Colours in the Steel

CHAPTER EIGHT

The enduring popularity enjoyed by the Patriarchs of Perimadeia with their fellow citizens was an aspect of their high office which they found baffling, endearing or infuriating, depending on how deeply they allowed themselves to think about it. Since the Patriarch was nothing more than the head of an order of philosophers and scientists engaged in research into an abstruse subject of no practical value whatsoever to the layman, there was no reason for him to be loved and admired, and that was baffling. The fact that his fellow citizens carried on loving and admiring him no matter what he did or didn’t do was certainly endearing. The discovery that his popularity was due to the universal misconception that he was some kind of official wizard whose job consisted of battling with the forces of darkness on the city’s behalf, averting swarms of malicious demons, outbreaks of plague and violent storms that might interfere with profitable commerce on the sea was invariably infuriating. After he’d been through each of these three stages, the Patriarch tended to put the matter out of his mind and think no more of it.

Nevertheless, when news of Patriarch Alexius’ serious illness became widespread there were any number of spontaneous demonstrations of public goodwill, no doubt from worried citizens who wanted him up, about and fighting demons again before anything horrible could happen. Flowers, fruit and a wide selection of good-luck charms appeared outside the doors of his lodgings every morning, well-meaning old ladies left gallons of warm, nourishing broth with the porters, and important officials of the Order who had better things to do with their time spent hours receiving delegations of smiling, noisy children bearing garlands of aromatic herbs woven by their own innocent, unskilled hands. Such was the inconvenience caused by all this unsolicited solidarity that as soon as he was well enough to stand up, Alexius was chivvied out onto a balcony and exhibited to cheering crowds in the hope that the well-meaning persecution of the last couple of months would now cease.

‘I think it’s rather moving,’ Gannadius commented as Alexius tottered back to bed, his arm cramped from half an hour of waving. ‘All these people you’ve never even met, standing outside the doors in all weathers, deluging the place with flowers-’

‘If someone could possibly explain to me how a cartload of scented weeds is supposed to cure heart disease, I could publish the cure and make a fortune,’ Alexius grunted, burrowing back under the blankets in search of any lingering traces of warmth. ‘As it is, I think I’d rather be universally loathed and get some sleep.’

‘Well, you can’t,’ Gannadius replied. ‘You have a duty to your fellow citizens, who need to love something, can’t love the government because nobody ever loves the government, and so have chosen you instead. You might at least have the good manners to be gracious about it.’

Alexius growled into his pillow. ‘You know what they’re saying?’ he retorted. ‘They’re saying I was locked in magical combat with malevolent unworldly creatures conjured up by our enemies, and that although I ultimately triumphed the struggle left me a gibbering wreck. All the effort I’ve gone to explaining that we’re not magicians-’

Gannadius smiled pleasantly. ‘Which of course makes them all the more firmly convinced that you are,’ he said. ‘Whereas if you strutted round the place in a long blue robe covered with mystic sigils, they’d dismiss you as a rank charlatan and throw eggs at you.’ He stood up. ‘You’d better get some rest. All this excitement’s making you more than usually bad-tempered.’

‘I know,’ Alexius replied. ‘Mostly I think it’s the frustration of being cooped up in here when there’s so much I should be doing-’

Gannadius frowned. ‘Nothing important,’ he said firmly. ‘Those bright-spark secretaries of yours are dealing with all the routine business – rather better than you used to, I might add – and reading up all the latest developments on the theoretical side so that I can explain them to you in baby language has meant I’ve nearly caught up myself. As for the other business-’ He looked Alexius squarely in the eye. ‘It does rather seem to have taken care of itself, now that those two have gone back to where they came from. I think we should just be grateful we’re rid of them and forget it ever happened.’

Alexius nodded slowly. The devastating reaction he’d suffered half an hour after the two Islanders had gone away was something he’d never be able to forget, but two months of lying flat on his back staring at those rather over-rated mosaics on his ceiling had helped him put the whole episode into proper perspective. With hindsight, it was fairly clear what had happened; an unfortunate coincidence of his own foolish experiments at remote cursing and the presence in the city of a natural, wielding extraordinary power within the Principle without having the faintest idea what she was doing and therefore by implication completely unable to control the effects of her interference. Once she’d gone, the reactions had stopped (just as well, or he’d unquestionably be dead by now) and it stood to reason that if there were no reactions, everything had somehow sorted itself out. As far as Gannadius’ discreet enquiries had revealed, Loredan the fencer was living a blameless and prosperous life as a trainer, the mysterious girl seemed to have vanished completely and so far at least there had been no visitations of plague or freak earthquakes. So that was all right-

(But it wasn’t, of course; however firmly he reassured himself that it was all over he couldn’t put out of his mind that terrifying feeling of being manipulated, so easily manipulated, by someone who handled every aspect of the Principle with the dexterity and confidence of Bardas Loredan with his favourite sword. And it wasn’t the girl herself, he was sure of that, and it couldn’t have been her rather ordinary brother, or anybody who lived in the city, come to that – so who could it have been? And, more disturbing still, why?)

