The Proof House (71 page)

He rested for a minute or so, as much from the effort of concentration as the actual physical work, though that had been hard enough, calling for exceptional strength and dexterity of the fingers. To wash his hands, he crawled to the mouth of the scrape and held them out in the rain, then wiped them dry on a tussock of couch-grass. The last task was cleaning off the knife (Uncle had made him promise faithfully never to let it get rusty; once that happens, he’d said, you might as well chuck it away - you’ll never get it clean again).

For a while, he thought about the work he’d done. Then he lay back, stretched out his legs and went to sleep.

 

He sat up, his head dizzy with sleep. The room was so dark that he couldn’t tell whether or not his eyes were open.

‘Alexius?’ he said.

- and Alexius stepped out of the darkness and sat down beside the bed. ‘Sorry, did I wake you?’

‘Presumably,’ Gannadius replied. ‘But that’s all right. How are you?’

Alexius frowned at him. ‘Dead,’ he replied.

‘Sorry, it was just a reflex question, I know you’re . . . I’m sorry,’ Gannadius added lamely.

‘That’s all right,’ Alexius replied. ‘I always thought philosophy’s gain was diplomacy’s loss. Think, if you’d joined the diplomatic corps instead of the Order, how many interesting wars you could have started.’

Gannadius clicked his tongue. ‘That’s something I’ve noticed, actually,’ he said. ‘You’ve got ever so much more sarcastic and waspish since you’ve been dead.’

‘Have I?’ Alexius looked concerned. ‘Yes, come to think of it I suppose I have, though I hadn’t noticed till you mentioned it. I can only assume it’s the result of being filtered through your delightful personality and sunny disposition every time I need to talk to you. Hence also, no doubt, the increased levels of flippancy. Not that I’m complaining; I always felt I was a trifle too dry and bland in my conversation.’

‘Glad to be of service,’ Gannadius said. ‘Now then—’

‘The message, yes.’ Alexius thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure how to put this without sounding deplorably melodramatic. Goodbye for ever.’

‘Oh,’ Gannadius replied. ‘What’s happened?’

‘The mess we made has finally put itself right,’ Alexius replied. ‘Although
right
isn’t perhaps the most appropriate word. Iseutz Hedin is dead. Bardas killed her a few minutes ago.’

‘Oh,’ Gannadius repeated. ‘And that changes things how, exactly? I’m sorry, I don’t quite follow.’

Alexius sighed. ‘Vegetating here among the intellectual elite of the Shastel Order hasn’t done much for your inductive reasoning, I see,’ he said. ‘Let’s see. I suppose you could say that the Principle has asserted itself, or returned to its proper course - that’s if we’re using the river analogy, which I never liked much. If we’re using the wheel analogy, I’d say it’s completed a revolution and returned to top dead centre, though that conveniently ignores the fact that it was off-line for a while. Thanks, I’m sorry to say, to you and me.’

‘The curse.’

‘Oh dear, that word again. That diversion, or that deflection - or should it be eccentricity? Although on balance I’d settle for that bloody stupid mistake.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s been resolved, in any event. In a sense, we’re now back to where we would have been if we hadn’t interfered - except, of course, that we’re nowhere near, because the city that hasn’t fallen isn’t Perimadeia, it’s a fortress out on the plains somewhere that Bardas has failed to capture; and it’s Iseutz, not Bardas, who’s been killed; and of course, because the wheel’s turned an extra turn and covered that much more ground, any number of people have been involved who needn’t have been. But it’s over, which is the main thing. Now all that’s left is for you to write up the experiment as a paper. Not meaning this unkindly,’ he went on, ‘but I’d get someone to work on it with you, just to add that objective angle that makes all the difference. What about that confounded gifted student of yours, the girl—’

‘Machaera?’ Gannadius shook his head. ‘She changed course last year. She’s in Commercial Strategy now, doing rather well.’

‘Really? Shame.’ Alexius sighed. ‘Well, you’ll find someone, I expect. And you won’t be in a position to start work until everything’s calmed down anyway, so—’

‘What do you mean exactly,’ Gannadius interrupted, ‘by “calmed down”?’

Alexius made a vague gesture with his hands. ‘Worked itself out, found its own level. You’ll see.’ He stood up. ‘Well, old friend, this is one of those acutely embarrassing moments we try so hard to avoid; it’s been a pleasure working with you, and I’ve enjoyed our friendship very much (even if the consequences for hundreds of thousands of people were fairly catastrophic). It’d be nice to think we might meet again some day, though I have to say that in my interpretation of the Principle, that’s extremely unlikely.’ He pulled a face. ‘I know that sounds dismally formal, but you and I aren’t the sort to make big emotional speeches. More’s the pity, probably.’

