by K. J. Parker
The captain nodded to a sergeant, who knelt down and gathered Hodda’s hair, twisted it around his hands and pulled back, exposing the nape of the neck. He looked up at Sechimer.
“That’s fine,” Sechimer said.
The other sergeant bent his knees and swung the yatagan in a fine circular flourish. As he brought it down, Hodda arched his back and jerked his whole body backwards, dragging the arms of the sergeant under the sword’s edge. The sergeant screamed and let go. Hodda back-somersaulted, landed on his hands, did a handstand and a cartwheel across the deck and flopped over the rail like a fish. At the last moment, a guard grabbed his ankle; he was pulled forward but managed to brace himself against the rail and cling on. “For crying out loud,” Sechimer yelled. Two more guards reached the rail, grabbed Hodda’s trouser leg in handfuls and hauled him back onto the deck. He was thrashing and wriggling like an eel, and bellowing. Two guards had to sit on his chest.
“Look after that man, for God’s sake,” Sechimer said. They lifted up the sergeant and twisted their scarves tight round his wrists; he was streaming blood and crying. They bundled him to the hatch and down below deck. Hodda was still struggling, moving the men sitting on him. Sechimer was looking away, the scene too revolting for words. It occurred to Calojan that he was the senior military officer present, and so it was probably up to him to deal with it. “Cut his throat,” he said. “Go on, do it.”
“Sir.”
Wrong. Never give an order you know they aren’t able to obey. Hodda was twisting and writhing so much, you wouldn’t dare introduce a sharp instrument for fear of getting cut with it yourself, or carving up one of your own people. Hands and arms everywhere, grappling and grabbing, legs kicking, a mess and out of control. Can’t have that. Calojan walked over, located Hodda’s head in the jumble, waited for the moment and kicked it hard. No effect. He did it again. Hodda went limp; the tangle collapsed around him. A sergeant put his left hand on Hodda’s neck, feeling for the jugular vein, pressed down hard with his palm like a butcher jointing ribs, drew his short knife with his right hand and made a slow, careful slice. Blood hit him square in the face and he flinched out of the way. Job done.
Calojan looked across at Sechimer. “What should we—?”
“Get rid of it,” Sechimer said quietly. Calojan had forgotten for the moment. Sechimer wasn’t good with the sight of blood.
“Is he dead?” Calojan asked the sergeant.
“Yes, sir.”
Calojan looked for himself, to make sure. Quite dead. The eyes and mouth were open, empty, ownerless. Nobody home. He gestured with his head. It took five of them to drag the body up and over the rail, and there was a loud splash, almost comic.
Job done.
Slowly and deliberately, Sechimer sat down on a coil of rope and slumped forward, weight on his elbows, head lolling. It suddenly occurred to Calojan that this was as far as he’d planned; that in his mind he’d reached the end. Not good at all. He walked over, trying to be quiet, waited for a few moments. Sechimer didn’t move.
“Well,” Calojan said quietly. “I suppose you’re the emperor.”
Sechimer lifted his head. He looked exhausted. “What?”
“I said, you’re the emperor now. Aren’t you?”
“I suppose I must be.”
“You don’t sound exactly thrilled.”
“I’m not.”
Fair enough, Calojan thought. Who in his right mind would be? The empire was in ruins, one battle away from being exterminated by the Sashan. The new emperor could reasonably expect a reign of about a month, and then the end of a thousand years of glorious history would for ever be his fault. Not a job you’d choose, given the choice. He tried to think of something to say.
“Well,” he said. “At least we’ve got rid of him.”
Sechimer smiled painfully. “You mean,” he said, “I just murdered my predecessor. Just like he did.”
“I wouldn’t call it murder,” Calojan said mildly.
Sechimer sighed wearily. “He was unarmed, so it wasn’t a fair fight,” he said. “And there wasn’t a trial, so it wasn’t due process. And you couldn’t call that shambles a formal execution. I guess assassination sounds marginally better than plain ordinary murder, but it amounts to the same thing.”
“He had to go.”
