The Two of Swords: Part 15 Read online

  There now; he’d shocked and offended his friend. He leaned back in his seat and admired the sky. “Back there,” he said. “I think I may have had a spiritual experience.”

  “Bullshit,” Orderic said crisply. “It was just acoustics and hydraulics. I don’t even think that was the real queen.”

  “It was her,” Genseric said. “Don’t you ever read the monthly reports? There’s been all sorts going on in Blemya. She’s back in control.”

  Orderic stared at him. “You might have told me.”

  “I assumed—” He shrugged. “Makes no odds,” he said. “But that … place we were in; that was the Great Hall, the real thing. When the old guard was still in control, she wasn’t allowed to use it, she had to make do with the New Hall. It’s a close replica, but it doesn’t have that amazing acoustic effect. When they built the New Hall they tried to copy it exactly, but they got it very slightly wrong, so it doesn’t work there. Sorry, I thought you knew.”

  Orderic scowled at him, then shrugged. “Well, anyway,” he said, “at least you admit it’s all cleverness and trickery and not the Voice of God. You went all to pieces in there. Admit it.”

  “Freely,” Genseric said. “I looked up, and I saw judgement looking down at me. I was quite prepared to go to the gallows, accepting the fairness of its decision. But I was accorded grace, and here I still am.”

  “For now, anyway,” Orderic said. “When we get back—”

  Genseric sat up. “When we get back,” he said, “we’re going to be asked a lot of very detailed questions about everything we saw in the palace. It ought to save our necks; might even do us some good, if we’re lucky. You don’t get it, do you? By sheer dumb luck, we’re the first Westerners with official standing to have seen the new regime in Blemya. I don’t care how mad Forza is at us, we did good.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “That’s why I regard it as a spiritual experience,” he said. “Soon as I heard that garbled echo, I knew; Great Hall, that’s a statement if ever there was one. She’s in charge and she wants everybody to know it; and that’s why she let us go, because she wants a rapprochement with the West, or at least, she wants us to think she does.” He yawned again. “Put it another way,” he said. “From the depths of failure, grace caught us and drew us up into the light. Instead of outcasts, we’ll be heroes. Lucky old us.”

  The interrogation and debriefing lasted four days; approximately three hours for every minute they’d spent in the Great Hall. Every detail, from the brightness of the candles to the colour of the acolytes’ chasubles; in a society so completely marinaded in ritual as Blemya, the slightest thing could be enormously significant – indeed, subtle details were more likely to carry true significance than overt statements. Genseric was quite right; the return of the Queen of Blemya to the Great Hall completely eclipsed the failure of their mission – which, having failed, was not to be talked about and probably had never happened; the attack on Beal Defoir was almost certainly pirates dressed up as Imperial forces, wearing armour and uniforms bought from Ocnisant. As for Forza, nobody seemed to know where he was or what he was doing; he was busy with some new idea and couldn’t be bothered with the fallout from the old one.

  While Genseric was in the South Wing, he did pick up one interesting piece of news. Domna Lysao wasn’t in Blemya any more. She’d left the sanctuary of the royal palace, taking with her a horse and a number of small, valuable items (retrospective gifts, according to unofficial Blemyan sources) and vanished into the night; a corresponding time later, a woman on a horse of the same colour and stature as the one missing from the royal stables had crossed the frontier, narrowly evading the border guards—

  “But that’s crazy,” Orderic protested, when Genseric told him. “We went to all that trouble, nearly got ourselves disgraced and killed, and then the bloody woman trots off into the West of her own free will. It’s enough to make you give up soldiering and join a monastery.”

  “I said she’d crossed the frontier,” Genseric said gently, “I didn’t say which one. She crossed into the East.”

  Four weeks later, Genseric was back on the front line. A large contingent of Eastern cavalry had broken through in the north, and General Dipaza had asked for him by name.

