by K. J. Parker
“I see,” Chauzida said thoughtfully. “So, what sort of thing do they talk about?”
Joiauz was absent-mindedly rubbing his left hand with his right. Chauzida knew that he had a terrible itch in that hand, because it had been shot through with an arrow at the end of the battle, when Joiauz and the guards went back in to rescue dad, rescue the other one, when he got knocked down and trampled on. There was a big white scar, and a red patch all around it where he was always rubbing. “Now this bit’s really important,” Joiauz said, “so I want you to pay special attention. There are five important things. There’s the war, the nations, the journey, the weather and the clans. Repeat what I just said.”
“The war,” Chauzida said slowly. “The nations, the journey, the weather and—sorry, what was the last one again?”
“The clans,” Joiauz said. “Right, here’s what they mean. The war—well, that speaks for itself, doesn’t it? It’s the war because officially we’re always at war with somebody, though we might not be actually fighting at this precise moment. Right now, the war’s with the Aram no Vei.”
“Oh. I thought the enemy were called Sashan. Wasn’t it them who killed—?”
“It’s the Sashan,” Joiauz said, “and that war’s over, at least as far as we’re concerned. I believe the Imperial general’s still sitting under the walls of some city somewhere, starving the poor devils out, but we’ve been paid and we’re out of it. The Sashan Empire doesn’t really exist any more, anyway. So,” he went on, drawing in a breath, “as soon as one war’s over, we move on to the next one. If there isn’t a real next war, then officially we’re at war with the no Vei.” He hesitated and grinned. “Do you understand officially?”
“I think so,” Chauzida said. “It’s where something isn’t really true, but we’ve all got to act like it is.”
Joiauz seemed to think that was funny, though he didn’t laugh. “You’ve got the idea. Anyway, when the clan elders meet, the war’s always the first thing they talk about. If nothing much is happening, they move on to the next thing.”
“The nations,” Chauzida said.
“Very good, the nations. What that means is, what the other nations are up to—the Chantat and the no Vei and the Rosinholet, that lot. We have people watching what they’re doing all the time. They report—send messages—to the elders, and they decide if the news is important and what needs to be done about it. Then they move on to the next thing.”
“The journey,” Chauzida said. “What does that mean?”
“Ah. The idea is,” Joiauz said, “that we’re always on the move. Officially. The journey means, where are we going, are we early or late, are there any problems, like snow or flooded rivers or enemies getting in the way; where we’re going to camp next, will there be enough grass for the horses and the livestock or will we have to get hay and fodder from somewhere; all that. Very important stuff, when we’re on the move. If we’re not, like now, they pass on to—”
“The weather. Is that just what it sounds like?”
Joiauz nodded. “Pretty much. Years ago, we believed that we could control the weather by doing ceremonies, making sacrifices, saying special prayers and so on. It gradually sort of dawned on us that none of that stuff actually worked, so we don’t bother with it so much now, except on big occasions when people still expect it. But we still make our best guesses at what the weather’s going to be doing, because it’s so important for the journey.”
“I can see that,” Chauzida said. “In that case, why don’t you talk about the weather before you do the journey? Surely it makes a big difference to what you decide to do.”
Joiauz frowned. “You know,” he said, “you could just possibly be right. Don’t say that out loud in a meeting, though, you’ll give them a heart attack. Rule number one; you don’t mess around with the way things have always been done.”
“Really?”
Joiauz smiled. “Officially. Obviously we do change things, but we try and do it so nobody notices. That way, people don’t get upset.”
“What does the clans mean?”
Joiauz paused for a moment. “Everything else, really. It means anything happening here, among ourselves, that needs to be sorted out or talked about. People’s private quarrels, if they get out of hand and look like they’re going to affect the rest of us. Or people who may be going through a rough patch and need a little help. Or trade—you know what that means?”
“Of course I do.”