‘I’ll be going, then,’ Gannadius said. ‘I’ll see you-Ah, here’s Delmatius with your letters. No rest for the wicked, after all.’

Alexius smothered a groan as his pushiest, most bustling young secretary entered the room. Gannadius, quite sensibly, fled and left him to cope as best he could on his own.

‘Nothing much to bother you with today,’ the young man chirruped, dumping a thick wad of parchments on Alexius’ lap and balancing the candle precariously beside him. ‘Encyclical letters to the archimandrites on the new doctrinal protocols-’

‘What new doctrinal protocols? And since when did we have doctrines? We’re scientists, not priests-’

Delmatius gave him a patient look, making it clear that Alexius was being suffered gladly. ‘I explained it all last week,’ he said. ‘About the general conclave resolving the synthesis-diathesis debate by simply reducing the agreed number of elemental principles from seven to six. It’s all quite…’

‘Marvellous,’ Alexius grumbled. ‘It’s perfectly all right to change the laws of nature provided it’s done by a democratic vote. I think it’s high time I got out of this bed and put a stop to all this nonsense.’

‘Don’t you even think of it,’ Delmatius replied with ferocious jollity. ‘You even set foot to floor and the doctors’ll skin you alive. Anyway, that’s them,’ he went on, separating one thick sheaf of documents and waving another under his nose. ‘This lot here’s just decretals and your private correspondence.’

While Alexius was sealing the letters and trying to concentrate on not setting his bedding alight with the candle, Delmatius told him the latest news.

‘They do say,’ he twittered, ‘that the clans are up to no good again. If you ask me, it’s high time something was done about them.’

Alexius, who had just spilt hot wax on the back of his hand, looked up. ‘Really? Such as what?’

‘Send an army,’ Delmatius replied. ‘Clean ’em out once and for all. I mean to say, it just doesn’t make sense, having hordes of savages right there on our doorstep.’

Six years ago, Alexius recalled, Delmatius had been on a boat crossing the Middle Sea from the unlovely city-state of Blemmya, along with a couple of hundred other refugees who’d been thrown out for having big noses and the wrong colour hair. To this day he was capable of getting lost between the Carters’ Bridge and the City Academy. It was pleasing to think that in six short years he’d recovered so completely from his nasty dose of human intolerance that he could now cheerfully recommend the mindless persecution of others. ‘I didn’t think we still had an army,’ he said mildly. ‘I’m sure I’d have noticed if we had.’

‘There’s the levy,’ Delmatius explained, ‘and the city guard, of course. More than enough to teach a mob of savages a good lesson. Apparently they’re playing some game or other upriver. Hauling great rafts of logs, would you believe. Load of nonsense, it goes without saying. I mean,’ he added, with a grin, ‘what would a lot of savages want with a riverful of logs?’

Loredan, having been asked roughly the same question, forebore to answer. He was mending one of the practice foils with sailmaker’s twine and glue, which gave him an excuse for not having heard.

‘Apparently,’ Athli went on, ‘there’s talk of sending out an expeditionary force, under that man – oh, what’s his name? It’s on the tip of my tongue.’

‘Do me a favour and put your finger just there – no, there, that’s it – while I slap some glue on this. Careful, it’s sticky.’

‘Maxen, that’s it. General Maxen. They say his name’s a legend out on the plains.’

Loredan frowned and dipped his brush in the glue pot. ‘He’s dead,’ he replied. ‘Been dead for twelve years now.’

‘Oh.’ Athli shrugged. ‘So who’s in charge of the army, then?’

‘Nobody.’ The glue was too thin. Loredan clicked his tongue, added another pinch of beads and stirred the pot. ‘And there isn’t any army either, unless you count the wall decorations they call the city guard. We haven’t had an army for twelve years. Good thing too, if you ask me. We should count ourselves lucky we don’t need one and leave it at that.’

‘Can I move my finger yet?’

