Colours in the Steel

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

‘Mind out.’

Gannadius looked round. ‘Sorry?’ he said.

‘Mind out. You’re in the way.’

‘Oh. Right.’ Gannadius shuffled a few steps to one side to allow the men to get by. ‘Sorry,’ he continued. ‘I’ve never been on a boat before.’

They looked at him without saying anything, and carried on with their work, which was something to do with pulling on ropes. As far as Gannadius was able to judge, most things on board the ship seemed to involve pulling on ropes, or winding them up, or throwing them.

Once he’d satisfied himself that he was no longer impeding the crew and thereby endangering the ship, he went back to staring at the skyline. He’d often heard people describing the view of the city as seen from the sea, and never once felt any great inclination to experience it for himself. Now that he was here looking at it, he wasn’t sure what all the fuss had been about.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, quite,’ he replied automatically. ‘Very – impressive,’ he ventured, ‘seen from this angle.’

The man beside him leant his forearms on the rail, his eyes fixed on the gradually receding prospect. ‘The Triple City,’ he said. ‘The teardrop of the gods, a glowing pearl bright in the sea-wave’s tresses, far-seen, ivory-crowned Perimadeia, Perimadeia the shining, the nurse of fine women, the everlasting gateway.’

Gannadius mumbled something polite. To him, the city looked like a collapsed sugarloaf; but he recognised the quotations the other man was reeling off, the conventional epithets and cliches that everybody mouthed without thinking what they meant. To be strictly accurate, in fact, the original line from Phyzas’ Homecoming was ‘nurse of fair women’, not ‘fine’; but everybody got it wrong except the few who’d actually waded through the turgid thing.

‘Pity, really,’ the man said. ‘Still, when you’ve had your time, you’ve had your time.’ He looked up and studied Gannadius’ expression. ‘First time at sea, is it?’

Gannadius nodded.

‘You get used to it,’ the man said. ‘Eventually. The trick is, don’t fight it. Once you’ve chucked up a couple of times you’ll feel a whole lot better, believe me.’

There were a great many people up on deck, taking a final look at the city as it slowly disappeared below the horizon; like a tall, proud ship gradually sinking, Gannadius said to himself, how depressingly apt. In spite of what his neighbour on the rail had said he didn’t feel nauseous (he didn’t feel well either, but he didn’t feel nauseous). Nor was he overwhelmed by grief and the pathos of it all. Mainly, he supposed, he couldn’t accept that he was quite possibly seeing the city for the last time.

‘Me,’ the man said, ‘I’m from Scona originally, only been in the city about five years. You ever been to Scona? No, sorry, of course you haven’t. Miserable place, Scona. But at least people don’t go around burning it down every five minutes.’

‘You think it’ll come to that?’

The man laughed. ‘Right fool I’ll look if it doesn’t, after I’ve coughed up six hundred smilers for a ride on this tub. Well, don’t you? You must do, or why are you here?’

‘Actually, I’m on my way to a posting on the Island, so I’d have been leaving anyway,’ Gannadius said.

‘I see.’ The man didn’t need to call him a liar, or even imply it. ‘Fortuitous, that. What line of work are you in, then?’

‘Banking,’ Gannadius replied.

‘Really? Which bank?’

Gannadius winced; served him right for being a coward and not telling the truth. ‘It’s a small family bank,’ he replied, ‘you wouldn’t have heard of us. Boredan,’ he added as an afterthought.

‘Boredan? With a B?’

‘That’s right. The Boredan bank. Like I said, we’re very small, quite low-profile…’

The man looked at him. ‘I bet you get sick and tired of people muddling you up with the other lot,’ he said. ‘Must be very aggravating.’

‘It is,’ Gannadius replied, looking straight ahead. ‘How about you?’ he said. ‘What do you do?’

‘Oh, you know,’ the man said. ‘Letters of credit, bills of exchange, that sort of thing. Typical bits-and-pieces, hand-to-mouth credit trading. It’s odd, though, there being a Boredan bank and me never having heard of it. Pir Hiraut,’ he added, extending a hand. ‘Maybe we could put some business each other’s way sometime.’

Gannadius took the man’s hand – he had a grip like a bench vice – and smiled broadly. ‘That would be – I mean, yes, we must certainly explore the possibilities,’ he said. Inspiration struck; he clapped a hand to his throat and made a gurgling noise. Grinning, the man wished him luck and moved away.

