Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  There was a pause; then Iseutz said, “Is that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “You had mountain fever?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good God.” She looked away. “All right, then. The person you love most in the whole world is going to die, but you can save them if you die in their place. Well?”

  Phrantzes closed his book with a snap. “I think that’s quite enough of that,” he said. “If you all insist on playing a game, we’ll play Frostbite. That’s my final decision,” he added sharply. “Well?”

  So they played Frostbite, for three hours. Addo and Iseutz were the callers, and they won, twenty-seven games to twenty-five.

  “Rematch?” Suidas said.

  “No chance,” Iseutz replied. “My stomach hurts too much from laughing. Besides, you’re just a sore loser.”

  Suidas looked very grave. “Always,” he said.

  Later, when the others were asleep, Addo asked Suidas, “Did you really have mountain fever?”

  “Of course not. I’d be dead if I had.”

  “Ah.”

  Suidas moved a little in his seat. “But I watched someone die of it. He got left behind, like I said. I stayed with him. After three days I cut his throat. The Aram Chantat were everywhere, and he wasn’t going to get better.” He shrugged, a sort of boneless gesture. “Don’t tell her that.”

  “Sure.” Addo frowned. “In the War—”

  “I’d rather not talk about it any more.”

  “Of course. Only, no offence, but it was you who brought it up.”

  “That was the game,” Suidas said. “I wanted to win.”

  Addo laughed. “I quite understand,” he said. “You like to leave an opening, to draw the other man in.”

  “That’s the whole secret of fighting messer,” Suidas replied. “I’ll show you, when we’ve got five minutes.”

  There were no horses at the inn. Totila was furious. He kept his temper while he was with them, but they heard him yelling at the innkeeper, who emerged from the interview a short while later, shaking slightly and nursing a split lip.

  “Not to worry,” Totila assured them breezily. “There’s a long downhill stretch into Docavotz, we can easily make up the time. It’s a nuisance, that’s all.”

  The inn was a square grey stone block on a perfectly flat strip between two steep, bare mountains, precisely bisected by the road. There was a taproom, crowded with carters carrying ore from the mines to the refinery at Erba Fresc. “Don’t go in there,” the innkeeper’s wife told them, “they’ll hug you to death.” So they made do with the couriers’ dining room, reserved for government messengers and other important people on official business. It was slightly smaller than Giraut’s father’s house, and rather more splendidly furnished: two enormous oak settles, four magnificent carved oak chairs, fine rugs and tapestries. It was luxurious, Giraut reckoned, but somehow homely at the same time.

  “You know why, of course,” Suidas said. “All this stuff in here is loot, from the War. That’s why it looks so damn familiar. This lot’s all out of some big house back in Scheria.” He turned to Addo. “One of your off-relations, most likely.”

  “But that’s dreadful,” Iseutz said. “We need to tell someone. I mean, if it belongs to someone back home, it ought to be returned to them. It’s stealing.”

  Suidas laughed. Phrantzes said, “It’s best not to worry about that sort of thing. It can cause bad feeling.”

  “You bet it can,” Suidas said cheerfully. “Besides, you won’t find many houses back home where there isn’t some little souvenir or other.”

  “But this is a government building,” Iseutz protested. “That’s not the same thing at all.”

  Suidas couldn’t be bothered to argue, and then the innkeeper’s wife brought in a tray. There was a loaf, a big pottery jar with a wooden stopper, a brick of shiny white cheese and a tall stack of honey cakes, which proved to be edible.

  “Any news about the horses?” Phrantzes asked, but the innkeeper’s wife smiled sadly, as though he’d just asked her about the true meaning of life, and went away.

  Suidas asked Phrantzes for money. Phrantzes borrowed some from Totila, and Suidas bought two messers from a carter he waylaid at the taproom door. There was a grindstone in one of the outbuildings. The wonderful thin cutting edges went up in a snowstorm of white and yellow sparks, leaving blue stains on the steel where the heat had bled through.

