by K. J. Parker
Calojan looked at the long lines of armed men. The last time he’d seen them, they’d reminded him of the old stories about the living dead. “They look like they’re going on an outing,” he said. “A hunting party, or a festival or something. Not afraid, not seething with righteous fervour, just moderately happy and content, waiting to find out what happens. I’ve seen soldiers like this, but not for a long time.”
“That’s not an answer to my question.”
“I think the empire’s like a disease,” Calojan replied. “I think it’s contagious; either you catch it or you find a medicine to fight it off, you can’t just live next to it and choose not to join in. Think about it. These people came here. We didn’t ask them to, they just came; a few to begin with, and then, when they discovered there was work here, and they saw all the wealth and sophistication, they came in hundreds, like flies. For a while we let them come, and then we tried to shoo them away.”
“Now there’s a question,” Sechimer said. “Is the fly the fault of the apple?”
Calojan rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave that one to you. But, if you like the analogy, you might care to consider that flies tend to gather thickest on fruit when it’s starting to rot.”
“Charming.” Sechimer frowned. Then he said, “Those helmets with the raised rib across the crown. Weren’t they recalled because of metallurgical flaws?”
“They were cheap.”
“Ah.”
“Also,” Calojan said, “they were available. When I told young Aimeric I’d take the lot sight unseen, his jaw dropped so much he nearly swallowed himself.”
“I can imagine,” Sechimer said. He arched his back and wriggled his shoulders; standing in one place too long in full ceremonial armour. “Please don’t be too hard on Apsimar. I know he can be annoying, but he’s the only heir apparent we’ve got. I’d hate for him not to like you, for his sake.”
“If he’s the only heir you’ve got, get another one.”
Sechimer was silent for a long time. Then he said, “Funny you should say that.”
“Really?”
“You know this prophesy everyone’s talking about.”
“Oh, that.” Calojan frowned. “That Mezentine thing.”
“They’re deciphering it right now. Apparently it’s all rather obscure and the language is difficult. But I was talking to archdeacon Vorsiger, and he says there’s at least one bit that looks like it could be about me. The six-fingered man.”
Calojan looked straight ahead. “Go on.”
“He says the six-fingered man will marry the spear-maker’s daughter, and their son will rule the world, from the grey apple tree to the white.”
“Good heavens,” Calojan said. “Does that actually mean anything?”
“Aimeric de Peguilhan’s father supplied the army with over a million spears, three times as many as any other contractor. According to the archdeacon, there are apple trees in the far north that bear a sort of greyish fruit, while right out beyond the Claw Mountains they grow apples that are nearly pure white.” He paused. “Aimeric’s got a sister, hasn’t he?”
“I believe so.”
“Apparently,” Sechimer said, in a strangely detached voice, “the spear-maker’s daughter will save the six-fingered man from the deep water.” He drew in a deep breath and let it go. “I don’t think I can ignore that.”
“Can’t you? I could. Sechimer, it’s garbage. You can’t seriously be considering marrying a woman you’ve never met—De Peguilhan’s sister, for crying out loud—just because of the ramblings of a dead madman, unreliably translated from the Mezentine. It’s so bizarre it makes me wonder if I’m dreaming.”
“Talking of dreams,” Sechimer said softly, “I’ve been having the same one over and over again, ever since I woke up after the battle.”
“Oh, not dreams, please.”
“I’m at the bottom of a deep wellshaft,” Sechimer said, “the walls are brick and covered in green moss, and there’s water coming up from under my feet and pouring in from overhead. I’m just about to drown, and a hand reaches down and I stretch out for it.”
“And?”
“And then I wake up.”
Calojan sighed. “Too much Permian pickled cabbage just before going to bed, that’s what that’s all about.” He frowned. A staff officer was hovering with a brass message-tube in his hand, clearly not prepared to interrupt an audience with the emperor. “At the very least,” he said, “promise me you won’t do anything drastic till I get back. Promise?”
“Define drastic.”
“Don’t do anything. How’s that?”
