by K. J. Parker
“Then we’re all screwed,” Muri replied. “I can’t do it any more, I’m sorry.”
“No such word as can’t,” Fly said. “Listen,” he went on, “we can’t be more than half a mile from the river. Half a fucking mile. How big a deal is that?”
Aidi was thinking. “All right,” he said, “we’ll leave you. But we’ll get to the river, get out of this shithole, find a farm or something and some sensible gear: ropes, boards. And then we’ll come back and get you. Agreed?”
Muri frowned, as though Aidi’s suggestion was based on some totally new kind of logic nobody had ever thought of before. “Sounds good to me,” he said. “Fly?”
“You’re absolutely sure you can’t move?” Fly asked.
“Oh, I can move,” Muri replied. “It’s dragging myself through this mud by my fingertips that’s beyond me. Aidi’s right, it’s the only sensible thing.”
“It’s a deal, then,” Aidi said.
“Just a second,” Fly put in. “How’re we going to find him again?”
Aidi thought for a moment. “Dead reckoning and luck,” he replied. “And as soon as we think we’re close, yelling at the top of our voices. Unless you can suggest anything.”
Aidi and Fly ended up crawling most of the way, lying flat on their faces on the mud to spread their weight as evenly as possible. It was a cross between mountaineering and swimming. They didn’t dare stop when it got dark, simply because there was nothing firm enough to stop on. Accordingly, they found the river by falling into it, down a surprisingly steep bank. As they stood up, waist deep in water, they were whooping and yelling like children.
They calmed down after a while, and Fly said: “Do you think we’ll be able to find Muri again?”
Aidi nodded. “I got it figured out by the angle of the sun. It’ll be all right, I promise.”
Needless to say, the bed of the river was slippery, and they couldn’t make particularly good time. Fly was anxious to force the pace, which meant he kept losing his footing and falling down. By the time the sun rose, they’d only gone a mile or so, and it was ten miles to the village. The current wasn’t strong, but it wasn’t negligible either. It was easier than the mud, but not by much. Even so, there was still enough light to see by when they finally stumbled up the bank and dropped on their knees on the gravel and cinder road that led up to the village.
“Just one thing,” Fly said. “You got any money?”
Aidi stared at him, then replied, “I may have.”
“I’ve got three thalers and some loose change. We’ll need ropes and boards, and hiring a barge wouldn’t be a bad idea. How much’ve you got?”
Aidi reached in his pocket, but the bottom was torn out. “Fine,” Fly said. “Well, we can probably run to some rope.”
It cost them the last of their strength to stand upright and walk up the gentle hill. The first building they came to was the post house. They clubbed the door with their balled fists until a scared-looking man with white hair and a beard opened it. When he saw them, he nodded and said, “You’d better come in.”
There was a good peat fire in the open hearth, and four chairs. Two of them were occupied.
“Hello, Aidi,” Teuche said. “What kept you?”
Teuche had remembered the map. Even so, he’d had to guess at his position and gamble; fortunately, he guessed well. Six hundred yards of murderous effort had brought him to the northern spur of the river. He’d arrived in the village the previous evening, and had spent the afternoon organising a rescue party, which had been due to set off at dawn the next day. Kudei was already out of bed. The mud had sealed his wounds, and the river water had washed them clean; so, against all the odds, he’d escaped infection. He was bandaged so tightly he could scarcely breathe, but he was still able to ask: “Where’s Muri?”
Aidi didn’t answer. Fly said: “We left him.”
“Did you?” Teuche said.
“He hurt his back,” Aidi said, quick and angry. “He could hardly move. I know exactly where he is, and we’re going back for him.”
Teuche didn’t say anything.
