The Two of Swords, Part 3

by K. J. Parker

  “Now then,” she said. “Where is this silver?”

  For an intelligent man, he wasn’t very smart. The fire god only saw fit to give us ten fingers, and she was afraid she’d run out and have to think of something else. “The silver,” she said, for the twelfth time.

  “All right, there’s silver.” He was croaking now, like a frog. “Since you know already, what’s the point of all this?”

  “I’ve had a look at the map,” she said, “and I’m guessing the vein starts somewhere in the Creen hills and runs down to Hillsend, where you’ve got that big fault line running north–south. I can show you the map if it’d help.”

  He gazed at her. At some point during the interview, it had dawned on him that he wouldn’t be getting out of this alive. “I don’t know,” he said. He was close to tears.

  “Obviously, now that we’re back in control in that region, we can send our own surveyors and they can figure it all out for themselves. But it’d save a great deal of time and bother if you’d just tell us what you found. No point in duplicating your work, is there?”

  “Forget it.” He’d come to some sort of decision. “Before you can do that, Senza’ll be right up you and he’ll drive you into the sea. You don’t stand a chance.”

  She did a light frown. “Oh, didn’t anyone tell you? Senza Belot is dead. Gangrene. Just a little scratch. You’ve got to be so careful.”

  If she hadn’t done all the careful spadework, breaking him down inside and hurting him just right, he’d never have believed her. It’s such a delicate thing. “You’re lying.”

  “Afraid not, sorry.” She’d damaged him far more with four words than with anything physical she’d done. “You look tired,” she said. “I’ll let you get some rest, and we can carry on where we left off later. I’m surprised nobody told you about General Belot. We’re all very excited, as you can imagine.”

  So simple after that. The only problem was getting him to shut up.

  There was a vein of silver; not where she’d said (well, it was just an educated guess). The first indications had come to light only quite recently, but he’d had a chance to explore it pretty thoroughly, and in his opinion it was a truly substantial find, as big as Rhomespa, quite possibly bigger; not too far down, easy enough to extract from the lead using standard techniques. It could’ve turned the tide of the war, he said sadly, if only—

  Once she was sure she’d got everything out of him that there was to get, it crossed her mind to tell him that Senza wasn’t dead after all. She decided against it; the pain of knowing he’d been fooled into parting with such crucial information would probably be greater than what he’d gone through already, believing Senza was dead. Leave it at that, she thought; don’t meddle.

  If only, she thought, as she made her way to the Director’s office. If only General Belot was dead – their General Belot or ours, makes no odds – and the war was really about to end. She smiled at herself for believing something like that was possible.

  “Excellent work, as usual.” The Director was preoccupied, as well he might be. The news that the enemy was about to come into a huge sum of money was enough to flood anyone’s thoughts. “I’ll definitely be putting you in for a distinction.”

  She thanked him nicely. Pointless, of course, since she was a woman and therefore not eligible for any form of recognised promotion. Shouldn’t be in the service at all, properly speaking. “One thing,” she said.

  “Sorry, miles away. Yes?”

  “Colonel Pausa.”

  “What? Oh, the man you’ve been—”

  “That’s him. I was thinking. It might be a good idea to let him live.”

  The frown. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You know departmental policy.”

  “Yes, of course. But he is actually a really good geologist.” She paused, then added: “Sort of a collector’s item, if you follow me. It’d be a dreadful waste. There’s not many of his calibre, certainly not on our side.”

  The special words hadn’t been lost on him. “As good as that?”

  “I think so, yes. At any rate, worth passing along, let them decide. Of course, it’s up to you,” she added, “but I thought I’d mention it.”

  “No, I mean yes, quite right.” He was thinking about it. In two seconds, it’d have been his idea. “I’ll send up a note,” he said. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Well, she thought; maybe the good colonel would turn out to be a top-notch geologist after all, and then everybody would be happy. She hoped so. It had been a silly thing to do, to stick her neck out like that for someone of no obvious value to her; but so what, she reckoned she’d earned the right to indulge herself, after all the aggravation she’d been through lately. Calibre, she thought; did I really say that? I’m starting to sound like departmental communiqués.

  The dress was beautiful. She loved it, even though it showed a lot of arm (she didn’t like her arms), and she thought the warrior-princess look was silly. Seeing herself in the dress in the Corsanders’ full-length mirror – an extraordinary thing, one of only four in the whole of the West – she revised her opinion. The warrior-princess look was silly when worn by other people. On her, it looked just fine.

  Maybe it was just the dress, or the combination of the dress and the successful interrogation; on the evening of the concert she was in a better mood than she could remember in a long time. Walking under the great arch of the Port Royal put a slight crimp in her feeling of wellbeing – the last time she’d been here, she’d been a leading prosecution witness against an old and dear friend, convicted and subsequently executed for treason – but the size and splendour of the crowd in the covered garden counteracted that to a certain extent. The men were either in formal academics or parade armour, and the women were simply glorious, so that she could enjoy her dress and still be inconspicuous, just another bird of paradise in a huge flock. There were just enough people she knew to make her feel comfortable, and she had tremendous luck avoiding the people she didn’t want to talk to. They’d laid on eunuchs with their skins gilded, dressed as fire angels, bringing round trays of hors d’oeuvres, and the four alabaster fountains were running water – snow melt, piped in from the Black hills and deliciously cool – so she didn’t have to drink wine.

