by K. J. Parker
“Of your father, I know. Partly just because you can.” She was looking at him with her head just a bit on one side, as though contemplating putting in a bid. “They say you’re a genius.”
“I’m not.”
“No.” It wasn’t what he’d expected. “Or you wouldn’t be here.” She picked at a loose thread on the front of her dress. His mother had done that. “You don’t approve.”
“You know about my father?”
Smile. “Oh yes.”
“My mother—”
“That too. Also,” she added, “you don’t agree with the strong taking advantage of the weak. That’s because your family was poor and got pushed around a lot. That’s understandable. And you have something of an artist’s attitude to beauty. That’s understandable too.”
Calojan grinned. “Does that mean I’ve been let off?”
She shrugged. “Up to you,” she said. “Of course, it doesn’t work if we don’t do it.”
“Excuse me?”
She looked genuinely surprised. “They didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
She burst out laughing, which surprised him. “Ah, right,” she said. “Now, then. Your friends must like you rather more than they’re prepared to admit. You don’t know who I am.”
“No.”
“Actually, I’m nobody, it’s what I can do.” She smiled again. “I’m from Scona,” she said. “Heard of it?”
“No.”
She nodded. “Scona women—some of them—have a special gift. After sex, if everything’s gone all right, they can tell your fortune for you. Really, really accurately. It’s not just a myth,” she added, “it’s true. Trust me.”
Calojan felt awkward. “I’m not sure I really believe in fortune-telling,” he said. “No offence.”
“Until three centuries ago, nobody believed in camels. They were wrong.” She teased a tangle out of her hair without looking. She smelt of sweat and peaches. “Entirely up to you, I don’t mind one way or the other. That said, I’m mildly curious. They do say all sorts of good things about you, how clever you are, what you’re going to achieve one day. If we don’t do it, I won’t know. But—” She shrugged again. “It’s no big deal.”
Calojan leaned back a little in the chair. She had a slight bruise on one wrist, two or three days old. “Can you do the fortune-telling without, you know—”
She gave him a sour look. “In exceptional cases,” she said drily, “it’s possible to get a reading just from a kiss. But it’d make it very difficult for me.”
“Sorry,” Calojan said. “Only, I’ve hurt my back, you see.”
“Of course you have.”
Something about the way she said that—annoyed but forgiving, perhaps—made him want to kiss her after all. “Go on,” he said. “Let’s give it a try. You wouldn’t mind an evening off, would you?”
“I’d love it,” she replied. “But I’ve got my reputation to think of. If I can’t prophesy for the famous Calojan, people will think I’m a fraud.”
“You could make something up.”
“I don’t do that.” She said it so savagely he apologised. She shook her head. “It’s all right,” she said. “You don’t believe in fortune-telling. You think it’s just a gimmick, so I get more tricks.”
“Yes,” Calojan said. “But I’m open minded.”
That made her laugh; still laughing, she stood up, walked to the chair, bent down and kissed him. For a moment he forgot about the whole situation; then she broke off, walked back to the bed and sat down. When she lifted her head and looked at him, her face was dead-white. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“What? Oh, I’m fine.”
“Well?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I haven’t been entirely straight with you. Lieutenant Atzel—he’s a regular of mine—promised me three tremisses if I got a reading out of you. He wants to know if you’re going to be a famous general. If so, he intends to be your best friend.”
Calojan wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “I see,” he said. “So, what will you tell him?”
She brushed the hair away from her face. There were lines under her eyes he hadn’t noticed before. “Up to you,” she said. “I could tell him you’ll never be anything special, you’ll start off well but make a bad mistake in about six years’ time, and then it’ll be very bad for anyone who’s close to you.”
“Right,” Calojan said, and his throat was curiously dry. “Is that true?”
“No.”
“I thought you said—”
“I don’t tell lies to the people I read for,” she said calmly. “Atzel’s a shit, I don’t give a damn about him.”
“All right,” Calojan said. “What did you see?”
