Sharps (35 page)

Even so …

His uncle, now; probably the most brilliant financier in Scherian history, who’d resigned from the Board and entered a monastery (he was also Scheria’s most prominent atheist) because he didn’t hold with the Bank interfering in politics. At the time, nobody had been able to make sense of it. Of course the Bank interfered in politics, every day at every level; it had the money, without which politics simply wouldn’t work. But the old man had seen a line that nobody else could see and refused to cross it, and they’d all been trying very hard not to think about that ever since.

(“All right,” he remembered arguing, desperately trying to talk his uncle out of it, “what about the Temple interfering in politics? Isn’t that just as bad?”

“Oddly enough,” his uncle had replied, “I don’t have a problem with that.”

“But you don’t even believe in the Invincible Sun.”

A sad, you-ought-to-know-better look: “Oh come on, Turcuin. Since when has belief had anything to do with organised religion?”)

Brother Perceptuus, who had been Dancred Boioannes when he was still in the world, sat beside the abbot’s chair until he woke up.

“I’m sorry,” the abbot said, once he’d taken a moment to recognise him. “Have I kept you waiting very long?”

Perceptuus smiled. “I was weeding onions,” he said, “and talking to my idiot nephew. Only too glad to be interrupted.”

The abbot nodded. “Disturbing reports from Permia,” he said.

“Quite,” Perceptuus said. “And that’s not all.” He hesitated. Abbot Symbatus looked terrible: white and thin, his skin stretched over his bones like a hide drying in the sun. On the other hand, he was the right person to tell, and nobody else would do. “The Bank has lent forty million nomismata to the Permian government.”

For a moment he was afraid the abbot hadn’t understood; that he was too weak, no longer capable of handling information of that order of magnitude. A complicated train of thought passed through his mind: a new abbot – at the worst possible time; six or seven likely candidates, all of them instantly assessed and found wanting, which meant he’d have to do the job himself, which was something he really didn’t want; then how to get himself elected, all the compromises and threats and fuss that that would entail. So he was mightily relieved when the abbot smiled and said, “Now that’s interesting. Tell me about it.”

Which he did. Afterwards, the abbot was quiet for a while. Then he frowned and said, “You’ll have to go there, you realise.”

“Where?”

“Permia.” The abbot closed his eyes, then opened them again. “I’m dreadfully sorry, I know it’ll be a burden, but—”

“That’s all right,” Perceptuus said, a little too quickly. “Always wanted to see the place, as a matter of fact.”

The abbot smiled. Lies, it was commonly believed, bounced off him like arrows off tempered armour. “It’s a great shame,” he said, “that you’ve never found the comfort of faith. I’ve been lucky. I really do believe in the Invincible Sun. It makes doing what has to be done so much easier.”

Perceptuus shrugged. “I believe in the Order,” he said.

“That’s not quite the same thing. It’s like believing in justice, or the universal brotherhood of Man. It imposes responsibilities, instead of taking them away. Never mind, you may still come to it in time. It’s possible that this business may tip the balance, I don’t know.”

Perceptuus smiled. “You think so?”

“Oh, I have high hopes,” the abbot replied gently. “After all, there’s nothing more conducive to faith than a clear and evident miracle. Which is what we’ll need,” he added with a smile. “A miracle of unprecedented magnitude and scope, big enough to convince even a hardened sceptic such as yourself. I, on the other hand, am quietly confident, because I have faith.” He closed his eyes and folded his hands on his chest; doing a quite creditable impression of a dead man, Perceptuus thought, or maybe he’s just getting in some practice beforehand. “Come and see me tomorrow,” he said, “before you go.”

Before he retired to his cell for the night, Perceptuus went to the scriptorium, where he begged a scrap of waste parchment and the use of a pen and some ink from a brother who owed him a favour. He had to write small in order to fit it all in. Then he went to the gatehouse, where the porter’s young nephew was guzzling an illegal meal of leftovers.

“Exactly who I wanted to see,” he said cheerfully, as the boy tried to hide a huge mound of cold mashed swede behind his hand. “Do me a favour, and take this letter over to the Bank. Tell them it’s important, for Director Boioannes from his uncle. Go on,” he said, “the food’ll still be here when you get back. I might even use my influence with the buttery and find you a couple of sausages.”

