The Two of Swords, Volume 1

by K. J. Parker

  There was a moment of dead silence. Then the Imperial said, “Congratulations.”

  I’m a dead man, Pleda thought. “You what?”

  “Northern rules,” the Imperial said. “Swords are trumps. You win,” he explained.

  Pleda opened his mouth, but no words came. He closed it and tried again. “Oh,” he said.

  The Imperial leaned forward and gently pulled the card out of his hand. “So you get your hint,” he said, returning the card to the pack. “Try not to look so sad about it.” He shuffled the pack and laid out nine cards, face upwards.“Well, now,” he said.

  Pleda leaned forward. The Hero. The Thief. Poverty. Virtue. The Two of Spears. The Two of Arrows. The Scholar. The Eight of Swords. The Cherry Tree.

  “Hint,” the Imperial said.

  “Personal,” Pleda said. The Imperial shrugged. “I don’t tell fortunes,” he said.

  Now, then. Two of Spears and Two of Arrows back to back had to be the Belot brothers. The Thief was presumably meant to be Musen, though the identification struck him as facile. By the same token, the Scholar had to be Glauca. Eight of Swords; now who could they possibly mean by that?

  “Who’s the Cherry Tree?” he said.

  The woman drew back her veil. He saw a pale, thin, sharp face with light blue eyes; twenty-seven or -eight, though he was a poor judge of women’s ages. Not pretty, not beautiful, but if she walked into a room it wouldn’t be long before every man there noticed her. “That’s me,” she said. “I’m Lysao Pandocytria.”

  Pleda caught his breath. Senza Belot’s Lysao; except she wasn’t, that was the point. He remembered someone using the expression collector’s item, and two things Musen had said: something about wild cards, and it’s what they’ve been collecting us for. He decided he’d changed his mind about what the lodge were planning to do here. Not a fortress or a temple, a museum. “That was your coach outside,” he said, for something to say.

  “Yes. I’ve just arrived. I’ll be safe here.”

  The Cherry Tree. He wasn’t quite sure he got it, but that was probably because he was being rather slow. He looked at the Imperial. “Does this mean I can’t go home?”

  The Imperial smiled at him. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “We trust you. After all, you’re a craftsman. We know what side you’re on.”

  Glad somebody does. “I’d better be going, then. Thanks for the hint.”

  “I trust everything is now perfectly clear.”

  “As mud, thank you. I don’t suppose you’d tell me who the Hero is.”

  The Imperial shrugged. “I could tell you his name,” he said, “but it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”

  “Shouldn’t the Scholar be reversed?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  Well, that was something. He was actually quite fond of Glauca. “What about the Two of Spears?”

  The Imperial hesitated, then reached out and turned the Two of Spears face down. “We think,” he added. “If you find out for sure, please let us know.”

  Liar, Pleda thought. He collected the cards—they clinked, because his hands were shaking—and put them in the box, and put the box in his pocket. “We must do this again sometime,” he said.

  “No,” the Imperial said. “We shouldn’t.”

  The big red-headed man stood up and opened the door for him. “Thank you for the game,” he said.

  “My pleasure,” Pleda replied, and stood up to go. “Who won, by the way?”

  The Imperial beamed at him. “We’re craftsmen,” he said. “We all won. Have a safe journey home.”

  Pleda reached out, grabbed the bottle by the neck and walked out quickly. He didn’t look back until he heard the door slam shut. He shook the bottle gently. Empty, of course. He put it down on the ground; as he let go of it, he discovered that his hand wasn’t empty. He turned it palm upwards and opened his fingers. Squashed into his palm was a card, from a cheap, throwaway pack, like the sort soldiers have. It was the Ace of Swords.

  He grinned. There is no suit of Swords. He crunched the card into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket.

  The Raise

  Two days later, Senza Belot won a crushing victory over the main Western army at Cenufrac. The Westerners, under the veteran General Gamda, seem to have had no idea that the Eastern Fifth Army was ahead of them; either that, or they assumed that the Fifth would avoid contact, since they were outnumbered six to one. Accounts of the battle are frustratingly vague and inconclusive; the entire Western staff was wiped out, and therefore no official report of the battle was filed, since there was no one left alive to file it; for reasons unknown, Senza Belot’s despatches were uncharacteristically terse and elliptical, simply stating when and where the battle took place and the numbers of combatants and casualties. All that is known for certain, therefore, is that the main battle took place on both sides of the Ilden brook, which flows out of the mountains to join the Bosen estuary, that the Westerners fielded over sixty thousand men against Belot’s twelve thousand, and that twenty-seven thousand Western soldiers died there, as against nine hundred Easterners.

  One can only speculate as to Senza Belot’s reasons for not leaving a detailed account of one of his most conclusive victories. Anecdotal evidence gathered some time later suggests that he did not regard the battle as particularly interesting from a tactical point of view, or that he was somehow ashamed of the ease and scale of his triumph. One much later account has him in tears on the battlefield, as the dead of both sides were collected up; however, the source is a dubious one, embroidered and romanticised and with an unhappy tendency to adapt facts to fit its explicitly pacifist agenda. The likeliest explanation would seem to be that General Belot, aware that he was operating deep inside enemy territory and that communications with the East might well be intercepted, was reluctant to commit to paper any details that might prove useful to the enemy; later, it is argued, he lacked the time and the motivation to write the battle up, or assumed that someone else would do so. Whatever the reason, it is to be regretted that so little is known about one of the great man’s finest achievements.

