Sharps (57 page)

Perceptuus tried not to let his face register what he was thinking. “So our agreement …”

“I’m not sure we ever had one,” the Aram Chantat said mildly. “More an agreement to make an agreement if we wanted to and if the circumstances were right. But we don’t want to, after all. So really …”

“Well,” Perceptuus said, “it doesn’t look like there’s going to be another war, so maybe it’s for the best. Less risk to our estates near the border.”

The old man smiled. “There never was any risk,” he said. “But certainly, if what I’ve been hearing is true and there are going to be real, genuine negotiations about shared access to the Demilitarised Zone, then I honestly can’t see who your tenants are likely to be in danger from. Certainly not bandits. There’ll be far too much activity in the Zone for bandits to feel comfortable there. And think,” he added, beaming, “of all that money you won’t have to spend on hiring us. That’s one of the joys of peace. It’s so much cheaper.”

Perceptuus nodded slightly. “Have you told the Permians you’re leaving?”

“Of course.” The old man looked affronted. “It’d be terribly rude not to. I think on balance they were relieved to hear we’re going. We make them nervous. And after the incidents in Beaute and that other place, Luzir …”

“Luzir Soleth.”

“Yes, thank you, Luzir Soleth. I get the impression we’re not popular with the ordinary citizens, the common people, especially in the large towns outside the capital. The First Minister is very keen on being popular at the moment – well, you can understand why, it must be so difficult having to be liked if you want to keep order. Not a problem where I come from. We don’t have governments, as such. We don’t need them.”

“Well.” Perceptuus put down his empty cup. “Thank you for seeing me, and I’m glad things have worked out for you. For both of us, really.”

“For which,” the old man said gravely, “we have young Carnufex to thank, or so I gather. You know,” he went on, lowering his voice just a little, “it’d be quite interesting to find out what really happened.” Then he laughed and shook his head. “No it wouldn’t,” he said. “The official version is entirely satisfactory, and that happens so rarely, it’d be a shame to spoil it, don’t you think?”

“It came as something of a surprise,” Perceptuus said.

“Oh, I should think it did. They do say,” the old man went on, “that it was General Carnufex himself who first discovered the conspiracy. He had reason to believe there are Permian spies at the highest levels of your government, so he took it on himself to deal with it. Otherwise, why did he send his own son on what was by any criteria a highly dangerous mission?”

“They’re saying that, are they?”

“People do like to speculate,” the old man said. “And I don’t suppose the general would be inclined to deny it.”

“No, I suppose not.” Perceptuus was suddenly thoughtful. “It’d do his popularity back home no harm at all, if people believe he succeeded in averting a war that the government was pretty much powerless to stop. That would be …”

“Satisfactory,” the old man said. “It’d resolve matters, which is really all that counts. Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, but now you must excuse me. We have arrangements to make, as I’m sure you’ll understand.”

Perceptuus drove on to Luzir Beal, where a letter was waiting for him. Abbot Symbatus was dead. The General Synod had met in emergency session and were pleased to inform him that he had been chosen …

He swore, and crumpled the letter into a ball.

Since most Permians didn’t have a clue what Monsacer was or why it mattered, the presence of its newly elected abbot at the official thanksgiving ceremony hardly registered with the vast crowd in and around the stadium. Nor did they seem particularly disappointed when they heard that Suidas Deutzel was still too weak to attend, although there were a few cheers when his name was read out, They’d come, of course, to see Addo Carnufex.

And see him they did. He walked out into the arena with the First Minister on his right and a smiling old man on his left, followed by the surviving members of the Cabinet, the Guild master, the other Scherian fencers, the Imperial ambassador and various Permian notables who’d pulled strings or paid money to be there.

The First Minister was wise enough to keep his address to the crowd short and to the point. The War, he said, was over. Seven years of peace had been crowned by an act of supreme courage and selflessness performed by the son of their former enemy; an enemy no longer, since it had been General Carnufex who had detected the conspiracy and taken steps to forestall it. Now, thanks to the new spirit of mutual trust and understanding that must inevitably follow, negotiations were already under way for the shared development of the Demilitarised Zone; basically, Scherian shepherds would graze their flocks above ground, Permian miners would exploit the vast mineral wealth below it. Since peace was now assured, he went on, the government had decided to dispense with the services of the Aram Chantat –

(At least three minutes during which he couldn’t continue because of the shouting and cheering.)