  It was a long, gruelling march, in the rain and bitter cold, and when they got there the Easterners had retired into the foothills of the mountains, where only an idiot would follow them. They’d left behind them the usual trail of burned and deserted villages; that was all they’d achieved, so technically their withdrawal constituted a victory. Nevertheless, some form of token reprisal was called for. Dipaza couldn’t be bothered to go himself, so Genseric had the honour of leading one infantry battalion and two squadrons of Cassite lancers across the border, with instructions to burn a minimum of two hundred farmsteads and appropriate at least a thousand head of cattle. There would be no resistance, and the operation shouldn’t take longer than three weeks. He could kill civilians if he wanted to, but it wasn’t essential. He could use his own judgement on that.

  The Cassites felt the cold. It was hard, even for an Imperial like Genseric, to see how that was possible. Cassite lancers wear scale armour from head to toe; under the armour they have padded jacks and breeches an inch thick, and regulations permit the wearing of surcoats, cloaks and scarves, as well as the traditional Cassite arming cap, a full pound weight of wool quilted into a tulip shape, with earflaps and neck guard, worn under the massive full-face helmet. Cassites were prized by both sides because they alone could survive in all that impossible gear (which made them pretty well invulnerable) without dying of heat exhaustion; attempts to equip non-Cassite units with the same kit had always ended in disaster or mutiny. And, anywhere north of the Lakes, they felt the cold dreadfully and whined about it incessantly, and you had to be nice to them or they’d desert to the enemy without a moment’s hesitation. Not that they were unreliable or treacherous; far from it. You couldn’t persuade a Cassite to change sides by bribing him, or holding his children hostage. But if his fingers went numb and his teeth started to chatter – essentially, at any temperature below the melting point of copper – either you gave him firewood and extra blankets or you lost him forever. Simple as that.

  Genseric had served with Cassites before, so he knew what was needed. He filled four carts with enough blankets to bow the axles, assigned two companies of infantry to wood-foraging duties and commandeered a large consignment of rolls of felt, fortuitously held in bonded store at Prahend awaiting shipment downriver to the hatmakers of Rasch. The felt made all the difference. The Cassites cut it into strips and jammed it between their armour and their clothing, and cautiously predicted that they might not freeze to death after all.

  For all that, the Sausagemen proved to be highly effective at trashing farmsteads. Orderic reckoned it was simply a matter of motivation; burning thatch offered warmth. Genseric felt there was probably rather more to it than that, but he wasn’t inclined to think about it too deeply. The mission was going well but he wasn’t enjoying it.

  “We’re on target for houses,” Orderic reported, as the sparks rose, “but we’re a bit behind on the livestock. A lot behind, in fact. You’d think they’d go together, farms and farm animals, but apparently not.”

  There spoke the city boy, who didn’t realise that houses can be rebuilt in a few months, but flocks and herds take years. They hadn’t seen a living soul for days, which confirmed it; the locals had driven off their livestock to somewhere remote and well hidden, trusting to snowfall to cover the tracks. Caves, possibly, if there were any in the foothills of the mountains; if not, there would be sheltered combes, steep-sided river valleys, maybe even large patches of clear-fell in the pine forest where sheep at least could graze long enough for the monsters to go away. Finding them, of course, would be next to impossible without ridiculous luck or local knowledge. In fact, the only way Genseric could see of losing a significant number of his men was launching off into the wild looking for such places. Burned houses
would have to do. Stealing cattle was specialised work, and for some reason it hadn’t featured in his otherwise faultless education.

  Luck, however, seemed determined to be on his side, whether he wanted it or not. Two stray sheep, big stocky animals with heavy, briar-clogged fleeces, crossed their path, stared at them and bolted back up the hillside. Genseric roared at the men closest to him to follow; they jumped down from their horses and scrambled dangerously up the snow-covered shale, while Orderic halted the line. The scouts were a long time returning; when they did, they reported fresh tracks in the snow on the other side of the ridge. Genseric sent them back again, with instructions to follow the tracks as far as they could. When they got back, just after sunset, they said the trail led to a steep gorge, dropping away sharply to a folded-over combe with a stream at the bottom. They hadn’t gone too far, because they could hear more sheep, a lot of them, but they could see glimpses of green between the rocks, suggesting the combe was sheltered and warm.

