The Two of Swords: Part 11 (5 page)

Musen blinked at him; weary, dying cow eyes. “I promise,” he said. “No trouble.”

“I hope you’re telling the truth,” Axeo said, stooping to untie the knots. “For your sake. I don’t think you can take much more persuasion.”

Musen had damaged his knee in the fight and could barely hobble, so Axeo put him on the donkey. He could see why the sight had amused the farmer’s wife’s children so much. “Why’d you do it?” Axeo asked, after they’d travelled in dead silence for a couple of hours. “You must’ve known I’d find you.”

Musen closed his eyes. “What do they want it for?” he asked.

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“Tell me.”

“All right,” Axeo said. “You’re not supposed to know, but I guess you have the right. Actually, I’d sort of assumed you’d figured it out for yourself. After all, it was you who brought the Sleeping Dog pack to Mere Barton in the first place.”

Musen looked at him. “They’re going to sell it to the Eastern emperor.”

“Sort of.” Axeo reckoned he understood now. “You don’t think he should have it.”

“He just locks them up in cabinets,” Musen said. “He’s not a craftsman, he doesn’t understand what they mean.”

“Better him than the Western emperor, surely. The only reason he valued it was because his uncle wanted it so badly. That’s no reason at all.”

“Oh, he shouldn’t have had it either. It should go to the Lodge.”

Axeo grinned. “That’s exactly where it’s headed.”

“Yes, to sell it. That’s not right.” Musen massaged his throat; talking must be very painful for him. “It wasn’t right for either of them to have it. Disrespectful.”

“Actually,” Axeo said, “I don’t entirely disagree with you. I read about these silver packs, apparently there’s every reason to believe they go right back to the very beginnings of the Lodge, so if you believe in relics and icons and sacred images and all that sort of thing, I guess they’re about as fundamental as you can get.”

“Well, then.”

“Oh, quite. On the other hand, this little trinket is probably the only remaining hope for saving ninety thousand civilians in Rasch Cuiber. A substantial number of whom, don’t let’s forget, are craftsmen.”

“You keep saying that,” Musen said. “I don’t understand. What’s a pack of cards got to do with Rasch?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You know about Glauca. Of course, I keep forgetting, you’ve actually met him. You know what he’s like. A straight swap. The pack for Rasch.”

Musen looked stunned for a moment. Then he said, “He’ll never go for that.”

“Don’t you believe it. Did you know, he made a formal offer: the silver pack for Beloisa and the mines? When that got turned down, he said he’d throw in two provinces on top, his nephew’s choice. And he meant it. He was furious when the West wouldn’t play ball, said they were only doing it out of spite. Which was true, of course. No, this little silver box can achieve what forty thousand soldiers have died failing to do. And, yes, I know it’s insane, but that’s absolute monarchy for you. The worst possible form of government, apart from all the others.” He paused, then said, “So, how about it? If it saves all those lives, does that make it all right for Glauca to get the pack?”

Musen didn’t answer. It was a stupid question anyway.

All twelve angels, the donkey and the silver-backed hairbrush bought them a pony and trap from three elderly sisters who kept geese and who claimed not to have heard there was a war on. They also said that the nearest village was Poitin, which Axeo remembered as being about as far from a military road as you could get in the Western empire; but two miles south of Poitin ran the Green River, which meandered in the general direction they wanted to go, and had broad grassy banks used by carters trading south. Musen made no further attempt to steal the box; partly because Axeo tied him to the back wheel of the trap every night and slept a dozen yards away – but that wouldn’t have stopped him, Axeo was sure, if he’d really wanted the thing.

Four days along the riverbank they came to a bridge. On the other side of it, the level bank continued; on their side, the ground rose steeply and was covered in heather, gorse and granite boulders. They got down from the cart and inspected the bridge, which gave way in the middle under Musen’s weight. That answered that question. They abandoned the trap, shooed the pony away as far as it was prepared to go and continued on foot.

“Fifteen thousand angels,” Axeo said. “That’s what it costs to keep an infantry regiment in the field for a month, and that’s just pay, supplies and materiel. I mean, you can do the arithmetic for yourself. Ten regiments in an army, fifteen armies on each side, minimum, that’s four and a half
million
angels this war is costing, every month, excluding cavalry, fortifications, siege operations, maintenance of roads, communications and other infrastructure, death-in-service gratuities, pensions and central command. Fifty-four million a year, at a woefully conservative estimate. Now, you look back to the last general census before the schism, and it’s worth bearing in mind just how much more prosperous the empire was back then; the total combined revenue of the entire empire, that’s East and West, guess what it came to. Go on, guess.”

