The Proof House

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

‘Please try not to think of it as a retrograde step in your career,’ the Son of Heaven said, his eyes focused an inch or so above the top of Bardas’ head. ‘It’s nothing of the sort. As I said earlier, we’re quite satisfied with your performance. In the final analysis, the war has proved successful; you may have lost a battle, but you’ve negotiated peace on the same terms I’d have found acceptable if you’d won. After all,’ he went on, ‘nobody was expecting you to kill them all.’

Bardas nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘My pleasure. We do recognise that you took over command under adverse circumstances, that you couldn’t be expected to handle troops to the same level of competency as an experienced general, and that these plainsmen proved to be an unexpectedly resourceful, tenacious and difficult enemy. You weren’t the only commander they beat. In fact, you did considerably better than we expected.’

‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

‘Not at all. Which is why,’ he went on, ‘I had no hesitation whatsoever in recommending you for your new position. After all, men with your depth of experience in siege mining operations are few and far between. Not that we expect the situation at Hommyra to last anything like as long as the Ap’ Escatoy business,’ he added. ‘Once the main galleries are completed we anticipate a conclusion in a matter of months.’

Bardas nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said.

‘And after that – well.’ The Son of Heaven actually smiled. ‘There will, I feel sure, always be a need in the service for a first-class sapper. I can see the possibility of great things in your future, provided you fulfil your side of the bargain.’

(It had been a strange meeting, almost comic; both men treating each other with exaggerated courtesy, as if the slightest false nuance would immediately result in a hail of arrows answered by a desperate cavalry charge. Captain Loredan had greeted King Sildocai with all due and proper respect, precisely quantified in provincial office protocols (an enemy general ranks above one’s own immediate subordinate, equal with oneself, but is deemed to be equal-and-below for diplomatic purposes with one’s immediate superior) and had offered formal condolences on the death of King Temrai. King Sildocai had thanked Captain Loredan for his most welcome sentiments, and expressed the wish that henceforth their two nations could work together in a spirit of co-operation towards finding a mutually acceptable settlement. The deal – that the clans would leave the plains, go north into officially designated wilderness and never come back – was concluded so quickly and easily that at times both of them suspected that they were reading from the same set of notes. When they parted, they were almost friends.)

‘Of course,’ continued the Son of Heaven, ‘we never had the slightest intention of sending you to the Island.’

‘Really?’ Bardas said. He sounded as if the subject was of academic interest only.

‘Absolutely. It would have represented a concession, almost an act of weakness. No, the Island needs – forgive me – strong, uncompromising leadership to see it through the difficult process of transition. The territory itself is, of course, hardly worth bothering with (in due course I expect we’ll amalgamate it with one of the other sub-prefectures, adjust the population balance, make it a viable proposition as a designated naval base); but at this particular juncture, the first priority must be to secure the fleet. If our various unfortunate experiences in this theatre of operations has taught us anything, it’s that we can no longer afford to neglect seapower.’

He’s talking to me, Bardas realised, entirely as one of us – a subordinate, naturally, but us includes us all, even me. ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘As you say, it’s a matter of priorities.’

Magnanimously, the Son of Heaven offered to pour him some more wine. He’d noticed that they liked to do this, either because it made some point about their relationship as servants of the Empire, or because they couldn’t trust outlanders not to disturb the sediment. He nodded thank you politely.

‘As a matter of fact,’ the Son of Heaven went on, ‘during my discussions with him, I found the rebel leader rather more shrewd than I’d anticipated – a bad lapse of judgement on my part, I confess. Well,’ he added, pursing his thin lips, ‘not shrewd, exactly; it was more that curious blend of cunning and stupidity that characterises mercantile nations. In my experience they tend to have an uncanny knack of being able to understand motivations on the individual human level, whereas larger issues that would be perfectly obvious to you and me seem to pass them by entirely. Hence,’ he added, with a trace of a smile, ‘the aptness of the personal approach, the misguidance – is there such a word? I wonder – that we would be sending you, somebody they could both trust and manipulate. Of course he was a fool to base his entire strategy on a wholly unsupported assurance, a vague statement of probable future intent. The remarkable weakness I’ve found among traders is their apparent desire, in spite of their facade of cynicism, to trust someone. Making him trust me was easy; people like that can’t help trusting people they’re afraid of.’

