by K. J. Parker
Pleda breathed in slowly, then out again. It was supposed to calm him down, but all it achieved was to fill his lungs with the wet plaster smell, and make him want to cough. “What do you want the money for?”
The old man laughed. “To decorate this room,” he said.
Pleda looked at him. He was serious. “That’s a lot of money,” he heard himself say.
“Loxida of Blemya, the greatest living painter of religious subjects, has agreed to paint this room with scenes of the Transfiguration of the Host. We’ve negotiated a fee of one hundred and twenty-five thousand angels, which we feel is entirely reasonable, given that his work will quite possibly be the supreme achievement of the human race. It will most certainly still be here, admired and valued and a source of immeasurable spiritual strength and energy, in a thousand years’ time. Or the money could be spent on building a set of walls, which siege engines will have battered into rubble within five years. Oh, in case you were wondering, the balance of twenty-five thousand angels will pay for the materials. Loxida has specified ninety-nine-pure gold from the mines in the Aradian desert; apparently, the colour is very subtly different. We’re exceptionally fortunate to be in a position to give him this commission.”
Loxida of Blemya; never heard of him. “I’ll need to see them first.”
“Really? What for? Only Glauca and three other men alive – I’m one of them, incidentally – know enough to be able to tell whether these are the genuine Sleeping Dog or an extraordinary skilful copy, made by either Praxidas or Tariunno of Licynna. Please don’t be offended, but you’re completely incapable of forming any sort of valid judgement.” He smiled. He had six teeth. “You’re just going to have to trust me, I’m afraid.”
Pleda could feel his brain melting and dripping down his throat. Even so; he needed to think. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “I’ll endorse the warrant in escrow. The paymasters at Beloisa will release the money once they hear from the emperor that the pack is genuine.”
“Unacceptable.” The old man didn’t sound upset or anything. “Glauca will say that the cards are fakes. He’ll keep them, and refuse to pay over the money. He can’t be trusted. You, however, can trust us, because we’re all fellow craftsmen. This is the Sleeping Dog Pack. You have my word on it.”
Pleda wanted to laugh. He also wanted, very badly indeed, to ask who the toothless old man was. But there’d be no point. Even if he got an answer, a true one, it’d be meaningless to him. Instead, he said, “Tell me about the war.”
The old man’s face didn’t change. “Excuse me?”
“Not this one,” Pleda said, “the next one. The one this one’s clearing the way for.”
“Now why should I do that?”
To see a covered card, you have to pay. My entire life, Pleda thought, and raise you a stuiver. “Because if you don’t, there’s no deal. I’ll go home and tell Glauca that the cards were fakes. Such obvious fakes that even I could tell. The colour of the silver was all wrong. Too pure for the period. There were no copper tones on the raised areas.”
The old man frowned. “Would you please wait outside?” he said. “I’d just like a private word with my associates.”
Feeling slightly dizzy and light-headed, as though he’d been drinking, Pleda got up and walked to the door. It seemed a long way. The man in the cuirass was there to open the door for him. Outside, the air was dry and fresh. He rested his back against the wall. If his legs weren’t so weak, he’d have run away. The lodge, he thought; that man is a fellow craftsman. He’s supposed to be on the same side as me. He’s supposed to be my brother.
Brothers, like Senza and Forza Belot.
On the roof of a nearby house he saw two crows, the first livings things apart from men and horses he’d noticed for days. He watched them for a while. Senza Belot reckoned you could learn a lot from watching crows, so he’d been told. His hands were beginning to get cold; he put them in his pockets and found his deck of cards. The temptation to lay out his fortune, there on the paving slabs, was almost too strong to resist. Nine of Shields; you will meet an influential stranger. Four of Spears; you will learn something to your advantage. Poverty, reversed; you will achieve your heart’s desire.
Sometime later the guard called him back in. There were three men and a heavily veiled woman. Different men.
“Please sit down.” The speaker was an elderly man, with a full head of short grey hair and a neat, pointed beard. “We’re sorry to have kept you.”
Pleda sat down. “That’s fine,” he said. “I needed a breath of air.”
“The asking price,” said the neat man, “is one hundred and seventy-five thousand angels. We have considered your request for information, but we have to refuse. The information is sensitive and you are not secure.”
