The Proof House Part 37

(How curious, Bardas thought; how curious and impractical of the makers of men to put the hard armour of the skull inside the softness of the face. Surely it ought to be the other way round, the tough, uniform bone sheltering the vulnerable, distinctive features that made one individual different from another. In that respect, if in no other, they knew better in the proof house.) Soft and unformed, yet shrivelled and lined, Temrai looked both very young and very old. In this face he could see the boy who'd hidden from him under a cart, in a place not far away from here; and he could see the old man that Temrai would have been (the river or the wheel, unless one preferred the a.n.a.logy of the camshaft) - and he thought for a moment about the process of preservation (curing the meat), which is an attempt to dam the river and stop the wheel, to find a way of failing to sack the doomed city or kill the accursed man. Someone who believed in the Principle might be inclined to make that into a theory, as if there hadn't been enough reshaping of raw material already.

'It's a bit late to worry about that now,' observed Anax, standing behind his shoulder. 'And besides, the ability to make things into other things is what makes us human. Or makes us the humans we are,' he added, with a wheezy chuckle. 'You know what,' he went on, 'dried out and properly padded you could use that as a helmet liner.'

'Go away,' Bardas said.

'You're just cranky because you never had a chance to say thank you,' Anax replied. 'And you're the man who was always b.i.t.c.hing in the mines about never getting to see the face of his enemy.'

Bardas frowned. 'I never thought of him as that,' he said. 'In fact, to be honest with you, I never really thought about him as a human being.'

'Missed your chance for that, I'm afraid,' Anax said, in a told-you-so voice. 'Because that's not human, it's just a thing. Comes to us all in time, of course; we gradually grow these inhuman skins - a bit like trees, really, except the other way round; with us, it's the living bit that's on the inside and the dead bit that's outside. Which reminds me, was that or was that not an amazingly fine suit of armour I made for you?'

'Yes.'

'Is that all you can say, yes? Talk about pa.s.sing proof; you sit there without a mark on you, and all you can say is yes.'> Bardas smiled. 'Ah,' he said, 'but that was just war. It never had to withstand Bollo and the big hammer.'

Anax smiled; Bardas couldn't see the smile, but he knew it was there. 'Son,' he said, 'there's nothing on earth that strong. It's like those boxing booths you used to see at fairs; rule of the house, Bollo always wins. The fun's to see how many rounds you can go.'

'Fun?'

'For want of a better word.'

A little later, Bardas went to the guardhouse.

'That man who brought the letter for me,' he said. 'Have you still got him there?'

They told him yes, he was still here.

'Fine. Have you asked him his name?'

Sure, they replied. Da.s.sascai, he called himself. Made no secret of it. Seemed to be under the impression he had a nice reward coming.

'Absolutely,' Bardas replied. 'Now, get a couple of men and a flag of truce, and take this Da.s.sascai up the hill to King Sildocai - I suggest you keep a tight hold of him, he might not want to go - along with this jar and this letter. Then, if I were you, I'd get out of there as quick as you can.'

The Son of Heaven leaned back in his chair. 'Just out of curiosity,' he asked, 'what was in the jar?'

'Victory,' Bardas replied, smiling weakly. 'At least, something that achieved the same result as victory. You might say it was a kind of secret weapon.'

'I see.' The Son of Heaven raised an eyebrow. 'Like the incendiary liquid you used during the siege of Perimadeia, something like that?'

'Not quite,' Bardas said, 'though of course that came in a jar too. Excuse me, please, I'm starting to say the first thing that comes into my head.' He stroked his chin, as if thinking something over. 'So, when do I leave?' he asked.

'As soon as your relief arrives; later today or early tomorrow. You're to report to him as soon as he gets here - Colonel Ilshel. Still quite young, but a certain degree of promise; we have high hopes for him. He'll supervise the enemy evacuation, escort them as far as the mountains. It should be a perfectly straightforward job.'

'Very good,' Bardas replied, without apparent feeling (and his face didn't move, as if it was already dead and pickled).

'You been on the post before, then?' the courier asked.

Bardas nodded. 'A couple of times,' he replied.

The courier seemed impressed. 'You must be important, then,' he said. 'What was your name again?'

'Bardas Loredan.'

'Bardas - hang on, that rings a bell. Ap' Escatoy. You're the hero.'

Bardas nodded. 'That's right,' he said.

'b.u.g.g.e.r me,' the courier said. 'It's not every day I get a hero on the round. So, what was it really like?'

'Boring, mostly. With occasional interludes of extreme terror.'

The courier laughed. 'Oh, they all say that,' he said, 'when you ask 'em about what they did in the war. You're not allowed to talk about it, I get the picture. So, where are you off to now? Or is that hush-hush as well?'

'Some place called Hommyra,' Bardas told him, 'wherever that is. Do you know where it is?'

