The Two of Swords: Part 8

by K. J. Parker

  Axeo sighed. “I’ll say it again. I was told to look out for two craftsmen, keep an eye on them, make contact if necessary. As it happened, it was necessary, because we’d run out of food and we hoped you’d have some. I don’t know the purpose of your mission, and I’m not really interested. Right now, my priority is finding out who these lunatics with the big coach are. I mean, obviously they’re lodge, but nobody said anything about them to me. I should know that sort of thing, I’m responsible.”

  “Big coach.”

  Axeo nodded. “That’s right. They’re escorting a big coach to this Merebarton place.” He gave Pleda one of the big smiles. “You said that’s where you’re headed, but I’m assuming that’s not true.”

  “Really.”

  “Well, it can’t be, can it? Not unless you’re meeting up with whoever’s in the coach. And you seemed as genuinely surprised as I was.”

  Pleda thought for a moment. “Do they really have doctors with them?”

  “Oh, I should imagine so. Your boy will be fine, you’ll see. I saw far worse than that in the army, believe you me. Men like human porcupines, and they were up and about again in no time.”

  A thought struck Pleda; as hard as the arrow had hit Musen, but in a more awkward place. “Your brother,” he said. “Is he lodge?”

  Axeo stared at him then burst out laughing. “Are you joking? Of course he is. You don’t think he got to be rich and famous on pure musical ability.”

  “I assumed—” Pleda shook his head. “It can’t have been easy.”

  “It never has been.” Axeo said it as though it was nothing – time of day, what a lot of weather we’ve been having lately – but Pleda guessed that that was how you knew he was being truthful. Of course, Axeo probably knew that, too. Very like the boy in so many ways, with the obvious exception of intelligence.

  “There we are.” Axeo pointed with his free hand. “At last.”

  Pleda followed the line indicated, but he couldn’t see anything. Then something caught his eye, a square, too regular for anything in nature. He looked carefully and could just make out a drystone wall enclosing a patch of heather. At the far end was a low hill that was too straight and level. It brought back memories. An archery range.

  “Good spot,” Axeo was saying. “Almost completely hidden by the contours of the combe; you could ride past here with an army and not know it was there, if they’d got the wit not to light fires. And then they go and build their butts on a hilltop, so they’re visible for miles around.” He shook his head sadly. “Soon as we’ve got five minutes we’ll grub out that wall.”

  Not long after, they rode up a lane that followed the course of a broad stream which wound along the bottom of the fold between the sides of the combe. Pleda had some idea what to expect; mere meant marshy ground, where the run-off from the steep combe pooled on the flat – they’d have drained that centuries ago, of course – and barton meant land good and flat enough to grow barley, which you’d get in strips along the combe floor where the water had washed down silt from the hillsides. The houses were close together – there would have been a stockade once, for defence – which told him the villagers had originally been tenants rather than freeholders, though all that would have changed long ago, when all the great families were wiped out by wars and taxes. Sheep, he guessed, barley for bread, animal feed, thatch and beer; small gardens for beans and cabbages; they’d have to cart a long way for lumber and firewood, now that all the big copses that used to grow in these parts had been cut for charcoal for the war effort. But they’d have wool to sell, and there’d be pigs and poultry. People could live quite effectively in a place like this, if allowed to do so by their betters. He remembered that he hadn’t seen a sheep since they left Beloisa.

  “Had our eye on this place for a while now,” Axeowas saying. “Passes, like this one, either end of the village, only real way in or out. You could block them off with a series of thick, low walls with narrow gates and still not be visible from the road. Vulnerable from above, of course, you always are in valleys, but the slopes are pretty steep, too steep for cavalry, and you’d have a really good field of fire, so you could make them pay through the nose for coming at you that way. The main problem would be if they dammed the stream, but we’re pretty sure there’s water not far down, half a dozen wells would be enough for an army. Plenty of good local stone. Timber’s a problem. We could plant on the far side of the hill, but a new plantation in the middle of all this garbage would be a bit of a giveaway. Other than that, though, it’s ideal, and, best of all, nobody knows it’s here.”

