by K. J. Parker
Athli stood up. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ she said. ‘Remember, this is politics, not a sardine deal.’
Venart groaned. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘And I’m well aware that I’m out of my depth, haven’t got a clue what I’m doing and shouldn’t be trusted with running a whelk stall, let alone a government. Just because something’s true doesn’t always mean it’s helpful.’
Athli put a hand on his shoulder, then walked out across the courtyard to the small room she was using as an office. Not that there was much to do; business was at a standstill, she had no means of communicating with head office in Shastel, and nothing to tell them even if she had been able to get a message through. It was all rather depressing; everything she’d achieved by luck, hard work and native ability had somehow managed to melt and drip out between her fingers.
Maybe—People were leaving the Island, she knew that. At first they’d been circumspect about it; they’d announced their intentions of going off to buy food, loaded everything they could aboard their ships, slipped out of the Drutz in the early morning and not come back. Now they weren’t even bothering to lie. Looked at from a more rational perspective, it was remarkable that so few, relatively speaking, had done the sensible thing – of course it had been the same in Perimadeia, except that only a few hopeless pessimists had really believed the City would fall. She’d been one of them; and now it was time to go again, without shame or regret, taking with her any of her friends who chose to come with her, as calmly and sensibly as (say) Niessa Loredan abandoning Scona . . .
It was true to say (she decided, reviewing the facts like a historian) that once upon a time she’d cared about Bardas Loredan; cared a lot. Loved? Sloppy, imprecise term. She’d worked with him, done what she could to keep him in one piece when the horrors of his trade started to get to him, been there for him, worried herself sick every time he’d stepped out on to the courtroom floor but never once shown it – always so confident that she knew and understood him, the way nobody else did. Now it was true to say that she didn’t love him, although that didn’t stop her thinking about him all the time – but that had been then and there, this was now and here, and she’d carried his luck this far, to this conclusion. She’d always known, somehow, that as long as she cared for him he would survive. It was as if she’d been keeping his life safe for him, in a stout steel-banded locked wooden box, while his body went out and did violent, irrevocable things to the world. After all, she was a banker; he’d deposited his life, his luck with her, made it her responsibility. She’d carried it safely out of Perimadeia, guarded it for him while he tried to make something of his life on Scona, been entrusted with his apprentice and his sword; she’d taken it from him again when he’d lost his last hopes and dreams in the Mesoge, and sent her away. Well; and now he was coming to the Island, where she’d set up in business on her own account as a taker of deposits and creator of opportunities. Time to hand it back, to render her accounts and be discharged; to leave it for him here, in the condition he would expect to find it, paid up, balanced and signed off, and then to go away.
Some clients are more trouble than they’re worth.
Which only left the question: what should she take with her? To which question, the answer was simple. Her writing-desk and counting-board, a few changes of clothes, a small case of books and all the ready cash she could put together in the time available.
Vetriz soon got bored watching her brother fretting over his paperwork and went to her room.
It was a nice room. She had a comfortable bed, a rather grand and melodramatic chair with big carved arms and legs, a rosewood dressing table inlaid with lapis and mother of pearl (she’d bought it in Colleon and made Venart find space for it on the ship, much to his disgust; it meant throwing a whole barrel of sun-dried herrings over the side to make room), an ivory and brass mirror that gave her skin a wonderfully flattering golden tone, three chests full of clothes, a silver lamp on a turned sycamore stand that was as tall as she was, a rack for her seven pairs of shoes, a book-box, with padlock, a small stool with an embroidered seat, two genuine Shastel tapestries (one of them thought to be a School-of-Mavaut, but the other one was much nicer to look at), a writing desk and a chequer-board that doubled as a chessboard, with a set of attractively carved chessmen (horn and bone), an embossed brass water jug all the way from Ap’ Elipha (a present from her father when she was six and really wanted a doll’s house) – all nice things, solid things to define her life with. She had a polished marble floor (cold underfoot on winter mornings but beautifully cool in summer; sometimes she slept on it when it was really hot) and a view over the courtyard.