“Of course you do. Well, if we need something, we talk about who we might be able to get it from and what we can give them in exchange, and which of us has got it or can get it or can make it, and what we’re going to give them. I’ll give you an example. Suppose we need hay for the horses, because we’ve reached a place where the grazing’s not as good as we thought it’d be. We send a few men out to look around. They come back and tell us that there’s some people living in a village over that mountain over there, and they’ve got hay to spare, and in return they’d be prepared to take two dozen deerskins, twelve dozen arrows and fifty sheeps’ milk cheeses. The elders talk about it, and one of them says, So and so in our clan’s got that many spare skins; someone else says, I know who’s got more cheese than he needs; someone else says, we’ve got a damn good fletcher in our lot. Then we’ve got to decide what we’re going to give the skins man for his skins and the cheese man for his cheese and the fletcher for making all those arrows. Now, because the hay’s going to benefit everybody, it’s only fair that everyone chips in to reward the skins man and the cheese man and the fletcher. The elders decide how they’re going to go about collecting a bit of something from everyone and handing it over to the three men who’re providing what we need. It gets a bit complicated, because sometimes, if say the cheese man doesn’t actually need anything right now, we have to promise to give him something he needs later on, when he needs it. That’s called merit, and obviously people think it’s a very good thing to have, so quite often they’re happy just piling up merit and not actually taking anything. It means everybody else respects them and goes around thinking what splendid people they are, and of course if it ever happens that they suddenly decide they need fifty sheep or five suits of Mezentine horse armour, they go to their clan leader and he’s got to get it for them, soon as possible.” He frowned. “Actually, it’s not a perfect system, it can cause a lot of trouble. But it’s what we do, and I reckon there’s worse ways, at that.”
Chauzida nodded slowly. “And that’s all the clans, is it?”
“That’s right. As often as not, that’s most of what gets talked about; so we leave it till last, so we can take our time over it without having to rush through and get on to other things.”
Chauzida looked down at his hands. He had a scab forming where he’d cut himself sharpening a bit of stick with the Sashan knife the other one had given him. It itched, and he thought about the scar on Joiauz’ hand, which must itch so much more. “When I’m fifteen,” he said, “will I have to decide about all that stuff?”
Joiauz looked straight at him. “Yes.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to. It’s so complicated.”
“You’ve got two years to learn,” Joiauz said. “But yes, it’s complicated, and very, very difficult sometimes. The elders are old and wise, they know all the facts, and all the ways we’ve dealt with problems in the past, so you should listen carefully to what they say. But you’ve got to remember, they’re all there on behalf of their clans; they want what’s best for their own people, and that may not always be the same as what’s best for the nation as a whole. Or they may have very strong views on what’s right and wrong, and sometimes they don’t all agree about that kind of thing. Or sometimes,” he added, with a sad sort of grin, “they’re all just plain wrong, or you can see an idea that’s even better than what they’re suggesting. You’ve got to be able to tell them, we’re going to do what he says and not what you say.”
“Without upsetting anybody.”
&
nbsp; “Without upsetting anybody, that’s right. And, what’s more, you’ve got to make your mind up quickly; you can’t say, all of you go away and come back in three days’ time when I’ve had a chance to think it over, because that’s not how we do things. You’ll upset everyone if you do that. So no, it’s not easy. Wish I could say it was, but it isn’t.”
Chauzida was still looking at his hands. “Have I got to be the Prince?”
“Oh yes. Believe me.”
Chauzida looked up. “Will you help me? Promise you’ll help me.”
“Of course I will.” For some reason, Joiauz was looking away. “That’s what I’m here for. What I thought we’d do is, after each meeting, you and I can sit together like this and talk about what was said and the decisions that were made. I’ll try and explain it all for you, and you can tell me what you’d have done if it’d been up to you. How does that sound?”
“That’d be great,” Chauzida said with feeling. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“Oh, I think I can make the time.”
That reminded Chauzida of a question. “If you’re the—what was that word?”
