by K. J. Parker
Oddly enough, Giraut found that helped. Perfectly true, he thought; I spent years in the fencing school, learning to fight. The whole point of it is, once you’ve learned the orthodox way, you need never be scared of anybody ever again. That’s why it’s such an important part of a gentleman’s education. He realised he hadn’t drawn in a breath for quite some time. When he tried, it was like swallowing mud. “Mr Bryennius,” Tzimisces called out; he and the others were halfway to the blockhouse. Giraut took a step. His knees weren’t working properly. Suidas had to go back and grab him by the arm.
“I think you’ve got this all wrong,” Iseutz was saying, louder than usual, her eyes fixed on the skyline. “I think they’re just a harmless bunch of shepherds or something, and you’re completely overreacting.”
“Too many of them to be shepherds,” Tzimisces said. “And shepherds don’t tend to go around heavily armed. Also, we haven’t seen any sheep. Believe me, there’s nobody in this area with a legitimate reason for being here. Now, I’d like you all to draw your swords and make ready. Now, please.”
Giraut did nothing of the sort; his hands were shaking, and his mind was somewhere else entirely – in a bedroom, back in the City, where he’d killed someone. He heard someone say, “What the hell is this?” but he chose not to enquire further. The approaching men were now close enough that he could make out their faces. They looked frightened. But they kept walking.
I can’t do this, he thought. Really, I can’t.
(He tried thinking through the stages of a formal set: ward, measure, single or double time, retreat, ward, measure. He could do all that. But his mind insisted on superimposing on the known formalities of the set the image of a big man, a fat man, taken completely by surprise by death, sliding off the point of his rapier on to the floor, from human to garbage in one split second. He told himself: if you won’t fight them, they’ll kill you. He was unable to make it a compelling argument.)
He could see them quite clearly. The one nearest to him was a short man, thin-faced, big eyes, quite a delicate face, sharp chin. He had a strip of grain sack wrapped round his neck for a scarf, and an old, worn-out coat, what Giraut’s mother would have described as only fit for charity. The sleeves were too short, and Giraut could see the bones of the wrist of the hand that gripped a staff hook so tight that the knuckles showed white. He thought; how in God’s name do you defend against everyday farm tools with a rapier? Not in any of the books. A hell of a time for making it up as you go along. The man looked at him, and Giraut understood him. He’s doing what I’m doing, he thought; converting me in his mind from a human being into a target. He’s done that before. Well, we both have.
And, under other circumstances, we could sit together over a few beers and compare our experiences, human mind to human mind: what did you feel, the first time you killed someone? Was it so quick and instinctive that you didn’t have time to think about it? Did the other guy strike first? Or did you have to make the first move, an act of will, like plunging your hand into icy water on a cold morning? How did you bring yourself to do that, exactly?
Suidas was yelling something: orders, suggestions, a warning; like it mattered. Giraut thought: a wise man once described violence as just another form of communication, and another wise man called fencing a conversation in steel. He wasn’t convinced, not unless you could wake up a dead man and ask him, how was it for you? So he looked at his enemy-to-be and tried to see him as a target, like the dummy in the fencing school, stuffed with straw, hanging from a sort of gibbet by a rope coming out of the top of its head, all the principal vulnerable areas hatched in red. They talked about sizing up your opponent. That made him think of looking at girls, the way he used to do. Turn people into objects and you can do any damn thing to them.
The measure was closing. There are three measures in classical single rapier: long, in which neither man can reach the other; middle, where each can make contact by taking one step forward; close, where each can strike a mortal blow without moving their feet. Just before long measure, he pulled the rapier out of its sheath –
(Odd; because you can’t sheathe a foil; the button on the end would jam as you tried to draw it.)
