by K. J. Parker
Her voice sounded odd. “Oh for pity’s sake,” Semplan said, “I’ve just come from there. Now what does he want?”
“No,” she said. “The king.”
His head chose that moment to throb like a fiddle-string. Not Joiauz, then. Quite right; Joiauz was the regent, though they’d all tended to overlook that recently. Chauzida? “Where is he?”
“Here.”
He looked, and there was the boy, standing diffidently behind his wife’s shoulder. “Your Majesty,” he said, standing up and wincing as he put his weight on his bare feet; there was a stone or something else sharp under the rug. “Please come in. Can we get you some tea?” he added, but Chauzida shook his head. Semplan’s wife gave him an agonised look and withdrew, drawing the tent flap across after her.
It was, of course, the first time he’d been alone with the boy, and he didn’t have the faintest idea how to talk to him. “You’re sure you wouldn’t like something? Tea? Milk?”
“No, thank you.”
“Please, sit down.” There was just the one stool, and he was standing directly in front of it. He took a long step back, turned his ankle over, swore instinctively and stumbled back two paces. Whatever the protocol was for a private audience with an under-age king, he was sure that wasn’t it.
“No, please, you sit down,” Chauzida said. “Are you badly hurt?”
“What?” Chauzida remembered; all that blood. “No, it’s not nearly as bad as it looks, just a bump on the head.” At which point he had another of the dizzy spells, and just managed to get himself onto the stool rather than the ground. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
The boy sat down cross-legged on the ground, looking up at him, like a dog. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
The boy hesitated, took a deep breath. “Who’s really the king, me or my uncle?”
“You, of course. Your uncle’s just holding the fort for you until you’re old enough to take charge.”
“So really it’s him, not me.”
Oh dear. “No,” Semplan said. “He’s sort of standing in for you, that’s all.”
“That’s not the same thing as holding the fort, is it?”
“I guess not,” Semplan said. “All right, he’s sort of representing you, as though you were somewhere else. But you’re the king, not him. Why?”
“So if I told you to do something,” Chauzida said, “and my uncle said do something different, which one of us would you listen to?”
Even on a good day, he wouldn’t have wanted to answer that; and this wasn’t a good day. “I don’t know, to be honest. I guess it would depend on the circumstances, and what each of you wanted me to do. I’m sorry,” he added, “but it’s not the sort of choice anyone’s ever had to make, if you follow me.”
Chauzida seemed to have understood, which was a mercy. “How about the other chieftains?” he said. “Would they say the same thing, do you think?”
“I expect so. I mean, we all respect Joiauz very much, he’s a wise man and he’s definitely got the best interests of the Cosseilhatz at heart.” He wondered if he’d made that too complicated for a boy to understand, but apparently not. “But you’re the king. When you come of age—”
“But if it was something really important,” Chauzida said. “And you knew my uncle was wrong. You’d—” He hesitated—“you’d be able to obey me and not him. I mean, it wouldn’t be against the law, or anything like that.”
“No, I guess not. Well, there isn’t really a law, as such. It’s more what we’ve done in the past, adapted a bit to suit the present situation.”
Chauzida nodded. “Precedent,” he said. “Is that the right word?”
“That’s it.” Semplan took a deep breath of his own. “Is this about the war?” he said. “Only, I know you aren’t happy about it, but really, Joiauz is quite right, it’s all gone too far now, we can’t turn back. Even if we gave up and went home, Calojan would have to come after us, and there’d have to be more fighting. Pressing on is the only way any of us can see of finishing it.”
“Oh, I understand that,” Chauzida said. “My uncle explained, and I know it’s what you all believe. No, it wasn’t that.”
“Ah. So, what—?”
“I’d rather not say, if that’s all right.” Chauzida stood up. “Thank you for talking to me. I hope you feel better soon.”
Semplan felt he had to say something. “Really, your uncle’s only doing what he thinks is for the best.”
