Tetrarch (Well of Echoes) (45 page)

‘Why don’t they attack?’ muttered Troist after an hour had gone by. The tension was telling on everyone. ‘Go and speak to the watch, Nish.’

Nish ran across to a tall tree with its roots in the sandy creek. A soldier sat in the crook of a branch, two-thirds of the way up, a spyglass to his eye. It was a dangerous job, for scouts and watchers were among the first targets of the enemy.

‘What’s going on, Kahva?’ Nish called up.

‘They’re moving!’ said the soldier.

‘Which way? Quick, man?’

‘They’re moving slowly south-west, away from us.’

‘It must be a trick.’ Nish raced back to the officers’ tent. ‘They’re moving, surr, away from us.’

Troist ordered a runner to the tree. Shortly the man came pounding back. ‘There’s dust in the north, a big, broad cloud. Must be hundreds of the buggers.’

‘That’s why the main force is going around,’ said Troist. ‘They plan to pinch us between the two. What should I do – retreat or fight here? Orbes, what do you think?’

Orbes, the strategist, was inept at everything, even walking in a straight line, but had one vital ability. He never forgot any detail of his work, and kept in his head a description of every battle fought between humans and lyrinx in the past hundred and fifty years. At least, every battle where a human had survived to report it.

The strategist scratched his head, dislodging a clump of wispy hair which drifted away in the breeze. His hair was falling out, exposing a pink skull crusted in ragged blisters. The skin of his arms and legs was flaking off. The man looked as if he was falling apart.

‘Could do either,’ he said unhelpfully, ‘depending on what they’re up to. The country is flat as a table round here so you’ll find no better place to defend. Nor a worse one!’

‘Then we’ll stay.’ Troist gave his orders. Runners went back and forth to the scouts, who reported that the enemy were still circling and were now south of them.

The day grew hotter, the tension thicker. Nish had sweated enough to fill a bucket. He moistened his mouth with muddy water which tasted like something small had died in it – it was the only kind they had. The dust cloud grew. Yara went back and forth, as cool as ice, though her knuckles were white. Liliwen was crying, while Meriwen remained desperately stoic. Nish wished he could look as calm. It felt as though terror was carved into his brow for all the world to see.

‘It’s Romits, surr!’ cried a runner.

The entire force turned as though they were iron particles lined up by a piece of lodestone. ‘What?’ Troist whispered.

‘It’s Captain Romits in the north. He’s come out of the dust. The scout recognised his flag, flying from a clanker.’

Troist ran to the tree and scrambled up. ‘It
is
Romits!’ he roared, dancing up and down on the branch, to the peril of his scout and himself. ‘He’s got nine, no ten, no twelve clankers, and troops hanging all over them. There must be a couple of hundred, at least.’

It was not long before everyone could see them through the billowing dust. ‘Not enough.’ Troist was on the ground again. ‘But welcome nonetheless.’

Soon after Romits’s force joined them, the scouts reported that the enemy had turned south and were moving rapidly away.

‘That’s strange,’ said Troist. ‘Orbes?’

‘I’d say our reinforcements just made the difference. Lyrinx don’t like to fight in broad daylight unless they have a clear advantage.’

‘I’d have said they did.’

‘They would have, if they’d been able to fight at dawn. But their eyesight is poor in bright sunshine and they don’t like the heat either. After all, they came from the void, which is a cold, dark place. Or so the Tales tell.’

‘Maybe they get confused in such conditions,’ Nish speculated.

‘They’re clever and cunning fighters, in small groups, but they aren’t great tacticians.’ Orbes examined a wisp of hair pinched between fingers and thumb. ‘When we
have
beaten them unexpectedly, it’s been in large, complicated battles where our forces have been all over the place but held to the battle plan.’

‘They rely on darkness, and superior strength and speed. I’m starting to think of a plan,’ said Troist. ‘I’ve been making for the Worm Wood, as you know, but that place would advantage them more than us. Perhaps we’re better off remaining on the plains where they can’t come on us unexpectedly, and the conditions are more to our liking than theirs. Let’s go through our tactics again, for when they do attack.’

They remained on alert until midday when the scouts reported that the enemy had retreated over the horizon. Nish walked down the lines with Troist as he explained what had happened. The soldiers muttered among themselves.

‘Why won’t they stand and fight?’ said a weedy-looking fellow who would not have lasted five minutes once the battle started.

