Devices and Desires (61 page)

On the other side of the canyon, there was no sign of any path; but there was gloriously even ground, better than the pitted
and rutted surface of a track. Heather had probably grown there once, but the wind had scoured off the thin layer of topsoil
and ground away the bumps and tussocks, leaving a layer of shingle and small stones that would’ve compared favorably with
a nobleman’s carefully tended gravel drive. The ground fell slowly away to the blurred gray seam of land and sky, where mists
rose from the Lasenia river valley. Two days, or a day and a half if they could force the pace, and they’d be bypassing the
foot of the mountain on which the city perched, on their way to where they were supposed to be. Eiconodoulus was a cautious
man when it came to interpreting the actions of Providence, but he reckoned it wouldn’t be presumptuous to assume that he
was getting his reward for the tribulations he’d recently endured.

The final confirmation for this view came in the shape of a flock of wild sheep sheltering from the wind in a small dish-shaped
combe; the scouts who found them managed to creep away without startling them, and Eiconodoulus quickly convened a tactical
meeting. He listened to various suggestions (the oaf Ariophrantzes had been a hunter in his youth, and prattled on about nets
and drives and beaters until ordered to shut up) and gave his orders.

His strategy was basic and simple. On three sides of the combe he drew up his spearmen, creating a hedge of sharp points about
a hundred yards shy of the skyline. On the fourth side he sent in his strike force in two ranks; in front, the archers, and
behind them the rest of the men, shouting, banging rocks and pans and helmets, waving their arms, generally making themselves
as obnoxious as possible. As soon as they advanced over the rim of the combe the sheep bolted in the opposite direction. Running
into the spearmen they veered off to the sides, round the inside of the encircling hedge, back to where the advancing line
had closed the ring. Forced back into the hollow of the combe, they could then be shot down by the archers without risk to
the spearmen.

It went perfectly, smooth as a carefully designed machine. At the precise moment he’d specified, the panic-stricken sheep
galloped straight into his enfilade. About forty-seven went down in the first volley, whereupon the survivors bolted down
into the belly of the combe, giving the archers the backstop they needed. There wasn’t any need for skill. The archers simply
loosed volleys until there was nothing left moving; then they strolled down into the combe to pick up their arrows and collect
the carcasses for dressing. None of the sheep escaped. It was, Eiconodoulus couldn’t help thinking, a rather encouraging omen
for the war at large.

After days on half-rations, the men were happy again, and the excitement of it (Eiconodoulus wasn’t sure if it had been a
hunt or a battle) had done wonders for their morale; there were even volunteers for the chores of skinning, paunching and
butchering. The only man who seemed unhappy was the fool Ariophrantzes; he scowled when he thought nobody was looking, and
tried to stay out of the proceedings as much as possible. Eiconodoulus was inclined to put that down to pique (Ariophrantzes
had put himself forward at the tactical meeting as a mighty hunter, his learned advice had been ignored, and still they’d
got the lot) and he decided that such an attitude needed to be nipped in the bud. “What’s the matter with you?” he asked him.

Eventually he got a straight answer. “It’s nothing really, sir,” the oaf replied. “Honestly. We had to get some food from
somewhere, and it all worked out pretty well.”

Big of you, Eiconodoulus thought. “So what’s bugging you?”

“I don’t know.” The oaf made a vague, helpless gesture. “It’s just that — well, like I told you earlier, my people hunted
a lot when I was a kid, and I suppose I’ve still got their way of looking at things. Killing the whole lot like that —”

He couldn’t be bothered to argue. “If that’s all,” he said, “you can get on with your work. This is a military expedition,
Lieutenant, not a day out with the hounds.”

“Very good, sir. One thing, though, if I might ask. What were you proposing to cook the meat with?”

