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  It took more than courage to keep him steady in his ground, or loyalty to his friends or his men, or belief in the cause (whatever it was) or religion itself. The instinct to run away would've overridden any of those, or all of them together. But the thought occurred to him, even as panic smashed through his defences into his mind, that if he ran, or if he didn't maintain the defence and drive the enemy out, then the Flutes wouldn't be discharged and everything would be wrong: history wouldn't turn, the world would stay the same, and it'd all be because of one weak tendon. He couldn't face the embarrassment.

  He overdid his next cut recklessly, swinging with far too much force and not enough direction. The stroke went home, sure enough, but there hadn't been any need to chop bone, and Monach saw an accusing spark fly up as the hard steel of his sword blade chipped against a steel belt-buckle. The slightest notch in the cutting edge would ruin it for the perfect drawn cut, the stroke in which he'd striven all his life to find religion. Everything had gone completely wrong, and he hadn't even lost a square yard of ground yet The best and only chance was to close and seal the breach before the decisive number (a constant easily discovered by simple maths) got through it and into the yard. If the decisive number was sixty and he let through sixty-one, he'd failed. One hell of a time to screw up a tendon.

  Even so, he thought; and he swung at the next man to get in his way with everything he had. It was a poor cut, a lousy cut, Father Tutor would have rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, but the dead man hit the ground with a thump, and his sword clattered against the rim of his shield as it dropped. The next one was slightly better, but the annoying fool of a target stumbled, was in the wrong place, and the edge cut into the ball of his shoulder instead of his neck; Monach had to waste a whole cut finishing him. From there, it was all simply dreadful. Some of them had time to hit back and he had to parry, something he hadn't needed to do for ten years. One of them even slipped past a third back guard and nicked the lobe of his ear before Monach could deal with him. He was tired, he'd wickedly abused his shoulder, he was filthy with mud and blood and he'd knocked a splinter as wide as the nail of his little finger out of the edge of his sword, a forefinger's length down from the tip. History and the world owed him badly for all this.

  Fortunately, he'd underestimated his men. Their efforts were so shabby as to be practically an abomination, but they did contrive to hustle the enemy back into the breach without getting themselves wiped out-and, to do them credit, they took a respectably long time about it, unlike the haughty sword-monks who couldn't be bothered to spin out a simple job in a good cause. How much longer could Spenno need, anyway? Two old women and a three-legged dog could've shifted those Flutes by now Only three men were left from the party of enthusiasts who'd tumbled in through the breach after the ram. Two of them promptly vanished, cut to bits by a couple of sword-monks who'd wandered down from the wall, presumably out of boredom. That left just one for Monach himself, not that he was really fussed. Still, it'd be no big deal getting rid of a lone infantryman-a long, thin, spindly individual with a badly burned face. Monach decided to start from sword-sheathed and do a proper draw. An act of religion was just what he needed right now, to soothe his mind and take it off the pain in his shoulder.

  As the back of his hand brushed the sword hilt before flipping over, the infantryman stepped into his circle and grinned. 'Hello there, Earwig,' he said.

  Monach froze, just managing to check the draw in time. 'Gain?' he said. The infantryman nodded, and drew.

  Back in third year, before they'd learned anything worth knowing, Monach had sparred with Gain in the exercise yard: two-foot hazel sticks wrapped in cloth, with a wicker handguard. After the bout had gone on far too long, Gain had lost his temper and lashed out blindly, allowing Monach to do the two-step sideways shuffle that still gave him problems all these years later, and flick a little cut across Gain's forehead, drawing enough blood to establish victory. Curiously, the thin, straight scar had survived whatever had happened to Gain's face in the meantime.

  The tip of Gain's sword nipped the very end of Monach's nose, spurting a few drops of blood into his eyes as he rocked back. He heard Gain swearing, couldn't blame him-nobody had reflexes fast enough to get them out of the way of a perfectly executed rising throat-cut straight from the draw; most definitely not the Earwig. Nonplussed, Gain neglected to double his hands and step out with a left downwards diagonal; there was an instant, a full moment in religion, in which time wouldn't exist. If Monach could reconcile himself to killing an old friend, Gain was already as good as dead.

