by K. J. Parker
Somehow, seeing him like this made it easier, not harder, than she’d imagined. But like this, he was just waste, like the ruins of the tree. Lots of waste here in the Mesoge.
‘I expect I’ll be back this way from time to time,’ she said, glad that he wasn’t looking at her when she said that. ‘You take care of yourself, you hear?’
‘Thanks for the lift,’ he replied. ‘It was good to see you again. Oh, Athli.’
That tone of voice – would you mind passing me my hat, my sword-case, the bottle? ‘Yes?’ she said.
‘Would you do me a favour and take the boy with you? Between you and me, I don’t think he’s cut out for peasant farming.’
Athli thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think I’m taking people on at the moment,’ she said.
‘I’d consider it a great favour if you did.’ Bardas sighed, picked up a chip of wood and looked at it, tossed it away. ‘No real future for a kid in these parts, and he’s City, after all. This isn’t the right place for young kids from the City.’
‘I’m not sure I can help you,’ she replied. ‘I feel sorry for him, but he’s no concern of mine.’
He closed his eyes. ‘I’ll ask you again. Please take him with you. This is a dreadful place. You can’t even get a tree to grow straight here.’
Athli sighed. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do,’ she said. ‘I’ll take him to the Island and I’ll try and find a place for him. And I’ll do my best to keep an eye on him, at least till he’s settled. And that’s it, Bardas. No more souvenirs. These days, I can only carry cargo that pays its way.’
‘Thanks,’ Bardas said. ‘Tell him to take the valuable stuff – he won’t want to, he doesn’t like the way we came by it.’ He smiled. ‘Robbing the dead, he called it; stupid kid doesn’t realise, that’s what they’re for. Oh, and he’d better take that old sword of mine, it’s worth a lot of money.’
‘The Guelan?’
Bardas nodded. ‘Not many of them left,’ he said.
‘I know,’ Athli replied. ‘People will insist on breaking them, you see.’
‘Quite.’ Bardas moved his head and looked at her, as if she was a tree he’d split and found to be not suitable for his purpose. ‘Dreadful waste, but that’s how things are.’
‘The point,’ said Avid Soef, for the time being chief spokesman of the Separatists, ‘is quite simple, and all we’re doing is trying to complicate it. That’s silly. Let’s recognise that it’s simple, and try and deal with it. The point is, we have two choices before us in this war, double or quit. There is no third choice. So, which is it to be?’
Chapter was unusually quiet; and Gannadius, feeling cold and more than a little out of place, had to try hard to keep still. It was like those times he’d insisted on staying up when there were visitors, and then the grown-ups had started talking about things he didn’t understand, strange and frightening, and he hadn’t been able to slip away and go to bed like he wanted to. Beside him, Jaufrez Bovert was concentrating on the debate, apparently unaware that Gannadius existed.
‘On the one hand,’ said Avid Soef, ‘we can quit. There’s a lot to be said for that argument, and you know as well as I do that the Separatist movement has been advocating it for some time. In fact, we were opposed to these reckless military adventures from the start, and we never hesitated to say so, here on Chapter floor, where everybody can hear what we’re saying. But there’s a world of difference between we should never have started this and let’s end it now. The difference is, if we back off and make it look like the defeats we’ve suffered – I’m calling them defeats because that’s what they are, nasty, messy defeats that have cost us the lives of good friends and colleagues – then we’re lying to the world, and to ourselves. We’re saying, in a big loud voice, that Shastel is finished; a few smacks round the head from Gorgas and Niessa is enough to chase us away, and nobody need concern themselves with us again. I don’t like telling lies, gentlemen, it doesn’t sit well with me and I’d rather not do it. Which only leaves the other option, to double.’ He looked around; everybody was paying attention. He paused for a moment. ‘And that’s all I’ve got to say, really,’ he said, and sat down.
‘Mistake,’ Jaufrez whispered in Gannadius’ ear. ‘That’s a pity.’
Before Gannadius could reply, another man stood up on the other side of the chapter house. ‘Sten Mogre,’ Jaufrez muttered. ‘Redemptionist. I think we’re about to have something sharp inserted right up us.’
