Sharps

by K. J. Parker

  “Later today, possibly,” Phrantzes replied, “it all depends on the security situation, naturally. Cuniva said he’d let me know as soon as he’s got any news.”

  It was a dreary morning. Nobody wanted to play chess, there was nothing to read, and nobody felt like talking. Suidas found a knife from somewhere and carved his name on the base of the alabaster pedestal. Phrantzes registered a mild diplomatic protest, which nobody seemed to hear. When he’d finished, Addo looked over his shoulder. “You’ve spelt it wrong,” he murmured. “Isn’t there a u in Deutzel?”

  Iseutz burst out laughing. Suidas threw the knife across the room and went and sat in a corner. Giraut, who hadn’t been all that far away from where the knife landed, got up quickly and said, “Tell you what. Since we’re stuck here with nothing to do, and it looks like we’re going to have to fence at Luzir Beal, maybe we should get some practice in. Might help clear our heads, maybe.”

  Iseutz yawned. “Why not?” she said. “If we can get hold of some foils. That ought to be possible, in a Fencers’ Guild.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Phrantzes said immediately. He scuttled away and came back soon afterwards with a bundle of assorted foils under his arm. The weight was more than he could manage and he dropped them, sending them skittering across the floor as though they were alive.

  “Splendid,” Iseutz said. “Giraut, you can spar with me. Damn, there’s no smallswords, I’ll have to use a rapier.”

  Suidas found a longsword foil, long and heavy with a huge button on the end. “Addo?”

  “Sorry,” Addo replied, “but I don’t think I will, if it’s all the same to you. I seem to have pulled a muscle in my back, and it’d probably be a good idea if I left it alone for a while.”

  “Fine.” Suidas looked round the room. “Phrantzes,” he said. “Come and spar with me.”

  Phrantzes stared at him. “I don’t think …”

  “Oh come on, it’s just sparring. I need to sort out my footwork.”

  “It’s been fifteen years,” Phrantzes said. “I really don’t think I’d be much use to you.”

  “I’ll take it easy, I promise. Come on, man, you used to be champion fencer. And I seem to remember someone saying something about you being our team coach.”

  Very slowly, Phrantzes crossed the room. He picked up a longsword foil without looking at it, and lifted it painfully into a middle guard. “I honestly don’t think this is a terribly good idea,” he said. “I was never much of a longswordsman, even when I was younger.”

  Suidas wrapped a handkerchief across the palm of his right hand and took a grip on the hilt of his foil. “Stop moaning,” he said. “It’ll come back to you, trust me. Right, I’d like you to attack me in high front.”

  He raised the foil in a low back guard and nodded. Phrantzes gave him a despairing look, transitioned into high front, and moved. It was so quick that Addo, who was watching intently, barely saw it: a fast eye-level thrust that proved to be a feint but which melted into a left traverse and a low downward cut to the right knee. Suidas just about managed to block – he had no chance at all to organise his feet – only to find that the cut was a feint too, as Phrantzes traversed again, giving himself just enough room for a rising cut to the chin. The best Suidas could do was take a long step back, dropping his guard completely; the tip of the foil went past, just grazing his skin, but his balance was gone. He staggered back, and Phrantzes rammed the foil into his stomach. He went down, landing painfully on his left elbow, and saw Phrantzes standing over him, hands drawn back for a final killing thrust to the eye socket …

  Phrantzes felt like he’d suddenly woken up; the sort of terrified, embarrassed panic when you’ve fallen asleep in a committee meeting or a dinner party, and you know everybody’s staring at you. He looked at the sword in his hands, and the man sprawled on the floor at his feet. He was aware that Addo had just shouted his name.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said, and then realised he was still wound up for a killing stroke and immediately let his arms wilt. “My dear fellow, are you all right?”

  Suidas was staring at him. “What the hell do you think you’re playing at?” he mumbled. “You could’ve broken a rib.”

  Phrantzes let go of the sword to offer a hand to help him up; the sword slipped free and clattered on the floor. Suidas wriggled away on his bottom and pulled himself to his feet.

