The Proof House

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘It’s an awkward one, and no mistake,’ said the engineer, scratching his head. ‘You can see where they’ve dug a canal to bring the river round the other side; they’ve made it into an island, effectively. Suppose we bridge the river; there’s a stockade tight up against the water – well, we can breach that with our artillery – assuming they let us, they’ve got more engines than we have and better ones, too – and then we’ve got the cliffs to get up. There’s only the one path and that’s going to be no fun at all with all those gates and traps. But say we get up the path to the plateau; there’s two more stockades, out of range of our artillery so we can’t lay down a barrage first, and then – assuming we get that far – a straightforward pitched battle on the top where they’ll outnumber us at least three to two, depending on how many we’ve lost getting that far. If you want my considered opinion, forget it.’

The wind was fierce and fresh on the hilltop they were standing on. At this distance, the fortress looked beautiful, with the sun glinting on the water.

‘It can be done,’ Bardas replied. ‘I know it can be done, because he’s done it.’

The engineer frowned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘I don’t follow.’

Bardas pointed. ‘You see that?’ he said. ‘That’s as close as he could get to a replica of the City; he’s effectively rebuilt Perimadeia, right here on the plains. And whatever else that might be, it’s as clear an admission of defeat as you’ll ever want to see.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ the engineer said doubtfully. ‘I never saw Perimadeia. All I can tell you is, it’s as near as dammit the perfect use of position and resources. Besides,’ he added, ‘wasn’t the only reason the City fell because some bastard opened the gates?’

Bardas shook his head. ‘It should have fallen before that, only I cheated.’ He sat down on a rock, picked a stem of grass and chewed it. ‘We’ll start with a bombardment, all around where they’ve got the swing-bridge; we’ll bring up siege towers and – what do you call them, those roofed-over sections, like the tops of wagons, made out of hides stretched over hoops?’

‘I know what you mean,’ the engineer said.

‘Anyway,’ Bardas went on, ‘them; there’s a blind spot, see? If we concentrate our artillery and knock out the trebuchets covering the point, and then bring them forward to take out the defences on the path-’

‘But he’ll just bring up more engines,’ the engineer objected. ‘Take ’em to bits, carry ’em round, put ’em back together again; they’ll have it down to a fine art by now, being a nomadic people and all.’

‘You’ll just have to make sure they don’t get the chance,’ Bardas replied. ‘And it oughtn’t to be a problem. There simply isn’t enough room to put in enough engines where they need to go. His mistake is, he’s gone for a circular ground-plan. He can have as many engines as he likes around the other two hundred and forty degrees of the circle, but they won’t be any danger to us because the angles are wrong.’

The engineer thought for a minute or so. ‘You may be right,’ he said. ‘If we can get in tight to the river, the engines on the plateau’ll all be overshooting. Yes, I can see it now.’ He grinned. ‘I’m surprised he didn’t think of that.’

‘I’m not.’ Bardas stood up. ‘He was rebuilding Perimadeia, but he’s made it too small, too cramped-up; and the angles are wrong. He’s forgotten about the bastions I built out from the old wall, specifically to allow us to enfilade them and stop them doing what we’re going to do now. You see,’ he went on, climbing into his saddle, ‘that’s what comes of living too much in the past – you make unnecessary difficulties for yourself.’

The engineer hauled himself clumsily on to his horse and sat for a moment, catching his breath. ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said. ‘So what happens as and when you do make it to the top? There’s still more of them than us.’

‘So what?’ Bardas stood up in his stirrups for a last look at the fortress. ‘I was winning battles against superior numbers of these people when you were still playing with clay soldiers. You worry too much, that’s your problem. How soon can you have my siege towers and-’

‘Mantlets?’

‘That’s the word. Mantlets. How long?’

The engineer stroked his beard. ‘Three days,’ he said. ‘And I mean three days, so don’t go telling me they’ve got to be ready in two.’

‘Three days will be fine,’ Bardas replied. ‘Just make sure you do a good job.’ He sat down again and turned his head away, but in his mind’s eye he could still see the shape; the encircling moat, the three levels – he knew it was an illusion, but he felt as if he was home again after a long and exhausting campaign, that first thrilling glimpse of the City. Which was strange, because in all the time he spent there, he’d never once thought of it as home, just as somewhere he happened to live.

‘I had a friend,’ he said – he knew the engineer wasn’t really interested, but he wasn’t bothered by that – ‘who was a philosopher, or a scientist, or a wizard; I’m not sure he knew himself what he was. But he used to reckon that there are these crucial moments in history, when things can go one way or another, leading to entirely different outcomes; identify one of these moments, he believed, and you can control it.’ He lifted his feet out of the stirrups and let them swing. ‘I’ll be honest with you, I thought the whole business was a mixture of rather idiotic mysticism and the glaringly obvious. Come to that, I still do. But just suppose there’s something in it; what are you supposed to make of it when you seem to be getting the same crucial moment, over and over again? If he was still alive, I’d be interested to hear him talk his way out of that one.’

The engineer shrugged. ‘If you’re asking my opinion on a point of mechanics,’ he said, ‘I’d say that you’re talking about a camshaft.’

Bardas opened his eyes a little wider. ‘Explain,’ he said.

‘Simple, really.’ The engineer tied his reins in a knot and tucked them under the pommel of his saddle, to leave both his hands free for making explanatory gestures. ‘The cam,’ he said, ‘is an absolutely basic, fundamental piece of design; it turns your standard rotary movement -’ (he drew a circle in the air) ‘- into a linear movement -’ (he drew a straight line) ‘- which is obviously very important, right? Because all your sources of power, your prime movers – waterwheels, say, or treadles – they’re repetitive, so they describe a rotary movement, a circle going round and round for ever. Your cam, which is nothing more than a link attached to one point of the circle, turns that into a straight-line push. Add a simple ratchet and you don’t have to be a genius to have your wheel, endlessly going round and round the same axis, slaved to give you a progressive linear movement, such as pushing something along. It follows that the bit that does all the work, makes the connection, is the link between the wheel and the workpiece. If I was your mate, the philosopher, I’d be looking for a camshaft.’

