The Two of Swords, Volume 1

by K. J. Parker

  “Yes, essentially. It’s a problem in treason cases. I believe the Law Commission’s preparing a consultation document on it right now.”

  Daxen sighed. He wanted to smash Carrhasian’s face in, but without a weapon he knew he didn’t have a chance, and the frustration was building up inside him, the way fatigue builds up in your arms and legs when you’re doing exhausting work. The only option was to let it go, win by not fighting. (That always sounded good, but he wasn’t quite sure what it meant; never mind, try it anyway.) “Fine,” he said. “It seems to me that if you could simply get rid of me, you’d have done it already. Instead, I’m still alive, and banged up in a chapel instead of a dungeon. Therefore you want something or you need me for something, or else you’re not nearly as sure of your position as you say you are.” He made a vague gesture with his hands. “Oh, sit down, for crying out loud. Here, you can have the chair and I’ll sit on the floor.” He stood up and sat down again in the corner, his back to the wall. It worked; just for a moment, Carrhasian hesitated, then sat down, feeling (Daxen could see it) just a little bit foolish. “Now, then,” he said, “it’s just us, you and me. What the hell is all this about?”

  Carrhasian looked at him for a while. It wasn’t hatred exactly, or loathing, or contempt; it probably wasn’t much higher in the intensity scale than distaste, but there was an awful lot of it. But you don’t kill someone just because you dislike him. “All right,” he said, “I’ll be straight with you.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  Carrhasian took a moment to order his thoughts. “We—”

  “Sorry, who’s we? I don’t know you.”

  “You wouldn’t,” Carrhasian said. “That’s not important.”

  “It is to me. Who are you? You’re not the government or the regular civil service. So either you’re military, which I’m inclined to doubt, you don’t strike me as a regular steelneck, or—” Suddenly he realised where he’d seen that same dislike before. “I’m guessing you might be the lodge,” he said. “Well?”

  Carrhasian’s face didn’t change at all. “We probably have the advantage of you, in that we know a certain amount about the desert people and the level of threat they represent. We also have intelligence about the activities of the insurgents which it would appear you do not. The threat is extremely serious.” He paused, then went on. “In fact, it would be hard to exaggerate the danger the kingdom is in, now that the desert people have declared war. We simply don’t have the resources, or the tactical expertise. All we can do is try and maintain the situation—hold the line, if you like—until a solution is found. In the meanwhile, it’s vitally important that public morale is maintained, and that the people have confidence in the government and the army. Your antics in the desert—we’ve managed to keep it quiet for the time being, but everything comes out eventually. The people will need to be reassured that the incompetent first minister and the incompetent commander-in-chief—you, in other words—had been replaced with men they can believe in. Since the queen refused to listen to our advice and replace you herself, we had no option but to impeach you. Since the queen wouldn’t hear of that either, we used the only resource open to us, which is treason.”

  Daxen felt numb, but he managed to nod his head gently. “So,” he said, “how does that work, exactly?”

  Carrhasian was very nearly smirking; clearly, he was proud of himself. “The queen is young, unmarried and female. We therefore have an overriding duty to protect her from undue influence of, let’s say, a romantic nature; seduction, if you like. In such circumstances, where Her Majesty’s judgement might be affected and compromised, we have a prerogative jurisdiction to override her wishes in her name, on her behalf, as we might do if she was suffering from disease or mental illness. Your relationship with the queen—”

  Daxen stood up so sharply that, just for a moment, he could see that Carrhasian was intimidated. “No,” he said, “I’m not having that. There was never anything like that. It’s simply not true.”

  “Oh, come now.” Carrhasian had recovered. “We have a substantial dossier; private conversations, clandestine meetings in a secluded cloister—”

  “She’s my friend,” Daxen said. “Friends, that’s all. Since we were kids.”

  “The Commission sees it differently,” Carrhasian said. “We have found prima facie evidence of treason. Frankly, under normal circumstances, why the hell not? Queens have lovers, even unmarried ones. But, since you had to go, we’re grateful to you for making it easy for us. You should be grateful, too. It spared us the necessity of killing you, which was the other option.”

