Devices and Desires e-1

by K. J. Parker

  He thought about manpower. Building a road, then unloading, then carrying the machines; he needed sentries on those vulnerable approaches, and a fighting reserve in case he was attacked. He didn't have nearly enough men (which was just as well, given the food situation) and he was already horribly late. It didn't take much imagination to visualise the main expeditionary force pushing on to its assigned position, confident of artillery cover that wouldn't be there. The map had done for him, just as he knew it would one day.

  He sent Stesimbracus away with the sentries, mostly because he was getting to the point where he couldn't stand the sight of him any more. That meant he had to put stolid, stupid Lieutenant Ariophrantzes in charge of the road party, while he perched on the edge of the combe doing nothing with the fighting reserve. That looked bad, he knew. The men would think he was skiving, when he ought to be down on the slope, digging or lugging baskets. But Ariophrantzes couldn't be trusted to command the reserve if there was an attack; it was a tactical nightmare in any case, because any enemy with a functional brain would use the terrain to attack in front and at the side, possibly from the rear as well if there were other gullies and ravines he hadn't spotted yet. One thing he could do: he gave orders for two dozen of the war engines to be assembled, fitted to their field carriages, and set up on the highest point of the lip. If he had to carry the wretched things, he might as well use them.

  As four days dragged on into six, and half-rations had to be further reduced, and the road party's progress gradually slowed, he became convinced that there'd be an attack. It was obvious, the logical thing. It went without saying that the Eremians must have scouts out, watching every single thing he did. They'd know that he'd be at his most vulnerable when the road party were almost at the bottom of the canyon. First they'd attack the reserve, kill them or drive them off. The road party, practically defenceless, could then be slaughtered at leisure, the engines brought down the road Eiconodoulus had so obligingly built and carried off in triumph to Eremia. Anybody, some nobleman's idiot nephew, could devise an effective strategy for that. Defending against it, on the other hand… At the back of his mind, Eiconodoulus knew it was possible, but he also knew that he wasn't a good enough tactician to do it. Probably they'd write up the disaster in the military textbooks-his place in history-and cadets would be taught what he should have done (blindingly obvious, no doubt, with hindsight) as an awful warning against over-confidence. It amused him that he didn't even know the name of this place, though he'd be remembered in the same breath as it for ever. Meanwhile, the Eremians would be inspired by their miraculous victory, the Mezentines would be stunned by the worst defeat in their history, and all because some fool couldn't draw a decent map, though nobody would remember that in two hundred years' time.

  The digging party reached the bottom of the combe, and no sign of any enemy. Eiconodoulus merely found that insulting; as well as building the road for them, he had to lug the stupid machines down it just to save them the effort. He thought about that for a while; and yes, it was blindingly obvious. They wanted the two dozen engines dismantled and out of action before they committed themselves. Very sensible. He obliged, and gave the order.

  They didn't attack while the unloaded carts were led down, but of course they had more sense. Then it was time to carry the dismantled engines; the men were very unhappy about doing that, but they'd be even unhappier when the Eremian arrows started dropping down on them. Apparently, however, Eiconodoulus hadn't quite judged their plan right, because no arrows flew and the engines reached the river, eventually, after the hardest day's work Eiconodoulus could remember. By now he was very worried indeed. If the Eremians were content to pass up such a glorious opportunity as the one he'd just given them, it could only be because they had something even more deadly in mind, which he was too stupid to perceive. The engines went back on the carts, the water-barrels were filled, the horses spanned in; gradually it dawned on Eiconodoulus that there wasn't going to be an attack after all. They'd blundered; they'd passed up the most wonderful opportunity to give the Republic a bloody nose, through laziness, negligence, cowardice or stupidity. For the first time since they left the Butter Pass, Eiconodoulus laughed out loud. He'd beaten the map, after all.

