Dangerous Offspring

by Steph Swainston

  ‘Here’s something different,’ said Lightning, and twisted around to shout at Cyan. ‘Look! The Ghallain gauchos!’

  They sped past us and barged into Shivel’s column at the gate. Annoyed shouts drifted back. More gauchos charged past. Their saddles were low and minimal, with gaudy numnah rugs underneath, and hoppers full of feathered javelins hanging on both sides. They had gathered transparent Insect wings and lashed them to their cruppers. They had tied on Insect heads by the antennae; and dragged the rest of the carcass behind them on lariats.

  A man with a wide scarf around his face rode at their fore, his white trousers tucked into leather chaps. He pulled his horse round so tightly it reared. It pranced up to us sideways, spitting foam. It was so high-spirited it looked like it was about to fly.

  ‘Vir Ghallain!’ I shouted.

  ‘Salutations, Comet. Lightning, long time no see.’

  ‘Good to see you,’ Lightning managed in Plainslands.

  ‘And I you! And I you! Here are my cavalry, owing to San. Do with them what you will. If you can!’

  I said, ‘What about your infantry? Where are your draftees? They must be weeks behind!’

  Governor Vir pulled his scarf fully down from his mouth and said in a singsong accent, ‘They are! My steward, he leads them! Has Brandoch arrived yet?’

  ‘Not by a long way,’ I said.

  Vir turned to an excitable man in a loose headscarf who turfed his horse to a halt beside us. ‘Ull, you see, we beat Brandoch. That’s fifty pounds you owe me.’ He pointed back up the queue. ‘San is here. For San to be here this must be the motherfucker of all battles, we said.’ He jigged up and down in his worn saddle. ‘We can’t miss it. Let’s see which of us lives!’

  ‘You’re a nutter, Vir Ghallain,’ I said.

  ‘Nutter enough to Challenge you one day! And put some clothes on. Hey! Hey!’ This last to his horse, which bounded forward and he had his back to me before I could take my next breath. Yet more hurtled up the line, churning the muddy ground either side of the road.

  ‘Incredible,’ said Cyan.

  ‘Ranchers,’ I said.

  ‘There are thousands.’

  ‘Hundreds. He isn’t a lord governor,’ said Lightning.

  I said, ‘If you ask me, they’re all little kings within the bounds of their manors. They–’

  ‘Hush, Jant! Look!’

  On the road, Shivel’s green livery was thinning out, and behind them, all was scarlet.

  ‘By god, the Emperor. In armour.’

  ‘I can scarcely believe it.’

  The last few lines of Shivel men kept glancing back. They saw the Emperor mounted on black Alezane, with the banners licking the air above him like forked tongues. Shivel men slowed down, walked their horses off the road and stood watching.

  As they parted, the Imperial Fyrd rode through, and more of Shivel’s infantry gave way before them. I glanced at Lightning; he nodded, and we urged our horses through the crowd.

  The Emperor saw us and reined his horse in. Tornado, a step behind him on his right, the standard bearers, and the whole Imperial Fyrd slowed to a halt.

  Lightning dismounted and threw himself at the Emperor’s feet, on both knees. I heard his greaves grind on the cobbles. I stepped my leg over Pangare’s saddle, hopped to the ground and knelt beside him. A couple of quick jingles behind me told me Cyan had done the same.

  Seeing us, all the Shivel fyrd dismounted and knelt in a great swathe either side of the road.

  Lightning and I looked up to San’s face, clean-shaven and expressionless. He wore an open-faced sallet helmet that pushed his fine white hair close to his hollow cheeks, but the wind blew the ends that protruded from underneath.

  Every plate of his armour was lustrous–enamelled white with no ornament but the fastenings of a billowing white silk cloak. Suns were damascened on the bare steel scabbard of his ancient broadsword which hung with his shield from the saddlebow.

  I managed one glance and bowed my head again.

  Peach-coloured shafts of sunlight shone between our horses’ sinewy legs. Their musty, sweaty bellies and withers hemmed us in, their hair brushed against the grain in dark streaks, their hocks covered in drying mud. Their shadows were no more than small patches directly beneath them. Pangare flipped her docked tail and pawed the road too close to my head. I looked up to the underside of the Emperor’s horse’s long chin, as it chewed its bit imperiously.

