by K. J. Parker
It all went wrong when my dad decided it was time for me to start my apprenticeship, so to speak. The idea was that I would go with him on his rounds, collecting money, showing his face where it needed to be seen, giving the usual one friendly warning, that sort of thing. I didn’t mind that at all. I liked the way people went all quiet when we walked in somewhere, and I felt proud of the way they were scared of him – of us, because he made no secret of his plans for my future. Take a good look at my boy, he’d say, so you’ll be sure to recognise him. I liked that a lot.
Because my dad was so good at his job he didn’t have to do it very often. But from time to time there’d be some poor devil who simply couldn’t help breaking the rules, out-of-towners, usually. In this case, it was an Aelian. He’d been bosun’s mate on a grain freighter, but he got too sick to work, so they left him behind; get well, they told him, and next time we come we’ll take you home. But some scoundrel stole the money they’d left for him, and there weren’t many Aelians in town back then, so nobody to look out for him. By the time he was back on his feet, he owed three thalers’ rent, and no way of knowing when his shipmates would be back. So he found himself sleeping under an archway in the Old Flower Market; and he made the mistake of putting his hat down on the ground next to him, the way beggars do, only you weren’t allowed to beg in the Flower Market unless you were paid up in a Theme. The Blue and Green bosses met up and tossed a coin, and the Greens lost; their job to take out the trash. My dad’s job.
When we came looking for him, the poor fool was just sitting there. The hat, I remember, was empty. I could’ve told him he was wasting his time, because no Themesman would dare to be seen giving money to a scab beggar. But that was beside the point.
Thinking back, I guess my dad was feeling the effect of a long spell of idleness. He hadn’t had to hurt anyone for a long time. He explained it to me once. It’s like making love, he said (that wasn’t quite the term he used); when you’ve been without for a while, it sort of builds up inside you. That would explain it, I guess; also, the man was a foreigner, so there was no family to get upset if my dad went a little bit further than usual.
He walked up to him with his hands in his pockets, stopped and looked down at him, dead quiet. The man looked up at him, hopefully. My dad nodded politely, then kicked him in the face. I remember the way his chin flew up; I couldn’t believe Dad hadn’t broken his neck, but I didn’t give him credit for his skill, acquired through so much practice. The man was lying on his back, belly up; my dad stamped on him, four times, each time a different place, and I heard things snap, a very distinctive sound, like nothing else. Then he rolled him over onto his side with his foot and kicked him three times more. Then he rolled him over onto his back, looked him over appraisingly, nodded, turned away, turned back, and ground the heel of his boot in the man’s right eye. “That’ll do,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s go and eat.”
On the way home, I was unusually quiet. But eventually I asked him why he’d turned away and then turned back. He’d done the job, so why the last bit?
He stopped and looked at me, and for a moment I thought he was going to answer. Then he walked on, and I had to jog to catch up with him.
“Dad?” I asked him.
“Come on,” he said. “You know your mom hates it when we’re late for dinner.”
Next morning, when I was supposed to be going with Dad on his rounds, I pretended I had a cough and a sore throat. I spun it out for a week. Then I told him; I wanted to be apprenticed, to a goldsmith or a lawyer, something like that.
Dad took it well, I’ll say that for him. I’d chosen well; I made it sound like I was ambitious, wanted to better myself, get out of the Flower Market. He liked that idea; my son the government official (there were a lot of Greens in the civil service). That would show just how far he’d come from the mining camp, that was for sure. In fact, it was my mother who raised hell over it. She was Green to the core, the way some people are. Dad laughed at her, which didn’t improve matters. So the boy wants to be a big clerk and sit on his arse all day, he said; bloody good luck to him, he’ll go far. She didn’t say anything, but she gave me a look that nearly took all the skin off my face.
So I put in for a vacancy in the Treasury. So did a lot of other kids, but, guess what, I got the job, without even an interview. The work was much harder than I thought it would be, but my superiors were amazingly tolerant and helpful, even when I made a series of godawful mistakes. Don’t worry about it, they said, and laughed nervously. I promised I’d do better in future. It’s all right, they assured me, it’s fine, don’t give it another moment’s thought.
And then something happened. To this day I don’t know what it was, though I suspect my dad had taken money to let someone clear out of town before getting what was coming to him. He should have had more sense, but I think he’d been himself for so long, he reckoned he was invincible and immortal. He wasn’t, though, not one bit.
There wasn’t a funeral, because there was nothing to bury. My mother was allowed to stay in the Theme, as a special favour, but the only work she was allowed to do was spinning, which is badly paid and about as low as you can get. Nobody would employ her or buy from her so she was left doing piecework for foreigners. But she stayed Green, and she blamed me – if I’d only gone to work with my dad, I’d have been able to stop him from doing whatever it was he did, or I’d have been able to protect him, or protect her; whatever, it was all my fault. I couldn’t actually find it in my heart to disagree with her, come to that.
