The Two of Swords: Part 8 Read online

  BY K. J. PARKER

  The Fencer trilogy

  Colours in the Steel

  The Belly of the Bow

  The Proof House

  The Scavenger trilogy

  Shadow

  Pattern

  Memory

  The Engineer trilogy

  Devices and Desires

  Evil for Evil

  The Escapement

  The Company

  The Folding Knife

  The Hammer

  Sharps

  The Two of Swords (e-novellas)

  BY TOM HOLT

  Expecting Someone Taller

  Who’s Afraid of Beowulf?

  Flying Dutch

  Ye Gods!

  Overtime

  Here Comes the Sun

  Grailblazers

  Faust Among Equals

  Odds and Gods

  Djinn Rummy

  My Hero

  Paint Your Dragon

  Open Sesame

  Wish You Were Here

  Only Human

  Snow White and the Seven Samurai

  Valhalla

  Nothing But Blue Skies

  Falling Sideways

  Little People

  The Portable Door

  In Your Dreams

  Earth, Air, Fire and Custard

  You Don’t Have to be Evil to Work Here, But It Helps

  Someone Like Me

  Barking

  The Better Mousetrap

  May Contain Traces of Magic

  Blonde Bombshell

  Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Sausages

  Doughnut

  When It’s A Jar

  The Outsorcerer’s Apprentice

  The Good, the Bad and the Smug

  Dead Funny: Omnibus 1

  Mightier Than the Sword: Omnibus 2

  The Divine Comedies: Omnibus 3

  For Two Nights Only: Omnibus 4

  Tall Stories: Omnibus 5

  Saints and Sinners: Omnibus 6

  Fishy Wishes: Omnibus 7

  The Walled Orchard

  Alexander at the World’s End

  Olympiad

  A Song for Nero

  Meadowland

  I, Margaret

  Lucia Triumphant

  Lucia in Wartime

  For David Barrett, with thanks

  Copyright

  Published by Orbit

  ISBN: 978-0-356-50563-3

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by K. J. Parker

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  ORBIT

  Carmelite House

  Little, Brown Book Group

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DZ

  www.orbitbooks.net

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  By K. J. Parker

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Eight of Swords

  The Raise

  About the Author

  Eight of Swords

  A nice inconspicuous four-wheeled cart, chipped paintwork, the sort of thing nobody notices; an elderly, massive black mare, just the right side of dead, and a stocky piebald gelding. “You’ll be fine,” the groom had assured them both. “They know what to do, even if you don’t.”

  “You’re not a horseman, then,” Musen said as they rolled slowly down Foregate towards the Land Gates.

  “Me? God, no.” Pleda shifted uncomfortably on the driver’s bench. “My dad kept horses, but I never got to drive. Fuller, he was. Him and me, we used to go round the City first thing and empty all the piss-pots. Dad drove, I did all the running around. Filthy bloody job.” He looked at the boy, then added, “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  “Sorry.”

  Pleda shrugged. “Don’t suppose they have fullers where you come from. How do you bleach your fine cloth, then?”

  “We don’t.”

  Pleda nodded. “Figures,” he said. “Anyway, it’s a foul job, that’s all you need to know about it.”

  “We had horses on the farm,” Musen said. “I steered clear of them, as much as I could. Got kicked in the head when I was six. Been scared of them ever since.”

  Not true, Pleda thought. At least, not true about being frightened of horses, he could tell by the way the horses had reacted to him, right from when they were led out of the stable. Horses know, and the black mare had recognised a horseman. Odd lie to tell, though he could think of half a dozen perfectly good reasons. “Still,” he said, “beats walking. I hate walking. Tires you out and makes your feet hurt.”

