The Two of Swords: Part 10 Read online

  The Two of Swords: Part 10

  K. J. Parker

  www.orbitbooks.net

  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

  Copyright

  Published by Orbit

  ISBN: 978-0-356-50617-3

  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

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DZ

  www.orbitbooks.net

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  By K. J. Parker

  Copyright

  Four of Spears

  About the Author

  Four of Spears

  As the coach pulled away, he made an effort and didn’t look back. Instead, he opened his bag, took out a book and started to read. It was the sort of book that has pictures in it, and not much text.

  At Strepsi Ochoe he got out and spent an hour in the inn, a small drab place he knew only too well. Then the military mail arrived, and he went out and introduced himself to the driver, who opened the coach door for him and offered him a rug.

  There was another passenger, a stocky man in a grey travelling cloak with a hood. “Hello, Oida,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you were all right.”

  “I’m fine,” Oida said, tucking the rug round his knees. “I got a bit held up, that’s all.”

  “Success?”

  Oida considered his reply. “Not too bad,” he said. “I made a mess of some aspects of it, but by and large it went well.”

  His companion grinned. “One theory is that you’re a completist,” he said, “you can’t rest till you’ve had them all. I’ve got to tell you, that’s not actually possible. They’re being born and dying all the time, how could you possibly keep up?”

  Oida clicked his tongue. “Do you want my report or not?”

  “Don’t bother, I know the basic facts. A good job well done, as always. You’ll be pleased to hear the boy Daxin’s safely on his way. Apparently her Majesty’s beside herself with worry about him. Tell me, do you think it’d be a good idea to drop a hint or two, let her know he’s safe? Or don’t you want to spoil the surprise?”

  “I think it might be nice if he writes her a letter,” Oida said, after a moment’s thought. “Nothing in it about where he is or who’s looking after him, just I’m safe and well, having a nice time, wish you were here, that sort of thing. Otherwise, she’s perfectly capable of starting a civil war, and that wouldn’t help anybody.”

  “Good idea,” the man in the hood said. “You know, I do believe you’re a romantic at heart.”

  “With all due respect,” Oida said, “go to hell.”

  “I imagine it comes from writing all those soupy ballads. You spend so much time putting yourself into the mind of the common man—”

  “Have they found Forza Belot yet?”

  The hooded man frowned at him. “Them as asks no questions,” he said sharply. “Now, there’s a little job we’d like you to do for us. If you can spare the time, of course. I know how busy you are.”

  Oida sighed. “You know perfectly well what my priorities are,” he said. “Where to this time?”

  From his sleeve the hooded man produced a little jar of preserved figs. He offered one to Oida, who refused, then ate one himself. When he’d quite finished, he said, “Have you ever heard of a place called Morzubith?”

  “Actually, yes,” Oida replied. “It’s where Director Procopius is from, isn’t it?”

  “Very good. Do you know where it is?”

  “No.”

  The hooded man inclined his head. “Not many people do,” he said. “It’s out on the Western moors, just before you go downhill and fetch up on the steppes. They tell me it’s so remote, they haven’t even sent any men to the war yet. Principal industries are sheep-rearing and logging. Climate—”

  “Yes, fascinating. What have I got to do?”

  The hooded man told him; he listened blank-faced. “That should be all right,” he said. “What’s the timetable?”

  “Well, you need to be in Choris for the Remembrance Festival,” the hooded man said, “you’re the main attraction, or had you forgotten?”

  Oida did some mental arithmetic. “I think I’d better cancel that,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll have time.”

  “Nonsense. You can’t not be at Remembrance, think how disappointed they’d all be. And directly after that it’s the Queen’s birthday, you can’t possibly miss that. No, you should have plenty of time, if you don’t dawdle. Not a problem, particularly,” he added with a smile, “since there’ll be no distractions.”

  “Oh, don’t start that again.”

  “Talking of which.” The hooded man turned round in his seat and pulled out two brass tubes from behind the seat cushions. “Your friend. This one’s a record of th
e personal information she’s given us at various times – her initial interview, sundry reviews and interrogations. All about her background, family, early life. You’ve read it, of course.”

  “Some time ago,” Oida admitted. “Look—”

  “Just run your eye over it again, there’s a good chap.”

