by K. J. Parker
Tzimisces was given a room, but he didn’t sleep there.
Giraut was woken by Lieutenant Totila, looking singularly beautiful in gilded parade armour and a floor-length purple cloak with a white fur collar. “Breakfast,” he said. “In the chancel.”
“The what?”
“Through the door,” Totila said, “left down the corridor till you come to a pair of bronze and silver gates. Straight through, you can’t miss it.”
Nor did he. It was vast, and the walls were decorated with frescoes of the torments of the damned in Hell. There was a table in the middle of the floor, like an island in an ocean. Iseutz was there, and Phrantzes. They were eating honey cakes.
“Morning,” Phrantzes said brightly. “Lieutenant Totila, won’t you join us?”
Totila smiled. “On duty, alas. I just thought I’d let you know I’ve been assigned to escort you as far as Beaute. I hope that’s all right.”
“Excellent,” Phrantzes said, and Iseutz gave him a sour look. “You’ve taken such good care of us so far.”
Totila smiled, turned crisply and marched out, his heels clattering on the black slate floor. Giraut sat down. There was one honey cake left; also a big loaf that looked like a millstone and a tall brown stone jar.
“What’s in the jar?” he asked.
“Pickled cabbage.”
“Ah.” He reached for the loaf. There was nothing to cut it with. He took the last honey cake.
“Political Officer Tzimisces,” Iseutz said, “is nowhere to be found. I looked in his room and his bed hasn’t been slept in. Of course, that’s presupposing he sleeps in a bed, instead of hanging upside down from a hook in the ceiling.”
Giraut frowned. “Is there a hook?”
Iseutz nodded. “As it happens, yes, there is. Probably for hanging a thurible from.”
“A what?”
“Incense burner. My cousin’s a priest,” she explained. She turned to Phrantzes. “Well, where is he?”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t the faintest idea. I was hoping to talk to him myself.”
They heard footsteps and saw Addo coming towards them. He looked tired, and had a book under his arm. “You’re too late,” Iseutz called out. “We’ve eaten it all.”
Addo sat down, took a folding knife from his pocket and cut a slice of bread. “What’s in the—”
“Guess.”
“Pickled—”
“Yes.”
“Right.” He bit into the bread, and the noise it made was just like what Giraut imagined breaking teeth would sound like. “We’re going to have to do something about food,” he said.
“I imagine Lieutenant Totila would be the man to talk to,” Phrantzes said. “The Imperial stuff was really rather good. And that was just field rations. He’s going to be our escort, by the way, at least as far as Beaute.”
Addo swallowed hard to clear his mouth. “Does anyone know when we’re leaving?”
“I’m afraid not,” Phrantzes said. “That’s one of the things I need to talk to Tzimisces about.”
“Where’s Suidas?” Iseutz asked.
“I haven’t seen anybody,” Giraut said.
“Escaped, probably. Deserted. Or wandered off in search of sausages. Not that I give a damn, provided he brings us some.” She turned, grabbed the book Addo had leaned up against the pickle jar, and squinted at the spine. “What’s that you’re reading?”
“Principles of Elementary Swordsmanship,” Addo replied. “I found it in my room. There’s a lot of books in there.” He smiled at her. “No poetry, though. Unless you count fifteen thousand lines of blank verse about poleaxe fighting.”
“Read it,” she replied. “Birthday present from my uncle,” she explained. “Not a complete dead loss, because it was good-quality parchment, nice and thick. I pumiced it down and used it as a commonplace book.”
“That’s all right, then,” Addo said, gently retrieving the book and closing it. On the wall opposite, an army of the dead, skeletons in full armour, were slaughtering people in a marketplace; they wielded short, wide swords, a bit like messers. “Actually, there’s some quite interesting stuff in there. Early texts from the late Separatist period, things I’ve heard about but never thought I’d ever see a copy.”
“Fill your pockets,” Iseutz said with her mouth full. “I don’t suppose they’ll be missed, and we’ve got a long ride ahead.”
