The Two of Swords: Part 7

by K. J. Parker

  It didn’t work quite as well as it should have. As the unseen enemy fell back over the parapet, one of his feet lashed out wildly and hit Glauca on the side of the head, pinching his ear against his skull. The pain was so fierce he nearly lost his concentration, but he knew that wouldn’t do, wouldn’t do at all. He’d only seen one enemy, but there could, should, be another, and until he was entirely sure he couldn’t allow himself the luxury of acknowledging pain. In that category fell the terrified howl of the falling man; it tore into him like a knife but he knew he had to ignore it, until he could be sure—

  Something like a cloud moved very fast, briefly obscuring Junonis and the Garter. Glauca knew what to do – long stride forward, grapple, hook and throw; Figure Six in Ultapian’s True Mirror of Defence – but this time his body refused; he had no strength left. Miraculously, though, the enemy didn’t close with him. He’d gone the other way. Damn it, the fellow was trying to escape—

  Over the roar of his own breath, he heard a thump, then a series of bumps. If he’d had breath to do it with, he’d have laughed. Damned fool had stepped through the trapdoor and fallen down the stairs.

  It was over. As soon as he decided that it was safe to arrive at that conclusion, all his control left him and he felt his back slam against the parapet, his feet slide out from under him, his backside jarring painfully on the leaded floor. All his scholarship now was centred on the art of breathing, which for some time proved difficult to master.

  Even so; not bad, he heard a voice inside him say, not bad for an old man, and he wanted to laugh. Sixty years a student of classical wrestling, but always in books; his first bout, then, and a victory. All things considered, an opportune moment to retire.

  It took five kettlehats to get him down again, damned clumsy fools. The doctors wanted him put straight to bed, like a naughty child, but he wasn’t having that. He made them carry him back to the Blue Chamber, where his collections were. They would heal him far better than any damned medicine.

  He ordered an hour of complete peace. An hour and two seconds later, there was a knock at the door and in came Colonel Gajanus.

  “Oh, it’s you,” Glauca said. “I ought to have you hanged.”

  But the look on his face— The poor fellow looked completely drained, as if his soul had been sucked out. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Yes, you should.”

  Glauca scowled at him. “Don’t be so damned stupid,” he said. “Not your fault. You told me, take two guards with you, and I didn’t listen. My own damned silly fault. What you should’ve done, of course, was send someone up there first, to make sure it was clear.”

  “Actually, sir, I did. I went myself. I thought there was no one there.”

  Glauca felt a pang of sympathy. Gajanus was, what, five years younger than he was; poor devil, dragging all the way up those awful stairs just because the old fool takes it into his head to go star-gazing. He was aware that at times he could be inconsiderate to the people around him, who by and large did their best. “It was dark,” he said, “and those fellows knew what they were doing. Only noticed them myself because I was looking at the stars.” He paused, aware that his last statement hadn’t come out the way he’d wanted. Never mind. “You’re a useless bloody fool, Colonel, but it’s all right. Just make damned sure it never happens again.”

  The look of relief on Gajanus’ face he found mildly disturbing, because it reminded him of the incredible, unconscionable power his words carried; he could just as easily have said, “Guilty, take him away,” and that would have been that – a life ended, no more Colonel Gajanus, and what possible sense did that make? He remembered the yell of the falling man, the terror; far too much death and destruction around as it was without adding to it because of a temper tantrum. “Sit down, man, for God’s sake,” he said. “Pour yourself a drink and stop gawping at me like that.”

  No, Gajanus was a good fellow, fundamentally. When he’d had his drink and pulled himself together, he said that the second man was alive and that they’d caught him.

  “After falling down all those damned stairs?” Glauca said. “Must’ve broken every bone in his body.”

  “His left arm, sir,” Gajanus said, “and a nasty cut over one eye. Otherwise in one piece.”

  “Remarkable. Fellow must really know how to fall. It’s something you can learn, you know, it’s in Furminia, Art of Wrestling. Oh well, if he’s alive we’ve got something to go on. That’s a real stroke of luck.”

