The Proof House

by K. J. Parker

  ‘Tell me about him,’ said Colonel Abrain.

  Iseutz shook her head. ‘I don’t think I will,’ she said. ‘Not unless you tell me why you’re interested in him.’

  ‘I find your entire family fascinating,’ the Son of Heaven replied impassively. ‘I’m a student of human nature.’

  ‘Really.’

  ‘It’s something of a passion among my people.’ He steepled his fingers. ‘More to the point, he has approached us with a view to forming an alliance against King Temrai. Obviously we would wish to interview as many of his close associates as possible before reaching a decision on this proposal.’

  Iseutz thought for a moment. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I don’t suppose anything I can tell you about him can do him any harm. Tell you what; you tell me what you already know, and I’ll fill in the gaps.’

  The colonel smiled thinly. ‘As you wish,’ he said. ‘We know that when he was a young man, he prostituted his sister and then murdered his father and brother-in-law when they found out what he had done. He also tried to kill his sister, but failed. In the same incident, he murdered your father; isn’t that so?’

  Iseutz nodded. ‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘What a lot of things you people know.’

  ‘We pride ourselves on attention to detail. After committing these murders, he escaped from the Mesoge and spent a while as a pirate and soldier of fortune, until his sister – your mother – established the Bank on Scona; he joined her there and worked for her as head of the Bank’s security forces; in which capacity, we understand, he opened the gates of Perimadeia to the forces of King Temrai, allowing the city to be taken and burned to the ground. Three years ago, matters between the Bank and the Shastel Order came to a head; Gorgas Loredan conducted a brilliant defence, considering the disparity in size and quality between the armies of the Order and the forces available to the Bank, but in spite of two remarkable victories in pitched battle, the Order prevailed and Scona was captured. Your uncle deserted the island immediately before its fall, taking with him the remnants of the Scona army; he sailed directly to the Mesoge and seized power there. After a few initial incidents, his regime has apparently become stable, although reliable information from the Mesoge has become rather difficult to obtain.’ He unfolded his hands and laid them palm down on his knees. ‘Is that summary basically accurate?’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ Iseutz said. ‘You people are good at this, I can tell. Well, you didn’t mention that the reason why he gave up and let Shastel walk right into Scona was because just before he was due to fight their third army – he’d annihilated the other two, as you know – Uncle Bardas killed his son, and my mother skipped out and left him; what with one thing and another, he couldn’t see any point in prolonging the agony.’

  The colonel nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Now, what else can you tell me about him?’

  Iseutz thought for a long while. ‘I suppose you could say he’s an uneasy mix of idealism and pragmatism,’ she said. ‘The idealism bit is this notion of family that he’s got buried deep down inside; he’s convinced that he believes in family as the most important thing. I don’t think that’s actually the case; what I mean is, I think he’s fooling himself when he thinks that, but it’s what he sincerely believes. I think.’ She paused for a moment, her lips pressed to the back of her hand. ‘The pragmatism bit’s the other side of the coin. His philosophy is, what’s done is done, no point crying over spilt milk, the thing is to make the best of the situation you find yourself in and not to let the past get in the way of the future.’ She grinned. ‘I guess you could say he takes that particular philosophy to extremes rather. But he’s a pretty extreme person.’

  The Son of Heaven stirred a little in his chair; cramp, possibly. ‘Why do you think he seized power in the Mesoge?’

  ‘Lots of reasons, probably.’ Iseutz sighed and looked out of the window. ‘He saw a good opportunity and took it. The Mesoge was his home; no other way he could ever go back after what he’d done, except at the head of an army, so he took an army. And I expect if you asked him, he’d say he did it for the good of his people. Probably believes it, too, somewhere inside him. That’s another talent he’s got – he can believe almost anything if he has to.’

  ‘Why would he want to make war on the tribes? He helped them destroy Perimadeia.’

