She turned and looked at him, and she smiled.
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Aranthur said. ‘I don’t even know what to say.’
‘It was good in one way. You made my job easy since you never asked me anything about myself.’ She sat forward, so that the front legs of the stool snapped crisply onto the floor. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I was told to get close to you. There was all kinds of shit between us, really. I’m sorry too.’
When she left, he cried.
Aranthur found he had no restraints. He sat up a little and his abdomen didn’t protest. The floor was a mosaic – a great sunburst from wall to wall. The sun had a face, a beautiful face like a wise old woman’s. It was First Empire work,and he thought he’d seen the sunburst somewhere before.
Tiy Drako came in as if a bell had rung somewhere. He had his tamboura tucked through his sash.
‘Are you all taking turns?’ Aranthur asked.
Drako smiled. ‘Yes and no.’
Aranthur was still experimenting with moving his torso. ‘How is Sasan?’ he asked.
Drako began to strum his strings. ‘Excellent. As soon as it was clear you were going to make it, Kurvenos put him under. He had a week of sleep to help him beat the thuryx. And the exhaustion. And Dahlia is with him all the time.’
Aranthur took that in. ‘Sasan gets Dahlia and I get you? He was trying to be light-hearted, but his tone was wounded.
‘Yes,’ Drako said. ‘That’s about right.’
Aranthur was jealous.
‘I hear that Kurvenos has revealed all our secrets.’ Drako began to pick out a sad, slow tune.
‘I doubt it. He said enough to restore my faith that I might be on the right side.’
Drako smiled. ‘Who even knows? But Kurvenos has a point about the end and the means. The Master’s people tortured you.’
‘And you didn’t?’ Aranthur asked. ‘No, I get it. Spare me.’ He was reading some of the writing on the wall. ‘Bring me my Safian grimoire. I might as well get some work done.’
‘You could learn to play the tamboura. I could teach you.’ Drako smiled.
‘I’ll take the grimoire, thanks.’
The next few days were difficult – detached from reality in many ways. He was very weak and he had difficulty walking. He had to be lifted to stand up and urinating was very painful. Twice, Magi came and worked on him – once with the aid of a chirurgeon, and once just with power.
Sasan came with Dahlia. He had more colour than he’d ever had, and Dahlia looked scared. The two stood very close together, and answered each other’s statements.
Aranthur drew his own conclusions from that, and spent more time reading.
After four days, when he was able to walk all the way around the temple without holding on to Ansu’s arm, and even to put himself back to bed, Drako came to tell all of them that the Master of Arts had made a complete recovery, and that the Emperor had publicly accused the Duke of Volta of treason.
‘Well,’ Drako said, waving a hand. ‘At least, he hinted at it, which is strong, for the Emperor.’
Aranthur lay in his bed, with Sasan sitting on the chest at the end, a book in his hand, and Dahlia perched on the back of Drako’s chair. Ansu leant in the doorway, opening and closing a small steel fan.
‘So we’ve won, and it’s over?’ Dahlia asked.
Drako sighed. ‘It’s never over. Even if we have defeated Volta, the Master is still trying to take Atti. We still have thousands of hungry refugees, autumn is coming, the Attian army is marching, and Zhou is under threat.’ He shrugged. ‘And beyond that, war, pestilence, famine, and human stupidity remain the norm.’
Aranthur laughed, which hurt his gut. ‘I think Dahlia means to ask, what’s next?’
Drako nodded. ‘In that respect, I suppose when you’ve healed, it’ll be back to the world. Aranthur has been called up. The General knows where he is supposed to be, and he’ll be on horseback as soon as he’s recovered. As for the rest of you – I recommend you consider becoming housemates. Barring all-out war with Atti, the Academy will be back in session in four weeks. I need you to watch out for each other.’ He rose. ‘Although all-out war with Atti looks fairly likely.’
‘And we’re dismissed?’ Dahlia asked.
Drako shrugged. ‘Until the next time.’ He smiled at Aranthur. ‘We have no legal status, you know. We are not the Watch. We can’t make arrests. So our evidence is in the hands of those who can.’
‘Damn it! You aren’t dismissed. Why us?’ Dahlia said.
