Sharps (27 page)

“Good,” Iseutz said. “They won’t be disappointed.”

“The feedback from Joiauz is extremely positive,” Tzimisces went on. “You were a great success.” He smiled. “All of you.”

Addo looked up. “That’s a comfort,” Suidas said. “I never really thought of the Permians as good losers.”

“However,” Tzimisces went on, “it wouldn’t do at all for us to get complacent. I hope you’ve all had an opportunity for some good solid training.”

“With respect, Colonel.” Iseutz looked straight at him, but saw no reaction. “No we haven’t. We’ve been cooped up in the coach for a day, and we’re back on the road as soon as we’ve had something to eat. I can practically hear my cramped muscles screaming at me. Now I suggest you adjust our schedule so that we get at least one clear day somewhere we can stretch our legs and do some practice before we have to go out in front of several hundred Permians and fight for our lives with sharp weapons. And some decent food wouldn’t hurt either.”

Tzimisces beamed benevolently at her. “Far be it from me to tell you when and how to train,” he said. “After all, you’re the champion fencer, not me. I’m just saying you really ought to get in as much preparation as you can. It’ll pay dividends, I’m sure.”

Later, as they were waiting for the coach to be brought round, Addo said to Suidas, “I think Tzimisces ought to be the one fencing messer. He’s got that whole defend-by-attacking thing down to a fine art.”

Suidas was looking thoughtful. “When she called him Colonel …”

“Yes, I noticed that. He didn’t react.”

“He didn’t deny it.” Suidas picked up his bag. It was rather bulkier and heavier than it had been the last time Addo had seen it. “You know, I’d be interested in finding out what he did in the War.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I collect people’s war stories,” Suidas said, and stood up. The bag clanked slightly as he moved it.

They were singing the
Solemn Mass for the Dying
by Areopagiticus in the Great Chapel; he could just hear it through four stone walls and a marble floor. It was one of his favourite pieces of music. He sincerely hoped it wasn’t for him.

A doctor showed up, eventually – not Brother Physician, or even a brother from another house, but a layman: the Carnufex house doctor, no less. He proved to be a huge man, about forty-five years old, with shoulders and a back like a bear and the biggest hands that Abbot Symbatus had ever seen. You’d trust him implicitly if it was a matter of supporting a falling building while you scrambled to safety, but maybe that wasn’t the point in this instance.

“What seems to be the trouble?” he asked.

“I’m ill.”

The doctor sighed. “Right, let’s have a look at you.” Ah, Symbatus thought: the gruff, no-nonsense type. He preferred them to the oily smilers, but it was all as broad as it was long.

“Well?” he asked, some time later.

The doctor shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said.

A refreshingly novel approach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means I don’t know,” the doctor repeated. “I happen to be one of the three best doctors in Scheria, but if medical science is geography, then mankind as a species has a map with three towns marked on it and a lot of blank space with drawings of sea serpents. I
think
it’s your heart, but there’s about a dozen other things it could be, half of which are trivial and the rest almost certainly fatal. How old did you say you are?”

“Seventy-two.”

The doctor nodded. “If you’ve got any money saved up, I’d spend it.”

“I’ve taken a vow of poverty.”

“That’s all right, then.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, your time’s running out. But I get the impression you knew that already.”

“Oh yes,” Symbatus said. “It’s common knowledge. But I’d be glad of any general indications.”

“Somewhere between two and nine months, depending on such factors as stress, exertion, diet. That said, you’re the sort of dilapidated old ruin that sometimes goes on for ever, out of force of habit.”

The abbot nodded. “There was a floorboard like that in the house I grew up in,” he said. “When it finally gave way, the carpenter said it was a miracle it hadn’t gone years ago. Thank you, Doctor, you’ve been most helpful.”

“Don’t thank me,” the doctor said, putting on his coat. “It was your cousin the general who sent me.”

“Ah. And how is he these days? I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Obscenely fit,” the doctor replied. “Worried about his son, of course, but otherwise fine.”

“Which son?”

“Adulescentulus.” The doctor frowned. “Hadn’t you heard?”

The abbot sat up a little. “I know young Addo’s in Permia,” he said.

“So you haven’t heard the latest developments.”

“Apparently not,” Symbatus said. “And ignorance is terribly bad for my health. What are you talking about?”

The doctor lowered his immensity on to a small, spindly chair. “You know he was sent out to fence longsword? Well, they’ve got him fencing messer. The general’s beside himself.”

