Sharps (58 page)

The first engagement was a reception for the Permian Mine Owners’ Association. There was white wine, hard biscuits and jars of pickled cabbage; the mine owners didn’t seem particularly interested in the fencers, but Tzimisces and the elderly priest who’d shown up just after the big match held court for quite some time. After that they had to go and watch an exhibition bout put on by the Permian Guild; Addo had to present the prizes. The standard was low and the Permian fencers were trying too hard. A young man fencing rapier tried to emulate Giraut’s trademark volte and got stabbed in the groin, apparently by accident, and a longswordsman lost a finger, trapped against the guard of his own sword in a high left block. The smallsword bout was won by the girl who’d fought Iseutz; she seemed to have made a remarkable recovery, but as she took her bow, Giraut could see blood on her clothes, where she’d split her stitches. Addo got a standing ovation, and a trio of terrified-looking children presented him with a wreath of white flowers. Giraut watched Tzimisces while Addo bent double so that the children could get the wreath over his head:
He’s punishing him
, he thought, but couldn’t figure out what for. Iseutz, he decided, probably thought the same. She was scowling at the back of Tzimisces’ head, and when Addo eventually escaped and went back to his seat, she shot a quick, nervous smile at him that made him turn bright red.

Suidas was waiting for them when they got back to the Guild house. He was sitting on a huge trunk, one of a dozen piled up in the entrance lobby. “For us,” he explained. “To replace all our kit and stuff. I haven’t looked inside, so God only knows what they’ve issued us with.” He grinned at Iseutz. “I hope for your sake they’ve finally established that you’re not a man,” he said. “Otherwise …”

“Funny man,” Iseutz said. “Well, they definitely owe us something. I’ve been wearing these rags so long, they can practically stand up on their own.”

“Maybe,” Suidas replied gravely, “but can they fence?”

Iseutz couldn’t be bothered to reply to that. Giraut said: “Does all this mean they’re actually letting us go?”

“Looks like it,” Suidas replied cheerfully. “Apparently they’ve cleared up the jam at the gate, so the road’s open again. So unless you lot’ve got any more ceremonies you want to go to, we can be on our way.”

“No,” Iseutz said loudly. “No more ceremonies. Absolutely not.”

Phrantzes looked at Tzimisces, who laughed. “I’d sort of promised we’d put in an appearance at the Finance Minister’s meeting with the mine bosses, but …”

“No,” Addo said firmly. “We’ve done enough. It’s time we went home.”

“Fair enough,” Tzimisces said. “Leave them wanting more, as they say. Actually, there’s talk of making this an annual event; and then there’s the reciprocal tour, them coming to us. One way or another, we’ll be seeing quite a bit more of the Permians than we’re used to.”

“I’ve seen enough Permians to last me,” Suidas said, and nobody looked at him. “One way or another.”

The rain started again as they walked to the coach, which was really a cart with an improvised roof, drawn by six massive horses. Inside were two plain wooden benches. “Inconspicuous,” Tzimisces explained. “I don’t suppose you really want to be mobbed by cheering crowds every step of the way to the DMZ.”

“It looks like a hearse,” Giraut said.

“Oddly enough, that’s exactly what it was this time yesterday,” Tzimisces said. “Inspired choice on the part of our hosts, because Permians always look the other way when a hearse goes by. Respectful. You draw these curtains here, and nobody’ll know the difference.”

Iseutz wasn’t happy. “We’re riding back to Scheria in the pitch dark, are we?”

“Well, you’ve seen all the scenery already. Don’t worry,” Tzimisces added cheerfully, “we can draw the curtains once we’re away from the city. And we’ll have a Blueskin escort to the border, so that’s all right.”

Suidas said, “What about the luggage? There isn’t room for all that stuff they gave us.”

“It’ll follow on in another cart.”

Suidas sighed. “That’s the last we’ll be seeing of it, then. Pity. Probably worth a lot of money.”

“That reminds me.” Tzimisces turned, and a footman in Guild livery appeared out of nowhere. He was holding a flat burr-walnut case about two and a half feet long, with silver hinges and catches. “Present for you,” he said. “From me. So you won’t want to stop at every town and village.”

Suidas looked at him. “I’m guessing …”

“Yes. Finest quality. Matched pair. Best maker in Permia. By appointment to the Guild. I asked the Master who was the best man to go to. Cost me a fortune, but what the hell, the Bank’s paying.”