  Oida glowered at him, took the tube, poked out the roll of parchment with his fingertip, unscrolled it and glanced down the page. “Yes, I know all that,” he said. “But if you seriously think—”

  The hooded man leaned forward and tweaked the page out of his hand. “The other roll,” he said, “is what we’ve found out about her. You know, routine enquiries. Actually, most of it only came to light when you recommended her for promotion. We always do an investigation, as you know. Well,” he added. “Read it.”

  There wasn’t that much, about half a standard roll, written in orthodox administrative minuscule. Oida read it, rolled it up and put it back in the tube. The hooded man took it from him. “Interesting?” he said.

  Oida shrugged. “Not particularly.”

  “Aren’t you just the tiniest bit interested? She lied on oath, for one thing. Repeatedly. Strictly speaking, I should cashier her from the Service, at the very least.”

  Oida looked up sharply. “You’ll do no such thing.”

  That got him a big smile. “Now, then,” the hooded man said. “And, no, I’m not inclined to take official notice of it, at this time. But ask yourself. Why would anyone risk their career and their life, lying about things like that?”

  “Has it occurred to you she doesn’t actually know about it herself?”

  The hooded man shrugged. “It’s possible,” he said. “But unlikely, in my opinion. More to the point, did you know? Does that explain your interest?”

  Oida’s face didn’t change. “I’ll ignore that,” he said. “Look, she’s a superb operative, one of the best we’ve got. She does as she’s told, she gets the job done—”

  “She murdered a political officer at Beloisa.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing. More to the point, I trust her. We work well together. One of the conditions of my working for you is, I choose my people. I thought that was understood.”

  The hooded man sighed. “The last thing I want to do is make problems or break up an eminently successful team. But when people lie, I want to know why. Most lies are easy to understand, it’s when people lie for no apparent reason that I get concerned. You do see that, don’t you?”

  “I’m sure she doesn’t know. If she knew, it’s like you said, why would she lie about it?”

  The hooded man thrust the two rolls into his sleeve. “How you conduct your affairs is your business,” he said, “so long as it doesn’t cause problems for Division. I’m just warning you, in the friendliest possible way; be aware of this, bear it in mind, and don’t put me in a position where I have to do anything about it. Do you understand?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Of course you do, you’re a smart fellow. Now, tell me about Blemya. Is it true that the Revisionists are poised to take over the Lower Chamber?”

  He answered about a hundred questions as clearly and honestly as he could, glad of the respite. When the hooded man finally ran out of things to ask him about, he said, “You never answered my question.”

  “What question?”

  “Forza Belot.”

  The hooded man was silent for a long time. “I don’t know anything about that operation,” he said at last. “I don’t think anybody at Division does, either. As far as I can tell, it’s being run entirely from Central, and you know them, they wouldn’t tell you if your hair was on fire. My guess—” He paused and smiled. “Which is based on nothing but supposition, intuition and uncorroborated rumour—”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s dead,” the hooded man said. “He got a bad bump on the head, never came out of the coma. Which means Senza Belot has got to go. Don’t ask me why the war’s still going on, he should’ve had it wrapped up with a ribbon on it by now, even with no money and no men. I can only conclude he still believes his brother is alive, and he daren’t do anything in case Forza swoops down on his neck with an incredibly smug grin on his face. But the fact that Senza’s done nothing at all suggests to me that he can’t be sure, therefore he doesn’t know any more about it than we do. Less, probably. I hope so, anyway. That’s beside the point. If Forza’s dead, Senza has to be put down. Who’ll get that job I simply don’t know. I should think you’re fairly safe, since your future’s mapped out in great detail for at least the next three months, and I’m sure they’ll want to act before then. That said, if you were thinking of having an accident and breaking a leg, this might well be a good time.” He smiled. “Subject closed. What a lot of weather we’ve been having lately.”

  The hooded man dumped him at a way station in the middle of the Great Southern Marsh, in the early hours of the morning. Fortunately it was a clear night and the moon was almost full, so he managed to find the door. He bashed on it for a while, and the porter came and let him in. The next coach was due at noon the next day. Until then, he was welcome to use the hospitality suite—

  Which turned out to be a redundant charcoal cellar, swept out (more or less) and fitted with a bedstead made from old rafters, a corn sack for a pillow and one blanket. The trumpet woke him two hours before dawn, and he slouched across the yard to the mess hall, where he was issued with military porridge and grey bread. Nobody spoke to him or seemed to realise who he was.

