'Well said, Arducius,' said Ossacer. 'Fantastic that we have trained our new Ascendants to understand how to take life.'
Jhered put his head in his hands. His sigh was long and loud and it was enough to still any thoughts of further comment.
'And perhaps we should all remain quiet until the Advocate arrives. Give ourselves time to consider what we will say and how we will behave.'
'Stop treating me like a child, Paul,' said Ossacer.
'You know the common response to that, don't you, Ossie?'
There was little more conversation until the Advocate arrived. Herine being ushered into the Chancellery was something of a relief but the expression on her face was a bleak reminder of what had happened in the palace just a couple of hours earlier. She was still largely blank, the shock had settled hard on her, but her eyes were bright. It was a slightly calmer version of poor Harkov who was with the doctors now and being tended by his wife.
Jhered realised they were all staring at her. It was very difficult not to. Herine was readying to speak, aware no one else was going to break the deadlock.
'Are none of you going to welcome your new murderer?' she said.
'Come on, Herine, sit down,' said Hesther. 'No one is thinking that.'
'Really?'
'Really,' said Mirron.
'I have no problem with what happened,' said Ossacer.
Jhered drew sharp breath but Herine chose to smile and take a seat.
'It has not been a good night. Support is thin on the ground, so thank you, Ossacer. I will never really understand you but I know what you're trying to say.'
Vasselis moved to sit beside her.
'How did it go?' Jhered asked of him.
'As well as it could. The body is with the surgeons and will be released to the Order shortly. We are going to collect the Speakers of Earth, Oceans and Winds and will bring them here to explain the situation.'
'And the Armour of God?'
Vasselis nodded. 'Prime Sword Vennegoor may accompany them.'
'He doesn't need an explanation, he needs a warning,' said Elise. 'The Armour of God needs to be elsewhere, defending its citizens.'
'Dream away, Elise. Trying and burning Felice would have caused enough trouble. There is little doubt that her being killed while under arrest is going to cause considerably more.' Herine looked over at Jhered and inclined her head. 'Thank you for indulging me earlier. I think I can handle the reality now.'
'And the reality is it was an accident but one which will have dire consequences,' said Jhered. 'But we have a plan. I urge you not to release the body until we have our defences in place and the Ascendants away from here.'
'What are you going to say, Herine?' asked Hesther.
'The truth,' she replied.
'I'm not sure that's entirely wise,' said Jhered. 'Your direct involvement—'
'Will get out whether we like it or not. Let's meet this thing head on.'
Jhered shook his head. 'Perhaps you can't handle the reality. Herine, think. What happens if the Order and the citizenry know you brought about her death? Arvan, you don't agree with this plan, do you?'
'I am but a Marshal Defender who makes his points and ultimately follows orders.'
'And your point was ...'
'That this would be a disastrous course of action.'
Jhered turned back to the Advocate. 'Herine, please? This is most unwise. I agree it'll come out but we need to manage when as best we can. I presume you've used the guards outside your door to move the body?'
Vasselis nodded. 'The fewer who see the better. We took her straight to the surgeons. She's blanked off. We weren't seen on the way down so only we few, plus two guards and one surgeon, know anything has happened.'
'I know what you're going to say, Paul,' said Herine.
'And it makes perfect sense. Keep the lid on it. We have it under control. Why should anyone know the truth of where and how she died? There isn't a mark on her. The slap mark will have faded. She could have had the same accident in her cell.'
'I can't live with this lie,' said Herine. 'I won't. If I am to face my people over this, then it must be with no more guilt than I must already carry for what I have done.'
'You did nothing,' said Jhered, voice little more than a hiss. 'You slapped her across the face and as you can imagine, there are many of us who would have loved to stand in the queue to do the same. She slipped, she fell badly and she was killed. You did not kill her.'
'I set her death in motion.'
'No,' said Ossacer. 'She did that herself.'
'And this is the rule of universal balance, is it, Ossacer?' said Herine.
