The Two of Swords: Part 14 Page 4

  “I can’t understand you,” Chanso said.

  The elbow round his throat tightened, levering his head up, lifting his chin away from the point of the knife. Chanso looked into the eyes of the man with the knife; they were deep and brown. The man said something different; it would be something like, be reasonable, I don’t want to have to do this. Chanso opened his mouth; it was full of blood, and he made a spluttering noise. The man asked the question the second time, and Chanso thought; it doesn’t matter, it’s time now, it’s over and it won’t hurt. He took a deep breath.

  Someone shouted, a different voice, somewhere behind the man with the knife. Chanso couldn’t understand it, but it made the man with the knife look round. He said something; he sounded angry, offended, how dare you interrupt me? The distant voice spoke again. The man with the knife shouted furiously, and turned back to Chanso. He started to repeat the question. Then Chanso heard a familiar whirring noise, and a thump, and saw an arrowhead appear between the knifeman’s eyebrows.

  For a moment, the man with the knife was quite still; then he fell forward. His head cracked down on to Chanso’s forehead – he could feel his brain move inside his skull; then his arms were suddenly free. Unsupported, he fell, his face bumping hard on the back of the dead man’s head. Another whirring noise, another, three more. Then dead silence; then the sound of approaching footsteps. And then a pleasant voice said, “Are you all right?”

  Another voice said, “Sergeant, that’s a bloody stupid question”, and he heard boot leather creak as someone knelt down beside him. A hand gently raised his chin; a moment later, someone caught hold of his arms and raised him to his feet; like kind-hearted bystanders at an accident.

  One eye was still full of blood and he couldn’t open it. Through the other he saw two faces; one young, with red hair; the other older, with grey hair. The older man said, “What’s your name?”

  Chanso swallowed the blood in his mouth and said, “Chanso.”

  “The woodcarver?”

  “I don’t—” He had to stop and rest, and try again. “I don’t understand.”

  “Are you Chantat mi Chanso, the woodcarver?”

  “That’s my name. I don’t understand.”

  The older man turned his head and nodded. The younger man gave him something. He held it up so Chanso could see. It was the bear he’d whittled and thrown in the river.

  “Did you do this?” the older man asked.

  He was on the point of denying it; but he said, “Yes.”

  The older man grinned at him, then turned back and called out something in another language. The sound of it brought the fear rushing back. He was just about to move when the older man said, “It’s all right, you’re fine. You’re safe. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Let go of him,” he added, and the hands let go. Chanso swayed for a moment, then found his feet. It was essential that he should stay upright, unhelped. He straightened his back.

  “Boy, are we glad to see you,” the older man said. “We’ve been chasing after you for days, we were sure we’d lost you. And talk about cutting it fine.” He grinned. “You’re in a bit of a mess,” he said. “Let’s sit you down and see what we can do.”

  They led him to the riverbank. The sun was up now, and he could see them; six men in plain grey coats, with quivers and longbows as tall as they were, such as the Ironshirt foot soldiers used. Four of them were incredibly tall, like giants. They sat him down on a tree trunk, and the red-headed giant knelt beside him and dabbed away the blood from his face with a tuft of wool dipped in water.

  The older man sat next to him. “Look at me,” he said. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

  “Two.”

  “Splendid. Do you feel sick? Dizzy?”

  “No.”

  The older man raised an eyebrow. “You must have a skull like a rock,” he said. “Does it hurt when you breathe in?”

  “No. A little.”

  “If you had broken ribs, you’d know about it. No, amazingly, I think you’re basically in one piece. Obviously you’re built to last, down south. Now then, my name’s Myrtus, and this is Sergeant Teucer. If you don’t mind, we’d like you to come with us.”

  From where he was sitting, Chanso could just see the feet of one of the dead men. “You can speak our language.”

  Myrtus nodded. “We’re educated,” he said. “Smart lads, all of us.”

  “Who were those men? Why did they—?”

