by K. J. Parker
- And finally, with much effort and exertion, they pulled the skin over the shoulders and away from the severed neck, so that it came off whole and undamaged, clean on the inside, without spoiling either the hide or the carcass. The flesh glistened slightly in the glow of the fire, like a newly born baby, or a man shiny with sweat as he takes off his armour on a hot day. Then they started to joint it, while the kitchen boy set about breaking open the head with a big pair of shears. ‘I’m going to pull rank and ask for the brains,’ Estar said with a smile. ‘Straight from the bone, simmer for half an hour in brine, add a couple of eggs and some lemon juice; there’s nothing to beat it. Some people reckon you should sauté them, but to my mind that’s sacrilege.’
Bardas shrugged. ‘My mother used to cook them when we were kids,’ he said, ‘but I can’t remember what they were like. Everything she cooked tended to taste the same, anyway. Since then, I’ve never been all that interested in food.’
Estar laughed. ‘I pity you,’ he said. ‘One of the great pleasures of life you’ve missed out on there, and now I suppose it’s too late for you to learn to appreciate it. That’s a shame.’ He watched the kitchen boy attentively. ‘And I thought Perimadeia was famous for the variety and quality of its cuisine.’
‘It was,’ Bardas said. ‘Or so people told me. I was quite happy to take their word for it.’
‘And what about the wine, then?’ Estar asked. ‘Or don’t you drink, either?’
‘Mostly we drank cider,’ Bardas replied. ‘Cheap, and it did the job. Better for you than the wine; at least, the sort of wine they sold in the sort of places I used to go. I don’t think you’d have liked it very much.’
They were cutting through the breastbone with a saw. ‘Oh, I’ve drunk my fair share of rotgut,’ Estar said, ‘when I was a penniless student. Remarkable how quickly you can get used to it, if there isn’t anything else.’ Bardas noticed how intently he was watching the cooks. It was more than the obsessive attention to detail of the true gourmet. Maybe Estar was aware of his interest, because he smiled and said, ‘All this is part of a boy’s education, back home. At the same time as we’re learning spelling and basic algebra and geometry, we’re being taught the one true way of jointing and dressing meat. The idea is that by the time a boy’s ten years old, you should be able to give him a dead sheep and a sharp knife, go away for a couple of hours and come back to a perfect meal of roast mutton, seasoned with rosemary and bay and served in the proper manner, according to the specifications set down in the Book. If I were at home right now, I’d be doing all this – it’s the host’s privilege to prepare food for his guests; we take that sort of thing very seriously. Good food, good wine, good music and good conversation. Everything else is just a necessary evil.’
‘That’s an interesting point of view,’ Bardas said diplomatically. ‘Of course, it does rather depend on having something to eat in the first place.’
Estar frowned for a moment, then laughed. ‘You’re missing the point,’ he said. ‘The very essence of luxury is simplicity. Luxury’s not really got anything to do with being rich and powerful; it’s just that the two are often found together, like horseflies and dung. Suppose that all you’ve got is a slingshot and a handful of pebbles; you can walk up the mountain and kill a sand-grouse as easily as walking down the mountain and killing a rabbit; as you go, you gather a few essential herbs and seasonings, and when you get back you take a little more care and trouble over cooking the meal than you absolutely have to. Good wine’s made from the same materials as bad wine; as for good music and good conversation, they cost nothing.’ He sighed and put his hands behind his head. ‘You should read some of our great poets, Bardas,’ he said. ‘Dalshin and Silat and the Rose-Scented Arrow. They’re all about the simple life, an ideal existence from which everything gross and intrusive has been purged away – refined, in the true sense of the word. That’s the very root and source of our culture; it’s who we are. “No man can fold a bolt of silk as perfect as a rose”—’
‘I see,’ Bardas interrupted, before Estar could get any further. ‘So what are you doing here?’
