The Two of Swords, Volume 1

by K. J. Parker

  “Was he a craftsman?”

  Sore point. Score one to the abbot. “No idea,” she said briskly. “He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. It’s all as broad as it’s long,” she went on, before he could say anything. “When Senza Belot storms Beloisa and slaughters the entire garrison, what difference will one more body make? They’re all dead anyway. That’s what happens in war, which is,” she added gravely, “an institution of which I do not approve. Can we talk about something else now, please?”

  The abbot gave her a long look, then asked her questions about other things which she was both able and willing to answer. Her answers put him in a good mood, and the subject of the dead political didn’t come up again. “Thank you,” he said, when the debriefing was over, “you’ve done marvellously well, as usual. I honestly don’t know how this faculty would manage without you.”

  She gave him a don’t-be-silly smile. “Where next?” she asked.

  “Not quite sure,” the abbot replied. “There’s a number of situations developing which would benefit from your touch, I don’t yet know which one’s most important. So, have a few days off.”

  She beamed at him. “Thank you,” she said. “I could do with a break. Do you realise, I’ve been on the road continuously for six weeks now?”

  “Good Lord.” Of course he knew perfectly well. “Then you definitely deserve a break. How are you for money?”

  “Oh, fine,” she said quickly, and he knew better than to ask further. “In fact, the first thing I’m going to do is go out and get measured for some new shoes. I’m sick to death of sore feet.”

  There were several hundred workshops in Rasch that professed to make footwear, but only one that anyone with even the faintest idea of style would consider buying from. The Gargon brothers were on the far side of town, but she didn’t mind that; she was going that way in any case.

  Her first stop was Drolo’s, in the Old Market. The old man recognised her, a sort of oh-it’s-you look. He didn’t hold with selling weapons to women.

  “Too long,” she said, handing the knife back.

  The old man was trying not to scowl; it was really rather sweet. “That’s all I’ve got right now.”

  “Could you cut it back an inch?”

  She’d wounded him. “I could,” he said, as though she’d asked him to blind his firstborn child. “The balance won’t be right, though.”

  Perfectly true. The Drolo family didn’t make pretty things; plain, with a dull oil-black finish. But piking a Drolo knife back an inch would be an atrocity. “Fine,” she said. “How long to make me one, like this, but five inches?”

  He shrugged. “Ten days.”

  “I’ll pay you now, if you like.”

  “No, when it’s ready will be fine.” He waited till she was almost through the door, then asked, “What happened to the last one?”

  She smiled at him. “I’m so careless,” she said.

  Next, to the Carrhasius twins, on Moorbank. A much better welcome there. “We’ve got something special put by for you,” they said. No kidding. Four out of six volumes of Bartagen’s Reflections, the pre-war edition, with the full marginalia. “How much?” she asked.

  Wicked grin. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes,” she lied. “How much?”

  The figure quoted made her head swim. “Ten days?”

  She’d said something amusing. “As a special favour, we can hold them for three days. But only because we love you.”

  “Yes, please.” Worry about the money later. “The other two volumes. You wouldn’t happen to—?”

  “Alas.”

  Liars, she thought, as she walked up Temple Hill. Liars and thieves; they knew perfectly well where the other two volumes were, just as they knew that once she’d got the four there was no price on earth she wouldn’t pay to complete the set. Never mind. The Reflections: just the thought of it made her glow inside, as though she’d drunk good brandy. And then all she’d need would be time to read them.

  Corsander, on White Cross; five angels for three silk petticoats and a scarf. Daylight robbery.

  A quick stop at Peldun’s for ink, sealing wax and nibs—tempted by a delightful silver and ivory travelling set, early Revival, though the sand shaker was a modern replacement; but she had three like it already, so no—then up the steep, narrow lane to Ash Yard, where the Gargon brothers had raised their temple to footwear. These days the Gargons didn’t see customers; they had a woman, reputedly a field marshal’s widow, to attend to all that. She was perfectly civil, while giving the impression that she wasn’t really there. That didn’t last. The look on her face—

  Smile. “Is something wrong?”

