by K. J. Parker
Just before the sun rose we could hear a sort of creaking; here we go again, the soldiers said, and everybody limped and rolled to their duty stations, ready to start all over again. But the creaking wasn’t a new assault. It was the distant squawking of about a million crows, settling down to make the most of a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity before some cruel bastard shooed them away.
4
They showed me a list of casualties. Thirty-seven artillerymen, three hundred and sixteen regular infantry, fourteen militia and sixty-three civilians, mostly hit by overshooting arrows or run down by munitions wagons. We’d loosed off seven hundred thousand arrows (but we still had over a million in store, so that was all right) and just over half our artillery shot; two-thirds of our artillery was out of commission, but it wouldn’t take long, they assured me, to make up for that; a week at the most. Ogus, on the other hand, had practically no artillery left, and his dead and wounded—
Quite. For two days the sky was full of black spirals, as the crows wheeled and circled in desperate frustration, swooping and pitching and being driven off before they’d had a chance of more than a peck or two. My heart bled for them.
Around midday, Ogus sent out men and wagons to collect his dead. I told the soldiers to shoot at them, which they did, quite effectively. The burial party drew back.
“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” General Pertinax said. “It’s one of the conventions of war—”
“Stuff the conventions,” I said. “They started it. Let them wait till sunset and grope about in the dark.”
Next day the ships got back from Locaria, having missed (as their commodore put it) all the fun. No problem, I said, and sent them out again. This time they were going to Menaroa, a pretty seaside town where Ogus had set up a porcelain factory; and after that, they were to swing north up the east coast and take out the potteries at Onnaco and the silk weavers at Deusambor. On their way home, if they felt like it, they could stop in at Trysa, where the craftsmen at Ogus’ new glassworks were reckoned to have developed the most amazing new techniques for blowing and moulding; if they could pick up a few prisoners, so much the better, but not to worry if they couldn’t.
“What’s got into you?” she said. “You’re crazy. You’re out of control.”
“Far from it,” I said, dumping the horrible armour on the floor with a thump. The only way out of that thing was to lift it over your head, then bend over and let it slide off you. It chafed my neck and pinched at the waist, and it was giving me chronic backache. “I’m conducting the war in a logical and efficient manner. That’s what the generals are saying. Usuthus overheard them at the last staff meeting, before I got there.”
“You care what the generals think.”
“Well, they ought to know.”
“You’re mad, do you know that? What the hell do you think you’re playing at, Notker? No, look at me when I’m talking to you. This is all your fault.”
“Define this.”
“This.” She took a deep breath, to calm herself down. “The attack on the City. The raids on all those little towns. All those people getting killed. You did that. Those people would still be alive if you hadn’t interfered. Think about that, will you?”
“I have thought about it, oddly enough.”
“Then what in God’s name are you doing it for? It’s not helping. You’re just making things much, much worse for everybody.”
I took a moment to reply. “That’s what you think, is it?”
“Too bloody right it is. Things were ticking along, just about all right, until you came along and decided to make trouble. What’s got into you, Notker? Why are you doing this?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it’s in character.”
I could see she couldn’t trust herself to speak for a moment. She actually jammed her hand into her mouth. “Bullshit,” she said.
“No, not really. It’s what Lysimachus would do. No, listen, just for a second. I’ve been reading the reports and despatches, from the early days of the siege.”
“You’re starting to believe you’re actually him. You’re delusional.”
“The reason why we won the other day,” I went on, “is because we were ready, we were organised, everybody knew what to do. And why was that? Because someone worked out a drill and made sure everybody knew it and practised it regularly. I wanted to know who that was. I assumed it must’ve been Nicephorus, but no, actually it was Lysimachus. He saved us the other day. He stopped them taking the City.”
She clapped her hands slowly three times. “Bravo,” she said. “Well done. Only, they wouldn’t have attacked if you hadn’t sent those ships to burn down that stupid city. Lysimachus didn’t do that. You did. And you won’t even let them bury their dead. That’s sick. What’s that all about, for crying out loud? Is it because they’re milkfaces? Is that it?”
“It’s nothing to do with—”
“Because if it is, let me tell you something. They aren’t that colour any more. You ever seen a body that’s been left out in the sun? It changes colour. The skin goes purple, then black. So they aren’t milkfaces any more, Notker, they’re as black as you and me.”
“It’s about making a point,” I said.
“Really. And what point would that be?”
I couldn’t put it into words. Maybe I didn’t understand it myself, I don’t know. “They came here,” I said. “They came here to wipe us out, like an ants’ nest or wasps in the rafters. And all we’ve managed to do up till now is stay alive, with them crowding round us, in our faces, just waiting for a chance to murder the lot of us. And because they haven’t succeeded yet we just shrug our shoulders and carry on like nothing’s happened, like they were high winds or an earthquake, something random, with no spite in it. But there’s spite all right.”
She nodded. “What was that very clever image you were telling me you used the other day? A man gets stung by a bee, so he kicks over the hive. Very intelligent. Or maybe I’m getting that mixed up with what you said just now, about wiping people out like they’re a wasps’ nest. Are they the wasps, Notker? Is that what you want? To kill them all, till there’s not a single milkface left?”
