by K. J. Parker
In the exact middle of the table was a cup, which Clefas had put there to catch the drips from the roof. Their father had dished it out of a piece of plate steel cut from a helmet his father had picked up on the site of the last major battle fought in the Mesoge, over a hundred years ago. As the raindrops fell into it they made a plinking noise, like a light hammer bouncing off an anvil.
‘Twenty-three,’ Gorgas repeated, when it was obvious that nobody else was going to contribute to the conversation. ‘Which makes it nearly twenty-four years since the last time we were all together around this table. Well, nothing much seems to have changed around here, I’m glad to say.’
Clefas and Zonaras were sitting perfectly still, like mechanical iron figures in a clock-tower that haven’t been wound up. Niessa was sulking, her arms folded, her chin jutting as she stared out of the window at the driving rain. Iseutz was pulling a piece of cloth into strips, one end gripped between her teeth. Nobody had bothered to clear away the cups and plates from the last three meals, though Clefas had at least taken the time to squash a couple of cockroaches. Gorgas was sitting at the head of the table. He’d put on a new shirt and trousers for the occasion – Colleon silk with brocade – and he was wearing his father’s ring, which had been in the family for generations.
‘You’ll find your room’s pretty much the way it was,’ he told his sister. ‘Same old linen-chest, same old bed. Of course, you and Iseutz are going to have to share, but that shouldn’t be a problem. Maybe we should think about turning the old apple store into another bedroom, though; it’s going to get a bit cosy otherwise.’
‘Where are you sleeping?’ Niessa asked, without moving her head.
‘In father’s room, of course,’ Gorgas replied.
‘I thought so.’
Iseutz had finished tearing her bit of rag into strips; now she started tearing the strips into squares. ‘Go on, then,’ she said, ‘say it, and let’s get it over with.’
‘Say what?’
She rested her hands on the table. ‘Any minute now,’ she said, ‘you’re going to say something like, It’s just a pity Bardas isn’t here, then we’d all be together again. Well, aren’t you?’
Gorgas frowned a little. ‘All right, yes, it would be nice if Bardas was here, but he’s not. He’s got a life of his own now, he’s making something of himself. He knows this house will always be here for him, as and when he needs it.’
‘Oh, for gods’ sakes.’ Iseutz banged the table with her mutilated hand. ‘Uncle Gorgas, why did you have to bring her here? Well, I’m not sharing a room with her, and that’s that. I’d rather sleep in the trap-house.’
‘Fine,’ Niessa muttered. ‘You do that.’
‘Niessa!’
Dear gods, Niessa thought, he sounds just like Father. Now that’s . . . worrying. Gorgas was glowering round the table, his arms folded ominously. Any minute now he’s going to tell me to eat up my porridge.
‘And the rest of you, for pity’s sake. We’ve had our differences, gods know – and yes, before anybody else says it, yes, a hell of a lot of them were my fault, I’m not trying to pretend they weren’t. But that was then and this is now; and let’s be absolutely straight with each other, none of us is exactly perfect.’ He stopped, glowered again, and went on, ‘I didn’t want to have to do it this way, but I think it’s necessary. Let’s start with you, Niessa; you’re self-centred, completely amoral, you’ve never really cared about anything or anybody but yourself; when things got too hot for you on Scona you just walked away, leaving for dead all the people who depended on you – I was the only one who even tried to do anything; I managed to get some of them out and I brought them here, but you didn’t give a damn. You betrayed a city – a whole city, all those hundreds of thousands of people you practically sentenced to death, just so you wouldn’t have to pay your debts.
‘And the way you’ve treated your own daughter is little short of abominable. When I brought her home to Scona, what did you do? You threw her in jail, for pity’s sake. And don’t you start looking all smug and self-righteous, Iseutz, you’re the last person – you tried to kill your own uncle – no, you be quiet and let me finish. You tried to kill Bardas for something that wasn’t his fault. He was only doing his job, he had no way of knowing that man was your uncle, he didn’t even know you existed. I’m sorry for what you’ve been through, but really, you’re just going to have to come to terms with it and start acting like a sane, normal human being while you can still remember how.
