The Proof House

by K. J. Parker

  Through the window came the scent of some strong, sweet flower – a pepper-vine, at a guess; he’d noticed that the walls of the prefecture were covered in them. There was also a lingering smell of perfume, the sticks they burned here to mask out the other strong, sweet smells. A bird of some description squawked on the parapet above the window.

  ‘Of course, most of the senior officers—’ The clerk never got to finish his sentence, because the door opened and a man in uniform (dark-brown gambeson, steel gorget, dress dummy pauldrons, vambraces and cops) walked past without looking at either of them. ‘He’ll see you now,’ the clerk said, and turned his attention to the papers on his desk. Bardas got up and walked into the office.

  The prefect was a big man, even by the standard of the Sons of Heaven; darker than most of those Bardas had come across at Ap’ Escatoy, which suggested he was from the inner provinces, a man of consequence. His head was bald and his beard was cropped short and close. The top joint of his left little finger was missing.

  ‘Bardas Loredan,’ he said.

  Bardas nodded.

  ‘Sit down, please.’ The prefect studied him for a moment, then nodded towards the empty chair. ‘Presumably you have a certificate from your commanding officer at Ap’ Escatoy.’

  Bardas pulled the little brass cylinder out from his sleeve and handed it over. Carefully the prefect popped off the caps and poked the curl of paper out with the tip of his mutilated finger.

  ‘Please bear with me,’ he said as he unrolled it, and as he read it his face was a study in concentration.

  ‘A fascinating career,’ he said at last. ‘You were second in command of Maxen’s army.’

  Baras nodded.

  ‘Remarkable,’ the prefect said. ‘And then your years as a law-fencer – a most intriguing occupation – followed by your brief service as colonel-general of Perimadeia.’ He looked up. ‘I’ve read about it, of course,’ he said. ‘A fine defence, under the circumstances. And the final assault really only made possible by treachery, so hardly your fault.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Bardas said.

  ‘And after that,’ the prefect went on, ‘a somewhat shadowy role in the war between the Shastel Order and Scona; well, we won’t go into that, it was a most unusual sequence of events by all accounts.’ He paused, but Bardas didn’t say anything, so he continued, ‘After which you enlisted as a private soldier with the provincial office and spent – let’s see – three years, give or take a week, in the saps at Ap’ Escatoy, a most distinguished tour of duty by any standards.’ He looked at Bardas again, with no perceptible expression. ‘Very much the stuff of legends,’ he said.

  ‘It didn’t seem that way at the time,’ Bardas said.

  The prefect considered for a moment, then laughed. ‘No, of course not. Now then, what else have we got here? Ah, yes, your brother Gorgas; the same Gorgas Loredan who staged the military coup in the Mesoge. Clearly soldiering runs in the family. Another remarkable career, by all accounts. And very shrewd, strategically speaking. The importance of the Mesoge as a potential theatre of confrontation has been sorely underestimated, in my opinion.’

  Bardas thought for a moment. ‘That’s Gorgas for you,’ he said. ‘Though my sister’s the smart one in our family.’

  The prefect smiled again. ‘Do you really think so?’ he said. ‘To build up a thriving business and then lose it so quickly, over such a trifling series of incidents? Well, of course I can’t claim to know all the facts.’ Again he paused, then continued, ‘All in all,’ he said, ‘an impressive résumé for a sergeant of engineers. I confess, I’m curious as to how you came to join the provincial office, a man with your talents and experience. I’d have thought you’d have found something rather more challenging.’

  ‘Well, you know how it is,’ Bardas said. ‘Wars seem to follow me about, whenever I get myself settled. So I thought this time I’d go and find one, before it found me.’

  The prefect looked at him as if he hadn’t quite understood. ‘An interesting perspective,’ he said. ‘In any event, your service in the siege of Ap’ Escatoy certainly merits a tangible reward, and the provincial office knows the importance of looking after its own. It ought to be possible to find a situation that will prove rewarding to you and which makes rather better use of your talents than the mines.’ He glanced back at the paper in front of him. ‘I see you have practical experience in manufacturing,’ he said.

