Sharps (16 page)

Suidas nodded calmly. “And a bunch of robbers turning up out of nowhere, at the precise moment we’re there,” he said. “That’s just coincidence.”

Phrantzes considered his reply for a moment. “Not really coincidence,” he said. “I assume that they were – well, that was what they did for a living, and they’d been doing it for a while. They probably have lookouts on the road—”

“They choose to mount their ambush,” Suidas said over him, “in the back yard of a government way station. Now, unless they knew it was all shut up, that’s about the most stupid thing they could possibly do; there should’ve been a garrison in that station, soldiers specifically to hunt down and destroy bands of highwaymen. There’s miles and miles of empty country where they could’ve attacked us. It makes no sense.”

Phrantzes frowned. “Therefore,” he said, “they must’ve known the station was closed.”

“Fine. But when you were making the final arrangements for our departure, you had someone send ahead to let them know we’d be coming. Nobody got back to you and said, actually, that station’s been closed.”

“No,” Phrantzes admitted, “no, they didn’t.”

“Fine. So, when you sent ahead, a couple of days before we set out—”

“The day before.”

“The day before. And at that time, the station was open, and nobody knew anything about any plans to close it. We get there twelve or so hours behind schedule, not that much later than we should’ve been, and the place is empty and the road’s blocked. And,” he added, “there’s a bunch of bandits hovering round the station; so they must’ve known it was closed, but the government didn’t. Well?” he added. “That’s not just some clerk screwing up in the transit office, is it?”

“It could be,” Phrantzes said slowly, “a routine evacuation, due to rotation of personnel. A junior officer in the relevant department failed to notify the central office.”

“And your people, checking ahead? Even if the garrison was about to go off shift, wouldn’t they mention that? Oh, by the way, if your people show up here in two days’ time, the place’ll be all closed up?”

“They may have assumed we already knew.”

“And the bandits?”

“They saw the garrison leave,” Phrantzes said, “and saw an opportunity. Coaches would stop at the station; much easier to attack a stationary coach than trying to stop one while it’s moving. Especially,” he added happily, “since they were on foot.”

Suidas thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“It would then have been the bandits,” Phrantzes added, “who put the bar in the road.”

“Ah yes,” Suidas said, “the bar. That punches a hole in your easier-to-attack-a-stopped-coach theory. All they’ve got to do is bar the road, like you’re saying they did, and the coach stops dead. No need for any running about.”

Phrantzes shrugged. “Then perhaps the garrison put the bar there when they left the station,” he said. “For all I know, it’s standard operating procedure.”

“In peacetime? Hardly.”

“Then it must have been the bandits.”

Suidas sighed irritably. “And then,” he went on, “who should show up but the Blueskins? On our side of the line. And they’re not even supposed to be in the DMZ, let alone on our side of the line.”

“Oh, Lieutenant Totila’s explained all that,” Phrantzes said firmly. “And his papers are entirely in order. And lucky for us he did turn up,” he added. “Otherwise—”

“And there’s him,” Suidas said quietly, nodding his head at Tzimisces. “Even you must’ve noticed how he always seems to melt away just before something bad happens.”

“He’s an accredited political officer seconded from the foreign office.”

“Right. One last thing.” Suidas was starting to fidget with his hands, rubbing the scar on his right hand with his thumb. “How many way stations are there between C9 and the DMZ?”

Phrantzes’ eyes opened a little wider. “Seven.”

“And we’re nearly at the border. And we haven’t stopped.”

A moment’s silence. Then Phrantzes said: “Totila said he wanted to make up the lost time.”

“Stopping at way stations isn’t optional. Not if you’re Permian soldiers on Scherian soil, anyhow. You’d have to stop and show your papers. And we haven’t left the road, so we haven’t just bypassed them all. Even if Totila’s decided to break the rules and just ride on by without stopping to show his pass, there should’ve been some
reaction
. The station garrisons should’ve scrambled their horsemen and come after us, or ridden ahead across country so the next station down the line could bar the road. No, the only conclusion I can draw is,
all
the stations between C9 and the DMZ have been closed down.” He stopped, giving Phrantzes an opportunity to speak. No reply. “Now,” he said, “why would anybody do that?”

