by K. J. Parker
Monach wasn’t aware of a precept that said: When all else fails, lead by example. But maybe he’d been off sick that day. It proved to be a valid approach; whoever these people were, they didn’t seem to be prepared to cope with calm, unruffled-looking men who treated a battle like a stroll through long grass, leaving a trail of sliced tendons and arteries behind them. If Monach had been the only sword-monk in the army, maybe they’d have coped, but he wasn’t; simply getting out of his way wasn’t enough. Nevertheless, it came as something of a surprise to him when the enemy ran away, as if it hadn’t occurred to him that a fight could end without one side wiping out the other. Naturally, mass combat and wholesale slaughter hadn’t been on the syllabus at Deymeson; and he’d never actually participated in a regular battle before. But for one party simply to turn round and leave struck him as vaguely unfair, cheating; because they’d have another chance some other day, and they hadn’t earned it. He felt a simmering sense of injustice, as if someone had made a fool of him.
‘What the hell was all that about?’ someone asked him, some captain or other. ‘Who were they, anyhow?’
Monach shrugged. He was standing beside the ford, looking down at dead men lying face down in the mud, thinking, So that’s what Ciartan would’ve seen when he woke up with his mind suddenly empty: horrible. He tried to imagine how he’d have reacted under those circumstances, but it was impossible. ‘No idea,’ he replied. ‘Could have been the Amathy house, I suppose, only I don’t remember ever doing anything to set them against us. Still, I don’t suppose they need a reason.’
‘Could be.’ The captain crouched down on his heels to turn a dead body on its back. Neck cut to the bone; the mud was bright red all round it. ‘They aren’t regular army, but they’re not different enough to be raiders.’
‘Local militia, then,’ he suggested, though he’d already dismissed that possibility.
‘Too professional for that,’ the captain replied. ‘Militia would’ve just run away, for one thing, not retire in good order like this lot did.’
‘Amathy house, then,’ Monach said. He tried to think of the implications of that: what exactly did the Amathy house want? Hitherto he’d always tended to think of them as little more than a superior class of bandits, descending without warning on remote settlements to rob, burn and kill. But bandits wouldn’t pick a fight with an army for no reason. Their actions, specially battles, would have to be cost-effective, a solid and guaranteed financial return for every life lost. Businessmen – the same, he realised with a shudder, as us; and we wouldn’t have attacked them without provocation. We haven’t got anything worth stealing, so it must have been our lives they were after, rather than property. Taking out a potential rival? Maybe. Perhaps they were planning to raid the Dui Chirra foundry, with its substantial stock of valuable metal (scrap bronze is something tangible and valuable, worth shedding blood for), reckoned we must have the same idea and wanted to forestall us. It still seemed far-fetched. If the wealth of Dui Chirra was the motive, then at the very least it’d have made sense to attack us after we’d looted the foundry. Two crows with one stone – get the bronze and dispose of us, save themselves a job.
It had to be that, though; or else they’d decided to appoint themselves as guardians of the Empire, Tazencius’s loyal and trusted supporters—
—Or maybe there’s some reason why they don’t want the foundry destroyed; not yet. Poldarn’s Flute, for instance. That made a whole lot of sense; basically the same motive as driving the crows off your growing corn until you’re ready to cut it. Dear God, Monach thought in high disgust, does everybody in the Empire know about the wretched things? They’re supposed to be a deadly secret.
Well; in that case he quite understood, couldn’t blame them in the least. It also meant they’d definitely be back, better prepared and organised. Not a cheerful thought, almost as disturbing as the suspicion forming in his mind about the timing of Cordo’s visit and Xipho’s disappearance.
‘So,’ the captain was saying, ‘now what? I don’t know the proper procedure after a battle. Like, are we supposed to bury the bodies, or do we just leave them lying about?’
‘Hadn’t given it any thought,’ Monach answered. ‘Though it’s academic, really – we haven’t got time. I guess we leave them for the crows, right thing to do or not.’ A thought struck him. ‘Any idea how many of ours didn’t make it?’ he asked, trying not to sound horribly callous but not making a very good fist of it.