'Hommyra.' The courier frowned. 'Well, if it's where I think it is, it's right on the other side of the Empire, out east. I never even knew they were having a war there, though of course that doesn't mean anything.'

'They told me it'd take me six weeks to get there,' Bardas said, 'on the post. So I guess that sounds about right.'

'Promotion?'

'They're making me up to full captain.'

'You don't say. That's pretty good going for an outlander. '

'Thank you.'

Bardas had changed coaches in Ap' Escatoy. It had disturbed him to discover that the camp and the temporary city there felt something like home, that he'd almost experienced a sense of belonging. He'd tried not to dwell on that thought; just as he'd avoided going under the gate over which, someone told him, they'd hung the heads of three notorious rebels responsible for the recent disaffection on the Island. Once he knew what they were he hadn't looked up, for fear of recognising them or catching sight of the labels pinned to them, detailing the offenders' names and crimes.

'This business with the plainspeople, now,' the courier was saying, 'of course it could have been handled a bit smarter, but in the end it all worked out; we've got rid of them, their king's dead and we picked up a fleet of ships along the way. All this talk you hear about a blow to Imperial prestige and stuff, that's just sour grapes. It's only the score at the end that matters, wouldn't you agree?'

'Absolutely,' Bardas replied.

'Just a minute.' The courier looked round at him. 'You were in that lot, weren't you? I'm sure I heard that somewhere, the Ap' Escatoy bloke was joining the plains war. Is that right?'

'I was in on the tail end of it,' Bardas said.

'Hey! See any action?'

'A little.'

'Would you credit it?' The courier grinned. 'They're saying it was the artillery did the donkey work, though the cavalry had a good war. Is that right?'

'More or less.'

'They're always the unsung heroes, the artillery,' the courier stated gravely. 'b.l.o.o.d.y pikemen give themselves airs, say they're the ones who actually get the job done - and fair play to them, they're good, very good. But for sieges and stuff like that, you can't beat the corps of engineers. Well, look at you, for instance.'

'Me?'

'Sure. You're an engineer, after all.'

Bardas shrugged. 'I suppose I am,' he said.

'No suppose about it,' replied the courier firmly. 'My dad, he was an engineer. Fifteen years on roads and bridges, then he got his transfer to the artillery, worked his way up to bombardier-sergeant; not a sapper like you, of course, though one of my uncles . . .'

'Is that the sea over there?'

'That's right,' the courier said. 'Just over the hills there, about two miles. We follow the coast right down as far as Ap' Molian, then we head inland for a couple of days to Rhyzalia, and that's as far as I go. I expect you'll be catching the Torrene coach - one of the couriers on that's my brother-in-law, so ask him if he happens to know a bloke called-'

He didn't get as far as the name; he stopped, sat bolt upright and fell off the box. Not again, Bardas thought and grabbed for the reins, but they were still wrapped round the courier's wrists. He was dragged along by them as the coach gradually slowed down. Somewhere on the rack behind him was a crossbow, service issue for post guards, but it wasn't where it was meant to be. His scimitar was with the rest of the luggage, somewhere in the back. No point trying to fight, then; which left him with one option, retreat. He shuffled along the box seat and reached out for the reins, overbalanced and fell. The last thing he was aware of was the front offside wheel, rushing toward him - Bardas?

'Anax?' he said.

Alexius. I just stopped off to say goodbye.

'Oh,' Bardas replied. 'You're leaving, then.'

At long last. Now she's dead, it sort of rounds things off.

'Who's dead? You mean Iseutz, my niece?'

No. Someone else; I don't know, you may not remember her. Vetriz Auzeil. She was involved, peripherally.

There was no way of knowing where this place was; it was dark, without noises or smells. 'I seem to remember you telling me about her,' he said. 'And I met her and her brother a few times. They were friends of Athli Zeuxis.' He was about to say something else, but didn't.

Well, I know you're a sceptic, so I won't go into details. I believe she was a natural of sorts, but to what extent she played any significant part - although obviously she did have some bearing, or else her death wouldn't be rounding off the chapter, so to speak. Anyway, that seems to be that.

'Well, then.' Bardas decided to ask after all. 'Do you happen to know - what did become of Athli, in the end?'

In the end, I'm not sure. She had some part to play in the last defence of Shastel, but whether she escaped or not I never found out. There's a pa.s.sing reference to her in one of the discussions of the Colleon war, but it's inconclusive; it could be either the First Colleon War, which was before the fall of Shastel- 'So it wasn't her,' Bardas said, 'above the gateway?'

Not the gateway in Ap' Escatoy; I a.s.sume that's the one you mean. No, the third head was someone called Eseutz Mesatges, and that was a case of mistaken ident.i.ty - they confused her with your niece Iseutz, you see. And to be fair, it's an unusual name.