Drako shrugged. ‘You all have other lives. You were essential for this operation, which revolved around Timos. That’s done.’
After Drako left, Dahlia shook her head. ‘He’s so full of shit, his eyes are turning brown,’ she said.
Dahlia set out to find them a better place to live. After two days of looking she was already frustrated and anxious, and Sasan declined to go out with her again.
‘She’s impossible,’ he muttered.
‘Why?’ Aranthur asked.
‘I’m not from here, but I think I have some notion of what a few silver crosses will buy.’ He shrugged. ‘She’s cheap, and aggressive. It’s wearing.’
‘You do it, then!’ she spat from the doorway.
Aranthur had a notion, and with Ansu’s help, he rose from his bed, dressed carefully, and almost gave up. Drako stopped by and encouraged him, and the three of them went out into the late August sun. It was the time of year when new students came to the Academy, when anyone with aristocratic pretensions went to the hills west of the City to breathe cooler air and relax, when every street seemed to stink of dead animals and old garbage, even in the richest quarters. It was, as Aranthur had reason to remember, a dreadful time to be looking for rooms.
Drako winked at Aranthur. ‘Will you accept your call-up?’ he asked.
Aranthur felt a pang of fear. ‘I haven’t been home.’
‘The General would be happy to have you. I have reason to know. And it might suit me … to have a friend on her staff.’
‘Draxos, do not tell me you distrust the General,’ Aranthur said.
Ansu relaxed. His hand had gone to his sword.
Drako shrugged. ‘Aranthur, you are a little too intelligent to make a good agent. Let’s just say there is more – far more – going on than meets the eye.’
‘I may follow the General,’ Ansu said.
Drako smiled. ‘You were the General’s lover, old boy. Not quite the same thing, eh?’
With that, he snapped his chamois gloves against his boot and bowed before walking off into the heavy midday traffic.
Aranthur took Ansu to his leather shop first. He noted that Ahzid Rachman’s shop was closed tight – odd for the time of day. There was a young man on the step, wearing a sword. He caught Aranthur’s eye, as he wore a mask and a sword and looked self-important and very out of place in the Square of Mulberry Trees, where the street traffic was apprentices and journeymen, most of them in a hurry, and some suddenly in uniform.
Aranthur went in, wondering why the young man was masked, and why he looked familiar. But he was immediately greeted like a returning son, and he had to introduce the prince. Ansu made friends by the simple expedient of spending ten sequins in as many minutes on leather – a scarlet belt with a gold buckle and gold studs, and a matching dagger sheath.
‘I probably won’t be back to work,’ Aranthur said sadly. He inhaled the smells of leather and beeswax. ‘I’m sorry.’
He bowed to Bajolla, the wheelwright, who was taking chai despite her hair being full of wood shavings.
Manacher shrugged. ‘We hear you are a famous swordsman now. And the jeweller, Rachman, was asking about you.’
‘I still say he’s a crook,’ Ghazala said. ‘Come back any time, my dear. Your name is in the books; you are always welcome in the guild. If you make something nice, bring it to me and I’ll see you passed as a journeyman. Your work is good.’
‘Is all we
ll with you?’ Aranthur felt odd. Distanced from these people, who had helped him and cared for him.
Ghazala shrugged. ‘We have a great deal of work, and our best apprentice has abandoned us.’
Manacher shook his head. ‘Military orders.’
Aranthur raised his eyebrows. Prince Ansu leant forward.
‘It’s no secret, at least not in our guilds!’ Bajolla said, finishing her chai. ‘I have to be back at it. Forty pairs of wheels by the end of the week.’
Manacher kissed the wheelwright on both cheeks and then came back to the table.
‘War with Atti,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘A sorry business. Who wants war with Atti?’
‘Someone has to stop the flow of Easterners,’ Ghazala said, putting her cup down.
‘Mama! We’re Easterners ourselves!’
‘Nonsense. We have been here for generations. We are citizens,’ She smiled at Aranthur. ‘Nothing against Arnauts, my dear. You have always been an excellent worker and a good man.’
Aranthur bowed, because there was nothing to say. Ghazala went upstairs to her fine-work bench, and Manacher spread his hands.