Joiauz smiled. “Regent,” he said.
“Thanks. If you’re the regent, and you’ve got all these important decisions to make, why do you have to milk goats and do setting-up and mend harness and everything? Wouldn’t it be better if you spent all your time thinking about the problems and stuff, instead of doing things anybody could do?”
Joiauz frowned for a moment. “You can be forgiven for asking that,” he said, “because that’s how they do it in other places; the empire and the republics and the Sashan, they all think like that. But we don’t. We say that if a prince can’t do all the ruling in his spare time, then either he’s not a very good prince, so we should get rid of him and choose someone different, or else there’s too much ruling going on, in which case the prince is getting above himself and needs taking down a peg or two. Either way, it’s not a good idea, so don’t do it.” He hesitated, then added, “Officially.”
“Oh.”
“Unofficially,” Joiauz went on, “I milk some of my goats and do a bit of setting-up, and when I’ve finished making a pig’s ear of these reins I’ll probably hand them over to Garsio, who’ll make a much better job of them than I could in about a quarter of the time. But officially, I’m the same as everyone else, so I do the same work, and being regent’s just extra. Got that?”
“I think so. It doesn’t seem fair.”
Joiauz laughed. “The old man always seemed to manage,” he said. “Actually, he liked working with the stock and fixing a busted wheel and all that sort of thing, he said it took his mind off things. He always had more energy than me, of course. I was the lazy brother, though of course it didn’t matter, since he was the eldest. Better that way, I’d be less likely to interfere. No, don’t worry about that, it’s not important. Let’s go and see if your aunt Guariz has baked some of those cheese-and-honey cakes your Gran doesn’t like you eating too many of.”
Orsella Cantacusena to Aimeric de Peguilhan, greetings.
You what? You want me to leave the Vesani Republic, epicentre of the civilised world, heart and brain of the human race, scintillating in its cultural and intellectual diversity and depth, and drag myself along appalling roads, in a coach driven by kettlehats, at this time of year, in order to imprison myself in a shithole like the City, where you’re seriously suggesting I participate in dubious and probably illegal activities? Really?
Oh, all right then. Provided the money’s adequate—you were so endearingly coy about precise figures—and I’m not committing myself to anything remotely longterm or permanent, I don’t see why not. Actually, to be absolutely frank with you, it’d suit my plans quite well to get out of town for a little while. Everything is fine and I’m not in any kind of trouble or anything. It’s just that certain people are making certain demands, mostly but not exclusively of a financial nature, so it’d be no bad thing for me to be somewhere else for a while and earn a large sum of money. I’ll miss the music festival, of course, and the boat races, and the Phylarchus revival at the Comedy, but what the hell, there’s always next year.
What the hell are you up to, Aimeric? And what was that throwaway line about working for the government supposed to mean? I think I can safely say I know you quite well. The thought of you working for the Imperial (or any) government is downright bizarre. The thought of you working at all is bad enough. I can only assume that such a monstrous reversal of the natural order of things must be a portent foretokening the end of the world, and—assuming the money is right—I simply can’t wait to get down there and see it for myself.
So, just as soon as I get a letter from you with actual numbers in it, I’ll be on my way, with just the bare necessities of life tied up in a big silk handkerchief. Write soon, before I die of curiosity.
He appeared out of nowhere, presenting himself to the sentries at the main gate of the camp and demanding to speak to someone in authority. Anyone else would have spent the next six hours in the guardhouse before being allowed five minutes of the duty officer’s precious time. Instead, he was escorted to the general’s tent by a sergeant and two guardsmen.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said to the back of the general’s neck. “I am prince Hunza, rightful heir to the throne of the Great King of the Sashan.”
General Calojan, who by this time had been awake for thirty-six hours straight, slowly turned round in his chair and looked at him. “Of course you are,” he said. “Tell me, what’s it like? I’ve often wondered.”
“What’s what like?” he said.
