Savages Page 12

  Rumours began to filter through. The emperor, they said, wasn’t happy. Calojan’s strategy was to lure the Sashan to a certain carefully chosen location, where he’d prepared a stroke-of-genius trap that would neutralise all Atrabanes’ advantages and turn them into insuperable difficulties (Atrabanes, struggling to find fodder for his horses in spite of having looted the second biggest grain store in the empire, reckoned it wouldn’t take a genius or a special place to do that). As far as Calojan was concerned, the loss, disgrace and human misery was a small price to pay for the crowning victory of his career. Emperor Sechimer, however, wasn’t so sure. He’d sent urgent messages to Calojan urging him to save Mondhem, was furiously angry that they’d been ignored; had threatened to recall Calojan, who’d replied with words to the effect of, You and whose army?

  Whose army indeed. It had long been suspected that Sechimer was wildly jealous of Calojan, or terrified in case the great general deposed him and took the throne for himself; who wouldn’t be, after all? It was possible verging on likely that the disastrous loss of Mondhem would give Sechimer the justification he needed to cut his over-mighty lieutenant down to size, with the soldiers too horrified by the shame of losing one of the empire’s most valuable assets to maintain their loyalty to their charismatic general.

  Only rumours; but Atrabanes decided to sit down in the ashes of Mondhem and see what happened next. As far as he was concerned, the only man in the world who mattered was Calojan; if there was any chance that Sechimer might deal with that insuperable problem for him, he was determined not to spoil it by interfering. While he was there, feeding his men and horses on supplies freighted across the sea from the King’s North Sea ports, he began to hear other stories, equally exciting. The Aram Cosseilhatz, Calojan’s invincible savages, were unhappy. They didn’t like the way they were being treated, cooped up in camp outside the City like domestic poultry, and there was some sort of stupid fuss about some religious rite they’d been forbidden to perform—it included something that could be interpreted as human sacrifice, and the priesthood were up in arms. It was just possible that they might be open to a better offer, if a better offer happened to come along.

  A voice in his head warned Atrabanes that all this seemed just a little bit too good to be true. On the other hand, it was also distinctly plausible. He decided to wait a little longer. While he was waiting, a deputation arrived from the elders of the Aram no Vei.

  Atrabanes had heard of them. They were savages, roughly the same sort as the Cosseilhatz but further north, in that vague, huge expanse of flat grassland where it was murderously hot in summer, lethally cold in winter. The Cosseilhatz and the no Vei and the Chantat and the Rosinholet, according to the book he had rushed down to him from the Capital library, were all basically the same apart from the differences; being so similar yet so different, naturally they hated each other like poison. Every thirty years or so there was a horrendous, vast war—Chantat against no Vei, or Cosseilhatz against Chantat, or Chantat against Rosinholet; the impression he got was there was some sort of roster, with elements of a league table. The rest of the time, they got on passably well, but the wars were violent enough to keep the numbers down and the four clans irrevocably separate, which was just as well for the rest of Mankind.

  The no Vei had come to him with a proposition. For a modest consideration, they would be happy to extend their sacred war against the Cosseilhatz into a new southern theatre. If the Sashan could see their way to helping them out with provisions, materiel and a certain level of logistical support, they would engage the Cosseilhatz, who would undoubtedly abandon their strictly commercial loyalty to Calojan in order to fight for clan and honour. Furthermore, assuming the no Vei were successful against the Cosseilhatz (which they would be; there would be a lot of them) they would be open to offers to continue in the Great King’s service after the empire had been dealt with, as a shield against all his future enemies.

  Needless to say, Atrabanes made the fullest enquiries possible. The results were very encouraging; the no Vei were who they said they were, and there was no reason to suppose they weren’t deadly serious and entirely capable of delivering what they promised. There was indeed a great war going on in the north; amber-traders operating along the Old North Road had seen the aftermath of appalling battles, and the amber price had doubled in consequence on the Sashan exchanges. It was entirely plausible that the combatants were the Cosseilhatz and the no Vei. Informed sources had reason to believe that the no Vei were under extreme pressure from a new race of savages, wagon-riders rather than horsemen, expanding eastwards across the great lakes and the Rooftree mountains in search of land, plunder, sanctuary from invaders, something of the sort. Typically the no Vei would respond to such pressure by attacking the Cosseilhatz, who would then either fight back or attack either the Rosinholet or the Chantat, depending on the niceties of the balance of power. As for the idea of a southern front, it made sense. If the Cosseilhatz in Imperial service were recalled to defend the clan, they could easily turn the tide of the war. Sensible, therefore, to cut them off down here and make sure they never made it back home.

  Atrabanes wasn’t a religious man, but it did occur to him to wonder. If there was such a thing as divine intervention, he told his close advisers, surely it’d look something like this. Remove both Calojan and his tame savages, and look at what would be left; thirty-five thousand regular infantry, nine or so thousand cavalry, a few ragged and unreliable auxiliaries. Thanks to a decade of misrule exceptional even by the standards of the Empire, that was all they could afford, and the Sashan could walk through them to the City without slowing down. For the first time since he’d been handed his commission, Atrabanes was inclined to see the size of his army as a possible benefit. Without Calojan and the Cosseilhatz, overwhelming force would probably be enough to get him to the City gates and institute a siege. Once he was there, the additional half million refugees inside the walls would do his job for him.