“So did Gendomer.” Sechimer stood up, straightened his back, like an old man in the middle of a day’s haymaking. “Not that it matters particularly. All we’ve done is save the Great King a job. Don’t suppose he’ll thank us for it.”
Long live Sechimer the First, Calojan thought; though right now he doesn’t look like he’ll last five minutes.
“I suppose we’d better get back to the palace,” Sechimer said. “It’s going to be a long day.”
Look at him, Calojan thought. Twenty-nine years old, the most handsome man on the continent, and now emperor. He’d seen happier refugees in the camps. “The staff meeting,” Calojan reminded him.
“What? Oh God, I’d forgotten all about it. Yes, straight away, that’s far more important.” He looked round for the captain, gave orders. “You know what I’m like,” he said with a grin. “Any little thing distracts me.”
The staff meeting first; then, presumably, some sort of coronation—except that nobody seemed to know where Hodda had hidden the triple crown, the lorus and the divitision, sacred regalia without which no legitimate coronation could take place. So Calojan sent a couple of his best men down to the theatre, where they had a big wicker hamper stuffed with crowns, loroi and divitisia, impeccably authentic in every detail. They smelt strongly of damp and the lives and deaths of mice. Fortunately, during the coronation ceremony, only the Patriarch and the three archdeacons stand close enough to the throne to notice, and the archdeacons carry thuribles of steaming incense, and the Patriarch happened to have a heavy cold.
(They did, however, find Hodda’s will. Most of it was irrelevant, since both his sons and one of his three brothers had been killed in the civil war (the other two had died fighting the Sashan), and the bequests to his loyal supporters obviously couldn’t be allowed on political grounds. That left a few minor gifts of personal property to palace servants—shoes to a valet, bedlinen to a chambermaid (appropriate and well-earned, by all accounts), a ceremonial sword and helmet to his batman, seventy angels and a pair of silk slippers to his barber and so on. Also one item which, for some reason, nobody thought to query; to general Calojan, the contents of my sandalwood book box, to be found in my bedchamber; with all due respect.
Calojan had a pretty good idea what it would be, and he was right; an almost complete set of his father’s major works, impressively bound in brown calf, the collectors’ edition, together with some of the lesser works, including some rarities, which he kept. The rest he donated to the widows-and-orphans fund, with strict and sincere instructions about anonymity.)
“It doesn’t seem to be moving,” Guaritz said.
The head of the faculty of rhetoric wasn’t in the habit of visiting the Chastity & Forbearance; a pity, because he’d have recognised Guaritz’ last remark as a perfect example of the Self-Evident Observation Best Left Unmade, as outlined in Demodocus’ Interlocutories, XIV, 27c. Although his attention was focussed firmly on the ring in the centre of the room, Aimeric couldn’t help congratulating himself on remembering the reference. After all, only yesterday the Junior Tutor had hinted quite strongly that it would be coming up in the exam.
“Quiet, for pity’s sake,” Dargoin hissed.
Dead silence is the required protocol for watching the Grand Lesser Herpetilude (that’s lizard-fighting to you and me). Any sort of noise from the spectators is likely to send the combatants into a mild form of shock, leading them to freeze solid and sit completely still for up to an hour. Since they were both already doing that, however, the magnitude of the offence was slightly diminished. Even so.
The long periods of dead quiet inactivity are, of course, an integral part of the lizard-fighting expe
rience. They serve to ratchet up the tension, already considerable when a Town reigning champion is fighting a University challenger in the finals of the Hilary Tournament. Aimeric, whose interest in the proceedings was primarily financial rather than sporting or aesthetic, just wanted them to get on with it, but he was sensitive enough to appreciate the unique atmosphere. On what other occasion, after all, would you find the main room of the Chastity packed with equal numbers of Golden Spire students and junior members of the Coppersmiths’ Guild, both sides quite adequately armed within the letter of the law, and sitting perfectly still and quiet on their respective sides of the hall? To a man who had some time ago resolved to devote his life to the abolition of war and the peaceful resolution of all conflict, it was an eloquent paradigm of what could be, if only—
In the ring, something moved, very fast.
