by K. J. Parker
“Oh, I’m not complaining.” Calojan yawned. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. “For what it’s worth, Sashan gear is top quality. It was what they put inside it that caused the problems. No, it’ll keep the Selbst happy, and that’s all I care about.”
“The who?”
“That’s what they’re called,” Calojan explained. “The northerners. You know, you hired a whole bunch of them to make my arrows.”
“Oh, them.” Aimeric tried not to sound shocked. “They’re your new army.”
“That’s right. Which is why I’m not too concerned about the garbage you’re selling me. They’re great tinkerers, the Selbst, they love tarting things up and making them nice. You should see what a job they’ve done on the last load of rubbish I had off you. I bet you, in a couple of days they’ll have this lot properly repaired and buffed up like mirrors.” He yawned again, and rubbed his eyes with his fists. “I’ve been hearing things about you, Aimeric. Apparently, when you were at the University, you were an ardent pacifist. War is the greatest of all evils, and all that. There was this big student debate, and you—”
“Yes,” Aimeric said.
“Ah. So, what happened?”
“Suddenly the money ran out.”
“That’s all?”
Aimeric scowled at him. “It was the end of the world,” he said. “I guess I found the one cause I believed was worth fighting for.”
Calojan laughed. “I envy you,” he said. “I’ve been a soldier most of my life, but I never did see anything that could justify the things I do. I keep telling myself, once this war’s over I’ll retire to a monastery, spend the rest of my life painting icons. Trouble is, the war is never over. I don’t suppose it ever will be, not in my lifetime.”
Aimeric suddenly wanted, more than anything, to be somewhere else. “A wise man once said, when you’re tired of killing, you’re tired of life. Will you be wanting any more of this stuff? Only, if not, I can lay off my casual workers. Since you’re paying them, I thought I’d ask.”
“I wouldn’t do that just yet,” Calojan said.
Chauzida insisted on being there when the Aram Cosseilhatz crossed the Essa. Joiauz had tried to dissuade him; it might be dangerous, if the imperials tried to dispute the crossing, which was just the sort of thing Calojan might try. Chauzida listened respectfully while he made his speech, then just said, “Please?”
Joiauz had decided on the ford at Bohec Essa; the imperials would be watching it, but the country was wide and flat on both sides of the river, so they’d see an imperial force coming with time to react. The idea was to cross at dawn, but there were problems. Rain just before midnight turned a usually solid stretch of moorland into glue; forty carts got stuck before anyone realised what was happening, whereupon the rest of the column swung out to avoid them and stumbled into an equally sticky patch a hundred yards further over. All the shouting and confusion in the pitch dark spooked the Two Ravens’ sheep, which bolted and ended up in the Naida, a narrow but fast-running tributary of the Essa. By the time Joiauz had sorted it all out, the sun was up, and it was a beautiful autumn day; no mist, even close to the river. You could see for miles.
Joiauz dealt with that by driving the flocks ahead of the army, to give the imperial scouts the impression that they’d come to graze the riverbank rather than invade. Sure enough, the scouts came down off the skyline and up to the river, to watch the show, whereupon Joiauz sent a hundred of his best riders across, about eight hundred yards below the ford, with instructions to loop in behind the scouts and cut them off. It nearly worked, but not quite; at the last minute, the scouts got through the skirmish line and away. By the time the column was across the ford, it was a safe bet that the imperial cavalry would arrive. The important thing, therefore, was to get enough men across the ford before then, so as to have overwhelming force on the empire side of the river. The Cosseilhatz, however, were rather more concerned with their sheep than tactical subtleties. Since Joiauz had insisted on bringing the flocks to the front, they had to be kept in order and conducted across the ford, which needed the skill and horsemanship of grown men rather than boys and women. Until they were sure the sheep were all right, the war was just going to have to wait.