  Monach drew.

  But you couldn't do religion with a trick shoulder; only the perfect could attain perfection. The hard edge of his sword slithered off the opposing flat of Gain's sword, like a skater losing his balance on the ice. Because the anticipated resistance of bone to steel was missing, Monach stumbled forward, turned over his right ankle and flopped on the ground, while Gain's coaching-manual lateral beheading cut sailed over him, slicing air. As Monach scrambled frantically to his knees, he saw Gain step back and shake his head. 'See you, Earwig,' he called out, then stepped backwards through the splintered palisade like an actor leaving a stage.

  Someone else must've given the order to bring up logs and stakes to plug the gap torn by the ram. Monach watched them do it-better carpenters than they were soldiers-then trudged back across the yard, just as the rain began to fall. Perfect, he thought bitterly.

  But as he came up to the gate, he heard the now-familiar sound of somebody cursing a blue streak: Spenno, at last. Monach broke into a run, and found himself in front of the fodder store, staring at a large round black hole that seemed to go on for ever, right though to the edge of the world and out the other side into infinity. Instinctively he ducked; a burst of laughter greeted his movement. He glanced up and saw Spenno grinning at him down the length of a Poldarn's Flute. 'We did it!' Spenno was shouting. 'We're all done and dusted and ready to go, just got to load up the charge-'

  Spenno's next words were drowned out by the hollow thump of battering rams on the tortured remains of the gate. 'Perfect,' Spenno said. 'Right on time-couldn't be better if we'd all been practising for a week. You, for fuck's sake, where's the goddamned vent pick?'

  Monach didn't need to know what a vent pick might be. He skipped out of the way, ducked under the muzzle of the Flute and into the shed. A man he didn't know brushed past him, lugging a leather sack the size of a plump cushion; his. knees were bent and he was straining. Behind the knobbly stump end of the Flute-he'd heard Spenno call it the cascabel, the gods only knew where he'd got the word from, but knowing Spenno it was the right one-someone else was blowing gently on a manky little stub of smouldering rope, fetching up a tiny red ember. 'Watch what you're fucking doing with that match,' Spenno's voice rasped, and its malevolence was the most reassuring thing Monach had ever heard. 'Clear away, make ready,' someone else yelled-Galand Dev possibly, but it didn't actually matter. The rest of the exchange was blurred by the cracking of timber; Monach turned round to face the gate, and saw the nose of a four-foot-diameter log poking through shattered boards, like a worm in an apple. They were coming. The slayer was set up, and they were smashing their way towards it, pressing forward in their haste to be the first to crawl into the narrow black tunnel to nowhere. My idea, Monach reflected; and the horror of what he was about to achieve made his stomach lurch. They hadn't tested it on wicker screens or sacks stuffed with straw or even just a wall of soft mud: this would be the first time, against muscle and sinew and bone, but there could only be one possible outcome. A hundredweight of gravel, spat out of a short tube at unimaginable speed; the first man through the gates would simply disintegrate, like a rotten apple thrown up in the air and smacked hard with a stick.

  The ram crunched into the gates, a sound like a giant eating celery. Monach saw a man stretch out a hand holding a bit of smouldering rope, then jerk it back as Spenno bawled him out; not yet, apparently, because whoever made those gates had
done far too good a job. The noses of the rams were having to chew them slowly away, like a child unwillingly eating up the last of his greens. We could loose now, blast them through the last of the boards. Yes, we could, but we'll kill even more of them if we're patient just a little bit longer. Next to him, men were already lugging out the gravel-sacks for the next charge, dipping tin jugs into the tall barrel of volcano dust, wetting the heads of mops in the water pail, as though the first charge had already been loosed (in a moment existing only in religion, like the draw). I think I'll look away now, Monach suggested to himself, I don't think I want to see He heard the crack of failing timber, saw an arm stretch out and touch a red glow to a spot on top of the cascabel, watched a small, perfect, round white cloud float up, before a wall of burning hot air hit him in the face like a giant's hammer.

