Sharps (6 page)

She meant it, he thought. Just for a moment, he contemplated using the rapier to force an exit, and running away. Wiser counsels prevailed. Only an idiot would consider fighting his way out of the Fencers’ Guild, and besides, where would he go?

He resisted the temptation, which in spite of everything was quite strong, to draw the blade and examine it. Instead, he picked up his clothes and folded them neatly, then sat on the mattress and waited for something to happen. Nothing did, for a very long time. He really wished he had something to read, even if it was only the Hymnal.

Quite some time later, a different young man in the same livery turned up and led him back the way he’d come, down two flights of stairs on to a broad marble landing. The young man held a tall panelled door open for him, and he went in.

The room he found himself in was probably the most beautiful interior he’d ever seen. He guessed it had once been a chapel; the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with religious frescoes – the usual subjects: the Sun in glory, the apotheosis of Man, the Reckoning, the Second Partitionist Council; he could probably have named the artists if he’d been able to concentrate, but at the time it didn’t seem to matter. The ceiling was mosaic on a gold background, the implacably perfect face of the Invincible Sun looking past him at something more interesting. There were five tall, wide windows, curtained in purple brocade embroidered with heraldic motifs. On the polished oak floor lay Mezentine and Eastern Empire carpets, which he couldn’t quite bring himself to step on; any one of them was worth a decent hill farm, including the stock and barn contents. There were also four chairs, with impossibly thin legs and rails, gilded and upholstered in red silk. One was empty. On the other three sat two men and a girl, none of whom he’d ever seen before.

There was a man of about thirty; a touch above average height, deep-chested, his fine fair hair touching his shoulders, just starting to thin on top, a square, good-looking face and a weak chin. A broad shiny scar stretched an inch inwards from the web between his thumb and forefinger. There was a tall, thin young man, about Giraut’s age, who sat looking down at his hands. He was dark, with a narrow face, a very long, straight nose and big ears. He looked up as Giraut came in, smiled, then looked away. The girl was probably the tallest of the three, long in the body, broad-shouldered, with a sharp, plain face and short sandy hair pulled back behind her ears. She was wearing a man’s riding jacket, a little too small for her; her thin wrists stuck out from the sleeves and her hands were big and long-fingered. She scowled at him as though a great many things were his fault, then folded her arms tightly and looked at a curtained window.

The older man stood up slowly, as though his legs were stiff from a long ride. “Presumably you’re Giraut Bryennius,” he said. He had a slight accent that came through on the long vowels, like copper shining through worn silver plating.

Giraut nodded. “Is this the fencing team?”

The older man grinned. “That’s us. I’m Suidas Deutzel, the lady is Iseutz Bringas, and that over there is the honourable Adulescentulus Carnufex.”

The tall young man mumbled, “Addo, please,” then looked away again. He was beautifully dressed in grey velvet, with a mark on the left lapel where he’d recently spilled something.

“Sit down,” Suidas said, and pointed to the empty chair; maybe he thought he was training a dog, Giraut thought. He sat down and waited. Suidas frowned, then went on, “Do you know about all this stuff?”

Not the easiest question to answer. “We’re a national fencing team, and we’re going to tour Permia,” he said. “That’s about it.”

Suidas nodded. “That’s more or less all we know,” he said. “Apart from, I don’t know about you, but we aren’t exactly volunteers. How about you?”

Giraut looked at him. He’d heard the name, of course, but had never seen him fence. Deutzel was a Western Empire name, but the accent was all City. He looked about as trustworthy as a rope bridge, though Giraut didn’t feel inclined to hold it against him, under the circumstances.

“I was encouraged to join,” he said.

“He killed a senator,” the girl said. She had a low but perfectly clear voice. “Isn’t that right?”

Giraut opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to make a noise.

“So presumably,” the girl went on, “it was this or the rope. Remains to be seen if you made the right choice.”

Suidas looked blank, then carried on as though he hadn’t heard her. “I’m team captain, for my sins. I don’t actually know what you’re fencing. Are you sword and buckler?”

Giraut shook his head. “Rapier.”

“Oh. That’s two rapiers, longsword and ladies’ smallsword.” He shrugged. “Any good?”

