The Two of Swords, Part 17 Page 4

  The Tembe women traditionally wore voluminous gowns, head to foot, like the men’s but with a scarf wrapped round the face. The idea was to protect them from sandstorms and the blistering heat. Upper-class Blemya city women had recently adopted the fashion, although in silk rather than cotton and not in desert white: flame red or saffron yellow, even actual sky-blue for the prodigiously wealthy. For an angel, she bought a yellow one second hand. It didn’t quite reach her ankles, so she had to lash out forty stuivers on smart embroidered-silk flat pumps, with the moon and seven stars picked out in sequins. Possibly the ghastliest footwear she’d ever seen in her life, but they were a good fit and remarkably comfortable. The scarf tickled her nose and made her want to sneeze all the damn time, but only her eyes were visible. She inspected herself in the tinned bottom of a copper preserving pan, then spent her last remaining money on a tiny jar of kohl. She was no good at makeup and hated anything anywhere near her eyes, and it took her several goes before she got it looking right, but she reckoned she was unrecognisable.

  The knife was a problem. Its unmistakable profile showed up under the thin cloth. In the end, she strapped it to the inside of her calf with strips torn from a silk handkerchief that Corason had carelessly left drooping out of his pocket. It moved when she walked and chafed annoyingly, and would almost certainly slide down her leg and trip her up if she had to run.

  “Why are you walking like that?” Corason asked. “Have you hurt yourself or something?”

  She lifted her hem. “If you’ve got a better idea.”

  “God, that’s hopeless.” He scowled, then grinned. “What you need,” he said, “is a copy of Mardonius’ Analects.”

  Inspired suggestion. It took an hour of hard work to cut out the middles of the pages, but the knife fitted snugly in the hollow and fell out as soon as she opened the book. And he’d been quite right. Only the Analects were bulky enough. “Though what a fine society lady would be doing with any book of any description is beyond me.”

  “I’m giving it to someone as a present, of course,” she replied. “My brother. In the army. Something to read in his tent after a hard day.”

  Corason pursed his lips, then opened his travelling bag and took out a book. She didn’t get a look at the title. It was held shut with a little brass clasp, which Corason carefully levered off with the point of her knife; then he hammered it delicately on to the cover of the Analects with the heel of his boot. After he’d bent it a bit, it closed just fine and stayed shut even if you shook it quite hard, but she could open it with a brush of her finger. Corason was grinning like a dog, absurdly pleased with his small triumph of craftsmanship. “My father always said I was good with my hands; he wanted to apprentice me to a jeweller but my mother wouldn’t have it.” He flipped the catch open and shut a couple of times, just to hear the faint click.

  Corason liked the present-for-my-brother idea, though she was rapidly going off it. Don’t be silly, he told her, and set about procuring her a brother in the Royal Guard.

  “His name’s Emmon,” he said; “he’s a junior captain in the third day watch. Go to the south gate of the palace and ask for him, he’ll get you inside. After that you’ll be on your own, but I know you prefer it that way.”

  “Actually—” she said, but he wasn’t listening.

  She spent an hour memorising a detailed floor plan of the palace – you could buy one, quite openly, for a stuiver in the booksellers’ yard – until she could close her eyes and see it perfectly clearly. The original architect had designed it so that, to the Invincible Sun looking down from the bar of Heaven, it looked like a five-petalled rose, each of the petals being represented by a gilded dome, the stigma or central boss being the porticoed circular cloister. Subsequent rulers had been more interested in convenience, efficiency and being able to get from one room to another without walking all round the circumferences of internal circles, so the flower was now worm-eaten with transverse corridors and passages; also, two of the five domes had collapsed under their own weight and been replaced by slab-sided blocks of guest rooms, reception halls, kitchens and barracks for the Guard. Her freshly minted brother would get her into the barracks area on the south side. Oida’s room was on the west side, directly overlooking the central cloister. To get there, she could take the main thoroughfare, a heavily used enclosed corridor paved with the legendary Blemyan blue and white geometric tiles; or she could follow the original peripheral route, as the first architect had intended, most of which was deserted now and visited only by the servants who swept it; or she could follow the Clerks’ Road, a composite agglomeration of passages that threaded in and out like cross-stitch between the offices that occupied the third and fourth floors of the South, East and West wings. There was, of course, no map of the Clerks’ Road; it was one of the mysteries of the craft, something you had to learn for yourself as a rite of passage, or be shown, just the once, as a special mark of favour by a kindly superior. As an option, everything was against it except that the Blemyans did employ female clerks, and she wouldn’t look out of place there carrying a book.

