by K. J. Parker
A brief nod, as if to agree that the subject was now closed. “Well, sir,” the captain said, “now you know. Either word got through fast enough for them to put together a pretty sophisticated response force, or else they’re in constant readiness. They were there fairly quickly, and they had a good idea of what they were about.” He paused, then went on: “If I’d done as the Aram Chantat wanted and gone straight in instead of resting the horses, we’d still have beaten them to it, though I’m not sure that’d have been a good thing, seeing as they had all that field artillery with them. It wouldn’t have been much fun if we’d already been inside the station and they’d opened up on us with that lot. As it was, they came up during the night. Very professional job, getting a force that size so close to us in the dark, plus they had the artillery train.”
Valens nodded gravely. “Stupidest thing a soldier can do, underestimating the enemy. Hence my experiment.”
The captain acknowledged that with a slight dip of his head. “We were that close to riding straight into it,” he said. “There’s a bend in the road half a mile or so short of the station from where we were. They were going to plant their scorpions about a hundred yards back – plenty of cover, but all loose stuff and rubbish, not the sort of thing that’d put you on notice. I assume they’d have sent a few sad-looking infantry up the road to meet us. They’d have run for it, we’d have followed up, straight into the scorpions’ cone of fire. If they’d timed it right, they could’ve wiped us out.”
Valens didn’t say anything for a while. Then he reached for a jug and two cups, and poured them both a drink.
“Daurenja,” he said.
The captain nodded. “Him,” he said. “I still don’t have a clue what he thought he was playing at. As far as I can make out, he either saw or heard them coming in the dark, watched them pitch camp; instead of coming back and telling me about it straight away, he snuck in there, stalked and killed at least half a dozen sentries, drove off the limber horses, set fire to a dozen or so tents, pulled the linchpins from eight or ten limbers, then just calmly strolled back and woke me up. And now you tell me he wasn’t even supposed to be there.”
“He’s a character,” Valens said quietly, after a pause. “So,” he went on, “after that it was all fairly straightforward, I take it.”
“Very much so.” The captain lifted his cup, put it down without drinking. “We were able to come up behind the scorpions while they were still setting up – the Aram Chantat did a very good job there, makes me really glad they’re on our side – while we had fun with the poor bloody Mezentines.” He paused again. “I imagine some of them must’ve got away, but it can’t have been many. Beautiful armour and kit they’ve got, mind, but it’s like fighting a bunch of kids.”
Valens put his cup down. “That’s what I was expecting you’d say,” he said. “The interesting thing is, they seem to be well aware of that, but they aren’t letting it panic them. Hence the field artillery. Why send an untrained scared-to-death man where you can send a three-foot-long steel arrow?” He frowned. “Someone up there in the City’s got a good head on his shoulders, and for once it looks like the politicians are prepared to listen instead of trying to score points. If it hadn’t been for that freak…” He paused, as his frown deepened into a scowl. “… I’d have had to pay full market price for my lesson, instead of getting it cheap.” He wriggled his back against the chair, which creaked dangerously. “I think we may yet have a war on our hands,” he said. “I hope not, but from now on I’m assuming we’re fighting grown-ups. For all I know, they’ve got the stuff out of books, but that doesn’t really matter if the books are any good.”
Daurenja was saddling his horse when they came for him. They took the reins out of his hand and led him across the camp to one of the grain sheds, where a blacksmith was waiting with a small portable forge and anvil.
“What’s going on?” Daurenja asked.
“Sit down on the floor,” they told him.
As the blacksmith was riveting fetters round his ankles, he asked them again. “Your execution’s scheduled for noon tomorrow,” they replied. Then they left him in the dark.
Fifteen hours later, the shed door opened and Valens came in. Daurenja was sitting on the floor, exactly where he’d been. The chain they’d attached to his ankles had come from the silver mines, where it had been used to raise a seventy-ton ore skip from the bottom of a deep shaft. It was too heavy to move. Valens didn’t need to look down to know that Daurenja’s bowels and bladder had been active while he’d been sitting there.
“Had enough?” he said.
Daurenja’s eyes were closed against the sudden bright light. “Yes,” he said.
“Good. Don’t do it again.” He sighed, and perched on the rim of a flour barrel. “I’ve been trying to figure you out,” he said. “Vaatzes came to see me, when he heard I’d ordered your execution. Basically, he talked me out of it. You should be grateful.”
“I am,” Daurenja said.
“I doubt that, but never mind. At any rate, I pride myself on only making bloody stupid mistakes once. I suggest you follow my example.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Valens laughed. “You know,” he said, “that could easily be construed as a threat. I’ll say this for you, Daurenja, your best is very good indeed. You’re very good at all sorts of things, so I understand. Vaatzes tells me you’re a very fine engineer – he reckons you’re better than him, only you don’t know as much, not having had the Mezentine training. My cavalry captain tells me you’re a first-class scout and definitely officer material, apart from this tiresome habit of not obeying orders. My wife told me how you fought off those Mezentines, on my wedding-day hunt. Saved her life, she says, and I believe her. You’re a good falconer, too, by all accounts. Do you fence?”
“Yes.”