“I know,” Chauzida said. “And I do understand why he thinks that, and it’s all for the Cosseilhatz and not himself. But I don’t think he’s right.”
It was too embarrassing for a man with a bad head to cope with. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” Semplan said. “But for now—”
“It’s all right for now,” Chauzida said. “Anyway, thanks again. You’ve been very helpful.”
Well, Semplan thought, as the tent-flap fell back after him, that’s certainly the best-mannered king we’ve had in my lifetime, though God only knows what that was really all about. Still, he really will be king one day, and it never hurts to get in with the man in charge. Then his head started swimming again, and matters of state rather lost their significance for a while.
The departure of three quarters of the City garrison to fight in the Cosseilhatz war was precisely the lucky break Teudel had been longing for. Fewer kettlehats on the streets meant that he could walk about in daylight, visit his old friends, pick up the threads of his former career and, in both a figurative and a quite literal sense, start making some money.
Even in the short time he’d been out of it, though, the business had changed. Nobody wanted gold solidi, his speciality; there were rumours that the Mint was about to devalue, which would shave the margins down to practically nothing. Instead, everybody was after Vesani or Mezentine silver, in bulk, either plated or small-flan (a coin that was just that bit smaller than the real thing; you wouldn’t notice when you picked it up in change, but there was a fraction less silver in it; melt down a thousand genuine coins and make them into a thousand and fifty). Since Teudel didn’t go in for plated stuff, he found he had no choice but to do small-flan work, which wasn’t his style. The Vesani dies were works of art, which made them awkward to copy, and the Mezentines designed theirs so as to make reducing the size and getting away with it as difficult as possible. Furthermore, silver is harder than gold, so he had to make the dies from best-quality hardening steel, which wore out his tools. Even then, a set of dies only lasted fifteen thousand strikings or so, which meant the purchasers couldn’t afford to pay much for them and still make a profit. All in all, he decided, he could probably make a better living for less work digging ditches.
“Stop whining, will you?” she said in his ear, “You’re all right. You’ve just been paid four solidi for a week’s work. And you’ve got me.”
He pulled away slightly. “How do you know how much—?”
“Don’t ask. So.” She slid out of bed and shook the tangles out of her hair. “Where are we going tonight?”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Teudel replied, pulling the blanket back over himself. “I’ve got work to do.”
“Suit yourself.” She was getting dressed, which meant she was going to leave soon. “Give me some money,” she said. “I think I’ll go to the Charity.”
“On your own?”
“Not for long.” She was feeling in his coat pocket. “Is this all you’ve got?”
“Yes.”
She counted. If she’d found them all, she was looking at thirty trachy. “They’re genuine,” he said, “if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Give me a solidus. I’ll give you the change.”
He sighed. “Feel under the collar,” he said. “There’s a little gap in the lining.”
She laughed. “That’s a funny place to keep your money.”
“I’ll have to think of a new one now.”
“Actually.” She hoppe
d to put on her shoes. “You ought to think about making copper. No, really, listen. The material doesn’t cost, you can use bits of water pipe, flattened out. And it’s all profit.”
“I’m an artist.”
“See you tomorrow? At the Restitution?”
“If I’ve finished this job by then.”
She’d taken two of the four solidi. He smiled; they were brass, trial pieces he’d made to show customers, no use to him any more. Would they notice at the Charity? Quite possibly. Ah well.
The real coins—five, not four—were in the toe of his left sock. He pulled it on and wriggled his toes so they would chafe. Flattened-out copper pipe didn’t work any more; the gauge was wrong, and besides, there was barely any copper pipe left in the City. The government had taken it up and replaced it with lead, for the war effort. He dressed quickly, went into the other room, lit his work lamp and sat down at the bench.
He’d just reached a tricky bit—the curve of the wings of the angel on the obverse of the Mezentine double thaler—when the door burst open. His arms were grabbed and pinned to his sides, and he was lifted onto his feet. He opened his mouth to yell, and a rag was stuffed into it. Something very sharp was pressing into the side of his neck. Oh, he thought.