  “Except the people who live here, of course.”

  Axeo looked at him as though he’d said something stupid.

  The street was empty, but there was a carriage drawn up outside a large house at the far end. In the City, particularly the district between the palace and the Wall, where the best people lived, it’d have been so normal as to be invisible. Here, it was absurd.

  “We’ll level all this, of course,” Axeo said. “We can reuse most of the stone from the cottages, and it’s cutting and shipping materials that takes the time and costs the money. For now, though, they’re just camping out as best they can.” He drew up behind the gorgeous carriage. “I’ll drop you off here,” he said. “I imagine your boy’s in there, but, if not, just keep asking people till you find someone who knows what’s going on. I’ll drop the cart round to the stables when I’ve finished with it.”

  Pleda could see why they’d chosen that cottage; it was either the forge or the granary, because a long single-storey building jutted out from it at right angles, which made it the biggest covered space in town. He watched his cart jingle away, then walked to the door and gave it a gentle push. It swung open and he went inside.

  “Hello, Musen,” he said.

  The boy was lying in one of five beds in the middle of the main room. Three of the other four were occupied, no doubt with casualties from the unintended battle. Musen was sitting up. There was a pack of cards on the blanket, but not laid out in any recognised pattern. The boy was holding one; he’d been gazing at it with a faraway look on his face.

  Pleda came closer. “You all right?”

  “I think so,” Musen said. He was swathed in clean bandages, and his broken arm was in a clean, neat new sling. “I thought I’d had it back there, but they say I’m going to be all right.” He lowered his voice. “It’s the brothers,” he said. “The ones who used to come here. I recognised two of them straight away, and they remembered me.”

  On the far wall was a tall cabinet with long shelves, lined with jars and bottles, and a long oak table, with straps halfway down and at the end. On a rack on the wall next to it were surgeons’ tools. The floor was gleaming oak boards, not a trace of dirt anywhere. A tall barrel stood in the corner, and next to it a large copper cauldron, with a charcoal stove under it. Whoever ran this place knew what he was doing.

  “Where is everybody?” Pleda asked quietly.

  Musen smiled. “This used to be the forge,” he said. “So it’s fitting, really. Everybody’s gone. I asked them where, but nobody seems to know.”

  Best of all, nobody knows it’s here. Not any more, at any rate. “What about your family?”

  “Oh, they lived out of town a way, down the street and up the hill.” Lived, he’d said, and didn’t seem particularly concerned. “They’ve been telling me what they’re going to do here. It’s amazing. It’ll be a stronghold of the lodge, right here in Merebarton.”

  The lodge is my family, always has been. Pleda decided to remember that he was here to do a job. “The brothers,” he said. “They’re the ones who—”

  Musen nodded. “I haven’t said anything about why we’re here. But – well, it must be going to cost them a fortune, building a castle and a library and a school and everything.” He paused and frowned. “That big coach outside,” he said. “Do you know what all that’s about?”

  Pleda shook his head. “That flash bastard knows, bu
t he wouldn’t tell me.”

  “This bit here’s the hospital,” Musen said, “but there’s more out back, where the smithy used to be. Of course, I haven’t seen in there. I think there must be another way in.” He grinned. “The smith who used to be here wasn’t a craftsman,” he said. “Can you believe that? It’s so stupid. Mind you, he was an idiot; you couldn’t have made him understand in a million years.”

  Pleda looked at him for a while. The thing was, Musen was happy; you could see it all over his face. “Do you want me to try and find out where your family’s gone? Someone here must know. I could take a message.”

  Musen shook his head. “I never liked them anyway.” He lowered his voice. “For a start, I don’t think my father was actually my father, if you know what I mean. He and I were always so different. I think—” He paused. “I think one of them, the brothers, was my real father. Maybe that’s why my dad never had any time for the lodge or anything like that. Dead set against it, always. And I think that’s why he killed my mother.”

