Sharps (33 page)

Addo grinned. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Do you remember anything?”

“Not a lot. I was dreaming.” Suidas scratched his head, then winced. “I was taking a bath, as a matter of fact, in that amazing bath house they’ve got here. And the dried-up river started flowing again, and water came shooting down on me from the cistern. I thought I was going to drown.”

“The doctor says you’ve been eating too much salt.”

Suidas laughed. “They always say that, the Blueskins. Too much salt or not enough greens. That and bowel movements, they’re obsessed. Bloody good doctors, though.”

“We’ll let you get some rest,” Phrantzes said. “There’s still a day before our escort gets here, so stay in bed and try to sleep.”

Suidas gave him a thin smile. “In the circumstances,” he said, “are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Tzimisces reappeared late in the afternoon. He’d picked up a slight cold since they’d seen him last, which probably explained why he didn’t seem to hear Iseutz when she asked him where he’d been. Instead, he blew his nose in a huge green silk handkerchief.

“The bad news,” he said, “is that the trouble is definitely spreading. There’s been rioting in several large towns and at least three important mines, and that’s just in this area. The good news is, the Aram Chantat have stayed loyal to the government and they’ve dealt with the riots in their own charming way. Which is fine by us,” he added, with a sideways glance at Suidas. “It means our own little spot of trouble back in Luzir Soleth will just sort of merge seamlessly into the general carnage, and nobody’ll give it a second thought.”

Phrantzes had a vaguely hopeful look on his face. He said, “With all this trouble going on, I can’t believe the Permians will want to carry on with the tour.”

“Really?” Tzimisces smiled at him. “What makes you say that?”

“I’d have thought the last thing they’d want would be large, volatile gatherings of people. A fencing match would be just the sort of flashpoint that could lead to a riot. They’ll have to call the whole thing off, it’s the only possible course of action.”

“I don’t think so,” Tzimisces said, sounding like an indulgent parent dismissing his child’s particularly far-fetched suggestion. “You’ve seen how crazy these people are about fencing. In fact, cancelling the matches would be the surest way of starting a riot anyone could think of. No, by the time we get to Beaute all this nonsense will have burnt itself out, and we can get on with the job we came here to do. You can be absolutely sure about that.”

Their new escort commander was called Major Cuniva. He was about forty years old, bald – completely hairless, in fact, like a freshly scalded hide – and enormous, as though he belonged to a completely different species. He was the first Imperial they’d met who didn’t seem to be permanently frozen to the bone; he wore a fur-lined coat and a scarf, but no hat or gloves. He was missing the top two joints from the index finger of his left hand.

“We shouldn’t have too much difficulty making up time to Beaute,” he said cheerfully, in a voice so deep that Giraut was sure he felt the floor shake under his feet. “We can leave the main road at Chauzida and cut through the mountains. There’s a pass I know that’ll bring us back on the road just outside Dosor.” He paused, waiting to see if anyone dared contradict him, then went on, “You must be Adulescentulus Carnufex, the general’s son. It’s an honour to meet you.”

Addo gave him a weak smile. “I take it you were in the War.”

“Ten years,” Cuniva replied. “I started as a young second lieutenant, and ended up as a captain attached to the general staff. Of course, I’ve studied all your father’s campaigns. In fact,” he added, with just a touch of diffidence, which suited him like a straw hat on a dragon, “I’ve written a short essay on the Belcors campaign. As it happens, I have a copy with me. I’d be extremely grateful if you could glance through it and give me your opinion.”

There was a faint but unmistakable leaden weariness in Addo’s voice as he said, “Of course, I’d be delighted.” But Cuniva’s face lit up with joy, suddenly and unexpectedly transformed into a thing of beauty.

“I have absolutely no idea if this is any good or not,” Addo announced later, as the coach bounced along the main road. “I’ve never even heard of half the things he’s talking about.”

“Just say it’s marvellous and wonderful,” Suidas said. “He’ll be your slave for life.”

“Yes, but what if he asks me specific questions? He’ll realise straight away that I don’t know the first thing about the rotten Belcors campaign.”

“Really?” Tzimisces was looking at him.

“Really and truly,” Addo replied. “My father’s never talked about it much.”

“It was a great victory, wasn’t it?” Giraut said.

