by K. J. Parker
Actually, it seemed reasonable enough; don’t make any loud noises, you might wake them up. ‘People in the city are saying it can only have been done by magic,’ said the Prefect, with a quick scowl at the Patriarch. ‘We’re putting a stop to that kind of talk, of course; terrible effect on morale.’ He paused and gazed out at the awesome sight in front of him; from his expression, it was quite possible that the Prefect subscribed to the magic theory. ‘I shall want an explanation of how this was allowed to happen,’ he added. Loredan ignored him.
‘Has it occurred to anybody to ask them what they want?’ he said.
‘I’d have thought that was obvious,’ the Lord Lieutenant drawled. ‘I don’t believe they’re here to try and sell us carpets.’
‘It’s worth a try,’ Loredan replied evenly. ‘At the very least, we might get a good look at this remarkable young chief of theirs. I’d be interested in seeing what he looks like.’ He stopped talking and rubbed his chin, feeling the bristles against the ball of his thumb. ‘Talking of which, has anybody actually seen one of them yet? Looks to me like they’re still in bed.’ He looked round. ‘Where’s Garantzes? Is he here?’
The Chief Engineer stepped forward. Damn it, how come he was looking so spruce and military at this unholy hour?
‘Chief Engineer,’ he went on, ‘how far away would you say those tents are from here?’
The engineer frowned. ‘Six hundred yards,’ he replied, ‘possibly a fraction less. Well out of range, if that’s what you were thinking.’
‘Right.’ Loredan nodded. ‘Pity. Still, we might as well say good morning, while we’re here.’ He beckoned to the bridgehouse Captain. ‘Get that new trebuchet wound up, will you? Quick as you like. And someone send down for a twenty-five-pound stone and one of those big wicker baskets with straps on the lid.’
Trying to aim an underweight missile from a trebuchet over twice its normal operational range wasn’t an experiment Loredan had bothered to conduct. Fortunately, the camp was a large target. The stone flew from the hemp and rawhide sling, shedding the basket (which was only there to make it big enough to fly cleanly out of the sling) and rising almost impossibly high before plummeting down and landing destructively on an empty wagon just inside the extreme western edge of the camp.
The effect was quite satisfying. The thump and crash brought men running from the nearby tents; a pity they were too far away for their faces to be visible, but the way they stood for a moment before running off again in all directions was eloquent enough. They had been confident that they were well out of range, and here was evidence that they weren’t. It was quite some time before it occurred to them that it had been a fairly small stone, and there hadn’t been any others, whereupon they came out again. Now, with luck, they’ll go and wake the chief, Loredan said to himself. We might even find out where his tent is. I don’t see why he should have a nice lie-in if I can’t.
‘Temrai,’ gasped a voice in his dream, ‘they’ve started shooting.’
He woke up, lifted his head, opened his eyes. It wasn’t a dream any more; there was a young lad he didn’t recognise standing half-in and half-out of the tent flap. ‘What do you mean, shooting?’ he asked blearily. ‘And who the hell let me go to sleep? There’s so much I ought to be…’
‘They’re throwing rocks into the camp,’ the boy interrupted frantically. ‘From that big tower over the bridge. I saw it with my own eyes.’
Temrai was up out of his chair in a matter of seconds. ‘That’s impossible,’ he said. ‘We’re well out of range. They can’t have anything that powerful, surely.’
The boy led the way. Already the place was like an ants’ nest, just after the first slosh of boiling water has hit it. The scurrying people stopped in their tracks when they saw Temrai coming, and fell ominously silent. Gods, they’re blaming me, he thought, quickening his pace. But it’s still impossible. Nothing could pitch a two hundredweight block of stone over six hundred yards; it’d have to be a trebuchet, and you couldn’t make one with an arm strong enough to bear the counterweight, not to mention the devastating stresses on the frame. The thing would have to be as tall as a mountain; you’d never find trees tall enough to make it from.
‘There,’ the boy said excitedly, and Temrai saw that he was pointing at a wagon. It wasn’t exactly an inspiring sight; one side was splintered, an axle was cracked and the rear wheel on that side was missing a couple of spokes.
‘Well?’ Temrai said.