‘Next time,’ said another voice, this time on his left side, ‘pretend to be a merchant. Something boring, like dried fish. Nobody ever wants to talk shop with a dried-fish merchant.’

Gannadius turned his head and grinned sheepishly. ‘You – ah – overheard?’

Vetriz nodded. ‘You should have told him you were a wi-a member of the Order,’ she said. ‘It really is very highly respected on the Island, you know. Is there really a foundation there?’

Gannadius nodded. ‘There is indeed. But it’s little more than a consulate, looking after our financial interests; they don’t do any teaching, precious little research either. Still, it’s a job. Better than landing as a penniless refugee.’

‘Somehow I don’t see this lot as penniless,’ Vetriz confided, ‘or they wouldn’t be on this ship. I think you’ll find there’s quite a few real bankers, as well as traders, merchant venturers, others of that sort; people whose lives aren’t completely confined within the city walls.’ She placed her elbows on the rail and cupped her chin in her hands. ‘That’s why they’re prepared to leave, I suppose,’ she said. ‘Don’t get me wrong, we had no trouble filling the ship, but there weren’t great long queues either. Most people aren’t interested in getting out, not now the assault’s been repulsed.’

Gannadius shrugged. ‘I hope they’re right,’ he said. ‘And if they are, I shall wait a while and then creep quietly home and try and burrow my way back into the hierarchy of the Order. I’ve lost my chance of becoming Patriarch, of course, but to be honest I don’t much care. It isn’t quite the wonderful life everybody supposes it to be.’

Vetriz furrowed her brow. ‘He stayed, though,’ she said.

‘Alexius’ health wouldn’t permit him to travel,’ Gannadius replied. ‘He conceals it to some extent, but he’s not at all well.’ Gannadius was silent for a moment, wondering if he’d ever see his friend again. There hadn’t been time to say goodbye; he’d scribbled a few lines on a tablet and thrust it into the messenger’s hands, but that wasn’t the same thing at all. He regretted that. Anything approaching genuine friendship in the upper reaches of the hierarchy was extremely rare, something you came not to expect. Having found it, he was sorry to lose it again.

But the thought of getting out – escaping – was irresistible. And since, thanks to Alexius’ last-minute improvisation, he was able to leave with a vestige of honour and a job to go to, he’d have been mad to pass up the opportunity.

The city had almost completely sunk; only the blinding whiteness of the upper city remained, glaring in the sun. It put Gannadius in mind of the old fable, about the Lost City of Myzo, the fabulously wealthy and magical island-kingdom that angered the gods and sank beneath the waves a million years ago, when there still were gods and such things were permitted to happen. These days, of course, geography wasn’t quite so amenable to the demands of poetic justice, or so the city people reckoned.

Well. Possibly.

Feeling some gesture was called for, he raised his hand to shoulder height, palm facing the faraway flash of white until it was completely gone, and then let it fall.

‘Saying goodbye?’

‘Being melodramatic,’ he replied. ‘I’ve spent so long teaching that I have a persistent weakness for showmanship, even when it’s entirely out of place. Do you know, this is the first time I’ve been out of sight of the city in my entire life. I’m fifty-four,’ he added. ‘I suppose I should feel quite lost, but I don’t.’

‘Pleased to hear it,’ Vetriz replied. ‘There’s plenty of time for you to feel homesick later on.’

She left him and crossed the deck to see how her other new friend was getting on. Vetriz had been sympathetic, but tears were something she’d always found unsettling and hard to cope with; accordingly, she’d left her to pull herself together.

‘I’m sorry,’ Athli said. ‘I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s just-’ She left the sentence unfinished, her eyes still fixed on the horizon.

‘You really thought he’d come? At the last minute?’

Athli shook her head. ‘Oh, it wasn’t that,’ she said. ‘But leaving the city, not knowing if it’ll be there when I come back…’

Vetriz didn’t say anything; she wasn’t sure she believed what Athli was trying to tell her, but there was no way of knowing. She was over-inclined, she knew, to see storytellers’ romance where there really wasn’t any evidence for it outside her own imagination. On the other hand, this was a situation where her instinctive interpretation could quite reasonably be expected to be the correct one.

Besides, it was none of her business.

‘It’ll be there,’ she said, ‘just you wait. It’ll have to be, if we’re going into the fancy-goods business. Can’t let a silly old war get in the way of a good business idea.’

Athli smiled. ‘Particularly one your brother didn’t think of.’