– who would be replaced by units of the Imperial Army of the East, to guarantee the safety of Permia, in conjunction with their Scherian allies, under the terms of a new defensive and offensive alliance. In short, he could now guarantee peace. With peace would come stability, with stability prosperity, for themselves, their children and their children’s children; and none of this could have happened had it not been for one man, one extraordinary man, who would now say a few words …

Tzimisces nudged Addo in the small of the back, propelling him forward. He didn’t lift his head; instead, he looked down at the scrap of paper in his hand. It was just the right note of self-effacing modesty; a shy hero, the very best sort. There was absolute silence as he cleared his throat and started to speak.

He’d come to Permia, he said, to fence. It gave him great pride and pleasure to think that he’d helped, in some small way, to preserve the peace that had been his father’s life work. Really, he hadn’t done anything special. Anyone else in his position would have done the same, and of course he hadn’t acted alone. Suidas Deutzel deserved as much credit as he did, if not more. In a day or so he’d be going home to Scheria, but he would never forget Permia and its people for as long as he lived, and he thanked them from the bottom of his heart for their goodwill and kindness, which he’d done so little to deserve.

Suidas was waiting for him when he came back from the arena. He didn’t look particularly ill or weak. He was smiling.

“Nice speech,” he said. “Your father’s life work. I really liked that.”

Addo gazed wretchedly at him, and then Tzimisces and the rest of the party came in, and Suidas turned away, looking frail and helpless. Someone slapped Addo on the back, making him lurch forward a step.

There was a reception, at the Senate house. Not long after they arrived, Addo looked round for Suidas, but he didn’t seem to be there. Nobody else appeared to have noticed his absence. He wondered if he ought to mention it to Tzimisces, but he couldn’t see him either.

“I don’t suppose you remember me.” It was the old man who’d been on his left during the ceremony, and he was absolutely right. “Well, you wouldn’t,” he went on. “The last time I saw you, I think you were five years old. You were made to come down after dinner and recite
The Last Survivor
for your father’s guests.”

“I remember that,” Addo said. “But I’m sorry, I don’t think I know …”

“My name is Perceptuus,” the old man said. “And apparently I’m the new Abbot of Monsacer. At least, that’s what they’ve just told me. I hope it isn’t true, but I’m afraid it probably is.”

Addo smiled. “You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic.”

“I’m not,” the old man said. “Being abbot will mean administration, responsibility, decisions, paperwork. Politics. If I’d wanted all that sort of thing, I’d have stayed running the Bank.”

“Ah,” Addo said. “You used to …”

Perceptuus smiled. “Oh yes,” he said. “My name used to be Boioannes. I ran the Bank for a long time, until I managed to palm the job off on my nephew and retire, as I thought, to the peace and seclusion of a monastic cell. Fat chance of that now.” He turned his head and smiled to acknowledge a slight bow from one of the Permian ministers. “Someone’s going to have to tell me who all these people are,” he said, “before I offend someone and start a war. Although,” he added, lowering his voice a little, “seems like that’s not quite as easy to do as we previously thought.”

“Actually,” Addo said, “now I think about it, I do remember you. You’d had a bit too much to drink and you caught hold of one of the housemaids, and the buttons of her dress came off. My father was rather annoyed, but he couldn’t say anything to you about it, obviously, so he took it out on my brothers and me later. Yes, I’m sure it was you.”

“What a splendid memory you must have,” Perceptuus said.

“Faces rather than names,” Addo replied. “Of course, you had rather more hair back then.”

Perceptuus gave him a chilly smile. “Eighteen years,” he said. “A lot’s changed in that time. For one thing, the War’s over. And the Bank’s now running Scheria. And your father’s enjoying his well-earned retirement.”