– and tried to do the right thing, look at the enemy over the point of the sword. But he couldn’t see the point, only the man behind it; whom he couldn’t kill, because he’d already killed a man, and kill one, kill them all …
Middle measure, and the man swung his hook, a big, two-armed, hedge-cutter’s movement, exposing heart, throat, half a dozen prime targets, but Giraut found he couldn’t move. Instead, his lungs seemed to clamp up tight, and he felt suddenly, desperately cold. Oh well, he thought, and the long-handled hook described a broad, slow arc, like the Invincible Sun’s curved journey from east to west, to sunset, and all he could do was close his eyes so as not to see it actually happen.
He heard a scream, and assumed it was his own. But, curiously enough, it wasn’t. Something barged into him from the front. He hadn’t anticipated that, and it sent him sprawling; he tripped over his own heels and fell backwards, bashing his head against the blockhouse wall.
“What the hell,” someone was shouting, “happened to you?”
Giraut opened his eyes, and found he was looking straight at the sun, an ambiguous situation, in context. When you die, as everyone knows, you stand before the Invincible Sun and are weighed in the balance, and a great voice comes out of the heart of the fire, and asks you—
“Well?”
It was Suidas, bending over him, absolutely furious. “You froze,” he shouted. “You just stood there. Iseutz had to rescue you, for crying out loud.”
Just behind Suidas he could see a pair of boots. They were very old and heavily patched, lying on their sides, and there were legs still in them. “What happened?”
“That’s a bloody good question,” Suidas roared at him. “You’re a fucking liability. You could’ve got someone killed.”
“Leave him alone,” said somebody Giraut couldn’t see. It was a high voice, and very, very tense.
“For God’s sake …”
“Leave him alone.” She clearly wasn’t in a mood to be argued with. Giraut thought: according to Suidas, she just saved my life. Now why would anybody want to do a thing like that?
The legs inside the boots weren’t moving. Also, they were lying all wrong. It occurred to him that they were the legs of the thin-faced man, and that the long conversation he’d just had with him must have been a dream, or some mechanically induced aberration resulting from the blow to the back of his head. He couldn’t remember what they’d finally agreed, which was frustrating.
“You,” Iseutz said, bending over him so that her hair fell down over her eyes, “are pathetic.”
All he could say was, “What happened?”
“That one was going to chop you with a long-handled hook. Fortunately, I got there in time. And you,” she went on, “are a complete waste of good luck. Get up, for pity’s sake. You look ridiculous.”
She was holding out her hand. He grabbed it, and was hauled to his feet. “Thanks,” he said.
“Go to hell,” she said, letting go of his hand. He staggered, and found his balance.
“Even so,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just froze. I couldn’t—”
“I’d sort of gathered that,” she said. “Hell of a time to get religion. You can kill a duly elected member of the Senior House, but show you some peasant with a hedging tool and suddenly you’re a pacifist. Next time you’re on your own, understood?”
Next time, he thought. “Are you all right?”
“Like you care.” She walked away, and Giraut could see past her. There were bodies lying on the ground, a number greater than ten. It occurred to him to wonder if any of the others hadn’t been as lucky as him. He looked round, and saw Addo, standing quite still, looking at the longsword he was holding; and beyond him Phrantzes sitting on the ground while Tzimisces did something with a bandage. They’d got away with it, a
pparently; no thanks to Giraut Bryennius.
Well, he thought, they’ll have to let us go home now.
He felt a sudden great need to apologise to somebody. The logical person would be Phrantzes, he decided, so he walked over to where he was sitting. Phrantzes looked up and nodded awkwardly (so he knew what’d happened, evidently).
“That ought to do it,” Tzimisces was saying. “It’ll be all right, it’s really just a scratch. Ah, Giraut, I was just coming to talk to you. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” Giraut said. “Look, I’m really sorry.”
“That’s all right,” Tzimisces replied, his tone of voice cancelling out his words. “Happens to us all at some point. Extremely impressive intervention from the Bringas girl. Tongue like a razor, but she kept her head splendidly, I thought. I do believe she’ll prove to be a real asset to the project.”
Unlike someone else who didn’t need to be specified by name. “She saved my life.”