Gannadius nodded. ‘I shall miss you,’ he said. ‘But I suppose I’m glad, if it really is over; except that I’m not, because things have turned out so terribly badly, and it
was
our fault—’

‘Partly our fault. We didn’t make people the way they are, or cause the problems that started it all. In a sense, all this would have happened anyway; because it has happened—’ He broke off, scratched his head, and smiled ruefully. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I had hoped that death would clarify my thinking in this area, but I’m afraid it hasn’t. I never did understand the Principle, and I don’t now.’

‘There were two alternative courses, each equally valid,’ Gannadius said slowly. ‘We chose. But what happened, happened.’

‘If you use the river analogy,’ Alexius said, ‘which I’ve never been happy with. But I don’t see how you can fit all this into the wheel analogy—’

‘Unless,’ Gannadius put in, ‘you see the Principle not as a wheel but as a camshaft.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Just something I heard. I don’t think much of it, either.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Can we shake hands, or hug, or something? I feel some sort of physical expression of leavetaking—’

Alexius thought about it. ‘I can leave you with an impression that there was physical contact,’ he said, ‘but it would constitute an unreliable memory. However, it would be impossible to prove otherwise.’

‘And equally impossible to prove,’ Gannadius replied with a smile. ‘And remember, we’re philosophers. Scientists. To us, proof is everything.’

‘Very well then. Goodbye, Gannadius.’

- Who realised he was awake, and had been dreaming.

 

It was like the aftermath of a big feast, a birthday or a wedding; they felt exhilarated and exhausted, and the last thing they wanted to do was start clearing up the mess. Unfortunately, a certain amount would have to be done before they could go to bed; a careful search for enemy survivors, for instance, not to mention their own wounded.

‘Iordecai, you organise some work details,’ Sildocai said. ‘Lissai, Ullacai, check the defences, just in case they do attack - I can’t imagine they will, but it’d be a brilliant tactical move, hitting us when we’re at our most relaxed. Pajai, I want you to take twenty men and make sure Loredan’s body isn’t bobbing up and down in the river somewhere. You never know your luck.’

‘All right,’ someone replied. ‘And what are you going to do?’

‘Report to Temrai, of course,’ Sildocai replied with a grin. ‘By the way, has anybody seen him? Last I saw him he was heading back to his tent, but that was when we were still mopping up by the cattle pens.’ Nobody had anything to contribute, so he shrugged and said, ‘I expect he’s in his tent with his feet up; after all, he’s not really fit again after that bashing he took when he got buried.’

There were fires burning everywhere he looked as he crossed the camp; the neatly stacked cords of firewood had got soaked in the rain, so they were using halberd-shafts and Imperial-issue boots for fuel. Everybody he saw was moving at the slow, grim pace of the bone-weary, the dogged trudge, shoes heavy with clinging mud. He knew how they felt; but he was still slightly buzzed with victory. A pity that a victory took even longer to clear up after than a defeat.

The women and children had come out and were doing their best to help; pulling shirts and boots off dead halberdiers, gathering up armfuls of arrows, bustling about the harvest of the dead, the unexpected wind-falls of good things that shouldn’t go to waste. There were children rolling helmets along the ground and laughing (excited to be up so late, burning off energy after being cooped up in the tents for so long); he saw a small girl stop and stare thoughtfully at the body of another child, one who’d run out during the fighting and got in the way; it was half trampled into the mud, and the small girl was studying it without any apparent emotion. Over on the other side, a few men were darting and sliding wildly about, trying to round up some horses that had got loose. One of the men had a saturated-red bandage round his head - but someone had to catch the horses; they were his living, after all. He looked down and realised that he’d just put his foot on a hand.

Ah, well, he thought; it’ll probably be back to work again tomorrow, when the trebuchets start up again, but we might as well get some sleep tonight, we’ve earned it. It occurred to him that he was starving hungry - chances were he wasn’t the only one - but that was going to have to wait too. Had anybody thought to get Temrai something to eat?

The tent-flap was pulled back, and light was soaking out. He knocked against the post, but nobody answered. Asleep, maybe. He ducked and walked in.

Temrai was in his chair, or at least his body was. But his neck had been cut through square, and his head was missing.