‘Precisely.’ As she said it, Vetriz knew she was saying the opposite of what she believed. Somehow she knew the city would fall, sooner or later. It wasn’t something she cared to dwell on long enough to rationalise the intuition; thinking about it, in fact, quite literally gave her a headache. She knew, that was all; just as she’d known the last time she saw her great-aunt Alamande (ninety-two years old and crippled with arthritis; for the last ten years she’d been waiting for death like an impatient traveller waiting for the ferry) that it was the last time, a proper occasion for formal leavetaking. She hadn’t been particularly attached to Great-Aunt Alamande, and she wasn’t particularly attached to the Triple City of Perimadeia (pleasant enough to visit but you wouldn’t want to live there). Perhaps you needed to be detached to have the proper perspective; in any event, that was why she’d given in to the impulse to try and get all her new friends out of there and away to safety. It was a pity the Patriarch hadn’t come; and Loredan too, of course. But it was scarcely a surprise; they were both men with a strong sense of honour and duty, not the kind to run away.

(Honestly, she thought. Men!)

Venart would be on the forecastle, looking out impatiently for the seamarks that would bring him home. She went to join him, feeling suddenly glad that she was who she was, and that the most they had to worry about was a cargo of rope at the bottom of a harbour and the prospect of a good market lost.

‘Actually,’ Venart said, a little later, ‘it may be a – damn, what’s the opposite of a mixed blessing? A blessing in disguise, or at least an opportunity. Sure, we lose a market, and a very good one. But it’s not the end of the world; there’s still a whole world out there wanting to buy and sell, and if they can’t do it in Perimadeia, they’ll have to do it somewhere else. This could be the big chance the Island’s been waiting for; I mean to say, it’s not that long ago we were trying to destroy the place ourselves, for precisely that reason.’

‘Ah,’ Vetriz said ominously. ‘So that’s all right, then.’

Venart clicked his tongue. ‘Yes, I know it sounds callous and unfeeling, and believe me, I really do feel sorry for them, though when you come to think of it they did rather bring it on themselves, letting the enemy wander in and learn how to make engines and things, no questions asked. The fact remains, we’ve got a living to earn, and it’s an ill wind…’

Vetriz nodded. ‘So you think we could be on the brink of a wonderful new opportunity?’ she asked.

‘Quite possibly. Quite possibly.’

‘Splendid.’ Vetriz smiled happily. ‘So, with all this new business coming our way, it’d only be sensible to take on an extra clerk. I’ll tell Athli, she’ll be so pleased.’

‘Vetriz-’ Venart saved his breath for a long, resigned sigh. The truth was, once his sister had made up her mind that something was going to happen, as often as not it did and that was that. The only sensible thing to do was to accept it, and try and find some way to mitigate the expenditure it would inevitably involve without letting her realise it.

In front of him, he imagined he saw a straight, wide road leading home. To go home, with a profitable cargo, money in his pocket, something that’d be of use to him once he got there; it wasn’t much to ask.

As sieges go, it could have been far worse.

There are sieges where the defenders starve; where a dead rat or blackbird changes hands for the price of a bushel of fine wheat-flour, and dark rumours of robbed graves and cannibalism spring up out of the general despair like mushrooms in the dark; where the besiegers camp in the steaming marshes outside a strong and well-supplied city, watching the guards on the wall walking off their dinners with a pleasant stroll while fever and hunger desiccate their enemies; sieges where the trebuchets of the besiegers throw rotting carcasses into the city to spread pestilence, sieges where the trebuchets of the city throw stale bread into the besiegers’ camp to mock their starvation. Some cities suffer two sieges; the enemy outside and plague inside. Sometimes the plague spreads from one enemy to another, so that on both sides of the wall men evaporate like rain on hot stones. Savage heat oppresses the defenders in summer, snow and ice ravage the besiegers in winter. All in all, it can be an unpleasant business for all concerned. A stagnant war seldom does anybody any good.

Not so the siege of Perimadeia, if it could be called a siege at all. True, the city people couldn’t venture out on the land side; but then again, who really wanted to? The Drovers’ Bridge was where foreigners came in and out of the city; Perimadeians came and went from the harbour when they travelled at all. As for the commodities that came by land; who needed them? Food and some raw materials, nothing that couldn’t come by sea, and if it meant paying a little more, that could be covered by a modest rise in prices. Once it became obvious that there was to be no fresh assault, that the rafts on the river weren’t bringing in the components of more engines, ladders, rams, canopies, the people of the city gradually began to lose interest; indeed, except for the continuing debate over the ethics of using fire-oil (which the political factions managed to keep going, like the flame of a lamp with a damp wick), they put it out of their minds and went back to work.