  “This’ll have to do,” Suidas said. Their salle was an empty hayloft, floored with thick planks, slightly warped, that flexed disconcertingly under their weight. Light came in through the open door, outside which was a ten-foot drop on to the cobbled yard.

  “The man said they don’t use it any more because the joists are shot,” Suidas said. “I hate fighting in condemned buildings. It’s one more thing to worry about.”

  Addo made a decision not to ask for the back story, and said, “We should be all right. The planks seem sound enough.”

  “I’ll remind you of that when you suddenly disappear. Right, you stand with your feet a shoulders’ width apart, the usual thing. No, a bit more side on. Like that, you’ve got it.”

  “You’re sure this is right?”

  “You’re thinking” – Suidas sprang forward and swung at him; a broad diagonal slash from right to left. Addo darted back and left, just in time to avoid a cracked skull – “in conventional fencing terms,” Suidas went on, edging sideways crabwise. “Messer isn’t like that. It’s more” – he plunged forward, slicing upwards, right to left. Addo did a standing jump backwards to get out of the way – “about spaces than lines,” he went on. “Fencing’s about lines, and circles. Messer” – he charged, foot and blade together, sweeping his sword in a horizontal semicircle – “messer’s more about shapes in the air. The idea is to make the space around you into a zone where nothing mortal can survive.”

  He launched another attack. Addo retreated, and found he was up against the wall. The blade was coming down at him, slanting, left to right. He had no room to dodge left, and if he went right the blade would follow and catch up with him. He felt a shock in his wrists and elbows, and discovered that he’d blocked the blow with his own blade, holding the tip end in his left hand and the grip in his right. He had no memory of deciding to do any of that.

  Suidas took a step back. “Now you’re getting it,” he said.

  “But that’s wrong,” Addo said. “If I’d done that with a sharp sword, I’d have cut my left fingers to the bone.”

  “Yes,” Suidas said. “Now then, again.”

  It took him a while, but gradually he began to understand. There was no defence. If you tried to block, you needed both hands; you’d mutilate yourself for life, and you could only do it once. So: no defence. Instead there was attacking and avoiding, ideally at the same time, so that in escaping your opponent’s attack, you formed and forwarded your own. That, he realised was the difference, and the reason why he’d done so badly at Joiauz. You couldn’t just endure. It was pure aggression.

  “Welcome to the messer,” Suidas said, as they halted to catch their breath. “You can’t protect yourself. Your only way out is to kill the other man.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “Yes,” Suidas said. “And after a bit, it becomes a way of life. On the other hand,” he went on, straightening his back and retreating into long measure, “it does wonders for your reaction times and your ability to assess people. You won’t last two minutes in this game without a complete understanding of human nature.”

  Without warning he struck out; but Addo wasn’t there. He’d read the impending assault in a slight movement of Suidas’ left hand and flung himself out to the right. If he’d misunderstood, he’d have placed himself directly under Suidas’ cut.

  “What do you mean,” he asked, “a way of life?”

  Suidas explained with a rising cut, back-handed, aimed at his chin. He avoided it, but only just. “Instinct, you see,” Suidas said. “All in
stinct. I bet you young Giraut’d be good at it, if somebody bought him a backbone.” He swung; Addo dodged. “It’s basic human nature to cut,” Suidas went on, circling again. Addo tried to match him. “Rapier, longsword, single sword, all your business plays are thrusts. You repress the instinct to cut, because the cut’s actually far less efficient, it’s the thrust that gets the job done. But the messer’s no good for thrusting, except in a bind. It’s like ten centuries of scientific fencing hadn’t happened.” He offered a broad, slow feint, more clearly signposted than a marketplace, which Addo very nearly fell for. “No wonder the Permians can’t fence rapier,” he said. “It’s a totally different language.” He took two steps back and lowered his sword. “All right,” he said. “Now you try and hit me.”

  “Actually, I’d rather carry on—”

  Suidas shook his head. “You’re still thinking like a fencer,” he said. “You want to practise your defence before you learn to attack. But there is no defence, that’s the whole essence of it. If you can’t grasp that, you’ve got no chance.”