Estar closed his eyes. ‘Necessary evil,’ he replied. ‘To live the perfect life, you must first have stability, security. How can you possibly concentrate on the essentials of existence if there’s any possibility of danger from outside? The army, the provinces – they’re a wall we’ve built around us, they’re the armour we need to protect us; strength outside, sweet simplicity within. Sadly, it means that some of us have to turn our backs on the important things for some of the time; it’s worth it, though, because we know the simple perfection will always be there, waiting for us when we come home.’ He opened his eyes and sat up. ‘You’re smiling,’ he said. ‘Obviously you don’t agree.’
Bardas shook his head. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I was thinking of my home – well, my original home; I’ve lived all over the place. But what I was thinking about was where I grew up, in the Mesoge. That’s about as simple as you can get.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘Definitely.’
Estar raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you been back there recently?’ he asked.
‘About four years ago,’ Bardas replied. ‘I didn’t enjoy the experience much.’
‘The Mesoge,’ Estar repeated. ‘Isn’t that where your brother—?’
Bardas nodded. ‘Now, Gorgas would probably agree with you,’ he said. ‘About home and the simple things being the most important. With him, I think, it’s always been home and family, or at least that’s what he’s always chosen to think. I did too, for many years, until I actually went home and saw my family again.’ He smiled. ‘That’s what made me join the Imperial army,’ he added.
‘Sorry, I don’t follow.’
‘The Empire’s a big place,’ Bardas replied. ‘And I wanted to put as much distance between myself and my home and family as I possibly could.’
‘Oh.’ Estar’s expression suggested that here was a concept he’d have difficulty grasping. ‘Well, your misfortune is our good fortune, I suppose. Are you happy doing this?’
Bardas frowned. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I mean, I’m not sure. It’s – well, as far as I’m concerned, it’s an unusual criterion to judge anything by, whether it makes you happy or not. It’s a bit like asking a man who’s clinging to a piece of driftwood in the middle of the sea whether he likes the colour.’
Estar folded his eyebrows in a mock scowl. ‘Oh, come on,’ he said, ‘that’s a bit melodramatic, surely. Here you are, a strong, healthy man in the prime of life. Sure, you have to work to make a living; but wouldn’t it be just as easy to make that living doing something you enjoy, or at least something that isn’t actively offensive to you? It’s like the imaginary hunter with the slingshot I was talking about just now; he may only have a sling and a stone, but he still has the choice to go up the hill. If you don’t like being a soldier, go away and do something else; weave baskets or turn bowls or scare crows. Or make yourself a sling and gather a handful of pebbles.’
Bardas smiled. The boy had finally managed to crack open the sheep’s skull, and was scooping the white, sloppy brains out into a bowl with a tin spoon. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but before I could do that I’d need a suit of armour, like you said yourself. I’d need to be safe from all my enemies.’>
Estar shrugged. ‘Come and live inside the Empire,’ he said. ‘Once you get in deep, past the outer provinces, everybody’s safe there. You could get right away from all these enemies of yours, and even if they did track you down and find you, they’d never dare to make any trouble inside the Empire.’
‘It’s a tempting offer,’ Bardas replied, remembering the man and his children who’d tried to rob the post coach. ‘But I’d think twice before making it, if I were you. You see, wherever I go, this dangerous, bloodthirsty troublemaker keeps following me, and I’m not sure you’d be all that keen on having him around.’
Estar furrowed his brow. ‘You mean your brother?’ he ask
ed.
Bardas watched the kitchen boy shaking the last scrap of white jelly out of the skull. ‘My own flesh and blood,’ he replied.
‘What do you think?’ Iseutz said.
‘You look ridiculous,’ her mother replied without looking up from her chequer-board. ‘Fortunately, nobody’s going to see you in it, so it doesn’t matter.’
Iseutz frowned. ‘I think it suits me,’ she said.
In the corner of the room, her mother’s cat was eating a bird, rather noisily, not particularly concerned that the bird was still alive. Iseutz recognised it as next door’s pet mynah bird. ‘It could do with taking up a little here, don’t you think?’ she said, twitching the hem of the skirt with her left hand. ‘I’m not sure. Should it be on the knee or an inch above?’
Niessa Loredan scowled at the counters spread out before her. ‘Who cares?’ she said.
‘I care.’