Bardas frowned. ‘The camshaft of fortune,’ he said. ‘Well, it’s a thought. Of course, to complete the analogy, you’d have to have some way for it to change direction while still going round and round in circles. Is that possible? Mechanically speaking, I mean?’

The engineer grinned. ‘Of course it is,’ he replied. ‘All you do is, you whack it bloody hard with the big hammer.’

‘What do you mean, junk?’ Temrai demanded, wincing as Tilden tightened a strap. ‘I’ve been told by experts that this is probably the finest armour money can buy.’

‘Experts,’ Tilden sighed. ‘You mean that lying thief who sold it to you. Hold still, will you? Either this strap’s shrunk or you’ve put on weight.’

Temrai scowled. ‘There you go again,’ he said. ‘Anything I say or do, you’ve got to belittle it. If this stuff isn’t any good, then why would he give it an unconditional lifetime guarantee?’

‘Oh, come on,’ Tilden replied, smiling. ‘A guarantee that lasts as long as you live. So when, five minutes after the start of the first battle, it falls to bits on you and you die…’

‘Ouch.’

‘Sorry. It’s your own fault. I did say hold still.’

First, the greaves, covering the leg from ankle to knee. They reminded Temrai of two pieces of guttering joined with a hinge. ‘There’s got to be some way,’ he said, ‘of stopping these things from sliding down and trapping your foot. See that bruise? After an hour it’s so bad I can hardly walk.’

‘But you don’t walk when you’re fighting, you sit on your horse. So it doesn’t matter.’

‘Yes, but I’ve got to walk from the tent to the horse, then from the horse back to the tent…’

After the greaves, the poleyns and cuisses, to cover his legs from knee to groin; they hung by straps from his belt, and were held in place by more straps around the knee-joint and thigh. Next the mailshirt -

‘I can’t lift this,’ Tilden said.

‘Of course you can. Don’t be so feeble.’

Tilden grunted, trying to hoist the shirt over his head so that he could wriggle his hands through the armholes. He found them just in time, before she let go. As he pushed his head through the neck-hole, his hair snagged in the rings, making him curse. ‘Don’t call me feeble,’ Tilden said, ‘or you can put on your own silly armour.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Temrai said unconvincingly. ‘Right, what comes next? Breastplate, I think.’

Breastplate and backplate, connected at the top by two straps, one on either side of the neck, like the shoulder-straps of a soldier’s pack, and two more at waist level. ‘Lift your arm a bit more,’ Tilden muttered, straining at the left-hand side buckle, ‘You aren’t giving me enough room – there we are. Is that tight enough?’

‘Too tight. Let it out a hole before I choke.’

‘You might have said, instead of letting me hurt my wrist tightening the horrid thing.’

Next the arm-harness; vambraces from wrist to elbow, cops to protect the elbow itself, rerebraces from the elbow to just below the shoulder – more straps, more buckles. ‘What happens when you need a pee?’ Tilden asked sweetly. ‘Do you stop the column and summon a couple of armourers?’

Temrai looked at her, frowning. ‘No,’ he said.

‘Oh. Then what’s to stop it getting all rusty, right down the inside of your leg? You could seize up at the knees, and then where’d you be?’

‘Thank you,’ Temrai said.

‘And it must be really sordid when you need a-’

‘All right,’ Temrai said. ‘And yes, it is. Now undo the shoulder buckles-’

‘But I’ve just done them up.’

‘Well, undo them again, and you see those loops at the top of the pauldrons? You thread them through so they hang over the rerebraces-’

‘The whats?’

‘These bits -’ Temrai tried to move his arm to point at them, but he didn’t quite have the freedom of movement. Tilden giggled. ‘So they hang over my upper arm,’ he said severely. ‘That’s it, you’ve got it.’

‘Is it all right to do these buckles up now?’

‘Yes.’

‘You sure? Only I don’t want to have to do them again.’›

‘Positive. Now put on the gorget – there’s a little catch at the side, look…’

‘You mean this collar thing?’

‘That’s right,’ Temrai said patiently. ‘The gorget.’

Tilden raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t see why you can’t just call it a collar.’

‘Because it’s a gorget,’ Temrai said. ‘You’ve found the little catch? That’s it. Right, now all I need are the gauntlets and the helmet, and that’s that done.’

‘You mean the gloves. And the hat.’

‘Quite right. The gloves first, then the hat.’ He held out his hand. ‘You’ve got to pull it on by the cuff – no, not the metal cuff, there’s a leather lining, see?’

‘It must be awfully hot in all that lot.’

‘Yes, it is. Now hold it firmly while I wiggle my fingers in place – I said hold it, for pity’s sake.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ Tilden said. ‘Try again.’

‘That’s better – no it’s not, the useless bloody thing’s not on straight, it’s slipping round the side of my hand. Pull the cuff-’

‘I’m pulling. It’s stuck.’

‘What? Oh, right. I’ll bend my thumb a bit, see if that makes any difference. Try it now.’

Eventually the gauntlet was persuaded into place – ‘It’s pinching my wrist, there, between the cuff and the vambrace,’ Temrai complained. ‘I’ll just have to make sure I only fight against southpaws’ – and Tilden picked up the helmet; a one-piece sallet that came down over Temrai’s face like a steel pudding-basin, with one narrow slit to see out of. She settled it on his head and stood back.

‘Temrai?’ she said.

‘What?’ His voice sounded far away and faintly comic; but the fact remained that Temrai wasn’t there any more. The steel had finally closed around him, like quicksand.

‘Nothing,’ Tilden said. ‘Can you manage to stand up in all that?’

‘I think so,’ Temrai’s voice bumbled through the steel, ‘if I take it slowly.’

As he stood up, Tilden watched the joints, the layers of articulated lames, rippling like the muscles of a scale-skinned dragon. There was nothing human there, except for a vaguely familiar shape. ‘You forgot the shoes,’ she said.

