Sharps (32 page)

“No, that would be most helpful,” Phrantzes said. “Most helpful. Do you think we could possibly borrow some equipment? We seem to have lost ours.”

Equipment wasn’t a problem. Giraut finally managed to narrow his choice down to a matched pair of foils, first-quality Mezentine, belonging to Baudila’s second-in-command. Suidas couldn’t choose between the longswords, so he closed his eyes and picked one at random. There was only one smallsword foil, but it was a beauty; Iseutz’s face lit up when she saw it, and its owner blushed and begged her to take it as a present. There weren’t any messers, but Addo already had one of his own.

Giraut fenced five bouts with Baudila. He was pretty good, though his style was distinctly old-fashioned, and the stoccata came as a complete and terrible surprise to him; he stood looking down at the foil blade arched against his chest, as if wondering how in hell’s name it could possibly have got there. Giraut taught him the move, together with the volte and the scanso dritto in straight time. “There’ll be no stopping you when you get home to the Empire,” he said.

“I won’t be going home, I’m afraid,” Baudila said quietly. “Made it a bit too hot for myself, I’m afraid. Still, never mind about that.”

Suidas was showing off. He’d spent an hour practising disarms, which he was very good at already, and he found the painting was getting on his nerves. “The hell with this,” he said, giving back the sword he’d just taken away from a bemused-looking Blueskin. “Let’s try something else.” He leaned his sword against the wall and smiled. “Right,” he said. “I want you to kill me.”

“Excuse me?”

Suidas frowned. “You heard,” he said. “You’re armed, I’m not. Try and cut my head off. Pretend it’s still the War or something.”

The Imperial looked at Baudila, who nodded; then he took a long step forward, dropped into a high back guard and froze. Suidas sighed.

“That’s no bloody use,” he said. “Imagine I’m a helpless old man and you’re going to cut me in two. Come on.”

The Imperial frowned and transitioned from high back to middle. “Oh for pity’s sake,” Suidas said, and kicked him on the shin. As the Imperial staggered forward, he took his sword and pushed him over. Then he reached out a hand and helped him up.

“You know, I don’t remember you people being quite so damned diffident at Mons Cauta,” he said. The Imperial looked at him. “Were you in the War, soldier? You look old enough.”

The Imperial nodded slightly. Suidas grinned. “Me too,” he said. “I was one of the poor bastards holding the top of the ridge when your commander threw half a brigade at us. Of course, we sent you home in slices, but it was interesting there, for a while. Were you in that one, by any chance?”

The Imperial shook his head without saying anything. Phrantzes cleared his throat, but nobody was interested in him.

“Just as well for you,” Suidas said. “Well, don’t just stand there like a slab of pudding. Kill me.”

The Imperial lunged. It was a business move, quick and angled. Suidas avoided it by a thumb’s width, disarmed him and threw him over his shoulder. “That’s more like it,” he said, and kicked the sword across the floor towards him. “And again.”

The Imperial didn’t move. He was looking at Baudila, who shrugged. Then he got to his feet, picked up the sword and lunged again. He was a quick learner. He left no room for sidestepping; but just when Giraut was convinced the thrust was about to go home, Suidas reached out with his hands wide and open, clapped them on either side of the blade, lifted it over his head, stepped under it and stamped down hard on the Imperial’s instep. He collapsed, and Suidas stepped back, holding his sword.

“That’s how you grab someone’s blade without getting your hands all cut up,” he announced to the world at large. “One of the best tricks going, if you can do it, makes you next best thing to immortal. Trouble is, unless you can get it exactly right the first time you try it, you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to pick your nose with your thumb.”

Baudila coughed gently. “Would you mind terribly not damaging my soldiers?” he said. “They may not be much, but they’re all I’ve got.”

“Perhaps you could show me that.” Addo took four long strides and put himself between Suidas and the Imperial, who showed no signs of wanting to get up off the floor. “It looks like just the sort of move I could do with.”

Suidas looked at him as though he didn’t understand; then he shrugged and said, “Of course. What we need is a long, thin piece of wood. Captain?”

Baudila was only too happy to oblige. Addo wore heavy gloves the first three times, but couldn’t get the hang of it; Suidas hit him three times in the solar plexus, knocking out all his breath, until Iseutz yelled at him and he grinned.

“Of course you can’t do it in gloves,” he said, “you can’t get the traction. Now try it with your bare hands.”

