by K. J. Parker
“Yes,” he said. “And because it’s vitally important that Daxin is kept safe, and I wouldn’t trust anyone else. And because wherever they put him is bound to have a good library.”
“Of course,” she said. “Tell me, have you ever just killed one bird with one stone?”
He blinked. “To the best of my knowledge I’ve never killed a bird. I have falcons to take care of that sort of thing.”
She gave him a look that was meant to convey that this time he’d gone slightly too far. “Give me your writing set,” she said.
“Sure.” He took the rosewood box out of his bag and handed it to her. “What for?”
“So I can write you a letter for the fifty-six angels I owe you.”
“Oops,” he said, “well remembered. I’d forgotten about that. You’ll be wanting some paper.”
She scowled at him, picked what had once been his copy of Cellec’s Confessions off the seat and tore out the flyleaf. He winced.
“You do realise,” he said, “you just knocked twenty angels off the value.”
“I wasn’t planning to sell it.” She balanced the ink bottle on her knee, unscrewed the cap and wrote out a letter of credit on the Knights, her only account with that much in it. He blew on it to dry the ink, folded it and put it in his book as a bookmark.
Their ship turned out to be a wine freighter, carrying six thousand barrels of sweet mistella to Axa Khora, to be watered down and blended with domestic red for the better-class taverns in Rasch. It was an open-hold freighter, with only the stern decked over, but the crew rigged up a sort of tent for them next to the galley, and they spent the next ten days kippering in the fumes of frying fish. The crew, who’d been paid in Blemya, asked Oida to sing for them, which he was happy to do; then he suggested a friendly game of cards and took all their money. They seemed to regard this as a great joke and something of an honour.
“If I ask you a question,” she said, “will you give me a straight answer?”
Oida was sitting up with his back to the mast, a position which helped, a bit, when the sea was choppy. “Of course,” he said. His face was very slightly green, and it was fortunate that the wind was carrying the frying smells in the opposite direction.
“You’ve got lots of money,” she said, “and everybody adores you wherever you go and thinks you’re bloody wonderful, everybody from trawlermen to emperors, and you can write good music when you try, and the less said about you and women the better—”
“All true,” Oida said, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Fine,” she said. “So why do you do all this stuff? You know what I mean. For the Lodge.”
He frowned. “I do it for the Lodge,” he said. “Why do you do it?”
She thought she knew the answer to that. “Because the Lodge doesn’t give a damn that I’m a woman,” she said. “I can go places and see things. I get important work to do, things that matter. If I wasn’t a craftsman I’d be stuck in a farmhouse somewhere, making cheese.”
He nodded. “I have a proposition for you. I represent a vast secret organisation dedicated to undermining civilisation, disseminating lies and false doctrine and spreading the plague to all major population centres. I’m looking for an operative to undertake interesting, demanding work, I’m a good employer, offering health care and a pension, and I have no silly prejudices against women. And whatever you’re getting at the moment, I’ll double it. What do you say?”
She sighed. “That’s just silly,” she said. She took a deep breath. “Yes, I believe that the Lodge is a force for good in a dark and dangerous world, and that’s nice, yes, of course it is. And, no, I wouldn’t take a job with the forces of evil, no matter what. But I work for the empire. I’d do proper work for them, if they wanted me, not just the silly stuff I do now.”
He nodded. “Which one?”
“Either one.”
“Both? Remember,” he added. “That silly stuff nearly got you hanged.”
She shrugged. “I can be myself in the Lodge. I guess that’s what it means to me. What about you?”
“Indeed,” he said. “When the enemy catapult a ball of burning pitch into your camp, catapult it back. What does the Lodge mean to me?” He closed his eyes. The ship lurched slightly; he sat up and groaned, and she laughed.
“It’s not funny,” he said. “What does the Lodge mean to me? I guess, everything.”
She looked at him.
