by K. J. Parker
“I want to stay here,” Musen said. “Just in case he comes back. Then I’ll catch you up.”
Corason burst out laughing. “You, all alone in the big city? Sorry, I don’t think so. Anyway, it’s not up to you, you’re under orders. You’ll do as you’re told.”
“I’m staying here,” Musen said. “Just till he turns up again. Sorry.”
Corason rolled his eyes. “Another one,” he said. “Fine. The only reason I’m going to let you stay is, I’m quite sure he’s not coming back – he’s dead, or arrested, or defected, or he’s been taken up to heaven in a fiery chariot, what-bloody-ever. What are you proposing to do for money, by the way? I can’t fund you, I’m short enough for myself as it is.”
“I’ll manage.”
“Yes, well. If you get caught managing, you’re not a craftsman and the Lodge has never heard of you, capisce? I’ll pass the word around before I go.”
“I won’t get caught,” Musen said.
“You realise, this’ll have to go in your file. It won’t do you any good.”
Musen didn’t bother to react to that. It broke his heart to disobey the Lodge; but the Lodge had sold the silver pack to Glauca the emperor, and he wasn’t sure he could ever forgive something like that.
Choris is the last place on earth where you’d expect it to snow; but it does happen, very occasionally, when cold winds from the north meet wet winds from the east in the corridor between the mountains. It’s fine, powdery, gritty stuff and it never settles, but the locals act as though the sky was hurling down brimstone; the streets are deserted, and the few desperate souls who venture out in it run from doorway to doorway, cocooned in multiple layers of woolly clothing.
“Marvellous,” Corason growled, as he lengthened his stirrup leathers. “I’ll be riding west in a blizzard. Exactly what I need to make this whole trip perfect.”
He was wearing his thick fur hood over a military flowerpot fur hat, and the tip of his nose poked out over his scarf. His fingers were bright red. Musen reached inside his shirt and produced a pair of sheepskin mittens. “I got you these,” he said solemnly.
Corason stared at them, then grabbed them and stuffed his hands into them. “God bless you,” he said hoarsely. “I went all over town and everywhere said there wasn’t a pair to be had.” He frowned. “Should I ask if these were honestly come by?”
“No.”
“Fine, I won’t.” He stuck his foot in the stirrup and hoisted himself into the saddle; not an easy thing to do in all those bulky clothes. “Now then,” he said, gathering the reins. “Change of plan, as far as you’re concerned. Your orders to accompany me to Rasch are cancelled. Instead, I need you to stick around here, keep an eye on the situation, in particular try and find out what you can about the whereabouts of Commissioner Axeo. If he shows up, use regular channels to inform Central, and tell him I strongly urge him to return there. Got that?”
“Yes.”
“Good lad. I’ve always said that, given enough patience, Rhus can be trained to carry out simple tasks. Now, since you’re here officially, I can authorise a subsistence allowance out of Lodge funds. You’ll find it on the bed in my room.”
Musen nodded. He’d found it already. Most of it had gone to buy the gloves from the hall porter.
“Your room here’s paid up six weeks in advance,” Corason went on; “that wasn’t a problem, since they take Lodge paper.” The horse was getting impatient, tossing its head and backing up. “Listen,” Corason said. “If Axeo does turn up, you watch yourself, you hear me? And give him my love. All right, you stupid bloody animal, that’s quite enough of that. Onwards.” He turned the horse’s head and gave it a gentle nudge with his heels; it broke into a trot, which Corason tried to sit out; but by the time Musen lost sight of him under the arch, he’d given in and was rising to it, a huge furry shape shrouded in falling snowflakes.
Read on in The Two of Swords: Part 13.
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.
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