  Monach was already toppling backwards when the noise came. He could feel the shock wave of raw black sound ramming air into his ears, the pain unbearable as his brain was squeezed in, just as he hit the ground. Wetness splashed his face and hands, then something heavy fell across him. He could feel every inch of the skin on his face and neck, the sensation of flesh suddenly exposed and raw. People were screaming somewhere, a distant background noise like the constant purring of the sea.

  Something had gone wrong.

  The first thing that was wrong was his legs; they wouldn't work, and neither would his arms. It was dark, and he couldn't see if the problem lay with the heavy weight that had fallen across him, or whether it was more serious and permanent than that. He tried to think, but thinking through so much pain was like trying to swim in mud. If things hurt, you can feel them; if you can feel them, you aren't paralysed. It sounded good, crisply logical like a precept of religion, but he still couldn't move his legs. Something unbearably heavy pressed on the side of his head; weight and pressure consistent with, say, a boot-someone was treading on him, thinking him dead or simply not caring.

  Monach felt horribly cold. The pressure eased and with its passing his right leg came free. He kicked out, shifting something very heavy a little way. He blinked, and the darkness broke up; instead, it was a thick coating of something over his eyes. He could smell burnt meat, and cloth, and iron, like the smell of fresh filings, which was also the smell of blood. He pushed with his left arm and shifted something, but that accounted for the last of his strength. Time to rest, no matter what the hell was going on. No choice.

  The answer dropped into his mind all clean and perfect, like a gold coin dug up out of the ground. The Flutes had burst; all or just one of them had failed under the pressure of the charge, and all the fire and death and altered history he'd meant to bring down on the heads and bodies of the enemy had spat out in his face instead.

  It hadn't worked. The Poldarn's Flutes were a failure. Nice idea, but no dice. Pity about that.

  Monach moved his head, and as he did so he felt something sharp slicing into his chin. Whatever it was, he judged from its position that it was lodged deep in his shoulder. Best guess was, a jagged chunk of brass from the wreck of a Flute. It didn't hurt, the same way that you can't hear one voice out of a huge choir. Another problem he didn't need.

  That was enough rest for now. Another boot landed an inch from his nose-it seemed like days ago that Gain had nipped him there, a slight cut that didn't actually matter, except that it had sliced him right down to his heart. Assuming that he still had a nose, or ears, or cheeks or a chin, because his whole face was glowing, radiating pain like the stones of a hearth heated red by the fire. Fire, he thought suddenly, that'd do it: the pain and such are burns-fire gushing out from the Flute as it failed, stripping the skin off his face and neck. No fun at all, but probably better than what he'd been doing to human bodies all day.

  Monach blinked over and over again, until he scrubbed through the smear into the light, and could see. What he saw confirmed his initial hypothesis.

  He saw the remains of the Flute he'd been standing next to, ripped open along one side like a letter. Parts of bodies were scattered around, like clothes flung off by a drunk staggering into bed. Next to him on the ground was an arm and shoulder, and some bits of tube; a torso was spread across the barrel of the tube, opened up as if throughly pecked over by crows (one side of the ribcage was still there, bones picked clean, the other side was missing). Monach wondered if any of the bits had belonged to himself at any point. Remarkably, there were living men moving about through all the mess and ruin; but they were the enemy, which explained it, because surely nobody could have been within twenty yards of the Flutes when they failed, and survived (Except me. Apparently.)

  Then he must have fallen asleep; and when he woke up, he wasn't lying in the shambles and offal any more. He was on his back, on the ground, and above him he could see the beams of a roof, which he recognised as the charcoal store. There were three people looking down at him, impossibly tall, like long, spindly trees in a forest.

  One of them Monach didn't recognise, though context would suggest it was Colonel Muno. The other two were the burned man who sounded like Gain Aciava, and Cordo.

  Chapter Seventeen

  'Beal?' Noja shrugged. 'It's a nice enough place, I guess. Lots of big villas, for rich city types who like to play at being country gentry without getting mud on their trousers. Plenty of open space, all gardens, not a cow in sight. They cut more grass there mowing lawns than all the haymakers in the Bohec valley.'