“Being dead,” Calojan replied. “Because I was there when they cut your head off in the marketplace at Dura Escatoy, eight—sorry, nine years ago. Or had you forgotten about that?”
He frowned. “Obviously, that wasn’t me.”
“Obviously.” Calojan lifted himself a little by pressing hard on the arms of the chair. “Equally obviously, you aren’t Hunza, because Hunza’s dead. Like I said, I saw him die. I was in the front row, standing next to the deputy secretary for military justice. It took the headsman three goes, and I got splashed with blood.”
“That wasn’t me. That was an impostor.”
“That would explain it,” Calojan said wearily. “Only, I met Hunza a year or so earlier, before he had his spot of trouble and had to leave Court in a hurry. He was four inches taller than you, his nose was shorter and he had one proper chin instead of several silly little ones. Be reasonable,” he added with a faint smile. “You don’t look anything like him.”
“I don’t know who you met, but I’m Hunza, and I can prove it.”
Calojan closed his eyes. “And even if you were Hunza,” he said, “which you aren’t, you’d have to be out of your tiny mind to come within a hundred miles of the Imperial army, given that Hunza is—sorry, was—seventh or eighth in line to the throne and therefore would pose a threat to the empire and would be arrested on sight and either blinded or executed. Luckily for you, you’re not him. Otherwise you’d be in so much trouble you wouldn’t believe it.”
“I’m here,” he said, “to negotiate peace terms. I’m the only one left with the authority to do so. Therefore it’s my duty. I’m not particularly interested in your threats.”
“Fine,” Calojan said. “Sergeant, take this man and stick him in the Birdcage for an hour or so. Then throw him out and see to it he bounces. Try and make him understand that if I hear so much as a whisper about prince Hunza having risen from the grave and come back to lead his people, I’ll cut off his head and stick it on a pole. That’ll be all.”
“Ten years ago,” he said, raising his voice a little, “I was in prison in the cells under the Palace, as a result of lies spread about me by my brothers. I believe an actor was hired to impersonate me during that time, to avoid a popular uprising by my supporters, which would inevitably have resulted had news of my betrayal been made public. I assume the man you saw was the a
ctor. I, however, am the real prince Hunza, and I claim full diplomatic status.”
Calojan looked at him for a moment, then shook his head. “Sergeant,” he said, “if I have to tell you again you’ll be very unhappy.”
The Birdcage, also known as the Lobster Pot, is a bell-shaped steel cage suspended twelve feet off the ground from a siege catapult frame. Its size and shape mean that a normal-sized man can neither sit down or stand upright. It was introduced as a form of military punishment by general Calojan, to replace the lash, the bastinado and various other methods traditional in some of the regional units. After an hour inside, Hunza couldn’t stand unsupported, so they carried him to the gate and left him there. He must have gone away during the night. The sentries didn’t see him go.
The Charity & Compassion is a military inn on the New West Road, thirty-six miles west of Limes Regni. It’s the seventh post house from the City, first overnight stop for the Imperial mail between the City and the Vesani frontier. Built in the reign of Geisimer II, it exhibits all the typical features of the period; round arches, symmetrical floor plan, fluted pillars, decorative arcading and four short, squat watchtowers at the cardinal points. Of interest are the mosaic floors in what is now the fodder store and the small iconostasis of the Invincible Sun Restored still just visible halfway up the south wall of the main dining room. The helmet and sword displayed on the wall of the back taproom are reputed to have been taken from the body of Orselius Ducas after the battle of Suessone; the sword would, however, appear to be a fairly typical Vesani type XIIa, which would suggest a date some eighty years later. The inn is otherwise unremarkable, and is rarely visited by civilians, except when the Corbin bridge is closed and the regular commercial stage is forced to divert by way of Boc Soheil.
She saw him in the courtyard. He was sitting on a barrel examining the sole of his shoe. She crept up quietly behind him and said, “Teudel?”
