"The Proof House" - читать интересную книгу автора (Parker K. J.)

CHAPTER FOUR

There wasn’t much wrong with Sammyra that an earthquake wouldn’t fix, except for the smell. The post coach had broken a wheel on its way down the mountains, which meant it was late getting in; the connecting coach to Ap’ Calick was long gone. There would be another one through in the late afternoon. Until then, Bardas was at liberty to wander about the town and absorb its unique ambience.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Can’t I just sit here and wait?’

The posthouse keeper looked at him. ‘No,’ she said.

‘Oh.’ He looked up the street and down again. ‘Can I have a drink of water, please?’

‘There’s a well just down the road,’ the keeper replied. ‘There, on the left, by the burned-out mill.’

Bardas frowned. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but is the water here all right to drink?’

‘Well, we drink it.’

‘Thanks,’ Bardas said, ‘but I’ll see if I can find some milk or something.’

There were plenty of inns and taverns in Sammyra. There were the uptown inns, cut into the rock of Citadel Hill or amplified out of natural caves; most of them had signs by the door saying ‘No Drovers, Pedlars or Soldiers’, with a couple of large men leaning in the doorway to explain the message to any drovers, pedlars or soldiers who weren’t able to read. There were the middle-town taverns, an awning giving shade to a scattering of old men sitting on cushions on the ground, with a dark doorway behind. There were the downtown booze-wagons, drawn up in a circle on the edge of the horse-fair, with a hatch in the side into which money went and from which small earthenware jugs emerged. Bardas chose one of the middle-town awnings at random; it doubled as a knife-grinder’s booth and doctor’s surgery, and there was an old woman sitting at the back singing with her eyes shut, though Bardas didn’t know enough about Sammyran poetry and music to tell whether she was an attraction or a pest. The song was something to do with eagles, vultures and the return of spring, and a lot of it appeared to be mumbling. Bardas didn’t care for it very much. He sat down in the opposite corner; the old men stopped what they were doing, looked round to stare at him, then turned away. A very short, bald man with a long beard suddenly appeared behind his left shoulder and asked him what he wanted to drink.

‘I don’t know,’ Bardas replied. ‘What’ve you got?’

The old man frowned. ‘Echin,’ he said, as if answering a question about the colour of the sky. ‘Do you want some or not?’

Bardas nodded. ‘Go on, then,’ he said. ‘How much?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ the man said. ‘You can have a cup, a flask or a jug. You choose.’

‘Sorry,’ Bardas said. ‘I meant, how much money?’

‘What? Oh. Half-quarter a jug.’

‘I’ll have a jug, then.’

The old man went away and came back a moment later, sidestepping the shower of sparks from the grinder’s wheel and the patch of blood left behind by the doctor’s last patient. ‘Here,’ he said, presenting Bardas with the jug and a tiny wooden cup. Bardas gave him his money, half-filled the cup and sniffed it. By now he was too thirsty to care.

Echin turned out to be hot, thin, sweet and black; an infusion of herbs in boiling water, flavoured with honey, cinnamon and a little nutmeg and used to dilute a heavy raw spirit that’d undoubtedly be fatal if drunk on its own. It was dangerously good for the thirst. Bardas nibbled down a cupful of the stuff and settled down to wait till his head stopped spinning. The old woman stopped singing. Nobody moved or said anything. She started again. It sounded like the same song, but Bardas couldn’t be sure about that.

Some time later a large party of men appeared and sat down in a big circle in the middle of the tent. They were noisy and cheerful, ranging in age from seventeen to about sixty; not Sons of Heaven but not dissimilar either; clean-shaven, with very long hair plaited into elaborate pigtails. They wore very thin white shirts that reached down to their knees, and their feet were bare. Presumably, Bardas guessed, they were drovers; almost as bad as pedlars and soldiers, to judge by the notices uptown, though none of them appeared to be carrying any sort of weapon. They drank their echin sparingly from a huge brass cauldron in the middle of the circle, paid no attention to the old woman’s singing and struck Bardas as reasonably harmless.

Some time after that (time passed slowly here, but steadily) a group of five soldiers wandered in. They weren’t Sons of Heaven either; it was hard to say where they were from, but they wore the light-grey-faded-to-brown gambesons that went under standard-issue infantry armour and issue boots, brightly polished belts and the little woollen three-pointed caps that formed the padding for the infantry helmet. Four of them were wearing their swords; the fifth, the corporal of this half-platoon, had a square-ended falchion tucked under his belt. They walked straight across the circle of drovers, who got out of their way, and went into the back room. The old woman stopped singing, opened her eyes, got up and limped quickly away.