The abbot sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know very much about swordfighting,” he said.

The doctor explained. Annoyingly, the pain chose that moment to wake up and extend itself, which made it hard to concentrate. “Just a moment,” the abbot said. “What you’re saying is Addo’s …” He had to stop. He tried not to pull a face.

The doctor was looking at him. “Are you all right?”

“A touch of cramp,” the abbot said. The words seemed too big to get out of his mouth. “So there’s a real danger …”

The doctor wasn’t listening. “What’s the matter? Where does it hurt?”

“It’s just cramp,” the abbot whispered. “I’ll be fine. Tell me …”

But the doctor wasn’t there. He’d turned his back and was mixing something. “Drink this. Now.”

“But I’m not thirsty.”

“Do as you’re damn well told.”

Anything to satisfy him, so he’d stop fussing and answer questions. “Now,” Symbatus said. “
Why
is Addo fencing with these messer things? It seems entirely …”

He fell asleep. The doctor watched him closely for a while, then got up and went outside.

“He’s had a heart attack,” he told the prior. “I was able to give him something, and he ought to pull through, this time.”

“This time?”

“It’s not the first and it won’t be the last. If he’s to stand any chance at all, he’s got to have complete rest, peace and quiet. No visitors. I’ll be staying with him, so I need to send a message to General Carnufex, to let him know I won’t be back for a while. Also, I’ll need some supplies from my dispensary, I’ll write out a list. And remember, nobody’s to go in there without asking me first. Is that understood?”

“Luzir Soleth,” Tzimisces announced. “It’s not on our schedule, but I’ve had a word with Lieutenant Totila, and we’re actually ahead of time, so we can afford to take a break. He’s sent ahead, so with any luck you’ll have a quiet place to yourselves where you can get some practice.”

No chance. A mile outside the town, they were met by a squadron of Aram Chantat, escorting the town council and the mayor.

“It’ll be touch and go,” the mayor said, “but with your men as well as this lot” (a nod towards the Aram Chantat, who had dismounted and were lying on their backs in the weak sun), “we ought to be fine as long as we time it right.”

They were sitting on folding chairs in a meadow littered with fat red poppies. The chairs had been brought by the councillors, along with a table, a tablecloth, the municipal silver and a large hamper of food. A tall young man poured wine from a silver jug, acting as though he was in the presence of gods. “It’s such a privilege to get a chance to meet you like this,” the mayor said for the seventh time. Iseutz gave him a look of mild disgust.

“Not a problem,” Tzimisces said cheerfully. “After all, that’s what we’re here for, to promote friendship and understanding.”

“Absolutely,” said a small man, some kind of town clerk. “And it’s so kind of you to take time out of your busy schedule to visit our community. It’s the biggest thing that’s happened here ever.”

“Hence the crowds,” the mayor added with a rueful grin. “The whole town’s out on the streets already. As soon as they heard you were coming …”

There followed a long council of war. The mayor drew a map, and Totila and Tzimisces worked out a plan of campaign. They would wait here until just before nightfall, then ride round in a semicircle, entering Luzir Soleth from the south, the direction they’d be least expected to come from. “That’ll give us the element of surprise,” Totila said, “but as soon as word gets out, there’ll be chaos, everybody trying to get from here to here.”

The mayor nodded. “The flashpoint’s likely to be here.” He prodded the map. “The corn exchange. The only way through is Coppergate, which is pretty narrow. If your men can block it here, by the fire altar, they’ll have no choice but to go the long way round, past the tannery and up Sheep Street. A detachment of the Aram Chantat here …”

Tzimisces shook his head. “We can’t rule out the possibility that some of them at least will go outside the wall and try and come in by this gate here.” He rested a fingertip on the map. “Reluctant as I am to divide our forces, I feel it would be wise to cover this area here with a skirmish line, two or three companies. We can’t stop them, but we can slow them up, buy ourselves time to get the coach inside the walls.”

Totila nodded enthusiastically. “Then, if we leave the coach and cut across this alley here on foot …”

“Risky,” Tzimisces murmured.

“It should be all right,” Totila said. “If we send the coach on, as if it was going up this street here …”

“Linen Yard,” the mayor said.

“Yes, right. They’ll see the coach and assume the fencers are still in it, so they’ll follow while I lead the fencers through these alleys here, and come out here, practically opposite the Guildhall. If we’re quick, we’ll be safe inside before they realise what we’re up to.”

