Sharps (43 page)

“Oh.” The chieftain looked mildly confused. “Well, I’ll bear that in mind. What can we do for the Invincible Sun?”

Perceptuus shifted a little in his seat: a plain wooden stool with a single narrow upright bar for a back, but remarkably comfortable. “I understand that your current contract with the Permian government is about to expire.”

“In six weeks, yes.”

“We were wondering …” A man appeared at Perceptuus’ elbow. He held a brass tray, on which stood a cup, containing wine. It was made from a man’s skull, with the apertures filled in with silver and niello.

“My predecessor,” the chieftain said. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”

Perceptuus lifted it gingerly off the tray and held it up, taking care not to spill any wine. “You know, I’ve heard about these,” he said, “but I’ve never actually seen one. How do they do the silver infill without charring the bone, I wonder.” He rotated it in his hands. “Beautiful filigree work,” he said. “You must excuse me, I used to collect fine silver.”

“Keep it,” the chieftain said, “please. You were about to say what you wanted.”

Perceptuus took a sip of the wine. It was delightful. “Would you consider coming to work for us?” he said. “Once your term with the Permians is over.”

The chieftain frowned. “I thought you said you weren’t the government.”

“We aren’t.”

“I see. And what would the Invincible Sun want with a mercenary army?”

Perceptuus finished his wine and took a moment to savour the aftertaste; dry, and with a hint of apples. “To protect our interests,” he said. “We have substantial holdings of land, much of it close to the border with the Demilitarised Zone. We also have long-standing claims within the Zone, although of course we haven’t been able to pursue them because of the war. Now, however, with mounting unrest in Permia and the possibility that the current regime may fall and the country might slide into chaos, we have to consider the risk to our tenants.” He ran the tip of his forefinger over the embossed acanthus- and scroll-work around the rim of the cup. Exquisite. “From bandits,” he went on, “wandering gangs, demobilised army units. You know the sort of thing that happens when a regime collapses suddenly.”

The chieftain nodded. “Won’t your government deal with all that?” he said. “That’s what they’re for, surely.”

“Of course,” Perceptuus said, “in theory. But the Bank may well have other priorities, and other calls on its resources. We like to take care of the people who depend on us. And, fortunately, we can afford it.”

“I admit, I was wondering about that,” the chieftain said. “To put it crudely, we aren’t cheap.”

Perceptuus put the cup down on the ground. “Our Order’s resources in Scheria are limited, naturally,” he said. “But we’ve discussed the situation with our brothers in the Western Empire, and any agreement you and I may make will be guaranteed unconditionally by the Studium; which means, in effect, by the Empire. So really, money isn’t an issue.”

The chieftain smiled. “You must excuse me,” he said. “I’m only a simple shepherd, so I don’t pretend to any understanding of international politics. Even so, I feel sure that for the established church of the Western Empire to underwrite the activities of a schismatic branch in a country still officially classed as in rebellion against the Empire, there must be something quite complicated going on, which no doubt you really wouldn’t want to discuss with strangers.” He lifted his hands and fluttered his fingers slightly; presumably that meant something, but Perceptuus had no idea what it might be. “You in turn must appreciate that the Aram no Vei have always maintained a strict policy of neutrality towards both empires, just as we are officially neutral as regards Scheria and Permia. Our presence here is a purely commercial arrangement. It doesn’t represent public policy in any way. I would be grossly exceeding my mandate if I did anything that might be construed as breaching that neutrality.” He turned the ring on his finger until the stone was underneath, and closed his fist around it. “In the circumstances, I think I’ll have to refer your proposal to my superiors. It shouldn’t take long,” he added. “We have a fairly efficient system of communications.”

Quite, Perceptuus thought. And in Scheria, how many simple shepherds would use words like
construe
and
mandate
? “I quite understand,” he said. “But assuming they decide that there are no far-reaching diplomatic implications, do you think it’s likely that they would agree?”

“That’s not for me to say,” the chieftain replied, and Perceptuus knew that all the siege engines and battering rams in Scheria wouldn’t make a dent in that smile. “But as soon as I hear from them, I’ll let you know, obviously. Meanwhile …”

Afterwards, in the tent they’d provided for him (he’d never spent the night in a tent before; the cushions were silk, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get to sleep lying on the ground), Perceptuus composed a very brief report for Abbot Symbatus.
You were quite right
, he wrote,
they’ve had another offer, but who from and how much for I simply don’t know. I think he believed me about the Studium, but I wouldn’t put it past him to check up. What do you want me to do? When can I come home
?

