by K. J. Parker
The Eleventh, Oida learned, was heading for Rasch by way of Celeuthoe. The garrison commander didn’t know why, it seemed an odd decision to him, but of course he didn’t know all the facts and couldn’t see the bigger picture. Yes, the situation was pretty bad. Senza had smashed up every force sent to oppose him; the policy now seemed to be to keep what assets remained out of his way and let him go straight to Rasch, where he could cool his heels in the shadow of the impregnable walls until hunger, dysentery and mountain fever decimated his army and sent him creeping home; at which point the Eleventh, the First, the Seventh and about a million local levies would come down on him like a ton of bricks and the war would be over by Ascension Day. Which might just work, the garrison commander added, though personally he was inclined to doubt it.
Oida exchanged his horse for a hot bath, a razor and a seat on the internal mail to brigade headquarters at Estin; the journey took three days and was blissfully dull. He spent the time working up the tune he’d given to Timao’s sister into a ballad, which he was fairly sure would pay for his expenses and lost luggage and show a tidy profit on top. He decided to call it “The Soldier’s Homecoming,” and made a mental note to get some words written for it as soon as he had the chance.
Estin, to his great relief, seemed to be normal and in full working order. He got out at the Eastgate, thanked the driver and walked down to the Flower Market. The bath-house was still there, and he paid extra for a full massage, haircut and manicure. The barber-surgeon told him his shoulder was healing up just fine—there would be a scar, but interesting rather than off-putting—and the aches and pains in his chest and back were just pulled muscles and nothing serious. After his bath he walked up Empire Way to Tailors’ Row. The outfit he ended up with was solidly classic, if a bit provincial, and he managed to pick up a fine pair of plum-coloured boots with a small silver buckle. After a light lunch in a tea house on the Square, he visited the stationer’s and a couple of bookshops, and finally the cutler’s on the corner of Victory Row and Old Temple.
There were other customers in the shop, so he browsed quietly until they’d gone. Then he took the things he’d chosen—a chess set and writing kit to replace the ones he’d lost and a rather handsome bone-handled knife with silver mounts in the Mezentine style, though almost certainly modern—to the shopkeeper, who looked at him, scowled and said, “Where the hell did you get to?”
Oida smiled apologetically. “I got held up on the road. Sorry.”
The shopkeeper bolted the shop door. “In the back,” he said. “Leave all that.”
Oida dumped the chess set and the rest of the stuff on a chair and followed him through a curtain into a small, dark room that smelt strongly of cats. There was a lamp, a small charcoal stove, two chairs and an officer’s folding table, with one leg broken and mended with rawhide. The shopkeeper banged down an old-fashioned brass kettle on the stove, sat down in the comfortable looking chair and pointed at the other one. Oida sat.
“Of course, everything’s gone to hell,” the shopkeeper said. “Absolute chaos everywhere you look. I’ve had nothing from Division in three days and meanwhile I’m supposed to sort it all out and wipe everybody’s arses for them.” He glowered at Oida and added, “And now I’ve got you. Lucky me.”
“I’m sorry,” Oida repeated. “What exactly is happening? I’ve been out of touch for several—”
“Good question,” the shopkeeper said bitterly, “bloody good question. The first we knew about anything was bloody Senza Belot appearing out of nowhere like a djinn in a fairy story. Best guess is he came over the bay from Blemya: what he was doing there I would very much like to know—” He paused and gave Oida a foul look. “I was under the impression you were handling Blemya, but perhaps there was a change of plan and nobody bothered to tell me. Anyway,” he went on, before Oida could say anything, “Senza made pudding out of everything they threw at him, it’s practically certain he’s heading straight for Rasch, so all existing plans and projects are on indefinite hold, and it’s up to me to decide what the hell we do next.” He paused and massaged his forehead. “Now, then,” he said. “On the face of it you’ve had a wasted journey. Still, since you’re here, I take it you won’t object to making yourself useful.”
