by K. J. Parker
Bardas frowned. ‘The camshaft of fortune,’ he said. ‘Well, it’s a thought. Of course, to complete the analogy, you’d have to have some way for it to change direction while still going round and round in circles. Is that possible? Mechanically speaking, I mean?’
The engineer grinned. ‘Of course it is,’ he replied. ‘All you do is, you whack it bloody hard with the big hammer.’
‘What do you mean, junk?’ Temrai demanded, wincing as Tilden tightened a strap. ‘I’ve been told by experts that this is probably the finest armour money can buy.’
‘Experts,’ Tilden sighed. ‘You mean that lying thief who sold it to you. Hold still, will you? Either this strap’s shrunk or you’ve put on weight.’
Temrai scowled. ‘There you go again,’ he said. ‘Anything I say or do, you’ve got to belittle it. If this stuff isn’t any good, then why would he give it an unconditional lifetime guarantee?’
‘Oh, come on,’ Tilden replied, smiling. ‘A guarantee that lasts as long as you live. So when, five minutes after the start of the first battle, it falls to bits on you and you die . . .’
‘Ouch.’
‘Sorry. It’s your own fault. I did say hold still.’
First, the greaves, covering the leg from ankle to knee. They reminded Temrai of two pieces of guttering joined with a hinge. ‘There’s got to be some way,’ he said, ‘of stopping these things from sliding down and trapping your foot. See that bruise? After an hour it’s so bad I can hardly walk.’
‘But you don’t walk when you’re fighting, you sit on your horse. So it doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, but I’ve got to walk from the tent to the horse, then from the horse back to the tent . . .’
After the greaves, the poleyns and cuisses, to cover his legs from knee to groin; they hung by straps from his belt, and were held in place by more straps around the knee-joint and thigh. Next the mailshirt –
‘I can’t lift this,’ Tilden said.
‘Of course you can. Don’t be so feeble.’
Tilden grunted, trying to hoist the shirt over his head so that he could wriggle his hands through the armholes. He found them just in time, before she let go. As he pushed his head through the neck-hole, his hair snagged in the rings, making him curse. ‘Don’t call me feeble,’ Tilden said, ‘or you can put on your own silly armour.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Temrai said unconvincingly. ‘Right, what comes next? Breastplate, I think.’
Breastplate and backplate, connected at the top by two straps, one on either side of the neck, like the shoulder-straps of a soldier’s pack, and two more at waist level. ‘Lift your arm a bit more,’ Tilden muttered, straining at the left-hand side buckle, ‘You aren’t giving me enough room – there we are. Is that tight enough?’
‘Too tight. Let it out a hole before I choke.’
‘You might have said, instead of letting me hurt my wrist tightening the horrid thing.’
Next the arm-harness; vambraces from wrist to elbow, cops to protect the elbow itself, rerebraces from the elbow to just below the shoulder – more straps, more buckles. ‘What happens when you need a pee?’ Tilden asked sweetly. ‘Do you stop the column and summon a couple of armourers?’
Temrai looked at her, frowning. ‘No,’ he said.
‘Oh. Then what’s to stop it getting all rusty, right down the inside of your leg? You could seize up at the knees, and then where’d you be?’
‘Thank you,’ Temrai said.
‘And it must be really sordid when you need a—’
‘All right,’ Temrai said. ‘And yes, it is. Now undo the shoulder buckles—’
‘But I’ve just done them up.’
‘Well, undo them again, and you see those loops at the top of the pauldrons? You thread them through so they hang over the rerebraces—’
‘The whats?’
‘These bits –’ Temrai tried to move his arm to point at them, but he didn’t quite have the freedom of movement. Tilden giggled. ‘So they hang over my upper arm,’ he said severely. ‘That’s it, you’ve got it.’
‘Is it all right to do these buckles up now?’
‘Yes.’
‘You sure? Only I don’t want to have to do them again.’>
‘Positive. Now put on the gorget – there’s a little catch at the side, look . . .’
‘You mean this collar thing?’
‘That’s right,’ Temrai said patiently. ‘The gorget.’