  “I’m so sorry,” Phrantzes repeated. “I just …”

  “No, that’s all right,” Suidas said, taking a step back. “My fault, I didn’t read you. I tell you what, though. If that’s you after fifteen years doing nothing, I’m glad I wasn’t around when you were fencing for real.”

  “It was an accident,” Phrantzes said. “You must’ve slipped or something, or you weren’t ready. It’s my fault.”

  “Stop apologising, for crying out loud,” Iseutz said. “I was watching. You wiped the floor with him. Literally.”

  Suidas stooped and picked up his foil. “I think we should do that again,” he said. “This time, I’ll see if I can be in the same fight.”

  “No, absolutely not,” Phrantzes said. “Are you sure you’re all right? I did ask if they had any masks or jackets, but …”

  “I’ll spar with you,” Addo said, stepping in front of Phrantzes and picking up the foil. “My back’s not as bad as I thought it was. I’m sorry, I was being feeble.”

  “Ignore him, he’s just being noble.” There was a harsh core of determination in Iseutz’s voice. Phrantzes swung round and stared at her, but she was looking past him. “This time, Suidas, try and stay awake. He’s twice your age and nearly twice your weight, so you might just stand a chance.”

  He understood. Fight him, she was saying, and then you won’t be afraid of him any more. There was a sort of obvious logic to it, the kind of thing you’d expect from her, someone who saw the world in straight lines and primary colours. But when Suidas came for him, it wouldn’t be with a longsword. He’d have a messer in his hand, and two squadrons of Aram Chantat would hardly slow him down if they were stupid enough to get in the way.

  And then a terrible thought broke open in his mind. He winced, but it was too late, it was there, already hatched and moving. “Well,” he said, “if you think it’ll help. But you’ll have to promise to go easy on me. These days I get out of breath running up stairs.”

  Suidas laughed, and smiled. “Me too,” he said, “but for God’s sake don’t tell Sontha that, she’ll have me eating lettuce leaves and celery.” He lifted his foil into a front middle guard. “Ready when you are.”

  And then Phrantzes found himself fencing again, and he didn’t realise he was too blown to breathe until there was a natural break in the flow of the bout. He was moving well, turning his wrists and forearms quickly and neatly, seeing his path, reading his opponent. He’d lied when he’d said he was no good at longsword; he’d always preferred it to rapier (but his old school friend Bonones was better than him, and nobody could ever catch him in rapier play). He fought a tight inside circle, cramping Suidas’ moves and constantly turning him, so he couldn’t make a big attack without laying himself open to a counter in single time. He found himself thinking two or even three plays ahead, making the pace, dictating both the distance and the tempo. Suidas was treating him with enormous respect, watching his point, concentrating. On a sudden impulse, Phrantzes decided to close for a disarm and throw. He feigned a feint, caught Suidas in a bind, let him apply his superior strength, sideslipped, hooked his calf round the inside of Suidas’ front knee, and dumped him on the floor as easily as if he’d just pulled a lever. As Suidas hit the floor he felt a burst of joy, ridiculously out of proportion, as though he’d just solved all his problems with one magnificent manoeuvre; then Suidas, rolling to one side, flailed out a foot, hooked both his knees, and toppled him like a felled tree. He landed flat on his back, the floor hit him like a hammer, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. When he dragged air into his lungs and opened his eyes, he saw Suidas st
anding over him, grinning and offering him a hand. The terrible thought, which had almost been washed away by the burst sluices of joy, swept back again. Suidas’ hand closed round his, strong as a wrench, and his mind was made up. He had to do it. There was no other way.

  “Tell you what,” he heard Addo say somewhere behind him, “if my back’s still playing up when we get to Beal …”

  “That was a hell of a throw,” Suidas said. “You’ll have to tell me how you did that. I really didn’t read it, not till I was on my arse on the deck. If you’d only remembered to move your feet, you’d have had me.” He was still grinning, delighted, pleased for a man he suddenly regarded as a friend and equal. But that was, after all, the purpose of the exercise: to promote friendship and understanding among deadly enemies, until the time was right.

  Giraut fenced with Iseutz. She had trouble with the weight and length of the rapier: “But that’s fine,” she assured him. “When I go back to smallsword, it’ll feel light and quick.” Even so, she scored seven points to his six. He wondered if he was really trying, and decided he probably was.