  Scepticism and caution have their uses, but they should be a man’s tools, not his master. Atrabanes gave the no Vei sixty thousand mancus as a down payment and advanced on Coal Harbour, the last surviving major port on the north coast. If there truly was a serious rift between Calojan and Sechimer, Calojan would let the Sashan take Coal Harbour, and Sechimer would recall him, or try to. Calojan would either go meekly to his disgrace or stage his own impromptu coronation; at which point, under the terms of the deal, the no Vei would attack the Cosseilhatz. And the joy of it was, if the pieces of the miracle somehow didn’t fall into place, Atrabanes could still fall back, in good order and at his leisure, to supervise the setting of garrisons in the ruined shells of the north coast ports. There was no danger, either way. No battle; therefore no opportunity for losing. He arrived in front of the walls of Coal Harbour at the head of his army to find the gates open and the streets deserted.

  The wording of the commission was unequivocally clear; burn their cities, enslave their women and children, so on and so forth. Relectantly, therefore, he gave the order to destroy Coal Harbour. Rather a shame; it was an old city with some unique architectural features dating right back to the Third Kingdom and some outstanding neo-Rescensionist frescos, together with probably the best and most efficient freight handling systems in the world. But, so long as there was a chance that the empire might come back fighting, it’d be a serious mistake to leave the city intact, given its strategic position. Besides, its real importance now lay in its potential to give Sechimer a pretext to move against Calojan. The order was passed back to the sappers, who trundled their heavy plant through the massive, redundant gates and set resignedly to work.

  Six days smashing down a thousand years of history and achievement; and then Atrabanes got the news he’d been praying for. Calojan had been recalled to the City for an urgent meeting with the emperor; and, by all accounts, he’d gone off as meek as a lamb, with only a secretary and two Cosseilhatz as escort. Like a man in a dream, Atrabanes wrote a letter to the no Vei. It
was short; the no Vei never bothered to read more than the first three lines. It said, Calojan recalled in disgrace. Attack now.

  They were kicking his door. He opened his eyes and rubbed them. No call for that sort of thing.

  He dragged himself out of bed, grabbed his gown and stumbled across the room. He’d only been in the house three days, so navigating through it in the dark wasn’t easy. He found the front door and opened it.

  “Aimeric de Peguilhan?”

  Two kettlehats; imperial guard, no less, gilded breastplates (supplied by his father, a special order that ended up costing him money) and drawn swords. “That’s right,” Aimeric mumbled. “Please don’t kick the door. This place is only rented.”

  “You’re with us.”

  “What?” It dawned on Aimeric that he was in trouble. “Oh, all right. I’ll just get some clothes on.”

  “No time for that.”

  Oh. Fortunately, he’d left his shoes just inside the door, so he was able to stuff his feet into them without needing anybody’s permission. Then one of the kettlehats grabbed his elbow, and he was no longer in charge of his own movements.

  “Where are we going?” he asked. No reply. They couldn’t have heard him.

  Not far, it turned out. Aimeric’s new home was on the corner of Stoneyard and Five Acres, two minutes’ walk from the palace. They walked for two minutes. When they got to the palace, they didn’t go in through the tall, ever so slightly vulgar Eagle Gate. Instead, they went round the north side, to the door in the wall that led directly into the watch house yard. Across the yard, down a flight of spiral stairs, down a long, dark corridor. A door opened; it was heavy oak, with a very small window. He went through the door into pitch darkness. They closed it behind him, and he heard a key turn.

  Thanks to his father’s robust views on parental discipline, for most of his life Aimeric had always been able to reassure himself that, no matter how bad things seemed, he’d been in worse places or worse scrapes before. This time, though, he was in entirely new territory. It was darker than the cupboard in the game larder, and colder; possibly slightly smaller, though he needed light to be categorical about that. Also, his father had never left him locked up for more than a couple of hours (and if his father forgot he was there, his mother let him out). No way of marking the passage of time, naturally, but definitely longer than two hours. He couldn’t feel anything to sit on except the floor, which was hard stone and damp. He waited for it to get light. It didn’t.

  Unbelievably, he must have fallen asleep at some point; he woke up in a blaze of hot white light, flooding in through the inch-wide gap between door and frame. A kettlehat grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet; he staggered—feet numb, not under his control—and was towed like a stone-barge into the searing brightness of the corridor, lit by two lanterns.

  “Excuse me,” he said. The kettlehat upped the pace a little. The numbness had turned into the most excruciating pins and needles he’d ever experienced. He considered pointing that out to the guard, but decided against it.