Tilden raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t see why you can’t just call it a collar.’
‘Because it’s a gorget,’ Temrai said. ‘You’ve found the little catch? That’s it. Right, now all I need are the gauntlets and the helmet, and that’s that done.’
‘You mean the gloves. And the hat.’
‘Quite right. The gloves first, then the hat.’ He held out his hand. ‘You’ve got to pull it on by the cuff – no, not the metal cuff, there’s a leather lining, see?’
‘It must be awfully hot in all that lot.’
‘Yes, it is. Now hold it firmly while I wiggle my fingers in place – I said hold it, for pity’s sake.’
‘I’m doing my best,’ Tilden said. ‘Try again.’
‘That’s better – no it’s not, the useless bloody thing’s not on straight, it’s slipping round the side of my hand. Pull the cuff—’
‘I’m pulling. It’s stuck.’
‘What? Oh, right. I’ll bend my thumb a bit, see if that makes any difference. Try it now.’
Eventually the gauntlet was persuaded into place – ‘It’s pinching my wrist, there, between the cuff and the vambrace,’ Temrai complained. ‘I’ll just have to make sure I only fight against southpaws’ – and Tilden picked up the helmet; a one-piece sallet that came down over Temrai’s face like a steel pudding-basin, with one narrow slit to see out of. She settled it on his head and stood back.
‘Temrai?’ she said.
‘What?’ His voice sounded far away and faintly comic; but the fact remained that Temrai wasn’t there any more. The steel had finally closed around him, like quicksand.
‘Nothing,’ Tilden said. ‘Can you manage to stand up in all that?’
‘I think so,’ Temrai’s voice bumbled through the steel, ‘if I take it slowly.’
As he stood up, Tilden watched the joints, the layers of articulated lames, rippling like the muscles of a scale-skinned dragon. There was nothing human there, except for a vaguely familiar shape. ‘You forgot the shoes,’ she said.
‘Sabatons.’
‘What?’
‘Sabatons. That’s what they’re called.’
‘Fine. Do you want them or not?’
‘Can’t be bothered,’ said the echo of his voice. ‘What I do need, though, is my sword. Over there, by the wash-stand. ’
Tilden brought it to him. ‘Does that tie on as well?’ she asked.
The helmet nodded; up, flexing the lames of the gorget, and ponderously down. ‘Over my shoulder and round,’ it said, and the left-hand vambrace, cop and rerebrace lifted into the air. ‘Come on,’ it said, ‘I can’t stand like this indefinitely.’
‘Can you get it out of the scabbard?’ Tilden asked dubiously as she fastened the last buckle.
‘Probably not, but who cares? It’s just a fashion accessory anyway. With these bloody gauntlets on, I’d need someone to fold my hand around the hilt before I could hold it.’
‘You look very funny,’ Tilden said. She didn’t think he looked funny at all; quite the opposite. But she had an idea he wouldn’t want to know what she really thought. ‘Don’t fall over, whatever you do.’
‘I’ll try not to.’
By the time he’d walked from his tent to the gatehouse, Temrai felt much more at ease. It was as if the armour was growing on him, like a cutting grafted on to a tree. It was awkward rather than heavy, until he made an injudicious movement and upset the balance; then he had to make an effort to get his weight back on the soles of his feet. He wondered if that was how he’d felt when he w
as a child, learning to walk for the first time.
They were waiting for him; Sildocai, his second in command Azocai, most of the general staff. ‘Very smart,’ someone said. ‘Can you breathe in there?’
‘Yes,’ Temrai said, ‘but I can only just hear you. Get this helmet off me, someone.’ As he emerged he took a big gasp of air, as if he’d been under water, or in the foul air of the mines. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘So, what’s happening?’
Sildocai, who’d been looking at him as if he’d never seen the like, pointed at the tiny figures moving about below them. ‘That’s his siege train there,’ he said. ‘Well out of range still; we’ll let them know when they’ve come too close. He’s got his cavalry out front in case we make a sortie, try to run him off, so I wouldn’t recommend that. They’ll probably spend the rest of the day pitching camp, making themselves feel at home.’
