The Last Witness (12 page)

Very soon afterwards, the new regime collapsed—as was inevitable, with its two leading lights reduced to vegetables. A few months later, they held proper elections again. After the inauguration of the new Consul and his cabinet, there was a grand reception at the Palace; entertainment was provided by a talented young flautist. Nobody knows where she suddenly appeared from, but people who should know compare her favourably with Clamanzi at his best. I’ve followed her career with interest, though from a distance; I’ve never actually heard her play. People who know her say that’s she’s happy, completely caught up in her music. I’m glad about that.

Of course, I don’t live in the City these days. I moved to Permia, bought a large farm, I’m completely retired now. In case you’re wondering: before I left the City, I stole a spade and went to a place on the moors, south of town, and dug up a big steel box full of gold coins. I knew where to look for it, thanks to the clerk who stole it from the old man and his son—I never break a professional confidence, but I don’t always tell the truth. No angel, you might say. Ah, well.

I don’t want to detain you any longer than necessary, but I’d just like to share a few insights with you, as the world’s greatest living authority on suffering. I reckon I can claim that honour. I’ve caused more suffering, endured more suffering, witnessed, experienced, inflicted, savoured, analysed, enjoyed, dissected, wallowed in more suffering than anybody else who’s ever lived. I have been in the mind of my enemy, my victim, my persecutor, your enemy, your victim, your persecutor; I know pain like fish know water, like birds know air. Suffering has fed and clothed me most of my life, I’ve sunk my roots deep into it and sucked it up into me; pain and suffering have made me what I am. To be quite honest, I’m sick and tired of it.

Along the way, I guess I’ve lost my edge a bit—like blacksmiths, whose fingertips get burned so much they lose the fine touch. I’m not sure I can tell whose pain is which any more; is the child crying in the street me or just some stranger? Answer: to make a distinction is to miss the point entirely. To try and rationalise all this in terms of right, wrong, good, evil, is just naïve; the very worst things we do, after all, we do for love, and the very worst pain we feel comes from love. She was right about that. In my opinion, love is the greatest and most enduring enemy, because love gives rise to the memories that kill us, slowly, every day. I think a man who never encounters love might quite possibly live forever. He’d have to, because if he died, who the hell would ever remember him?

Photograph by Shelley Humphries

Having worked in journalism, numismatics, and the law, K. J. Parker now writes for a precarious living.

K. J. Parker also writes under the name Tom Holt.

The Fencer Trilogy

Colours in the Steel

The Belly of the Bow

The Proof House

The Scavenger Trilogy

Shadow

Pattern

Memory

The Engineer Trilogy

Devices and Desires

Evil for Evil

The Escapement

The Company

The Folding Knife

The Hammer

Sharps

Purple and Black

Blue and Gold

Savages

The Two of Swords

Academic Exercises
(collection)

As Tom Holt (selected titles)

Expecting Someone Taller

Who’s Afraid of Beowulf?

Flying Dutch

Faust Among Equals

Snow White and the Seven Samurai

Valhalla

The Portable Door

You Don’t Have to Be Evil to Work Here, But It Helps

The Better Mousetrap

Blonde Bombshell

The Outsorcerer’s Apprentice

Holt! Who Goes There?
(collection)

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novella are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE LAST WITNESS

Copyright © 2015 by Tom Holt

Cover art copyright © 2015 by Jon Foster

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First Edition: October 2015

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