Temrai’s people also found themselves settling into the comfort of a routine. The land behind the city hadn’t been grazed for over a decade, making it good country for the flocks and herds. Water was plentiful, and after the frantic activity of engine-building and engine-moving, a rest was welcome. There were still things to be done. They were rebuilding the causeway opposite the bridgehouse, there were arrows to be turned and fletched, arrowheads to be made, armour to be repaired and reinforced. Whether to increase efficiency or simply to keep his men occupied, Temrai had organised weekly archery competitions, with good prizes for the winners and compulsory training for the bottom tenth of the losers; that gave them something to speculate about and gamble on, and went some way towards repairing the damage the battle of the rafts had done to his relationship with his people. Very few of them still speculated as to what the next phase was going to be; the generally accepted view was that they were all waiting for something to happen, and until then there were worse places in the world to pitch camp for a month or so.

It was almost becoming amicable. City people wagered on the clan’s archery matches, discussed the form of the various champions and contenders over spiced cider in the taverns, observed the life of the clan and found in it things to appreciate, as the city had always done in its dealings with foreigners. The clan was getting used to the view; you couldn’t live under the walls for long without beginning to respect them, to wonder about the sort of men who could make such a huge artefact and make it so perfectly. Some of them sat for hours watching the ships on the water, thinking what it must be like to be carried inside a little wooden shell far out into the middle of that astonishing blue emptiness until you reached another country, another place that would be like this one but different in ways they couldn’t begin to imagine. There were even a few men in the camp who considered, sometimes actually talked about, the idea of not destroying the city. Deliberately to ruin such a thing would be a waste, and what could be more abhorrent than waste? They were, however, very few. Most of the plainsmen gave it no thought, being too busy with other things.

Loredan reopened his fencing school, and soon had a full class. Litigation was still tending to increase, the demand for lawyers was greater than ever, and there were others joining the schools who didn’t intend to practise law but just wanted to learn how to fence. He hired a new clerk, a man in his sixties who did the sums, collected the fees and wrote up the books. He arranged the sale of Athli’s furniture, surrendered her lease and got a refund on the balance of the rent, and found a reliable courier to forward the proceeds to the Island. Three weeks later he got a receipt in her neat, clear handwriting, accompanied by a formal note of thanks copied from the usual book of business precedents.

The Squirrel came back with a cargo of bowstaves and peacock feathers, and left with three berths still empty; people were still leaving the city, but the price of a passage had fallen by a third. Venart came alone; he called to see Loredan with a message, but he was out and the person he was playing messenger for hadn’t written a letter. He took a letter from Gannadius to the Patriarch, and came away with his arms full of books, fresh parchment, pens, two bottles of extremely good wine (one for himself, for running the errand). Alexius was out of bed, and had more or less resumed his duties as Patriarch now that the Security Council only met once a week. He asked Venart to give Vetriz his best wishes, and wondered if there might be room for a barrel or two of preserved pears aboard the Squirrel the next time she made the run. His doctors had absolutely forbidden them, but what did they know? And besides, where was the point in being a wizard if you couldn’t eat what you fancied?

The Prefect, the Lord Lieutenant and their colleagues in government returned to their work with renewed vigour after the enforced holiday of the emergency. It was an exciting time for them, full of opportunities; during the uneasy suspension of faction politics, any number of potential weapons had been forged and stockpiled, so that when conventional government was resumed both sides were spoilt for choice when it came to subjects for debate and argument. For the first week or so the contest was fairly evenly balanced, but it wasn’t long before it became apparent that the Lord Lieutenant’s Radicals were gradually getting the better of the Prefect’s Popularists, thanks mostly to two issues which immediately caught the imagination of the Council and thereafter refused to go away; the bungling of the initial cavalry raid, and the unauthorised use of the barbarous and inhuman fire-oil.

As far as the Prefect was concerned, his worst enemy was timing. In less than a month, he was due to be reaffirmed in office by the Council; with the Radicals baying for his blood as the officer nominally responsible for both disasters, this might not turn out to be the formality it should have been. There were precedents for the impeachment of a Prefect – the last one over a century ago, it had to be admitted; but that only increased the glamour of the situation, since it was a poor councillor who didn’t want to be involved in making history – and his only line of defence, he quickly realised, was attack. By shifting the blame onto Colonel Loredan (who had been, of course, Deputy Lord Lieutenant, although directly answerable to the Prefect’s Office), he could so engineer matters that if he were to fall, the Lord Lieutenant would inevitably fall with him. This would involve a major escalation, from which there could be no turning back; but once both of them had been impeached, they would then have no alternative but to work together to overturn the impeachments (his constitutional advisers were already working their way through the loopholes in the regulations and had promised an early report) and restore the situation to what it had been before. The best way to achieve that would be to bring forward Loredan’s trial to the earliest possible date.