Bardas smiled, as if sharing the joke. ‘What’s going to happen to him?’ he asked. ‘The rebel leader, I mean.’

The Son of Heaven was watching him out of the corner of his eye. ‘Oh, he’ll be extradited, tried and sentenced; we have to balance the books, after all. Fortunately, our system of audit allows one man to bear the blame for his country’s defaults; it’s efficient and humane, and it simplifies performance reviews. Thus King Temrai’s paid for his people, Master Auzeil and his cohorts will pay for theirs; we can draw a line under both columns and rule the page off. Similarly,’ he went on, his voice so gentle that it almost degenerated into a drawl (except that no Son of Heaven would ever sink so low), ‘we can conclude our rather pointless entanglement in the Mesoge with one simple act of accounting.’

Bardas kept perfectly still.

They had, of course, been reading his letters. It was standard operating procedure when an officer was under review following an unsatisfactory or questionable action.

The letter in question had reached him at a bad time, when he was in the middle of trying to sort out a mess he’d made with the duty rosters. ‘Not now,’ he’d said, and then seen the expression on the face of the man who’d brought it. He looked as if he wanted to be sick.

‘What’ve you got there?’ he asked.

‘Letter for you,’ the man replied. ‘And that.’ He pointed to a large earthenware jar, which was being held by another distressed-looking soldier. ‘We’ve got the man who brought them in the guardhouse.’

Bardas nodded. ‘Fair enough,’ he said, wondering what was going on. ‘Give me the letter and put the jar in my tent. I’ll be along in a minute’

In the event it took him nearly half an hour to straighten out the rosters, by which time he’d clean forgotten about the letter. It wasn’t until that evening, when he managed to scrape up an hour for a rest and a sit-down, that he saw the jar beside his chair and remembered.

The seal was broken – well, he was used to that – but familiar; the Loredan Bank, which meant the letter was from one of two people. And he couldn’t imagine his sister Niessa sending him a letter, let alone presents.

Dear Bardas,

You’re reading this, which means you’ve won the battle. Congratulations! Now, let’s go back a bit.

When I’ve finished writing this letter, it’ll go to my man in Temrai’s camp. He’s been working for me for a while now; basically, his job’s been to make sure nothing happens to Temrai until you catch up with him; then to make sure, come what may, that he doesn’t escape. If you get him – well, fine, you won’t be reading this letter. If he’s managed to give you the slip – well, it’s all right.

It was the least I could do. I know how important it is for you – your career, your future – to make a success of this war. It’s been touch and go, hasn’t it? First they were going to send that huge great army, which would’ve meant you never got your chance. Well, we couldn’t have that, could we? Luckily, I was able to arrange a little diversion there; the Islanders are so stupid and greedy that all I had to do was suggest that they might consider holding out on the deal and demanding more money, and that was that. Then, of course, they went too far and got themselves annexed; I felt a bit foolish when I heard about that, I can tell you. Luckily, though, there was enough time to send some of my people across to start a neat little rebellion – a long shot, but it worked. I had a feeling it would work; because, you see, I know this war is meant to happen for you, and nothing’s going to stand in your way this time.

I hope you like the present. You’ve been making things for me ever since we were kids (you were always the clever one with your hands). Now, you know I can’t make things to save my life, so I’ve got this clever fellow Dassascai to do this for me. What with being an assassin and a cook, he ought to have made a fair job of it. If not – well, it’s the thought that counts.

As always,

Your loving brother,

Gorgas.

Bardas rolled up the letter; then he cut the wax around the neck of the jar, eased off the stopper and pulled out what he found inside.

At first he thought it was a pig’s head, like the ones he’d always dreaded as a boy, though his father and Gorgas considered them a great delicacy. The drill was to bone out the skull, leaving the mask intact; it was then cured with salt and stuffed with good things – cloves, allspice, basil, black and red Colleon pepper-corns, mace, cinnamon, cumin, dried apricots and root ginger – and steeped in thin, clear, almost white domestic honey. Even then, Bardas had been both intrigued and disgusted by the paradox of the sweet, delicious, fragrant inside and the grotesque, dead exterior; he wondered who could possibly have thought up the idea of such a bizarre combination. As a dutiful son, he’d always made a show of tackling his share and miming enthusiasm, trying to make himself concentrate on the gorgeous smell and the rich, sweet taste – after all, you don’t have to look at something in order to eat it, you just reach out with your knife and cut.

