by K. J. Parker
“He was a brave soldier,” Myrtus said, “who died to save his men.” He put the jar down, then wiped his hands vigorously on the grass. “That’s the thing,” he said. “Your soldierly virtues, like courage and self-sacrifice. It’s bloody disconcerting when you see the enemy has them, too. Life would be much easier if they were all treacherous cowards, but they aren’t. You’re right, though,” he added. “He had it coming.”
“Happiest days of my life, Beal Defoir.” Teucer picked up the jar and loaded it carefully into a strong hessian sack. “What about the body?” he asked.
“Leave it. Must be a few crows around here somewhere.”
Myrtus picked up the axe and took it down to the stream; he washed it off, then pulled a clump of reeds and scrubbed his hands until they hurt. He’d got honey on his sleeves, too, but he didn’t have a spare shirt; the corpse had one, but it was sodden with blood. There wasn’t much to choose between them, but on balance he preferred the honey. I get all the rotten jobs, he told himself, and rinsed his hands one more time in the cold, swift water.
“Scouts are back,” Teucer reported on his return. “They say the column’s reached the road and they’re making good time.”
Myrtus nodded his approval. “I don’t think we’ll have any trouble from them,” he said, “I think he had them pretty well trained. But you’d better have the scouts keep an eye on them till we’re safely back in the mountains.” He looked up and indicated the pile of weapons and armour with a slight tilt of his head. “What do you reckon we should do with that lot?” he said.
Teucer thought about it. “Worth money,” he said.
“Yes, but it’s a hell of a lot of junk to cart up all those hills. The hell with it, we’ll leave it. The locals can sell it to Ocnisant, if they can be bothered.” He looked round, and was satisfied. “In which case,” he said, “I think we’re about done here. All turned out fairly well, if you ask me.”
Teucer took the axe from him and slung it on the packhorse, with the rest of the tools. “I’m glad we didn’t have to fight,” he said.
Myrtus grinned. “Balls,” he said, “you were itching to show off, I could tell. You like to impress your students.”
“On targets, yes,” Teucer said. “It still doesn’t feel right, shooting at people.” He gathered the reins of the packhorse. “The first thing they tell you back home, when you pick up a bow, don’t point it at anyone. It goes against the grain. I keep expecting someone to smack me round the face and tell me not to be so bloody stupid.”
Myrtus laughed. “That’s war for you,” he said. “All the things that used to be forbidden are suddenly compulsory, but it’s all right because the government says so. No, I agree with you, it’s a very strange way to behave, when you stop and think about it.”
Halfway through the morning after next, Teucer asked, “Who runs the Lodge?”
Myrtus gave him a sideways look. “Well,” he said, “there’s the Council of Privileges, who do the day-to-day administration, and they answer to the commissioners. Why?”
“I know that,” Teucer said. “But who chooses them? Someone must, but nobody seems to know who.”
“The commissioners choose the council.”
“All right. How about the commissioners?”
“That I don’t know,” Myrtus said. “Nor do I want to. Logic dictates that there must be someone higher up than the commissioners, but logic isn’t everything. I don’t know. Maybe the Great Smith comes to them in visions. Why? Thinking of running for office?”
Teucer laughed. “Sergeant’s plenty good enough for me,” he said. “How about you? What’s the next step up from major?”
“There isn’t one,” Myrtus replied. “From major you get shoved back into the civilian grades, and I don’t fancy that at all. They make you a field agent and you can get sent anywhere and told to do anything. One week you could be ambassador to the Jazygite Alliance, next week they could send you to be the cook in a tea house, with all the Lodge business for half a province to do in your spare time. We dread promotion. It’s why the Lodge works.”
“There must be someone right at the top, though,” Teucer said. “Must be. Like the emperors, or kings, or high priests. You need someone like that. Like a body needs a brain.”
“You seem to manage just fine without.”
The question stayed in Myrtus’ mind, and he thought about it on the long ride back to Central, and again when he presented himself for debriefing, until he happened to look through the window and something altogether more compelling drove it out―
“That’s new,” he said.