‘Since when?’ Niessa laughed unpleasantly. ‘And besides,’ she added, ‘if you knew even the slightest bit about fashion, you’d know that look’s over and done with now. You’re just doing this to annoy me, the same reason you do everything.’
Iseutz took no notice; she sat down in the window-seat, her back to the blue sea, and studied the stumps of her fingers. ‘If nobody’s ever going to see me,’ she said sweetly, ‘what does it matter if it’s gone out of fashion?’
‘I’ve got to look at you,’ Niessa replied sourly. ‘And I’ve got enough to put up with without you prancing round dressed like that.’ She looked up. ‘This is because I stopped you writing to your uncle Gorgas, isn’t it?’
That’s what you think. ‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ Iseutz said. ‘You think everything I do has somehow got to be about you.’
Niessa folded her arms. ‘If you were really interested in how you look,’ she said, ‘if you were really interested in anything normal, it’d be different. But you aren’t. Look at you. You’re a freak.’
‘Thank you,’ Iseutz replied gravely.
‘And now,’ her mother went on, ‘you insist on dressing like a freak as well. And that’s too much. I won’t have it in this house, and that’s final.’
Iseutz glanced over her shoulder at the sea. ‘I’m not a freak,’ she said, ‘I’m a Loredan. The difference is small but significant.’
Niessa shook her head. ‘For one thing,’ she said, ‘isn’t it horribly uncomfortable? It looks like it should be.’
It was, of course; that was one of the reasons why the warrior-princess look had died the death in other, more rational places. Here in Ap’ Bermidan, it was little short of torture; the leather was stiff and clammy with sweat, and the sheer weight of the chain-mail top pressing on her neck and shoulders was giving her spasms of cramp up and down her back. ‘It’s fine,’ Iseutz said. ‘Much more comfortable than all those dreary long skirts.’
‘Then why do you keep massaging your neck when you think I’m not looking?’ Niessa demanded. ‘I can see from here, it’s rubbed a big red sore patch. Serves you right.’
Iseutz drummed her heels against the wall. ‘I like it,’ she said. ‘I think it’s me.’
Niessa grinned. ‘I won’t argue with you there,’ she said. ‘But the whole point of putting clothes on is to try to disguise what you are.’ She clicked her tongue, something that grated unbearably on her daughter. ‘And you say you can’t understand why I don’t let you out in public.’
Disguise what I am, like cooking herbs with tainted meat. ‘You haven’t said what you think I should do about the skirt,’ Iseutz said. ‘On balance, I think I’ll leave it as it is; after all, I’m not terribly much use with a needle.’
‘Or without,’ Niessa sighed. ‘Now shut up or go to your room. I’ve got work to do.’
Iseutz smiled, and shifted a little so that she could look out of the window without craning her neck. Blue sky and blue sea, with a spit of white sand dividing them. It was a very boring view, but there wasn’t anything else.
‘What was that?’ Niessa said, lifting her head sharply. Someone was bashing at the door down below. ‘Startled me.’
Iseutz pretended to take no notice. She hoped it was the Ap’ Muren courier; a bulk garlic merchant from Ap’ Muren sometimes bought from an Islander who occasionally went to the Mesoge for dried wild mushrooms and isinglass. But her mother hadn’t had dealings with Ap’ Muren for ages, so it wasn’t very likely.
The door opened, but the man who walked in wasn’t the porter; he was hovering behind the newcomer’s shoulder, looking agitated. The newcomer was a soldier.
‘Niessa Loredan,’ he said. It was a statement of fact, not a question.
‘What do you want?’
‘You’re coming with us,’ the soldier said, as two more, apparently identical in every respect, barged past the porter into the room. Their armour made them look huge and bulky.
‘Like hell,’ Niessa said, but a soldier grabbed hold of the back of her neck, like a man picking up a small dog, and shoved her towards the door. ‘What is this?’ Niessa squawked. ‘Where are you taking me?’ The soldier didn’t seem to have heard. Iseutz slid down off the window seat.
‘Can I come too?’ she asked.
The soldier looked at her. ‘Iseutz Loredan,’ he said. ‘You too.’
