'A Magus, eh? Forgive me if I don't celebrate. Such dealings as I've had with your order have been a waste of my time, at best.'
'Perhaps I can repair our reputation, then. I bring you information.'
'Free of charge?'
'This time. The Gurkish are moving. Five of their golden standards pass down the peninsula tonight, under cover of the storm. Twenty thousand spears, with great engines of war. Five more standards wait behind the hills, and that is not all. The roads from Shaffa to Ul-Khatif, from Ul-Khatif to Daleppa, from Daleppa to the sea, all are thick with soldiers. The Emperor puts forth all his strength. The whole South moves. Conscripts from Kadir and Dawah, wild riders from Yashtavit, fierce savages from the jungles of Shamir, where men and women fight side by side. They all come northwards. Coming here, to fight for the Emperor.'
'So many, just to take Dagoska?'
'And more besides. The Emperor has built himself a navy. One hundred sail of great ships.'
'The Gurkish are no sailors. The Union controls the seas.'
'The world changes, and you must change with it or be swept aside. This war will not be like the last. Khalul finally sends forth his own soldiers. An army many long years in the making. The gates of the great temple-fortress of Sarkant are opening, high in the barren mountains. I have seen it. Mamun comes forth, thrice-blessed and thrice-cursed, the fruit of the desert, first apprentice of Khalul. Together they broke the Second Law, together they ate the flesh of men. The Hundred Words come behind, Eaters all, disciples of the Prophet, bred for battle and fed over these long years, adepts in the disciplines of arms and of High Art. No peril like it has faced the world since the Old Time, when Juvens fought with Kanedias. Since before that, perhaps, when Glustrod touched the Other Side, and sought to open the gates to the world below.'
And blah, blah, blah. A shame. He had been making surprising sense for a Magus. 'You want to give me information? Keep your bed-time stories and tell me what happened to Davoust.'
'There is an Eater here. I smell it. A dweller in the shadows. One whose only task is to destroy those who oppose the Prophet.' And myself the first of them? 'Your predecessor never left these chambers. The Eater took him, to protect the traitor who works within the city.'
Yes. Now we speak my language. 'Who is the traitor?' Glokta's voice sounded shrill, sharp, greedy in his own ear.
'I am no fortune-teller, cripple, and if I could give you the answer, would you believe me? Men must learn at their own pace.'
'Bah!' snapped Glokta. 'You are just like Bayaz. You talk, and talk, and yet you say nothing. Eaters? Nothing but old stories and nonsense!'
'Stories? Did Bayaz not take you within the Maker's House?' Glokta swallowed, his hand clinging trembling tight to the damp stone under the window. 'Yet still you doubt me? You are slow to learn, cripple. Have I not seen the slaves march to Sarkant, dragged from every land the Gurkish conquer? Have I not seen the countless columns, driven up into the mountains? To feed Khalul and his disciples, to swell their power ever further. A crime against God! A breach of the Second Law, written in fire by Euz himself! You doubt me, and perhaps you are wise to doubt me, but at first light you will see the Gurkish have come. You will count five standards, and you will know I spoke the truth.'
'Who is the traitor?' hissed Glokta. 'Tell me, you riddling bastard!' Silence, but for the splashing of rain, the trickling of water, the rustling of wind in the hangings about the window. A stroke of lightning threw sudden light into every corner.
The carpet was empty. Yulwei was gone.
The Gurkish host came slowly forward in five enormous blocks, two in front, three behind, covering the whole neck of land from sea to sea. They moved together in perfect formation to the deep thumping of great drums, rank upon rigid rank, the sound of their tramping boots like the distant thunder of the night before. Already, the sun had sucked away all evidence of the rain, and now it flashed mirror-bright on thousands of helmets, thousands of shields, thousands of swords, glittering arrow-heads, coats of armour. A forest of shining spears, moving inexorably forwards. A merciless, tireless, irresistible tide of men.
Union soldiers were scattered around the top of the land walls, squatting behind the parapet, fingering their flatbows, peering out nervously at the advancing host. Glokta could sense their fear. And who can blame them? We must be outnumbered ten to one already. There were no drums up here in the wind, no shouted orders, no hurried preparations. Only silence.