“Yes.” She pursed her lips. “You don’t like it.”
He poured them both some tea. “It’s not a question of liking it,” he said, unable to tear his eyes away. “It’s a perfectly nice tree, what’s not to like? It’s just a bit—”
“Inappropriate? Blasphemous? An abomination?”
“Obvious.” He sipped the tea, acknowledging the grace notes of pepper and jasmine. “A cherry tree, for crying out loud, in the middle of the main square. I mean, why not a thirty-foot black obelisk with The End Is Nigh picked out in gold lettering?”
“Cost too much, for one thing. You have no idea how far over budget we are. Anyway, it’s there, most people seem to like it, and if it gets chopped down in the middle of the night I’ll know who to suspect. How was lovely pastoral Rhus?”
“That wasn’t me,” he said. “I went the other way, remember.”
“So you did,” she corrected. “Well? How did you get on?”
So he told her about it, in proper military terminology, interceptions and ravelins and extractions. She didn’t seem to be listening. She was gazing out of the window, in the direction of that horrible tree. He skipped the last trivial incidents of their journey home, and waited till she remembered he was there.
“So,” she said. “Do you think it’s going to work?”
“That’s not for me to—”
“An opinion, Major.” She smiled at him. “Go on. What do you think?”
He frowned. “I’m not sure,” he replied. “I think, as soon as news gets back to Rasch and Choris, all hell’s going to break loose.”
“We’ve been through all that. They can’t spare the men.”
“How many men does it take?” He shrugged. “Let’s think about it. I ambushed a battalion and two squadrons of Cassites. Suppose they send two battalions to teach those villages a lesson. With local knowledge and help from the villagers, I could probably – I say probably – see them off with five hundred archers. That’s two-thirds of our military capability here at Central. Of course, they don’t know that; they think this is an uprising by the villagers themselves, and by now they really don’t know how many people are left up here; almost certainly they think there’s more than there really are. Even so, what happens after that? Do you really think they’re going to go meekly away and write off the north as a dead loss?”
“You’ve seen the casualty reports from the Belot brothers’ latest reunion. They’ll have no choice. They haven’t got the manpower.”
“So you say.” He picked up his teacup, then put it down again. “Just for once,” he said, “level with me. I know there’s another agenda behind this. I’d really like it if you’d tell me what it is.”
He was sure she’d deny it, or refuse. Instead, she shrugged her wonderful slim shoulders. “Not an agenda, as such. More the hope of useful consequences.”
“Ah.”
She paused, then went on. “We anticipate that there will be reprisals,” she said, “and we won’t be able to protect all the villages, though we’ll do everything we can. The people won’t just sit still and let themselves get burned out and their flocks stolen. They’ll clear out.”
“Like they’re doing now. And their homes are trashed, and their crops are ruined—”
She shrugged. “They’ll clear out,” she said, “and we’ll be there to tell them, come north. Come over the mountains and the moors, the
y won’t follow you there. Come and live with us. We’ve got plenty of land, we’ll tell them, and we’ll protect you.”
Myrtus opened his mouth, paused, thought for a moment. “We’re going to recruit an army from these people.”
“More than that.” He couldn’t miss the new tone in her voice. “Not just an army, a country. A new nation. That’s what Central’s all about. What we’ve built here isn’t just a new headquarters for the Lodge, we don’t need one, we’ve managed splendidly without one for a thousand years. No, what we’re building is the capital city of a new nation. First all the empty land in the Rhus country, then gradually we work our way south, taking over all the land they’ve emptied with their ridiculous war, resettling all the refugees hiding in swamps and mountains; it’s the obvious solution, don’t you see? We’re never going to reunite the old empire, it’s too divided and too damaged for that. The only chance is to start all over again – get rid of the empires and the emperors, take charge ourselves; give the power to the only people on earth who can be trusted with it: us. Think about it. We’ve got all the best people, from artisans to administrators to soldiers. We’ve got all the knowledge, we’ve been thinking about exactly these problems for centuries. We can start with a clean slate. That’s the amazing thing, which has never happened before, ever. We don’t have to keep on making the same old mistakes. We can start from a point where there’s nothing settled, nothing established; no vested interests, no power blocs, nobody to interfere with doing it right, for a change. What’s the biggest slogan in the Lodge? Revaluation of all values. He made everything, and therefore everything is good. It’s our time, Myrtus. This war is our chance. We’ve kept it going so long that both sides are completely worn out and the world is sick of them. Now—”
He stared at her. “We’ve kept it going?”