A look of panic crossed Phrantzes’ face, but it soon passed. “It’s entirely possible,” he said, “that from time to time, all the stations are closed down simultaneously, for some reason. Don’t ask me what it could be,” he added quickly, “I’m not an expert.”

“You used to be.”

“That was seven years ago, and there was a war on. Things are almost certainly different now. It’s equally possible that nobody thought to tell me that just such a closedown would be taking place at the same time as we set out for Permia. Furthermore,” he went on, as Suidas opened his mouth, “the local bandits would quite likely know the closedown timetable, and make use of it in their business. In fact, if there is a regular network closedown, that’s precisely what they’d do. It might also be the case that the Permians know about it, and my office doesn’t; which would explain why Permian units are standing by. To cover for our people,” he added forcefully, “in a spirit of mutual co-operation and trust. Well,” he added, “it’s possible. Isn’t it?”

“You seem to think so.”

“Rather more possible,” Phrantzes said, “than some enormous conspiracy against us, involving multiple arms of government, requiring enormous effort, employing highly unreliable agents such as common highwaymen, not to mention wildly, bizarrely oversophisticated for the purpose. If someone wanted to kill us,” he added quietly, “there are much easier ways in much more convenient places. Also,” he went on mildly, “we’re still alive. I put it to you: anybody with the resources to concoct a conspiracy on the scale you’re imagining would surely have got the job done. They wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble, and then relied on a small group of bandits with farm tools to overcome the four finest swordsmen in Scheria.”

Suidas scowled at him; then he changed the scowl to a smile. “That reminds me,” he said. “The swords, in the crate. How did they suddenly, magically turn from foils to sharps?”

Phrantzes slowly shook his head. “I don’t think that’s going to help your case,” he said. “If I was plotting to murder us, I wouldn’t surreptitiously replace our fake weapons with real ones. Counterproductive, don’t you think?”

Suidas glared furiously at him for a moment, then burst out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he said. “When I’m bored, I start thinking about things. You’re probably right,” he added. “I remember a time in the War, we were taking food to the siege of Flos Verjan, and we were promised they’d have finished building a bridge over the Renec, like we’d been asking them to do for I don’t know how long. So we got there, no bridge; and then a bunch of engineers showed up, told us they’d just got their orders to start building it. And then, of course, that was cancelled, because the Irrigator moved the Renec seven miles to the east and we didn’t need to cross it any more. I guess it’s just something like that, and I’ve built up this wonderful theory—”

“I remember that bridge,” Phrantzes interrupted. “I was the one who tried to get it built.”

“You’re joking.”

“No, certainly not. I was in charge of supplies to Flos Verjan, and it seemed ridiculous that our convoys had to go the long way round, adding two days to the journey, when a simple bridge would take a few men a week to build. Of course, the general wouldn’t allow a bridge there because he was planning to divert the river, but I was far too low down the hierarchy to be told about the grand design. So I spent a great deal of time and energy lobbying for what I saw as an entirely reasonable project, and of course I was wasting my time and making a fool of myself.” He smiled. “I remember how angry I felt, and how inappropriate that seemed, because of course the flooding of Flos Verjan was the biggest victory in the War, and I was upset because it got in the way of my personal bridge. Later, of course, I could see how ridiculous I’d been about it, but at the time …”

The chaise was slowing down. Suidas pulled the window down and stuck his head out. “Looks like the border,” he said. “There’s a blockhouse, and a gate across the road, and a couple of soldiers.”

“There you are then,” Phrantzes said cheerfully. “Everything normal.”

Suidas couldn’t be bothered to argue. He was watching the soldiers. He tried to imagine how he’d react if he was a border guard and he was suddenly faced with a squad of Blueskin cavalry he hadn’t been told about, coming
out
of Scheria. At such short notice he couldn’t properly reconstruct such a complex train of emotions, but he was fairly sure he wouldn’t just stand there looking bored, which was what the two soldiers were doing.

He reached across and prodded the side of Tzimisces’ nose with his forefinger. “Wake up,” he said, as Tzimisces grunted and opened his eyes. “We’re at the border.”

“What? Oh, splendid. I’d better have a word with the station officer.”

Sliding out from under his travelling rug, Tzimisces opened the door and melted out of the carriage. Suidas listened hard, but he couldn’t hear voices. “You were on Carnufex’s staff in the War?” he said.