“All right, I’m being glib,” he said. “But it happens to be true. I believe in it, in its vast, complicated, self-contradictory ocean of doctrine, in its overcooked mysticism and its ice-cold, rock-hard approach to politics. A man must believe in something greater than himself, and I look round and ask, what is greater than me? Bear in mind, this is me talking; the choice is somewhat limited. So I belong to the Lodge, heart and soul. I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not craftsmanship more. All right?”
She shrugged. “I take it that’s the specious reason.”
“No, actually it’s the good reason. The specious reason is that everything else is too easy and I need real challenges to motivate me to carry on living. The real reason is, of course, it gives me a chance to spend time with you. Oh, God,” he added, as the ship wallowed and lifted; he jumped up, staggered and sprinted to the rail.
As the ship coasted in to the jetty, she asked him, “Did you get your letter?”
He was repacking his bag for the fifteenth time. Everything had fitted in there when they left Blemya City, and since then he’d lost two books and a full bag of pistachios, but now it was overflowing. He stuffed the surplus in his pockets and stood up. “From the captain of this tub, yes. Congratulations. You’re going north.”
“Where north?”
“Somewhere up in the Rhus country. Theoretically it’s still Western territory, but in practice I gather it more or less belongs to itself these days. I suggest you stock up on hardware first chance you get.”
She lifted her own bag and slung it over her shoulder. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an actual place name for me.”
“Mere Barton,” he said, and she frowned. “I know that name,” she said.
“You’ll know it a damn sight better before too long, I guarantee it. Going to be the most important place in the world some day, but I never told you that.” He lifted his bag and things fell out of the top. “This is what comes of rushing about,” he said. “They promised me faithfully they’d send on the rest of my stuff, but God knows when or if I’ll ever see it again. From the map it looks like you draw a straight line up from Beloisa to Spire, then veer off about five degrees east; when the snow is over the tops of your boots, you’re more or less there. I’d be amazed if that kid Daxin’s ever seen snow. Break it to him gently if you can.”
The ship nuzzled up to the jetty and bumped; he staggered, grabbed her shoulder then let go again. “I collected a specimen who said he was from there,” she said. “But I don’t suppose he’s gone back. It sounded like the sort of place you don’t go back to.”
“But it has the merit of being a long way from the sea,” Oida said firmly. “Who knows, I might just join you there. Anywhere the floor stays still seems good to me right now.”
She hopped up on to the rail, jumped down and turned to help him lift his bag over. He landed heavily beside her. “In case you were wondering,” he said, “this is the bulk cargo transit point at Asenbuth. Do you know it?”
“Never been here before.” She looked round and saw a customs shed, the masts of a few fishing boats, a coach drawn up beside a narrow, rutted road. Three guesses who the coach was for. “Give me a lift?”
“Sorry, but I’m off to Rasch. There’s bound to be a carter for hire in town. Oh, you’ll need this.” He put his bag down, pulled out most of the stuff he’d only just managed to cram in it, took out the heavy purse and handed it to her. “Expenses. There could be rather a lot. This isn’t from me,” he added, as she hesitated to take it: “from Division,
so don’t go splurging and bring back the change.”
Now that it was just one more heavy thing to carry, she took it and put it in her bag. “Where to after Rasch?” she said.
He shrugged. “No idea. Back to horrible Blemya at some point, but not too soon, I sincerely hope. Look after yourself, Tel. The burns will heal, trust me.”
She had parted from him at least two dozen times over the years, carelessly or gratefully or seething with irritation. “Do something for me?” she said quickly, before he could start to turn away.
“Of course. What?”
“In Rasch, if you’ve got a moment, go and tell my landlord I’m not dead and I’ll be wanting my room when I get home. Would you?”
He looked at her. “I’m sure Division will have seen to it,” he said, “but I’ll check, I promise. I’ll go there myself and count your spoons.”
“You should be able to manage, I’ve only got one. Oh, and if you happen across the fifth book of Sensacuna, buy it and I’ll pay you back.”