‘And as for you two,’ he went on, swinging round and scowling at Clefas and Zonaras, ‘you’re every bit as bad, if not worse. You had everything; you had the farm, dammit, you had Bardas sending you all that money, every quarter he could scrape together by risking his life, and what did you do? You squandered it, threw it all away. Dear gods, when I think what I’d have given to have what you had; to be here, at home, doing what we were all meant to do, instead of wandering around the world fighting and cheating and screwing other people just to make a living – you know, I don’t get angry easily, but that really does annoy me.’ It was very quiet now; even the rain seemed to have stopped dripping into the steel cup. ‘About the only one of us who can honestly say he’s always tried to do the right thing, always put other people before himself, is Bardas – and he’s the one who can’t come home, because of what we’ve done to him. Isn’t that right, Clefas? Zonaras? He came here, when he needed somewhere clean and safe to go to, and as soon as he saw what you two had done, he was so disgusted he couldn’t bear to stay here, so he went off again – and now look where he is, practically an exile; and it’s you two who’re to blame for that, and I’m really finding it hard to forgive you for it – although I do forgive you, because we’re family, we’ve got to stick together no matter what we’ve all done. But for heaven’s sake, why can’t you all just make a bit of an effort and stop bickering with each other like a lot of spoiled kids? That’s not so much to ask, is it?’
For a long time, nobody spoke. Then Iseutz giggled. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but it’s comical, honestly. All those terrible things we’ve all done, and it’s supposed to make us all one happy family. Uncle Gorgas, you’re one of a kind, you really are.’
Gorgas turned and stared at her, making her shiver. ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ he said.
‘Oh, come on. Listen to yourself. And just out of interest, has it slipped your mind that Uncle Bardas murdered your son and made his body into a—’
‘Quiet.’ Gorgas took a deep breath, making himself stay calm. ‘If we keep on bashing ourselves, bashing each other, over what we’ve all done, then we might as well all give up now. It’s not what we’ve done that matters, it’s what we’re going to do – just so long as we all try. At last we’ve got everything we need – we’ve got the farm, we’ve got each other, there aren’t any landlords or outsiders breathing down our necks—’
‘What about the provincial office?’ Niessa interrupted, still staring out of the window. ‘I suppose they just melted away into thin air.’
‘I can handle them,’ Gorgas replied. ‘They’re nothing to worry about. Really and truly, there isn’t anything to worry about any more, just so long as we’re together, as a family. We’ve done the hard part, we’ve all been through the bad times; it’s been a long haul, we’ve all had to go miles out of our way just to get back here again, but it’s all right now, we’re home. And if you could all just understand that—’
Clefas stood up and walked towards the door.
‘Where are you going?’ Gorgas demanded.
‘To see to the pigs,’ Clefas said.
‘Oh.’ He breathed out, as if in relief. ‘Tell you what, why don’t we all go and see to the pigs? Do some useful and constructive work for a change, instead of sitting round here moping like a lot of owls?’
His tone of voice suggested that participation wasn’t optional.
Outside, it was beginning to get dark. The rain had turned the bottom end
of the yard into a swamp; the drainage ditch was blocked with cow-parsley again, and nobody had got around to clearing it out yet. Niessa, who only had the sandals she’d been wearing in the desert, could feel the mud between her toes.
‘How much longer do you think we’ll have to put up with this?’ It was Iseutz, whispering in her ear. ‘Does he really think we’re going to stay here and play let’s-pretend-nothing-happened for the rest of our lives?’
Niessa turned her head away. ‘I don’t care what he thinks,’ she said out loud, ‘or what you think, for that matter. This is obviously ridiculous. Now go away and leave me alone.’
Iseutz grinned. ‘You think you’ll be able to snap him out of it,’ she said. ‘Pull rank on him, as if you were both still on Scona. Well, I don’t think it’s going to work, he’s way too far gone for that. Still, look on the bright side; as I understand it he’s practically given this horrid country to the Empire; sooner or later they’ll round him up and put him out of his misery, and then we can get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.’
The pig house smelt bad. Nobody had got around to mucking it out for a week and the rain was pouring through a hole in the roof and flushing a stream of slurry under the door and out into the yard. Gorgas didn’t seem to mind the rain; his new silk shirt was probably ruined already, but he hadn’t noticed, or he didn’t care. He’s like a young kid, all excited at being allowed to help, Iseutz thought. Too bad. On balance, it would be fun to have Uncle Bardas here as well. He and Uncle Gorgas could bash each other to death, knee-deep in pigshit.