  On the other side of the canyon, there was no sign of any path; but there was gloriously even ground, better than the pitted and rutted surface of a track. Heather had probably grown there once, but the wind had scoured off the thin layer of topsoil and ground away the bumps and tussocks, leaving a layer of shingle and small stones that would've compared favourably with a nobleman's carefully tended gravel drive. The ground fell slowly away to the blurred grey seam of land and sky, where mists rose from the Lasenia river valley. Two days, or a day and a half if they could force the pace, and they'd be bypassing the foot of the mountain on which the city perched, on their way to where they were supposed to be. Eiconodoulus was a cautious man when it came to interpreting the actions of Providence, but he reckoned it wouldn't be presumptuous to assume that he was getting his reward for the tribulations he'd recently endured.

  The final confirmation for this view came in the shape of a flock of wild sheep sheltering from the wind in a small dish-shaped combe; the scouts who found them managed to creep away without startling them, and Eiconodoulus quickly convened a tactical meeting. He listened to various suggestions (the oaf Ariophrantzes had been a hunter in his youth, and prattled on about nets and drives and beaters until ordered to shut up) and gave his orders.

  His strategy was basic and simple. On three sides of the combe he drew up his spearmen, creating a hedge of sharp points about a hundred yards shy of the skyline. On the fourth side he sent in his strike force in two ranks; in front, the archers, and behind them the rest of the men, shouting, banging rocks and pans and helmets, waving their arms, generally making themselves as obnoxious as possible. As soon as they advanced over the rim of the combe the sheep bolted in the opposite direction. Running into the spearmen they veered off to the sides, round the inside of the encircling hedge, back to where the advancing line had closed the ring. Forced back into the hollow of the combe, they could then be shot down by the archers without risk to the spearmen.

  It went perfectly, smooth as a carefully designed machine. At the precise moment he'd specified, the panic-stricken sheep galloped straight into his enfilade. About forty-seven went down in the first volley, whereupon the survivors bolted down into the belly of the combe, giving the archers the backstop they needed. There wasn't any need for skill. The archers simply loosed volleys until there was nothing left moving; then they strolled down into the combe to pick up their arrows and collect the carcasses for dressing. None of the sheep escaped. It was, Eiconodoulus couldn't help thinking, a rather encouraging omen for the war at large.

  After days on half-rations, the men were happy again, and the excitement of it (Eiconodoulus wasn't sure if it had been a hunt or a battle) had done wonders for their morale; there were even volunteers for the chores of skinning, paunching and butchering. The only man who seemed unhappy was the fool Ariophrantzes; he scowled when he thought nobody was looking, and tried to stay out of the proceedings as much as possible. Eiconodoulus was inclined to put that down to pique (Ariophrantzes had put himself forward at the tactical meeting as a mighty hunter, his learned advice had been ignored, and still they'd got the lot) and he decided that such an attitude needed to be nipped in the bud. 'What's the matter with you?' he asked him.

  Eventually he got a straight answer. 'It's nothing really, sir,' the oaf replied. 'Honestly. We had to get some food from somewhere, and it all worked out pretty well.'

  Big of you, Eiconodoulus thought. 'So what's bugging you?'

  'I don't know.' The oaf made a vague, helpless gesture. 'It's just that-well, like I told you earlier, my people hunted a lot when I was a kid, and I suppose I've still got their way of looking at things. Killing the whole lot like that-'

  He couldn't be bothered to argue. 'If that's all,' he said, 'you can
get on with your work. This is a military expedition, Lieutenant, not a day out with the hounds.'

  'Very good, sir. One thing, though, if I might ask. What were you proposing to cook the meat with?'

  The world is full of annoyances; none more infuriating than a fool with a valid point. In the end they had to unload a cart and trash it for firewood, having distributed its load between the others. Being best-quality Mezentine treated timber, it burned with a foul smell and a thick cloud of dark grey smoke, which made the meat taste of pitch. It was still a distinct improvement on nothing at all, but it wasn't the glorious feast of roast mutton that Eiconodoulus had been anticipating as a due reward for his achievement. Then it rained in the night, putting out the fires and drenching the remaining firewood with half the carcasses still raw. There was no point burdening themselves with uncooked meat that'd spoil by the time they reached anywhere they might expect to find more fuel, so the remaining carcasses had to be abandoned. It was just an unfortunate mishap, but somehow Eiconodoulus couldn't help feeling that the oaf Ariophrantzes had somehow been vindicated.