There was an old man sitting next to Bardas with his mouth open, a very small cup of echin going cold on the ground in front of him. Bardas leaned over. ‘Trouble?’ he asked.

The old man shrugged. ‘Soldiers,’ he replied.

‘Ah.’

Inside, something smashed, followed by the sound of laughter. The drovers looked up, then carried on with their conversation. One or two of the other customers got up and walked away without looking round.

The soldiers came out, holding big jugs of something that wasn’t echin, and stood looking down at the drovers. The conversation in the circle died again. The old man Bardas had spoken to left just as the man who’d brought Bardas his drink came out with a tragic expression on his face. Everything seemed to suggest that the tavern was a good place not to be for a while. Bardas would have left, but he hadn’t finished his drink.

Thus saith the Prophet: do not start fights in bars. Do not interfere in other people’s fights in bars. As religions went, it had a lot going for it, and Bardas had always kept the faith. When the fight started, he did as he usually did on these occasions; sat very still and watched carefully out of the corner of his field of vision, taking care not to catch the eye of any of the combatants. Taken purely as an entertainment, it had its merits; the drovers had the numbers, while the soldiers had the weapons, together with a rather more robust attitude as to what constituted a legitimate degree of force. When one of the drovers went down and didn’t get up, the fight stopped; instead of a confused pool of action, there was a tableau of fifteen men standing quite still and looking very embarrassed. Nobody spoke for a while; then the corporal (who’d done the actual killing) looked round and said, ‘What?’

One of the soldiers was looking at Bardas; at the dull brown of the tarnished bronze flashes on his collar, four for a master-sergeant. Actually, it wasn’t even Bardas’ own coat; it was something he’d picked up in the mines (nearly new, one careless owner). But everybody seemed to have noticed the little metal clips now. Bardas wondered what they all found so interesting.

The little man who’d brought the wine was standing over him now. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

Bardas looked up. ‘Me?’ he said.

‘Yes, you. You’re a sergeant. What are you going to do?’

Of course, he’s right. I’d clean forgotten. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘What would you suggest?’

The little man looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Arrest them, of course. Arrest them and send them to the prefect. They just killed someone.’

Thus saith the Prophet: when asked to arrest five armed men after a bar fight, leave at once. ‘All right,’ Bardas said, getting slowly to his feet. He looked at the soldiers for a moment without saying anything, then directed his attention to the corporal. ‘Names,’ he said.

The soldiers told him their names, which he didn’t catch; they were long, foreign and complicated. ‘Unit,’ he said. The corporal replied that they were the Something regiment of foot, such-and-such a company, such-and-such a platoon.

‘All right,’ Bardas said. ‘Who’s your commanding officer?’ The corporal gave him a look of misery and fear, then shouted and came at him, the falchion raised. Before he knew what he was doing, Bardas had caught him by the elbow with his left hand and driven his knife into the hollow at the base of the corporal’s throat with his right. He hadn’t remembered the knife getting into his hand, or being on his belt in the first place; but after three years in the mines, his knife was like his hands or his feet, it wasn’t something you ever had to remember.

He watched the corporal die, then let his body slump to the ground. Nobody else moved. A great place for still people, Sammyra.

‘I’ll ask you again,’ Bardas heard himself say. ‘Who’s your commanding officer?’

One of the soldiers said a name; Bardas didn’t catch it. ‘You,’ he said to the little innkeeper, ‘run to the prefecture and fetch the guard. The rest of you, get lost.’ A moment later, he was alone with the four surviving soldiers and the two dead men. It was easy to tell them apart; the soldiers were the ones standing up.

After what seemed like a very long time the guard arrived, led by an unmistakable Son of Heaven in a gilded helmet with a very tall feather on top.

‘Bar fight?’ he said. Bardas nodded. ‘And this one -’ he prodded the dead corporal with his toe. ‘- this one took a swing at you?’

‘That’s right,’ Bardas said.

The guard commander sighed. His collar made him out to be an ordinary sergeant, so Bardas outranked him. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bardas Loredan.’

The guard commander frowned. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘You’re the hero, right?’

Gannadius?

Gannadius pulled a face. ‘Not now,’ he said.