Addo shrugged. “I guess so. But I don’t think it was one of his favourites, if you see what I mean.”

Giraut noticed that Phrantzes was looking out of the window; something he didn’t usually do, because he said it made him travel sick. Tzimisces said, “I know a bit about that campaign. If you like, I’ll skim through it and give you a few notes.”

It sounded for all the world like the offer of a minor act of kindness, but Addo hesitated. “You really don’t want to wade through all this,” he said, pleasantly enough. “For one thing, it’s vilely written.”

“Ah.” Tzimisces smiled. “Let me guess. Flowery periphrases, back-to-back literary allusions and quotations from thousand-year-old authors. A marked reluctance to use one word when twelve can be jammed in if you sit on the lid.”

Addo smiled. “Something like that.”

“All the hallmarks of the approved Imperial military literary style,” Tzimisces said. “It’s used for everything they write, from dispatches to supply requisitions. They teach it at the staff college. You can’t get promotion unless you can churn it out by the yard.”

“That’s stupid,” Iseutz said.

“Not at all,” Tzimisces replied earnestly. “It’s one of the subtle filters the Imperial military uses to keep riff-raff out of the higher echelons of the military hierarchy.”

“That’s stupid, too.”

“You clearly don’t know your Imperial history,” Tzimisces said. “Several hundred years ago, they had nearly a century of on-and-off civil wars. Seventy-four emperors in ninety-one years, of whom precisely two died of natural causes. All because of talented, ambitious men rising through the ranks to command large provincial armies, which they then used to seize power. It was very nearly the end of the Empire.” He paused to blow his nose. “But nowadays it doesn’t matter a damn how talented and ambitious you are. If you can’t balance a pair of antitheses while using the appropriate quote from Post-Realist poetry, you’ll never make it above major. Which would probably account for our new friend out there. He’s clearly an efficient and experienced officer, but he’s got an Eastern accent you could cut with a knife. Which is good luck for us,” he added cheerfully. “This is his big chance to impress someone and maybe get called back home, after seventeen years in this place. He’ll be trying his hardest, you can bet on that.”

“Wonderful,” Suidas said sourly. “Assuming he’s on our side.”

Giraut was still watching Phrantzes. Ever since Tzimisces had asked to look at the stupid essay, he’d been staring out of the window, perfectly still, like an animal trying to escape the notice of a predator it knows it can’t outrun. He reminded himself that he wasn’t there to look after anybody but himself; even so, he hoped Addo or Iseutz would notice, and do something about it. Maybe Addo had got the message after all. He lifted his book level with his nose and started reading again. Tzimisces’ kind offer had clearly been refused. Not that Tzimisces seemed put out in any way; he wiped his nose with the monster handkerchief, closed his eyes, snuggled his chin on his chest and appeared to go to sleep. Addo carried on reading, but from time to time he lifted his head and peeped over the top of the book, as if it was a battlement, in Tzimisces’ general direction.

When the news of the riots in Luzir Soleth reached Scheria, the chairman of the Bank called an emergency cabinet meeting.

The situation, he told the Board, was bad. As far as he could tell, the explosion of public anger following the assassination of Minister Ashok had been entirely spontaneous, and was spread across the full spectrum of Permian society. By its very nature, a spontaneous outburst lacked focus and direction; the people were very angry, but as yet they didn’t really know who they were angry with, let alone what it would take to appease their wrath. That, he pointed out, was both good and bad. Bad, because until they made their minds up, or had them made up for them, it was impossible to formulate a coherent reaction or to know which side to be on; good, because they had a little bit of time in which to try and make sense of the situation.

“Getting down to cases,” he went on, “I’m not sure there’s a great deal we can do. It’s not like the rioters in the streets are going to be particularly interested in what we think about anything. In fact, I’d say the worst thing we could do is interfere visibly at this stage. The latest reports say the army’s stayed loyal to the government, and obviously, as long as they’ve got the military on their side, sooner or later they’ll put down the riots and things will get back to normal.”

“Quite,” someone interrupted. “But we’ve got to bear in mind the nature of the Permian military. They’re practically all mercenaries.”

