by K. J. Parker
Oida sighed and threw a slab of wood on the fire. “Ten years ago,” he said, “I could’ve bought into Ocnisant’s for a relatively trivial sum. But I thought, no, bad idea, the war’ll be over by midsummer. Ah well.”
“Bet you wish you had.”
“Indeed. I’d be retired by now, with an estate the size of Aelia.”
“Now there’s a man who’s in the right business,” the driver said. “If I had any sense, I’d see if he wants drivers. Must need a lot of ’em, in his line.”
“You could do worse,” Oida said. “You get your keep but no wages, and everyone gets a share in the net. They’re not bad people to work for, if you don’t mind hard graft. Stick at it long enough and you could put by a nice little stake for your old age, it’s better than working for the government.”
The driver grinned. “Don’t reckon there’ll be a government much longer.”
“Oh, there’s always a government,” Oida said. “That’s a rule of nature. But you’ll be all right, you’ve got a trade. Come what may, people will always want stuff shifted from A to B.”
“True,” the driver said, “very true. What line of work are you in, then? You’re not military.”
For a moment or so, Oida couldn’t speak. Then he said mildly, “I’m a musician.”
“Is that right?” The driver was slightly impressed. “Well, there you are, then. That’s another good trade. Always work for a good fiddler. Freelance?”
Now that was actually a very good question. “Yes.”
“Best way,” the driver said wisely. “You can go anywhere you like. Travel a lot, do you?”
“Quite a lot, yes. I’ve just come back from Blemya.”
“Where’s that, then?”
Oida told him; the driver looked blank. “Lot to be said for it, moving around,” he said. “You’ve always got options, that’s what I say. If it all goes tits up in one place, go somewhere else. All right if you’ve got no ties, of course. You married?”
“No.”
The driver nodded his approval. “Best way, if you’re on the move all the time,” he said. “Take my old man, now. Freighterman, he was, never home more than three weeks a year. That’s no way to bring up kids. No, love ’em and leave ’em is my motto. It’s not like there’s any shortage, specially these days, with all the men going to the war and getting killed.”
“War does have that advantage,” Oida said.
The driver grinned. “So,” he said, “you reckon it’d be worth giving Ocnisant’s a go?”
Oida looked at him. “I take it you think you might be out of a job sometime soon.”
“I think the job’ll still be there. It’s whether I’ll get paid I’m worried about.”
“Talking of which,” Oida said. “The thing is, I was supposed to change here and get the military mail to Rasch. I suspect that service isn’t running any more.”
The driver shrugged. “Might be,” he said. “I mean, all this can’t have happened very long ago or we’d have heard about it. Maybe they don’t know about it in Rasch yet.”
“That’s possible,” Oida conceded, “but I don’t fancy camping out here in the ashes on the off chance the mail’s still running. What about you? What’s your schedule?”
The driver frowned. “I was meant to wait here two days, then take a service back to the coast. Don’t see that happening.”
“Tell you what.” Oida’s hand was in his pocket, identifying coins by feel. “I think that in the circumstances, it’s your duty to go to Rasch and report this, just in case they don’t know about it yet, and then see where they want to assign you next. After all, they’re going to have to draw up a whole new schedule now.”
“That’s true,” the driver said thoughtfully, “hadn’t thought about it like that. I mean, all the routes’ll be buggered up now. They’ll have to start from scratch, practically.”
Oida casually opened his hand. Two little gold quarter-angels poked up from the furrows between his fingers, like the first crocuses. “I’d quite like to get to Rasch as quickly as possible,” he said.
The driver looked at him. “There’s money in fiddling, then?”
“I’m a good fiddler.”
The coins chinked softly as they changed hands. “It’s your patriotic duty,” Oida said with a grin. “After all, someone’s got to tell them.”
The driver smiled at him and put the coins in his purse, a fancy thing with fiddly drawstrings. Maybe his mother had made it for him, or his sister. “Hell of a business, though,” he said gravely. “I mean, just think of all the trouble it’ll make for people. Main supply depot for the Western army.”
“I think Senza may have had that in mind,” Oida said.