They eventually found him - the innkeeper’s twelve-year-old son practically trod on him; Aidi’s dead reckoning brought them out two hundred yards short (not a bad effort in the circumstances, but in the marsh it might as well have been two miles) and they were on the point of giving up when they heard the boy yelling. It was just as well, they agreed, that the boy had brought along his dog, a lymer trained in following a blood scent. They shipped Muri out on one of the mud sleds the locals used for getting about on the marsh; an ingenious design, more like a raft than a sledge, propelled by hooks and long poles. The villagers made it look easy. Luckily, Muri had four five-thaler pieces in his inside coat pocket; together with Fly’s three and seven and Teuche’s twelve thalers, they were able to pay off the villagers for the rescue mission and Kudei’s bandages, and still have enough for six loaves of bread and a small plaster-rind cheese. When they rejoined the regiment, Aidi tried to claim back their thirty-five thalers from Funds as legitimate military expenses; the claim was registered and sent back to Battalion, but they never heard anything more about it.
“Why do they call you Fly?” Enyo asked.
Slowly he straightened his back, like a scholar unrolling an old and irreplaceable parchment. “Nickname,” he said.
His job was to put in the posts - seventy-two of them, six feet long and three inches wide - describing the perimeter of the permanent cattle pen. Kudei would be along later, with two of the indentured men, to nail on the rails, just as soon as they’d cut down the trees and split them lengthways with wedges. So far he’d managed twelve, and it was already mid-morning. The soil was thin, and every blow of the hammer on the bar seemed to find a new stone. Already, the top of the bar was mushroomed over, and he’d chipped the hammerhead.
“Of course it’s a nickname,” Enyo said. “What does it mean?”
He steadied the bar and twisted it round with his hands to start it off. “Fly as in small,” he said. “Also nimble and fast. And,” he added, “I think it means I talk too much. You know, like a fly buzzing.”
“That’s a bit unkind,” Enyo replied, frowning. “You’re not like that.”
“I used to be.” Alces grinned. “We were all pretty much full of it in those days. College did that for us, of course.” He shook his head. “They didn’t just teach us soldiering; they wanted us to be gentlemen as well. And now look at me, bashing in fence posts.”
“You should leave that sort of thing to the servants,” Enyo said. “That’s why General Kunessin brought them, surely.”
“They’re not . . .” Alces shook his head. “I like putting in fence posts,” he said. “Really. Well, it’s better than some of the things I’ve done, anyhow.”
She stood up. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “It’s time for my spinning lesson.”
“Ah, right.” Alces nodded. “I thought there wasn’t anything to spin yet.”
“Captain Achaiois says he’s found a kind of nettle with suitable fibres. We’re going to try using that.”
Alces pulled a face. “Nettles,” he said. “Trust Muri. Hold on, though. I thought you had to soak them till the fibres come free. Retting, it’s called.”
She shrugged. “ I don’t know, I’ve only just started learning.”
“All right,” Alces said. “But I can’t remember Muri ever being a world expert on spinning. Probably he’s just getting it out of some book.”
She gave him a quick, dry kiss and walked quickly back to the main house, where Muri, Chaere and Dorun were waiting, behind a table piled high with wilted nettles. She said, “Haven’t you got to ret them first before we can use them?”
Muri looked blank. “What’s that?” he asked.
“You’ve got to soak them till the fibres come free. It can take several days.”
Chaere sniggered. Muri frowned. “Are you sure about that?” he said. “I thought if we rubbed them between two
stones . . .”
“You can try that if you like,” Enyo said. “I’m not getting my hands stung.”
“I’ll get a basin of water,” Dorun said, and left quickly. Muri took a nettle from the heap, picked at the stem, then dropped it quickly. “You just let them soak?” he asked.
“I think so,” Enyo replied. “Of course, I’m not an expert.”
Muri picked up another nettle, examined it, then snapped it off an inch above the base, pulled it into four strips, and teased the bark off. With his fingernails, he pinched out a bunch of short, fine fibres. “This’ll do, surely,” he said. “I’ve used stuff like this before.”
“Captain,” Chaere said. “Excuse me, but where did you learn to spin?”
Muri frowned. “In the service,” he mumbled. “Making bow-strings. But the principle’s exactly the same. In fact, bowstring’s got to be spun to a higher specification than ordinary yarn.”
Chaere pulled a slightly sour face. “My mother did a lot of spinning,” she said. “I’m sure she never used nettles.”