He read through what he’d written, then splashed a quarter of a pint of the delightful Vesani white wine into the skull cup (there was even a dear little tulipwood box to keep it in, with hinges in the shape of leaping stags) and drank two mouthfuls. The cup he’d have to hand over to the abbey bursar when he got back, but there wouldn’t be any of the wine left, he was quite resolved on that.

You probably know more about the situation than I do
, he wrote,
but my man here believes the government will survive the crisis, assuming the trouble doesn’t spread to the capital. He says the majority of the Aram Chantat contracts expire at the same time as his, but
he can’t see the unrest lasting anything like that long. I would say he’s in a good position to judge. I gather the Aram Chantat have blanket discretion to use all necessary force. They insisted on that, apparently; otherwise they refused to get involved. I get the impression they don’t really hold with the notion of rules of engagement, which they regard as a contradiction in terms
.

He’d forgotten how strong real wine was. It was making him feel stupid. He was sure there was something else he needed to add, but he couldn’t think of anything relevant that Symbatus wouldn’t already know; assuming, of course, that the abbot was still alive. He shivered, and stood up to throw more charcoal on the brazier. If Symbatus was dead, would there be anybody back home who knew the whole of what was going on? He was inclined to doubt it; Symbatus was notorious for keeping things to himself, even in relatively trivial matters. Where something as big as this was concerned … For one thing, who was there he could safely confide in? He tried to think of anybody at all, himself included, and failed. But if Symbatus were to die partway through, with the complex mechanism he’d set up and which only he knew about still working towards its unknown ultimate objective, the result could be disastrous.

Well, he’d better still be alive, then, or we’re all screwed. He lay down on the heaped-up cushions and felt his head swim; bad idea, so he propped himself up against the tent pole. He knew he wouldn’t sleep, too much on his mind. For instance: who else was negotiating for the services of the Aram no Vei, why, and how much could they afford to pay? The Permian nobility, for example; with the Aram Chantat on their side they could overthrow the government in a matter of days. They had no money, of course, but did that matter? Once they’d got power back, they’d have the entire treasury at their disposal, not to mention the mineral futures in the DMZ. But would the Aram Chantat want payment in advance? He realised that he hadn’t asked that, and it was vitally important. Somebody else should be doing this job, he told himself, preferably someone with at least half a brain.

He sealed the letter; then he stood up, went to the tent flap, lowered himself awkwardly to his knees (he was still stiff from weeding onions) and crawled out. A guard was looking down at him, with a tolerantly neutral expression on his face. Perceptuus levered himself upright and smiled at him.

“I need to …” He stopped; exactly how do you do
I need to shit
in sign language? But the guard gave him an understanding smile and pointed to the edge of the encampment. Intelligent fellows, the Aram Chantat, he thought. Not too intelligent, let’s hope, or we’re all in trouble.

He walked about twenty yards and squatted down in what he hoped was a convincing posture. He hadn’t been waiting long when he heard a soft cough and a quiet voice saying, “If you’re not just pretending, I can come back later.”

“There you are,” Perceptuus snapped back at him. “I’ve got a letter, for Abbot Symbatus. Urgent. Can you …?”

“Sure,” the voice replied. “Leave it on the ground when you go. How are you getting on?”

“I can’t tell you that.” Melodrama; still, why not? “What’s the situation like in Beaute, do you know?”

“Under control. The fencers have moved on. Everything’s fine. You’d better get back, unless you intend to feign intense constipation for the rest of your visit.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” He hesitated. It was dark, and he didn’t actually know the man. “It is Colonel, isn’t it?”

“I can’t tell you that. Get along with you, before they send out a search party.”

