by K. J. Parker
Then he saw something else. On the marble dais, next to where the throne must have rested before it began to float, was a single straight-backed wooden chair. In it sat Lysao, in a snow-white gown, and she was looking straight at him. Oh, he thought. But never mind. No doubt at some point they’d kill him, probably in a very unpleasant way, but that scarcely seemed to matter. They could only damage his body, and already he felt that he had passed beyond all that, that he was no longer flesh but spirit. If they killed his flesh and his spirit could stay here, that wouldn’t be so bad. In fact—
“That’s her up there,” he heard Orderic whispering next to him. “Must be.”
He had to think for a moment, and then he remembered. They were in Blemya; and the one thing everybody knew about Blemya was that it was ruled by a woman; by a little girl. He looked up, but all he could see was a suit of extraordinary clothes—a long purple gown, glittering with gold thread and seedpearls like a dragon’s underbelly; a shining gold sash, coiled round the folds of the gown like a python; a monstrous crown like a weathervane, three times the size of a human head. The fact that the clothes sat upright instead of crumpling in a heap suggested there must be someone inside there, but he or she was completely invisible.
Genseric realised someone was speaking; had been, for some time. He caught his own name, but the echo caught everything else and made it a reverberating jumble, one voice bickering with a thousand copies of itself. He tore his eyes away from the throne and located a bald man in a gown rather like the one he was wearing, standing a few yards away, talking up to the bundle of clothes. For a moment, he wondered what was going on, and then it dawned on him. The bald man was the prosecutor.
Under other circumstances, it would’ve struck him as unfair that he couldn’t understand what was being said against him. But the reasoning behind it came in a flash of intuition. The acoustics of this place were pitched so that the occupant of the throne, so high up and far away, could hear every word; nobody else mattered. Almost certainly, whoever it was up there knew all the facts already, could read minds and hearts, could count all the grains of sand on the seashore and all the stars in the sky. There were certain formalities, but that was all they were. Judgement, when it came, would be undeniable and perfect. Arguing the toss would be unthinkable; obscene.
Then he caught Lysao’s eye again, and shivered.
The prosecutor had finished and backed away, out of sight among the congregation. For one horrible moment, Genseric wondered if he was supposed to say something. But he was spared that. Lysao stood up, made a perfunctory nod at the base of the throne, and began speaking. Again, he couldn’t make out any of it, but he fancied he could guess what the gist of it was. The echo swirled her voice, mixed it up with itself, bounced it off the walls and ceiling like a ball. There was no beauty in it now: it was harsh, shrill, querulous. He guessed she couldn’t hear herself, because otherwise she’d stop, appalled. He felt ashamed of himself for ever having been born.
At last she finished whatever it was she’d been saying; she did the offensive nod once again, sat down and looked bored. There was a moment of silence which went on and became awkward. Then she spoke to him.
He heard his name, clear as flute music, so close he started to look round to see who was right beside him. He heard it again and realised where it was coming from. He looked up at the distant figure. “Your Majesty,” he said.
“Do you wish to say anything?”
His words were still swooping and filling the air around him; he’d heard them only as a sort of confused howling. He shook his head, realised she probably couldn’t see him. “No, your Majesty,” he said, and winced at the horrible noise. Everyone was looking up at the throne, waiting. He wished the moment could last for ever.
“The appellant Lysao,” said the heavenly voice, “claims to be a citizen of Beal Defoir, which I am informed is recognised by this house as a sovereign nation. She further claims that she was abducted against her will by soldiers of the Western emperor, led by Major Genseric, who is before us. The Domestic of the Bedchamber claims that Major Genseric has told the representatives of this house that the appellant is a fugitive from justice in the West, and that he was executing a lawful warrant. Major Genseric has declined to speak in his own suit.”
A brief silence. There were no echoes to die away.
“This house recollects,” the voice went on, “that no treaty of extradition exists or has ever existed between Blemya and either empire. Therefore this house cannot hear any request for extradition, and indeed, none has been formally made.”
