by K. J. Parker
They’d come eight hundred yards or so, and there were no horsemen to be seen, just the collapsing square, an unidentifiable shape made up of small movements too distant to mean anything, shrouded in a white veil of dust. They couldn’t have stirred if they’d wanted to; their lungs were raw with effort and their legs didn’t seem to be working. So instead they took the roll, and counted five.
For a long time, nobody said anything. Then Teuche said, “It looks as if Nuctos—”
“Shut up, Teuche,” Aidi said.
They looked back, trying to see a body between the square and where they lay, but the dust was too thick. So they watched, though it was virtually impossible to make out what was happening, until the horsemen pulled out and rode away, taking the dust cloud with them.
“Do you think . . . ?” Muri said.
Teuche stood up, straightening his back with an effort, like a man who’s been hauling timber all day. “We can’t stay here,” he said. “And we can’t go back and join the others. If we do . . .” He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The enemy had won; they could all see that. Whether the horsemen came back and finished them off, or whether they left them to huddle in their wrecked square until the sun killed them, they were dead already.
“We head for the mountain,” Teuche said. “There’s water there, if I remember the map right.”
None of the others spoke. He reached down, grabbed Aidi’s arm and pulled him to his feet.
“What about food?” Fly asked.
“Don’t ask me,” Teuche replied. “We’ll pool what we’ve got left, and try and make it last. When that’s gone . . .” Big shrug. “If you ask me, we’re probably just as dead as those poor buggers over there. Still, I suppose we ought to make an effort.”
Fly stood up, then Kudei. Muri said, “Teuche, what about Nuctos? Shouldn’t we . . . ?”
“No,” Teuche said (a harsh voice, like salt in a cut). “Try and keep up, Muri, or we’ll leave you behind.”
The good luck came later.
Instead of stopping when the sun set, they kept going, trusting their sense of direction in the pitch dark; and after four hours of blind trudging, they saw a light. It was the orange glow of a single small fire. Without discussion or debate, they headed for it.
Several hundred yards before they reached it, they heard voices. That made them slow down, and they took pains to walk quietly, so they could listen. At two hundred yards, more or less, they could make out some of the words but they couldn’t understand them. Foreigners. The enemy.
They knew what to do. Really, it was no different than going after rabbits with the long net. They walked in, nice and slow and easy, until they were close enough to count seven men sitting round a fire. Two of them were playing chequers, three were passing a big tin cup round, one was mending a bridle on his knee and the last one was asleep. Behind them, A Company could just make out the silhouettes of horses. They looked hard for a sentry, but couldn’t see one. They closed to fifty yards before making the final dash.
Wasted effort. Apart from their bows, unstrung and cased against the dew, the horsemen had no weapons to speak of, didn’t look as though they’d have known how to use them if they’d had them. Aidi killed the chequers players with two quick, easy slices. One of the drinkers managed to run about ten yards before Fly jumped on his back and cut his throat. The others died where they sat, giving no indication that they realised what was happening to them.
“Get the horses,” Teuche said.
Nine horses; two over, to carry the supplies. They recognised the flour sacks and the water skins, which solved the mystery of what had become of the supply wagons. They left the fire to burn itself out.
“Change of plan,” Teuche said quietly, as they tacked up the horses. “Back the way we came.”
Daylight showed them where they were. Somehow they’d managed to turn right round; a mile or so away to the east, they could see the shape of the square, though whether the men forming it were alive or dead they had no way of telling. There was no sign of the enemy, no dust clouds. Presumably their seven unwilling benefactors had been scouts.
Later, when they’d been back at Tenevris for a week, they heard the news. The grand army had been completely wiped out, somewhere in the open plain. If there were any other survivors, they hadn’t been heard from. Apparently there was an enemy of some kind out there; scouting parties had found the wreckage of the supply train, abandoned wagons and the bodies of men who’d died by violence. That, however, was all anybody knew. It was just as well, they were told, that they’d got separated from the main army so early in the march, and had had the wit to turn round and come back to base instead of ploughing on, or otherwise they’d all be dead too. Teuche agreed that it was a sobering thought.