“That’s right,” Phrantzes said.

“How long?”

“About eight years. Before that I was at GHQ.”

Suidas nodded. “Not a field officer, then.”

“Not really. I did spend a certain amount of time up around the lines, but …”

“They’re opening the gates, anyway,” Suidas said. “I think I’ll just get out and see if I can …”

“Better not.”

There was something in Phrantzes’ voice that made Suidas hesitate; and then Tzimisces came back, climbing into the chaise and under his rug so fluently that it was hard to believe he hadn’t been there all the time. The chaise started to move.

“Thanks for waking me up,” Tzimisces said. “Well, I had a quick word with the captain, and everything’s fine. Totila’s troop is going to escort us right though to Joiauz, and they’ve arranged for a cart to meet us in the Zone with food and tents and blankets and so forth, so we shouldn’t have to rough it too much.”

“Why are all the way stations shut down?” Suidas demanded.

Tzimisces didn’t even blink. “Some ridiculous misunderstanding,” he replied. “The captain explained it to me. Once every three months or so, the way stations do an invasion drill. Part of it involves closing down the network and shadowing an imaginary invasion force, like we did in the War when the Aram Chantat launched their raids. Apparently, some fool scheduled a drill and nobody thought to mention it.”

Suidas looked at him. He was sure Tzimisces had been asleep, right up to the moment he’d woken him. “Well,” he said, “that explains it.”

“Indeed. I shall have to mention it in my report. Of course, the Permians will hear about all this and we’ll look rather silly, I’m afraid. The fact that they had to rescue us, on our own soil, will play very well in some quarters, I fancy. Still, it could’ve been worse.” He smiled. “I suppose you know this road quite well.”

“It’s been a while,” Suidas replied.

“Oh, I don’t suppose it’s changed all that much since your day. More potholes, I imagine. There simply isn’t the money for road maintenance.”

Suidas smiled bleakly and said nothing; after a moment, Tzimisces picked up his book and started to read. This time, the title on the spine was just visible: scrawly brown handwriting,
Pescennius and Berenice
. Suidas smothered a grin. He remembered Sontha buying a copy of it in the bookseller’s market, as a present for her mother, one of whose many faults was a penchant for poisonously soppy verse romances. Tzimisces’ copy had a distinctly home-made look, though Suidas couldn’t really imagine the political officer sitting on a high stool in the writing room of the City Library, slowly and painfully copying out the text as the light from the tall east-facing windows slowly dwindled. Rather more likely, he decided (though on no evidence, he admitted to himself, as he drifted off to sleep), the book was the forfeited property of some political prisoner put to death on a trumped-up charge, and Tzimisces was reading it as part of a twisted attempt to get into its deceased owner’s mind. Well, it was a theory, anyway.

Tzimisces wasn’t the only one reading. Iseutz opened
Principles of Political Theory
at random and made a valiant attempt at the first paragraph on the left-hand page. It was written in ordinary modern Imperial Standard and she knew what all the words meant, but those words in that particular order seemed to deflect her mind, like a good parry in Third.

The institution we commonly refer to as democracy would, properly speaking, be more aptly termed an elective, or even in many cases a sortative, oligarchy, where the democratic element consists merely of the selection, often by random, perverse or otherwise unsound procedures, of the membership of the personnel of the ruling elite. Further vitiating factors include the process whereby candidates are chosen and promoted – the self-limiting caucus, the various forms of patronage, actual and indirect corruption; issues regarding voting procedure, electoral colleges, oversight and the proportion of votes received required to constitute a genuine mandate; the discretion of a purportedly representative body to dissolve or prolong its term of office, to co-opt, to form coalitions. When we compare the patterns of legislative activity of such representative democracies with oligarchies based on qualification by birth, property or faction membership, we find a significant correlation in terms of
—

She frowned, and read it again. It still didn’t make much sense. But the creep Tzimisces had read it, apparently for pleasure, and if he could manage it, so could she. Even so, when she’d agreed to swap books with him, she hadn’t realised she was getting such a raw deal. Lifting her head slightly, she saw that the creep was several pages into
Pescennius
and giving every indication of enjoying it. At the very least, she decided, she had to give him credit for being able to read her handwriting.