by K. J. Parker
The Library was built by Florian III, with the proceeds of his campaign against the Iasyges—look for them on a map and you won’t find them; Florian was extremely thorough, and the entire wealth of that once mighty nation just about paid for the building work and the fixtures and fittings, though not the books. The interior of the dome was covered in gilded mosaic depicting the Ascent of the Invincible Sun, the Three Passions and the Day of Reckoning. Opinions differ as to their artistic merit; most of the work is late Mannerist, which is an acquired taste, but extensive restoration was carried out after the fire in Genseric IV’s time, and the restorer was Garalio the Elder, at the height of his middle period; it’s a shame, some people say, that the fire damage wasn’t considerably more extensive. The twelve great bay windows still have most of their original Mezentine stained glass, so that, depending on when you visit, the room is flooded with different subtle and otherworldly blends of coloured light. For serious reading of difficult manuscripts, the visitor is advised to take his book onto the upper gallery and make use of the clear golden light that pours in through the four inner skylights; the Scherian crystal glass has some sort of magnifying effect that nobody now understands, giving rise to what is reckoned to be the best reading light in the world.
“This way,” said the senior clerk.
On the side opposite the door there was a sort of golden box built against the wall, about fifteen feet square. Aimeric didn’t see the door until the clerk unlocked it and held it open for them. When they were inside—pitch dark—he closed it and locked it behind them, then fumbled with a tinderbox and lit a small oil lamp. “The restricted area,” he explained. “Sorry about this.”
Actually it wasn’t too bad; the gilding on the walls reflected and amplified the light of the lamp so well that it was almost as bright as daylight. It helped that the ceiling was one enormous mirror—
“That’s so that the attendant clerk can make sure you’re not copying out stuff,” Orsella said cheerfully. “I’ve heard all about this place, but it’s wonderful to actually be here.”
As far as the clerk was concerned she didn’t exist. “Now then,” he said. “You wanted to see the Codex Synergicus.”
“That’s right.”
The clerk nodded, then stooped and pulled out a box from under a table. It cost him a great deal of effort; the box was iron, with four blued-steel Mezentine padlocks. There was a different key for each one. He opened the lid and lowered it gently until it rested against the gilded floor.
“Thanks ever so much,” Orsella said. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting outside, we’ll let you know when we’re finished.”
The clerk looked as though she’d just stabbed the emperor. Aimeric took a deep breath and said, “It’s all right. We won’t be long. We’ll knock on the door and you can let us out.”
The clerk looked at him for a very long time, then unlocked the door and went out. They heard the key turn. “Was that necessary?” Aimeric said.
“Oh, I think so.” Orsella was on her knees beside the box, peering at the manuscript. “It probably wouldn’t be a good idea if he overheard us. You see, it’s a fake.”
Aimeric stared at her. “What?”
She turned her head and smiled at him. “A forgery. No bloody good. Well,” she added, “let me qualify that statement a little. You told me it’s supposed to be over three hundred years old.”
“That’s right.”
She shook her head. “More like three months,” she said. “Look here, at this illuminated capital.”
“The blue one?”
“The blue one. Mezentine colours are always standard. There’s guild specifications for how you mix them, they’ve got to be just right or they throw you out of the guild and you starve. Now, as I’m sure you know, the Mezentines mix their oils with stuff that doesn’t completely dry for ages and ages. You can fake that, with stuff you make by grinding up a special kind of rock salt; it dries the oils out in no time flat. But it also does funny things to the colour blue. Makes it slightly deeper. Now, that effect wears off relatively quickly—about six months—and once it’s worn off you can’t tell the difference. But this blue letter here’s that slightly darker shade. Therefore, this lot was written two to six months ago, no later than that. Sorry.”
Aimeric’s head was spinning. “So the whole thing’s just junk.”
