Memory (74 page)

Fortunately, his opponent went for another high thrust. Two steps back gave Loredan the room to parry forehand, his bodyweight behind the blade to push the other man's sword wide right; then he dropped his wrist for a short jab, more of a heavy push with the wrist turned over, straight for the stomach. The other man stepped back, but not quickly enough; the point of the sword went in maybe half an inch before Loredan snatched it out and, taking the risk of a cut across his right shoulder, threw himself down and forward for a sprawling lunge. His knee and left hand hit the ground together and he felt a twinge of pain as a ligament protested. The other man parried wildly, deflecting the thrust but not far enough, so that the first nine inches of the blade sliced into his right hip. Good work so far; but probably not good enough. Not yet, at least.

Loredan, kneeling on the ground, pushed hard with his left hand and leg to regain his feet; but his left knee didn't seem to work – cramp, of all the wretched ways to die! But the other man was too preoccupied with the sight of his own blood to notice Loredan's difficulties, and he somehow managed to force himself vertical on his right leg and fall back into a ragged imitation of a guard. Not a good time to try moving his feet; he'd fall over as sure as day. Everything depended on the other man, and how well he was able to handle being hurt. Waiting for him to move, Loredan cursed all shipping cases, all actions based on the laws of contract and all tall blond fencers ten years his junior. A lot of cursing to get through in less than a heartbeat, but speed is something that comes with long practice.

Mercifully, the other man seemed to have lost his nerve. Instead of lunging, as Loredan would have done in his position, he rocked back and went for a sideways slash at elbow level; as effective a way of killing yourself, Loredan reflected as he turned the blow neatly aside and leant into the inevitable lunge, as jumping off a high tower. He felt the point of the blade encounter bone, saw it bend—

—and snap, clean as the stem of a wine glass, ten inches or so from the point. Disgusted, he turned the thrust into a short-arm cut, wrist power alone, that slit the other man's throat as neatly as a sheet of parchment. There was a clatter as his sword fell – that extravagant, ill-fated Tarmont; never could see the point in buying new – and a soft wheeze as the other man tried to draw breath down a throat that wasn't there any more. And lots of blood, of course, and the usual heavy thump as he hit the ground.

Damn all shipping cases.

The judge rapped with his little hammer and gave judgement, rather superfluously, for the defendant. A round of applause from the spectators – somewhat muted, it had been a very short fight with no really memorable strokeplay – followed by the shuffling of feet, the resumption of interrupted conversations, some laughter, a sneeze at the back. The other man's clerk gathered up his papers, tucked them under his arm, in no hurry to reach his clients at the back of the gallery. Athli had picked up the Tarmont – Loredan's property now, by ancient custom; worth ten times his fee but its value wouldn't buy another Guelan, even if he could find one. An unsatisfactory day, except that he was still alive.

‘What happened to you?' Athli asked. ‘I thought you'd had it there for a moment.'

‘Cramp,' Loredan replied. He wanted to retrieve the front end of his blade, but he wasn't keen to get that close to the body. There'd be blood everywhere as soon as he pulled it free, and he wasn't in the mood. ‘Look at that,' he muttered, staring at the broken sword in his hand. ‘Looks like I've just acquired one very expensive carving knife.'

‘I told you that thing had had its day,' Athli said. ‘If you'd sold it, like I said—'

She held out the velvet bag, and he dropped the hilt-end in. She tied the cord and stowed it in the kitbag. ‘How's the knee?'

‘Better, but it'll need resting for a week or so. When's our next one?'

‘Four weeks,' said Athli, ‘and it's a divorce, so it ought to be all right. I'll let them know, though, just in case they want to instruct someone else.'

Loredan nodded. Divorce, being an ecclesiastical jurisdiction, wasn't supposed to be to the death, although death didn't invalidate the judgement if it turned out that way. Nevertheless, it was only fair to warn the client if you were carrying an injury, particularly in a case where substantial marriage settlements were riding on the issue.

‘I could always cut it down, I suppose,' Loredan mused. He was aware that he was hobbling, and the distance to the courtroom door seemed much longer than usual. ‘Short blades are quite fashionable in some courts at the moment.'