“Chance would be a fine thing. No, I didn’t mean that. I meant, that’s not going to happen ever, so it’s not worth thinking about.”
“Crossed your mind, though. Hasn’t it?”
“No.” I hadn’t meant to yell. She hadn’t raised her voice, so who was I shouting down? “Since when did you care about the enemy? You know what that word means, don’t you? Or would it help if you looked it up?”
“I know what it means,” she said. “It means what you want it to mean. It means you can do what you damn well like. Do you like having people killed, Notker? Does it make you feel big and strong?”
“Enemy means someone who wants to hurt you,” I said. “Them or us, simple as that.”
“Simple.” She gave me a look I won’t forget in a hurry. “I don’t think there’s any point talking to you. Remember Andronica in The Golden Mask? That’s you, just the wrong way round.”
Did you see that show? If not, you missed a real treat. Andronica was this princess, born butt-ugly so she had a beautiful golden mask; and when she wore it she was so happy she started being nice to people, and they loved her, and she was even nicer to them, and so on and so forth. Then one day she took the mask off, and lo and behold, she was just as beautiful without it. Only the other way round.
“We were going to get out of here,” she said, quiet now. “Remember? We were going to fill our pockets with treasure and get the hell out of here and leave all these idiots to it.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You’ve changed your mind about that, evidently.”
“No,” I said. “Only we can’t get out of the palace, remember?” Yes we can, I thought. “But while we’re stuck here, I can’t just stand by and do nothing—”
“Can’t you? Why not? That’s what everybody else does.”
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“Not if you’re the emperor.”
“Ah.”
“It wouldn’t look right,” I said. “It’s not in character. For him.”
“You know what, Notker? I’m amazed you can still breathe. You’re so full of it, there can’t be room in there for a pair of lungs.”
Hodda very rarely hits people. Why hurt your hand, maybe risk skinning a knuckle, when you can do so much more damage with a word and a look? Also, what you need to bear in mind is, the actual words are just the arrowhead. The arrow is how she says them.
“I mean it,” I said. “I want to get out of here, alive, in one piece, preferably with a lot of money. As soon as it can be done—”
“You know a way out of here. And you’re not telling me.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“That night when there was the fire,” she said. “You came in a back way.”
Don’t bother trying to figure out how she knows things. She just does. “Yes,” I said. “But there’s guards and sentries. We came in that way because Captain Very was with us. You don’t seriously believe there’s a way in and out of here that isn’t guarded, do you?”
She believed me. Just goes to show. I’m not a bad actor, when I really try hard.
5
Old joke. What’s the difference between a lawyer and a rat? Answer: under the right circumstances, you can grow fond of a rat. Substitute war for lawyer and you’ve got my views on the matter, concisely and memorably phrased.
Nevertheless.
Things change, you see; everything changes, we all change, just like the truth, see above. Five minutes into the first act, and the audience are sitting there grim-faced, like you’re personally responsible for everything that’s wrong with their lives, and you’re trying to remember who’s hiring for what, because tomorrow you’ll be out looking for a new job. But sometimes, things change. I remember once, at the old Harmony, they were stone-cold all through the first two acts, but come the end they were standing and cheering, we took so many bows we nearly sprained hamstrings. Things change.
In war, apparently, as in everything else; and in war, according to the books I’d taken to reading, change can come suddenly, unexpectedly, catastrophically (in the literal sense of turning things upside down). In battles, Act 1 can be entirely with one side, to the point where the opposing king or general runs for his life, with his attendant lords and luxury furniture rattling along after him in a string of carts, but in Act 2 the winners make a stupid mistake, and Act 3 is either a ghastly, bloody draw or the previous winners getting slaughtered. Moral: never take your eye off the ball, and never assume it’s over till you’re actually dead.
Of course, if it’s melodrama rather than legitimate tragedy, you can and should expect more twists than a corkscrew, and a lot of wars seem to me to have been melodramas of the worst possible sort. This war started really badly for us. We lost the empire practically overnight and came within a whisker of losing the City. Act 2, heroic defence by Nicephorus and Lysimachus, the City preserved. Properly speaking, the third act should be Lysimachus rallying the defence and driving the barbarians into the sea.
Not really an option, since the sea’s on the wrong side of town, but you know what I mean. Dramatic necessity should dictate a glorious and conclusive victory. That’s what the audience will be expecting, and it’s up to the author to provide it. Which makes me glad that, as I’ve mentioned earlier, I’m not a writer.
Nevertheless. I’d tried something, and it seemed (very early days, of course) like it was working. Now you were with me, so to speak, when I got the idea, so you can testify that it wasn’t part of a grand strategy for victory. General Aineas wanted to send men out to attack the enemy positions and get themselves killed; I thought of something on the spur of the moment to distract him, and then we had to go ahead and put that frivolous suggestion into action. Then, purely by chance, I remembered what I’d been told about Ogus’ master plan to finish us off by driving our trade out of foreign markets, and I thought: two birds, one stone. Probably I wouldn’t have thought of turning my two bright ideas into a coordinated plan of action if Ogus hadn’t paid me the compliment of sending six thousand of his men to their deaths (that’s the figure they came up with, by the way; a conservative estimate, they told me) in a fit of ungovernable rage. If it made him that mad, I thought, there’s got to be something in it.
