Sixteen Ways to Defend a Walled City

by K. J. Parker

  Some lessons you learn the hard way. For example, don’t go robbing people, even in the middle of the night, when the ground’s sodden wet, because you’ll leave footprints. Hadn’t seen them, of course, it being dark. Come morning, plain as anything.

  The guard woke me up with a kick to the collarbone, which is one of the most painful places you can hit someone. I think he was planning on killing me, because he’d dragged a senior colleague along, to bear witness that I’d robbed him and he was within his rights. Didn’t take them long to find the dolphin, tucked away between my belt and my tunic.

  “Fair enough,” the other guard said. “He’s all yours. Do what you like.”

  “It wasn’t him.”

  They both looked round. There was Ogus, sitting up, wrists and ankles unbound. “It wasn’t him,” he said. “I stole the dolphin. It was me.”

  My special friend the guard roared at him, bullshit, but the senior man made Ogus say it again.

  “I did it,” Ogus said. “And I hid it on my friend, so if we got found out it’d look like he did it, because everybody knows the fat guard doesn’t like him. But I was stupid, I forgot about the footprints.”

  The senior man looked at him for a long time, and I do believe I could read what he was thinking. I’m pretty sure he didn’t believe him, but there was no way of proving it one way or another; also, I reckon, he was thinking: if this kid’s got the guts to take a beating for his pal, fair play to him, let him. So he nodded, then lashed out with his boot and caught Ogus the most terrible blow on the side of the head.

  I was sure he’d killed him; there was blood trickling out of his ear, and he wasn’t moving. “That’s how we deal with thieves,” the senior man said. “Think on.” He walked away. The bully gave me a long look, then followed him; and the odd thing was, he didn’t give me a hard time after that.

  Ogus was all right, more or less, eventually. But he was deaf in his right ear ever after, until we were parted. Still is.

  I didn’t reply. No answer to that, is there?

  “Besides,” he went on, “you’re overlooking one important thing. The City can’t be defended, not against an army this size, there’s no way on earth it can be done. Sure, you’re so clever and resourceful and imaginative, and your men love you so much, you’ll put up one hell of a fight. Probably you’ll make a real mess of parts of my army, with your bouncing balls and your trebuchets and God knows what else you’ve thought up and not told anyone else about yet. But it won’t make the slightest difference, in the long run. The City will fall. The people in it are dead already.”

  He paused and I looked at him. “So?” I said.

  “So.” He met me, look for look. Bit like a mirror, really. “If there was the faintest chance you could beat me, then fine, yes, absolutely, fight your damnedest and bloody good luck to you. But there is no chance. Your blue pals are dead. There’s nothing anybody can do.”

  “Except?”

  Mild grin. “Except,” he said. “Because you’re my best pal and I could never hurt you, I’ll let you save—what, let’s say a dozen of your pet blueskins: Nicephorus Bautzes, your man Faustinus the Prefect, Artavasdus, Gaiseric—”

  “Genseric.”

  “You’re quite right, Genseric. Lysimachus, your loyal bodyguard. And of course there’s Aichma, your old pal’s daughter, and Aelia, the little carpenter girl. She likes you, by the way.”

  Where did that come from? “Bullshit.”

  “She does, you know. Trouble brewing in that quarter if you’re not careful, because Captain Nicephorus likes her, and she likes you. Anyway, that makes seven, leaving you five more. Or we can make it two dozen, if you’d prefer. Simple fact: if you decide to defend the City against me, they’re all going to die. Well, maybe not the carpenter girl, because she’s a milkface, my boys won’t hurt a milkface, she won’t come to any harm. But the rest of them—” He drew the tip of his finger across his throat. “But if you join me, they’re safe. Your friends. The people you care for. That’s not a threat, by the way, do what I tell you or your pals get it. When the time comes, I’ll give orders, find these people and spare them if you can. But Nicephorus and Artavasdus will die before they surrender, stupid blueface honour, and only a few of my officers know the others by sight; with the best will in the world, I can’t help them. Only you can do that. Or are you the sort of man who’d watch your friends die just because of your stupid principles and your stupid pride?”