Sechimer shrugged. “Fine,” he said. “That’s assuming you do come back. If you’re pinning all our hopes on this lot, that’s hardly a foregone conclusion.”
All our hopes, Calojan thought; all our hopes are pinned on me, and one of these days the pin will pierce my heart and I’ll die. “They’ll be just fine,” he said. “You’ll see.”
While Calojan read his despatches they brought up the imperial chaise; limewood under gilded plaster, wheel-spokes thin as straws, but a hundred and twenty years ago it had borne the weight of Huneric II, the fattest man ever to strain the joints of Florian’s throne. Two milk-white horses drew it, and the coachman was the eldest son of the Minister of Supply. Sechimer had said once; everything I own these days is second-hand. His shoulders slumped as the chaise moved off; he doesn’t have to try when he’s alone, Calojan realised, so he doesn’t bother.
It was just starting to spit with rain. Calojan pulled the fur hood of his cloak over his head, hesitated for a moment, then strolled slowly down the slope to the front rank. The man on the far end looked up at him and started to get to his feet. Calojan shook his head. “As you were.”
“What?”
Calojan frowned. “That’s army talk,” he said, “for don’t bother to get up. What’s your name?”
The man was quite young, tall and thin, with a long neck and a bushy black beard. His hair was thinning on top, but there remained a thick clump about the size of a man’s hand right at the front. “Ascetil,” the man replied. “Who are you?”
“Apsimar.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
If we were in a bar, Calojan thought, he’d be offering to buy me a drink. “So,” he said, “how long have you been in the City?”
Ascetil thought before answering. “Thirteen months.”
“Like it here?”
“It was good when we were living in Westponds,” Ascetil replied. “The camp’s not so bad, but it’s boring not having anything to do.”
“Better than home?”
Another pause for thought. “Yes. Warmer. And all the stuff they’ve got here, it’s amazing.”
“What about being a soldier?” Calojan asked. “Do you like the idea?”
“Are you joking?” Ascetil suddenly smiled, and his face became beautiful. “Never could’ve been one back home. Couldn’t afford the gear, and who wants to be one of the poor sods hanging round the edges throwing stones? This’ll be something to tell my grandsons about.”
“You do realise,” Calojan said, “people get killed in war. You might not make it.”
“Ah well.” Ascetil scratched his ear. “Some people reckon that if you die in battle you go to Warfather’s house, and you drink beer all day long and eat and fight, and it’s just like being a chieftain, even if you’re someone like me. Or if that’s not true, it’s all over and you’re out of it, like being let off work early. Can’t say I’m bothered either way. Also, the emperor says if I get killed he’ll give my mother five gold coins.” He grinned. “There’s seven of us back home, on nine acres. Five gold coins, they could buy the valley.”
Calojan nodded. “You’ll make it,” he said. “I gather the general’s quite smart.”
“Genius, so they say. Never lost a battle.”
“Not that you hear about, anyway. So,” Calojan went on, “you reckon soldiering might be for you, in the long term?”
&nbs
p; “Why not?” Ascetil shrugged. “Better than home, better than sitting round in the camp. And all this stuff they give you, it’s incredible. Good boots, good shirt, really good padded coat. And all this armour, it’s fantastic. Chieftains back home don’t have anything like this good, and here they’ve given it to all of us. They must be so rich.”
Calojan frowned. The scale clibanion Ascetil was wearing was basically a way of using up offcuts of steel plate, or recycling battlefield pick-up breastplates and greaves too badly damaged to be repaired. The Armoury Board had rejected that particular batch on grounds of slovenly workmanship. “I believe you’re supposed to give it back when the war’s over.”
Ascetil grinned. “I don’t think so,” he said. “No, it’s great, I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces when I get home. Not that I’m in any hurry. They reckon that after the battle, you can go round the dead bodies and help yourself to as much as you can carry, and then a man from the government comes and pays you money for it.” He looked up hopefully. “Is that true?”
“That’s quite right,” Calojan said. “It’s called the bounty system. They’ve done it for years.”
“Amazing. Gold money, or that copper rubbish?”
Calojan laughed. “Gold money. They don’t try that copper trick on with the army.”