‘Come on, Zonaras, get me the rake,’ Gorgas was saying. ‘Niessa, you get the shovel.’ (Niessa stayed exactly where she was.) ‘Clefas, where’s the wheelbarrow? Oh, for crying out loud, don’t say you haven’t mended it yet, I thought I told you to do that last week. Doesn’t anybody else do any work around here, except me?
‘Family reunion,’ said Bardas Loredan, staying where he was. ‘I suppose I ought to say haven’t you grown, or something like that.’
Theudas Morosin stopped dead in the doorway of the tent. ‘I thought you’d be pleased to see me,’ he said.
Bardas closed his eyes and let his head loll back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. I just wish you hadn’t come here.’
Theudas stiffened. ‘Oh?’
‘If I said I hoped you were out of my life for good,’ Bardas went on, ‘you’d think I was being horrible. What you probably wouldn’t understand is, I hoped it for your sake.’ He opened his eyes and stood up, but didn’t approach the boy. ‘I’m really pleased that you’re safe and well,’ he went on, ‘you’ve got to believe me when I say that; but you shouldn’t be here, not getting mixed up in this war. You should have stayed on the Island, you’ve got a future there.’
Theudas was about to say something, but changed his mind. He looks different, he thought. I was expecting he’d look different, probably older, thinner, I don’t know, but he doesn’t. If anything, he looks younger. ‘I want to be here,’ he replied instead. ‘I want to see you defeat Temrai, pay him back for what he did. I know you can do it, and I want to be here when you do. Is there anything terrible in that?’
Bardas smiled. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘but don’t let it worry you. You’re here now, we’re together again; I suppose you might as well make yourself useful.’
Theudas grinned with relief; it was the tone of voice when he said make yourself useful, just like the old times. He should have known there wouldn’t have been any show of emotion, no hugs or tears; he wouldn’t have wanted that anyhow. What he really wanted was for things to pick up where they’d left off, that day when the Shastel soldiers broke into their house and everything changed. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to do?’
Bardas yawned; now he did look tired. ‘Let’s see what Athli’s taught you about keeping books,’ he said. ‘If you’ve been paying attention, you could come in quite handy. And nobody could ever make sense of paperwork like Athli. How is she, by the way?’
There was something in the way he’d said that – he hasn’t heard yet. Why? Why haven’t they told him? ‘She was fine,’ Theudas said cautiously, ‘the last time I saw her.’
‘That’s good. And what about Alexius? How’s he doing? Have you seen him lately?’
This time Theudas didn’t know what to say. He really didn’t want to be the one to tell him – not if he also had to break the news about what had happened on the Island. But he’d have to do it sooner or later, and he didn’t want to have to lie . . . ‘Alexius,’ he repeated. ‘You haven’t heard.’
Bardas looked up sharply. ‘Haven’t heard what? He’s not ill or anything, is he?’
‘He’s dead,’ Theudas said.
Bardas sat very still. ‘Both of them,’ he said.
‘What?’
Bardas shook his head. ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘sorry. I just heard yesterday, another friend of mine’s died, a man I used to work with at the proof house. When did he die?’
Theudas’ mouth was dry. ‘Quite some time ago,’ he said. ‘I’m really sorry, I thought you must have known.’
‘It’s all right,’ Bardas said (it’s customary to die first after all, even if there are exceptions). ‘He was an old man, these things happen. It’s just – well, odd. I’d have thought I’d have known, if you see what I mean.’
‘You were quite close at one time, weren’t you?’ Theudas said, knowing as he said it that he couldn’t have put it much worse if he’d really tried.
‘Yes,’ Bardas replied. ‘But I haven’t seen him for years. If you remember exactly when he died, I’d be interested. Now then, let’s find something for you to do; or do you want to have a rest? I suppose you’ve been travelling all day.’
‘That’s all right,’ Theudas said. ‘Did you say you wanted me to do the accounts or something? I suppose there’s a lot of paperwork and stuff, running an army.’