  Black clerical subfusc just about fitted under the shining yellow gown, though it made her sweat like a pig. Her brother greeted her with great joy at the gatehouse, hustled her into the barracks, led her up four flights of vertiginous spiral stairs and abandoned her without a word. She peeled off the yellow gown and dumped it down a garderobe. The shoes were now a problem; far too dressy for a woman clerk. She rubbed them with dust and grime mixed with spit and cut off the sequins. Just as well she wasn’t on a schedule.

  Getting onto the Clerks’ Road was no trouble at all. She wandered around until she saw a clerk – rather, she heard him before she saw him, the clip-clop of his hard soles on the tiled floor giving her plenty of time to stoop and mime tightening a loose shoelace. He swept past without noticing her, and she followed discreetly. He led her to what was clearly some sort of hub, corridors branching off in all directions. She picked up another clerk heading west and followed him for a very long time, until she caught sight of the cloister roof through a broken pane in a stained-glass window. She waited till she had the corridor to herself, then crouched on the floor and peered up, trying to catch a glimpse of the sun. No dice; but the length and angles of the shadows on the cloister roof were just as helpful. She now knew that she was south-west, on the inside, three floors below where she needed to be. A group of four clerks surged past her, talking loudly about the insufferable cruelty of their supervisor. She tagged along behind them unnoticed until they went left and she needed to keep on bearing right, and then she came to a staircase.

  She looked at it. Well, why not, she thought. It was one of those horrible screw-thread staircases with triangular treads, and there was no guide-rope or handrail. Up three flights, and she found herself confronted by a massive oak door, which was locked.

  Ah well. But the thought of retracing her steps down the loathsome staircase made her feel ill, so she picked the three inches of stiff wire out of the hem of her sleeve and had a go at the lock. To her great surprise it was a piece of cake: a very old lock, therefore a very simple one, dating back to more innocent times. She opened the door carefully and found herself in a long, high gallery, with tall yellow-glazed windows, overlooking the cloister. Simple as that.

  The room numbers were painted on the doors in gold leaf. She’d come out at number 46. Oida was in 238. Of course, he wouldn’t be there at this time of day, but sooner or later he’d come back, and—She realised she couldn’t lift her foot. Sudden cramp, pins and needles, possibly a trapped nerve, or it might just be that she didn’t want to. She’d been relying so much on getting caught, but the skill and the instincts and – be honest – the simple thrill of the chase had swept her along, and now she was actually here, and of course there was no way on earth she was going to go through with it—

  “Are you lost?”

  He had to be a guest, not a local; the voice was wrong, also the manner. A local would be suspic
ious, not pleasantly amused. She turned round, and recognised the face.

  “Telamon? What are you doing here?”

  She couldn’t actually remember his name. He was some official in the Western diplomatic service, and they’d shared a long coach ride three or four years ago; she’d been assigned to keep an eye on him, so she’d turned on the charm. No surprise that he’d recognised her immediately.

  “Keep your voice down, for crying out loud,” she hissed, and he looked guilty and sad, like a naughty boy. Then she flicked Corason’s beautiful catch, caught the knife as it dropped out of the book and stuck it under his ribs.

  She caught him before he fell – three cheers for black, which doesn’t show bloodstains – and dragged him, heels trailing, as far as the garderobe, thirty-two staggering yards in the wrong direction. He looked like a small man, but she nearly broke her back heaving him up and posting him through the slot. The splash he made gave her the shivers. My trouble is, she told herself, I know far too many people for my own good.

