The Two of Swords, Volume 1

by K. J. Parker

  Next card, Victory. Of course, Victory doesn’t mean victory, just as Death doesn’t mean death. He laid it down and slid it until its edge met that of the Eight of Arrows. The Two of Spears, which always made him shiver. Poverty; he let his fingertip dwell on her face before he turned the card and put it next to the others. She always reminded him of his second wife—a remarkably inappropriate similarity, but he’d been in love with the little silver face since he was twelve years old, and even now the feel of her made him smile. A pattern, or at the very least a faint obscure shape, was beginning to emerge. He dealt the Nine of Spears, which made no sense at first, followed by the Angel, and then he understood.

  Tandulias maintained that a brief pause for reflection after dealing six cards allowed impressions to seep through from the unconscious mind, and avoided the dangerous tendency to leap to conclusions. Well, the Two was almost certainly young Senza Belot, couldn’t really be anything else. The Nine must be a reverse of some sort; impossible to say at this stage whether the Angel was figurative or personal. Trump, number, trump was nearly always a transition, but trump, number, trump and then a Nine was a problem; it all depended on how you read that disputed passage in Vexantian, and whether the verb was to be construed as indicative or subjunctive. Damn nuisance, and if there really was an afterlife he eagerly anticipated meeting the unknown copyist in it, so he could kick his arse for being so wickedly careless. Until then, all he could really do was go by context and the overall mood of the cards.

  Onwards, as young Senza would say. Next he turned up the Five of Stars, which of course made everything much clearer; personal, had to be, in which case the Angel was presumably some savage chieftain—the nomad prophet, perhaps, or some headman of the Hus or the Tel Semplan. The feeling of tension slackened off just a little—odd, that, but somehow he felt he could cope better with people than with abstract ideas, laws of nature and war and economics. He turned up the Blind Woman, who presumably was someone he hadn’t met yet.

  Four of Spears—three Spears in one deal, for pity’s sake. The Blind Woman and Senza Belot; he frowned. He assumed that young Senza liked girls—yes, there’d been that one he’d been particularly keen on, though wasn’t there some story about what had happened there? Slipped his mind, but presumably there’d be someone about the place who knew it, a damned gossip factory like the palace. Then it occurred to him that three of the same suit meant that the last three cards must be subjective—yes, fine, but who was the subject? Four of Spears, Senza Belot. Fine. He turned up a new card to find out who Senza would encounter next.

  Two of Arrows.

  Oh, he thought. Well, at least now we know. Not dead after all.

  Two cards to go. The first was the Sun, followed by the Seven of Shields. That made him sit back in his chair. Personal and subjective, he reminded himself; the end of the world for Senza Belot wasn’t necessarily the same thing as the end of the world, although the two could so easily amount to the same thing—He felt a spasm of pity for the boy, the only one of the damned lot of them he had any time for, but then he reminded himself that he was the emperor, and the interests of the empire had to come first. Besides, if Forza was dead, Senza was no longer indispensable. There were other generals. Bound to be.

  He counted slowly to twenty, and passed his fingertips over the cards once more, just to be sure. No mistake. Such a damned shame. He’d miss the boy, for one thing; someone he could trust, always a pleasure to talk to, very bright, clearly interested in art and history, with a genuine appreciation of the finer things. But all men, even scholars and aesthetes, are bloody fools where women are concerned. It occurred to him to wonder who she was, what she was like; had to be something special, he decided, to bring down young Senza. Damned shame. But if it was in the cards, there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it.

  Well, he’d still have the pack, the Five Oak Leaves. All his life he’d been aware that things mattered more to him than people. He loved things, material objects, in a way he could never love a human being; they could be perfect, the way no human being ever was, they could resist change, they could be relied on. Things had been his friends when everyone else had turned against him, his own flesh and blood, and the Five Oak Leaves was his oldest and dearest friend; never let him down, never once lied to him. Without realising he was doing it, he turned his thoughts to the other packs, the eight trapped on the other side of the border—the Theugistes, the Chipped Star, the Third. Damn that bloody nephew of his, spiteful, hateful boy. Damn fool had written to him once, offering to trade, the Chipped Star for the frontier castle at Deura Adrabati. He’d refused, of course, he had to; sent the messenger back with his tongue cut out for delivering such an insult. But the Chipped Star; if it had been up to him—But it wasn’t, of course. That was the cruel irony. The emperor, and, really, there was so little he was allowed to do.