It was the same recipe; he could imagine Gorgas writing it out in detail and sending it to his cook, with strict instructions not to try to improve it (Gorgas had a flair for cooking and a tremendous ability to enjoy food; details mattered to him. On reflection, Gorgas would have made a fine Son of Heaven). But it wasn’t a pig’s face that dangled from the mop of honey-slicked hair between his fingers; shrunken and distorted (probably by the drying action of the salt), it was the face of King Temrai.

Honey trickled down the dimpled, overripe-peach cheeks like golden tears; the eyelids were closed on the empty sockets (Bardas knew how much closed eyes could see) and the mouth was sewn up with finely twisted sinew, which had in one or two places torn through the thin fabric of the lips as the skin contracted and tightened. It was soft and yielding to the touch, like a leather bag – like the footballs they used to make out of bladders crammed with straw, or the savoury winter puddings his mother stuffed into the stomach of a sheep. Under the white-gold glaze, the skin was pale and marbled, like mother of pearl.

(How curious, Bardas thought; how curious and impractical of the makers of men to put the hard armour of the skull inside the softness of the face. Surely it ought to be the other way round, the tough, uniform bone sheltering the vulnerable, distinctive features that made one individual different from another. In that respect, if in no other, they knew better in the proof house.)

Soft and unformed, yet shrivelled and lined, Temrai looked both very young and very old. In this face he could see the boy who’d hidden from him under a cart, in a place not far away from here; and he could see the old man that Temrai would have been (the river or the wheel, unless one preferred the analogy of the camshaft) – and he thought for a moment about the process of preservation (curing the meat), which is an attempt to dam the river and stop the wheel, to find a way of failing to sack the doomed city or kill the accursed man. Someone who believed in the Principle might be inclined to make that into a theory, as if there hadn’t been enough reshaping of raw material already.

‘It’s a bit late to worry about that now,’ observed Anax, standing behind his shoulder. ‘And besides, the ability to make things into other things is what makes us human. Or makes us the humans we are,’ he added, with a wheezy chuckle. ‘You know what,’ he went on, ‘dried out and properly padded you could use that as a helmet liner.’

‘Go away,’ Bardas said.

‘You’re just cranky because you never had a chance to say thank you,’ Anax replied. ‘And you’re the man who was always bitching in the mines about never getting to see the face of his enemy.’

Bardas frowned. ‘I never thought of him as that,’ he said. ‘In fact, to be honest with you, I never really thought about him as a human being.’

‘Missed your chance for that, I’m afraid,’ Anax said, in a told-you-so voice. ‘Because that’s not human, it’s just a thing. Comes to us all in time, of course; we gradually grow these inhuman skins – a bit like trees, really, except the other way round; with us, it’s the living bit that’s on the inside and the dead bit that’s outside. Which reminds me, was that or was that not an amazingly fine suit of armour I made for you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is that all you can say, yes? Talk about passing proof; you sit there without a mark on you, and all you can say is yes.’›

Bardas smiled. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘but that was just war. It never had to withstand Bollo and the big hammer.’

Anax smiled; Bardas couldn’t see the smile, but he knew it was there. ‘Son,’ he said, ‘there’s nothing on earth that strong. It’s like those boxing booths you used to see at fairs; rule of the house, Bollo always wins. The fun’s to see how many rounds you can go.’

‘Fun?’

‘For want of a better word.’

A little later, Bardas went to the guardhouse.

‘That man who brought the letter for me,’ he said. ‘Have you still got him there?’

They told him yes, he was still here.

‘Fine. Have you asked him his name?’

Sure, they replied. Dassascai, he called himself. Made no secret of it. Seemed to be under the impression he had a nice reward coming.

‘Absolutely,’ Bardas replied. ‘Now, get a couple of men and a flag of truce, and take this Dassascai up the hill to King Sildocai – I suggest you keep a tight hold of him, he might not want to go – along with this jar and this letter. Then, if I were you, I’d get out of there as quick as you can.’

