by K. J. Parker
He stayed just behind the line while the remaining distances were shot, unwilling to go back to his place of honour until he absolutely had to. If his presence among them was a little unsettling to the other competitors, that was no bad thing. No doubt the two-hundredweight stones from the trebuchets on the land-wall towers would be more unsettling still, and they’d have to cope with them soon enough. The standard of marksmanship was really rather good. He made a mental note to call for the aggregate once the match was over, and wondered if anybody remembered any comparable scores which would help him work out whether the clan’s shooting had improved or declined over the intervening years. A conscientious chief, he reasoned, ought to know such things.
It was time for the popinjay, the grand finale. Precisely why the people of the clan found it so enthralling to see men shooting arrows at a bird tethered by its foot to the top of a fifty-yard-high mast, Temrai had never been quite sure. Perhaps it was because it was faster-paced than the conventional rounds at the marks; one shot from each competitor, and if the first man to shoot hit the target, that was the end of the competition. Maybe the thrill lay in something tangible actually getting hit and falling over – hard to be enthusiastic about hearing the gentle tock of distant arrows dropping into felt, when only the people nearest the marks could see where the shots had landed. It couldn’t be good old-fashioned bloodlust, because usually the popinjay was a leather bag stuffed with straw, dipped in glue and rolled in feathers. His own personal theory was the frisson of danger from all the arrows that didn’t hit the mark and fell erratically back to earth, as often as not landing among the spectators.
This time there was a real bird; a big tawny eagle, tethered by one foot to the masthead and protesting savagely about the indignity of it all. That would account for the more than usual excitement, since every man who’d lost kids and lambs to the mountain eagles could share in the symbolic revenge. For his part, Temrai would just as soon have shot at the bag of straw. He’d spent too many hours with the herd as a boy, vainly trying to keep the loathsome creatures at bay with shouts and stones, to feel sorry for the wretched bird, but this wasn’t pest control so much as a public execution. Besides, the straw version didn’t jiggle about so much.
One shot. He looked down at his quiver until he saw the one particular arrow he’d been looking for. It had been his favourite ever since he was young, even though it was an inch too long for him. He had no idea where it had come from; it bore the chief’s purple fletchings, but it hadn’t been made on the plains. The clan made their arrows from one piece of wood, the same diameter for the whole length of the shaft. This arrow had a cedar mainshaft spliced into a cornelwood footing, and it tapered very slightly from a point eight inches below the head down to the nock. The narrow, unusually heavy head was almost square in section, as opposed to the familiar three-sided profile favoured by the clan smiths. He had a feeling that it was very old, and had originally come via the city from Scona, where the finest bowyers and fletchers in the world made equipment for the finest archers. The fletchings were goose rather than eagle or crow, and in need of replacement fairly soon. He held it up to his eye to make sure it hadn’t warped or split, then had to jump quickly to one side to avoid a descending arrow that had caught the wind at masthead level and come straight back down again.
He had drawn the seventh shot, so he didn’t have long to wait. No real danger of winning this particular event; the specialised skill of shooting straight up in the air wasn’t one he’d ever seen any point in mastering, since it wasn’t needed in war except when you were right under the walls of a city, and he’d never mastered the knack of shooting birds on the wing. Plenty of people had, however, and five of the clan’s best birdhunters had drawn places ahead of him.
Somehow, though, they all contrived to miss, with the result that Temrai found himself standing on the line, craning his neck and staring almost straight into the sun, trying to make out the bird’s outline against the painfully bright sky. He drew and took aim in the general direction, relaxed the fingers of his right hand and got ready to let fly.
He was just about to commit to the loose when the sun dipped behind what was virtually the only cloud in the sky, giving him a clear view of the target. He felt the string biting into his fingers through the tab, and his shoulders ached. It was time to get rid of this wretched arrow. He concentrated on the bird and stopped holding the string.
Damn, he thought.
