The Two of Swords: Part 9

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

The Two of Swords (e-novellas)

B
Y
T
OM
H
OLT

Expecting Someone Taller

Who’s Afraid of Beowulf?

Flying Dutch

Ye Gods!

Overtime

Here Comes the Sun

Grailblazers

Faust Among Equals

Odds and Gods

Djinn Rummy

My Hero

Paint Your Dragon

Open Sesame

Wish You Were Here

Only Human

Snow White and the Seven Samurai

Valhalla

Nothing But Blue Skies

Falling Sideways

Little People

The Portable Door

In Your Dreams

Earth, Air, Fire and Custard

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

Someone Like Me

Barking

The Better Mousetrap

May Contain Traces of Magic

Blonde Bombshell

Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Sausages

Doughnut

When It’s A Jar

The Outsorcerer’s Apprentice

The Good, the Bad and the Smug

Dead Funny: Omnibus 1

Mightier Than the Sword: Omnibus 2

The Divine Comedies: Omnibus 3

For Two Nights Only: Omnibus 4

Tall Stories: Omnibus 5

Saints and Sinners: Omnibus 6

Fishy Wishes: Omnibus 7

The Walled Orchard

Alexander at the World’s End

Olympiad

A Song for Nero

Meadowland

I, Margaret

Lucia Triumphant

Lucia in Wartime

Published by Orbit

ISBN: 978-0-356-50616-6

All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental
.

Copyright © 2015 by K. J. Parker

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

Orbit

Little, Brown Book Group

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DZ

www.orbitbooks.net

Title Page

By K. J. Parker

Copyright

Poverty

About the Author

“The good news,” he said, “is that they found you not guilty of witchcraft.” He smiled. “All the evidence was circumstantial, no positive identification, therefore no case to answer.”

He paused.

“And?” she said.

“The bad news is,” he said, “they convicted you on three of the five counts of spying, and they’re going to hang you in the morning. I tried to lodge an appeal, but it appears there is no right of appeal in espionage cases, so there’s not a lot I can do.” He hesitated again. “I’ve asked the ambassador to petition the court for clemency, but—”

“He’s a busy man?”

“Very. And in any case, clemency would mean forty years minimum in the slate quarries, and nobody lasts more than three years down there, so it’s as broad as it’s long, really. I’m very sorry,” he said. “But there you are. Is there anything I can do for you?”

Outside it was raining again. She thought for a moment. “Apparently not.”

He frowned slightly. “It goes without saying,” he said, “that the Department will look after your children and dependent relatives—”

“I haven’t got any.”

“No? Well, that’s something, isn’t it? Now, you can nominate who gets your back pay, death-in-service gratuity, any money you may have paid in to a funeral club, your share of plunder, spoil and prizes, if any—” He waited for a moment. “Or, if you don’t nominate, it all goes to the Benevolence. It’s a good cause, they do splendid work.”

“That’s all right, then.”

His frown deepened, but he persevered. “Now, if you haven’t made a will, you can dictate one to me now and I can get the dispensation from proper procedure. I strongly advise you to, you don’t want to leave your family a mess to clear up.”

She smiled at him. “I haven’t got anything to leave.”

“Really? Ah well.” From his sleeve he produced three rolls of parchment, a quill pen and a brass ink bottle. “In that case, I just need you to sign these forms, and that’s pretty much everything covered.”

He handed her the rolls of parchment. She unrolled them, glanced at them and tore them up. He sighed. “Any last message you’d like me to pass on?”

“Actually, yes.”

He nodded briskly. “Fire away.”

She told him. He looked at her. “I’m sorry you feel that way,” he said. “But, after all, you knew the risks when you—”

“Yes.”

“Well, then. I know this is a very difficult moment for you, but I would remind you that even in the final extremity, you still represent the Service, and what you say and do reflects on us all. It’d be a great shame to tarnish an otherwise exemplary record at the last moment, so to speak.” She looked at him, and he got up and banged on the cell door with his fist. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why? It’s not your fault.”

“The duty chaplain—”

“Goodbye.”

A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. He looked at her, opened his mouth, closed it again and left. The door closed and the lock turned. She breathed out slowly.