  ‘Ah.’ Iseutz nodded. ‘That’s a good one, but if you’d been paying attention you’d have figured it out for yourself. Betraying the City was one of the things he did that made Bardas hate him; so he reckons that if he fights the plainspeople and kills Temrai, that’ll make it up to Bardas. At the same time, it’ll please you people, and if he’s serious about being a king in the Mesoge, he’s going to need friends – like you, for instance. But the political stuff is only the trimmings. Bardas is the reason. Bardas motivates most of what Gorgas does, when he isn’t under orders from my mother.’

  Colonel Abrain frowned. ‘Explain,’ he said.

  ‘The two people he hurt most,’ Iseutz replied. ‘Well, three, really: my mother, Bardas and me. In that order. So, he’s been trying to make it up to us ever since; he made it possible for my mother to play God Almighty in Scona, he’s going to kill Temrai for Bardas, and – well, he’ll get around to me later.’ She yawned and stretched like a cat. ‘Really, if you are a student of human nature, he’s a real collector’s item. He’s either an evil man who spends his life trying to do right by his own family, or a good man who did one very evil thing. Or both. Like I said, he feels the greatest obligation to my mother, because she was the one he hurt most (apart from the ones he killed, of course, but they’re dead, so he can’t help them). But Bardas is the one he really cares about.’

  ‘Even though Bardas killed his son?’

  Iseutz shrugged. ‘Uncle Gorgas has an infinite capacity for forgiveness. Which argues against the evil-man hypothesis, just as the killing-and-betraying-cities thing argues against the basically-good theory. We’re a complicated lot, us Loredans. Almost but not quite more trouble than we’re worth.’

  The Son of Heaven stood up, slowly because of his bad leg. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right.’ Iseutz stayed where she was. ‘But do me a favour, if you would. See if you can’t find some way of making life difficult for my mother – currency regulations, customs, import licences, something along those lines. She hates things like that.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ the colonel said austerely. ‘The provincial office doesn’t work like that.’

  ‘Really? Forget it, then. Goodbye.’

  When he’d gone, Iseutz sat on the floor, her back against the wall, her arms tight around her knees, thinking about the recurring dream she had in which the Patriarch Alexius told her that, if she wanted, he could take a sharp knife and cut off the Loredan half of her, leaving only the Hedin half behind. Invariably she woke up just before he started to cut. She’d never been able to work out whether it was a nightmare or not.

  ‘Who was that?’

  She looked up. ‘The rat-catcher,’ she said. ‘I sent for him. Place is swarming with rats.’

  Her mother sighed impatiently. ‘He was from the provincial office,’ she said. ‘What did he want?’

  ‘If you’re going to answer your own questions, what do you need me for?’

  Niessa Loredan walked over to where her daughter was sitting and kicked her hard in the ribs, enough to wind her. ‘Who was he,’ she asked again, ‘and what did he want?’

  Iseutz looked up. ‘He wanted to know if you like mushrooms,’ she said. ‘I said yes.’

  Niessa kicked her again, rather harder, and pulled her foot away before Iseutz could grab hold of it. ‘I haven’t got time to bother with you now,’ she said. ‘I’ll send Morz up to take away your books and your lamp, and don’t think you’ll get anything to eat.’

  ‘Good. I’m sick of soup.’

  Niessa bent down. ‘Iseutz,’ she said, ‘don’t be tiresome. What did he want
?’

  Iseutz sighed. ‘He wanted to know about Uncle Bardas and Uncle Gorgas. I told him – well, all the stuff I knew he knew already. That’s all I could tell him. I don’t know any more.’

  ‘Well.’ Niessa straightened up. ‘You told him what he wanted, then? We have to co-operate with these people; we depend on their goodwill.’

  ‘I told him everything I know.’

  Niessa nodded. ‘And you weren’t rude or difficult? Well, of course you were. But you didn’t attack him or anything?’

  ‘Mother!’ Iseutz said angrily. ‘For pity’s sake. You make me sound like I’m mad or something. What do you think I did, chase him round the room on all fours trying to bite his ankles?’

