Colours in the Steel (69 page)

Not five yards away, a clansman was holding a city man by the arms while another two clansmen stuck pikes in him. Against his better judgement, Loredan came smartly up behind them and sorted out the two pikemen with successive cuts. The remaining clansman tried to use the dying Perimadeian as a shield, but he was a head taller than his victim, at least to begin with. When he’d finished, Loredan stooped down to look at the city man but he was past help; so that had been a waste of time.

Nobody else got in his way between the arch and the colonnade that connected the pipemakers’ district with the ropewalks. The colonnade itself was a problem; the thatched roof was starting to burn, and Loredan just made it through before it collapsed. But that was all right; he was in the wide open spaces now, with no threat from the fire and room to run instead of having to fight. The ropemakers had rigged up a futile but ingenious barrier of cables, which he had to cut through. Some enthusiast in an upper window loosed a crossbow off at him while he was doing it, not doubt assuming he was the enemy. He missed. Someone else yelled,
hold, he’s one of us
, and Loredan kept going. Dangerous as well as pointless to rectify the man’s mistake, which was in any event a perfectly natural one.
How was he to know I’m no longer one of us, just one of me?

As far as adventures in the ropewalk went, that was about all. The fun started again when he left the wide street and went under the perfumiers’ arch into the square beyond. The perfume quarter wasn’t a healthy place to be, what with all the distilled spirits and aromatic oils that were kept there, and Loredan arrived in it at more or less the same time as the fire. On all four sides of the square buildings were going up in fireballs and the air hummed with flying shrapnel from exploding storage jars. He managed to get out of there with no more than a few scratches and a small shard of jar embedded in his left thigh, but as he ducked under the remains of the arch he found he’d walked straight into a platoon of plainsmen indulging in a little last-minute looting in the pearl-drillers’ courtyard.

I really don’t have time for this, he mused, swinging hard from the left and feeling the blade carve a deep slice into someone’s shoulder. The worst part was that even while he was fighting, part of his mind was on the time and the way ahead. He tried not to allow himself to get distracted, but it wasn’t easy. One man nearly got past his guard while he was daydreaming; he had to take the thrust on the chainmail of his left shoulder, and his riposte was clumsy, though entirely efficient. Nevertheless, in spite of his haste he took ninety seconds or so out to retrieve a dead clansman’s substantial collection of strung pearls. That ought at least to resolve the money problem, though it left his pockets uncomfortably stuffed.

Getting closer now, and that was a mixed blessing; not so much fire here but plenty more clansmen. Fortunately, these weren’t aimless looting parties; most of them were too busy trying to sort out the horrendous traffic jam of wagons full of wounded or evacuated soldiers. He looked for Gorgas in the queue but couldn’t see him. Grabbing a wagon for himself was out of the question with so many enemy soldiers around, while strolling along up the side of the jam wouldn’t be too smart, either.

All right, then, we’ll go
under
the wretched things. It meant crawling on his hands and knees, but time was no longer a problem. The gate wouldn’t be shut until all the wagons were safely through. He could keep on wriggling until he was actually on the bridge itself; then all he’d have to do was slip out from under, drop unobtrusively into the river and swim to the shore.

I suppose sappers and people who work in mines must get used to this. Wouldn’t suit me
. More than the confined space and the pain in his elbows and knees, it was the general feeling of helplessness that troubled him. If anybody did happen to see him, he’d have no chance; they could flush him out like a rabbit into a purse-net, or come within five yards and shoot him, and he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. After so many years in the racket, hand-to-hand fighting no longer frightened him particularly. He understood it, and though he was always one mistake away from death, at least he knew what he was doing and could estimate the odds. And besides, he was good at it, better than all but a few. Being in a position where he was surrounded by enemies but wouldn’t be able to fight them was a new experience and a very unsavoury one.
Still, can’t be much further now. Another two hundred yards, and we’ll be
. . .

He stopped wriggling and held perfectly still.

