by K. J. Parker
He felt as though he’d gone out onto a balcony with a girl at a dance, and suddenly she’d tried to push him over the rail. “Are you out of your—?”
“Aimeric.” She had the knack of using his name as a term of reproach. “Please don’t shout when I’m trying to do fine work. One slip and it’ll be ruined, and there simply isn’t time to start over again.”
“You can’t forge the emperor’s will. It’s—”
“Essential. For our survival.”
He noticed a Mezentine brass table, basically a circular flat brass tray on a stand with four turned ebony legs. He hadn’t seen it before. They cost ever such a lot of money. He’d never liked them much. He tried to believe that he was living in a world where the empire was on its knees, Sechimer was dead, there were riots in the streets and the woman he’d been trying to summon up courage to propose marriage to was forging the emperor’s will. But all he could focus on was, now I’m the owner of a two-solidi brass table, lucky me. “Please,” he said, “what are you talking about?”
Another long sigh. Still she didn’t turn round. “Your sister is having a baby,” she said. “That baby will be the next emperor. It’s vitally important that Sechimer made a will appointing you the child’s guardian.”
“Why?”
He saw her hand fumbling on the bench for something. She found it; a tiny ivory-handled knife. He couldn’t see what she did with it. “Because if Sechimer didn’t make a will and appoint you as guardian,” she said, “Calojan will step in, appoint himself and take power. Once he’s got himself dug in, he’ll make himself emperor—probably get the army to force him to accept the throne, he’ll be oh-so-reluctant, but what can he do? And what’s the first thing he’ll do then?”
Aimeric felt as though someone else was talking through him. “Get rid of the legitimate heir.”
“That’s right,” she said calmly. “And the heir’s mother, and uncle, everyone who might be a rallying point for the opposition. Your unborn nephew, your sister, you. And me, probably, because I’m carrying your child. That’s unless I do something about it. Which I’m doing right now, as fast as I can.”
She simply didn’t understand. “Calojan doesn’t want to be emperor,” he said. “Everyone knows—”
“You clown.” Said without rancour, because it was simply a statement of fact. “Just think, will you, for once in your life. A nobody, the son of a dirty book merchant, works his way up through the ranks to be commander-in-chief. Everybody in the entire world recognises him as the greatest military genius ever. And you’re saying, this man has no ambition. And you’re prepared to bet your life on that.”
“He’s not ambitious,” Aimeric heard himself say, though it did sound hopelessly naïve. “He’s just a man who does his duty.”
“Of course. It’s his duty to save the empire. And, in order to do so at this desperate time, he needs to sieze the throne. Who else but Calojan could possibly guide the ship of state through these stormy waters? Grow up, Aimeric. It’s him or us. Just count yourself lucky that on your side you’ve got the one person alive capable of doing this job. Otherwise, you’d be dead meat.”
He felt like a man wrestling with a heavy object—a tree-trunk or a stone—that’s too much for him to handle; he’d lifted it so far, but now his strength had run out and he was going to have to let go of it and drop it on his legs. He was sure she was wrong, but what if she was right? He stared at the back of her head—she was wearing her hair in a bun today, as usual when she was working. He thought; if she’s right, it’s got to be done. If she’s wrong and Calojan doesn’t want the throne, then no harm done, he won’t care. He knew he was missing something, but he was too frozen with fear to see what it was. “The Golden Spire,” he said.
“What?”
“That’s where the emperors lodge their wills. I remember now. When Ruderic II died, they all went to the Golden Spire to find the will, and when they opened the box, mice had got in and gnawed the parchment and half of it was lost. I remember reading it in a book.”
“Damn,” she said. “By now they’ll already have looked there. We’ll need your friend the archdeacon. And,” she added casually, “a miracle.”