  Up the spiral staircase, into the yard, the light still painful; across the yard and through a low doorway; along a corridor, then another. A door. The kettlehat tapped on it—remarkable that so brutal a man could tap so delicately. “Yes,” said a voice. Through the door, into a room. He was folded and compressed down into a chair. There was another chair facing. In it sat another soldier, officer (were they still issuing the Type 7 officers’ small-ring mailshirts? He remembered that contract going through when he was seven). He heard the door close.

  The officer lifted his head and noticed him. “Aimeric de Peguilhan.”

  “Yes.”

  The officer smiled. “You’re in so much trouble.”

  Not what he wanted to hear. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “What did I do?”

  The officer was a big, broad man, good-looking, good haircut, beard trimmed to a needle-sharp point. He had a scar on his left forearm, a pink shiny patch as big as Aimeric’s hand, and a single gold earring. “Here’s the latest news, in case you hadn’t heard. General Calojan has been recalled and placed in custody pending formal charges. Well?”

  Made no sense. “Calojan? What did he do?”

  “Oh, lots of things,” the officer replied. “About midway down the charge sheet, we’ve got corruption, misappropriation of funds, misappropriation of supplies, unauthorised trading in government property, failing to declare an interest in a commercial enterprise supplying goods to the government.” He paused for breath. “Stuff like that. You look surprised. Maybe you should’ve gone on the stage.”

  “I’m sorry,” Aimeric said. “I don’t know anything about any of this.”

  “Really? Let’s see.” The officer took a roll of paper from the desk and spread it out with both hands. He leaned forward, then back a little. Short-sighted. “You secured a contract to supply arrows.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “One million.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You supplied two million. And were paid for them. And the government paid off all your substantial debts.”

  “Yes.”

  “None of this went through the Armoury Board.”

  “No.”

  Another smile; warm and happy, but not friendly. “Thank you.”

  “Sorry?”

  “For confessing. Sensible of you. I don’t think you’d have enjoyed standard procedures for obtaining a confession from a recalcitrent witness. Right, we’ll jot down something for you to sign and then you can go.”

  Then I can go. An explosion of joy and relief; but then he heard himself say, “Excuse me, but I don’t understand.”

  “You don’t need to. Just sign and go home.”

  “But I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  The officer looked earnestly at him. “You did, you know. You conspired with general Calojan to defraud the treasury of twelve million solidi. Since you’ve turned state’s evidence, you won’t be prosecuted.” He paused, then said, “That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “I made Calojan two million arrows,” Aimeric said. “But I don’t think I conspired.”

  The officer looked very sad. “Maybe you’re just unusually stupid,” he said. “So I’ll say it again. You conspired with general Calojan to defraud the treasury of twelve million. You now bitterly regret your actions and are pleased to assist the authorities in bringing Calojan to justice. Is that clear?”

  “That’s not—”

  The officer looked at him. “Fine,” he said. “You have a choice. You can walk out of here physically intact and go home. Or bad things can happen to you. Calojan’s a dead man whatever you decide. Please don’t let me influence your decision in any way.”

  There was a knock at the door. A clerk came in, with a piece of paper, an inkwell and a pen.

  “Why are you doing this?” Aimeric asked. “Calojan’s winning the war, isn’t he?”

  No reply. The paper was put in front of him. The inkwell was about four inches from his right hand. He shot a book off my head, Aimeric thought; he could have killed me. Made no difference. Don’t lie to yourself. You can’t—

  “My time,” the officer said gently, “is not without value.”

  He picked up the pen. “Where do I sign?”

  One of the kettlehats who’d escorted Aimeric to this interview went off duty an hour or so afterwards. He took off his armour, put an old coat over his regulation habergeon and went down to the Old Town, where he stopped at the Flawless Diamonds of Orthodoxy for a beer. While he was there, he collided with another man carrying a tray of drinks. They exchanged apologies, and the soldier stooped to help the man pick up the dropped crockery. Very soon after that, the man who’d been carrying the tray left the Diamonds, walked quickly to the livery stables on Short Cross, took out a fast, expensive post horse and left the City in a hurry. He rode as far as the Seven Tears of Mercy at Mercovic, where he happened to meet up with an old friend who bought him a drink. He the
n returned to the City. His friend rode fast for the rest of the day and through the night until he reached the frontier at Escatoy, just before dawn. He climbed in through the collapsed roof of a derelict barn, just on the Imperial side of the line, stayed there for a minute or so, then left quickly. Not long afterwards, someone crossed the frontier and rode to the Sashan mail station at Erymees, from which a Royal courier set off shortly afterwards. The courier took the Great Post Road north and handed over his message at Relay Seven. Twenty-three hours and five changes of rider later, the message was placed in the hand of general Atrabanes, who opened it, blinked twice and sat down. A little later, he sent for his general staff and issued a great many orders.

  It was a beautiful day for the time of year. Below the hill where Atrabanes had set up his standard lay a meadow, prime fat grazing land, richly embroidered with red and blue flowers. On the far side, he could see a long black line. Not a copse or a bank or a wall, and there was nothing marked on the map he’d had drawn. Therefore, inevitably, the enemy.