Her smile grew warmer. “Not necessarily,” she said. “Think about it. Even if it was the genuine article, it’s still only a copy of a translation. For all we know, this is just a slightly more recent copy of that copy. Could be the Mezentines didn’t want to give us the original, so they had a copy made and thought it’d be good enough to fool you. Which it was,” she added pleasantly, “until I showed up. Perfectly reasonable risk for them to have taken, given that there’s only one of me in the whole wide world.”
He tried to think. “You’re sure about this? It’s not just the funny light in here or something.”
“Absolutely sure,” she replied. “I know all about the use of sal draconis for faking Mezentine blue. I discovered it, for crying out loud.”
“Ah.”
“And, as everybody knows, I never leave the Vesani Republic. So, there you are. The manuscript’s a fake. That’s not to say by any means that the content isn’t perfectly authentic.”
He looked at her helplessly. “So what does that mean?”
“It means this may be a true copy of the now-lost Codex or it may not. Furthermore, the prophesies contained in the Codex may or may not be trustworthy indications of what will happen in the future.” She grinned. “You pays your money and you takes your choice.”
“Thank you so fucking much.”
“You’re welcome. Meanwhile—” She’d taken the manuscript out of the box and was unrolling it slowly and carefully, “let’s have a closer look at this baby. Even if it’s an outright phoney, it can still tell us what the Mezentines want us to believe. That’s valuable diplomatic intelligence, surely.”
Aimeric scowled. “I have this mental picture of a bunch of Mezentine guild masters in a room somewhere killing themselves laughing at all the aggravation they’re causing us. I think we should forget about the whole thing right now.”
“Oh, you. You’re no fun. The whole point is, only you and I know this is a—let’s say, a recent copy. Only the council knows what it says. Your original scheme is still as brilliant as ever. And when I’ve done my fake of this fake—which’ll be ten times better, I can promise you that—the people of the empire will end up with the prophesies they need so they can feel really good about the future, and we’ll all live happily ever after. I don’t know,” she added sadly. “So many people these days have a morbid obsession with the truth. Nine times out of ten no good comes of it.”
He looked at her, lost in a curious mixture of anger and admiration. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll do that. Now, if you’ve seen enough—”
“Whoa there, hold on.” She was scrolling through the manuscript; she had the knack of being able to read very quickly. “This is fascinating stuff. How much of it did they translate for you?”
“Hang on,” he said. “You can read ancient Mezentine?”
“Of course,” she said, as though it was a silly question. “Now, this is interesting. If this really is a complete fabrication, their linguists are much better at it than their forgers. Stylistically, grammatically and syntactically, this reads very much like the genuine article.”
Aimeric was getting impatient. He didn’t like being inside the golden box, he didn’t want to keep the chief clerk hanging about for too long in case he got suspicious, and he needed a pee. “Like you said, it doesn’t really matter, does it? After all—”
“The Mezentines,” she went on, as though he hadn’t spoken, “are notoriously bad at pastiching the earlier forms of their own language. I guess it’s because it’s changed relatively little for so long; they just can’t detect the subtle nuances. If you want my professional opinion, on the b
alance of probabilities I’d say this text was written at least four hundred years ago. Like, whoever wrote this knew the proper use of the pluperfect subjunctive. Modern Mezentines always get it wrong.”
It was impossible that she could ever get on his nerves. But—“You don’t, of course.”
“Of course. I took the trouble to learn it. The Mezentines think they know it already. So,” she said crisply, looking up for a moment, “that would tend to support my theory that this is a modern copy of an ancient original. It may not be the actual Codex Synergicus, but if it’s hooky, at least it’s old hooky. You want to read some of this, by the way. It’s fascinating.”
“I can’t—”
“Just as well you’ve got me, then, isn’t it? Listen to this. ‘On the same day, two kings will walk barefoot in the Perfect Square. One king with his dog will strike the chains off the necks of his enemies. He will move a river and find his grave, and those who move rivers will dig it for him. One king will come from under the water. The river will flood and he will walk barefoot until he meets with the second six-fingered man, and he will always be what he claims to be. This will be true; I have already seen it.’ Now that’s just plain weird.”