Five hours later, she started banging on the door. “Keep it down, will you?” she heard the jailer say on the other side. “You’ll start them all off.”

“I want to see the chaplain.”

A pause; then, “Yes, all right,” in a resigned voice. She sat down on the bed and waited. Some time later, the door opened and the chaplain came in. He was a tall man, thin, bald, somewhere between sixty and seventy; he wore nothing but a tunic, for security reasons.

“I want to confess,” she said.

He hadn’t shaved recently, and there were crumbs in the folds of his tunic. “Of course,” he said, and perched on the end of the bed.

She looked at him for a moment, then said, “I have committed murder, theft and arson. I have lied and carried false witness. I have wounded and practised torture, both physical and mental. I have forged documents, including sacred and liturgical records.”

His face didn’t change. He nodded.

“I have blasphemed and ridiculed the articles of the faith. I have preached heretical doctrines. I have neglected to assist fellow craftsmen in their time of trial.”

He closed his eyes, just for a moment. Then he opened them again. “I understand,” he said. “Your sins are forgiven.” He stood up and knocked three times. The door opened. The guard stood aside to let him pass; as he did so, he drew the sword from the guard’s scabbard and stabbed him in the throat, at the junction of the collarbones. The guard dropped to the floor; the chaplain stuck his head out of the door, then came back into the cell. “All clear,” he said.

She nodded. “Thanks,” she said.

He gave her a filthy look. “You’d better take me with you,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s fine,” she assured him. “I do. Stick with me, you’ll be all right.” She took the sword from his hand. “Where does this corridor lead to?”

“How should I know? I only ever come down the stairs.”

She breathed out through her nose. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll go
up
the stairs.”

“You can’t. There’s a guard.”

“Of course there is.” She grabbed his ear with her left hand, pulled his head back and rested the edge of the sword against his neck. “Just in case anyone sees us,” she said.

The stairs he’d talked about proved to be a narrow spiral staircase, without even a rope to hold on to, so she let go of him while they climbed. As soon as they reached the top, she grabbed him again. There was no guard.

“I thought you said—”

“There should be. There is usually.”

They were in a long gallery, with arrow slits every five yards. She stopped and peered out through one of them, but it was pitch dark and she couldn’t see anything. After a while, they came to a small door – more of a hatch, really – in the wall. “What’s that?”

“It’s a garderobe. Where they empty the chamber pots.”

“Splendid.” She let go of him, dumped the sword on the floor and pulled open the door.

“You can’t go that way. It’s a hundred-foot drop.”

She smiled at him. “Thanks for everything,” she said. “I hope you don’t get in any trouble.”

“Don’t be bloody stupid. If you aren’t smashed to bits, you’ll drown.”

“My risk,” she said. “Now, go and tell them I got loose and took you hostage.”

The door slammed behind her before he could answer. He stood for a while staring at the closed door, then turned and headed back down the gallery. After about ten paces it occurred to him to break into a run and start shouting.

The guards who found him sent for the castellan, who ordered two men to go down the garderobe shaft on ropes. They came back up after a while, white-faced and foul-smelling; no sign of anyone down there, they said, but it’s got to be ten feet deep and no handholds; if she fell into that, she drowned, no question about it. Hell of a way to go, one of them added, though if she was lucky she hit her head on the wall on the way down. The castellan asked them; are you sure? Oh yes, they told him. Positive.

She heard most of their conversation, since the tunnel amplified sound quite wonderfully. She was still climbing. It was desperate work, with her back arched against the opposite wall, her fingers and toes crammed into mortar cracks between the stones – fortunately the builders had lined the garderobe with undressed stone, which gave slightly more purchase. Halfway between floors she came to the conclusion that she’d made a dreadful mistake and she wasn’t going to make it, but she kept going nevertheless. She found the door on the upper storey by resting her back against it, thinking it was solid wall; it swung open, she lost her grip, actually slid down the best part of a yard before finding a crack with one wildly scrabbling foot. For a moment her weight was too much for four toes to bear, but she found a handhold just in time, and then another, and then got the tips of three fingers over the sill of the door. It was pure luck that the upper gallery was empty, at a time of day when there should have been a sentry there; but he’d gone down the stairs when the alarm was sounded on the floor below.