Bardas smiled. ‘You wouldn’t believe it,’ he said. ‘Or at least, there is with this army; somehow we never seemed to bother with it when I was with Maxen’s crowd. These people, though, they need dockets and requisitions and reports and gods know what else, or nothing gets done.’
Theudas sat down behind the small, rickety folding desk, the top of which was covered with bits of paper and wax tablets. He hadn’t served any formal apprenticeship or term of articles while he’d been on the Island, but he knew enough about clerkship to recognise a pig’s ear when he saw one. ‘I can make a start on reconciling your sun-and-moon ledger if you like,’ he said. ‘Have you got any counters?’
‘In the wooden box,’ Bardas replied. ‘What’s a sun-and-moon ledger?’
Theudas smiled. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘it’s what they call standard double-entry format where I come from – I mean, on the Island.’ The smile was still there on his face, like the visor of a bascinet, a false steel face. ‘You know, receipts and expenditures. We draw a little sun on the left-hand side and a little moon on the right.’
‘Ah. Well, yes, by all means. That’d be a great help.’
Theudas opened the box; it was cedarwood, sweet-smelling, pale with a faint green tinge. Inside was a little velvet bag, drawn tight at the neck with silk braid. He loosened the knot and shook out a handful of the most exquisite counters he’d ever seen – butter-yellow gold, Imperial fine, with allegorical figures in high relief on both the obverse and reverse. Neither the figures nor the legends in the exergues meant anything to him, of course; these were Imperial make, illustrating scenes from the literature of the Sons of Heaven and inscribed in their script.
‘They belonged to a man called Estar,’ Bardas said. ‘I inherited them, along with this army. You can keep them if you like; I hate doing exchequer work.’
‘Thank you,’ Theudas said. In the box with the counters was a small piece of chalk, which he used to draw his lines – full lines for full tens, broken lines for the intermediate fives. ‘But are you sure? They look as if they’re pretty valuab
le.’
‘Never given it any thought, to be honest with you,’ Bardas replied. ‘Once you’ve spent time with these people, you start assessing value in a different way, if you see what I mean.’
Theudas didn’t see at all, but he nodded anyway. ‘If you’re sure,’ he said. ‘It’s a pleasure to use them.’
Bardas smiled. ‘I think that’s the general idea,’ he said. ‘Look, we’re getting ready to move on – we’ve been stuck here for far longer than we’d expected, and we’re horribly behind schedule. I’ve got to go and see to a few things. Will you be all right here on your own for a bit?’
‘I should think so,’ Theudas replied, setting out counters on the lines. ‘I’ve got plenty here to keep me busy for a while.’
For an hour or so the work more or less filled his mind, as he wrestled with divisors, quotients and multiplicands, traced misplaced entries, struggled to make sense of Bardas’ handwriting. It was enough to feel the textile-soft texture of the counters between the tips of his fingers, or hear the gentle click they made as he dropped one back into the bag. But as he was drawn deeper into the calculations, so the images embossed on the counters began to assert themselves in the back of his mind, like splinters of metal thrown off the grindstone embedding themselves in your hand. There was an army marching to war; in the foreground a Son of Heaven on a tall, thin horse, behind him a sea of heads and bodies, each one no more than a few cursory strokes of the die-engraver’s cutter. There was a trophy of captured arms, set up on a battlefield to celebrate a victory – swords and spears, helmets and breastplates and arms and legs heaped up, and at the summit, like a beacon on a mountain, the radiate-sun standard of the Empire. There was a city under siege; high towers and bastions in the background, and at the front of the field, engineers digging the mouth of a sap, sheltered from the arrows and missiles of the defenders by tall wicker shields. There was an armoury, where two men raised a helmet over a stake while a third watched. Because he couldn’t understand the words, Theudas didn’t know which wars and sieges and cities were being commemorated here, but it didn’t really matter; they could be any war, any siege or city you wanted them to be (since all wars and sieges and cities are pretty much alike, seen from a distance, from outside the field). For all Theudas knew, it might have been deliberate; since the Empire is eternally at war, eternally celebrating some new victory, it was sound practical sense to keep the celebrations of victory vague and generic, whether they be the images on counters or the marching-songs of the army.