  Foregate was busy today. Tomorrow was the first day of the Old and New Fair, and the country people had come to town. They were setting up stalls and pens for livestock – at one point the cart had to negotiate its way through a couple of hundred geese, waddling like a tired army, filling the street like floodwater. It was a long forced march from the poultry-keeping villages that straggled alongside the South road, so every single goose had been shod – wooden pattens with leather straps; Pleda remembered that job from his youth, struggles and feathers and goose shit everywhere, the smell got into your hair and stayed with you for days. The marching geese made him think of Senza’s army, herded efficiently along other roads to a slightly different kind of fair. And as well as geese there were escaped rams, too fast and nimble to catch, too terrified to bribe, and the sticking-out back ends of carts, and sudden unexpected lengths of scaffolding pole, thrust out into the carriageway like pikes by men not thinking about what they were doing. Busy, stupid, thoughtless people, with work to do and a small but entrancing possibility of getting their hands on some real money, just for once; five donkeys loaded till their legs buckled with rolls of good coarse hemp matting; an old, thin man carefully arranging two dozen blue duck eggs on a mat of straw in the middle of a very big trestle table; two cheerful women tipping the last of last year’s store apples out of buckets into a sawn-in-half barrel, not giving a damn if the apples got bruised; a splendidly dressed fat man and his splendidly dressed fat wife, laying out a huge stall of the shabbiest second-hand clothes Pleda had ever seen. Two men, so dark they might almost have been Imperials, dragging a long wooden crate overflowing with nails, that grey and purple colour that tells you they’re fire salvage, no good, soft, bend double at the gentlest tap. A very big stall of kettles and fire pots made out of soldiers’ helmets; and, a few yards further down, hundreds of faggots comprised of suspiciously straight, planed inch-and-a-half round poles, broken spear shafts, only the best five-year-seasoned cornel wood. They’ll sell quick, Pleda told himself, and plenty more where they came from; someone had got hold of a good thing there, assuming the carriage costs were manageable. Boots, of course, one thing the war had done for the common man was ensure a plentiful supply of good, cheap footwear. And gilded bronze finger-rings, the sort the Southerners wore, you couldn’t give those away; some optimist had set out two great big tar barrels full of them, at a stuiver each or six for a quarter, but mostly they went straight into the melt and came out as candlesticks or buttons for the military, and each ring represented a dead soldier’s hand; not so good if you had a tendency to mental arithmetic. All in all, it was a good day
to leave the City. The noise would be intolerable, and the smell, for a man with a delicate palate—

  The boy, he noticed, was fascinated by it all; first sight of the big City doing what it does best. So many things, so much property – cities do things very well, never quite got the hang of people; where the boy came from, no doubt, a man could probably list all the man-made things in his village – an easily estimated quantity of ploughs, axes, spades, knives, spoons, ladles, pairs of boots, straw bonnets, work shirts and best shirts, you’d be able to compile a tolerably accurate inventory. He must think we’re rich, Pleda thought; stupidly rich, with all this stuff. Then he remembered the boy was a thief, a profession which gives you a slightly different perspective on material objects, especially the readily portable kind. Actually, more like a vocation; classified along with priest, artist, philosopher, actor, it’s something you do because you’re made that way, and, no matter how hard you try, that’s what you are, and always will be. A different way of seeing the world, he guessed. Add soldier to that list? Maybe. But thief, definitely.

  A country thief, seeing his first City market. Definitely a spiritual experience. “Bit different from what you’re used to,” he said.

  “What? Oh, God, yes. It’s amazing.”

  Pleda tried straightening his back, stretching it a little. Didn’t help. “Can’t have been easy for you, back home.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Stands to reason,” Pleda said. “In a small place, something goes missing, people notice.”

  The boy didn’t like that. “You learn to be careful,” he said.

  “Must cramp your style, though. I mean, how do you get rid of the stuff? Nobody’s going to buy something off you if the moment the real owner sees it, he yells out, hey, that’s mine, what’re you doing with it?”