“Of course,” they told him, “it means the war’s more or less over. We can’t recover from this. We’d hoped to press on to Coile, do to them what the bastards did to us. But now . . .”
(Teuche thought: they were farmers, protecting their land. Only, they had the good sense to leave the dead bodies out in the desert, rather than ruin good pasture.)
“It’s you we feel sorry for,” they said. “Everything you fought for, all the men who died, and what’s there to show for it? Basically, we’re right back where we started.”
He thought about that. “I’m not,” he said.
“You’re going home,” they told him. “That’s good news, isn’t it?”
He assumed it was a question that didn’t need to be answered. “How soon?”
“Soon,” they replied.
“I’m in no hurry.” He stood up to go, then hesitated. “Do we know what happened?”
“Not really,” they admitted. “Hell, we didn’t even know they had an army. At the moment we’re working on the assumption that somebody betrayed us, but we’ve got nothing to go on.”
Teuche nodded. “It’s academic, though, isn’t it? I mean, presumably the traitor died along with everybody else.”
Pause. “It’d be convenient to assume so,” they said. “We can’t see what good it’d do, looking into it too closely. Bad for morale back home, and that’s rocky enough as it is.”
Soon, they’d told him; a vague expression, meaning anything from now to a few years. When Teuche reported back to the rest of A Company, they seemed unusually subdued, and didn’t press him for a more precise definition. “It’s a pity we’re not going to Coile, though,” Aidi said. “I was looking forward to it. Apparently they’ve got the most amazing library.”
“Just as well, then,” Teuche said. “We’d probably have burned it down.”
Muri said: “Do they know what happened yet?”
“No,” Teuche said. “They think it may have been treason, but—”
“Highly unlikely,” said one of them. “Who’d do a thing like that?”
Chapter Eleven
Menin Aeide had wanted to help the men, but they sent her to gather food instead. You’ll be far more use, they told her. You know about all that stuff.
So she went to the woods with a basket and picked wild garlic. It was just coming into flower, and the smell of the crushed stems on her fingers was overwhelming. When her basket was full, she sat down beside one of the little brooks that ran down from the outcrops in the clearing, washed her hands and waited for a while.
She saw him coming, long before he noticed her. “Hello,” he said; he had a deer on his shoulder, freshly dressed out, and his sleeve was dark and damp with its blood. “You’re Captain Achaiois’ wife, aren’t you?”
“That’s right,” she said. “I don’t know your name.”
“Terpsi,” he replied. “Terpsi Cerauno.”
“Why aren’t you helping with the ship?”
He smiled. He had a nice smile. It’d been the first thing about him she’d noticed. “I’m a lousy carpenter,” he replied. “Neither use nor ornament, as my gran used to say. But I’m a fair shot, and I like it in the woods.” He grinned. “That’s
why I like it here,” he said. “Never allowed to go hunting back home; didn’t even have my own bow.” He hesitated, then sat down on a log, six feet away from her. “Do you like it here?”
She nodded. “Better than home,” she said.
“How’s married life?”
“Fine,” she said, looking away.
“I mean to stay on,” Terpsi said. “Especially now there’s the gold. I plan to make my pile, go home, marry the girl next door and come back and live here for good.”
She smiled awkwardly at him. “What’s her name?”
“Theano,” he replied straight away. “She said she’d wait for me, and I believe her.”
“That’s nice,” she said, watching a drop of blood swelling out of the cloth at his elbow. “Are you going on the boat, when it’s ready?”
He laughed. “Catch me going on a boat if I don’t have to,” he said. “I was sick as a dog all the way here. Which is crazy, really. My dad and two of my brothers are fishermen.”
“I hate sailing,” Menin said. “I’d rather stay here for ever than get on a ship again.”
