by K. J. Parker
“What does that mean?” Gulbrand said.
Raffen thought for a moment. “Suppose you took a pottery bowl and you smashed it,” he said. “Then you pick up the bits and fit them together. You get some wire and a drill—well, you all know how to mend a broken pot, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Cari said. “I won’t pretend I’m very good at it. Don’t have the patience.”
“Well,” Raffen said, “people in the City are like the bits of pot. Put together, they make up something that’s useful and holds water. On their own, without all the others to fit in with, they’re useless; junk, only fit for the trash. Of course, put that many people together and you get a very big pot, a cauldron. We’re not like that. Pull us apart and you’ve got a handful of individuals, like grains in an ear of corn. Plant each seed, it’ll grown on its own and in a few months you’ve got twelve new stalks. The City people wouldn’t survive on their own, they wouldn’t know how. One link on its own can’t be a chain. I don’t suppose one man in a thousand in the City knows how to mend a pot. The thousandth man does nothing but mend pots, all day every day. He’s very good at it, very quick, he’s got a box of special tools just for pot-mending; he’ll do a much better job than you or me. But stand him in front of a plough or give him two dozen sheep to look after, he’d just stare at you, what am I supposed to do with this? That’s where the paradox comes from. They’re very big and very, very small, very strong and very, very weak, very grand and so unimportant they hardly exist. The rich and powerful are huge, like gods, and the ordinary people are tiny, they don’t matter a damn to anyone. That’s why they thought it was all right to divert a river and flood thousands of people out of their homes, just for one day’s fun and games. When you’re so big and your neighbours are so small, it’s pretty easy to lose sight of them.”
There was a long silence. Then Gulbrand leaned forward across the table. “All right,” he said. “Suppose someone took it into his head to break the big pot, to get at what’s inside. From what you’re saying, he’d have to hit it pretty hard, but when it broke, there’d be nothing left at all, just waste.”
Raffen looked at him for a long time. “Now why,” he said, “would anyone want to do a thing like that?”
“I just said,” Gulbrand replied. “To get what’s inside.”
“That’d be stealing. We’re not thieves.”
Cari filled his cup from the jug and passed it on. “If you follow that line of argument,” he said, “we’re all living on stolen land. Our great-great-great-great-grandfathers took this whole side, from here to Laxness, off the people who lived here before them. The whole of Sutherdale—”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” Cari smiled. “Or is it just a long time ago?”
“They had to come here,” Eyvind said. “They were pushed out of their homes in the east by the horse people.”
“That’s like saying, I only stole your sheep because I was hungry. You might let the thief go, if you believe him and you feel sorry for him, but he’s still a thief.”
“Besides,” Raffen said, “I don’t think taking their land was what Gulbrand’s got in mind. I mean, the City’s huge for a city, but it’s still only, what, six hundred acres. That’s seven farms. No, I’m guessing Gulbrand’s interested in all the stuff, the things. And that would be stealing.”
Gulbrand shrugged. “You may care to reflect on the fact that only a century and a half ago, the imperial border was the Eigen. Now it’s a hundred and five miles closer to where we’re sitting now. We may not be thieves; they definitely are. There’s an argument to be made for breaking them before they smash us.”
Sitry laughed. “Oh come on,” she said. “What do we have that the Emperor could conceivably want?”
There was a ripple of laughter; then Raffen said suddenly, “Manpower.”
Eyvind said, “Excuse me?”
“People,” Raffen said. “That’s one thing the empire hasn’t got enough of right now. This war of theirs against the Sashan; by rights, they really shouldn’t have won it. They only came out on top because they’ve got this genius general. But before he came along they were losing. Scores of big cities got captured or burnt, tens of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of people were killed, driven off their land, marched off in chains by the Sashan to the other end of the world. A whole lot more were forcibly drafted, someone stuck a spear and a shield in their hands and told them they were soldiers, before Calojan came along, and the Sashan slaughtered them like catching salmon in a weir. There’s vast stretches of what was once good farmland lying empty, right in the heart of the empire, because the people who used to live there are dead or gone away. I really don’t think you need to worry about the emperor wanting our cold, damp bits of hillside. For a while there he wanted us, to work in the factories while his people were away at the war, but not any more. I honestly don’t think we have anything to fear from Sechimer and his people, not for a very long time indeed. So, if you’re looking for an excuse for bashing down his door and burgling his house, I don’t think self-defence is going to cover it.”
Not so long ago, the daily Elevations were held in the Red Chamber of the palace. When he became emperor, Sechimer moved Elevations to the Silver Court. The Red Chamber, he said, was a beautiful thing, one of the wonders of the world; but the glorious Eparchus stained-glass windows didn’t really give enough light to read by, except at midday, and it cost two solidi an hour in candles to light the place adequately. The Silver Court, on the other hand, was basically one enormous mirror; one candle, reflected in the silver-sheathed walls and ceiling, lit the whole enormous room as bright as daylight, making it a sublime fusion of breathtaking display and wholesome economy. Now, according to Orders of the Day, Elevations were to be held in the chapter-house of the Chapel Royal—
“Why?” Aimeric asked.
