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  For GoE

  (The world’s shortest giant)

  And the essential Jan Fergus

  Author’s Note

  I couldn’t have written this without the help of Roger Lankford, who taught me how to make armour, and in doing so pretty well gave me the book on a sixteen-gauge steel plate. Needless to say, the sloppy and inefficient working practices of the Imperial arsenal don’t necessarily reflect the techniques Roger uses at Lancaster’s Armoury, where he makes the finest steel leisurewear that money can buy. My thanks are also due to Michael Peters, of the Black Hydra (no, I’m not making that up) Armory for further expert advice (‘hitting your thumb at this point is not a good idea’), and to Thomas Jennings, who lent me his factory to play in when I needed somewhere to bash metal without aggravating the neighbours.

  CHAPTER ONE

  It’s customary to die first; but in your case we’ll make an exception.

  Bardas Loredan was in the new spur when the main gallery caved in. He heard the squeal of straining timbers, a volley of cracks and snaps, a blunt thump that knocked him off his knees into the loose clay, and then nothing at all.

  He lay still and listened. If the spur was going to cave in as well, it might not happen immediately. It all depended on whether the arch at the junction of the gallery and the spur had survived. If it hadn’t, the load of the spur roof would have nothing to support it except force of habit and the plank struts that lined the walls; it might come down all at once, or it might think about it, slowly and painfully calculating the stresses and forces like a backward schoolboy and finally coming to the conclusion that it had no right to be there. If that was how it was going to be, the first sign would be the harassed groaning of the timbers, a few handfuls of soil dropping down as the roof-boards bowed under the weight and opened up the cracks between them. It was, of course, academic; with the gallery blocked behind him and a solid wall of clay in front, he had nowhere to go in any event. Unless someone managed to dig through the obstruction in the gallery, reprop, cart out the spoil and find the mouth of the spur before the good air ran out, he was as good as buried.

  It’s customary to die first; but in your case, we’ve made an exception.

  For the first time in months he was aware of the darkness. After three years in the saps, the endless maze of tunnels dug by besiegers and besieged under the walls of the city of Ap’ Escatoy, he could go weeks at a time without seeing a light and not realise it; it was only in moments of cold terror like this that the instinctive need to see reasserted itself.

  You want light? Tough. His hands were full of loose, crumbled clay; he could feel it against his cheek, cold and dead, and the texture disgusted him. Curious; three years in the mines and he could still feel that strongly about something. He could have sworn he’d grown out of that sort of thing.

  Well; no going back. At a guess, he had enough air for the best part of a shift, something of a mixed blessing under the circumstances. Men who’d long since lost the capacity to fear anything else were still terrified of death by suffocation in the aftermath of a cave-in. No going back, and staying put was a mug’s game. The only option he could think of was to go forward, in the fatuous hope that the enemy sap they’d been trying to break through into was close enough that he’d be able to reach it (alone, single-handed) before the air ran out.

  Put another way, the choice was: dig or stay put. After a moment’s thought, Loredan decided to dig. If nothing else, it’d help use the air up more quickly and get it all over and done with.

  It hadn’t taken the Great King’s sappers long to realise that the seam of heavy clay that lay under Ap’ Escatoy was more than they could handle with ordinary tools and techniques. They’d broken their hearts and blunted their spades at the seam for three or so months when an old man had wandered across from the supply train and told them what they should be doing. He explained that before the war he’d been a clay-kicker, a specialist in cutting tunnels through clay-beds. He’d spent thirty years helping to dig the sewers of Ap’ Mese (sacked and razed to the ground in six days by the Great King’s army in the first year of the war) and what he didn’t know about making holes in the ground wasn’t worth spit.

