Sharps (37 page)

Suidas Deutzel hated climbing. Unfortunately, he was quite good at it, which meant it was a viable option when he needed to plan a course of action. He groped upwards, feeling for the grooves between the stone blocks. On old buildings like this, water gathered in the pointing and ate it away, just deep enough to hook a fingertip into.
My hands’ll be useless tomorrow
, he thought.
Pity
.

When he was just over halfway to the top, he came to a place where there were no handholds. He reached up as far as he could stretch and drew his fingers down lightly over the stone, but he could make out nothing but smooth, unbroken granite. At the same time, he could feel his feet beginning to slide out of the crack he was resting them in. No wonder: he was supporting his entire weight on the welted seam of the toes of his boots, where the sole was sewn to the upper. At that moment, it occurred to him that he could die because of that. It hadn’t crossed his mind before, but now he came to think of it, death was a perfectly plausible outcome. After all, there was no earthly reason why there should be convenient handholds on every wall in the world. There was no chance he’d be able to go down, with nothing to hold on to while he found his footings. Any moment now, his balance would fail, and that would be the end of it.

He was astonished at how calm he found he was. Fear of death had always energised him, making him move far more quickly than his body should have been capable of, accelerating his reactions and his thought process to a quite incredible level. This time, though, he only thought,
Oh
, and realised that he didn’t really care all that much. He could feel his responsibilities, the love of others towards him, the unfulfilled possibilities; they were like a child’s hand trying to pull him up, doing its best but simply not strong enough for the job. Above all, there was no blame.
I tried to climb a wall, but I couldn’t, and there it is
.

Then his left index fingertip lodged in a groove, and the other fingers found it, and he clenched his hand – he could feel the damage to the overstrained tendons, but no pain – and a strength that was nothing to do with him hauled him up, so that he was able to lift his knee and paw at the wall for a foothold, which he found; and not long after that he was lying on his stomach on the top of the battlement, shifting his weight to topple him forward on to the wet stone slabs of the turret floor. He lay in a heap for a moment, wondering,
What was all that about
? but he couldn’t make sense of it. He’d been closer to death than at any time since the War, and now he was safe, and he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what had happened in between.

Not to worry; he was here now, the place he’d expended so much energy and suffered so much damage to achieve. For a brief, panic-stricken moment he couldn’t remember why he’d wanted to get there; then he remembered. From the turret, maybe he could get on to the battlement, into the opposite turret, and down an unguarded staircase into the world.

Not quite that simple. The turret, as he’d feared, proved to be entirely ornamental; there was no trapdoor and no access to the battlement, just a leaded roof on a slight slope, surrounded by fatuous crenellations. He looked down at the stretch of battlement linking this turret with its neighbour; directly under it was the gate, and set above the gate, he suddenly remembered, was a clock. And the truth about clocks, he thought happily, is that they have to be wound; and since only fools and desperate men go in for unnecessary athletics, there was bound to be an easy way up to the clock, on the inner side of the wall. It was far too dark to see it from where he was, and maybe he was wrong, and the lay brothers of the Guild wound the stupid thing once a week using a very long ladder, but what the hell. If millions of people across the West could believe that the sun was a god, there was absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t believe in the existence of a clock-winder’s staircase. Faith, he told himself. Confident hope of a miracle.

There was no way he’d be able to climb down the side of the turret, but it wasn’t that much of a drop. The trick would be landing on a relatively narrow wall that he couldn’t actually see very clearly (and slippery, because of the rain). He grinned. A sane man would stay where he was, and as soon as the sun rose and people started moving about down below, would start yelling for help. Then men would come with ladders and get him down, by which time he’d have had a chance to think up some kind of story to account for how he’d got there. That’s what a sane man would do, oh yes. He wouldn’t scramble up on to the battlement, take his best guess and voluntarily jump …

For God’s sake, Suidas
, his few remaining friends had been known to say to him,
why do you insist on wearing those big clumping army boots? They make you look like a farmer
. Because, he’d never replied, my feet are used to them, when I’m wearing them I know exactly what I can and can’t get away with; so, if at any point I’m called on to climb a sheer face or jump ten feet off a tower on to a narrow wall, say, I’ll have the best possible chance. As it happened, he landed just right, his knees folding up to absorb the shock of landing, leaving him squatting on top of the wall like a cat on a fence. He was amazed, and wonderfully relieved.

