The Escapement e-3

by K. J. Parker

  Two of them he'd met before, though he couldn't remember their names or what they did; he knew they were fairly important but not very important, and so he had to be polite to them. The third one he'd never seen, and the other two didn't introduce him, which meant he was either some clerk or assistant who didn't matter at all, or someone very important indeed.

  "We appreciate the exceptional effort you've been making," one of the familiar ones said, "and the quite remarkable achievement your results represent. Without your machines, the entire project would collapse; more than that, it could never have begun in the first place." He paused for a moment and touched the headstock casing of the Mezentine turret lathe, which was nominally what they'd come here to admire. He prodded it tentatively, as if expecting it to be dangerously hot. "However," he went on, "I have to tell you, the siege is rapidly approaching a critical stage. The general has instructed me that the design of the heavy trebuchet" (he didn't pronounce the word quite right) "needs to be modified, to give further range. He appreciates that this will cause delays, and you are therefore to ship all the completed pieces you presently have in hand without making the necessary modifications; the general will attend to that himself."

  Oh really, Ziani thought, and smiled. "Sorry," he said. "It can't be done."

  The Aram Chantat stared at him, as though Ziani had just spat in his face.

  "It's quite simple," Ziani said cheerfully. "To increase the range, you need either a heavier counterweight or a longer throwing arm, or both. But we can't make the weight heavier or it'll crack the frame, and we can't make the arm longer, or it'll just snap as soon as you loose off a shot. I can beef up the frame and the arm, of course, but that'll add to the weight, which reduces the efficiency, and you won't actually get the shot to go further or faster; all it'll mean is the machine'll be harder to move about. Now, if I could use box-section steel instead of oak beams for the cradle assembly, like the Mezentines do, that'd be a different matter, but producing box-section would mean I'd have to build a special furnace and rolling-mill, which would take at least three months, even if I had enough skilled workers, which I don't." He paused, wondering why it was so satisfying to say no to these people. "Of course, if the general's found a way to get round the problem, I'll be only too happy to use it."

  All three of them were looking at him; he could trace the workings of their minds, as if he was studying a mechanism. They believed him; in which case, they were thinking, the general's demand was unrealistic and unreasonable, and clearly he doesn't know as much about making these weapons as he thinks he does, which in turn is a fault in him which we weren't previously aware of. And yet, they were thinking, Engineer Vaatzes recommended him for the job…

  "What I can do," he went on, "is forget about the trebuchets and concentrate on getting the worms ready to ship. After all," he added carefully, "they're what's going to win us the war, as you know as well as I do."

  As quite obviously they didn't. "We were going to ask you about them," the third man said-he spoke, so that meant he had to be very important indeed. Ziani turned his head a little, towards the third man and away from the other two.

  "Come and see for yourself," he said. "I can tell you how they work, if you like."

  It annoyed him that they weren't interested in what he showed them and didn't even try to understand what he told them. Of course he appreciated that it was entirely alien to them, as remote as horse-breeding and cattle-herding were to him, but after all, it was their war and they should have made the effort.

  Afterwards, he took them to see the small-arms line. They liked that. They were impressed by the drop-hammers churning out sword-blade blanks, and the four-foot-diameter wheels that ground in the bevels, though they made a point of telling him several times that they did it differently in their country, and their way was much better. The swages that formed complete arrowheads in one pass wiped the smirks off their faces.

  "You made this machine?" the third man said.

  Ziani nodded. "It's a copy of the plant in the City ordnance factory," he said, "except that I modified it. The original machine does it in two steps; it makes the socket, then it goes back in the fire to heat up again, and then it forms the blade. My version's almost twice as fast."

  He could feel them wanting him. In fact, not having him would eat them slowly away. He considered pointing out that the swage blocks and the trip-hammer together weighed just over seven tons, so it'd be useless to them; even if they managed to build a wagon strong enough to carry it, the time and effort involved in loading and unloading it whenever they needed to make arrowheads made it completely impractical. But no, he thought, let them want me, by all means. "If you think that's impressive, just wait till you see how we turn and fletch the shafts," he said.