The Son of Heaven leaned back in his chair. ‘Just out of curiosity,’ he asked, ‘what was in the jar?’

‘Victory,’ Bardas replied, smiling weakly. ‘At least, something that achieved the same result as victory. You might say it was a kind of secret weapon.’

‘I see.’ The Son of Heaven raised an eyebrow. ‘Like the incendiary liquid you used during the siege of Perimadeia, something like that?’

‘Not quite,’ Bardas said, ‘though of course that came in a jar too. Excuse me, please, I’m starting to say the first thing that comes into my head.’ He stroked his chin, as if thinking something over. ‘So, when do I leave?’ he asked.

‘As soon as your relief arrives; later today or early tomorrow. You’re to report to him as soon as he gets here – Colonel Ilshel. Still quite young, but a certain degree of promise; we have high hopes for him. He’ll supervise the enemy evacuation, escort them as far as the mountains. It should be a perfectly straightforward job.’

‘Very good,’ Bardas replied, without apparent feeling (and his face didn’t move, as if it was already dead and pickled).

‘You been on the post before, then?’ the courier asked.

Bardas nodded. ‘A couple of times,’ he replied.

The courier seemed impressed. ‘You must be important, then,’ he said. ‘What was your name again?’

‘Bardas Loredan.’

‘Bardas – hang on, that rings a bell. Ap’ Escatoy. You’re the hero.’

Bardas nodded. ‘That’s right,’ he said.

‘Bugger me,’ the courier said. ‘It’s not every day I get a hero on the round. So, what was it really like?’

‘Boring, mostly. With occasional interludes of extreme terror.’

The courier laughed. ‘Oh, they all say that,’ he said, ‘when you ask ’em about what they did in the war. You’re not allowed to talk about it, I get the picture. So, where are you off to now? Or is that hush-hush as well?’

‘Some place called Hommyra,’ Bardas told him, ‘wherever that is. Do you know where it is?’

‘Hommyra.’ The courier frowned. ‘Well, if it’s where I think it is, it’s right on the other side of the Empire, out east. I never even knew they were having a war there, though of course that doesn’t mean anything.’

‘They told me it’d take me six weeks to get there,’ Bardas said, ‘on the post. So I guess that sounds about right.’

‘Promotion?’

‘They’re making me up to full captain.’

‘You don’t say. That’s pretty good going for an outlander. ’

‘Thank you.’

Bardas had changed coaches in Ap’ Escatoy. It had disturbed him to discover that the camp and the temporary city there felt something like home, that he’d almost experienced a sense of belonging. He’d tried not to dwell on that thought; just as he’d avoided going under the gate over which, someone told him, they’d hung the heads of three notorious rebels responsible for the recent disaffection on the Island. Once he knew what they were he hadn’t looked up, for fear of recognising them or catching sight of the labels pinned to them, detailing the offenders’ names and crimes.

‘This business with the plainspeople, now,’ the courier was saying, ‘of course it could have been handled a bit smarter, but in the end it all worked out; we’ve got rid of them, their king’s dead and we picked up a fleet of ships along the way. All this talk you hear about a blow to Imperial prestige and stuff, that’s just sour grapes. It’s only the score at the end that matters, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Absolutely,’ Bardas replied.

‘Just a minute.’ The courier looked round at him. ‘You were in that lot, weren’t you? I’m sure I heard that somewhere, the Ap’ Escatoy bloke was joining the plains war. Is that right?’

‘I was in on the tail end of it,’ Bardas said.

‘Hey! See any action?’

‘A little.’

‘Would you credit it?’ The courier grinned. ‘They’re saying it was the artillery did the donkey work, though the cavalry had a good war. Is that right?’

‘More or less.’

‘They’re always the unsung heroes, the artillery,’ the courier stated gravely. ‘Bloody pikemen give themselves airs, say they’re the ones who actually get the job done – and fair play to them, they’re good, very good. But for sieges and stuff like that, you can’t beat the corps of engineers. Well, look at you, for instance.’

‘Me?’

‘Sure. You’re an engineer, after all.’

Bardas shrugged. ‘I suppose I am,’ he said.

