-arm extended, the point held steady and unwavering. Athli put her apple core in her pocket and sat up straight. This was going to be interesting.
The woman next to her, middle-aged, red-faced, brightly dressed and fat, nudged her gently in the ribs. ‘Silver quarter on the bloke,’ she whispered. ‘Seen him last week, he’s mustard.’
‘Bet,’ Athli replied, as the defendant hop-skipped a pace forward, lifting his sword and aiming to push her blade aside in a pre-emptive parry that would leave her open. The girl watched him come; at the last moment she turned her own wrist over, bringing her blade up inside the parry, at the same time taking a step to her left. It was an intelligent gambit; he was now on a completely different line to her, and if she’d had the physical strength to deflect him safely, she could have counterthrust and finished the matter there and then. As it was, he was the one who counterthrust; she avoided it easily with footwork, but couldn’t reach far enough to thrust back. She reverted to guard; he did the same. She had the moral victory, of course; but, as Loredan was so fond of saying, moral victories feed no crows. It was still all to play for.
In the next encounter, the defence displayed a little more intelligence. Because she was using the Old fence it was obvious the plaintiff was waiting for him to come to her; logical enough, since he was bigger and stronger. He did no such thing, guessing that her relative inexperience would lead her to make an attack simply to relieve the tension. She stayed put, however, her sword-point as still as a star in the clear night sky, and in the event he was the one who lost patience first. Taking a gamble on her inexperience, he deliberately lowered his guard a little, creating an opening for her. She would take advantage of it, he would be ready for her, and that ought to be that.
The girl refused to oblige. Even from where she was sitting, Athli could see the sweat glistening on the man’s forehead; but the girl’s face was pale and dry as paper, and her eyes were fixed on the other man’s sword, exactly as they were supposed to be. It was almost, Athli realised, like watching Loredan fence; that total concentration on the ribbon of steel in the other man’s fist, that alert stillness which implied a dogged refusal to make assumptions until the other man’s sword was actually moving. If she had her back to me, Athli thought, I might even think it was him.
The battle of temperament was almost over. The defendant lowered his guard a little more, provocatively, like a woman hitching her skirt over her knee. The girl ignored him, continued staring down her blade at his. The crowd were beginning to murmur – hadn’t paid good money to see two people standing still – when the man closed up his guard and made a good, orthodox lunge, leading a true line and angling his blade down to make the parry as hard as possible.
The next development happened very fast. The girl took two steps to her right, circling, stepping out of his line, the fundamental ploy of the Old fence. Her movement took her out of striking range for a counterthrust of her own, but it allowed her to turn her arm and fend his blade away, opening him up on his right side so that he couldn’t easily recover in time to parry. He r
eared back, trying to get his sword inside hers to be in a position to use the strength of his wrist to make up for his disadvantage in position. But before he could even touch his blade to hers, she was inside him again; the counterthrust he’d anticipated she’d make hadn’t happened, and he was parrying a sword that wasn’t there. Before he had time to get back out of it, she’d stabbed him under his right arm. He fell off her blade, hit the ground and died.
‘Oh,’ said the fat woman. ‘Damn.’ She shrugged her big round shoulders, dug in her sleeve and produced a rather worn silver quarter. ‘Double or quits on the next case?’ she asked hopefully, still gripping the coin. Athli shook her head and held her hand out for the money. Then she stood up and walked out of the courthouse.
By the time she reached the street, she was trembling a little.
Wonderful advertisement for the school, she told herself. Wonder if she’s looking for a clerk?
It was purely force of habit that led her to the usual tavern, just round the corner. She’d just watched a lawsuit, and so she felt thirsty, in need of a stiff drink. It was the first time she’d ever been in the place on her own, and even though it was the sort of establishment where unescorted women wouldn’t expect to encounter difficulties, she nevertheless felt rather apprehensive until she saw a female figure sitting alone at a table by the window. A moment later, she realised who it must be.
Coincidentally, it was the same table she used to sit at with Loredan; out of the way of the through traffic to and from the back room, handy for the long-established matted sheaf of cobweb in case there were cuts to dress. Was it conscious imitation, or simply an inherent fencer’s instinct that had led the girl to it?
I’ll tell him when I see him next. He might be amused.
There was, of course, no need for her to go over and make conversation; she didn’t even want to. But she stood there looking in the girl’s direction for a minute or so longer than she should have. The girl looked up, caught her eye and recognised her. Good manners deprived Athli of the option of silent withdrawal. She went over.
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling. ‘I’ve just been watching you in court. Well done.’
The girl nodded a perfunctory acknowledgement. In front of her was a small glass of wine, the smallest measure that the house provided. Athli asked if she’d like another. She shook her head, the minimum of movement necessary to convey her meaning. Rather appalling to think that, even in partial jest, Athli had contemplated clerking for this person. She decided to persevere a little longer.
‘Your first case, I gather,’ she said. ‘Rather a substantial client to get for your maiden brief.’
‘I’m related to him,’ the girl replied, turning her head away and staring out of the window. ‘On my father’s side. And it wasn’t as if they expected me to do anything; they were sure they were going to settle before it got to court.’ She looked round, straight into Athli’s eyes. ‘Neither side wanted it to go to trial,’ she went on. ‘They wanted to carry on doing business together, and all this stuff was just in the way.’
Athli was intrigued, in spite of herself. ‘What went wrong, then?’ she asked.
‘I knew there was going to be a cancellation in the listings, so I went to the court clerk and had this case brought forwards. It was such short notice they didn’t have time to settle. So I got my fight.’
‘I see,’ Athli replied slowly.
The girl grinned at her. ‘One of the advantages of not having a clerk,’ she said. ‘I can do things like that.’