  To dig in clay, he told them, you need a stout, square wooden post, something like a farm gatepost, with a ledge dowelled to it about six inches from the base. You wedge this post (called a cross in the trade) diagonally-backwards between the roof and the floor of the tunnel, with the base a foot from the clay-face; then you perch your bum on the ledge, flatten your back against the post and use your feet and legs to kick the spade into the clay. Once the blade’s gone in, a sharp upwards jerk with the knees ought to free a spit of solid clay; you pull it out and dump it for the scavengers behind you to clear away with a long-shafted hook and carry to the spoil-dolly, a little flat cart on wheels with ropes and pulleys fore and aft that whisks the clay out into the main gallery, where it’s loaded on to the dog-carts that trundle up to the lift and back all day long. Behind the kickers and the scavengers come the chippies, the carpenters who cut and fit the boards that line the floor, walls and roof of the sap. Except for sawing the boards, every part of the job has to be done in pitch darkness, because even a closed lantern would be enough to set off the pockets of explosive trench-vapour that are all too common in the mines.

  Bardas Loredan was too tall to be a good kicker. His knees were almost round his chin as he drew his legs back to punch against the crossbar of the spade. It was a job for short, squat men built like barrels, not long, lean ex-fencers. Unfortunately, if he didn’t do the job, nobody else would. He steadied the spade, lightly pressing the point of the broad leaf-shaped blade against the wall in front of him, and stamped hard, so that the impact jarred his bones from his ankles to his neck.

  Of course, the kicker isn’t expected to work alone; the back-breaking chore of hauling out the chunks of compacted clay as the kicker boots them off the spade falls to the scavenger with his hook. But Loredan’s scavenger was somewhere back down the tunnel under a few hundred tons of cave-in and therefore excused duty, even in the Great King’s army; which meant that after every three or four spits he had to wriggle off the cross, drop forward on to his knees and scrabble the spoil away behind him with his feet, like a rabbit digging in a flower-bed.

  Give it up , Bardas, give it away. Quit burrowing like a mole and suffocate with dignity. It was all pretty ludicrous, really. He was a leathery little chick desperately trying to peck his way out of a marble-shelled egg. He was the prince of tightwads, baron marshal of cheapskates (every man his own gravedigger; why waste money on exorbitant sextons’ fees when you can do it yourself?). He was the littlest ever worm in the biggest ever oak-apple. He was a dead man, still kicking.

  Suddenly, the feel changed. Instead of the solid slice, a bit like a butcher’s cleaver in a stringy old carcass, it was hammering into resistance, as it might be the compacted clay of a tunnel wall. More of the jar and shock was coming back up his ankles and shins than before. It was different, and anything different was hopeful. He bent his knees till he felt them brush the corners of his mouth, and kicked. Something was about to give; something had gi
ven way rather than hold still and be cut. Not bothering to clear away he carried on kicking, obstructed by the prised-out spoil but too preoccupied to spare the time to do the job properly (that’s so like you, Bardas; be the death of you, one day) until a ferocious stomp of his heels drove the spade forward into nothing, and he was jolted forwards painfully on to the base of his spine.

  Through, by the gods. I’ve found the damn sap. That’s handy. There was no light, needless to say, but the change in the smell of the air was extraordinary. Coriander; the tunnel he’d broken into reeked of coriander. Cautiously he wiggled his left foot into the breach he’d opened with the spade until he felt the flat of a board against the sole of his boot. He couldn’t help grinning; what if he kicked this board away, and it brought the roof down on him? Die like that, you’d wet yourself laughing.

  Coriander; because the enemy’s bakers seasoned their bread with coriander, while the Great King’s bread was made with garlic salt and rosemary. In the wet air of the mines, you could smell coriander or garlic on a man’s breath fifty yards away; it was the only way to know he was there and which side he was on. Coriander, and pepper-sausage for the officers, smells death and danger. Rosemary and garlic are for home, rescue or the relief shift crawling up the spur towards you. Loredan pressed his boot flat against the board and exerted slow, even force, until he felt the nails draw out of the battens. Through, but into coriander. One damn thing after another.

  Shuffling along on his arse, feeling his way with his heels, he edged through the breach in the wall until he came up against floorboards. One hell of a racket; but maybe it wouldn’t matter. It hadn’t occurred to him before now to wonder why the gallery had caved in; galleries cave in, it happens. But sometimes they cave in because the enemy undermines them, digging a spur of their own directly underneath and cutting out a chamber, called a camouflet, where they pile up barrels and jars of fat and rancid tallow, all hot, combustible stuff. As the fire burns it dries out the roof of the camouflet, the clay shrinks and suddenly there’s an unsupported hole in the gallery floor into which the whole gallery tries to pour itself, like water draining from a sink. The gallery caves in. Job done.