‘There!’ the boy repeated. Temrai looked more closely, and saw that there was a small rock partially buried in the ground beside it. For a moment he stood looking at it, wondering if there might be a connection. Then he realised what had happened.
‘Is that all?’ he said, relieved.
Everyone was looking at him.
‘Well,’ he went on, ‘just look at it. It’s nothing more than a pebble, compared to proper trebuchet shot. Think, will you? It takes twenty minutes to wind those things up, and the best they could do with stones that size would be pick us off one by one. They’d all be old men before they did us any significant damage.’
They carried on looking at him. Nobody actually said it – Yes, but suppose I’m the one the next rock hits – but they didn’t need to. Temrai went closer, picked the rock up and dropped it again. Most of all he was thinking about what he’d just said; significant damage, a military expression meaning thousands of dead people rather than just hundreds. It wasn’t all that long ago that one old woman being swept away when they crossed a river constituted a national disaster.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘here’s what we’ll do.’
The second shot of the war sailed over the city wall, clearing the rampart by a few inches, dropped in the gutter and was buried in horse manure up to its blue and white duckfeather fletchings. It was an arrow from the bow of a fast-moving mounted archer, riding a zigzag pattern directly under the arms of the wall-mounted engines, right up to the causeway opposite the drawbridge. He’d loosed his arrow at the gallop, wheeled flamboyantly round and hurtled back. Nobody shot at him, loosed off a catapult or even called him a rude name; the towers of the city seemed as indifferent to his escapade as the trees of a forest are to the scamperings of a squirrel.
‘What was all that in aid of?’ somebody asked, breaking the silence.
‘Bravado,’ someone else replied, picking the arrow fastidiously out of the dung by its nock and handing it at arm’s length to a clerk from the Office of Records. ‘Go and put that in a museum somewhere,’ he said with distaste. ‘One of these days it might be worth something, if you wash the horseshit off it first.’
Loredan nodded. ‘First round to us, anyway,’ he said. ‘We win the opening exchange of melodramatic and futile gestures. Now we’ve got their attention, let’s go and see if they want to talk.’
While the Security Council were bickering about who should make up the embassy, things started to happen down on the plain. A line of huge rafts appeared on the river, each one tying up as close to the camp as it could get. The rafts were laden with stacks of timber; you didn’t need to be an engineer to recognise the components of torsion engines.
Somebody on the wall noticed, and the word was passed down to Loredan, who left the squabbling diplomats and scampered up the stairs to the nearest tower.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘We can do something about that. Run to the harbour and get three light cutters ready for immediate action. We can sink those rafts where they stand; or rather,’ he added, ‘we can tow a couple upstream and scuttle them, so the river’ll be blocked. We’ll see how they get on if they’ve got to carry all that stuff five miles on their backs.’
He’d hardly finished speaking when someone tugged his sleeve and pointed. One of the rafts had pulled in on the right-hand bank, not far upstream of the bridge causeway. As Loredan watched, the rafters unshipped one end of a thick, heavy chain. Other men from the same raft set about sawing through a substantial oak tree that grew beside the water. Hell, Loredan
muttered to himself, they’re ahead of me again. They’re going to block the river off with that chain so we can’t get at the rafts. ‘Tell ’em to forget about the cutters,’ he called down the stairs. ‘These people are brighter than I thought.’
The embassy rode out across the drawbridge; ten members of the Council escorted by thirty heavy cavalry, with a captain of the guard riding ahead with the flag of truce.
‘I suppose they know what a white flag means,’ muttered the Lord Lieutenant nervously. ‘We know what it means, but do they?’
‘Well, I don’t know, do I?’ the Prefect muttered back. ‘You’d better ask Loredan, he’s the one who knows these people.’
Loredan pretended he hadn’t heard; let them worry, it might encourage them to keep quiet while he tried to parley. Not that he had much hope of success. It didn’t seem likely that this large and splendidly equipped army had come all this way and gone to all this trouble just to negotiate more favourable tariffs on imported manufactures. As far as he was concerned, there was only one thing to be achieved, but it was quite possibly the key to the defence of the city. He wanted to see the other man.
Because the enemy you’ve seen is the least of your problems.
