by K. J. Parker
He jumped up, slithered on the wet cobblestones and had to sit down again in a hurry. Then he craned his neck and stared at her. “Orsella,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”
She smiled at him. “You first.”
“On my way to the Republic,” he replied. “Stupid coach got diverted because some stupid bridge has fallen down. You?”
“Going the other way,” she said, with a slight frown. “I’m headed for the City. Got a job there.”
“Oh, hard luck,” Teudel said sympathetically. “Only temporary, I hope.”
“Me too,” Orsella replied. “Let’s go inside and you can buy me a drink.”
At this point in his career, Teudel had just enough money left to pay for one meal a day for the rest of the journey and a bed for one night when he got there; that was including the emergency half-scudo hidden in the toe of his shoe. “Good idea,” he said. “So, tell me all about it. What kind of a job?”
She didn’t answer until they were seated at a table in the corner, facing each other with a bottle of surprisingly adequate Mesoge white between them. “I honestly don’t know,” she said. “Did you ever know a man called Aimeric?”
Teudel grinned. “You mean Aimeric de Peguilhan. He was at the University, wasn’t he, before he came home. No, I never met him while he was in the Republic. Sure as hell wouldn’t get to meet him now. Why?”
She had that look; like she was quietly, carefully reading his mind. “He wrote to me saying he’d got a job for me. Is it true he’s working for the government?”
“You could say that. He’s on the regency council. They’re running the empire while the emperor’s sick.”
“Is that right?” No smile, at least not on the surface. “How come?”
Teudel was doing mental arithmetic. She’d been in her early twenties when he’d known her first, about six years older than him, so now she had to be, what, thirty-two, thirty-three? You wouldn’t think it. “His father ran a big armour factory,” he said.
“I know. Aimeric always did have plenty of money.”
“Which went bust,” Teudel went on, watching her face for a reaction. Nothing seen. “So Aimeric had to come home and sort it out. Which he did. Apparently, in some complicated way to do with supplies and materiel, he helped a lot with winning the war. So now he’s very important and respectable.”
“Aimeric de Peguilhan? Good heavens.”
Teudel made himself smile. “You knew him quite well, then.”
“Yes,” she said; a sort of bitten-off sound. “Quite well. There was a period of about three months when cash flow got to be a real problem, so I had to supplement my income with other lines of work. Not exactly fun, but it could’ve been worse.”
Teudel wasn’t happy about that, but tried not to let it show. “Is that the sort of job—?”
“I hope not,” she replied sharply, “because if so, I’ve had a wasted journey. Honestly, I’d rather scrub floors. No, I’m assuming he needs a quality manuscript in a hurry. Anyway, that’s enough about me. What about you?”
“Ah.” Teudel took a long drink. “Ups and downs, you might say.”
“More ups than downs?”
“More downs than ups. I had legal difficulties.”
“You poor darling.”
“Quite. I suppose you heard about the grand victory celebrations?”
She nodded. “A bit,” she said. “Parades and poetry recitals, and didn’t they flood the Haymarket and stage a mock sea-battle?”
“Westponds, actually. But yes to the sea-battle. I was in it.”
“You?”
He nodded. “The ships were manned by criminals on Death Row. Luckily, mine sank and I got away. Otherwise—”
“You were on—?”
“Mphm. Not a happy time. Which is why I’m off to the Republic before anyone realises I’m still alive. First thing I was going to do when I got there,” he added, after a very slight pause, “was go and see you. Pity about that.”
“Yes,” she said. “But anyway, what are you planning to do? The same?”
He nodded. “Think of me bashing out thalers and meissergroschen in some cellar somewhere. I never did like working in silver. Horrible chewy stuff.”
She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Not much of a living in it these days,” she said. “Hadn’t you heard? They just cut the thaler to seventy-two parts fine.”
Teudel rolled his eyes. “Wonderful,” he said. “When we do it, it’s forgery. If the government does it, it’s quantitative easing. The most you can get away with is sixty-three parts fine, any more than that and the copper shows through almost immediately. How’s a man supposed to make a living on those margins?”