'If you place yourself in danger through your own actions, you have to accept the consequences,' said Ossacer. 'I learned to live with what I did.'
'Quite, but the Chancellor does not have that luxury, does she?' said Herine. 'It is me who has to learn to live with what I have done.'
'Yes.' Ossacer continued. Jhered had the hunch to let him. 'Yes, you do, and you will, my Advocate. But announcing what people will see as your guilt from the throne of the basilica will not help that. It won't help any of us and it won't help the Conquord.'
Ossacer paused and a smile crossed his lips.
'Something funny?' Herine did not twitch a muscle.
'No, my Advocate. But a thought struck me. I'll make you a deal. If you promise not to speak the whole truth just yet, I promise not to complain ever again about being sent to the battlefield.'
All eyes fell on Herine again. Jhered couldn't penetrate her expression. She was eyeing Ossacer closely.
'You are a cheeky bastard, Ossacer Westfallen,' she said.
'The blind must develop other talents.'
'Cheeky bastard,' she repeated. 'But sometimes your twittering produces moments of clarity and sense. You have a deal.'
Jhered caught Ossacer's eye and his face cracked into a grin. 'And now, may we get to the job in hand and start saving our Conquord?'
'I think so.' Herine stood. 'You have my permission to do what must be done both here and wherever you choose to make your stand. I'm tired. I need to lie down and endure my nightmares. Just one thing, though, Paul and all of you. I have two sons out there facing the dead and whatever else Gorian throws at them. I want them both back here safe. Do I make myself clear?'
Jhered nodded. 'We'll bring them home for you, my Advocate. That I promise.'
The middle of another long day. The furnaces burned day and night. The blacksmith's hammer accompanied him to sleep and brought him to wakefulness. Carts of best Tundarran and Sirranean wood trundled in at all hours from the north-east and north-west. They were even hacking into the local stocks, unseasoned or not, just to the northwest and also in the Calern and Porbanii forests a little further afield. The Lothiun mountains that stretched away a few hundred miles north provided good quality minerals and metal ores when Kark and Gestern deliveries were poor like they were now.
Sometimes, Lucius Moralius, Hasfort's Master Engineer, hated the fact that he had been born and bred in Hasfort. Even more so that he'd followed his father into the service of the Conquord. And yet more so that he'd shown an aptitude for the science of artillery and the organisation of men.
And he knew for certain that most of the citizens of this once beautiful riverside town hated the fact that over the past forty years, it had become little more than a production line for Conquord war machinery. In his lifetime of forty-five years, he'd seen the fishing and craft industries submerged beneath a tide of industry. The watermills and forges had grown by a factor of ten and not one of them turned out anything much, barring weaponry, armour and artillery. And besides the farmers who fed the populace and the administrators who kept the books balanced for Paul Jhered, there was precious little other employment.
It had made Hasfort ugly. The open fields were lost behind the walls that protected the town from invaders, should that remote possibility ever become a reality. The sky was smudged with smoke and the
air tasted of peat and ash.
Lucius strapped his leather apron on over his lightweight woollen toga, waved his family goodbye and walked the short distance from his small house to the east side of the town where most of the industry was located. Saws agitated his already brittle mood, the ringing of hammer on metal went straight though his head this afternoon and the shouting of men spawned a pain behind his eyes.
'Bastard Tsardon,' he muttered. 'Bastard mobilisation.'
It wouldn't have been so bad but for the fact that they had been in the middle of a massive refit of the artillery for five legions. Ballistae, scorpions and the new sled-mounted field onagers had crammed the yards. When the orders had come through and the flags flown from the messenger towers, the already exhausting timetable had been thrown into confusion. The assumed attrition rate of artillery in an open conflict had to be factored in and dozens of new pieces had to be planned, materials sourced, and then built. All in fifty days.
