The Two of Swords: Part 6 Read Free Page B

big man in a blue hooded cloak get out of the chaise; there was something familiar about him, though Senza could only see the top of his head. There was a woman with him; she got out, handed him a satchel with the ends of a couple of brass despatch rolls sticking out, then got back into the chaise. Two of the riders started to follow the blue-cloaked man, but he sent them back and set off across the courtyard. Definitely something familiar about the way he walked; an aggressively long stride, impatient, a man very much aware of the value of his time. So much to do, and only me capable of doing it. He disappeared through a gateway, and Senza drew back from the window. Ridiculous, he thought. What on earth would he be doing here, middle of nowhere, in a war zone?
    He heard footsteps running up the spiral stairs, and then there was a guardsman in the doorway, with a look on his face like someone who’s just seen God coming out of the drapers’ on the corner. “It’s him, sir. Oida. Wants to see you.”
    “I’ll come down,” Senza said.
    Oida was in the small courtyard, sitting on a mounting block. He’d taken off the cloak and draped it over his knees, like an old lady with a carriage rug. He was examining a scuff on the side of his boot. He looked up and smiled. “Hello, Senza,” he said.
    Senza felt his left hand clench tight; he relaxed it before it was noticed. “Oida,” he said. “What are you doing here?”
    “I’ve come to entertain the troops,” he said.
    Senza managed not to say the first words that sprang to mind. “It was very clever of you to find us,” he said, “seeing as how we didn’t tell anyone we were coming this way till we reached the border.”
    “Pure serendipity.” Oida beamed at him. “I just happened to be in the neighbourhood, and someone told me you’d shown up out of the blue. As luck would have it I don’t have to be anywhere special for a day or so; I thought, why not? Do my good deed for the week and see my old friend Senza. Any chance of a drink, by the way? I’m gasping.”
    Senza didn’t say anything for four seconds. Then: “Of course,” and he turned and started to walk. He went fast, trying to make Oida break into a trot, but with those great long legs Oida could keep up with him at a stroll. Senza didn’t like tall people. By some cruel quirk of fate, he’d been surrounded by them all his life; he was exactly average height, but he’d always
felt
short, and bitterly resented it. Oida was a head taller than Forza had been. There was simply no excuse for something like that.
    Four or five hundred years ago, when the fort had been a monastery, the monks had made a walled herb garden. Somehow it had survived, though now it produced fresh salad for the officers’ mess. There was a small free-standing stone building in the north-eastern corner, where the cellarers had once dried and cured medicinal herbs; it was cool even when the sun was high and still smelt faintly of rosemary and cumin, though these days it was mostly used for storing eggs. There were three carved oak chairs, a cupboard and a massive table scored with knife cuts, and a door you could lock from the inside.
    Senza opened the cupboard and took out a brown glass bottle and one horn cup, which he filled three-quarters full. Oida took it and drank about half. Senza pulled a face. “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,” he said.
    Oida laughed. “Your loss,” he said. “They try and make it in the West,” he said, “but it’s a poor imitation. Someone told me it’s the wrong sort of bees.”
    Senza shrugged. “Bees are bees, surely.”
    “You’d have thought so, but apparently not.” He reached across the table for the bottle. “They make a passable imitation in Charattis,” he said, “but it’s a sort of browny treacly colour and rather too sweet for my taste. Cheers.”
    Senza watched him drink in silence. He’d never seen Oida drunk, never. Alcohol just made him a more