  Suidas started to move. Addo opened his fingers, and the messer hit the floorboards with a thump. “I can do that,” he said. “After all, it’s just a sport. It’s not real.”

  “Then you forfeit the match. You lose.”

  “There’s worse things.”

  Suidas stared at him as though he was some kind of intelligence test. Then he grinned. “Yes, but we’re here to win,” he said cheerfully, “and I’m going to teach you how. And I can’t do that if your fucking sword is on the fucking floor? Agreed?”

  “Fair point,” Addo conceded. “Let’s start again from the beginning.”

  Tzimisces arrived at some point in the night. They found him finishing off his breakfast in the couriers’ room: cold pheasant, smoked cheese, rye bread and a bowl of fruit, from a wicker basket he’d brought with him. They made a point of not asking him where he’d been, and he didn’t volunteer any information.

  “You’ll be pleased to hear you’ll have a capacity crowd at Beaute,” he said. “In fact, the Guild’s begging me to try and fit in at least one extra fixture, but I’ve told them no. We’ve got nothing to gain from additional exposure.”

  “Good,” Iseutz said. “They won’t be disappointed.”

  “The feedback from Joiauz is extremely positive,” Tzimisces went on. “You were a great success.” He smiled. “All of you.”

  Addo looked up. “That’s a comfort,” Suidas said. “I never really thought of the Permians as good losers.”

  “However,” Tzimisces went on, “it wouldn’t do at all for us to get complacent. I hope you’ve all had an opportunity for some good solid training.”

  “With respect, Colonel.” Iseutz looked straight at him, but saw no reaction. “No we haven’t. We’ve been cooped up in the coach for a day, and we’re back on the road as soon as we’ve had something to eat. I can practically hear my cramped muscles screaming at me. Now I suggest you adjust our schedule so that we get at least one clear day somewhere we can stretch our legs and do some practice before we have to go out in front of several hundred Permians and fight for our lives with sharp weapons. And some decent food wouldn’t hurt either.”

  Tzimisces beamed benevolently at her. “Far be it from me to tell you when and how to train,” he said. “After all, you’re the champion fencer, not me. I’m just saying you really ought to get in as much preparation as you can. It’ll pay dividends, I’m sure.”

  Later, as they were waiting for the coach to be brought round, Addo said to Suidas, “I think Tzimisces ought to be the one fencing messer. He’s got that whole defend-by-attacking thing down to a fine art.”

  Suidas was looking thoughtful. “When she called him Colonel …”

  “Yes, I noticed that. He didn’t react.”

  “He didn’t deny it.” Suidas picked up his bag. It was rather bulkier and heavier than it had been the last time Addo had seen it. “You know, I’d be interested in finding out what he did in the War.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “I collect people’s war stories,” Suidas said, and stood up. The bag clanked slightly as he moved it.

  They were singing the Solemn Mass for the Dying by Areopagiticus in the Great Chapel; he could just hear it through four stone walls and a marble floor. It was one of his favourite pieces of music. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t for him.

  A doctor showed up, eventually – not Brother Physician, or even a brother from another house, but a layman: the Carnufex house doctor, no less. He proved to be a huge man, about forty-five years old, with shoulders and a back like a bear and the biggest hands that Abbot Symbatus had ever seen. You’d trust him implicitly if it was a matter of supporting a falling building while you scrambled to safety, but maybe that wasn’t the point in this instance.

  “What seems to be the trouble?” he asked.

  “I’m ill.”

  The doctor sighed. “Right, let’s have a look at you.” Ah, Symbatus thought: the gruff, no-nonsense type. He preferred them to the oily smilers, but it was all as broad as it was long.

  “Well?” he asked, some time later.

  The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

  A refreshingly novel approach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means I don’t know,” the doctor repeated. “I happen to be one of the three best doctors in Scheria, but if medical science is geography, then mankind as a species has a map with three towns marked on it and a lot of blank space with drawings of sea serpents. I think it’s your heart, but there’s about a dozen other things it could be, half of which are trivial and the rest almost certainly fatal. How old did you say you are?”

