The Two of Swords, Volume 1 Read online

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  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015 by K. J. Parker

  Excerpt from The Two of Swords: Volume 2 copyright © 2015 by K. J. Parker

  Excerpt from Soul of the World copyright © 2017 by David Mealing

  Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio

  Cover art by Trevillion

  Cover copyright © 2017 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

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  Originally published as an ebook serial by Orbit in 2015

  First Paperback Edition: October 2017

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  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017951010

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-17772-6 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-21538-1 (ebook)

  E3-20170906-JV-PC

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The Stakes

  The Cards 1 The Crown Prince

  6 The Thief

  13 Poverty

  4 Virtue

  Two of Spears

  Two of Arrows

  17 The Scholar

  Eight of Swords

  The Raise

  Extras Meet the Author

  A Preview of The Two of Swords: Volume 2

  A Preview of Soul of the World

  By K. J. Parker

  Praise for the novels of K. J. Parker

  Orbit Newsletter

  For David Barrett, with thanks

  The Rules of the Game

  Deal nine cards, face upwards.

  The Stakes

  Director Procopius of the Imperial Academy of Music and Performing Arts came by the scar when he was eighteen months old, on the day when his father, in a drunken rage, stabbed his mother sixteen times before turning the knife on his baby son and then himself. The scar, an inch wide, ran from his left eye to the right corner of his mouth, and he knew that for as long as he lived, regardless of what he achieved (and he had already achieved so much), it would always be the first thing people noticed about him and their most abiding impression. He knew that they would burn with curiosity to know how he’d got it, and would be far too polite or embarrassed to ask.

  Just before the battle, General Moisa gave orders to strike camp, form columns and retreat. Immediately one of his junior officers stormed into his tent, forcing his way past the sentries. He was a good-looking young man with curly blond hair, rather a round face; stocky build, medium height. “Permission to speak freely,” he said. His name was Senza Belot.

  Moisa was putting his maps back in their case. He was a tidy man, who took care of his possessions. “Well?”

  “With all due respect,” Senza said, “are you out of your mind? Sir?” he added quickly. “We’ve got them pinned down, we’re between them and the road, it’s flat as a chessboard and they’ll have the sun in their eyes. And you want to run away.”

  Moisa looked at him. He liked Senza. “We’re outnumbered three to one,” he said.

  “Exactly,” Senza replied. “There’s a lot of them. Far too many. Unless they get control of the road, they’ll have run out of food by this time tomorrow. They’re desperate. We can slaughter them.”

  Moisa nodded, as though this was an exam and Senza had scored full marks. “We don’t have any arrows,” he said.

  Senza had opened his mouth to make his next point. He stood there with it open for a couple of heartbeats. Then he said, “What?”

  Moisa took out one of the maps, unrolled it carefully and weighted down the corners with four pebbles from the jar of corner-weighting-down pebbles he always had by him. “There.” He prodded the map with a sausage-like finger. “Ten carts, a hundred thousand arrows, supposed to be here at first light today. Got washed away by a flash flood crossing the Euryphiale.” He lifted two pebbles and let the map roll itself up again. “No arrows, no battle. Bloody shame, but there it is.”

  Senza looked at him, like an idiot staring straight into the sun. “Is that all?” he said.

  Moisa smiled. “It’ll do,” he said.

  Then came the first recorded instance of the Senza Far-Away Look, so familiar nowadays to audiences of cheap novels and market-square melodramas. Moisa later said he rolled his eyes, which isn’t quite how the Look is portrayed in the classical tradition. “Permission to do something about it. Sir.”

  Moisa shrugged. “How long?”

  “Hour.” Senza frowned. “Maybe two. But after one hour you’ll know I’ve succeeded.”

  Senza’s elder brother Forza was reckoned to be the most promising soldier of his generation, already in command of a battalion at the age of twenty-one. It was a shame he was on the other side. “All right,” Moisa said. “Talk to me.”

  Shortly after that, the retreat was called off, the army assumed the standard chest-and-horns formation against the enemy front, and six hundred of the elite Seventh heavy infantry advanced in a long double line, followed by two pike regiments in squares of five hundred, preceded by thirty of the great pavises that Moisa had prepared for the siege of Thrassa. The pavises were big shields, made of ox hides stitched together, about the size of a warship’s sail, hung on square wooden frames and mounted on carts. They headed straight for the centre of the enemy line, which was mostly made up of archers covered by triangles of light infantry.

  “He’s going to try and punch through,” said the enemy general (his name is not recorded). “He must be mad.”

  His aide, Colonel Forza Belot, grinned. “He hasn’t got any arrows,” he said.

  The general frowned. “That’s interesting,” he said. “How did you know that?”

  “Little bird told me. They all got washed away crossing some river. So, he’s got two choices, go home or try and smash through. He can’t break our heavy infantry, so he’s going for the soft middle.” He shrugged. “It’s what I’d do, if I was desperate.”