Temrai tried to make out what he was pointing at, but all he could see were dots and blurs. ‘He’s welcome, ’ he said. ‘What about a night-raid, like we’ve been practising?’
‘Could do,’ Sildocai replied, without much enthusiasm. ‘I’d prefer to wait a day or so, until they’ve deployed their artillery. I’d like a chance to cut a few ropes, do a bit of damage before they start the bombardment.’
Temrai nodded; the gorget creaked and graunched. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Are they using the river at all?’
‘Haven’t seen any signs as yet,’ replied a man whose name Temrai couldn’t quite remember. ‘Probably he doesn’t want to risk fire-ships.’
Sildocai grinned. ‘Very sensible of him. Well, they’re worth keeping in reserve, in case he tries to build a causeway across the river. We’d better keep a few surprises up our sleeves.’
‘He won’t build a causeway,’ Temrai said. ‘He’ll use boats; that’s after he’s shot up our engines. That’s when we’ll use the fire-ships. Of course he’ll be expecting that, too; but there’s not a lot he’ll be able to do about it.’
Sildocai looked at him. ‘You seem pretty sure about that,’ he said.
‘I am sure,’ Temrai replied. ‘We’ve been through all this before, if you recall.’
‘Have we?’
Temrai nodded. ‘Oh, yes. Different war, same situation. Unless he’s better at being me than I was, I know exactly what he’s going to do. And he knows what I’m going to do, of course.’
‘Right. Do you fancy sharing any of this with us, or is it a secret between you and him?’
‘For the last time,’ Venart protested wearily, ‘I am not the government. We haven’t got a government. We’ve never had a government before. We don’t need a government now. Can you understand that?’
The man looked at him for a moment. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘So you’re not officially the government; but you led the revolution and chucked the bogies into the sea, so like it or not you’re in charge. And what I want to know is, when am I going to get my compensation?’
Venart was ready to burst into tears. ‘How the hell do I know? And who started this rumour about compensation anyway? I didn’t.’
‘So you’re saying there isn’t going to be any compensation? ’ said one of the other faces in the crowd. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you may think it’s right, it wasn’t your warehouse that got burned down. You want to come with me now and explain to my creditors that it’s all right?’
‘No, I didn’t mean right like you’re saying—’
‘Perhaps you should say what you mean, then,’ said the face, scowling furiously at him. ‘You could start by telling us why you’ve suddenly decided there isn’t going to be any compensation.’
‘I haven’t decided anything,’ Venart groaned. ‘It’s not up to me—’
‘So you haven’t decided yet. Any idea when you’re likely to decide?’
Vernart took a deep breath. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Now for gods’ sakes, let me through.’
That didn’t go down well. ‘You’re just going to walk away and leave us here guessing, are you?’ someone shouted.
‘I’m going to walk into my house and take a leak,’ Venart replied, ‘like I’ve been wanting to do for the last half hour, only you won’t let me. Now get out of my way or get wet, the choice is yours.’
When he’d finally managed to close the door behind him, he sprinted/hobbled round the courtyard to the outhouse as if pursued by wolves. When he came out again, he felt much better. Remarkable, he thought, how so simple an act can impart such a feeling of well-being.
It didn’t last, though. ‘Ven, where the hell have you been?’ Vetriz ambushed him as he walked back across the courtyard. ‘Ranvaud Doce is here, he’s been waiting for nearly an hour.’
Venart stopped and looked at her. ‘Who?’
‘Ranvaud Doce. You idiot, he’s the new chairman of the Ship-Owners’.’
‘Oh. What does he want to see me for?’
Vetriz didn’t even bother to answer that. ‘And you’d better get rid of him quick, because Ehan Stampiz’ll be here at noon, and if those two run into each other, I don’t want to be anywhere near. And when are we going to write your speech?’
Venart glowered at her. ‘I am not making a speech,’ he said.
‘I haven’t got time to argue with you now,’ Vetriz said. ‘Doce is in the counting house. Oh, don’t just stand there looking pathetic.’