  The mail arrived exactly on time, and he was pleased to see he had the coach to himself, at least as far as Malestan. He took the opportunity to plan ahead, with no danger of interruptions.

  The military staging post at Malestan was one of the biggest supply depots in the West. The upland wheat arrived in gigantic wagons and was stored in towering stone silos. Cattle and hogs came in along the Military Droves. They were herded into the vast stockyards on the north side of the camp, where they stayed until they were driven to the slaughterhouse, reputedly the biggest in both empires. The salting and drying sheds alone covered eleven acres; the tannery was three miles upwind of the station perimeter, for obvious reasons. The textile factory, vehicle maintenance sheds and munitions plant were inside the wall, which was really a high bank topped with a palisade and surrounded by a deep flooded ditch. There was also a ceramics and glass works, said to be the most advanced in the world, barns, charcoal sheds, an acre of stables, three watermills, two enormous ponds (dug in the fond hope of farming carp; they all died, poisoned by the run-off from the slaughterhouse; the ponds were stagnant now, and nourished millions of mosquitos in the warm weather), the inevitable parade grounds and drill yards for the garrison, barracks for the soldiers, rather smaller quarters for the civilian workers, various administrative buildings and the Prefecture, a modest Third Kingdom manor house in the local stone which was the only building that was standing when the station was first built. The station had its own internal messenger relay – two dozen experienced riders mounted on fast ponies doing nothing but carry messages within the station precinct – as well as a temple, a lodge house and a theatre, used once a year for Empire Day.

  That was Malestan when Oida saw it last, about four months ago.

  The driver was as surprised as he was. They both got down from the coach, neither of them saying a word, and walked up to where the main gate had been. The bank was still there, but the palisade had mostly gone; firewood, and a litter of chunks of rock half buried in the ground – it was a moment or so before Oida made the logical connection. The foregate was a confused mess of wagon tracks; rainwater pooled in the ruts, and it hadn’t rained the day before. The gate itself had been burned out, which was theoretically impossible. There was no smoke, and only a faint smell of burning.

  They paused in the gateway, listening for any sound whatsoever, but the place was dead quiet.

  “There ought to be crows,” the driver said.

  Oida pull
ed himself together. “Not if Ocnisant’s been here,” he said.

  “Ah, right,” the driver nodded, as if the clarification had somehow made it all better.

  Oida’s theory appeared to be borne out by what they found inside, which was more or less nothing. No dead bodies, for one thing, human or animal, but there were newly filled-in trenches across the main parade yard in the central square. Ocnisant prides himself on neatness – Just-So Ocnisant, they call him in the trade. The wooden sheds and barns were all gone, their footprints marked by black patches on the ground. The brick and stone structures were roofless shells. Oida stirred the cinders with his foot in several places, but couldn’t find so much as a single fire-browned nail; all the metal fittings – hinges, pintles, latches, braces, brackets, hasps – had gone. Someone had even lifted the cabbages in the kitchen garden; there were rows of cut stalks, but not a single leaf remaining.

  “He does a cracking job,” the driver muttered, “I’ll give him that.”

  Of more immediate concern, there was no hay (no hay barns, come to that) and no human food of any description. The driver made a fire from scraps of shattered palisade stakes, then wandered off with his bow in the forlorn hope of finding a deer. Oida sat down on a spent catapult stone and warmed his hands over the remains of the defences of Malestan. Interesting, he thought.

  “It’s that bloody Senza Belot” was the driver’s theory. He’d managed to shoot a badger, which turned out to be surprisingly palatable. “If he’s on the rampage, it’ll all be over soon. Bastard,” he added, without any particular malice.

  “The East is bankrupt,” Oida observed. “They can’t afford to stage a sustained campaign, let alone a long-term occupation. I’m guessing this was just a raid, to show he could. Showing off.”

  The driver shrugged. “Nothing to stop him now, is there?”

  Oida grinned. “Last I heard, the West had a quarter of a million men under arms. That’s about fifty thousand more than the East.”

  “Then Senza’ll kill them all,” the driver said. “No big deal to him. We ought to pack it in now, save ourselves the grief. Should’ve done that back when Forza bought it. Bloody obvious back then we’ve got no chance.”