The light wasn’t marvellous, but the glow of torches and the fire in the background produced enough illumination to let him see a substantial contingent of the enemy straight ahead, working their way slowly down the line of wagons. From what he could see of what they were doing, he guessed that they were looking for someone or something - loot hidden under the box, a stowaway curled up in the back. They were even kneeling down and giving the undersides a cursory glance.

Bad news.

 

Praying that his hunch was right, Temrai paced along the line of wagons while his men continued with the search. He knew he was holding everything up, that the gate was still open when it should have been shut well over an hour ago; but it was his war, for which he would have to take the ultimate responsibility, so he was going to indulge himself by finding Colonel Bardas Loredan. Until he’d done that, nothing was decided.

He saw something curled up and wrapped in sacking in the back of a wagon and immediately stuck it with his sword. As it slit the coarse fibre, the blade clashed on silver, and a fine gilded chalice dropped out of the cut. More looting, in defiance of strict orders; but he couldn’t be bothered about it now. He cut away the rest of the sack and swept the silver trash out onto the muddy ground, then called forward a detachment of his guards and ordered them to stamp the loot into the mud until there was nothing left visible.

Someone was talking to him, behind his left shoulder; Ceuscai’s voice, reporting that his men had forced the gates of the upper city, that the whole of Perimadeia was theirs. The gold, he was saying, the silk and purple carpets, the onyx and sandalwood and silverware and tapestries, the amber and pearls and lapis lazuli and finely carved ivory, reliefs as delicate as fern fronds, the cushions and robes and curtains, the books - oh, gods, the books, how could there be so many words in all the world? - the porcelain and enamel and cloisonné and lacquerware, the flutes, lutes, guitars, trumpets, cymbals, bells, harps, lyres and tympana, the inlaid and damascened weapons, bows, bow-cases, quivers, armour, shields, caparisons and harnesses, the sandals, boots and slippers, the inkwells and writing tables and jewelled styluses, the water clocks and sundials, the plates, cups, jugs, platters, servers, finger-bowls, tureens, knives and napkin rings . . .

‘Burn it,’ Temrai interrupted him. ‘And no looting. Understood? I want everything burnt.’

For once, Ceuscai knew better than to argue. ‘I’ve put in twelve wagon-loads of barrels,’ he said, ‘and the fuses are laid. When are we closing the gate?’

‘When I’ve finished,’ Temrai replied. ‘Now get the fuses lit and pull your men out. I want everyone ready to go as soon as I’ve done here.’ He turned and faced his old friend, his eyes full of fear. ‘You haven’t heard anything of Colonel Loredan, have you? Nobody’s reported him killed, or taken?’

Ceuscai shook his head. ‘I’ve had all the sergeants questioned,’ he replied. ‘Nobody’s seen or heard anything. Is that why we’re . . .?’

‘Are you still here?’

Ceuscai dipped his shoulders and walked away. A detachment of men came up, returning from fire-raising duty. Temrai called them over and set them to work searching the wagons. ‘And look out for plunder,’ he added. ‘If you find any, I want the men’s names. We’re taking nothing out of here with us; I want that clearly understood.’

The men didn’t look at all happy, but none of them said a word. The search continued, and the longer it went on, the tighter the knot grew in Temrai’s stomach. Somehow he’d assumed it would be absolutely straightforward; that virtually the first thing he’d see when he entered the city would be Colonel Bardas Loredan, probably standing in the middle of the Grand Avenue with his sword in both hands, challenging him to single combat.

Maybe he’s escaped
. . .

Temrai closed his eyes. If Loredan had escaped, then how in the gods’ names would be ever justify all this, all these thousands of burnt people and all this meaningless, horrible destruction? It’d be enough to drive a man mad; to burn down a whole city and destroy an entire nation just to kill one single individual, and for that one individual to
escape
. . . He drove the thought out of his mind, repulsing the assault it had made on the citadel of his sanity. The gods who had given him Perimadeia wouldn’t do that to him.