  Myrtus pursed his lips. “I don’t honestly know,” he said. “But the question they kept asking you was, what have you done with our sheep? So I guess they were shepherds, and they thought you were thieves.” He frowned. “My fault,” he said. “I lost your trail back by the reed beds, and I didn’t pick it up again till it was almost dark. Like a fool I said, let’s wait here and catch them up in the morning. Well,” he added, “I wasn’t to know, was I? Still, it’s a mess, and I expect I’ll get shouted at for it in due course. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “Who are you?” Chanso asked.

  “Ah.” Myrtus seemed amused by the question. “That may take some explaining, unless your uncle happens to be a blacksmith. Well? Is he?”

  “No. Both my uncles are shepherds.”

  “Ah, well. In that case, we’re your guardian angels and the patron saints of woodcarvers. And I’m afraid you’re coming with us, whether you like it or not.” He paused, and said, “If I were you, I’d like it. You’re in no fit state not to. Talk about your dramatic last-minute rescues,” he added cheerfully. “You’re lucky that Sergeant Teucer here’s the best shot in the entire human race. Forty-five yards, and in rotten light, got him right plumb in the head. If it had been anyone else, you’d be dog food by now.”

  They buried all the bodies, side by side. They did a proper job. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry.

  “Basically, we’re—” Myrtus paused and frowned. “All right,” he said, “basically, we’re priests.” He spoke the word as though he was ashamed of it, he didn’t mean it, there was something wrong with it. “We’re priests,” he repeated, “and we believe that exceptional people – exceptionally talented people, like you – are a gift from, um, God, and you should be looked after and kept safe and brought together to serve, well, God, by doing the things you do so well for, ah, in His service.” He groaned slightly. “It’s so much more complicated than that, but your language just doesn’t have the words, I’m sorry, or if it does they didn’t teach them on the course I went on. The point is, we’re going to take you to a place where they’ll explain all this properly and teach you some other stuff you need to know, and then we’d like it very much if you’d come and work for us building our temple. Which isn’t a temple, needless to say, but I’m sure you get the idea.”

  “Excuse me,” Chanso said. “You must’ve got it wrong. I’m not anybody.”

  Myrtus smiled at him. “I have to beg to differ on that one,” he said. “Our people identified you back in your own country, from some carvings you’d done there, and then they found out you’d come over here for the war, so we went scurrying off to Rasch to look for you while the siege was on, but it was – well, difficult, let’s say, and by the time we’d sorted out which unit you were with, you’d left there and were headed back this way. And of course we had no idea about the battle, that really threw us, so by the time we’d been through everything on the battlefield – didn’t help that bloody Ocnisant got there before we did, so we had to buy about six hundred dead bodies off him, just to be sure none of them were you. Anyway, what with one thing and another, we’ve been chasing around like idiots trying to catch up with you, and it’s more luck than judgement we found you at all, since you weren’t with your unit. We just latched on to the few groups of your people that managed to get away from the battle. As luck would have it, I got sent to follow the group you turned out to be with. There’s a dozen other parties like mine buzzing round the place after the other survivors; I imagine they’ll have given it up as a bad job by now
, or made contact and found out you’re not there. Not that any of that matters a damn, because we found you and you’re safe. Just as well you’re on the tall side, for your lot. I’m guessing that’s why the shepherds saved you till last, assumed you were the oldest, therefore the leader. Either that, or it was pure fluke. They’re simple folk, the locals, and thick as bricks.”

  “You collect people?” Chanso said.

  They were riding beside the river again, two ahead, two behind, and Chanso in the middle with Myrtus on one side of him and the tall sergeant on the other. “Put like that it does sound a bit dubious,” Myrtus said, “but I guess it’s true, yes, we do. The Eastern emperor collects silver, books, old coins, all sorts of junk, and the Lodge collects people. But we put them to work, doing good things. You ask the sergeant here, he’ll tell you. We collected him, and he’s never looked back. Isn’t that right?”

  The red-haired man smiled.

  “We picked him up because he’s an amazing shot,” Myrtus went on. “And you’re an amazing carver. Can I keep this, by the way?” He took the bear out of his pocket and put it straight back again; no clearly wouldn’t be an acceptable answer. “Thanks. Probably be worth good money in a year or so. No, we hit on you because our – well, one of the top men in the Lodge is crazy about your no Vei primitive-naturalist figure carving, he wants it all over the beams in the Great Hall at Central. I gather we’re on the track of a couple more like you, so with any luck you’ll have people from home to talk to when you get there.”