How many times had there been when he’d have given anything to have hit the mark in a popinjay shoot in front of the whole clan? More times than he cared to remember, when he’d spent days driving arrows into a felt boss hung from the side of the wagon, trying to find that last elusive touch of skill that would make the shot go exactly where he wanted it to, instead of somewhere in the general direction. As he watched the arrow strike, the bird fold up, topple and hang like a saddlebag from its tether, he cursed and wondered how such a thing could possibly happen. All he could think of was that the gods had stored up ten years’ worth of his prayers for a straight shot and then maliciously chosen to grant them now just to spite him.
There was an awkward silence as the entire clan tried to work out whether they were meant to applaud, or whether they were free to express their disapproval of so wanton a breach of etiquette. The other competitors picked up their arrows and put their bows back in their cases without a word or a glance in his direction. It would have to be the popinjay, the one event where he couldn’t magnanimously disqualify himself and let the real contestants carry on. And how in the gods’ names was he supposed to go about presenting the prize to himself?
All he could think of to say was, ‘Sorry.’
Still, nothing he could do about it now. He cased his bow and walked back to his seat. Now, of course, he had to make his speech.
He’d prepared it, and he knew it was good. First, a succinct and gracefully worded eulogy for his predecessor. Next, a formal declaration of his intention to lead the clan against the enemy, stating his reasons and motivating his people for the struggle that lay ahead. A few words on the clan’s manifest destiny, a bit of mysticism for those who expected it, and, to conclude, a nicely phrased summary and a memorable saying that folks could tell their grandchildren. He had it all off pat.
Instead, he cleared his throat and said, ‘You don’t want to listen to a lot of speeches, so here’s what we’re going to do. Once we’ve made it through the Nadsin pass, we’re going south out of our way to cut timber. We’re then going to float it down the river – we’ve never tried it before, but I know it’s been done, so we can do it – and once we’re there, we’re going to build siege engines. It’s all right, I’ve learnt how and there’s nothing to it, really. The archery’s pretty good – too good, in some cases – but we’re going to have to practise with the logs if we’re to have a hope in hell of bashing in the city gates, so I’ll want volunteers for a specialist ram detail; names to the wing leaders in the next three days. There’s a lot I haven’t thought out yet, but we’ve got time in hand, and I’ll keep you posted as we go along. That’s about it, really, so I’ll shut up and let you get on with the party. Here’s health. Oh, and if you didn’t want your eagle shot, you shouldn’t have left it there.’
It wasn’t much of a joke; but even as he sat down he knew he’d just given a new proverb to the language. A hundred years from now, men who’d let their unbranded cattle get mixed up with someone else’s herd, or whose neglected wives started to look elsewhere, would have their protests met with a smirk and, ‘Yes, well, if you didn’t want your eagle shot-’ In the meantime, he’d just spoken to his people like a chief, as opposed to a boy wearing his father’s oversized hat. He’d have his volunteers for the ram squads, and his rafts of timber floating down the river; and nobody would mutter behind his back that they reckoned Chief didn’t have a plan at all, because he’d just admitted it and that was fair enough. It was probably going to work, and it was because he’d learnt that if a target
’s there to be shot at, you shoot at it and the hell with the rules.
Sasurai hadn’t realised that; Sasurai didn’t storm Perimadeia. I do, and I will.
He was still sitting reflecting on this when they came to load up the throne and the carpets. They didn’t exactly turf him out onto the ground, but they made it clear that they had work to do and he was in the way. He apologised and left them to it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The enduring popularity enjoyed by the Patriarchs of Perimadeia with their fellow citizens was an aspect of their high office which they found baffling, endearing or infuriating, depending on how deeply they allowed themselves to think about it. Since the Patriarch was nothing more than the head of an order of philosophers and scientists engaged in research into an abstruse subject of no practical value whatsoever to the layman, there was no reason for him to be loved and admired, and that was baffling. The fact that his fellow citizens carried on loving and admiring him no matter what he did or didn’t do was certainly endearing. The discovery that his popularity was due to the universal misconception that he was some kind of official wizard whose job consisted of battling with the forces of darkness on the city’s behalf, averting swarms of malicious demons, outbreaks of plague and violent storms that might interfere with profitable commerce on the sea was invariably infuriating. After he’d been through each of these three stages, the Patriarch tended to put the matter out of his mind and think no more of it.