  He sighed with pain as he stood up. He never got up for anyone these days, but he stood up and took the pack to cabinet thirty-seven and lodged it securely in its proper place, found the key, turned it in the lock, then paused for a moment to recover himself after the exertion. Damn fool of a doctor said it was his heart; clearly hadn’t read Mnesimno—what earthly bloody use is a doctor who doesn’t read the books? Glauca knew precisely what was wrong with him, a complex and eventually fatal imbalance between the Marine and Aerial humours, brought on by his quarrels with his family, exacerbated by the wicked defiance of his nephew; even if the war ended tomorrow, the empire reunited, his nephew’s head on a pike in the palace yard, he knew that too much damage had already been done. He had nine years, two months and seventeen days left, so much still to do and so much irritating nonsense getting in the way—No, mustn’t allow himself to fret about it. Fretting, Mnesimno said, accentuated the imbalance by polluting the Terrestrial humour with green bile. Nine years was a maximum, not a guarantee.

  The fire in the brazier was burning low. He was cold so much of the time these days, but he daren’t have the room any warmer because of drying out the textiles and the bindings of the books. He picked up the bell and rang it; when the boy came, he ordered rugs and his goose-down coverlet. Then he sat for a while and listened to his own breathing; sounded all right, but of course you never can tell.

  That night, according to Seuinto’s Perpetual Calendar, the White Swan ought to be visible in the skirts of the Great Ship. Glauca hated climbing stairs more than anything else in the world, but a comet—Well.

  The Observatory was the highest point on the west side of the palace. Quite unreasonably—since it was only logical that its principal users would be scholars, wise men, therefore of necessity old men—the only way up there was a narrow spiral staircase, its treads bowed and slippery with wear. Glauca had ordained a rope handrail, which helped a little. What he really needed was someone behind him to push, but his dignity forbade it. The only thing worse than climbing the Observatory stair was coming back down it, but he tried very hard not to think about that.

  Instead he thought about the comet. Primitives believed the appearance of a comet was an omen, usually a herald of disaster, not knowing that science and observation had made such appearances entirely predictable. It followed that, since men had free will to choose their path, and the comet’s course through the heavens was strictly predetermined, a comet could not be a portent. Instead—rather more significant and fascinating—a comet marked an interval, like a bar line on a sheet of music. In a sense, it was a fixed place by which one could gauge the movement of those astral entities that were capable of change and flux. Accordingly, it was necessary to drag oneself up these intolerable stairs, not to observe the comet, but, rather, everything else.

  Gajanus had wanted two guards to go up with him, but he wasn’t having that; no room on the damn stair, and the last thing he needed when he got up there was a pair of kettlehats breathing down his neck while he was trying to concentrate. Idiotic, the very idea. Nobody was going to climb the sheer outer face of the tower with a knife bet
ween his teeth. Gajanus had pulled his on-your-own-head-be-it face but he’d ignored it. Bloody mother hen.

  He stopped four times on the stairs to catch his breath, but even so, by the time he scrabbled his way through the trapdoor at the top on to the leads of the turret, he was exhausted and gasping for air. No pain in his chest or arm, though, which proved what he’d always suspected about those damned fools of doctors. Heart be damned; misaligned humours, just as he’d—

  Something was wrong.

  Not for the first time, he cursed his own frailty. Because he was puzzling and wheezing so loudly, he couldn’t hear a damn thing except his own sad noises, and naturally it was too dark to see, but something was very wrong indeed. He tried to keep still—pretty poor fist of it—and concentrate. Something—yes, damn it, of course. Taranice’s Garland, a constellation of nine stars low down in the south-eastern quadrant, first identified by Nuammes in auc 176. It wasn’t there.