The archdeacon hesitated, then lowered his voice. “Don’t tell a soul,” he said, “but they’re stripping off all the silver and melting it down. When they’ve finished, there’s going to be a mysterious fire, which will wreck the Silver Chamber and the Old Processional. It’ll be mourned as a national disaster, and Sechimer will make a passionate speech about rebuilding it, as good as it used to be or better; it’ll make him ever so popular with the middle classes, and the silver will pay the interest on what we owe the Vesani bankers. I gather the Chancellor’s struck a very satisfactory deal with a Mezentine consortium for the statues in the Processional, and of course nobody ever goes to Mezentia, so no-one will ever know they’re there.”
Aimeric stared at him, until the archdeacon told him to stop making an exhibition of himself. “It’s that bad?” Aimeric said.
“Oh yes,” the archdeacon replied with feeling. “Fortunately, Sechimer doesn’t know.”
“You mean you’re deliberately going to burn down half the palace, and the emperor doesn’t know—”
“He’d never agree,” the archdeacon said. “So obviously we can’t tell him, can we? But a fire in the old wing is horribly plausible, there’s bound to be one sooner or later. I gather the Amber Hall is going to be next, as soon as we can find a buyer.”
“That’s appalling,” Aimeric said. “You can’t just—”
“What we can’t just do,” the archdeacon said sharply, “is allow the empire to go bankrupt while we’re sitting on millions of solidi in precious metals and works of art. Naturally we can’t be seen to be selling off the family silver. So, this is a sensible way of dealing with the problem.” The archdeacon looked up and down the portico to see if anyone was watching them, then sat down and pulled Aimeric down next to him by the sleeve. “Also,” he said, “we can use this, if we’re clever.”
“Use it?”
The archdeacon nodded. “You know how superstitious Sechimer’s getting, ever since his illness. Well, I need you to tell your pet forger to include a reference to the Great Fire in her prophesy.”
“The Great—you mean the fire you’re con
spiring to start.”
“Indeed,” the archdeacon said with a frown. “The fire will have been foretold centuries ago. I’m not one for mysticism, but I recommend to you the imagery of the phoenix. There will be a great fire, something about silver so it’s obvious what it’s referring to, and then a lot of stuff about a marvellous golden palace rising out of the ashes. That way, the poor man will be left thinking a seriously destructive fire in his house is somehow a good thing. We do want him to be happy, after all.”
“I see,” Aimeric said. “Anything else you want put in there?”
“Oh, ever so many things,” the archdeacon said gravely, “but we must be sensible. The prophesy is supposed to span a thousand years. It would be presumptuous to suppose that we’re living in the most exciting and meaningful half-decade in a whole millennium. While we’re on the subject,” the archdeacon went on, “where exactly are we on that? Naturally I don’t want to know too much about it, but a general idea of progress—”
“The parchment is nearly ready,” Aimeric said. “We’re just starting work on the text itself. So, if there is anything you want putting in there, now would be a good time.”
“Dear me, we are moving quickly, aren’t we?” The archdeacon gave him a look with a definite hint of disapproval in it, which Aimeric thought was a little harsh. “I’ll put together some notes for you as soon as I’ve had a chance to speak to the others.”
“I meant to ask you about that,” Aimeric said. “Why does it have to go through you? No disrespect,” he added, quickly and too late. “But why can’t I talk to them myself? It’d save time, and—”
The archdeacon smiled. “They don’t like you,” he said. “Partly because they see you as too close to Calojan, partly because you are, when all is said and done, in trade; partly, I have to say, because you’re young, brash, gauche and—as far as they’re concerned—innately dishonest. I, on the other hand,” he went on, widening his smile into a beam, “think you’re a splendid young fellow, highly capable, blessed with an originality of mind that is necessarily denied to the rest of us and, within certain tightly defined parameters, reasonably trustworthy.”
“Thank you so much.”
“Don’t mention it. I believe you’re even more scared of Calojan than the rest of us. Also, as an outsider and a parvenu, you’ve got much more to lose than we have. Finally, I’m confident of being able to control you, and that’s what really matters in any relationship, don’t you think?”
Aimeric breathed in slowly. “What makes you say that?”
“Oh, I know things about you which would finish you off in two minutes,” the archdeacon said cheerfully. “I know you’re sponsoring, not to mention sleeping with, a woman who has a long list of criminal convictions in the Vesani Republic, for offences that make her involvement in this project wildly problematic, to say the least; who also has close contacts with known enemies of the empire—”
“That’s not true.”
“Another thing I like about you,” the archdeacon said, “is that despite your treacherous and cynical nature, you have an underlying streak of the most absurd naivety. I imagine you think the relationship between your Orsella and her assistant Teudel is strictly business.”
“It is.”
“Dear boy. Anyway, Teudel is a wanted fugitive, believed to have died in the galleys in the mock sea-battle. He is—well, all three of you are at liberty still because I have personally interceded with the Prefect, on a wholly informal basis. The warrants for Teudel and Orsella have been filed and sworn and are on record at the Prefecture. Literally one word from me, and they’ll be carried out with the full vigour of the law. If that were to happen, you would have to go to Calojan to save yourself; assuming you were able to reach him, he would then have to decide whether you were worth the risk. I don’t imagine our national hero would relish being associated in the public mind with Orsella and Teudel, do you?”