The approach of the embassy caused a stir in the camp, where the clan was only just calming itself down after the shock of Loredan’s pebble. Another boy – a different one this time – came running full tilt to the landing area, where Temrai was going over the unloading routines with the men he’d put in charge.
‘Horsemen,’ the boy said, thereby gaining the attention of everyone present. ‘Forty of them, heading this way.’
Uncle Anakai broke the silence. ‘Either they’re being mean with their resources today, or they want to talk,’ he said. ‘Are they carrying a white flag?’
The boy looked uncertain. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘They’ve got a standard, I think, but I didn’t notice what colour.’
‘A white flag means they want to talk,’ Temrai explained. ‘It’s some sort of primitive Perimadeian belief – a bit of old shirt tied to a stick makes you arrowproof. One of these days I’d love to test it scientifically.’
Uncle Anakai grinned. ‘Are you going to talk to them?’ he asked. ‘There doesn’t seem much point to me.’
Temrai, who had been crouching on his knees drawing a diagram in the mud with a stick, stood up and wiped his hands off on his trousers. ‘On the contrary, Uncle An,’ he said. ‘This is a stroke of luck I hadn’t expected. It gives us a chance to take a good look at who we’re up against.’
One of the engineers raised an eyebrow. ‘You mean that’s their leaders out there? Why don’t we kill ’em now? Take out their entire high command before the battle starts.’
Temrai shook his head. ‘And then we’ll be back where we were, fighting against generals we know nothing about. No, let’s go and talk to them, get an idea of how their minds work. Best behaviour, everyone. Remember, ears open and mouths shut.’
The two parties met just in front of the camp. Not to be outdone, Temrai had brought with him fifteen counsellors, fifty horsemen and three white flags, hastily manufactured out of captured bedlinen. At the last moment, he nudged his cousin Kasadai in the ribs and whispered, ‘You be me, all right?’
‘What?’
‘Pretend you’re me. Don’t want them to know who I am. All right?’
Kasadai shrugged. ‘You’re the boss. What shall I say if they ask me things?’
‘Whatever you like. Thanks, Kas.’ Temrai dropped back, shifted his otterskin cap a little further down over his face and let Kasadai ride to the head of the party.
As the two groups converged, Loredan spurred ahead, dropped his reins and folded his arms across his chest. ‘All right,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘Which one of you monkeys is in charge here?’
After only a tiny moment’s hesitation, Kasadai rode forward. He cleared his throat. ‘I am Temrai Tai-me-Mar,’ he said impressively, ‘son of Sasurai. What do you want?’
Loredan smiled at him contemptuously. ‘No, you’re not,’ he said. ‘You’re too old. The new chief’s a snot-nosed kid, everyone knows that. Must be you, the one wearing a dead rat on his head. Come over here where we can talk without bellowing.’
After a long embarrassed silence Temrai rode forward. ‘I’m Temrai,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’
Loredan squinted at him. ‘I know you from somewhere,’ he said. ‘Hopeless with names, but faces I don’t forget. Got it; you’re that clumsy kid from the arsenal, the one who bust my sign.’
Temrai nodded slightly, his eyes as cold as steel in winter. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I remember you, too. I’m pleased to see my enemies have a drunk for a general.’
Loredan grinned broadly. ‘That’s a good one,’ he said. ‘I must remember that. Anyway, enough small talk. We’ll let you withdraw in good order on two conditions. One, you burn those contraptions you’ve got over there before you go. Two, you pay me what you owe me for my sign. Deal?’
He was trying to maintain eye contact, stare the other man down; but it wasn’t easy. Just then, he’d have preferred it if Temrai had been looking at him down a sword blade, even if he’d been unarmed himself. He’d have known where he stood. But the boy’s eyes were painfully steady, as unwavering as that head-case girl’s sword-tip that night in the Schools.
‘I don’t forget faces either,’ Temrai said at last. ‘Since you won’t do me the courtesy of telling me your name, I shall just have to remember your face. I hope we’ll meet again.’
Loredan yawned. ‘I’m going to have to take that as a no, I think,’ he replied. ‘Pity. You haven’t a hope in hell, and an awful lot of your people are going to die. Not that I care a stuff about that; but some of mine’ll get hurt too, and I’d rather have prevented that, if I could. Ah, well, on your head be it.’