“Well, yes,” Aimeric said. “But it doesn’t mean anything. It’s drivel.”
“Really? A king will walk barefoot in the Perfect Square? He will strike the chains off the necks of his enemies? Come on, Aimeric, you were there. It’s talking about today.”
He stared at her. “Give me strength,” he whimpered. “Orsella, you don’t seriously mean you believe in this dogshit? You just told me, it’s a fake.”
She nodded, slowly and angrily. “Sure,” she said. “It’s a fake, written about three months ago. And it’s come true today.”
“Oh come on. It could mean anything.”
“One king with his dog. You know what Calojan means in Permian? That’s where his family comes from. Calojan means ‘good dog.’ Coincidence?”
“Fine. So who’s the other barefoot king, then? There’s supposed to have been two, but I only saw one. Well?”
“I don’t know, do I? I’m just saying—”
“Let’s see, now,” Aimeric went on. “There’s the king of Asirhoene; not here today. There’s the king of Naissus. There’s the Great King, I suppose, he was there, or at least his head was; I’m not sure that counts are barefoot, though. The Aram Cosseilhatz have princes who are really kings, but they didn’t even send a representative. There’s some character called the Red King down south somewhere on the other side of the desert. Can you think of any others? Not that many kings about these days. Therefore, it didn’t come true. Therefore—”
“Oh, forget it,” Orsella said angrily. “It’s not worth arguing over. I just thought it was interesting, that’s all. I didn’t think you’d take it personally.”
Suddenly, Aimeric grinned. “Does Calojan really mean good dog?”
“Well, more beautiful than good, but yes.”
“You know Permian.”
“All seven dialects.”
He smiled at her. “You’re wonderful, do you know that? I can’t wait to tell Vorsiger. It’ll make his day.”
She was rolling up the manuscript. “If you like,” she said, “and for the right price, I could do you a perfect hitherto-undiscovered lost masterpiece by Calojan’s dad. With full-page illustrations, in twelve colours including Mezentine blue. You could give it to him for his birthday.”
They met in Semplan’s tent, in the middle of the night. There were six of them, a tight fit. Semplan had borrowed two folding stools from his nephew—beautiful things, Imperial, rosewood carved with vines and strange-looking flowers nobody could put a name to. Semplan himself chose to sit on the floor.
“Well now,” he said, as Joiauz came in and sat down. “Without your shadow for once.”
Joiauz pulled a sad face. “He’s learning so quickly,” he replied. “And the questions he asks. It’s enough to scare you to death.”
Viatges laughed. “Must get that from his mother’s side,” he said.
“I imagine you’re right,” Joiauz said. “The old man was brave as a lion but not exactly a thinker, and I’d far rather be fishing. Still, it’s a relief to be able to talk without having those terrible big eyes on the back of my neck all the time. I love him to bits, but he wears me out.”
Autet poured himself a drink and passed the jug on. “Right,” he said. “Are we doing this properly, or are we just here to tell hunting stories?”
“Properly,” Joiauz replied, after a moment’s consideration. “I know it’s not binding if he’s not here, but we’re supposed to be making policy.”
“Whatever you like,” Semplan said, as the jug reached him. He peered into it and shrugged. “All right, then, the war.”
“Quite,” Joiauz said. “Which is, of course, over. I can confirm that Calojan’s paid us in full, on the nail, no quibbling.”
“Gold coins?”
“Yes,” said Joiauz. “I take it you’re all happy to leave the choice of a burial site to me, same as usual.”
Everyone nodded. Semplan said, “This isn’t me talking, it’s a couple of my neighbours. Don’t you think you should tell someone else where you’ve buried the stuff, just in case something happens to you? It’d be an awful shame if we can’t find it again.”