‘Sabatons.’

‘What?’

‘Sabatons. That’s what they’re called.’

‘Fine. Do you want them or not?’

‘Can’t be bothered,’ said the echo of his voice. ‘What I do need, though, is my sword. Over there, by the wash-stand. ’

Tilden brought it to him. ‘Does that tie on as well?’ she asked.

The helmet nodded; up, flexing the lames of the gorget, and ponderously down. ‘Over my shoulder and round,’ it said, and the left-hand vambrace, cop and rerebrace lifted into the air. ‘Come on,’ it said, ‘I can’t stand like this indefinitely.’

‘Can you get it out of the scabbard?’ Tilden asked dubiously as she fastened the last buckle.

‘Probably not, but who cares? It’s just a fashion accessory anyway. With these bloody gauntlets on, I’d need someone to fold my hand around the hilt before I could hold it.’

‘You look very funny,’ Tilden said. She didn’t think he looked funny at all; quite the opposite. But she had an idea he wouldn’t want to know what she really thought. ‘Don’t fall over, whatever you do.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

By the time he’d walked from his tent to the gatehouse, Temrai felt much more at ease. It was as if the armour was growing on him, like a cutting grafted on to a tree. It was awkward rather than heavy, until he made an injudicious movement and upset the balance; then he had to make an effort to get his weight back on the soles of his feet. He wondered if that was how he’d felt when he was a child, learning to walk for the first time.

They were waiting for him; Sildocai, his second in command Azocai, most of the general staff. ‘Very smart,’ someone said. ‘Can you breathe in there?’

‘Yes,’ Temrai said, ‘but I can only just hear you. Get this helmet off me, someone.’ As he emerged he took a big gasp of air, as if he’d been under water, or in the foul air of the mines. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘So, what’s happening?’

Sildocai, who’d been looking at him as if he’d never seen the like, pointed at the tiny figures moving about below them. ‘That’s his siege train there,’ he said. ‘Well out of range still; we’ll let them know when they’ve come too close. He’s got his cavalry out front in case we make a sortie, try to run him off, so I wouldn’t recommend that. They’ll probably spend the rest of the day pitching camp, making themselves feel at home.’

Temrai tried to make out what he was pointing at, but all he could see were dots and blurs. ‘He’s welcome, ’ he said. ‘What about a night-raid, like we’ve been practising?’

‘Could do,’ Sildocai replied, without much enthusiasm. ‘I’d prefer to wait a day or so, until they’ve deployed their artillery. I’d like a chance to cut a few ropes, do a bit of damage before they start the bombardment.’

Temrai nodded; the gorget creaked and graunched. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Are they using the river at all?’

‘Haven’t seen any signs as yet,’ replied a man whose name Temrai couldn’t quite remember. ‘Probably he doesn’t want to risk fire-ships.’

Sildocai grinned. ‘Very sensible of him. Well, they’re worth keeping in reserve, in case he tries to build a causeway across the river. We’d better keep a few surprises up our sleeves.’

‘He won’t build a causeway,’ Temrai said. ‘He’ll use boats; that’s after he’s shot up our engines. That’s when we’ll use the fire-ships. Of course he’ll be expecting that, too; but there’s not a lot he’ll be able to do about it.’

Sildocai looked at him. ‘You seem pretty sure about that,’ he said.

‘I am sure,’ Temrai replied. ‘We’ve been through all this before, if you recall.’

‘Have we?’

Temrai nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Different war, same situation. Unless he’s better at being me than I was, I know exactly what he’s going to do. And he knows what I’m going to do, of course.’

‘Right. Do you fancy sharing any of this with us, or is it a secret between you and him?’

‘For the last time,’ Venart protested wearily, ‘I am not the government. We haven’t got a government. We’ve never had a government before. We don’t need a government now. Can you understand that?’

The man looked at him for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘So you’re not officially the government; but you led the revolution and chucked the bogies into the sea, so like it or not you’re in charge. And what I want to know is, when am I going to get my compensation?’

Venart was ready to burst into tears. ‘How the hell do I know? And who started this rumour about compensation anyway? I didn’t.’

‘So you’re saying there isn’t going to be any compensation? ’ said one of the other faces in the crowd. ‘Is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you may think it’s right, it wasn’t your warehouse that got burned down. You want to come with me now and explain to my creditors that it’s all right?’

‘No, I didn’t mean right like you’re saying-’

‘Perhaps you should say what you mean, then,’ said the face, scowling furiously at him. ‘You could start by telling us why you’ve suddenly decided there isn’t going to be any compensation.’

‘I haven’t decided anything,’ Venart groaned. ‘It’s not up to me-’

‘So you haven’t decided yet. Any idea when you’re likely to decide?’

Vernart took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Now for gods’ sakes, let me through.’

That didn’t go down well. ‘You’re just going to walk away and leave us here guessing, are you?’ someone shouted.

‘I’m going to walk into my house and take a leak,’ Venart replied, ‘like I’ve been wanting to do for the last half hour, only you won’t let me. Now get out of my way or get wet, the choice is yours.’

When he’d finally managed to close the door behind him, he sprinted/hobbled round the courtyard to the outhouse as if pursued by wolves. When he came out again, he felt much better. Remarkable, he thought, how so simple an act can impart such a feeling of well-being.

It didn’t last, though. ‘Ven, where the hell have you been?’ Vetriz ambushed him as he walked back across the courtyard. ‘Ranvaud Doce is here, he’s been waiting for nearly an hour.’

Venart stopped and looked at her. ‘Who?’

‘Ranvaud Doce. You idiot, he’s the new chairman of the Ship-Owners’.’

‘Oh. What does he want to see me for?’

Vetriz didn’t even bother to answer that. ‘And you’d better get rid of him quick, because Ehan Stampiz’ll be here at noon, and if those two run into each other, I don’t want to be anywhere near. And when are we going to write your speech?’

Venart glowered at her. ‘I am not making a speech,’ he said.