  As she refilled her cup from the Winter Fountain she met Colonel Vaudo, an old friend from her first lodge, now attached to the Ordnance. He’d put on weight since he’d come off the front line, and there was a long wedge of scarlet tunic showing up one side, where his gilded dress breastplate and backplate no longer quite met. “I know,” he said, observing and interpreting her grin. “It’s hell when I sit down. I had them punch extra holes in the straps, but the bloody thing’s still tight.”

  “Get a new one,” she said.

  “Can’t be bothered. Only the second time I’ve worn it since I’ve been back. You’re looking good.”

  She nodded. “Girl clothes,” she said. “I treated myself.”

  He leaned awkwardly against a pillar. There was an audible creak. “I gather you were at Beloisa.”

  “That’s right. Any news?”

  He frowned. “Not particularly good,” he said. “Of course, what we’re getting is what they’re telling their own people, but it looks like Senza carried the town at the first assault. All over in an hour or so.”

  “You surprise me,” she said. “Colonel Pieres had got it done up pretty tight. There was a bloody great big moat, for one thing.”

  “They reckon Senza used pontoons under cover of heavy pavises,” Vaudo said. “Anyway, no doubt we’ll get the details in due course. The point is, we’ve lost our last foothold on their ground and we’re right back where we were eighteen months ago. The usual bloody stalemate.”

  She did her cheerful voice. “Yes,” she said, “and Senza’s back up north on his side of the line, instead of down here on ours. Meanwhile, it’s Forza’s move. Our turn to beat up on them, for a change.”

  “I guess so.”
He smiled. She noticed he had a few grey hairs in his beard now. Actually, they suited him. “Anyway, screw the war. Have you seen Oriden recently? Last I heard, she’d got engaged to some Imperial in Internal Communications.”

  She twitched her nose. “He’s called Iuppito, and he’s Director of Waterways for the whole of the north-west. Very good-looking but five feet nothing in his army boots. I got a letter from my sister, and apparently they’re talking about getting married in the spring.”

  Vaudo raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he said. “How is Philemon, anyway? Still at the same place?”

  “And doing very well, apparently. She reckons it’s between her and some Northern female for Prioress when the old battleaxe retires, which should be any day now.” She grinned. “Nice to think that one member of our family’s making something of herself in the world.”

  “Well, quite.” Vaudo stopped a gilded angel and helped himself to white wine. “Are you still dashing around all over the place?”

  “Pretty much. No idea what’s next. Here, hopefully, but I just don’t know. I’m sick of sleeping in barns.”

  He gave her a sympathetic look. “You should put in for a priory,” he said. “You’ve got seniority, God knows. Hang up your boots, nothing to do all day but shout at a bunch of nuns.”

  She shook her head. “Women’s work,” she said. “I’d go berserk inside of a month.”

  He sighed. “What you should be doing is running a big City lodge,” he said. “It’s ridiculous, someone with your background and ability still nominally a lay sister.” He frowned and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard it said they’re ordaining women in the East. So why the hell not here?”

  “Fine,” she said, “I’ll defect. I’ll leave a note saying you suggested it.”

  A fanfare of trumpets, and everyone started to move. “See you later,” Vaudo said. “I’m with a party from Supply. Enjoy the show.”

  “You too,” she called after him, and then the stream of moving people separated them. She followed it into the main auditorium. They’d draped garlands of blue and red flowers round all the pillars, like at Spring Festival, and the roof was open. She found a seat about halfway down on the end of a row at the right. She liked being on the end, in case there was a fire.

  After what struck her as an unnecessarily long time, the choir appeared through the double doors at the back and processed up the main aisle, followed by the orchestra. They took their places on the raised semi-circular platform, and the instrumentalists started making the usual raucous tuning-up noises. Then they stopped, and there was a moment of rather uneasy silence; then the single door at the side of the platform opened and all around her people were standing and cheering. Being on the end, she was able to peer round; she caught sight of a big man in a long black academic gown, but she was too far away to make out anything more precise than that. Certainly, no chance of seeing the scar. He moved towards the centre of the half-moon of choristers, and she lost sight of him for a while until he emerged on to the choirmaster’s podium. He stood there for a while and nothing happened. Then he turned towards the orchestra and raised his hands.

  It began with a sudden thrill on the strings that seemed to cut her to the bone. Then the horns launched into a harsh, wild theme that soared, gathered, repeated, gaining pace and mass before hovering as the rest of the orchestra rushed in behind it, like floodwater through a breach in a sea wall. A countermelody cut across it, like a parry, like enfilading fire; there was a duel between the two, scrambling up into a crescendo, into a sudden savage thrust of the strings, and a dead stop. Five beats of silence; then the horns led the woodwind in a gentle, solemn melody so lovely that it caught in her throat until she could barely breathe. The melody developed over two building repetitions, and then the first theme reappeared, muted to begin with but growing to frantic intensity; it was like watching weeds and brambles growing up through a bed of flowers, but speeded up so that they moved as fast as snakes. Just when she could bear it no longer, a frantic ascent on the strings scattered both themes and drove them aside, and a new theme, major, glorious, triumphant, rose from the orchestra like the sun. As the melody burst like a flower opening, the choir took it up and launched it across the hall like a missile.