And that was about it.
She lay down on the bed. There was a headache gathering behind her eyes which a short nap might dissipate. She snuggled her head into the pillow and –
- ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon.’
‘I’m not here yet,’ he replied.
‘Ah.’ She looked at him carefully. He looked older – well, that was only to be expected, he was older – but otherwise pretty much the same. For some reason he was dressed as a fencer, the way he’d been when she first set eyes on him in the courtroom in Perimadeia; in fact, that’s exactly where he was, standing in the middle of the black and white tiled floor, like a counter on a counting-board, a reckoning piece. She wondered how much he stood for.
‘How are things with you, anyway?’ he asked.
‘Oh, not so bad,’ she replied automatically. She realised that she was standing in the middle too; she was standing a sword’s length away from him, and the needle-sharp point of his vintage Spe Bref law-sword was just under her chin. If the black lines are whole units, she thought idly, then I’m a ten and he’s only a five. No, that can’t be right. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘A trial,’ he replied; and they were standing on opposite sides of a workbench, in a dark, rather damp-smelling thatched workshop. On the bench between them was a bow – what they called a composite, if she’d got that right, the sort that’s made out of sinew and horn and bone and things like that, held together with glue boiled down from skin and blood. It was fixed in some sort of wooden clamp, with a notched bar set in the middle at right angles.
‘It’s called a tiller,’ he explained. ‘It’s for applying stress and tension. Now then, let’s see how far this beggar’ll bend before it breaks.’
- And they were in a cellar, with a high ceiling and stone floors, standing beside a pile of pieces of armour, body parts. ‘A trial,’ he went on, ‘which is another way of saying, a putting to proof.’ Gently, almost tenderly, he took her hand in his and laid it softly on the anvil. ‘This may sting a bit,’ he warned her, as he raised the big hammer.
‘Just a moment,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’m sure this is all quite important and necessary, but why me?’
He smiled. ‘How should I know?’ he replied. ‘I only work here; you want to ask the Sons of Heaven, they probably know.’
That struck her as odd. ‘What’ve they got to do with it?’ she asked. ‘I mean, they weren’t there in the beginning.’
He frowned. ‘True,’ he said. ‘Hold this for me, would you? It’s important you keep it steady.’ He turned her hand over and put into her palm a head, a young man’s head, about her age. ‘King Temrai,’ he explained. ‘He’s the plaintiff.’
‘Really? And you’re for the defendant, I suppose.’
He frowned. ‘I’m not sure any more,’ he replied. ‘Still, that’s all out of my hands now, thank goodness.’ He brought the hammer down, using his back and shoulders to get the maximum force. The head rang, as clear and crisp as an anvil. ‘Oh, well,’ he said. ‘All right, we’ll pass that. Now let’s see.’ He reached down behind the anvil and produced another head. ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘you know him, don’t you?’
She nodded, as he put Gorgas Loredan’s head on to the palm of her hand. ‘He takes after our father,’ he was saying. ‘I took afte
r Mother. They say I’ve got her nose.’
Under the hammerfall the head split and disintegrated, like a rotten log; but he’d been slightly off his aim and knocked the head off the hammer. ‘Decapitated the blasted thing,’ he said irritably. ‘Not to worry, though. I have a spare.’
- And drew his sword, the beautiful antique Guelan broadsword that Athli had kept for him for a time. Vetriz could feel the needle-sharp point just pricking the middle of her neck. ‘Well, go on, then,’ he said; and she was aware that everybody in the courtroom was staring at her, all the thousands of people packed into the spectators’ galleries – plainsmen, Perimadeians, Scona, Shastel, people from Ap’ Escatoy, Islanders who he’d killed over the years, all come to watch him fight. She could see herself, and Ven, up in the back gallery where they’d been sitting all those years ago. She felt the urge to wave to herself, but didn’t.
‘What do you want me to do?’ she asked.
‘How should I know?’ he replied. ‘You’re the plaintiff.’
