Sharps (46 page)

The bald man did a big shrug. “Oh, it’s my pleasure, really. The chance to meet the Scherian national team—”

“Where were you going, as a matter of fact?” Iseutz seemed to come back to life.

“Me? Oh, just a quick run out to Beaute. I’ve got cousins there, I like to see them now and again.”

“That’s very brave of you,” Iseutz said, “with a civil war going on.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t call it that,” the bald man said. “Just a bunch of layabouts and troublemakers with nothing better to do. The authorities’ll have them sorted out in no time, you’ll see. We’re lucky we’ve got really good security forces. I know I’m biased, well naturally, but I think our police are the best in the world, no offence, I’m sure they’re really good in your country too, but ours are pretty damn reliable if there’s ever any trouble.”

“You’re not worried, then,” Iseutz said. “About your cousins.”

“Worried? No, not really. They’re sensible people, they know to keep off the streets.”

“Of course,” Addo said. “Stay at home and don’t go out, that’s what a sensible person would do at a time like this.”

For a fat man, he moved surprisingly quickly. Before Addo could stop him, he’d opened the door and nearly made it off the coach. But Suidas grabbed him before he could jump, at which he produced a knife from nowhere at all and tried to stab Suidas’ hand. Addo caught his wrist, then had to let go as the man tumbled backwards out of the coach. Suidas sprang forward and pressed the blade of his messer against the side of the driver’s neck. “Stop the coach,” he said. “Addo.”

But Addo was already out and bending over the bald man’s body. “His neck’s broken,” he said mournfully.

“Fuck,” Suidas replied. “Never mind, we’ve still got the driver.”

But the driver either didn’t know or wasn’t saying, even with Suidas at his most persuasive, until Iseutz made him stop. He gave up and told the driver to keep going.

Suidas sat down again. “Well, we’ve still got the coach, at any rate,” he said.

“Who the hell was he?” Giraut demanded.

“Someone sent to pick us up,” Suidas replied with a shrug. “Or to make sure we’re dead. There’s no money in this cart, or he could’ve been sent to pay off the Aram Chantat.”

“Or bring them back,” Iseutz said. “Since they didn’t have any horses.”

“Maybe.” Suidas yawned. “I don’t suppose it makes any difference in the long run. And we’ve got transport, so we’re better off than we were.”

They slept beside the cart, trying not to think about food. Finally, when the sky was roughly the middle blue of the Redeemer’s robe in a temple fresco, they made a unilateral declaration of dawn. Suidas backed the horses into the shafts and they tried to wake up the driver, only to find he’d died in the night.

“That’s stupid,” Suidas said. “He had a broken leg, that’s all.”

“Presumably it was a bit worse than that,” Addo said gravely. “Still, there’s nothing we can do about it now. Suidas, you know about these things, you can drive one of these, can’t you?”

“Sure.” He grinned at them. “Like old times,” he said. “This is a good coach, by the way. I suggest we keep it, if we can. Worth a bit of money back home, assuming we can get it there.” He vaulted up on to the box and grabbed the reins. “Come on, then,” he said, “if you’re coming.”

Phrantzes was still staring at the driver’s body. Addo stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Internal bleeding, maybe,” he said. “Not that I know anything about medicine.”

“I think it was probably us,” Phrantzes replied. “Wherever we go, people seem to die. Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“My guess is, it’s more likely to have been internal bleeding,” Addo said briskly. “However, if you feel strongly about it, I suggest you consult a priest when we get home. I’m afraid religious stuff’s never been my strong suit.”

Suidas was annoyingly cheerful that morning, singing and chattering, not seeming to notice if nobody was listening. Giraut reckoned it was probably a bad sign, but dismissed it as being Addo’s problem, since he’d apparently taken charge. He couldn’t understand why anyone should want to do such a thing, though he was glad that it was Addo who’d done it; the thought of Suidas being responsible for his safety wasn’t a comfortable one, Phrantzes was useless and Iseutz … You could see why the military aristocracy had run Scheria for so long, he thought. They might not be very good at it, but they’re probably better than anybody else we’ve got. Particularly if there’s got to be another war.

Something caught his eye: a pretty thing, a sparkle, a little gleam of yellow-gold light. He sat up, and Iseutz must’ve read his face, because she said, “Giraut, what’s the matter?” He pointed. “Over there,” he said.