The world is full of annoyances; none more infuriating than a fool with a valid point. In the end they had to unload a cart
and trash it for firewood, having distributed its load between the others. Being best-quality Mezentine treated timber, it
burned with a foul smell and a thick cloud of dark gray smoke, which made the meat taste of pitch. It was still a distinct
improvement on nothing at all, but it wasn’t the glorious feast of roast mutton that Eiconodoulus had been anticipating as
a due reward for his achievement. Then it rained in the night, putting out the fires and drenching the remaining firewood
with half the carcasses still raw. There was no point burdening themselves with uncooked meat that’d spoil by the time they
reached anywhere they might expect to find more fuel, so the remaining carcasses had to be abandoned. It was just an unfortunate
mishap, but somehow Eiconodoulus couldn’t help feeling that the oaf Ariophrantzes had somehow been vindicated.

They made up time the next day, and by nightfall they reached the river. For once, the map was accurate; the river was shallow
enough to wade across, although they had to unload the carts yet again (the second time in two days; they’d had to unload
to redistribute the load from the firewood wagon). By now, Eiconodoulus was having to think and calculate in order to work
out how many days they were behind schedule. Obviously he had no idea what had become of the main army, or how his tardiness
was affecting the war. It wouldn’t be good, he knew, but the scope of his contribution was still mercifully vague, although
that didn’t keep him from speculating about it endlessly. They wouldn’t court-martial him or cut off his head, but they wouldn’t
listen to his excuses either. Somewhat perversely, he responded to that inevitability by refusing to hurry unduly; he was
late already but he was making steady progress, and undue haste would probably lead to negligence and disaster. The next morning,
as the sutlers filled the water-barrels from the river, he used up the last of his cutting-practice mats. No way of knowing
when or where he’d be able to get hold of any more; another of the girders holding his life in shape had quietly failed. His
victory over the sheep was beginning to fade from his mind, and the empty space it left quickly silted up with anxiety. More
than anything, he wanted to be rid of this assignment and back with the rest of the army. He wasn’t at his best in isolation,
as he well knew.

From the top of the ridge overlooking the river, he was able to see the city for the first time. It was mid-afternoon by then,
and the morning mist had burned away; there was nothing to soften the steepness of the mountain, and the sight horrified him.
He’d been in assaults and sieges, he knew about such things; and if ever a city was impregnable, this one was. For a while
he could do nothing but stand and gawp, like a rabbit faced with a stoat. It seemed bitterly unfair that he should have been
sent here, set such a difficult task which he’d somehow managed to achieve, simply in order to participate in an impossible
venture, an inevitable disaster. There aren’t many heroic ballads about men who strive against insuperable odds, surmount
unthinkable obstacles and then die in the final act of abject failure. It wasn’t his fault, but nobody would remember that,
or ever get to hear about the criminally negligent map, the crossing of the great canyon or the flawlessly conceived and executed
campaign against the sheep. He’d remain as anonymous as the waves smashing themselves into foam against a rock.

With an effort he pulled himself together. It was an extraordinary city, yes, but it remained no more than a problem in engineering,
and the Mezentines were the finest engineers in the world. No doubt they’d already worked out how to deal with it; all he
needed to do was deliver his cargo to the appointed place with as little further delay as possible; at which point he could
hand the problem over to somebody else who was properly qualified to deal with it. They were welcome to the glory, provided
he could unload the blame along with the dismantled war engines, mountings and carriages.

“So that’s it, sir,” said a voice at his side — Stesimbracus, the good young officer he couldn’t stand. “Where we’re headed.”

He nodded without looking round. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

Stesimbracus laughed. “As a monument to short-sightedness, maybe,” he said. “Personally, sir, I’m just grateful to be on our
side. I’d hate to have the job of defending that.”

Which was probably, Eiconodoulus told himself, why he detested Stesimbracus so much. “You don’t see any problems, then?”

“Well, no, not really. It’s a nice piece of construction work, but there’s that obvious flaw. You’d have thought someone would’ve
pointed it out while they were actually building the thing, but I suppose everybody thought somebody else would do it.”

Obvious flaw? Not that obvious, Lieutenant. “So,” he said, “tell me how you’d go about it.”

And Stesimbracus told him; and as soon as he’d finished, he couldn’t help but agree. It was vividly, painfully, humiliatingly
obvious. Maybe that was what genius was: the knack of seeing the obvious through its obscure curtain of irrelevancies. “Well,”
he said quietly, “no doubt that’s what Central Command intends to do. All we need to concern ourselves with is getting these
carts up into the hills behind it.”