Sten Mogre cleared his throat. He was a short, bald, stout man with a little fringe of white beard, and his voice was very deep. ‘One thing I enjoy more than most,’ he said, ‘is agreeing with a Separatist. Now, like all true pleasures, it’s very rare, very rare indeed, and when I do get the chance, I like to share it with as many friends as I can. So, friends, enjoy.’
Gannadius heard Jaufrez groan softly beside him. Mogre looked round, then carried on.
‘I agree,’ he said, ‘that we shouldn’t abandon this war just because we’ve had a couple of setbacks. I agree, because the reasons we started the war are as valid now as they ever were, and I agree that patching up some kind of treaty with the Bitch would be dishonest and dishonourable. So it follows that I agree with what my friend Avid has just proposed, that we double. And there we are, basically, all in agreement with one another, the way good friends ought to be. All that’s left to discuss, I think, is the details of how we should go about it.’
There was a slight shiver of tension in the chapter house, the sort of ripple of anticipation that used to mark the first drop of blood in the lawcourts of the City. Jaufrez leant back in his seat, folded his hands in his lap and closed his eyes.
‘And the first thing I want to say on that score,’ Sten Mogre said, ‘is that now we’re all friends, let’s act like friends, put our differences to one side, and pull together. Where the war’s concerned, we in the Redemptionist movement have always wanted to co-operate with all the other shades of opinion in this assembly – well, it’s only sensible, isn’t it, for pity’s sake? – but somehow or other it’s never quite seemed to work out that way. Don’t know why, it’s a mystery; fortunately, it’s not a mystery we have to bother with any more, so let’s put all that rubbish to one side and concentrate on getting it right. Agreed? Well, of course. I mean, who couldn’t agree on something as basic as that? Like my good friend Avid just said, it’s so very simple.’
‘Bastard,’ Jaufrez muttered. ‘So why not just get on with it?’
Sten Mogre put his hands behind his back and lifted his chin just a little, adjusting his stance and posture as precisely and carefully as an archer squaring up to his shot in a tie-break. ‘So here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘We Redemptionists are prepared to admit it: first time round, we didn’t do so well. In fact, we made a mess of things. Now, fortunately it wasn’t a big mess and the loss is really neither here nor there, but as my good friend over there just implied, for a Foundation as powerful and influential as ours, any loss is a disaster until it’s made good. So; I propose that we give up the conduct of this war and hand it over to someone who can be relied on to do a better job. And, after that quite inspiring speech he made just now, who can doubt that the best man for the job is my very good friend, Avid Soef?’
It was clear enough that everybody else in the building had seen it coming, like a thunderstorm you can watch drifting in from the distant hills. Gannadius, however, was taken by surprise, and had to fight quite hard to stop himself laughing.
‘I’ll go further,’ Sten Mogre said. ‘I think we should give Avid Soef all the resources he needs to do this job properly. I propose he be given command of two thousand men and a budget of forty thousand gold City quarters.’ He paused and smeared a broad smile on his wide face. ‘With resources like that,’ he added, ‘surely the result has to be a foregone conclusion.’
As he sat down, the Chapter seemed to bubble, like fermenting liquor. Jaufrez was scowling horribly. He nudged the man sitting on his other side and s
aid, ‘Do something.’ The man nodded and stood up.
‘That’s easy for you to say, Sten,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure I agree with you on one point. Sure, we ought to be able to make a better fist of it than you did, given adequate resources. And I agree that if – given adequate resources – we fail to do the job, then we ought to be ashamed of ourselves. Where I’m taking issue with you is on the definition of “adequate”. Two thousand men and forty thousand quarters, Sten? That’s a bit cheapskate, surely. Could it be that you haven’t really thought this through?’
Jaufrez stirred uncomfortably and hissed, ‘Careful, you idiot.’ The man nodded imperceptibly and went on. ‘Here’s what I think,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we can undertake a full-scale attack on Scona with fewer than four thousand men and a hundred thousand quarters. I know it’s a lot to ask,’ he said, holding up his hand as the hall started to buzz. ‘But I’m being practical; no fancy speeches about our wonderful fighting men, or how the enemy’s bound to cut and run just as soon as someone stands up to them. As I see it, we go in with overwhelming force or we don’t go in at all. And I think we need a vote on this before the debate goes any further.’
