by K. J. Parker
‘He’s about to make a mistake,’ Bardas said aloud.
The pikemen were slumping, falling back; and Temrai’s men were pushing forward, following up an opportunity they’d never anticipated. Bardas sent a couple of runners to the sergeants of halberdiers, and another to the artillery crews.
Temrai saw it too, but not quite in time; by that stage it was out of his control, as his men surged out through the breaches in pursuit of the pikemen, and were immediately enfiladed by Bardas’ archers, positioned on either side. The shock of volley fire at close range stopped them in their tracks, as men went down like cut corn; before they could turn round and go back, the halberdiers moved in to cut them off. Temrai’s runners arrived in time to stop anybody else going beyond the stockade, but for those already outside nothing could be done. The work crews had started piling trash in the breaches to block them up even before the last of the pursuit party were killed. Bardas’ second opportunity didn’t amount to much; the trebuchets only managed two clear shots each on the archers lined up on the path before Temrai pulled them out.
They packed up the portable bridges and withdrew in good order, without interference from Temrai’s battered and out-of-commission artillery. Once the assault party was safely home, the bombardiers restored the trebuchets to their previous settings, locked down the handwheels and carried on with the bombardment of the path and the engine emplacements.
‘On balance,’ Bardas explained, ‘we came out ahead. We killed more of them, we made them waste a lot of arrows, and of course there’s the morale effect of having the advantage at the end. More to the point, we learned another lesson about close fighting in the fortress, and we learned it in a practice run rather than the actual main assault. All they can say is that they’re still there, and that hardly counts as progress.’ He sighed; and if he could see the wounded men sprawled on the wagons outside the surgeons’ enclosure, he didn’t say anything about them. ‘We’ve got a long way to go yet,’ he said, ‘but we’re getting there. After all, Perimadeia wasn’t built in a day.’
‘What, me?’ Gorgas looked shocked. ‘Certainly not. Why should I do such a stupid thing?’
The envoy’s expression didn’t change – did they breed them that way, Gorgas wondered, or did they have the sinews in their cheeks and jaws cut when they were children, as part of a lifelong apprenticeship in the art of diplomacy? ‘I’m only repeating what we were told,’ he said. ‘Our sources say that the rebellion was started by your men, acting on your orders. The fact that you’re discussing the matter with me rather than twenty thousand halberdiers ought to give you some indication of how much faith we put in reports from that particular source.’
Gorgas laughed, as if the envoy had just told a funny story. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘unless you tell me where the report came from I can’t really comment. I suppose it’s possible that these troublemakers you’re talking about were my men, in the sense that they served with me at some time or other, but anything they may have done certainly wasn’t on my orders. Perish the thought. After all,’ he added, ‘I may not be a genius, but I’m not stupid enough to go picking a fight with the Empire for the sake of a bunch of merchants who’ve never done me any favours. That’d be suicide. Can I get you something to eat?’
The envoy looked at him startled, then shook his head. ‘No, thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you. Obviously, if you do find out anything about who might have been responsible—’
‘Of course. I’d be glad to have the chance to do something to show just how serious the Mesoge is about becoming a loyal and useful member of the Empire. I’m right in thinking, aren’t I, that we’re the first nation ever to join the Empire voluntarily?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ the envoy said, standing up and brushing moss and leaf-mould rather vigorously from his cloak. ‘One other thing before I go: have you by any chance heard anything from your sister or her daughter? We’ve had rather disturbing reports that suggest they may have been abducted.’
‘You don’t say,’ Gorgas replied. ‘It’s true, I haven’t heard from either of them lately. I was planning to write to Niessa soon anyway; I’ll see what I can find out.’
‘Thank you,’ said the envoy gravely, staring pointedly at the axe lying across Gorgas’ knees. ‘I’ll let you get back to what you were doing.’
‘Gateposts,’ Gorgas replied. ‘It’s a shame to fell this old oak – I remember climbing up it when I was a kid – but it’s stone dead; better to cut it down now than have it come down on the roof some windy night. And you can’t beat oak for gateposts.’
‘I’m sure,’ the envoy said. One of his escort held the stirrup for him and he lifted himself rather stiffly into the saddle. ‘Thank you for your time.’
‘Always a pleasure,’ Gorgas said.
By the time the envoy and his party were out of sight, Gorgas was nearly through, so he decided to finish off before going back to the house. He’d made cuts on three sides so as to be able to dictate which direction the tree would fall in; all he had to do now was cut out the remaining quadrant until he reached the point where the narrow core at the centre could no longer support the shearing force of the tree’s weight. Then he ought to be able to tip the tree down with just the pressure of his hand.
It fell well, more or less where he’d wanted it to go, and he allowed himself a moment of rest and satisfaction, leaning on his axe and listening to the soft patter of raindrops falling from the leaves of the tall elm behind him. It had rained all night, but the morning had been fine and fresh – if there was one smell that meant home, it was the sweet aftermath of rain.
It was a shame he couldn’t stay a little longer; but there was work to do indoors before he could get back to this job (and it had waited thirty years; it’d probably keep another hour without causing a disaster). He leaned the axe against the elm tree and walked slowly back to the house.