‘No suppose about it,’ replied the courier firmly. ‘My dad, he was an engineer. Fifteen years on roads and bridges, then he got his transfer to the artillery, worked his way up to bombardier-sergeant; not a sapper like you, of course, though one of my uncles…’

‘Is that the sea over there?’

‘That’s right,’ the courier said. ‘Just over the hills there, about two miles. We follow the coast right down as far as Ap’ Molian, then we head inland for a couple of days to Rhyzalia, and that’s as far as I go. I expect you’ll be catching the Torrene coach – one of the couriers on that’s my brother-in-law, so ask him if he happens to know a bloke called-’

He didn’t get as far as the name; he stopped, sat bolt upright and fell off the box. Not again, Bardas thought and grabbed for the reins, but they were still wrapped round the courier’s wrists. He was dragged along by them as the coach gradually slowed down. Somewhere on the rack behind him was a crossbow, service issue for post guards, but it wasn’t where it was meant to be. His scimitar was with the rest of the luggage, somewhere in the back. No point trying to fight, then; which left him with one option, retreat. He shuffled along the box seat and reached out for the reins, overbalanced and fell. The last thing he was aware of was the front offside wheel, rushing toward him -

Bardas?

‘Anax?’ he said.

Alexius. I just stopped off to say goodbye.

‘Oh,’ Bardas replied. ‘You’re leaving, then.’

At long last. Now she’s dead, it sort of rounds things off.

‘Who’s dead? You mean Iseutz, my niece?’

No. Someone else; I don’t know, you may not remember her. Vetriz Auzeil. She was involved, peripherally.

There was no way of knowing where this place was; it was dark, without noises or smells. ‘I seem to remember you telling me about her,’ he said. ‘And I met her and her brother a few times. They were friends of Athli Zeuxis.’ He was about to say something else, but didn’t.

Well, I know you’re a sceptic, so I won’t go into details. I believe she was a natural of sorts, but to what extent she played any significant part – although obviously she did have some bearing, or else her death wouldn’t be rounding off the chapter, so to speak. Anyway, that seems to be that.

‘Well, then.’ Bardas decided to ask after all. ‘Do you happen to know – what did become of Athli, in the end?’

In the end, I’m not sure. She had some part to play in the last defence of Shastel, but whether she escaped or not I never found out. There’s a passing reference to her in one of the discussions of the Colleon war, but it’s inconclusive; it could be either the First Colleon War, which was before the fall of Shastel-

‘So it wasn’t her,’ Bardas said, ‘above the gateway?’

Not the gateway in Ap’ Escatoy; I assume that’s the one you mean. No, the third head was someone called Eseutz Mesatges, and that was a case of mistaken identity – they confused her with your niece Iseutz, you see. And to be fair, it’s an unusual name.

‘Not someone I’ve heard of,’ Bardas replied. ‘Thank you. I feel a bit better for knowing Athli got away.’

Well… Anyway; I’ll be seeing you again, of course, but this is the last time you’ll see me as Alexius. I shouldn’t really be here now, but -

Bardas opened his eyes.

‘Thank the gods for that,’ Gorgas said. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’

Gorgas was kneeling over him, a bowl in one hand, a piece of wet rag in the other. The rag had been torn off his shirt; Bardas could see where he’d ripped it from the sleeve.

‘It’s all right,’ Gorgas went on. ‘You took one hell of a nasty bump on the head, but the swelling’s gone down and I don’t think it’s bleeding inside. Bardas? You do know who I am, don’t you?’

‘I think so,’ Bardas replied. ‘You’re my brother Gorgas, right?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

Bardas tried to nod, but that turned out to be a very bad idea. ‘We built the tree-house together,’ he said. ‘In the big apple tree, before it blew down. There was a squirrel that used to walk right past the window.’

‘That’s it, you’ve got it,’ Gorgas said. ‘Now lie still, take it easy. Everything’s under control.’

‘Where’s Dad?’

Gorgas looked at him, then smiled. He had a big, warm smile. ‘He’s around somewhere,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, things are going to be just fine.’

Bardas tried to smile back, but his head hurt. ‘You’re not going anywhere, are you?’ he asked.

‘Of course not. I’ll be here. You take it easy.’

He closed his eyes again; and when he opened them, he remembered.