“Oh, don’t be naïve. Of course. Every step of the way. We’ve kept the balance; no side ever has the advantage. That’s why, when we thought Forza was dead, we had a dozen different plans in hand for killing Senza. That’s what we needed Lysao for. And that’s why you and your boy Teucer have been training all those archers. Look; we’ve got a capital city, we’ve got an army, we’ve got a government, the best possible government in the world. All we need now is a nation. Naturally, it’s going to take time—”
She stopped and looked at him; imploringly, almost. He took a moment to calm himself down.
“You shouldn’t have told me all that,” he said.
“Why not? One of our most pressing needs right now is a really good general. Why do you think you’re here? The commission has asked me—”
“Dear God.” He jumped up. “That’s just not funny. I couldn’t—”
“You’ll do as you’re told.” Then she grinned. “Like we all do. That’s the point, isn’t it? We all do this out of love, that’s why we stand a chance when nobody else in history ever stood any chance at all.”
“For pity’s sake,” he said. “Are you seriously ordering me to go out and conquer the world?”
She was silent for a moment. Then she smiled and said, “Yes.”
He saw her again the next day. He asked her, “What if we lose?”
She smiled. “We can’t.”
“Don’t you believe it,” he said angrily. “One defeat, that’s all it’d take. If we were to lose a hundred men, even—”
“It’s all right,” she said. “We’re not going to.”
He wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. “What else haven’t you told me?”
She sat down on the porch. In front of them was the cherry tree. A gardener was raking mulch round its base. “We can’t lose,” she said. “Friends in high places.”
“For God’s sake don’t be so damned mysterious. What friends?”
“It’s easy to beat an enemy who doesn’t want to win,” she said.
She’d given him one more day to make up his mind. He went to look for Teucer.
He found him in a hayloft above a semi-derelict barn, out on the very edge of town. He was sitting in the loft door, his legs hanging out over the drop.
“I keep forgetting,” he said. “You were born here.”
“Not here.” Teucer pointed. “Over there, just behind that hill. I went out there six months ago, there’s nothing left now. They pulled it down and took the stones, for the Temple.” He shrugged. “I don’t mind. I guess they’re my stones now. They’re welcome to them.”
Myrtus sat beside him and looked out. From where they were, he could see over the new town and the wall. Beyond there was just moorland, and on the skyline the low hill that masked Teucer’s home.
“That’s where our butts used to be,” Teucer said. “That’s where I shot my first possible. It’s a thing in archery,” he said, “it’s when—”
Myrtus smiled. “I know,” he said. “You told me, and it’s in your file.”
“I’ve lost count of how many possibles I’ve done since then,” Teucer said. “You know what? I met someone the other day, and he told me, officially, I’m the best archer in the world. Officially.”
“Yes,” Myrtus said.
“How can they possibly know that?”
“They know everything.”
Teucer pulled a face. “It’s bullshit,” he said. “There’s got to be loads of archers better than me.”
“Actually,” Myrtus said gently, “no, there aren’t. The Lodge identified you – actually, I identified you, when you were sixteen. I saw your name in a bunch of reports from field agents, read what they’d written about you; based on my knowledge and experience in such matters, I figured that you were shaping up to be the very best. So, when you were nineteen, I had you rounded up and taken to Beal. After that, I assigned you to field duty to sharpen your skills in the real world, and then I took you on for my own command.” He paused to pick a wisp of straw out of his hair. “Remember Lonjamen, at Beal? He used to be the best, until you came along. One of these days I’d love to see you two shoot a match. Anyhow, he agrees with me. That’s why he got taken off the line and put into Beal, to teach you. He’ll be coming up here quite soon, he’s looking forward to seeing you again.”