“If that doesn’t beat cock-fighting.” Ascetil beamed at him. “Someone told me, they have real problems getting men for the emperor’s army. I can’t understand that. You’d think they’d be queuing up.”
Seven of them, on nine acres. Calojan tried to remember when he’d last been hungry; not just for a few hours, but days on end. On campaign, when the supply line had been cut. Not the same thing at all. Of course, nobody went hungry among the Cosseilhatz. You could eat as much as you could cram down yourself, so long as you liked cheese.
The quickest way to reach Hunza’s army was through Brocia, following the Great Military Road as far as Shastel Rosc, then cutting across country. Calojan had a clear mental image of Shastel, from when his family had lived there when he was seven, but when they got there they found ruins; indeterminate shapes under rich green mountains of brambles and nettles, the occasional outcrop of brick or broken masonry. It was like a heavy fall of green snow, masking a familiar landscape. He tried to superimpose his memories on what he saw, but the two pictures simply wouldn’t fit together. It was two days since they’d seen anyone at all.
Asburn, the first Northerner he’d spoken to, was still nominally in charge of his countrymen; at least, he passed on Calojan’s orders, and they were obeyed with a certain bewildered compliance. When not shuttling backwards and forwards he rode at Calojan’s side, looking about him with a permanent puzzled frown.
“Where did all the people go?” he asked.
“The town,” Calojan told him. “Then, as the Sashan picked off the towns one by one, they headed for the City. I guess about half of them made it.”
Asburn digested that for a while. Then he said, “But there’s peace now. Why don’t they go home?”
The fields on either side of the road were shoulder-high weeds, just starting to brown off and die. Massive seed-pods were yellowing paper-thin. Before the war, the farmers in these parts had looked after their land well; it would stay fertile for another three or four generations of weed, and then it would be completely drained. “I guess they prefer city life,” Calojan said.
“If it was me,” Asburn said, “I’d top off this rubbish and run pigs on it, then plough three times and it’d be right as rain. Corn one year, grazing the next. It’s so warm down here, I bet you’d get grass as fat as butter.”
Few things bored Calojan more acutely than agriculture, but he didn’t have to pay attention if he didn’t want to. He let the tide of excited chatter wash round him, and tried to think of something clever he could do against Hunza. But nothing came; it was like trying to compose music when you haven’t got the faintest spark of a tune in your head. I’ll think of something when the time comes, he promised himself; I always do.
There was nothing to talk about, but they talked anyway. Hunza rode up on a white horse, escorted by seven enormous men in gold armour. Calojan wore his old felt hat and took Apsimar, on the grounds that it might just possibly be a trap.
“Hello, Hunza,” he said. “Still dead?”
Hunza didn’t reply; he held out his hand and one of the massive guards handed him something brown and flat. It looked painfully like an artist’s portfolio. Hunza leaned forward over his horse’s neck to give it to him.
“Let me guess,” Calojan said.
“From the Great King’s personal library,” Hunza said. “Charcoal sketches for The Frog And The Crane. I’ve always thought it was your father’s best work.”
“Thank you so much,” Calojan said. “Well, I suppose while we’re here, we should go through the motions. How about you surrender and your men can go free?”
Hunza looked at him for about four seconds. “You will withdraw your forces to the far side of the river Sotopis,” he said. “You will surrender the keys of the six fortified towns between here and Shastel Rosc. You will disband your mercenary army. You will pay war reparations of seventeen million solidi.”
“No,” Calojan said.
Hunza gathered his reins. “In that case, we have nothing to say to each other.”
“Agreed.” Calojan smiled. “It’s all right for you, though. When we cut off your head and stick it on a pole, you won’t feel a thing, since you’ve already been dead for five years. That must be such a comfort.”
One of the guards wore a puzzled look. It’d be all across the camp by morning, at which time Hunza would call on them all to make the supreme sacrifice for his sake. And they’d all be thinking, but if he’s not really who he says he is—“I’m sorry,” Calojan said. “It’s just work, nothing personal. Good luck.”