“Can’t you do silver plating on copper?”
He pulled a face. “Fourree, we call that, and it’s a mug’s game. Also, the wash you’ve got to use is really foul stuff, rots your lungs. Not to mention being a wicked waste of my abilities. I wish you hadn’t told me that, you’ve made me really depressed.”
She studied him thoughtfully, as though she was thinking of buying him, but not at the asking price. “Did it ever occur to you,” she said, “that you’re in the wrong line of business?”
“Yes. When the judge looked down his nose at me and pronounced sentence. And,” he added sadly, “just now, when you said about the bloody Vesani devaluing yet again. But it’s what I do.”
“And you do it magnificently,” she said. “It’s just a shame you don’t get the credit you deserve. That said, have you ever thought about a change of direction? Same sector, more or less, but a different specialisation.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow.”
“I was thinking about my side of the business,” she said. “Manuscripts. It’s mostly property deeds, wills, contracts, some letters. No, listen. I think you’d do well. You’ve clearly got an artistic streak, you’re patient and careful, and you’re used to dealing with—well, that sort of people. There’s a lot of money in it, and always plenty of work about; I’ve been turning commissions away, I simply don’t have the time. And it’s safer, by and large. Much harder to detect; also, you’re always working to order, half up front and half on delivery. You do need to know a lot of detailed technical stuff about types of parchment and ink, all the different techniques for aging and patinating, but that’s all right. I can teach you.”
With the last sentence she’d got his interest. “Would you? Why?”
She shrugged. “Would you believe, because we’re friends? Also,” she added quickly, “like I just said, I’m having to turn work down, and that’s thoroughly bad business. Once a customer goes somewhere else, he doesn’t always come back. You’d be surprised how many regulars I’ve got.”
He gave her a puzzled look. “You want an apprentice?”
“That’s not quite how I’d have put it,” she said. “Actually, what I was thinking was, here’s poor Teudel, going through a rough patch through no fault of his own, I wonder if I could help. I suggested you might care to work with me to start with because that’d be a good way for you to get into the trade. If you’d rather not—”
“No, really,” he said quickly. “It’s very kind of you, and yes, I’d be very interested. Except, you’re going to the City, and I’ve just come from there, and there’s absolutely no way in hell I can go back, for the reasons stated. So, for the time being at least—”
He tailed off. She had that look on her face. “Your problem might not be insurmountable,” she said.
“Oh, I rather think it is.”
“Not necessarily.” She smiled. “It all depends on how much importance Aimeric de Peguilhan places on this job he wants me to do, and how much influence he’s really got. I’m prepared to bet that if I tell him I can’t possibly manage without my trusted assistant, who unfortunately can’t be in the empire because technically he’s a wanted man—”
“Technically?”
She smiled. “It sounds better like that. I can give it a try, if
you like.” She looked away for a moment. “And if it works and you come and work with me—well, it’s not a dawn-to-dusk job, like farm work or plastering, you’ll have some free time. What you care to get up to in your free time is your concern, provided I’m not implicated and you do really good work this time and don’t get caught—”
Teudel nodded slowly. “There’d be a percentage, of course.”
“If you chose to show your gratitude, it’d be ungracious to refuse.”
Teudel made a show of thinking about it. He’d loved Orsella from the first moment he’d seen her, and trusted her about as far as he could throw Florian’s Column. It was possible—plausible—that kickbacks from a small-scale gold forgery enterprise might be enough to motivate her; or her motives might just as easily be personal. He never had figured out where he stood with her in that regard, mostly because the state of play seemed to change on practically a daily basis. Alternatively, she could be playing a long, hard game in which he’d be an expendable pawn, though he was fairly sure their meeting here had been purely accidental. No idea which, then. He looked up at her out of the corner of his eye and decided it’d be interesting finding out. “All right, then,” he said. “Yes, thank you. If you can swing it, I’d be delighted.”