  ‘I used to make bows,’ Bardas replied.

  ‘You were good at it?’

  ‘Fairly good,’ Bardas said. ‘A lot depends on getting the right materials.’

  The prefect frowned, then nodded. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Our procurement office takes particular care to ensure that all our specifications are properly met. And of course,’ he went on, ‘we’re equally thorough when it comes to quality control. Which is why the proof house is such an important part of our manufacturing procedure.’

  ‘Proof house,’ Bardas repeated. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.’

  For some reason, that seemed to amuse the prefect. ‘There’s no reason why you should,’ he said. ‘It’s a rather specialised department. Essentially, the proof house is where we test the armour we issue to our soldiers. It’s a subdivision of the district armoury at Ap’ Calick, although we test samples from provinces all over the western Empire.’ The prefect drummed his fingers on the desktop in a quick, orderly rhythm. ‘There’s a vacancy for a deputy inspector at Ap’ Calick. The post is equivalent in rank to sergeant-of-fifty, so it would represent a significant promotion; obviously it’s not a combat assignment, but I venture to suggest that after such a protracted tour of front-line duty, the change would not be unwelcome. Mostly, though, the combination of proven administrative skills and considerable first-hand combat experience that your record suggests make you a thoroughly logical choice for this duty. Provided,’ the prefect added, with a smile, ‘it meets with your approval.’

  Bardas looked up. ‘Oh, absolutely,’ he said. ‘Anything that doesn’t involve killing people down dark tunnels will do me just fine. Thank you.’

  The prefect looked at him, his head slightly on one side, with the air of a man reluctantly giving up on an insoluble problem. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘If you’d care to call back tomorrow, any time after midday, my clerk should have your certificate and transit documents ready. You can use the post to get there; not that there’s any immediate hurry, but it can be an awkward journey by conventional means.’ The prefect stood up, indicating that the interview was over. Bardas followed suit. ‘Good luck, Sergeant Loredan. I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job in Ap’ Calick.’

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ Bardas replied. He opened the door, then hesitated. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘just one quick question. How do you go about testing armour?’

  The prefect spread his hands. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said. ‘I assume by simulating the sort of strain and damage it’s likely to undergo in actual combat.’

  Bardas nodded. ‘Bashing it with swords,’ he said. ‘That sort of thing. Should be fun. Thank you.’ He closed the door behind him before the prefect could say anything else.

  Of course, Bardas knew all about the post. Everyone in the Empire had come across it at some time, usually in the context of scurrying out of its way. The post-horses, as everybody knew, stopped for nothing; they were explicitly allowed to ride down anybody who couldn’t get out of the road quickly enough, and the post-riders seemed to delight in taking every opportunity they could to exercise this privilege.

  ‘Three stops a day to change horses,’ the master courier told him cheerfully, ‘and two more at night; we take our food and water with us, and if you want a pee, you do it over the side of the coach. This all the stuff you’re taking?’

  Bardas nodded. ‘Just the kitbag,’ he said.

  ‘No armour?’

  ‘Sapper,’ Bardas explained. ‘We never bothered with it in the mines.’

  The courier shrugged and si
gnalled to the outriders to mount up. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Just for once there’s a bit of space on the coach; nothing much going up the line today. You can sit on the box with me, or lie down in the back if you can find room; your choice.’

  Bardas climbed up, stepping on the horizontal spoke of the front wheel as he’d seen the courier do. ‘I’ll ride up front to start with,’ he said, ‘it’ll give me a chance to admire the scenery.’

  The courier laughed. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘Hope you like rocks, ’cos that’s all you’ll see till we’re past Tollambec.’

  The coach was a wonderful piece of work; wide and low at the front, enormous back wheels with thick iron tyres fitted front and back with sheaves of steel springs the size and thickness of crossbow limbs to float the chassis off the axles. ‘Corners a treat,’ the courier told him. ‘Next best thing to impossible to turn it over, unless you’re really trying hard. Built to last, too,’ he added, giving the side of the box a meaty slap with the side of his hand. ‘Well, they need to be, the amount of work they do. Bloodstream of the Empire, they call us.’