  Well, then; if the enemy, coriander, is off down some spur of its own, it’s less likely to be tramping up and down its native gallery. A man, garlic, might slip through a breach in the wall and go unnoticed for quite some way before some bugger bumps into him and cuts his throat.

  ‘Gods know.’ (Voices coming, coriander; two men in a hurry, knees and palms bumping over the floorboards.) ‘Maybe we’re so close to their gallery that our wall’s subsiding into the hole. In which case we’ll get the whole bloody lot round our ears if we don’t get it shored quick.’

  Bardas Loredan felt himself nodding in agreement; here was a man who knew his mines all right, the sort of man you’d want on your shift, except that he was the enemy. Two of them, and still coming on; hadn’t they got noses, he wondered, and then remembered that his shift hadn’t eaten for two days, what with one thing and all. No bread, no garlic, no smell to give you away. Stop eating and live for ever.

  ‘It’s a bugger, whatever it is,’ said the voice that went with the other pair of knees. Bardas felt in the top of his boot for the hilt of his knife; if the first one really was scent-blind, he’d have him, definitely. It’d be the second who’d have Bardas. Sacrifice your knight to take his rook; no fun at all if you’re the knight. But: the hell with it. It’s every soldier’s duty to seek out and destroy the enemy. So, let’s do that, then.

  He let the first voice go by, and when the second voice was almost past him, he reached out carefully with his left hand, hoping for a chin or a jaw. Of course, this was the bit he was good at. His fingertips brushed against a man’s beard, long enough for him to wind his fingers into and get a good grip. Before the man had a chance to make a sound, Bardas had stabbed up into the triangular cavity at the junction of neck and collar-bone, where death can come in quicker and quieter than anywhere else. The fashion in the mines was for short knives (short knives, short men, short spades, short lives; you got nothing for tall down the mines). He was in and out so smoothly that there was a fair chance the other man hadn’t even noticed.

  Nevertheless; ‘Thank you,’ Bardas muttered as he twisted the knife to free the blade. It was an unbreakable rule of the mines that you thanked the man who died in your place, when one or the other of you had to go. By speaking aloud he’d announced his presence in unmistakable terms, but he still had the advantage. The man, coriander, in front of him hadn’t a hope of turning round in the cramped shaft of the gallery, which meant that his options were to hold still and try to kick backwards with his heels like a mule, or to rapid-crawl on his hands and knees like a little child scurrying under a table, in the hope of finding a spur to crawl down before his enemy realised he’d gone. Then it’d be the other way round, of course; no fun, so let’s not allow that to happen.

  With a soft grunt of revulsion Bardas Loredan crawled over the body of the man, coriander, he’d just killed, feeling the palms of his hands and the caps of his knees digging into the soft flesh of the dead man’s belly and cheeks. He sniffed like a polecat to get a fix on his quarry, heard the scrape of a wooden clog-sole on a stone – almost close enough but not quite – so he hopped along, hands outstretched, shoving himself forward with his legs like a rabbit until he knew his face was within a few inches of the other man’s heels. The spring, when he made it, was more froglike than feline; he landed heavily, jarring his elbows on the man’s shoulder-blades. Afterwards, he thanked him.

  Now what? Of course, he hadn’t a clue where he was. In his own tunnels he could find his way easily enough; in his mind’s eye he had a picture of a whole honeycomb of galleries, shafts and spurs he’d never actually seen but knew intimately nonetheless. He didn’t even have to count the movements of his knees as he crawled forward to know where the spur gates were, or where the spur ended and the gallery began. He simply knew where they were, like a juggler with his eyes shut. But in these mines, coriander, he had no idea. The darkness here was genuinely dark to him, and he felt the lowness of the roof and the narrowness of the space between the walls as if it was his first day out of the light.