He felt as if his strength was draining slowly away, like oil from a cracked bottle. “The extra twenty-five thousand,” he said. “There’s no more money.”
The neat man shook his head. “The garrison commander at Beloisa holds a thirty-thousand-angel contingency fund,” he said. “Our best information is that he still has nineteen thousand of it left. The balance will have to be raised by means of a forced loan from the soldiers of the garrison.” He held up his hand before Pleda could interrupt. “We appreciate that that will likely precipitate a mutiny,” he said. “But that’s going to happen anyway, so it really doesn’t matter. Meanwhile, we would encourage you to contemplate the repercussions of your actions.” He paused, and looked meaningfully at the little round table. On it, beside the silver box, was a small silver-gilt inkwell and a goose-quill pen. “It would probably be best if I dictated the wording of the endorsement,” he said. “These legal formulae have to be exactly right, you know.”
Pleda took out the warrant, leaned forward and got hold of the pen. He wrote the words he was given, resting the parchment rather awkwardly on his knee. “Now sign it, please,” the neat man said. “One of my associates will witness your signature.”
He handed the parchment to the neat man, who glanced at it briefly and gave it to the man on his left, a short, broad-shouldered Imperial. He had his own pen. Then he put the warrant down on the table, as if it no longer mattered.
“And this,” the neat man said, “is yours.”
His left hand rested for a moment on the silver box. Pleda looked at it, but stayed where he was. The neat man waited for a moment or so, then said gently, “You can examine it, if you wish.”
“No thanks,” Pleda said. “I trust you.”
The neat man smiled at the joke. “Well,” he said, “I think that concludes the formal business of the meeting. Now, perhaps you’d care for a cup of tea. Or something stronger, maybe.”
Pleda nodded. “Something a lot stronger, please,” he said.
The man on the neat man’s right laughed. “I think we can manage that,” he said, and clapped his hands. From nowhere, apparently, someone in the same cut of gown appeared; he leaned forward so the Imperial could whisper in his ear. Then he nodded and went away. “Bearing in mind the fact that we’re playing host to possibly the most discerning palate in the East,” the Imperial went on, “I’ve had the cellarer find us something rather special. I’d like your opinion.”
The servant was back again, with a silver tray. On it stood a dusty brown pottery pint bottle, its mouth stopped with beeswax, and four tiny, exquisite horn and silver cups. The servant produced a dear little silver knife, with which he cut and chipped away the wax; then he filled the cups. One each for the men; the lady in the veil wasn’t getting any. Pleda looked down at the overgrown thimble in his hand; an inch of a clear yellow liquid, very slightly paler than urine. “Your very good health,” the Imperial said, and didn’t move.
Well, Pleda thought; and he nibbled a drop of the yellow stuff. It was without doubt the most delicious thing he’d ever put in his mouth, and it kicked like a mule. Oh, and none of the known poisons. “Not bad,” he said, and swilled down the rest of it. There was a brief war in h
is intestines. Like the other war, nobody won, but there was considerable damage.
“Cheers,” the Imperial said; he took a sip, and then the other three followed suit. Pleda smiled and looked pointedly at his empty cup. “Care for another?” the Imperial asked.
“Oh, go on, then,” Pleda said.
The really good stuff, of course, gets better and better the more of it you drink. After the third cup (the others were still on their second) Pleda felt like he was briefly floating on a lake of burning honey, just before going down for the last time. “You know what,” Pleda said. “I wouldn’t mind a barrel of this.”
The Imperial grinned at him. “No doubt,” he said. “Regrettably, that was the last known bottle in existence.”
“Really.”
“Oh yes. It’s a hundred and twenty-five years old.”
“Keeps well, I’ll say that for it.” The Imperial laughed and leaned forward to top up his cup.
“Sort of mead, I’m guessing.”
“Sort of.”
Pleda applied his wealth of technical knowledge, then gave up. “Beats me,” he said. “Basically mead but – well, different.”
“Exactly.”
“Ah well.” He smiled. “Another secret. And I’m not secure.”
“Alas.” The Imperial pulled a sad face. “A lost secret, I’m afraid. A warning to us all, I think. Secrets too closely guarded can die of confinement.” He glanced at the other three, then added, “There’s a difference, of course, between telling a secret and giving a hint.”