They were there, same as usual; staring at each other across the dark room like two dogs. Why his sister and his niece insisted on sulking like this he couldn’t make out, but he had a feeling that trying to bounce them into reconciliation would most likely do more harm than good.
‘Someone came asking after you two today,’ he said. Neither of them said anything. ‘From the provincial office, letting me know there was a chance you’d been – abducted, was the word he used. So you’d better stay indoors a bit longer, just in case they’ve got someone watching. I’m sorry,’ he went on, as both women protested angrily, ‘but I don’t need the aggravation of being caught with you two, not until I’ve had time to straighten things out.’ He sat down and pulled the cider-jug towards him; nothing like chopping down a tree to raise a healthy thirst. ‘I think we’ll go along with this abduction idea,’ he said. ‘What happened was, you were both kidnapped by pirates; they sent to me for a ransom, I pretended to play along, paid out the ransom, got you back, then went after the pirates and dealt with them. When someone gives you a perfectly serviceable lie, it’s only polite to follow it up.’
Not a word, from either of them. He sipped his drink and smiled; it had taken a while to get used to the taste of raw home-made cider again, but it was one of those flavours that grew on you, a sort of comfortingly familiar unpleasantness. ‘Mostly,’ he went on, ‘I don’t want to cause any upsets until Bardas has beaten Temrai; it can’t be much longer, so we’ll just have to sit tight. That damned Imperial was sniffing about that, too, but of course they can’t prove anything.’
Niessa turned and looked at him. ‘What was all that about, anyway?’ she said. ‘Someone told me you’d sent soldiers to the Island—’
‘Who told you that?’ Gorgas asked.
Niessa frowned. ‘One of the sergeants who came up here the other day, the tall ginger-haired one—’
Gorgas nodded. ‘I know who you mean,’ he said.
‘He assumed I knew all about it,’ Niessa went on. ‘I hope I haven’t got him in trouble.’
‘It’s understan
dable,’ Gorgas said. ‘After all, it’s not so long ago they were taking their orders from you, not me. It’s all right, I’ll deal with it.’
That didn’t sound very hopeful for the red-headed sergeant, who really had been most reluctant to tell her anything, but Niessa wasn’t going to let herself get sidetracked. ‘So what have you been up to?’ she asked. ‘You really shouldn’t play power-politics, you know. You aren’t very politic and you’re certainly not very powerful.’
Gorgas grinned. ‘It’s like cutting down a tree,’ he said, ‘it’s just a matter of making sure things fall the right way. I knew that if the provincial office had their way it’d be their general and the troops from the Island who ran down Temrai, and Bardas would only be there to round up the stragglers. Which would have been no use at all to anybody. So I made sure the fleet didn’t sail on time.’
‘You did?’ Iseutz asked, smiling. ‘Oh, sure. And how did you manage that?’
‘Easy,’ Gorgas said. ‘I went round some of the merchants I know on the Island, put the idea into their heads of trying to hold up the provincial office for more money. I expected it to be much harder work than it actually was; for a nation that call themselves businessmen, they’re as naïve as they come. Of course,’ he went on, ‘I knew there was a risk the Imperials would do what they in fact did – annex the Island and get hold of the ships that way; but I wasn’t bothered by that, because I was figuring on Bardas catching up with Temrai in the open, rather than having to dig him out. So, when the Imperials made their move, I sent a few of my people to cause trouble on the Island; which they did, bless them, and now Bardas has the field pretty much to himself. It’s all turned out much better than I thought it would, actually.’
There was a moment’s silence. Niessa was shaking her head contemptuously. ‘One thing that occurs to me,’ said Iseutz. ‘Do you actually have any proof that Bardas wants to be the one to bring back Temrai’s head to the prefect, that it actually matters to him? For all you know, he was quite happy to potter about on the borders, well away from the fighting.’
‘Don’t be silly, Iseutz,’ Gorgas said. ‘I know Bardas, you don’t. When he sees an opportunity, he makes the most of it – he’s like me or your mother in that respect, I suppose it runs in the family. Look at how well he’s done already since he’s been in the army; he took Ap’ Escatoy for them, and now he’s in charge of an army with a field command and the chance to avenge a terrible defeat and restore the prestige of the Empire. They’ll have to give him a prefecture after this, it’ll be the making of him. And I don’t suppose he’ll be heart-broken at the prospect of settling the score with Temrai, either, though he’s not what I’d call a vindictive person. Unlike some,’ he added meaningfully, looking at Iseutz. ‘No, what Bardas has got that the rest of us haven’t is this strong moral sense; he’ll want to see Temrai punished, not out of spite or because it’ll give him pleasure, but because he knows it’s something that’s got to be done, and he won’t feel right until it’s been done and he’s done it.’
‘And you’ve taken steps to make sure he gets the opportunity.’
‘It was the least I could do,’ Gorgas replied. ‘I wouldn’t have felt right if I hadn’t done it. And really, it was so easy in the end. Now then,’ he went on, ‘that’s enough of that, I’ve got letters to write. Have either of you seen Zonaras? I want him to nip out to Tornoys for me.’