  “Just as well I won’t have to fight you for real,” he said, in a pause between points. “You’re good at this.”

  “I’m taller and lighter than you,” she replied, “and muscle doesn’t matter a damn. Also, you stand too open. It’s because you’re always looking for a volte. As long as I can keep on your inside, you can’t reach me.”

  He hadn’t considered that, but it was true. “Thanks,” he said, “I’ll bear that in mind. Again?”

  They fenced three more points; Giraut won them all. “Told you,” she said, after the third. “Now, your turn. What am I doing wrong?”

  “I’m sorry, I haven’t been watching,” Giraut confessed. “Too busy keeping out of your way. As far as I can see, you’re not doing anything wrong, exactly.”

  “Then why did you just win three in a row?”

  “I’m better than you, I guess.”

  She scowled at him, and the next three points were very hard going. But he won them, just about. “I think I can see it now,” he said. “You’re trying too hard.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Trying to force the pace,” Giraut explained. “You’re attacking when you don’t have to, even when my defence is strong. You should make me come to you a bit more.”

  She shook her head. “Not my way,” she said. “I’m good at aggression but not so good at defending. So I attack.”

  Giraut nodded. “And you give good advice but you don’t take it, and you can read your opponent but not yourself. Well, you did ask.”

  “I didn’t want an honest answer, I wanted you to reassure me.”

  “You’re doing fine,” he said, and in the next point she hit him so hard in the solar plexus that he had to sit down and catch his breath.

  Later, when both pairs had worn themselves out and they were sitting in exhausted, contented silence on the window seats, Suidas said: “Do you suppose there’s any food in this place? I’m starved, and we haven’t had anything to eat all day.”

  “I got the impression the kitchen staff were all under arrest,” Addo replied. “Isn’t that what Cuniva told you, Phrantzes?”

  “And being interrogated by the Imperials,” Phrantzes confirmed. “In which case they’ll be in no fit state to go back to work for a very long time. Also, you wouldn’t want someone who’s just been worked over by the Blueskins handling food. It wouldn’t be hygienic.”

  “Marvellous,” Suidas growled. “Some people have no consideration.”

  “I don’t think the cooks got themselves tortured just to cheat you out of breakfast,” Addo said mildly.

  “I didn’t mean them, I meant the guards,” Suidas said. “Why couldn’t they have let them at least bake the bread and then interrogated them? Wouldn’t have made much difference in the long run, and we wouldn’t be starving to death.”

  “Being in Permia’s done wonders for your sense of moral perspective,” Iseutz said. “But I agree. If they were going to lock up all the kitchen staff, they might at least have made alternative arrangements.”

  Suidas laughed. “I don’t know,” he said, “we’re starting to sound like we’re back in the army. I remember one time, we were ambushed, just outside Conort. My lot got clear, but the entire baggage train was slaughtered to a man. Didn’t we ever curse them for getting themselves killed and losing all our stuff. The general consensus was, they were lucky the Aram Chantat got to them before we did.” He turned and looked at Phrantzes. “You’ve told me and I’ve forgotten, were you in the War? I guess you must’ve been.”

  “Staff officer,” Phrantzes said. “Well away from the front lines.”

  “Good for you,” Suidas replied. “That was my idea. When I knew I was going to get called up anyway, I volunteered for the transport corps. I was actually six weeks under age, but the recruiting sergeant winked and let me through. I figured, if I wait till they come for me, God only knows where I’ll end up. Didn’t quite work out like that, but at least I tried.”

  “If there’s another war …” Addo hadn’t spoken for quite some time. “Would you join up again?”

  Suidas shook his head. “Absolutely no way in hell,” he said. “I’d drop everything and get myself over the Western border as fast as I possibly could. How about you? I guess you’d have no choice.”

  “I don’t want to be a soldier,” Addo said. “But I’m sure my father would keep me out of harm’s way.”

  Iseutz looked at him. “Would he do that?”

  “Oh yes.” Addo smiled. “He knows I’d be a rotten soldier, and there’s the family reputation to consider. I’d just let the side down. Giraut? What about you?”