The Coppersmiths’ Big Old Sandy was a six-year-old marsh skink, a huge creature (four pounds, two ounces) who had won three successive Hilaries through sheer bulk and neck-muscle power. The students’ White Death of the Vesani was a rare and valuable imported Desert Muiraptor; small and slight, but devilish quick and equipped with three superimposed rows of ridiculously sharp herringbone teeth. In the previous round it had dealt with the Watermen’s Blue Glory by ripping its throat out in a single pass, and so far in the tournament hadn’t suffered more than a few trivial scratches. All that, however, had just changed. Guaritz was groaning, Dargoin looked completely stunned. Aimeric’s expression didn’t change, but in his heart he was deeply troubled. All that was visible of the White Death was its hind legs and tail, still twitching feebly, sticking out of the skink’s monstrously swollen mouth.
“Politically,” Aimeric pointed out, as they trooped sadly back into the tap room, “it was a good result. If we’d won, they’d have been furious, and there’d almost certainly have been a fight, which, on past form—”
“There may still be one,” Dargoin muttered darkly. “No way was that match honest. I think they must’ve given it something.”
Guaritz looked at him. “Ours or theirs?”
Dargoin shrugged. “I don’t know. Both, probably. I say we wait outside and give them a good smacking on their way out. They’ll be so pissed they won’t be any bother. For the honour of the university, you understand.”
Aimeric sighed. “If you care to stand outside in the rain for two hours, you go ahead. I’ll bring you out a beer if you give me the money.”
Guaritz frowned. “I thought it was your—”
“Yes,” Aimeric said. “But my entire hospitality budget for the rest of the month just got eaten by a sort of green sluggy thing with tiny little legs. Accordingly, I’m forced to depend on the charity of my dear friends.”
Dargoin winced. “For crying out loud, Aimeric—”
“Well, don’t blame me. You told me it couldn’t lose.”
Dargoin sighed, and felt in his pocket. The immutable rule was that all drinks consumed on Hilary finals night were paid for by the losing team’s supporters. Given the legendary thirst of the junior Coppersmiths, that was liable to run into serious money.
“You’ll have to write home,” Guaritz said grimly.
“Can’t,” Aimeric replied with feeling, “not three times in one term. That’d be diplomatically inappropriate.”
“Your old man’s loaded,” Guaritz pointed out. “Especially—”
“Yes, thank you.” Dangerously close to his least favourite topic. He raised his voice just a little; it came out louder, but higher and sharper. “But there are limits, even to such a morally laudable course as diminishing my loathsome father’s obscene wealth. In fact, I rather think I exceeded them the last time. That was the impression I got from his letter, anyway.”
“Hell,” Dargoin said simply. “In that case, we’re definitely going to beat up at least one Coppersmith before we go home tonight.” He paused, and considered his beer. “A small one, naturally.”
Aimeric decided he hadn’t heard that. “Apparently,” he said, “in Merpelleuse they fight rats instead of lizards, which makes much more sense to me. I mean, you can train a rat, to a certain extent. You’d be dealing with more of a known quantity.”
“Pity you didn’t go there, then.” Aimeric winced slightly. He hadn’t noticed Jauvaiz slipping in quietly on his blind side. “Oh, no, wait, I’m sorry, I forgot. If you’d gone to a university in your own country, you wouldn’t have been able to dodge the draft.”
“Indeed.” He turned his head a little and gave Jauvaiz a friendly smile. “Here, do join us. There’s an empty seat, look.”
“No, thanks. Call me picky, but—” Jauvais grinned and walked away. Guaritz frowned. “I don’t know why he does that.”
“What?”
“Pick on you like that.”
Aimeric shrugged. “Helps pass the time, I guess.”
“Next time,” Dargoin said, “you ought to smash his face in.”
“That would be violence,” Aimeric pointed out. “Which I don’t do, remember. If I did, I wouldn’t have had to dodge the draft. I’d be in Merpelleuse, making a fortune betting on rats.”