Gannadius? You’re very faint, I can hardly-

‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ Gannadius opened his eyes. Alexius was standing over him, looking worried. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but would you mind pushing off for a bit? I’m dying, and I’d hate to miss anything.’

What? Oh. Oh, yes, you are, aren’t you. My dear fellow, I am most terribly sorry. How did it happen?

Gannadius shrugged. ‘Oh, little things, really. I think it started with a fever and went on from there.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Am I dying?’ he asked. ‘Really?’

Alexius looked thoughtful. Well, I’m not a doctor or anything, but-

‘I’m dying.’

Yes.

‘Oh.’ Gannadius tried to make himself relax. ‘How can you tell?’

Well – just trust me.

Gannadius tried closing his eyes again, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. He waited. Nothing much seemed to be happening. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s next? Any hints?’

No offence, Gannadius, but I wouldn’t know. If it’s any consolation, it’s a perfectly natural thing. He could see Alexius ransacking his brains for a valid but not too alarming analogy. Like childbirth was, apparently, the best he could come up with.

‘Really?’ he couldn’t resist saying. ‘Seems to me there’s at least one major difference.’

You know what I mean. Does it hurt?

‘It did,’ Gannadius said. ‘Like hell. But not so much now. In fact, it doesn’t hurt at all.’

I see.

‘That’s bad, is it?’

On the contrary, it’s good. I mean, you wouldn’t want it to hurt, would you?

‘That’s not what I…’ Gannadius sighed. ‘So now what? Any idea what the drill is? Am I meant to do anything, or do I just lie here and wait?’

You tell me.

‘Right; and then you can write it up as a nice prize-winning paper for the next big conference you go to. Sorry,’ Gannadius added, ‘that was small of me.’

I quite understand. In your position…

‘I don’t think I’m going to like this, Alexius,’ Gannadius interrupted. ‘In fact, if it’s all the same to you I think I’d like to stop now and have another go some other time. I have the feeling that if I try to do it now I’ll make a mess of it, and since it’s something you only ever get to do once…’

Ah. But how do we know that?

Gannadius scowled. ‘Oh, for gods’ sakes,’ he said. ‘This is hardly the time to discuss bad doctrine.’

Sorry. I was only trying to be upbeat.

‘Well, it’s not helping. Alexius, can’t you do something? ’

I… What did you have in mind?

‘I don’t know,’ Gannadius snapped. ‘You’re the bloody wizard, you think of something.’

It doesn’t work like that. You know that as well as I do.

‘Yes, but-’ Somehow, he didn’t have the strength to get angry; he didn’t even have the strength to be properly frightened. Not being able to feel frightened – now that was frightening. ‘I was going to say,’ he went on, ‘that you’re the Patriarch of Perimadeia, there must be something you know that the rest of us don’t, some special secret that only the Patriarchs are allowed in on. But that’s not true, is it?’

I’m afraid not.

‘I knew that, really. It’s just that when you’re – well, like I am now, you’d rather go with the hope than the logic, just in case. No hard feelings, old friend.’

Thank you. How are you feeling?

‘Strange,’ Gannadius admitted. ‘It really isn’t the slightest bit like I thought it’d be.’

Oh? In what way?

Gannadius thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I was expecting – well, theatre, I guess. Melodrama, even. Mystical stuff: bright lights, swirling mists, shadowy figures draped in shining white. Either that or pain and fear. But it isn’t like that at-’

His eyes opened; really opened this time.

‘It’s all right.’ A woman was standing over him. ‘It’s all right.’

‘Alexius?’ Gannadius tried to move his head to look round, but couldn’t. He didn’t know whether that was bad or good. He’d been able to move quite freely before.

‘He’s coming out of it,’ the woman was saying to someone he couldn’t see. ‘Whatever that stuff was, it worked.’

‘That’s all right, then,’ said a man’s voice behind the woman’s shoulder. ‘Usually a dose like that’d kill you. I’m glad it works.’

The woman looked unhappy. ‘You mean you’d never tried it before?’

‘Like I said, it’s usually a deadly poison,’ the unseen man said. ‘Been wanting to try it out for years, but this is the first one we’ve had where it really didn’t matter – I mean, properly speaking he was dead already, so what the hell?’

Gannadius realised what was so odd about the woman. Well, not odd; unexpected. She was a plains-woman – eyes, skin colour, bone structure. He felt an instinctive wave of panic – Help, I’m in the hands of the enemy! The woman saw him shudder and try to move, and smiled.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘You’re going to be all right.’