'And here they come,' mused Nicomo Cosca, grinning out at the scene. He alone seemed untouched by fear. He has either an iron nerve or a leaden imagination. Lazing in a drinking-hole or waiting for death all seems to be one to him. He was standing with one foot up on the parapet, forearms crossed on his knee, half-full bottle dangling from one hand. The mercenary's battle dress was much the same as his drinking gear. The same sagging boots, the same ruined trousers. His one allowance for the dangers of the battlefield was a black breastplate, etched front and back with golden scrollwork. It too had seen better days, the enamel chipped, the rivets stained with rust. But it must once have been quite the masterpiece.
'That's a fine piece of armour you have there.'
'What, this?' Cosca looked down at his breastplate. 'In its day, perhaps, but it's seen some hard use over the years. Been left out in the rain more than once. A gift from the Grand Duchess Sefeline of Ospria, in return for defeating the army of Sipani in the five month war. It came with a promise of her eternal friendship.'
'Nice, to have friends.'
'Not really. That very night she tried to have me killed. My victories had made me far too popular with Sefeline's own subjects. She feared I might try to seize power. Poison, in my wine.' Cosca took a long swig from his bottle. 'Killed my favourite mistress. I was forced to flee, with little more than this damn breastplate, and seek employment with the Prince of Sipani. That old bastard didn't pay half so well, but at least I got to lead his army against the Duchess, and have the satisfaction of seeing her poisoned in her turn.' He frowned. 'Made her face turn blue. Bright blue, believe me. Never get too popular, that's my advice.'
Glokta snorted. 'Over-popularity is scarcely my most pressing worry.'
Vissbruck cleared his throat noisily, evidently upset at being ignored. He gestured towards the endless ranks of men advancing down the isthmus. 'Superior, the Gurkish approach.' Indeed? I had not noticed. 'Do I have your permission to flood the ditch?'
Oh yes, your moment of glory. 'Very well.'
Vissbruck strutted to the parapet with an air of the greatest self-importance. He slowly raised his arm, then chopped it portentously through the air. Somewhere, out of sight below, whips cracked and teams of mules strained on ropes. The complaining squeal of wood under great pressure reached them on the battlements, then a creaking and a cracking as the dams gave way, and then an angry thundering as the great weight of salt water broke through and surged down the deep ditch from both ends, foaming angry white. Water met water just beneath them, throwing glittering spray into the air as high as the battlements and higher yet. A moment later, and this new ribbon of sea was calm. The ditch had become a channel, the city had become an island.
'The ditch is flooded!' announced General Vissbruck.
'So we see,' said Glokta. 'Congratulations.' Let us hope the Gurkish have no strong swimmers among them. They certainly have no shortage of men to choose from.
Five tall poles waved gently above the tramping mass of soldiers, Gurkish symbols glittering upon them in solid gold. Symbols of battles fought, and battles won. The standards of five legions, flashing in the merciless sun. Five legions. Just as the old man told me. Will ships follow, then? Glokta turned his head and peered out across the Lower City. The long wharves stuck into the bay like the spines of a hedgehog, still busy with ships. Ships carrying our supplies in, and a last few nervous merchants out. There were no walls there. Few defences of any kind. We did not think we needed them. The Union has always ruled the seas. If ships should c
ome…
'Do we still have supplies of wood and stone?'
The General nodded vigorously, all eagerness. Finally adjusted to the changes in the chain of command, it seems. 'Abundant supplies, Superior, precisely as your orders specified.'
'I want you to build a wall behind the docks and along the shoreline. As strong, and as high, and as soon as possible. Our defences there are weak. The Gurkish may test them sooner or later.'
The General frowned out at the swarming army of soldiers crawling over the peninsula, looked down towards the calm docks, and back. 'But surely the threat from the landward side is a little more… pressing? The Gurkish are poor sailors, and in any case have no fleet worthy of the name—'
'The world changes, General. The world changes.'
'Of course.' Vissbruck turned to speak to his aides.
Glokta shuffled up to the parapet beside Cosca. 'How many Gurkish troops, would you judge?'