It was, the archdeacon said, a miracle; a genuine one, which would be certified as such by the next Ratification Synod in due course. When they’d gone to the cartulary to look for the emperor’s will, they’d found nothing. Naturally they were greatly distressed, since the emperor’s own brother-in-law had confirmed that such a document existed; he’d seen it, with his own eyes. So the archdeacon had done the only thing he could do; he’d prayed, and the Invincible Sun had come to him in a dream and told him where to look. Sure enough, the next day he’d returned to the cartulary and opened the box the Sun had shown him (a collection of trust deeds and conveyances relating to temple properties in the City, stored on an adjacent shelf) and sure enough, there it was. How it had got in there, he was at a loss to explain. What mattered was, the precious document had been found, and the regency council, the queen, her brother and a dozen other witnesses of unimpeachable integrity had all examined it and declared it was definitely and undisputably genuine.
The discovery couldn’t have come at a better time. It was desperately important to know who would be the guardian of Sechimer’s unborn child, since only he could appoint the negotiating team to meet the representatives of the Cosseilhatz-Selbst alliance, who suddenly wanted to talk about peace.
“What if it’s a girl?” Raffen said.
They looked at him. “I don’t quite follow,” Chauzida said.
Raffen put down his empty cup and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Well,” he said, “if Sechimer’s kid turns out to be a girl, and we’ve agreed a truce or a treaty or whatever, where does that leave us? A girl can’t be a king,” he went on, since they still didn’t seem to have grasped the point, “so someone negotiating on her behalf can’t be speaking for the king, so any agreement would be worthless. Well? Don’t look at me like that, it’s a valid point.”
There was a long silence. A log shifted in the grate, stirring up a small fountain of red sparks. Then Semplan said, “Let’s all hope it’s a boy, then.”
They’d been sitting there for hours. The dozen Cosseilhatz were clearly uneasy and distressed about something; Raffen reckoned it was the effect of being inside a solid-walled building for an extended period. He’d anticipated something of the sort, and accordingly insisted on holding the meeting there, in what had until recently been a way station on the Military road. The longer he could keep them cooped up in there, he figured, the more desperate they’d be to get back outside under the sky, the more prepared to compromise and concede. The danger was that they’d simply walk out, but he reckoned he could handle them. Not that his own people were in a much better state, though in their case it wasn’t confined spaces that bothered them so much as the talks themselves. Sitting down and talking rather than getting up and doing something simply wasn’t in their nature. Not that he minded. So long as he could keep his nerve and his cool, an atmosphere of anxiety and stress you could’ve made bricks out of was no bad thing.
Unfortunately, the Cosseilhatz king didn’t seem bothered at all, or else he was an exceptional actor. He just sat there, perfectly still, in his too-big hand-me-down wolfskin, and listened. Raffen couldn’t help liking him—he was so polite, for one thing—but even so, this was business.
“That’s another thing,” he said. “No offence intended, naturally, but am I the only one who thinks it’s a bit odd to be sitting here negotiating with a child about who’s going to go to the City and negotiate with another child who hasn’t even been born yet? I’m starting to wonder. What the hell happened to all the grown-ups?”
He could feel the winces of his own people behind his back, but that was fine. Tension is contagious, and the Cosseilhatz were tense as wires, but still trying very hard indeed to keep their tempers. The fact that they were making the effort in the face of such booris
h provocation told him that they needed him, or were afraid of him, or both.
“Is that a question,” Joiauz snapped, “or are you just trying to be offensive?”
“Please, uncle.” Oh yes, the boy was really rather exceptional. Possibly it was because he was the only one in the room who was being himself, instead of putting on a show. Joiauz subsided, angry but pacified. “I’m sorry,” the boy went on, looking straight at Raffen, “I know it must seem very odd to you, but that’s how we do things. Also, I’d sort of got the impression it’s not so different in your country.” He paused, glanced at Joiauz, who nodded; then he went on, “Only, my uncle was talking to some of your people, and apparently four out of the fifteen biggest chieftainships in Selbst are held by kids my age or just a little bit older, isn’t that right? And I sort of got the impression that they don’t have guardians or anything doing their work for them, they do it all themselves. That is true, isn’t it?”
“It’s not as simple as that,” Raffen lied smoothly. “But what the hell, we don’t mind if you don’t. Shall we go back and have one more go at these frontier lines?”