‘I don’t believe it,’ muttered Ceuscai. ‘Read it again.’

Temrai nodded and held the parchment up to his nose. The light in his tent was just about good enough for reading, provided the writing was clear.

‘“Bardas Loredan to Chief Temrai, greetings,”’ he recited. ‘“You will recall that we have an outstanding contract between us. Would you be so kind as to indicate when it would be convenient for us to meet, under safe conduct, to discuss how this obligation might best be discharged? I await your answer with interest.”’

‘He’s gone mad,’ Uncle Anakai pronounced judicially. ‘Probably the result of his disgrace and being relieved of command. I’d sling it on the fire if I were you.’

‘He must be a bit crazy if he thinks we’ll go for the old single-combat routine,’ Ceuscai agreed. ‘For one thing, there’s no evidence at all that this challenge’d be ratified by his government.’

Temrai lifted his head. ‘Who said anything about single combat?’ he said.

The council of war looked at each other. ‘That’s what he’s getting at, surely,’ someone said. ‘Roundabout way of putting it, I know, but what else would you expect from a raving lunatic?’

‘This hasn’t got anything to do with the war,’ Temrai said. ‘It’s personal. He wants me to make him a sword.’

The tent went very quiet. ‘Are you sure about that?’ asked Uncle Anakai. ‘No disrespect, but that’s rather a lot to read into a fairly short letter-’

‘Actually,’ Temrai said, ‘he’s quite right. Oh, come on, I must have told you the story. Didn’t I? It was what he was referring to when we played diplomacy that time we met him. You remember.’

Ceuscai frowned. ‘I remember there was a lot of stuff I didn’t understand about signs and you owing him something,’ he said. ‘But if you explained at all, I must have been asleep or something.’

‘Oh.’ Temrai’s face twitched into a slight grin. ‘I’d better fill you in, then. I did meet this Loredan while I was living in the city; well, actually it was the night I left. Jurrai and I were just riding along the bridgehouse road, in fact, when this Loredan barged in front of me, blind drunk, and I, um, trod on him. Rather, my horse did. He wasn’t damaged, but it has to be admitted, some of his property was. A painted sign. Apparently rather valuable. And he insisted on being paid for it, and for some reason or other I promised to pay him back by making a sword for him. So you see, strictly speaking, he’s entitled.’

Another silence.

‘This is getting ludicrous,’ Ceuscai said at last. ‘Stop messing around, Temrai. You make it sound like you’re almost considering doing it.’

Temrai scratched the back of his head. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Maybe not. I’m in two minds about it, to tell you the truth.’

Everybody started to speak at once. Deafened, Temrai held up his hand for quiet.

‘About meeting him, I mean,’ he went on. ‘Think about it, will you, rather than yelling your heads off. This man used to be the Commander-in-Chief of the city, but now he’s been disgraced. The latest word is, he’s going to be put on trial; if he’s serious about this sword business, then maybe that’s what he wants it for.’ He paused to let the implication of what he’d said sink in. ‘In other words,’ he said, ‘he’s discontented, with a whopping great big grudge against the city rulers, possibly a bit mad as well. And didn’t we all agree a week or so back that the only way we’ll ever get in there is if someone opens the gates for us?’

‘I see,’ said Anakai softly. ‘So you think that’s what he’s really getting at?’

‘It’s possible. And even if that isn’t what he’s got in mind at the moment, there’s no reason why we shouldn’t plant the idea ourselves. Or has anybody else got any addle-brained malcontents on the payroll who are crazy enough to betray the city and also in a position to be able to get hold of the key?’

‘Well, he’s not, for a start,’ someone objected. ‘You just said, he’s been relieved of command.’

‘He’ll know how to get the gates open,’ Temrai replied confidently. ‘Come on, it must be worth a try. Mustn’t it?’

The council of war considered the point. ‘Try this,’ someone suggested. ‘Here’s the disgraced Commander-in-Chief, reputation and honour in shreds, nothing left to live for, he’s failed his city and he’s got nothing to lose. Why not try and make up for it and become a national hero by assassinating the clan chief? It’d be a suicide mission, but as far as he’s concerned it’s got to be better than being put to death by his own people.’