  Daxen sat down again. There was a deadly casualness about the way he’d said it. “She’ll have your heads,” he said. “Unless you’re going to kill her too. But if you could, you’d have done it already. You’ve got the proverbial wolf by the ears, if you ask me. You can’t get rid of her, and as soon as she’s figured out a way, she’ll have you.”

  “It’s a distinct possibility,” Carrhasian said, and he was casual about that too. “But we have to protect the kingdom. If people have to suffer—you, or us—it really isn’t important. You’re smarter than I gave you credit for, so I’ll tell you straight. You’re alive because that’s easier for us, as things stand. We have the situation under review, and we’re exploring other possibilities. You would be advised to cooperate while things are as they are now. That’d be best for all concerned.” Carrhasian took a deep breath, and then went on. “Let me see if I understand you. I think I do, but maybe I’m wrong. You became Grand Logothete because, more than anything else, you wanted to help your friend, the queen. Is that right?”

  Daxen looked straight at him. “Yes.”

  “Good. Right now, the best way you can help her is to go quietly. If you kick up a fuss, it makes it harder for us to continue with her on the throne. Replacing her would be a serious headache, something we really don’t need right now. We’d much rather she stayed where she is and you go away somewhere. But if we have to, we’ll get rid of both of you. If it comes to that.”

  “You’re the lodge, aren’t you?” Daxen said. “But that’s stupid. I met a lodge soldier in the desert, and he said you weren’t taking sides. He said you and the savages—”

  Carrhasian scowled at him. “I don’t know what you mean by lodge,” he said. “But I’ve got to tell you, you aren’t even close. Our only concern is the wellbeing of Blemya. Anyway,” he said, standing up, “here’s what you do. You retire to your country estates, you kill animals and chase little peasant girls and do whatever it is people do in the country, and you take no further part in public life. You make no attempt to contact the queen. Or, if you prefer, we kill you. Take a few hours to think it over. Someone will be along eventually to let you out.”

  He was by the door. “Just one thing,” Daxen said.

  “What?”

  “Let me have a pen and some ink.”

  “What for?”

  “I think better when I write things down.”

  Carrhasian raised his eyebrows. “If you like,” he said. “I really don’t see what there is to think about, though.”

  He left, and about an hour later a footman arrived with a silver inkstand, a new goose quill, exquisitely sharpened (but no penknife, of course) and twelve sheets of best rag paper. After he’d gone, Daxen sat quite still for a while. Then, slowly and carefully, he inked in moustaches on all the angels in the Translation. He had to stand on the chair to reach Our Lady of the Penitent Spirit; in the circumstances, however, he felt he owed it to himself to make the extra effort.

  Two of Spears

  He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, bald, in a plain grey academic gown and expensive bespoke sandals, two angels a pair. He sat down on the stone ledge that ran along the cloister wall and folded his hands. “My name’s Carrhasian,” he said.

  “No,” Forza said gently. “It isn’t.”

  “Quite right.” A small, annoyed smile. “But for the purposes of this mee
ting, I am Director Carrhasian. Thank you for coming here, General Belot.”

  Forza leaned forward a little. “Purely out of interest—”

  “He’s indisposed.”

  Forza guessed he hadn’t meant to snap like that; raw nerve. He made a note of it, for later. “Not to worry,” he said. “You’ll do, I’m sure. It’s a shame, though, I’d liked to have met Carrhasian. He was a remarkable man.”

  “Yes.” A little bit more tension; excellent. A bow is only useful when it’s fully drawn. “Can we talk about the war now, please? We’ve got a lot to discuss.”

  “Of course.” Forza spread his hands wide and pressed them palms down on his knees. “Though really I’m not sure why you want to talk to me about your war. It’s none of my business. The Eastern empire’s always had a good relationship with the desert nomads, thank God. They’re not our problem.”