“No thanks.” Suidas gave him a look of pure loathing. “Already got one. Here, Addo, you can have the bloody things. No good to me.”

“Thank you,” Addo said gravely. He took the box and threw it into the coach. It clattered as it hit the floorboards. “I’m sure they’ll come in handy for something.”

When the Minister of the Interior had asked Addo at one of the receptions if there was anything he could do for him, Addo had said he’d be really glad of something to read on the way home. As soon as the coach was out of the city, therefore, and Tzimisces allowed them to draw the curtains, he fished in the pockets of his coat and produced a small heap of tiny books, all apparently identical, bound in cream-white vellum. “The complete works of Callianis,” he said, handing books to the others. “In twelve volumes. I suggest we read them and pass them round. Should make the journey go a little faster.”

“Wonderful,” Suidas said. “Who the hell is Callianis?”

“I don’t actually know,” Addo replied. “But I sort of got the impression I was supposed to have heard of him, so I said thank you very much. Well,” he added, “it’s got to be better than looking at the countryside.”

Iseutz opened her book at random, squinted at the tiny lettering, opened her eyes wide and shut the book. “It’s …”

“Yes,” Tzimisces said. “Illegal to own in Scheria, of course, but I gather it’s an exhaustive exploration of the subject.” He opened his book and flicked through the pages. “No pictures,” he said sadly. “Well, not to worry. I’m given to understand that the descriptions are incredibly evocative, so no great loss. Let’s see,” he added, turning to the title page. “I’ve got C to F. God bless the Minister of the Interior. Clearly a man of exceptional taste and judgement.”

Addo closed his book and put it on the seat beside him. “I’ve still got my chess set,” he said.

Iseutz dropped her book on the floor and wiped her hands on her sleeves. “Typical,” she said. “Sharp swords, dirty books and pickled cabbage. Why has everything on this trip got to be horrible?”

Suidas leaned forward and picked up the book she’d dropped. He opened it, narrowed his eyes, held it almost at arm’s length. “It’s poetry,” he said.

“Classic pre-Partition Imperial trochaic hexameters,” Tzimisces said. “We used it as a set book in our verse composition classes at the Academy. Fifty-five thousand lines and never a misplaced caesura.”

Suidas closed the book and put it in his pocket. “I don’t go much on poetry,” he said.

“That I can believe,” Tzimisces said. “How about you?” he said to Phrantzes, who was sitting opposite him, keeping very still. “Very much your sort of thing, I understand.”

Phrantzes looked at him. “I’m afraid my eyesight’s not up to such tiny lettering.”

“Ah well.” Tzimisces grinned. “Take it home. Maybe your wife could read it to you.”

Phrantzes nodded; then he drew back his foot and rammed his heel into Tzimisces’ groin. Tzimisces gasped and his head shot forward, making it easy for Phrantzes to drive his left fist into his face. There was a cracking noise, and Tzimisces lolled back in his seat, clutching his head in both hands. Blood dripped from his chin into his lap. Iseutz whooped with joy. Phrantzes settled back into his seat, opened the book Addo had given him and started to read.

Suidas set Tzimisces’ broken nose for him; not a particularly neat job, but, as he explained, the jolting and lurching of the coach made any sort of finesse difficult. “That’s the trouble with riding in a vehicle with no suspension to talk of,” he said. “You get thrown about all over the place, and accidents happen. Like just now.” He pressed his thumb gently on Tzimisces’ nose. “Isn’t that right?” Tzimisces groaned. “He agrees with me,” Suidas said, and wiped blood off his fingers. “Well, look at us,” he said. “We’ve all been in the wars, haven’t we?”

“Except me,” Giraut said quietly.

“I guess you were just born lucky,” Suidas said.

Addo spoke to the escort commander, who was under the impression that they were going home by way of Autet, Savotz, Bel Semplan and several other large towns. Addo quickly put him straight on that point. They were, in fact, taking the shortest possible route, avoiding all centres of population larger than a middling-sized farmstead, and under no circumstances letting anyone know they were the unbelievably famous Scherian fencing team. The commander sent a rider back to clarify the position, in case the authorities were under the same misapprehension and put out search parties when they didn’t show up. He also apologised about the supply situation. If they weren’t going to be stopping in large towns, the fencers would have no option but to take pot luck with the escort – plain military rations, nothing fancy. Addo, who had fond memories of Imperial plain military spit-roast lamb with pearl barley and apricots, said that he and his colleagues were prepared to rough it.