Gannadius found himself nodding, though he wasn’t sure why he should be taking sides on this or any other faction issue. Perhaps it was just the grace and skill of the recovery; to ask for a vote on a proposal that was so outrageous as to be inconceivable (half the army and a huge slice of the contingency fund) was inspired thinking, because a vote against the proposal would be a vote against the project, and the Separatists would have escaped the noose Sten Mogre had effectively draped round their necks, of potentially being responsible for a full-scale major defeat at the hands of Gorgas Loredan and his archers.
But it wasn’t over yet. ‘I’m having a wonderful day,’ said Sten Mogre, ‘I’m agreeing with two Separatists in one morning. I fully accept what my dear friend Hain Jaun’s just said. Two thousand men and forty thousand quarters was downright cheapskate. In fact, four thousand men and a hundred thousand quarters isn’t that much better. I say we send six thousand men and put the budget at a hundred and thirty thousand gold City quarters, and I say we vote on it now.’
Brilliant. Gannadius reflected with a shudder. If they win, they’ll get no credit, because with that much power they couldn’t lose; in fact, they’ll have to win magnificently to avoid accusations of time-wasting and squandering resources. And if they lose – well, I wouldn’t give ear-wax for the lives of the whole lot of them. Wonderful. These people are all quite mad. And I have the feeling it isn’t even over yet.
He was right. Before the stewards had a chance to mobilise the assembly for voting, Avid Soef was on his feet again. The expression on his face was odd; it was the sort of look you might expect to see on the face of a man who’s falling to his death off a cliff, who manages at the very last moment to grab the ankle of his deadliest enemy and pull him down too.
‘Isn’t it wonderful,’ he said, ‘what we can achieve once we put all our squabbles behind us and start acting like grown-ups? Gentlemen, I’m not ashamed to say this, I never thought I’d live to see the day when the various movements in our community would suddenly and simultaneously decide to forget all the garbage and work together. Well, here it is, and isn’t it wonderful? I tell you, however the war pans out – even if we lose and lose badly, though thanks to the extremely sensible and statesmanlike proposals you’re about to vote on, I can’t see that happening, not in a million years – whatever happens in this war we’re going to come out the winners, because the best thing we could possibly hope to gain from it has already happened, here, before your very eyes.’ He looked round the chapter house, so that everybody could see how wide and ingenuous his smile was. ‘And as a token of good faith, not to mention in the interests of the general good, I’ve got one last amendment to the proposal. Now, my good friend Sten’s been kind enough to propose me as the leader of this expedition; I don’t know why, because I’m no soldier, the gods know, but a man like me doesn’t turn down an opportunity like this for getting into the history books. Still, I’ve got to say here and now, I’m not going to accept this assignment unless you vote for my really excellent friend and colleague Sten Mogre to accompany me as joint commanding officer. After all, two heads are so much better than one, and if one of those heads is Sten Mogre’s, then surely a result’s as good as in the bag.’
Jaufrez, who’d been slumped forward with his head in his hands, looked up sharply, as did pretty well everybody in the chapter house – except, of course, for Sten Mogre, who looked like a man who’s suddenly forgotten how to breathe. For a moment, Gannadius honestly believed the poor man was about to have some kind of seizure; then he stopped quivering and sat still, his expression beyond description.
The result of the vote was predictable enough: an enormous majority in favour of the proposal to send Avid Soef and Sten Mogre with an army of six thousand halberdiers and a budget of a hundred and thirty thousand gold quarters to attack Scona and end the war. Gannadius, who wasn’t eligible to vote, waited for Jaufrez outside the voting lobby.
‘Well,’ Jaufrez said, ‘it’s enough to make you believe in pixies. I really thought we were for it that time, and yet here we are, right back where we started, with no advantage whatsoever to either side. Still, I should have known Avid’d pull something out of the hat. Bless the man, he left it right till the end but he got us there.’