Addo looked vaguely shocked. Phrantzes took a sip of milk (which was all there was to drink) and said, “I need to have a word with Suidas. I’ll go and see if he’s in his room.”
After he’d gone, Iseutz said, “I wonder what that’s all about.”
“Excuse me?”
“Well,” Iseutz said, “I imagine our glorious national champion is in big trouble. If he isn’t, he should be.”
“But he won,” Addo said.
“He shouldn’t have been fighting longsword at all,” Iseutz snapped back. “He was meant to be doing that short sword thing, but he chickened out. Went all to pieces. If you hadn’t rescued him, God knows what’d have happened.”
Addo looked away. Iseutz sighed impatiently. “Well, it’s not good enough,” she said. “The rest of us are here because we have no choice, but as far as I can gather, he’s being paid a very large sum of money. And he’s supposed to be competent with those billhook things.”
“Messers,” Addo said quietly.
“Whatever. As it is, the moment he sees one, he goes all boneless, and you nearly get killed.”
Giraut looked at Addo. “I think he realises that,” he said gently.
“It wasn’t his fault,” Iseutz said. “I think you did remarkably well,” she went on, looking past rather than at him, “considering you’d never seen one before, and it was sharps. The point is, you shouldn’t have had to. I mean, Deutzel’s a professional.”
“None of us expected to be fighting with real swords,” Giraut said. “And you just don’t know when you’re going to go all to pieces. Believe me.”
“It’s all right, really,” Addo said. “I mean, if this was a war, if we were soldiers, we’d be—”
“But it isn’t and we aren’t.” Iseutz glowered at him and he looked away. “I think the whole idea is, we’re here so there won’t be a war and we won’t be soldiers. To which end, we ought to have someone who knows what he’s doing fencing big-knife.”
Addo grinned. “That lets me out, then.”
“And me,” Giraut said quickly.
“But it’s fine, honestly,” Addo said, before Iseutz could get going again. “I’ve been doing single sword and sword-and-buckler for years, the moves aren’t all that different, and Suidas is better than me at longsword.”
“Is he?”
“He’s very good,” Addo said. “And clearly, for reasons we don’t know and probably wouldn’t understand if we did, he has got some sort of problem with messers, which means he can’t do that stuff. Making him do it would be sending him to his death. And then,” he added, looking straight at Iseutz, “we’d all be in trouble. Well, wouldn’t we?”
“I don’t get all that,” Giraut broke in. “They fight with sharps, right? So, obviously, from time to time people must get killed. You fight with real swords, it’s got to happen. But we’re being told don’t kill anyone, don’t get killed, or else there’ll be a war. It doesn’t make sense.”
Addo shook his head. “I don’t think logic’s got much to do with it,” he said. “Besides, I get the impression that they fight with sharps here and don’t get killed or cut up.”
Giraut raised an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”
“Well, the specimens we fought with last night, for one thing. They weren’t all that badly scarred up, and they were grown-ups; our age, maybe a bit older. If they fought to the death here, we’d be facing a bunch of adolescents, because nobody would live long enough to start shaving.”
“Maybe they start later,” Iseutz suggested.
“I don’t think so,” Addo repli
ed. “You saw, they were a pretty reasonable standard.”
“They were rubbish,” Iseutz said. “That’s why we won.”
“They were good enough that they must’ve started young,” Addo said. “I don’t know about you two, but I’ve been fencing since I was six years old.”
“Seven,” Iseutz conceded.
“Six,” Giraut said. “But maybe they train with foils till they’re sixteen or something, I don’t know. Still, the point about scars is a good one. You can’t mess about with sharp swords for very long without getting carved up.”
“Not unless you’re very good at it, or you’ve been trained since childhood. Or both, quite likely.” Addo leaned forward a little. “Also, the books I was looking at last night, there’s nothing in them about foils. And there’s much more emphasis on wards and measure than what we’re used to. Thinking about it, I think we won, or at any rate you two won, because you fight a much more aggressive game than they’re used to. It stands to reason. We do safe fencing, so we don’t care so much about taking risks – you misjudge it and get it wrong and you lose a point, that’s all. Because you’re both very good, you’ve also got very sound defences, but you’re still fencing like you’re using foils. Their whole approach is far less aggressive.”