  "And they have machines like this in the City?" the third man asked, when they'd done the full tour.

  "Loads of them," Ziani replied. "But, as I'm sure you'll appreciate, the machines aren't any use without trained men to work them, and fix them when they break down. And it takes years to train someone."

  "You could train them, couldn't you?"

  He nodded briskly. "Yes," he said. "Me and General Daurenja. Apart from him and me, though, I don't think there's anybody outside the City."

  The third man frowned, while the other two kept perfectly still and quiet. "And then there's the materials," he said. "I couldn't help noticing; all the iron and steel you use. The sheets perfectly flat, the same thickness all the way through; and the round and square bars we saw on the racks in your storeroom. Presumably you have other machines somewhere else…"

  "That's right," Ziani said. "The furnace and the rolling-mill. Both of them are much bigger than this. There's well over a thousand people working there."

  "All skilled men, presumably."

  "That's right, yes. Far more difficult than this, in fact. But essential; before I built the furnace and the mill, we had to make do with hand-worked stuff, and you can't do precision work or mass production if your materials aren't exactly straight and true."

  "But you trained all these men yourself," the third man said. "And in such a short space of time."

  "Well, a great many of them are Eremians," Ziani replied, "skilled men, by local standards-blacksmiths, wheelwrights, coopers, joiners; they may not have been up to Guild standards when I started working with them, but at least they understood the value of a straight line. And the rest are Vadani from the mines, so they knew a bit about smelting ore. Mostly, though, it's a question of procedures: set up a properly designed production line, explain how each job is done-exactly, no margin for error-and there's not much that can go wrong, provided you have good supervisors." He allowed himself a faint grin. "What you're really asking is, could your people learn how to work like this? And the answer is, I don't see why not, if you're really determined. But I don't think you are. I got the Eremians and the Vadani to do as I told them because they realised they had no choice; without the stuff I was going to make for them, they didn't stand a chance. You're not in that position, so you haven't got the incentive. Simple as that, really."

  The third man nodded slowly. "I believe you underestimate us," he said quietly, "but the point is entirely valid. If we need to change our whole way of life simply in order to make tools and weapons rather more efficiently, I don't think we'd be interested." Ziani noticed the intensity in his eyes, as he continued: "I believe that you are the sort of man who'd go to extraordinary lengths to do a relatively simple, ordinary thing, when other men would quite happily give up and go away. I believe that this tendency is evidence of exceptional strength, but it's debatable whether strength is always a virtue. A river in spate is strong; thunderstorms and earthquakes are strong, but to the best of my knowledge, nobody's ever found a use for them." He shrugged; he made the gesture elegant, somehow. "I don't think my people will want to stop being who they are just for the sake of things. I believe that that would be missing the point rather. I feel that if you change y
ourself in order to achieve something, you distort the objective. We have a story, a silly little story for children, about a dog who wanted to steal the meat from his master's table, but it was too high up for him to reach. If I were a bird, he thought, I could fly up there and get at it; and at that very moment, a sorcerer happened to pass by and heard his thoughts, and decided to teach him a lesson. He turned that dog into a bird, and the bird flew up on to the table, just as he'd wanted to do; but when he got there, he found his jaws had become a stupid little beak, and he couldn't open it wide enough to take the meat." He smiled. "I'm sorry," he said, "I shouldn't waste your time with such things. But as we were talking, it came into my mind."

  Ziani frowned. "It's a charming story," he said, "but I don't see what it's got to do with what we've been talking about."

  "Don't you?" The Aram Chantat raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you think the bird was simply being feckless; he should have learned to use a knife, so he could cut the meat up into pieces small enough for him to eat."

  "Not really," Ziani replied. "I can't imagine the dog wanting to be a bird. So it was the sorcerer's fault for interfering."