‘You’ll get your chance, Mamberlin,’ said Troist, clapping the soldier on the shoulder.

Nish lingered after Troist had moved on. ‘Surely you aren’t in a hurry to fight?’ said Nish. ‘A lyrinx would kill you in ten seconds.’

‘Or I might kill it,’ said the soldier. ‘Fighting is what we’re here for, and it’d be a lot better than waiting.’

Nish did not think so but, not wanting to give the man the wrong impression about himself, said, ‘Good luck, Mamberlin,’ and kept going.

The army continued south-east across Almadin, still gathering men and clankers. The lyrinx continued to shadow them, which kept everyone on edge, though Troist now led a formidable force. On a hot spring day, around noon, they came to a broad, meandering river and had to track upstream for an hour to a point where the clankers could get across. There were tall trees here, and vast head-high reed beds.

‘A perfect place for an ambush,’ said Troist, riding round in circles.

They crossed in safety, disturbed by no more than a herd of angry buffalo. The following morning the scouts brought word that a large force of constructs had massed to their south, on the border of Almadin and Rencid.

‘Are they friend or foe?’ Troist said to Nish.

‘More likely the latter.’

‘The Aachim are an honourable species. I will send out an embassy.’ Troist riffled through his papers, eyed Nish speculatively, and bent his head.

Something was up. ‘Sounds … dangerous,’ said Nish.

‘It could be, so I’d need the right person to lead it.’

Nish felt an urge to slip out of the tent and disappear.

‘I had you in mind, Cryl-Nish.’

‘Me!’ cried Nish.

‘I can’t leave the army leaderless with lyrinx massing so near.’

‘But surely one of your officers …?’ Nish began.

‘They’re good soldiers but I need Romits. Lieutenant Floid never speaks without an obscenity, Prandie stammers so badly that he can hardly get a sentence out, and as for Buffon –’

‘He’s a dirty slob. Even so …’

‘The Aachim would be mortally insulted. Vithis is the leader of his people and the representative of another world. My officers have neither nobility nor high rank.’

‘Neither have I.’

‘But you have been a scribe and translator to great merchants. You know the protocols and courtesies.’

‘Not for the Aachim.’

‘I have someone who can instruct you. Moreover, you are of good family and your father is a scrutator.’

‘Perquisitor only,’ said Nish.

‘According to the latest despatches, which came by skeet last night, he has been appointed acting scrutator in place of your patron Kser …’ he stumbled over the name, ‘Kservish Flydd, who has been suspended.’

‘Xervish suspended!’ cried Nish. ‘What for?’

‘It does not say.’

What was going on back at the manufactory? If his father was in charge, how were Irisis and Ullii faring? Nish had not had time to think about them in the past weeks. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Flydd is a decent and honourable man.’

‘Can’t think why he became scrutator then!’ Troist looked over his shoulder in case anyone had heard the uncharacteristic and heretical utterance. ‘Nonetheless, your father is now among the mighty. The Aachim will respect you the more for it, despite your youth and … well, stature. They are great believers in nobility, or at least breeding, and the hierarchy of power.’

‘What will I say to them?’

‘I’m sure you’ll work it out. Be polite but firm. Observe all the protocols.’

‘I don’t know what they are,’ Nish cried.

‘Then invent some and then follow them rigidly afterwards!’ snapped Vithis. ‘Make no concessions, for you have no power to do so. Keep our interests in mind at all times.’

‘How do I know what they are?’

‘Imagine you are at the bottom of a deep pit, with hungry beasts on the one side and brutal slave-owners on the other. You want to get out of there alive, but you don’t want to be eaten, or become a slave. Those are our interests.’

‘And we could do a hundred things that might advance ourselves, or ruin us.’

‘Indeed. You must use your own judgment about that. But when in doubt, say you must consult your masters. I’ll have the tailors make an appropriate uniform for you. You’ll leave in the morning.’

‘Not alone, I hope.’

‘You’ll have a small guard and such assistants as protocol requires.’

There was no way to get out of it, though the fear of failure had never been stronger. This mission was bound to be a disaster.

He left at the instant of dawn, dressed in a smart blue and maroon uniform that two tailors had spent the whole night on. A spare was carefully folded in his pack. His guard consisted of just two soldiers, and one was a raw youth considerably younger than Nish’s meagre twenty years.