‘Gorgas?’ He tried to get up, but there wasn’t enough strength in his body. He was lying on the deck of a small ship, his head on a folded-up sail, under a heap of coats and blankets. The sun was bright, sharp, almost cruel; but there was a pleasantly cool breeze.

‘Bardas?’ The voice came from some way away, up the other end of the ship. ‘Hang on, I’ll be right there.’ Bardas couldn’t move, but he could place Gorgas exactly by the sound of his feet on the deck, the vibrations running through the planking; it was a skill he’d acquired in the galleries under Ap’ Escatoy.

‘You got bashed on the head, remember?’ Gorgas was saying (but Bardas couldn’t see him; he was above and behind, so that his shadow fell across Bardas’ face). ‘You fell off the post coach. Dammit, I should have guessed something like that might happen. It’s my own damn stupid fault. You could have been killed.’

Bardas took a deep breath, let it go. His mouth was dry, like hard leather. ‘You shot the coachman,’ he said.

‘Seventy yards, if it was a step. That bow you made for me, Bardas, it’s a honey. But I should have been more careful.’

Bardas frowned. ‘Why?’ he said.

‘Why what?’

‘Why did you kill the coachman?’

‘I had to stop the coach, idiot.’ Bardas could picture the smile; the big, warm smile. ‘Too open for a road-block, and the post doesn’t stop for stray fares. Would you like something to drink now?’

‘No. Yes,’ Bardas amended, because at that moment a drink was what he wanted most in the whole world.

‘Coming right up,’ Gorgas said. ‘You’ve no idea the fun and games I’ve had since then; you were out cold, I was convinced I’d killed you, I was wetting myself. So I got all that trash off the coach, got you back on, set off cross-country for where I’d left the ship; and then a bloody wheel came off-’

Bardas frowned. He seemed to remember a conversation he’d been having a few moments earlier; the whole point was, it wasn’t a wheel, it was a camshaft. But that didn’t make sense.

‘So after I dumped the coach,’ Gorgas was saying, ‘I had to carry you the last two miles – brother, you’ve put on weight since I used to carry you round the yard, though granted, you were only three then. And of course I was petrified about jogging you about, damaging something – head injuries are really sensitive things, you know, you can do all sorts of damage to someone’s head if you’re not careful. Dear gods; I’ll tell you, it was only when I got us both back on this ship that I even remembered to worry about anybody chasing after us. But there doesn’t seem to be anybody, luckily. And so,’ he added cheerfully, ‘here we are, on our way. You know, this is like old times.’

‘Why did you stop the coach?’ Bardas asked.

‘Oh, for… To rescue you, of course. You don’t think I was going to stand by and let them court-martial my brother, do you? You may have faith in Imperial justice, but I don’t.’

(Three heads over a gateway; it was a valid point.) ‘They weren’t going to court-martial me,’ Bardas said. ‘They’re sending me to a new posting. Hommyra,’ he remembered.

Gorgas laughed. ‘There’s no such place, you clown. Come on, you know the Empire by now; for every failure, one responsible officer. Hey, it’s just as well you’ve got your big brother to look out for you, you’re not fit to be out on your own.’

‘But the coachman, he’d heard of it. I think.’

‘Sure,’ Gorgas said. ‘Look, who’d you rather believe, the Empire or your own flesh and blood? No, here we are again. Only this time, it’s going to be different. Promise.’

Bardas’ head hurt. ‘We’re going home? The Mesoge?’

‘You mean you haven’t-?’ Gorgas’ voice became very soft. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’

‘Gone? It can’t have gone.’

‘Sorry, bad choice of words. All right, no beating about the bush. The farm’s been destroyed, Bardas. They did it, the provincial office.’

‘What are you talking about, Gorgas?’

Gorgas was quiet for a moment. ‘They sent a company of archers,’ he said. ‘In the middle of the night, needless to say. Surrounded the place, barred the doors from the outside, set light to the thatch. I woke up coughing my lungs out, ran to the window, nearly got shot. It was like hell, Bardas; there was smoke everywhere, you couldn’t see a thing; burning thatch coming down in great bunches, timbers, the lot. I tried to get them out, I really tried; but Clefas was dead, the smoke got him while he was sleeping; Zonaras was trapped under about half the roof, he was caught there screaming and burning and I couldn’t do anything-Look,’ he said, and moved round, so that Bardas could see his face. For an instant, he thought it was someone else. ‘I was still trying when he died,’ he said. ‘He kept yelling, Gorgas, help me, right up to the end.’

