The Proof House Part 30

'Can't be bothered,' said the echo of his voice. 'What I do need, though, is my sword. Over there, by the wash-stand. '

Tilden brought it to him. 'Does that tie on as well?' she asked.

The helmet nodded; up, flexing the lames of the gorget, and ponderously down. 'Over my shoulder and round,' it said, and the left-hand vambrace, cop and rerebrace lifted into the air. 'Come on,' it said, 'I can't stand like this indefinitely.'

'Can you get it out of the scabbard?' Tilden asked dubiously as she fastened the last buckle.

'Probably not, but who cares? It's just a fas.h.i.+on accessory anyway. With these b.l.o.o.d.y gauntlets on, I'd need someone to fold my hand around the hilt before I could hold it.'

'You look very funny,' Tilden said. She didn't think he looked funny at all; quite the opposite. But she had an idea he wouldn't want to know what she really thought. 'Don't fall over, whatever you do.'

'I'll try not to.'

By the time he'd walked from his tent to the gatehouse, Temrai felt much more at ease. It was as if the armour was growing on him, like a cutting grafted on to a tree. It was awkward rather than heavy, until he made an injudicious movement and upset the balance; then he had to make an effort to get his weight back on the soles of his feet. He wondered if that was how he'd felt when he was a child, learning to walk for the first time.

They were waiting for him; Sildocai, his second in command Azocai, most of the general staff. 'Very smart,' someone said. 'Can you breathe in there?'

'Yes,' Temrai said, 'but I can only just hear you. Get this helmet off me, someone.' As he emerged he took a big gasp of air, as if he'd been under water, or in the foul air of the mines. 'That's better,' he said. 'So, what's happening?'

Sildocai, who'd been looking at him as if he'd never seen the like, pointed at the tiny figures moving about below them. 'That's his siege train there,' he said. 'Well out of range still; we'll let them know when they've come too close. He's got his cavalry out front in case we make a sortie, try to run him off, so I wouldn't recommend that. They'll probably spend the rest of the day pitching camp, making themselves feel at home.'

Temrai tried to make out what he was pointing at, but all he could see were dots and blurs. 'He's welcome, ' he said. 'What about a night-raid, like we've been practising?'

'Could do,' Sildocai replied, without much enthusiasm. 'I'd prefer to wait a day or so, until they've deployed their artillery. I'd like a chance to cut a few ropes, do a bit of damage before they start the bombardment.'

Temrai nodded; the gorget creaked and graunched. 'Fair enough,' he said. 'Are they using the river at all?'

'Haven't seen any signs as yet,' replied a man whose name Temrai couldn't quite remember. 'Probably he doesn't want to risk fire-s.h.i.+ps.'

Sildocai grinned. 'Very sensible of him. Well, they're worth keeping in reserve, in case he tries to build a causeway across the river. We'd better keep a few surprises up our sleeves.'

'He won't build a causeway,' Temrai said. 'He'll use boats; that's after he's shot up our engines. That's when we'll use the fire-s.h.i.+ps. Of course he'll be expecting that, too; but there's not a lot he'll be able to do about it.'

Sildocai looked at him. 'You seem pretty sure about that,' he said.

'I am sure,' Temrai replied. 'We've been through all this before, if you recall.'

'Have we?'

Temrai nodded. 'Oh, yes. Different war, same situation. Unless he's better at being me than I was, I know exactly what he's going to do. And he knows what I'm going to do, of course.'

'Right. Do you fancy sharing any of this with us, or is it a secret between you and him?'

'For the last time,' Venart protested wearily, 'I am not the government. We haven't got a government. We've never had a government before. We don't need a government now. Can you understand that?'

The man looked at him for a moment. 'All right,' he said. 'So you're not officially the government; but you led the revolution and chucked the bogies into the sea, so like it or not you're in charge. And what I want to know is, when am I going to get my compensation?'

Venart was ready to burst into tears. 'How the h.e.l.l do I know? And who started this rumour about compensation anyway? I didn't.'

'So you're saying there isn't going to be any compensation? ' said one of the other faces in the crowd. 'Is that right?'

'Yes.'

'Well, you may think it's right, it wasn't your warehouse that got burned down. You want to come with me now and explain to my creditors that it's all right?'

'No, I didn't mean right like you're saying-'

'Perhaps you should say what you mean, then,' said the face, scowling furiously at him. 'You could start by telling us why you've suddenly decided there isn't going to be any compensation.'

'I haven't decided anything,' Venart groaned. 'It's not up to me-'

'So you haven't decided yet. Any idea when you're likely to decide?'