He nodded, and they were both quiet for a while. Then he said, “Mushrooms?”
“What? Oh, I see. No, wild garlic.”
“That’s the smelly stuff with the white flowers, right?” He frowned. “Can you eat that?”
“Oh yes. Raw in a salad, or cooked like spinach.”
He didn’t look keen. “I was hoping it was mushrooms,” he said. “Venison stew with mushrooms; can’t beat it.”
She smiled. “I like that, too,” she said. “All right, I’ll see what I can find. There’s not a lot about at the moment, but . . .”
“Thanks.” He stood up. “I’d better get back,” he said. “I’m going to dump this one, then I thought I might try my luck out the far end. There’s a track they’ve been using lately; my guess is they’re going back that way in the middle of the day, to lie up in the holly grove.”
She nodded. “Good luck, then,” she said.
After he’d gone, she sat still for a while, looking down at her hands. Then she stood up and followed the path he’d taken.
“Someone ought to make a speech,” Aidi said.
“Go ahead,” Kunessin replied.
Aidi scowled. “I didn’t mean me,” he said. “I just thought . . .”
He sidestepped to let Muri get past him. “Is that the last of it?” he asked.
“One more load,” Muri called back over his shoulder, “and then we’re ready.”
Muri scrambled up the steeply angled gangplank, dumped the sack of oats on the deck and scampered back down again. “Sure you don’t want to come along?” he asked.
Aidi shuddered. “Absolutely sure,” he said. “You wouldn’t get me in that thing for cash money.”
“You helped build it.”
“That’s why.”
Kunessin laughed. “Is that the last sack of oats?” he asked.
Muri shook his head. “There’s two more left in the store.”
“Let’s hope we won’t need them,” Kunessin said.
Aidi yawned. “We’ll be all right,” he said. “We’ve got the last of the salt beef, and I found out one of the servants is pretty handy with a bow and arrow. I sent him off to the woods this morning, and he’s had one deer already.”
“Tell him to leave a few for me when I get back,” Muri called out, as he darted off to the sheds.
Kunessin got up and went on board the sloop for a last look round. Aidi left him and walked across the yard. On his way, he met Menin, Muri’s wife.
“Can I carry that for you?” he said.
She shook her head. “It’s not heavy,” she said. “Just leaves.” He frowned. “What is that stuff ?”
“Wild garlic.”
“Ah.” Pointedly, he didn’t say anything about the smell. “Salad,” he said.
“Or you can cook it.”
All sorts of things you can cook, but it doesn’t mean to say they’re edible; not by any civilised criteria. “Splendid,” Aidi said. “Well, mustn’t keep you.”
He went back to the house; nobody about, as he’d expected. He made sure, then, using the point of his sword and the back of a big iron spoon, he levered up one of the floorboards. As he’d hoped, there was quite a lot of room underneath; he’d studied the house carefully from the outside, and figured there ought to be at least eighteen inches. In the event, more like two feet.
He left the board up while he darted out to the lean-to, where he’d previously hidden a couple of sacks behind a row of barrels. He picked them up, one in each hand; the weight made him stagger, but he really didn’t want to make two trips. He trotted back to the house, half carrying, half dragging the sacks. They clanked every time they touched the ground.
He had to stop for a minute and rest after that; his elbows hurt, and he’d felt a warning twinge in his back. Then he opened the first sack and began unloading its contents into the gap under the floorboards. He ended up having to lift the neighbouring board, to make a hole big enough to get some of the stuff through. The job took him a while, and he was slightly concerned that someone might come in and see him, but he’d chosen his time well; everybody would be down at the jetty, fussing over the launching of the sloop. On that assumption, he risked the noise, took off his boot and used the heel to hammer the boards back into place. No sign of what he’d done; just to be on the safe side, he pulled the table across so one foot was resting on the newly replaced boards. He stared hard at the place, to make sure he’d remember where to find it again, then went outside, just in time to see the sloop pull away from the jetty.