  Chanso was quiet for a while. “You did all that,” he said, “just to get someone to carve wood for you?”

  Myrtus shrugged. “The Eastern emperor just turned down a chance to end the war to get a—” words Chanso didn’t understand. “Pretty silver things,” Myrtus glossed. “About yay big, smaller than the palm of your hand. And, actually, I can see his point. I think any of us in the Lodge would’ve done the same thing.”

  They were friendly and smiled a lot, and they’d bound up his ribs with bandages just in case, and they had the most amazing food. But Myrtus and Teucer rode just close enough to him that there was no chance of making a run for it, and there were the two horsemen behind, and the two in front. “We look after what we truly value,” Myrtus explained gravely. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  He didn’t answer that. Instead he asked, “Where are you taking me?”

  Myrtus shook his head. “I could tell you, but it wouldn’t mean a damn thing to you, I don’t suppose. Let’s just say far, far away and leave it at that. Somewhere you’ll be well fed and you won’t get beaten up any more. How does that sound?”

  He paused for a moment before replying. “Fantastic,” he said.

  “It’s perfectly simple,” the sergeant told him. “All you need is this.” He opened the flap of the right-side pannier and drew out a strange copper thing. It was circular and flat, the size of a big pancake or a small shield, and it had flanges all round, forming a raised rim, and a handle, and the inside was silvery with fresh tin. “This,” the sergeant said proudly, “is a Western army regulation service-issue twelve-inch field duty frying pan. We buy them off Ocnisant, a hundred at a time.” He let Chanso hold the handle, then took it back and packed it away. “You stick that over a fire, pour in just enough oil to cover the bottom, let it warm up. While it’s doing that, you chop up four onions into tiny bits. Chuck ’em in the oil, add a few ground-up herbs, throw in your meat, a bit of cheese, a bit of flour, lentils, milk if you’ve got it, ditto vegetables, cut up really small, give it a stir from time to time and there you go. Dead simple, works with any damn thing.” He frowned. “Except pork,” he added.

  “Pork.”

  “Yes. You know, pork? From pigs?”

  “You eat pigs.”

  The sergeant grinned. “Sorry, forgot. The captain says it’s because you’re herdsmen, always on the move, and what you’re not used to, you think it’s nasty. Mind you, we’re the same about spiders, and I’ve met people who say there’s nothing better, fried in batter. Don’t worry,” he added quickly, “we’ve got quail, partridge, hare, basically anything that doesn’t know to hide when it sees me coming. I shoot it, I cook it, that’s what they keep me around for. Learned how to at Beal Defoir. That’s where you’ll be going. You’ll like it there, I promise you.”

  “That’s what they eat at – where you said?”

  “No. Much, much better. There was a lad when I was there, sharp as a razor, every year he failed the tests on purpose just so he could stay and enjoy the food. Reckoned he’d hang around until he’d learned everything, and then they’d make him a professor and he’d never have to leave.”

  Chanso sat down on the grass. A few yards away, the troopers were watering the horses, while Myrtus scowled at a map. It didn’t mean they were lost, the sergeant had explained, just that his eyesight wasn’t what it was.

  “Sergeant,” he said. “Why did the shepherds kill my friends?”

  The sergeant looked down at the grass. “We reckon they thought you were sheep thieves,” he said. “That’s bad, these days. The army foragers took most of the sheep. They can’t spare any more.”

  Chanso nodded. He could understand that. “Ever since the battle,” he said, “everyone gets killed and there’s only me left. And all I can do is try not to think about it.”

  The sergeant smiled at him. “That’s why you need to go to Beal Defoir,” he said. “They’ll explain it to you there, about the Lodge, and how it all makes sense. I lost my family, too, and all my friends. But once they explain it to you, you understand and it’s fine. You don’t believe me, of course you don’t, but it’s true. Suddenly everything falls into place, and you’ll never be unhappy again.”