“Of course,” Oida said quickly. “If there’s anything I can do—”
The kettle started to steam. The shopkeeper got up and poured boiling water into a red porcelain teapot. “Let’s see if you’re as smart as they say you are,” he said. “Right. What’s wrong with this picture?”
Oida thought for a moment, then said, “Senza Belot is making an all-out attack on Rasch. His army is entirely cavalry. He’s got some good-quality horse artillery with him, but obviously nothing that’s going to make a dent in the walls of Rasch. He’s moved very fast, but still left enough time for the City Prefect to lay in stores.” He looked up. “It’s pointless,” he said. “There’s no way he can take Rasch.”
“Very good.” The shopkeeper nodded. “Unless—?”
“Unless,” Oida said, “he knows that when he gets there, someone will be waiting with a key to let him in.”
“Good boy.” The shopkeeper nodded again. “Of course, we don’t know anything because nothing’s getting in or out of Rasch, even for us, so we can’t be sure. But it stands to reason, Senza’s done a deal with one of the factions and they’re going to hand the city to him on a plate. You don’t need me to tell you—” He scowled again. “It’s a disaster. I’ve written to Division—and Central—but the way the roads are at the moment, I have no idea when they’ll get it, if they get it at all, or how long it’ll take them to reply. Nobody can tell me where Senza is right now, not even Ocnisant—he’s been warned off, would you believe—so there’s no way of knowing how long we’ve got. I mean, for all we know, Senza could be in Rasch right now, barbecuing the emperor over an open fire, in which case—” He broke off again, wiped his forehead on his sleeve and poured tea into two tiny blue bowls. “Why me, is what I want to know. Why the hell does absolutely everything have to be my fault?” He handed Oida a bowl, then dropped heavily into his chair. “All right,” he said. “Let’s just assume that Senza hasn’t taken Rasch yet. Is there anything—anything at all—we can do to make it better?”
Oida put the bowl carefully on the floor; his hand was shaking and he didn’t want to spill tea on the rug, which was Aelian and quite valuable. “We can kill Senza,” he said.
“That’s right. Take him out of the situation and the traitors in Rasch will forget about it and melt quietly away, the Easterners will go back home and everything will be just fine. Trouble is—” he lifted his cup, looked at it, picked out a dead fly “—easier said than done.”
Oida nodded. “We haven’t got anybody in close?”
“I don’t know,” the shopkeeper said irritably. “It was ordained that I didn’t need to know that. I’m guessing yes, because it’d be the most appalling dereliction of duty on someone’s part if we didn’t, but of course I’ve got no way of getting orders to him, if he exists, even if I knew who he is. You see the problem? Nobody’s going to be able to get close enough to Senza to kill him except an insider, but even if we’ve got one we can’t use him, or I can’t, anyway, and I’m the poor sod who’s got to give the order.” He turned his head and looked straight at Oida; his eyes were small and deep soft brown. “Can you think of anything?”
Oida felt a lump in his throat, and it was hard to speak naturally. “Sorry, no.”
“I think you can,” the shopkeeper said quietly. “Providential, really, you turning up like this. Name me one other craftsman in the whole of both empires who could roll up at Senza’s camp unannounced and be shown straight into the presence, no questions asked. Well?”
Oida’s mouth was bone-dry. “I see your point,” he said. “But if I stroll into Senza’s camp and kill him, how am I going to get out of there in one piece?”
The shopkeeper didn’t speak for a long time, until it wasn’t necessa
ry to say anything. “It’s the only solution I can come up with,” he said. “Unless you can think of something. I’m open to suggestions.”
“Not really, no.”
“Well, then.” The shopkeeper looked away. “Hell of a thing to have to ask of anybody, but there it is; we didn’t make this mess, damn bloody shame we’ve got to sort it out. I know for a fact they were relying on you for this Blemyan thing, so you’ll have to tell me who you think would be best to take that one over when you’re—” He stopped, picked up his teacup, put it down again. “Any recommendations?”
Oida heard himself propose a couple of names.