“Indeed,” the chairman said. “And at the moment, the only entity in Permia with the money to pay their wages is the government, so of course they’re staying loyal. And if the disorder can be put down while it’s still just a mob throwing stones, before it crystallises into an organised opposition, that’ll be the end of the matter and we can go back to where we were. But if the mob finds leaders, and the leaders get money, you can more or less guarantee what’ll come next. There’ll be a brisk auction, and whoever wins gets Permia.” He paused to drink a little water. “Really,” he went on, “on one level it’s pretty simple. If we want to get ahead of events and put together a set of useful contingency plans, we need to look at where the money is.”

“Excuse me,” said somebody else, “but wouldn’t it help to know who killed this Minister Ashok, and why?”

The chairman shook his head. “Interesting to future historians, maybe. Right now, we need to know who’s going to win, and I can see three possible outcomes. One, no coherent opposition arises, the government wins, we’re back to where we started from. Two, there’s an opposition, it outbids the government and takes over. Three, there’s an opposition, but the government wins the auction and stays in power, the opposition goes on the defensive and digs in – strikes in the mines, that sort of thing – and there’s a nasty stalemate until something changes and the balance of power shifts.”

“Fine,” someone said. “Which one do we want?”

The chairman sighed. “Good question,” he said. “We aren’t exactly wild about the current Permian government, but they could be a lot worse. There’s reason to believe that if the mob favours anyone, it’s the war faction. But if this government survives, it’ll only be because of the military. The soldiers and the line officers are Blueskins and savages, but the senior command is still basically Permian military aristocracy; in other words, the war faction. Two sides of the same coin.”

“So what we want is the stalemate,” someone said.

“Not really,” the chairman replied sadly. “That just puts off the crisis for a while, allowing it to build up a really good head of steam for when it does eventually explode.”

There was a tense silence. Then somebody said, “Aren’t we getting ahead of ourselves just a bit? We don’t know if the trouble’s spread, or whether it’s confined to Luzir Soleth. It could turn out to be nothing but a minor local problem. If we overreact, surely that’s the worst thing we could do.”

“He’s right,” said someone else at the far end of the table. “We can’t put together a policy until we know exactly what’s going on over there. I mean, if the rioting spreads to some of the other mining towns, or the cities, even, that’s definitely a problem for us. But we don’t know that’s what’s going to happen. We’ve just got to hold our water and see how it turns out.”

Afterwards, Turcuin Boioannes, director of investment policy, tracked the chairman down to the small cloister just off the southern quadrangle, where he was sitting on a stone bench, reading a document and eating bread and cheese. “What was all that about?” he asked.

The chairman gave him a sad smile. “You don’t want to know,” he said. “Believe me.”

Boioannes sat down beside him. “Probably not,” he said. “Look, I’m on your side. What’s going on?”

The chairman sighed and put the papers down on the paved floor. “What the hell,” he said. “You’ll find out soon enough, I’m sure. We’ve got a problem, and it’s my fault.”

Boioannes grinned at him. “A wise man once said, there’s no problem that can’t be solved by a kind word, a five-figure payment or three inches of sharp metal. What have you done?”

“I’ve lent forty million nomismata of the Bank’s money to the Permian government,” the chairman said. “And I neglected to tell anybody beforehand.”

For a while, Boioannes was completely unaware of the passage of time. “We haven’t got forty million nomismata.”

“Not in actual money, no. Most of it’s a line of credit secured on Bank stock. If we’re called on it, someone, the Empire presumably, is going to end up owning the Bank.”

Boioannes breathed in and out slowly. “What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?”

The chairman smiled at him. “Desperation,” he replied. “Turcuin, the Bank’s about to go under. I haven’t told anybody because I couldn’t bring myself to do it, but we’re this close to the edge. We’re massively overcommitted to long-term loans to small farmers, small workshops, practically everybody in the country’s borrowed from us, and we’ve had to borrow the money from the big Imperial banks, secured on future tax revenues we know aren’t going to happen because the country simply can’t afford to pay them. We all know this, deep inside, but nobody’s dared say it out loud. Meanwhile, I’ve got to pay the Stewards of the South Gate Temple a quarter of a million by the end of the month, and then I’ve got to find a hundred and ten thousand for the Caecilius brothers, and so it goes on. There’s nothing like enough coming in from our debtors, and I’ve got to show the Imperials
something
. And then I had this wild, crazy thought. Why not make up a whole lot of pretend money, lend it to the Permians and pay off our creditors with the interest?”