“You missed it,” Kunessin said.
Aidi shrugged. “Well,” he said, “since there wasn’t going to be a speech, I couldn’t be bothered.”
Kunessin pulled a face and left him, heading back to the house. He’d asked Aechmaloten to meet him there, while the rest of the indentured men were busy with other things. Sure enough, Aechmaloten was waiting for him, a desperately worried look on his face.
“Thanks for finding the time to see me,” Kunessin said (because nothing confuses a scared man more than politeness and old-world courtesy). “Please, do sit down. Make yourself at home.”
Aechmaloten balanced awkwardly on the edge of the long table. “What—?” he began, but Kunessin cut him off.
“Now we’ve got that out of the way,” he said, “we can get on with the job in hand. When can you start?”
Polite but brisk, a gentleman terrier. Aechmaloten’s mind must have gone blank; he stammered a bit, then mumbled, “Any time you like, really. We don’t need—”
“Fine,” Kunessin said. “Right now?”
Aechmaloten’s big goat eyes widened. “Sure,” he said. “I mean, yes, right away. All we need’s a tin plate.”
Kunessin smiled. He’d put one on the bench earlier. Now, as he produced it and held it up, it must’ve seemed like he’d magicked it out of thin air. “This do?”
“That’s fine,” Aechmaloten said. “Oh, and a shovel. We’ll need a shovel.”
“I’ve got one outside ready,” Kunessin said. “That’s everything? You’re sure?”
Aechmaloten squinted at him as though it was a trick question, which of course it was. “I think so,” he said cautiously. “Oh, and a bag or something. A sock, even. For the dust. If we get any.”
Kunessin nodded, and took a sock from his pocket. “Right,” he said. “Off we go, then.”
It had clouded over, and a chilly wind was blowing. Kunessin pulled his collar tight round his neck. “Aren’t you going to wear a coat?” he asked.
Aechmaloten shook his head. “We’ll soon warm up,” he said.
Nobody about in the yard. They picked up two shovels on their way through, left the yard and followed the river as it wriggled away over the flat. On the way, Kunessin tried to make conversation, but it was a bit like a god trying to chat to a sacrifice chained to an altar; which was, after all, the effect he’d
been working for. He gave up, and followed in silence as Aechmaloten led the way, walking faster than he’d expected. By now, of course, he knew every bit of the plain almost as well as he’d known the pastures back home: the dips and rises, the wet spots and the rocky patches, the lone trees and the withy thickets, the place where an old willow had split apart under its own weight, and dense stands of saplings had grown vertically from the fallen branches. Aechmaloten was looking for something, but Kunessin couldn’t figure out what it was; and when they stopped, and Aechmaloten nodded and said, “We’ll try it here,” he couldn’t see anything different. So he asked: why here?
“Well,” Aechmaloten said, and launched into a rapid, barely comprehensible lecture about seams, layers, different kinds of rock and clay and how to recognise them. “That’s a good place to try,” he said, pointing to a long bar of silt and gravel just breaking the surface in the middle of the stream. “Or over there, see that large rock lodged in the side of the bank, where it’s formed that deep pool? Anywhere the silt’s likely to get trapped. Even an old tree root sticking out into the water can be worth a try. Here’s good, because we’re just downstream from where the rill comes down off the slope; means that when it rains there’s a good head of water coming down there. You need the pressure to grind the gold out of the seam. Nearer you can get to the outlet the better, of course.”
“I see,” Kunessin said, though he was exaggerating. “So, what now?”
“Take this.” He gave Kunessin the plate to hold, then plunged into the stream. “Come on,” he called back (not so nervous now, Kunessin thought), and Kunessin followed him, wincing as the cold water filled his boots; apparently, real gold-panners didn’t care about getting their footwear saturated. He understood why as his soles crunched on the gravel bed; not nice to stand on in bare feet for hours at a time.