  “Quite,” the man said, “but the fall of Blemya would be.” He smiled; he had a mobile reserve. “Yours and your brother’s, of course.”

  A position fortified in depth. “That goes without saying,” Forza replied calmly. “You think it might come to that.”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked you here.”

  “All right,” Forza said. “So why me, and not Senza? Or have you got him in a side room somewhere, waiting his turn?”

  You can learn so much just by watching people. He saw the corner of the man’s mouth move just a little, and remembered Fail Cross, where he’d seen an enemy cavalryman suddenly race away from his unit and gallop across the battlefield to the extreme left wing; from that he’d deduced Senza’s entire battle plan, and had been able to turn a horrific defeat into a bloody stalemate in the nick of time. The recollection made him smile. He’s talked to Senza already, he thought; and either Senza’s agreed to the plan or he hasn’t. Very well. Onwards.

  “Anyway,” he said briskly, “yes, I take your point. The question is, which would my lord the emperor prefer as a strategically crucial buffer state, Blemya or two million nomads with their heads full of holy war?” He grinned. “You’ve got me,” he said. “I give in.” He paused to let the last three words sink in, then added, “So what did Senza say? Is he on board too?”

  A faint hiss of escaping breath, as though he’d trodden on a nail or something. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Oh, come on,” Forza said wearily. “Do you really think I’d be here if I didn’t know you’ve already put the same offer to my darling brother? Here’s the deal. If he’s in, so am I. If not, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  The man swallowed. He was breaking up. “He’s in.”

  “Excellent.” Forza clapped his hands. “The Belot boys, united at last for the good of humanity. Did he happen to mention whether he’s cleared this escapade with his lords and masters, by the way, or doesn’t he bother with things like that?”

  “He has full discretion,” the man said bitterly. “As do you.”

  “Indeed.” In victory the essential thing to remember is not to follow up too far. “Well, in that case, we have a deal. Now then.” He sat up straight, puppy-dog eager. If he’d had a tail, he’d have wagged it. “What’s the position? Tell me all about it.”

  Three days’ hard ride to get home; on a bloody schedule, as always.

  He got rid of his escort at the Joy in Repentance; they stumbled into the taproom, too weary to argue when he said he was going on without them for a day or so. He left them drinking in grim silence, took out a fresh horse and followed the road, the last leg of the intolerable journey. Against regulations for the commander-in-chief to go wandering off without a half-company of cavalry at the very least, but he was sick to death of soldiers. Besides, if he brought them home with him, he’d have to feed them and find them beds, and that sort of thing quickly ran into money. He could picture her face as he told her that she had thirty men and thirty-six horses to cater for. He grinned. Screw regulations.

  From the Joy to Chastel, four hours, or three if you thrash it. He made it in just over two. That was, after all, the Belot way—get there fast and unexpected, get in and do the job. Well, quite.

  Just starting to get dark as he rode through the main gate. The hedges were badly overgrown, and there were clumps of shoulder-high nettles on either side of the drive. A few sheep in the park; the grass had been grazed away to nothing, but he wasn’t sure if that was all right with sheep. He smiled. She wanted him to be a farmer when he was at home, and he’d tried, but it was no good, it just wouldn’t stick. The rails beside the track needed patching up, he noticed. You turn your back for five minutes and the place goes all to hell.

  There was a lamp in the stables, so he called out as he dismounted. The door opened and a groom he knew by sight came out and stared at him. “Flying visit,” he said, handing over the reins. The groom looked at him as though God had manifested Himself in the stable yard and was expecting him to work overtime. He turned and walked across the yard to the back door, three days of ridiculously fast riding catching up with him in a matter of seconds. Damn, he thought, I’m going to creak about like an old man. How attractive is that?

  The back door was unlocked, which annoyed him. He lifted the latch, taking care not to make any noise, swung the door slowly open and slid inside. Just the one oil lamp glowing in the kitchen passage, bless her economical heart. He walked on the sides of his feet, as if he was stalking deer in a forest. At this time of day, where would she be?

