Chapter 8
Next morning the world was a very different place: subdued, nervous, like a man in a crowd who realises he’s been punched by someone but can’t tell who did it.
Since I was the only delegate who hadn’t been at the session, and Svangerd wouldn’t talk to me about it, I tried asking around.
Nobody wanted to talk. They looked at me, anxious and hostile, trying to figure out my motive for asking questions to which I obviously knew the answers, so I gave up and tried hanging around in the background, listening.
This quickly made me as conspicuous as a hawk in a rookery – counterproductive and exactly what I enjoy least. Then I figured that Vitimer would probably want to hear about my encounter with Kotkel, and I could ask him.
But he was far too busy to see me, goes without saying.
So I went and sat by the fountain, waiting for the morning session to start.
I was leafing through Nicephorus, trying to find the passage I’d seen the previous night, when a shadow fell over me and I looked up.
“Go away,” I said.
He sat down beside me on the fountain wall. “This is very bad,” he said. “Everything is going to pieces, and we’re having to rethink the whole architecture of our medium-term strategy.”
“Go away.”
“And you,” he went on, “aren’t helping. The moment we think we’ve got everything straightened out and we start trying to piece together a coherent narrative, you do something and screw it all up. Well, that’s got to change.”
Light brown eyes, short, curly black hair and a double chin like a pile of cushions; a handspan shorter than me, so slightly taller than average. He still reminded me of a beetle. “What’s going to change is your face, if you don’t leave me alone. Different shaped nose. Fewer teeth. Go away.”
“We need you to do something for us.”
“I’m not a violent man,” I said, “and I don’t believe you’re the devil incarnate. But I have a very violent friend who does, and all I have to do is say the word—”
He nodded. “Sister Svangerd,” he said. “We’ll talk about her in just a minute.”
Suddenly I felt scared. “Leave her out of this.”
“Alas,” he said. “Would that we could. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I suggest you calm yourself, settle down and listen carefully. It’s not complicated, but we do need you to do exactly as you’re told.”
Imagine that very large spider walking across your face, the one we discussed earlier. A bit like that. “Go on.”
“We need you,” he said, “to stand up in the middle of a debate and confess. You forged the true gospels. You’ll have to explain that you’re a highly skilled scriptorium monk and that from time to time you’ve been called on to make absolutely perfect copies of documents, including forgeries.
They won’t believe you so you’ll have to tell them how you did it – how you aged the paper and made the ink and all that technical stuff, which is right up your alley so I know you’ll do it very well.
You’ll say that the princess put you up to it.
She promised to make you an abbot, or she was blackmailing you, whatever you feel most comfortable with.
You say that your conscience has been torturing you and you can’t bear to think of all the damage you’ve done.
Then you sit down, and the rest of the day’s your own. Got that?”
I stared at him. “You’re mad,” he said.
He looked hurt. “You’re not going to make difficulties, are you?
” he said. “That would be very disappointing. Actually, I don’t think you are, not when you’ve had a chance to stop and think about it.
You’ll realise that you have no choice in the matter.
I don’t know about you, but I sometimes think that choice, you know, the opportunity to choose between significantly different alternatives, is responsible for most of the unhappiness in this world.
A straight-line trajectory with no bifurcations is so much less stressful, and there’s no room for guilt and self-reproach. Don’t you think?”
“You’re mad,” I said. “If I did that, I might as well slash my wrists while I’m at it. That’d be me finished.”
“Maybe,” he said mildly. “But consider the alternative. Think how bad you’d feel if Sister Svangerd ended up with her head like this.”
He moved his fingers to indicate the width of a book, or two roof-tiles on top of each other.
“Which,” he went on, “I would genuinely regret having to do, because that girl’s got real potential, and I wouldn’t mind using her for something really quite important, somewhere further down the line.
But you would insist on continually meddling, and now we’re in a situation which benefits nobody, and everything’s up in the air and hopelessly untidy, which is awful.
I’m sorry, but you’ve only yourself to blame.