The Styrian scratched at the flaky rash on the side of his neck. 'I count five standards. Five of the Emperor's legions, and plenty more besides. Scouts, engineers, irregulars from across the South. How many troops…' He squinted up into the sun, lips moving silently as though his head was full of complex sums. 'A fucking lot.' He tipped his head back and sucked the last drops from his bottle, then he smacked his lips, pulled back his arm and hurled it towards the Gurkish. It flashed in the sun for a moment, then shattered against the hard dirt on the other side of the channel. 'Do you see those carts at the back?'
Glokta squinted down his eye-glass. There did indeed seem to be a shadowy column of great wagons behind the mass of soldiery, barely visible in the shimmering haze and the clouds of dust kicked up by the stomping boots. Soldiers need supplies of course, but then again… Here and there he could see long timbers sticking up like spider's legs. 'Siege engines,' muttered Glokta to himself. All just as Yulwei said. 'They are in earnest.'
'Ah, but so are you.' Cosca stood up beside the parapet, started to fiddle with his belt. A moment later, Glokta heard the sound of his piss spattering against the base of the wall, far below. The mercenary grinned over his shoulder, thin hair fluttering in the salt wind. 'Everyone's in lots of earnest. I must speak to Magister Eider. I'd say I'll be getting my battle money soon.'
'I think so.' Glokta slowly lowered his eye-glass. 'And earning it too.'
* * *
The Blind Lead the Blind
« ^ »
The First of the Magi lay twisted on his back in the cart, wedged between a water barrel and a sack of horse feed, a coil of rope for his pillow. Logen had never seen him look so old, and thin, and weak. His breath came shallow, his skin was pale and blotchy, drawn tight over his bones and beaded with sweat. From time to time he'd twitch, and squirm, and mutter strange words, his eyelids flickering like a man trapped in a bad dream.
'What happened?'
Quai stared down. 'Whenever you use the Art, you borrow from the Other Side, and what is borrowed has to be repaid. There are risks, even for a master. To seek to change the world with a thought… the arrogance of it.' The corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile. 'Borrow too often, perhaps, one time you touch the world below, and leave a piece of yourself behind…'
'Behind?' muttered Logen, peering down at the twitching old man. He didn't much like the way Quai was talking. It was no smiling matter, as far as he could see, to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere without a clue where they were going.
'Just think,' whispered the apprentice. 'The First of the Magi himself, helpless as a baby.' He laid his hand gently on Bayaz' chest. 'He clings on to life by a thread. I could reach out now, with this weak hand… and kill him.'
Logen frowned. 'Why would you want to do that?'
Quai looked up, and smiled his sickly smile. 'Why would anyone? I was merely saying.' And he snatched his hand away.
'How long will he stay like this?'
The apprentice sat back in the cart and stared up at the sky. 'There's no saying. Maybe hours. Maybe forever.'
'Forever?' Logen ground his teeth. 'Where does that leave us? You have any idea where we're going? Or why? Or what we do when we get there? Should we turn back?'
'No.' Quai's face was sharp as a blade. Sharper than Logen would ever have expected from him. 'We have enemies behind us. To turn back now would be more dangerous than to continue. We carry on.'
Logen winced, and rubbed at his eyes. He felt tired, and sore, and sick. He wished he'd asked Bayaz his plans when he'd had the chance. He wished he'd never left the North, if it came to that. He could have sought out a reckoning with Bethod, and died in a place he knew, at the hands of men that he at least understood.
Logen had no wish to lead. The time was he'd hungered after fame, and glory, and respect, but the winning of them had been costly, and they'd proved to be hollow prizes. Men had put their faith in him, and he'd led them by a painful and a bloody route straight back to the mud. There was no ambition in him any more. He was cursed when it came to making decisions.
He took his hands away and looked around him. Bayaz still lay muttering in his fevered sleep. Quai was gazing carelessly up at the clouds. Luthar was standing with his back to the others, staring down the gorge. Ferro was sitting on a rock, cleaning her bow with a rag, and scowling. Longfoot had reappeared, predictably, just as the danger ended, and was standing not far away, looking pleased with himself. Logen grimaced, and gave a long sigh. There was no help for it. There was no one else.
'Alright, we head for this bridge, at Aulcus, then we see.'
'Not a good idea,' tutted Longfoot, wandering up to the cart and peering in. 'Not a good idea in the least. I warned our employer of that before his… mishap. The city is deserted, destroyed, ruined. A blighted, and a broken, and a dangerous place. The bridge may still stand, but according to rumour—'
'Aulcus was the plan, and I reckon we'll stick with it.'
