The Two of Swords, Part 16 Read online

  “Have some more of the pickled cabbage.”

  She smiled. “No thanks, I’m full. Couldn’t eat another thing.”

  “Suit yourself. I like pickled cabbage. Shame it doesn’t like me.” He stuck his forefinger in the jar and hooked out a matted clump of the stuff. “Gives me guts ache like nobody’s business, but what can you do?”

  Here was a man who brooked no nonsense, not even from his own entrails. She’d managed a fist-sized chunk of stale bread and the very last of the cheese. There were still seven jars of the pickled cabbage, enough to last for ages and ages. She was ravenous.

  “The best pickled cabbage in the empire—” He paused, rubbed his chest and pulled a face. “We were on campaign with the Seventh and the Forty-third, just before young Senza took over as commander-in-chief. Good mob, the Seventh, though I gather they got wiped out in that last battle, while you were inside. You heard about that one? Anyhow, the enemy Fifteenth, Sixth and Twenty-third were all around us, so we’d dug in on the slopes of this mountain, about a day’s march from Erroso. Anyway, long story short, there was a poxy little village and we turned it over pretty good, because we hadn’t eaten for a week, and the cellars were jammed with the stuff, great big thin tall pottery jars with pointed ends. Food of the gods.” He winced and crammed his right hand down on his chest. “Turned me up pretty bad, mind, so come the battle I was stood there in the front rank, with the Twenty-third lancers coming straight at us, and all I could think about was the pain in my tummy. Our company got a commendation for that action, but buggered if I know what went on. Funny, isn’t it, the things you remember and the things you don’t?”

  She looked at him. He’d gone white, and he was breathing in short gasps. “Are you all right?”

  “It’s the brine,” he said. “Rock salt: it’s got more spite to it than sea salt, rots your insides. Well, if you’re done we’d better be making a move. Still three good hours of daylight.”

  He stood up, swayed backwards and forwards, and sat down again in a heap. She noticed that his right hand was clamped on his left arm. She’d seen something like that before.

  “Give me a moment,” he said hoarsely. “Got a bit of a stitch. It’s all right, it’ll go away in a minute.”

  White as paper. “You’ve had this before?”

  “Now and again. Bloody pickled cabbage. Or fried food. Fried food does me no good at all.”

  “Porpax,” she said, as calmly as she could. “Where are we?”

  He frowned at her. “I told you, didn’t I? Don’t ask.”

  “Yes, but I don’t know where we are, and if anything were to happen to you, I couldn’t find my way out and get help. Look, I know the road’s over that way somewhere, but where does this track lead to? Is there a village anywhere near?”

  Maybe there was a hint of fear in his eyes. “Don’t talk stupid,” he said, “it’s just gas. It’ll pass.”

  Foxgloves; someone told her once that you could squeeze the juice of foxgloves, and that sometimes helped. But she couldn’t see any, and couldn’t remember if it was the right time of year. She was woefully ignorant about that sort of thing. “Is there a village?”

  He shook his head. “That’s the point,” he said. “That’s why we came this way.”

  “But if I keep on the way we’re going—”

  “Shut up, will you? You’re getting on my nerves.”

  There had to be something, besides foxgloves. “Lie back,” she said; “try to breathe.” She unstoppered the water bottle and splashed some on her sleeve. His forehead felt cold. “You’re right,” she said, “it’s just gas. Serves you right for guzzling half a jar of the filthy stuff.”

  He nodded, a tiny movement. “That’s what I said, gas. Be as right as rain in a bit. I think I’ll just close my eyes for a while.”

  She watched him until the light faded. The last she saw, he was still breathing, just about. As soon as the sun went down, it got bitter cold. She found a blanket by feel and wrapped it round herself. She listened for his breathing and could just make it out. She fell asleep.

  Dawn woke her up out of a dream which ended with Oida calling out to her: don’t leave me, or something like that. She’d slept at a bad angle and she had a crick in her neck. She looked at him. He was sitting where she’d left him, propped up against a tree. His head was slumped forward on his chest and his hands dangled over his knees. She got up and lifted his left hand. It was remarkably heavy. She prodded about round his wrist searching for a pulse – she never knew where to look – then gave up. He was cold, and his face was grey. When she let go of the hand, it flopped.

  So much for Colour Sergeant Porpax of the Guards, who she’d been too scared of to kill. She went through his pockets and found a sailcloth bag with twenty-six gold angels in it; nothing else. Of all the inconsiderate, self-centred – he’d known where they were, but now he’d thoughtlessly died, leaving her with two enormous, vile-tempered dray horses in the middle of nowhere. And he’d said he was reliable. She had a good mind to tell Oida to ask for his money back. Then she remembered that Oida hadn’t actually paid him. Twelve thousand angels saved, just like that; if he fell in a sewer, he’d come up clutching a priceless gold chalice. Damn the man.

  Very briefly she considered burying Porpax, rather than leave him for the crows and foxes and the badgers. But the ground was stony, the shovel clipped to the side of the cart was basically a toy with a paper-thin blade, and just the thought of trying to move that colossal bulk made her feel very tired. She unwound the scarf from around his neck, threw the backsabre into the cart, tricked and wrestled the horrible horses into their collars and set off for wherever the hell it was she was going.

  Read on in The Two of Swords: Part 17.

  extras

  meet the author

  K. J. Parker is the pseudonym of Tom Holt, a full-time writer living in the south-west of England. When not writing, Holt is a barely competent stockman, carpenter and metalworker, a two-left-footed fencer, an accomplished textile worker and a crack shot. He is married to a professional cake decorator and has one daughter.

  Find out more about K. J. Parker and other Orbit authors by registering for the free newsletter at www.orbitbooks.net.

  About Orbit Short Fiction

  Orbit Short Fiction presents digital editions of new stories from some of the most critically acclaimed and popular authors writing science fiction and fantasy today.

  Visit www.orbitshortfiction.com to learn more about our publishing program—and to join the conversation. We look forward to hearing from you.

  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: Volume One

  The Two of Swords: Volume Two

  The Two of Swords: Volume Three

  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

&nbs
p; 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

  The Management Style of the Supreme Beings

  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

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