‘I haven’t got time to argue with you now,’ Vetriz said. ‘Doce is in the counting house. Oh, don’t just stand there looking pathetic.’

Ranvaud Doce turned out not to be Ranvaud Doce at all; he was Ranvaut Votz (Vetriz had got the name wrong; she wasn’t very patient with names), and of course Venart had known him for years. ‘Gods, you look shattered,’ Votz said. ‘Sit down before you fall down, and have a drink.’

‘Brandy,’ Venart replied. ‘The white jug, on the side there.’

‘Say when.’

‘Whenever.’

The brandy helped, to a certain limited extent; but it was the kind of help that’s probably counterproductive before noon on a busy day. ‘Better not have any more,’ Venart said ruefully, after he’d recovered from the burn, ‘or I’ll go straight to sleep. So, what can I do for you?’

Votz raised his eyebrows. ‘Full marks, Ven,’ he replied. ‘You said that as if you really don’t know.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Don’t be aggravating. Playing games is fine for business negotiations, but it’s not really appropriate for a head of state.’

‘Oh for-’ Venart slammed his cup down a little too hard, and the thinly skived horn cracked under the pressure of his thumb. ‘Not you as well. Come on, Ran, you know perfectly well I’m not the head of anything. For gods’ sakes, I’m not even head of this household; you’ve seen how Triz pushes me around-’

‘Proves nothing.’ Votz took the smile deliberately off his face. ‘I know,’ he went on, ‘the truth is, you had next to nothing to do with what happened. You didn’t even show up till halfway through – not that I’m blaming you, that’s just the way it was. But for some reason, people think you were the leader of the rebellion, and now they think you’re leading some kind of state-of-emergency government. And what I say is, why not? I mean, you’re a pretty harmless sort of man, you won’t try to do anything silly or throw your weight around – just the sort of leader this country needs.’

‘Thank you very much.’

‘You’re welcome. But we do need a little bit of a government, Ven; just the ears and the tip of the tail. Otherwise, how’s the Ship-Owners’ going to get things done?’

Venart frowned. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘You and your bunch of deadheads from the back bar of the Fortune and Favour are going to be the real government, and I’m going to get all the blame. No, thank you very much. Weren’t you bloody Ship-Owners the ones who started all this off by trying to shaft the provincial office for more money?’

Votz held up his hand. ‘That was then,’ he said. ‘And you were one of us, remember; just as much to blame as anybody. But,’ he added, as Venart tried to object, ‘agonising over that isn’t going to get ships on the water or food in the barns. You do realise there’s next to nothing left to eat on this confounded island? Not after those bastards took it all with them.’

Venart stayed quiet. He hadn’t thought about that.

‘So,’ Votz went on, ‘we need to do something quick, before the situation gets dirty on us. The question is, who’s “we” in that context? One thing’s for sure, we can’t go merrily sailing off into the wide blue yonder on our own, not if we want to have a mayfly’s chance of coming back; put in anywhere where the provincial office has so much as a commercial attache, and the next thing you’ll see is the inside of a cell. So, if we want to go anywhere, we’ve got to go in strength, in convoy; but we can’t all go, or who’s going to stay here and make sure there’ll be somewhere for us to come back to? We need to be organised; and that’s precisely the sort of job the Ship-Owners’ is for.’

Venart nodded. ‘All right, I agree,’ he said. ‘So go away and form a government. Who’s going to stop you, since it’s in everybody’s interest? Not me, for sure.’

‘You really don’t know, do you? The Guild, that’s who. Now, if you’re looking for a genuine threat to our way of life, you wander down to the Drutz and take a good look.’

Venart looked confused. ‘Who’s the Guild?’ he asked.

‘Oh boy.’ Votz shook his head. ‘As head of state, if anything, you’re over qualified. The Merchant Seamen’s Guild, my friend; a nasty rabble of ungrateful rope-jockeys and cabin rats who’ve already stated their intention of stealing our ships – commandeered for the public good, they’re calling it, which is pig-Perimadeian for “steal” and that’s all there is to it – and making us pay them taxes for the privilege. That’s why we need a head of state, my friend; someone who’s not the Ship-Owners’ who’ll tell them not to be so damn stupid. And who better than the inspirational leader, war hero, architect of victory-’

‘Oh, shut up, Ran.’

‘Yes, but they don’t know that.’ Votz shrugged. ‘The people out there on the streets believe all that stuff is true, and really, that’s what matters. Do you want them stealing your ship and taking your money off you at spearpoint? Might as well ask the Empire back again and have done with it.’

‘All right,’ Venart sighed, ‘you’ve made your point.’ He slumped back in his chair, looking wretched. ‘Just out of interest,’ he continued, ‘do you and your chums in the Ship-Owners’ have any constructive, practical ideas about how to get some food? Or haven’t you got around to the finer points yet?’

Votz clicked his tongue. ‘There’s no need to be sarcastic, ’ he said. ‘As a matter of fact, we have.’

‘All right. If I’m your new Crown Prince, the least you can do is let me in on the secret.’

‘Simple,’ Votz said. ‘It stands to reason, if Gorgas Loredan went to all that trouble to help us get rid of the Imperials -’

‘Have you any idea why-?’

‘- Then he won’t be averse to selling us a few ship-loads of grain and salt pork, especially if the price is right. And Tornoys is in the right direction, away from the Empire; we’ll have to sail pretty close to Shastel, of course, but if we’re in a convoy that shouldn’t be a problem.’

‘I suppose not,’ Venart conceded. ‘But he gives me the creeps, that man. I’m not sure why, he just does.’

‘Well, that’s your problem. While we’re there, I fully intend to talk to him about hiring a few of those crackerjack archers of his; another thing we’re definitely going to need is some sort of militia, and since none of us know squat about the trade, it’d be a good idea to hire someone who can teach us.’

Venart closed his eyes. ‘Steady on,’ he said. ‘Exactly who did you have in mind for this army of yours?’