  Gajanus nodded gratefully. “I’ve sent for the examiners—”

  “Oh no you don’t,” Glauca snorted. “Damned fools, they’ll kill him and we won’t find out a bloody thing. No, I want him looked after, and then I’m going to talk to him myself.”

  They were taking no chances. The prisoner had a chain attached to the wrist of his broken arm. He was lying down, of course, but even so it was obvious how tall he was; well over six foot – tall as me in my prime, Glauca thought, maybe even an inch or so on top of that, and broad, too; just like me. He felt a great surge of pity for the boy – what was he, nineteen, twenty? And after all, Glauca told himself, I won, didn’t I? The other bloody fool was nothing but a bag of broken bones by now. Everything was death and killing these days. No need for it, no real need at all.

  “It’s all right,” Glauca said. “He isn’t going to kill me; he’s not an assassin.”

  Gajanus rolled his eyes. The guards carried on staring dead ahead. “With respect,” Gajanus said.

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Glauca slapped him on the shoulder. “Indulge me. You can peer through the keyhole if you like.”

  Gajanus opened his mouth to speak, but clearly words had failed him; he executed a smart about-turn and stalked out of the cell without a word. The guards hesitated. “Out,” Glauca said. They went.

  Glauca looked round for something to sit on. There was the bed, but the boy covered all of it; or there was a little low three-legged stool. With a great and terrible effort, Glauca bent down and sat on it. He felt a stabbing pain in his knees, which he managed not to show. The boy was watching him.

  “It’s all right,” Glauca said. “I’m not going to bite you.”

  The boy looked as if he wasn’t so sure. Glauca grabbed his right knee and forced his leg straight; then the other one. “Never get old,” he said, “it’s not worth it.” He stopped; an unfortunate thing to say, in the context. The boy was still staring at him, and it suddenly occurred to Glauca that maybe he didn’t speak Imperial. “You,” he said, slowly and loudly. “Can you understand what I’m saying?”

  The boy looked startled, but nodded. That was all right, then. “Say yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Curious accent; Glauca hadn’t heard it for a very long time, but he recognised it. Rhus; the half-savages up north somewhere. Damned if he could remember whose side they were on.

  “Now, then,” he said. “I told Colonel Gajanus you’re not an assassin. I’m right, aren’t I?”

  The boy opened his mouth, but it was a moment or so before he spoke. “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you? But you could’ve killed me easy as anything up on the tower there, but you didn’t. You held still, hoping I wouldn’t see you. You’re not a killer, are you? You’re a thief.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  It wasn’t dumb insolence, but it sounded annoyingly like it. “Now, listen to me, you damned young fool,” Glauca said. “There’s two thousand, six hundred and forty-eight people in this palace, and two thousand, six hundred and forty-seven of them want to string you up. The only one who doesn’t want to is me.” He hesitated. Impossible. But— “Do you know who I am?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Dear God.” Glauca shook his head slowly. “I believe you,” he said. “You’d have to be the best actor since Lamachus. Fine. My name is Glauca Seusan-Catona. I’m the emperor.”

  It was worth it just for the look on the boy’s face. “It’s true,” Glauca said. “Call in Colonel Gaj
anus and the kettlehats if you don’t believe me. Well?”

  “I believe you, sir.”

  “Damn it, boy, don’t you ever look at your money? That’s my face on the coins, don’t you know.”

  “We don’t have a lot of money where I come from, sir.”

  A smart answer, maybe just a little bit too glib. Glauca thought for a moment, then swung his fist at the boy’s jaw. The impact jarred his arm right down to the elbow, and he discovered he’d cut the skin on his knuckles. Stupid thing to do. Should’ve quit while he was ahead, where fighting was concerned. “Don’t be funny with me, boy,” he said – it didn’t come out quite right because the pain made his voice a little shaky. Still, it was pleasant to know he hadn’t entirely lost his punch; the boy was shaking and plainly terrified. “Get it into your thick skull. The people out there want to hang you. If you annoy me, I’ll let them do it. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded. It occurred to Glauca that maybe he’d broken the boy’s jaw, in which case he wouldn’t be able to tell him anything for weeks. “Answer me when I talk to you,” he shouted.