Stesimbracus nodded. “Though you can’t help wondering, sir, why they’re bothering. I mean, why bother to put the catapult
things up there? They won’t be contributing anything. Diversion, I suppose; make them think we’re planning a direct frontal
assault.”

For some time after that, Eiconodoulus was plagued by that last thought. Suppose the boy was right about the plan — he very
much hoped he was right, for the sake of the war and the hope of survival and victory — and that he was also right about the
purpose of the war engines: a diversion. In which case, the engines weren’t going to be loosed in anger; he’d carried them,
and their stock of eighty thousand bolts, over the mountains and up and down the canyon and across the river, all for nothing,
for show. Thin wooden cut-out silhouettes would’ve done just as well. All his efforts, his defeats and small victories and
indelible humiliations, just to be part of a dirty great lie…

Next morning, at first light, they set off on what Eiconodoulus hoped would be the last stage of the journey. This time (perversely,
he thought) the map was accurate; there was a road, a good one, skirting the city and going where they wanted it to. They
made good progress, forcing the pace wherever possible; they had a superb view of the valley below, and the hills above them
were too steep to allow an attack, so there was no chance of an ambush. Eiconodoulus was finally able to send messengers to
the main army at Palicuro, so that was another weight off his conscience, although that hadn’t troubled him quite so much
once Stesimbracus had pointed out what the true strategy was. If he was a little late, so what? He was, after all, just the
decoy.

As far as he could tell from observing traffic in and out of the city, the Eremians either didn’t know they were being invaded
or didn’t care. Neither explanation was credible, but he was past caring about matters of high strategy. All that mattered
was to get to the end of the journey and deliver the war engines. If they kept up their current rate of progress, they could
be there by noon tomorrow, and history would have no further use for them. Simple carriers’ motivation: deliver the load and
go home.

The Eremians attacked them on the open hillside, at the junction of the road they were on and a small, straight track leading
up from the city. The first that Eiconodoulus knew of it was yelling and the neighing of horses, from somewhere at the back
of the train. He’d heard that sound in his mind many times; an axle had finally given way, a cart had foundered, other carts
were swerving to avoid it, there’d be chaos in a matter of minutes. He swung his horse round, and saw what looked at first
sight like a swarm of flies; small black dots in the air above him. But flies don’t usually fly slanting down, and they don’t
grow as you watch them. Arrows, he thought; but they were too high up.

He heard himself shouting, and was faintly impressed to hear what he was saying: get out of the way, get off the carts, take
cover. But he was too preoccupied to take his own advice. A small black dot turned into a falling pole, suddenly growing enormous
as it bent its trajectory toward him. He realized, through innate mathematical ability or sheer intuition, that it was going
to hit him. It was a curious idea, and while it was forming he felt no fear; a small voice in the back of his mind suggested
that it’d be worth trying to get out of the way if that was possible, but there wouldn’t be time to make the horse move. But
if he rolled out of the saddle — yes, why not?

He landed on his elbows and knees, and the pain knocked everything out of his mind for a moment. The first thought to return
was a mild anxiety — have I broken anything? — and he wriggled a bit to see if anything wasn’t working. The pain gave place
to the sharp protests of jarred bone and tendon, and he stifled a yell. Then a terrible weight flopped onto him, crushing
his thigh, jamming his lower leg against the ground so that all the force of impact fell on the joint of his right knee. He
felt something fail — it was like listening to a single note on the harp, if pain was music — and his mind registered and
accepted that there was something badly wrong before everything was washed away in a surging tide of agony.

That lasted three or four seconds, an intolerably long time, and then it stopped. Vaguely he was aware of human voices, a
voice, someone shouting, someone shouting at him. He couldn’t think why, he hadn’t done anything wrong; then he was moving,
being pulled. Very bad, because his knee and leg were still trapped under the heavy thing. He screamed. The movement stopped,
the pain swelled to bursting point, and the world went away.