The Two of Swords: Part 9 (3 page)

“Everyone knows I don’t eat apples.”

“That’s you all over. Self-centred as a drill-bit.”

He pulled on his boots. She noticed that they were new since she’d seen him last; the finest quality calf, decorated with seedpearls and little gold stars. “However much do you spend on clothes?”

“People expect it of me.”

“I don’t think I could ever respect a man who spends more on clothes than I do. And wears more make-up.”

“How would it be if you stopped talking for a while? Just to see if you can.”

She drank all the water in the bedside jug— “Hey, I was going to shave in that”; she gave him a pretty smile. “I’ll shave you if you like,” she said. “I’m good with blades.”

“Not likely. Dry shaving gives me a rash.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

He sent for the spinet and she enjoyed herself tremendously breaking up the thin boards and pulling apart the exquisitely glued joints without making any noise at all. “I can’t lug all that down to the garderobe,” he said, pointing to the pile of wrecked timber. “I’d need a wheelbarrow.”

“Fine. Get a fire lit.”

“This time of year?”

“You’re an eccentric genius. You can have a fire if you want.”

He growled and knelt down by the hearth. “Won’t it look just a little bit strange,” he said, “a grate full of ash, and yet nobody delivered any fuel to this room?”

“You’ve always got to make difficulties, haven’t you?”

“You mean, I think things through before plunging in.”

She clicked her tongue. “Get it lit.”

“Tinder’s damp.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake. Give it here.”

The thin sycamore board burned very well indeed, but the ivory keys just charred and made a horrible smell. She scooped them out of the grate with the tongs and put them in the small velvet bag he kept his razor and toothpicks in. “Sling that down the garderobe on your way out,” she said. “Is it my imagination or is it hot in here?”

He was wet with sweat, and there was no water left to wash in. She could see how distressed being sweaty made him feel, and she tried to remember if she’d ever seen him with dirty hands or mud on his trousers. “If it matters that much to you, I’ll give you two thousand angels,” she said. “Just so long as you stop looking so miserable.”

He looked at her as though she’d just poked him with a stick. “You haven’t got that sort of money.”

“As a matter of fact I have.” She hadn’t meant to tell him that. It was something nobody knew. “Some of us save, you know, for our old age. We don’t spend it all on poncy boots.”

Something told her he wasn’t going to forgive her that easily, and she was right. “You seem to think you’re going to have an old age,” he said. “I wouldn’t bet on it, the way you go on.”

It was just fencing, but it stopped her short, like the botched parry that sticks your opponent’s unpadded leg. “I got caught. No matter. I was dealing with it. I could’ve managed without you.”

“No doubt.”

She looked at him curiously, as if a favourite book had just grown an extra chapter. “Did you really come here to rescue me?”

He rolled his eyes, but he was acting. “I told you so, didn’t I? Though, actually, I happened to be in the neighbourhood. I didn’t come all this way
specially
.”

“I didn’t think you did,” she said quietly, “there wouldn’t have been time for you to get here. But you made a detour. You went out of your way, a bit.” She paused, then added, “You inconvenienced yourself. Just to save me.”

He looked – what? Scared? “Forget about it, all right? It was just, you know. Fellow craftsmen—”

“Of course.”

Which, she reflected, was probably true, up to a point. The prison chaplain had risked his life and his career for her, a perfect stranger, for that one all-compelling reason; he’d been miserable and resentful as hell about it, but he did it, because not doing it would’ve been unthinkable. But there’s a fine line, thin as gossamer and just as strong. You save a fellow craftsman if asked to do so; you can’t refuse. But she hadn’t asked, had she? If she’d smuggled out a message to him to come at once, he’d have been obligated. But she hadn’t even known he was in the area.

“Right,” he said. “Get in the box.”

She looked at it, and it occurred to her that maybe the plan wasn’t going to work after all. The spinet had proved to be rather more compact than she’d remembered; also squarer, not as long. I’m not going to be able to get in that, she told herself; and we’ll have burned his beautiful spinet, all for nothing.

“Come on,” he said. Then he looked at her. “Don’t tell me,” he said. “You have problems with confined spaces.”

“No.”

“Yes, you do, I can see it in your eyes. For God’s sake, woman, it was your idea.”