She took a moment to reply. “You won’t become emperor,” she said, “but that’ll be your choice. You will rule the empire, but on behalf of someone else. You’ll win all your battles except one, and you’ll save the empire from being exterminated nine times. You’ll always try and do the right thing, you’ll mostly succeed, but in the end your actions will turn out badly, and you’ll end up a bitter, disappointed man. You’ll do a great deal of good, but on balance it would’ve been better for everyone if you’d never been born.” She paused for breath, then said, “That’s about all I can tell you. I’m sorry.”
It was a while before Calojan could speak. Then he said, “I bet you say that to all the junior officers.”
She didn’t smile. “Of course I do. That’s what they pay me for.”
“I don’t want to be emperor,” he said, suddenly and with a degree of fury that surprised him. “I don’t even want to be a general. I just want to be given a fort or an outpost somewhere, where there’s nobody to order me about and I can do some painting.”
His hand was in his pocket, identifying coins by the thickness of their rims. He found four silver tremisses; two months’ pay, and he owed two tremisses thirty for mess bills and lodgings. “Thank you,” he said, and looked for somewhere to put the coins down. “I don’t believe in prophesy, but thanks all the same.”
“Keep your money,” she said, and he realised he’d offended her. “You pay Anticyra on the desk one tremissis thirty when you leave. Tipping is not encouraged.”
There was nowhere except the floor, so he put three coins down by his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to sound rude. I’d better go.”
“Wouldn’t if I were you,” she said coldly. “They’ll be expecting you to be another half hour at least. That’s the sort of thing they’ll make jokes about until you’re sixty.”
He hadn’t thought of that. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “I’m not used to people trying to help me. It makes me uncomfortable.”
She shrugged. “No hard feelings,” she said. “You don’t believe in fortune-telling. It’s not something you can choose to do.” She sighed, then said abruptly, “Do you play chess?”
“What?”
“Well, of course you do, you’re a master tactician. We’ve got half an hour. Would you like a game?”
She had one of those travelling chess sets that packs away into a small box, which unfolds so that the base becomes the board. The pieces were ebony and walrus ivory. It was quite valuable. He didn’t ask where she’d got it from. They played four games; lost, drawn, won, lost. It was the first time he’d been beaten against his will for several years. “Don’t tell me,” he growled, as he pushed over his king with his fingertip at the end of the fourth game. “You can predict what moves I’m about to make.”
She laughed. “You look at the pieces you’re interested in,” she replied. “You want to be careful about that.”
“Thank you, I’ll remember that.” He hesitated, then stood up. “I enjoyed the games.”
“You were trying too hard,” she said. “Good luck, Calojan.” Suddenly she gave him a beautiful smile, which took him completely off guard. “I’d make you promise to remember me when
you’re ruling the empire and send me a cartload of gold, but you won’t be able to.”
“What, remember?”
“Send a cart to Permia,” she replied. “Goodbye.”
He never found out what she told Atzel, but from then on, all the other subalterns treated him with a sort of terrified respect, which irritated Colonel Ortheric so much that he got him a transfer. A double-jump promotion went with it, so he didn’t mind.
Fourteen years later, at the height of the Second Sashan War, when Calojan replaced Ortheric as commander of the Nineteenth Army, he went to see him in the guardhouse cells at Edista, the night before his court-martial.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t think I can get you out of this one.”
Ortheric had got old; also, he’d lost a hand and an eye at the siege of Chastel Rosc. He looked away, then said, “You could, you know. You’re the officer commanding the last viable army in the empire. You can do anything you damn well want.”
“I’m sorry,” Calojan repeated. “Is there anything I can get you?”
Ortheric shook his head. “You know what they’ll do to me,” he said. “They’ll put out my good eye and pack me off to a monastery in the Feralia. I’ll be dead in six months.” He looked up. “I got you your first command,” he said. “Or had you forgotten?”
“Only because you couldn’t stand the sight of me.”
