Free The Two of Swords: Part 14 by K. J. Parker

desk, over against a far wall. There he spoke to a clerk in the language Chanso couldn’t understand. Then Lonjamen handed over the scrap of folded paper, and the clerk put it between the pages of a ledger, which he then closed.
    “All done,” Lonjamen said, “you’re now official. Means they know you’re here, and it’s somebody’s job to feed you. They may even wash your shirts if you’re lucky. Come on, this way.”
    Chanso, Lonjamen and the clerk appeared to be the only living creatures in the whole vast hall. “Are there many people here?” he asked.
    “About five thousand,” Lonjamen replied, “on average. Now, mind you look about you and take note of where we go. This place is like an anthill.”
    They came to a stretch of wall with dozens of identical doors. Lonjamen opened one and stood back to let him through. Then they were in a corridor, white floor and ceiling, the wall covered with blinding gold mosaic. “First thing you’ll need to do is learn to talk Imperial. Don’t pull faces, it’s easy. After that they’ll put you through the basic catechism, so you’ll understand what we’re all about, and after that you’ll be working on your special skill. Silverwork, isn’t it?”
    “Carving.”
    “Of course, woodcarving. You do realise, every last scrap of wood we use here has to come up that path on some poor bugger’s shoulder. No pressure,” he added pleasantly. “Marble we can just chip off the scenery, it’s the only thing we’re self-sufficient in. That and rainwater, if we’re lucky.”
    Chanso thought for a moment. “Should I be learning stone-carving, then?”
    “Of course not. Fat lot of use that’d be for decorating a wooden roof. No, the point is, while you’re here, you’re the centre of the universe, nothing’s too much trouble. You want it, you ask for it, it comes on a boat and they carry it up the hill for you. Live crocodiles? Of course, sir, how many? Enjoy it while you can,” he added. “Real life on the outside isn’t like that.” He grinned. “So they tell me, anyway.”
    It sounded like there ought to be a
but
coming; if so, Lonjamen didn’t get round to it. They walked the length of the corridor, through a bronze gate (half the size of the front gate; still massive) and out into a narrow street. The shadows of the tall buildings on either side were so deep it could almost have been night, and the ground was paved with split flints. “Mind how you go,” Lonjamen advised him over his shoulder. “Bloody slippery, have you over. You get used to it in time.”
    It was like walking down the bed of a river, and quite soon Chanso’s ankles ached. The street wound round, a bend every few yards and identical unmarked doors everywhere he looked. It was inconceivable that anyone could ever find his way here or remember where he’d been or where he was supposed to go. Chanso tried counting his paces, but the awkwardness of walking made that pointless.
    “Two meals a day,” Lonjamen was saying – he’d gone on ahead, Chanso couldn’t keep up with him without slipping and falling over, “and if you’re peckish in between, go and be nice to the buttery, they’re the ones with the real power around here. If they like you, this is paradise. If not, probably best to jump off the wall now and save yourself the agonies of frustration. This is your chapter house,” he added, pushing open a door. “Number One Six-Three, in case you haven’t been counting.” He grinned. “Count everything, all the time. Becomes second nature after a while, like with musicians. Up the stairs to the top landing, seventh door on your right.” He paused, then added, “I know what you’re thinking. For weeks when I first got here, I thought I’d go out of my mind, being indoors, under roofs and ceilings. Don’t worry, you’ll adapt. This place grinds you down to begin with, but then you fit in and it’s wonderful. See you later, probably.”
    Chanso had no idea how long it