“I don’t have a problem. It’s just, the box isn’t as big as I thought it’d be.”

“It’s plenty big enough. You’ll just have to cuddle up a bit, that’s all.”

Getting in the box wasn’t the hardest thing she’d ever done, not by a deplorably long way. But when the lid went on she couldn’t help it; she kicked and punched at it and knocked it out of his hands. “You idiot,” he said, and she saw that the flying lid had hit him in the face; he’d have a fat lip for a day or so, disastrous for a singer with engagements lined up. “Now for God’s sake keep still. It’s all right, really. You’ll be fine.”

She tried, really hard, but her best proved to be not good enough. This time, at least he managed to avoid getting hurt.

“All right,” he said wearily, “we’ll just have to think of something else. Get up.”

She climbed out of the box, feeling deeply ashamed. And then he punched her, and she went straight to sleep.

She woke up in a coach. It took her a split second to figure out how she’d got there, and then she was furiously angry. “You hit me,” she said, without even looking to see if he was there.

He looked up from his book and marked the place with a feather. “You wouldn’t go in the box.”

“You
hit
me.” She realised her voice sounded funny. She felt her lip. It was
huge
.

“Me too,” he said, pointing to his face. True, his mouth was a little bit swollen as well. “It’s all right for you. How I’m going to sing tomorrow night in this condition I have no idea.”

“The way you sing, who’ll notice?”

He did his pained expression, which was as irritating as ever. “You wanted me to rescue you,” he said.

“I did
not
. For your information, I got out of the cell, I got past the guards and up on to the roof. I was doing just fine.”

“Indeed.” He sighed. “I shall just have to stick to instrumental stuff and hum. They won’t like it. I’m supposed to be entertaining the troops.”

She rubbed her jaw. It was aching. She hadn’t realised he could punch so well. “What are you reading?”

He showed her the spine of the book. “Saloninus on human frailty.”

Saloninus. She’d always assumed the books he read were mostly pictures. “You didn’t have to hit me.”

“Yes I did. You were kicking and thrashing about like a gaffed shark. You could’ve broken the box.”

Through the window she could see flat salt marsh. Nowhere she recognised. “You could’ve got a rope and lowered me down off the wall.”

“So I could,” he said sourly. “I’ll remember that for next time.” He put the book in the pocket of his coat. “You do realise, you haven’t once thanked me. That’s a bit—”

“Thank you? For what?”

“For saving a damsel in distress, you stupid cow.” He closed his eyes and leaned back against the seat cushions. “We’ll be at the border in an hour or so,” he said. “You’ll have to hide under the seat. I’ll throw my rug over you. They won’t search the carriage, I’ve got diplomatic status.”

A map floated into her mind. “What border? Aren’t we headed for the coast?”

“Alas, no. We’re going to Blemya. Hope that’s all right.”

“I can’t go to bloody Blemya, I’m due in Rasch the day after tomorrow.”

He shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Besides, they won’t be expecting you in Rasch. They’ll think you’re dead.”

She started violently. Of course, they would think that, wouldn’t they? Intelligence would’ve picked up the news of her condemnation, attempted escape and miserable end. Then they’d write to her sister, who’d be devastated; and the landlord of her building, who’d sell all her things to cover the back rent and then relet her room; and the abbot, who’d grieve terribly for her and pray for her soul—

“How could you?” she said furiously. “How could anyone be so inconsiderate?”

He was frowning, genuinely mystified. “Oh, forget it,” she said. “But as soon as we reach the border, you’ve got to write and say I’m not dead. It’s vitally important.”

He gave her a puzzled look. “Tel, we’re going to
Blemya
. You haven’t forgotten what happened last time you were there? I can’t possibly write a letter naming you by name and then turn up with a female acolyte the same age, height, hair colour—”

Entirely valid point, which simply hadn’t occurred to her; she’d completely forgotten about her last visit, when she’d murdered a cabinet minister in cold blood— “Don’t be stupid,” she said. “Your letters are diplomatic, they wouldn’t dare read them.”

He shook his head. “Not exactly. I have diplomatic
status
, but that’s a courtesy thing, I’m not accredited or anything. Besides, what makes you think they don’t read all the genuine diplomatic mail?”