  Common sense, common sense. If this is a gallery (too wide and high to be a spur), chances are it runs to the face from the lift-shaft – which begged the questions: which way is which, and which way did he actually want to go? Avoiding the enemy was definitely a priority, but not if it meant heading deeper and further into exclusively hostile ground. To the best of his knowledge, the only interface between his tunnels, garlic, and the enemy’s was the hole he’d just wriggled through, so no way back. Forward – either direction – would sooner or later bring him up against an enemy camp or working shift, and even he couldn’t kill them all.

  It’s customary to die first . . . If only he could smell fresh air, he’d know which end was the lift-shaft; but he couldn’t, only a stale, lingering flavour of coriander and the heavy scent of the dead men’s blood on his clothes and hands. If he didn’t do something soon, fear would catch up with him and he’d be paralysed – he’d come across men, coriander, in that state before now, crouched against a wall with their hands over their ears, unable to move. Left, then; he’d go left, because if he was still in his own tunnels he’d go right to get to the lift-shaft. Totally flawed logic, but he couldn’t hear anybody objecting. Exactly why he should want to make for the lift he didn’t know. Just supposing he was able to creep into one of the spoil-baskets and get lifted up out of the mines without anybody noticing, once he reached the surface he’d be inside the enemy city, a dirty, bloody man marinaded in the wrong herbs and spices. But if he went the other way, to the face – where would the face be, now? Presumably, at the end of the spur where they’d laid their camouflet. Effectively, he’d have gone round in a circle, but there might be a chance of breaking through, if (say) the spur, coriander, ran closely parallel with the gallery, garlic, to any extent. Even
if that worked out, of course, there was the intriguing risk that he’d come though into his native gallery at some point after the cave-in, where he’d be just as trapped as he’d been in the spur. Only one way to find out. He’d go right, and see what happened.

  ‘It’s one of those moments, isn’t it?’ said a voice beside him.

  He knew perfectly well that the voice wasn’t really there. It hadn’t been there for years.

  ‘You tell me,’ he replied, keeping his own voice down to a soft whisper. ‘You’re supposed to be the expert.’

  ‘So people keep telling me,’ the voice replied ruefully. ‘I’ve always maintained that I’m like a man who’s just bought an expensive new machine; I know how to use it but I haven’t a clue how it works.’

  ‘Well,’ Loredan replied distractedly, ‘you know more about it than I do, anyway.’

  The voice sighed. It wasn’t a real voice; it was make-believe, like the imaginary friends of children. ‘I think it’s one of those moments,’ it repeated. ‘A fateful choice, a cusp – is that the right word? I’ve been talking about cusps for thirty years and I don’t actually know what a cusp is – a cusp in the flow, a crossroads. Apparently the Principle simply can’t function without them.’

  ‘All right,’ Loredan muttered, squeezing himself through a tight spot where a side-panel had come adrift, ‘it’s a cusp. Do whatever it is you do. And if it’s all the same to you, I’ll just carry on with what I’m doing.’

  ‘You always were sceptical,’ said the voice. ‘I can’t say I blame you. There’s a lot of it I have trouble believing in myself, and I wrote the book.’

  Loredan sighed. ‘You were rather less irritating when you were real,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry.’

  Everbody heard imaginary voices after a while. Some people heard them as dwarves and gnomes, kindly creatures that warned about vapour-pockets and cave-ins. Others heard them as dead family or friends, while bad men heard them as the people they’d murdered or raped or mutilated. Some people put out bowls of bread and milk for them, as children do for hedgehogs. Others sang to drown the voices out, or yelled at them till they went away; others talked to them for hours, finding that it helped pass the time. Everybody knew they weren’t really there; but in the mines, where it’s always dark and everybody, real or not, is nothing but a disembodied voice, people learn not to be quite so dogmatic about what’s actually there and what isn’t. For better or worse, Bardas Loredan heard his voice as Alexius, the former Patriarch of Perimadeia, who he’d known for a short while years ago and who was now quite probably dead. Except here, of course, where the living are buried and the dead live on bread and milk, like invalids.