  She walked quickly up the corridor, wiping her hands on the front of her clerical smock, the book wedged securely under her arm. Maybe, she thought, that should be the other way around; too many people know me, knew me, for their own good – is there anyone I’ve ever known, had anything to do with, who’s ever come out of it well? Not many; offhand, couldn’t name one. That stopped her dead in her tracks, even though she was in a hurry to get out of sight. Everybody I’ve ever known long and well enough to have an effect on has suffered as a direct consequence. Everybody I meet, I injure. And I’ve only just realised that.

  Yes, she thought (200, 201, 202) but I work for the cause, the greatest and most wonderful, the only true, the sublime, the supreme cause, I’m a tool in the hands of the Great Smith, and some of us are cutting tools, some of us are hammers, some of us are weapons. She stopped again, opposite Door 213. Do I really believe that? In Him, the Father of all Purposes? As a living being, an entity, a big, broad-shouldered man with a beard? She pressed on, Door 219. There is no big man with a beard, but there is a pattern, a shape, a force, a process, and I’m part of it and necessary to it, and I do what I have to, I do as I’m told. I’m a soldier in an invisible army, led by an invisible general; I can’t see the soldiers on either side of me in the line, but I know my shield is locked in with theirs to form an invisible wall against the assault of our enemies; I know that everyone I can see is the enemy, and this is war. Room 225. I do as I’m told. The arrow doesn’t second-guess the bowstring. Orders come down. I do as I’m told.

  Room 238. She couldn’t breathe. She picked the wire out of her sleeve. Her hands were shaking, but as soon as the wire entered the keyhole they became docile, obedient. Another old lock, with naïve, obliging wards. She felt the last one click back and gently pushed the door.

  And saw Oida, who shouldn’t have been there. But he was. He was squatting on a chamber pot in the middle of the floor, his kingfisher-blue robe tucked up around his waist, a strained expression on his face. He looked up and saw her.

  There never was a man like Oida for comical expressions. His face went from stunned surprise to horror to deep, ineradicable shame. He hopped up, dragging his robe down his legs, tripped, stumbled, staggered back three paces, collided with the bed, lost his legs, sat down hard, overbalanced and ended up flat on his back; scrabbled upright and stared at her. She could feel her face burning red as coals on the bed of the Smith’s forge. He’d knocked over the jerry; a nasty looking pool was spreading on the floor. “Shut the door, for God’s sake, shut the door,” he howled. She did as she was told. She was good at that.

  He was deep-breathing, his eyes closed, getting a grip. Whatever he’d been eating lately, it hadn’t agreed with him, not one bit. Probably all those cream and clarified butter sauces for which Blemya is so famous. She wanted to laugh, which was stupid.

  Three long strides took her well within distance. “What’s the matter?” he asked, as she flipped the catch on the book. The knife fell perfectly into her hand, no fumble. “Are you all right?” he said. “You look awful.” She stabbed him.

  But the knife wouldn’t go in. The point stopped dead, then skidded sideways, ripping the silk of his robe. The knuckle of her thumb ran over a small, hard lump, with enough force to gouge out a small flap of skin. The head of a rivet, she realised; he was wearing a brigandine under his clothes. Then a fist appeared, and quickly grew so big it blotted out the world, and hit her eye socket. She felt her brain move in her skull, then a horrible bump as her head hit the floor, and then everything was a bit vague for a while.

  She opened her eyes and saw Oida’s face, alarmingly close; he looked scared to death. He was shouting her name. “Are you all right?” he bawled at her. “Look at me. How many fingers am I holding up?”

  Her left eye closed, all on its own. “One,” she mumbled.

  “Does this hurt?” His hand reached past her, and she felt his fingers gently probing the back of her head. “You stupid bloody cow, I could’ve killed you. I’m so sorry.”