‘Well, us, of course,’ Votz replied patiently. ‘And it’s not an army, it’s a militia. Quite different.’

‘All right, it’s different. But by “us”, do you mean us Islanders, or us Ship-Owners, or what?’

‘Well, I’m not going to put weapons into the hands of the Guild, if that’s what you mean,’ Votz replied, as if explaining to a small child that fire is hot. ‘I mean us, the responsible adult male population of the Island. We don’t need those layabouts in the Guild; I mean, when the fighting was on, where were they? Cowering in a lock-up. Fat lot of good they were, until we came along and turned them loose.’

‘Wonderful,’ Venart muttered. ‘First you want a government, then an army, now you’re planning a civil war. This state of yours is growing faster than water-cress. All right,’ he added quickly, ‘spare me the reasoning. I agree, yes, it does seem like ordinary common sense to be able to defend ourselves if we’re likely to have the provincial office coming after us any time soon. Though to be honest with you,’ he continued, frowning, ‘if they do decide to come back, I can’t see that we stand a chance. We were lucky the last time, and they were disgracefully complacent. I think fighting them once they’ve got their act together really would be asking for trouble.’

‘Really? So what would you suggest?’

Venart stood up and turned to look out of the window. ‘Leaving,’ he said. ‘Packing up everything we can move, setting sail and putting as much sea between us and them as we possibly can.’

Votz glared at him. ‘You’re joking,’ he said.

Venart shook his head. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I think it’s an inspired idea. We aren’t farmers or manufacturers, we’re traders; most of us spend as much time on our ships or abroad as we do at home. If ever there was a – a nation that could afford to up sticks and sail away, it’s us. If the worst comes to the worst, we could simply live on the ships, keep moving about like nomads.’

Votz grinned unpleasantly. ‘Like King Temrai’s lot, you mean. Oh, yes, guaranteed absolute safety, no need to worry ever again.’

‘That’s on land. It’s the ships that make it different.’

‘Until they start building ships of their own.’ Votz stood up too. ‘Running away isn’t going to solve anything; we’ve got to make a stand and fight. And if we’re going to fight, where better than here? We’ve got a superb natural fortress, even better than Perimadeia was. We’ve got a fleet of ships, which they haven’t.’ He grabbed Venart by the shoulder and turned him round. ‘We can win this,’ he said.

‘I don’t think so,’ Venart replied. ‘And since you’ve just made me the head of state-’

‘That’s the thing about heads, they can come off.’

At first Venart looked startled; then he giggled. ‘Oh, come on, Ran,’ he said, ‘don’t be so bloody melodramatic. Government, army, civil war and palace coup, and we haven’t even told anybody else about it yet.’ He pulled away and grinned. ‘Just think what fun we could have if there were three of us playing.’

There was a brisk cool wind, which was a mercy; Bardas remembered all too well how quickly the midday heat of the plains could drag a man down before he even realised it. Fortunately the army of the Sons of Heaven had been recruited in many places, most of them far away, nearly all of them hotter than this. At the point where he collapsed in a sweaty heap, at least half his men would still be snuggling into their cloaks and blowing on their hands.

The sun had already whisked up a fine heat-haze out of the river, smudging the sharp edges of the fortress until it looked vague and ill-defined, like the background in a painting. The sunlight burned on the water like some kind of incendiary; he could still see the red glare when he closed his eyes.

‘All done?’ he asked. The engineer nodded. ‘Very well.’ He positioned himself behind the cocked arm of the trebuchet and looked over it at the distant fortress. It was all very still and quiet, as if the world was waiting for him to make a speech. ‘I hereby declare this war open for business,’ he said. ‘In your own time.’

The engineer nodded, once to him and once to the artilleryman with his hand on the slip. The artilleryman jerked hard on the rope and the arm reared up into the air like a man suddenly woken up in the middle of a dream; the long square-section beam bowed under the inertia, straightened and stopped hard as it reached the point of equilibrium, the counterweight lurching wildly on its cradle beneath. With a crack like a slingshot, the rope net gave the stone roundshot a final, crucial flick and fell away -

(‘Here goes nothing,’ muttered the engineer.)

– While the projectile rushed with absurd speed up into the air, dwindled into a black dot, slowed to a stop, hung in the air for a moment and started to come down -

(‘Let’s see what they make of that,’ said the chief bombardier, grinning. ‘If they’ve got any sense, they’ll ask if they can move their fort a hundred yards back.’)

– And pitched, with a sound like a child’s face being slapped, in the river. The dazzling white fire was punctured, like a sheet of steel shot through with an arrow.

‘Told you it’d drop short,’ sighed the bombardier. ‘All right, up five and try again.’

Upgrading the counterweights had been Bardas’ idea; after all, Temrai had done the same thing, building trebuchets that outranged their counterparts on the City wall. Now he had at least fifty yards of clear ground over his enemy (his counterpart; himself in a previous revolution of the wheel); he could hit them and they couldn’t hit him back. The further along the rack you travel, the greater the stress; the greater, too, the mechanical advantage.

‘Number-two engine, elevation up five,’ the engineer called out. ‘Make ready.’

An artilleryman turned a handwheel, a ratchet strained and clicked. ‘Ready.’

‘Loose,’ the engineer said; and the arm bent, straightened and threw. ‘Damn,’ the engineer added, as the shot scuffed a cloud of dirt out of the bare rock of the slope, ‘now the windage is off. Number-three engine, elevation up four, bring her across left two. Make ready.’

At this distance, of course, it was an exercise in skill, the scientific application of force to a precise spot on a virgin plate. One tap to begin with, to start off the bowl; start at the edges, work your way round the outside, gradually move inwards to the point where the dishing needs to be deepest; that’s the way to force stress into the workpiece.

‘On the money,’ said the chief bombardier. ‘All right, let’s keep them there or thereabouts; that’s -’ he laid his knife alongside the lead screw; like all good artillerymen’s knives, it had a precisely calibrated scale engraved on the blade ‘- let’s see, that’s twelve up from zero, six across left. Each of you loose three, mark your pitches and adjust for zero.’