‘You know she is a good woman,’ he said.
‘I do.’ Aranthur kissed the man on both cheeks. ‘Never think I’ll take offence.’
‘But in front of the prince?’ Manacher asked, glancing sidelong at the Zhouian.
‘He is very difficult to offend,’ Aranthur said.
Aranthur asked him about apartments and rooms and Manacher called up the stairwell to Ghazala, who promised to ask her friends. Manacher bowed to Prince Ansu, who returned his bow with one of his own.
‘I love such people,’ he said when they were in the street.
‘You do?’ Aranthur asked.
‘They make beautiful things that will last a long time. Their friendship for you is as durable as this belt. These are good people. The people that we protect.’ Ansu smiled and showed his black teeth. ‘And you are a good man.’
‘I am?’ Aranthur’s jealousy of Sasan was overwhelmed only by the pains in his abdomen.
‘Yes. These people value leather-work above all things. They see you as a leather-worker and you accept this. You do not press your identity as a Student or a blade. You meet them as a junior leather-worker. This is … correct behaviour. Very … elegant.’
‘Elegant?’ Aranthur glowed with praise, and was unsure exactly what he’d done to deserve it.’
‘Come on. Let’s ask at the Sunne in Splendour.’
The streets were full of militiamen and women – one or two in every shop, buying everything from tooth powder to new scabbards or feed bags or shoes. Aranthur, despite his brief stints of military service, had no idea who they all were. There were red coats and yellow coats and blue coats and black coats, and Arnaut fustanellas and red caps or blue turbans on Byzas clerks trying to look fierce. It amused Aranthur that the Byzas, with all their contempt and fear for his people, put on fustanellas and tried to look like Arnauts when they fought.
The militia did give the streets a feeling of grim holidays, or a military holiday – hundreds of apprentices and journeymen wearing swords, singing, and swaggering. A pair of them bumped Prince Ansu hard; he reached for his sword, and Aranthur put a hand on his arm and smiled at the two men, who were younger than he.
‘Save it for Atti,’ he said, and walked Ansu away.
Down by the docks and wharves at the ends of every street, there was an even thicker forest of ships’ masts than usual. Aranthur led the prince along the waterfront at the foot of the Angel, the Street of the Heralds. There were four military galleys tied alongside the wharf, stacked like dried fish. The same heavy crane that had raised the drake out of the hold of the Zhouian ship was lowering a heavy bronze cannone into the open maw of a round ship.
‘You were right,’ Ansu said, spitting in the water. ‘I should not pick fights with children. Nonetheless, where I am from, one does not behave so.’
‘You don’t have rowdy soldiers in Zhou?’ Aranthur asked.
‘Perhaps we do.’ Ansu gave Aranthur a wry smile. ‘This is a major war effort.’
Aranthur shrugged. ‘I suppose. I lack the experience—’
‘I don’t. I have just seen sixteen heavy cannones loaded into one ship. That’s a horse transport – I can smell it. There’s a merchant ship – it is loading militia. I see bales of shovels and picks.’ He looked at Aranthur. ‘War with Atti? It seems … insane.’
Aranthur shrugged. ‘My understanding is that Atti is attacking us.’
Ansu frowned. ‘And instead of mounting a defence, your General Tribane is attacking them?’
‘It works in swordplay.’
‘It often results in two dead men, in swordplay.’ Ansu shook his head. ‘Come, let’s find some rooms.’
They enjoyed a glass of wine and an excellent meal: pork dumplings for Ansu, shrimp for Aranthur, with beans in garlic and a bowl of excellent fish curry over fine steamed rice. No one on the staff, not even the innkeeper himself, knew of a room for rent. They had a great deal to say about soldiers, though; half of the staff had been called up.
‘The city will be empty when the ships sail for Atti,’ the innkeeper moaned.
Still, they were well fed by the time they stood in the square where the two of them had met. Ansu had insisted on paying.
‘I owe you for rent, too,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ Aranthur said. ‘I accept.’
‘Are you very poor?’
Aranthur shrugged and thought of Sasan and the men and women under the Aqueduct.
‘No,’ he said. ‘But silver crosses are hard to find. Thanks for dinner.’