Temrai nodded. ‘That’s perfectly possible,’ he said. ‘Which is why, if we do decide to meet him, I’ll want the best archers in the clan covering him from the moment he sets foot in this camp. Then we can send his head to the rulers and tell them he came here offering to betray the city. That’ll give them all sorts of things to worry about.’

Anakai frowned at him thoughtfully. ‘You’ve made your mind up, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘You really do want to meet this lunatic. Temrai, he’s the man who poured the fire-oil on the rafts. I won’t insult you by asking if you’d forgotten.’

‘He was only doing his duty,’ Temrai replied quietly. ‘Just as we were only doing our duty putting the rafts under the walls in the first place. If you want to argue morality we can do that later, although personally I prefer chess.’

More silence, this time with an unspoken commentary; he never used to be like this, he’s changed, maybe the war’s really got to him.

‘And suppose he does actually want you to make him a sword?’ someone eventually asked. ‘Would you do that?’

‘I don’t know,’ Temrai replied, looking the man steadily in the eyes. ‘It may be that I want this particular man kept alive, rather than getting himself killed in the lawcourts. Also, I’ve never made a law-sword before, it’s rather an interesting exercise, technically speaking. And consider this, too,’ he went on, cupping his chin in his hands. ‘Suppose he wins his trial and gets back into favour. Suppose he gets his command back. And then suppose it becomes known that he won his trial with a sword made for him by the enemy chief personally. I think our friends over the river could really tear themselves apart over that.’

‘And we wouldn’t have to contend with their best general,’ someone added. ‘It’s a nice idea.’

‘You’re all out of your minds,’ Anakai grumbled. ‘This is either a trick, or the ravings of a madman, or a really peculiar form of practical joke. You don’t even know for sure that the letter came from Colonel Loredan.’

Temrai smiled, and yawned. ‘True,’ he said, ‘but if I’d allowed myself to be put off by not knowing things, we’d never have started this war in the first place.’ He sat still for a few seconds, then went on. ‘I’ll tell you something else,’ he said. ‘I’m prepared to bet that the man who brought this message – he’s waiting in the guard tent, with ten men ready to cut him into slices if he so much as scratches his bum – is Loredan himself. Who else is he going to find to run his errands for him?’

Ceuscai shook his head, as if trying to wake up from a peculiar dream. ‘Well, we’d recognise him if we saw him. Why not bring him in and see for ourselves?’

‘Why not indeed?’ Temrai grinned. ‘Go fetch, Ceuscai. And bring plenty of guards, remember.’

Loredan sat in the middle of the circle, trying to put out of his mind the arrowheads trained on him. It was the first time he’d sat in a plains tent; he’d seen any number of them, but always from the outside. It was a clever design, he realised, efficient and comfortable. The heavy felt kept in the heat, while the oil and lard on the outside kept out the rain. The uprights were strong enough to keep it up even during the savage windstorms of the plains spring, but could be put up and taken down again quickly and easily by one practised man. Unlike so many city houses, it had adequate ventilation to allow the smoke from the fire to escape, rather than filling the room and blinding everyone inside. It would also catch fire at the least provocation, as he knew better than most; cut the guy ropes and pitch in a torch, and nobody would get out alive. Curious, that these eminently practical people had never dealt with such an obvious flaw in the design. They had some sort of blind spot where fire was concerned.

‘It’s very good of you to see me,’ he said pleasantly, ‘a busy man like yourself.’

Temrai shrugged. ‘It’s not every day we get visits from distinguished enemy lunatics,’ he replied. ‘Now then, what’s all this really about?’

Everyone in the tent waited for Loredan to answer. He took his time about it, as he enjoyed the warmth of the fire. He was still damp after swimming the river, and with his hair plastered down over his forehead he didn’t look particularly mysterious or threatening. He looks older than I’d have thought, Temrai said to himself, but it’s definitely the same man, the one I remember. The thought of him getting away, dying cleanly in the lawcourts from a single thrust without knowing that his city was being destroyed and his people butchered, wasn’t something that Temrai wanted to dwell on. To find his one true enemy again after so many years and then to lose him, at the very moment of consummation, would make the whole exercise meaningless. After all, it had been that last-minute meeting, just as he was about to leave the city with every part of him urging him to spare it, that had made him come here and shown him that this terrible thing had to be done.