  “And, you can bet your life, closed off at both ends,” Orderic said cheerfully, while the Cassites were dismounting. Horses couldn’t go where they were going. “Secure the ends and nothing can get out.”

  “Except sheep,” Genseric replied. “Sheep can get out of anything, trust me. My father used to say that’s why sheep are so evil. It’s no good sending them to Hell, they only get out again.” He lifted his helmet, considered the weight and all the uphill that lay ahead and decided not to bother; the mail coif would do instead, and he could take it off and sling it through his belt. “Ah well,” he said. “The exercise will do us good.”

  By the time they reached the top of the ridge overlooking the southern entrance to the combe, even the Cassites were warm, though naturally they didn’t admit it. The climb had taken them from sunrise to mid-morning, and Genseric was glad of the excuse of getting his forces in position. He sat down on the ground with his back to a thorn tree and caught his breath. He’d allowed the Cassites plenty of time to get round the side of the steep to cover the north entrance of the combe; he was staying on the south side, with half the infantry; the rest were down below, looking after the horses. That gave him a total of three hundred and fifty men; against what? Three dozen shepherds? Even so, he told himself, do it properly. The very worst words a commander can ever utter are I never thought of that.

  He therefore gave the Cassites an extra five general confessions to get into place, then lifted his arm and waved Orderic and the first two companies of infantry into motion. They scrambled down the slope, and as soon as they’d reached the bottom, he followed with the third company.

  The combe was a beautiful place; green in winter, with thorn and wild plum trees lining a straight, fast-running stream. The whole of one bank was carpeted with sheep; a thousand, easily. As he’d anticipated, the sides were too steep for a man to climb without ropes and hooks; even the sheep had to turn back halfway, as their hooves lost grip on the thin, easily uprooted heather and moss. He’d overestimated the enemy numbers by a factor of three. There were a dozen shepherds, mostly boys, two old men and an even older woman. They stood up and stayed perfectly still, which suggested they knew the rules only too well.

  “Now what?” Orderic said, wiping his forehead. “Sorry, but my mother didn’t raise me to be a shepherd. You know all about this stuff, don’t you?”

  Genseric frowned. “In theory,” he said. “My father owned twenty thousand sheep, among other livestock. But we left the more technical side of it to the professionals. Sergeant,” he called out. “Any farm boys in your platoon? I need this lot rounded up and driven back the way we just came.”

  The infantry, Genseric quickly discovered, were men of many skills and talents – fishermen, quarrymen, brickmakers, sawmill hands, dockers, porters, roadmenders, even a few refugees from proper trades such as weavers, coopers, tanners, wheelwrights, chandlers, foundrymen, stonemasons, cartwrights, fullers and one bankrupt coppersmith. No shepherds. The Cassites, of course, knew livestock better than anyone – they lived by driving their vast flocks across dune and desert – but, they objected, they’d been hired as soldiers, not stockmen; besides, any fool knows you round up stock on horseback, not on foot. And you have dogs. Without dogs— They shrugged regretfully and sat down on the grass, shivering.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Genseric said angrily, “they shouldn’t be in the army, they’re tradesmen, they should be in a factory somewhere, making munitions. The regulations specifically say—”

  “Major.”

  Orderic was pointing at something. He followed the line of his outstretched arm, and on the skyline he saw a man, several men, a row of them, evenly spaced like fence posts. They were archers. He swung round; they were lined out on the other side of the combe, too. That’s it, then, he thought.

  “They’ve blocked both ends,” Orderic said. His voice was low and remarkably steady, in the circumstances. “I thought—”

  “Shut up,” Genseric snapped. “Let me think.”

  “What about? They’ve got us, we’re dead.”

  They weren’t the only ones to have noticed. Captains and sergeants were yelling orders, ranks were forming, the men were kneeling, lifting their shields. Pointless. They couldn’t climb the sides, and a dozen men could hold either end of the combe against a thousand. He started counting the archers, but gave up when he reached treble figures.

