my problem, thank God. While we’re on the subject, are there any arrangements—?” He tailed off and looked at the toes of his slippers.
Oida cleared his throat. “I never got round to making a will,” he said.
“What? Oh, well, that’s easy enough, just let me have a note of the names and I’ll get it done straight away.”
“I can tell you now,” Oida said. “There’s a woman in operations, Telamon. Did you ever come across her?”
“No. Name rings a bell.”
“She might as well have the lot,” Oida said. “Apart from that—” He shrugged. “I can’t say I care terribly much. I suppose my brother Axeo had better have our father’s sword, assuming he’s still alive. Oh, and I’d like Director Procopius of the Music School to have my score of his Third Symphony. It’s the original manuscript, so he’d probably like it back. It’s at the White Cross Temple in Choris under my name. If you could see to that, it’d be appreciated.”
The shopkeeper was making a note on a wax tablet with his fingernail. “Procopius, Third Symphony, got that.” He put the tablet on the table. “Anything you think you might need for the job itself?”
“I don’t think so. As I understand it, the plan is, I walk up to him and stick him in the side of the neck. I wouldn’t have thought that called for specialist equipment.”
“Keep it simple, I always say,” the shopkeeper said vaguely. He was writing something down on his wax tablet. “Now, as far as the timetable’s concerned—”
“I suppose I’d better be going,” Oida said. “I’d have liked a good night’s sleep, but I guess that’s out of the question.”
“Catch a nap in the coach,” the shopkeeper said. “You may as well take my chaise,” he added mournfully. “It’s quick and it doesn’t look military, which is an advantage in the circumstances. Cost me two angels fifteen, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there. I’ll get Aisimon’s boy to drive for you.”
Oida grinned. “He’s expendable, too, I take it.”
“He’s a good, reliable driver and he doesn’t charge stupid money.” For the first time, something like sympathy flitted into the shopkeeper’s face, though not for long. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to go shouting anything from the rooftops,” he said, “but the people who matter will know, I can promise you that.”
“Screw them,” Oida said. “If they’d been doing their jobs properly, this wouldn’t be necessary.” He shrugged. “It’s all Forza Belot’s fault,” he said. “Thoughtlessly getting himself killed. I’ll give him a piece of my mind when I see him.”
Clearly the shopkeeper didn’t think that was funny. “You’d better go,” he said. “I don’t want to be seen with you, you know how it is.”
Oida understood. He got to his feet – he was surprised at how steady his legs were – and walked out into the shop. “I need to pay you for this stuff,” he said.
“What? Oh, right.” The shopkeeper picked up the knife and looked at it. “I think we can do better than that,” he said, and pulled a dagger in a silver-chased sheath off a hook on the wall. Oida glanced at it; it was a good choice. “That’s on the house,” the shopkeeper said. “Least I can do.”
Oida felt in his pocket for coins. “No, really,” he said, “I insist. I think money’s the least of my worries now.”
The shopkeeper looked unhappy but held out his hand; Oida tipped coins into it without looking at them. “Be at the stables round the back of the Poverty and Patience in an hour,” the shopkeeper said. “I’ll have the will ready for you to sign.”
An hour; the last hour of free time in a civilised place he’d ever have. He considered various conventional ways of passing it, but decided he wasn’t in the mood. Instead he sat down on a low wall under a tree, opened his beautiful new writing set, unfolded a half-sheet of new milk-white parchment and unscrewed the top of
Oida cleared his throat. “I never got round to making a will,” he said.
“What? Oh, well, that’s easy enough, just let me have a note of the names and I’ll get it done straight away.”
“I can tell you now,” Oida said. “There’s a woman in operations, Telamon. Did you ever come across her?”
“No. Name rings a bell.”
“She might as well have the lot,” Oida said. “Apart from that—” He shrugged. “I can’t say I care terribly much. I suppose my brother Axeo had better have our father’s sword, assuming he’s still alive. Oh, and I’d like Director Procopius of the Music School to have my score of his Third Symphony. It’s the original manuscript, so he’d probably like it back. It’s at the White Cross Temple in Choris under my name. If you could see to that, it’d be appreciated.”
The shopkeeper was making a note on a wax tablet with his fingernail. “Procopius, Third Symphony, got that.” He put the tablet on the table. “Anything you think you might need for the job itself?”
“I don’t think so. As I understand it, the plan is, I walk up to him and stick him in the side of the neck. I wouldn’t have thought that called for specialist equipment.”
“Keep it simple, I always say,” the shopkeeper said vaguely. He was writing something down on his wax tablet. “Now, as far as the timetable’s concerned—”
“I suppose I’d better be going,” Oida said. “I’d have liked a good night’s sleep, but I guess that’s out of the question.”
“Catch a nap in the coach,” the shopkeeper said. “You may as well take my chaise,” he added mournfully. “It’s quick and it doesn’t look military, which is an advantage in the circumstances. Cost me two angels fifteen, but I suppose that’s neither here nor there. I’ll get Aisimon’s boy to drive for you.”
Oida grinned. “He’s expendable, too, I take it.”
“He’s a good, reliable driver and he doesn’t charge stupid money.” For the first time, something like sympathy flitted into the shopkeeper’s face, though not for long. “I’m afraid we won’t be able to go shouting anything from the rooftops,” he said, “but the people who matter will know, I can promise you that.”
“Screw them,” Oida said. “If they’d been doing their jobs properly, this wouldn’t be necessary.” He shrugged. “It’s all Forza Belot’s fault,” he said. “Thoughtlessly getting himself killed. I’ll give him a piece of my mind when I see him.”
Clearly the shopkeeper didn’t think that was funny. “You’d better go,” he said. “I don’t want to be seen with you, you know how it is.”
Oida understood. He got to his feet – he was surprised at how steady his legs were – and walked out into the shop. “I need to pay you for this stuff,” he said.
“What? Oh, right.” The shopkeeper picked up the knife and looked at it. “I think we can do better than that,” he said, and pulled a dagger in a silver-chased sheath off a hook on the wall. Oida glanced at it; it was a good choice. “That’s on the house,” the shopkeeper said. “Least I can do.”
Oida felt in his pocket for coins. “No, really,” he said, “I insist. I think money’s the least of my worries now.”
The shopkeeper looked unhappy but held out his hand; Oida tipped coins into it without looking at them. “Be at the stables round the back of the Poverty and Patience in an hour,” the shopkeeper said. “I’ll have the will ready for you to sign.”
An hour; the last hour of free time in a civilised place he’d ever have. He considered various conventional ways of passing it, but decided he wasn’t in the mood. Instead he sat down on a low wall under a tree, opened his beautiful new writing set, unfolded a half-sheet of new milk-white parchment and unscrewed the top of
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