  You’re not meeting Ogus at his best. That said—

  People change, sure, but not that much; besides, I hadn’t observed anything about him that was inconsistent with the boy I once knew, loved, worshipped. And worshipped why? Because he was strong.

  I guess you can only understand the significance of that if you were a small, weak kid, like I was. At that age, human beings are animals. The biggest and strongest rule over the small and the weak; no justification needed or sought, it’s instinctively recognised as the way things are—and should be; the small, weak kid doesn’t doubt the validity of the system, he just thinks it’s unfair he was born little. Later, we learn to talk, to talk our way out of trouble, into what we want; charm, deception and lies take the place of height and muscle, and that’s what we call being grown-up, being intelligent, rational humans, being civilised. Same difference, if you ask me, where justice is concerned, but that’s beside the point. When we’re kids, grown-ups govern and command us because they’re bigger and stronger than us and can hit harder. Naturally, we use the same system of values among ourselves. For a start, it makes sense—so much more so than the things they try and kid you into believing later, morality, right and wrong, good and evil. Can’t say I’ve ever really got the hang of any of that stuff. Can’t honestly say I’ve really tried.

  Ogus was a big, strong kid; I wasn’t. But Ogus, who could have been friends with anyone he chose, chose me. He defended me, let me bask in his glory—there’s a little fish, they tell me, that lives by battening onto the hide of a shark, and the other fish never give it a hard time, and it feeds on the scraps the shark doesn’t want. That was me. Never anything asked in return, not even flattery, praise or adulation, the sort of thing the gods want, apparently, but not Ogus. I never asked him why but I know what he’d have said if I had; because we’re friends. Simple as that.

  Now reflect on what I’ve told you about my life. When Ogus wasn’t there any more to keep me safe, I did the obvious thing and looked around for another big, strong bully to look after me; I found the empire. Of course, they wanted something in return. They wanted bridges, put up fast, guaranteed not to fall down. Hardly selling my soul to the Evil One. Sure, they weren’t particularly nice to me, but they weren’t utterly horrible either. I was useful, so they put up with me, even though I persisted in going around the wrong colour, knowing how distressing that must be to people of refinement.

  People like Nico don’t approve of me hanging round places like Poor Town and the Old Flower Market. They don’t hold with the company I keep: thieves, cheats, deceivers and prostitutes; especially the latter. Me, I’ve never had any problem with whores. I’m one myself.

  I hadn’t said anything for a bit. Ogus smiled at me.

  “I know you’re not like that,” he said. “I know you’d do anything for a pal. For me, and your new City friends. Lucky, isn’t it, that the interests of all your friends coincide.”

  “You’ve changed,” I said.

  “No,” he said, stating a fact, “I haven’t. Neither have you. Think about it, will you? What have you been doing, ever since you suddenly found yourself in charge?”

  I gave him a grin. “The best I can.”

  “A bit more than that, I think you’ll find. Soon as you had the opportunity, you started trying to build the Great Society. The poor people were shut out and exploited, so what do you do? You sideline the House and all the rich bastards, you legalise and recognise the Themes, you find every excuse you can to pay good wages; you even try and get a woman to run
a major department of state, because it’s not right that women are excluded just because of what’s between their legs. It’s the worms of the earth against the lions, and you couldn’t resist. Soon as you had the chance.”

  I had nothing to say to that.

  “And look what happened,” he went on. “Aichma does the job for a few days and resigns. The Themes work together for a bit, and then there’s a riot, you have to turn your amazing new artillery on your own people, just to stop them butchering each other. Orhan, it can’t be done—not in there, in the City, the Great Society won’t work there. And you know why? It’s because they’re who they are, Robur. It’s not the worms against the lions, it’s just stronger lions and weaker lions. And you think they love you for it, but they don’t. Read this.”