  She looked past him, for the knife. It was almost close enough for her to stretch out and reach, but Oida was in the way. He must’ve seen her, because he looked round, jumped up, grabbed the knife, quickly scanned the room; he went to the door and stabbed it hard into the oak doorframe about eighteen inches off the ground. Then he lifted his foot and stamped on the handle. The blade twanged. He stamped again, harder, and it snapped off. She felt every muscle in her body relax, as though he’d just killed a scorpion or a poisonous spider. There, now; it was all the knife’s fault, after all, and we’ll say no more about it—

  He came back and knelt beside her. “Are you feeling dizzy? Nauseous?”

  “I’m fine,” she croaked. “For God’s sake stop fussing.” She could see the small steel plates of the brigandine quite clearly through the hole in the gown; very small plates, such as you only get on the very finest, top-of-the-range bespoke jobs. Nothing but the best, naturally.

  The look of terror in his eyes had faded into deep concern. “Telamon,” he said, in that damned annoying serious voice, “listen to me, this is important. Did you have orders to kill me?”

  “Yes.”

  He nodded. “Listen. Those orders were false: they didn’t come down through the chain of command.” He was having trouble finding the right words, which he found infuriating. “The order to kill me could only come from the very top, and it didn’t, I promise you, trust me.”

  She managed a valiant attempt at a grin, though it hurt. “You would say that, wouldn’t you?”

  “It’s true. I asked him. He told me, quite categorically. He never gave any such order.”

  He? Who was he talking about? “Oh come on,” she said, “don’t be silly. You don’t know the head of the Lodge. Nobody—”

  “Actually I do.”

  It hit her harder than the punch had done. But she knew him so well. He was telling the truth.

  “Long story,” he said quickly. “But the important thing is, you don’t have to do it.”

  “You know who the—” Oh, it was so typical, she wanted to hit him. “Prove it. Tell me. No, don’t shake your head at me, tell me, I want to know.”

  He sighed and did the hand-spreading appeasing thing. “If you must know, it was purely by accident. The fact is, I’ve known him for years, before I found out, I mean. And he said something without thinking, which he never ever does, and suddenly it all made sense. So I asked him. And he admitted it.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Like I told you, I’ve known him for years and years.” He looked at her helplessly. “You know I can’t tell you.”

  Her head was splitting. “No, I suppose not.”

  “I knew you’d understand.” He breathed out slowly and rocked back on his heels. “Anyway, that’s it, now you know. And you don’t have to do it, do you understand? It’s a false order.” He stood up, went away, came back with a dear little porcelain tea bowl half filled with water.
“Drink this,” he said. In his other hand was a damp piece of cloth. He started dabbing at the corner of her eye, and she slapped his hand away.

  “I tried to kill you,” she said. It came out like whining; like they were married or something.

  “Yes,” he said, “I know. And I hit you. Let’s call it quits.”

  That was another thing; utterly trivial, but she had to ask. Why did she find the details of his life so irresistibly interesting? “Good left,” she said. “But you can’t punch your way out of a cobweb.”

  He grinned. “Catalauno’s,” he said, “just off the Goosefair in Choris. Twenty angels for a crash course of ten lessons. All the best people go there, naturally. He reckons I show great promise.”

  She couldn’t help laughing, and it made her yelp, and he ordered her to hold still while he dabbed at her eye, and she said, oh go on, then, and let him. The cloth came away rose-coloured, so he’d broken the skin.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll never be able to get my head round you as a bare-knuckle fighter. Or armour next to the skin, come to that.”

  He pulled an unhappy grin. “I was expecting you,” he said. “And believe me, I take you very seriously.”

  “Thank you. Actually, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me, in context.”

  “In context.” He put down the cloth and made her sip some water from the exquisite bowl. “I know you had to obey a direct order,” he said. “It’s like the time I got ordered to kill Senza Belot. Did I tell you about that? Well, anyway, luckily I didn’t have to go through with it, obviously. But I knew if I did, that’d be it, the end of me.” He shrugged. “It’s like putting a hood over a candle, you just blot out what’s in your mind and press on anyway; you know you don’t want to do it, but somehow it’s not up to you any more. Tools in the hands of the Smith, and all that. Except it does actually feel that way, at the time.” He grinned. “I still wake up sweating in the middle of the night about it, but I’d have done it.”