Longfoot carried on as though he hadn't spoken. 'I think, perhaps, that it would be best if we headed back towards Calcis. We are still less than halfway to our ultimate destination, and have ample food and water for the return journey. With some luck—'
'You were paid to go all the way?'
'Well, er, indeed I was, but—'
'Aulcus.'
The Navigator blinked. 'Well, yes, I see that you are decided. Decisiveness, and boldness, and vigour, it would seem, are among your talents, but caution, and wisdom, and experience, if I may say, are among mine, and I am in no doubt whatsoever that—'
'Aulcus,' growled Logen.
Longfoot paused with his mouth half open. Then he snapped it shut. 'Very well. We will follow the road back onto the plains, and head westward to the three lakes. Aulcus is at their head, but the journey is still a long and dangerous one, especially with winter well upon us. There should be—'
'Good.' Logen turned away before the Navigator had the chance to say anything more. That was the easy part. He sucked his teeth, and walked over to Ferro.
'Bayaz is…' he struggled for the right word. 'Out. We don't know how long for.'
She nodded. 'We going on?'
'Er… I reckon… that's the plan.'
'Alright.' She got up from her rock and slung the bow over her shoulder. 'Best get moving then.'
Easier than he'd expected. Too easy, perhaps. He wondered if she was thinking of sneaking off again. He was considering it himself, truth be told. 'I don't even know where we're going.'
She snorted. 'I've never known where I was going. You ask me, it's an improvement, you in charge.' She walked off towards the horses. 'I never trusted that bald bastard.'
And that only left Luthar. He was standing with his back to the others, shoulders slumped, thoroughly miserable-looking. Logen could see the muscles on the side of his head working as he stared at the ground.
'You alright?'
Luthar hardly seemed to hear him. 'I wanted to fight. I wanted to, and I knew how to, and I had my hand on my steels.' He slapped angrily at the hilt of one o
f his swords. 'I was helpless as a fucking baby! Why couldn't I move?'
'That it? By the dead, boy, that happens to some men the first time!'
'It does?'
'More than you'd believe. At least you didn't shit yourself.'
Luthar raised his eyebrows. 'That happens?'
'More than you'd believe.'
'Did you freeze up, the first time?'
Logen frowned. 'No. Killing comes too easy to me. Always has done. Believe me, you're the lucky one.'
'Unless I'm killed for doing nothing.'
'Well,' Logen had to admit, 'there is that.' Luthar's head dropped even lower, and Logen clapped him on the arm. 'But you didn't get killed! Cheer up, boy, you're lucky! You're still alive, aren't you?' He gave a miserable nod. Logen slid his arm round his shoulder and guided him back towards the horses. 'Then you've got the chance to do better next time.'
'Next time?'
'Course. Doing better next time. That's what life is.'
Logen climbed back into the saddle, stiff and sore. Stiff from all the riding, sore from the fight in the gorge. Some bit of rock had cracked him on the back, that and he'd got a good punch on the side of his head. Could have been a lot worse.
He looked round at the others. They were all mounted up, staring at him. Four faces, as different as could be, but all with the same expression, more or less. Waiting for his say. Why did anyone ever think he had the answers? He swallowed, and dug his heels in.
Let's go.
* * *
Prince Ladisla's Stratagem
« ^ »
'You really should spend less time in here, Colonel West.' Pike set down his hammer for a moment, the orange light from his forge reflecting in his eyes, shining bright on his melted face. 'People will start to talk.'
West cracked a nervous grin. 'It's the only warm place in the whole damn camp.' It was true enough, but a long way from the real reason. It was the only place in the whole damn camp where no one would look for him. Men who were starving, men who were freezing, men who had no water, or no weapon, or no clue what they were doing. Men who'd died of cold or illness and needed burying. Even the dead couldn't manage without West. Everyone needed him, day and night. Everyone except Pike and his daughter, and the rest of the convicts. They alone seemed self-sufficient, and so their forge had become his refuge. A noisy, and a crowded, and a smoky refuge, no doubt, but no less sweet for that. He preferred it immeasurably to being with the Prince and his staff. Here among the criminals it was more… honest.