  The first company of the Imperial Fyrd raised a cheer, then the second company, then the third, and when all ten companies had cheered separately, the five hundred men cheered together; a great, deafening wordless roar that went on and on until San raised his free hand. The cheering straggled into silence.

  ‘My lord,’ said Lightning, so dry-mouthed I could hear his tongue clicking. ‘I’m sorry–we are–that it’s come to this. Please…And we’ll…We will bring the Insects under control. We will mend our error.’

  San rested his reins on his scrollwork saddlebow. ‘Lightning, Comet, to your feet. Every second we stay the numbers in our rearguard diminish.’

  San’s long limbs were encased in armour and, once I’d recovered from the shock of seeing that he actually did have legs, I noticed how thin they were; no muscles on his shanks at all. He must be wearing the cloak to make himself look bigger. I risked a closer glance and saw beads of sweat on his neck. He must be feeling the exertion of wearing armour and riding after fourteen hundred years in the Castle, but it did not tell in his noble bearing. He showed no sign of strain on his face: his self-control was absolute. He conveyed the same majesty under the open skies as he did sitting at the focal point of the Throne Room.

  The pennant-bearers behind him were whey-pale and poker-faced, their jaws clenched, their mouths firm lines. They were telling themselves this wasn’t happening. Their set expressions were partly pride that such a role had fallen to them, part anxiety from riding for days in far too close proximity to the Emperor, but mostly the blank-eyed denial of men determined to carry out a job they really didn’t want to do.

  The Emperor asked Lightning, ‘Have Insects flown again?’

  ‘They flew every day for three days. There have been no more flights since.’

  ‘Good. I must talk with Frost immediately.’

  I stammered, ‘Er, Frost has changed. She’s…well…she’s somewhat stressed.’

  ‘Is she still the best architect?’

  ‘Um…I think so.’

  ‘She will be the Architect until she loses a Challenge. I will make a new Lawyer, Artillerist and Master of Horse from the best in the town to complete the Circle. We will need them in the coming days, but when times are easier I will open their positions to worldwide competition.’ San gestured for Lightning to ride on his left, level with Tornado. The Strongman was calm-faced and expressionless, looking straight ahead, his hands invisible under the circular vamplate on his axe haft.

  Lightning beckoned to Cyan with a smile, asking her to join him, but she turned her face away. She seemed overwhelmed.

  San said, ‘Comet, ride ahead and announce our entry to the town.’

  I don’t remember climbing back onto Pangare but I must have done because the next instant I was on a level with the Emperor’s face. I gave a quick nod and with shaking hands I unlaced my dented post horn from the saddle, where it shone like a New Year’s decoration. I gave Pangare a single word and she leapt down the road.

  Behind me the whole Imperial Fyrd and Shivel fyrd began to move again, with the jingle of tack and clop of hooves.

  The Emperor San here! I thought as I rode. The Emperor San in armour! I had seen his white panoply before; it was displayed, by tradition, in the Castle’s armoury but nobody ever thought he would actually wear it.

  When a new Armourer joins the Circle it is always his first honour to make a perfect suit of armour for the Emperor to the highest specifications, copying the measurements of the last. Sleat had put so much effort into creating San’s perfect armou
r that I am surprised he ever made anything again.

  I heralded San’s arrival into Slake Cross. People lined the roadside, leant out of windows, clustered in the hoardings, stood on the new earth ramparts. I slowed and cantered Pangare through the gatehouse arch, and hundreds of people dropped to their knees in a great swathe as I passed. I could get used to this.

  CHAPTER 18

  I rose before dawn and went to the washroom to have a powder bath. Those of us who have wings moult and re-grow flight feathers continuously, one or two at a time, but in the last few months I had lost six or seven, leaving me with great gaps in my wings. It made flying more laborious and I was at the stage of exhaustion when, no matter how much I ate, my meals didn’t provide energy any more. San had asked me to sleep in a pavilion in the canvas city because he thought my presence might curtail the fyrd’s drinking (ha!), the inter-manor rivalries, brawling and petty theft breaking out there.