‘Just bear with me a second till I’ve got this glue hot. So what are the clans supposed to be up to, according to your reliable sources?’

‘I don’t know, do I? Someone was saying something about large shipments of timber being floated down the river in this direction, but I thought the clans didn’t go in for that sort of thing; boats and sailing and rivers and stuff.’

‘They don’t. Or at least,’ he conceded, ‘they used not to. Maybe they do now. Given the rate we use timber in this city, perhaps they’re bringing it here to sell it. It’d be worth their while if they did.’

‘That’s probably it, then. Only I did hear it said that they’d declared war on us or something. Apparently the old chief’s died and his son’s a bit of a firebrand.’

‘Oh, that’s just bluster, probably,’ Loredan said, his eyes fixed on the join he was glueing. ‘When a new chief takes over, it’s traditional to make a bit of noise and rattle the bow-cases. Makes everybody feel good about being a mighty warrior. They don’t mean anything by it.’

‘Ah.’ Athli sneezed, the result of being close to the steaming glue. ‘You seem to know a lot about the clans,’ she said. ‘How come?’

‘Things I’ve heard. Soldiers’ stories, that sort of thing. You tend to meet a lot of old soldiers in grotty taverns. Right, you can take your finger away, thank you. Pass me the twine and I’ll get this served up.’

‘It’s a worrying thought, though,’ Athli went on after a short pause. ‘What if they did take it into their heads to attack us? If we’ve got no army-’

Loredan pulled a face. ‘If we had an army,’ he replied, ‘there’d be someone for them to fight. It’s the only possible way we could suffer a defeat; and they’re a tough proposition in a pitched battle,’ he added, ‘or so I’ve heard. As it is, all they could do if they did come for us is sit on the other side of the river and watch the grain ships sail into the harbour. You may have noticed the big stone things, we call them walls-’

‘All right, there’s no need to be cocky about it. I still think – well, we’re all brought up thinking the walls are guaranteed impregnable, but I don’t know the first thing about sieges and the like. How do we know if they’re impregnable or not?’

‘Well, the fact the city’s never fallen to a land assault’s a pretty good hint,’ he replied, as he patiently wrapped the twine thickly round the shaft. ‘Not for want of trying, either. If you were going to bust in here, you’d need the proper equipment; engines, siege towers, rams, bridging gear. That’s way beyond the capacity of the clans. No, the only way they’d get in is if someone opened the gate for them, and somehow I don’t see that happening.’

‘That’s all right, then.’ Athli stood up, wiping her hands on the piece of rag draped over the back of Loredan’s chair. ‘I guessed it was just a rumour, or else the Emperor’d be doing something about it.’

‘Well, of course. That’s what he’s for.’ He tied a neat, tiny knot and bit through the twine. ‘If you want to terrify yourself to sleep with the thought of foreign invasions, you’d be better occupied panicking about the Islanders.’

‘But I thought they were our allies,’ Athli objected.

‘So they are, up to a point. They do a lot of business with us, but that doesn’t mean to say they wouldn’t rather take without paying. More to the point, they’re the only ones with a fleet that’s even remotely strong enough. It’d take some doing, though, getting past the engines and the boom across the straits. I can’t honestly see anybody with half a brain trying to attack the city. There’s plenty of softer targets to pick off first. Right, that’s that done. Only the second one I’ve had to repair so far. Not bad going, if you ask me.’

He lit a candle and snuffed out the lamp. There was nobody else left in the Schools at this time of night; fortunately, he’d managed to talk the governors into letting him have a key to the side door. ‘Let’s go and have something to eat,’ he said. ‘It’s been one of those days.’

He had the key in the lock when someone called his name. He turned round and was surprised to see whatsername, the strange girl from his class. ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘What’re you doing here at this time of night?’

‘You told me I needed to practise the arm’s-length hold,’ she replied, sounding as if she was offended that he’d needed to ask. She looked tired; her forehead was shiny with sweat and her fringe was spiky. ‘If you can spare me the time, I’d like it if you could watch me through it. Is that all right?’

Loredan raised both eyebrows. ‘I suppose so,’ he said dubiously.

The girl looked at him, then at Athli. ‘If there’s an extra charge, I’ll be happy to-’

‘Standard rates plus a quarter per hour for individual coaching,’ said Athli firmly. ‘I’ll put it on your bill.’ She flicked a glance at Loredan which read, Watch yourself, this one fancies you. Loredan interpreted it correctly and shook his head slightly.