  The woman took a moment. “No, of course not. Do forgive me.”

  Naturally, the field marshal’s widow had never have seen feet like it before; not unless she was given to acts of charity among the homeless and destitute. “I know,” she said, “my feet are a bit on the wide side. It’s so hard to get shoes that don’t rub.”

  Then she went back to the abbey and slept for twenty hours, and then woke up. Nothing to do. At a loose end. Her skin started to itch. She wanted to scream.

  Just the reaction (she told herself, as she walked to the library) to a month of constant frenetic activity, plus having to kill five people, plus the very real prospect of death. It’ll wear off, she told herself. It’ll wear off, just as soon as I find something to do.

  She went, as always, straight to the Ethics section. The assistant librarian gave her a shy smile. He was twenty-one, and spotty.

  “Dahasius on Moral Expediency,” she said. “Is it—?”

  He gave her a sad look. “Sorry.”

  “Damn.”

  “Just went out this morning. If you’d been here an hour earlier—”

  “That’s fine. Thank you. Why the hell don’t you people get another copy made?”

  He winced, and mumbled something about copyists’ time being limited, and having no discretion, and the war—

  “What’s the war got to do with anything?”

  He looked like he was afraid of getting hit. “Well, you know how it is.”

  Deep breath. “I understand; that’s perfectly all right. I wonder, could you be awfully sweet and let me know the moment it comes back in? Only I’ve been looking forward to reading it so much, and it’s always bloody out.” Another deep breath. “Thanks again,” she said, and wandered back to the open shelves.

  Coryton’s Celestial Anvil was where it always was; nobody read it these days, which was silly. She lifted it down and opened it at random, and a few minutes later she realised she was reading standing up in the middle of the central aisle. Dear, wonderful Coryton. She looked round for a seat, found one, in the corner by the pillar. She knew whole chapters of Coryton by heart, but it didn’t seem to make a difference. Reading it was like a hot bath, with soap and honey.

  “Hello,” someone said. She looked up and saw Oida looming over her. Damn, she thought, and smiled.

  “May I?” He sat down beside her without waiting for an answer, which at least stopped him looming. “You got out all right, then.”

  Did he know about the political? “No trouble,” she said. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be in Mase, for the chiefs of staff.”

  He shook his head. “Postponed,” he said. “No reason given. Which means something’s going on, but I don’t know about it. How about you? Heard anything?”

  What every other female in the two empires saw in him, she really couldn’t guess. “No. Actually, I’ve been asleep ever since I got back. What sort of thing?”

  He shrugged. “If I knew, I wouldn’t need to ask. You sure you haven’t come across anything?”

  She frowned. “Well,” she said, “I’ve just been given the week off. Now that was a surprise. I was assuming I’d get just enough time to comb my hair and shave my legs, and I’d be off on the road again.” Her frown deepened. “You know, that should’ve put me on notice. Too tired to think
straight, probably.”

  Clearly he thought so too; down a couple of degrees in his estimation, not that she gave a damn. “Sounds like a rest will do you good,” he said. “What’s that?” He leaned over her book. There was so much of him; rather more, she felt, than was strictly necessary. “Oh, Coryton.”

  “Yes. I find him relaxing.”

  “Mphm. I’ve got a spare copy; you can have it if you like.” Just like that; her own copy of the Anvil. As it says in Scripture, to the gods all things are possible. If he remembered, of course, and if it didn’t come at a price.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I’d like that. Drop it in at the lodge next time you’re passing.”

  He grinned at her. Bloody mind reader. “Sure,” he said. “And if you do hear anything, you will let me know.”

  “Of course.”

  He stood up and moved away, stopped, turned, gave her another grin, disappeared among the freestanding shelves. Even so, she thought; her own copy of Coryton. That’d be something.