  As I rubbed handfuls of talcum powder between my feathers I reconsidered the problems of the last few days. I had been gathering information for the Emperor, everyone was bombarding me with questions, and I had to think one step ahead. The Rachiswater fyrd vied with Tanager, and the Carniss fyrd stole things from everybody. The Awndyn fyrd had been arriving all night, stomping past my tent. The carpenters had been hammering, by firelight, while the Emperor slept–presumably–in my bed. It was bloody bizarre. On the positive side, he had waived most of the formal courtesies, so I spent less time kneeling on the floor.

  The powder relieved some of my itching. I took a shower, preened and oiled my feathers into a glossy iridescence. I tied back my hair in wet black rat-tails, lit a cigarette and returned to the hall feeling much more relaxed.

  The hall had become a small, austere version of the Throne Room. Most of the Eszai were listening attentively as the Emperor, with Tornado and Frost beside him, discussed our situation.

  Tornado was so huge that usually his very gravity pulled everyone’s attention towards him, but now he managed to look humble and our concentration focused on San’s gaunt figure. Nobody dared question the Strongman’s self-styled role as San’s bodyguard, testimony to his profound faith although I thought he was overdoing it.

  Frost, on the other hand, looked cadaverous. She spoke clearly although much too fast: ‘M-my lord–I have estimated the number of eggs in the lake. Given the parameters my approximation is, of necessity, rough. Rayne dissected an Insect and and and she thinks they’re hermaphrodite. I have calculated the capacity of air w-which one Insect needs to fly, then figured the dimensions of the flight, and therefore the number of Insects in that volume of air, and what percentage reach the lake, and since they seem to contain between ninety-eight and one hundred and fifty eggs, assuming all eggs are v-v-viable, I–’

  ‘Frost,’ the Emperor said gently.

  She bit at a crooked finger. ‘Um…between seven million, eight hundred and eleven thousand, six hundred and twenty-one, and–’

  ‘I see,’ said San. ‘Seven million Insect spawn.’

  ‘Nearly eight, yes.’ She gave a quick nod and continued. ‘I estimate three hundred thousand five hundred and twelve adult Insects in the v-vicinity of the lake. They defend it so vigorously that no lancer has m-managed to reach the shore. My only suggestion is that we open the d-dam gate and d-drain the lake.’

  The Emperor said, ‘Does anybody have an alternative proposal?’

  Silence around the room. Most eyes were downcast, including mine. ‘Very well,’ the Emperor continued. ‘We shall march to the dam. Frost, what do you need?’

  ‘Twenty draft horses–to be harnessed in two teams of ten–and and and sufficient troops to clear the way.’

  ‘Very well.’

  Frost sat down again, muttering, ‘Two, eight, five hundred and twelve, one hundred and thirty-four million–’

  ‘Comet?’ said San. It was my turn to rise. ‘Yes, my lord?’

  ‘What new troops do we have? What manor is currently arriving?’

  ‘Fescue, my lord. Lord Governor Darnel Fescue came in last night with the musters of Fiorin and Melick, both Select and General. They’re mostly infantry and shield fyrd, with a few thousand archers. I’ve put some on escort duty. Marram muster is coming in now and the others will be arriving all through today.’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Twenty-two thousand. Behind them, probably after dusk, will come a division of felons under guard from Hacilith’s jails. I’m lodging them in Lowespass Fortress. We can discount some manors from our plans: Cathee takes six weeks to raise troops, and Brandoch’s infantry will be coming in last, if at all. When I visited, the governor was away touring his musters for the biannual assizes. I had to go around all his reeves’ halls till I found him. But I’m expecting the remnants tomorrow.’

  ‘Is our provisioning adequate? Where is Cloud?’

  Tre Cloud stood up, in the front row. He was an energetic, sinewy Grass Islander who never seemed to need any rest. He pulled his cloth cap from his crew-cut head and twisted it between his hands as he spoke. ‘The rationing will have to continue. I have requested grain throughout the Fourlands. All our depots in Lowespass are empty and the bastle farms have mostly been ransacked. I’ve ordered all the goods being unloaded to be sealed so their scent doesn’t attract Insects. The carts coming up from Rachiswater all have armed protection, and my agents are licensed so no one can defraud us or buy in our name.’