At least, he didn’t think so. But she was odd, no doubt about that. It wasn’t that she didn’t have a personality; quite the opposite, he was sure. But there was this screen up all round it, like the painted silk screen that was supposed to hide the Emperor whenever he gave an audience, so that his person would not be defiled by the eyes of commoners. Or something like that. Anyway, she was odd. ‘You going to hang around?’ he asked Athli, slightly nervously. She shook her head.

‘I’m off home,’ she said. ‘Nobody’s paying me time and a quarter.’

He let her out and locked the door. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Since we’ve got the place to ourselves, we might as well use the exhibition hall, where we can have some light.’ He gestured vaguely in the direction of the tall arch opposite where they were standing. ‘Bring a torch and we’ll light the sconces.’

He didn’t know why, but he had an uncomfortable feeling as they walked into the big empty arena. It had been built as a close copy of the courtroom itself, the idea being to get students used to the feel of the big occasion, the spectators’ benches and the peculiar acoustic that could be extremely offputting if you weren’t accustomed to it. They hadn’t quite got that right – nowhere else did the noise of two swords clattering together sound quite so loud and brittle – but it was near enough to make Loredan feel uncomfortable.

‘We’ll light the place up properly,’ he called out, glad to hear his voice sounding loud and confident in the empty darkness. ‘Might as well, we’re not paying for the wax.’

She didn’t reply, and he felt rather foolish for chattering away, as if this was some social occasion. Why did I agree to this? he muttered to himself. Maybe Athli’s right and I’ve been lured here to have my honour compromised. He thought of the girl’s face. It had never occurred to him to notice whether she was pretty or not. Considered objectively she was, in an angular kind of way, but… No, he couldn’t see that at all. Not that sort.

‘All right,’ he said, putting the last candle back in its sconce, ‘let’s get on with it. Use the sword in the red bag. Careful with it, mind. That’s my Spe Bref.’

She nodded and untied the knot. She bites her fingernails, I hadn’t noticed that. In her hand the sword looked strangely unfamiliar, as if its loyalty might be in question. She let the bag fall and held the sword out at arm’s length, moving her feet and shoulders into position and straightening her back.

‘That’s almost it,’ Loredan said, trying to sound encouraging. ‘The left shoulder a bit further back, right foot in line with the blade. That’s better, you’ve got it. Now hold that.’

Under his breath he started to count, while he untied the second bag. For some reason his fingers were clumsy, and he caught his fingernail on the hard cord. ‘You’re making it hard for yourself,’ he said, drawing the cut-down cavalry sword out and fitting it into his hand. ‘You’re gripping the hilt instead of letting it sit in the slot. Here, watch me.’ He took position opposite her, slowly raising his right arm and the sword until the two blades formed a single continuous line. ‘See, I’m letting my fingertips and the base of my thumb do all the work. That’s the whole point of the exercise; a soft grip’s much surer than a white-knuckle job, and you can move more freely. There now, that’s much better. Keep it going, you’re doing fine.’

She didn’t seem to be listening; or rather, she didn’t give a damn about his encouragements and explanations. It was that feeling he’d had before, that she didn’t want to learn, she had to learn, as if this was some loathsome but necessary task. Oh, well, takes all sorts. And her motivation is none of my business, I’m delighted to say.

‘All right, rest,’ he said after a full minute. The girl frowned at him, as if she was going to argue, then lowered the blade. ‘In a moment, we’ll do that again and try for two minutes, but this time start off with the grip like I told you, and we’ll take it from there. All right?’

She nodded. The slight movement of her head was a very precise, efficient communication, designed to limit the contact between them to the barest minimum. It was like the exchange of nods at the start of a fence, when the judge had given the word; the way two enemies communicate when they have nothing left to say except, Now let’s try and kill each other. The recognition shocked Loredan a little.

‘Right. And, now.’ They raised their arms at precisely the same moment, and Loredan found himself looking into her eyes over a causeway of steel. It was an unpleasant moment, just like being in court again, only worse. In court, when he looked the other man in the eye, he could always see that little residual glow of fear, and of course the other man would always see it in him. It was the last exchange of shared humanity, the one final thing they had in common at the very end. There was no fear in the girl’s eyes, only a rather unpleasant absence of anything.

Never again, he promised himself. And to hell with the money.