“What the emperor ought to do,” the driver said, after a moment’s thought, “is offer Senza a shitload of money to come and work for us. I mean, he’s only human, isn’t he? And you know what they say, every man has his price.”
“Good idea. The trouble is, the Eastern emperor has lots of money, too.”
“Ah well.” The driver got up. “There’s blankets in the box under the driver’s seat,” he said. “Let’s get some kip and then we can make an early start.”
Next day, Oida rode on the box, next to the driver, who had a lot of questions to ask about the music trade. Must be interesting work, he felt, you must get to meet a lot of interesting people. Oida conceded that, yes, it was interesting. The driver confessed that he didn’t go much on music, though he liked a good tune. That Oida, for example, he could write tunes. The driver had seen him once, when he sang for the troops at Ceulasia, or was it Nas Mocant? Hadn’t actually seen very much of him, because he was stuck at the back behind a lot of tall bastards, but he’d heard most of it and it wasn’t bad at all. Of course, he didn’t make up his own tunes, but—
“How do you mean?” Oida interrupted.
“He doesn’t do the tunes himself,” the driver explained. “He takes the old tunes and messes them around a bit. But they all do that, don’t they?”
Oida frowned. “Give me an example.”
The driver thought for a moment. “Well, take that one about the man saying goodbye to his family before he goes off to the war. That’s just ‘The Miller’s Grey Cat’, turned on its head.”
“I don’t think I know that one.”
“Of course you do. You know.” The driver hummed a bit. “Probably they don’t call it that where you come from.”
“Hum me some more.”
The driver did so, and Oida was forced to admit that it did sound horribly like “Loved I Not Honour More”, transposed into the major key and speeded up a bit. “Does he do that a lot?” he asked. “Steal other people’s tunes, I mean?”
The driver frowned. “I don’t think you can really call it stealing,” he said. “But take ‘Four Donkeys and a Mule’. Know that one?”
“Not sure,” Oida said. “How does it go?”
A little later he consoled himself with the thought that great minds think alike; well, no, not great ones. Procopius’ symphonies and motets weren’t shot through with unconscious echoes of folk music, anything so basic and naïve would be hopelessly out of place. But mediocre minds, like his own— That said; it occurred to him quite out of the blue that if you took “Soldiers’ Joy”, slowed it right down and shifted it into the minor key, you’d have a terrific theme for a fugue; and who would ever know?
The first stop on the way to Rasch, coming from Malestan on the military road, is Losjors. They found it in ashes.
“You’ve got to hand it to Ocnisant,” Oida said, after they’d been staring for a while. “No job too big or too small.” The same newly filled-in trenches, along what had once been the street of shops and taverns that intersected with the main road, and not a bent nail or a roof tile to be seen. “At this rate he’ll definitely be taking on more staff. You should get in there.”
The driver seemed preoccupied and didn’t share Oida’s enthusiasm at the opportunity. “You t
hink the bastard’s heading for Rasch?” he said.
“Looking that way,” Oida agreed. “In fact, for all we know he’s there already. I’m not sure what there is in the way to stop him.”
The driver looked at him. “What about the Fifth Army?”
“I’d forgotten about them,” Oida lied.
A few miles beyond Losjors they came down off the moor and into farmland. Oida saw livestock grazing the stubbles, but no people. They stopped for the night at a farmhouse, but it was shuttered and boarded up, and the hay barn was empty. That didn’t matter too much, since there was grazing for the horses in the orchard. The driver found a crowbar in one of the barns and jemmied the farmhouse door. There was no fresh food, no hams or bacon, not even a jar of the dreaded fermented cabbage; but Oida found two sacks of barley at the back of the pantry. It was a bit black on top, but the grain underneath was sound. The driver ground a jugful in a hand mill in the dairy and made army porridge, slightly alleviated with a couple of windfall apples from the orchard.
“He could do it,” the driver said, “he could bash his way right through to Rasch, if the Fifth don’t stop him. But the city’s safe. He hasn’t got anything that’d put a dent in the walls.”
Oida had taken a good look at the catapult stones at Malestan and wasn’t so sure about that, but decided not to say anything. “He must be moving fast,” he said instead. “Mind you, that’s the Belot boys’ trademark. Not sure you can carry much of a siege train, though, if you’re travelling light.”