Bardas didn’t say anything.

‘Iseutz had already left – but you know that anyway. So it was just me and Niessa,’ Gorgas eventually continued. ‘Just her and me; we managed to jump out the top loft window on to the roof of the duck shed – she’d had the wit to grab the bow and some arrows, and there was light enough, gods know; we managed to crawl into the duck shed and I kept them off till I ran out of arrows – you saved our lives, boy, making me this bow, I’m telling you. Anyway, just when I thought we’d had it, I saw a gap we could get through and we ran for it. I didn’t stop till I was out in Clyras’ meadow – you know, the sunken cart-road; you’d never know it was there now, the hedge had grown up all round it. Then I realised Niessa wasn’t with me, so I went back. She was dead. They were cutting her head off with Dad’s old felling-axe.’

Gorgas was quiet for a long time.

‘Well,’ he resumed at last, ‘there wasn’t any point, was there? Maybe killing a few of them and getting killed myself, what would that have achieved? You’ve got to be practical. I snuck back down the sunken road, hid up for the day, walked into Tornoys that night and found this boat. It’s Lyras Monedin’s old lobster-boat; you remember Lyras, miserable old bugger who used to throw stones at us when we were kids.’

Bardas opened his eyes. ‘Is he still alive? He must be over a hundred.’

‘Still going strong, apparently,’ Gorgas said, ‘though Buciras and Onnyas take the boat out now. Well, before I stole it, anyway. So that’s that,’ he went on. ‘Everything we ever had, everything we worked for, you and me, all gone up in smoke, literally. It’s just you and me now, Bardas. We’re the only ones left.’

‘I see.’ Bardas closed his eyes again. ‘So where are we going?’

‘Ah.’ Gorgas’ voice was smiling again. ‘That’s what I meant when I told you it was all going to be all right. You remember Fleuras Peredin?’

‘What?’

‘Fleuras Peredin,’ Gorgas repeated. ‘Used to go fishing for cod and those long wriggly buggers with the big flat heads, out beyond the sand-banks.’

‘Yes, I remember. What’s he got to do with anything?’

‘Ah.’ Gorgas chuckled. ‘Well, I remembered something he told me once, about how he’d been caught in a squall and blown right out to sea; and he told me about this island he’d wound up on, a long way out. Of course I thought he was making it up, he always was a liar; and then I heard someone in the Hopes and Fears telling pretty much the same tale about a year ago, which set me thinking. Anyway, the long and the short of it is, there really is an island there; I’ve been there, and I know how to find it. It’s nothing special, I’ll grant you; lots of rocks and trees and not much else. But there’s fresh water, and a flat spot right in the middle that looks as good a bit of dirt as I’ve ever seen anywhere; spit out an apple pip and a year later you’ll have a tree. There’s goats living up in the rocks, and plenty of birds; you couldn’t go hungry there if you tried. There’s timber for building, any god’s amount of it; and to cap it all, do you know what I found, up one of the mountains? Iron ore; dirty great lumps of it, just lying on the surface. I promise you, Bardas; my strength, all your skills, there’s nothing we can’t have there if we want it. Just you and me, together. It’d be like old times. What d’you reckon?’

Bardas thought for a moment. ‘You’re crazy,’ he said.

Gorgas frowned a little. ‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re actually suggesting we could live together, build a farm, as if none of what you did ever happened. You want to go back to when we were kids, before-’

Gorgas’ face seemed to be falling apart; the cracked, angry, melted skin and the look of horror. ‘For gods’ sakes, Bardas,’ he said. ‘What I did? I love you, Bardas, more than anybody in the whole world, but you simply can’t just lie there and talk about what I did. One bad thing – oh, a very, very bad thing, no possible doubt about that; and ever since, every waking moment of my life, I’ve been trying to make up for it – to Niessa, to Clefas and Zonaras, to you. Every single thing I’ve done since, I’ve done for the three of you. And yes, I’ve done some bad things in that time, terrible things, but good and bad simply don’t come into it when it’s done for us, for family. But you – all the things you’ve done, all those people you killed – with Uncle Maxen, in the courts, during the siege, on Scona, Ap’ Escatoy, the war here; who did you kill them for, Bardas? For whoever was paying you? Go on, answer me, I want to know.’