  For a moment he was sure the boy was going to get angry with him. Then a sudden grin, and the boy relaxed. “Like I said,” he replied, “you learn to be careful. Like, if I stole your billhook, I’d knock the handle off and whittle a new one. Or, more likely, I’d wait a couple of weeks, then give it back to you and tell you I found it in a hedge somewhere. You’d be so pleased you’d give me something, or do something for me. That’s better than money, where I used to live.”

  Pleda nodded. “And no harm done,” he said, “and everybody’s happy.”

  “Exactly.”

  Not just a liar, Pleda thought, a special kind of liar – like the actors who prepare for a role by pretending to be the man they’re going to portray on stage; don’t think, just be. That’s why he lies all the time, even when he doesn’t need to. He likes to practise. That was why it was so hard to tell the boy’s lies from the truth. They were jumbled in together, like beans and peas in a casserole, and because he lied for no reason it was almost impossible to catch him out. Someone who lies with no immediate intent to deceive, who steals not for money or gain but because he wants to, needs to; oh yes, they’d been quite right about this one. A collector’s item, like the Sleeping Dog.

  Even so. He waited until they’d passed through the Land Gate, and the traffic had evaporated, and they were to all intents and purposes alone on the road. Then, as casually as he could, he said, “Hold on a minute, I need to take a leak.” He slid off the bench and handed the boy the reins to hold. Under cover of a roadside thorn bush, he took the pack of cards from the inside pocket sewn into his robe, palmed the three top cards, put the rest away. Then, as he scrambled back up and took back the reins, he slipped the cards into Musen’s hand.

  It was a moment or so before the boy realised what he’d done; he noticed something in his hand, looked down to see what it was. Pleda made a point of not looking at him. He got the horses moving. Not a word from the boy. All right, then.

  “Four of Spears,” he said. “Victory. Ace of Arrows.”

  The boy said, “What’s all this about?”

  “Four of Spears,” Pleda repeated. “Victory. Ace of Arrows. Well?”

  Just for a moment Pleda felt a little pang of apprehension. He had a padded jack under his topcoat, proof against a casual knife thrust but that was about all. The boy could quite easily have hidden a knife or a blade of some kind in the sling that supported his broken arm. Then: “Nine of Coins, the Angel, Ten of Spears.”

  “And?”

  “What? Oh, God, sorry, Eight of Swords.”

  “Say again.”

  “Eight of Swords.”

  There is, of course, no suit of Swords. Not in a normal pack.

  So that was all right, then. With a sigh, Pleda shifted the reins from his right hand to his left, then balled his right fist and, without looking, swung it sideways. He hit the boy on the elbow of his broken arm. As he’d expected, the boy howled with pain. Quickly, Pleda stuffed the reins under his left thigh and clamped both hands on the collar of the boy’s coat, twisting it, almost but not quite tight enough to throttle him. “You bloody fool,” he said.

  The boy was staring at him; sheer terror, no lies there. Very hard to keep straight who you’re pretending to be when you’re in agony. He’ll have to learn better than that, Pleda thought, but that’s not my problem. He maintained the pressure while he counted to four under his breath, then slowly let go. “Idiot,” he repeated. “Clown. What the hell did they send you for, anyway? You’re not fit to be out without a nursemaid.”

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said. “What did I do wrong?”

  “Acting up.” Pleda fought down the anger. “Bloody acting up, is what. Making up a lot of nonsense just for the hell of it, when you didn’t have to. Nine times you’ve contradicted yourself, did you know that? Nine times. If anyone with half a brain had been listening to you, they’d have been on to you like a weasel. Bloody acting up. And don’t say you can’t help it, of course you can. You just need to bloody well think what you’re doing.”

  He’d got through to him all right; scared, guilty, resentful. “I’m sorry,” Musen said, “I didn’t realise I was doing it. It’s more a sort of a habit, really.”

  “That’s no excuse. That just makes it worse. First rule is, concentrate. Think about what you’re doing. It’s not just your neck now, it’s mine. You want to remember that.”