“I noticed that,” Giraut said. “They’re all wait-for-him-to-come-to-me. I got the idea he wasn’t expecting me to come at him so hard, or so early.”
Iseutz looked thoughtful, then nodded her head sharply. “I think you could be right,” she said, “and it’s worth bearing in mind. Come out hard …”
“Which is what I do anyway,” Giraut said. “I know defence is my weak spot, so I always try and crowd out the fight.”
“Possibly why you were chosen,” Addo said, and suddenly Giraut went still and quiet. “Though you do need to be careful.”
“And he’s proved he can handle himself against sharps,” Iseutz said. “Well, once, at least.”
Giraut was about to say something, then thought better of it. Addo gave him a very slight nod, as if to say, It’s all right. “Anyhow,” Addo went on, “to get back to the original question, I think they do fight sharps here without causing undue mayhem, and we’re expected to do the same. It’s like boxing,” he went on. “You can kill someone with your bare hands quite easily, but boxers don’t slaughter each other. They know how to defend themselves and they don’t tend to try and kill the other man, just knock him down. It’s going to be hard on us,” he went on, “and I really wish someone had seen fit to tell us before we left home.”
“Phrantzes knew,” Iseutz said grimly. “I know he did.”
Addo shrugged. “They’d never have got a team if they’d told us. But we’re just going to have to make the best of it and do what we can. And the same goes,” he said, looking at Iseutz, “for the messers. We need to learn as we go along, think carefully about what we’re going to do, and, I’d suggest, get some fairly intensive practice in before the next fixture. That’s just common sense, surely.”
Iseutz looked at him, then burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but you should see yourself. Just looking at you makes me want to salute.”
Addo turned away, blushing furiously. “Sorry,” he said, “I really didn’t mean to …”
“It’s perfectly all right,” Iseutz said. “It’s just as well somebody’s decided to take charge. And I really don’t give a damn who it is, so long as it’s not me.”
Suidas wasn’t in his room, and nobody could remember having seen him since the reception. Terrified, Phrantzes hurried out into the courtyard, where Totila’s men were washing down the chaise. Totila wasn’t there.
“Who’s in charge?” Phrantzes snapped.
“Sir.” A very young man in full armour, with a scarf wound round his face until only the tip of his nose was visible, sprang to attention. “Second Lieutenant Tzazo, sir.”
“Have you seen Suidas Deutzel?”
“Confirmed.” Phrantzes guessed that was military for yes. “I saw him leaving the building early this morning.”
Phrantzes winced. “You didn’t happen to ask where he was going?”
“I was unable to do so, sir. He was climbing out of a window.” Tzazo stopped and looked at him. “Are you feeling all right, sir?”
“It’s all right,” Phrantzes said, once he’d caught his breath. “Which window?”
Tzazo pointed. “He got up on to the roof and I lost sight of him,” he went on. He hesitated, then added, “I did report it to Colonel Tzimisces.”
Colonel Tzimisces. “You did?”
“Yes, sir. About an hour ago. He said he’d deal with it.”
Phrantzes breathed out slowly until his lungs were empty. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“Sir.”
No time to waste. First stop, the market, which he’d noticed on the way in. The only thing of any potential value he’d been able to steal was a fistful of silver spoons, which he’d pocketed during the reception. When he examined them by lamplight in his room, he saw they were marked with some sort of crest, which was a nuisance. Still, there had to be competent metalworkers in this town who could grind off a simple engraving and make good. Silver was disappointing – he doubted it’d be worth much in Permia, in the same way salt water isn’t valuable in the middle of the sea. But what he wanted to buy would be cheap.
He sold the spoons quite easily to a fat man with white hair, who gave him one tiny gold coin and four cartwheel-sized coppers, the faces worn completely smooth. By their weight, they were Eastern Imperial, and had presumably been circulating since before Independence. No silver currency in Permia.