  “We’ve got ten thousand archers in there,” the general said. “It’s crazy.”

  “Yes,” Forza replied. “Sometimes you have to be.”

  The line advanced, the sails of the pavises billowing in the strong tailwind, until they came into medium range of the Western archers. “Well?” the general asked.

  “Let ’em have it,” Forza replied.

  The archers loosed. They were levies from the northern hill country, trained from childhood to shoot fast and far. They let go twenty volleys in just over two minutes. The six hundred men-at-arms in the fr
ont two ranks were wiped out. The advance stopped dead and immediately withdrew, taking long-distance fire until they were out of range. The general, watching from the hilltop, grinned and turned to Colonel Forza. “Well,” he said. “That’s that.”

  “Maybe,” Forza said.

  The Easterners completed their withdrawal, and the front ranks parted to let them through. The pikemen resumed their positions in the line, but the pavise carts passed on to the rear, where Moisa and the archers were waiting.

  “There you go,” Senza said. “Arrows.”

  The archers scrambled up on to the carts and started pulling arrows out of the pavises. “Twenty volleys,” Senza went on, “ten thousand archers, that’s two hundred and forty thousand arrows. Say eighty thousand misses, five thousand hits on the Seventh, that’s still—”

  Moisa nodded. “Enough,” he said. Then he added, “You didn’t tell me about the Seventh.”

  Senza shrugged. “They had to have something to shoot at,” he said, “and we don’t need those men today. What we need is arrows, not heavy infantry.” He smiled. “Plenty more where they came from.”

  Moisa now had enough arrows for ten volleys. In the event it only took him seven to win the battle, but he was unable to press home his advantage, mostly because of an inspired rearguard action by the Western Nineteenth Foot, under Colonel Forza Belot. The Westerners then cut across the marshes to reach the road, where they met their supply train. A week later, the situation was more or less exactly how it had been at the start of the campaign.

  Six months later, the newly commissioned Colonel Senza Belot of the Eastern Fifth attended a reception at the Winter Palace, where he found himself talking to the widow of an officer of the Seventh. She gave him a polite smile over the rim of her wine glass and said, “I think you’re the man who sent my husband to his death.”

  Senza put his glass down. “Permission to speak freely.”

  “Yes, why not? I’d be interested to hear what you’ve got to say to me.”

  Senza took a moment. “When I barged into Moisa’s tent,” he said, “I had maybe three seconds to get his attention and sell him on a plan of action. In those three seconds I considered two options. One was to take our best men, the Seventh, your husband’s unit, loop round a long way to the west into some dead ground I’d spotted, sneak up on the enemy baggage train and try and drive off a dozen or so carts full of arrows. It was a reasonable plan, I think. I’d had my eye on those arrow carts for about a week, on and off, while we were playing footsie with the Westerners up and down the Belsire river. I knew they’d be out back of the camp, and that their general probably hadn’t figured out about the blind spot. But to get there without being seen would’ve taken an hour, during which time our army would’ve been standing about doing nothing, which would’ve looked very odd, which could’ve put the other side on notice we were planning some sort of prank. Also, if it had all gone wrong we’d have got a good smacking and no arrows; even if it all went just right, I’d have had to leave the Seventh behind to hold off pursuit while we got the arrows safely back to our lines, and they’d have been slaughtered by the Western lancers. The other alternative, which is what I actually did, was pretty well foolproof, and we were pulling arrows out of the pavises three quarters of an hour after it all started. Your husband would’ve died either way. He could have died fighting bravely against overwhelming odds, to give Moisa the seven shots he needed to win the day. As it was, he walked straight into an arrow storm and probably had no idea what hit him. That’s really all there is to it.”

  The widow looked at him for a moment. “You thought all that in three seconds.”

  “That and other things. I’ve only told you the relevant bits.”

  She fidgeted with her glass. “But it all came to nothing anyway,” she said. “There was a stalemate before the battle; there’s the same stalemate now. Nothing’s changed at all, except that a lot of men were killed, and you got your promotion.”

  “Yes,” Senza said. “But at the moment, my job’s winning battles, not winning wars. If I’d been in Moisa’s shoes, I’d have done what I originally intended, turned round and gone home. Really, he should’ve known better than to listen to me.”

  “I see,” the widow said. “Thank you. Tell me, is there anything you care about other than your own career?”

  Senza smiled gravely. “Yes,” he said. “One thing.”

  “Go on.”

  “I want to find my brother Forza and cut his throat,” Senza said. “Now, please excuse me, there’s someone over there I need to talk to.”

