Sharps (38 page)

He sighed. “You’re imagining things,” he said. “You’re wound up and stressed out because of – well, just being here’s enough, and then we discover we’re fighting with real swords, which is downright barbaric, and then the riots and all this stuff. But I don’t think there’s anything dreadful and sinister going on in the shadows. It’s just a mess, that’s all.”

“You’re wrong,” she said. “You know that. It’s just a pity you’re such a coward you won’t admit it.”

He knew he ought to feel angry, but there wasn’t the faintest trace of anger or resentment in his mind; it was a luxury he knew he couldn’t afford. “I’m sorry you think that,” he said. “And I hope you’re wrong.” He might as well have been talking to the wall. He turned away, and wondered how long it would be before they’d be allowed to leave. He looked round for someone to talk to. Suidas was in the centre of a ring of Permians; he was grinning and laughing, and they seemed delighted with him – fencing fans, presumably, thrilled to meet the Scherian champion. Phrantzes had been pinned in a corner by Minister Urosh and his wife (maybe he knew about gardening), and he couldn’t see Addo anywhere. While his attention was thus occupied, a short, square Permian with long grey hair in a ponytail materialised in front of him and accused him of being Giraut Bryennius.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said.

“You’re fencing rapier.”

“That’s right.”

The Permian nodded. “Why? Isn’t Suidas Deutzel your national rapier champion?”

Oh for crying out loud. “Yes, that’s right,” Giraut said, “but we needed Suidas to fight messer, so—”

“But he’s fighting longsword. Adulescentulus Carnufex is fighting messer.”

“Well, they swapped. Anyhow, Suidas can’t do longsword
and
rapier, so they got me instead.”

Clearly his answers were unsatisfactory. “I’ve been following the Scherian League for some time,” the Permian said, “and I don’t know you. Why didn’t they get Gace Erchomai-Bringas to fight rapier? He was the silver medallist in this year’s Trophy.”

“I guess he couldn’t make it,” Giraut said wearily. “But I was available, so …”

“Have you ever fenced professionally? Your name doesn’t appear in the Scherian Guild lists.”

“Not as such, no. I’m sorry, I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Tuchoman. Secretary of State for Culture and Religious Affairs.” Oh, Giraut thought. “Why is Carnufex fencing messer if Deutzel was selected? I don’t understand.”

“Well.” Giraut opened his mind in the hope of snagging a stray speck of inspiration. “Addo’s never tried messer before, but in practice we found he was so good at it—”

“He didn’t put up a very convincing performance at Joiauz.”

“He was nervous. Anyway, he’s been practising. You’re in for a treat tomorrow, I can promise you that.”

Minister Tuchoman looked dubious. “I hope so,” he said. “You’ll find the people here are a very discerning audience. I notice you tend towards the Vesani school.”

Do I? And what in hell is the Vesani school? “A bit, I guess. Mostly, though, I just make it up as I go along.”

He’d said the wrong thing. “I can’t accept that,” the minister said. “I read the transcript of your bout at Joiauz. You combined elements from four distinct Classical schools of fencing. It’s the main reason why I’ve come here to see you.”

Transcripts
? “You came all this way just to see me?”

“To see post-orthodox Vesani straight-time techniques in action, yes. I’ve read about them all my life, but never actually seen them.” A severe look. “I do hope you won’t disappoint me.”

With that, the minister made a perfunctory excuse and stalked away, leaving Giraut mumbling
post-orthodox Vesani straight-time
under his breath, so he could look it up in Addo’s book. He hoped very much that it translated as keeping out of the way and not getting killed, because that was what he proposed to do, and the hell with the expectations of his audience.

“You know, they aren’t such bad people after all.” Suidas came up from behind him. He was holding a glass: clear water. “I’ve just been talking to a man who organises commercial tournaments, down in the south somewhere. Guess how much he offered me for five bouts, rapier, with foils.”

Giraut moved away a little. “No idea.”

“Five thousand nomismata. A thousand a bout, for rapier. And, guess what, he’s got no problem with foils, none whatsoever. Apparently it’s only the Guild that insists on using sharps, and they only control about a third of the fencing in this country. The punters don’t mind, it’s just a bunch of lunatic purists. There’s good money to be made here. And that’s not counting exhibition matches, private coaching, political endorsements …”

“Political …?”