'Not someone I've heard of,' Bardas replied. 'Thank you. I feel a bit better for knowing Athli got away.'

Well . . . Anyway; I'll be seeing you again, of course, but this is the last time you'll see me as Alexius. I shouldn't really be here now, but - Bardas opened his eyes.

'Thank the G.o.ds for that,' Gorgas said. 'I've been worried sick.'

Gorgas was kneeling over him, a bowl in one hand, a piece of wet rag in the other. The rag had been torn off his shirt; Bardas could see where he'd ripped it from the sleeve.

'It's all right,' Gorgas went on. 'You took one h.e.l.l of a nasty b.u.mp on the head, but the swelling's gone down and I don't think it's bleeding inside. Bardas? You do know who I am, don't you?'

'I think so,' Bardas replied. 'You're my brother Gorgas, right?'

'Yes, that's right.'

Bardas tried to nod, but that turned out to be a very bad idea. 'We built the tree-house together,' he said. 'In the big apple tree, before it blew down. There was a squirrel that used to walk right past the window.'

'That's it, you've got it,' Gorgas said. 'Now lie still, take it easy. Everything's under control.'

'Where's Dad?'

Gorgas looked at him, then smiled. He had a big, warm smile. 'He's around somewhere,' he said. 'Don't worry, things are going to be just fine.'

Bardas tried to smile back, but his head hurt. 'You're not going anywhere, are you?' he asked.

'Of course not. I'll be here. You take it easy.'

He closed his eyes again; and when he opened them, he remembered.

'Gorgas?' He tried to get up, but there wasn't enough strength in his body. He was lying on the deck of a small ship, his head on a folded-up sail, under a heap of coats and blankets. The sun was bright, sharp, almost cruel; but there was a pleasantly cool breeze.

'Bardas?' The voice came from some way away, up the other end of the ship. 'Hang on, I'll be right there.' Bardas couldn't move, but he could place Gorgas exactly by the sound of his feet on the deck, the vibrations running through the planking; it was a skill he'd acquired in the galleries under Ap' Escatoy.

'You got bashed on the head, remember?' Gorgas was saying (but Bardas couldn't see him; he was above and behind, so that his shadow fell across Bardas' face). 'You fell off the post coach. Dammit, I should have guessed something like that might happen. It's my own d.a.m.n stupid fault. You could have been killed.'

Bardas took a deep breath, let it go. His mouth was dry, like hard leather. 'You shot the coachman,' he said.

'Seventy yards, if it was a step. That bow you made for me, Bardas, it's a honey. But I should have been more careful.'

Bardas frowned. 'Why?' he said.

'Why what?'

'Why did you kill the coachman?'

'I had to stop the coach, idiot.' Bardas could picture the smile; the big, warm smile. 'Too open for a road-block, and the post doesn't stop for stray fares. Would you like something to drink now?'

'No. Yes,' Bardas amended, because at that moment a drink was what he wanted most in the whole world.

'Coming right up,' Gorgas said. 'You've no idea the fun and games I've had since then; you were out cold, I was convinced I'd killed you, I was wetting myself. So I got all that trash off the coach, got you back on, set off cross-country for where I'd left the ship; and then a b.l.o.o.d.y wheel came off-'

Bardas frowned. He seemed to remember a conversation he'd been having a few moments earlier; the whole point was, it wasn't a wheel, it was a camshaft. But that didn't make sense.

'So after I dumped the coach,' Gorgas was saying, 'I had to carry you the last two miles - brother, you've put on weight since I used to carry you round the yard, though granted, you were only three then. And of course I was petrified about jogging you about, damaging something - head injuries are really sensitive things, you know, you can do all sorts of damage to someone's head if you're not careful. Dear G.o.ds; I'll tell you, it was only when I got us both back on this ship that I even remembered to worry about anybody chasing after us. But there doesn't seem to be anybody, luckily. And so,' he added cheerfully, 'here we are, on our way. You know, this is like old times.'

'Why did you stop the coach?' Bardas asked.

'Oh, for . . . To rescue you, of course. You don't think I was going to stand by and let them court-martial my brother, do you? You may have faith in Imperial justice, but I don't.'

(Three heads over a gateway; it was a valid point.) 'They weren't going to court-martial me,' Bardas said. 'They're sending me to a new posting. Hommyra,' he remembered.

Gorgas laughed. 'There's no such place, you clown. Come on, you know the Empire by now; for every failure, one responsible officer. Hey, it's just as well you've got your big brother to look out for you, you're not fit to be out on your own.'

'But the coachman, he'd heard of it. I think.'

'Sure,' Gorgas said. 'Look, who'd you rather believe, the Empire or your own flesh and blood? No, here we are again. Only this time, it's going to be different. Promise.'