  It is ironic that what should have been a decisive moment in the war turned out to have little or no lasting effect, coming as it did a few weeks before the mutiny of the Beloisa garrison and their defection to the West. The Western losses at Cenufrac were more than made up for by the unexpected acquisition of thirty-one thousand seasoned Eastern veterans, who were immediately transferred to the Northern theatre to block any advance Senza Belot may have contemplated making in the aftermath of the battle. A smaller army, some nine thousand men, was sent to fortify and hold Beloisa and its dependent territories against the expected Eastern counter-attack; this, however, did not materialise, and the Westerners were able to rebuild and garrison Beloisa at their leisure. They were given the opportunity to do so because Glauca II had quite literally run out of money. He could afford to hold what he still possessed, and maintain Senza Belot and the Fifth Army in the field to discourage aggression from the West, but any kind of offensive operations were, for the time being at least, entirely beyond his means until the hole in his exchequer had been replenished. To achieve this, he was compelled to embark on a programme of retrenchment and austerity, combined with increased taxes and the further sale of crown and government assets, all of which weakened the Eastern economy and severely hampered his ability to wage war. The West, which could reasonably have expected to face an all-out assault in both the Northern and Southern sectors following the defeat at Cenufrac, found that it had been granted an unexpected reprieve. Bearing in mind the crisis that was soon to break, this was undoubtedly just as well.

  Merebarton. 3 a K Mersilia, auc 1095.

  Lysao Pandocytria to General Senza Belot, greetings.

  I am being held here against my will.

  I can’t actually complain about how they’re treating me. They brought me here in a grand carriage, and this place I’m locked up in is quite comfortable, and the food’s nice a
nd the people are quite kind. But I don’t want to be here. You know what I’m like about being cooped up. I feel like I’ve been buried alive or something. I can’t stand it. I just want to howl and scream.

  I know that after what I’ve done and what’s happened between us, I have no right to expect you to help me. But there’s nobody else who can help me. I can’t trust anyone. Obviously they’re doing this to get to you. I know they are, they’re not exactly making a secret of it. They’re going to keep me as a hostage to control you, which means they can control the war. They’re up to something very big and very dangerous. I’m scared to death of them. I’m pretending to be on their side so they won’t just kill me out of hand, but I don’t suppose I can keep it up for very long. You know what a terrible liar I am.

  If you get this letter, please give the messenger a lot of money. He’ll have earned it.

  You will come, won’t you?

  The story continues in …

  The Two of Swords

  Volume 2

  extras

  meet the author

  K. J. PARKER is the pseudonym of Tom Holt, a full-time writer living in the south-west of England. When not writing, Holt is a barely competent stockman, carpenter and metalworker, a two-left-footed fencer, an accomplished textile worker and a crack shot. He is married to a professional cake decorator and has one daughter.

  Find out more about K. J. Parker and other Orbit authors by registering for the free newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  THE TWO OF SWORDS: VOLUME 1

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  THE TWO OF SWORDS: VOLUME 2

  by

  K. J. Parker

  Declaration

  When it comes to processing the dead, there is no more respected name than Siama Ocnisant. For thirty years, Ocnisant’s Emerald Caravan has followed closely in the wake of every major war, performing such vital services as burying the fallen, treating and repatriating the wounded, clearing up and making good the mess, liaising with and reassuring local farmers and landowners—all without costing the combatants’ hard-pressed taxpayers a single stuiver. Strictly neutral and impartial, the Emerald Caravan finances its entire operation (without compromising in any way on quality of service) by retrieving and selling abandoned military equipment, which would otherwise go to waste or fall into the hands of undesirables. By reselling war materiel at sensible prices, Ocnisant also helps keep military spending down and make war affordable—a vital consideration in an age of protracted multi-theatre conflicts. “I simply don’t know how he does it for the money,” the Eastern emperor is reported to have told his close advisers. “Without exaggeration, we simply couldn’t have kept the war going this long without him.”

  Poverty

  “The good news,” he said, “is that they found you not guilty of witchcraft.” He smiled. “All the evidence was circumstantial, no positive identification, therefore no case to answer.”

  He paused.

  “And?” she said.

  “The bad news is,” he said, “they convicted you on three of the five counts of spying, and they’re going to hang you in the morning. I tried to lodge an appeal, but it appears there is no right of appeal in espionage cases, so there’s not a lot I can do.” He hesitated again. “I’ve asked the ambassador to petition the court for clemency, but—”

  “He’s a busy man?”

  “Very. And in any case, clemency would mean forty years minimum in the slate quarries, and nobody lasts more than three years down there, so it’s as broad as it’s long, really. I’m very sorry,” he said. “But there you are. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Outside it was raining again. She thought for a moment. “Apparently not.”

