the ink bottle.
Oida to Telamon, greetings –
He sat looking at what he’d written for a while, then crossed it out and turned the page over.
Oida to Director Procopius, greetings;
When I say that I have always valued your friendship more than your music, I would not wish you to imply—
He pulled a face, screwed the page into a ball and dropped it on the ground. Then he put the writing things back in their box and closed it, stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out all the rest of his money and counted it. Twenty-seven angels seventy.
He went into the Poverty and Patience and ordered a beer with a brandy chaser, found a seat in the corner next to the fire, took out Bardiya’s Garden of Entrancing Images and started to read. A little later, one of the kitchen maids walked past carrying a brace of white ducks, their heads swinging and bumping against her knees. Oida smiled at her. “May I?” he asked, and pulled out a wing feather to use as a bookmark.
The driver was maybe seventeen years old, with a tuft of fluff on his upper lip and chin and an Eastern army mail shirt. “You’d better not let them catch you wearing that when we’re on the road,” Oida advised him; he looked worried, stopped the chaise and wriggled out of it, like an unhooked fish escaping from the angler’s fingers.
“Are you that singer?” the boy asked, when they’d been driving for an hour or so.
“No,” Oida said.
He finished the Garden at noon the next day and asked the boy if he wanted it. The boy said thanks, but he couldn’t read; Oida pointed out that he didn’t need to, he could just look at the pictures. The boy gave him a horrified look and accepted gratefully.
On the morning of the fourth day they started to come across dead bodies lying in the road; soldiers mostly, but not exclusively. The boy didn’t seem unduly concerned about them. His ambition, he said, was to join Ocnisant’s; it was a really good way to get ahead, so he’d heard, and he didn’t want to stay a carter all his life, thank you very much. A couple of the kids from his neighbourhood had got in with Ocnisant and when they came home to visit they always had plenty of money. Oida looked away and asked him if he thought the war would last that long. The boy laughed, and asked him if he’d ever been to Rasch. A few times, Oida said. It’s great there, isn’t it, the boy said, there’s always so much going on, and of course there’s nowhere like it for making money. It was his dream to live there one day, he said, and Oida replied gravely that he hoped he’d get the chance.
“Strictly speaking,” Oida told the boy, “as far as they’re concerned, you’re the enemy. Now, because you’re with me and I’ve got dual citizenship, in theory you ought to be all right. Depends how well up the soldiers are in international law.”
The boy lowered the reins. “They wouldn’t do anything, would they?”
“Physical violence?” Oida shook his head. “On balance, I’d say no. But they’d be within their rights to requisition the horses, and the food. I suggest you stop here and let me walk the rest of the way.”
The boy hesitated. “Are you sure? Macrobius told me to take you right up to the camp gates.”
I bet he did, Oida thought. “Like I said, I’m sure you’ll be all right. But is it worth taking the risk, for the sake of saving me half an hour’s walk? Up to you.”
The chaise came to a gentle halt. “Thanks,” the boy said.
Oida jumped down, winced as his stiff ankles took his weight. “No problem,” he said, and hauled down his bag. “Here.” He dug his hand in his pocket and scooped out the remaining money, clamped his fist tight around it. “Cup your hands,” he ordered. The boy did as he was told. Oida poured the money into them, then crimped the boy’s hands tight around it, so he couldn’t see what he’d been given. “So long,” he called out, as he walked quickly away. “Safe journey back.”
He heard
Oida to Telamon, greetings –
He sat looking at what he’d written for a while, then crossed it out and turned the page over.
Oida to Director Procopius, greetings;
When I say that I have always valued your friendship more than your music, I would not wish you to imply—
He pulled a face, screwed the page into a ball and dropped it on the ground. Then he put the writing things back in their box and closed it, stuck his hand in his pocket, pulled out all the rest of his money and counted it. Twenty-seven angels seventy.
He went into the Poverty and Patience and ordered a beer with a brandy chaser, found a seat in the corner next to the fire, took out Bardiya’s Garden of Entrancing Images and started to read. A little later, one of the kitchen maids walked past carrying a brace of white ducks, their heads swinging and bumping against her knees. Oida smiled at her. “May I?” he asked, and pulled out a wing feather to use as a bookmark.
The driver was maybe seventeen years old, with a tuft of fluff on his upper lip and chin and an Eastern army mail shirt. “You’d better not let them catch you wearing that when we’re on the road,” Oida advised him; he looked worried, stopped the chaise and wriggled out of it, like an unhooked fish escaping from the angler’s fingers.
“Are you that singer?” the boy asked, when they’d been driving for an hour or so.
“No,” Oida said.
He finished the Garden at noon the next day and asked the boy if he wanted it. The boy said thanks, but he couldn’t read; Oida pointed out that he didn’t need to, he could just look at the pictures. The boy gave him a horrified look and accepted gratefully.
On the morning of the fourth day they started to come across dead bodies lying in the road; soldiers mostly, but not exclusively. The boy didn’t seem unduly concerned about them. His ambition, he said, was to join Ocnisant’s; it was a really good way to get ahead, so he’d heard, and he didn’t want to stay a carter all his life, thank you very much. A couple of the kids from his neighbourhood had got in with Ocnisant and when they came home to visit they always had plenty of money. Oida looked away and asked him if he thought the war would last that long. The boy laughed, and asked him if he’d ever been to Rasch. A few times, Oida said. It’s great there, isn’t it, the boy said, there’s always so much going on, and of course there’s nowhere like it for making money. It was his dream to live there one day, he said, and Oida replied gravely that he hoped he’d get the chance.
“Strictly speaking,” Oida told the boy, “as far as they’re concerned, you’re the enemy. Now, because you’re with me and I’ve got dual citizenship, in theory you ought to be all right. Depends how well up the soldiers are in international law.”
The boy lowered the reins. “They wouldn’t do anything, would they?”
“Physical violence?” Oida shook his head. “On balance, I’d say no. But they’d be within their rights to requisition the horses, and the food. I suggest you stop here and let me walk the rest of the way.”
The boy hesitated. “Are you sure? Macrobius told me to take you right up to the camp gates.”
I bet he did, Oida thought. “Like I said, I’m sure you’ll be all right. But is it worth taking the risk, for the sake of saving me half an hour’s walk? Up to you.”
The chaise came to a gentle halt. “Thanks,” the boy said.
Oida jumped down, winced as his stiff ankles took his weight. “No problem,” he said, and hauled down his bag. “Here.” He dug his hand in his pocket and scooped out the remaining money, clamped his fist tight around it. “Cup your hands,” he ordered. The boy did as he was told. Oida poured the money into them, then crimped the boy’s hands tight around it, so he couldn’t see what he’d been given. “So long,” he called out, as he walked quickly away. “Safe journey back.”
He heard
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