Bardas shook his head. ‘Don’t you dare say that,’ he said. ‘Don’t you ever try to make it sound like I’m like you.’

‘Oh, come on.’ Gorgas was almost laughing. ‘You left home to seek your fortune; that’s fine. All the money you made, you sent it home for Clefas and Zonaras; you were trying to look out for them, just like me. During the siege you were fighting for your city. On Scona – well, you had the right, that’s all I can say about that; but we were quits after that, and you know it. But since then; you, a soldier of the Empire? Do you sincerely believe in the manifest destiny of the Sons of Heaven?’

‘What about the Islanders?’ Bardas shouted. ‘Killed, enslaved, because of you-’

Gorgas shook his head. ‘By the Empire. The people you fight for. Please. And besides, none of it would have happened if Ap’ Escatoy hadn’t fallen; and who was it let the bull out of the pen? But that’s all right,’ Gorgas went on, speaking more softly. ‘You were doing a job, just like you were doing when you were with Uncle Maxen; a soldier’s not responsible for the wars he fights in, just as I’m not responsible for what the Empire did to the Islanders – or what Temrai did to the City. And besides-’ He made his horrible face into a smile. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘we’re through with all of that now, both of us. Don’t you see? We can put it all behind us – dammit, if I’ve got one single virtue, it’s being realistic. We can’t put right any of the bad things we’ve done. Even trying to make up for them makes us do more bad things, worse things. There’s got to come a time when we say enough’s enough, it’s time to do something else; something worthwhile and decent and good. I tried that, Bardas; I tried to go home, to be what I always should have been, a hard-working farmer making an honest living out of our land. I tried to wind back the wheel, if you like – and what happened? Our home’s nothing but cold ashes and trash, everything ruined, burned and gone. And you – well. I don’t have to say it, do I?’

Bardas was actually shaking with anger. ‘Everything, ’ he said, ‘everything bad in the whole world, is your fault. All the bad things, the evil things I did, are your fault. And I’ll never forgive you. Never.’

‘Oh, Bardas.’ Gorgas was gazing at him, his face full of compassion. ‘Do you know, what you just said, in a way, that’s an act of love. All these years you’ve been letting me take away all the bad things you’ve done. You’ve allowed me to do that for you. And that’s fine; I’m glad about that. Now let me do this one last thing, for both of us. Let’s take all the evil away, shall we?’ He grinned, stretching the burns and the wounds that hid his face like a visor. ‘Let’s rid the world of the Loredan boys, for good and all. Now wouldn’t that be something, eh? Get the Loredan brothers out of harm’s way, where they can’t do any more damage. Can’t think of a single more altruistic act than that. Think of it; we’d be as good as dead and buried.’

(It’s customary to die first; but in your case we’ll make an exception.)

‘And anyway,’ Gorgas went on, still smiling, ‘it’s not as if you’ve got a choice. You’re too weak to fight me, or jump over the side. When we get there, as soon as I’ve got you and the stuff ashore, I’m going to soak down the decks with lamp-oil and set this old tub alight. You want to get off the island, you’re going to have to build yourself a boat.’

Bardas was having trouble breathing. ‘Or I could kill you,’ he said. ‘I could kill us both.’

‘You could,’ Gorgas conceded. ‘If you wanted to; and then we’d really be alike, you and me – except that my act of deliberate evil was at the beginning, and yours would be at the end. Is that what you want?’

‘No.’›

‘Thought not,’ Gorgas said cheerfully. ‘So it looks like we’re going to be doing it my way. It’s all right; if I take away the choice, you can carry on blaming me for everything. You can blame me when it rains, or when it doesn’t; you can blame me when the goats eat off the green corn, or the hayrick catches fire; I’ll be glad to take the blame, it’ll be like old times.’

‘No,’ Bardas said softly. ‘Gorgas, please.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Gorgas said (he was walking away; Bardas couldn’t see him any more). ‘I guess you’ve just got to trust me, Bardas. After all, I’m your big brother and I love you. And haven’t I always seen you right?’