“Yes.” Tzimisces looked at him; he felt like he was being squeezed dry. “And to think I was worried she’d go all to pieces. Women can be tigers sometimes. Well, it looks like nobody’s too badly hurt. I’ll write a full report as soon as we get to Permia.”
“We’re still going to …”
“Of course.” He’d said the wrong thing. “As soon as the coach arrives. Now, unless anyone needs me for anything …”
“Excuse me.” Addo had materialised behind Tzimisces’ shoulder. Tzimisces turned round and smiled at him. “Excuse me,” Addo repeated, “but I was just wondering. Why were all the swords in the fencing box sharp?”
It was as though he had just punched Tzimisces in the face, but not hard enough to put him down. “Just as well for us they were, don’t you think?”
“Oh, absolutely.” Addo looked like somebody’s pet dog, but he was standing his ground. “I just thought, it’s rather strange. We should’ve been issued with foils, surely.”
“Ah well.” Tzimisces smiled again. He had perfect teeth, apart from one missing right at the front. “If I was as much of a true believer as I suppose I ought to be, I’d say it was a miracle. Being something of a sceptic, I prefer to think that there was a mistake at the office. Phrantzes,” he said, turning and looking straight at him, “you put in the requisition. You did specify foils, didn’t you?”
Phrantzes nodded.
“There you are, then. My guess is, they didn’t have any foils in stock in the armouries, so they sent us sharps instead. It doesn’t matter. We can get them bated when we reach Permia.”
He started to walk, pausing to nudge something out of the way with his foot. It was a head, with no body attached. Giraut just managed to make it to the corner of the blockhouse before he threw up.
“Are you all right?” Addo’s voice.
He nodded. “I’m fine,” he said. “I just never saw …”
“Of course. My fault, I’m afraid.” Addo made it sound like he’d broken a cup. “Only, there were two of them coming at me at once, and I had to hit out a bit. And I hadn’t realised the sword was sharp.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” Giraut heard himself say, and then add: “At least you didn’t freeze up, like I did. I think I owe you an apology.”
“My dear fellow, certainly not.” Addo moved an inch closer. “This isn’t the army, none of us signed up to fight to the death, so to speak. Actually, in a way it does you credit.”
Giraut looked at him. “Cowardice?”
“Being reluctant to take someone’s life. That’s hardly something to be ashamed of.” Addo stopped, and turned red. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I don’t suppose you want to hear my opinion about anything. I imagine you’d prefer to forget all about it.”
Yes, Giraut thought, in roughly the same way I’d quite like to have wings. But yes, let’s forget all about it, and talk about the weather. “Did you hear what he said? We’re still going to Permia.”
Addo nodded. “I thought we would be. Tremendously important diplomatically speaking, and so forth. Look,” he went on, lowering his voice and leaning a bit closer, as though he was just about to suggest they sell their souls to the Devil. “Would you like a drink? Brandy,” he added. “I’ve got a small flask. It might, well, cheer you up a bit.”
“Yes,” Giraut said quickly. “Please,” he added. Addo handed him a small, exquisite silver flask, in the shape of a sitting dog. It had tiny blue sapphires for eyes. He fumbled out the stopper and swallowed four times. “Go ahead,” he heard Addo say, “finish it off. I don’t actually drink myself, so you’re more than welcome to it.”
There were two swallows left; then he handed back the flask. “Thanks,” he said. “I feel better now.”
“You’ve had a shock,” Addo said. “My father. He doesn’t drink either, but he always carried brandy with him, during the War. He said it did more good than most of the medical corps.”
The brandy was burning his throat where vomiting had made it raw. He nodded weakly. “I can believe it,” he said. Then, for no immediately clear reason apart from curiosity, he asked, “Were you in the War?”
Addo shook his head. “My father kept me off the draft,” he said. “My papers came shortly after my brother was killed.”
“Did you want to go?”