Ortheric shrugged. “Does the motive really matter all that much? Yes,” he added, “I guess it does. Get me a copy of the Seven-Chambered House, would you? I’d like to read it again, while I still can.”
Calojan reached inside his coat. “Funny you should mention that,” he said.
He stood up to go. Ortheric opened the book, then put it down. “You remember what the whore said.”
The noun made him wince, for some reason. “Vaguely.”
“You’ll rule the empire, and win all your battles except one. So far, it’s looking good.”
“I’ve fought six battles,” Calojan replied. “And we’re this close to losing the war. Hardly conclusive.”
“Promise me,” Ortheric said. “When you’re in charge, if I’m still alive, get me out of there. I hate monks and I hate religious music. All right?”
“Sorry,” Calojan said. “I don’t believe in prophesy.”
He never saw Ortheric again. In the early hours of the following morning, as a result of a shameful lapse in security, someone managed to get past the guards and spirit the old man away. He was last heard of in the Vesani Republic, lecturing on strategic theory at a low-grade military crammer. The date of his death is not recorded; his will, however, was proved in the Vesani probate court on the same day that Calojan won his first major victory in the Sashan war. He named Calojan as his sole heir. There were a few clothes and trivial household goods, a rather fine sword (which was confiscated and destroyed by the Vesani authorities) and forty silver tremisses cash; the only valuable item was a comprehensive collection of the works of Roumain Dragash, the foremost erotic and pornographic artist of the post-Mannerist era, whose other claim to fame was that he was Calojan’s father.
There was a certain amount of trouble about the bequest. For one thing, the estate was insolvent, which meant that the paintings and books had theoretically to be sold at auction; but that wasn’t possible because of the Vesani obscenity laws, which required that such material be destroyed unless it exhibited genuine artistic content, in which case it was forfeited to the librarian of the Immaculate Hope temple. A little diplomatic activity solved the problem; Calojan discharged Ortheric’s debts, and the librarian, on behalf of the Senate of the Republic, made a gift of the artwork to the Chancellor of the Studium, who sold it to Calojan for a nominal sum.
They caught the Emperor trying to sneak out of the Crescent harbour on a fishing boat. Immediately, Admiral Sechimer gave orders for the boom to be lowered, sealing the harbour mouth. Then he ran down to the quay, where his galley stood ready, as always. He grabbed the captain by the shoulder, turned him around and pointed at the little blue sail in the middle of the harbour. “Quick as you can,” he said.
Calojan arrived, out of breath, just as the galley was about to cast off. A dragoon sergeant helped him aboard. “Well?” Calojan snapped. “Is it him?”
“Looks like it,” Sechimer said quietly.
The galley was the fastest ship in the world, and quite possibly the most manoeuvrable. The fishing boat tried to wobble out of the way, but the wash from the galley’s three banks of oars stopped it dead in the water. They caught it with grappling hooks and dragged it alongside with the main winch. There were two men in the boat. One was the fisherman. The harbour master happened to be on board the galley, caught out by its unscheduled departure. “I know him,” he said.
Sechimer frowned. “Let him go.”
They put him back in his boat and released the hooks. The other man was a giant; nearly seven feet tall and ridiculously broad and fat; next to him, even the magnificent Sechimer looked small and oddly irrelevant. He had red hair down to his shoulders, a flat red face with a white scar just below his left eye. He was missing two front teeth.
“That’s him,” the captain of the guard said, but they knew that already.
Two sergeants were holding his arms behind his back. “Get him a chair,” Sechimer said. “After all, he’s the emperor.”
It took a while; the nearest chair was in Sechimer’s cabin, two decks down. They got the emperor into it by treading on the backs of his knees. “Watch him,” the captain of the guard said, superfluously. They tied his arms tight behind his back. Fifteen marines stood around him in a three-quarter circle, arms linked.
“Hello, Hodda,” Sechimer said. “That’s your real name, isn’t it?”
The emperor grinned at him. “Done your homework,” he said.
