by K. J. Parker
Oida grinned weakly. “They do say, an eye for an eye. But I’m not sure it’s meant to be taken literally.” He put the box in the pocket of the robe. “Congratulations,” he said.
“Likewise.”
For the first time, she found she couldn’t talk to him. Always it had been so easy; talking to him came as fluently and naturally as thinking, or breathing. Now, she had no idea what to say, and neither, it seemed, did he. Oida, lost for words? It really did have to be the end of the world.
“What are you doing here?” she said, and it came out all wrong. “Shouldn’t you be in Blemya?”
He sighed. “Properly speaking, yes.”
“Properly speaking? What does that mean?”
She hadn’t told him he could sit down, and he was still standing. “The chamberlain tells me that the official honeymoon for a king or queen of Blemya is precisely six weeks, followed by a series of receptions to allow the nobles and senior government officials a chance to offer their formal good wishes, followed by an extended tour of the provinces. But she’d got to the stage where she couldn’t stand the sight of me, and I was itching to get away and not making a very good job of hiding it. She said, go, for crying out loud. So I went.”
“Really. That doesn’t augur well.”
Oida laughed. “Actually, we were both amazed we stuck it out for as long as we did. She was desperate to get back together again with Daxen – you remember him – and I—” He shrugged awkwardly. “Well, I wanted to be here, obviously.”
“Obviously? What’s obvious about it?”
He gave her his puzzled look. “Maybe you don’t know the situation with her and me.”
“Clearly not. Is there one?”
“But didn’t Procopius tell you? He must’ve done.”
“He didn’t say anything about it.” Not strictly true. He’d told her that she’d got her promotion to Triumvir because Oida had insisted, thereby spoiling the whole thing. “What didn’t he tell me?”
“The deal,” Oida said. “Between him and me. And the Blemyans, of course. Oh, come on, he must’ve told you. Otherwise—”
“Told me what, for crying out loud?”
Oida looked round, identified a chair, dragged it across the floor and sat on it. And why not? He was, after all, the emperor. “This marriage,” he said. “Strictly and totally political.”
“To get Blemya back into the empire. Yes, I’d figured that for myself.”
“Political, and that’s all.” He laid a lot of stress on the last word. “She’s madly in love with Daxen, I’m – well, you know about me. Strictly political. We haven’t – well, if that’s what you were thinking.”
She frowned. “What about an heir? Your first duty to the empire, surely.”
That got her a scowl. “Let’s say Daxen’s standing in for me on that one. We both insisted; actually, it was bloody comical. Both of us, in the same room, saying not under any circumstances, not if the fate of the known world depended on it. No, the next emperor won’t have a drop of the true Imperial blood in his veins. Which is a damn good thing, if you believe in heredity.”
She looked at him. He’d turned scarlet, and she wanted to laugh. “Why not, for pity’s sake? I didn’t get a close look at her, but I got the impression she’s not exactly hideous.”
“Oh, come on,” he said angrily. “You know perfectly well.”
She took a deep breath, then let it go. “You’re assuming rather a lot, aren’t you?”
“Am I?”
So here we are, she thought; the point at which only a simple yes or no will do. Like faith; do you believe or don’t you? A question you answer either in a split second or not at all. “What the hell,” she said irritably, “do you see in me? I’ve always wondered, and for the life of me I can’t guess. Is it just that I’m the only one you could never have? Is that it? The born collector’s desperate frustration at missing out on the complete set?”
He just looked at her. I deserved that, she thought. Very well. Here goes nothing.
“I could forgive you,” she said, “for lying to me all those times. I could handle that, it’s what I’d come to expect, and I always knew it was for the Lodge. I’d probably have done the same, in your shoes. But what I can’t forgive is you twisting Procopius’ arm to get me promoted. Do you realise what you’ve done? You made everything I ever managed to achieve worthless. That wasn’t just thoughtless. It shows what you really think of me.”
He nodded slowly. “I realise that now,” he said. “That’s why I wanted you to chuck it all and go to Aelia with me.” He hesitated, watching her like a fencer. “That offer still stands, by the way. God knows if we’d be able to get away with it, but I’m game if you are.”
That was more than flesh and blood could stand. It was a lie, of course, a bluff, a brilliant counter-move, worthy of the Belot boys at their very best. She gave in, and burst out laughing.
“You clown,” she said.
He shrugged. “I don’t know what’s so funny,” he said.
At which point, something clicked into place; the brake, bringing the mighty, racing machine of her train of thought grinding to a sudden, catastrophic halt. He’d meant it, for God’s sake. He’d actually meant it. No bluff. What a general he could have made, she thought. How could you beat someone who’s prepared to throw away everything, just to win?