‘Well, it’ll be good for your career,’ Athli replied. ‘You shouldn’t have any trouble finding work now.’
The girl shrugged. ‘I need the practice,’ she said. ‘Schoolwork’s all very well, but I need to get the feel of the real thing. Actually kill people in open court a few times, build up my temperament.’
It was a reasonable attitude for a professional, and it wasn’t the first time Athli had heard the gist of it, though never put quite in that way. Nevertheless, she found the girl’s attitude rather revolting, and decided not to say anything.
‘You were a clerk, weren’t you?’ the girl went on, looking away again. ‘So you’ll know about these things. If I wanted to get work from the State Prosecutor’s Office, are there any particular advocates I should be trying to get a case against? As I see it, if I target particular advocates, the Prosecutor’ll notice me far quicker than if I just flounder about in general practice.’
Athli thought for a moment and suggested a couple of names; established advocates who picked and chose their work and charged high fees. ‘If you beat any of them,’ she went on, ‘you’d certainly make a name for yourself. And obviously, the Prosecutor’s always looking out for new advocates.’ She paused, not wanting to know the answer to the question she was minded to ask. ‘Why do you want to work for the Prosecutor, particularly? The money’s good but nothing special, you’d do better in commercial practice. In fact, being a woman you’ll probably find divorce would be a good field to be in.’
The girl shook her head, dislodging one of the combs from her hair; it fell on the table with a clatter. ‘Divorce is a waste of time,’ she said. ‘Thanks for those names; I’ll bear them in mind.’
Athli felt a great urge to go away, and decided to give in to it. ‘Well,’ she forced herself to say, ‘well done once again and the best of luck.’ She stood up. ‘Clearly all that extra tuition wasn’t wasted.’
The girl looked up sharply at that. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I intend to make sure it wasn’t. Goodbye.’
She said the word like a military officer saying Dismissed, and Athli walked away without looking back. She had decided not to say anything to Loredan; after all, he was through with all this, and he had a city to defend. Besides, she found she couldn’t even now remember the wretched girl’s name.
The enemy camp appeared under the walls of the city one morning like a mushroom, or a suspicious lump under one’s skin not previously noticed. Later, the Security Council decided that they must have sneaked their rafts downstream as far as the gorge where the river cut through the low hills, a mile or so from the fork. Then, during the night, they somehow managed to make the last mile in pitch darkness, land their gear and set up camp no more than a third of a mile from the Drovers’ Bridge; all in utter silence, setting up tents by feel without a sound or a gleam of light. Practice, the Council supposed, makes perfect, and for nomads pitching and breaking camp must be second nature. Nevertheless, it was an impressive achievement.
That was what was said in retrospect. When the first light of a grey and rather chilly day illuminated a vast expanse of ghostly grey and brown shapes apparently growing out of the low slopes on the left bank of the river, the city’s reaction was rather less analytical.
This time, however, there were no mobs or riots; not even the anticipated mad rush to the harbour that Loredan had carefully provided against in his first-stage plans. That was just as well; even his plans hadn’t covered the possibility of the enemy simply being there one morning. Instead, the city was quite unnervingly quiet, with groups of people standing out in the streets as if they were waiting for something to happen but had no idea what it was likely to be.
The first Loredan knew of it was when someone he didn’t know burst into the small, cold room in the second-city gatehouse that he’d been using as a bedroom since his return from the cavalry raid. He jerked awake and was scrabbling for the hilt of his sword when the intruder spoke.
‘We’ve got company,’ the man said.
Loredan forgot about the sword and concentrated on getting his eyes open. He’d been up late the night before going over some discrepancies in the Quartermaster’s accounts.
‘What?’ he mumbled. ‘What’s going on?’
‘They’re here. The enemy. They’re camped outside the gates. Sir,’ the man added as an afterthought. ‘You’re needed right away.’
Loredan swung his legs off the stone shelf that served him as a bed. ‘Who the hell are
you?’ he asked.
‘I’m Captain Doria of the change watch. With respect, sir, are you coming or not?’
Loredan studied him sourly through barely functional eyes. ‘All right, Captain,’ he said. ‘Hold your water just a minute while I get dressed. Whatever the enemy may have done to us, they don’t deserve to be greeted by the sight of me without my trousers on.’
As he rode down through the lower city, past endless faces staring up at him from every inch of pavement, he had the feeling of being late for some important ceremony that couldn’t proceed without him; his wedding, for example, or his funeral. He was aware that he hadn’t shaved, his hair was a mess and his clothes looked like they hadn’t been changed for a week (which was true). He got a stitch in his side climbing the bridgehouse tower, and arrived uncharacteristically short of breath.
‘All right,’ he panted, resting for a moment against the frame of a trebuchet. ‘What’s going on?’
Then he noticed that almost the entire Council was there; the Prefect, the Lord Lieutenant, the clutter of officeholders that he hadn’t even bothered to sort out in his mind; even Alexius and the Chief Governor of the Fencing Schools. Always the same, he muttered to himself, the General’s always the last to know.
They made room for him on the rampart, and he looked out. At first, he took the grey shapes for low mist, such as sometimes drifted up from the river; but it was the wrong time of year and besides, he’d seen the clan’s tents before.
‘Well, well,’ he said, very quietly. ‘How did that get there, I wonder?’
The bridgehouse Captain told him what had happened in a low voice, and Loredan nodded. ‘Possible,’ he replied. ‘A good night’s work, if that’s the way it was. I’m impressed.’
‘We think it’s the only way they could have done it,’ the Captain murmured. ‘The implications…’
‘Quite.’ Loredan nodded. ‘By the way, why are we all whispering?’