When each trebuchet had shot three times, and the bombardiers had made the necessary corrections to compensate for the slight differences in cast and line of their respective engines, the bombardment fell into a pattern. Bardas recognised this phase; it was the stage when the hammer bounced off the work, up and down in its own weight (like a trebuchet, weight and counterweight), with the craftsman’s left hand moving the workpiece into position under the hammer. One blow doesn’t impart the desired stress; many blows, a controlled, continuous hammering and pounding, are needed to impact the material into strength. ‘It’s a shame there’s all that dust,’ the chief bombardier lamented, ‘I can’t see a damn thing. For all I know, we could be dropping them all in the same hole.’

‘Good point,’ Bardas said. ‘But let’s keep it up a while longer. I want them to feel the pressure.’

So this is what it was like, Temrai said to himself, waiting for the next shot to fall. Well, now I know.

The shot landed, a heartbeat late, making the ground shake. Because of the dust-cloud, he couldn’t see where it had pitched or whether it had done any damage; it was as bad as being in the dark. But he could hear shouting, implying an emergency – someone was giving orders, someone else was contradicting him; there was an edge of raw urgency to their voices that didn’t inspire confidence. Should have anticipated this, he thought. Didn’t. My fault, ultimately.

He counted down from twelve, and the next shot pitched. He could feel where that one went (when you’re in the dark, the other senses adapt quickly) – presumably an overshot, strictly speaking a miss, but it felt like it had landed on one of the stores. I’d rather it was the biscuits than the arrows; we can eat broken biscuits if we have to. He started counting again.

‘Temrai?’

Damnation, lost count. ‘Over here,’ he called out. ‘Who’s that?’

‘Me. Sildocai. Where are you? I can’t see a thing.’

‘Follow my voice, and keep your head down; one’s due any second now.’

Another overshot; no prizes for guessing where it had gone either, as it sprayed sharp-edged chips of rock across the catwalk. ‘Their settings must be shaking loose,’ he observed. ‘They can’t see the pitches, so they don’t know they’re going high.’

‘I preferred it when they were on target.’

‘So did I.’

Sildocai materialised in front of him, as if he’d been moulded out of the dust. ‘I’ve been down there,’ he said. ‘Since they started shooting high, I reckoned it was the safest place to be. They’ve smashed up four trebuchets and half a dozen of the scorpions, two more of each out of action for now but fixable. The worst part is, there’s a damn great hole in the path which we’re going to have to fill somehow. Otherwise we’re completely cut off from the lower defences.’

Temrai closed his eyes. ‘Well, there ought to be enough loose rock and spoil,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to lay timbers to hold the loose stuff in, anchor them with pegs like you’re building a terrace.’

‘All right,’ Sildocai said, coughing. ‘When we’ve done that, what about hauling some of the engines up out of the way? They’re doing no good down there, just waiting to be smashed up.’

Temrai shook his head. ‘No, we won’t do that,’ he said. ‘They’ll just bring theirs up closer. We need to shut those trebuchets down for a while, and if we can’t reach them with artillery, we’ll have to go over there and do it by hand.’

Sildocai frowned. ‘I’d rather not do that,’ he said, ‘even with the light cavalry. It’s a bit too flat for charging down the enemy’s throat.’

‘We haven’t got any choice,’ Temrai replied, as another shot pitched, scooping up loose dirt and sprinkling it over their heads, the way the chief mourner does at a funeral (although it’s customary to die first). ‘We’re outranged. If we sit here and do nothing, they’ll flatten the whole thing.’

‘All right,’ Sildocai replied doubtfully. ‘But let’s at least wait until it gets dark and they stop shooting.’

‘What makes you think they’ll stop when it gets dark? I wouldn’t. If they fix their settings, they don’t need to see us in order to smash us up. They’re doing a pretty good job as it is, and this dust is as good as a dark night.’

‘Yes, but it’s only dusty over here. I’d rather not ride up on their archers in broad daylight, thank you very much. You may not remember, but there’s bright sunlight outside all this muck.’

Temrai thought for a moment. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘I’m not thrilled at the thought of having to sit through three more hours of this, but you’re right, we don’t want to do their job for them by making silly mistakes. Get a raiding party organised, and then put someone on making good that path. Nobody’s going anywhere till that’s fixed.’

Sildocai scrambled away, trying to keep his head down below the level of the earth bank into which the stakes of the stockade had been driven. It meant scuttling like a crab, or a man in a low-roofed tunnel. Another shot pitched, but too far away to be a danger to him. Very erratic now, Temrai decided, but I don’t suppose they care; this is just to make us feel miserable. The damage is probably trivial, but this dust is starting to get on my nerves.

‘No mucking about,’ Sildocai said, a stern, parental expression on his face. ‘The only thing we’re interested in is the trebuchets; cut the counterweight cables, then when the beam comes down cut the sling cables, and that’s it. Just this once, getting back in one piece is more important than killing flatheads, so no wandering off, no hot pursuit and categorically no looting. Understood?’

Nobody spoke. By the look of it, his dire warnings had been largely unnecessary. Chances were they’d only volunteered in the hope of getting away from the dust for an hour.

It was a typical plains moon, bright enough to cast shadows. That was good. From here he could see the camp-fires across the river, where they were going. Men sitting in the firelight don’t have good night vision, whereas his men would have had time to get accustomed to the dark; they’d be able to see the enemy, and the enemy wouldn’t see them. He gave the sign, and the winch crew started to wind the swing-bridge into place.

Sildocai went first. It was tradition in his family, which had produced more than its share of commanders; so many, in fact, that it was remarkable that it had lasted this long. His own father had been killed fighting this same Bardas Loredan, shortly after Maxen died. His grandfather had also fallen in battle against the Perimadeians. His great-grandfather had gone the same way, though nobody could remember who he’d been fighting against. Four generations of brave leaders who always led from the front. Some people never learn.