‘Please try not to think of it as a retrograde step in your career,’ the Son of Heaven said, his eyes focused an inch or so above the top of Bardas’ head. ‘It’s nothing of the sort. As I said earlier, we’re quite satisfied with your performance. In the final analysis, the war has proved successful; you may have lost a battle, but you’ve negotiated peace on the same terms I’d have found acceptable if you’d won. After all,’ he went on, ‘nobody was expecting you to kill them
all.
’

Bardas nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said.

‘My pleasure. We do recognise that you took over command under adverse circumstances, that you couldn’t be expected to handle troops to the same level of competency as an experienced general, and that these plainsmen proved to be an unexpectedly resourceful, tenacious and difficult enemy. You weren’t the only commander they beat. In fact, you did considerably better than we expected.’

‘It’s very kind of you to say so.’

‘Not at all. Which is why,’ he went on, ‘I had no hesitation whatsoever in recommending you for your new position. After all, men with your depth of experience in siege mining operations are few and far between. Not that we expect the situation at Hommyra to last anything like as long as the Ap’ Escatoy business,’ he added. ‘Once the main galleries are completed we anticipate a conclusion in a matter of months.’

Bardas nodded. ‘That’s good,’ he said.

‘And after that - well.’ The Son of Heaven actually smiled. ‘There will, I feel sure, always be a need in the service for a first-class sapper. I can see the possibility of great things in your future, provided you fulfil your side of the bargain.’

 

(It had been a strange meeting, almost comic; both men treating each other with exaggerated courtesy, as if the slightest false nuance would immediately result in a hail of arrows answered by a desperate cavalry charge. Captain Loredan had greeted King Sildocai with all due and proper respect, precisely quantified in provincial office protocols (an enemy general ranks above one’s own immediate subordinate, equal with oneself, but is deemed to be equal-and-below for diplomatic purposes with one’s immediate superior) and had offered formal condolences on the death of King Temrai. King Sildocai had thanked Captain Loredan for his most welcome sentiments, and expressed the wish that henceforth their two nations could work together in a spirit of co-operation towards finding a mutually acceptable settlement. The deal - that the clans would leave the plains, go north into officially designated wilderness and never come back - was concluded so quickly and easily that at times both of them suspected that they were reading from the same set of notes. When they parted, they were almost friends.)

 

‘Of course,’ continued the Son of Heaven, ‘we never had the slightest intention of sending you to the Island.’

‘Really?’ Bardas said. He sounded as if the subject was of academic interest only.

‘Absolutely. It would have represented a concession, almost an act of weakness. No, the Island needs - forgive me - strong, uncompromising leadership to see it through the difficult process of transition. The territory itself is, of course, hardly worth bothering with (in due course I expect we’ll amalgamate it with one of the other sub-prefectures, adjust the population balance, make it a viable proposition as a designated naval base); but at this particular juncture, the first priority must be to secure the fleet. If our various unfortunate experiences in this theatre of operations has taught us anything, it’s that we can no longer afford to neglect seapower.’

He’s talking to me, Bardas realised, entirely as one of us - a subordinate, naturally, but
us
includes us all, even me. ‘I can see that,’ he said. ‘As you say, it’s a matter of priorities.’

Magnanimously, the Son of Heaven offered to pour him some more wine. He’d noticed that they liked to do this, either because it made some point about their relationship as servants of the Empire, or because they couldn’t trust outlanders not to disturb the sediment. He nodded
thank you
politely.

‘As a matter of fact,’ the Son of Heaven went on, ‘during my discussions with him, I found the rebel leader rather more shrewd than I’d anticipated - a bad lapse of judgement on my part, I confess. Well,’ he added, pursing his thin lips, ‘not shrewd, exactly; it was more that curious blend of cunning and stupidity that characterises mercantile nations. In my experience they tend to have an uncanny knack of being able to understand motivations on the individual human level, whereas larger issues that would be perfectly obvious to you and me seem to pass them by entirely. Hence,’ he added, with a trace of a smile, ‘the aptness of the personal approach, the misguidance - is there such a word? I wonder - that we would be sending you, somebody they could both trust and manipulate. Of course he was a fool to base his entire strategy on a wholly unsupported assurance, a vague statement of probable future intent. The remarkable weakness I’ve found among traders is their apparent desire, in spite of their façade of cynicism, to trust someone. Making him trust me was easy; people like that can’t help trusting people they’re afraid of.’