  The Cards

  1

  The Crown Prince

  The draw in Rhus is to the corner of the mouth; it says so in the Book, it’s the law. In Overend, they draw to the ear; in the South, it’s the middle of the lower lip—hence the expression, “archer’s kiss.” Why Imperial law recognises three different optimum draws, given that the bow and the arrow are supposedly standardised throughout the empire, nobody knows. In Rhus, of course, they’ll tell you that the corner of the mouth is the only possible draw if you actually want to hit anything. Drawing to the ear messes up your sightline down the arrow, and the Southerners do the kiss because they’re too feeble to draw a hundred pounds that extra inch.

  Teucer had a lovely draw, everybody said so. Old men stood him drinks because it was so perfect, and the captain made him stand in front of the beginners and do it over and over again. His loose wasn’t quite so good—he had a tendency to snatch, letting go of the string rather than allowing it to slide from his fingers—which cost him valuable points in matches. Today, however, for some reason he wished he could isolate, preserve in vinegar and bottle, he was loosing exactly right. The arrow left the string without any conscious action on his part—a thought, maybe: round about now would be a good time, and then the arrow was in the air, bounding off to join its friends in the dead centre of the target, like a happy dog. The marker at the far end of the butts held up a yellow flag: a small one. Eight shots into the string, Teucer suddenly realised he’d shot eight inner golds, and was just two away from a possible.

  He froze. In the long and glorious history of the Merebarton butts, only two possibles had ever been shot: one by a legendary figure called Old Shan, who may or may not have existed some time a hundred years ago, and one by Teucer’s great-uncle Ree, who’d been a regular and served with Calojan. Nobody had had the heart to pull the arrows out of that target; it had stayed on the far right of the butts for twenty years, until the straw was completely rotten, and the rusty heads had fallen out into the nettles. Every good archer had shot a fifty. One or two in the village had shot fifty with eight or fifty with nine. A possible—fifty with ten, ten shots in the inner circle of the gold—was something completely different.

  People were looking at him, and then at his target, and the line had gone quiet. A possible at one hundred yards is—well, possible; but extremely unlikely, because there’s only just enough space in the inner ring for ten arrowheads. Usually what happens is that you drop in seven, maybe eight, and then the next one touches the stem of an arrow already in place on its way in and gets deflected; a quarter-inch into the outer gold if you’re lucky, all the way out of the target and into the nettles if you’re not. In a match, with beer or a chicken riding on it, the latter possibility tends to persuade the realistic competitor to shade his next shot just a little, to drop it safely into the outer gold and avoid the risk of a match-losing score-nought. Nobody in history anywhere had ever shot a possible in a match. But this was practice, nothing to play for except eternal glory, the chance for his name to be remembered a hundred years after his death; he had no option but to try for it. He squinted against the evening light, trying to figure out the lie of his eight shots, but the target was a hundred yards away: all he could see of the arrows was the yellow blaze of the fletchings. He considered calling hold, stopping the shoot while he walked up the range and took a closer look. That was allowed, even in a match, but
to do so would be to acknowledge that he was trying for a possible, so that when he failed—

  A voice in his head, which he’d never heard before, said quite clearly, go and look. No, I can’t, he thought, and the voice didn’t argue. Quite. Only an idiot argues with himself. Go and look. He took a deep breath and said, “Hold.”

  It came out loud, high and squeaky, but nobody laughed; instead, they laid their bows down on the grass and took a step back. Dead silence. Men he’d known all his life. Then, as he took his first stride up the range, someone whose voice he couldn’t identify said, “Go on, Teuce.” It was said like a prayer, as though addressed to a god—please send rain, please let my father get well. They believed in him. It made his stomach turn and his face go cold. He walked up the range as if to the gallows.

  When he got there: not good. The marker (Pilad’s uncle Sen; a quiet man, but they’d always got on well) gave him a look that said sorry, son, then turned away. Six arrows were grouped tight in the exact centre of the inner gold, one so close to the others that the shaft was actually flexed; God only knew how it had gone in true. The seventh was out centre-right, just cutting the line. The eighth was in clean, but high left. That meant he had to shoot two arrows into the bottom centre, into a half-moon about the size of his thumb, from a hundred yards away. He stared at it. Can’t be done. It was, no pun intended, impossible.

  Pilad’s uncle Sen gave him a wan smile and said, “Good luck.” He nodded, turned away and started back down the range.

  Sen’s nephew Pilad was his best friend, something he’d never quite been able to understand. Pilad was, beyond question, the glory of Merebarton. Not yet nineteen (he was three weeks older than Teucer) he was already the best stockman, the best reaper and mower, champion ploughman, best thatcher and hedge-layer; six feet tall, black-haired and brown-eyed, the only possible topic of conversation when three girls met, undisputed champion horse-breaker and second-best archer. And now consider Teucer, his best friend; shorter, ordinary-looking, awkward with girls, a good worker but a bit slow, you’d have trouble remembering him ten minutes after you’d met him, and the only man living to have shot a hundred-yard possible on Merebarton range—