“Splendid.” She gave him a beautiful, beautiful smile. “Right, then,” she said. “You couldn’t possibly hang on here for a few days, while I talk to Aimeric? It’d make it easier to find you.”
He shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Wrong side of the border.”
“Oh, yes, I see what you mean. All right, how about if you wait at the Perfect Union, on the Lonazep road? That’s on the Vesani side. Do you know it?”
“Been there once, I think. But there’s another problem.”
“What?”
He pulled a sad face. “I think they’d probably want me to pay for my room,” he said. “Which I would be in no position to do, unfortunately.”
“You’re broke.”
“Yes.”
“Idiot.” She smiled again. “Why didn’t you say? All right, here’s twenty scudi.” She opened the hand she’d been resting on the table. Apparently the coins had been nested in her palm all the time. “And you might consider getting yourself something decent to wear,” she added. “I didn’t like to mention it, but you look like a scarecrow.”
For some reason he hesitated, just for a moment or so. Then he reached out his hand across the table towards her, palm upwards. The four tiny gold coins dropped, from her hand to his. They were slightly warm.
“This is very good of you, you know,” he decided to say.
“I’m a very good person,” she replied. “Now then, do you suppose they serve food in this rathole? I’m famished.”
Much later, when she was asleep, he felt for the coins she’d given him; quietly, so the scraping of the metal on the wood of the bedside table wouldn’t wake her up. It was dark, of course, but he didn’t need light to examine currency. He found that three of the coins were genuine; the fourth was a fake but a good one, probably done in Mezentia rather than abroad. Slight abrasions and a certain uncharacteristic coarseness in the lines of the dividing cross on the reverse suggested to him that they’d been made from decommissioned official dies, recut and deepened to remove the hacksaw-marks. They reckoned a quarter of the small gold in circulation in Mezentia these days was false, so yes, entirely plausible. He leaned back and tried to go to sleep, but instead lay in the dark, staring up at where he knew the ceiling to be.
Just before dawn on the third day after the start of the autumn solar cycle, the three hundred and fortieth anniversary of the signing of the Peace of Bohec, twelve days after his thirty-seventh birthday, the emperor Sechimer sat bolt upright in his bed, opened his eyes and demanded to know where he was.
The doctor on duty was a Vesani by the name of Zanipolo Bringas. His speciality was setting complex fractures, but he’d completed five tours with the 67th as senior staff surgeon and was generally considered a safe pair of hands. He put down the book he’d been reading and looked up. “Your Majesty?” he said.
Sechimer stared at him. “Where is this?” he said. “And who the hell are you?”
Bringas had been one of the doctors in attendance on the emperor ever since he was brought home, and immediately recognised the significance of these words. Previously, when addressed as Your Majesty, the emperor had appeared confused, sometimes looking over his shoulder to see who else was in the room. This time, he’d accepted the title without question. It was also the first time he’d shown any interest in his surroundings, or displayed any sort of temper.
“We’re in the palace infirmary, Your Majesty,” he said. “My name is Bringas, I’m a doctor.”
Sechimer kicked aside the bedclothes, swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. “What am I doing in the infirmary? There’s nothing wrong with me, is there?”
To which the straight answer was, no, apparently not. “You’ve been very ill,” Bringas said gently. “However, I’m pleased to be able to tell you that you’ve made a good recovery, and—”
Sechimer’s eyes were wide open. He stood beside his bed, stark naked, looking round for his clothes. “The battle,” he said. “Damn it, I can’t be in the palace. Five minutes ago I was in the battle. What—?”
Priorities, Bringas decided. “We won,” he said. “The battle was won, the war is over. Please sit down and I’ll try and explain.”
Sechimer hesitated, then perched reluctantly on the edge of the bed. “We won.”
“Conclusively.”
“Thank God.” The words exploded out of Sechimer’s mouth like lava from a volcano. Then, “What happened to me? Last thing I remember, they were counter-attacking, I was standing in my stirrups trying to see—”
“You were hit by an arrow,” Bringas said. “The wound was serious, but you’ve healed well and we think there’s been no lasting damage. You were very lucky.”