Genseric felt delighted and confused. He’d been sure he was the one on trial, for killing the soldiers. Or hadn’t they got that far yet?
“The appellant claims,” said the voice, “that as a priestess she is entitled to sanctuary as against Major Genseric. However, she has neglected to furnish any proof that the West seeks to extradite her in connection with any alleged offence related to the office of priest, and therefore her claim in this regard must be refused.”
Another pause. Orderic was tugging at his sleeve. He ignored him.
“The Domestic claims that Major Genseric and his companions killed twelve soldiers of the coast patrol in an attempt to resist arrest. However, the Domestic has not furnished sufficient corroborative evidence for this claim to enable this house to hear the matter, and that claim is also dismissed.”
Genseric felt his jaw drop open. He let it hang. He had no strength left.
“This house confesses to a certain difficulty in deciding what should become of the parties in this case. The appellant is not obliged to go with Major Genseric, nor has she any standing to stay in Blemya. There seems to be no obligation on this house to incur the trouble and expense of conveying her home to Beal Defoir. The appellant further claims that her life would be in danger were she to be conveyed by land to the frontiers of either the Western or Eastern empires, but offers no proof of this claim other than hearsay. This house finds that it is under no obligation to the appellant, other than the simple and basic duty of hospitality. This house has always held that duty in the highest possible regard, and therefore resolves that the appellant be allowed to stay in Blemya, as the guest of this house, until suitable arrangements can be made for her return to Beal Defoir. As for Major Genseric and his three companions, they are to be escorted with all due expedition to the Western frontier and allowed to depart in peace.”
“We’re going to be in so much trouble,” Orderic muttered. “They aren’t going to like this one little bit.”
“Be quiet,” Genseric said absently. His mind was still just full enough of the visions he’d seen to be peacefully numb, but every word Orderic spoke made it harder to keep it that way. He glanced up at the sun and figured it must be mid-afternoon. They’d reach the border by nightfall, they’d assured him, guaranteed. This time they were on a magnificently kept road in a well-sprung chaise bearing the livery of the royal messengers. He kept expecting to wake up and find himself in the other coach; except that in the other coach sleep had been impossible.
“All we’ve achieved,” Orderic said, “was to take her out of somewhere where she was vulnerable and put her in what’s probably the safest place on earth right now. Oh, and along the way we violated Blemyan territory and killed a dozen of their soldiers. Is Forza going to be pleased with us? I think not.”
“I thought I told you to be quiet,” Genseric said, yawning. “That’s an order.”
“I don’t think you’ll be in a position to give orders much longer,” Orderic replied sadly. “Me neither. I don’t know which’d be worse, strung up or broken back to the ranks and sent to the front. Why the hell didn’t you say something while you had the chance? You could tell she was bending over backwards to find a reason for helping us. Last thing she wants is to piss off both the Belot brothers simultaneously, but thanks to you—”
“If you don’t shut your face,” Genseric said, “I’ll shut it for you. Got that?”
“Bullshit,” Orderic said crisply. “It was just acoustics and hydraulics. I don’t even think that was the real queen.”
“It was her,” Genseric said. “Don’t you ever read the monthly reports? There’s been all sorts going on in Blemya. She’s back in control.”
Orderic stared at him. “You might have told me.”
“I assumed—” He shrugged. “Makes no odds,” he said. “But that … place we were in; that was the Great Hall, the real thing. When the old guard was still in control, she wasn’t allowed to use it, she had to make do with the New Hall. It’s a close replica, but it doesn’t have that amazing acoustic effect. When they built the New Hall they tried to copy it exactly, but they got it very slightly wrong, so it doesn’t work there. Sorry, I thought you knew.”
Orderic scowled at him, then shrugged. “Well, anyway,” he said, “at least you admit it’s all cleverness and trickery and not the Voice of God. You went all to pieces in there. Admit it.”
“Freely,” Genseric said. “I looked up, and I saw judgement looking down at me. I was quite prepared to go to the gallows, accepting the fairness of its decision. But I was accorded grace, and here I still am.”