Which he did; but the boy didn’t eat them. Instead, he wrapped them carefully in his left sock and took them home for his mother.

You’ll know it when you get there, he’d been told. Just watch out for a ruined tower on top of a hill shaped like an upturned bucket.

He’d been looking, and of course every hill in Permia looked like an upturned bucket if you stared at it long enough. So far, however, he hadn’t seen one with a ruined tower on the top. But there had been mist, and driving rain, and of course they hadn’t followed the road they’d been expected to go by, and there had been times he’d fallen asleep in spite of himself. Then there was the problem of how to stop the coach, get out and go away for an hour without drawing attention to himself. The more he thought about it, the more impossible it became; but he’d been told, it’s vitally important, whatever you do, make sure you go to the ruined tower on the upturned-bucket hill and see if there’s a message waiting. It’s our only chance to communicate with you, maybe warn you about some unforeseen disaster or notify you of a radical change in the plan.

In the distance he could see a long line of hills. They all looked like upturned buckets, and they were too far away for him to be able to see if one of them had a ruined tower on it.

The appalling business in Luzir Soleth must have changed everything, it went without saying. But how long would it take for a message to get from Scheria to the upturned bucket? A first-rate trained courier riding flat out, non-stop, with frequent changes of horses – but no chance of that in Permian territory, unless there was some sort of reciprocal arrangement with the Permian post for vitally urgent diplomatic mail. No, forget that: you wouldn’t dare use official channels for a decidedly unofficial communication. Come to that, for all he knew, the Permians had intercepted the message. If ever he found the upturned bucket, therefore, he might well find Blueskins waiting to arrest him, or at best a substituted message, subtly phrased to subvert the whole mission.

Stop the coach, please: call of nature
. Sure. Mere modesty wouldn’t explain why he then chose to walk three miles and climb a hill. So far, the best explanation he’d been able to concoct was
I must’ve got lost and gone round in circles, I’ve been walking for hours
; and that wasn’t going to fool anybody if they stopped in the middle of a featureless plain with a prospect of faint blue hills in the far distance. Really, it was too much to expect. You’d have thought they’d have trained professionals for this sort of thing, rather than relying on unwilling amateurs.

That made him remember the smiling face of the man who’d given him his final briefing.
We have every confidence in you. After all, what you lack in knowledge and experience, you more than make up for in motivation. I mean, you do want to see her again, don’t you
?

And if there was no ruined tower, no message, no radical change of plan, he’d have no alternative but to do what he’d been sent to do. The enormity, the sheer unthinkable scale of it, appalled him.
I won’t lie to you, it’s a horrible, dangerous job. If you fail, you’ll die. If you succeed, God only knows how you’ll live with yourself afterwards
. The grinning face, across a plain bare-wood table, by the light of a badly trimmed lamp.
Really, I can’t think of any inducement that’d make me do it, not even if they threatened to kill my children. But clearly, you’re more amenable
.

(Not for the first time, he considered telling the others; throwing himself on their mercy, explaining to them exactly what the real purpose of the mission was, begging them to help him find a way out of it. They were basically good people, after all. Iseutz had a kind heart and a strong instinctive sense of justice. Addo Carnufex seemed to feel at least a sense of the guilt that came with the family name; he was prepared to stand up for the others, if he felt he had to. They’d help him, wouldn’t they, especially once they realised what they were blundering in to, what was about to happen, with them right at the epicentre. Three or four times he’d opened his mouth to say something, and each time he’d frozen, and the moment had passed. He’d pictured the look on their faces, the stare, the unspoken
How could you possibly have agreed to such a thing
? And besides, he didn’t really know them, any more than they knew him – which, clearly, they didn’t. If they did, they’d have strangled him and hidden his body in a ditch.)

If I try not to think about it, it’ll go away.

Far away, outside the coach, he could see hills. Without any conscious thought, he scanned them for shapes and obtrusions. They looked just like a row of upturned buckets. On the top of one of them, he saw something that could have been a ruined tower, but it turned out to be just a particularly large tree.

“Ten miles to Beaute,” Tzimisces said cheerfully. “We’ll be there in an hour.”