  Niessa walked to the door and opened it. ‘We have to co-operate,’ she said. ‘It hasn’t been easy since we moved here; I’ve had to work very hard. I won’t have you spoiling it for me. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  That sideways look again – fear, she’s worried. I love it when she’s worried. ‘Iseutz,’ Niessa said, ‘one day, everything I’ve worked for, everything I’ve built, will come to you. You’re my daughter, the only family I’ve got left. Why must you always be trying to spoil things for me?’

  Iseutz laughed. ‘You’re going to die and leave me all your money? Fat chance. If I thought you were mortal, I’d have bitten your throat out in the night.’

  Niessa closed her eyes, then opened them again. ‘You come out with things like that, and then you wonder why I keep you here. I know you don’t mean it, you’re just trying to shock me. You should have grown out of that when you were ten.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There wasn’t much wrong with Sammyra that an earthquake wouldn’t fix, except for the smell. The post coach had broken a wheel on its way down the mountains, which meant it was late getting in; the connecting coach to Ap’ Calick was long gone. There would be another one through in the late afternoon. Until then, Bardas was at liberty to wander about the town and absorb its unique ambience.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Can’t I just sit here and wait?’

  The posthouse keeper looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Oh.’ He looked up the street and down again. ‘Can I have a drink of water, please?’

  ‘There’s a well just down the road,’ the keeper replied. ‘There, on the left, by the burned-out mill.’

  Bardas frowned. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but is the water here all right to drink?’

  ‘Well, we drink it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Bardas said, ‘but I’ll see if I can find some milk or something.’

  There were plenty of inns and taverns in Sammyra. There were the uptown inns, cut into the rock of Citadel Hill or amplified out of natural caves; most of them had signs by the door saying ‘No Drovers, Pedlars or Soldiers’, with a couple of large men leaning in the doorway to explain the message to any drovers, pedlars or soldiers who weren’t able to read. There were the middle-town taverns, an awning giving shade to a scattering of old men sitting on cushions on the ground, with a dark doorway behind. There were the downtown booze-wagons, drawn up in a circle on the edge of the horse-fair, with a hatch in the side into which money went and from which small earthenware jugs emerged. Bardas chose one of the middle-town awnings at random; it doubled as a knife-grinder’s booth and doctor’s surgery, and there was an old woman sitting at the back singing with her eyes shut, though Bardas didn’t know enough about Sammyran poetry and music to tell whether she was an attraction or a pest. The song was something to do with eagles, vultures and the return of spring, and a lot of it appeared to be mumbling. Bardas didn’t care for it very much. He sat down in the opposite corner; the old men stopped what they were doing, looked round to stare at him, then turned away. A very short, bald man with a long beard suddenly appeared behind his left shoulder and asked him what he wanted to drink.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Bardas replied. ‘What’ve you got?’

  The old man frowned. ‘Echin,’ he said, as if answering a question about the colour of the sky. ‘Do you want some or not?’

  Bardas nodded. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘How much?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ the man said. ‘You can have a cup, a flask or a jug. You choose.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Bardas said. ‘I meant, how much money?’

  ‘What? Oh. Half-quarter a jug.’

  ‘I’ll have a jug, then.’

  The old man went away and came back a moment later, sidestepping the shower of sparks from the grinder’s wheel and the patch of blood left behind by the doctor’s last patient. ‘Here,’ he said, presenting Bardas with the jug and a tiny wooden cup. Bardas gave him his money, half-filled the cup and sniffed it. By now he was too thirsty to care.

  Echin turned out to be hot, thin, sweet and black; an infusion of herbs in boiling water, flavoured with honey, cinnamon and a little nutmeg and used to dilute a heavy raw spirit that’d undoubtedly be fatal if drunk on its own. It was dangerously good for the thirst. Bardas nibbled down a cupful of the stuff and settled down to wait till his head stopped spinning. The old woman stopped singing. Nobody moved or said anything. She started again. It sounded like the same song, but Bardas couldn’t be sure about that.

