K. Parker: The Proof House

‘You’re welcome. And you don’t bother me. I’m glad of the company.’

Alexius smiled. ‘You know, that reminds me of one of my tutors, back when I was a very young student. He used to go around all day muttering to himself, and one day the others dared me to ask him about it. So I did. “Why do you talk to yourself?” I asked. “Because it’s the only way I’ll get a sensible conversation around here,” he replied. A good answer, I always thought.’

Loredan shook his head. ‘Donnish wit,’ he said. ‘Sometimes I wonder if that’s all you academic types do all day, lurk about trying to lure each other into carefully planned verbal ambushes. Odd way for grown men to behave, if you ask me.’

Alexius nodded. ‘Almost as odd as crawling about in narrow dark tunnels,’ he replied. ‘But not quite.’

‘Alexius.’

‘Hm?’

Loredan opened his eyes. ‘Is there any way I can get out of here? Or am I through this time?’

He couldn’t see Alexius any more, but the voice was clear and distinct. ‘Not you as well,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent my life explaining this. I’m a scientist, not a fortune-teller. I have no idea.’

‘You know,’ Loredan said, ‘you don’t sound at all like the Alexius I used to know. You sound younger.’

‘It’s one of the nice things about being imaginary, I can be whatever age I like. I’ve decided to be forty-seven. I enjoyed forty-seven best.’

Loredan nodded. ‘I’ve always had this theory,’ he said, ‘that we’re all born with a certain optimum age, the age we’re really meant to be, and once we reach it we stick there, in our minds, where it counts. Personally I’ve always been twenty-five. I was good at being twenty-five.’

Alexius sighed. ‘Just as well that you found your true age while you had enough time to enjoy it, then,’ he said. ‘If it’d been forty-seven you’d have been out of luck, because I’m afraid you’ll never get there.’

‘Ah,’ Loredan said. ‘I’m forty-four.’

‘No you’re not. Forty-six. You’ve lost count.’

‘Really?’ Loredan shrugged. ‘Been down here too long, I guess. And now I suppose I’m going to stay down here for good.’

‘It saves your friends the cost and trauma of burying you.’

‘True. I’d hoped I wouldn’t get buried until I was dead.’

‘Admittedly, it’s customary to die first. In your case, however, they seem to have made an exception.’

‘I think I’d like to go to sleep now,’ Loredan said, yawning pointedly. ‘I haven’t been sleeping well lately.’

‘As you wish.’

He closed his eyes again. How can a man die better, he thought, than in peace and tranquillity, with all his friends around him? Here they all were, come to see him off (or to welcome him in, depending on how you looked at it); rows and rows of them, filling the benches in the public gallery, spilling out on to the edges of the courtroom floor itself, while Bardas Loredan chose a sword from the bag his clerk was offering him. He didn’t need to look up in order to know who his opponent was going to be.

‘Gorgas,’ he said, with a stiff nod.

‘Hello,’ his brother replied. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Over three years,’ Loredan replied. ‘You haven’t changed, though.’

‘That’s kind of you, but I expect I have really. Even less on top, a little more around the middle. It’s all this good, starchy food I’m getting in the Mesoge. I’d forgotten how much I like it.’

Gorgas lifted his sword, a long, slender Habresche, worth a lot of money. Bardas discovered that he’d selected the Guelan, his favourite sword for lawsuits, which he’d broken some years ago in this very court. It too was old, rare and quite collectible, though not nearly as valuable as a late-series Habresche.

‘Are you sure we’ve got to do this?’ Gorgas asked plaintively. ‘I’m certain that if only we sat down together and talked things through-’

Bardas grinned. ‘Scared, are you?’

‘Of course.’ Gorgas nodded gravely. ‘I’m absolutely terrified I might hurt you. For two pins I’d drop this ridiculous sword and let you kill me. Only you wouldn’t do that, would you?’

‘Kill an unarmed man who’s kneeling at my feet? Not normally. But in your case I’ll make an exception.’

Their sword blades met, as Gorgas lunged and Bardas parried, high right, forehand. ‘I knew you’d meet that easily enough,’ Gorgas was saying. ‘If I’d thought you couldn’t handle it, I’d never have made the stroke.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Gorgas,’ Bardas warned. ‘I’m a whole lot better at this than you are.’

‘Of course you are, Bardas. I have complete confidence in your abilities. We wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t.’

Bardas riposted, turning his wrist so as to lunge low, but Gorgas made the parry in plenty of time. His handspeed had never been this good.

‘I’ve been practising,’ he said.

‘Obviously,’ Bardas replied. He watched the blade come on as Gorgas lunged back, read the feint early and compensated, drawing his parry wide to cover the full zone of possibilities. Once he’d made the parry, he stepped across and back with his right foot to change the angle and flicked a short, powerful lunge at his brother’s face. Gorgas only just parried in time, and the needle-sharp point of the Guelan nipped a small, thin cut just above Gorgas’ ear.

‘Very stylish,’ Gorgas said. ‘You’re seeing it well today. By the way, did I tell you, Niessa died? My daughter Niessa, I mean, not our Niessa.’

‘I never met her,’ Bardas replied. ‘Only her brother.’

‘Pneumonia, of all things,’ Gorgas said. ‘She was only nine, poor little devil.’

‘Did no one ever tell you it’s bad form to talk while you’re fencing?’

Gorgas disengaged and swished a diritto at the side of Bardas’ head. Bardas took a standing jump backwards to get out of the way. ‘Relax,’ Gorgas was saying, ‘this isn’t real, you’re imagining the whole thing.’

‘That’s no excuse for boorishness. If you’re going to fight in my imagination, you’ll abide by the house rules.’

‘You were always a terror for making the rules up as you went along,’ Gorgas said with a sigh. He was clear for a counterthrust to the groin; if he’d made it, Bardas would have had terrible trouble stopping it. But he held back, giving Bardas the time he needed to adjust his guard. ‘It’s just like when we were kids,’ Gorgas went on. ‘The moment you realised you were losing, suddenly there’d be this brand-new rule.’

‘That’s not true,’ Bardas protested. ‘I may have made the odd professional foul, but I never ever cheated. More hassle than it’s worth, trying to get one past you. The tiniest least thing and you’d go running off to Father sobbing, “It’s not fair, it’s not fair.” And he’d always take your side against me.’

‘You think so? I reckoned it was generally the other way round.’

Gorgas lunged. It was a short, quick lunge, opportunist, made en passant as he recovered from the last parry. There wouldn’t have been anything Bardas could have done about it under any circumstances. He felt -

– He felt a slight vibration running through the cross, and opened his eyes sharply. Someone coming up the gallery, moving fast. Damn , he thought. However ready you think you are, it isn’t something you could ever prepare for.

He fished in the top of his boot for his knife, but it wasn’t there. He smiled. Three years in the mines and he’d never lost a knife before. Coincidence? And the rest.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. Whoever they were, they were making good speed up the gallery, trundling along on hands and knees as if they were in some sort of bizarre novelty race. It occurred to him that if they were coming up the tunnel simply in order to kill him, they were going about it in a decidedly clumsy way. No cavalry charges in the mines; if the job’s done properly, the first the dead man knows about it is the gratitude of his killer. Now then; if they weren’t coming for him, why would they be coming this way at all? If they were this shift’s relief, they wouldn’t be racing up the line as fast as they could go. Maybe, then, they weren’t hurrying towards him but away from something else – such as a raiding party, or a cave-in about to happen.