And I lost my job at the Treasury, of course; and that’s when I became an actor. I don’t know why the Themes never bothered to take over the theatres, but they never did. While I was in the Treasury I’d spent a lot of time learning how the people there spoke and moved; educated, refined, sophisticated people, or so I thought, and compared with what I’d grown up with, so they were. In my department there’d been a dozen or so young sprigs of the gentry, younger sons of younger sons, forced to work but with family connections that meant they didn’t have to work too hard, and I’d chosen to model myself on them; and, of course, they were all hopelessly stage-struck and theatre-mad, so I was too. Some young idiot I was sort of friends with was spending a lot of money he hadn’t got on an actress by the name of Andronica, who’d saved up enough to branch out into management; he introduced me to her, and she took me on as a stagehand, spear-carrier and understudy second romantic lead and third clown. I’d like to say the rest is history, but that would be ridiculous.
All of which may strike you as irrelevant, but I thought I’d mention it anyway, because I know a bit about getting knocked out; not much, but probably more than you do. At least I hope so, for your sake.
My dad could put a man’s lights out with one punch. Nobody doubted him on this, but he liked to prove it now and again. He told me, don’t do the big swing, like you’re drawing a bow. Make it come from your back and shoulders. Move your arm a short way, and his head a big one. And then he demonstrated, on an old drunk who happened to be standing a yard or so away. He was right, of course. His fist probably travelled no more than eighteen inches, but the old man’s head snapped back, and he dropped, the way you drop your socks on the floor when you’re undressing.
What the hell, it was that kind of neighbourhood, and my dad wasn’t the only one who liked to see men drop. Now, some people get back up after a while and they’re more or less fine; no worse than a bad hangover, they say, not such a fun way of getting it but cheaper, and the effect’s about the same. Other people are different. Their brains get all rattled up – I felt it once myself, when I was a boy, that absolutely unique sensation of your brain bouncing off your skull. They find they forget things, they lose their rag over stupid stuff, sometimes they mumble, sometimes they say there’s always a fog, even when there isn’t. Now I’ve knocked men out on the stage and been knocked out more times than I can say; I fall down rather well, though I do say so myself, I’ve been complimented on it by m
anagers, who aren’t prone to saying nice things about people. On stage it’s a great big sweeping swing so they can see it at the back of the gallery, and if you’re getting hit you clap your hands together unobtrusively down at waist level, to supply the noise.
7
I came round, and all I could see was a misty blur, and my head hurt so much I wanted to cry. I felt sick and my head was swimming; I closed my eyes, but that made it worse. I couldn’t remember anything after walking up the alley. I could hear a voice, very far away, but I couldn’t make out what it was saying. Then my stomach heaved and I threw up, but I couldn’t move, not even my head, and the puke came gushing out over my chin, and my throat was so raw I couldn’t bear to breathe.
Something swooped down on me. At first I thought it was a bird, a hawk or something like that, but it turned out to be a hand, mopping up the sick with a bit of cloth.
Part of my mind – not the bit that had slammed against my skull, presumably – was making a feeble effort. I must have got knocked down, it told me, by a cart or something. No, that made no sense, because I could remember looking carefully, both ways, before sneaking out of the alley. Then I saw this weird image, a man looming up at me like he’d just sprouted out of the earth, and lifting his arms, and the silhouette of a shovel blade, heart-shaped. Somebody bashed me, I realised.
Then I thought; if I’ve been bashed on the head, does that mean I’ll lose my memory? That really scared me; who’s going to want an actor who can’t remember lines? So I started remembering things, quick sharp, at random: my dad’s name, the opening speech from Hippolytus and Clarenza, the number of spokes in the wheels of the milk cart I used to hitch a ride on when I was nine, the managers of all the theatres in the City—
“He doesn’t look anything like him,” someone said.
“Not right now, maybe,” someone else said. “I don’t think we’re catching him at his best.”
I remembered that the pockets of my coat were stuffed with stolen property. You clown, I shouted at myself, how could you have been so stupid? But this wasn’t a sensible time to fall out with myself; save all that for later.
“He’s awake.”
Immediately I closed my eyes, but not quickly enough. Someone prodded my cheek with a forefinger like a stonemason’s chisel. I could feel the fingernail almost but not quite cut my skin. I opened my eyes and there was this enormous face glowering down at me.
I recognised it.
I remember the first time I saw him. It was at the funeral of that general; you know, the milkface who got killed in the big assault at the beginning of the siege, just before the Fleet showed up and saved the day, his name’s on the tip of my tongue. Never mind. Anyway, him; and all the big men in the provisional government took turns to stand up on the rostrum and make speeches about how smart and brave whatsisname had been, and how he’d saved the City, which wasn’t true, of course, it was Lysimachus who did that. But never mind. First they had Faustinus, the City prefect, and then the Theme bosses, which I thought was a bit sick even though they were all legal and respectable now, then the Admiral, who was obviously reading from notes someone else had written for him, and finally General Nicephorus, the new commander-in-chief, land forces; and I looked up at him, his broad, noble face, his piercing eyes, his striking profile, and I remember thinking: I could do you standing on my head.
And now here he was, the second most important man in the City, looking down at me, as though he’d just noticed me stuck to the sole of his boot.