  They made up time the next day, and by nightfall they reached the river. For once, the map was accurate; the river was shallow enough to wade across, although they had to unload the carts yet again (the second time in two days; they'd had to unload to redistribute the load from the firewood wagon). By now, Eiconodoulus was having to think and calculate in order to work out how many days they were behind schedule. Obviously he had no idea what had become of the main army, or how his tardiness was affecting the war. It wouldn't be good, he knew, but the scope of his contribution was still mercifully vague, although that didn't keep him from speculating about it endlessly. They wouldn't court-martial him or cut off his head, but they wouldn't listen to his excuses either. Somewhat perversely, he responded to that inevitability by refusing to hurry unduly; he was late already but he was making steady progress, and undue haste would probably lead to negligence and disaster. The next morning, as the sutlers filled the water-barrels from the river, he used up the last of his cutting-practice mats. No way of knowing when or where he'd be able to get hold of any more; another of the girders holding his life in shape had quietly failed. His victory over the sheep was beginning to fade from his mind, and the empty space it left quickly silted up with anxiety. More than anything, he wanted to be rid of this assignment and back with the rest of the army. He wasn't at his best in isolation, as he well knew.

  From the top of the ridge overlooking the river, he was able to see the city for the first time. It was mid-afternoon by then, and the morning mist had burnt away; there was nothing to soften the steepness of the mountain, and the sight horrified him. He'd been in assaults and sieges, he knew about such things; and if ever a city was impregnable, this one was. For a while he could do nothing but stand and gawp, like a rabbit faced with a stoat. It seemed bitterly unfair that he should have been sent here, set such a difficult task which he'd somehow managed to achieve, simply in order to participate in an impossible venture, an inevitable disaster. There aren't many heroic ballads about men who strive against insuperable odds, surmount unthinkable obstacles and then die in the final act of abject failure. It wasn't his fault, but nobody would remember that, or ever get to hear about the criminally negligent map, the crossing of the great canyon or the flawlessly conceived and executed campaign against the sheep. He'd remain as anonymous as the waves smashing themselves into foam against a rock.

  With an effort he pulled himself together. It was an extraordinary city, yes, but it remained no more than a problem in engineering, and the Mezentines were the finest engineers in the world. No doubt they'd already worked out how to deal with it; all he needed to do was deliver his cargo to the appointed place with as little further delay as possible; at which point he could hand the problem over to somebody else who was properly qualified to deal with it. They were welcome to the glory, provided he could unload the blame along with the dismantled war engines, mountings and carriages.

  'So that's it, sir,' said a voice at his side-Stesimbracus, the good young officer he couldn't stand. 'Where we're headed.'

  He nodded without looking round. 'Impressive, isn't it?'

  Stesimbracus laughed. 'As a monument to short-sightedness, maybe,' he said. 'Personally, sir, I'm just grateful to be on our side. I'd hate to have the job of defending that.'

  Which was probably, Eiconodoulus told himself, why he detested Stesimbracus so much. 'You don't see any problems, then?'

  'Well, no, not really. It's a nice piece of construction work, but there's that obvious flaw. You'd have thought someone would've pointed it out while they were actually building the thing, but I suppose everybody thought somebody else would do it.'

  Obvious flaw? Not that obvious, Lieutenant. 'So,' he said, 'tell me how you'd go about it.'

  And Stesimbracus told him; and as soon as he'd finished, he couldn't help but agree. It was vividly, painfully, humiliatingly obvious. Maybe that was what genius was: the knack of seeing the obvious through its obscure curtain of irrelevancies. 'Well,' he said quietly, 'no doubt that's what Central Command intends to do. All we need to concern ourselves with is getting these carts up into the hills behind it.'

  Stesimbracus nodded. 'Though you can't help wondering, sir, why they're bothering. I mean, why bother to put the catapult things up there? They won't be contributing anything. Diversion, I suppose; make them think we're planning a direct frontal assault.'