  Bardas nodded. In the back he could see jars of wine with fancy designs on the seals, bales of various expensive-looking fabrics, some pieces of furniture vaguely recognisable under the cloth they were wrapped in, one barrel of civilian-made arrows and three or four sealed wooden chests. ‘Essential supplies, that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘I can see the need for a system like this.’

  Once they’d cleared the camp, the courier whipped the horses up into a swift canter, which soon made the coach too noisy and uncomfortable for anything except sitting still and quiet. The scenery was, as promised, an endless array of rock faces. Just occasionally the coach would hurtle past groups of men and donkeys ostentatiously pulled in to passing places; they looked away and tried to flatten themelves against the rock as the coach went by, like sappers laid up in the mines.

  ‘You’re the hero, right?’ the courier shouted.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘What? I can’t hear you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Bardas yelled. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Ah, well. Each to his own, I suppose,’ the courier roared, and the rocks bounced his voice backwards and forwards like children playing catch. ‘Wouldn’t suit me, all that crawling about in the dark.’

  ‘Nor me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said it didn’t suit me either,’ Bardas shouted. ‘Not my idea of fun.’

  The courier pulled a face. ‘You’re not supposed to say that,’ he roared. ‘You’re a bloody hero.’

  Bardas didn’t have the energy to rise to that. ‘I think I’ll lie down in the back,’ he shouted.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  It was delicate work, edging down from the box and crawling across the cargo until he found a man-sized niche he could crawl into. Amazingly, in spite of the noise and the jarring movement of the coach, it wasn’t long before he was fast asleep.

  When he woke up, the courier was standing over him, grinning. ‘Wake up,’ he said. ‘First change. I’d stretch your legs if I were you; long haul, the next stage.’

  Bardas grunted and tried to stand up, something that proved to be harder than he’d expected. By the time he’d got back enough feeling in his legs to scramble down off the coach, the stagekeepers had already out-spanned the old horses and were spanning in the replacements, identical-looking animals with nondescript dun coats, their manes and tails docked short. Each one was branded with the provincial office’s mark and a serial number, large enough to be legible from some way off.

  The courier was splashing his head and shoulders with water from a leather bucket. ‘You want a wet?’ he called out. ‘Wash some of the dust off.’

  Bardas looked down; he hadn’t noticed how dusty and grimy he was. ‘All right,’ he replied, and the courier dipped the bucket in a water-butt and passed it to him. The water was slightly cloudy with disturbed sediment.

  ‘Time to go,’ the courier told him, then turned round to shout a message back to one of the outriders; Bardas didn’t catch what he was saying. The stagekeepers had finished changing the horses and were crawling about under the coach, painting grease on the axles from large clay tubs and checking the cotter pins. ‘You’d better climb up,’ the courier went on. ‘We leave as soon as they’ve done, whether you’re on board or not.’

  Bardas hauled himself up over the box. He was only just in position in his valley in the cargo when the coach started to move.

  As the courier had promised, the next stage seemed to go on for ever. Imperial roads were famous for being straight and, where humanly possible, flat; the provincial office’s engineers thought nothing of hacking a high-sided cutting through a substantial hill for no other reason, or so it seemed, than to prove that they could. Bardas considered the cargo piled up around him; jars of dates, figs and cherries preserved in honey, foot-stools and hat-boxes, book-boxes (a lot of those) and brass tubes that held rolled-up silk paintings; it seemed a lot of effort to go to, slicing the middle out of a mountain just so that a prefect could have fresh grapes and the latest anthology of occasional verse; but the Empire could do that sort of thing, so why not? It wasn’t as if they were particularly attractive hills to begin with.

  At the third stage of the day, the coach took on another passenger. ‘Shift over,’ she said. Bardas looked at her, and shifted.

  ‘I brought my own food,’ she went on, burrowing into a huge wickerwork basket that only just fitted into the gap between the piled and roped-down boxes. ‘I’ve been on this run too often to poison myself with government rations.’ She emerged, like a rat from a hole in the wall, with a squat, flat packet made of vine leaves. Honey oozed out between the folds. ‘Of course, you need a digestion like a compost heap to keep anything down on a post coach,’ she went on. ‘All that bumping and lurching on a full stomach; it’s far worse than being on a ship, I can tell you.’