Iseutz shrugged. ‘Which one is Zonaras?’ she asked. ‘I still can’t tell them apart.’
Gorgas frowned at her. ‘Very amusing,’ he said. ‘I take it that means you haven’t. Well, if you do see him, I’ll be in the office.’
What Gorgas called the office was a small room at the back of the house; originally it had been a smokehouse, where the hams were hung up over a smouldering cairn of oak-chips, but Clefas and Zonaras hadn’t bothered much with curing meat, and they’d used it as a dump for sundry clutter. Gorgas had had it re-thatched and repointed, and had knocked a doorway through and put in a window. He had plans for a new, much larger smokehouse on the other side of the yard, once he’d finished repairing the fence and restoring the woodshed and the trap-house; but that was going to have to wait.
He had a desk, rather a fine one with a slanting face at chest height (Gorgas was old-fashioned and preferred standing up to write), a lamp-bracket that swung sideways on a pivoted arm, another arm with a hole in it for the ink-horn and a tray on top for his penknives, sealing wax, sharpening stone, inkstone, sand-shaker and all the other marginally useful paraphernalia that tend to accrue to people who spend a significant proportion of their time writing. Under the face was a board that pulled out and was supported by two folding struts, just the right size for a counting board, with a rack for your reckoning counters let into the side. Needless to say it had been made in Perimadeia, about a hundred years ago; the wood was dark and warm with beeswax, and across the top was carved the motto DILIGENCE-PATIENCE-PERSISTENCE, suggesting that it had been made for a customer in the Shastel Order. Gorgas remembered it well from his childhood – where his father had got it from he hadn’t the faintest idea, but he’d used it as a cutting-board for making and trimming arrow-fletchings, as witness the hundreds of thin lines scored across the face. When he’d rescued it from the dead furniture store in the half-derelict hayloft, Gorgas had intended to reface it with leather or fine-sawn Colleon oak veneer, but in the end he’d kept it as it was, not wanting to deface any of the visible signs his father had left behind.
He’d trimmed a fresh pen only the day before, out of a barred grey goosefeather; it didn’t need sharpening but he sharpened it anyway, using the short knife with the blade worn paper-thin by decades of sharpening that had always been in the house for as long as he could remember (but his mother had used it in the kitchen, for skinning and jointing). Then he folded back the lid of the ink-horn (it was one he’d made himself; but Bardas had made the lid and the little brass hinge, beaten them out of scraps of brass scrounged from a scabbard-chape they’d found, green and brittle, in the bed of a stream), dipped the pen and started to write. It was a very short letter written on a tiny scrap of thrice-scraped parchment, and when he’d sanded it he rolled it up tight and pushed it into a brass foil tube slightly thinner than an arrowshaft. Then he reached under the desk and fished out an arrow.
It was a standard Imperial bodkinhead, with a small diamond-section blade and a long-necked socket. He pulled the head off without any real effort and pushed the brass tube up inside the socket as far as he could get it to go. Then he took a little leather bag from the top of the desk, opened it and tapped a few brown crystals out into the palm of his hand. There was also a small brass dish on the tray, one of the pans from a long-lost pair of scales. Having transferred the crystals into the pan he took the penknife and made a small nick in his forearm, angling his arm so that the blood dripped on to the crystals. When they were amply covered, he wrapped a piece of cloth over the cut and carefully spat into the pan until the proportions of blood and spit were roughly the same. Finally he added a fat pinch of sawdust from a twist of parchment he’d had tucked under his cuff.
Pulling the lamp-arm toward him, he held the pan over the flame and stirred the mixture with the penknife handle, dissolving the crystals (glue, extracted from steeped rawhide). When he was satisfied with the consistency he took a dollop of the glue on the tip of his little finger and smeared the end of the arrowshaft where the socket was to go. After putting the socket carefully back on and making sure it was straight, he served the joint with a length of fine nettle-stem twine, using the last of the glue to stick down the ends.
The last step was to mark the arrow; he dipped the pen back into the ink and painstakingly wrote this one between the cock feather and the bottom fletching, in tiny, angular clerk’s letters. Then he laid it flat on the window-sill to dry.
He had other letters to write, and he was busy with them when Zonaras came in (as usual, without knocking).
‘Well?’ he said.
Gorgas looked up. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Do me a favour and ride over to Tornoys—’
‘What, today?’
‘Yes, today. Go to the Charity and Chastity – I don’t need to tell you where that is – and ask for Captain Mallo, who’s going to Ap’ Escatoy. Give him these letters and this arrow—’
‘What’s he want with just one arrow?’
‘Just you make sure he gets it,’ Gorgas said, in a tone of voice that made Zonaras open his eyes wide. ‘He knows what to do. Once you’ve done that,’ he added, reaching into his pocket, ‘and not before under any circumstances, have a drink on me.’ He handed over a couple of silver quarters, which Zonaras took quickly without saying anything. ‘All right?’
Zonaras nodded. ‘The mare’s cast a shoe,’ he said.
‘What? When was that?’
Zonaras shrugged. ‘Day before yesterday,’ he said.
Gorgas sighed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Take my horse, just try not to ride her down any rabbit holes. We’ll shoe the mare when you get back.’