“Easy does it,” said a voice he didn’t recognise.
He didn’t nod, because moving his head against the sharp point would’ve cost him his life. Another hand took a handful of his hair, he could feel knuckles against his scalp, and it made him shiver. A short walk to the door, down the two flights of stairs (an awkward business), out into the street. The open door of a coach was opposite the doorway. A powerful shove propelled him through it, and he landed on his knees on the coach floor. He heard the door slam behind him. Both doors were shuttered, and the shutters were up. He felt a jolt as the coach began to move. A man could be forgiven for worrying in a situation like that.
He spat out the rag and tried the doors; bolted on the outside, needless to say. Just possibly, he could smash a hole in the roof—not really, no, not with his bare hands. The floor, perhaps? He remembered the ship, the fear he’d felt then, and this wasn’t like that. He sat down on the seat and tried not to feel utterly stupid.
It wasn’t a long ride, and when the coach stopped and the door was opened, there was a familiar face waiting to greet him.
“Hello, Teudel,” Orsella said.
The coach drove off, and he recognised where he was; the coachyard of the Divine Covenant, on the main south road. You got the mail coach here for Lonazep and all destinations to the Vesani Republic.
He wanted to yell, but he grinned instead. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes. Come inside.”
“If you’d just sent a note—”
“This is serious.”
Oh well. He followed her into the back dining room, which was deserted. He knew it well. There was a table on whose underside he’d scratched initials; his own and PL, whoever she’d been. “Well?” he said.
“I’m pregnant.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I’m sure Aimeric—”
“He had nothing to do with it. Teudel, you bastard.”
All he wanted to do was laugh. He managed not to. Still, it was a joke. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “You know what to do. Get rid of it.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Her face was white. “It’s dangerous, you have to drink poison. I have absolutely no intention of dying because of you. Besides,” she added quickly, “it’d be murder. I don’t do that sort of thing.”
He shrugged. For once, he felt quite calm in her presence. “No need for that,” he said. “Just give Aimeric a big smile and tell him he’s going to be a daddy. I imagine he’ll go white as a sheet, but he’ll come round, I’m sure. Anyway,” he went on firmly, “I don’t see that there’s anything you need me for. Well, is there?”
She gave him a savage look. “I thought you might want to know.”
“Under other circumstances—” He made a vague gesture with his hands. “As things stand, though, no, not really. I suggest you turn this to your advantage. Make Aimeric marry you. Sister-in-law to the ruler of the known world, it can’t be that bad.”
“You think I should do that.”
It hadn’t occurred to him that she might actually want his advice. “Yes, why not? Quite apart from everything else, think about the money. Young Aimeric’s principal contractor to the imperial army. True, this war won’t last for ever, but there’ll be others, you can bet, and even in peacetime—”
“Teudel, I’m worried about this war.” Something about the way she said it; he felt a cold uncertainty he’d never known before. “I think it could be very bad. I don’t think we’re going to win.”
“Oh come on.”
“Really.”
He simply didn’t know; were women in her condition prone to unreasonable fears, along with morning sickness and a craving for strange food? “We’ve got Calojan,” he said, “and forty thousand bloodthirsty savages. Foregone conclusion. The empire always wins.”
“It’s not like the Sashan,” she said. “It’s completely different. The Sashan were civilised. If we’d lost, sooner or later things would’ve settled down, there’d still have been cities and houses and markets and trade. I went to Ummalas once, it was just another city; I sold some paintings there, for good money. These Cosseilhatz aren’t like that. They live in tents. If they win, they’ll just burn everything. There won’t be anything left.”
Teudel frowned. “What’s brought this on?”
