The Two of Swords: Part 6 Read Free Page A

the residual trace of wit to grab the maps and papers, but not the personal stuff. You most definitely wouldn’t know what was under the chief’s pillow. All you’d be able to hear would be the voice in your head screaming
get out of there
, which you would obey implicitly, without hesitation.
    Ambiguous, therefore; maybe he’s dead, maybe he isn’t. Fairly safe to assume that, at the moment of the army’s departure, Forza wasn’t in command; potentially fatal to assume that he wasn’t in command now, and racking his brains to figure out what his kid brother would do next. If I was him, he thought, I’d sent back a half-squadron, at the very least; tell them to hold off still and quiet so as not to disturb the crows; as soon as the crows get up, go in there fast. Would Forza guess that he’d be here? Yes, because he
was
here, and Forza knew him so well. In which case—
    He ran out of the tent and looked round; half a squadron would kick up dust, unless Forza had ordered them to go on foot for that very reason. He couldn’t see movement of any sort, anywhere. Which proved nothing. Time he wasn’t there.
    As he ran back up the path, he realised: come what may, if Forza was alive, he’d have sent someone for the painting, and probably his wife’s letters, if he knew about them (he’d know). The absolute certainty of it hit him like a hammer; he stopped dead, unable to take a single step. Dead, or just possibly in a coma – no, because
she’d
know what he kept under his pillow,
she’d
know it had to be retrieved at all costs; no reason to believe she was dead too. He felt utterly weak and helpless, as though he’d just had a stroke. Forza—
    Suddenly into his mind came an image of the Basilica at Vetusta, the biggest and most magnificent man-made structure in the world. Four generations of labourers had worked on it, he’d read somewhere; great-grandfather, grandfather, father, son, their whole lives spent on that one extraordinary piece of work – masons, carters, carpenters, smiths, brickmakers, plasterers, architects, painters, sculptors, all of them trades that traditionally run in families, like soldiering or ruling empires – until one day, one clearly defined, absolutely different day, someone took a step back, looked up, down again at the plans; nodded his head, probably, and declared that it was finished, and everyone could go home. A moment of triumph – the greatest achievement of the human race, brought to a magnificently successful conclusion – but also, for the fourth-generations achievers, the end of the world, everything they’d ever known over, done with and gone, their purpose fulfilled, their experiences obsolete; a frontier post on the border between present and past. A week later, they’d all have scattered far and wide, building cowsheds. Hereditary trades; family businesses. Like, say, the Belot brothers, purveyors of fine carrion to discerning crows everywhere.
    Self-pity; because if a job’s worth doing, do it yourself.
    No confirmation, of course. He led the army back across the border, expecting to find messengers waiting, but there weren’t any. He hadn’t said anything to the men, but he had an idea that the shrewder ones were guessing pretty close to the truth. There was a buzz of excitement on the march and around the camp; we’re going all the way this time, it’ll all be over by midsummer – as though something was about to begin, rather than everything had just ended. The senior staff kept quiet, waiting for an announcement.
    They stopped for three days at the old fort at Stroumena, ostensibly to wait for supplies. On the third day, when Senza had given up and was getting ready to move on, a breathless young lieutenant told him five horsemen were approaching the camp, escorting a covered chaise. He didn’t actually use the words Imperial courier service, but he didn’t need to. He was grinning.
    Senza watched them from the top of the observation tower. He saw a