She slumped back into her seat and rubbed her throbbing jaw. All her possessions, her books, everything, dispersed to the four winds; and her sister, crying her eyes out. And she hated being called Tel. “All right,” she said. “How long are you staying for?”

“A month. Two at the most.”

“Two
months
? Oh, for—”

“I didn’t actually plan this to be difficult for you,” he said. “I thought I was saving your life.”

In the back of her mind she was doing geography. Assuming he’d come from Rasch or Choris, heading for Blemya – however you planned the route, it was still considerably more than a minor detour. If he’d heard of her arrest as soon as he’d landed and set off straight away; even so, he must’ve driven most of a day and through the night, on bad roads, in this rattletrap coach. More than just trivial inconvenience. “I suppose I could get a boat from Tryphola.”

“With no papers? Please don’t. I have some influence in Blemya, but I’d rather not have to fritter it away on rescuing you
again
.”

He was right, it was a stupid idea. “Fine,” she said. “So, what am I?”

He grinned at her. “I suppose mistress is out of the question?”

“Social secretary,” she said. “Or accompanist. I can play the flute.”

“I’ve heard you. No thanks. I’ll just have to say
she’s with me
and let them draw their own conclusions.”

He’d heard her? When? She’d played in Temple a few times, that was all. “Do what you like. I’ll try my best not to get under your feet.”

“Oh, come on.” He scowled at her, then grinned. “Don’t be like that. Think about it. A month in Blemya, with tolerably good food, clean sheets and nothing to do but relax. When did you last have any time off? Well?”

“I don’t like time off. I get bored.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He turned his head and looked out of the window. If they were headed for Blemya, those must be the famous Aldocine Marshes. They looked grey and flat. “You can’t keep on like this, straight from one gruelling job to another, you must be mentally and physically exhausted. Quite apart from anything else, that’s how mistakes get made.”

The coach passed over a rut; she felt like she’d been kicked. “So you’re saying what happened back there was my fault? I screwed up, because I’m tired.”

“No, of course not, it wasn’t your fault.” He sounded convincingly certain of that, and she wondered how he came to know operational details of something he’d had nothing to do with. “No, you handled it perfectly well, it was just rotten bad luck. But that’s not the point. You need a rest. And now you’re going to get one.”

“Boring,” she said. “And boredom makes me incredibly stressed. Give it two days and I’ll be sharpening my claws on the furniture.”

“I think anybody who knows you is used to that.”

Just for a moment, she could think of nothing to say.

Oida managed to sing, in spite of his fat lip, and she heard the cheering from the balcony of her room. She had decided not to go – too many people, some of them quite possibly government officials who might’ve been in the capital when she was last in Blemya; a good excuse for not watching him being worshipped by six thousand devoted followers. Remarkable, she mused, how often there’s a good reason that masks the real reason. Very good-natured of Providence to arrange it that way.

She was asleep in her chair when he knocked on her door. She considered not hearing him, but that would only make him knock louder.

“What are you reading?” he asked, as she poured him tea.

“Your Saloninus,” she replied. “I nipped down and borrowed it from you.”

His door had been locked, with a guard outside, but his window overlooked the square, same as hers. He raised an eyebrow. “On the balance of probabilities I’d say he makes out his case. But some of the arguments strike me as a bit woolly.”

She’d read three chapters and fallen asleep; and she hadn’t exactly had a tiring day. “How did it go?”

“What? Oh, the show. All right, I suppose. Actually, I’m not sure the injury doesn’t help a bit, in the lower register.”

“Splendid. Next time you do a concert, ask me nicely and I’ll hit you. I expect you’re worn out after all that singing.”

“Not really, no.” He swilled the dregs round in his tea bowl. “Matter of fact, performing makes me all bouncy and full of energy. It’s the morning after when I feel like death.” He leaned forward and picked the book up off the floor, marked the place with the feather, closed it and put it on the table. “You know I told you we’d be here about a month.”

“Two at the outside, yes.”

He pursed his lips. “Well,” he said, “it’s possible there may be a slight change of plan. Apparently, the queen would like me to sing for her. I met some big-nose from the Chamberlain’s department. Apparently, soon as they heard in the capital that I was coming, she sent for me. Rather flattering, actually, I’d sort of got the impression I wasn’t highbrow enough for her.”