Addo gave him a weary look. “You’ll know when my father’s retired. You’ll be walking behind his coffin, carrying a wreath. Look,” he went on, “I don’t know what you think about me, but my father and I don’t get along terribly well. I know I’ve disappointed him, to the point where it’s probably too late to do anything about it. He’ll be livid with me when I get home.”

“Because there isn’t going to be a war.”

“Yes.”

Perceptuus nodded. “He sent you here to start one.”

“I don’t remember saying that,” Addo replied. “But it’s not exactly a secret that he doesn’t like the Bank and that he reckons the old army families should be running Scheria, like they always have done. A war would’ve put things back the way they were. We’d have beaten Permia, and once we’d got hold of the mines there’d be plenty of money to make up for what we all lost in the war, so there’d be no more need for the Bank. That’s how he sees it, anyway. You know that perfectly well.”

“Is that how you see it?”

Addo shook his head. “Not up to me,” he said.

“He sent you here to get killed.”

Addo breathed in deeply and out slowly. “My father and I don’t get along terribly well,” he repeated. “Duty’s important to him, and me too. I’ve spent my life trying to find a way to make him not disappointed in me. It looks like that’s not going to be possible now.” He shrugged. “I suppose I’ll have to live with it. My problem, not anybody else’s.”

“Indeed.” Perceptuus looked down at his hands; they were calloused and split from gardening. “I imagine he’ll try and make the most of the situation, in spite of things not going exactly how he meant them to. That was always one of his great strengths as a strategist.”

“He’ll win in the end,” Addo said. “He always does.”

“Not if you stop him.” Perceptuus kept very still, the way a stockman keeps still when he’s trying to catch a skittish calf. “If you were to tell people back home exactly what happened here, how your father sent you to start a war, how he was quite prepared to see you die for it …”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Addo said.

“Couldn’t you?”

“Certainly not. He’s my father, it’d break his heart. And I don’t suppose anyone would believe me if I did. Besides, that’s not the way to handle someone like my father. Believe me, I know all about that.”

Perceptuus tilted his head on one side. “You’ve got an alternative.”

“Well.” Addo looked away. “You see, I was brought up to believe that family matters: the honour of the house, its traditions, the way we do things. I believe that my father’s done wonderful things for our country, and he deserves to go down in history as a great and good man, whose motives were always pure and unselfish, and whose judgement was above reproach. Now I don’t think he’d want to be remembered as the man who led a military coup and set up a dictatorship against the wishes of the people. It’d spoil everything. I’m guessing he wouldn’t want that, but maybe his judgement’s a little clouded by what he sees as his duty to the state. You see, he thinks the Bank is a very bad thing, and maybe he’s the only one who can get rid of it and put things back how they should be. If that’s how he sees it, he’d willingly sacrifice his personal honour and reputation. He’s always realised that you can’t do the right thing without making sacrifices. It’s the greatest lesson he ever taught me.”

Perceptuus frowned. “I’m not sure where this is leading,” he said.

“Good,” Addo replied, and he smiled.

The Aram Chantat left that night, suddenly, in the rain. The deep ruts left by the wheels of their carts filled with rainwater, which quickly dissolved into mud, which bogged down the grain and produce wagons coming into the City just before first light, which caused a gridlock at the major bottlenecks at Cornmarket and the Westgate, which blocked traffic in and out of the capital as effectively as a besieging army. The Imperials, sent by the City authorities to sort out the mess, closed the City gates until nightfall.

“No big deal,” Tzimisces told them. “It’s just one more day and then we’ll be on our way out of here. That’s a promise.” He smiled. “But since we’re here, and since we’ve got nothing better to do, I’ve agreed to a couple of additional engagements just to round the tour off, capitalise on the goodwill, that sort of thing. Nothing arduous, you have my word.”

The rain had set in hard; sideways rain brought in on a sharp east wind. Luzir Beal had been built by Imperial engineers who knew all about drainage. There were drainpipes on every building, emptying into open gutters in the streets leading to underground sewers, but the grilles had silted up and the gutters were overflowing; several main thoroughfares were ankle deep in water, and shops and stores in the market district were flooded out; might as well be in Flos Verjan, Addo overheard someone say. It was a joke and the speaker’s companion laughed, but Addo remained stony-faced.