Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City

by K. J. Parker

  The rumble of anchor chains. Splashes as boats hit the water. I fixed my eyes on the nearest boat, which would be the first one to land. Of course, the oarsmen had their backs to me. I rehearsed my speech; please, don’t hurt me, my name is Orhan, I’m Ogus’s friend. I said it to myself under my breath, over and over again.

  41

  You’ll probably have guessed by now that large parts of this narrative are unreliable. You’ll have figured out that I come across as rather too heroic, too eloquent, too self-assured, too much in command of the situation to be credible, knowing what you’ve learned of my character. It’s probably struck you as improbable that I should’ve always been ready with the smart idea, the right words.

  The hell with it. This is my story, and if I choose to make myself look as good as I think I can get away with, why not? In a hundred years, or a thousand, who’s going to know any different? I did my best, and nobody gave me much credit for it at the time. I’ve been to all the trouble and effort of making a record, so that the deeds and sufferings etcetera. The labourer is worthy of his hire.

  But even I’m not so brazen as to try and kid you into thinking any better of me at that particular moment, when the ships crossed the invisible line and I knew I’d failed, it had all been a waste of time, all the people in the City were going to be killed and all my clever devices had nearly worked, but not nearly enough. Consider me on the quay, alone, waiting to betray my people in return for my own worthless skin—and please, whatever you do, don’t you dare feel sorry for me.

  42

  The boat drew up next to the stone steps. A man in a red cloak and a shiny helmet clambered out. I stared at him. He was a blueskin.

  He looked round, then walked up to me. “Where is everybody?” he said. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Orhan,” I said. “Who are you?”

  He sighed. “Get me whoever’s in charge,” he said.

  “That would be me.”

  A look of deep contempt from a tired, busy man. “I want to talk to the man in charge,” he said, slowly. “Do you understand?”

  “I’m Orhan,” I said. “Colonel of the Imperial Regiment of Engineers. Who the hell are you?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again. I guess he’d remembered; now he came to think of it, yes, the commander of the Engineers was some milkface, and what’s the world coming to? “Admiral Auxinus, Sixth Fleet. Oh, for God’s sake, man, pull yourself together. What’s the matter with you?”

  43

  Floods of tears, God help me. I gave him my report, phrased in proper military language, with tears gushing out of my eyes and rolling down my cheeks. Eventually I ran out of things to say and just stood there.

  He stared at me. “You’ve got the Great Seal,” he said.

  I fished about in my sleeve, pulled it out and reached out my hand to give it to him. He sort of shied away, as if it smelled bad.

  “Dear God,” he said. Then I guess he remembered that he was an admiral in the Imperial navy. “The City is under attack,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “Right now. There are enemy forces trying to break in.”

  Another nod. I could see him struggling to make up his mind whether to believe me or not. “I’ve got nine thousand marines on my ships,” he said. Slight pause. Then, “Do you want them, or don’t you?”

  Me? Then I remembered. I was in command. “Yes,” I said.

  “Right.” Immediately he transformed, the way gods do in legends; instead of a weary middle-aged man in a red cloak, he was a pillar of fire or a whirlwind. He shouted, and junior staff officers materialised at his elbow. He barked orders; they turned and ran. Behind him, I could see ships drawing up at the quays. Suddenly and unexpectedly, a grown-up was in charge. I turned to leave.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  Strange. “You don’t need me,” I said.

  “You’re in command here,” he roared at me. “Isn’t that what you just told me?” You stupid little monkey, he thought but didn’t add.

  Ah, I thought. “You’re the senior officer,” I said. “They’re your men.”

  “It doesn’t work like that.” He was a feather’s breadth away from losing his temper. “Don’t you understand the chain of command?”

  Too much for one day. “No,” I said. “I build bridges.”

  I walked away. He yelled at me. I kept going.

  44

  It was, they tell me, a close-run thing. Auxinus’s marines turned the tide and saved the day, but not before the enemy undermined a fifty-yard section of the north Wall, broke through into Foregate and seized control of nearly a quarter of Old Town. The Greens just managed to keep them out of Haymarket, but the Blues broke and ran; the Greens were outflanked and would have been wiped out to the last man if Auxinus hadn’t counter-attacked just in time and driven the enemy into the Hippodrome. Once they were kettled up there, he had his men jam the gates shut from the outside, then set fire to the whole complex. They’d been saying for years, the Hippodrome is a death trap, a disaster waiting to happen; all those wooden benches and beams and floors, canvas awnings, jerry-built stands only held up by bent nails, frayed ropes and force of habit. In the event, more enemy soldiers were trampled to death than burned alive. A couple of hundred survived and tried to surrender, but were massacred by the Greens before Auxinus’s men could stop them.

  Needless to say, I kept well away from the fighting, though Auxinus insisted that I show my face. He needed me to tell Nico who he was; orderly transfer of command, he called it, and I can see his point. Nico was pleased to see him; that’s a slight understatement. The look of joy on Nico’s face, as though he’d been carried up to heaven in a fiery chariot and dumped down at the right hand of God; a real soldier, finally. I left them to it and sneaked away, out through Bell Yard, down the alleys, then a short dash across Lower Foregate in the direction of Poor Town. And it was there that the stupid arrow hit me.

