K. Parker - The Proof House

Some time after that (time passed slowly here, but steadily) a group of five soldiers wandered in. They weren’t Sons of Heaven either; it was hard to say where they were from, but they wore the light-grey-faded-to-brown gambesons that went under standard-issue infantry armour and issue boots, brightly polished belts and the little woollen three-pointed caps that formed the padding for the infantry helmet. Four of them were wearing their swords; the fifth, the corporal of this half-platoon, had a square-ended falchion tucked under his belt. They walked straight across the circle of drovers, who got out of their way, and went into the back room. The old woman stopped singing, opened her eyes, got up and limped quickly away.

There was an old man sitting next to Bardas with his mouth open, a very small cup of echin going cold on the ground in front of him. Bardas leaned over. ‘Trouble?’ he asked.

The old man shrugged. ‘Soldiers,’ he replied.

‘Ah.’

Inside, something smashed, followed by the sound of laughter. The drovers looked up, then carried on with their conversation. One or two of the other customers got up and walked away without looking round.

The soldiers came out, holding big jugs of something that wasn’t echin , and stood looking down at the drovers. The conversation in the circle died again. The old man Bardas had spoken to left just as the man who’d brought Bardas his drink came out with a tragic expression on his face. Everything seemed to suggest that the tavern was a good place not to be for a while. Bardas would have left, but he hadn’t finished his drink.

Thus saith the Prophet: do not start fights in bars. Do not interfere in other people’s fights in bars. As religions went, it had a lot going for it, and Bardas had always kept the faith. When the fight started, he did as he usually did on these occasions; sat very still and watched carefully out of the corner of his field of vision, taking care not to catch the eye of any of the combatants. Taken purely as an entertainment, it had its merits; the drovers had the numbers, while the soldiers had the weapons, together with a rather more robust attitude as to what constituted a legitimate degree of force. When one of the drovers went down and didn’t get up, the fight stopped; instead of a confused pool of action, there was a tableau of fifteen men standing quite still and looking very embarrassed. Nobody spoke for a while; then the corporal (who’d done the actual killing) looked round and said, ‘What?’

One of the soldiers was looking at Bardas; at the dull brown of the tarnished bronze flashes on his collar, four for a master-sergeant. Actually, it wasn’t even Bardas’ own coat; it was something he’d picked up in the mines (nearly new, one careless owner). But everybody seemed to have noticed the little metal clips now. Bardas wondered what they all found so interesting.

The little man who’d brought the wine was standing over him now. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

Bardas looked up. ‘Me?’ he said.

‘Yes, you. You’re a sergeant. What are you going to do?’

Of course, he’s right. I’d clean forgotten. ‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘What would you suggest?’

The little man looked at him as if he was mad. ‘Arrest them, of course. Arrest them and send them to the prefect. They just killed someone.’

Thus saith the Prophet: when asked to arrest five armed men after a bar fight, leave at once. ‘All right,’ Bardas said, getting slowly to his feet. He looked at the soldiers for a moment without saying anything, then directed his attention to the corporal. ‘Names,’ he said.

The soldiers told him their names, which he didn’t catch; they were long, foreign and complicated. ‘Unit,’ he said. The corporal replied that they were the Something regiment of foot, such-and-such a company, such-and-such a platoon.

‘All right,’ Bardas said. ‘Who’s your commanding officer?’ The corporal gave him a look of misery and fear, then shouted and came at him, the falchion raised. Before he knew what he was doing, Bardas had caught him by the elbow with his left hand and driven his knife into the hollow at the base of the corporal’s throat with his right. He hadn’t remembered the knife getting into his hand, or being on his belt in the first place; but after three years in the mines, his knife was like his hands or his feet, it wasn’t something you ever had to remember.

He watched the corporal die, then let his body slump to the ground. Nobody else moved. A great place for still people, Sammyra.

‘I’ll ask you again,’ Bardas heard himself say. ‘Who’s your commanding officer?’

One of the soldiers said a name; Bardas didn’t catch it. ‘You,’ he said to the little innkeeper, ‘run to the prefecture and fetch the guard. The rest of you, get lost.’ A moment later, he was alone with the four surviving soldiers and the two dead men. It was easy to tell them apart; the soldiers were the ones standing up.

After what seemed like a very long time the guard arrived, led by an unmistakable Son of Heaven in a gilded helmet with a very tall feather on top.

‘Bar fight?’ he said. Bardas nodded. ‘And this one -’ he prodded the dead corporal with his toe. ‘- this one took a swing at you?’

‘That’s right,’ Bardas said.

The guard commander sighed. His collar made him out to be an ordinary sergeant, so Bardas outranked him. ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Bardas Loredan.’

The guard commander frowned. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘You’re the hero, right?’

Gannadius?

Gannadius pulled a face. ‘Not now,’ he said.

Gannadius? You’re very faint, I can hardly-

‘Oh, for pity’s sake.’ Gannadius opened his eyes. Alexius was standing over him, looking worried. ‘No offence,’ he said, ‘but would you mind pushing off for a bit? I’m dying, and I’d hate to miss anything.’

What? Oh. Oh, yes, you are, aren’t you. My dear fellow, I am most terribly sorry. How did it happen?

Gannadius shrugged. ‘Oh, little things, really. I think it started with a fever and went on from there.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Am I dying?’ he asked. ‘Really?’

Alexius looked thoughtful. Well, I’m not a doctor or anything, but-

‘I’m dying.’

Yes.

‘Oh.’ Gannadius tried to make himself relax. ‘How can you tell?’

Well – just trust me.

Gannadius tried closing his eyes again, but it didn’t seem to make any difference. He waited. Nothing much seemed to be happening. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what’s next? Any hints?’

No offence, Gannadius, but I wouldn’t know. If it’s any consolation, it’s a perfectly natural thing. He could see Alexius ransacking his brains for a valid but not too alarming analogy. Like childbirth was, apparently, the best he could come up with.

‘Really?’ he couldn’t resist saying. ‘Seems to me there’s at least one major difference.’

You know what I mean. Does it hurt?

‘It did,’ Gannadius said. ‘Like hell. But not so much now. In fact, it doesn’t hurt at all.’

I see.

‘That’s bad, is it?’

On the contrary, it’s good. I mean, you wouldn’t want it to hurt, would you?

‘That’s not what I…’ Gannadius sighed. ‘So now what? Any idea what the drill is? Am I meant to do anything, or do I just lie here and wait?’

You tell me.

‘Right; and then you can write it up as a nice prize-winning paper for the next big conference you go to. Sorry,’ Gannadius added, ‘that was small of me.’