The captain shook his head. ‘Could’ve been worse is probably the most you can say for it,’ he replied. ‘We got more of them than they got of us, if that’s any good to you.’
Monach shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not really.’
The next day brought them to the military road, where the captain whose name Monach couldn’t remember had an answer to his question; at least, they saw an example of how the regular army dealt with the problem.
The crows were visible from a long way off, swirling their sloppy, asymmetrical helix in the middle sky. Why do they do that, Monach asked himself. Waste of time and energy, surely. But birds and animals don’t do anything without a very good reason, so presumably there was some advantage to be gained from it – an efficient formation for maximum all-round observation, or something like that. When Monach’s column broke the skyline they cleared off, with much resentful shrieking, apart from one or two defiant individuals who refused to leave the banquet until they were walked off, like the last few resilient drunks at closing time.
They looked at the sight in silence for quite some time; then someone or other, some company commander, shook his head and said: ‘All in all, not a good week for the Amathy boys.’
Assuming, Monach thought, that’s who they were. It’d have been nice if just one of them could have been bothered to stay alive a few hours longer, so he could have asked him who he belonged to. But no, they’d all died and taken the information with them, memories all wiped clean, nothing now but cold meat and scrap metal.
The approved procedure, apparently, was for the regular army to bury its own dead in a single long trench, the sort you dig to plant vines in, and leave the enemy for the scavengers. Judging by the size of the newly made earthwork, the regulars hadn’t had it all their own way, but they’d definitely had the better of it. As he picked his way between the flat, dirty bodies, Monach recognised a face, one of the men he’d seen during his own battle. On that occasion, he’d seen this man (memorable for his long, rather concave face: stub nose, recurved chin) looking at him from about five yards away; he remembered watching as the man frowned, pursed his lips slightly (like a doubtful buyer in a market) and then turned his back and walked briskly away. Now he was on his back, both feet pointing left, arms flopped by his sides, head twisted round and back by the force of the cut that had severed his neck into but not through the bone. His eyes were wide open, and the eyeballs were filthy with dust and mud.
‘Serves them right,’ someone else said. Nobody replied. By the looks of it, all of those who’d withdrawn from the battle in the sunken lane had fallen here; if this was an example of Brigadier Muno’s work, he was good at what he did. A professional soldier, of course, would have other agendas beside simply staying alive and holding the field. In this instance, there must have been some advantage to be gained from wiping the enemy out practically to the last man – sending a message to the Amathy house, raising the morale of his own troops, letting off steam after the murder of the brigadier’s nephew. Or maybe they’d just needed the boots.
The hell with sightseeing, Monach thought; time we were getting on. He gave the order to fall in. It was reluctantly obeyed (can’t blame them, he thought; naturally they don’t want to carry on in this direction, with the risk of running into the people who did this – not a nice neighbourhood) and they began the last leg of the journey to Dui Chirra; a pleasant, comfortable stroll down this excellently maintained government road.
An hour or so along the way, they were met by a
single man on a rather fine black horse. Soldier; staff rather than front line, judging by his clean boots and crisp riding-cloak. He sat on his horse in the middle of the road like a sheriff’s officer, as if Monach had got behind on the payments for the army and he’d come to repossess it. Whoever he was, he either had strong nerves or no imagination. In any event, Monach decided, that sort of confidence deserved a little respect, so he rode out ahead to meet him.
‘Hello there,’ the man said; calm, slightly cocky even. ‘I’m Captain Olens, Imperial staff. Who the hell are you?’
Monach nodded politely. ‘Pilgrims,’ he said.
Captain Olens thought about that for a moment. ‘Rather a lot of you for that,’ he said.
‘Safety in numbers,’ Monach replied. ‘I get the impression that the roads around here aren’t as safe as they might be, no disrespect intended. Gangs of bandits and the gods know what else roaming around all over the place. After what happened to the prince the other day, it’s like nobody’s safe any more.’