Tzimisces frowned. “There’s a problem with that,” he said. “Assuming you can get them inside and close the door, you’ll still have several thousand hysterical people outside, and only a door and a lock and a bar to keep them out. Your men will still be up at the corn exchange, the Aram Chantat will be on the other side of town. Who’s going to keep the crowd from storming the Guild house?”

The councillors looked at each other. “We are,” the mayor said. “And the Watch, of course. It’ll look less suspicious, the Watch forming up outside the Guild. They’ll be expecting them to do that. So, when the lieutenant here brings the fencers up from the alleys, the Watch’ll be there to get them inside and hold the doors until your Imperials can get back from Cornmarket.”

Suidas could see that Addo was itching to join in. He put a hand on his arm.

“Leave them to it,” he whispered. “Not your war.”

Addo hesitated, then laughed. “Fair enough,” he said. “But it’s funny, isn’t it? We’re planning a military operation against people who really like us.”

“It’s just tactics,” Suidas replied. “Isn’t that what you told me your father always says? Everything is tactics.”

Addo nodded. “An old friend of the family told me once how my father set about courting my mother. Straight out of the
Art of War
. Trouble was, her father had read it too. Uncle Loic said in the end it was one of my father’s hardest-fought campaigns.”

Suidas looked at him. “But he won.”

“Oh yes. An inspired outflanking movement followed by a determined siege. There was another man involved, apparently. I gather he ended up getting posted to the northern front. I don’t know if he made it or not.” He laughed, a little nervously. “Hence the proverb, I suppose. All’s fair in love and war.”

“No,” Suidas said. “Not really.”

It worked, after a fashion. The mayor assured Tzimisces that the riot was nobody’s fault. It was asking too much of Totila’s men to hold off a crowd estimated at seven thousand without using the sharp ends of their weapons, and young Tzazo had made the right decision in falling back rather than draw blood. By the same token, they couldn’t blame the Aram Chantat for charging the mob as they came surging up the Broadway. They probably hadn’t appreciated what was going on, most of them didn’t even speak the language; so, when faced with a huge body of apparently angry people coming straight at them, their reaction was perfectly understandable. Fortunately, there had been only a handful of deaths and mercifully few injuries – which in itself demonstrated that the Aram Chantat had acted out of self-preservation rather than malice. In any event, the fencers were now safe inside the Guild house, with both the Watch and Totila’s men guarding the entrance, and the crowd, although it showed no sign of breaking up, was relatively calm. It would, though, make a tremendous difference if the fencers could just see their way to putting on a bit of a show. Not a formal match, naturally, that would be too much to ask, but something in the way of an exhibition bout; after all, Tzimisces had said, they could do with the practice.

“No,” Iseutz said, when Phrantzes passed on the request. “Absolutely not.”

“I’d rather not,” Giraut said. “I’d like to help out, naturally, but …”

“How about a few bouts with foils?” Addo suggested. “That couldn’t hurt, could it?”

Phrantzes’ face fell. “I don’t think that’s what they want to see.”

“They’ll never know the difference,” Suidas said. “Well, maybe a few of them, up at the front. But the vast majority’d be too far away to see if there’s little buttons on the ends of the swords.”

“What about the messers, though? And the longswords?”

“Same thing. More than five yards away, you can’t tell if a sword’s got a blunted edge or not. You can fill the front rows with the tame ones, the local bigwigs, they won’t make trouble. And the rest of them won’t be able to see. Tell ’em it’s that or nothing. Well?”

“It sounds like a good idea to me,” Giraut said.

“Better than real swords, anyway,” Iseutz conceded. “Though I’m not wild about the idea of fencing without a jacket and a mask, even with foils, if I don’t absolutely have to.”

The mayor and the Guild officers agreed, reluctantly, though they refused point blank to countenance the use of purpose-made foils, which (they said) wouldn’t fool anyone. Instead, the fight would be with proper weapons, the points and edges to be ground off as unobtrusively as possible. Iseutz complained bitterly, pointing out that a ground-off smallsword was only marginally safer than a fully sharp one, but Phrantzes smiled sadly and ignored her. (“It’s a pity,” Addo said later to Suidas. “A lot of what Iseutz says is bang on the nail, but because it’s her saying it, people assume it’s just moaning and don’t listen. Of course, it’d help if she didn’t shout all the time.”) She looked round for Tzimisces, with a view to lodging an appeal, but he’d disappeared again.