“Play a musical instrument?”
“Six.”
Valens nodded. “I envy you,” he said. “I learnt the rebec and the violin, but I haven’t played for years, never was any good at it; forced myself to be competent, when I was a kid, but I couldn’t do it now to save my life. You’re clearly what my father used to call an accomplished man.”
“I had an expensive education,” Daurenja said.
“I can believe it,” Valens replied. “I believe every accomplishment you’ve gained has cost someone a great deal. It’d be a shame to waste all that trouble and expense, but I will if I have to. Do you believe me?”
Daurenja smiled, his eyes still closed. “Yes,” he said. “Do you think you could get someone to take this chain off?”
“I expect I’ll get round to it at some point,” Valens replied. “If I had any choice in the matter, I’d leave you there for a week to think about what we’ve just been talking about, but I don’t. Vaatzes wants you back at the engine factory. Oh, and there’s a little job I want you to do for me before you go.”
“Certainly. What can I… ?”
Valens stood up. “Make me a chair,” he said. “Something that folds up small for transport but doesn’t wobble about when I sit on it. Can you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Fine. I’ll tell them to get that chain off you.” He grinned. “You’ll have to be quick about it, because Vaatzes wants you back on the road to Civitas Vadanis by nightfall. He reckons that if you ride through the night, you can be back at the factory in time to start the first shift after the lay-off. Won’t leave you any time to get cleaned up or have anything to eat, I’m afraid. Still, you won’t mind that, a rugged character like you.”
He walked to the door, then stopped.
“I know why you did it,” he said. “You wanted to show me how much I need you; not just at the factory, but everywhere. You wanted me to see what a brilliant soldier you can be. I imagine you’re after a command of your own, once the fighting really starts. Yes?”
Daurenja nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I want to lead the sappers when we attack the City.”
; “I thought you might say that.” Valens nodded slowly. “Vaatzes told me how useful you were when he was sabotaging the silver mines. All right, then,” he said crisply. “If that’s what you want.”
“Thank you.”
Valens smiled. “Any time,” he said.
He spent the rest of the day with the Aram Chantat. They weren’t happy. They acknowledged that he had finally done as they’d asked and cut the City off from Lonazep, although he’d wasted far too much time; also, according to their captains, he’d sent the raiding party out under the command of an incompetent fool who nearly led them into a massacre, and it was fortunate that the excellent engineer whose name they couldn’t quite pronounce had been there to save the day.
“Quite,” Valens said. “I think very highly of Major Daurenja. In fact, I’m putting him in charge of the sappers, once the siege is under way.”
They were delighted to hear that. They thought very highly of him too. Nevertheless, they were unhappy about the general conduct of the war, which they felt was proceeding without any sense of urgency or any real direction. Yes, thank you, they’d heard his explanations before, and certainly they couldn’t proceed until the siege engines were ready – it was a blessing that Major Daurenja was personally supervising the work, since they weren’t at all happy with the Mezentine engineer Vaatzes – but surely more could have been done in the interim, by way of moving troops into position, preparing the ground, drawing out the enemy forces and so forth. They were disappointed, not just with Valens’ actions but with his attitude. Sometimes they wondered if his heart was really in this war. Also, they felt compelled to mention, they disapproved of the haste with which he’d married the Eremian duke’s widow. It was disrespectful to the memory of his dead wife, for whose sake they were fighting the war. He was, of course, at perfect liberty to remarry, as obviously the succession had to be provided for, but he should have waited until the City had fallen and the war was over. Indeed, under those circumstances, he might have had an incentive to progress matters at a rather more acceptable rate.
When he got back to his tent, the chair was waiting for him. It was beautiful. Daurenja had used a dense, honey-coloured wood that seemed to glow like amber in the lamplight (later he realised it was barrel-stave oak, salvaged from junked nail-barrels). The curved uprights reached up like two hands cupped to catch an apple falling from a tree, and in the middle of the back Daurenja had somehow found time to carve a fallow doe, frozen in the moment of surprise as she senses the approaching hounds, her head lifted and turned, her whole body tense and perfectly still.
6
Two horsemen. For a long time they were black dots on a green and brown background. Then they grew vestigial arms, legs and heads. The sun helped, flashing obligingly off steel, to show they were probably soldiers, though that was more or less inevitable, in context. The colour of their horses came next (one chestnut, one grey), and after that the pointed profile of their helmets, which meant that they were almost certainly Aram Chantat. At four hundred yards, the hypothesis was confirmed by the length of their coats, reaching almost to their ankles.
Today the hunt would be bow and stable. He didn’t mind that. It suited the nature of the quarry. Parforce against dangerous game was all very well if you had twelve couple of hounds, a small army of beaters and a dozen huntsmen to ward the angles, but for one man on his own it simply wasn’t practical. Jarnac would’ve agreed with him, if he’d been there.