Getting there was no problem; just head for the nearest cluster of camp-fires until he could make out the trebuchets, silhouetted against the blue-grey sky. There was just enough wind to carry away the sound of the horses’ hooves on the dry grass. All in all, ideal conditions for a night attack; it was almost enough to tempt him into ignoring his own excellent advice and go looking for a fight, except that he didn’t want one. There’d be plenty of time for that sort of thing later; besides, his men were tired after a bad day divided between cowering under the dust-cloud and hauling dirt in buckets to fill in the hole in the path uphill.

They did better than he’d expected; they were fifty yards from the nearest fire by the time someone saw them and shouted. Sildocai drew his scimitar, called out, ‘Now!’ and kicked his horse into a gentle canter.

It started well. Understandably, the enemy ran away from the suddenly materialising horsemen, heading for the weapons stacks, away from the trebuchets, and nobody bothered the raiding party until they’d done some useful work among the trebuchets. That would have been a good time to quit.

Sildocai was the first to cut a rope; it took him three attempts. It was almost comical. Somehow he’d pictured himself cleaving the rope with a single blow, slicing through the taut fibres almost without effort. Instead, he caught it at an awkward angle, jerked his wrist and nearly dropped the sword. He’d have been better off with a bill-hook or a bean-hook, a heavier, more rigid blade. His adventure nearly ended there; in his grim determination to hack through the rope he forgot that cutting it would result in a long, heavy piece of wood pivoting sharply downwards – the beam missed his shoulder by no more than a couple of inches, and startled the life out of him. Then, as he pulled his horse round, he found he couldn’t quite reach the sling on the other end; he had to jump off his horse, kneel down, saw through it with the forte of his sword blade, and then hop back up again (except that his horse was spooky and didn’t want to hold still, and he spent an alarming moment or two dancing beside a moving horse, one foot in the stirrup, the other dragging on the ground while he clung to the pommel of the saddle with one hand and tried not to drop his scimitar with the other).

But he was a grown-up, he could cope; and he made a rather less messy job of the next two trebuchets. In fact, he was feeling confident enough to be toying with the idea of trying to get the things to burn when the enemy finally showed up. That was the point at which he should have let it alone and gone home to bed.

The enemy didn’t want to be there, it was obvious from the way they advanced; crab-fashion, their halberds and glaives thrust out well in front, sheer terror on their faces. Urging them on were a couple of officers, beside themselves with fury, like apple-growers whose trees are being robbed by the village children, but not quite furious enough to lead from the front. The job was about half-done; Sildocai called the first and second troops to follow him, and kicked up his favourite slow canter – quick enough to have momentum but slow enough to maintain control. There wasn’t a line – the enemy were slouching towards him in a huddled bunch, the men on the ends trying to snuggle towards the centre – so he waved the second troop out wide left, and took the first troop wide right. The plan was to hit them hard in flank, turn them back on the camp in a confused mob so they’d get under the feet of any further, better-organised relief party. There was just about enough light from the camp-fires to see what he was about. It should have worked fine. It did -

– Except that, as he bent down over his horse’s neck to deliver a straightforward diagonal cut along the line of some footslogger’s collar-bone, his saddle-girth snapped, sending him sliding helplessly down the vector of the stroke. He landed with his shoulder in the dead man’s face, with his saddle still gripped between his thighs.

If it had happened to somebody else he’d probably have wet himself laughing as he rode to the rescue; but comedy is relative, and when he looked up, the first thing he saw was a man standing over him. He was wearing a shirt, a kettle-hat and nothing else, and he was just about to stick a halberd into Sildocai’s chest.

There wasn’t a lot he could do about it; the damned saddle stopped him moving his legs, so all he was able to do was throw up his left arm in the way of the halberd. He had a boiled leather vambrace on his forearm; the cutting edge of the blade slid across it like a skater on ice and came off at an angle, making contact with his face at the point of his cheekbone and slicing off the top of his ear. That left his hand in good position for grabbing hold of the halberd shaft; but what with the shock and all he muffed it a bit, and the blade slit the web between his thumb and forefinger before he was able to tighten his grip and pull.

The manoeuvre was a qualified success; he got the halberd away from the man, but he pulled it down across his own face, cutting another line more or less parallel to the first, from the corner of his eye across the lower part of his scalp. He couldn’t keep hold of the halberd, and dropped it. The man stared at him, then kicked him in the face – not a good idea for either party, since the man wasn’t wearing anything on his feet. Sildocai was sure he felt one of the man’s toes break at the same time he felt the bone go in his nose.

He had his right arm free by now, and he used it to grab the man’s ankle and try to pull him down; but he muffed that too and was left gripping a flailing leg, hardly able to see because of all the blood in his eyes. There didn’t seem much point in holding on, so he let go, at which point the man suddenly threw his arms wide and fell on top of him.

He’d been hit hard, but not hard enough to kill him; at a guess, a scimitar-cut slantwise across the base of his neck under the rim of the kettle-hat. Now the bastard was lying right on top of him, their mouths almost touching, like lovers; the man’s eyes were open wide and he was making some sort of stupid glugging noise; he was trying to say something, but Sildocai wasn’t interested. ‘Get off me!’ he screeched, and jerked and pulled at his trapped left arm until he had it free. The fingers were stiff and tight (Permanent disability, Sildocai noted, worry about it later) but he had enough use of it to get a grip on the man’s shoulder and push. He didn’t want to go, but it turned out he didn’t have much choice; he rolled on to his back without moving, except for more eye-rolling and gurgling. With a lot of effort Sildocai found a way to scrabble himself up on to his knees, but things weren’t getting any better; a man running past him rammed him in the back, knocked him on his face and went sprawling down beside him. Damn, Sildocai thought, this is hopeless. The man was picking himself up; there was a sword lying beside him where he’d dropped it. But he left it there and skittered away, running very fast, which at the time seemed like a piece of luck.