  “There’s always the reserve,” Orderic said. “We’ve still got the men we left with the horses.”

  “Want to bet?” He looked round one more time. Whoever had set the trap and lined out the archers clearly knew what he was doing, there was no point even trying to fight. But they weren’t shooting; not yet. “I think we’d better surrender,” he said quietly. “Stand the men down. I’ll go and see if I can find someone to talk to.”

  They found him; two of them, a slight, grey-haired man and a red-headed giant. There was some way down through the rocks that they knew, though there was nothing to see; they appeared suddenly, walking across the grass, unarmed and looking as though they’d come to buy the sheep. He walked over towards them, with Orderic just behind him; ten yards away, the older man gestured for them to stop. “Just you, Major,” he called out. “Not the captain.”

  Genseric hesitated. He wasn’t wearing any badge of rank, and neither was Orderic. “Better do what they want,” he said. “Wait here.”

  He followed them up the slope and talked to them for a while. Then he came down again. Orderic was waiting exactly where he’d left him. He took a moment to catch his breath, then said, “It’s all right.”

  “Major?”

  “They’re letting you go. Tell the men to pile up their weapons and dump their armour, helmets, too. When they’ve done that, you can lead them out on the north side, where we came in. I’m afraid the rest of the battalion wasn’t so lucky, they tried to put up a fight. Oh, and they’re keeping the horses, so you’re going to have to walk. But apart from that, you should be fine.”

  Orderic had noticed the pronouns. “You’re not coming with us.”

  “You’ve got to deliver a message to regional command. Basically, it’s this. There’s now a third party in this war. They aren’t bothered if East and West stick to killing each other, but if we carry on burning out farms and forcibly enlisting the country people, we shouldn’t expect them to be so kind-hearted in future. Apparently they did the same thing to an Eastern division last week, away up in the Rhus country; the Easterners chose to make a fight of it, and they won’t be going home. They appreciate that it’ll take quite a few demonstrations of this sort before anyone takes them seriously, but they’ve got to start somewhere. Just deliver the message,” Genseric added, “that’s all they want from you. All right?”

  “Who are they?”

  Genseric looked at him for a moment. “I get the impression this deal is conditional on me not answering that question,” he said. “I think I know, but I’m only guessing.”

  “You’re not coming.”


  “No.” Genseric looked away. “No, I’ve got to go with them, and I can’t tell you why. It’s all right,” he added quickly. “I’ve known all along, ever since Beal Defoir, that someone was going to get stuck with the tab eventually. It’s like she said, it was just a matter of time. But that’s none of your business. Get on and do what they want, before they change their minds.”

  Orderic started to say something, but he turned his back on him and walked away, up the slope.

  The Cherry Tree

  They’d been issued with a jar of honey. “I think you’re supposed to wrap it in cheesecloth first,” Teucer said, but Myrtus didn’t think so. “Just stick it in,” he said, “bung the lid on and melt some beeswax round it. I really don’t want to look at it any more than I can help.”

  It was a tight fit. Whoever issued the jar had probably been thinking of a smaller man. The ears wedged against the rim, and Teucer had to use considerable force to get it inside; honey welled up all round it and slopped out on to his hands. Even then, the hair wouldn’t go in at all. “Cut it off, then,” Myrtus ordered.

  “You sure that’s all right?”

  “It’ll have to be, won’t it,” Myrtus drew his knife and sawed through the thick braids; finally, the lid fitted, just about. “I’ll hold it shut,” Myrtus said. “Get the beeswax.”

  Teucer came back with a block of wax and a small copper pan. He heated the pan over the fire till the wax went clear; it smelt of honey, a scent Myrtus was rapidly growing sick of. He held the jar up and turned it slowly while Teucer poured. The result was a mess, but airtight.

  “What do you suppose they want it for?” Teucer asked.

  Myrtus shivered a little. “Proof, mostly. And they’ll stick it up on a spike on a gate somewhere. Ironic,” he added. “The poor devil’s father ended up the same way. Runs in families, evidently.”

  Teucer was frowning. “Well, he asked for it, didn’t he?”