Sechimer drew in a deep breath. “I’ll say,” he said. “What about Calojan, is he all right? Did we take heavy losses?” He frowned. “What did you just say? The war is—”
“Over.” Bringas nodded again. “I think you’d better hear the rest from your advisers rather than me, but I can set your mind at rest, the war really is over, and we won. Now, I need to do a few tests, and then I can discharge you.” He pulled a stern face. “The sooner you lie down and keep still, the sooner I can start and you can get out of here. All right?”
“What? Oh, yes, sorry.” Sechimer lay down, arms by his sides, staring straight up at the ceiling. “How long have I been out of it?” he said. “It must be at least three days, if I’m back here.”
“Quiet, please,” Bringas said briskly. “Now, I want you to look at my hand. How many fingers am I holding up?”
When he’d done all the tests he could think of, and several he’d made up on the spot, Bringas said, “Please wait there just a moment,” left the room, closed the door behind him and fled. He ran to the bedroom of his superior, the Sashan doctor whose name none of them had yet learned to pronounce. He threw open the door and yelled, “He’s better.”
The doctor rolled over onto his side and opened one eye. “What?”
“The emperor is awake and sitting up. He knows who he is. I’ve done all the tests, and as far as I can see he’s completely normal. I suggest you—”
The Sashan was suddenly out of bed and pulling on his slippers. “Go and tell the duty officer,” he said. “Now.”
So Bringas stepped back out of the way to let the Sashan scramble past him, then went down the corridor and up a flight of stairs to the operations room. The duty officer was a pale, thin young Imperial captain called Iachimer. He’d lost three fingers from his left hand at the Field of Red and Blue Flowers, and had been reassigned to administrative duties.
“He’s what?” Iachimer said.
“He’s fine,” Bringas panted. “He’s back to normal, and he wants to talk to someone.”
“My God.” Iachimer lifted his feet off the desk, knocking over an inkstand. He ignored the pool of ink gradually flooding the desktop. “Such as who?”
“I don’t know, do I? I’m just a doctor.”
“What? Yes, of course. Right, I’d better—” He stopped, his mouth wide open, frozen stiff.
“Maybe,” Bringas said kindly, “you might want to start with a messenger to the archdeacon and the chancellor. Then you’d probably better get down there and see the emperor.”
Iachimer looked terrified. “Me?”
“Well, somebody ought to. He’s lying there on his own staring at the ceiling. I sent the Sashan down there, but I don’t suppose he’s the best person for His Majesty to talk to about what happened after the battle.”
“My God,” Iachimer repeated. “Right, yes, thank you.” He grabbed his helmet, put it on, realised he didn’t really need to wear it, stuck it under his arm and sprinted out of the room. When he’d gone, Bringas walked slowly out of the office and down the stairs, across to the quadrangle arch and out across the grass to the refectory. It was a bit early—the sun was just rising—but he needed a drink.
“He was livid,” the archdeacon said wearily, “absolutely furious. I reckon I’m lucky to have got out of there in one piece.”
Aimeric looked anxious. “He doesn’t want to see me, does he?”
“He didn’t ask for you,” the archdeacon said. “When I mentioned your name, he said who the hell’s that, or something of the kind.”
“Did you tell him I was against the idea?”
“No,” the archdeacon said irritably, “because you weren’t, or at least you didn’t say anything out loud. I seem to remember you looked a bit anxious, but you always look anxious in council meetings. Anyway, as far as I can tell it’s Maering and me he blames. If I were you I’d keep a low profile and stay out of the way for a while. I wish I could do the same, but obviously I can’t.” He paused, then slumped back in his chair. “I’m pretty sure he’s not going to do anything about anything until Calojan gets back. That’s all he keeps asking; where’s Calojan, I need to see Calojan right now. I don’t think he’s prepared to trust anyone else.”