  He frowned slightly. “It goes without saying,” he said, “that the Department will look after your children and dependent relatives—”

  “I haven’t got any.”

  “No? Well, that’s something, isn’t it? Now, you can nominate who gets your back pay, death-in-service gratuity, any money you may have paid in to a funeral club, your share of plunder, spoil and prizes, if any—” He waited for a moment. “Or, if you don’t nominate, it all goes to the Benevolence. It’s a good cause, they do splendid work.”

  “That’s all right, then.”

  His frown deepened, but he persevered. “Now, if you haven’t made a will, you can dictate one to me now and I can get the dispensation from proper procedure. I strongly advise you to, you don’t want to leave your family a mess to clear up.”

  She smiled at him. “I haven’t got anything to leave.”

  “Really? Ah well.” From his sleeve he produced three rolls of parchment, a quill pen and a brass ink bottle. “In that case, I just need you to sign these forms, and that’s pretty much everything covered.”

  He handed her the rolls of parchment. She unrolled them, glanced at them and tore them up. He sighed. “Any last message you’d like me to pass on?”

  “Actually, yes.”

  He nodded briskly. “Fire away.”

  She told him. He looked at her. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “But, after all, you knew the risks when you—”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then. I know this is a very difficult moment for you, but I would remind you that even in the final extremity, you still represent the Service, and what you say and do reflects on us all. It’d be a great shame to tarnish an otherwise exemplary record at the last moment, so to speak.” She looked at him, and he got up and banged on the cell door with his fist. “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Why? It’s not your fault.”

  “The duty chaplain—”

  “Goodbye.”

  A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. He looked at her, opened his mouth, closed it again and left. The door closed and the lock turned. She breathed out slowly.

  Five hours later, she started banging on the door. “Keep it down, will you?” she heard the jailer say on the other side. “You’ll start them all off.”

  “I want to see the chaplain.”

  A pause; then, “Yes, all right,” in a resigned voice. She sat down on the bed and waited. Some time later, the door opened and the chaplain came in. He was a tall man, thin, bald, somewhere between sixty and seventy; he wore nothing but a tunic, for security reasons.

  “I want to confess,” she said.

  He hadn’t shaved recently, and there were crumbs in the folds of his tunic. “Of course,” he said, and perched on the end of the bed.

  She looked at him for a moment, then said, “I have committed murder, theft and arson. I have lied and carried false witness. I have wounded and practised torture, both physical and mental. I have forged documents, including sacred and liturgical records.”

  His face didn’t change. He nodded.

  “I have blasphemed and ridiculed the articles of the faith. I have preached heretical doctrines. I have neglected to assist fellow craftsmen in their time of trial.”

  He closed his eyes, just for a moment. Then he opened them again. “I understand,” he said. “Your sins are forgiven.” He stood up and knocked three times. The door opened. The guard stood aside to let him pass; as he did so, he drew the sword from the guard’s scabbard and stabbed him in the throat, at the junction of the collarbones. The guard dropped to the floor; the chaplain stuck his head out of the door, then came back into the cell. “All clear,” he said.

  She nodded. “Thanks,” she said.

  He gave her a filthy look. “You’d better take me with you,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “That’s fine,” she assured him. “I do. Stick with me, you’ll be all right.” She took the sword from his hand. “Where does this corridor lead to?”

  “How should I know? I only ever come down the stairs.”

  She breathed out through her nose. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll go up the stairs.”

  “You can’t. There’s a guard.”

  �
��Of course there is.” She grabbed his ear with her left hand, pulled his head back and rested the edge of the sword against his neck. “Just in case anyone sees us,” she said.

  The stairs he’d talked about proved to be a narrow spiral staircase, without even a rope to hold on to, so she let go of him while they climbed. As soon as they reached the top, she grabbed him again. There was no guard.

  “I thought you said—”

  “There should be. There is usually.”

  They were in a long gallery, with arrow slits every five yards. She stopped and peered out through one of them, but it was pitch dark and she couldn’t see anything. After a while, they came to a small door—more of a hatch, really—in the wall. “What’s that?”

  “It’s a garderobe. Where they empty the chamber pots.”

  “Splendid.” She let go of him, dumped the sword on the floor and pulled open the door.

  “You can’t go that way. It’s a hundred-foot drop.”

  She smiled at him. “Thanks for everything,” she said. “I hope you don’t get in any trouble.”

  “Don’t be bloody stupid. If you aren’t smashed to bits, you’ll drown.”

  “My risk,” she said. “Now, go and tell them I got loose and took you hostage.”

  The door slammed behind her before he could answer. He stood for a while staring at the closed door, then turned and headed back down the gallery. After about ten paces it occurred to him to break into a run and start shouting.

  The guards who found him sent for the castellan, who ordered two men to go down the garderobe shaft on ropes. They came back up after a while, white-faced and foul-smelling; no sign of anyone down there, they said, but it’s got to be ten feet deep and no handholds; if she fell into that, she drowned, no question about it. Hell of a way to go, one of them added, though if she was lucky she hit her head on the wall on the way down. The castellan asked them; are you sure? Oh yes, they told him. Positive.