  Pleda hadn’t expected anything like this. “Your father—”

  “Oh, nobody ever said anything. She died when I was a baby, and nobody ever talked about her. I’m sure he killed her, because of me. So you see, really they’re not my family, the lodge is.”

  Difficult to find words. “Have you got any proof for any of this?”

  Musen shrugged. “Not really. I don’t need any. I mean, I’m not going to do anything about it. I can’t be bothered, to be honest. Anyway, they’re probably all dead by now. It really doesn’t matter.”

  Probably all dead. No sheep. Where would several hundred refugees go, in this country? It really doesn’t matter, said the son of the lodge. Cut their throats or turn them out on the moor, it’d come to the same thing in the end. They’d have died anyway, because of the war. Meanwhile, a choice piece of real estate, just right for the purpose—

  “I don’t suppose anyone’s said anything,” Pleda said quietly. “But do you know why they’re doing this?”

  Musen frowned. “Doing what?”

  “Building a fortress. Here in the middle of the wilderness.”

  “Oh, I see. Well, it’s for the war, I guess.”

  That made no sense. “Don’t be stupid. The lodge isn’t in the war. We’re neutral.”

  “Oh, not this war. This war doesn’t matter. They’re doing this for the next war. The important one. Us against them. The war.” Musen frowned at him. “You know that,” he said. “You must do.”

  Pleda made a huge effort and kept his voice low and steady. “Where did you hear all this?”

  “At the college, of course. You know, where I went to be trained. They told us about it. Not very much, obviously, we’re not secure, but just the basics, so we’d know. You know,” he added, with a touch of impatience. “The war. The one that this one’s clearing the way for. And I’m going to be in it,” he added, with a hint of wonder in his voice. “Me and all the other wild cards, it’s what they’ve been collecting us for.” He stopped, and looked closely at Pleda’s face. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “What? No, of course, of course I know. I’m an Eight of Swords, remember?”

  “You don’t know.” An accusation. “You don’t know anything about it at all. But I thought – getting you here, I mean. I thought that was what it was all for, to get you here. The emperor’s cards, I mean, and all that rubbish. To get money for the building, and to bring you here. I thought—” He stopped again. “I thought you were important. But you’re not, are you? They just wanted the money.”

  Pleda took a deep breath. “What war?” he said. “Tell me.”

  But Musen shook his head. “You don’t know,” he said. “So I can’t tell you. Don’t ask me any more. In fact, you’d better go away. I don’t know what I’m allowed to tell you, or anything.”

  “Eight of bloody Swords,” Pleda said, in a low, harsh voice. “You’ll tell me what I ask, understood? What war?”

  There was nothing on Musen’s face but contempt. “You don’t matter,” he said. “I’m home now; you can’t touch me. You’re not allowed to ask me questions. You might as well go and do what you’re here for, get those stupid cards. I don’t want to see you again, do you hear me?”

  Pleda found the strength to smile at him. “Screw you, then,” he said. “And get well soon.”

  He headed for the door, half expecting someone to stop him. What war? What war, and who against, for crying out loud? Clearing the way? There were the desert nomads, yes, the idiot Blemyans had stirred up a hornets’ nest there, and it would take the combined efforts of both empires to deal with them once and for all. Glauca knew that, and Senza Belot must realise it, too; and he imagined they weren’t stupid in the West, either. But the war, the one that this one’s clearing the way for— This war was certainly clearing the way; it had cleared sheep and men off every hillside from here to Beloisa, and from what he understood things weren’t much better anywhere else. But the war; for a war, you had to have armies. The way this war was going, it wouldn’t be long before there was nobody left. The Blemyans? That’d be a campaign, not a war, a paragraph in the official history. What war?

  You don’t matter, the boy had said. You’re not important. Now there was a thought. Eight of Swords, and not important enough, a card you throw away when you’ve bought something better.

  The light outside was painfully bright after the cool shade of the hospital. The fancy carriage, he noted, wasn’t there any more. In his pocket was the plenipotentiary warrant. He needed to talk to someone in authority.