  That made the Aram Chantat clap his hands and laugh. "Of course," he said. "Such a thing would never happen, and so the story is pointless. You would never wish to be anything other than what you are; I'd overlooked that point. In fact, you'd perch on the sorcerer's shoulder and peck his ears all day until he turned you back. I can see that, now I think about it." It was three days since he'd last seen the duke, and he arrived outside the bedchamber door expecting to find evidence of progress; otherwise, why would he be up and about and demanding to see people?

  He found Valens dressed and sitting in a chair; but the hole in his face, stuffed with wood-pith, was still as extraordinary as ever. For a moment, he thought he was looking at a mechanical object, a man-sized and shaped automaton with the faceplate partly removed and one of the screw-holes showing. Then he got a grip on himself and made the usual respectful enquiries.

  "Actually, I feel terrible," Valens replied. "It hurts like hell, and every time I move I can feel this fucking plug, and all I want to do is get hold of a pair of tongs and pull it out, except I wouldn't have the strength." He stopped abruptly, as though he'd been punched hard in the pit of the stomach, then went on, "But I've got to get up and go to the front, because of your revolting friend Daurenja. Talking of which, what in God's name possessed you to recommend him for commander-in-chief? I thought you couldn't stand the man."

  Ziani looked down at the floor. "He didn't leave me much choice," he said. "You know the position. If he told the Aram Chantat what he knows about me…"

  "Fine." Valens scowled, and clearly that hurt. "I should have realised. Anyway, the savages are thinking about making the replacement permanent, so I've got to go down there and take the war back, assuming the journey doesn't kill me. I gather you're going there soon, with the new engines."

  "They're ready," Ziani said. "There's a few bits and pieces still to do, but I can see to them once we get there."

  Valens nodded. "In that case, we'll leave in the morning. Does that give you enough time?"

  "I think so. I've got limbers and teams. But it'll take a while to get there, obviously."

  "You won't be slowing me down," Valens replied. "Quite the opposite, in fact. The doctors say I've got to be carried in a litter at walking pace. Anything faster, and the wound might open up." He shuddered, a long, slight, convulsive movement that played up and down his body. When it stopped, he sighed. "I'm supposed to be brave," he said. "That's what they're telling everybody. Throughout, the duke has exhibited the utmost fortitude. Balls. The only reason I haven't screamed the place down is because it hurts too much to scream." He breathed in about halfway, then let the breath out slowly. "Really, I ought to thank you for making that horrible contraption the doctors used on me. They tell me it saved my life."

  Ziani shrugged. "It was a job of work," he said. "I make machines. And it was a pleasant change to make something apart from weapons."

  "That's beside the point," Valens said. "I got a really close look at it while they were using it. I'm no judge of these things, but it looked pretty impressive. Thank you." He pressed the tips of his fingers to his cheek, about an inch and a half below the swollen red mound surrounding the hole. "I guess I must be one of the very few people who's been on the receiving end of one of your inventions and survived."

  "Like I said, it was just work," Ziani said; and he thought: one of the very few, and he's thanking me. "I'm sorry it had to be so painful."

  Valens nodded. "Are you always sorry?" he asked. "No, you don't have to answer that. I believe you probably are, but you don't let it bother you too much. Anyway, I owe you my life. I take that sort of thing quite seriously."

  "That's interesting," Ziani replied, looking past him at the wall. A heavy, slightly faded tapestry; the inevitable hunting scene, hounds pulling down a long, angular stag. No food without pain; no life without death. "You can see past the pain to the happy outcome."

  "You have to, sometimes. I suppose it depends on what the outcome is. I mean, you can forgive someone who sticks a knife in you and cuts you open in cold blood if he happens to be a surgeon; he chops your leg off at the knee and you don't just forgive him, you pay him handsomely." He fell silent for a while, presumably gathering his strength. Then he said: "You say Daurenja forced you to nominate him; blackmail, this terrible secret you told me about."

  Ziani said: "That's right."

  "You said it was something I'd never be able to forgive."

  "Yes."