Gannadius waited till he’d finished. ‘Aren’t you forgetting one thing?’ he said. ‘Your precious Foundation’s now committed to an all-out war with Scona, and if you lose-’
Jaufrez shrugged. ‘If we lose, that’s the end of the Grand Order of Poverty and Learning. Very true. But at least we’ll all go down together, and that’s all that matters in the final analysis. Besides,’ he added cheerfully, ‘we aren’t going to lose, it’s impossible.’
Gannadius shook his head doubtfully. ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ he said, ‘really I’m not. Big armies have been humiliated by small ones before now; in fact, there’s a school of opinion that says in wars like this, over a certain level a big army’s a positive disadvantage. So-’
Jaufrez nodded, as if he’d just been told that fire can sometimes be hot. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You’re talking to a Doctor of Military Theory, for gods’ sakes. But we’re not going to lose because we’ve got a secret weapon, one that’s so powerful and effective that we’d win without putting a single soldier in the field.’ He grinned, and clapped a chunky hand on Gannadius’ shoulder. ‘We’ve got you.’
An hour or so after the debate, a senior member of the Foundation stopped at a fishmonger’s stall in Shastel market and, after a few minutes’ negotiation, bought a halibut for two copper quarters. When he’d taken his fish and walked on, the fishmonger’s teenage son left the stall and walked briskly across the market square to a livery stable, where he collected a rather fine chestnut mare and rode at a sharp canter out of Shastel City down the coast road to the sea. There he happened to stop and pass the time of day with an old family friend, a fisherman whom his father and uncles had been doing business with for some thirty years. When he’d ridden on his way, the fisherman whistled to his own three sons, who were mending nets on the quayside. They put the nets down and came over to where he was sitting. Not long afterwards, the two eldest boys took out the family’s smaller, faster boat and set sail, although it was several hours too early for the evening run.
They sailed right round Scona and, just as it was beginning to get dark, they came across an oyster-boat making its way home from its daily trip to the oyster-beds of Blutile Shoal. The two Shastel boys hailed the oysterman and asked if he had anything for them; the oysterman replied that he had, and he hove to. They talked for a while as they transferred the oysters to the boys’ boat; then they parted and went their separate ways, the boys back to Shastel, running in slowly and cautiously through the dark, the oysterman hurrying it up so as to reach Scona before the light failed.
As soon as he made it to shore, he tied up on Strangers’ Quay and trotted up the hill with his money to the Bank, where he barged past the guards (who knew him well enough to let him through) and straight as a weasel in a warren through the corridors to the Director’s office.
When Niessa Loredan had heard what he had to say, she thanked him, paid him and shut the door after him. Then she called a clerk and sent him off with a string of messages. He went up the corridor and down a flight of steps to the messengers’ room, where five or six boys, ranging in age between twelve and sixteen, were playing knucklebones. He gave them their assignments and they scampered off down the back stairs out into the city. One of them ran down the hill, weaving in and out of the evening promenaders with remarkable skill and judgement, and arrived, out of breath and sweating, at the door of Gorgas Loredan’s house in Three Lions Street. He banged on the door until the porter came, in bare feet and shirt sleeves, and shot back the bolts. As soon as the porter saw who it was, he left the boy standing there and dashed through the portico and hallway to the dining room, where Gorgas and his family were just about to start dinner.
‘Eudo?’ Gorgas said, looking up. The conversation died away.
‘There’s a message at the door,’ the porter repled, and the way he said it made any further questions unnecessary. Gorgas stood up, put his napkin on his chair and left the room. ‘In my study,’ he said. The porter nodded and scuttled back to the porch, where the boy was sitting on the step, getting his breath back.
‘Thanks,’ the boy said, ‘I know the way.’
Another messenger ran up the hill, past the rainwater tanks and the cattle pen and into the tangled mess of streets known, for fairly obvious reasons, as the Drinking Quarter. He was taking a short cut; someone who didn’t know the city as well as he did would have gone the long way round, following Drovers’ Street around three sides of a square until he reached a cheap but tidy inn called the White Victory. It took him longer than he’d have liked to find the landlord, but as soon as he’d pulled his messenger’s badge out of his pocket and waved it under the man’s nose, things started to happen a bit more quickly. The landlord yelled for his eldest son, who appeared at the kitchen door with a tray of loaves ready to go in the oven for the morning’s bread.