‘Accepted,’ Temrai said.
‘One last thing, though,’ Loredan went on, ‘since I’ve got you here and you’ll probably run away before we capture you, so we may not meet again – out of interest, why are you doing this?’
Temrai stared at him for a long time before answering. ‘It’s personal,’ he said.
‘Personal? That’s it? You’re leading your tribe to certain death because you’re miffed with us about something?’
Temrai nodded. ‘That’s about it,’ he said. ‘Actually, I’m grateful to you for reminding me. I was beginning to ask myself the same question; now I find I can remember the answer.’
Loredan pulled his horse’s head round. ‘Be like that, then,’ he said. ‘See if I care. You still owe me for my sign.’
‘You’ll get what’s owing to you,’ Temrai said. ‘I’ll see to that myself.’
To his credit, the City Prefect waited until they were out of earshot of Temrai’s party before he launched into his attack.
‘What in hell’s name did you think you were playing at?’ he hissed furiously. ‘If that’s your idea of diplomacy-’
‘It was a gambit,’ Loredan replied mildly. ‘An aggressive opening, like taking guard in the City fence. I found out what I wanted to know.’
‘I’m so pleased,’ the Prefect replied. ‘Perhaps you’d care to share this priceless intelligence with the rest of us, because I’m damned if I can see what was achieved back there. And what was all that nonsense about owing you for a sign?’
Loredan smiled wanly. ‘All perfectly true,’ he sighed. ‘And that’s five quarters I won’t see again in a hurry. You want to know what I’ve learnt? I’ll tell you. First, there’s no traitor who’s been selling arsenal secrets to the enemy; six months or so ago, that kid was working in the arsenal as a swordsmith. Now we know why. I guess we can say we taught him all he knows.’
The Prefect started to say something, but didn’t. Loredan nodded.
‘Second,’ he said, ‘that boy is clever. Grown up a lot, too; well, I suppose becoming chief of the clan might do that to a kid. Anybody who’s capable of carrying away the full specif
ications of all our major military engines in his head and then getting a tribe of nomads who’ve never done anything like it before to build a collection of engines like theirs is clearly not someone to be taken lightly. Now that’s justified this trip on its own.’
The Prefect bit his lip, and nodded. ‘I agree,’ he said.
‘Good. Now, third. Here’s a history lesson for you. Twelve years ago, Maxen attacked the chief’s caravan – that was when this lad’s father, Sasurai, was in charge – and we wiped out most of the royal household. To be honest, we thought we’d got the lot, all his living relatives in one go, all part of Maxen’s destabilisation policy; leave no obvious heir to the throne, result – civil war when the old man dies. Obviously we didn’t get them all, because the lad who pretended to be our man called himself Temrai, son of Sasurai. Also, when I asked him why he was doing this, he said it was personal.’ Loredan sucked his lower lip thoughtfully. ‘He wasn’t kidding, either. If he’s Sasurai’s son, then we killed his entire family, except for him and the old man. The fact of the matter is, he’s got no choice. He’s got to do what he’s doing, and the clan’ll know that. Which means they aren’t going to get bored and go away if they don’t carry the city at their first attempt.’ He shook his head. ‘I’d already guessed this was all to do with Maxen’s war. I hadn’t realised till now it was this serious.’
‘Anything else?’ the Prefect asked.
‘A bit more. Our boy isn’t impressed by bluster, and he doesn’t lose his temper. That’s worth knowing. He’s in full control, as far as I can judge; there were plenty of clan dignitaries there, but none of them said anything apart from Temrai. That implies they’ll do what he tells them to. We might try and figure out whether there’s a way of breaking that, something we can do to turn them against him, but I wouldn’t hold out much hope of that.’
As soon as they were inside the city, Loredan called for Garantzes and told him to break up the causeway opposite the drawbridge. Soon afterwards, four torsion engines on the eastern bastions were let slip, and the causeway became a tangled mess of splintered logs and planks. It was an impressive display of artillery work, and Loredan hoped that Temrai had been watching. On the other hand, he felt it was a little depressing to think that the first part of the destruction of the city had been accomplished on his direct order. He rather hoped it wasn’t an indication of what was to come.