‘I’m sorry,’ Loredan said. ‘I can’t have expressed myself clearly enough in my letter. You said you’d make a sword for me. I need one rather urgently. It’s as simple as that.’

‘I see.’ Temrai scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘What sort of sword are we talking about?’

‘A law-sword,’ Loredan replied promptly. ‘Do you know the design? It’s a bit specialised.’

Temrai nodded. ‘I know the general principle,’ he said. ‘But wouldn’t you be better off buying one in the city? Old ones are the best, I gather, but there are supposed to be quite a few current makers turning out first-rate products. I’m sure you’d get a much better sword from them than from me.’

Loredan shook his head. ‘I have this problem,’ he said, ‘with the wretched things breaking. It’s something to do with the way the steel gets heated up when the cutting edges are being brazed to the core; the way we do it makes them brittle, and I suppose there’s something in my fencing style that must put an unusual amount of strain on the weak part of the blade. I used to have quite a collection, but all the good ones have snapped on me over the last six months or so. The last one went yesterday, in fact, while I was practising. You see, I shall be fighting for my life in the courts very soon, and I have rather a bad feeling about the outcome. It’s to do with who my opponent’s going to be; it’s all rather complicated, and I won’t bore you with details. The point is, your technique with the silver solder makes a much less fragile blade, and I don’t know anybody in the city who can do it. ‘So,’ he concluded, folding his arms, ‘here I am.’

Temrai nodded again. ‘And what makes you think I’d put myself out for you, of all people? You’ve got to admit, this whole business is extremely bizarre.’

‘Oh, I thought you might,’ Loredan replied equably. ‘It was worth asking, anyway. My old commanding officer-’

‘General Maxen?’

‘That’s right, General Maxen. He always used to say, When you can’t trust your friends, try your enemies. He wasn’t usually wrong.’

Temrai took a deep breath, held it and let it go. ‘You could be mad,’ he said, ‘or extremely tired of your life. Or you could have come here to save your ruined honour by killing me, as my advisers have suggested. I was rather hoping you’d come to get your revenge on your city.’

‘What, do a deal with you and open the gates?’ Loredan raised an eyebrow. ‘Another thing Maxen used to say was, I like treachery but I don’t like traitors. I’ll be honest with you,’ he went on, ‘the thought had occurred to me, too. But I don’t think I will, thank you all the same.’

Temrai looked at him for a while, then said, ‘Fair enough. From what I gather, you’re no longer in a position to do anything about it, so I won’t press the point. For the same reason, I can’t be bothered to have you killed. I suggest you go away before I change my mind.’

Loredan shook his head. ‘I asked you to do something for me,’ he said. ‘As an enemy, and because you owe me. It’s embarrassing to have to admit this, but I think my life may depend on it.’

‘Really.’ Temrai studied him for a while. ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,’ he said. ‘I keep expecting to wake up and find it’s all a dream.’

‘Have you been suffering from headaches recently?’

‘No. Why?’

‘Just asking. It’s a long story.’

‘We have a fairly effective cure for headaches,’ Temrai said. ‘Bark from a willow tree, boiled in water. When it’s cool, you drink the water.’

Loredan nodded. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘Well?’

‘Do you know, I’m almost tempted to do it,’ Temrai said. ‘It’s obvious that your habit of excessive drinking has finally undermined your wits, but it’s got the makings of a very fine legend. A great chief ought to do unexpected and flamboyant things. Meghtai, get a forge heated up and find me about a dozen old horseshoes and some solder.’

Loredan watched Temrai through a curtain of fire as the young man mixed the flux, occasionally glancing sideways to watch the colours change in the steel. The wire that held the billets of hard steel to the core glowed bright orange, but the blade sections were still a dark purple.

‘The trick,’ Temrai observed, ‘lies in tempering the edges while letting the core cool slowly. It’s important to do everything in the right order,’ he went on, spitting into the flux to make it smoother. ‘First, solder the joints; then we pack the blade with bonemeal and dried blood while it’s still cherry red, and we hold it there for as long as we dare, to let the hardness seep in through the pores of the steel. Then we’ve got to temper the blade, as far as possible without cooling down the core. That’s difficult.’

Loredan nodded appreciatively. ‘It’s cooling it suddenly that makes it brittle, then?’ he asked.