‘Your escort awaits you,’ said Troist. ‘Though I cannot spare the horses, you must be mounted. No embassy could go forth on such a vital mission on foot. Here is your charter. My scribe worked most of the night on it.’ He handed Nish a rolled piece of parchment tied with a scarlet ribbon.

The document, written in the most florid hand, full of whorls, loops and curlicues, declared Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar, son of Scrutator Jal-Nish Hlar, to be the officially appointed legate to General Troist, Commander-in-Chief of the armies of Almadin and presently Military Governor of the Central Almadin Region.

‘Marshal?’ said Nish.

‘It would be the grossest of insults to send anyone more junior,’ said Troist.

‘But …’

‘As commander I am entitled to confer such a rank,’ said Troist, ‘if that’s what’s worrying you.’

‘I … I don’t know what to say.’

‘This may be the biggest gamble of my life. If you fail me, you’ll be broken to a common soldier as quickly as you have risen, Marshal Cryl-Nish.’

‘And if I succeed?’

‘You may very well keep the rank. Look sharp now, it’s coming dawn.’

His head whirling, Nish shook hands with Troist and hurried outside. His escort stood waiting by their horses, as well as a woman of middle age with coarse skin and silver hair turning to white. She presented him with another parchment, unsmiling.

‘I am Envoy Ranii Shyrr,’ she said. ‘Here is my commission. I will advise you on Aachim protocol.’

‘My mother’s name is Ranii,’ he said, scanning the parchment. ‘I’m glad to have you. Where have you come from, Ranii? Are you a kind of charlatan, like me, thrown into the water without knowing how to swim?’ He realised his mistake immediately. ‘I mean no insult. It’s just –’

‘That you don’t know how to put it?’ she said stiffly. ‘A considerable failing in an ambassador, to my mind. Fortunately I have spent my adult life in one embassy or another, and the last five years as legate at the city of Stassor, which is –’

‘The principal city of the Aachim of Santhenar,’ Nish said, wondering if Ranii felt herself hard done by. She had been passed over for the position he held and doubtless resented it. ‘I know of Stassor, though I’ve never been there.’

‘Well, that’s a start,’ she said. ‘Though I can’t believe –’

‘I have, however, ventured into the great Aachim city of Tirthrax, inside the mountain of the same name, and spoken with none other than Malien, Matah of the city, who is mentioned in the
Tale of the Mirror
.’ And twice she humiliated me, Nish thought.

Ranii took a step backwards. ‘We must speak more of this on the way.’

Nish mounted his horse, trying to look expert, though he’d not much experience with riding.

‘I am Marshal Cryl-Nish Hlar,’ said Nish to the soldiers, more self-importantly than was wise. ‘I go by the name of Nish, except when doing my official duties.’

The soldiers touched their caps, rather more casually than Nish would have liked.

‘Sergeant Mounce,’ said the one on the left, a short, stout man with arms like knotted tree roots and leathery skin much the same colour.

Nish glared at him and after some time Mounce grudgingly added, ‘Surr.’

‘Tchlrrr, surr,’ said the youth, a handsome fellow with skin as black as the pitch they burned in the manufactory furnaces. Frizzy hair stood out around his head like a halo. His nose was a long beak, hooked at the tip, yet it only added to his striking good looks.

‘You know where we are going, Mounce?’

‘Yeah,’ said the sergeant.

‘Then ride! Time is precious.’

Taking him at his word, Mounce and Tchlrrr set off at a gallop that soon had Nish grimly hanging on, terrified he was going to fall and forever lose face in their eyes. He managed to stay on until they splashed through the creek, where the soldiers slowed to a more appropriate pace. Nish caught up to Ranii, who sat her horse as if she had been born to it.

‘How is your seat?’ She smiled behind her hand, enjoying his discomfort.

‘A little battered. How long will it take to reach the Aachim camp?’

‘We should be there by tomorrow afternoon, unless they’ve moved since our scouts last reported.’

They rode hard all day, by which time Nish’s backside was so sore, and his thighs so chafed, that he could scarcely stop from crying out as he rode. In other respects it was a monotonous day. The dry plains of Almadin, and then Rencid, looked the same in every direction. The long grass was brown from the winter, though the first green shoots were now sprouting. The land was treeless except where watercourses, mostly dry, wound their way across the landscape. These were marked by ribbons of tall, white-trunked trees with grey or blue-grey leaves. Where there were no pools, water could be found by digging through the sand.