  Valens looked thoughtful for a moment. "This secret of yours has already caused me a lot of trouble," he said. "Let's do a trade. That instrument of torture you made saved my life. I'll trade you the debt in return for a complete free pardon, for whatever it is you did, provided you tell me about it. No going back on my word, no repercussions, no consequences. Well?"

  "If you like," Ziani said. "Though I warn you…"

  "Don't. Just tell me."

  So Ziani told him: how he'd opened the gates of Civitas Eremiae to the Mezentines, allowing them to slaughter the people and burn the city. He kept it short and concise; Valens had bought the confession, but he hadn't paid enough for details. When he'd finished, he made himself turn his head a little and look at Valens' face; pale as milk, apart from the angry red around the wound.

  "Why?" Valens asked.

  "There were a number of reasons," Ziani replied. "The city was bound to fall sooner or later, so the people inside it were as good as dead already. I was sick to death of watching the scorpions I'd built shooting their soldiers down by the thousand. I thought that if they took the city, it'd end the war." He paused, then said, "And then I thought I could go home."

  Valens nodded very slightly. "That was the deal, was it?"

  "Yes. They cheated me, of course. There was supposed to be a safe conduct to get me out of there, we'd arranged it all beforehand. But when the time came, the men who were supposed to be meeting me didn't show up, and I knew they weren't going to keep their side of the bargain. So I made my own way out, and luckily-"

  "You rescued Veatriz," Valens said quietly.

  "That's right, yes. I figured that if I could get both of us out of the city and across the border into your country, you'd let me stay as a reward for saving her. Of course, you turned up and spared us both a long and unpleasant walk."

  For a moment or so, he wondered if Valens had forgotten how to breathe. "You're right," he said eventually, "it's not something I could ever have forgiven. But I gave you my word, and so we'll forget all about it." He winced as he said that. "Partly because you made that thing for the doctors; but that wouldn't have been enough, on its own. Mostly it's because I've been profiting from your crime: if you hadn't done it, Veatriz would probably have been killed when they eventually took the city; as it was, I brought her here, and now she's my wife, and that's the only thing I ever wanted. It practically makes m
e your accomplice." He shook his head, like a horse refusing the bridle. "All right," he said, "those are the reasons why you did it. I still can't see how you could bring yourself to do it, though. It was…" He paused, scowling because the right word wouldn't come. "It was inhuman," he said. "So utterly callous…"

  "Tell me," Ziani said. "If you'd been me, and opening the gates would've given you the woman you love, would you have done it?"

  Valens nodded, once.

  15

  To punish the Cure Doce for the cowardly and unprovoked attack on Duke Valens, General Daurenja sent six thousand cavalry into their territory with instructions to do as much damage as possible in the course of a week. The expeditionary force was made up about equally of Eremians and Vadani, under the command of Colonel Miel Ducas.

  As soon as he crossed the border, the Ducas divided his army up into three squadrons. Two of these he entrusted to seasoned Vadani officers; the third he led himself. He had a reliable map of the border country, with all the principal farmsteads marked. His orders to the two subordinate commands were to kill everybody they found, secure any stocks of food they might encounter, and burn the buildings. He set a schedule and arranged a rendezvous where the three squadrons would meet up before returning to allied territory.

  The first farm on his itinerary was tucked away in the seam of a river valley. He attacked at dawn, aiming to catch the enemy at morning milking; that way, the herd would have been brought in to the main sheds, saving his men the trouble of rounding them up, and the farm workers would likewise be conveniently assembled in one place: the men and boys in the sheds, the women in the kitchens, fixing the men's breakfast.

  Two thousand men were far too many for such a straightforward operation, and excessive numbers would simply get in the way. Accordingly, he drew up eighteen hundred of his men in a tight cordon around the perimeter of the home meadows, to pick up stragglers, and divided the remaining two hundred into five units of forty. The best available intelligence put the number of people living on the farm at sixty. Time was of the essence-as the Ducas put it, they had a lot of work to do in just seven days-as was thoroughness; given their tight schedule (six farms a day for seven days), it was imperative that no survivors escape to raise the alarm at the neighbouring farmsteads.