  But it was a clear night, and there were the Three Brothers, and Causica, and the curling tail of the Wyvern. But, in the gap between the Brothers and the endmost star of the tail, nothing but a dark patch—

  It was sixteen years since Glauca had been called upon to fight, but there are some things you don’t forget. Clear as a bell in his mind, the words of his old drill instructor: full measure or right up close; it’s half-measure that gets you killed. He took a long step forward, aiming himself straight at the last star of the Tail. He had no idea if he was still strong—had been once, strong as a bear—but he knew he had no option but to find out. At the last moment he bent his knees, unable to stifle the whimper of pain, and shot his arms out. As he’d anticipated, they encountered legs, the legs of a man. He wrapped his arms around them, hugged them to his chest and stood up.

  It didn’t work quite as well as it should have. As the unseen enemy fell back over the parapet, one of his feet lashed out wildly and hit Glauca on the side of the head, pinching his ear against his skull. The pain was so fierce he nearly lost his concentration, but he knew that wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. He’d only seen one enemy, but there could, should, be another, and until he was entirely sure he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of acknowledging pain. In that category fell the terrified howl of the falling man; it tore into him like a knife but he knew he had to ignore it, until he could be sure—

  Something like a cloud moved very fast, briefly obscuring Junonis and the Garter. Glauca knew what to do—long stride forward, grapple, hook and throw; Figure Six in Ultapian’s True Mirror of Defence—but this time his body refused; he had no strength left. Miraculously, though, the enemy didn’t close with him. He’d gone the other way. Damn it, the fellow was trying to escape—

  Over the roar of his own breath, he heard a thump, then a series of bumps. If he’d had breath to do it with, he’d have laughed. Damned fool had stepped through the trapdoor and fallen down the stairs.

  It was over. As soon as he decided that it was safe to arrive at that conclusion, all his control left him and he felt his back slam against the parapet, his feet slide out from under him, his backside jarring painfully on the leaded floor. All his scholarship now was centred on the art of breathing, which for some time proved difficult to master.

  Even so: Not bad, he heard a voice inside him say, not bad for an old man, and he wanted to laugh. Sixty years a student of classical wrestling, but always in books; his first bout, then, and a victory. All things considered, an opportune moment to retire.

  It took five kettlehats to get him down again, damned clumsy fools. The doctors wanted him put straight to bed, like a naughty child, but he wasn’t having that. He made them carry him back to the Blue Chamber, where his collections were. They would heal him far better than any damned medicine.

  He ordered an hour of complete peace. An hour and two seconds later, there was a knock at the door and in came Colonel Gajanus.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Glauca said. “I ought to have you hanged.”

  But the look on his face—The poor fellow looked completely drained, as if his soul had been sucked out. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, you should.”

  Glauca scowled at him. “Don’t be so damned stupid,” he said. “Not your fault. You told me, take two guards with you, and I didn’t listen. My own damned silly fault. What you should’ve done, of course, was send someone up there first, to make sure it was clear.”

  “Actually, sir, I did. I went myself. I thought there was no one there.”

  Glauca felt a pang of sympathy. Gajanus was, what, five years younger than he was; poor devil, dragging all the way up those awful stairs just because the old fool takes it into his head to go star-gazing. He was aware that at times he could be inconsiderate to the people around him, who by and large did their best. “It was dark,” he said, “and those fellows knew what they were doing. Only noticed them myself because I was looking at the stars.” He paused, aware that his last statement hadn’t come out the way he’d wanted. Never mind. “You’re a useless bloody fool, Colonel, but it’s all right. Just make damned sure it never happens again.”

  The look of relief on Gajanus’ face he found mildly disturbing, because it reminded him of the incredible, unconscionable power his words carried; he could just as easily have said, “Guilty, take him away,” and that would have been that—a life ended, no more Colonel Gajanus, and what possible sense did that make? He remembered the yell of the falling man, the terror; far too much death and destruction around as it was without adding to it because of a temper tantrum. “Sit down, man, for God’s sake,” he said. “Pour yourself a drink and stop gawping at me like that.”

