The Two of Swords: Part 9 by K. J. Parker Read Free Book Online Page A

wrong.
    The man on the other side of her was a soldier, a senior staff officer just returned from patrolling in the desert. She asked him if he’d engaged the enemy; no, thank God, he replied with feeling, he’d been assigned the eastern side of the road, which had been dead quiet ever since Forza Belot slaughtered the enemy’s main army. It was on the western side that they’d had all the trouble with the insurgents, who by all accounts had learned the lesson General Belot had taught them, and were concentrating on picking off villages and towns. There was something very different going on out there, he told her, you might almost call it a different attitude to war, a new way of defining victory –
sophisticated
was the only word he could think of, which was an odd way to describe hit-and-run attacks by savages, but there it was. So long as he wasn’t called on to do anything about it, he was delighted to leave it to other, better strategists, who were welcome to slog up and down the sand dunes while he was back here, in civilisation, eating, listening to good music and maybe even meeting the legendary Oida—
    She left as early as she could and went back to her room, to find that nobody had been in to light the lamps. She found the tinderbox by feel and discovered there was no tinder. So she sat in the dark for a while, then groped her way out on to the balcony; she misjudged the distances, bumped into the rail and nearly went over. A perfect end to a perfect day, in fact.
    There was a seat on the balcony; cold, hard stone, but better than standing up (her feet were hurting; the incessant underfloor heat had made them swell, and her boots were uncomfortably small). It was a clear night and the moon was nearly full. She amused herself for a while by figuring out the geography of the courtyard below her, then fell asleep.
    A prod on the shoulder woke her up, and there was Oida standing over her with a sort of cloth bundle in one hand and a lamp in the other. “Inside,” he said. “Before you catch your death.”
    The bundle proved to be a linen antimacassar – there had been one on the back of every chair in the dining room – and when Oida unfolded it she saw that it contained bread rolls, five different sorts of cheese, apples, pears, honey and cinnamon cakes and six cubes of that amazing pink sweet soft stuff that was the only real justification for the existence of Blemya. “I thought you might be hungry,” he said, “so I grabbed a few bits on the way out.”
    She gazed into his eyes for maybe two heartbeats, then lunged at the food like a jackal. He perched on the end of the bed while she ate, occasionally picking out something for himself. She ate solidly for quite some time. Then she looked at him again. “I don’t suppose you thought to bring anything to drink,” she said.
    “Depends.” From the baggy sleeve of his gown he produced a small stone bottle. “I know you don’t usually touch the hard stuff,” he said. “But there aren’t any pockets in this rag, so I had to make do with what I could fit in.”
    She frowned at him. “There’s water in the jug.”
    “Fine.” He stood up, found the jug and brought it to her. “No cup, glass or beaker,” he said. “Same in my room, oddly enough. I don’t think the Blemyans drink in their rooms.”
    “Doesn’t matter.” She grabbed the jug and tried to drink from the side of the spout. Some of the water found its way into her mouth; the rest ran down her chin and then her neck. She pulled a face. “Tastes funny.”
    “I think it’s for washing in,” Oida said mildly. “My understanding is, drinking water comes from the well, or the rainwater tank on the roof. That stuff’s probably been six times round the heating system, in lead pipes. Still, I don’t suppose a few mouthfuls will kill you.”
    “I’ve had worse,” she mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
    “I know you have,” he said mildly, and dabbed at his forehead with the hem