  She was small, grey-haired and dark-eyed, bundled up in a thick woollen coat with a high fur collar, secured at the neck with a huge, vicious-looking brooch. Bardas, who was already down to his shirt because of the heat, couldn’t help staring; she wasn’t sweating at all.

  ‘You think I’m overdressed,’ she said without looking up, as her small, bent fingers picked at the string of her packet. ‘You wait till you’ve spent a couple of nights on the road, you’ll wish you’d brought something a bit warmer than that. Military?’ Bardas nodded. ‘Thought so. Well, it doesn’t take a great analytical mind to come up with that one, why else would – well, one of your lot be on a government coach? Not that it bothers me, needless to say. There just isn’t any room for those kinds of attitudes now, not if we’re really serious about being one Empire and all that sort of thing. I dare say in twenty years or so’s time, people just won’t think about it any more. And quite right too, if you ask me. It’s like this whole Sons and Daughters of Heaven thing; we don’t believe it any more, you don’t believe it (or if you do, you’re a sight more gullible than I gave you credit for) so really, where’s the point? People are people, and that’s all there is to it.’ She stripped away the vine leaves to reveal a golden-brown slab of cake, dripping liquid honey and scattering crumbs of nut. ‘There really isn’t a polite way to eat this stuff,’ she said, ‘so the hell with it. Here goes.’ She opened her mouth as wide as it would go, stuffed about a quarter of the cake into it, and bit hard. ‘Not bad,’ she went on, as soon as her mouth was clear enough of cake to let her speak, ‘though I do say so myself. Properly speaking, that was meant for my son in Daic, but what he wasn’t expecting he’ll never miss. Don’t talk much, do you?’

  ‘I prefer to listen,’ Bardas replied.

  ‘Very sensible,’ the woman said. ‘One mouth and two ears, like my mother used to tell us when we were children. How far are you going?’

  ‘Sammyra,’ Bardas said. ‘Apparently I change coaches there for Ap’ Calick.’

  The woman was chewing. ‘Ap’ Calick,’ she sa
id. ‘I used to call there when I was younger. The manager of the government brickyard there was a very good customer. Perfume,’ she added, by way of explanation. ‘Twenty years in the trade, either side of when the children were small; took over from my father when I was seventeen, bought out both my brothers by the time I was twenty. I’m hoping my youngest girl will take over from me in due course; she’s very good on the production side, but she doesn’t like the travelling. With me, of course, it’s the other way round, so we work very well together. My son hates me still being on the road, of course; I expect he thinks it makes him look bad, but who the hell cares? Still, I won’t deny it’s a great help having a son in the roads commission. For one thing, I can scrounge a lift on the post whenever I need to, and that’s a real advantage. I’m not sure I’d be quite so keen on the road if I was having to slog across this lot on a mule. Have you been to Sammyra before?’

  Bardas shook his head. ‘Just a name to me,’ he said.

  The woman sniffed. ‘It’s nothing much, really; been going downhill ever since they lost the indigo trade. The baths are worth a visit if you get time, but I wouldn’t bother too much with the market. You can get exactly the same stuff in Tollambec at about half the price.’

  Bardas nodded. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.

  ‘Now the best thing about Tollambec,’ the woman went on, ‘is the fish stew. How they ever got a taste for fish living that far from the sea heaven only knows, but the plain fact is I’d rather have salt fish Tollambec style than the fresh stuff any day, and I don’t care who knows it. Do they eat much fish where you come from?’

  ‘I used to live in Perimadeia,’ Bardas replied.

  ‘Perimadeia,’ the woman repeated. ‘So, plenty of cod and mackerel, some tuna, eels, of course . . .’

  Bardas shrugged. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid. We used just to call it fish. It was grey and came in a slice of bread.’

  The woman sighed. ‘My son’s just the same,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t know good food if it bit him. That’s such a shame; I mean, so much of life’s about eating and drinking. If you don’t take an interest, it’s such a waste.’