Quite suddenly, Pleda was stone cold sober again. He tried his very best not to let it show. “That’s right,” he said. “A little hint never hurt anybody.” He mimed slow, painful thought for a moment. “Tell you what,” he said. “Gamble you for it. If I win, you give me a little hint.”
The Imperial had another quick telepathic conference with his colleagues. “And if we win?”
“Oh, I don’t know. My head on a pike?”
Next to the neat man, on his left, was a big man with red hair and a beard. “We could’ve had that already, if we’d wanted it.”
Pleda shrugged. “That’d have been cheating,” he said. “Difference between fleecing a man at the tables and mugging him in the alleyway outside. Anyhow, it’s all I’ve got. Take it or leave it.”
The Imperial nodded briskly and opened the silver box. Then he hesitated. “I forgot, these don’t belong to us any more. With your permission?”
“Go ahead,” Pleda said.
The Imperial took out the cards and shuffled them. “Let’s make it strictly chance,” he said. “Fairer that way. You cut, then we cut. Highest card wins all. Agreed?”
Pleda waved vaguely. “You’re the doctor.”
The Imperial fanned out the cards. Pleda leaned forward. He knew, better than anyone, how to force a card on somebody. He took his time, and picked from the left-hand edge of the fan. He looked at the card. Eight of Swords. He felt suddenly cold. Oh, he thought.
“No, don’t show me yet,” the Imperial said; then he offered the fan to the veiled woman, who took a card and covered it with her other hand. The Imperial put the cards down carefully on the table and looked at Pleda. “Now,” he said. “You first.”
Pleda turned over his card and held it up. “Ah,” the Imperial said. Then he nodded to the woman, who revealed the Nine of Arrows.
There was a moment of dead silence. Then the Imperial said, “Congratulations.”
I’m a dead man, Pleda thought. “You what?”
“Northern rules,” the Imperial said. “Swords are trumps. You win,” he explained.
Pleda opened his mouth, but no words came. He closed it and tried again. “Oh,” he said.
The Imperial leaned forward and gently pulled the card out of his hand. “So you get your hint,” he said, returning the card to the pack. “Try not to look so sad about it.” He shuffled the pack and laid out nine cards, face upwards. “Well, now,” he said.
Pleda leaned forward. The Hero. The Thief. Poverty. Virtue. The Two of Spears. The Two of Arrows. The Scholar. The Eight of Swords. The Cherry Tree.
“Hint,” the Imperial said.
“Personal,” Pleda said. The Imperial shrugged. “I don’t tell fortunes,” he said.
Now, then. Two of Spears and Two of Arrows back to back had to be the Belot brothers. The Thief was presumably meant to be Musen, though the identification struck him as facile. By the same token, the Scholar had to be Glauca. Eight of Swords; now who could they possibly mean by that?
“Who’s the Cherry Tree?” he said.
The woman drew back her veil. He saw a pale, thin, sharp face with light blue eyes; twenty-seven or -eight, though he was a poor judge of women’s ages. Not pretty, not beautiful, but if she walked into a room it wouldn’t be long before every man there noticed her. “That’s me,” she said. “I’m Lysao Pandocytria.”
Pleda caught his breath. Senza Belot’s Lysao; except she wasn’t, that was the point. He remembered someone using the expression collector’s item, and two things Musen had said: something about wild cards, and it’s what they’ve been collecting us for. He decided he’d changed his mind about what the lodge were planning to do here. Not a fortress or a temple, a museum. “That was your coach outside,” he said, for something to say.
“Yes. I’ve just arrived. I’ll be safe here.”
The Cherry Tree. He wasn’t quite sure he got it, but that was probably because he was being rather slow. He looked at the Imperial. “Does this mean I can’t go home?”
The Imperial smiled at him. “Don’t be silly,” he said. “We trust you. After all, you’re a craftsman. We know what side you’re on.”
Glad somebody does. “I’d better be going, then. Thanks for the hint.”
“I trust everything is now perfectly clear.”
“As mud, thank you. I don’t suppose you’d tell me who the Hero is.”
The Imperial shrugged. “I could tell you his name,” he said, “but it wouldn’t mean anything to you.”