  “Hello, Forza,” she said. “Had a good time at the war?”

  He spun round. She must’ve come out of the small pantry (but the door had been closed and there was no light showing under it). She was wearing one of those godawful tent-like nightdresses and carrying a candle in a plain pottery holder. “Hello, sweetheart,” he said. “I’m home.”

  One brief, crisp kiss; that was the rule. She swept past him, down the passage and into the small parlour, where four of the sixteen candles were lit and a fire was burning in the hearth. He sat down in the larger of the two chairs, the ornate monstrosity his father had given them as a wedding present. It looked awful, but it was profoundly comfortable. She poured water from the kettle simmering on the hearth into a blue porcelain teapot, then turned to look at him. Her eyes were shining. “Well?” she said.

  He allowed himself a pause, then a slow grin. “You’ll never guess,” he said.

  With an incredibly swift movement—that knack she had of sort of flowing, like a liquid—she sat on his knees and kissed him till his head began to swim. Then she said, “Well?”

  “Meet the new commander-in-chief of the Blemyan army,” he said. “Well,” he added, “one of them, anyway.”

  It was worth all of it just to see the look on her face. “You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.” He darted a kiss at her, but she was too quick for him. “It’s all official,” he said. “Me and one other.”

  He was looking at her mouth. Usually when he did that, she’d say “Stop it” with a mock scowl. “Not—”

  “Oh yes.” He loved it when he was able to surprise her. “It’s going to be interesting,” he said.

  She slipped out of his lap, stood up, crossed to the fireplace and threw on another log. He didn’t mind that; it gave him a chance to look at her properly. He loved that she was as tall as him and almost as strong. She’d distanced herself from him so she could think. “So it’s that bad,” she said.

  “I think so,” he said. “It’s true, they’ve taken a major city. Grabbed hold of all the people and marched them off into the desert. Some clown of a politician went after them but never got anywhere near. If they want Blemya, as far as I can see, all they’ve got to do is take it.”

  She shivered. He was almost hot enough to sweat, but her idea of comfortably warm was somewhere just below the melting point of copper. “So it’s the Belot brothers to the rescue,” she said. “What does he think about that?”

  Forza shrugged. “He’s all right with it, presumably. I’d have hea
rd if he wasn’t.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to make sure?”

  Well, he’d been in two minds. “All right,” he said. “I’ll write to him in the morning. Is there any food?”

  She frowned. “Probably,” she said. “I’ve already had dinner. When do you go?”

  “Day after tomorrow.” He hesitated. “Can you come?”

  She made him wait. “Oh, I think so,” she said. “It might be warm there. I’m sick of being cold.”

  He tried not to grin, but failed miserably. “That’s all right, then,” he said. “It’s a pretty godforsaken place, mind.”

  “Worse than Choris Seautou?”

  He thought about that. “No.”

  “Then that’s all right.” She poured tea into two tiny bowls, handed him one. Jasmine and black pepper; delicious. “I’ll pack a few things tonight.”

  And that was that; she was coming with him, and the horrible job facing him suddenly wasn’t so bad after all. He wondered if she’d write and tell her parents, or let them find out from the official bulletins. They’d be furious; they always were. Ladies from fine old Imperial families shouldn’t sleep in tents and shit in ditches. Exactly what they were supposed to do all day nobody had quite figured out yet; be put away in cupboards when not in use seemed to be the prevailing opinion. Raico wasn’t like that; she loathed spinning and weaving, couldn’t do embroidery to save her life, couldn’t sit still and quiet for two minutes together. Whatever possessed her to go and marry that soldier—Something her mother could never hope to understand, that was for sure.

  “You’re doing it again,” she said.

  He laughed. “Sorry,” he said. “I haven’t seen you for—what, three months? I’m allowed.”

  “Husbands shouldn’t ogle their wives,” she said firmly. “It’s not polite.”

  “I’m not ogling, I’m admiring.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “Admiring is what you do to old buildings,” she said. “Go on. I’ll be up as soon as I’ve seen to everything.”