The driver shook his head hopefully. “I’ve seen the limbers for those things,” he said. “Bloody great big things, ox-drawn, horses aren’t strong enough. Make ten miles a day if you’re really lucky.”
Oida didn’t point out that whatever had pounded the palisade at Malestan into kindling must still be with the army, since they hadn’t overtaken it on the way. “I think this calls for a change of plan,” he said. “Suddenly, Rasch doesn’t seem the most sensible place to be. What do you reckon?”
The driver looked at him, but said nothing.
“And besides,” Oida went on, “my business isn’t actually in Rasch itself, I’m headed west; I was planning on taking the military mail into town and then hiring a chaise, because that’d be quicker than the public stage. But if I branch off on to the Western Supply at Foliapar, I can get on to the Great West at Autet Cross and not have to go into Rasch at all.”
“You could,” agreed the driver.
“I was thinking.” Oida’s hand was in his pocket again. “Looks like there’s an unhealthy amount of war going on at the moment. At times like these, all sorts of military equipment and personnel go missing, presumed lost or destroyed, and nobody gives it any thought.” He paused again. “I wonder what that coach of yours would cost, to buy, I mean.”
“Don’t know,” the driver said. “Never given it any thought.”
“Must be two angels. A man could set himself up in business with a coach like that. Quite a good living to be made, I should imagine. And even if you decide you do want to go work for Ocnisant, it won’t do you any harm if you’ve got your own rig.”
The driver looked at him. “What, just go off with it, you mean?”
Oida shrugged. “Why not? Like I said, when there’s lunatics fighting huge battles all over the place, and there’s supply columns being cut up by the cavalry every day, and whole stations burned to the ground, who’s going to miss one little cart? Also, if anyone stops you, all you say is you found it abandoned and it’s lawful salvage.” He grinned. “Bear in mind it’s highly unlikely you’re going to get paid any time soon. Me, I’d consider it’s payment in kind in lieu of wages.”
“I don’t know,” the driver said. “I could get in all sorts of trouble.”
“And so could I,” Oida said, “if I don’t get to my appointment on time. A ride as far as the Great West is worth an angel forty to me.” The driver looked up sharply. “If you’re interested.”
“I don’t know,” the driver repeated. “Doesn’t seem right to me, somehow. We ought to be doing something, for the empire.” Oida put his closed hand on the table and opened his fingers. There was a little gleam as the candlelight caught on something. “Still, you’re right,” he said, “what can we do? A carter and a fiddler.”
“Quite,” Oida said. “And the answer is, the best we can, in the circumstances. This could be your big chance. In five years, who knows, you could have a fleet of coaches.”
The driver thought about that for a moment. “It’s an ill wind,” he said brightly. “Where did you say you wanted to go?”
They still had thirty miles to cover before they could turn off the Military Trunk on to the Western Supply. The whole of the next morning they drove through wheatfields.
“This lot should’ve been cut weeks ago,” the driver commented. “It’ll all be spoilt by now.”
Oida didn’t reply. The country they were passing through was one of the principal growing areas for Rasch. It would be interesting to know what they were doing for bread in the big city.
They stopped at noon for a bowl of disgusting porridge, then picked up the pace on the long straight down into the Necua Valley. Then the road turned sharply. As they rounded the corner, a huge flock of rooks got up out of the standing corn and flew away shrieking.
“Bloody things,” the driver commented. “Once you get a few patches where the wind’s laid the corn flat, they go in and strip it bare. And what they don’t eat, they trample and shit on.”
Except that they weren’t rooks; too big and black, and they didn’t fly right for rooks. “You know what,” Oida said. “I think we should stop here a minute.”
They climbed down and walked into the wheat crop. A few yards in, Oida nearly tripped over a dead man. He wore Western-issue armour, minus the helmet, and the back of his head had been smashed in.
“What’ve you found?” the driver called out to him.