Two days out from Luzir Beal, they crossed a wide, bare moor. The road was ruler-straight, with perfectly squared milestones every three and a quarter miles. They saw a few crows and, very occasionally, a lark bursting out of the heather as they passed; otherwise, nothing living. Eventually, as it was starting to get dark, they came to a grey granite blockhouse; they didn’t see it until they were practically on top of it, because somehow it blended perfectly into the black stems of the recently burnt heather. The door was open, the building was completely empty. As usual, the Imperials conjured up blankets, pillows and a disturbingly sophisticated set of cooking utensils out of their minimalist saddlebags. “Roast lamb again, I’m afraid,” the captain said sadly. Nobody complained.

In the morning they started early, since they could all see a thick mass of iron-grey cloud directly behind them, softening the horizon until it was hard to tell sky from ground. “If we crack on a bit, we might well outrun it,” the captain said hopefully. “I’d rather not get caught out in the open by that lot.” But the rain swept over them shortly afterwards, carried in on a violent wind that tore open the curtains of the coach. The escort closed in on both sides to act as a human windbreak, but there wasn’t much they could do. After an hour, the whole party was wringing wet, wiping rainwater out of their eyes with the backs of sleeves sodden into felt. The fencers huddled forward in their seats, eyes closed, feeling each raindrop, while the Imperials fretted about the depth of the mud and the danger of the cart bogging down and getting stuck. Then, quite suddenly, the cart stopped.

“Now what?” Suidas shouted, without lifting his head. No reply, so he jumped up, vaulted out of the coach and squelched flat-footed in search of an explanation.

He didn’t have to go far. The Imperials were sitting bolt upright and perfectly still, staring at the plain in front of them. It was covered in dead bodies.

They lay as though they’d been dropped from a great height, arms thrown wide or folded under torsos, legs splayed, necks twisted at unendurable angles. The rain had soaked them, turning their clothes to black mush, washing channels through caked blood, so that for a moment Suidas thought they must have been drowned, in a great flood that had since drained away. But the actual cause of death was perfectly obvious: arrows, mostly, but towards the centre of the mass, great butcher’s cuts that had sliced flesh and smashed bone. Soaked with rain, they didn’t look like anything at all. It was only the dead horses that identified them as Aram Chantat.

“What in God’s name happened?” Suidas heard himself say. Nobody answered. He lifted his head. The heaps seemed to go on for ever, covering the ground like the stumps of a clear-felled forest.
What a mess
, he thought,
what a hell of a job it’ll be clearing all this lot away
. Weeks rather than days, to dig pits sufficiently deep to bury them far enough down that the first rain wouldn’t wash them out again. To get an idea of how many of them there were, he tried to imagine them standing up, an army of living men rather than dead; he knew roughly how much ground a thousand standing men covered. But he couldn’t do it. Five figures, at any rate. Aram Chantat, all dead.

He noticed that Addo and Tzimisces were standing beside him, staring, doing exactly the same as he was, but he found their presence intolerable and walked a few steps forward. The Imperial captain dismounted and went to talk to Tzimisces. He heard Tzimisces say, “No idea, sorry. Not my lot, I’m almost certain of that. I mean, they were going home. Why would we bother?”

It would be so easy to drown in a sight like that; but you could keep your head above water by clinging to curiosity. He recognised the arrows, and he was pretty sure the Imperial captain had done the same; Tzimisces too, quite definitely. The Imperials painted their arrow shafts, colour-coding them according to spine: green for the light self-recurves carried by the skirmishers and light infantry, red for the longbows of the infantry archers, blue for the heavy composites of the horse archers. The shafts sticking up out of the bodies and the ground were mostly red, but there were thickets of blue here and there (like bluebells in May). Nobody else in the world painted their arrows. But the wounds of the men who’d been cut to death: oh, those were so familiar, and only one weapon he’d ever come across did that to a human body. Here they fight, had fought, with messers, God help them.

He heard Tzimisces ask the captain, in a voice of detached enquiry, if the Imperials sold or gave consumable stores to the Permian militia; arrows, for example. The captain said no, they didn’t. There were strict rules about military supplies. Imperial issue was for the use of Imperial personnel only. Tzimisces thanked him mildly. There was a pause, and the captain said, “Well, we’d better be getting along.”