  “Hello, you,” someone said, and she looked round to see Oida, advancing on her with a grin outstretched like a spear. She found a smile from somewhere.

  “Well,” Oida said. People got out of his way, with is-it-him looks on their faces. “What did you think?”

  “Incredible,” she said.

  He was holding a plate with a slice of honeycake. “You reckon.”

  “Yes.”

  He pulled a wry face. “Yes, it was rather, wasn’t it? You’ve got to hand it to the old devil. Just when you think he’s losing it and dwindling away into a pillar of the establishment, he comes up with something like that. Makes me wonder why I bother, really.”

  Indeed, she thought. “You make it sound like a fight to the death,” she said. “I’ve never thought of you and Procopius as, well, rivals. You do such different work.”

  “Quite,” Oida said. He handed his plate to a fire angel. “He writes music. Still, there you go. That’s me put firmly in my place for a while. I guess I’ll have to go back to playing the three-string outside tea houses.” He smiled. “There’s a bunch of us going on to dinner at the Vetumnis house, if you fancy coming along.”

  “I’d better not, thanks,” she said vaguely. “Early start in the morning.”

  He didn’t seem exactly heartbroken. “Next time, then. Meanwhile, if you’ve got five minutes, there’s someone I think you should meet.”

  Hell, she thought; but there’s just so much refusing you can get away with in one evening. “Love to,” she said, and followed his slipstream through the crowd towards the left-hand side door.

  Through the door into a corridor, then some stairs. At least it was quiet. She really needed some silence, after the music; silence, and somewhere dark and safe where she could come down. The last thing she wanted was to make conversation to some lodge grandee or politician.

  At the top of the stairs there was a door. He breezed through it, she followed, and found herself in a small panelled room; there was a table, covered with piles of sheet music, and a dozen or so men and women down the far end of the room, drinking and talking quietly, and at the other end, eating cold beef wrapped in flatbread, a huge man in a black gown.

  She stared at him. She couldn’t help it.

  The scar, an inch wide, ran from his left eye to the right corner of his mouth, drawing a white line across the deep mahogany brown of his skin. She could see at once that it had been appallingly badly stitched at the time; the upper side of the scar overlapped the lower, forming a mound, like dried glue left around a joint by a slapdash carpenter. It occurred to her that it was the sort of job you’d do if you didn’t expect your patient to survive, so why bother?

  “Telamon, I’d like you to meet Director Procopius. She loved the show, by the way.”

  He must have seen her staring. She imagined a knife cutting her throat; it made her feel a tiny bit better. She opened her mouth, but froze, having no idea how to address him. There was a silence that lasted till the end of the world.

  “I gather you’re not long back from Beloisa,” he said. He had the most amazing voice. She felt like she heard it through her skin. “That must’ve been pretty rough.”

  He gathered. He’d heard of her? “Towards the end, yes,” she heard herself squeak. He had thick black hair in braids down his back, with just a few filaments of grey. He was tall and broad enough to be a Rhus. “I’m afraid I ducked out. I gather things ended badly.”

  “I’ve read about Beloisa before the war,” he said. “It was supposed to be one of the most beautiful cities in the empire, in its day. There was a mosaic ceiling by Garheil in the apse of the White temple.”

  “Gone now, I’m afraid,” she said. “We pulled it down.”

  A slight f
rown. “That’s a great shame,” he said. “It’s terrible when beautiful things are lost, no matter what the reason. Still, I expect the commander was only doing what he felt he had to do. I’m not sure I could ever take a decision like that, so it’s just as well I’m not a soldier.”

  She had no idea what to say. “I loved the music” sort of slipped out before she could stop it, like a bad dog after a cat.

  Procopius frowned a little, as though she’d said something in slightly bad taste. “Thank you,” he said. “How about you?” he went on, turning a few degrees to the left. “A bit staid and academic for you, I imagine.”

  “I loved it,” Oida said. “If you don’t get the Crown this year, there’s no justice.”

  “I can guarantee I won’t get the Crown. I’m on the panel of judges.”

  Oida clicked his tongue. “You shouldn’t let them take advantage of you like that,” he said. “Every year you put yourself out of the running, and some kid gets it who hasn’t got a tenth of your ability. Result: people stop hearing your name, and next thing you know they stop playing your stuff. Next year, you really ought to tell them, enough’s enough.”

  Procopius nodded slowly. “You haven’t entered for the Crown for five years. Not since you won it.”

  Oida shrugged. “I guess I’m not competitive by nature. As someone very wise said to me recently, it’s not a fight to the death. But there’s such a thing as proper recognition.”

  “Oh, people recognise me,” Procopius answered quickly. “That’s not a problem.”

  A very short but intense pause, then Oida laughed loudly. “I guess not,” he said. “But you know what I mean. It’s different for someone like me, churning out junk for the masses. For you—”