  Some time later a large party of men appeared and sat down in a big circle in the middle of the tent. They were noisy and cheerful, ranging in age from seventeen to about sixty; not Sons of Heaven but not dissimilar either; clean-shaven, with very long hair plaited into elaborate pigtails. They wore very thin white shirts that reached down to their knees, and their feet were bare. Presumably, Bardas guessed, they were drovers; almost as bad as pedlars and soldiers, to judge by the notices uptown, though none of them appeared to be carrying any sort of weapon. They drank their echin sparingly from a huge brass cauldron in the middle of the circle, paid no attention to the old woman’s singing and struck Bardas as reasonably harmless.

  Some time after that (time passed slowly here, but steadily) a group of five soldiers wandered in. They weren’t Sons of Heaven either; it was hard to say where they were from, but they wore the light-grey-faded-to-brown gambesons that went under standard-issue infantry armour and issue boots, brightly polished belts and the little woollen three-pointed caps that formed the padding for the infantry helmet. Four of them were wearing their swords; the fifth, the corporal of this half-platoon, had a square-ended falchion tucked under his belt. They walked straight across the circle of drovers, who got out of their way, and went into the back room. The old woman stopped singing, opened her eyes, got up and limped quickly away.

  There was an old man sitting next to Bardas with his mouth open, a very small cup of echin going cold on the ground in front of him. Bardas leaned over. ‘Trouble?’ he asked.

  The old man shrugged. ‘Soldiers,’ he replied.

  ‘Ah.’

  Inside, something smashed, followed by the sound of laughter. The drovers looked up, then carried on with their conversation. One or two of the other customers got up and walked away without looking round.

  The soldiers came out, holding big jugs of something that wasn’t echin, and stood looking down at the drovers. The conversation in the circle died again. The old man Bardas had spoken to left just as the man who’d brought Bardas his drink came out with a tragic expression on his face. Everything seemed to suggest that the tavern was a good place not to be for a while. Bardas would have left, but he hadn’t finished his drink.

  Thus saith the Prophet: do not start fights in bars. Do not interfere in other people’s fights in bars. As religions went, it had a lot going for it, and Bardas had always kept the faith. When the fight started, he did as he usually did on these occasions; sat very still and watched carefully out of the corner of his field of vision, taking care not to catch the eye of any of the combatants. Taken purely as an entertainment, it had its merits; the drovers had the numbers, while the soldiers had the weapons, together with a rather more robust attitude as to what constituted a legitimate degr
ee of force. When one of the drovers went down and didn’t get up, the fight stopped; instead of a confused pool of action, there was a tableau of fifteen men standing quite still and looking very embarrassed. Nobody spoke for a while; then the corporal (who’d done the actual killing) looked round and said, ‘What?’

  One of the soldiers was looking at Bardas; at the dull brown of the tarnished bronze flashes on his collar, four for a master-sergeant. Actually, it wasn’t even Bardas’ own coat; it was something he’d picked up in the mines (nearly new, one careless owner). But everybody seemed to have noticed the little metal clips now. Bardas wondered what they all found so interesting.

  The little man who’d brought the wine was standing over him now. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  Bardas looked up. ‘Me?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you. You’re a sergeant. What are you going to do?’

  Of course, he’s right. I’d clean forgotten. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘What would you suggest?’

  The little man looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Arrest them, of course. Arrest them and send them to the prefect. They just killed someone.’

  Thus saith the Prophet: when asked to arrest five armed men after a bar fight, leave at once. ‘All right,’ Bardas said, getting slowly to his feet. He looked at the soldiers for a moment without saying anything, then directed his attention to the corporal. ‘Names,’ he said.

  The soldiers told him their names, which he didn’t catch; they were long, foreign and complicated. ‘Unit,’ he said. The corporal replied that they were the Something regiment of foot, such-and-such a company, such-and-such a platoon.

  ‘All right,’ Bardas said. ‘Who’s your commanding officer?’ The corporal gave him a look of misery and fear, then shouted and came at him, the falchion raised. Before he knew what he was doing, Bardas had caught him by the elbow with his left hand and driven his knife into the hollow at the base of the corporal’s throat with his right. He hadn’t remembered the knife getting into his hand, or being on his belt in the first place; but after three years in the mines, his knife was like his hands or his feet, it wasn’t something you ever had to remember.