  45

  Sheer bad luck, was the general verdict. Probably a stray shot from the scrimmage on the wall by the North Gate tower, where we’d nearly finished mopping up the last of the enemy raiding party. But it hit me in the guts and went right through into my stomach. There’s a medical word for it, which means blood poisoning. People have been known to survive and recover, they assure me, and while there’s life there’s hope.

  46

  By the time I came round, the assault was over. Auxinus had me woken up. He needed the Seal, and a signature on a bit of paper, to confirm his authority. They had to lift my hand by the wrist and guide it across the paper.

  It hurts. To take my mind off it hurting, I’ve spent the last couple of days dictating this. People have been trying to get in and see me, but I’ve got Lysimachus on the door, keeping them away. I don’t want to see any of them, not knowing it’ll be for the last time. Not Aichma—she made a scene, hysterical, demanding to see me. Lysimachus slapped her face and threw her out. I’m a coward. Dying is bad enough. I can’t face stuff like that.

  A letter came for me, and a present; from Ogus. I guess he hadn’t heard about me getting shot. We’ve actually managed to keep it a secret, so far at least, which is a miracle in this man’s town.

  The present was a book, in a rather unusual binding. At first I thought it was just ordinary leather but with the hair still on. But the hair—about a quarter-inch long, thick and stubbly—was golden yellow. I stared at it, once I’d figured out what it was; a human scalp, with the hair shaved. The book, incidentally, was Planginus’s Manual of Siegecraft, which I’ve always wanted to read, but copies are rare as hens’ teeth.

  Ogus to Orhan, greetings.

  Thanks for the warning. You were quite right about the plot to murder me. You saved my life. Here’s a little token of my gratitude, to remember my wife by.

  You’ll have gathered by now that your Sixth Fleet managed to smash through our blockade and sink the assault barges. Annoying, but makes no difference in the long
run. Yes, I know; in the short term, you’ll be able to bring in food from outside, mercenaries to help man the walls, tribute from the few bits of the empire that haven’t fallen yet. Quite possibly you may be able to keep going for a year or two. If you think prolonging the agony is a good thing, please accept my congratulations.

  You’re my oldest friend, and you saved my life. But you can be a real pain in the arse sometimes.

  Look after yourself.

  47

  This story is ending abruptly. So is my life, so you’ll have to forgive me if I can’t tie up the loose ends, tell you what became of who, say a proper goodbye to the men and women whose adventures you’ve been following. Sorry, but I can’t help you. If by some miracle the City survives, maybe so will the official records, and you can look up the registers of marriages and deaths. Otherwise, what the hell. The most someone like me can do is strike a light in the darkness. As soon as it burns my hand, I have to let go. Besides, I’m not really a historian, only an engineer.

  The poor, long-suffering clerk is sick to death of the sound of my voice, so I’ll keep it short. These are the unsatisfactory histories of Orhan son of Siyyah Doctus Felix Praeclarissimus, written down so that the deeds and sufferings of great men may never be forgotten; which is why, Ogus, I’m sending them to you. After all, once you’ve finished the job, there won’t be any Robur left to read them, or make copies. Once the worms have inherited the earth, they may like to be reminded of the last dying whimper of the lions. And besides, after all the trouble I’ve caused you, I guess I owe you a keepsake. I’m sorry to say, this is all I’ve got left. I apologise for getting in your way, hindering you, being a nuisance. Not a friendly way to behave, and I am, though you may find it hard to believe, your friend. I’m sorry for getting myself killed. It was careless of me.

  I think that more or less covers everything.

  Translator’s Note

  The authenticity and authorship of the Commentaries has been fiercely debated for over a thousand years, and there is no point in rehearsing the convoluted and inconclusive arguments of the opposing academic factions. Almost anything is possible. It could be a contemporary record written by the man who conducted the defence of the City. It could equally plausibly be a Restoration forgery, designed to further the agenda of the Foundation and give legitimacy to the counter-revolutionary coalition. It could even be, as Kember so ingeniously suggests, a metaphysical and alchemical allegory, with no foundation whatsoever in historical fact.

  There are many serious problems with the text as it stands: the notorious inconsistencies; the distinct possibility that substantial and significant parts of the book are missing; above all, the problem of the narrator. Recently, scholars have attempted to establish a link between the Orhan of the Commentaries with a military engineer, Orianus Peregrinus, attested from a badly worn inscription from Nobe Bhaskoe, which they would like to see as the “bridge in the middle of nowhere”. However, it seems increasingly likely that the Nobe Bhaskoe inscription will be proved, on epigraphical grounds, to date from the mid-seventh century, a hundred and fifty years earlier than the events purportedly described in the Commentaries; in which case, there is no external evidence that any part of Orhan’s version of events is true, or that he ever existed.

  Regrettably, therefore, we have no option but to let the narrator speak for himself. It is enormously frustrating that our only witness to such momentous events should be so unsatisfactory; unreliable, self-serving and barely literate. But, bearing in mind the almost miraculous survival of the manuscript (saved first from the sack of Perimadeia and then the destruction of the Library of Mezentia; presumed lost for six hundred years and eventually rediscovered during the confiscation of the met’Oc family library, among a pile of discarded manuscripts scheduled to be cut up and used for bookbindings), we must be grateful for what little we have.