She shook her head and felt the sword-point nick her. ‘I don’t see why,’ she said. ‘In fact, I really don’t see why I got mixed up in all this in the first place. Is it just because I can – well, see all this stuff, which other people can’t? I know Alexius thought I was somehow making things happen, but—’
‘You don’t want to believe in all that Principle stuff,’ he replied. ‘If you ask me, that’s making it unnecessarily complicated. You ask Gannadius, next time you see him. No, it’s a question of cause; we can leave the blame and guilt out of it too, that’s just lubricant. What I really want to know is, did I start it, or was it him?’
‘Him?’
‘Gorgas.’ He lowered the sword and laid it on the anvil, next to the bow. ‘Let’s go through it step by step. If Gorgas hadn’t killed my father, would I have left home when I did, joined up with Uncle Maxen and caused the fall of Perimadeia? (We’ll leave all the other cities out of it for now – Scona, Ap’ Escatoy, the Island, that pretty little model Perimadeia Temrai’s built himself; they all follow on). If Gorgas hadn’t done what he did, would we both still be back on the farm, mending gates and ploughing the six-acre? Or would I have left anyway? Surely that’s what it all comes down to. That’s probably the most important question in all history.’
She nodded. ‘If Gorgas caused it, then it’s his fault—’
‘Not fault,’ he interrupted. ‘I used to think fault, but since I’ve been in with these people,’ (he nodded towards the Sons of Heaven in their reserved seats in the front row), ‘I only think cause. If Gorgas started it, then he’s the cause. If I started it, then I am. What do you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ Vetriz admitted. ‘Sorry.’
‘Personally, I think it was him,’ he said. ‘Stands to reason; he’s the doer in our family, the one with the drive and the energy. On the other hand, I’m the one who brings about the consequences of his actions. Now if there really was such a thing as the Principle, that’d make sense.’
She looked at him. ‘What’s going to happen?’ she asked.
‘You don’t need me to tell you that,’ he said, and vanished into her pillow.
She sat up sharply and opened her eyes. She felt very uncomfortable. It was like the time she’d allowed Gorgas Loredan into her room; there was the same sense of it not being hers any more. If there was any sense to be made of it, perhaps that was where she should look; except that she couldn’t see how her mistake with Gorgas Loredan had caused anything or made anything happen. She thought about Niessa Loredan, who’d reckoned that she could control the Principle with the help of a natural or two, and had scooped her up and tucked her away in Scona for a while. Nothing much ever seemed to have come of that. She had the feeling that he’d been right, and the Principle was nothing but a folk-tale explanation, like the far-fetched reasons you hear in stories for why the sun rises in the east, or why the moon wanes. If there really was such a thing, it was like a big machine, something like the huge rolling-mill she’d been to see in the City the first time they’d gone there, a huge, slowly turning roller that dragged in the blooms of iron, flattened them into plate and fed them out the other side; and if you weren’t careful, if you leaned over the rollers, your sleeve could catch and you’d be pulled in too.
And that wasn’t right, either, far too simplistic.
She got up, realising as she did so that her left foot had gone to sleep, and stumbled to the dressing table. Her face in the mirror was soft and golden, like a fond and unreliable memory.
Late in the afternoon, Bardas Loredan had a visitor. Once the stranger had convinced Bardas that he was who he claimed to be, they sat and talked in Bardas’ tent for over an hour.
‘You don’t seem surprised,’ the visitor said, after they’d talked business.
‘I’m not,’ Bardas replied. ‘Which is odd, because I should be. But no, this seems to me to be a perfectly reasonable development.’
‘Really? Well, that’s your business, not mine. Anyway, you’re happy with the timetable?’
Bardas nodded. ‘Entirely. If I were to ask you why you’re doing this, would you tell me?’
‘No.’>
The visitor left, and Bardas made his preparations. He called a staff meeting, explained the situation, ignored the protests and issued his orders. Then he went back to his tent.