“You’re serious.”
“Of course I am. We’d have to change our names, obviously, and make ourselves very, very hard to find. But it could be done, if that’s what you want.”
“What about you? Is that what you want?”
“You know perfectly well what I want.”
And for a split second the thought did cross her mind; to escape, to be free, just the two of them. Hadn’t they earned it, for God’s sake? But she let it go, and the tiny moment when it might have been possible was over and gone for ever.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Emperors don’t just sneak out the bathroom window and disappear. Besides, what makes you think I’d want to? Give up everything, just to be with you? Nothing to do all day but sit around the house or go for a picnic in the woods? I’d die of boredom in a fortnight.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Well?”
Faith, hope and love; no rational debate, no careful weighing of the evidence, balancing the merits, persuasion, not even a supreme effort of will. No options, no choice. They catch you unaware, like sleep, and won’t let you go till they’re ready. “You do realise it’s hopelessly impractical? You’ll be off presiding at ceremonies all day, and I have all this bloody work to do. We’ll be lucky if we get five minutes a week.”
He closed his eyes, and opened them again. “Five minutes will be fine,” he said.
She looked for it everywhere, in every enclosed space in every room in the palace. Eventually, when she’d given up all hope, there it suddenly was, the familiar box with the forced lock, hidden under a pile of Procopius’ shirts in a linen press. She took it and opened it, unwrapped the faded silk, laid the tarnished plates out one by one on the writing slope under the window. Five suits. She’d made enquiries. All the scholars who could tell if it was genuine were dead now. There was no way of knowing for sure.
All through our lives, there are witnesses – parents, family, friends, people we work with, people we love and who love us, people who hate us and we hate. One by one they die, until the world seems empty, and eventually there are no independent witnesses to testify to our crimes and our achievements. Only we remember them, there’s nobody to contradict our version. If we want it to be, it can be the truth.
She picked the cards up one by one, and put them back again, in neat rows, like soldiers. No witnesses needed, no evidence, no facts. It was the first pack, because she knew it was.
She closed her eyes and chose one at random. Two of Swords. There is no Two of Swords in an honest pack.
He’d been away for a week, dedicating some br
idge in the Mesoge. Come to think of it, she’d ordered it to be built. It would cut two weeks off a carter’s round trip; wool and butter going down the mountain, grain and manufactured goods going up. It would bring life, like a drop of water falling on dust. And he’d be home today. She wondered what present he’d bring her this time.
extras
Meet the author
K. J. Parker is the pseudonym of Tom Holt, a full-time writer living in the southwest of England. When not writing, Holt is a barely competent stockman, carpenter and metalworker, a two-left-footed fencer, an accomplished textile worker and a crack shot. He is married to a professional cake decorator and has one daughter.
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About Orbit Short Fiction
Orbit Short Fiction presents digital editions of new stories from some of the most critically acclaimed and popular authors writing science fiction and fantasy today.
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BY K. J. PARKER
The Fencer trilogy
Colours in the Steel
The Belly of the Bow
The Proof House
The Scavenger trilogy
Shadow
Pattern
Memory
The Engineer trilogy
Devices and Desires
Evil for Evil
The Escapement
The Company
The Folding Knife
The Hammer
Sharps
The Two of Swords: Volume One
The Two of Swords: Volume Two
The Two of Swords: Volume Three
The Two of Swords (e-novellas)
BY TOM HOLT
Expecting Someone Taller
Who’s Afraid of Beowulf?
Flying Dutch
Ye Gods!
Overtime
Here Comes the Sun
Grailblazers
Faust Among Equals
Odds and Gods
Djinn Rummy
My Hero
Paint Your Dragon
Open Sesame
Wish You Were Here
Only Human
Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Valhalla
Nothing But Blue Skies
Falling Sideways
Little People
The Portable Door
In Your Dreams
Earth, Air, Fire and Custard
You Don’t Have to be Evil to Work Here, But It Helps
Someone Like Me
Barking
The Better Mousetrap
May Contain Traces of Magic
Blonde Bombshell
Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Sausages
Doughnut
When It’s A Jar
The Outsorcerer’s Apprentice
The Good, the Bad and the Smug
The Management Style of the Supreme Beings
Dead Funny: Omnibus 1
Mightier Than the Sword: Omnibus 2
The Divine Comedies: Omnibus 3
For Two Nights Only: Omnibus 4
Tall Stories: Omnibus 5
Saints and Sinners: Omnibus 6
Fishy Wishes: Omnibus 7
The Walled Orchard
Alexander at the World’s End
Olympiad
A Song for Nero
Meadowland
I, Margaret
Lucia Triumphant
Lucia in Wartime
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