  She realised she was now too wound up to read, so she put the book back and went out into the small East quadrangle, up the back stair into the New Building, short cut through the lecture hall and up the private stair to the Neus tower. Out on to the roof; she was pleased to note that she’d climbed all those stairs without getting out of breath. She brushed dust from the handrail off her sleeves. You could see the whole City from there, on a clear day, when the foundries weren’t working, and, this high up, the air was clean and sweet. She took a dozen long, deep breaths. Better.

  Oida thought something was going on. He was almost certainly right. He was also worried, which was rather terrifying: he’d have to be, if he was reduced to asking someone like her if she knew anything. Omniscience was a fundamental part of the Oida persona, along with the charm and the red, red hair. I suppose I ought to try and find out, she told herself, but just the thought of it made her feel tired. Why have I got to be on duty all the damn time? she thought. Because you’d hate it if you weren’t, she conceded.

  On the way back down, she met Diracca, one of the lodge masters and a friend from way back. He smiled at her. “I didn’t know you were in town.”

  Her instincts were all flight and evasion—only passing through, terribly busy, can’t stop, sorry. She repressed them firmly. “Just got back,” she said. “Actually, I’ve got a few clear days, which is wonderful.”

  “Good,” Diracca said. “In that case, would you like me to get you a seat for the concert?”

  “Concert?”

  His eyebrows shot up. He was married, of course, which was probably just as well. “The concert,” he said. “The New Academy choir. Premiere of Procopius’ magnum opus. You know, the one that’s going to knock us all sideways. It’s the day after tomorrow.”

  “I’ve been away,” she said. “Actually, I’d love to hear that. I remember people talking about it, what, a year ago.”

  “Oh, it’s been on the stocks a hell of a lot longer than that.” Diracca knew about music. “Rumour has it, it’s going to be really rather special, and old Scar-face himself will be conducting. Everybody’s going to be there, naturally. You really should go, if you possibly can.”

  “I’d like that,” she said firmly, before she could think herself out of it. “Hell,” she added, “I’ll need a dress.”

  He looked at her. “Definitely.”

  “Yes, thank you. Where?”

  “In the concert hall at the Port Royal, obviously. I’ll get you on the list today. Oida will be there,” he added as an afterthought. “Who knows, you might get a chance to meet him.”

  “That’d be nice,” she said vaguely. “What’s he like?”

  “Surprisingly genuine,” Diracca said. “Good craftsman. And, of course, that voice.”

  Well, quite.

  Her mother, that poor, long-suffering creature, had always maintained that she had an eye for clothes, and on balance she’d had a point. She could tell straight away if a particular style would suit someone, and she was never wrong about colours. Other women came to her for advice and went away delighted with the result. Dressing herself, however, was another matter. Her theory was that she had a picture of herself in her mind that didn’t actually correlate with the real thing; she believed she was shorter and wider than she really was, and not nearly so dark, and as a result she ended up in things she’d never have allowed someone else to go out in public in. Maybe, she further speculated, it was because deep down she didn’t want to look nice, because if you do, people notice you.

  So, this time, she went to the Corsander woman, handed her twenty angels in cash, told her what the occasion was and abdicated any further responsibility in the matter. The Corsander female gave her a rough verbal outline of what she had in mind, which sounded awful. “Thank you,” she said. “When do you need me for a fitting?”

  She got back to the abbey and found two letters waiting for her. One from her sister; she stuffed it up her sleeve for later, when she had a minute. The other one was from the Director of Resources: my office, right now. So much for her week off. She was ashamed of herself for feeling so relieved.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said. “I know you were looking forward to a break, but this is urgent. You hadn’t got anything planned, had you?”

  The concert. Twenty angels on a dress. “No,” she said.

  “It’s not a very nice job, I’m afraid.”

  Oh dear. That usually meant either sex or killing somebody. On balance, she’d rather it was killing. Both were grossly intimate, but a killing is over far more quickly. Also, she was better at it. “Go on.”