Teucer looked stunned. “Really? Professor Lonjamen? He thinks—” Teucer shook his head. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “Did you really – I mean, was it really you who chose me? I thought you were just a—” He stopped short. “Sorry,” he said.
“That’s perfectly all right. That’s the Lodge for you. All of us get all the rotten jobs, all of the time. Doesn’t matter how grand you are. Generally speaking, the grander, the rottener.” He looked down at his hands. “They want me to be a commissioner,” he said.
Teucer’s eyes went wide. “That’s amazing,” he said. “I bet you’re pleased.”
“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said,” Myrtus snapped. “In the Lodge, the last thing you want is promotion.” He breathed out slowly, letting the anger dissipate. “There’s a vacancy,” he said. “Someone’s got to fill it. Someone I know and trust and thought of as a dear friend told them—” He shrugged. “My wife, as a matter of fact. Dear God, if you’d ever met some of the other commissioners—” He drew his knees up under his chin. “The point is,” he went on, “I’m entitled to a personal assistant. If I choose someone, they don’t have any say in the matter, they’re assigned to me and that’s that. So I thought I’d ask you first.”
“Me?”
“What did I ever do to you, you mean?”
Teucer shook his head. “What I mean is, you sure you want me and not someone else?”
Myrtus laughed. “I need someone I can rely on,” he said. He turned his head away. “Yesterday, I’d have said there were two of you. Now it’s just you. If I were you, I’d refuse. If you do, chances are that sooner or later you’ll be sent to Beal to take over Lonjamen’s job. You liked Beal, or so you keep telling me. If you go with me, I don’t suppose that’ll happen. Not for a long time, anyway.”
“I wouldn’t
want that job,” Teucer said. “Not being a professor. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“Think about it,” Myrtus said; it came out like thunder, a command from God. “At least think about it.” He turned his head back again. “You know that question you asked me. About who runs the Lodge.”
“You said—”
“It started me thinking,” Myrtus said. “So I asked someone who ought to know.”
“What did he say?”
“She. She said she doesn’t know. I believe her. And if anybody should know, it’s her.”
“Well,” Teucer said. “Thanks for trying.”
He still had three hours of his day of indecision left; but he went to see her anyway.
He found her in one of the small tower rooms in the cartulary, which someone had told him she’d appropriated for her own use. He could believe it; the walls were covered in icons and there were books all over the floor. She was reading at a desk by the window, and didn’t look up when he came in. But she said his name. “Come over here,” she said. “You want to see this.”
“I wanted to ask you—”
“Later.” She beckoned him, her eyes still on the roll of parchment. “I don’t know if you’ve made your mind up yet, but just you take a look at this. I think it’s the clincher.”
He came closer. “What is it?”
She looked up, handed him the roll. “It’s a copy of Emperor Glauca’s will,” she said. “You really don’t need to know how we got it, but, believe me, it’s the goods.”
He gazed at her. “Friends in high places?”
“Oh, yes. The people crossed out in red are dead, incidentally. Oh, and the reason we wanted to see it was, we had a chat with Glauca’s doctor. He figures the old fool is good for another eight years.”
He read it.
A traditionalist to the core, Glauca had left the Eastern empire to his closest living relative, his nephew, the Western emperor, his deadly enemy; in eight years, give or take six months or so, the two empires would be reunited, regardless of what happened in the war. There was a brief note of explanation; the war was necessary and Glauca regarded it as his solemn duty, because he was the lawful ruler of the whole empire and his nephew was a traitor and a usurper. He therefore intended to take back what was rightfully his, regardless of the cost. However, the fact remained that his nephew was his rightful heir, and so long as either of them lived, no one else would ever sit on the Eagle Throne. He also pointed out that Blemya was a province of the empire, currently in revolt; should he die before reconquering it, he laid the sacred charge on his successor.