  “Seventy-two.”

  The doctor nodded. “If you’ve got any money saved up, I’d spend it.”

  “I’ve taken a vow of poverty.”

  “That’s all right, then.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, your time’s running out. But I get the impression you knew that already.”

  “Oh yes,” Symbatus said. “It’s common knowledge. But I’d be glad of any general indications.”

  “Somewhere between two and nine months, depending on such factors as stress, exertion, diet. That said, you’re the sort of dilapidated old ruin that sometimes goes on for ever, out of force of habit.”

  The abbot nodded. “There was a floorboard like that in the house I grew up in,” he said. “When it finally gave way, the carpenter said it was a miracle it hadn’t gone years ago. Thank you, Doctor, you’ve been most helpful.”

  “Don’t thank me,” the doctor said, putting on his coat. “It was your cousin the general who sent me.”

  “Ah. And how is he these days? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

  “Obscenely fit,” the doctor replied. “Worried about his son, of course, but otherwise fine.”

  “Which son?”

  “Adulescentulus.” The doctor frowned. “Hadn’t you heard?”

  The abbot sat up a little. “I know young Addo’s in Permia,” he said.

  “So you haven’t heard the latest developments.”

  “Apparently not,” Symbatus said. “And ignorance is terribly bad for my health. What are you talking about?”

  The doctor lowered his immensity on to a small, spindly chair. “You know he was sent out to fence longsword? Well, they’ve got him fencing messer. The general’s beside himself.”

  The abbot sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about swordfighting,” he said.

  The doctor explained. Annoyingly, the pain chose that moment to wake up and extend itself, which made it hard to concentrate. “Just a moment,” the abbot said. “What you’re saying is Addo’s …” He had to stop. He tried not to pull a face.

  The doctor was looking at him. “Are you all right?”

  “A touch of cramp,” the abbot said. The words seemed too big to get out of his mouth. “So there’s a real danger …”

  The doctor was
n’t listening. “What’s the matter? Where does it hurt?”

  “It’s just cramp,” the abbot whispered. “I’ll be fine. Tell me …”

  But the doctor wasn’t there. He’d turned his back and was mixing something. “Drink this. Now.”

  “But I’m not thirsty.”

  “Do as you’re damn well told.”

  Anything to satisfy him, so he’d stop fussing and answer questions. “Now,” Symbatus said. “Why is Addo fencing with these messer things? It seems entirely …”

  He fell asleep. The doctor watched him closely for a while, then got up and went outside.

  “He’s had a heart attack,” he told the prior. “I was able to give him something, and he ought to pull through, this time.”

  “This time?”

  “It’s not the first and it won’t be the last. If he’s to stand any chance at all, he’s got to have complete rest, peace and quiet. No visitors. I’ll be staying with him, so I need to send a message to General Carnufex, to let him know I won’t be back for a while. Also, I’ll need some supplies from my dispensary, I’ll write out a list. And remember, nobody’s to go in there without asking me first. Is that understood?”

  “Luzir Soleth,” Tzimisces announced. “It’s not on our schedule, but I’ve had a word with Lieutenant Totila, and we’re actually ahead of time, so we can afford to take a break. He’s sent ahead, so with any luck you’ll have a quiet place to yourselves where you can get some practice.”

  No chance. A mile outside the town, they were met by a squadron of Aram Chantat, escorting the town council and the mayor.

  “It’ll be touch and go,” the mayor said, “but with your men as well as this lot” (a nod towards the Aram Chantat, who had dismounted and were lying on their backs in the weak sun), “we ought to be fine as long as we time it right.”

  They were sitting on folding chairs in a meadow littered with fat red poppies. The chairs had been brought by the councillors, along with a table, a tablecloth, the municipal silver and a large hamper of food. A tall young man poured wine from a silver jug, acting as though he was in the presence of gods. “It’s such a privilege to get a chance to meet you like this,” the mayor said for the seventh time. Iseutz gave him a look of mild disgust.