Later, comparing the map with what he could see from the top of the only hill for miles around, he told himself, not looking good. Tomorrow’s battlefield was flat and open; ideal cavalry country, and Hunza had nine thousand cavalry. His main infantry formation would line up in front of a long, wide stand of pine trees. He had three thousand archers. He’d have to be crazy to make the first move, so the imperials would have to come to him, advancing untried infantry a long way over open ground to attack at odds of two to one. If the Cosseilhatz were there, it’d be different, but they weren’t. Come on, he told himself, think of something. But nothing came.
At first light, Apsimar came to his tent, in full gilded Classical armour, his plumed helmet cradled under his arm so that the feathers sort of gushed up into his armpit. He drew back the door-flap and said, “Come on, it’s time we were—oh.”
Calojan grinned up at him. “It’s all right,” he said, “it’s my mother. I don’t know who the man is.” He pushed the sketches back into the folder, closed and buckled the flap. “Right then, we’d better make a move.”
Apsimar scowled at him. “You haven’t put your armour on.”
“Can’t be bothered,” Calojan said. “If the fighting gets that close, whoever kills me will be doing me a favour.” He reached for his hat, hesitated. It had belonged to his father, and he really didn’t want to lose it. Instead, he took the felt arming cap he wore when it rained. “Ready,” he said. “Let’s go and get it over with.”
He set off at a brisk pace, so that Apsimar ended up trotting at his heels like a lazy dog. As he passed through the camp there was a joyful cheer from the regulars—it’d have been heartening if only there’d been a few more of them—but the Northerners stared. I know what they’re asking themselves, Calojan thought; who’s the tramp walking in front of the general? To which the answer was, that’s Calojan, the man who’s just about to think of something, any minute now.
They were approaching the edge of the camp, beyond which lay the battlefield, and then the enemy. Apsimar skipped a few steps to close the distance between them. “Was that really your mother?” he said.
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Calojan nodded. “It’s funny,” he said. “I mostly remember her as a tense, fierce woman, always worried about money. But to the Great King of the Sashan, apparently, she was a remote and mysterious object of desire.”
“Ah. Why’s it called the Frog and the Crane?”
Calojan looked at him. “No idea,” he said. They’d reached the edge of the camp, and Calojan stopped. There was now nothing but open space and grass between them and the enemy, just over a mile away. It was like standing on the shore, looking at the ocean.
“I’ve got a favour to ask,” Apsimar said behind him. “I’ll quite understand if you say no.”
Calojan had other things on his mind. “What?”
“Would it be all right if I led the attack? I wouldn’t make decisions or give orders or anything. I’d just like to know what it feels like.”
“I can tell you that,” Calojan replied distractedly. “It’s horrible and terrifying. Why in God’s name would you want to put yourself through that?”
“Well.” Apsimar hesitated. “Well,” he went on, “it could well be that I’ll be emperor one day, and my uncle always makes a point of fighting right up at the front. I feel it’s something I ought to do.”
And look what happened—Calojan didn’t say that. He tried to think of a tactful way of saying, No, I can’t let you, you’re too stupid and useless to be put in harm’s way; but he couldn’t think, his mind was too busy scrabbling at a closed door—I’ll think of something, I always do. “Fine,” he said. “You do that, the men’ll appreciate it, especially the offcomers. I think they have heroes in their culture. You look like a hero. It’ll make them happy.”
Apsimar was suddenly, happily silent; God, Calojan thought, he’s taken that as a compliment. “Just take care of yourself,” he added. “Look pretty and keep out of the way, all right?”
“I’ll be fine,” Apsimar said. “I’ve been training four hours a day with the toughest drill sergeants in the Guards. I can handle myself.”
“Of course you can.” And he was thinking; with just five hundred Cosseilhatz, I could hook their right wing as it swings round to enfilade our left; time it just right, I could roll them up like a carpet, and they’d never expect it because that’s where they’re strongest. Just five hundred. “Go and see Asburn, tell him you’ll be leading and get him to put twelve good men with you. He’ll be thrilled to bits, he thinks you’re in charge.”