‘That’s partly it,’ Temrai replied, ‘though there’s more to it than that. Some grades of steel don’t harden at all. Also, you don’t want the edges too brittle either; you actually want to soften them just a little after you’ve quenched off the original heat, and you do that by heating it up and quenching it a second time, except you take it to a much lower heat. You can tell the right heat by watching the colours; somewhere between reddish brown and purple’s what you’re after. The simplest thing to do is quench the edges only after the first heating – that’s when we’ve got it red-hot and smothered it in bonemeal – so that the heat left in the core passes out into the edges (which we’ve just cooled) and brings them up to the right temperature. There, that ought to do,’ he added, giving the flux a final stir. ‘Are you interested in all this,’ he added, ‘or am I boring you?’

‘Not at all,’ Loredan said, ‘it’s fascinating. And knowledge is never wasted.’

Temrai grinned. ‘Another time I’ll show you how to build a siege engine,’ he said. ‘Here we are, look, that deep, rather attractive orange colour.’ He nodded to the men working the bellows; they stepped up the rate of pumping, so that the metal glowed in the flame. ‘The flux’ll cool it, of course,’ he added as he drew the billet out with a pair of tongs, ‘so it’ll have to go back in again before we can start soldering. Patience is a virtue in blacksmithing just as much as in siegecraft.’

The flux hissed and bubbled as it drew down into the joint, leaving dull grey flecks on the orange metal like clouds in a sunrise. When he judged that it was ready, Temrai pulled it out again and touched the solder stick to the sides of the joint, watching the silver disappear into the fine line between the parts of the blade. ‘It only flows if it’s hot enough,’ he said, ‘and if it doesn’t flow, you’re wasting your time. The flux helps, but it’s the heat that does it.’

In the glow of the fire, Temrai’s face shone a bright orange, like the steel he was working. Loredan mopped his forehead with his sleeve.

‘It’s taken,’ Temrai said. ‘Now we pack it with the hardening stuff and bring it back to cherry red.’ He raised his head and looked Loredan in the eye. ‘If the smell of burning blood and bone makes you feel ill, now’s the time to stand well back. It can turn your stomach if you’re not used to it.’

He sprinkled the bonemeal and dried blood, making sure the edges of both sides were evenly covered. Loredan remembered the smell, but stayed where he was. As soon as the steel glowed red through the grey and brown crust, Temrai lifted the billet off the anvil and called for the quenching tray, a long wooden trough half-filled with water.

‘A bit of salt in it helps,’ he said. ‘Fortunate that we’re so near the sea, really. In fact, this is an ideal spot for this sort of job. Now then,’ he added, as he dipped the edges carefully in the trough, moving his head away as the steam rose up (the meeting of fire and water, after the burning of blood and bone), ‘here’s a useful tip. When you’re quenching, keep moving the metal up and down in the water, or else you’ll find you get tiny cracks which’ll ruin the whole thing. There,’ he concluded, holding up the billet. ‘Quickly scrape off this crud from the edges so we can see the colours, and there we are.’

Loredan watched the colours change, straw to mud, mud to purple; then Temrai swung the blade dramatically through the air and held it up, examining it carefully. ‘That’ll do,’ he said. ‘Now we cool it for the last time, using oil because it cools more slowly than water, and that’s the job done. It isn’t all that difficult to understand,’ he added, ‘once you know why it’s got to be done that way. Like so many things in life.’

‘Indeed,’ Loredan replied. ‘Thank you, it’s been quite an education.’

Temrai smiled as he wiped sweat from his face. ‘Amazing what you can pick up just by listening to people while they’re working. By the way,’ he went on, ‘I didn’t make this thing out of old horseshoes just because I’m a cheapskate; it’s the best material I know for blade steel. There’s something about being continually bashed about and trodden on that makes the stuff remarkably tough and hard. You’ll have to provide your own hilt,’ he said, wrapping a scrap of rag round the tang. ‘It’s too late at night to go drilling bone and messing about with skin and wire. Here you are.’

The swordsmith handed the sword to the swordsman, holding it by the blade and offering him the rag-bound tang. Loredan took it and felt the balance, then held it up and looked down it to check the straightness. Along the narrow ribbon of steel he could see Temrai watching him, as if he were the other man in a matter of justice. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘it’s a neat job. For a first attempt, it’s very good indeed.’

‘I like getting things right first time,’ Temrai replied. ‘And doing things I haven’t attempted before. Does that make us all square, do you think?’

Loredan nodded. ‘As far as I’m concerned,’ he said. ‘I expect you’re glad not to be beholden to me any more.’

‘It was the least I could do for an enemy,’ Temrai said. ‘Now get out of this camp before I have you crucified.’