“I saw him,” he said, in that quiet, measured voice that I do so well, “in the theatre. He can do it.”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“You must be joking,” said someone else, and he stepped forward, and I saw him. Artavasdus, his second-in command, who I’d actually met once. A higher voice but well within my register, and useful for comedy scenes, because people think he’s an idiot. I don’t do him very often, but he’s not difficult. “His nose is too short, for a start.”
“From a distance,” Nicephorus said.
“I saw him in a burlesque at the Crown,” someone else said. “He was very good. Actually, he was being me.” I knew the voice: Faustinus. And the reason I couldn’t move was nothing to do with being bashed on the head. My hands and legs were tied to something, with rope.
“Fine,” said Artavasdus, “but we don’t need him to be you, we’ve got you for that. And I say he’s nothing like him. Shape of the head’s all wrong. And he’s a foot too short.”
“Actually,” Nicephorus put in, “he’s six inches too tall.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I had him measured.” Nicephorus turned away to shine some personality on Artavasdus. “Which proves my point. You see what you think you’re seeing. He’s just some low comic, so you think he’s shorter. Actually, he’s taller. So, if you think you’re seeing the real thing, it doesn’t matter.”
“Nico’s right,” Faustinus said. “Well, he’s obviously taller than me. But when I saw him, I didn’t notice that. And when they want to be taller, they wear built-up heels.”
Which isn’t true, incidentally. You can’t walk worth a damn in those things.
“You all appear to be under the illusion that we’ve got a choice,” Nicephorus said. “Look, he’ll be with us, so who’s going to suspect anything? And he’ll be wearing the right clothes, and we’ll make sure he’s got hats and hoods and God knows what, stand him in the shade, get some short guards to make him look taller—”
“You said he’s too tall already.”
Nicephorus laughed. “See? You’ve got me at it now. The point is, nobody suspects. They see what they want to see.”
“All right,” said Artavasdus. “What about hearing?”
“He does the voice really well,” Faustinus put in. “One of my clerks told me. Close your eyes and you’d think it was the real thing.”
“Fine.” Artavasdus was getting cross. “Let’s hear him, shall we?”
“All right,” Nicephorus said. “You’ll have to make allowances for him being a bit banged up.”
I opened my mouth. My palate had been stripped raw by the acid from the vomit. “Excuse me,” I said.
“And anyway,” Faustinus said, over me, “it’s not just the voice. It’s the voice and the speech rhythms and the phrasing, and all the little gestures and mannerisms. And of course we’ll tell him what to say, so the words will be right. You know, all the little turns of phrase and pet expressions—”
“He’s trying to say something,” Artavasdus interrupted.
“Are we going to let the Themes in on this?” Faustinus said.
“The hell we are.”
“I agree,” Nicephorus said. “This is between the three of us.”
Which struck me as odd, because if this was some sort of political thing, then surely Lysimachus would have to know. But, none of my business. “Excuse me,” I repeated.
They looked at me.
“Excuse me, but what am I doing here?”
Nicephorus gave me a look that should have squashed me flat. “You know what,” he said, “you’re a bloody pest.”
“Am I? I mean, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“We’ve been looking for you,” Artavasdus said, leaning forward so I could smell almonds on his breath. “The length and breadth of the City, in all the nasty places. And then, just fancy. Where do you eventually turn up? Burgling my house.”
I was about to object, and then I remembered. He was quite right.
“We found these,” he went on, opening his big fist under my nose, “in your pocket. They belonged to my father, you thieving little shit.”
He was scaring me. They do bad things to thieves. Odd that it should have slipped my mind before I embarked on this idiotic escapade.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. Not perhaps the smartest thing I ever said.
“But,” Nicephorus said, “in a funny sort of a way it’s all to the good. You see, w
e need you to do something for us, and there’s a remote chance you might not want to do it. And we’re not savages. If you’d turned us down, we couldn’t have forced you. But now, we can quite legally and legitimately make you an offer. You do what we want, or we’ll hang you.”
My mouth had gone horribly dry. “I’ll do it,” I said.
“You don’t know what it is yet.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Some of us,” Artavasdus put in, “aren’t entirely convinced you can do it.”
“Try me. Please.”
They looked at each other, and I knew I hadn’t made a good impression. They had the look of someone who’s just bought something and got it home, and realised it doesn’t go with the curtains. “Listen to him,” Artavasdus said, “he’s pathetic.”
“That’s his own voice,” Nicephorus replied, trying hard to be fair. “Let’s try and keep this constructive, for crying out loud.” He turned his head and looked at me. “I want you to sound like Lysimachus,” he said.
“Imitate him, you mean.”
“Yes. Go on.”
You know when your mind goes completely blank. “What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know, do I? Say anything.”
I could feel myself starting to panic, but then I thought; hang on, I know lots of stuff to say, even if my brain has stopped working. And then I thought: I’m a manager, and Lysimachus has signed up with me for a half-season; what would really suit him down to the ground?
“Oh, pardon me,” I said, “thou bleeding piece of earth, that I am meek and gentle with these butchers. Thou art the ruins of the noblest man—” and so on. You can’t beat Saloninus, on these occasions. Any bloody fool sounds good saying that stuff.