So, inevitably, the left-side lead horse went lame. According to Captain Cuniva, it had contrived to pick up a stone in its back nearside hoof. It was all right. One of his men was riding to Beaute to collect a replacement horse, they’d be back on the road in three hours, no problem at all. Until then, they might as well stretch their legs and have a breath of fresh air.

Having walked up and down and taken in the view, Giraut sat down on a large rock. In every direction, as far as the eye could see, there was nothing but brambles, head high and hopelessly tangled. Someone obviously came along and cut them back from time to time, to stop them swamping the road. Otherwise, there’d be no hope of crossing the plain. It occurred to him to wonder how on earth it had got like this.

“Charcoal,” Tzimsices explained, and Giraut wasn’t in the least surprised that he knew the answer. He knew everything. “Seventy years ago, this was all a huge forest, from Beaute right up as far as the Bec de Corbin. Then they built the big smelting plant at Beaute, and of course they needed charcoal. That’s why they built it there, because it was so handy for an inexhaustible supply of fuel.” He lifted his head, shading his eyes with his hand against the noon sun. “Well, the supply got exhausted. Under that lot, there’s millions of tree stumps, which they never bothered to root out. They killed them when they burnt off the brash and the loppings, and the ash made the ground rich, so the brambles took over. I guess in a hundred years or so the stumps will have rotted away, and it might be possible to clear all this garbage and plough it up. But I wouldn’t fancy it. By now, the briar roots probably go down a mile, so you’d never be rid of them. You wouldn’t have thought it was possible to kill land, but it looks like the Permians have managed it.”

“So this is all because of the silver works.”

Tzimisces shook his head. “Iron,” he replied. “There was a major iron seam, though it’s all worked out now. This was where all the iron came from for the armouries, for the War.”

Giraut looked again, and saw a sea of brambles, an inundation, waves saw-edged with thorns. “It came in handy, though,” Tzimisces was saying, “it saved Beaute from Addo’s dad. He couldn’t get across this lot, so he turned south and took out Flos Verjan instead. Which was a stroke of luck for
us
, because of course Flos Verjan won us the War. If he’d stuck to his original plan and taken Beaute, we’d probably still be fighting.” Suddenly he threw his head back and laughed, as if he’d just figured out a long and complex problem that had proved in the end to be ridiculously simple. “Wonderful, isn’t it, how things turn out the way they do, and all because of things you wouldn’t have thought were possibly relevant. The Permians build the biggest armoury this side of the Eastern Empire, and it wins us the War, all thanks to a shitload of brambles. It’s a bit like chess, I suppose, only you’re playing against someone who thinks ninety moves ahead, so once he’s moved one pawn one square, you might as well give up, because you’re as good as screwed already. Maybe that’s why I’m so bad at chess,” he added, with a pleasant smile. “I don’t have the patience. My wife’s the chess player in our family. I’ve given up playing against her. Two moves in, I can see what she’s up to, so I resign. It drives her wild.”

It hadn’t occurred to Giraut that Tzimisces could ever have done anything so human as acquire a wife. Suddenly he wanted to know about her. How old was she? Was she pretty? How the hell could she bear to live with someone like that, even if he was virtually never at home?

The rider came back with a new horse and the latest news from the city. There had been riots. Several public buildings, including the law courts and the barracks, had been burnt down. The Aram Chantat had restored order, eventually, after some fairly intense fighting, but the rioters had broken into the armoury and helped themselves to enough hardware to outfit two regiments. It remained to be seen whether they were proposing to use the stuff, or whether they’d taken it simply because it was relatively portable and worth money. There was, of course, no question of cancelling the fencing match. On the contrary, it was imperative that it took place as planned, or else there’d be more riots. “Basically,” Cuniva said, “they’re relying on you to calm the situation, take people’s minds off politics for a while until the mob’s had a chance to cool down.”

Phrantzes, looking terrified, mumbled something about whether the authorities could guarantee their safety. Cuniva gave him an indulgent smile.

“You don’t have to worry on that score,” he said. “They’ve brought in my old regiment, and two others, as well as a large contingent of the Aram Senhor. There’s at least a dozen members of the Council who’ll be attending the match, and three government ministers. You’ll be in the safest place in Permia.”