Moralius shook his head. They would do it because he had never failed to deliver and that was a proud record. But the complaints of the ordinary citizen deprived of sleep and forced to work double shifts were getting as loud as the hammers. As if he wasn't doing it himself too. God-embrace-him but he was doing more than any of them. They could all sleep or bathe whenever they were off-duty. Moralius had to plan further. He had to tick boxes, organise rotas, sign supply contracts. A million little jobs.
He realised he was stamping his feet on the walk and he consciously lightened his step and took the glower off his face. That would never do. He paused as if to refasten the straps on his forge boots and let the warm breeze play over his face. He was standing on the approach to the forges and yards, not three hundred yards from the eastern gate and walls.
The tenements and houses he was passing were mired in grime and needed a wash and a lick of paint. When the fifty days were up, he'd make sure that happened. Recompense needed to be swift and appreciable in Hasfort. He couldn't afford dissension.
Moralius nodded at a group of men walking by on the way home from their shifts or more likely straight for a goblet of ale or wine. It made him thirsty just thinking about it. They were covered in soot and sweat and their shambling frames spoke of the tiredness he felt in himself.
'Good day?' he asked.
'Same as every other day,' said one. The group slowed but didn't stop. 'Except it looks like you'll need to crack the whip a bit harder, sir.'
Moralius frowned. 'Oh? Why?'
'Dust cloud to the north-east. Reckon your Gosland orders might need fulfilling a few days early.'
'That can't be.' Moralius scowled, trying to remember the timetable. It wasn't hard. It was practically imprinted on his brain. 'The Bear Claws refits aren't ready for another six days. And the new ballistae not for another ten. That was the agreement.'
The man shrugged, ‘I'm sure, sir. But there's a dust cloud just the same. Could be a trader trail but more likely it's the wagons and cavalry of the second legion we reckon, come to get their gear.'
'Fine.' Moralius sighed. 'I'll see what I can do, I suppose. Thanks for the news.'
'We'll be back if you need us, sir,' said the man, a blacksmith by the look of him. Young man. New on the job.
Moralius chuckled despite his mood, ‘I'm sure that won't be necessary but I appreciate your offer. What's your name?'
'Barodov,' he said. 'From Atreska originally.'
'Thank you, Barodov, all of you. I appreciate your efforts. Now go and drink and rest. I guess I'd better head for the walls and take a look, hadn't I?'
Barodov grinned, a flash of white from a filthy face, if you put the magnifier backwards, they'll look further away.' The group of men laughed. So did Moralius. 'Sound advice.'
Moralius hurried to the east gate. Stairs there took him up the side of the gate and onto the rampart. It was largely empty but for the standing guard. One of them was looking at the approaching lot, whoever they were. Moralius could see the cloud clearly enough. A brown smudge floating above the southern edges of the Tharn Marches.
Like as not they'd followed the highway down the river and were coming in on the secondary road that led directly to the east gate. Strange they weren't using the river system all the way but peihaps transport was in short supply. Like everything else.
One of the guardsmen saw him approach and the trio turned and came to attention. He waved them to ease.
'How far away, do you think?'
'Not far, sir,' said one, handing him the magnifier. 'Half a day. They're only just beyond the first rises, I think.'
'You have sent out scouts. We aren't going to find this is an invasion force, are we?'
'Yes sir. And no, sir, it isn't. Our scouts have seen legion standards and a number of carts. Looks like they're coming on foot.'
Moralius shook his head and put the magnifier to his eye, smiling as he did. The dust cloud looked very close. The guard was right. The Bear Claws weren't far away.
'Ah well,' he said, handing the magnifier back and feeling a little irritable. 'Better go and see how much we can actually give them.'
Moralius tutted all his way back down to the ground and into the artillery yards. The open spaces were crowded with pieces. Mighty onagers lay in their component parts while workmen shaved at wood, reworked hinges and refreshed ropes. Ballistae, scorpions and more onagers stood in finished ranks, their surfaces gleaming with fresh oil, their metalwork polished to a shine.