But it was all made up as I went along, not carefully plotted out beforehand; and that’s how and why things change, because no matter how good the outline on paper looks when you’re pitching it to a manager, when you sit down and actually write the bastard, things inevitably turn out different. Big events you were relying on turn out not to be in character. You get Andronica or Messanus for the leads, but Andronica can’t or won’t do such and such a scene, and Messanus is best in blood-and-thunder roles, so you need to shoehorn in some anguish and gore, which shifts the balance; any play, I’ve always found, that ends up being recognisably what the manager originally agreed to buy will be rubbish, and only the author’s mother will want to see it.
Things change, everything changes, we change. Pun intended. I can change in two minutes flat, from a clean-shaven king to a bearded funny peasant; you’d never know in the gallery that they’re both me, but they are. Except that I’ve changed, and where I was in character for a king, now I’m in character for a clown. And if I can do that, so can a war.
Actually winning the horrible thing – now there was a thought. I’m sure it never occurred to Nicephorus and Artavasdus, rest their souls; to be honest with you, I’m not sure Gelimer and his honourable friends in the House ever gave it any thought – because war is the army’s job, and senators are brought up from babyhood on the doctrine of separation of powers; war’s none of their business, so they don’t really take any interest in it, their whole attention being taken up with the glorious game of politics. As for Lysimachus; I’m prepared to bet that, simple soul that he was, he genuinely believed that the Robur race would triumph and the enemy would be utterly crushed one day; but not necessarily in the near future or his lifetime. Actually, I bet you that Lysimachus was a sucker for the old-style melodramas. They would have made sense to him, because that would’ve been his idea of how the world worked.
And, of course, there was Hodda, probably the smartest person I’ve ever known. She was quite definite about it. The City was dead meat, because of the arithmetic. There’s no shrewder manager than her, because she understands what people do and don’t want, what they’ll do and what they can’t be induced to do, even with bribes and horrible threats. She doesn’t get many runaway hits but she virtually never has a flop. She doesn’t sit down and work it all out with numbers and an abacus. She just knows.
Winning the horrible thing; define victory.
6
They did good business (as we say in the trade) at Menaroa, Onnaco, Deusambor and Trysa – sounds like a tour of the provinces and I suppose in a sense it was, trying the Grand Plan out on the road and achieving a reassuring level of success. The thing is, an awful lot of people live by the seaside, and one thing you really don’t want is the Imperial navy turning up out of (literally) the blue and burning your house down. At least, at Menaroa and Deusambor they had the sense to run away when our sails appeared on the skyline.
No rest for the wicked, I always say; so I sent the wicked off to Picron Oistun and Timaressa, where Ogus had recently spent a lot of money on looms and a ropewalk. Picron and Timaressa are both due south, on the Blemyan Gulf, many hundreds of miles away from the Friendly Sea. Moral: we are everywhere the sea is, and you have no idea where we’re going to turn up next.
At least ten thousand reinforcements showed up in Ogus’ camp, and the carpenters were busy throwing up shacks for them all to live in. We had a little surprise for them. You’ll recall that our wonderful colonel of engineers expressed the view that Ogus had gone as far as it’s possible to go in refining and improving the trebuchet. I took that as meani
ng that if they could improve their versions of the loathsome device, so could we, up to that ultimate point that Ogus had apparently reached; see to it, I said grandly, and sure enough they did. Knowing something can be done is a great incentive to figuring out how, I guess; anyway, we had prototypes of the new improved version ready before you could say sudden violent death, and as soon as Ogus’ carpenters had finished the new wing of the camp, we reduced it to splinters in less than an hour. Naturally, that meant that the more-or-less permanent settlement Ogus had built up over the last seven years was no longer safe and had to be moved back a hundred yards. Cue great trouble and expense, and tens of thousands of soldiers having to camp out in the pouring rain while the work was being done. It’s the little things, I always find, like having to sleep in the mud soaked to the skin, that really get you down.
I had a fairly shrewd idea of what would happen next, having taken the trouble to read up on the early days of the siege, and I knew that if I was right we faced a serious problem. Sure enough, as soon as the carpenters had finished moving the camp, they set to work on a whole new shanty village, which they finished just in time for the residents to move in. About eight thousand of them, not soldiers but civilians, and you didn’t need to be a genius to figure out their trade or profession. Miners, from all over what used to be our empire, here to dig under our walls and bring them tumbling down.
Of course, Ogus had already tried that and it hadn’t worked. But the mood he was in, it was only a matter of time before he tried it again. I’m guessing the trebuchet thing tweaked his tail to the point where he really didn’t care about looking stupid if he failed. Just as well, really, that Nicephorus had seen something of the sort coming and signed a treaty with the Tanagenes.