Quickly, now that they were closing, he chose the ground. Assuming they were following the road, as they’d been doing for the past hour, they would cross the little river at the ford and start to climb the winding path that led up to his vantage point among the granite outcrops. His choices, therefore, were up here among the rocks, or down at the ford itself, where the stream had scooped out an embankment just large enough for a man to crouch under, if he didn’t mind getting soaked. He consulted his knowledge of the quarry species: wary, intelligent, quick to bolt and dangerous once engaged. They’d see the outcrops and be on their guard, reasoning that the great stones provided excellent cover. They’d assume that an attacker would choose that advantage over the very meagre concealment offered by the river bank. Therefore, as they entered the ford, their eyes and minds would be on the high ground, rather than their immediate environment. So, he’d engage them at the ford. No choice, really.
To get from the hilltop to the ford without breaking the skyline meant scrambling down the shale on the south-east side of the mountain, cutting across the dead ground under the lee of the reverse slope, then splashing up the river bed to the ford. The horsemen weren’t in any hurry, but he was on foot. He’d have to run.
These days he was fast and nimble, in spite of the lingering bother with his right ankle (which would heal itself with a month’s rest, but he had to hunt at least once a week or starve). He made good time down the shale, put on a spurt on the flat and forced himself through the water, which was chest-high in places, nearly sweeping him off his feet. Even so, he only just made it in time. As he stood on tiptoe to peer ever so cautiously over the lip of the embankment, the horsemen were less than thirty yards away. Cutting it very fine indeed.
He thought hard and quickly. Could he still abort and get away? Probably; if they saw him, they wouldn’t be inclined to follow him up the river. Should he abort, or could he still make it? Yes, he could, provided the first shot was dead on target at twenty yards and he managed to renock smoothly without fumbling. Being in the river bed gave him the slight but deciding edge. A sensible rider wouldn’t try and take his horse down into the water. Accordingly, if he missed one of them, he’d still have a better than half chance of making time and distance for a third shot, before the horseman could dismount to come after him.
The mental staff meeting had lasted five yards (a hunter learns to measure time in units of distance), so it had to be now. He drew the prongs of the nock over the string until he felt them engage, and pictured the target in his mind as he stood up. A nice touch, and one he’d figured out for himself; it wasn’t in King Fashion or the Art and Practice.
His head cleared the top edge of the bank, and his mental image of an armoured horseman’s chin and neck merged with the real thing. A quarter of a second saved at the point of target acquisition makes all the difference in the world. He’d begun the draw as he started to rise, combining the two movements so as to share effort; the straightening of his knees and back fed power into the draw as well as standing him upright. As soon as his spine straightened, he felt his right thumb brush the corner of his mouth, which told his three fingers to relax and allow the string to pull away. He must have taken aim, but he couldn’t remember doing it.
This time, he actually saw the arrow bend. They said it wasn’t possible, the movement was too quick for the human eye to catch. But he was sure he saw it (his hand was already drawing the next arrow out of his belt), the fishtailing of the arrow as it straightened out of the flex imparted to it by the violent impact of the string. When the arrow hit (inch perfect, just below the chin, the blade cutting the helmet strap before disappearing into the flesh), he’d got the nock of the second one between his fingertips and was feeling it on to the string.
The second horseman (the first no longer mattered) must have heard his danger before he saw it. His reactions were superb. He’d lifted his shield to cover his neck and upper body before he even started to turn his head, and by the time his comrade-in-arms hit the ground, he’d already pulled his horse round to face the attack, thus presenting a much smaller target.
As he pushed his left hand against the bow, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. The shot would go home, but either the shield would blank it off or it’d hit armour and only wound instead of killing. Dangerous game with reflexes that quick wouldn’t allow him enough margin for a reliable third shot. So, in the last fraction of a second before his thumb stroked his lip, he pulled the arrowhead down on to the forehead of the horse. As the arrow flew (he didn’t see the f
lex this time), he assessed the consequences of the change. He’d lose the value of the horse, a third of his catch, but he’d survive. No option.
The arrow hit the horse in its right eye; not where he’d aimed, but the effect was better, since it had time to rear before it died. Instead of throwing its rider, therefore, it fell on top of him. There was a clearly audible crack as the rider’s thigh broke. Suddenly, there was all the time in the world.
He walked three yards down the river bed to the ford, saving himself the effort of scrambling over the embankment, and stopped to look. No movement. The first rider lay on his face, the arrow shaft flat on the ground, at right angles; probably broken, which was a pity. His horse had run on a few paces and then stopped. It lifted its head to look at him, then stooped gracefully to feed. All he could see of the second rider was an arm sticking out from under the fallen horse, which was shuddering the way dead bodies do and living ones don’t. The arm was completely still, suggesting it too was broken.
Even so. Instead of walking straight up to it, he circled, to get a clearer view. He didn’t have to go far. The rider was still alive, but he wasn’t even trying to move. His eyes blinked and squinted, implying that his vision was blurred. Safe enough, then, to close the distance to five yards before taking the third shot.
Plenty of time for a careful, deliberate aim; so, of course, he missed, by a handspan, pulling left and burying the arrow deep in the crupper of the saddle. That made him swear out loud. Half the value of the saddle wasted. He nocked his fourth and last arrow. If he missed again, he’d have to make the dispatch with a stone or a weapon taken from one of the bodies, and there was always a chance that arm wasn’t really broken after all.