To his left, the lumber yards were stacked high. The Sirraneans were, if nothing else, very prompt with their deliveries and word had it that prices might be coming down, due to some form of alliance struck by Roberto Del Aglios. That would please the Exchequer. The Gatherers always grumbled about raw material prices. They'd go on grumbling about metal and mineral prices though. It was a long way to Hasfort from Kark and nowhere provided better quality.
Smoke belched from the eight furnaces, casting soot and acrid odours into the otherwise clear sky. Ahead, a group of men were hammering bolts into the side of an onager base. The steel sled was next to the wooden frame, back to the sky and on supports, being beaten into shape.
Moralius headed for the site office, hoping to find good news of progress since his shift had ended only five hours previously. He felt the weight of exhaustion begin to settle on him even before he reached the door. He needed water and a few moments of relative peace. A couple of engineers glanced at him and then away again as he put his hand on the doorknob. Anxiety was not something he liked to see in his people's faces. He opened the door, walked in and closed it behind him. The shutters were still across the windows and the din was muted. It was almost blissful.
The office was not big. Every plank of free wall space was covered in parchments showing the progression of their multitude of jobs. The single desk was impeccably tidy just as he had left it. Mess was not to be tolerated. Moralius could lay his hands on any figure in a matter of moments. It was a while before he noticed the man sitting in his chair, reading the shift reports.
'Can I help you?' he asked.
While he was used to having people waiting for him when he went into his office, they weren't normally treating the place as their own. The man looked up. He had some form of bizarre colouring on his face. Green and brown, arranged a little like tree bark.
‘I think you can help me a very great deal,' said the man, and colours swam across his eyes.
Chapter Forty-Seven
859th cycle of God, 46th day of Genasrise
There was screaming coming from beyond the yards. Moralius barely registered it but even in his confusion, he could hear the hammers and saws falling silent one after another, to be replaced by the shouts of men, the tolling of bells and the running of feet.
'Sounds to me like you're under attack,' said the man, an Ascendant to judge from his eyes. His tone was frighteningly calm.
The dread that filled Moralius was like nothing he had experienced before. He backed away towards the door, fumbling for the
handle behind him. The Ascendant watched him, nodding.
'Good idea. Get your people on the streets. Fight back at the invaders.'
invaders.'
'Presumably.'
The Ascendant gestured towards the outside and the town where the screams and shouts were punctuated now by the sound of weapons clashing and the bawling of orders. The air was heavy with fear. Moralius couldn't think straight. Couldn't think at all. None of it made sense. The Beat Claws were coming to get their artillery. Who could possibly be attacking them. River raiders hadn't been seen for twenty-five years. No Tsardon had ever got this far, not even a decade ago when they were marching free across great swathes of the Conquord.
'Who?' he said, his head thick, his mouth unwilling to move. The Ascendant rose from his chair. 'Go and look.' Moralius nodded. 'Go and look. You are here to help?' 'That depends on your point of view.' The Ascendant waved his hand. 'Go.'
Moralius opened the door, ran outside and felt a wave break over him. His mind cleared. He looked back at the office. The door was closed again. He couldn't remember if he really had seen and spoken to an Ascendant but one thing was sure: Hasfort was under attack.
Engineers ran for the yard gates, heading for their homes and families, their weapons. Legion guards were moving to close the gates. Forty or fifty of them, spears held vertical. Moralius could see smoke from north-west of the town. Maybe the invaders had come from the forest. He began to run too. His wife, his children, were out there without him.
'The west, muster to the west!' Moralius turned at the sound of Captain Lakarov, the garrison commander's voice. 'Close the East Gate. Riders to the Bear Claws.'
A pair of horsemen galloped through the gate and it was swung shut. Moralius fell in beside the commander, both men running towards the east-gate barracks a few hundred yards away. Bells were ringing across the town. Already, citizens were flooding back up the main street from the forum and basilica. More and more smoke smudged the skyline.
A Shout for the Dead Page 47