And because he’d had faith, there was a platform sticking out of the wall directly behind the clock, with a roof, with guttering; he hopped off the wall, slid down the roof, grabbed the guttering and swung himself on to the platform, as if it was a form he’d practised a hundred times in the salle d’armes. And there was a narrow staircase, with a handrail. Faith, you see. For two pins he’d have bowed three times to the Invincible Sun, except that it was well after sunset.

He scampered down the stairs with his hands in his pockets. He felt absurdly cheerful, as if he’d been proved right about something that mattered. On the far side of the courtyard, he could see yellow squares of light; the reception, of course. He smiled. Right now, he thought, I could murder a stiff drink. But I don’t do that any more, he quickly reassured himself. He brushed the dust and grime off his knees and sleeves, instinctively felt for the hilt of his messer and remembered, no, I left it behind, on purpose; then he walked across the yard and walked up the steps that led to the great hall.

There was a guard on the door. “It’s all right,” Suidas said, “I’m one of the fencers.”

The guard looked at him. “Well, you would be. Fencers’ Guild. Invitation.”

“I haven’t got one.”

“Then you can’t go in.”

Suidas sighed. “They’re expecting me. I’m one of the guests. The Scherian fencing team.”

“Is that right.” The guard seemed very interested in the backs of his hands, which were bloody and raw. He couldn’t remember damaging them, but he’d had other preoccupations.

“Look,” Suidas said. “Get Phrantzes, or Tzimisces. They’ll vouch for me. I’ll wait here, all right?”

“Who?”

“Fine. Why don’t I talk to your superior officer?”

That, it turned out, could be arranged, but it took a certain amount of time, which Suidas spent locked in a charcoal cellar. Then, eventually, the door opened and Phrantzes stood in the doorway staring at him. “Where have you been? We’ve been so worried.”

Suidas grinned. “I must’ve taken a wrong turning somewhere. I got lost. I’ve been wandering around this place for hours.”

“What happened to your hands?”

“Slipped and fell over in the dark, would you believe. Look, can you please tell them who I am and get me out of here? It’s filthy dirty, and I don’t have a change of clothes.”

Halfway across the yard, flanked by soldiers with halberds, Phrantzes said, “And you’re sopping wet.”

“It’s raining.”

“So what were you doing out of doors?”

“I told you, I got lost. This place is the size of a small town.”

Phrantzes gave him a sad look. “Have you been drinking?” he asked.

Suidas laughed. “No, of course not. Smell my breath if you want.”

“No, that’s fine, I believe you.” Phrantzes stopped dead. “Suidas, you haven’t done anything stupid, have you?”

“More times than you could possibly imagine.” Suidas grinned. “But not recently. At least, I don’t think so. Why? What am I supposed to have done?”

“We’ve been looking for you. You didn’t come down to the reception with the others.”

“That’s it? That’s my crime against humanity?” Suidas started to walk towards the steps. “Pull yourself together, will you? A man can go for a walk if he likes, even in bloody Permia.”

For as long as he could remember, Giraut had been trapped in a corner, talking to a tall, bald man and his spherical wife about gardening. He knew nothing at all about gardening and cared less, and he wasn’t entirely sure who these people were; they’d told him, but his mind had shed practically everything they’d said to him, the way a sheep’s fleece sheds rainwater. He had an idea they were something vaguely important, so he couldn’t just say, “Excuse me,” and walk away. He wished very much that he’d paid a little more attention when his cousin from the country had bored him half to death talking about roses; but he hadn’t, and it was far too late now.

Then, like the Invincible Sun bursting through clouds, Tzimisces appeared and grabbed him by the elbow. “Giraut,” he said, “there’s someone I want you to meet. Minister, you’ll excuse us, I’m sure.”

As simple as that: the siege was relieved. “Who was that?” Giraut whispered, as Tzimisces towed him across the room.

“Didn’t he say? That was Minister Balouche. You’ve been talking to the fourth most important man in Permia. Minister of Production. Why, what did he tell you?”