Dargoin seemed to have forgotten about beating up coppersmiths, for the time being at least, but Aimeric decided it’d be a good time to withdraw. Quite apart from the military-political situation, he didn’t really want to drink tonight; he was presenting an argument in front of the Junior Tutor in the morning, and he’d need a clear head if he wanted to make any sort of showing in his Disputation. Announcing his departure would lead to further comments about his inability to pay his share of the bar tab; much better to wander off for a piss and not come back. He counted to twenty, then got up and headed for the door.
Outside, a knot of Junior Coppersmiths were leaning against a wall, passing round a big brown jug of moonshine. They looked at him, decided against it and ignored him. Splendid. That was the one good thing about being six foot seven and broad as an ox. It’s so much easier being a pacifist when it’s obvious you can pick people up in one hand and throw them across the street.
Forty-seven angels, abruptly snuffed out by a lizard. So much for gambling as a profession. The thought of them, no longer his, now the property of a bunch of semi-literate apprentices (but not for long; they’d blow the lot in the Chastity and the brothel inside of a week) made him feel horribly depressed; so, since he was passing the door of the Moderation, he decided to award himself just one drink, to be paid for out of the education and arts budget. After all, he wouldn’t be able to concentrate on his work if he was dead miserable.
One drink led to three; the third drink inspired him to challenge a couple of first years from Constitution Hall to a game of blind man’s donkey; an easy victory netted him nine angels sixty, enough to drink on through to mid-term if he was careful. The moral; gamble on your own abilities, not those of expensive foreign reptiles. He went back to College, and found two of the proctors’ men waiting outside his door.
Bloody Dargoin and his insensate love of violence; presumably he’d had his fight after all, and something bad had happened. Mercifully, he had the two Constitution Hall suckers for an alibi, except that he’d neglected to find out their names. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, as calmly as he could manage. “Something I can do for you?”
They had that awkward look, and he was suddenly very scared. “The Dean would like a word, please, sir.”
Not good. The proctor, not the Dean, dealt with all breaches of discipline, up to and including murder. “If it’s about the Hilary match—”
“Nothing like that, sir. If you wouldn’t mind.”
The old saying; it’s when they’re polite that you really need to worry. “Can’t it wait?”
“Not really, sir.”
Ah, he thought, so I was right. Somebody’s died, at home. And then, the words slipping into his mind before he could stop them, hope to God it’s dad, not mother or Gesel. Too late. Immediately, he pictured his father; lie to other people, son, but not to you
rself.
“Are you all right, sir?”
“Fine.” He’d barked the word out like a drill-sergeant. “Sorry,” he added. “Maybe just a drop too much at the Moderation on the way home. You know how it is.”
“Yes, sir. If you’re ready.”
There were, he told himself as he proceeded behind his escort across Middle Yard, other possibilities. The Vesani Republic has formed an alliance with the Sashan, and I’m to be interned as an enemy alien. They’re so impressed with my last dissertation that they’re going to offer me the chair of Formal Logic. The Dean’s wife is hopelessly in love with me, and the Dean’s been unexpectedly called away to a full ecumenical council. Loads of other reasons why I’ve been hauled out here in the middle of the night, in the rain, to see the boss.
The Dean lived in what had once been the main cistern for the entire citadel. The high, curved walls were now entirely covered with bookshelves; over a thousand pigeonholes, and from each projected the cap end of a brass or silver tube. They said the Dean owned more books than any one else in the world, except possibly the King of Sashan—but he cheated, because his collection was made up of one example each of every known edition of the Fire Gospel, and they were all sealed, to make sure nobody read them.
At the base of that enormous cylinder, on the small three-legged stool which was the only seat in the room, sat a man in a big coat. The Dean stood a few yards away, reading (he always read the old-fashioned way, standing up). He frowned and lowered the scroll as Aimeric entered the room. Aimeric looked at him, then at the man on the stool.
“If you’ll excuse me,” the Dean said. He took a step back and pressed the shelving behind him with the tips of his fingers; the shelf revolved, revealing a door. He slipped through it sideways, and it closed behind him.
“Hello, Hosculd,” Aimeric said.
The man in the coat started to get up, but Aimeric stopped him with a small shake of his head. “So, what are you doing here?”
“Your father’s dead, Aimeric.”