Bad luck, as it turned out. The reason he’d bolted without even picking up his sword became horribly obvious as Sildocai lifted his head in time to see a horse’s hooves rearing up over his head. He dropped down again, but that didn’t help; he felt an unbearable pain in his back, felt something give way as the horse trod on him. He tried to shout, but his mouth was full of dirt and besides, all the air had been squeezed out of him. It took a lot of painful effort to put some back in its place.

Broken ribs, he diagnosed, with the part of his mind that somehow wasn’t involved, this isn’t getting any better. For two pins he’d have stayed where he was; but he could still recall a time when he’d been in charge of this situation, and one of the things he could remember about it was that as soon as the job was done, they were getting out of there and going home. Sildocai didn’t want to be left behind, so it was very important to stand up, find his horse (or any damned horse) and get back to the fortress.

The man next to him was still making that ridiculous glugging noise, like a fractious baby. Sildocai rolled over on to his right shoulder, kicked with his legs and jack-knifed himself on to his feet; he staggered, nearly went over again, caught his balance just in time. The operation was unbelievably painful – I shouldn’t have to be doing this, a man in my condition – and breathing had become a test of character. He took a step forward, but apparently someone had stolen the joints out of his knees while he’d been sprawling in the dirt. He managed to stay upright, but that was about the best he could do.

‘Steady now, chum, it’s all right.’ Whoever he was, Sildocai hadn’t seen or heard him coming; he was just there, a man to his left grabbing and holding on to his arm. ‘It’s all right,’ he repeated. ‘Let’s get you out of this before you fall over.’ It was a horrible sing-song voice – the Perimadeian accent had always grated on Sildocai. ‘Come on, this way.’

The bastard was trying to make him go back, towards the camp; that wasn’t the right direction, so why was he doing it? Then it made sense. This was the enemy, mistaking him for a friend (like the man lying blubbering in the dirt, who’d expected him to help) – well, that was just fine, but it was the wrong direction. Fortunately, the man was an idiot; there was a knife hanging from his belt, just handy. Sildocai pulled it out and stuck it between his shoulders. For once, something went in the way it was meant to, but he’d missed the spot he’d been aiming for. The man gasped with pain and shock, but stayed on his feet. ‘Oh gods,’ the poor fool said and grabbed at Sildocai for support – he hadn’t realised that Sildocai had stabbed him, must be thinking he’d been hit by an arrow or something. He took the man’s weight on his shoulder as best he could, though it was nearly enough to bring him to his knees; then he pulled out the knife and stuck it in under the man’s ear.

This time he did go down, but of course he was clinging on to Sildocai’s shoulder, and so they hit the ground together. This one was easier to shove off – he was dead, which helped – but getting up again was probably going to be too hard for him to manage. Well, he’d tried; and, as his father used to say, if you’ve done your best, they can’t ask any more of you.

Breathing was becoming harder, if anything. It was as if he had a big carpenter’s clamp screwed across him, pressing his chest and back together while the carpenter waited for the glue to dry. But some people never learn (four generations of leaders). He dragged his elbows towards his knees, pushed his knees forward, tried to straighten his back – no future in that. Thanks for nothing, he thought bitterly, aiming his displeasure at the man he’d just killed. I’d have been just fine if you hadn’t interfered. Then he straightened his legs and arms, probably the most gruelling physical effort he’d ever made in his life. It got him on his feet again. It was worth it.

Now then; all I’ve got to do now is find a horse, get on it… There didn’t seem to be much in the way of battle-noises, he noticed with dismay. He had no idea how long it had been since he’d come off his horse. It felt like his whole life, of course, but that was subjective time. Quite possible, likely even, that his men had done as they were told and pushed off as soon as the job was done. In which case he needn’t have nearly killed himself getting up.

He took three steps forward – a technique of controlled falling, whereby he aimed himself at the ground and stuck out a leg at the last moment. His left hand was hurting almost as much as his back – a different sort of pain, throbbing instead of sharp. Dragging in breath was getting to be more trouble than it was worth.

And then he saw the horse. Amazing creatures; in the middle of a battle, with all that death and pain around it, a riderless horse will still stop, put its head down and nibble at the grass. Sildocai looked at it for ten seconds, a long time in that context. He was trying to work out, from first principles, how to walk over to where the horse was standing, get on its back and make it go where he wanted it to. He knew the project was possible – we can win this, as Temrai would say – but at that particular moment he couldn’t quite see how to go about it.

Sheer hard work and application, in the end. Luckily, the horse had the grace to hold still until he reached it, and then at least he had something to lean against while he bent down and lifted his foot up to the stirrup with his now mostly useless left hand. Getting into the saddle was always going to be the hardest part. No grip in his left hand, so pulling on the saddle was out. The best he could do was try to force his left leg straight and hope momentum and body weight would do the rest. It nearly worked; but while he was standing with one foot in one stirrup the horse decided to move, and it took him a long time to find the strength to get his leg over the horse’s back and down the other side. When he’d accomplished that, he found that he had nothing left; he slumped forward against the horse’s neck, his nose buried in its mane, and tried for one last breath. The horse kept walking; and since it was just a horse, and the enemy were too busy to bother with stray livestock, it carried on walking in the direction it remembered home used to be, until it came to a river. There it stopped to drink; and after that, it wandered a short way, snuffling for grass, until dawn; at which point someone on the other side of the river noticed it and started making a fuss. They swung out the bridge and sent some men to catch it; the horse didn’t mind that, and they led it over the bridge and took the load off its back.

‘It’s Sildocai,’ someone said.

‘Is he still alive?’ Sildocai heard that. Good question, he thought.

‘I think so. Get him down.’

In the event, Sildocai decided that he was still alive, because it doesn’t hurt if you’re dead. He slipped away from the pain after a while, and when he woke up someone whose name was something like Temrai came and stood over him and told him the raid had been successful. He wanted to ask, What raid? but he didn’t have the energy. He went back to sleep for a few hours, until the crash-thump of trebuchet shot landing all round him (the raid had been a success; it took the enemy five hours to make good all the damage they’d done) woke him up again.