“Sure,” he said, and then there was no more reason for him to stay. Then he grabbed her by both shoulders, pecked her high up on the cheek (well clear of the burns), flashed her a smile and walked briskly away. She waved as he climbed into the coach, but he wasn’t looking her way.
Four of Spears
As the coach pulled away, he made an effort and didn’t look back. Instead, he opened his bag, took out a book and started to read. It was the sort of book that has pictures in it, and not much text.
At Strepsi Ochoe he got out and spent an hour in the inn, a small drab place he knew only too well. Then the military mail arrived, and he went out and introduced himself to the driver, who opened the coach door for him and offered him a rug.
There was another passenger, a stocky man in a grey travelling cloak with a hood. “Hello, Oida,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you were all right.”
“I’m fine,” Oida said, tucking the rug round his knees. “I got a bit held up, that’s all.”
“Success?”
Oida considered his reply. “Not too bad,” he said. “I made a mess of some aspects of it, but by and large it went well.”
His companion grinned. “One theory is that you’re a completist,” he said: “you can’t rest till you’ve had them all. I’ve got to tell you, that’s not actually possible. They’re being born and dying all the time, how could you possibly keep up?”
Oida clicked his tongue. “Do you want my report or not?”
“Don’t bother, I know the basic facts. A good job well done, as always. You’ll be pleased to hear the boy Daxin’s safely on his way. Apparently her Majesty’s beside herself with worry about him. Tell me, do you think it’d be a good idea to drop a hint or two, let her know he’s safe? Or don’t you want to spoil the surprise?”
“I think it might be nice if he writes her a letter,” Oida said, after a moment’s thought. “Nothing in it about where he is or who’s looking after him, just I’m safe and well, having a nice time, wish you were here, that sort of thing. Otherwise, she’s perfectly capable of starting a civil war, and that wouldn’t help anybody.”
“Good idea,” the man in the hood said. “You know, I do believe you’re a romantic at heart.”
“With all due respect,” Oida said, “go to hell.”
“I imagine it comes from writing all those soupy ballads. You spend so much time putting yourself into the mind of the common man—”
“Have they found Forza Belot yet?”
The hooded man frowned at him. “Them as asks no questions,” he said sharply. “Now, there’s a little job we’d like you to do for us. If you can spare the time, of course. I know how busy you are.”
Oida sighed. “You know perfectly well what my priorities are,” he said. “Where to this time?”
From his sleeve the hooded man produced a little jar of preserved figs. He offered one to Oida, who refused, then ate one himself. When he’d quite finished, he said, “Have you ever heard of a place called Morzubith?”
“Actually, yes,” Oida replied. “It’s where Director Procopius is from, isn’t it?”
“Very good. Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
The hooded man inclined his head. “Not many people do,” he said. “It’s out on the Western moors, just before you go downhill and fetch up on the steppes. They tell me it’s so remote, they haven’t even sent any men to the war yet. Principal industries are sheep-rearing and logging. Climate—”
“Yes, fascinating. What have I got to do?”
The hooded man told him; he listened blank-faced. “That should be all right,” he said. “What’s the timetable?”
“Well, you need to be in Choris for the Remembrance Festival,” the hooded man said. “You’re the main attraction, or had you forgotten?”
Oida did some mental arithmetic. “I think I’d better cancel that,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll have time.”
“Nonsense. You can’t not be at Remembrance: think how disappointed they’d all be. And directly after that it’s the queen’s birthday: you can’t possibly miss that. No, you should have plenty of time, if you don’t dawdle. Not a problem, particularly,” he added with a smile, “since there’ll be no distractions.”
“Oh, don’t start that again.”
“Talking of which.” The hooded man turned round in his seat and pulled out two brass tubes from behind the seat cushions. “Your friend. This one’s a record of the personal information she’s given us at various times—her initial interview, sundry reviews and interrogations. All about her background, family, early life. You’ve read it, of course.”