“No.” Addo’s face twisted into a painful grin. “For what it’s worth, I’m a pacifist. I don’t think war’s justifiable, ever. If there’s another one, I’ll go to jail rather than join up.”
With that, he walked away. Giraut propped himself up against the blockhouse wall. The brandy was making his head swim, and he wished he hadn’t drunk it. His clothes were still wet, clinging to him like the wife of a departing soldier, and the damp wool smell was disgusting. On the positive side, he told himself, I’m still alive. On the other page of the ledger, I’ve marked myself out indelibly as a coward, I’ve almost certainly mortally offended Addo, and my life’s been saved by a girl.
Later the sun came out, almost but not quite enough to dry his clothes. Nobody was talking; they stood or sat against the blockhouse wall, facing the direction a coach from the City would come from. There was, of course, nothing to eat. Suidas found some water, a dull brown trickle on the slope just below the blockhouse, but the rusty pan from the stable he filled with it sat undisturbed in the sun; nobody was quite that desperate, at least not yet. Tzimisces was writing something in a small brown book, with ink from an exquisite traveller’s inkstand that he’d called into being from the apparently limitless pockets of his coat, and an ivory-handled gold-nibbed pen. Two buzzards circled overhead for quite some time, but went away eventually. Addo and Iseutz started a game of chess. After half a dozen moves she lost a castle, immediately resigned and stalked away. Suidas went into the stable, and Giraut heard a lot of banging noises, the reason for which he couldn’t be bothered to speculate about. Phrantzes just sat, a short measure away from one of the dead bodies, staring at the road.
It was beginning to get dark when Giraut heard what he was sure was hooves on the metalled road. He sat up. It was notoriously difficult to judge these things, but he felt sure the sound was coming from behind them; the east, the other direction, the wrong way. He went over to Phrantzes, and said, “Did you hear something just now?”
Phrantzes shook his head. “But I’m slightly deaf on my left side,” he said. “My wife gets very impatient sometimes. What did you hear?”
“Sounded like horses,” Giraut said. “Of course, I could be wrong.”
Phrantzes broke his fixed eye contact with the road and turned his head a little. “I wasn’t expecting the coach to get here before morning, at the earliest,” he said. “Of course, our messenger may have run into a routine patrol, or maybe the relief garrison for this post. You’d have thought—”
“There it is again,” Giraut interrupted.
“You’re sure it’s horses?”
“That’s what it sounded like.”
Phrantzes nodded sharply, as if accepting a good offer.
“It’s about time something went right,” he said. “I’ll tell Tzimisces.”
He stood up and walked away. Giraut stayed where he was. The sound he’d heard was definitely behind them; in which case, it was coming from the general direction of Permia. That made him shiver, although of course that was ridiculous. They were still well inside the territory of the Republic, with the whole of the Demilitarised Zone between them and their neighbour, with whom there was no cogent reason not to believe they were still at peace. Phrantzes was talking to Tzimisces, who carefully marked the place in his book and stoppered his inkwell before standing up. Suidas came out of the stables, with a bundle of smashed planks under his arm. “Did anybody just hear horses?” he called out.
This time, it was plain and unmistakable, the clatter of shod hooves on stone. “It’s from behind us,” Iseutz said. “That’s not right.”
“That’s just the wind playing tricks,” Phrantzes said. “Or it could be the garrison from here, coming back, if they went east.”
Giraut could think of other explanations, the most comfortable of which was that it was the bandits’ friends arriving with a wagon, to load up and carry away their expected takings.
“I think I’ll just take a walk over that way,” Tzimisces said quietly, and pocketed his book, pen case and inkwell. They watched him until he was out of sight on the eastern skyline. The sound was continuous now.
“We should get away from the buildings,” Suidas said. “They’ll see the coach, of course, but that can’t be helped. Best place would be the bank we slept under last night. It’ll be dark soon, so it should be all right.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Iseutz said; and then, Giraut guessed, the answer to her question dawned on her, and she went very pale. “You think …”