Vernart took a deep breath. 'No,' he said. 'Now for G.o.ds' sakes, let me through.'

That didn't go down well. 'You're just going to walk away and leave us here guessing, are you?' someone shouted.

'I'm going to walk into my house and take a leak,' Venart replied, 'like I've been wanting to do for the last half hour, only you won't let me. Now get out of my way or get wet, the choice is yours.'

When he'd finally managed to close the door behind him, he sprinted/hobbled round the courtyard to the outhouse as if pursued by wolves. When he came out again, he felt much better. Remarkable, he thought, how so simple an act can impart such a feeling of well-being.

It didn't last, though. 'Ven, where the h.e.l.l have you been?' Vetriz ambushed him as he walked back across the courtyard. 'Ranvaud Doce is here, he's been waiting for nearly an hour.'

Venart stopped and looked at her. 'Who?'

'Ranvaud Doce. You idiot, he's the new chairman of the s.h.i.+p-Owners'.'

'Oh. What does he want to see me for?'

Vetriz didn't even bother to answer that. 'And you'd better get rid of him quick, because Ehan Stampiz'll be here at noon, and if those two run into each other, I don't want to be anywhere near. And when are we going to write your speech?'

Venart glowered at her. 'I am not making a speech,' he said.

'I haven't got time to argue with you now,' Vetriz said. 'Doce is in the counting house. Oh, don't just stand there looking pathetic.'

Ranvaud Doce turned out not to be Ranvaud Doce at all; he was Ranvaut Votz (Vetriz had got the name wrong; she wasn't very patient with names), and of course Venart had known him for years. 'G.o.ds, you look shattered,' Votz said. 'Sit down before you fall down, and have a drink.'

'Brandy,' Venart replied. 'The white jug, on the side there.'

'Say when.'

'Whenever.'

The brandy helped, to a certain limited extent; but it was the kind of help that's probably counterproductive before noon on a busy day. 'Better not have any more,' Venart said ruefully, after he'd recovered from the burn, 'or I'll go straight to sleep. So, what can I do for you?'

Votz raised his eyebrows. 'Full marks, Ven,' he replied. 'You said that as if you really don't know.'

'Excuse me?'

'Don't be aggravating. Playing games is fine for business negotiations, but it's not really appropriate for a head of state.'

'Oh for-' Venart slammed his cup down a little too hard, and the thinly skived horn cracked under the pressure of his thumb. 'Not you as well. Come on, Ran, you know perfectly well I'm not the head of anything. For G.o.ds' sakes, I'm not even head of this household; you've seen how Triz pushes me around-'

'Proves nothing.' Votz took the smile deliberately off his face. 'I know,' he went on, 'the truth is, you had next to nothing to do with what happened. You didn't even show up till halfway through - not that I'm blaming you, that's just the way it was. But for some reason, people think you were the leader of the rebellion, and now they think you're leading some kind of state-of-emergency government. And what I say is, why not? I mean, you're a pretty harmless sort of man, you won't try to do anything silly or throw your weight around - just the sort of leader this country needs.'

'Thank you very much.'

'You're welcome. But we do need a little bit of a government, Ven; just the ears and the tip of the tail. Otherwise, how's the s.h.i.+p-Owners' going to get things done?'

Venart frowned. 'Oh, I see,' he said. 'You and your bunch of deadheads from the back bar of the Fortune and Favour are going to be the real government, and I'm going to get all the blame. No, thank you very much. Weren't you b.l.o.o.d.y s.h.i.+p-Owners the ones who started all this off by trying to shaft the provincial office for more money?'

Votz held up his hand. 'That was then,' he said. 'And you were one of us, remember; just as much to blame as anybody. But,' he added, as Venart tried to object, 'agonising over that isn't going to get s.h.i.+ps on the water or food in the barns. You do realise there's next to nothing left to eat on this confounded island? Not after those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds took it all with them.'

Venart stayed quiet. He hadn't thought about that.

'So,' Votz went on, 'we need to do something quick, before the situation gets dirty on us. The question is, who's "we" in that context? One thing's for sure, we can't go merrily sailing off into the wide blue yonder on our own, not if we want to have a mayfly's chance of coming back; put in anywhere where the provincial office has so much as a commercial attache, and the next thing you'll see is the inside of a cell. So, if we want to go anywhere, we've got to go in strength, in convoy; but we can't all go, or who's going to stay here and make sure there'll be somewhere for us to come back to? We need to be organised; and that's precisely the sort of job the s.h.i.+p-Owners' is for.'