‘Not that short,' Athli said. ‘Have it ground down for a second dagger. You could do with a spare.'

‘Sacrilege.' A couple of porters were carrying the other man away, a sack thrown over him so as not to distress the public. ‘Talking of which, since when have I been doing divorce work?'

‘Since you started having trouble with your knee.' Athli looked up at him, frowning slightly. ‘No offence,' she said, ‘but have you given any thought to when you're going to retire?'

‘As soon as I can afford to,' Loredan replied, feeling something bitter in his throat. ‘Or when they make me a judge.'

‘I thought you'd say that,' Athli said.

 

Punctual as the mailcoach, the shakes came after the second bottle, just as he was about to open the third. Without saying anything, he handed it to his clerk.

‘You ought to go easy on this stuff,' she observed, filling his cup. ‘For one thing, it's expensive.'

Loredan scowled at the distorted image of himself reflected in the cup's polished side. ‘Tradition,' he replied. ‘It's a mark of respect.' He remembered something. ‘Did we buy his clerk a drink?' he asked. Athli nodded.

There were quite a few spectators from the court in the taproom, and several of them were nudging each other and pointing. Loredan didn't like that much; on the other hand, there was always a chance of picking up work in the tavern immediately after a hearing. He'd got the Khevren brothers that way, and the cinnamon-merchants' cartel. Several of the leading families sent men to all the hearings on the lookout for good advocates, usually bright lads talented enough to survive but still young enough to be cheap. Ten-year men were well enough known to potential clients, but there was the risk of pricing yourself out of the market; and lowering the fee was as good as admitting you were past it. The same went for taking divorce work; for a ten-year man, tantamount to a confession of decrepitude, loss of nerve or both. It'd be different, Loredan reflected, if I was getting better as I get older. But I'm not.

‘Well,' Athli was saying, ‘you've done the easy part. Now I've got to get the Dromosil boys to pay up.'

Loredan grunted. ‘Tell 'em we'll sue,' he said. Athli sniggered; professional debts, for example advocates' fees, were a personal action, fought between the litigants themselves with no legal assistance allowed. In practice, however, advocates with a reputation of suing for their fees tended to find work hard to come by. ‘You'll manage,' he went on. ‘Not a bad day for you, with the sword money.'

Athli shrugged. Her ten per cent would be a tidy sum, but she'd never admit to being pleased. ‘And every penny of it hard-earned,' she said. ‘Drink up. We're meeting the charcoal people in an hour.'

Loredan groaned. ‘Have I got to?' he said. ‘Can't you say I'm still recovering or something?'

‘That'd sound good. I've had to sweat blood persuading them you're not a doddering old ruin who needs help going to the privy. And for pity's sake don't limp. You look about a hundred and six as it is.'

Defiantly, Loredan refilled his cup. ‘Where am I going to get another Guelan from?' he asked gloomily. ‘Of all the bastard things to happen.'

Athli frowned at him. ‘Next thing you know you'll be getting superstitious,' she said. ‘Which is a dangerous hobby for a man in your line of work.'

Loredan growled. ‘Proper tools for a proper job,' he replied. ‘Nothing superstitious about that. And I think it's about time tools and equipment came off the gross. Other clerks do it,' he added defensively, before Athli had a chance to speak. ‘They accept that it's an essential expense of the business.'

‘No chance.'

‘Athli, it's my
life
. . .' He stopped, painfully aware that he'd broken the rules. Between advocate and clerk, the possibility of death was never recognised. He slumped forwards a little, ashamed of himself. ‘When did you say we're meeting the charcoal people?'

Athli was looking at him. She'd been doing it a lot recently. Another unbreakable rule was that clerks didn't worry about advocates. They found them work, the best quality they could get; the fact that too high a class of work could get a man killed quicker than a lightning strike was strictly outside the terms of the relationship. ‘It's all right,' she said. ‘I'll say you had to go on to a victory party.'

