The Two of Swords: Part 6 Read Free

alone; he knew what he wanted to see, and the picture would be delicate, fragile; one ill-judged movement would spoil it. From the top of the rock he looked down and read the view below him like a book.
    From the distribution and feeding patterns of the crows, which he’d taken great pains not to disturb, and from the smell, he gathered that nobody had been there for at least five days. The black stains the crows made on the brown and green would have told him the narrative of the battle as clearly as any despatch, if he hadn’t known it already; the places where men had fallen thickest, the paths traced by stragglers and fugitives cut down by pursuers, the windrows of dead men shot by archers as they charged, or enfiladed as they advanced and retreated – dogs can read the past by smell, Senza could do the same thing by reading crows. It came from long practice.
    When he’d seen all he needed, he walked down towards the place where he’d fought his brother. The tents, he saw with surprise, were still there; Forza’s men must have left in a tearing hurry, and it seemed reasonable to assume that nobody had been in charge. Forza would never have left the tents behind unless he’d been driven forcibly from the field, which Senza knew for a fact hadn’t been the case. He retraced his own movements, stepping over the guardsmen who’d died to save him (eyeless now, cheekbones showing through lacerated skin) and poked about in Forza’s tent for a while. The maps and papers had gone, but the table, chair and bed were still there. Under the pillow, where he knew it would be, he found three small painted wooden panels, hinged with leather straps to make a triptych. He unfolded them, and saw for the first time in fifteen years the fire god in glory, attended by the greater and lesser seraphim. It had always stood on a shelf above the hearth; his mother nodded to it every time she passed, the reflexive dip of the head you accord to neighbours you meet in the street. He stood and stared at it for a very long time; fancy meeting you here. Then he took off the scarf he wore to keep his armour from chafing his neck and wound it six times round the boards; then he turfed junk out of his coat pocket until the bundle fitted snug and safe. A voice in his head told him that the battle had been worth it, just for this. He knew that was terribly wrong, but he couldn’t deny his own belief.
    She’d left her trunk behind; he went out, picked up a sword from the ground and used it to lever open the lid – the hasp was mighty strong and he bent the sword blade before the hinge pin finally gave way. His sister-in-law had good but expensive taste. At the bottom of the trunk he found a small bundle of letters, in his brother’s handwriting. He grinned and pocketed them, for later.
    Now, then. If Forza had been badly hurt, wouldn’t they bring him in here and lay him down on the bed until someone found the doctor? He examined the blanket for traces of blood, but there weren’t any. Likewise, the first thing you’d do for a wounded man would be peel off all that armour – yes, but they’d take that away with them regardless of the outcome, just as they’d taken the maps, though not her trunk; true, but they’d have stripped off the arming coat as well, probably other bits of clothing too, and there was nothing of the sort lying on the ground or on the bed. A dead body, though, you’d just load that up as it was and cart it away, once you were sure there was nothing that could be done. Or maybe he was jumping to conclusions. Maybe he was thinking too much like Forza – organised, efficient, intelligent. Suppose you were some captain or lieutenant, horribly stuck with command as your general lies at your feet groaning and bleeding, and (not being a military genius) you have no idea at all what the military genius leading the opposition has in mind; you’d get the chief and his wife out of there as soon as possible; maybe you’d have