A full division of imperial cavalry turned up around mid-morning, while the drove across the ford was still in full swing. When he saw them, Joiauz swam his horse across the river and organised such men as he had on the empire side into a coherent but inadequate screen. That, however, seemed to do the trick. Later he reckoned that the imperials must have decided that the drove was some sort of cunning stratagem, designed to lure them into a trap—too long in the company of general Calojan for their own good. In any event, the imperials formed up into six attack wedges, but stayed where they were. Six men and a white flag trotted nervously over, and stopped well outside maximum range. A young man in shining armour raised his voice and asked to speak to whoever was in charge.
Having nothing else to do at this point, Joiauz rode fifty yards in his direction and said, That’ll be me. The shining one asked him if he was aware that his sheep were trespassing on the territory of the empire.
“No, you’re wrong there,” Joiauz replied. “The border’s the Essa, isn’t it?”
The shining one said, “This is the Essa.”
“I don’t think so,” Joiauz replied. “This is the Naida. The Essa’s five miles back the way you came from.”
The imperial heralds went all thoughtful. They had, after all, crossed a river about five miles back (the Traimon, if Joiauz remembered his geography correctly). “Are you sure?” they asked.
“’Course I’m sure. This is our land, so if anyone’s trespassing, it’s you. Not that I want to press the point, if it’s an honest mistake, but if I were you I’d leave, before something stupid happens and we start a war. All right?”
They were fumbling with a map, which the shining one contrived to tear and then drop. “This is the Essa,” he called out. “The river back there was the Traimon.”
“You’re not from around here, are you?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Joiauz could see a large body of his own horsemen coming towards him. The shining one had dismounted and was looking down at the map, then up at the skyline. “No, listen,” he said. “That lot directly behind you has got to be the White Mountains, which means this plain here is the Parapros—” he pronounced it wrong—“and this ford must be Bohec Essa. The Naida is seven miles or so over that way.”
The reinforcements had closed in behind his skirmish line. He did some quick mental arithmetic. “Oh, right,” he replied. “In that case—” He raised his right arm, then brought it down in a slicing gesture towards the heralds. “Charge!”
Deep down, he probably believed the imperials would run. They didn’t. The heralds made it back to their line, which surged forward like floodwater. For obvious reasons, Joiauz had never faced a charge by imperial lancers before; Sashan lancers, scores of times, but the imperial heavy cavalry were in a different league. Just for a moment, his heart stopped and his hands and feet turned cold. Then he remembered, and nudged his horse into a canter, guiding it straight at the oncoming wave.
They know us, he thought, they know what’s going to happen. But, when he gave the sign and the front of his formation broke like a green stick and peeled left, loosing their first volley at the apex of the wedge, it all started to work just as he’d planned it. The imperial wedge foundered as its point dissolved into a tangled thicket of fallen horses; the base swerved to avoid the mess and was met with the second and third volleys; then the Cosseilhatz swept up on either side, enfilading at will, melting the wedge like flames licking ice. The lancers pressed on, though there was nothing left to charge. The Cosseilhatz slid in behind them, shooting fast and close, always aiming at the horses. What was left of the wedge crumbled, and the Cosseilhatz buzzed them, flies swarming round something already dead, until the cloud thinned and dispersed, to reveal fallen, thrashing horses,
men scrambling to their feet in full armour, dead horses, dead men. For once Joiauz hung back, unable to make himself participate in the slaughter. The lancers were trying to scramble out of the way, but the Cosseilhatz were too quick for them; besides, they now outnumbered them three to one. It was open ground, there was nowhere to escape to, and no need to close to within the reach of a spear or a sword. Joiauz realised he had no way of calling his men off; they weren’t looking at him, only at the next target. Five minutes later there were no more wedges, no more lancers, just a smear of shapes on the ground and the swarm reforming, nothing left to fly at; job done.
“Piece of cake,” Luzir panted at him, reining in beside him.
Joiauz was too angry to speak. He nodded and spurred into a gallop, leaving Luzir staring after him. The Cosseilhatz were doing their usual leisurely sweep, shooting the dismounted lancers on the ground, target practice. There was no point trying to stop them. Nobody needed him for anything, so he turned and headed back to the ford.