“For now, anyway,” Orderic said. “When we get back—”
Genseric sat up. “When we get back,” he said, “we’re going to be asked a lot of very detailed questions about everything we saw in the palace. It ought to save our necks; might even do us some good, if we’re lucky. You don’t get it, do you? By sheer dumb luck, we’re the first Westerners with official standing to have seen the new regime in Blemya. I don’t care how mad Forza is at us, we did good.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s why I regard it as a spiritual experience,” he said. “Soon as I heard that garbled echo, I knew; Great Hall, that’s a statement if ever there was one. She’s in charge and she wants everybody to know it; and that’s why she let us go, because she wants a rapprochement with the West, or at least, she wants us to think she does.” He yawned again. “Put it another way,” he said. “From the depths of failure, grace caught us and drew us up into the light. Instead of outcasts, we’ll be heroes. Lucky old us.”
The interrogation and debriefing lasted four days; approximately three hours for every minute they’d spent in the Great Hall. Every detail, from the brightness of the candles to the colour of the acolytes’ chasubles; in a society so completely marinaded in ritual as Blemya, the slightest thing could be enormously significant—indeed, subtle details were more likely to carry true significance than overt statements. Genseric was quite right; the return of the Queen of Blemya to the Great Hall completely eclipsed the failure of their mission—which, having failed, was not to be talked about and probably had never happened; the attack on Beal Defoir was almost certainly pirates dressed up as Imperial forces, wearing armour and uniforms bought from Ocnisant. As for Forza, nobody seemed to know where he was or what he was doing; he was busy with some new idea and couldn’t be bothered with the fallout from the old one.
While Genseric was in the South Wing, he did pick up one interesting piece of news. Domna Lysao wasn’t in Blemya any more. She’d left the sanctuary of the royal palace, taking with her a horse and a number of small, valuable items (retrospective gifts, according to unofficial Blemyan sources) and vanished into the night; a corresponding time later, a woman on a horse of the same colour and stature as the one missing from the royal stables had crossed the frontier, narrowly evading the border guards—
“But that’s crazy,” Orderic protested, when Genseric told him. “We went to all that trouble, nearly got ourselves disgraced and killed, and then the bloody woman trots off into the West of her own free will. It’s enough to make you give up soldiering and join a monastery.”
“I said she’d crossed the frontier,” Genseric said gently, “I didn’t say which one. She crossed into the East.”
Four weeks later, Genseric was back on the front line. A large contingent of Eastern cavalry had broken through in the north, and General Dipaza had asked for him by name.
It was a long, gruelling march, in the rain and bitter cold, and when they got there the Easterners had retired into the foothills of the mountains, where only an idiot would follow them. They’d left behind them the usual trail of burned and deserted villages; that was all they’d achieved, so technically their withdrawal constituted a victory. Nevertheless, some form of token reprisal was called for. Dipaza couldn’t be bothered to go himself, so Genseric had the honour of leading one infantry battalion and two squadrons of Cassite lancers across the border, with instructions to burn a minimum of two hundred farmsteads and appropriate at least a thousand head of cattle. There would be no resistance, and the operation shouldn’t take longer than three weeks. He could kill civilians if he wanted to, but it wasn’t essential. He could use his own judgement on that.
The Cassites felt the cold. It was hard, even for an Imperial like Genseric, to see how that was possible. Cassite lancers wear scale armour from head to toe; under the armour they have padded jacks and breeches an inch thick, and regulations permit the wearing of surcoats, cloaks and scarves, as well as the traditional Cassite arming cap, a full pound weight of wool quilted into a tulip shape, with earflaps and neck guard, worn under the massive full-face helmet. Cassites were prized by both sides because they alone could survive in all that impossible gear (which made them pretty well invulnerable) without dying of heat exhaustion; attempts to equip non-Cassite units with the same kit had always ended in disaster or mutiny. And, anywhere north of the Lakes, they felt the cold dreadfully and whined about it incessantly, and you had to be nice to them or they’d desert to the enemy without a moment’s hesitation. Not that they were unreliable or treacherous; far from it. You couldn’t persuade a Cassite to change sides by bribing him, or holding his children hostage. But if his fingers went numb and his teeth started to chatter—essentially, at any temperature below the melting point of copper—either you gave him firewood and extra blankets or you lost him forever. Simple as that.