Just consider yourself fortunate to have me on hand to clean up your messes for you. ”
“Who are you?” I said.
“Oh please, don’t start all that again, you know perfectly well.
And your next question is going to be, why are you doing this, and you know that too.
In this case, however, I can honestly reassure you that it’s all for the best, in the short to medium term as we see it.
This schism has to go ahead. It’s got to happen because if it doesn’t, there’ll be another even worse schism in just over a hundred years’ time, and that would be disastrous because it’d happen at precisely the worst possible moment, with a rejuvenated Sashan empire poised to seize the Olbian peninsular and carry on across the West like a tidal wave.
You really don’t want to think about the consequences of that.
Neither, frankly, do we. It would mean a whole phase of the plan happening about two centuries too early, before we’ve had a chance to get certain key assets into optimum position, and that’d be worse for us than no schism at all.
So, as far as you’re concerned, you and I have the happy privilege of being temporarily on the same side.
Actually, that sort of thing happens far more often than you’d imagine, which is hardly surprising if you think about it. Well?”
“This is all fantasy,” I said. “I don’t know if you believe in it or not and I don’t care, but I don’t believe, not for a split second. It’s all garbage. There is no Evil. It’s just a fairytale.”
“Oh dear.” He pulled a face that I yearned to push through the back of his head: more sorrow than anger; how could you be so stupid?
“In that case, I’m going to have to resort to threats, which is so demeaning.
I honestly thought that you, as an intelligent human being—” He shrugged.
“You’ll do as you’re told, or Svangerd’s death will be on your conscience.
You’ve seen what your brother can do. He knows all about her; he’s told you so himself.
Make your girl cry, isn’t that what he said?
One word from me—” He winced. “Please don’t make me go on,” he said.
“I find it very upsetting. It’s an insult to intelligence and common sense, having to terrify people into doing something that’ll benefit everybody. ”
I felt cold all over. “When do you want me to do it?”
He beamed at me. “That’s better,” he said.
“Tomorrow, afternoon session, you get to your feet as soon as Sulpicius has finished rubbishing Hegedern’s doctrine of conditional redemption.
Keep it short and to the point, and above all, be convincing.
You have no idea how important this is, and we’re all relying on you, so please, don’t let us down.
” He smiled and stood up. “You’d better be getting along or you’ll miss the start of the session.
Eucharistus is going to challenge Porphyrion’s defence of the Seventeen Articles; you’ll enjoy that.
Isn’t that precisely the sort of thing you came here to listen to? ”
I let him go. No point in stopping him, and I was only too glad to be rid of his company, and the sound of his voice, and the faint smell of lavender from his clothes.
Love, I thought. The moment you start to love someone, you open a split, like the first blow with the axe on a log.
I don’t have a problem with ordinary friendship.
It’s one of the pleasures of life. It’s nice when someone’s glad to see you, when their face lights up because you’re there, bringing with you the promise of congenial and welcome company.
You help your friends and they help you, which makes life easier; you’re not exploiting or oppressing or being exploited or oppressed, because you’re glad to help, and so are they.
And if you fall out, it’s a pity but these things happen; if they die, you’re sad but you move on.
Friendship is pleasant and useful; it’s the honey in life, it’s good for you and it tastes nice.
Love, on the other hand; love spoils everything.
As soon as you find it, you’ll never know another tranquil moment, because you can never forget that the bad guys have a hostage, and for two pins they’ll cut her throat, and then where the hell will you be?
At least she didn’t love me; thank heaven for small mercies.
I don’t know how people who are loved can bear it, the hideous weight of responsibility.
How can you do that to someone, hold their entire happiness in the palm of your hand like that, knowing that if you die (which can always happen, every moment of every day) you’ll cause them the worst pain that anyone can ever feel?
I couldn’t live with myself, carrying that sort of burden.
It would crush me flat, like Kotkel’s hand around my head.
I didn’t go to the council session. Instead, I found a corner of a courtyard (there was a well, I seem to remember, and a stack of oak buckets), sat on a pile of logs and tried to figure out what I’d done, except of course I hadn’t.