  He’d done enough. Any more and the boy would turn against him; padded jack or no padded jack, he’d rather that didn’t happen. “Anyway,” he said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Pleda.”

  Pause. “Are you—?”

  Pleda took back the reins. “You know better than that. There you go again, overdoing it. I’m the Eight of Swords, that’s all.” He settled himself firmly against the bench; it was digging into the small of his back. Six hundred miles, he thought to himself. What I do for philosophy. “So,” he said, in a very slightly more conciliatory voice, “what exactly happened on the tower?”

  “I don’t really know,” Musen admitted. “We heard footsteps. We froze. The old man came up. I’ll swear we didn’t move or make a sound, really. I couldn’t see a thing, it was so dark. Then I guess the old man moved. I heard this horrible yell. I guessed Par—”

  “No names.”

  “I guessed Six of Arrows had gone over the side, so I ran for it. Tripped over something, and then it felt like I was being trampled by horses or something, and then I was in a prison cell. That’s it.”

  Pleda nodded slowly. “What was supposed to happen?”

  “The old man was meant to come up on to the tower. Soon as we could, we’d slip past him and go back down the stairs and get caught by the guards. Or the guards would’ve come up first and caught us. But they told me that wasn’t so likely, because the old man likes to be on his own up the tower. Can’t concentrate on his star-gazing if there’s people with him.”

  Pleda frowned. “That’s a bloody stupid plan.”

  Musen grinned. “That’s what we thought. We said so, and they told us, yes, it is, so why don’t you think of a better one? So, we did as we were told.” He hesitated. “Nobody was meant to get killed.�
�

  Quite. If they’d asked me first— But they couldn’t, of course, could they? “Things like that happen,” he said. “Play with knives, get cut. I don’t know. Whoever picked you for this job’s got a lot to answer for.”

  “I don’t see what else I could’ve done,” Musen said. “And it worked, didn’t it?”

  “More by luck than judgement.”

  The boy could have argued the toss, but he didn’t. Time for a unilateral declaration of victory, Pleda decided, and then let’s move on. “When we get there,” he said. “It’s all laid on at that end, is it?”

  “So they told me.”

  God help us, Pleda thought. You go through life thinking the Wild Cards know it all; they’re wise and cunning, and their carefully distilled plans run the world. Then you actually get involved in one, and you find out the bastards are basically just making it up as they go along. His fault, he supposed; he’d let things get too lax in his own parish, too busy nursemaiding the old man – but if anything happened to him, God only knew what’d happen, so they couldn’t blame him for that. Trying to run half the world from a cubbyhole in the East Wing, no staff, no support, if he needed to write a letter it was a day’s work, and then all the misery of finding someone to carry it. It’s an honour, they’d told him; you must be very proud. Bastards.

  “We’d better get one thing straight,” Pleda said. “We’re going to be months on this job, and it’s a lot of travelling and I hate travelling, and there’s so many things that could go wrong before we even get there, it makes me want to scream just thinking about it. If you make any difficulties, even one tiny step out of line, then so help me I’ll make you wish you’d got gangrene out on the moors and died. Is that clear?”

  The boy gave him a wounded look. I didn’t ask to get caught up in this, it said; it’s not my fault, don’t blame me. Quite, he thought. It was time to crack a big, friendly grin. “We’ll be all right,” he said in his special everyone’s-favourite-uncle voice that always worked so well with young idiots. “You do as I tell you and we’ll be just fine.”

  A long, long ride to the coast, where they sold the cart to pay for passage on a ship to Beloisa – they’d started making the run again, though there was nothing there but rain-soaked ash and a few blocks of black stone. “Don’t know why we bother,” the captain told them, “force of habit, mainly. We go out empty and bring back maybe five dozen bales of wool and a bit of firewood. The passenger business has gone right down the drain, not that that’s any surprise. What do you boys want to go there for, anyhow?”