  He took a small brass tube from his sleeve and tossed it to me. I caught it, poked out the slip of paper and read it. Then I looked at him.

  “Perfectly genuine,” he said. “You recognise the writing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the seal?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right. Now tell me what it says.”

  I didn’t want to, but Ogus is hard to disobey. “Senator Fronto, who I punched in the face, and half a dozen other leading members of the House have arranged to have me killed. Once I’m dead they plan to take over the City and crown Fronto as emperor. They’ve recruited five hundred Greens who don’t like Bronellus and hate me because I killed their fellow Themesmen. They’re also going to kill Nico, Artavasdus, Faustinus and Aichma, because they’re afraid they’d make trouble after I’m gone. The plot is set for the day after tomorrow.” I rolled it up and tried to put it back in its tube, but my hands were shaking; Ogus took it and did it for me, then handed it back. “You might want to hang on to that,” he said. “Oh, and this, too.” He handed me something, wrapped in a scrap of blue silk. The Great Seal. “Now then, look at me.”

  I didn’t want to do that, either, but I did.

  “All right,” I said. “What do you want me to do?”

  26

  Ogus offered me a horse but I said no, thanks, and walked back to the North Gate. Nico was waiting for me. “What the hell—?”

  “Long story,” I said. “Tell you later.”

  “For crying out loud, Orhan—”

  “Later.” Didn’t mean to shout; a bit overwrought, if truth be known. Anyway, it shut Nico up. No small achievement.

  “You were gone a long time,” Faustinus said. “What did he want?”

  “Total surrender,” I told him. “No guarantees. I told him no.”

  “Thank God for that.” He looked at me, nervous, as though he expected me to bite him. “Who is he?”

  “Good question,” I said. “As far as I can make out, he’s some sort of lunatic crusader. He wants to overthrow the empire. Not take it for himself. Get rid of it.”

  That got me a stare. “Why?”

  “Because it’s evil and tyrannical and mankind can never be free until it’s been disposed of. Go figure.”

  “That makes no sense. The empire is the greatest force for civilisation in the history of—”

  “Tell him that,” I said. “Though I think you’d be wasting your breath. The bad news is, he’s turned the auxiliaries against us.”

  “Oh God.” Faustinus’s eyes went wide. “Which unit?”

  “All of them.”

  I thought he was going to pass out. “But what about—?”

  “The Robur troops? Cooped up in the garrisons, under siege. No hope whatsoever of them coming to the rescue. They’re waiting for us to rescue them.”

  “He’s just saying that.”

  I shook my head. “It’s true,” I said. “He introduced me to about a dozen auxiliary officers. They confirmed it. They’ve bought into his crusade. The conquered nations don’t like us any more.”

  “Oh my God, Orhan. What are we going to do?”

  I gave him my calm, steady look. “Hang on,” I said. “One thing he did let slip, the navy’s rock solid. Well, they would be, they’re all Robur. And they’re still out there somewhere. And sooner or later they’ll come, and it won’t just be us any more. We’ll survive.”

  “What, just the marines against all those savages? We can’t beat them off like that.”

  “That’s not what I said,” I told him. “I said we’ll survive. If we have the Fleet, and they can’t breach the walls, they can sit there for a thousand years and we’ll survive. We control the sea. We have ships to bring in food, we have thousands of skilled workers, the best in the world; we can make goods to trade for food, which is what we do anyway. The Fleet can raid the rebel homelands, make their lives miserable. Eventually it’ll dawn on those idiots out there that they’re wasting their time, and then we can make peace. A sensible settlement, negotiated by rational human beings. Meanwhile, we have to hold on. We can do it, Faustinus. We’re better than them.”

  He gave me a curious look. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “What sort of a damnfool remark is that?” I snapped at him.

  “I’m sorry. Only you sounded like you were trying to convince yourself of something. I worry when you do that.”

  “You’re an old woman, Faustinus. You worry about everything.” I felt in the sleeve of my tunic and took out the silk bundle. “Meanwhile,” I said, “guess what turned up.”