He was counting; one minute forty-five, one minute fifty, and she hadn’t wavered at all. An impressive performance, this, for someone who’d consistently muffed the manoeuvre in class. Somehow that worried him – maybe she’d been muffing it deliberately to engineer this session, though why in hell she’d want to was beyond him. Unmistakable, nevertheless, this feeling of being manipulated, combined with a distinctly spooky notion that they were being watched. Come on, Bardas, you’ll be seeing pink frogs next. Let’s get this over with and go home.

One minute fifty-eight – the girl’s sword-tip wiggled, just the tiniest amount, and she made a little grunting noise, which Loredan recognised as pure agony. He could sympathise with that; his shoulder and bicep were cramped something awful, though he had the experience to keep going. Her sword-tip wobbled again, and again; a wider, more uncontrolled twitch this time. That’ll do, Loredan decided; then, on impulse, Let’s try her on the next stage, recovery from guard. She deserves that for doing this so well. He checked his line quickly and then lunged at her. She got the idea and parried, and they fenced two or three returns (natural ability there, no question about that; I’m jealous) until he knocked the sword out of her hand with a short, hard flick of his wrist that jarred the muscles right up to his elbow. The pain made him catch his breath; he bent almost double, hugging his forearm and swearing under his breath.

The girl looked furious with herself, and said nothing.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Loredan gasped, ‘that was really quite impressive. You’re getting the hang of it just fine.’ He massaged the muscle on top of his forearm, bitterly regretting the urge to show off, which had done him an injury and embarrassed him in front of a student. She didn’t seem to be interested in that, though.

‘I failed,’ the girl grunted back. ‘I let you beat me.’

For some reason, that remark made Loredan feel distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Be fair,’ he said, trying to sound jovial. ‘I’m supposed to be your instructor.’

‘Being good isn’t enough,’ she replied, and Loredan had the distinct impression that she wasn’t really talking to him. ‘You can be very good and still die, if the other man’s better.’

Loredan shrugged, trying rather hopelessly to lighten the atmosphere. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m so glad I retired when I did. If there’s one thing I could never stand, it’s perfectionists.’

The girl looked at him resentfully, her arms crossed over her chest, her fingers clawing her shoulders. Loredan had seen women do that before, and had a vague idea what it meant. He didn’t know what was going on, and he rather hoped he wouldn’t have to find out; even so, he felt he should say something.

‘Sorry if I’m being personal,’ he said, ‘but why does this matter so much to you? You’re making really good progress, you know, well in advance of where the others…’

She turned her head slightly away, as if trying to get out of the way of his words. ‘I want to do well,’ she said.

‘Well, you are. You’ve got a natural gift for it, which is something not many people have.’ A thought occurred to him. ‘Runs in the family, perhaps?’

‘My uncle was a fencer.’ She was looking straight at him now, as she had before, except that there were no two yards of steel to keep them apart. ‘Maybe you’ve heard of him; Teofil Hedin.’

Loredan frowned; it rang a bell but nothing more. ‘I’m hopeless at names,’ he replied. ‘I never forget a face, but names just go in one ear and out the other.’ He grinned, rather sourly. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘in this business you quite often get to meet people only once, so there isn’t all that much point.’

‘I can see that.’ She picked up the sword and held it by the blade, just under the hilt. ‘Can we practise that one more time?’

Oh, no, do we really have to? ‘Yes, why not?’ he said, as cheerfully as he could. ‘I won’t join you this time, though. Costs me money if I sprain my wrist.’

She nodded, took the sword by the hilt and extended her arm, bringing the tip of the blade down until it touched the hard floor. ‘This time I’d like to try for four minutes.’

Loredan shrugged. ‘If you like,’ he said. ‘All right. And, now.’

She raised the sword; the point was directly in line with the hollow at the base of his throat, the perfect Old fence guard. He turned away, counting under his breath, and put his sword back in its case. When he looked back, she hadn’t moved at all. Very impressive, even if she is a nutcase.

‘When you’re practising on your own,’ he said, ‘start off with one minute and work your way up; don’t try doing three or four straight from rest. It’s better for you and does more good.’

Her eyes never left him; or, more precisely, that square inch of his throat which constituted the target. It was as if she’d been doing this all her life, he reflected, and the thought crossed his mind that if she moved now – a slight bend of the right knee, a slight shift of weight and balance – she could run him through before he had the slightest chance of getting out of the way. He felt sweat in the hollowed palms of his hands, and an urge to take a couple of steps backwards. But that would be-

‘Three minutes,’ he said. ‘Trying for four.’