  Poldarn nodded vaguely. He hadn't asked out of genuine interest. 'How much further?'

  'An hour maybe, two if there's traffic on the road. Lots of people come for the honey festival.'

  The coach was running smoothly over a good road that was fringed with squared-off hedges. No potholes or ruts here; they'd all been painstakingly filled in with river gravel. 'Fine,' he said. 'So we arrive in Beal, where Tazencius is staying. I take it we don't just cruise round knocking on doors till someone tells us where he is.'

  She pulled a face. 'Don't need to, we know exactly where he'll be. That's not the problem.'

  Poldarn nodded. 'Getting in to see him.'

  'Yes and no.' Noja looked tired; probably hadn't slept much. 'Needless to say, there'll be enough guards around to garrison a city. However, that's all right, because Cleapho's arranged for someone to let us in at the side door and take us right through to the inner courtyard, where the guards will let us through. That's where I'll be saying goodbye,' she added, 'because from there on, you'll be on your own. Even Cleapho can't get you past the household guards, and it's more than his life is worth to try. You get an open door-to walk through, and that's it. Also,' she went on, 'if you're hoping for a map or a briefing on the layout of the rooms, no dice. Cleapho's never been in there, which ought to give you some idea of the security around Tazencius. I hope you know about all that sort of thing.'

  Poldarn shook his head. 'I'm a great believer in fool's luck,' he said.

  She smiled. 'I heard someone say once that luck is like a door: you push it, and you get to where you want to be. Nonsense in my opinion, but I thought it might cheer you up. Hello,' she said, 'why're we slowing down?'

  The coachman turned back and said something about a roadblock. Noja's expression changed.

  'Not good,' she said. 'Roadblocks are only when there's someone particularly dangerous on the loose.'

  'I'm flattered,' Poldarn said. He had the sword he'd helped himself to the previous evening, but he really didn't want to get into a fight: it'd spoil everything.

  The coach stopped, and a moment or so later a soldier walked up and peered in through the vehicle's window. 'Sorry,' he said, 'but you've got to go back.'

  Poldarn stayed where he was. Noja leaned across him and said, 'What do you mean? We're going to the honey festival.'

  'Cancelled.' The soldier looked grave. 'Sorry, but it's a routine precaution. Quarantine.'

  Noja looked as though she didn't know what the word meant. 'What?'

  'There's been an outbreak of plague,' the soldier said, 'in Tul
ice. It's all right,' he went on, 'nobody's saying anything about it having reached this side of the Bay, and all shipping's been stopped, roads in and out of there all sealed, and they're looking for anybody who's known to have arrived from there in the last month. Also, all large public gatherings have been cancelled, and they'll be closing the city gates at midnight tonight; nobody in or out until the risk of infection's over. Apparently it's a nasty strain of plague, but quick; if we can keep it out for a week, we'll be safe. That's it, basically.'

  'Wonderful,' Noja said, with a slight wobble in her voice, which the soldier would've put down to fear of the plague. 'So what're we supposed to do?'

  'You're from the city, right? Well, best possible thing to do is go straight back there.'

  'What, and get stuck there when the plague starts? Not likely.'

  The soldier shook his head. 'Safest place in the Empire, it'll be; that's why they're closing it off. You'll be far more at risk if you stay outside.'

  There wasn't any point in arguing; the only way through the roadblock was over the dead body of the soldier and the rest of his outfit, and there wouldn't be any point in going to that extreme, since Tazencius obviously wasn't going to be at Beal anyway. Noja pursed her lips, putting on a scornful expression that reminded Poldarn of Copis. 'Wonderful,' she repeated. 'So we're going to be locked up in the city for a week. You know how many ships dock at Torcea every day?'

  The soldier sighed. Clearly he was under orders to be polite to anybody in a posh carriage, and he didn't like it. 'Like I said,' he replied, 'Torcea's the safest place in the Empire right now. Like, if there was even the slightest danger, would the Emperor be headed there right now?'