“Wait up, Suidas,” Addo said, but there was no need. Suidas had seen it too and stopped the coach. Just when Giraut had convinced himself he’d imagined the whole thing, Addo said, “Well, what d’you make of that?”

“I can’t see—” Iseutz started, but Suidas cut her off. “Imperials,” he said, “got to be. Who else prances about in poncey gilded armour?”

“Agreed,” Addo said. “In which case, why are they over there, instead of on the road?”

A sharp intake of breath from Phrantzes. “Who cares?” Suidas said. “The Imperials are on our side, aren’t they?”

Addo looked at him. “That’s rather a big assumption,” he said.

“No it isn’t,” Suidas replied. “They’re paid by the government, we’re the honoured guests of the government, therefore they’re obliged to protect us and get us safely to the capital. I say we go over and introduce ourselves.”

“I’d agree,” Addo said quietly, “if I knew why they’re not using the road.”

“I don’t know, do I?” Suidas snapped. “Maybe it’s a training exercise. They’re nuts about training, the Blueskins, and it’s peacetime. What else do soldiers find to do in peacetime? They train.”

“I think it’s a very bad idea,” Iseutz said.

“Nobody asked you,” Suidas snapped back, and Giraut saw Addo shiver a little. “Look, for all we know, there’s Aram Chantat out looking for us. If they catch us on the road, on our own, we’re dead. The Blueskins will be honour-bound to protect us, they believe in all that shit. It’s the obvious thing to do.”

“It would be,” Addo replied calmly, “if they were marching along the road.”

“I still can’t see anything,” Iseutz said. “Where are they?”

Suidas made a vulgar noise. Addo pointed. “See there, where there’s a little dip in the ground? Follow that line, and you come to a—”

“Got you,” Iseutz said. “Yes, you’re right. There’s a whole column of them.”

“A hundred and twenty-five,” Suidas recited, “one company, standard Imperial heavy infantry quick-response detachment. A hundred and twenty men, four sergeants and a lieutenant.”

“Usually deployed to back up a cavalry squadron where there’s an emergency,” Addo said. “And until we know what the emergency is …”

“Look.” Phrantzes had shouldered past him, and was pointing at the skyline, where a cloud of dust was just faintly distinguishable.

“That’ll be their cavalry,” Suidas said. “Our ride to Luzir.”

“Let’s just sit still for a moment,” Addo said.

“Yes, and let them get even further away. No, I don’t think so. Look, we can’t take the coach over the open ground, the axles won’t handle it. We’re going to have to walk. They move pretty quickly. We have to go now, don’t you understand?”

“Not quite yet,” Addo said.

“Screw you, then.” Suidas jumped down and started walking at a furious quick march. Addo started to get up, but Phrantzes pulled him back. Addo shrugged off his hand, jumped down and ran after Suidas, who wasn’t looking round. When he was close enough, Addo jumped. He landed on Suidas’ back, shoved him down and got his elbow round his neck before he could reach for his messer.

“Let go; you’re choking me.”

Addo relaxed his grip; Suidas twisted round, kicked him in the chest, jumped to his feet and ran off.

“Oh for God’s sake,” Iseutz said, and hurried after them.

“The horses,” Phrantzes said.

It didn’t make sense for a moment; then Giraut glanced across and saw the reins lying loose on the box. He threw himself across and grabbed them. “What do I do?” he called back.

“I don’t know.”

This isn’t happening, Giraut thought. He tightened his hands on the reins till they hurt, while keeping them as still as possible. “Be careful,” Phrantzes shouted at him; in context, possibly the most useless piece of advice ever. In his mind he could picture, as clearly as if it was a memory, the horses suddenly bolting, dragging the reins out of his hands; the coach hitting a stone, overturning, himself being thrown through the air …

“It’s all right, I’ve got them.” Phrantzes was standing by the lead horses’ heads, holding the rings at the corners of their mouths. Giraut looked up and realised he was shaking. He really didn’t want Phrantzes to notice, not after the disgraceful way he’d behaved when the Aram Chantat attacked. “Can you see what’s happening?” he asked.

“No.”