And then he felt it again: an oppressive feeling of being under observation, like an exhibit or a scientific experiment. Something ought to be happening now, he was certain of it. But the girl was as still as a statue, almost as if some god had frozen her in the act of making ready for the lunge. The urge to get out of the way was becoming hard to control – instinct. Loredan told himself; after ten years in the racket, every reason why I should feel jumpy having someone point a sword at me. It was starting to bother him more than it should; apart from the sweaty hands, he discovered that he was getting what promised to be one hell of a headache. Three minutes twenty-five, and still not a twitch from the blade.

Only goes to show what a damn good teacher I am.

Three minutes fifty-five, and his eyes were starting to play tricks on him. He knew the girl hadn’t wobbled at all, but it was as if he could see the present and the future as well, the sword-tip hanging motionless in the air and also lunging towards him, perfectly on line. If she does lunge, he thought wildly, I’ll only have myself to blame.

Three minutes fifty-nine…

Behind him, the sound of someone clearing his throat. Loredan turned sharply, at the precise moment when the girl bent her right knee and let the sword-point drop. There was a man in the archway, watching them.

‘Master Loredan?’ Damnation, it was Lethas Modin, one of the governors, and he didn’t look happy. ‘I saw the light.’

Loredan drooped slightly. ‘I was just giving this student a little extra tuition,’ he said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. ‘Very promising student she is too. Master Modin, my student…’

Damn. Can’t remember her name. Hopeless at names, me.

The girl mumbled her name. Master Modin didn’t seem particularly interested. ‘I do wish you’d let me know when you intend using the facilities for extracurricular coaching,’ he said irritably. ‘Strictly speaking, there are additional charges; candles, ground rent and so on. I’ll overlook it this time, but if you intend to do this on a regular basis-’

Loredan’s brow furrowed. His headache was in full cry now, and the last thing he wanted to do was stand still and be told off in front of a student by a member of the board of governors. What the devil was the old fool doing here at this time of night in any case? Didn’t these people have homes to go to? ‘Thank you, Master Modin, I’ll certainly bear that in mind and let you know in future. And if you’ll let my clerk know how much I owe you for the candles-’

Modin waved the offer aside petulantly. ‘Will you be much longer?’ he asked. ‘Again, strictly speaking there should be a member of the board present in the building whenever the facilities are in use, in case of accidents; the formalities, you know.’ He looked at the girl, as if he’d seen something odd but had no idea what it was. ‘That most regrettable incident the other week, for example. We are directly accountable to the authorities in the event that – ah – blood is shed on these premises.’

For some reason Loredan felt a cold shiver down his neck. ‘My apologies, Master,’ he replied stiffly. ‘And we’ve finished for tonight, thank you. I’m sorry for any inconvenience. ’

The governor made a faint snuffling noise conveying disapproval. ‘Very well, Master Loredan. Miss,’ he added, nodding rather reluctantly at the girl. ‘Good night.’

As he locked the side door of the Schools behind him, Loredan felt rather better. His head was still pounding like a drop-hammer, but it wasn’t as bad as it had been. Now then, what was all that about? Well, at least we can knock Athli’s theory on the head. He pulled out the key, dropped it in his pocket and shouldered the equipment bags. It was a cold night, and he could smell rain.

Thank heaven for small mercies, he added.

Purple to blue; blue to green; watch the colours in the steel as the heat of the furnace soaks into it. Wait for the last change, green darkening almost to black but catch it before it goes over-

‘That’ll do,’ Temrai said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘Now quench it, quick.’

The long, flat ribbon of steel hissed in the water and became invisible under a blanket of steam. Once the hissing had stopped they pulled it out, and he examined it carefully.

‘All right,’ he said, trying to mask his apprehension. ‘Now bend it double.’

Two strong men couldn’t quite do that; but it bent like the limbs of a bow and didn’t snap. ‘That’ll do,’ Temrai said, relieved. ‘That’s all right, then. Now we know how to temper long saw-blades.’

He left them to sharpen the teeth, using splinters of sandstone knapped into wedges, and walked back along the bank to the main logging camp. With six- and eight-feet saws instead of axes, adzes and drawknives they could fell timber and cut it up into logs and planks at twice, maybe three times the pace. Just as well, if all the timber he needed was to be assembled at the downriver station before the winter came on and froze everything up. Carting the stuff, especially over snowed-up passes, would be a complication he could do without.