Aimeric’s legs were cold to above the knee and his chest felt painfully tight. “Fine,” he said, “I’ll make her get rid of Teudel. Will that satisfy you?”
“No need.” The archdeacon made a gesture, appeasing and patronising, like a big man begging his tiny son not to hit him with his wooden sword. “From what I gather about your Orsella, I’m sure her patronage of the man Teudel is based on something far stronger than mere intimate friendship. I don’t know what she wants him for, but if it helps the project, God speed them both. I simply wanted you to understand that my warm personal regard for you is reinforced by certain safeguards. If it makes you feel any better, I take similar precautions with all my dearest and closest friends. It’s so much easier to trust someone implicitly if you’ve got your knife pressed to his throat.”
Aimeric breathed out through his nose. “That’s all right, then.”
“Indeed. My poor brother had a cat once,” the archdeacon went on, rising slowly to his feet. “It ignored most people, but sometimes it would jump on someone’s lap and bite him deeply, right down to the bone. It’s all right, my brother used to say, it means she likes you. It never bit me, of course. If it had, I’d have had it quietly poisoned. Good heavens,” he added, “we’d better get a move on, or we’ll be late for Elevations.”
Elevations in the chapter house proved to be a great success, and the archdeacon was widely congratulated for his inspired suggestion. Although the space was rather smaller than the assembled court was used to, the superb acoustics and the uncluttered lines of sight meant that officials who’d been attending the ceremony for years said afterwards that it was the first time they’d ever been able to see and hear clearly and therefore understand what it was all supposed to be about. The emperor himself was visibly pleased, and wrote the archdeacon a personal note; for the first time since his accession, he said, he’d been able to properly appreciate the true spiritual significance of the ritual; assuming it wouldn’t cause too much inconvenience, he’d like to hold the ceremony there every day until further notice. Several people commented on the absence of general Calojan, even though he was known to be in the City. No explanation had been given, almost as if Calojan felt he didn’t need to explain. Sechimer himself made no comment, though it was rumoured that he was somewhat displeased.
After the service and the brief formal council meeting that followed it, Aimeric left the palace and walked down the Mile as far as the Bronze Gate, where he turned left into Sweetwater and then right into the tight cluster of narrow streets that surrounded the Treasury building like small rivers in a delta. He stopped outside a tall, windowless four-storey brick building, originally built as a warehouse before the river silted up and the Treasury district was renovated and made fashionable. He took a key from his pocket and let himself in.
“This is a pleasant surprise,” Orsella said, looking up from her work. She had a large sheet of milk-white vellum on the desk, and an inkwell and at least two dozen pens. He looked over her shoulder; the vellum was three-quarters covered with the Mezentine letter A.
“I can do all the other twenty-six letters,” she said, “but I’m having the most dreadful trouble with A. I’ve tried everything, and it just doesn’t look right.”
Aimeric peered down. The letters all looked identical. The top joint of the middle finger of her left hand was red and creased by the pen. “I didn’t know you were left-handed,” he said.
“I’m not. Well, sort of ambidextrous. But a surprising number of Mezentine scribes around this time wrote with their left; you can tell, if you know what to look for. It’s the sort of thing a Mezentine scholar would notice and find convincing.”
Aimeric raised his eyebrows. “Good for you,” he said.
She grinned at him. “Anyway,” she said, “what are you doing here? I thought you had Elevations and then meetings all morning.”
“I’m ill,” Aimeric replied. “Anyway, it was nothing important. How’s it going?”
She laid the pen carefully on the desk, the nib projecting over the edge. “Well,” she said, �
�the parchment’s all done and we’ve got all the ingredients we need for the ink, so if only I can teach myself to write one stupid letter, we’re ready to go. All we really need,” she added pleasantly, “is for someone to tell us what to write.”
Aimeric nodded. “Is Teudel about?”
“I’m not sure. Teudel!” She waited five seconds or so. “He must’ve gone out for something. Oh, I know. I sent him to get some of that special pumice, you remember, I told you about it.”
“Isn’t it a bit of a risk,” Aimeric said, “him walking about the streets in broad daylight? Someone could recognise him.”
Her face didn’t change. “Not really,” she said. “The place is down in the Tanneries. Teudel’s practically invisible anywhere south of Sheep Street.”
He looked at her, but she somehow deflected him, like a mirror placed at an angle. “You could have told me.”
“I spoke to your friend the archdeacon,” she said. “He told me he was making all the arrangements. I assumed he’d fill you in.”
“He did. Just now.”
“It must have slipped his mind. Before you ask,” she went on—her voice strengthened without the slightest hint of harshness—“I wouldn’t be able to do any of this without him. He’s the only man I’d trust to sand down old parchment just right.”
Aimeric nodded. “You’ve known him some time, then.”
“I worked with him once or twice. To be honest, usually I don’t need that level of expertise. This job, however, nothing but the best. That’s right, isn’t it?”