Tzimisces waited half an hour before retrieving the letter and making his way slowly and steadily back to the road, where he’d left his horse hobbled by a stream. He rode through the night, and as soon as there was enough light to read by, he took the letter out of his pocket and looked at it. Sealed, of course, but there are things you can do; a thin wire, red-hot, drawn through the wax was his favourite, with a smear of bow-maker’s fish glue to put it back afterwards. He couldn’t be bothered, though; he’d been listening outside the tent during the meeting, and the old fool had got nowhere, just as he’d anticipated. He could picture the look of mild annoyance on Symbatus’ face as he read the letter (assuming Symbatus was still alive, but let’s not go there) There was, in fact, no reason why it shouldn’t be passed on and delivered; it could do no harm and make no difference.

He met the courier at the forty-seventh milestone: a tall, handsome young Imperial in a fur-lined riding coat, his teeth chattering in the comparative cold. “Take this letter to C7,” Tzimisces told him. “Extremely urgent. All necessary measures to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. Understood?”

The Imperial nodded. “One for you,” he said, and handed over a tiny square of parchment, folded over and over again to make it as small as possible.

“Thanks,” Tzimisces said.

The Imperial saluted and rode away. Tzimisces sighed as he watched him go. Suborning Imperials was ruinously expensive, at a time when money was tight; a Permian civilian would’ve done just as well and would’ve been delighted to be paid a tenth of what the Blueskin must be getting. Still, he could see the logic behind the standard operating procedure; with enemies, as with senators, always buy the best you can afford. He unfolded the letter he’d been given and frowned as he read it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” Cuniva said, for the fifth time.

Iseutz sighed. “Oh for pity’s sake. Look, why don’t we play something else?”

“No, please.” Cuniva looked troubled. “I’d like to learn, really. Could you go through it again just once more, and I promise I’ll pay attention.”

They’d been driving through the defile for nearly an hour. “All right.” Addo had come up with a new patient voice they hadn’t heard before. It was slow and soft and gentle, and Giraut wondered if it meant he was on the point of losing his temper completely. “It really is very simple. I say, ‘The minister’s cat is an
affable
cat’ – affable starts with A, all right? The person sitting next to me then says, ‘Because he’s not
angry
.’ Angry also starts with A, but it’s the opposite of affable. Well,” he added, “sort of, anyway. Then the person sitting next to him – that’d be Iseutz in this instance – says something like, ‘The minister’s cat is a
blue
cat’ – blue starts with B, you see – and then Phrantzes, who’s next to Iseutz, he says, oh I don’t know, ‘Because he’s not
brown
.’ And then you say …”

“Excuse me,” Cuniva said, deeply ashamed, “I still don’t follow. Brown isn’t the opposite of blue.”

“Yes, but if you’re brown you can’t be blue, so it counts. Like, if you’re angry you can’t be affable. So now you say something like, maybe, ‘The minister’s cat is a
cheerful
cat’ …”

“Because he’s not
cross
.” Cuniva beamed like the sunrise. “Is that all right?”

“
Yes
.” Iseutz closed her eyes for a moment. “I do believe you’ve finally got there. Right, can we get on, please? Whose go was it?”

“Suidas,” Giraut said. “On G.”

Suidas yawned. “You know what, I think I’ll just look out of the window for a bit.”

“You dare,” Iseutz snapped, and he shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “All right, the minister’s cat is a gratuitous cat.” He smiled, and said, “Your turn, Captain.”

Cuniva looked stunned. “Gratuitous.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Suidas said. “The minister’s cat is a gratuitous cat. And?”

“Because he’s not …” Cuniva twisted his face and bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t think of anything.”

“Suidas, for pity’s sake.” Iseutz glowered at him. “It’s his first time playing. Why did you have to pick such a hard one?”

“It’s perfectly fair,” Suidas replied, “within the rules of the game. Naturally, I play to win.”

“All right, then, you think of one.”

“It’s not up to me,” Suidas said smugly. “Sorry, Captain, you’re out and that’s ten points to me. So, it’s me to start again, isn’t it? The minister’s cat—”

“Quiet,” Addo said. “Listen.”

They heard it much more clearly up on the box, where the two Imperials grabbed for their shields, which they’d stowed under the luggage in the rack. The driver turned his head to see where the yelling was coming from, saw, and stared in horror, then looked back at the road just in time to pull back on the reins as they swung into the tight corner. An arrow went past his head, making that soft swish-swish sound as it spun. The Imperials looked round for their Aram Chantat escort, and noticed for the first time that they’d disappeared.