Three more hours, and he had to admit, the boy had worn him down. That would’ve been irksome, if they’d been arguing over anything he cared about. As it was, it’d be a hundred years before his people could fill the territories the Cosseilhatz had already conceded hours ago. What they were really deciding was who was in charge and who was going to give way, now and in the future, and Raffen realised, surprised but not unhappy, that Chauzida had won that contest some time ago. No matter. He had no objection whatsoever to the boy being in charge. He was bright, sensible, level-headed and not trying to prove something, about himself or the world. You could have faith in someone like that.
So, when the struggle over some arbitrary boundary had reached total deadlock, he slammed his fists on the table, stood up and said, “Fine. If that’s your attitude, I don’t think there’s much point in doing this any more. Let’s just call the whole thing off.”
Chauzida looked at him. “Excuse me,” he said, “but that doesn’t make sense.”
“Not to you, maybe.”
The boy glanced at his uncle again, then said, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand. Surely we’ve agreed all the important things already. I don’t mean to be rude, but it’s like you’re just making difficulties for the sake of it.”
“You can think what you like,” Raffen snapped back. “I think we’ve given way on one thing after another, and the more you get the more you want to take. I don’t do things that way. The hell with it.”
“I’m very sorry,” Chauzida said. “I really didn’t mean it like that. Please, sit down and we’ll start again. I mean, it’s really important that we get everything sorted out now, isn’t it, so we don’t have anything we can fall out over later. If there’s anything you’re really unhappy about, we can talk about it again.”
The other Cosseilhatz were hard put to it not to shudder, but Raffen sat down. “All right,” he said, “let’s make it as simple as possible. Let’s forget everything we’ve done so far. Where’s that map?”
Maps made the Cosseilhatz uneasy; rather like the Sashan, who believed that pictures of gods are blasphemy. Raffen took the map and unrolled it, weighting down the corners with empty cups. The Cosseilhatz made themselves look at it, like respectable people confronted with pornography. “Here’s the City,” Raffen said. “Here we are. Up there’s our country, and all this stuff here is imperial territory right across to the Essa.” He got up, went over to the fireplace, scrabbled in the half-burnt trash that had fallen from the grate until he found a small bit of charred twig. “I’m going to draw a line,” he said. “Do you have any really strong views on where it should go?”
Chauzida looked at him again. “May I?” he said, and held out his hand. Raffen gave him the charcoal. He hesitated for a moment, then lightly drew a faint line. It passed directly through the City. “How about that?” he said.
Raffen counted to ten under his breath, then said, “Fine.”
From both sides of the table there came a soft, exhausted sigh. “You’re happy with that?” Chauzida said.
“I think so,” Raffen replied. “I think that’s entirely fair.”
“You’re sure?”
“Sure.” Raffen took the charcoal and drew over the line, pressing hard, until the charcoal started to crumble. “We need some ink or some paint or something,” he said. “Anyone?”
Eyvind produced the writing set the imperial ambassador had given him. He opened it, unscrewed the inkwell lid, dipped a pen and drew over the line once again. “Settled,” he said. “Now, I suggest we all take a very careful look at the map, so we can remember exactly where the line goes. Is there anyone here who can draw?”
Dead silence. “I can draw,” Raffen said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll borrow this and make a copy. I’ll show it to you so you can see it’s just the same as this one, then I’ll keep the copy and you can keep this. And then we won’t talk about this subject again. Agreed?”
Chauzida smiled and nodded. Raffen lifted the cups and let the map roll itself up again. “In that case,” he said, “we’re nearly done. Just to get it straight in our minds, everything our side of the line is ours, we can move our people down here and settle and build farms. Everything your side is yours, you can graze your flocks wherever you want. That just leaves what we’re going to do about the City.”
Weary silence. Then Joiauz said, “Do we have to do anything? I say we leave it alone.”
“Really,” Raffen said.
“Why not? They can’t hurt us, they’ve got no army. Even if they had one, without Calojan they can’t hope to fight us and win. But if we try and take the City, it’d cost thousands and thousands of lives. Let them sit behind their walls and get on with it.”