Nevertheless, when news of Patriarch Alexius’ serious illness became widespread there were any number of spontaneous demonstrations of public goodwill, no doubt from worried citizens who wanted him up, about and fighting demons again before anything horrible could happen. Flowers, fruit and a wide selection of good-luck charms appeared outside the doors of his lodgings every morning, well-meaning old ladies left gallons of warm, nourishing broth with the porters, and important officials of the Order who had better things to do with their time spent hours receiving delegations of smiling, noisy children bearing garlands of aromatic herbs woven by their own innocent, unskilled hands. Such was the inconvenience caused by all this unsolicited solidarity that as soon as he was well enough to stand up, Alexius was chivvied out onto a balcony and exhibited to cheering crowds in the hope that the well-meaning persecution of the last couple of months would now cease.
‘I think it’s rather moving,’ Gannadius commented as Alexius tottered back to bed, his arm cramped from half an hour of waving. ‘All these people you’ve never even met, standing outside the doors in all weathers, deluging the place with flowers-’
‘If someone could possibly explain to me how a cartload of scented weeds is supposed to cure heart disease, I could publish the cure and make a fortune,’ Alexius grunted, burrowing back under the blankets in search of any lingering traces of warmth. ‘As it is, I think I’d rather be universally loathed and get some sleep.’
‘Well, you can’t,’ Gannadius replied. ‘You have a duty to your fellow citizens, who need to love something, can’t love the government because nobody ever loves the government, and so have chosen you instead. You might at least have the good manners to be gracious about it.’
Alexius growled into his pillow. ‘You know what they’re saying?’ he retorted. ‘They’re saying I was locked in magical combat with malevolent unworldly creatures conjured up by our enemies, and that although I ultimately triumphed the struggle left me a gibbering wreck. All the effort I’ve gone to explaining that we’re not magicians-’
Gannadius smiled pleasantly. ‘Which of course makes them all the more firmly convinced that you are,’ he said. ‘Whereas if you strutted round the place in a long blue robe covered with mystic sigils, they’d dismiss you as a rank charlatan and throw eggs at you.’ He stood up. ‘You’d better get some rest. All this excitement’s making you more than usually bad-tempered.’
‘I know,’ Alexius replied. ‘Mostly I think it’s the frustration of being cooped up in here when there’s so much I should be doing-’
Gannadius frowned. ‘Nothing important,’ he said firmly. ‘Those bright-spark secretaries of yours are dealing with all the routine business – rather better than you used to, I might add – and reading up all the latest developments on the theoretical side so that I can explain them to you in baby language has meant I’ve nearly caught up myself. As for the other business-’ He looked Alexius squarely in the eye. ‘It does rather seem to have taken care of itself, now that those two have gone back to where they came from. I think we should just be grateful we’re rid of them and forget it ever happened.’
Alexius nodded slowly. The devastating reaction he’d suffered half an hour after the two Islanders had gone away was something he’d never be able to forget, but two months of lying flat on his back staring at those rather over-rated mosaics on his ceiling had helped him put the whole episode into proper perspective. With hindsight, it was fairly clear what had happened; an unfortunate coincidence of his own foolish experiments at remote cursing and the presence in the city of a natural, wielding extraordinary power within the Principle without having the faintest idea what she was doing and therefore by implication completely unable to control the effects of her interference. Once she’d gone, the reactions had stopped (just as well, or he’d unquestionably be dead by now) and it stood to reason that if there were no reactions, everything had somehow sorted itself out. As far as Gannadius’ discreet enquiries had revealed, Loredan the fencer was living a blameless and prosperous life as a trainer, the mysterious girl seemed to have vanished completely and so far at least there had been no visitations of plague or freak earthquakes. So that was all right-
(But it wasn’t, of course; however firmly he reassured himself that it was all over he couldn’t put out of his mind that terrifying feeling of being manipulated, so easily manipulated, by someone who handled every aspect of the Principle with the dexterity and confidence of Bardas Loredan with his favourite sword. And it wasn’t the girl herself, he was sure of that, and it couldn’t have been her rather ordinary brother, or anybody who lived in the city, come to that – so who could it have been? And, more disturbing still, why?)