  No, Gajanus was a good fellow, fundamentally. When he’d had his drink and pulled himself together, he said that the second man was alive and that they’d caught him.

  “After falling down all those damned stairs?” Glauca said. “Must’ve broken every bone in his body.”

  “His left arm, sir,” Gajanus said, “and a nasty cut over one eye. Otherwise in one piece.”

  “Remarkable. Fellow must really know how to fall. It’s something you can learn, you know, it’s in Furminia, Art of Wrestling. Oh well, if he’s alive we’ve got something to go on. That’s a real stroke of luck.”

  Gajanus nodded gratefully. “I’ve sent for the examiners—”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Glauca snorted. “Damned fools, they’ll kill him and we won’t find out a bloody thing. No, I want him looked after, and then I’m going to talk to him myself.”

  They were taking no chances. The prisoner had a chain attached to the wrist of his broken arm. He was lying down, of course, but even so it was obvious how tall he was; well over six foot—tall as me in my prime, Glauca thought, maybe even an inch or so on top of that, and broad, too; just like me. He felt a great surge of pity for the boy—what was he, nineteen, twenty? And after all, Glauca told himself, I won, didn’t I? The other bloody fool was nothing but a bag of broken bones by now. Everything was death and killing these days. No need for it, no real need at all.

  “It’s all right,” Glauca said. “He isn’t going to kill me; he’s not an assassin.”

  Gajanus rolled his eyes. The guards carried on staring dead ahead. “With respect,” Gajanus said.

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Glauca slapped him on the shoulder. “Indulge me. You can peer through the keyhole if you like.”

  Gajanus opened his mouth to speak, but clearly words had failed him; he executed a smart about-turn and stalked out of the cell without a word. The guards hesitated. “Out,” Glauca said. They went.

  Glauca looked round for something to sit on. There was the bed, but the boy covered all of it; or there was a little low three-legged stool. With a great and terrible effort, Glauca bent down and sat on it. He felt a stabbing pain in his knees, which he managed not to show. The boy was watching him.

  “It’s all right,” Glauca said. “I’m not going to bite you.”

  The boy looked as if he wasn’t so sure. Glauca grabbed his right knee an
d forced his leg straight; then the other one. “Never get old,” he said, “it’s not worth it.” He stopped; an unfortunate thing to say, in the context. The boy was still staring at him, and it suddenly occurred to Glauca that maybe he didn’t speak Imperial. “You,” he said, slowly and loudly. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”

  The boy looked startled, but nodded. That was all right, then. “Say yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Curious accent; Glauca hadn’t heard it for a very long time, but he recognised it. Rhus; the half-savages up north somewhere. Damned if he could remember whose side they were on.

  “Now, then,” he said. “I told Colonel Gajanus you’re not an assassin. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  The boy opened his mouth, but it was a moment or so before he spoke. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? But you could’ve killed me easy as anything up on the tower there, but you didn’t. You held still, hoping I wouldn’t see you. You’re not a killer, are you? You’re a thief.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It wasn’t dumb insolence, but it sounded annoyingly like it. “Now, listen to me, you damned young fool,” Glauca said. “There’s two thousand, six hundred and forty-eight people in this palace, and two thousand, six hundred and forty-seven of them want to string you up. The only one who doesn’t want to is me.” He hesitated. Impossible. But— “Do you know who I am?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Dear God.” Glauca shook his head slowly. “I believe you,” he said. “You’d have to be the best actor since Lamachus. Fine. My name is Glauca Seusan-Catona. I’m the emperor.”

  It was worth it just for the look on the boy’s face. “It’s true,” Glauca said. “Call in Colonel Gajanus and the kettlehats if you don’t believe me. Well?”

  “I believe you, sir.”

  “Damn it, boy, don’t you ever look at your money? That’s my face on the coins, don’t you know.”