  ‘What about lodging?’

  The Cook shoved the cap into a pocket in his striped apron. ‘We’re extending the encampment. The barracks in Whittorn is full. I sent men there until the reeve sent letters back saying he couldn’t accommodate any more. I’m glad it’s unseasonably cold because the towns are overcrowding. We can’t keep so many people together for much longer. Not to mention the lake, it’s a potential pool of infection.’

  He continued, very self-assured. After all, he had won his Challenge by provisioning these forts–with the world’s best cassoulet which the troops much preferred to the previous Cook’s pork stew.

  While he was speaking, a movement on the steps caught my eye. Cyan had crept down from the upper storey. She peered around the stone newel post, but Lightning was the only one to acknowledge her. He swung his arms unfolded happily and gave her a smile. She straightened up, glided towards me, and settled beside me on the bench.

  ‘We must determine the order of the advance,’ the Emperor said. ‘Tell me your suggestions.’

  Tornado said, ‘Infantry. Lots of infantry with axes and so on. That’s our best bet.’

  Wrenn said, ‘I agree, but swords are lighter to wield for a day’s march.’

  ‘A swift cavalry charge,’ said the new Master of Horse. ‘That way we’ll break through ’em.’

  ‘No, no,’ said Wrenn. ‘If I only had the pick of the resources, I’m sure my approach would be best.’

  ‘Well, you don’t have the pick of the resources.’

  Lightning rolled his eyes: here they all bloody go again.

  Lourie Hurricane, the Polearms Master, spoke. Lourie was usually so silent that on the few occasions he opens his mouth everybody listens, knowing he will say something well thought out and worthwhile. ‘The advance should be led by a pike phalanx as best adapted to open ground. We have ten thousand trained pikemen from Rachiswater, Litanee and Eske. My Lord Emperor, they will provide maximum protection to the rest of the host following.’

  San asked Tornado, ‘Do you agree with Hurricane’s suggestion?’

  Tornado considered it. ‘Yes, my lord.’ I could barely see his eyes, shadowed as they were in a deep mass of wrinkles. The rest of his round face was smooth with no wrinkles whatsoever–perhaps they gathered to make a determined assault on his eyes. He reminded me of one of the massive columnar stalagmites in the caves below the town. The signs of constant physical endurance had worn into his face just as surely as water carves clefts in rock; I could imagine him formed of living flowstone. By a slow, cold process, in a ca
vern stifled by darkness, water that looks clear but is saturated with dissolved rock drips to the ground and precipitates, building a sullen soldier from the feet up. Trickles run down the outside of the column depositing a trail of wet stone, that over millennia grows lumpen and irregular to form his paunch and buttocks. The hollows in the sides of his elbows and knees are smooth solution pockets. Random drips of hard water give him a physiognomy and knuckles. Then with a great heave he tears one foot and the other free of the bedrock and walks off to fight Insects. Tornado could be crystallised loyalty. With a beer gut.

  ‘Lightning?’ said the Emperor.

  Lightning had been smiling at Cyan and he jumped. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Do you agree with Hurricane’s proposition?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What arrow-power can you supply?’

  ‘Well…We have forty thousand archers, ten thousand crossbow men. I will not use crossbows on the field because they cannot shoot indirectly. We will shoot blind over the pikemen’s ranks and eliminate Insects immediately in front of the advance. I’m sure the Polearms Master and Javelin Master will agree. However, we need Tornado’s infantry to flank us. We have long used this technique with sarissai, akontistai and hastai…I mean, pikemen, javelin men and heavy infantry.’

  Cyan was frustrated. She leant to me and asked, under her breath, ‘What are the plans? What does he mean?’

  I gave an irritated little gesture to quiet her.

  ‘I want to take part,’ she said. ‘I’ll lead my fyrd as a great governor should.’

  ‘Well, listen and you might learn something.’

  ‘Just what I’d expect from a glorified errand boy.’