  They passed through a sequence of abandoned villages, one after another, on the edge of what had once been cultivated land. A road had recently been cut through head-high tangles of briars; Myrtus explained that the briar thrives on fertile ground, especially where it’s been ploughed and manured for centuries. There were thorn thickets, the stems as thick as Chanso’s wrist, where the bushes had self-seeded from hedges. Vast holly brakes crowded out what had once been coppiced woods, and where stands of mature timber had been felled, the ground was reed marsh, briar and scrub. Even the grass pastures were wet as sponges; ploughed land does that, apparently, when you stop ploughing it. Myrtus found it all fascinating – his family were landowners far away in the Mesoge, and improvement had been their hobby for generations. If he had the management of it, he declared, and about a hundred thousand prisoners of war, he’d have a crop off it in ten years, fifteen at the most. “But what they’ll probably do is turn the whole lot over to sheep,” he said sadly. “If my grandchildren ever come here, they’ll find nothing but gorse and heather.” Every half-mile or so they passed a charcoal pit, just starting to disappear under ivy and bindweed.

  But the food just kept getting better and better, and his ribs stopped hurting, and the cuts on his face scabbed over nicely without infection. “You’ll have a sweetheart of a scar,” Myrtus told him cheerfully. “But I don’t suppose that’ll bother you.”

  Chanso considered explaining about the house marks on his forehead, but decided not to bother.

  “My cousin,” Myrtus went on, “he’s had these terrible scars on his face ever since he was a kid. I can’t say it’s held him back particularly. He’s a musician. Actually, he’s more of a teacher, though he doesn’t really do any teaching. It’s complicated. The point is, a few red squiggles on your face needn’t be the end of the world. And it’s not like you’re missing an ear or anything yucky like that.”

  Somehow, Chanso wasn’t keen on dwelling on his future disfigurement. “How can someone be a teacher and not teach?” he asked.

  Myrtus scratched his ear. “It’s sort of the way we do things. If a man’s a really good teacher, we stop him teaching and make him an organiser. Don’t ask me to explain because you probably can’t grasp the advanced concepts involved. Anyway, he
still makes up music. I don’t think he’s supposed to, but he’s so grand these days, nobody can stop him.”

  Beyond the spoiled farmland the country rose steeply. They rode across moors, and skyline-to-skyline expanses of ankle-high tree stumps, where a great pine forest had been cut down. Props, Myrtus explained; when you’re laying siege to a city, you dig tunnels under the walls to undermine them, and you need wooden props to keep the tunnels from falling in. All this – he waved his arm vaguely at the unending row of stumps – went to underpin the siege works at (some place or other; Chanso didn’t catch the name), about ten years ago; he couldn’t remember now whether the city fell or not, but they moved a lot of earth and used up a lot of props. Fifty years of pine needles had so poisoned the ground that nothing would grow between the stumps except bracken and flags.

  “Civilisation,” Myrtus said, pointing. “See, over there, in the steep-sided valley between the two mountain ranges. That’s Ioto. Nice place, if you don’t mind breathing soot.”

  Once the heather gave way to grass, they started seeing sheep on the hillsides, and small herds of short, hairy ponies – bred for the mines, Myrtus said, these hills were practically solid iron, and Ioto was the iron-founders’ town. And over there – he pointed to a range of hills scarred by deep brown gorges – that was where they dug coal to feed the foundries. Coal? Ah. It’s a sort of black rock, and it burns like charcoal, only better. No, seriously.

  When they were two days away from the city, Chanso asked about the stuff on the grass. It was like hoar frost, only black. Soot, Myrtus explained.

  The sky behind the city was brown, and the sun was a red, sore gleam. Ten miles from the city gates, the drop-hammers had sounded like tinkling bells. Once inside the walls, the noise was a low ceiling inside your head that stopped you thinking beyond the simple and immediate. The buildings were black, the streets narrow and blocked with carts, whose wheels ran half-spoke deep in mud-bottomed ruts. There were high, arched wooden bridges over the main thoroughfares, because crossing at street level was impossible, and had been so for as long as anyone could remember.