Raffen wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he said to Chauzida, “Suppose someone stole all your sheep. He’s bigger than you, he’s an adult and you’re just a kid, you daren’t fight him now. So, you wait till you’ve grown up a bit, until you’re bigger and stronger. You get someone to teach you to fight, and good weapons. Then, when you’re ready, you wait until his guard’s down, when he’s peacefully asleep in his house. You go to his house and you kill him and take back what’s yours. Well? Isn’t that what you’d do?”
Semplan scowled at him. “We’re not thieves.”
“Oh, but we are,” Raffen said, trying not to shout. “That’s exactly what we are. What we’re doing now is what a man called Sighvat did to me once—you know the story, I’m sure; if not, ask anybody, they’ll tell you. The only mistake Sighvat made was not making sure I was dead, and look at him now. We can’t make the same mistake. Trust me, I know all about it.”
Dead silence. Then Chauzida said, “I agree.”
“Now just a minute,” Semplan started to say, but Joiauz grabbed his arm and squeezed it hard. Chauzida went on, “It’s true, we are thieves. It’s not a good thing to be, but I don’t think we can be anything else. The Chantat and the no Vei and the Rosinholet are thieves too, and they’re bigger than us, like he said. And the Goida. So, we’ve got to be thieves too. My uncle realised that, which is why he started this war. I can see now, he was right. Now King Raffen says we can’t just be thieves, we have to be murderers as well. I think he’s right, too. It’s a terrible thing to have to do, but I don’t think we have a choice.”
Raffen leaned back until his chair creakled and beamed at him. “There you have it,” he said. “I’ve known for some time that the City’s got to be got rid of, it can’t be allowed to go on. I realised that almost as soon as I set foot in the place. You know about this prophesy the imperials are so excited about? There’s a phrase in it, the great enemy of all mankind. I think it means the empire. And one thing’s certain, if we don’t kill it now, while we’ve got the chance, it’ll come back and kill us, just like I killed Sighvat.” He leaned forward and looked straight at Chauzida. “I’m right,” he said. “Aren’t
I?”
He realised as he said the words that it was a genuine question; that, if the boy said no, he’d have to think again. But Chauzida nodded, and said, “I think so, yes.”
Another long silence. Then Semplan cleared his throat. “In that case,” he said, “we need to think very carefully about how we’re going to go about this. Does anyone here know anything at all about storming cities?”
Nobody spoke. Then Joiauz said, “Not me personally. But I know someone who just might.”
“Of course,” Hunza said. “As it happens, I’m an expert on siegecraft.”
Somehow, without bringing anything in or even rearranging the few sticks of furniture, Hunza had managed to make the tent they’d put him in look like an embassy. Joiauz opened his mouth to speak, but Raffen got in first. “We’ve got spades and pickaxes,” he said, “the Cosseilhatz have probably got buckets. Oh, and we’ve got a few woodworking tools, not many. There’s a big forest about ten miles away, for lumber. That’s it. That’s all we’ve got.”
Hunza smiled. “I will tell you how to build scaling ladders, siege towers, battering rams and catapults,” he said. “I will also teach you how to sap and undermine, prop shafts and lay camouflets. In return, once the City has fallen, you will provide me with an army, so I can restore order in my empire. Is that acceptable?”
Joiauz remembered; something he’d forgotten to mention. He leaned forward and whispered in Raffen’s ear. “Dear God,” Raffen said, then shrugged. “Fine by me,” he said. “According to the map, the old Sashan lands are all on the Cosseilhatz’ side of the line, so it’s no skin off my nose. If he wants to go there and be an emperor, let him.”
“We agree,” Chauzida said.
Hunza nodded. He didn’t look in the least surprised, and not especially pleased. “In that case,” he said, “send me your chief engineers and we can start immediately.”
Joiauz and Chauzida looked at each other. Raffen said, “I’m the chief engineer. I’ll get some paper and you can draw it all out for me.”