  BY K. J. PARKER

  The Fencer Trilogy

  Colours in the Steel

  The Belly of the Bow

  The Proof House

  The Scavenger Trilogy

  Shadow

  Pattern

  Memory

  The Engineer Trilogy

  Devices and Desires

  Evil for Evil

  The Escapement

  The Company

  The Folding Knife

  The Hammer

  Sharps

  The Two of Swords: Volume 1

  The Two of Swords: Volume 2

  The Two of Swords: Volume 3

  Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City

  BY TOM HOLT

  Expecting Someone Taller

  Who’s Afraid of Beowulf?

  Flying Dutch

  Ye Gods!

  Overtime

  Here Comes the Sun

  Grailblazers

  Faust Among Equals

  Odds and Gods

  Djinn Rummy

  My Hero

  Paint Your Dragon

  Open Sesame

  Wish You Were Here

  Only Human

  Snow White and the Seven Samurai

  Valhalla

  Nothing But Blue Skies

  Falling Sideways

  Little People

  The Portable Door

  In Your Dreams

  Earth, Air, Fire and Custard

  You Don’t Have to Be Evil to Work Here, But It Helps

  Someone Like Me

  Barking

  The Better Mousetrap

  May Contain Traces of Magic

  Blonde Bombshell

  Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Sausages

  Doughnut

  When It’s A Jar

  The Outsorcerer’s Apprentice

  The Good, the Bad and the Smug

  The Management Style of the Supreme Beings

  Dead Funny: Omnibus 1

  Mightier Than the Sword: Omnibus 2

  The Divine Comedies: Omnibus 3

  For Two Nights Only: Omnibus 4

  Tall Stories: Omnibus 5

  Saints and Sinners: Omnibus 6

  Fishy Wishes: Omnibus 7

  The Walled Orchard

  Alexander at the World’s End

  Olympiad

  A Song for Nero

  Meadowland

  I, Margaret

  Lucia in Wartime

  Lucia Triumphant

  extras

  meet the author

  K. J. PARKER is a pseudonym for Tom Holt. He was born in London in 1961. At Oxford he studied bar billiards, ancient Greek agriculture and the care and feeding of small, temperamental Japanese motorcycle engines. These interests led him, perhaps inevitably, to qualify as a solicitor and immigrate to Somerset, where he specialised in death and taxes for seven years before going straight in 1995. He lives in Chard, Somerset, with his wife and daughter.

  For a comprehensive guide to the unreliable world of K. J. Parker, go to http://parkerland.wikia.com.

  Find out more about K. J. Parker and other Orbit authors by registering for the free monthly newsletter at: www.orbitbooks.net.

  if you enjoyed

  SIXTEEN WAYS TO DEFEND A WALLED CITY

  look out for

  THE TWO OF SWORDS: VOLUME ONE

  by

  K. J. Parker

  “Why are we fighting this war? Because evil must be resisted, and sooner or later there comes a time when men of principle have to make a stand. But at this stage in the proceedings,” he added, with a slightly lopsided grin, “mostly from force of habit.”

  A soldier with a gift for archery. A woman who kills without a second thought. Two brothers, both unbeatable generals, now fighting for opposing armies. No one in the vast and once glorious United Empire remains untouched by the rift between East and West, and the war has been fought for as long as anyone can remember. Some still survive who know how it was started, but no one knows how it will end. Except, perhaps, the Two of Swords.

  World Fantasy Award–winning author K. J. Parker delivers the first
volume of his most ambitious work yet—the story of a war on a grand scale, told through the eyes of soldiers, politicians, victims, and heroes.

  1

  The Crown Prince

  The draw in Rhus is to the corner of the mouth; it says so in the Book, it’s the law. In Overend, they draw to the ear; in the South, it’s the middle of the lower lip—hence the expression, “archer’s kiss.” Why Imperial law recognises three different optimum draws, given that the bow and the arrow are supposedly standardised throughout the empire, nobody knows. In Rhus, of course, they’ll tell you that the corner of the mouth is the only possible draw if you actually want to hit anything. Drawing to the ear messes up your sightline down the arrow, and the Southerners do the kiss because they’re too feeble to draw a hundred pounds that extra inch.

  Teucer had a lovely draw, everybody said so. Old men stood him drinks because it was so perfect, and the captain made him stand in front of the beginners and do it over and over again. His loose wasn’t quite so good—he had a tendency to snatch, letting go of the string rather than allowing it to slide from his fingers—which cost him valuable points in matches. Today, however, for some reason he wished he could isolate, preserve in vinegar and bottle, he was loosing exactly right. The arrow left the string without any conscious action on his part—a thought, maybe: round about now would be a good time, and then the arrow was in the air, bounding off to join its friends in the dead centre of the target, like a happy dog. The marker at the far end of the butts held up a yellow flag: a small one. Eight shots into the string, Teucer suddenly realised he’d shot eight inner golds, and was just two away from a possible.