  “Sir.”

  Glauca waited, then realised he hadn’t actually asked any questions yet. “So you admit it. You’re a thief.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What did you come here to steal?”

  “A map, sir. There’s a special map in one of the rooms directly under that tower.”

  The cartulary, in other words. Yes, plenty of special maps in there: the coastal defences, the supply lines, the map Senza had filed with him showing his anticipated movements for the next three months – not that it was worth the parchment it was drawn on, the way that boy kept changing his mind. Directly under the observatory tower, perfectly true. If you were in the cartulary and heard someone coming, you’d leg it up into the tower till they’d gone, because nobody ever went up there. “You’re sure about that.”

  “Yes, sir. Perfectly sure.”

  Glauca scrabbled for a moment in the pocket of his robe. Other things – a handkerchief, a small book, a bronze miniature by Calopa he always carried with him, because he couldn’t bear to be parted from it. Ah. He found it. “So what was this for?”

  He thrust the pack of cards under the boy’s nose. “You recognise them, yes?”

  “Oh yes, sir. They’re mine.” A slight pause; the boy could tell Glauca didn’t believe him. “Really, sir, they’re mine. I made them.”

  For a moment, Glauca’s head swam, as though he’d been the one who’d just been punched. “You did what?”

  “Made them, sir. I cut the boards out of a thin bit of wood from a packing case, and I painted them.”

  He’s lying, Glauca thought; he must be. But, if so, he was a superb actor. “You can’t have.”

  “I did, sir. Really.”

  “Nonsense, boy. Rubbish. Whoever sent you here gave them to you, so you’d know which pack from my collection to steal. Well? Isn’t that the truth?”

  “No, sir.” The boy was looking straight at him. “I painted them myself.”

  Glauca had to make an effort to breathe. “Who told you what to paint?”

  “I copied the pack the brothers showed me, back home, in our village. They’ve got a pack like that one, only it’s not made of wood, it’s thin sheets of silver. I remembered the pictures, and I painted them as close as I could.”

  “Silver,” Glauca repeated.

  “Oh yes, sir. They’re all black because they’re never cleaned, but the raised bits on the figures, the silver’s rubbed through and they shine, where the brothers put their fingers when they deal. And that’s what I copied.”

  Glauca didn’t know what to do. Part of him wanted to smash the boy’s face in, for telling such a cruel, tantalising lie. The rest of him was afraid he’d shatter, like a porcelain plate that can never really be mended so it doesn’t show. “You’re lying.”

  “No, sir, really. I promise.”

  Glauca took a deep breath. His heart was pounding. Hell of a good way to assassinate him, he thought: tell him this particular lie and let his own heart do the rest. “What brothers?”

  “The brothers,” the boy said. “Usually there’s five or six of them, and they go round the villages with a donkey cart. People give them food and let them sleep in their barns. Sometimes, if you ask them just right, they’ll tell you about – well, all sorts of stuff.”

  “These brothers have a pack of silver cards.” The boy nodded. “And they let you copy them.”

  “Not really.” The boy hesitated, as if wondering if he’d done something wrong he shouldn’t admit to. “The brothers showed them to me, and I liked them so much I made my own pack, like I just said. I didn’t think it’d do any harm.”

  Glauca could feel his heart pounding. “All right,” he said. “Describe them. In detail.”

  “Well,” the boy said. “The Ace of Arrows—”

  “Forget about that. Describe Poverty.”

  The boy nodded. He cleared his throat and began to recite. “She’s standing under an apple tree, wearing a crown of bay leaves—”

  “Which way’s her head turned? Right or left?”

  Trick question. “She’s sort of looking straight at you,” the boy said. “And in her left hand there’s an empty bowl, and in her right hand there’s a pair of tongs.”

  “How many apples on the tree?”