Ranvaud Doce turned out not to be Ranvaud Doce at all; he was Ranvaut Votz (Vetriz had got the name wrong; she wasn’t very patient with names), and of course Venart had known him for years. ‘Gods, you look shattered,’ Votz said. ‘Sit down before you fall down, and have a drink.’
‘Brandy,’ Venart replied. ‘The white jug, on the side there.’
‘Say when.’
‘Whenever.’
The brandy helped, to a certain limited extent; but it was the kind of help that’s probably counterproductive before noon on a busy day. ‘Better not have any more,’ Venart said ruefully, after he’d recovered from the burn, ‘or I’ll go straight to sleep. So, what can I do for you?’
Votz raised his eyebrows. ‘Full marks, Ven,’ he replied. ‘You said that as if you really don’t know.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Don’t be aggravating. Playing games is fine for business negotiations, but it’s not really appropriate for a head of state.’
‘Oh for—’ Venart slammed his cup down a little too hard, and the thinly skived horn cracked under the pressure of his thumb. ‘Not you as well. Come on, Ran, you know perfectly well I’m not the head of anything. For gods’ sakes, I’m not even head of this household; you’ve seen how Triz pushes me around—’
‘Proves nothing.’ Votz took the smile deliberately off his face. ‘I know,’ he went on, ‘the truth is, you had next to nothing to do with what happened. You didn’t even show up till halfway through – not that I’m blaming you, that’s just the way it was. But for some reason, people think you were the leader of the rebellion, and now they think you’re leading some kind of state-of-emergency government. And what I say is, why not? I mean, you’re a pretty harmless sort of man, you won’t try to do anything silly or throw your weight around – just the sort of leader this country needs.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘You’re welcome. But we do need a little bit of a government, Ven; just the ears and the tip of the tail. Otherwise, how’s the Ship-Owners’ going to get things done?’
Venart frowned. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said. ‘You and your bunch of deadheads from the back bar of the Fortune and Favour are going to be the real government, and I’m going to get all the blame. No, thank you very much. Weren’t you bloody Ship-Owners the ones who started all this off by trying to shaft the provincial office for more money?’
Votz held up his hand. ‘That was then,’ he said. ‘And you were one of us, remember; just as much to blame as anybody. But,’ he added, as Venart tried to object, ‘agonising over that isn’t going to get ships
on the water or food in the barns. You do realise there’s next to nothing left to eat on this confounded island? Not after those bastards took it all with them.’
Venart stayed quiet. He hadn’t thought about that.
‘So,’ Votz went on, ‘we need to do something quick, before the situation gets dirty on us. The question is, who’s “we” in that context? One thing’s for sure, we can’t go merrily sailing off into the wide blue yonder on our own, not if we want to have a mayfly’s chance of coming back; put in anywhere where the provincial office has so much as a commercial attaché, and the next thing you’ll see is the inside of a cell. So, if we want to go anywhere, we’ve got to go in strength, in convoy; but we can’t all go, or who’s going to stay here and make sure there’ll be somewhere for us to come back to? We need to be organised; and that’s precisely the sort of job the Ship-Owners’ is for.’
Venart nodded. ‘All right, I agree,’ he said. ‘So go away and form a government. Who’s going to stop you, since it’s in everybody’s interest? Not me, for sure.’
‘You really don’t know, do you? The Guild, that’s who. Now, if you’re looking for a genuine threat to our way of life, you wander down to the Drutz and take a good look.’
Venart looked confused. ‘Who’s the Guild?’ he asked.
‘Oh boy.’ Votz shook his head. ‘As head of state, if anything, you’re over qualified. The Merchant Seamen’s Guild, my friend; a nasty rabble of ungrateful rope-jockeys and cabin rats who’ve already stated their intention of stealing our ships – commandeered for the public good, they’re calling it, which is pig-Perimadeian for “steal” and that’s all there is to it – and making us pay them taxes for the privilege. That’s why we need a head of state, my friend; someone who’s not the Ship-Owners’ who’ll tell them not to be so damn stupid. And who better than the inspirational leader, war hero, architect of victory—’