“Oh, it’s big business here. They pay you a heap of money and you say how much you admire some politician. Five hundred nomismata, they reckon I could get, being Scherian champion and all. More, if I put on a good show in the last two matches of the tour. I must say, it throws quite a different light on it all. Eighteen months here and I’d be set up for life, I could retire, set up a fashionable salle, spend the rest of my life coaching the likes of – well, you, I suppose – and never have to fight anyone for real ever again. One of those men I was talking to, little shrivelled chap, he said that for five per cent he could set me up solid, and no sharps whatsoever.” He stopped, and frowned. “God, I hope there isn’t going to be another war. That’d screw everything up.”

Giraut stared at him. “You’re seriously thinking of staying in Permia?”

“You don’t understand.” Suidas’ voice was suddenly hard and quiet. “Sorry, Giraut, but you simply haven’t got a clue. Money’s never been a problem for you, has it? Always been there, you never give it a thought. It’s different if you haven’t got any, believe me. Well, I’m sick to death of being poor. It’s a drag and it drains you till you can’t think about anything else, and if I can get rid of it just by doing eighteen months in this shithole – frankly, I don’t have a choice.”

“But I thought you were—” Giraut cut the words off, but Suidas understood all right.

“Getting paid for being on this tour, yes. Twenty-five thousand. That’s a lot of money, but it’s not enough. Sontha …” He stopped, and frowned, as though trying to remember something. “It’s not enough,” he said. “It’s enough to last me five years, and then where’ll I be? I need double that, for the salle, to be
safe
. Otherwise it’ll just make things worse, in the long run. No, this is the place. God bless Permia, I say. Wonderful country, beautiful people, and let’s just pray there isn’t going to be a war.” He took a deep breath, which came out as a kind of a laugh. “I never did hold with war,” he said. “Bloody stupid way to deal with a problem, always makes things worse, and people … Anyway.” He looked round, reached out and grabbed a decanter of wine off a nearby table. “I think this calls for a drink, don’t you?”

“Suidas …”

“Oh, screw you.” He hesitated, then put the decanter back. “I’ll give it some serious thought, anyway,” he said. “I mean, what’s eighteen months? You get longer than that for stealing apples.”

Finally, just when he’d given up hope, the reception came to an end. It thawed gradually, like a harsh winter, as the important people withdrew, leaving the lesser mortals to talk excitedly to each other about who they’d just met; at which point Giraut realised that for the purposes of diplomatic protocol he counted as an important person and was free to go. He headed for the door, where a pair of Imperials in gilded lamellar armour fell in beside him. The position they took up – dead level, about six inches behind his shoulders – brought back old memories.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked.

“Escort, sir. For your own safety.”

It was mildly unnerving to be told you were being protected when you hadn’t realised you were in danger, but he’d been in Permia long enough not to let that sort of thing prey on his mind. Feeling no more than mildly self-conscious, he allowed himself to be protected across the yard and up the narrow spiral staircase, where one guard went in front and the other brought up the rear – the true danger, he couldn’t help feeling, was treading or being trodden on by his protectors and tumbling down the lethal staircase to his death. They opened his door for him and stood back to let him go in. After the door had closed, he listened hard. He didn’t hear a key turn in a lock, but he didn’t hear footsteps clattering away down the stairs, either.

(Well, he thought, here we are again: trapped at the top of a tower, with the watch only the thickness of a door away, and still stubbornly alive. He wondered whether his life chose to assume such obvious patterns as a way of making a point, or whether these were simply the shapes it was predisposed to adopt, the way a rope naturally falls in loops if you throw it.)

He couldn’t be bothered to undress, so he lay on his back on the bed (which would’ve made a smith a good anvil), closed his eyes and demanded to be sent to sleep. Sleep, of course, resolutely refused to happen. Instead, his mind picked over a wide range of issues, like a crow on an old carcass. He considered the death of two statesmen (one Scherian, one Permian), the unanticipated abandonment of a strategic way station on the Great East Road, Tzimisces’ ability to vanish into thin air, Addo’s loss of a borrowed book and the backs of Suidas’ hands. He drew a number of conclusions, but none of them made him feel better. Nevertheless, he resolved to try and make some sort of sense of them, and in doing so he fell asleep.