Venart nodded. 'All right, I agree,' he said. 'So go away and form a government. Who's going to stop you, since it's in everybody's interest? Not me, for sure.'

'You really don't know, do you? The Guild, that's who. Now, if you're looking for a genuine threat to our way of life, you wander down to the Drutz and take a good look.'

Venart looked confused. 'Who's the Guild?' he asked.

'Oh boy.' Votz shook his head. 'As head of state, if anything, you're over qualified. The Merchant Seamen's Guild, my friend; a nasty rabble of ungrateful rope-jockeys and cabin rats who've already stated their intention of stealing our s.h.i.+ps - commandeered for the public good, they're calling it, which is pig-Perimadeian for "steal" and that's all there is to it - and making us pay them taxes for the privilege. That's why we need a head of state, my friend; someone who's not the s.h.i.+p-Owners' who'll tell them not to be so d.a.m.n stupid. And who better than the inspirational leader, war hero, architect of victory-'

'Oh, shut up, Ran.'

'Yes, but they don't know that.' Votz shrugged. 'The people out there on the streets believe all that stuff is true, and really, that's what matters. Do you want them stealing your s.h.i.+p and taking your money off you at spearpoint? Might as well ask the Empire back again and have done with it.'

'All right,' Venart sighed, 'you've made your point.' He slumped back in his chair, looking wretched. 'Just out of interest,' he continued, 'do you and your chums in the s.h.i.+p-Owners' have any constructive, practical ideas about how to get some food? Or haven't you got around to the finer points yet?'

Votz clicked his tongue. 'There's no need to be sarcastic, ' he said. 'As a matter of fact, we have.'

'All right. If I'm your new Crown Prince, the least you can do is let me in on the secret.'

'Simple,' Votz said. 'It stands to reason, if Gorgas Loredan went to all that trouble to help us get rid of the Imperials -'

'Have you any idea why-?'

'- Then he won't be averse to selling us a few s.h.i.+p-loads of grain and salt pork, especially if the price is right. And Tornoys is in the right direction, away from the Empire; we'll have to sail pretty close to Shastel, of course, but if we're in a convoy that shouldn't be a problem.'

'I suppose not,' Venart conceded. 'But he gives me the creeps, that man. I'm not sure why, he just does.'

'Well, that's your problem. While we're there, I fully intend to talk to him about hiring a few of those crackerjack archers of his; another thing we're definitely going to need is some sort of militia, and since none of us know squat about the trade, it'd be a good idea to hire someone who can teach us.'

Venart closed his eyes. 'Steady on,' he said. 'Exactly who did you have in mind for this army of yours?'

'Well, us, of course,' Votz replied patiently. 'And it's not an army, it's a militia. Quite different.'

'All right, it's different. But by "us", do you mean us Islanders, or us s.h.i.+p-Owners, or what?'

'Well, I'm not going to put weapons into the hands of the Guild, if that's what you mean,' Votz replied, as if explaining to a small child that fire is hot. 'I mean us, the responsible adult male population of the Island. We don't need those layabouts in the Guild; I mean, when the fighting was on, where were they? Cowering in a lock-up. Fat lot of good they were, until we came along and turned them loose.'

'Wonderful,' Venart muttered. 'First you want a government, then an army, now you're planning a civil war. This state of yours is growing faster than water-cress. All right,' he added quickly, 'spare me the reasoning. I agree, yes, it does seem like ordinary common sense to be able to defend ourselves if we're likely to have the provincial office coming after us any time soon. Though to be honest with you,' he continued, frowning, 'if they do decide to come back, I can't see that we stand a chance. We were lucky the last time, and they were disgracefully complacent. I think fighting them once they've got their act together really would be asking for trouble.'

'Really? So what would you suggest?'

Venart stood up and turned to look out of the window. 'Leaving,' he said. 'Packing up everything we can move, setting sail and putting as much sea between us and them as we possibly can.'

Votz glared at him. 'You're joking,' he said.

Venart shook his head. 'Actually,' he said, 'I think it's an inspired idea. We aren't farmers or manufacturers, we're traders; most of us spend as much time on our s.h.i.+ps or abroad as we do at home. If ever there was a - a nation that could afford to up sticks and sail away, it's us. If the worst comes to the worst, we could simply live on the s.h.i.+ps, keep moving about like nomads.'

Votz grinned unpleasantly. 'Like King Temrai's lot, you mean. Oh, yes, guaranteed absolute safety, no need to worry ever again.'

'That's on land. It's the s.h.i.+ps that make it different.'