  Neither, thank God. Just an interrogation, and she didn’t mind that at all. But she had to ask, “Why me?”

  “Specialist knowledge,” he replied. “That’s all I know. Apparently, none of the regular interrogators can understand what they’re being told, so they don’t know if they’re getting the truth or not, or if it’s important or just waffle.”

  She tried not to smile, but she could see how embarrassing that might be. All right, I’ll tell you everything, damn you, and then you had to keep stopping them every two minutes so they could explain to you what such-and-such meant. Hopeless.

  “Where?” she said.

  He nodded downwards; so here, in the building, probably the holding cells that nobody was supposed to know about but anyone could direct you to, if you asked nicely. In which case, maybe she’d be able to make the concert after all.

  He was an Easterner, a High Imperial, so at least there’d be no language barrier, even if their awful flat whining accent made her head hurt after a while. He was lighter than most Eastern Imperials, almost a sort of rust colour. They’d beaten hell out of him, approximately three days ago.

  “A woman,” he said, as the cell door closed behind her. “That’s unusual.”

  “Not in the West,” she said. She looked round for something moderately clean to sit on. Should’ve brought one of those little folding stools.

  “Right,” he said. “Manpower shortages. We have killed rather a lot of your pay grade recently.”

  The cuts on his face needed seeing to, or they’d go septic. “Women make better listeners,” she said. “I can get them to send a man instead, if you’d rather. He could hit you some more.”

  He grinned. “You’ll do.”

  “Thank you. Now, then. You’re Colonel Pausa, Eastern military intelligence, assigned to the land survey.”

  “That’s in the file, surely. Haven’t you read it?”

  “I enjoy the sound of my own voice. You’re a specialist, second grade, surveyor specialising in rock formations and mineral deposits. Well?”

  He was looking at her. “You’d be all right,” he said, “but you’re a bit flat-chested. You want at least a full handful, or there’s nothing to hold on to.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” she said. “You were captured by our landing party at Beloisa, just over a year ago.”

  “That’s ri
ght. I gather your lot’s getting a bloody nose down that way. Senza giving you a hard time, is he?”

  That’d be the guards, discussing current affairs in the corridors. Too stupid to realise that sound carries, even through steel doors. “It was touch and go for a while,” she said. “But it’s all under control now, thanks for asking. What was so interesting about the rock formations in Beloisa Bay?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing much. Just lots of rocks. We were going to cut a road along the bottom edge of the cliff.”

  “To link the harbour with the south quay,” she said. “Good idea. Save carting stuff all the way up the hill and down again.”

  She’d impressed him. “You know Beloisa?”

  “I was there, a few days ago. I particularly liked the Arch of Sarpedon. So much late Mannerist stuff’s been ruined by insensitive restoration.”

  “They’re going to knock it down,” he said, smiling. “For the new road. It’s in the way.”

  “Too bad.” She glanced down at the papers she’d brought in, though she didn’t need to. “Why would your people send a geologist of your grade to see to a simple road-building job?”

  “Unstable cliffs,” he said, straight away. “Can’t trust the local clowns; they’d bring the whole lot down on their heads. I have a bit of experience. Also, we were short-handed, I was available and had nothing else to do. I like to be useful. So I said I’d go.”

  She’d have believed him, except that someone had had to inflict unspeakable pain on him to get him to say more than name, rank, number. She rather liked him, probably because he had a nice voice, in spite of the accent. “Would you like me to see if I can get you a doctor?” she said. “A couple of those look like they could do with stitches.”

  “Thanks.” She’d amused him. “But I’d rather wait till you’ve finished beating me up, and then do the whole lot at once, if it’s all the same. Bit of a waste of time otherwise.”

  She smiled. “You’re probably right,” she said. “And torn stitches can be a pest. You’re not a craftsman, are you?”

  “Wish I was,” he said ruefully. “Maybe you wouldn’t have smashed my face in, I don’t know. But, no, I’m not. For what it’s worth, I’m not a believer.”