Genseric had served with Cassites before, so he knew what was needed. He filled four carts with enough blankets to bow the axles, assigned two companies of infantry to wood-foraging duties and commandeered a large consignment of rolls of felt, fortuitously held in bonded store at Prahend awaiting shipment downriver to the hatmakers of Rasch. The felt made all the difference. The Cassites cut it into strips and jammed it between their armour and their clothing, and cautiously predicted that they might not freeze to death after all.
For all that, the Sausagemen proved to be highly effective at trashing farmsteads. Orderic reckoned it was simply a matter of motivation; burning thatch offered warmth. Genseric felt there was probably rather more to it than that, but he wasn’t inclined to think about it too deeply. The mission was going well but he wasn’t enjoying it.
“We’re on target for houses,” Orderic reported, as the sparks rose, “but we’re a bit behind on the livestock. A lot behind, in fact. You’d think they’d go together, farms and farm animals, but apparently not.”
There spoke the city boy, who didn’t realise that houses can be rebuilt in a few months, but flocks and herds take years. They hadn’t seen a living soul for days, which confirmed it; the locals had driven off their livestock to somewhere remote and well hidden, trusting to snowfall to cover the tracks. Caves, possibly, if there were any in the foothills of the mountains; if not, there would be sheltered combes, steep-sided river valleys, maybe even large patches of clear-fell in the pine forest where sheep at least could graze long enough for the monsters to go away. Finding them, of course, would be next to impossible without ridiculous luck or local knowledge. In fact, the only way Genseric could see of losing a significant number of his men was launching off into the wild looking for such places. Burned houses would have to do
. Stealing cattle was specialised work, and for some reason it hadn’t featured in his otherwise faultless education.
Luck, however, seemed determined to be on his side, whether he wanted it or not. Two stray sheep, big stocky animals with heavy, briar-clogged fleeces, crossed their path, stared at them and bolted back up the hillside. Genseric roared at the men closest to him to follow; they jumped down from their horses and scrambled dangerously up the snow-covered shale, while Orderic halted the line. The scouts were a long time returning; when they did, they reported fresh tracks in the snow on the other side of the ridge. Genseric sent them back again, with instructions to follow the tracks as far as they could. When they got back, just after sunset, they said the trail led to a steep gorge, dropping away sharply to a folded-over combe with a stream at the bottom. They hadn’t gone too far, because they could hear more sheep, a lot of them, but they could see glimpses of green between the rocks, suggesting the combe was sheltered and warm.
“And, you can bet your life, closed off at both ends,” Orderic said cheerfully, while the Cassites were dismounting. Horses couldn’t go where they were going. “Secure the ends and nothing can get out.”
“Except sheep,” Genseric replied. “Sheep can get out of anything, trust me. My father used to say that’s why sheep are so evil. It’s no good sending them to Hell; they only get out again.” He lifted his helmet, considered the weight and all the uphill that lay ahead and decided not to bother; the mail coif would do instead, and he could take it off and sling it through his belt. “Ah well,” he said. “The exercise will do us good.”
By the time they reached the top of the ridge overlooking the southern entrance to the combe, even the Cassites were warm, though naturally they didn’t admit it. The climb had taken them from sunrise to mid-morning, and Genseric was glad of the excuse of getting his forces in position. He sat down on the ground with his back to a thorn tree and caught his breath. He’d allowed the Cassites plenty of time to get round the side of the steep to cover the north entrance of the combe; he was staying on the south side, with half the infantry; the rest were down below, looking after the horses. That gave him a total of three hundred and fifty men; against what? Three dozen shepherds? Even so, he told himself, do it properly. The very worst words a commander can ever utter are I never thought of that.