He was woken by yelling: an angry man with a loud voice shouting orders. He sat up, noticing that the lamp that had been burning when he came in had now gone out, and tried to make out words in the furious voices. Then his door opened. Light burst in like floodwater. Against it he could make out the silhouette of an Imperial helmet.

“What’s going on?” he mumbled.

“Sorry, sir. Nothing to worry about. Just checking you’re all right.” A different guard. “I’m fine. What’s all the noise?”

“Nothing to worry about,” the guard repeated. “You get some rest, sir, big day tomorrow.” The door closed, the light went out, and for a count of ten there was silence. Then someone else started shouting, from a slightly different direction, and he could hear running on the stairs.

The next door Lieutenant Teudel opened was that of Suidas Deutzel. He’d been told to keep his eye on that one, but found him sitting in a chair writing a letter, resting on a book balanced on his knee.

“What the hell’s going on?” Deutzel asked.

“Routine check, sir,” Teudel replied. “Just making sure you’re all right.”

Well, he wasn’t paid to be convincing. He shut the door, reminded the guards stationed outside it that no one was to enter or leave (as if they needed reminding) and passed down the corridor to the next door: Adulescentulus Carnufex, the Irrigator’s son. Something, Teudel thought, to tell his grandchildren. But young Carnufex was fast asleep, so that was all right. Shivering slightly from the cold, Teudel withdrew and applied himself to the next door: the team manager, Phrantzes. He adjusted his parameters accordingly.

“There’s been an incident,” he replied to the obvious question. “With one of the guests. But everything’s under control, nothing to worry about. Sorry to have disturbed you.”

He closed the door before Phrantzes could ask another question, and moved on to the last door. Slightly awkward, as the occupant was female. Different protocols therefore applied. He knocked, and waited.

After a moment the door opened a crack, and a plain young woman scowled at him. “What the hell is …?”

“Just making sure you’re all right, miss.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No cause for alarm. Good night, miss.”

“Wait a minute.” She had the gift of command. “What’s all the yelling about?”

“Sorry, miss. Just a drill.”

“Like hell. What’s going on?”

“Thank you, miss. Sorry to have troubled you.”

He applied his knee gently to the door, easing it shut. The two guards looked straight past him as he walked away. As soon as he was safely out of range, they’d be laughing. He cursed them with early promotion, so that they’d be the ones who had to deal politely with stroppy females with diplomatic status, and returned to the guard post. There he found Captain Lozo, the duty officer, looking weary and terrified, searching frantically for the ink bottle. Teudel took it from the desk drawer and gave it to him.

“Sir, what the hell’s going on?” he asked.

“Bloody good question.” Lozo fumbled with the ink-bottle stopper, forced it out with a violent twist, and spilled ink on the desk. “Some bloody fool of a government minister’s got himself killed, apparently. We think. We don’t know. Main thing is to close this place right down, make sure everybody stays put, and under no circumstances is anybody to leave the building until further notice. We think they’re trying to keep it quiet until they can bring in enough Aram Chantat. Once the news does get out, of course …”

He didn’t need to expand on that. “And is it true? Which minister?”

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Lozo replied. “Right now, all I’m concerned with is getting a status report out to Division, and then they can send someone in to take charge and I’m off the hook.” He frowned at the pool of ink on the desk, as if he couldn’t begin to imagine how it could possibly have got there. “All the Scherians safely contained?”

“Yes, sir.”

“That’s something, I suppose. God knows what’d happen if one of them contrived to get killed, we’d have another war on our hands in no time flat.” His frown deepened, and he turned and looked at Teudel as though he was a prophet on a holy mountain. “Do you suppose that’s why they’re here?” he said. “To get killed, to start another war.”

“I …” It wasn’t the sort of question lieutenants in the Imperial service were supposed to address themselves to. “I don’t know, sir.”

“It’d get the job done, though, wouldn’t it?”

Once asked, however, it itched for an answer. “Do you think that’s why the Permians asked them here?”

“Or why the Scherians sent them.” Lozo sat absolutely still for a moment, as if a sudden movement on his part might scare away the revelation of perfect truth. Then he shrugged hugely. “None of our business, anyhow. If they want a war, I guess they might as well have one. Were you here for the last lot, Teudel?”