Chauzida was riding toward him on a small black mare. Instinctively he headed him away from the battlefield, though there wasn’t much point; it was obvious from the look on Chauzida’s face that he’d seen everything Joiauz would have preferred him not to see. Stupid instinct, in any case. A prince of the Cosseilhatz who couldn’t handle such sights would be like a fish who couldn’t swim. Even so, he said, “You shouldn’t be here. I told you.”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Chauzida said.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” Chauzida repeated. “We aren’t going to war. This—” He lifted a hand off the reins to wave at the battlefield, then quickly replaced it, like someone holding on to a rope. “Whatever the plan was, it’s not worth it. Sorry.”
To his great surprise, all Joiauz wanted to do was laugh. “I think it’s a bit late for that,” he said. “In case you weren’t paying attention—”
“No war,” Chauzida said firmly. “Do whatever you have to, to get us out of it. I’ve made up my mind. Finally.”
“Don’t be so bloody stupid.” All the anger seemed to come at once. He was amazed at how much of it there was. “You don’t give me orders, you’re just a stupid child. You can’t begin to understand. You’ve just proved that. God knows I’ve tried to teach you, train you, so that one day you’ll be fit to be trusted with doing the job you were born to, but you simply won’t listen, you’ve always got to know best. Well, let me make it perfectly clear. You don’t know best. You don’t know anything. You’re just a child.”
He drew breath, waiting for Chauzida to speak, but he knew there could be no reply. “Go back to the camp,” he said. “Wait in the tent. I’ll be back as soon as I’ve seen to things here, and then I’ll—” He’d what? Explain? “We’ll talk about this properly. Look, I’m sorry I shouted, there was no call for that. Go on, I’ll be there directly.”
Chauzida turned his horse and rode away; slowly to begin with, then suddenly bursting into a furious gallop. Joiauz watched him for a long time. He thought; I’m not his father, if I’d wanted a son, I’d have got married. And some things have to be done.
That evening, Semplan returned from his mission to the north. He was deeply apologetic for having taken so long; he’d been taken ill, so he hadn’t actually reached the court of king Raffen, but he had news that would change everything. Calojan had got there first, and the Selbst had sent him twenty thousand men. Accordingly, this would not be a good time to provoke a war.
When Joiauz told him about the battle, he went quite pale.
When the protocol department of the High Chamberlain’s office heard that King Raffen would be arriving with the Selbst army, their first reaction was stunned disbelief, followed by manic activity, accompanied by bitter reproaches. A king was due in the City in just over twenty-four hours; they’d had no notice, nobody had seen fit to tell them anything, the intelligence file on the king and his people was woefully inadequate. How they were supposed to do their job under such conditions was completely beyond them. Where, for example, was His Majesty supposed to sleep? Was this an official State occasion, in which case he would have to be quartered in the palace, or semi-official, in which case he and his suite should be given the use of a suitable government property for the duration of his stay—a minor palace, Temple manse or imperial hunting lodge, except that there weren’t any available, unless His Majesty wouldn’t mind a leaky roof and floors covered in pigeon droppings. If, however, it was an official military occasion, the proper thing would be to pitch him a pavilion on either the Artillery Fields or the Golden Spire green—easier said than done, because the pavilion was folded up in a warehouse somewhere and would undoubtedly reek of mould until it had been aired for a fortnight.
“He’s a barbarian,” Queen Gesel observed. She’d taken to sitting in on her husband’s less important audiences, and nobody had found the courage to object. “His people live in wooden huts, don’t they? I’m sure you can find him a hut. Or a shed.”
The Chamberlain tried to explain; it wasn’t a question of what the royal visitor was used to, or even of what he’d feel comfortable in. Such a visit required a display of imperial prestige proportionate to the status of the visitor’s nation, which meant juggling the respect due to a valued ally with the proper show of superiority, as demonstrated by opulent and magnificent accommodations and furnishings. Putting a king in a shed, even a huge shed decked with the finest tapestries, would amount to an act of war.