‘My pleasure,’ Iseutz replied. ‘Have we got time to pack a few things, or—?’
Apparently not; the soldier caught hold of her arm and hustled her out of the room, down the spiral staircase, shoving her so hard she nearly slipped and fell. At the foot of the stairs he stopped, pulled the little toy sword out of its scabbard at her waist and dropped it on the floor. ‘This way,’ he said.
‘What, down the path? I’m so glad you told me, I’d never have guessed.’
No sense of humour, soldiers; for that, she got a shove on the shoulder that nearly sent her sprawling. But she managed to keep her balance long enough to catch hold of the man’s wrist with her left hand and flip him across her back and over her shoulder. Judging by the noise he made, he didn’t land very well.
‘Iseutz! ’ her mother screamed, angry and terrified and embarrassed. One of the other soldiers was drawing his sword – instinct, probably, or conditioned response, but Iseutz wasn’t at her most rational, either. Skipping forward a step or two she kicked the fallen soldier in the face before he had a chance to get up (she heard the bone in his nose snap), bobbed down, slid his sword out of its scabbard left-handed and advanced. Both of the remaining soldiers had their swords drawn now, but they didn’t know what to do – fighting one-handed girls who were wanted alive by the prefect’s office and were also capable of throwing lance-corporals of the guard around like rose-petals was definitely not something they were willing to undertake without first being told the rules of engagement by a senior officer.
‘Iseutz,’ Niessa wailed, beside herself with fury, ‘what the hell do you think you’re doing? Put that down immediately, before you get us both—’
If her mother hadn’t interfered, Iseutz might well have dropped the sword; she was, after all, in a completely untenable position. As it was, she gripped the hilt even more firmly, and prayed silently to Fool’s Luck that the soldiers wouldn’t guess that she couldn’t fight southpaw worth spit. As she advanced, they backed away; she circled, gradually edging them round until she had her back to the road. Then she turned round and ran as fast as she could. They followed, the two squaddies close behind her and gaining, the lance-corporal lagging behind. This wasn’t any good; too long spent cooped up in her mother’s house, not enough exercise. So she waited till they were almost on to her, then spun round, swishing the sword at shoulder height in a flat circle. The soldiers pulled up sharply. One stumbled and slipped on to his face and hands, the other took a defensive guard and stared at her with a horrified why-me expression in his eyes. Iseutz grinned at him and lunged. It wasn’t a good lunge – Uncle Bardas wouldn’t have approved – but the soldier wasn’t a particularly good fencer; instead of parrying he got out of the
way by jumping backwards, almost landing on his colleague’s outstretched hand.
Give it up, she thought. They aren’t going to hurt you. Instead she lunged again; a truly sloppy lunge this time, head not still, balance nowhere. The soldier’s parry was worse, a typical fumbled response by a righthander against a southpaw. She made a half-decent recovery, feinted low and came up into a short backhand cut that caught the soldier’s sword on the fort of the blade, a finger’s breadth below the quillons, and knocked it out of his hand. He stood perfectly still, staring at her; beside him, his colleague was scrabbling up on to his feet. Iseutz turned and ran.
A little better now. The soldier had stopped to pick up his sword, his mate who’d fallen over had turned his ankle and was hobbling, and the lance-corporal was still well behind. Nevertheless, it was only a matter of time and distance, and she knew that. What the hell; it’d be amusing to see just how far she could get. ‘Iseutz! ’ her mother was shrieking in the distance. Probably no other incentive could have made her force her numb-weary knees to carry her up the scarp and down into the dip on the other side –
- Where (there is no god but Fool’s Luck, and I am his chosen one) she found herself in the arms of an extremely startled man who was standing beside a perfectly good horse, tightening the girths of his saddle. Iseutz squeaked with shock, turned the squeak into a growl and waggled the sword in the air; the man reeled backwards, slipped and staggered away. But I hate horses, Iseutz thought as she jammed her foot in the stirrup and launched herself on to the animal’s back, trying to catch hold of the reins with the stumps of her righthand fingers and failing. She slid the sword between the saddle and her right thigh, pressing hard to keep it there, caught hold of the reins and dug her heels in.