  (Because a run of low cards, two, three, four, will beat a pride of tens; if you’re holding three and four, two is important, two matters. You’d run through the whole damned pack to get a two if you needed one, and dump your eight, nine, ten without hesitation. The wild cards, the boy had said, it’s what they’ve been collecting us for. Thief School? Were there other schools like it – covered cards, face down – he didn’t even know about?

  Anything that’s face down you have to pay to see. Fine, so long as you can afford it.)

  A man stepped out of a doorway. He wore a robe that looked vaguely ecclesiastical but belonged to no order Pleda had ever heard of over a regulation Western scale cuirass, and Eastern issue boots. Of course, you could buy anything you wanted from the battlefield clearance contractors. “You’re Pleda,” he said.

  “That’s right.”

  “Do you think you could possibly spare a moment? They’d like to talk to you.”

  “Why? I’m not important.”

  “Please?”

  Well, he’d always been a sucker for politeness, especially when it wore armour. “Go on, then,” he said, and followed him round the side of the hospital. There was a paved yard, probably left over from the smithy, and there was the long building that had once been the forge. The armoured man led him to a door, then stood aside to let him pass.

  It was dark inside, and he recognised the smell as damp plaster. He heard the scratch of a tinderbox; a little red glow, as someone blew on smouldering moss, followed by a bigger yellow one, as whoever it was lit an oil lamp. Before that, he supposed, he’d been sitting there in the dark.

  Correction: they. Three men, and a woman in a long black veil. The men wore the same robes as the man who’d brought him here, but no armour. One was bald and middle-aged, one had a bushy head of grey hair, and the third was very old indeed, with little white wisps, like sheep’s wool caught in brambles. There was nothing in the room except for five plain wooden stools and a small round table, on which lay a tarnished silver box. The walls and ceiling were off-white; freshly applied plaster, still wet.

  “Pleda,” said the old man. “Please, sit down.”

  You paint frescoes – masterpieces of religious and esoteric art – on wet plaster. He sat. The old man smiled.

  “Glauca sent you,” the old man said.

  Not the emperor. “That’s right.”

  The old man laid a
finger on the lid of the box. “Thank you for coming. I trust the journey wasn’t too arduous.”

  Pleda shrugged. “I’m here now.”

  The old man nodded and lifted the lid. “The asking price,” he said, “is one hundred and fifty thousand angels.”

  One million angels paid for the war for a year. “No,” Pleda said. “It’s too much. The emperor hasn’t got that sort of money.”

  “Then you’ve had a wasted journey,” the old man said. “But in any case, I don’t agree. In your pocket you have a plenipotentiary warrant. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes.”

  “It means,” the old man said, “you can do anything. Including,” he went on, lifting something out of the box, “endorsing the back of the warrant with an order to pay the bearer one hundred and fifty thousand angels. I happen to know that exactly that sum of money will arrive at Beloisa in twelve days’ time, to cover arrears of pay and finance the rebuilding and fortification of the city. So you see, the emperor does have the money.”

  “Yes, but he can’t afford—”

  The old man lifted his other hand, a gentle but categorical gesture. “So let’s see what happens. You go back to Glauca and tell him you refused our offer. Glauca is furious. He sends you straight back again. Next time, the price will be two hundred thousand angels. He can well afford not to fortify Beloisa. He can afford for the troops who will shortly arrive here to mutiny because they won’t get their back pay. He can afford for them to defect to the enemy and hand Beloisa over to them. He has other provinces, and this one isn’t much use to him in its present deplorable state. The Westerners will occupy it; sooner or later Senza Belot will come and take it from them, and Glauca will be back where he started. And he’ll have these.” He put down what he was holding on the table, a block wrapped in red silk. It clinked. “And you will have lost his favour and trust, which you’ve worked so hard to gain, and the lodge will have lost a highly placed observer at a key point in the chain of command. Now, we’ll start again. The asking price is one hundred and fifty thousand angels.”