“Yes, they’ll do, I suppose,” the shopkeeper said gloomily. “Anyway, that one’s not my problem, thank God. While we’re on the subject, are there any arrangements—?” He tailed off and looked at the toes of his slippers.
Oida cleared his throat. “I never got round to making a will,” he said.
“What? Oh, well, that’s easy enough, just let me have a note of the names and I’ll get it done straight away.”
“I can tell you now,” Oida said. “There’s a woman in operations, Telamon. Did you ever come across her?”
“No. Name rings a bell.”
“She might as well have the lot,” Oida said. “Apart from that—” He shrugged. “I can’t say I care terribly much. I suppose my brother Axio had better have our father’s sword, assuming he’s still alive. Oh, and I’d like Director Procopius of the Music School to have my score of his Third Symphony. It’s the original manuscript, so he’d probably like it back. It’s at the White Cross Temple in Choris under my name. If you could see to that, it’d be appreciated.”
The shopkeeper was making a note on a wax tablet with his fingernail. “Procopius, Third Symphony, got that.” He put the tablet on the table. “Anything you think you might need for the job itself?”
“I don’t think so. As I understand it, the plan is, I walk up to him and stick him in the side of the neck. I wouldn’t have thought that called for specialist equipment.”
“Keep it simple, I always say,” the shopkeeper said vaguely. He was writing something down on his wax tablet. “Now, as far as the timetable’s concerned—”
“I suppose I’d better be going,” Oida said. “I’d have liked a good night’s sleep, but I guess that’s out of the question.”
“Catch a nap in the coach,” the shopkeeper said. “You may as well take my chaise,” he added mournfully. “It’s quick and it doesn’t look military, which is an advantage in the circumstances. Cost me two angels fifteen, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there. I’ll get Aisimon’s boy to drive for you.”
Oida grinned. “He’s expendable, too, I take it.”
“He’s a good, reliable driver and he doesn’t charge stupid money.” For the first time, something like sympathy flitted into the shopkeeper’s face, though not for long. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to go shouting anything from the rooftops,” he said, “but the people who matter will know, I can promise you that.”
“Screw them,” Oida said. “If they’d been doing their jobs properly, this wouldn’t be necessary.” He shrugged. “It’s all Forza Belot’s fault,” he said. “Thoughtlessly getting himself killed. I’ll give him a piece of my mind when I see him.”
Clearly the shopkeeper didn’t think that was funny. “You’d better go,” he said. “I don’t want to be seen with you; you know how it is.”
Oida understood. He got to his feet—he was surprised at how steady his legs were—and walked out into the shop. “I need to pay you for this stuff,” he said.
“What? Oh, right.” The shopkeeper picked up the knife and looked at it. “I think we can do better than that,” he said, and pulled a dagger in a silver-chased sheath off a hook on the wall. Oida glanced at it; it was a good choice. “That’s on the house,” the shopkeeper said. “Least I can do.”
Oida felt in his pocket for coins. “No, really,” he said, “I insist. I think money’s the least of my worries now.”
The shopkeeper looked unhappy but held out his hand; Oida tipped coins into it without looking at them. “Be at the stables round the back of the Poverty and Patience in an hour,” the shopkeeper said. “I’ll have the will ready for you to sign.”
An hour; the last hour of free time in a civilised place he’d ever have. He considered various conventional ways of passing it, but decided he wasn’t in the mood. Instead he sat down on a low wall under a tree, opened his beautiful new writing set, unfolded a half-sheet of new milk-white parchment and unscrewed the top of the ink bottle.
Oida to Telamon, greetings –
He sat looking at what he’d written for a while, then crossed it out and turned the page over.
Oida to Director Procopius, greetings;
When I say that I have always valued your friendship more than your music, I would not wish you to imply—
He pulled a face, screwed the page into a ball and dropped it on the ground. Then he put the writing things back in their box and closed it, stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out all the rest of his money and counted it. Twenty-seven angels seventy.