Giraut thought for a moment. “Yes,” he said. “Better than I thought I was, anyhow.”

“Else he wouldn’t be here,” the girl said.

She was getting on Suidas’ nerves, he could tell. “I don’t seem to remember seeing your name in competitions.”

“I’ve never entered,” Giraut replied. “My father wouldn’t let me, said it’d distract me from my studies.”

“So you haven’t got any real experience at competition level?”

“No.”

“Right.” Suidas nodded. “It just gets better and better. Never mind.” He noticed that he was standing up, seemed to realise there was no need for him to do so, and sat down. “Is what she said true?”

“Yes,” the girl called out.

Giraut nodded. “It was sort of self-defence,” he added.

“Sort of,” Suidas repeated. “Well, that’s none of my business. Our business,” he amended firmly. “Apparently someone’s going to come along at some point and tell us something. They can’t be in any desperate hurry, because we’ve been here for a very long time.” He looked up at the ceiling, frowned, and went on, “I guess, since we’re going to be teammates, we really ought to make some sort of effort to talk to each other.”

“Why?” the girl said loudly.

Suidas pulled a face. “I know she comes across as annoying to begin with,” he said. “But once you’ve got to know her a bit better, you’ll find it makes no difference whatsoever. I’ll start, then. I’m Suidas Deutzel, I’m thirty years old—”

“We all know who you are,” the girl snapped.

“Fine.” Suidas turned round slowly. “You next, then.”

“Go to hell,” the girl said.

“Thank you, that was really helpful. You?” He looked at the thin young man, and Giraut noticed that he was making an effort not to scowl. “Well, come on, then.”

The thin young man started to stand up, then thought better of it. “I’m Addo,” he said. “My father—”

“We know about him,” Suidas interrupted.

“Yes, of course. Well, I’m twenty-four, I’ve got two brothers, older than me, and there was another one who died in the War. Apparently I’m going to be fencing longsword, though I’m really not that good. My brother Stellecho—”

“Has it occurred to anybody to wonder,” the girl said, talking through him like a needle through cloth, “why they’re sending the Irrigator’s son to Permia on a
goodwill
mission? Either it’s some kind of a joke, or what they really want to do is start another war.”

Addo went bright red and turned away. Suidas scowled, and said nothing. There was a long, painful silence, which gave every indication of lasting for ever and ever. Then the girl said, “Well, I think it’s strange, anyhow. And the rest of you aren’t exactly the brightest and the best. A murderer and a drunk—”

“And you,” Suidas said. “Quite. I can tell we’re all going to get along just fine. Maybe we should just sit here quietly till someone comes.”

“You please yourself,” the girl snapped, and took out a book. Giraut noticed she held it almost at arm’s length. Suidas sighed, lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. Addo had his back to them all. Giraut placed his hands on his knees and tried hard to look at the artwork on the walls, but his mind slid off it like smooth-soled shoes on ice.

An infinite time later, the door opened. A bald, bearded man in some kind of robe or habit came in, looked at the four of them and (Giraut distinctly saw his face change) palpably wilted. But he was evidently a determined man. He cleared his throat, smiled and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the Fencers’ Guild.”

Suidas clearly knew him. Addo probably knew him by sight. The Bringas girl ignored him completely. He took a couple of steps forward and realised there wasn’t a chair for him. At once, Addo jumped up and went and stood against the wall. The newcomer hesitated, then took the chair and moved it a little so he was a few feet away and facing them. One of nature’s lecturers, Giraut concluded.

“My name,” the newcomer said, “is Jifrez Bardanes, I’m the chairman of the Guild. Some of you know me already, of course.” He avoided Suidas’ eye as neatly as a dancer. “First, I’d like to thank you on behalf of the Guild and, indeed, the Republic for your participation in this project.” He kept a straight face as he said that; Giraut’s respect for him increased dramatically. “The importance of the job you’re about to do can’t be overemphasised. It’s really no exaggeration to say that the future of the peace rests in your hands. It matters that much.”

It was, of course, precisely the wrong thing to say. Suidas frowned terribly at the ceiling, Addo went ghastly white, and the Bringas girl turned a page. Giraut was doing his best to stay perfectly still.