The whole valley was full of noise and movement. On the hillside, above the belt they’d already cleared and turned into a stubble of tree-stumps and lopped branches, the forest was ringing to the sound of hundreds of axes and the shouts of the lumberjacks and drovers as the teams of horses and oxen were hitched up to the trimmed logs. Below, on the rafting stages, logs were being unhitched and rolled down to the water to be prodded and cajoled together into rafts, while the rafters scampered from log to log, swearing, yelling, getting the job done somehow. We’re making this all up as we go along, Temrai reflected with a mixture of wonder and panic. Well, now we’ve got saws, and we can dig saw-pits. It’d have been interesting to try and build water-powered saws like the ones I saw in the city, but I don’t think we’ve got time. And besides, there’s being clever and there’s being clever for cleverness’s sake.

What worried him most of all was the guesswork. The first week they’d been here, all he and his people had done was count trees, cutting marks in the bark of the ones tall and straight enough to be worth felling, trying to estimate how many good planks and beams each tree would produce, double-guessing how many planks and beams they’d need to build an unspecified number of engines and machines. At the end of the week he’d given up and told them to fell anything that looked halfway useful. It was either going to be far too little or far too much.

There was also the problem of keeping the clan stationary in a generally unsuitable spot for an unprecedentedly long time. Already they’d had to send the herds off upriver to fresh grazing, and too much badly needed manpower with them. That meant detailing yet more men to carting supplies and hunting game in the back end of the forest, away from the noise and disturbance. Add to that the parties he’d had to send away to forage for iron ore and lime, the charcoal-burning details, the contingent sent to guard the women who were gathering and twisting reed for the quite staggering quantities of rope they seemed to be getting through – somehow, there were always enough people left to do the work. This clan is big, he was beginning to realise. There’s more of us than I thought.

‘I gather the saw worked.’ Jurrai had appeared behind him, mud-splashed and dishevelled from supervising the dispatch of the latest log raft. ‘That’s good. Shall I take the smiths off nailmaking and put them on saws?’

Temrai shook his head. ‘I’ve already seen to all that,’ he said. ‘The nailmakers are now making arrowheads while the arrowmakers start making the saws. The grinding crews are teaching the spare five to seven year olds how to grind arrowheads, so they’ll be available to grind the saws. And I’ve put the flintcutters onto shaping and dressing grindstones, which means the-Anyway,’ he added with a tired grin, ‘it’s all in hand.’ He stopped and looked around at the thousands of busy dots moving about the scarred and unreal-looking landscape. ‘We must be mad,’ he said, ‘even trying to do all this. It took the city people hundreds of years to figure out what they know-’

Jurrai shrugged. ‘Good of them to do the boring bit for us,’ he said. ‘And in the long run it’ll serve them right.’ He too spent a moment looking about him; maybe he didn’t particularly like what he saw. ‘Gods alone know what this is doing to us,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s been muttering about it already. People are saying it’s not right.’

‘I bet,’ Temrai grunted. ‘What’s it this time? Offending the river gods, offending the forest gods, offending the fire gods-’

‘All of that,’ Jurrai replied cheerfully. ‘But what they’re saying now is, if the city folk are evil and have got to be put down, why exactly are we running ourselves ragged trying to be like them?’

‘Ah.’ Temrai smiled, rather sadly. ‘I don’t know the answer to that one. Imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, maybe. They try and wipe us out; we learn by their example.’ He rubbed his face between his hands. ‘I’m not exactly happy about it myself. Still, it’s got to be done. I think we’re all agreed on that, down where it matters. And anybody who thinks we can bust through the walls of Perimadeia with a cavalry charge is welcome to see me and tell me how it can be done. I’d love to hear.’ He yawned, stretched and stood up. ‘Now then,’ he said briskly, ‘arrowshafts. I’d better go and see how they’re getting on with the pole lathes.’

The lathe-making detail was busy in a small high-sided combe just over the brow of the nearby hill, which had already been cleared of timber. As he walked over the crest, Temrai could see what looked like a plantation of saplings; except that these saplings had been felled, trimmed and fixed in the ground to act as the springs for the hundred or so arrow-making lathes that Temrai hoped to have up and running in the next day or so. It was very basic stuff, by city standards; the bent sapling had a rope tied round its top, which was in turn wrapped round a spindle mounted on two trestles and then fed through to a hinged treadle. The arrow-turner pressed the treadle down with his foot, pulling in the rope and turning the spindle in one direction. Then the sapling pulled it back, turning the spindle the other way. The end of the spindle was fitted with two prongs which went into the end of the length of branchwood destined eventually to be an arrowshaft; the other end was supported by a tailstock, which held the branch level. As the spindle turned, so did the branch, and the turner pressed a sharp steel blade against it, shearing off spirals of wood and eventually producing a uniformly straight, slender shaft-

(But we’re mostly using green timber, which at best makes lousy arrows, which’ll fly crooked and slow even if they don’t break on the bowstring. It’s quite possible we’re wasting our time and energy doing all this. If only we could take a little more time about it, make sure we get it right. Except we’d all be long dead before it’s as right as it should be. All I can do is try and make it the least wrong I can.)