Joiauz nodded. “The same thought did cross my mind,” he said. “In the past, as you know, we’ve always restricted the location of buried treasure to one man, the Great Prince. I’d like to suggest that this case is different. First, I’m not actually the prince, I’m just a regent. Second, we’ve never had to hide anything like this much stuff before. The biggest deposit I know about was back in DePartetz’s time, when they cached six hundred pounds of gold coin in the Westfalls—which, incidentally, was never recovered. We’re talking about well over ten times that. I’m not particularly comfortable with the thought of nearly seven tons of gold sitting in a hole in the ground that only I know about. Question is, who should I share that knowledge with?”
He paused and waited for a moment. Silence. Then Autet said, “Don’t look at me.”
“Exactly,” Joiauz said. “I take it the same goes for all of you. Quite. Now, you six are the only ones I’d trust with the location, so that rules out the rest of the council. Anybody below council level is obviously out of the question.”
“Fine,” Viatges said. “So we do it the usual way.”
“Yes,” Joiauz said. “Or there’s one other choice. How about Chauzida?”
“He’s a kid,” Semplan objected.
“A very bright kid,” Joiauz replied. “And he’s the Great Prince. Properly speaking, it’s all his stuff anyway. So, he won’t steal it, and the other great danger, someone getting hold of him and forcing the location out of him, is hardly a serious problem given who he is. What do you think?”
Short pause for thought; then Autet said, “We’ll do that, then. Good idea.”
Joiauz grinned. “That’s a weight off my mind. Seven tons, to be precise. Anyhow, back to the war.”
“The no Vei,” Luzir said.
“The bloody no Vei.” Autet scowled. “Can any of you tell me what the hell they think they’re playing at? I’ve heard the reports. It was some of my people got hit in the last lot. This isn’t just your normal playful cattle raiding, or young idiots showing off to impress the girls. It’s deliberate and nasty, and they’re up to something.”
“Agreed,” said Luzir. “What, though?”
“Good question,” Semplan muttered. “If you look at the facts—grassland deliberately burned, wells poisoned, bridges broken down, all that—you’d have to say they’re trying to push us out of the whole of Northfold. Maybe I wasn’t paying attention when my father explained the rules, but that’s not right. Northfold’s common ground, always has been.”
Joiauz shook his head. “I think things have got a bit more complicated lately,” he said. “Sorry, properly speaking this should wa
it till we do the nations, but I think we should consider it now.” He paused for objections, then continued; “While I was with Calojan, he told me some of the stuff he’d been hearing from his own spies out north-east. As you know, the Imperials have got a bloody impressive spy network, even that far out. I’m ashamed to say, they hear an awful lot more about things beyond the mountains than we do.”
“Well, they can afford it,” Autet said defensively.
“Quite right,” Joiauz said. “No reproach intended. Anyway, Calojan’s men reckon they’ve heard rumours from reliable sources that the Shan Tan and the Jin are moving westwards—drought or an earthquake or something; in any event, it’s not just raiding, they’re looking for a new home. That means the Goida are getting squeezed, and there’s only one direction they can go. Up till now they’ve never dared cross the mountains, but you just don’t know how desperate they are. Now, if the no Vei and the Chantat have been hearing the same thing, it begins to make a certain degree of sense. If they lose all their ground in the foothills to the Goida, they’re going to be in big trouble. So, they’re looking at the Northfold, and we’re in the way.”
“Why us?” Semplan asked.
“We’re weak,” Joiauz said. “Leaderless, for one thing. We’ve lost good men fighting the emperor’s war. Likewise, we’ve used up a lot of resources over there, depleted our hay and fodder and munitions and got nothing but gold coins in return. If the choice is between us and the Rosinholet, who would you choose to pick a fight with?”
“All right,” said Semplan. “We’ve got a problem. What do we do?”
Joiauz thought before answering. “I say we move,” he said. “We’re too weak for a real slogging match with the no Vei. The no Vei and the Chantat combined, forget it. If they want the Northfold, let them have it. We’ll have to find somewhere else, that’s all.”
“Oh, sure,” Luzir said angrily. “We’ll just say our prayers, and tomorrow morning we’ll find a brand new valley nobody’s ever noticed before. Simple as that.”