“Shouldn’t the Scholar be reversed?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Well, that was something. He was actually quite fond of Glauca. “What about the Two of Spears?”
The Imperial hesitated, then reached out and turned the Two of Spears face down. “We think,” he added. “If you find out for sure, please let us know.”
Liar, Pleda thought. He collected the cards – they clinked, because his hands were shaking – and put them in the box, and put the box in his pocket. “We must do this again sometime,” he said.
“No,” the Imperial said. “We shouldn’t.”
The big red-headed man stood up and opened the door for him. “Thank you for the game,” he said.
“My pleasure,” Pleda replied, and stood up to go. “Who won, by the way?”
The Imperial beamed at him. “We’re craftsmen,” he said. “We all won. Have a safe journey home.”
Pleda reached out, grabbed the bottle by the neck and walked out quickly. He didn’t look back until he heard the door slam shut. He shook the bottle gently. Empty, of course. He put it down on the ground; as he let go of it, he discovered that his hand wasn’t empty. He turned it palm upwards and opened his fingers. Squashed into his palm was a card, from a cheap, throwaway pack, like the sort soldiers have. It was the Ace of Swords.
He grinned. There is no suit of Swords. He crunched the card into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket.
The Raise
Two days later, Senza Belot won a crushing victory over the main Western army at Cenufrac. The Westerners, under the veteran General Gamda, seem to have had no idea that the Eastern Fifth Army was ahead of them; either that, or they assumed that the Fifth would avoid contact, since they were outnumbered six to one. Accounts of the battle are frustratingly vague and inconclusive; the entire Western staff was wiped out, and therefore no official report of the battle was filed, since there was no one left alive to file it; for reason
s unknown, Senza Belot’s despatches were uncharacteristically terse and elliptical, simply stating when and where the battle took place and the numbers of combatants and casualties. All that is known for certain, therefore, is that the main battle took place on both sides of the Ilden brook, which flows out of the mountains to join the Bosen estuary, that the Westerners fielded over sixty thousand men against Belot’s twelve thousand, and that twenty-seven thousand Western soldiers died there, as against nine hundred Easterners.
One can only speculate as to Senza Belot’s reasons for not leaving a detailed account of one of his most conclusive victories. Anecdotal evidence gathered some time later suggests that he did not regard the battle as particularly interesting from a tactical point of view, or that he was somehow ashamed of the ease and scale of his triumph. One much later account has him in tears on the battlefield, as the dead of both sides were collected up; however, the source is a dubious one, embroidered and romanticised and with an unhappy tendency to adapt facts to fit its explicitly pacifist agenda. The likeliest explanation would seem to be that General Belot, aware that he was operating deep inside enemy territory and that communications with the East might well be intercepted, was reluctant to commit to paper any details that might prove useful to the enemy; later, it is argued, he lacked the time and the motivation to write the battle up, or assumed that someone else would do so. Whatever the reason, it is to be regretted that so little is known about one of the great man’s finest achievements.
It is ironic that what should have been a decisive moment in the war turned out to have little or no lasting effect, coming as it did a few weeks before the mutiny of the Beloisa garrison and their defection to the West. The Western losses at Cenufrac were more than made up for by the unexpected acquisition of thirty-one thousand seasoned Eastern veterans, who were immediately transferred to the Northern theatre to block any advance Senza Belot may have contemplated making in the aftermath of the battle. A smaller army, some nine thousand men, was sent to fortify and hold Beloisa and its dependent territories against the expected Eastern counter-attack; this, however, did not materialise, and the Westerners were able to rebuild and garrison Beloisa at their leisure. They were given the opportunity to do so because Glauca II had quite literally run out of money. He could afford to hold what he still possessed, and maintain Senza Belot and the Fifth Army in the field to discourage aggression from the West, but any kind of offensive operations were, for the time being at least, entirely beyond his means until the hole in his exchequer had been replenished. To achieve this, he was compelled to embark on a programme of retrenchment and austerity, combined with increased taxes and the further sale of crown and government assets, all of which weakened the Eastern economy and severely hampered his ability to wage war. The West, which could reasonably have expected to face an all-out assault in both the Northern and Southern sectors following the defeat at Cenufrac, found that it had been granted an unexpected reprieve. Bearing in mind the crisis that was soon to break, this was undoubtedly just as well.