So you keep saying. ‘…’ he said, then realised he’d forgotten the rest.

She was a round-faced, stocky woman in her late forties, with short grey hair, bright black eyes and a prominent double chin. ‘You’ve been very sick,’ she went on, ‘but the doctor’s given you something that’ll sort you out, just you wait and see.’

Gannadius felt annoyed at that; bloody doctor’s been using me to try out his lethal new remedies, he wanted to say. Dangerous clown, he shouldn’t be allowed near a patient. ‘Thank you,’ he croaked. ‘Where…?’

The woman smiled. ‘This is Blancharber,’ she said. ‘Have you heard of it?’

Gannadius thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Ah. Well, it’s a little village about half a day’s walk inland from Ap’ Amodi’. She pronounced the name as one word, not two. ‘Roughly the same distance from Ap’ Amodi and the old City.’

‘Where…?’

‘Perimadeia. You’re in King Temrai’s country,’ she added. ‘You’re safe now.’

Eseutz Mesatges, free trader of the Island, to her sister in commerce Athli Zeuxis; greetings.

This is a horrible place, and the people are loathsome. On the other hand, they surely do have a lot of feathers.

Which is where you come in. I’m now in a position to supply, FOB the Market Forces, sixty-seven standard volume barrels of premium white goose-wing feathers, all graded by wing polarity – to be precise, thirty-five barrels of right-wing, thirty-two of left-wing – suitable for fletching all standard-spine military arrows, at the ridiculously low price of twelve quarters (City) per barrel – well, almost. There’s just one trivial shard of detail standing between me and this fantastic opportunity. I’m as broke as a dropped pot.

But I wouldn’t be, beloved sister in commerce, if you supplied me with a letter of credit drawn on that bank of yours in the paltry sum of 268 quarters (City); then I’d have my feathers, you’d have your usual one-third cut, these people here would have an incentive to set up a regular, ongoing deal and everybody would be happy. Except the geese, of course; but I don’t think they were planning on going anywhere.

Now then: if the Squirrel gets in as per schedule, you should be reading this on the sixth – plenty of time for you to scribble out the magic words and send the letter round to the master of the King of Beasts, which I happen to know is expected here on the seventeenth (so presumably it’s not leaving the Island till the eighth at the very earliest). Provided you do your stuff with all due diligence, I can close the deal on or before the twentieth and be home on the Market Forces, with feathers, by Remembrance. As simple as that.

Well, that’s it, really; but there’s still plenty of space left on this sheet of high-quality paper, so I might as well fill it with something.

Let’s see; what sort of thing do you want to know? Of course, you’ve actually been here, as I recall – didn’t you come here with your friend the fencer, before the coup and all? I don’t suppose it was much better then; worse, probably. Say what you like about the military regime and Butcher Gorgas, they give every impression of being good for business. If they made or grew anything at all worth selling (except, of course, for these utterly magnificent feathers you’re getting a vicarious slice of), there’d be some nice opportunities here in the import/export line, since there’s basically zip local competition; no merchant venturers, no producers’ cartels, no aristocratic or royal monopolies, and even the government tariff is only two and a half per cent. It’s what comes of having a government run by amateurs, I suppose.

It makes me wonder, though. Why did Gorgas Loredan go to all the trouble of taking the place over if he’s not going to do anything with it now he’s got it? After all, it’s such an extreme thing to do, steal a country from the people who live there. Usually, of course, it’s pretty obvious – someone wants the iron ore, or the warm-water port, or the osier beds, or the growing timber or the saffron plantations, or to stop someone else having it, or just so as to be able to draw a nice straight line down the map, or to have the complete set of islands. And when it isn’t something blindingly obvious like that, you can bet it’s a steady source of revenue – poll taxes and sales taxes and import taxes and road taxes and spice taxes and wedding taxes and taxes on every third heifer and scutage and heriot and tithes in ordinary. There’s always a reason – except in this case, and it’s bothering me to bits trying to figure it out. For one thing, a cool, calculating type like Gorgas Loredan doesn’t do anything without a reason. What’s he up to, Athli? You know about this sort of thing. Won’t you let me in on the secret?

Anyway; 268 City quarters on the King of Beasts and that’ll be the feather trade sewn up. Best investment you’ll make this year, and that’s a promise.

Yours in friendship and fair dealing,