‘Quite so,’ Captain Olens said. ‘So, if you’re pilgrims, where are you headed for? I never knew there was anything particularly holy around here.’
Monach raised his eyebrows. ‘You surprise me,’ he said. ‘You mean, you haven’t heard about the miracle?’
‘Miracle,’ Olens said. ‘No, can’t say I have.’
‘Good heavens,’ Monach said. ‘Everybody’s talking about it back home. Manifestation of the Divine Poldarn; quite possibly the Second Coming and the end of the world. Right here,’ he added, ‘at Dui Chirra.’
Olens looked at him. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right place?’ he said. ‘There’s nothing at Dui Chirra except a rather scruffy inn and a run-down old foundry.’
‘Poldarn in his aspect of the god of fire and rebirth,’ Monach said. ‘Where else would you look except a foundry?’
Olens shook his head. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘but I think you boys have had a wasted trip. Nothing miraculous going on there, just a bunch of layabouts messing about in a clay pit. If you’re looking for miracles, you might try heading south. I did hear they’ve got a two-headed calf out at Chosiva.’
‘Two-headed calves aren’t anything special,’ Monach said, shifting his reins into his left hand. ‘Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all.’ He nudged his horse with his heels, and as they moved forward he laid the back of his right hand on the hilt of his sword, snuggled in his sash like a baby. Captain Olens must have seen him, or else he was properly aware of his circle; he pulled his horse’s head around and kicked savagely. Monach’s draw cut the air he’d just left.
No point chasing after him; a fine government horse like that could outrun Monach’s old bag of bones any day, and even if he did catch up with him, there was nothing to be gained from killing one staff officer in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if he had a similar conversation with the commander of those poor bastards we left at the crossroads, Monach thought.
‘What was all that about?’ someone asked him, when he’d rejoined the column.
Monach shrugged. ‘Far as I could make out, I think the government doesn’t want us to go to Dui Chirra. I get the impression it’s not open to the public these days.’
‘Fine,’ somebody said. ‘So what do we do now?’
‘What we’re told, of course,’ Monach replied. ‘Unless you like the idea of a meeting with the outfit that did over the Amathy house; in which case, you carry on. Personally, I’m going the other way.’
Silence; but Monach didn’t care. He was, of course, going to go to Dui Chirra, because it was the only place he could think of where Xipho might sooner or later turn up. Taking this collection of misfits with him was clearly out of the question, but it had never been anything more than a means to an end, an instrument to be used. If he’d wanted to be a soldier, he’d have joined the army.
Chapter Eight
‘It was desperate,’ someone said. He recognised the voice, couldn’t quite put a name to it. Desperate had been the in word in fourth grade, enjoying a brief vogue in between howling and essential. ‘I thought the old bastard was going to have a fit and drop dead on the spot. Boy, he was absolutely frothing.’
Frothing helped narrow down the time-span even further; it had been Cordomine’s pet word for the first half of Hilary term in fourth grade, and they’d reluctantly adopted it for a week or so, until the sixth-graders started saying steaming, setting a trend that nobody dared flout. So, he asked himself, what happened in the fourth, fifth and sixth weeks of Hilary term in fourth grade? He had an idea he ought to know, but he couldn’t quite remember. Meanwhile, the old stone crow carried on leering at him from its place on top of the pillar (he could feel it, even with his eyes shut) which could only mean they were in the chapter house at Deymeson, waiting in their appointed places for Father Abbot to lead in the faculty for the start of Traditional Prayers; in which case, it had to be fifth week, because—
‘So,’ someone else interrupted, ‘did you see them? What do they look like? Any good?’
The first speaker paused to consider. ‘The middle one’s a solid seven,’ he said. ‘The eldest – she’s the one who’s married, to that captain in the guards – she’s just a milky old doe. The youngest, though—’ Words apparently failed the speaker at this point.
‘Hot?’ The other voice prompted.
‘As a stove-pipe,’ the first voice confirmed. ‘Like, so hot you could fry eggs.’
Ah, Ciartan thought, now we know where we are. Of course, there was no excuse for not remembering this day of all days. He opened his eyes and looked round.