“Some time ago,” Oida admitted. “Look—”
“Just run your eye over it again, there’s a good chap.”
Oida glowered at him, took the tube, poked out the roll of parchment with his fingertip, unscrolled it and glanced down the page. “Yes, I know all that,” he said. “But if you seriously think—”
The hooded man leaned forward and tweaked the page out of his hand. “The other roll,” he said, “is what we’ve found out about her. You know, routine enquiries. Actually, most of it only came to light when you recommended her for promotion. We always do an investigation, as you know. Well,” he added. “Read it.”
There wasn’t that much, about half a standard roll, written in orthodox administrative minuscule. Oida read it, rolled it up and put it back in the tube. The hooded man took it from him. “Interesting?” he said.
Oida shrugged. “Not particularly.”
“Aren’t you just the tiniest bit interested? She lied on oath, for one thing. Repeatedly. Strictly speaking, I should cashier her from the Service, at the very least.”
Oida looked up sharply. “You’ll do no such thing.”
That got him a big smile. “Now, then,” the hooded man said. “And, no, I’m not inclined to take official notice of it, at this time. But ask yourself. Why would anyone risk their career and their life, lying about things like that?”
“Has it occurred to you she doesn’t actually know about it herself?”
The hooded man shrugged. “It’s possible,” he said. “But unlikely, in my opinion. More to the point, did you know? Does that explain your interest?”
Oida’s face didn’t change. “I’ll ignore that,” he said. “Look, she’s a superb operative, one of the best we’ve got. She does as she’s told; she gets the job done—”
“She murdered a political officer at Beloisa.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. More to the point, I trust her. We work well together. One of the conditions of my working for you is, I choose my people. I thought that was understood.”
The hooded man sighed. “The last thing I want to do is make problems or break up an eminently successful team. But when people lie, I want to know why. Most lies are easy to understand: it’s when people lie for no apparent reason that I get concerned. You do see that, don’t you?”
&n
bsp; “I’m sure she doesn’t know. If she knew, it’s like you said: why would she lie about it?”
The hooded man thrust the two rolls into his sleeve. “How you conduct your affairs is your business,” he said, “so long as it doesn’t cause problems for Division. I’m just warning you, in the friendliest possible way; be aware of this, bear it in mind, and don’t put me in a position where I have to do anything about it. Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“Of course you do, you’re a smart fellow. Now, tell me about Blemya. Is it true that the Revisionists are poised to take over the Lower Chamber?”
He answered about a hundred questions as clearly and honestly as he could, glad of the respite. When the hooded man finally ran out of things to ask him about, he said, “You never answered my question.”
“What question?”
“Forza Belot.”
The hooded man was silent for a long time. “I don’t know anything about that operation,” he said at last. “I don’t think anybody at Division does, either. As far as I can tell, it’s being run entirely from Central, and you know them, they wouldn’t tell you if your hair was on fire. My guess—” He paused and smiled. “Which is based on nothing but supposition, intuition and uncorroborated rumour—”
“Yes?”
“He’s dead,” the hooded man said. “He got a bad bump on the head, never came out of the coma. Which means Senza Belot has got to go. Don’t ask me why the war’s still going on; he should’ve had it wrapped up with a ribbon on it by now, even with no money and no men. I can only conclude he still believes his brother is alive, and he daren’t do anything in case Forza swoops down on his neck with an incredibly smug grin on his face. But the fact that Senza’s done nothing at all suggests to me that he can’t be sure, therefore he doesn’t know any more about it than we do. Less, probably. I hope so, anyway. That’s beside the point. If Forza’s dead, Senza has to be put down. Who’ll get that job I simply don’t know. I should think you’re fairly safe, since your future’s mapped out in great detail for at least the next three months, and I’m sure they’ll want to act before then. That said, if you were thinking of having an accident and breaking a leg, this might well be a good time.” He smiled. “Subject closed. What a lot of weather we’ve been having lately.”