Sechimer nodded. “Hodda son of Matto,” he said. “Your father was a wheelwright.”
“That’s right,” Hodda said. “Skilled man. Politician, wasn’t he, your dad?”
Sechimer didn’t flinch, bless him. Calojan had been there when Sechimer got the news of what the emperor had done to Sechimer’s father. He couldn’t help glancing at Sechimer’s face, which didn’t move.
“That reminds me,” Hodda said. “Got something for you. On a string, round my neck.”
Calojan could see Sechimer hesitate, just for a moment; as though whatever it was could defeat him, even now. Then he nodded. A guard pulled up the lapels of Hodda’s shirt, found the string and lifted it carefully up over the neck and the torrent of hair.
Oh God, Calojan thought. The guard handed the thing to his captain, who stood holding it, not knowing what to do with it.
“Well?” Hodda said. “Don’t you want it?”
“Get rid of it,” Sechimer said quietly.
Calojan looked at it, before the captain threw it over the side into the sea. A small, shrivelled thing, the stub of a human finger; the famous sixth finger, from Sechimer’s father’s left hand.
“They told me it’d bring me luck,” Hodda said. “Ah well.”
Calojan watched Sechimer keep control of himself. It was an impressive sight. “Just the one question,” he said. He was looking directly into Hodda’s eyes, as if nothing else existed. “Are you proud of the way you’ve run the empire?”
Hodda laughed. “Trick question,” he said.
“I’ll answer it for you,” Sechimer said. “You achieved the throne by mutiny and murder.”
“Yes.” Hodda nodded. “The old emperor was a lunatic. They kept him in a cage. He bit people.”
Sechimer shrugged, conceding the point. “You broke your oath.”
“Sure.” Hodda smiled at him. “I worked my way up from the ranks, I was a damn good soldier. The old man was a joke. If it hadn’t been me it’d have been someone else. Some toff. Someone like you, probably.”
“Indeed,” Sechimer said. “But when you took the throne, we had a six billion surplus in the Treasury, the provinces were lo
yal and we were at peace with the Sashan. Now we’re bankrupt, Scheria and Permia have broken away and they tell me you can see the Sashan camp from the top of the Winter Temple tower. Your fault, Hodda.”
“Maybe.” Hodda was matching him stare for stare. “But all that was coming anyway, you know that. Let’s face it, you’re no different. Only difference between us is, he went to work for you.”
Calojan felt a slight shiver as the emperor’s head nodded in his direction. “Not really,” he heard himself saying. “Why I chose him instead of you, that’s the difference.”
Hodda ignored him. Well, he would. “You got lucky,” he went on. “You got the military genius there, I didn’t. Just luck. Otherwise, we’re the same.”
“You executed something in the order of nine hundred people, including half the Senate.”
“Had to,” Hodda said. “Political. It’s a nasty business. I expect you’ll do the same.”
“You murdered my father,” Sechimer said.
“Yes,” Hodda replied. “Didn’t I just.”
Sechimer looked away. “That’s enough,” he said. “Did anyone think to bring an axe?”
Apparently not. “Fine,” Sechimer said. His hand moved to his belt, but there was no sword there. “Captain.”
The captain of the guard was wearing a yatagan; short, wide blade, concave edge with a convex flick at the end, like a flattened S. The sight of it made Hodda go pale. They untied his hands, pushed him down the deck; a soldier planted a boot between his shoulder blades. “We need something for a block,” the captain said, looking round. “That’ll do.”
They fetched one of those wooden things the ropes go through; what’s the proper word, Calojan tried to remember. Block, as in block and tackle. Coincidence. They dragged Hodda’s head up by the back hair and tucked the wooden thing under his chin.
“Please.” Hodda sounded terrified. “My hair.”
Sechimer frowned, then laughed. “Sorry, I forgot. He’s a Ruddite.” The captain looked at him. “It’s his religion,” Sechimer explained. “They think, if you cut their hair, you damage the soul.” He smiled. “Can’t have that, can we? Captain.”