“No, probably not,” Muri said patiently. “She probably spun wool, but we haven’t got any, not yet. We will have, of course, later. Meanwhile, I thought we might as well practise the basics.”
He looked hopefully at them all, and Enyo noticed he was rubbing his fingertips together. “Where’s Menin?” she asked. “I thought she was joining us.”
“She’s still gathering nettles,” Muri said. “Actually, she was the one who told me about them. She’s very good on wild plants.”
Chaere sighed. “Well,” she said, “if Menin’s stung her fingers to the bone picking the wretched things, we can’t very well let them go to waste. We’ll soak them for three days and see what happens.” She stood up; the lesson was over. “After all,” she said, “it doesn’t actually matter, does it? We’ve got plenty of clothes, and cloth and yarn, more than enough to keep us going till the ship comes back. We don’t need to learn spinning.”
Muri looked at her as though she’d just kicked him. “We’ll need to spin our own yarn eventually,” he said, making an effort to keep his voice mild. “It’s a good idea to learn now, while we’re still—”
“Don’t be silly,” Chaere said. “Can’t you see, this is all a game. It’s your General Kunessin’s hobby, that’s all. It’s what happens when men like that retire. Some of them take up hunting, or breeding horses; he’s always wanted to be a gentleman farmer. Fine. He’ll play at it for a bit, till all his money’s gone, which won’t be long, the rate he’s going. Then we’ll all pack up and go home and live normally again. We won’t ever need to make our own clothes out of nettles.” She smiled at him, pity and gentle contempt. “Aidi said I should show willing, so I have. Now I’m going to lie down and read a book.”
She walked away, tall and magnificent. Muri watched her go, then started picking at another nettle. His fingers are too big, Enyo thought, but he’s got the patience of a desperate man.
After a while, he said, “Is that what you all think?”
“Who do you mean?”
“The other wives,” Muri said.
She shrugged. “I don’t know, I haven’t talked to them much. They’re not the sort of women I’m comfortable with.”
Muri nodded. “How about you?”
“Thouridos wants to be here,” she said. “I don’t particularly, but I don’t really have a choice. I didn’t much like living over the fencing school, either.” She frowned. “What do you think? Are you happy here?”
“Yes,” Muri replied. “We’re all together again, where we belong. We need to stick together.”
“Well, there you are, then,” Enyo said. She stood up, then hesitated. “Can I ask you something?”
“I suppose so,” Muri said.
“Why do you call my husband Fly?”
Muri looked at her as though he didn’t understand the question, then laughed. “It’s just a nickname,” he said.
“The rest of you don’t have nicknames, just him.”
“Well, Thouridos is a bit of a mouthful,” Muri said. “And he doesn’t like being called Thouri.”
She frowned. “That’s what I call him.”
“That’s different, I guess.”
Already he’d teased out a small pile of short fibres; about one per cent of what he’d need to weave one sock. She had a sudden vision of him dressed in a nettle-fibre coat; it’d be baggy and shapeless, probably frayed at the cuffs after a week. She had no doubt whatsoever he’d make one, if there was time. “It’s a strange name, Fly,” she said. “How did he come by it?”
“The human fly,” Muri answered. “He was amazing at shinning up and down walls. We used to break out of the dormitories at night, when we were at the College. Fly would be the one who went ahead and opened the doors and windows.”
“Ah,” she said. “Thanks.”
She left him and crossed the yard; as she did so, she saw Dorun coming back with the water, and in the distance, Menin with her arms full of nettles. She frowned, and went into the small hut that she and Thouridos had taken over for themselves. It was still pretty horrible. Thouri had nailed scrap boards on to the rafters, but that just concentrated the rain into miniature indoor waterfalls, and the floor was littered with pots and basins, full to the brim. The bare floor was damp. They had two stools, a chair and a packing case for a table. Thouri was out doing something for the general, something strategic and long-term. He only came home at night, usually either soaked or muddy; there was a special quality to the way he didn’t complain about having to put wet clothes on in the morning. She took a handful of sticks from the basket by the door, and tried to get a fire going.