‘With the Dromosil brothers? Do me a favour.' He finished his drink and turned the cup over. ‘I'd better come with you,' he sighed. ‘Can't really trust you to handle difficult clients on your own. And
then
,' he added ferociously, ‘we'll go out and get drunk. Agreed?'

‘After an hour with the charcoal people,' Athli replied gravely, ‘agreed.'

 

‘This Principle,' said the Patriarch gravely, ‘which of course we do not name, provides the power that makes these things possible. Never forget how limited it is, or how little it can actually do.'

He paused and looked round the hall at the packed benches. Five hundred eager young students, every one of whom had no doubt sworn a childhood oath to be a magician when he grew up. Alexius was a cynical man by nature, and achieving the Patriarchate had ground away what little idealism he had left, but even he admitted that he had one serious – even sacred – responsibility to each year's intake of novices. He must make them understand, as soon as possible, that they were
not
going to be taught how to be wizards.

‘Fundamentally,' he continued, ‘the Principle can be used as a shield; and, to a much lesser extent, as a sword. That is all; defence and offence. Its virtues cannot heal the sick or raise the dead, change lead into gold, make a man invisible or attractive to women. It cannot make anything, or change anything already made. It can deflect curses, and it can curse; and even these things are largely incidental to the true purpose for which the Principle exists. The power is a by-product, as leather, bonemeal and glue are by-products of pig-breeding.'

As he'd intended, the homely image caused a mild ripple of disgust among the members of his high-minded young audience. This wasn't the way they expected the Patriarch to talk. They had come here to be let in on a magnificent secret, the best and most profitable guild mystery of them all. With any luck, there would be twenty or so fewer ardent young faces gazing up at him by this time tomorrow, as the younger sons who wanted to learn how to turn their brothers into frogs, and the merchants' sons who'd been sent to learn how to raise favourable winds and summon genies for the purpose of bulk-freight carriage, packed their bags and went home again. If he did his job properly, he'd be rid of half of these young fools before the term ended.

‘Tomorrow,' he said, ‘I will explain to you the four great assumptions on which the Principle is founded. Once you have grasped these – if you manage to grasp them, which is by no means guaranteed – you will be in a position to decide which of the six aspects of the Principle to study, and we will then be able to allocate you to appropriate classes and tutors. May I also remind those of you who still have fees to pay that you cannot be allocated until all sums due have been received. You are dismissed.'

So much for the education of the young. Back in his own cell, a square stone box with a plank bed, a massive oak book box and the most dazzling mosaic ceiling in the city, he shrugged off his robes of office and his ridiculous purple boots, sat on the edge of the bed and patiently struggled with flint and tinder until his lamp reluctantly gave him some light.

Directly below his cell they were setting up the evening meal in the refectory. Fairly soon, the hall steward would knock on his door, asking permission to untie the knot that anchored the great chandelier that hung over the high table, so that it could be lowered and filled with the evening's candles. The Patriarch couldn't help resenting the intrusion, even though it was part of the daily ritual; the noise of the evening meal disturbed his reading, and scarcely a day passed when he didn't stub his toe on the damned anchor-post as he pottered about in the gloom of his cell.

He had insisted on a room with no windows; lamplight, reflected in the thousands of gilded tesserae that made up the legendary mosaics, was good enough for a man to read by, provided that he leant close to the flame and held the page a few inches from his nose. Alexius knew that he was fatally prone to distraction. If he had a window, he'd look out of it instead of reading his book. If there were tapestry hangings or frescos, he'd sit gazing at them instead of applying his mind to the dense arguments of the Fathers. And if he went down to dinner in the refectory, instead of making do with a loaf of coarse bread, a jug of water and an apple, he'd do no further work that day, or the morning of the next.

In consequence, he was held to be a great ascetic and given honour accordingly. He was – a good joke, this – probably the most deeply respected Patriarch the city had known in a hundred years. Not bad for a man who moved his lips when he read, and made no effort to conceal the fact. And if it took him twice as long as his colleagues to master each new development and hypothesis in the orthodoxy, at least he did master them. Lazier, more gifted men who didn't bother to read the actual text, relying instead on someone else's summary, made mistakes and could be confounded by a painfully learnt quotation.