  Giraut thought for a moment. “Yes, probably,” he said. “But for your reasons, Suidas. I’d join up early in the hope of getting put somewhere reasonable. Actually, I thought of applying for the engineers. I believe they make engineer officers do a lot of technical training. With any luck, by the time I passed all the aptitude tests, the war would be over.” He stopped and looked away. “Why do you ask? Do you think it’s likely? Another war, I mean.”

  “It’s the sort of ridiculous thing that tends to happen,” Addo replied quietly. “I mean, apart from a few people like my father, nobody wants it. It’ll do a great deal of harm, almost certainly the end of Permia and quite possibly Scheria as well. A great many people will die, and a lot more will be left crippled for life; oh, and we can’t afford it, so we’ll all be dirt poor for generations to come. So yes, on balance, I think it’s practically inevitable.”

  “They’ve cleared the streets you’ll be driving along,” Cuniva had assured them, “there won’t be any trouble, I promise.”

  They drove out of the Guild house gates in a beautiful white and gold carriage, the ceremonial vehicle of the Master of the Guild; the carriage they’d arrived in was a heap of ashes, but the Master assured them that they were welcome, and he wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry, so they could keep it for as long as they needed it. The two coachmen wore Guild livery. On the box beside them, where the Master’s pageboys usually sat, two Imperials in full armour perched unsteadily, clinging to the rails and swaying on corners. Cuniva was inside the coach, in Tzimisces’ place. Their escort was a troop of fifteen Aram Chantat.

  Giraut took a good long look at them before he got in the coach. They were young – he’d have guessed the eldest was no more than nineteen – beardless, with wavy fair hair down to their shoulders; short men even for Aram Chantat, wearing white full-sleeved linen shirts gathered at the wrist instead of armour and holding no weapons, though their bow cases and scabbards hung from their saddles. They were talking very fast, occasionally bursting into peals of laughter. Giraut guessed they were playing a favourite word game. As he climbed aboard the coach, he noticed a clump of dirty red-brown matting tucked between the point man’s horse and saddle, just behind the crupper. Something dark and sticky caught the light as it trickled down the sh
ort hairs of the horse’s coat. Scalps.

  “It’s all right,” Cuniva said. He wasn’t looking his usual elegant self. Instead of the gilded parade cuirass he’d worn for the reception, he had his business armour on. It looked old and comfortable, and the small steel plates were painted black, to keep his sweat from rusting them. “They’re Rosinholet, they’re fairly reasonable people once you get to know them. And they don’t have any ongoing feuds with any of the other sects serving in Permia, so we’ll be fine.”

  They took the main east–west thoroughfare, the Ropewalk, heading due east out of the city. It was a wide road, which was just as well; it was littered with smashed carts and carriages, trashed market stalls and traders’ booths, apparently random objects dragged out of houses and shops and hacked or pounded into bits, and bodies, ever so many bodies: men, women, children, horses, even dogs. It looked bizarrely familiar, which made no sense, until Giraut remembered the last act of his recurring dream, the point at which the floodwaters receded and drained away, leaving the flotsam behind.

  “They’ll fail, of course,” Cuniva was saying. He’d been talking for some time, but Giraut hadn’t been paying attention. “They’ve got no leaders or resources, no weapons, no training, no plan of campaign. They’re just a bunch of angry people who didn’t realise what they were letting themselves in for. This sort of thing never succeeds so long as the army stays loyal to the government. Which, of course, we fully intend to do.”

  “As long as they keep up the payments,” Iseutz muttered.

  “Exactly.” Cuniva had apparently found nothing to object to in that. “And they pay in advance, so our loyalty’s guaranteed for at least the next three weeks, by which time all this nonsense will have burnt itself out. And besides, when the army’s loyalty wavers, it nearly always comes from the junior officers – me and my peers, as it were – because they can’t stomach killing their fellow citizens. No such difficulty here, obviously. This is actually quite an opportunity for the junior field grades. You can get yourself noticed in actions like this. So you see,” he concluded with a warm smile, “you’ve got no cause for concern whatsoever.”