“I don’t know.”

“Thirty-seven million angels,” Axeo said. “Mind you, that’s the pre-schism angel, sixty grains weight at nine twenty-six fine. For your information, the Eastern angel is now fifty-eight grains at seven forty-six, and the poor bloody Western angel is fifty-
two
grains at a miserable seven oh-three. So at current values, the pre-schism revenues would be something in the order of sixty million, but let’s not forget the additional expense of two Imperial courts, two Imperial secretariats, not to mention the collapse of east–west trade and the loss of what should’ve been Imperial revenue to foreign trading partners, not forgetting that one angel in twenty presently in circulation is a low-weight counterfeit; that knocks a good ten million off, so even allowing for currency debasements you’re looking at a theoretical total of fifty million, to cover
everything
, as against military expenditure of fifty-four million
plus
. So, again being hopelessly conservative, let’s assume an annual deficit of four million, multiplied by twenty-six, that’s a hole in the Imperial economy of one hundred and four
million
angels, more than two years’ total revenues, which I’m given to believe is rather more gold than has been dug out of the ground in the history of the world. Now, let’s assume that a hundred million is being financed at four per cent compound per annum. Even supposing the war ended tomorrow, that’s an ongoing yearly interest charge of—” He paused. Musen had stopped dead, bent over, hands on knees. “What’s the matter? Not feeling too good?”

“I’ve got this pain in my stomach,” Musen said. “And I feel sick.”

Axeo frowned, then put his hand on Musen’s forehead. It was hot and clammy. “Where does it hurt?”

Musen pointed to his right side. “There.”

Axeo prodded him with his forefinger, and Musen howled with pain. “Here, sit down,” Axeo said. “Gently,” he added, as Musen stumbled and nearly collapsed; he grabbed his arm and guided him as best he could, to keep him from jarring his back on the ground. “Look, has this been coming on gradually or was it just suddenly there?”

“Sudden,” Musen said. His face was twisted up. “What is it? Is it bad?”

“I don’t think so,” Axeo lied. “Listen, is it more a sort of stabbing pain, or a dull—?”

Musen hit him and he fell down. The sky started to fold in around him, as Musen bent over him and hauled the box out of his pocket; the corner must have snagged, because he heard cloth tearing. Then he was alone for a while, in the dark.

He came round, and his head was splitting, as though he’d been drinking for a week. He felt empty and incredibly weary, but he dragged himself on to his knees; everything went blurry and runny and he threw up. His jaw ached, like bad toothache. “Idiot,” he tried to say, but all that came out was mumbles.

So he thought it instead. Idiot, fool, moron. How could anyone be so stupid and still know how to breathe? He managed to sit up, and noticed a big red stone about a yard away. He closed his eyes and opened them again. It hadn’t been there a moment ago, not when Musen did his ridiculously obvious fake illness that would only have fooled a really, really stupid person—

He was going to kill me, Axeo thought. And then he changed his mind.

That makes two stupid people, he decided. He stood up, nearly went over, straightened his back. The fog was clearing and his head was worse than ever. His mouth was dry and full of something like mud but rather worse. He limped to the riverbank, got slowly down on his hands and knees and cupped water into his mouth. It made him feel very slightly better.

It was all so much effort. He wanted to lie down and go to sleep, more than anything in the whole world; instead, he tottered backwards and forwards until he found footprints in the soft ground, a big foot, the print of the toe deeper than the heel; that’s someone running. Well, of course. Bet you anything you like he’s a marvellous runner, the sort that can run all morning. Miles away by now. Too much effort. He’d be starving hungry if he didn’t feel so sick. He put one foot in front of the other and started to walk.

Read on in
The Two of Swords: Part 12
.

K. J. Parker
is the pseudonym of Tom Holt, a full-time writer living in the south-west of England. When not writing, Holt is a barely competent stockman, carpenter and metalworker, a two-left-footed fencer, an accomplished textile worker and a crack shot. He is married to a professional cake decorator and has one daughter.

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