‘I’ll be going, then,’ Gannadius said. ‘I’ll see you-Ah, here’s Delmatius with your letters. No rest for the wicked, after all.’
Alexius smothered a groan as his pushiest, most bustling young secretary entered the room. Gannadius, quite sensibly, fled and left him to cope as best he could on his own.
‘Nothing much to bother you with today,’ the young man chirruped, dumping a thick wad of parchments on Alexius’ lap and balancing the candle precariously beside him. ‘Encyclical letters to the archimandrites on the new doctrinal protocols-’
‘What new doctrinal protocols? And since when did we have doctrines? We’re scientists, not priests-’
Delmatius gave him a patient look, making it clear that Alexius was being suffered gladly. ‘I explained it all last week,’ he said. ‘About the general conclave resolving the synthesis-diathesis debate by simply reducing the agreed number of elemental principles from seven to six. It’s all quite…’
‘Marvellous,’ Alexius grumbled. ‘It’s perfectly all right to change the laws of nature provided it’s done by a democratic vote. I think it’s high time I got out of this bed and put a stop to all this nonsense.’
‘Don’t you even think of it,’ Delmatius replied with ferocious jollity. ‘You even set foot to floor and the doctors’ll skin you alive. Anyway, that’s them,’ he went on, separating one thick sheaf of documents and waving another under his nose. ‘This lot here’s just decretals and your private correspondence.’
While Alexius was sealing the letters and trying to concentrate on not setting his bedding alight with the candle, Delmatius told him the latest news.
‘They do say,’ he twittered, ‘that the clans are up to no good again. If you ask me, it’s high time something was done about them.’
Alexius, who had just spilt hot wax on the back of his hand, looked
up. ‘Really? Such as what?’
‘Send an army,’ Delmatius replied. ‘Clean ’em out once and for all. I mean to say, it just doesn’t make sense, having hordes of savages right there on our doorstep.’
Six years ago, Alexius recalled, Delmatius had been on a boat crossing the Middle Sea from the unlovely city-state of Blemmya, along with a couple of hundred other refugees who’d been thrown out for having big noses and the wrong colour hair. To this day he was capable of getting lost between the Carters’ Bridge and the City Academy. It was pleasing to think that in six short years he’d recovered so completely from his nasty dose of human intolerance that he could now cheerfully recommend the mindless persecution of others. ‘I didn’t think we still had an army,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m sure I’d have noticed if we had.’
‘There’s the levy,’ Delmatius explained, ‘and the city guard, of course. More than enough to teach a mob of savages a good lesson. Apparently they’re playing some game or other upriver. Hauling great rafts of logs, would you believe. Load of nonsense, it goes without saying. I mean,’ he added, with a grin, ‘what would a lot of savages want with a riverful of logs?’
Loredan, having been asked roughly the same question, forebore to answer. He was mending one of the practice foils with sailmaker’s twine and glue, which gave him an excuse for not having heard.
‘Apparently,’ Athli went on, ‘there’s talk of sending out an expeditionary force, under that man – oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue.’
‘Do me a favour and put your finger just there – no, there, that’s it – while I slap some glue on this. Careful, it’s sticky.’
‘Maxen, that’s it. General Maxen. They say his name’s a legend out on the plains.’
Loredan frowned and dipped his brush in the glue pot. ‘He’s dead,’ he replied. ‘Been dead for twelve years now.’