‘As to how many arrows we’re going to need,’ Temrai commented ruefully as they walked between the rows of three-quarters-finished lathes, ‘I really don’t want to know. Think about it. A man can aim and shoot twelve arrows a minute; one of these machines can make maybe twenty a day, if these men are prepared to work until they drop. We’ll never have enough, even if there’s enough wood to make the wretched things from. And it’s the wrong sort of wood,’ he added. ‘And it’s green. As to where we’re going to get the feathers from-’

‘I was coming to that,’ Jurrai said. ‘One of my people says there’s a lake up in the next range of hills that’s covered in ducks.’

‘Ducks,’ Tumrai repeated. ‘Right.’

‘Which isn’t a bad idea even if we forget the feathers,’ Jurrai went on. ‘I gather we’ve run the last of the deer out into the hills, and if we don’t want to have to start culling the milch herd-’

‘Don’t. All right, how many people do you need to go duck-hunting? Not that I ever heard of anybody fletching arrows with duck feathers, but we haven’t got anything else.’ True, he reflected as he said the words. Green wood and duck feathers, and we’re meant to be a nation of mighty archers. Looks like we’re doing our best to lull the enemy into a true sense of security.

At midday the noise and movement stopped, or at least became less obtrusive as the food was handed round and the clan gathered in groups to eat. Temrai had just enough time to bite a mouthful out of the wedge of hard cheese before they descended on him; the puzzled, the exasperated, the querulous, the offended – How do we do this? What were we meant to be doing? What in hell are we going to make that out of? How are we expected to do this and that without the proper tools? Do you seriously expect us to do that with this? He fended off the enquiries and complaints as best he could, smiling, shaking his head, sympathising, promising he’d think of something or it’d all be seen to, until at last they all went away and it was time to start work again. He threw the rest of the cheese to a passing dog, and plodded away to see what was the matter with the raft ropes, which kept breaking.

Ah, well, he comforted himself, the gods must feel like this all the time. And to think I used to envy them.

Halfway through the afternoon, he’d just managed to convince the raft crews that the ropes were fraying because they were putting too much strain on them when he noticed something on the other side of the river; a party of horsemen, up against the skyline, watching what was going on. For a moment, he was seven years old again and terrified; he wanted to run through the camp and warn them, Run for your lives, it’s the cavalry! But then he counted them, and thought about it, and called to his cousins Mesbai and Pepotai, who were working their way through the camp enlisting duck hunters.

‘Quick as you like,’ he said, ‘get twenty men and go up round the back of that rise there-’ He pointed to where the riders were. ‘Don’t do anything, just get the other side of them, make sure they don’t notice you until you’re in position, then come up on the crest and let them see you. If they move off, shadow them but don’t make contact. Got that?’

Pepotai, a short, square youth with a long, wispy beard, nodded. ‘We can bring ’em in if you like,’ he said. ‘Or shoo ’em off, if you’d rather.’

‘No.’ Temrai shook his head emphatically. ‘I don’t want that. For all they know, we love them dearly and wouldn’t dream of hurting them. Let’s keep it that way for now. Plenty of time for the other stuff later.’

When they’d gone, he allowed himself another look across the river. Ten riders from the city, sent to keep an eye on him, try and work out what he was up to down here among the tree-stumps. If Maxen was still alive, there’d have been none of this respectful watching from afar. Instead, the first they’d have known of it would have been heavy cavalry cascading down on all sides, flooding the camp, shooting, slashing, burning before anybody had a chance to get to a bow or a horse. There’s another thing I’ve got to do, he decided, post lookouts on all the approaches, and along the riverbank, too. Maxen’d have blocked the river by now, and slaughtered the men downstream… An unpleasant thought, that. A few men up there armed and ready, just in case they did try anything? Or would that be counterproductive, put them on their guard by showing men-at-arms as well as peacefully industrious lumberjacks?

Gods above, I shall be glad when this is all over, and we can go back to doing what we were always meant to do. He turned his back on the obtrusive presence of the city and walked away.