'Until they start building s.h.i.+ps of their own.' Votz stood up too. 'Running away isn't going to solve anything; we've got to make a stand and fight. And if we're going to fight, where better than here? We've got a superb natural fortress, even better than Perimadeia was. We've got a fleet of s.h.i.+ps, which they haven't.' He grabbed Venart by the shoulder and turned him round. 'We can win this,' he said.

'I don't think so,' Venart replied. 'And since you've just made me the head of state-'

'That's the thing about heads, they can come off.'

At first Venart looked startled; then he giggled. 'Oh, come on, Ran,' he said, 'don't be so b.l.o.o.d.y melodramatic. Government, army, civil war and palace coup, and we haven't even told anybody else about it yet.' He pulled away and grinned. 'Just think what fun we could have if there were three of us playing.'

There was a brisk cool wind, which was a mercy; Bardas remembered all too well how quickly the midday heat of the plains could drag a man down before he even realised it. Fortunately the army of the Sons of Heaven had been recruited in many places, most of them far away, nearly all of them hotter than this. At the point where he collapsed in a sweaty heap, at least half his men would still be snuggling into their cloaks and blowing on their hands.

The sun had already whisked up a fine heat-haze out of the river, smudging the sharp edges of the fortress until it looked vague and ill-defined, like the background in a painting. The sunlight burned on the water like some kind of incendiary; he could still see the red glare when he closed his eyes.

'All done?' he asked. The engineer nodded. 'Very well.' He positioned himself behind the c.o.c.ked arm of the trebuchet and looked over it at the distant fortress. It was all very still and quiet, as if the world was waiting for him to make a speech. 'I hereby declare this war open for business,' he said. 'In your own time.'

The engineer nodded, once to him and once to the artilleryman with his hand on the slip. The artilleryman jerked hard on the rope and the arm reared up into the air like a man suddenly woken up in the middle of a dream; the long square-section beam bowed under the inertia, straightened and stopped hard as it reached the point of equilibrium, the counterweight lurching wildly on its cradle beneath. With a crack like a slingshot, the rope net gave the stone roundshot a final, crucial flick and fell away - ('Here goes nothing,' muttered the engineer.) - While the projectile rushed with absurd speed up into the air, dwindled into a black dot, slowed to a stop, hung in the air for a moment and started to come down - ('Let's see what they make of that,' said the chief bombardier, grinning. 'If they've got any sense, they'll ask if they can move their fort a hundred yards back.') - And pitched, with a sound like a child's face being slapped, in the river. The dazzling white fire was punctured, like a sheet of steel shot through with an arrow.

'Told you it'd drop short,' sighed the bombardier. 'All right, up five and try again.'

Upgrading the counterweights had been Bardas' idea; after all, Temrai had done the same thing, building trebuchets that outranged their counterparts on the City wall. Now he had at least fifty yards of clear ground over his enemy (his counterpart; himself in a previous revolution of the wheel); he could hit them and they couldn't hit him back. The further along the rack you travel, the greater the stress; the greater, too, the mechanical advantage.

'Number-two engine, elevation up five,' the engineer called out. 'Make ready.'

An artilleryman turned a handwheel, a ratchet strained and clicked. 'Ready.'

'Loose,' the engineer said; and the arm bent, straightened and threw. 'd.a.m.n,' the engineer added, as the shot scuffed a cloud of dirt out of the bare rock of the slope, 'now the windage is off. Number-three engine, elevation up four, bring her across left two. Make ready.'

At this distance, of course, it was an exercise in skill, the scientific application of force to a precise spot on a virgin plate. One tap to begin with, to start off the bowl; start at the edges, work your way round the outside, gradually move inwards to the point where the dis.h.i.+ng needs to be deepest; that's the way to force stress into the workpiece.

'On the money,' said the chief bombardier. 'All right, let's keep them there or thereabouts; that's -' he laid his knife alongside the lead screw; like all good artillerymen's knives, it had a precisely calibrated scale engraved on the blade '- let's see, that's twelve up from zero, six across left. Each of you loose three, mark your pitches and adjust for zero.'

When each trebuchet had shot three times, and the bombardiers had made the necessary corrections to compensate for the slight differences in cast and line of their respective engines, the bombardment fell into a pattern. Bardas recognised this phase; it was the stage when the hammer bounced off the work, up and down in its own weight (like a trebuchet, weight and counterweight), with the craftsman's left hand moving the workpiece into position under the hammer. One blow doesn't impart the desired stress; many blows, a controlled, continuous hammering and pounding, are needed to impact the material into strength. 'It's a shame there's all that dust,' the chief bombardier lamented, 'I can't see a d.a.m.n thing. For all I know, we could be dropping them all in the same hole.'