‘It was quite excellent – the beans were as good as home.’
‘Let’s ask Kallinikos about a place to live.’
Ansu shrugged. ‘He’ll be in the hills with his family.’
The sun beat down like an enemy and the canal stank like the bilge-water of an old ship, despite which two boys were sailing paper boats.
‘He lives right here. He didn’t go home last summer …’ Aranthur shrugged.
He thought about how long it was since he’d last seen Kallinikos, and how many times he’d knocked and had no answer. Maybe the aristocrat was away for the summer, riding in the hills …
‘Very well,’ Ansu said with a bow
They went up the steps, from terrace to square, and the canals fell away beneath them. Both of them paused to make reverence to Tirase, whose statue gazed east, and then they went along the low street, criss-crossed with walkways and bridges and balconies. Even here there were student militia. A couple were deeply engaged in a farewell kiss outside one door, and a man was stretching his leather belts over another door.
It was cooler, but still unpleasant, and the street smelled musty.
‘Need anything from our place?’ Aranthur asked as they passed the familiar yellow door. His wound hurt, and he didn’t really want to climb six flights of stairs.
‘I’ll get my pipe,’ Ansu said.
Together they climbed all the way to their rooms, which were so hot as to be uninhabitable, and Aranthur swore he could still smell Arnaud’s blood.
There was a large pasteboard card on the rug, where it had been pushed under the door; a carefully lettered summons to military service for:
Syr Aranthur Timos, Fideles, Dekark.
Aranthur stood there, looking at the summons. War. And no Academy.
‘I suppose I’m well enough to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll have to report.’
‘The General is sailing soon. Perhaps even tonight,’ Ansu said.
‘You know everything.’
Ansu shrugged. ‘Let us see if we can find an apartment – although, come to think of it, if you and I are going to war, Dahlia and Sasan can just stay here, can they not?’
‘As long as they want to exercise their legs. Let’s see Kallinikos anyway. I’ve been a poor friend.’
They walked down, past Kati’s rooms, and all
the way down to the street, where two young women in yellow doublets were walking tall horses along the narrow street.
‘Everyone is suddenly a soldier,’ Ansu said.
They waited for the women to pass and crossed.
‘Do you think he’ll be here?’ Aranthur asked.
’No,’ Ansu said, and knocked at the outer door to Kallinikos’ apartments. Aranthur was used to it being open.
They waited, and then Ansu went and peered in windows.
‘The windows are not shuttered.’ He raised an elegant, plucked eyebrow. ‘If I went to the mountains for a month, I’d lock my shutters.’
Aranthur knocked again.
The musty smell was stronger here. He sniffed, trying to place it, and thinking of the masked noble outside Manacher’s shop.
His mind made no connection. He shook his head.
‘He can’t be here.’
But Kallinikos’ bed, since taking his wound, was right by the window on the street, because the young man liked watching people.
‘Make a stirrup,’ he said to Ansu.
‘I’m not used to being ordered about,’ Ansu said. But then he shrugged. ‘But, sure. Here.’
The slim Zhouian was very strong, and Aranthur stepped up, his head at the same level as the diamond pane window. It was slightly ajar; he reached out and opened it. The musty smell rolled over him, and he had a sudden vision of the boneless bodies in the winter hovels south of his father’s farm.
Ansu let him down.
‘What is it?’ Ansu could see that Aranthur was rattled.
‘Something dead,’ Aranthur said. He had to sit on the step and put his head in his hands – a combination of ills. His abdomen was spasming in pain, and he thought that he might be bleeding a little, but the real pain was in his head. ‘Sorcery!’ he spat, as if he could spit out the taste. It made his head pound.
Ansu went back to the door and pounded on it.
‘He rents the whole building?’ he asked.
‘I suppose.’
Aranthur had no idea who lived in Kallinikos’ house, but then, the man was rich, and he had several servants. Aranthur tried to count them in his head: Chiraz, the butler, who was well-spoken and obsequious and sometimes funny; a housemaid … another valet? Footman? He’d met Kallinikos’ sister once, but she was at the Arsenal, not the Academy. A military engineer.
Cold Iron Page 44