“I listen,” she said. “And I think about what I hear. They’re not like us at all. If they win—”
Teudel shook his head. “Won’t happen,” he said. “All right, even supposing the unthinkable happens and we lose half a dozen battles. So? Everyone crowds into the City, behind Florian’s wall. What are a bunch of shepherds supposed to do about that? They’ll lose interest and go away. Some time later—five years, or ten—we’ll pull ourselves together and drive them out again. Or not; hardly matters, since the City’s on the sea. We’ll live by manufacture and trade, like the Vesani. Really,” he said, trying to sound calmly reassuring, “great big things like that aren’t going to affect us; particularly if you’re married to the emperor’s brother-in-law. You can bet that whatever happens, they’ll still be dining off solid gold plate in the palace.”
She looked at him for a disturbingly long time, then shook her head. “I want you to go to the Vesani Republic,” she said. “I want you to settle down, stay out of trouble, sit tight.”
He laughed. “Sure,” he said. “Using what for money?”
From her sleeve she took a small square of thrice-folded parchment. “Here,” she said. “No, don’t look at it now. It’s a bill of exchange on the Leucas brothers. Five thousand solidi.”
Teudel had been knocked out with a club once, in a disagreement in a bar in Lonazep. He recognised the same feeling of dazed helplessness, of falling into darkness. “What?”
“My life savings. Take it. Buy a house. Try not to lose it on the lizard-fights. If the war goes badly, I’ll come and join you. We’ll come and join you.” She looked at him, and in her eyes he saw a terrifying sincerity that made him think for a moment that he was back on the ship; sinking, going under the water, grabbing for something to keep afloat. “You will do this for me, won’t you? Please?”
He made himself breathe in. “If you’re so worried, go there yourself. Or I’ll come with you, if you want. Why stay here?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “It may be all right, maybe I’m worrying about nothing. Besides, if we win and I marry Aimeric, five thousand solidi will be neither here nor there. Please?”
He really didn’t want to say it, but he felt he had no choice. “Do you seriously believe I’m fit to be trusted with all that money?”
“Yes. Yes, if it’s for me.” Suddenly she smiled, and it was as though he’d woken up from a disturbing dream and realised it wasn’t real. �
��And your business is going to hell anyway, and you’re a wanted man in the City with a price on your head, and you like living in the Republic, and the interest on five thousand will make you far better off than you’ve ever been in your life without touching a bent trachy of the principal, and you know perfectly well that if you steal my money, I’ll have you hunted down and killed. So no, I’m not worried on that score.”
He grinned. “A moment ago, you weren’t a killer and all life was sacred.”
“For you, I’d make an exception. Furthermore, if you’re out there, you won’t be here capable of making trouble for me when I’m the emperor’s sister in law. That’s the real reason,” she added sweetly. “The other stuff was just pretend.”
“Thought so.” He reached for the parchment square and pulled on it gently; it came out of her hand like an almost-ripe apple off a tree. “You couldn’t make it six thousand, could you?”
She stood up. “You’re on the afternoon coach,” she said. “The innkeeper’s got twenty thalers for you, walking-around money. Write when you get there, care of the Conscience in Eastgate.”
He nodded. “Good luck,” he said. “Have fun.”
“Any ideas for a name?” she asked.
“What? Oh, I don’t know. My father’s name was Totila. But I expect Aimeric’ll have his own ideas. Probably something startlingly daring and original, like Aimeric junior.”
“Unless it’s a girl.”
“Oh I hope not,” Teudel said with feeling. “In case she takes after her mother.”
“What do you know,” Calojan asked, “about some people called the Goida?”
Raffen frowned. “The name rings a bell.” He flipped the stopper out of his water-bottle with his thumb and swallowed deeply, twice. “I may have heard rumours, but I don’t know if they’re true.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Raffen hung the bottle on the horn of his saddle. “Well,” he said, “they live away out east, but the Sceaf, who live to the north of us, reckon they’ve seen them on their eastern borders. I don’t believe it myself, because the Sceaf have nothing worth stealing.”