He bent down and peered under a wagon, and saw a pair of eyes fixed on his. It was a boy, eleven or twelve years old, his overgrown arms and legs folded awkwardly under the chassis, his face full of the sort of terror Temrai knew so much about. In his eyes, Temrai thought he could see an afterimage of fire and running, things he’d seen himself so long ago, as if he was staring into his own unpleasant memories.
Did you see your mother burn?
he wondered.
Your brothers and sisters wearing fire until all the flesh and skin was gone and there were only black bones, like the ruins of a city?
He felt pity clawing inside him, like a cat scrambling up a curtain, like the old white cat his mother had loved so much scrambling up the inside of their tent when it caught fire, and the cat had moved faster than the fire until he had nowhere left to go. He thought of a boy carrying that much fire inside him for the rest of his life, never being able to close his eyes without it being there. He thought about that, and took pity, and nocked an arrow onto his bowstring.
I’ve become a very cruel man
, he thought,
but not that cruel. I’ll spare him that, at least
.

He bent the bow and looked across the belly, taking aim. He felt the string biting the joints of his fingers; then there was someone calling his name,
Temrai, look out!
and a terrible pain as something hit him across the back and side of the head. The arrow fell off the bow and he slumped forward, hitting the ground in a heap. It had been Ceuscai’s voice; he looked up and saw Ceuscai, and between Ceuscai and himself the back of a man, familiar—

Colonel Bardas Loredan.

—Who was swinging a sword in both hands while Ceuscai was moving the shaft of his pike to parry the blow. Temrai could see Ceuscai had got it wrong, but there wasn’t time; Loredan’s sword hit him under the jaw on his right side and sliced, with a thick fleshy noise, the sound of butchers quartering carcasses or deer being dressed after the hunt, until it came out the other side; and Ceuscai’s head toppled off his shoulders and hung by a strip of unsevered skin over his left shoulder; and then he wobbled and fell over, and Loredan had turned to stand over him.

—
Like a dream he sometimes had, in which the man he now knew to be Colonel Bardas Loredan had seen the boy cowering under the wagon, dismounted and walked over, stood over him, bent down and reached out a long arm, an arm that seemed to stretch for ever, following him wherever he scuttled and scrambled to, grabbing his arm or his wrist, pulling until he could feel the ball of the bone pull out of the socket and the arm come off, and when that happened the hand would grab his other arm or his leg or his neck, until he’d been pulled to pieces, the way children tear the petals slowly from a flower, and there was nothing left of him but whatever it was that was dreaming the dream; and then the hand grabbed that and he woke up
. . .

‘Get up,’ Loredan said. Temrai tried to back away, get under the wagon; he could see men behind Loredan’s shoulder, hurrying to rescue him, but just like in the dream they were too far away, there wasn’t time. Loredan’s hand was in his hair now, as terrifying as fire; Loredan pulled and suddenly he was on his feet, yanked round, one arm twisted agonisingly behind his back so he couldn’t move for fear of it being torn out. He felt something cold and sharp under his chin.

‘Get back or I’ll cut his throat,’ Loredan was shouting. ‘Right, you, for once in your life do something useful and tell them to go away.’

Temrai tried to obey, but all he could do was squeak. He had never felt so terrified. It was the worst moment of his life.

‘You,’ Loredan was shouting, ‘under the wagon, get out of there, you’re coming with me. Anybody lays a finger on him and I’ll kill the chief.’

Temrai saw movement out of the corner of his eye; the boy he’d been aiming at, wanting to spare him the pain, was scrambling out of the mud and standing up, scared out of his wits, not knowing what to do.

‘Over here,’ Loredan’s voice boomed. ‘Get the knife out of my belt and prod this bastard under the armpit - gently, for god’s sakes, it’s insurance, so if they try and pick me off their boss’ll still die.’ Gods, how calm he sounded, how terribly good he was at all this; how stupid, Temrai realised, even to try and measure himself against this man, who was clearly Death itself. All these years he’d been daydreaming of a grand battle, sword against sword like a Perimadeian lawsuit, with Justice guiding his thrust at the last and confirming the righteousness of his cause. How stupid—