“So he can sleep in a tent but not a shed,” Gesel observed. “Oh well, I expect you know what you’re doing. You’d better carry on and see to it.”
The Chamberlain looked helplessly at Sechimer, but all he got was a bleak, mirror-like stare. “I know,” Gesel said, “why don’t you put him in the Orangery? That’s sort of outdoors and reasonably spacious. You can borrow some chairs and tables and things from the palace, he’ll be perfectly comfortable.”
The Chamberlain opened his mouth but didn’t speak; it was, in fact, an inspired suggestion. Florian IV’s vast and monstrously vulgar folly was indeed timber-built, but inside it was decorated with a degree of gaudy splendour that couldn’t fail to inspire the deepest awe in a barbarian heart, while its location in the centre of the palace grounds made it a perfect compromise between a State and a military occasion. If it was a spur-of-the-moment idea, it implied that Her Majesty had a genius for protocol. The Chamberlain preferred to believe that she’d thought of it much earlier, possibly in consultation with treacherous officials, and her earlier comments were designed to be annoying, in which she’d succeeded.
Eighteen hours of furious work on the Orangery were, in the event, completely wasted. King Raffen preferred to stay with his men in their camp outside the City walls. This scandalised the Chamberlain’s people, but there was nothing they could do about it. The king, in fact, seemed to know his way about the place; it had improved a lot, he said, since the last time he was there—decent latrines, a well, proper wooden houses. Remarkable, he said, what a difference a war made.
“I won’t be going with you this time,” Sechimer told Calojan, on the way to the Selbst camp.
“Oh.” Calojan frowned, just for a moment. “Well, I can’t say I blame you.”
“It’s my wife.” Sechimer put his hand between the collar of his breastplate and his neck; he wasn’t wearing the usual scarf, and the rolled edge was chafing. “She didn’t make a fuss or anything like that, but—”
“You don’t need to justify yourself to me,” Calojan said. “Anyway, we have no idea what’s going to happen. If you’re not there, it’s one less thing for me to have to worry about.”
King Raffen met them at the camp gates. He wasn’t quite what Sechimer had been expecting. He was a big man, tall and broad-shouldered, with long black hair halfway down his back in a ponytail and a short black-and-grey beard. He was wearing a City worker’s blue coarse wool jacket over a gilded mailshirt. He gave them a tired but cheerful grin, which told t
hem he was far too busy for social calls but far too polite to tell them to go away.
“We weren’t expecting you,” Calojan said.
“Really?” Raffen raised an eyebrow. “It’s how we do things. An army this big, naturally the king goes with it. Isn’t that how you do it?”
Calojan carefully didn’t look at Sechimer. “Sometimes,” he said, “not always. Will you be commanding your men, or—?”
“Well, naturally. I may not be much use but I’m definitely not ornamental. It’s what’s expected of me.”
“Excuse me for asking,” Sechimer said quietly, “but do you have any military experience?”
Raffen raised both eyebrows, then laughed. “Oh yes,” he said. “It goes with the big house and the gold hat. I’ve been fighting wars of one kind or another since I was thirteen years old. It’s all right,” he added, “I know your man here is the greatest military genius of all time, so I’d be a bloody fool not to do exactly what he tells me. But my people are used to taking their orders from me, so it’ll make it easier if I lead them. If that’s all right with you, of course. After all, you’re paying.”
“That’s fine,” Calojan said. “It’s how I used to work with the Cosseilhatz, and we never had any problems.”
“Out of interest,” Sechimer said, “who have you mostly fought against? I’m afraid I don’t know very much about your part of the world.”
“Well, let me see,” Raffen said. “Apart from the usual family bickering—you’d probably call it civil war, but basically it’s a way of life back home—we’ve had a few spats with the Sceaf, to the north, and a bunch of really unpleasant people called the Cure Hardy, who turned up in ships about ten years ago and took quite a bit of getting rid of. Of course, I was just a chieftain back then, commanding a thousand or so. But I know what it’s like at the sharp end, trust me. And I know how to take orders, which is what really matters, isn’t it?”