  For some time after that, Eiconodoulus was plagued by that last thought. Suppose the boy was right about the plan-he very much hoped he was right, for the sake of the war and the hope of survival and victory-and that he was also right about the purpose of the war engines: a diversion. In which case, the engines weren't going to be loosed in anger; he'd carried them, and their stock of eighty thousand bolts, over the mountains and up and down the canyon and across the river, all for nothing, for show. Thin wooden cut-out silhouettes would've done just as well. All his efforts, his defeats and small victories and indelible humiliations, just to be part of a dirty great lie…

  Next morning, at first light, they set off on what Eiconodoulus hoped would be the last stage of the journey. This time (perversely, he thought) the map was accurate; there was a road, a good one, skirting the city and going where they wanted it to. They made good progress, forcing the pace wherever possible; they had a superb view of the valley below, and the hills above them were too steep to allow an attack, so there was no chance of an ambush. Eiconodoulus was finally able to send messengers to the main army at Palicuro, so that was another weight off his conscience, although that hadn't troubled him quite so much once Stesimbracus had pointed out what the true strategy was. If he was a little late, so what? He was, after all, just the decoy.

  As far as he could tell from observing traffic in and out of the city, the Eremians either didn't know they were being invaded or didn't care. Neither explanation was credible, but he was past caring about matters of high strategy. All that mattered was to get to the end of the journey and deliver the war engines. If they kept up their current rate of progress, they could be there by noon tomorrow, and history would have no further use for them. Simple carriers' motivation: deliver the load and go home.

  The Eremians attacked them on the open hillside, at the junction of the road they were on and a small, straight track leading up from the city. The first that Eiconodoulus knew of it was yelling and the neighing of horses, from somewhere at the back of the train. He'd heard that sound in his mind many times; an axle had finally given way, a cart had foundered, other carts were swerving to avoid it, there'd be chaos in a matter of minutes. He swung his horse round, and saw what looked at first sight like a swarm of flies; small black dots in the air above him. But flies don't usually fly slanting down, and they don't grow as you watch them. Arrows, he thought; but they were too high up.

  He heard himself shouting, and was faintly impressed to hear what he was saying: get out of the way, get off the carts, ta
ke cover. But he was too preoccupied to take his own advice. A small black dot turned into a falling pole, suddenly growing enormous as it bent its trajectory towards him. He realised, through innate mathematical ability or sheer intuition, that it was going to hit him. It was a curious idea, and while it was forming he felt no fear; a small voice in the back of his mind suggested that it'd be worth trying to get out of the way if that was possible, but there wouldn't be time to make the horse move. But if he rolled out of the saddle-yes, why not?

  He landed on his elbows and knees, and the pain knocked everything out of his mind for a moment. The first thought to return was a mild anxiety-have I broken anything?-and he wriggled a bit to see if anything wasn't working. The pain gave place to the sharp protests of jarred bone and tendon, and he stifled a yell. Then a terrible weight flopped on to him, crushing his thigh, jamming his lower leg against the ground so that all the force of impact fell on the joint of his right knee. He felt something fail-it was like listening to a single note on the harp, if pain was music-and his mind registered and accepted that there was something badly wrong before everything was washed away in a surging tide of agony.

  That lasted three or four seconds, an intolerably long time, and then it stopped. Vaguely he was aware of human voices, a voice, someone shouting, someone shouting at him. He couldn't think why, he hadn't done anything wrong; then he was moving, being pulled. Very bad, because his knee and leg were still trapped under the heavy thing. He screamed. The movement stopped, the pain swelled to bursting point, and the world went away.

  When it came back-how long had it been away? Not terribly long; he remembered he'd been more or less here, and the voice was still shouting. He forced himself to concentrate. The voice was Lieutenant Stesimbracus', and the weight that had crunched his leg was his own horse. It was lying a few feet away, its back legs twitching, its head perfectly still, and there was something like a clothes-line prop sticking out of it, at the point where the neck meets the shoulder. It occurred to him, in an abstract, detached sort of a way, that Stesimbracus must have pulled him out from under the horse; very kind of him, because the weight was ripping his knee tendons off the bone, but he still wasn't prepared to like the man.