Leaning against the bed, still in its oiled buckskin case, was the Guelan broadsword, the one Gorgas had left for him as a present, just before Perimadeia fell. Now Perimadeia fell because Gorgas opened the gates; but that didn’t alter the fact that the Guelan was still a good sword (shorter in the blade than most two-handers, with a heavy pommel and the best balance he’d ever come across). He untied the strings and pulled it out of the case.
If anything, it felt lighter in his hands than ever; possibly because three years of digging in the mines had strengthened his arms and wrists, and he’d got used to the top-heavy Imperial glaives, halberds and bardiches for two-handed work. He tested the edge with his thumb, and closed his eyes.
Some time later, he put on his armour (he no longer noticed the weight), pushed the Guelan down into the belt-frog and secured it with the buckle. Then he sat for an hour in the darkness, expecting to hear voices that for once were silent; but from somewhere in the camp came the smell of garlic and coriander, flavourings often used by cooks to mask the taste of tainted meat.
(At the same moment, on the other side of the stockade, Temrai held out his plate; and a man laid on it a thin white pancake filled with spiced meat, and smiled, and went back to slicing meat with a long, thin-bladed knife.)
They came for him when it was time. As he’d ordered, the pikemen and halberdiers had smeared mud on their weapons and armour, in case the steel glittered in the starlight. He hadn’t needed to obey his own order; the armour Anax the Son of Heaven had made for him was lightly browned with rust and didn’t catch the light any more. Once they marched outside the circle of their own firelight it was too dark to see, but by now they knew the way with their eyes closed.
(Temrai finished his meal, got up and wandered across to the warm glow of the welding-fires, where his armourers were repairing damaged mailshirts. First they heated the new rings to a dull red, then flattened the ends, punched little holes in them, knitted them into place, closed them up with the tongs, pushed in a rivet and hammered it round over a sett. It was the warmest place in the fortress now that the nights were getting cold. There wasn’t much skill in the job, not to someone who’d once earned his living making sword blades in the state arsenal of Perimadeia; the steel simply went from dull grey to blood-red. But he stood for a while watching them, not thinking of anything much – one thought that did occur to him was how convenient it would be if skin and flesh could be mended as easily as armour, by heating, softening and bashing, but it wasn’t an idea worth following through.)
The swing-bridge was tied back and guarded by sentries; but in the dark Bardas’ men swam across the river without
making a sound (after a while it gets easy, finding your way in the dark) and cut their throats, working by feel and smell. Bardas hoped that they thanked them afterwards. Then they swung out the bridge, careful and quiet.
(Temrai went back to his tent, where Lempecai the bowyer was waiting for him; he’d glued another layer of sinew on the back of Temrai’s bow to stiffen it a little more, pull it back into tiller. The glue had taken its own sweet time drying, as it always did, but it had been worth the wait. Temrai drew the bow, observing that it seemed to take less effort to draw it even though it had been made stronger, and complimented Lempecai on his work.)
Bardas led the first company over the bridge himself. It wasn’t vainglory or pride that made him want to be the first man inside the fortress, more a sense of continuity, given that he and Theudas (who was beside him, in a borrowed helmet and jack-of-plates that were both a little on the small side) had been the last Perimadeians to leave the City. He’d prepared himself for the tension of waiting; but he’d scarcely set foot on the shore when a slit of light, thin and pointed as the blade of a jointing-knife, appeared down the side of the gate. He closed his eyes against the glare –
(Bardas Loredan, Sacker of Cities.)
- and when he opened them again, the gate was open too. He dipped his head as a sign to the men behind him, and walked into the fortress.
‘As promised,’ said the man standing beside the door.
‘Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome.’
It wasn’t long before the alarm was raised, but by then Bardas was leading three companies of halberdiers up the path, while the rest of the army poured in and filled up the lower level of the fortress. The plainsmen there were caught entirely by surprise – someone had taken care of the sentries on the gate – and didn’t know what to do. Some of them ran towards the weapons stacks, others ran in the opposite direction, but the line of soiled black spearheads herded them like sheep, and they had no armour.