  I threw it to him. He muffed the catch, stooped and picked it up. “My God,” he said, “that’s not the real—”

  “Keep your voice down, there’s a good lad. Yes, the one and only. It’s back.”

  “Where did you—?”

  “Trust me,” I said. “You don’t want to know.”

  That startled fawn look. “No, I imagine I don’t. Still, this is a stroke of luck. It’s marvellous.”

  I nodded. “I would’ve told you earlier, but I got sidetracked. That’s the good news. The bad news.” I found the brass tube. “See for yourself.”

  He read it and whimpered. “Why me, for God’s sake?”

  I like a man with priorities. “Because you’re my right-hand man, of course.”

  “We’ve got to do something about this,” he said. “Right now.”

  I laughed. “Such as what?”

  “Arrest them. Straight away.”

  “Right. I send soldiers into the House and have seven respected senators dragged out by the hair.”

  “You’ve got the Seal, you can do anything.”

  “They’ve got five hundred armed men. What they don’t have, but what you seem hell bent on giving them, is justification for their actions. No, first I talk to Bronellus. You don’t say anything to anyone. And keep inside, don’t go anywhere without a guard, Blues or my boys. Leave the whole thing to me.”

  I found Bronellus at the Green House. He was shocked and saddened—well, he would be; his own people thought he was no good. I told him what to do.

  Then I went to the State Cartulary, which is a mouldy old tower sticking up out of the spine of the Resurgence temple, which used to be a monastery, years ago. They never got around to shifting all the mountains of old government papers stored there; reports from the Prefect’s office, mostly. I found an old clerk who reckoned he knew where to find what I was looking for. It took him a while, but he pulled out a big brass tube as thick as my leg and handed it to me with a beam of satisfaction.

  It wasn’t what I needed, but at least it told me where to look; in the Clerk of the Works’ archive, on Needle Street. Down in the vaults there’s a wall covered floor to roof with shelves, each shelf crammed with brass tubes, all numbered. Took me four minutes to find the tube I wanted. Simple as that.

  Interesting stuff; a report on the collapse of a street of houses in Poor Town about a hundred and seventy years ago, and a map showing the affected area before it fell down, and a couple of other maps from a century before, and one very old map indeed.

  “Can I borrow these?” I asked the archivist.

  “It’s str
ictly forbidden to remove any document from the premises,” he said.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said, and went back to the Palace.

  Bronellus showed his five hundred dissidents the error of their ways. One in ten were killed; the other suffered various injuries. Wherever possible I don’t ask questions about how work I delegate to others gets done.

  The planned coup never took place. Senator Fronto fell ill after eating something that didn’t agree with him and died howling. The other six senators found themselves shuffled onto a subcommittee; lots of work, no spare time. They were no bother after that.

  I didn’t tell Nico or the others. I did tell Aichma. Everything. Nearly everything.

  “So,” she said, “what are you going to do?”

  Aichma takes after her father, but she looks like her mother; both of them were half milkface, but with Aichma you have to look quite hard to see it, though it’s there. Her mother was the daughter of an immigrant tent-maker who fell on hard times, ended up having to sell his kids on a ten-year indenture.

  (Marvellous system, indentures. In theory, once you’ve done your time, you’re free as air, so it’s not slavery, which is uncivilised and barbaric. But while your indentures are still running, your master’s perfectly entitled to bill you for food, clothes, lodging, training in any trade he may require you to learn; and of course there’s interest running on all that, fixed by statute at fifteen per cent compound. Goes without saying, by the time your indentures are through, you’ve run up a hefty tab, which you can only clear by labour, for which you’re paid a wage, also fixed by statute, illegal to pay more. And while you’re working off your debt, naturally, you’re still eating and wearing clothes and taking up bedspace. It isn’t slavery, because slavery’s an abomination which the Robur have vowed to put and end to. It just amounts to the same thing.)