Four of Spears
As the coach pulled away, he made an effort and didn’t look back. Instead, he opened his bag, took out a book and started to read. It was the sort of book that has pictures in it, and not much text.
At Strepsi Ochoe he got out and spent an hour in the inn, a small drab place he knew only too well. Then the military mail arrived, and he went out and introduced himself to the driver, who opened the coach door for him and offered him a rug.
There was another passenger, a stocky man in a grey travelling cloak with a hood. “Hello, Oida,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you were all right.”
“I’m fine,” Oida said, tucking the rug round his knees. “I got a bit held up, that’s all.”
“Success?”
Oida considered his reply. “Not too bad,” he said. “I made a mess of some aspects of it, but by and large it went well.”
His companion grinned. “One theory is that you’re a completist,” he said, “you can’t rest till you’ve had them all. I’ve got to tell you, that’s not actually possible. They’re being born and dying all the time, how could you possibly keep up?”
Oida clicked his tongue. “Do you want my report or not?”
“Don’t bother, I know the basic facts. A good job well done, as always. You’ll be pleased to hear the boy Daxin’s safely on his way. Apparently her Majesty’s beside herself with worry about him. Tell me, do you think it’d be a good idea to drop a hint or two, let her know he’s safe? Or don’t you want to spoil the surprise?”
“I think it might be nice if he writes her a letter,” Oida said, after a moment’s thought. “Nothing in it about where he is or who’s looking after him, just I’m safe and well, having a nice time, wish you were here, that sort of thing. Otherwise, she’s perfectly capable of starting a civil war, and that wouldn’t help anybody.”
“Good idea,” the man in the hood said. “You know, I do believe you’re a romantic at heart.”
“With all due respect,” Oida said, “go to hell.”
“I imagine it comes from writing all those soupy ballads. You spend so much time putting yourself into the mind of the common man—”
“Have they found Forza Belot yet?”
The hooded man frowned at him. “Them as asks no questions,” he said sharply. “Now, there’s a little job we’d like you to do for us. If you can spare the time, of course. I know how busy you are.”
Oida sighed. “You know perfectly well what my priorities are,” he said. “Where to this time?”
From his sleeve the hooded man produced a little jar of preserved figs. He offered one to Oida, who refused, then ate one himself. When he’d quite finished, he said, “Have you ever heard of a place called Morzubith?”
“Actually, yes,” Oida replied. “It’s where Director Procopius is from, isn’t it?”
“Very good. Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
The hooded man inclined his head. “Not many people do,” he said. “It’s out on the Western moors, just before you go downhill and fetch up on the steppes. They tell me it’s so remote, they haven’t even sent any men to the war yet. Principal industries are sheep-rearing and logging. Climate—”
“Yes, fascinating. What have I got to do?”
The hooded man told him; he listened blank-faced. “That should be all right,” he said. “What’s the timetable?”
“Well, you need to be in Choris for the Remembrance Festival,” the hooded man said, “you’re the main attraction, or had you forgotten?”
Oida did some mental arithmetic. “I think I’d better cancel that,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll have time.”
“Nonsense. You can’t not be at Remembrance, think how disappointed they’d all be. And directly after that it’s the Queen’s birthday, you can’t possibly miss that. No, you should have plenty of time, if you don’t dawdle. Not a problem, particularly,” he added with a smile, “since there’ll be no
As the coach pulled away, he made an effort and didn’t look back. Instead, he opened his bag, took out a book and started to read. It was the sort of book that has pictures in it, and not much text.
At Strepsi Ochoe he got out and spent an hour in the inn, a small drab place he knew only too well. Then the military mail arrived, and he went out and introduced himself to the driver, who opened the coach door for him and offered him a rug.
There was another passenger, a stocky man in a grey travelling cloak with a hood. “Hello, Oida,” he said. “I was beginning to wonder if you were all right.”
“I’m fine,” Oida said, tucking the rug round his knees. “I got a bit held up, that’s all.”
“Success?”
Oida considered his reply. “Not too bad,” he said. “I made a mess of some aspects of it, but by and large it went well.”
His companion grinned. “One theory is that you’re a completist,” he said, “you can’t rest till you’ve had them all. I’ve got to tell you, that’s not actually possible. They’re being born and dying all the time, how could you possibly keep up?”
Oida clicked his tongue. “Do you want my report or not?”
“Don’t bother, I know the basic facts. A good job well done, as always. You’ll be pleased to hear the boy Daxin’s safely on his way. Apparently her Majesty’s beside herself with worry about him. Tell me, do you think it’d be a good idea to drop a hint or two, let her know he’s safe? Or don’t you want to spoil the surprise?”
“I think it might be nice if he writes her a letter,” Oida said, after a moment’s thought. “Nothing in it about where he is or who’s looking after him, just I’m safe and well, having a nice time, wish you were here, that sort of thing. Otherwise, she’s perfectly capable of starting a civil war, and that wouldn’t help anybody.”
“Good idea,” the man in the hood said. “You know, I do believe you’re a romantic at heart.”
“With all due respect,” Oida said, “go to hell.”
“I imagine it comes from writing all those soupy ballads. You spend so much time putting yourself into the mind of the common man—”
“Have they found Forza Belot yet?”
The hooded man frowned at him. “Them as asks no questions,” he said sharply. “Now, there’s a little job we’d like you to do for us. If you can spare the time, of course. I know how busy you are.”
Oida sighed. “You know perfectly well what my priorities are,” he said. “Where to this time?”
From his sleeve the hooded man produced a little jar of preserved figs. He offered one to Oida, who refused, then ate one himself. When he’d quite finished, he said, “Have you ever heard of a place called Morzubith?”
“Actually, yes,” Oida replied. “It’s where Director Procopius is from, isn’t it?”
“Very good. Do you know where it is?”
“No.”
The hooded man inclined his head. “Not many people do,” he said. “It’s out on the Western moors, just before you go downhill and fetch up on the steppes. They tell me it’s so remote, they haven’t even sent any men to the war yet. Principal industries are sheep-rearing and logging. Climate—”
“Yes, fascinating. What have I got to do?”
The hooded man told him; he listened blank-faced. “That should be all right,” he said. “What’s the timetable?”
“Well, you need to be in Choris for the Remembrance Festival,” the hooded man said, “you’re the main attraction, or had you forgotten?”
Oida did some mental arithmetic. “I think I’d better cancel that,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll have time.”
“Nonsense. You can’t not be at Remembrance, think how disappointed they’d all be. And directly after that it’s the Queen’s birthday, you can’t possibly miss that. No, you should have plenty of time, if you don’t dawdle. Not a problem, particularly,” he added with a smile, “since there’ll be no
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