“A lot of stuff about ericaceous compost,” Giraut replied. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t taking notes or anything.”

Tzimisces laughed. “Come over here and look pretty for the war minister’s wife,” he said. “She likes beautiful young men half her age, and you’re the closest thing we’ve got. And I gather you’re good at chatting up inappropriate women.”

Giraut reckoned he deserved that. “I thought the government people weren’t arriving till tomorrow.”

“Change of plan. We got fed the official misinformation, same as everyone else. That’s her, the woman over there who looks like a hawk.” He gave Giraut a shove that nearly toppled him off his feet. “For Scheria,” he said, and disappeared.

The woman turned on him and smiled, showing all her teeth. “Who are you?” she said.

Giraut told her. “I’m not really interested in fencing,” she said. “Tell me, which one’s the Carnufex boy? I’d quite like to meet
him
.”

Giraut looked round, and caught sight of the back of Addo’s head. “I’ll introduce you,” he said.

The short, elderly man Addo was talking to proved to be the woman’s husband. Giraut made good his escape, quickly looked round to see if he was being pursued, then fell back in good order on the table with the food on it. There he found Iseutz, radiating a barrier of unfriendliness he could feel from five yards away. She relaxed it just long enough for him to approach.

“Have you seen Suidas?” she said.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “He came in with Phrantzes, just a moment ago. Why?”

“They’ve been looking for him. I don’t know why.”

“Well, they found him.” Giraut looked at the food and realised he wasn’t hungry. “I noticed his hands,” he said, “they were a real mess. Like he’d been fighting or something.”

Iseutz’s eyes opened wide. “Do you think he tried to make a run for it?”

Giraut shrugged. “No idea. I wouldn’t have thought so. I mean, this place must be harder to get out of than a prison. If he wanted to run away, he’s had plenty of better chances.”

She took a bread roll off the plate, picked at it and put it back. “You know earlier, in the coach. That stupid book Addo was reading.”

“The military commentary.”

“Did you happen to notice how nervous Phrantzes was acting? Something was really bothering him.”

Giraut wasn’t sure what to say. “I thought I was just imagining it.”

“So you saw it too.”

“And I think, on balance, I was right. Probably he was just fed up from sitting still for so long.”

“No.” Her eyes were shining. “I saw it too. He was definitely worried about something.”

Giraut let out a rather overdone sigh. “Do you spend your whole time watching the rest of us? I wouldn’t have thought we were that interesting.”

“You’re useless,” she snapped, so fiercely that he took a step backwards. “We’ve been dragged here and dumped in the middle of some stupid, horrible thing, and you’re just letting it happen to you. I can’t understand how anyone could think like that. For God’s sake, Giraut, there’s dead bodies lying about in the streets. Don’t you take anything seriously?”

“All right, there’s dead bodies,” Giraut replied, before he could stop himself. “But that’s their problem, not ours. We aren’t responsible, and there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s not our country. And …”

He’d stopped just in time. Well, maybe not. She gave him a cold stare. “And what?”

Well, if he didn’t say it, she’d say it for him. “And they’re the enemy. If they want to slaughter each other, let them.” He waited for a moment, but she didn’t say anything. “So? You can’t pretend the War never happened. And if they’re killing each other, they’re not killing us.”

Iseutz turned away, and Giraut got the distinct feeling that he didn’t exist. He felt profoundly tired, as though he’d been carrying a heavy weight all day and nobody seemed prepared to take it from him. “Look,” he said to the back of Iseutz’s head, “I don’t hate the Permians. They’re weird, and how they can eat what they cook I’ll never know, but they’re just people. But their politics is nothing to do with me. I don’t want to be here and I don’t want to get involved. I’d have thought you could understand that.”

She turned round so fast she nearly crashed into him. “Giraut, you clown,” she said, “don’t you get it? Something is going on, and we’re right in the middle of it. Tzimisces always disappearing. That man getting murdered. Everywhere we go, there’s trouble. It’s something to do with the War, and people wanting another one, and they’re
using
us. A fencing tour, for crying out loud; we were supposed to be here making things
better
, and now there’s dead people in the streets and soldiers everywhere, and I don’t
understand
…”