Finding someone who’d sell him a messer was no problem. Choosing which stall to give his custom to was impossible. Not just one or two stalls, or half a dozen. When he asked someone in the fish market, he was directed to a walled courtyard with tall iron gates. It was packed to bursting with messer-sellers. For about a second he lost his balance; long enough to stagger and put his hand on the wall to keep himself from falling. People were watching him; a bit early in the day, their faces said. One or two looked as though they’d recognised him, but he couldn’t help that.
It was like being deafened by a great surge of noise, except that it wasn’t his hearing that was being overwhelmed; some other sense, one he hadn’t realised he’d got, or only dimly guessed. There were at least twenty stalls; just tables, with a big cloth thrown over them, and on the tables lay messers, twenty or thirty of them on each. He’d never realised it before, but there were different varieties, styles and types and sub-types; messers with and without fullers, double-fullered, some deeply curved, some almost straight. There were rounded or sharply clipped points, blades of even width or swelling slightly towards the point; no handguard at all or a simple cross, or the tang drawn out into a rat’s-tail that bent back to form a knuckle-bow. The tables filled three sides of the courtyard; standing in the middle, Suidas felt like he was facing a jury. There was no question of choosing one. He wanted them all.
But that wasn’t going to be possible right now, and he desperately needed a messer, because if he didn’t get one soon, he was going to stop breathing. They’d be after him, he knew that, and he didn’t have much time. He walked up to the furthest stall and fought to keep his hands by his sides.
There was a man sitting behind the table. He was looking at Suidas as if he was trying to make up his mind about something. Suidas put his coins on the table and said, “What’ll that buy me?”
“What?”
His accent. Also, he’d slurred his words. “What’ll that buy me?” he repeated slowly.
The man shrugged. “How many do you want?”
Stupid question. “One. Two,” Suidas corrected.
“All right.” The man thought for an interminable moment. “What about this one and this one?”
It was a bit like asking a man standing at the altar, facing his veiled bride for the first time, if she’d do
or if he wanted to see some other selections. But Suidas looked. The first one was unfullered, slightly longer than usual, only by an inch or so. The curve was quite pronounced and the false edge was about a thumb’s length, making for a useful point. There was a plain, rather chunky brass cross an index-finger long. You could get both hands on the grip, which ended in a stubby bird’s-head hook for a pommel. The scales were plain white wood, with three rivets. Someone had tried to make it look a bit nicer by filing notches and grooves on the back, but had given up about halfway down; probably just as well, because he hadn’t had a very good eye. There were firescale marks and a couple of slag inclusions on the blade, and grinding marks from where it had been sharpened on a farm grindstone. He lifted it about half an inch off the table, and let it go immediately, like it was red-hot.
“Aren’t you one of the Scherians?” the man said.
“Me? No.”
“You sound like a Scherian. I saw you at the fencing.”
“Not me,” Suidas said.
The other one’s blade was almost straight, flaring from an inch width at the hilt to an inch and three-eighths at the base of the false edge. It had three thin fullers, three-quarter-length. No cross, just a plain stag’s-horn grip, the crown of the antler forming a basic handstop. There was a small nick in the edge two fingers down from the point.
“That’ll be fine,” Suidas mumbled.
The man nodded. “I’ll throw in a bit of rag to wrap them in,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“You sure you’re not one of the fencers? You look really like one of them.”
“If I was a Scherian, I’d probably know.”
The man shrugged, and twisted a piece of cloth three times round the messers. Even covered, they couldn’t possibly have been anything else. “So,” he said, “where are you from?”
“Mesembrotia.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a very long way away.”
“Right, then. There you go. Good luck when you get to Beaute.”
He tucked the bundle under his arm and fled, heading back the way he’d come. He hadn’t given much thought to how he was going to get back inside the building; climbing the facade with two swords clamped in his teeth didn’t appeal much, but neither did walking up to the guards posted on the door. In the event, he didn’t have to decide. He walked though the gates of the courtyard and found Tzimisces waiting for him.