“I think it could be the Fifth Army,” Oida said. “No, don’t come any closer.” He knelt down and took another look at the dead man. He was cold and stiff, but the crows hadn’t been at him much. Therefore not more than a day and a half. The armour was the standard lamellar, as favoured by both empires; these days, usually supplied by Ocnisant or one of his competitors. But the neck scarf was the green and blue of the Western Fifth. He’d sung for them, not six months ago. They’d made him do three encores of “Eyes of the Eagles”. He stood up, and walked back the way he’d just come. “I’m guessing they were stragglers,” he said, “or running from the main action and got run down by cavalry. The battle proper would be somewhere over there.” He pointed north-east. “Of course, there’s no way of telling. Could be this was just one wing of the army that got caved in or routed. There’s lots of battles where a bit of one army got wiped out, even though their side won.” He looked round. There was nothing as far as the eye could see but standing corn. But the last time he’d seen that many crows was the day after Lucis Operna. “I think we’ll be all right back on the road,” he said. “If we lost, they’ll be headed for Rasch, and if we won there’s nothing to worry about.”
The driver had a terrified look on his face; he nodded, and walked quickly back to the coach. When they were both aboard, he said, “Shouldn’t we do something for them?”
Oida shook his head. “Ocnisant’ll be along directly,” he said. “My guess is, his carts were all full, so he’s gone to his big depot just this side of Rasch to unload, and then he’ll come back and clear up this lot. No hurry, after all. Those poor buggers aren’t going anywhere.”
The driver looked at him. “You could be all wrong about this,” he said. “I mean, you didn’t actually go and look.”
“Quite so,” Oida replied. “But it’s none of our business, is it? We’re going the other way.”
The driver looked unhappy. “That’s a bit hard, isn’t it?”
Oida shrugged. “I’m just a musician,” he said. “I don’t do politics.”
The road started to climb again. They were passing through the celebrated vineyards of Amportat, reckoned to be the most valuable real estate outside of the cities in the whole Western empire. There should have been men everywhere, harvesting the grapes. Instead, all they saw were vast flocks of starlings.
“I don’t like this,” the driver said. “It’s like there’s nobody left.”
“Well, what would you do if the war moved into your neighbourhood?” Oida said. “You’d clear out till it was gone. Common sense.”
“You don’t think they’re all dead, do you?”
Oida turned his head and looked at him. “No,” he said. “And I’ll tell you for why. I don’t think this is one of those campaigns where the invaders go through the countryside killing everything that moves. I’ve seen what that looks like. So far we haven’t come across burned-out farmhouses or deliberately spoiled crops, or stray livestock on the road, or dead bodies thrown in the hedges. It’s not that sort of campaign. I think Senza’s moving very fast, he hasn’t got time for scorched-earth stuff. My guess is, his whole army is on horseback, cavalry, mounted infantry, horse artillery. It’s the only way he could move so damned fast, and it’s just the sort of crazy, brilliant idea he’d come up with. I think he’s making a hell-for-leather charge straight at Rasch, hoping to get there before they can gather enough supplies to stand a siege, with a view to taking the city before the Western armies can get back home. I think the countryside is deserted because we’re following exactly the same route as he did, and if we turned off and went inland a few miles, we’d find people and cattle and life going on more or less as usual. I think that this time next week, the people who ran away when they saw Senza coming will start drifting back – stands to reason, surely. Either he wins, in which case he’ll stay in Rasch and fortify it, or he loses, and the crows will get a treat. In any event, he won’t be coming back this way any time soon. This is probably the safest place in the empire right now.”
The driver looked petrified. “You think he could win?”
Oida considered his answer. “It’s possible, yes. If anybody could do it, Senza could. People are so scared of him, as soon as he’s visible from the city walls, the army commanders could figure they’ve got no chance, change sides, kill the emperor’s guards and hand over the emperor and the keys of the city. Things like that have happened, it’s not impossible. A lot would depend on how much food they’ve got in store. A city like Rasch is too big to stand a siege for very long, unless they drive out the civilians to fend for themselves. If they did that, assuming the garrison is anything like up to strength, they could probably hold out indefinitely, certainly long enough for the Second and the Fourth and the Eighth to get here and relieve the siege. Of course, that could be what Senza wants, to bring them to battle. If he can wipe all three of them out at a stroke, basically he’s won the war.”