This time Addo caught the pretend sword and was able to maul it out of the way. He beamed with pleasure, and Suidas laughed at him. “Told you,” he said. “Now, again.”

The Imperials had gathered round to watch. Suidas didn’t seem happy about that, and muttered something about not teaching his best move to the enemy, but Addo made him do it again. This time he got a long splinter in his palm of his hand.

“That’s because you’re still trying to grab,” Suidas told him. “What you should be doing is squeezing. Try again.”

Addo didn’t make the same mistake again. After four perfect captures of the piece of wood, he said, “Can we try that with the sword?”

“If you like,” Suidas replied. “Up to you. Don’t blame me if I break your fingers.”

Addo took a step back, and Giraut handed Suidas the blunt-edged longsword. Suidas took a low middle guard and closed the measure; then, instead of thrusting, he lifted the blade and chopped down at Addo’s head. Addo caught the blade perfectly, lifted it and closed in to block Suidas’ arms.

“Now you’re getting it,” Suidas said. “It’s knowing you can do it that makes it possible.”

“A bit like flying,” Addo replied. “Can we try it with the messer, please?”

Suidas frowned. “I’m not going to grind the edge off my half-decent messer, thanks all the same,” he said. “You never know when I might need it.”

“That’s all right,” Addo said. “Leave it sharp.”

Suidas looked at him, and it was like looking into a mirror. “The thing is,” he said, “I’ve never tried this play with a messer myself. The blade shape’s different, and the balance. I don’t know if it can be done.”

Addo smiled at him. “Like flying,” he said. “I’m willing to give it a go, if you are.”

Phrantzes started to say something, and Iseutz said, “Addo, don’t be so stupid,” but Addo wasn’t listening. Suidas looked at him again and said, “I don’t like the idea. We’ll grind off the edge. There’s no point taking stupid risks.”

“I thought the risk was the whole point,” Addo said mildly. “Otherwise it’s not really training, it’s just playing a game.”

“We’ve got a big wheel grindstone in the armoury,” Baudila said briskly. “I’ll get my armourer to do it, it won’t take a moment.”

Addo shook his head. “There’s no risk,” he said, “really. If we don’t do it properly, we might as well not bother.”

There was a look of horror on Suidas’ face. “Sorry,” he said, “you’ll have to get someone else, in that case. Messers aren’t things you play around with.”

“Neither are swords,” Addo said gently. “Please, Suidas. And don’t pull the stroke. The Permian I’ll be fighting in Beaute won’t be faking it.”

Suidas looked as though he was about to make a run for it, but he pulled himself together and said, “Please yourself, then. I’ll go and fetch the messer.”

“Use mine.” Addo opened his coat. There was a messer hilt sticking out from under his belt. He drew it and handed it to Suidas, who took it as though he was handling something disgusting. Then he looped his forefinger round the guard and took a step back. “Ready?”

“When you are.”

Suidas swung. He gave it everything, turning his wrist a little to align the cutting edge just right, snapping with his shoulder, elbow and wrist in sequence, as if the messer was a whip. He attacked at a forty-five-degree angle, for maximum shear. Addo stood quite still, and at the very last moment, clapped his hands. He stopped the edge about three-eighths of an inch from his neck, twisted it sideways and took it crisply out of Suidas’ hand, as if picking an apple.

“Thank you,” Addo said. Suidas was staring at him. “That’s going to be very useful indeed. You’ve probably saved my life, in fact.”

Suidas took a step back, as though Addo was about to attack him. His eyes were glued to the messer. He was trembling.

“Can we try it again?” Addo asked; and for some reason, Giraut thought,
That was cruel, that was the cruellest thing I ever heard
. “Oh for God’s sake,” Iseutz wailed. “Will you please put that thing away, before someone does somebody an injury?”

Giraut realised he was waiting for Tzimisces to come forward and put a stop to it; but Tzimisces wasn’t there, he’d vanished again. So he found himself stepping forward, gently pulling the messer out of Addo’s hand. He heard himself say something like, “That was amazing, the way you just caught it in the air. You two are going to have to teach me how to do that, as soon as we can get hold of a blunt one to practise with.”