Suidas was running towards the column waving his arms when the dust cloud turned into horsemen. That was more or less what he was expecting, so he didn’t stop. He carried on running when the horsemen proved to be Aram Chantat (because this was Permia, and the Aram Chantat and the Blueskins were on the same side). When the horsemen’s line split, peeled and swung round to envelop the column, he assumed it was just showing off, an exhibition of friendly antagonism, some kind of weird Aram Chantat thing that an expert like Tzimisces would’ve explained with a few words and a patronising grin.

Presumably the Blueskins thought the same. They had carefully planned, frequently rehearsed drills for coping with horse archers, but they carried on marching in column, even when the first arrows were in the air. By the time they realised they were being attacked, of course, it was too late. A third of them were dead on the ground.

They did their best. They formed squares, dropped to one knee, raised shields, hedged spears. The horsemen surged round them like a torrent of water in a flooded street, swirling and lapping against walls, searching for an open door or window. The tide drew out and swept back in again; not archers but lancers. It’s no reproach to the building that it’s not tall enough to hold off the water. The Imperials performed their drills flawlessly and kept perfect discipline almost to the bitter end.

Suidas realised he was standing upright in open ground, and dropped like a stone. Uppermost in his mind, shouting down the thoughts he ought to have been thinking, was: I’m privileged to be one of the few men still living who’s seen the Aram Chantat fight the Blueskins. Always wondered who’d win. Now I know.

It made no sense. He was frozen and couldn’t move because it made no sense whatsoever: the Aram Chantat against the Blueskins, like the arms against the legs. He watched as the horsemen slowed to a trot, then a walk, as they picked through the bodies on the ground for survivors and meticulously speared or shot them, then dismounted and made extra sure (attention to detail, a laudable trait), turning them over one at a time; no looting or robbing the dead, just a careful medical examination to make sure all life was extinguished. They took their time. Then, job done, they picked up their own handful of dead, collected their arrows and broken lances, mounted and rode away.

“Why?” Iseutz asked.

Nobody spoke for a long time. Then Suidas said, “Civil war. It’s the only possible explanation.”

“Not quite,” Addo said. “My guess is, we’re still two or three days away from that. I think what we just saw is preparations for a civil war, almost the same thing but not quite.”

Suidas shrugged. “What makes you say that?”

“The careful way they gathered up all the evidence,” Addo replied. “They even pulled out the arrows, did you notice? Like they didn’t want anybody to be able to prove they did it.”

“I don’t understand,” Iseutz said. “Why bother?”

Addo leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. “I think the Imperials are still loyal to the government,” he said. “I’m assuming the column was on its way to Beaute, to take charge of the city from the Aram Chantat now that the riots have been put down.” He paused and grinned. “If they have been put down, that is; but that’s another issue entirely. But whoever sent those Aram Chantat didn’t want an Imperial garrison in Beaute, so they had them wiped out here in the middle of nowhere. It’ll be at least a day before anyone finds the bodies, another day before the news gets back to the government in Luzir; there’s no physical evidence that Aram Chantat did this, so whoever’s responsible can deny any involvement. They could even blame it on a third party – at a wild guess, Scheria. That’s at least three days, maybe four, in which they can get all their other pieces in place and start the war in earnest. That’s my interpretation, anyhow. I’m just guessing, obviously, but I think it covers most of what we know.”

“You keep saying
they
,” Iseutz interrupted. “Who’s
they
?”

Addo smiled. “Good question,” he said. “But, on the balance of probabilities, someone who wants a war with Scheria and who’s got enough money to buy the Aram Chantat out of their existing contracts. I don’t know enough about Permian politics to give you names, but you get the general idea.” He sighed and straightened his back. “Not the government, not the mine owners, so who does that leave?”

“Does it matter?” Iseutz snapped, so violently that everyone looked at her. “To us, I mean? Oh come on, don’t stare at me like that. Look, I couldn’t give a damn right now about whether there’s going to be a war, or who’s playing what games, or any of it. I’m tired and I’m hungry and I stink like a pig, I’ve been wearing the same clothes since I can remember, my skin feels like it’s crawling with ants, I hurt all over and I want to go
home
. That’s all that matters, not stupid bloody politics. I’m so miserable I hardly feel scared any more, just completely bloody wretched. And I’m not a soldier, I’m a female civilian, so I really don’t deserve to be put through all this. Look, we’ve got a coach and horses, we’ve got a driver, and we don’t owe anybody anything. Can’t we just go home? Please?”