  “Five,” the boy replied without hesitating. “And there’s two birds in the tree, crows I think, and under the tree on her left there’s a thin dog with its ribs showing, and on the right there’s a fire altar with a loaf of bread on it and something else, I couldn’t figure out what it was meant to be because it was so worn, on the card the brothers showed me, I mean. Oh yes, and in the background there’s three men and a cart.”

  Three men and a cart. Glauca held back a smile; a fine way to describe Photeus and his brothers on their way to found the New City. “You’re sure the dog’s on the left.”

  “Oh yes.”

  “And two crows in the tree, not three.”

  “I’m sure of it, yes.”

  “Anything else? Think.”

  The boy frowned, then relaxed. “Sorry,” he said. “Yes, there’s a jug next to the dog. It’s broken in three pieces.”

  Glauca’s knees had gone soft; he couldn’t have stood up if he’d wanted to. The two crows might be a coincidence, and maybe the something else on the altar might not be the globus cruciger. But the crows, the second object on the altar, the tongs, Poverty full-face and the broken jug— And the tongs were only recorded in a footnote to the commentary on Abbianus, which only he and maybe three other scholars in the world were aware of, and they were right here, in the City. The Sleeping Dog. It had to be. Every detail he’d looked for had been there. His hand shook as he took out his writing set and opened the lid. “Draw it,” he said. “Now.”

  The boy lifted his chained left hand. “That’d be awkward,” he said. “I’m right-handed.”

  “Do it.” He made himself calm down. “Do the best you can. It doesn’t have to be perfect.”

  It came out quite ludicrous; a shaky, smudgy Poverty under a lopsided tree, and the dog looked like a goat. But Glauca could tell even so; the boy had drawn the pack, the style was definitely the same. He was telling the truth, Glauca was sure of it. In which case, this boy, this clown, terrified incompetent thief, had seen the Sleeping Dog Pack itself – seen it, maybe even touched it. It existed. It was somewhere out in the world, at large, obtainable.

  He wasn’t sure he could cope with that.

  “Listen very carefully.” His voice was shrill and unsteady. “I want you to go and get that pack for me. If you get it and bring it here to me, I’ll give you twenty thousand gold angels. Do you understand?”

  The boy was staring at him. Of course he didn’t understand. “I don’t think the brothers would want to sell it,” he said.

  “So what? You’re a thief.”

  Glauca had been reading human beings even
longer than he’d been reading books. He told himself he was good at it, and the fact that he was still alive after so many years on the throne suggested he was right. And if he’d read the boy anything like accurately, he’d just shocked him so deeply that his next words would be a refusal. There might not be a way back from that. “They’ll sell it,” he said. “For thirty thousand.”

  “Thirty—”

  “And twenty for yourself,” Glauca said. “When you put the pack in my hand, twenty thousand angels, new gold coins. And an estate, a thousand acres. You could be anything you wanted.”

  “I don’t know.” The pain in the boy’s voice was far worse than anything the examiners could generate. Even Tencuilo, author of the True Dialogue of Tortures, couldn’t hurt anyone that much. “I couldn’t steal from the brothers, sir,” he said, “I couldn’t.” He paused, and his eyes were enough to break Glauca’s heart. “I’ll try and make them sell it,” he said. “But I couldn’t steal it.”

  “Good lad. Very good.” Glauca started to get up, but cramp stopped him. He had to wait, regroup, concentrate before he was able to stand. “I’ll get you out of here and into the hospital, and they’ll fix you up in no time. Good men, my doctors, even if they do fuss all the damn time.” Senza’s army, he realised as he spoke; the fifty thousand would have to come out of the money for paying the soldiers, and Senza wouldn’t be happy about that. “I’ll see to it that all the arrangements are made. Of course,” he went on, just a bit too casually, “if the brothers do agree to sell, I’ll need to see the pack before I hand over the money, but I’m sure they’ll understand.” He stopped. “What did you say your name was?”

  “Musen, sir.”

  “Musen anything, or just Musen?”

  “Just Musen, sir.”

  “Who sent you, Musen?”