Addo smiled vaguely. Suidas was still looking completely blank, like a dead man pulled out of a lake. Giraut realised he was holding the messer in his hand. It felt unnatural, and he was frighteningly conscious of it. He wanted to open his fingers and let it fall to the floor, but he was scared that it would gash his leg on the way down. Nobody else seemed to want it. He looked round, then handed it to Captain Baudila, who put it on a table.

Addo was fast asleep when Iseutz came and banged on his door.

“It’s Suidas,” she said. “You’d better come.”

“What’s going on?”

“Now,” Iseutz said.

He climbed out of bed, and noticed that the sheath on his bedside table was empty. He thought for a moment, and could distinctly remember Baudila giving the messer back to him. “Just a moment,” he said. “I can’t find my boots. Oh, here they are.”

Suidas was in the post room. He was standing in the middle of the floor, holding Addo’s messer in a low middle guard. He’d been busy. A statue, life-size, presumably some pre-Imperial goddess or other, was lying on the floor with its head knocked off. A table had been cut to pieces, and there were deep gashes in several of the door frames.

“I think he’s asleep,” Iseutz whispered. “But his eyes are wide open.”

Addo nodded, put his finger to his lips and walked forward, taking great care not to make any noise. Even so, Suidas appeared to have heard something; he spun round on his heels to face the direction Addo was coming from and transitioned from low middle to high back. Addo froze, watching him carefully, then started forward again. Suidas was looking just past him, as if watching someone standing shoulder to shoulder with him. Iseutz jammed her fist in her mouth.

Addo stopped, just short of long measure. “Captain Deutzel.”

Suidas looked puzzled. Addo waited for a moment, then said, “Sergeant.”

“Sir.”

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Sergeant?”

Suidas looked at him – straight at him, but couldn’t see him. Iseutz could tell by the look on his face that he was trying to figure out where the voice was coming from. “Sir?”

“Stand down, Sergeant. Now. That’s an order.”

Suidas didn’t move. Addo frowned, then walked round him in a tight semicircle. Then, so fast that Iseutz couldn’t follow the movement, he stepped in and punched Suidas on the side of the head. There was a clatter as the messer hit the floor, but Suidas was still standing. Addo punched him again, and this time he fell. He twitched once, then lay still.

“Iseutz.” His voice was high and shaky. “Get a doctor.”

“I don’t know—”

“Get a doctor,” he repeated. “Quickly.”

The Blueskin doctor was binding Addo’s knuckles. “No harm done, luckily,” he was saying. “You could easily have broken something.”

“I’m fine,” Addo repeated. “Really.”

“Of course you are,” the doctor said wearily. “Right, that ought to do. Try not to use that hand for a day or so. You ought to take more care,” he added. “We need you to be fit for the big match. I tried to get tickets, but I was too late.”

Addo gave him a poisonous look, and he went away. “How is he?” he asked.

Phrantzes looked up and scowled at him. “Did you really have to hit him quite so hard?”

“He had to punch him twice,” Iseutz said. “He wouldn’t fall over.”

“What the hell was all that about?” Giraut asked. “Was he asleep, or what?”

Phrantzes sighed. “Apparently it’s not the first time,” he said. “His – well, the woman he lives with, she told us he’s done this sort of thing before. But she said he was over it, and there hadn’t been an episode for six months.”

“There was a man in my father’s regiment,” Addo said. “And by all accounts he was a model soldier, the bravest man in the corps, my father said. But sometimes he’d get up in the middle of the night, walk across the camp and start killing horses. He had no idea what he was doing. When he woke up and they told him, he couldn’t believe it. I think he killed himself, in the end.”

“Thank you so much,” Iseutz snapped. “That’s exactly what we needed to hear.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to suggest—”

Phrantzes coughed loudly. “The doctor believes it’s an imbalance in his choleric humour. He’s prescribed some medicine to put it right. He told me these cases are entirely treatable. It’s all a question of diet, apparently. Too much salty food and not enough fruit.”

When Suidas woke up, he stared at them as though he’d never seen them before. Then he asked, “What happened?”

Phrantzes opened his mouth but Addo got in first. “You were walking in your sleep,” he said. “You had a blow to the head. The doctor says you’ll be fine.”

Suidas frowned. “Did I do anything?”

Addo smiled. “Nothing terrible,” he said.

“Thank God for that,” Suidas said. “Sontha told me once I threatened her with a sword, thought she was Aram Chantat. She nearly left me because of it.” He breathed out and lay back on the pillows. “I’m glad it wasn’t anything like that.”