“We’ll plough all this in the spring,” Kunessin said. “I was thinking, barley this side of the river, wheat on the other, rye up there under the woods, flax in that big rap between the rocks and the lake. We might as well build the barns here.” He pointed at something or other; Alces couldn’t see anything that was any different from the rest of the flat, featureless plain. “We’ll need to build a threshing floor, and a pen and stalls for the plough oxen. Some hard standing wouldn’t be a bad idea; we can dredge stones and gravel out of the river.”
Maybe, Alces thought, that’s what it’s like being an artist: you look at a blank canvas or a newly plastered wall, and you can see the picture in your mind. As far as he was concerned, it was just a lot of flat ground: ideal for cavalry, no cover for infantry, the river would be a death-trap if you got backed on to it. No general in his right mind would advance across it, unless he had to. “That sounds like a lot of work,” he said.
“Yes,” Kunessin replied. “It’s frustrating we can’t start now. I wish we could’ve waited till the spring. I guess it was me being impatient. Still, there’s plenty to be getting on with.”
Cue for a report; Alces felt more comfortable with that. “Kudei’s got five men felling,” he said, “and three more splitting the logs into rails. Getting the posts in isn’t going too well, I’m afraid; the ground’s so damned stony, even with all this rain.”
Kunessin frowned. “That’s a nuisance,” he said. “I’d rather hoped we could have the pen and the sheds finished in the next couple of days, so we could move on to doing up the buildings.” He shook his head, which Alces found mildly offensive. “How are the indentured men shaping up?” he asked. “You’ve seen rather more of them than I have.”
“Not bad,” Alces replied. “They do their work all right, not too much grumbling or skiving.”
“But?”
Alces shrugged. “Depends on what you expect,” he said. “After all, we’ve made it pretty clear who’s the officers and who’s the grunts around here. I don’t think too many of them’ll be staying on, though.”
“We’ll see,” Kunessin replied. “It’s early days yet.”
“The farm boys are all right,” Alces went on, “but the six or seven we recruited from the mines can be a bit of a handful.” He frowned. “They work a good sh
ift, but I get the impression they’d rather have something more interesting to do in the evenings, if you see what I mean.”
Kunessin nodded. “We were short-handed,” he said. “I never really expected them to stay on. We’ll let them go when we get replacements.”
“They aren’t a problem,” Alces reassured him. “Just not ideal.”
Kunessin grinned. “You know me,” he said. “I never could be doing with up-country people.”
Kunessin still had surveying to do, so Alces left him and went back to the settlement. He found Aidi in the shed which Kunessin was already calling the forge. It was dark as he walked in, so he called out, “Aidi?”
“Over here.” Aidi was on his hands and knees, doing something with a hammer and a wrench to what promised some day to be a machine. Alces couldn’t figure out how he could see what he was doing.
“Why don’t you open a window?” he said.
“Stuck,” Aidi grunted. “Sills swollen in the damp. Soon as this is done, I’ll have to take a look at them.”
Alces knelt down beside him. “What is that?”
“This,” Aidi said, “is a genuine Molosina double-action trip-hammer, or it will be if I can ever figure out how this thing’s supposed to fit.” He waved a bit of metal bar, something like a flat bone. “It’s meant to go in between that lug and the flange, but there isn’t room.” He sighed, and lay flat on his back, staring into the jungle of works above his head. “Marvellous thing, but whoever designed it must’ve hated me; clever of him, since he died a hundred years before I was born.”
“Impressive,” Alces said. “What’s it do?”
“Hits things,” Aidi replied. “Very hard and very often. It runs off a paddle-wheel - we’ll need to dig a race off the brook - and the power’s transmitted through those gears there into this spindle.” (Alces tried to see what he was pointing at.) “This arm thing turns the round-and-round motion into up-down-bang, but I can’t—” There was a click as something slotted into place; immediately, Aidi pushed, straining against the steel bar, until the end came loose again and he shot forward, skinning his cheekbone on the side of the machine. He swore, straightened up, tested his face for blood with his fingertips and breathed out slowly. “They reckon this thing can do the work of two strong men with sledgehammers.”