He went into the Poverty and Patience and ordered a beer with a brandy chaser, found a seat in the corner next to the fire, took out Bardiya’s Garden of Entrancing Images and started to read. A little later, one of the kitchen maids walked past carrying a brace of white ducks, their heads swinging and bumping against her knees. Oida smiled at her. “May I?” he asked, and pulled out a wing feather to use as a bookmark.
The driver was maybe seventeen years old, with a tuft of fluff on his upper lip and chin and an Eastern army mail shirt. “You’d better not let them catch you wearing that when we’re on the road,” Oida advised him; he looked worried, stopped the chaise and wriggled out of it, like an unhooked fish escaping from the angler’s fingers.
“Are you that singer?” the boy asked, when they’d been driving for an hour or so.
“No,” Oida said.
He finished the Garden at noon the next day and asked the boy if he wanted it. The boy said thanks, but he couldn’t read; Oida pointed out that he didn’t need to, he could just look at the pictures. The boy gave him a horrified look and accepted gratefully.
On the morning of the fourth day they started to come across dead bodies lying in the road; soldiers mostly, but not exclusively. The boy didn’t seem unduly concerned about them. His ambition, he said, was to join Ocnisant’s; it was a really good way to get ahead, so he’d heard, and he didn’t want to stay a carter all his life, thank you very much. A couple of the kids from his neighbourhood had got in with Ocnisant and when they came home to visit they always had plenty of money. Oida looked away and asked him if he thought the war would last that long. The boy laughed, and asked him if he’d ever been to Rasch. A few times, Oida said. It’s great there, isn’t it, the boy said, there’s always so much going on, and of course there’s nowhere like it for making money. It was his dream to live there one day, he said, and Oida replied gravely that he hoped he’d get the chance.
“Strictly speaking,” Oida told the boy, “as far as they’re concerned, you’re the enemy. Now, because you’re with me and I’ve got dual citizenship, in theory you ought to be all right. Depends how well up the soldiers are in international law.”
The boy lowered the reins. “They wouldn’t do anything, would they?”
“Physical violence?” Oida shook his head. “On balance, I’d say no. But they’d be within their rights to requisition the horses, and the food. I suggest you stop here and let me walk the rest of the way.”
The boy hesitated. “Are you sure? Macrobius told me to take you right up to the camp gates.”
I bet he did, Oida thought. “Like I said, I’m sure you’ll be all right. But is it worth taking the risk, for the sake of saving me half an hour’s walk? Up to you.”
The chaise came to a gentle halt. “Thanks,” the boy said.
Oida jumped down, winced as his st
iff ankles took his weight. “No problem,” he said, and hauled down his bag. “Here.” He dug his hand in his pocket and scooped out the remaining money, clamped his fist tight around it. “Cup your hands,” he ordered. The boy did as he was told. Oida poured the money into them, then crimped the boy’s hands tight around it, so he couldn’t see what he’d been given. “So long,” he called out, as he walked quickly away. “Safe journey back.”
He heard the boy call out after him but didn’t turn round.
The first thing you see, when you approach Rasch from the east, is the spire of the Red Temple. It’s easily the tallest building in the city, and some people love it and some people think it’s an eyesore and an affront to the Deity and should be pulled down. Your first glimpse of it will probably be through the gap in the hills just past the fifth Government milestone, about halfway between the Sun in Splendour and the Grace and Austerity; you only get to see it as more than a vaguely unnatural spike when the road takes you round the lower slopes of the Four Sisters; and that was where Oida got out and began to walk.
Cavalry moving along roads in inhabited areas can be hard to track. They shouldn’t be. But it’s remarkable how, even in time of war, people can’t seem to resist the sight of steaming pyramids of horseshit on a metalled road. As soon as the soldiers disappear over the horizon, out the people come, with their buckets and pails, and before long there’s nothing left to show that the military have ever been there.
The road to Rasch, however, was no place to walk in new, expensive boots. The only consolation, from Oida’s perspective, was proof positive that Senza’s army was entirely made up of cavalry. There were no human footprints in the dung piles; which told him, among other things, that Senza wasn’t impeding his own mobility with prisoners.