“I’d hoped to be able to introduce you to your coach and team manager,” the chairman went on. “Unfortunately, that’s not possible right now, so for the time being you’ll have to make do with me. Now, I’m sure you have questions. I’ll do my best to answer them for you.”

He stopped and looked round. There could never have been such a silence since the beginning of the world.

Phrantzes came home from work to find a Watch captain sitting in his favourite chair, and two armed guardsmen standing behind it. The captain didn’t get up. Sphagia was nowhere to be seen.

“Jilem Phrantzes?”

“That’s me, yes.”

“You’re under arrest.” The captain lifted a finger, and the two guardsmen moved forward, like chess pieces, and stood level with Phrantzes’ shoulders.

“I beg your pardon?”

“As a citizen,” the captain recited, looking over Phrantzes’ shoulder, “you have the right to appeal to the Praetor. Should your appeal not be heard within thirty days, you have the right to apply to the City Prefect. You are obliged to answer any questions I may put to you truthfully, and failure to do so will lead to a prosecution for obstructing justice. Do you understand?”

Phrantzes stared at him. “What am I supposed to have done?”

The captain nodded, as if he’d just been given his cue. “Possession of obscene literature, contrary to the Sexual Offences and Blasphemy Act,
AUC
1471.” He reached behind him and produced a book. It was the one Corbulo had given him as a wedding present.

“That?” Phrantzes said.

“A proscribed text, according to the seventh schedule to the Act.” The captain’s face was completely blank. If he hadn’t known better, Phrantzes would have sworn he was trying not to laugh.

“But everybody’s got a—” Phrantzes stopped short. “It’s not mine,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before. It must belong to one of the servants.”

The captain gave him a mildly disapproving look. “We have detained your domestic staff for questioning,” he said, “and also your wife.” He paused, to let that sink in, and went on, “I do hope you’ll co-operate fully with our investigations.”

It was a long time – not since the War, in fact – since Phrantzes had felt real fear. He recognised it straight away. He knew it would make his voice higher, and he’d probably start sweating; the symptoms were like a mild fever, only wildly accelerated. He’d have no chance of lying convincingly. “It’s mine,” he said.

The captain nodded again. “Of course it is,” he said. “Your business partner gave it to you as a wedding gift. He inscribed the flyleaf. I must ask you to accompany me to the Watch house, where you will be formally charged.”

They put him in a closed carriage, and nobody spoke. At the Watch house (he didn’t actually know where it was; ridiculous, he’d lived all his life in the City) he was politely but ruthlessly searched. They confiscated his tiny ivory-handled penknife and led him down a flight of stone stairs to a long corridor of cells. He could hear someone, presumably a prisoner, banging on a door. Nobody else seemed to have noticed. They put him in a tiny white box with a stone ledge and no window, and left him there.

It was bitterly cold in the cell. No doubt that was what made him shiver, though it was hard to see how it could have accounted for the sweating.

He was sitting on the ledge when a different captain opened the door and told him to follow. Back into the corridor, escorted by the captain and three guards; up four flights, along a lowceilinged passageway, and through a door.

The room was as white as his cell, no window, a table and two chairs. In one chair sat an old man in a monk’s habit. He was reading a book, using a powerful glass. He looked up, smiled, and thanked the captain politely, as though he was a waiter. The captain went out, closing the door behind him.

“Jilem Phrantzes,” the old man said. “Do please sit down. Forgive me for not getting up, but these days my knees don’t work terribly well. My name is Symbatus, I’m the Abbot of Monsacer.”

Phrantzes hesitated for a moment. The man was old and feeble and they were alone; for a split second he considered grabbing the old fool in a stranglehold and using him as a human shield as he made his escape. Too ridiculous for words. He sat down.

“You’ve got me rather than a secular magistrate because technically, sexual offences and blasphemy is an ecclesiastical jurisdiction,” the abbot said. “Of course, under ordinary circumstances we delegate our authority to the secular power. Did they keep you waiting long?”

“I don’t know,” Phrantzes said truthfully.

The abbot nodded. “My fault,” he said. “They sent a carriage for me, but I move frightfully slowly these days. All those stairs.” He pulled a face. “But I’m here now, and so are you. I expect you’re wondering what on earth is going on.”

“Yes.”