The first speaker, as he should have known all along, was Elaos Tanwar; the second voice, Gain Aciava. Beside him, looking distinctly frosty, was Xipho Dorunoxy – she always wore that pained, constipated expression when the boys were discussing girls, particularly when they started using the scale of one to ten. Without looking round, she said, ‘You’d better not let Turvo hear you talking about his sisters like that.’
Elaos grinned. ‘You’re just jealous,’ he said; and ducked, just in time, as Xipho tried to reach round the back of Gain’s head to stick a finger in his eye. Sword-monk reflexes.
‘Do you bloody well mind?’ Gain snapped; then he too had to dodge out of the way as Xipho tried again. Elaos, of course, was grinning like a monkey.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he heard himself say, ‘Turvo having sisters who’re half decent-looking. It’s hard to imagine a female version of Turvo. Just as well,’ he added, ‘I missed breakfast.’
‘Cordo says they take after their mother’s side,’ Gain replied. ‘’Course, he knows the family. His lot know everybody, bloody social climbers.’
‘Where is Cordo, anyhow?’ the Earwig asked, from his place next to Xipho, on the left. (What was the Earwig’s regular name? Couldn’t remember; he’d been the Earwig since before Ciartan had come to Deymeson. Even the faculty called him that, so rumour had it.)
‘Infirmary,’ Elaos replied, his tone of voice suggesting that he believed Cordo’s illness was wholly tactical. ‘Anybody want to bet me he’ll make a miraculous recovery shortly after Third Bell, so’s he can go prowling round the Sty just when Turvo’s giving them the guided tour?’
Xipho sniffed her disapproval. ‘Trust Cordo to find a way of skiving off double Theory,’ she said scornfully. ‘I know for a fact he hasn’t done the practicals, because he was creeping round me last night after Seventh Bell asking for the answers.’
‘Which you refused to give him, of course,’ Gain said dangerously.
‘Of course I didn’t,’ Xipho replied. ‘I’m amazed he had the nerve to ask.’
Something in Gain’s grin suggested that he believed that Cordo had had certain motives beside attempted cheating for lurking round the girls’ common room after dark. Fortunately, Xipho was looking the other way and didn’t see him.
‘It really shouldn’t be allowed,’ Xipho was saying. ‘It says explicitly, in the rules, that visits from family ar
en’t allowed in term-time except at Commemoration and Intercessions, or during Elections with special permission. It’s only because Turvo’s dad is some kind of minor royal. I thought we were above that sort of thing here, but apparently not.’
Elaos made that funny snorting noise of his. ‘Tazencius is more than some kind of minor royal,’ he said scathingly. ‘He’s, what, ninth in succession? Or is it tenth? Can’t remember. Anyhow, he’s quite a nob. We should be honoured. And I expect Father Abbot and the candle-wobblers’ll be after him with the begging bowl.’
Xipho sniffed again. For a girl who’d never had a cold in her life, she could sniff quite majestically. ‘It’s disgusting what the faculty’ll do for money,’ she said, and then glowered angrily as the boys (the Earwig excepted, of course) started sniggering. ‘Well, it is,’ she went on. ‘And they shouldn’t have to. If the government saw to it that our tithes were paid in full, we’d have more than enough funding—’
The last thing the boys wanted to talk about, needless to say, was tithes and indulgence of clergy; not with three new girls in town (or two, discounting the milky old doe). Of all of them, leaving the no-hoper Earwig out of the reckoning, Ciartan was probably the least interested. Unlike them, he hadn’t been a monk since puberty, and therefore the subject wasn’t as mysteriously fascinating to him as it was to them. Generally speaking, in the interests of not making himself irredeemably unpopular, he tended to shut up and let them get on with their highly theoretical speculations. Even so: a visit by three half-princesses of the blood was distinctly out of the ordinary, and he couldn’t help being just a little curious. And if Elaos was right, and the youngest really was hotter than a stove-pipe, it couldn’t hurt just to take a very brief look, if by chance he just happened to be passing—