he said, “it’s been interesting. Any time you’re passing, do drop in and take a look at the art.”
“I’d like that,” I heard myself say, and realised I meant it. “One thing,” I said. “The artists. I know you wanted them for the perfect genetic mix, for your supermen—”
He shook his head. “That only occurred to me once they were here,” he said. “They were for you. Because you like to look at paintings.”
I felt a tightness in my throat. “I wish I could believe that.”
He smiled. “Believe what you like,” he said, and walked away.
* * *
Of course it was a gamble. And of course I got lucky.
The biggest stroke of luck—the thing that gave me the whole idea in the first place—was stumbling across the amnesiac woman. I don’t know who the hell she was—obviously—but when her family called me in and asked if there was anything I could do for her, it suddenly came to me, fully formed and perfect, in a flash. I paid them a lot of money for her—despicable, a family who’d sell their own flesh and blood to a perfect stranger—and arranged for her to be found in the ruins of Phocas’s palace. That was the luck.
The gamble was that their system of archives and records was quite as chaotic as I thought it must be, after years and years of diligent research. It was a huge risk, though I’d covered myself with the invalid signature—still, that silly little trick wasn’t much to fall back on, in the event that I’d grossly miscalculated. But I hadn’t; they really are as grossly inefficient in their record-keeping as I’d assumed, and of course the relevant officials would do everything they could to cover up their negligence; up to and including their gross exaggeration of the power of alchemy. That, of course, was what gave me the clue. I know for a fact alchemy doesn’t work, but Heaven treats it as the worst possible sin. Why get so worked up about a nonexistent threat? Answer: someone somewhere is covering something up. Discrepancies in the records? Blame them on the alchemists. Once I’d reached that conclusion, all I had to do was figure out how to take advantage.
So; I did it. The one big score. I rule a kingdom literally built on top of a mountain of gold, from my throne-room in an impregnable castle. My subjects are the toughest warriors on Earth, leavened with great artists and beautiful women. I control the politics of the civilised world. Oh, and I’m twenty-five years old and in perfect health. If you can think of a bigger score than that, please don’t tell me. You’ll only give me ideas.
It’s always the money with me; the money, personal gain, the one big score. Along the way, I happen to have proved myself right—morality, good and evil, the fatuity of gods who can be tricked—up to a point. I honestly couldn’t care less. If I’d discovered synthetic blue paint forty years ago, none of this need ever have happened, and I wouldn’t have written those dratted books.
Of course, in forty years’ time I might see things differently, again. But I’m not worried. I’m sure I’ll think of something.
About the Author
Photograph by Shelley Humphries
Having worked in journalism, numismatics, and the law, K. J. Parker now writes for a precarious living.
K. J. Parker also writes under the name Tom Holt.
Also by K. J. Parker
The Last Witness
The Company
The Folding Knife
The Hammer
Sharps
Purple and Black
Blue and Gold
Savages
The Two of Swords
Academic Exercises
(collection)
THE FENCER TRILOGY
Colours
in the Steel
The Belly of the Bow
The Proof House
THE SCAVENGER TRILOGY
Shadow
Pattern
Memory
THE ENGINEER TRILOGY
Devices and Desires
Evil for Evil
The Escapement
AS TOM HOLT (SELECTED TITLES)
Expecting Someone Taller
Who’s Afraid of Beowulf?
Flying Dutch
Faust
Among
Equals
Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Valhalla
The Portable Door
You Don’t Have to Be Evil to Work Here,
But
It Helps
The Better Mousetrap
Blonde
“I’d like that,” I heard myself say, and realised I meant it. “One thing,” I said. “The artists. I know you wanted them for the perfect genetic mix, for your supermen—”
He shook his head. “That only occurred to me once they were here,” he said. “They were for you. Because you like to look at paintings.”
I felt a tightness in my throat. “I wish I could believe that.”
He smiled. “Believe what you like,” he said, and walked away.
* * *
Of course it was a gamble. And of course I got lucky.
The biggest stroke of luck—the thing that gave me the whole idea in the first place—was stumbling across the amnesiac woman. I don’t know who the hell she was—obviously—but when her family called me in and asked if there was anything I could do for her, it suddenly came to me, fully formed and perfect, in a flash. I paid them a lot of money for her—despicable, a family who’d sell their own flesh and blood to a perfect stranger—and arranged for her to be found in the ruins of Phocas’s palace. That was the luck.
The gamble was that their system of archives and records was quite as chaotic as I thought it must be, after years and years of diligent research. It was a huge risk, though I’d covered myself with the invalid signature—still, that silly little trick wasn’t much to fall back on, in the event that I’d grossly miscalculated. But I hadn’t; they really are as grossly inefficient in their record-keeping as I’d assumed, and of course the relevant officials would do everything they could to cover up their negligence; up to and including their gross exaggeration of the power of alchemy. That, of course, was what gave me the clue. I know for a fact alchemy doesn’t work, but Heaven treats it as the worst possible sin. Why get so worked up about a nonexistent threat? Answer: someone somewhere is covering something up. Discrepancies in the records? Blame them on the alchemists. Once I’d reached that conclusion, all I had to do was figure out how to take advantage.
So; I did it. The one big score. I rule a kingdom literally built on top of a mountain of gold, from my throne-room in an impregnable castle. My subjects are the toughest warriors on Earth, leavened with great artists and beautiful women. I control the politics of the civilised world. Oh, and I’m twenty-five years old and in perfect health. If you can think of a bigger score than that, please don’t tell me. You’ll only give me ideas.
It’s always the money with me; the money, personal gain, the one big score. Along the way, I happen to have proved myself right—morality, good and evil, the fatuity of gods who can be tricked—up to a point. I honestly couldn’t care less. If I’d discovered synthetic blue paint forty years ago, none of this need ever have happened, and I wouldn’t have written those dratted books.
Of course, in forty years’ time I might see things differently, again. But I’m not worried. I’m sure I’ll think of something.
About the Author
Photograph by Shelley Humphries
Having worked in journalism, numismatics, and the law, K. J. Parker now writes for a precarious living.
K. J. Parker also writes under the name Tom Holt.
Also by K. J. Parker
The Last Witness
The Company
The Folding Knife
The Hammer
Sharps
Purple and Black
Blue and Gold
Savages
The Two of Swords
Academic Exercises
(collection)
THE FENCER TRILOGY
Colours
in the Steel
The Belly of the Bow
The Proof House
THE SCAVENGER TRILOGY
Shadow
Pattern
Memory
THE ENGINEER TRILOGY
Devices and Desires
Evil for Evil
The Escapement
AS TOM HOLT (SELECTED TITLES)
Expecting Someone Taller
Who’s Afraid of Beowulf?
Flying Dutch
Faust
Among
Equals
Snow White and the Seven Samurai
Valhalla
The Portable Door
You Don’t Have to Be Evil to Work Here,
But
It Helps
The Better Mousetrap
Blonde
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