‘What the hell do you think you’re playing at?’ someone said behind her; and the librarian stepped smartly forward and rescued the copy of Veutses’
On Obscurity
just before the spreading pool of ink reached it. ‘For gods’ sakes, be careful, this book’s irreplaceable.’ He scowled down at her, just as someone had done a moment or so ago (but she couldn’t remember who, and she had a headache) and then sighed. ‘You fell asleep,’ he said, not quite so ferociously, ‘and knocked over the ink. Second year, I take it?’
Machaera nodded.
‘Swotting for Mods and not getting enough sleep,’ the librarian went on. ‘Well, you wouldn’t be the first. Go on, get out of my sight while I clear this up. Go to bed. You aren’t safe to be around innocent books.’
Alexius woke up with a start and opened his eyes.
‘You nodded off,’ said Niessa Loredan, smiling indulgently like a fond daughter. ‘In the middle of a sentence. You were just about to explain to me about Parazygus’ theory of simultaneous displacement, and suddenly you went out like a snuffed candle.’
‘Did I?’ Alexius put a hand to the side of his head, where something was banging away like a trip-hammer in a foundry. ‘How terribly rude of me,’ he said, ‘I do apologise. It must be old age.’
‘That’s all right,’ Niessa said. ‘And it’s rather warm in here, and you did eat four slices of cinnamon cake.’ She stood and picked up the knife. ‘Let me cut you another,’ she said.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It could have been any village in the mountains of Scona; the same red sandstone houses, the same grey mossy thatch, rutted muddy street, open doors, ubiquitous chickens and children. But this village was barely twelve miles from Shastel, and its people were downtrodden serfs of the Foundation rather than satisfied clients of the Loredan Bank. And although they weren’t showing a tremendous amount of enthusiasm for the idea, they were on the point of throwing off their chains and joining the great war for freedom. Assuming, of course, that they knew what was good for them.
The harbinger of liberty in this instance was Sergeant Mohan Bar, a thirty-year man who’d served in a wide variety of armies, official and unofficial, before drifting into the Scona archers as a sergeant instructor. Organising successful revolutions was largely uncharted territory as far as he was concerned, and he wasn’t sure he was temperamentally suited to it. There was far too much diplomacy involved, and not enough giving and obeying orders; in fact, he had the uneasy feeling that what these downtrodden serfs on the verge of throwing off their chains wanted him to do was go away. That, however, wasn’t an option.
The villagers were holding yet another meeting, which Sergeant Bar was watching from the comfort of a bench outside the village’s anonymous and extremely scruffy inn. The mug of cider in his hand had been on the house (or at least he’d assumed so; as far as he could recall, the issue of payment hadn’t been addressed in his short conversation with the innkeeper), it was a pleasantly warm day for the time of year and there was nothing else he was supposed to be doing; a soldier on active service learns to recognise such quiet interludes and make the most of them while they last.
‘It’s very simple,’ one of the village worthies was saying. ‘They’re here, for sure the Foundation knows they’re here, whether we like it or not we’ll already have been convicted of treason just because they’re here; so what the hell, why don’t we do as he says? We haven’t got anything to lose by it. More to the point, we don’t exactly have a choice.’
The rest of the meeting grumbled, the way people do when facing an unpopular truth.
‘We can still explain,’ someone at the back replied. ‘Grab hold of these jokers, tie them up, send a message to the Foundation telling them what’s happened and asking for an escort to take them on as soon as possible. If we do that, then how can they possibly say we’ve acted treasonably?’
The first speaker shook his head. ‘Don’t you believe it,’ he said. ‘It’s like it’s some sort of contagious disease; if you come in contact with the enemy, you’re assumed to be infected. As far as the Foundation’s concerned, we’re dead men. So, we fight or we go quietly and end up in a labour gang or dangling from a tree beside the road somewhere. Oh, yes, and just one thing you may have missed: you’re talking ever so bravely about arresting these men and tying them up. If you try it, I’ll be interested to see how far you get. In case you hadn’t noticed, they’re heavily armed soldiers, not a few kids you’ve caught scrumping apples.’
‘This is wonderful,’ someone else said. ‘Whatever we do, we’re going to get killed. Why don’t we all just get out of here up into the hills till all these lunatics have wiped each other out. Then we can come back down and steal their boots.’
Sergeant Bar smiled, finished his cider and went for a walk to stretch his legs. He couldn’t help thinking that he wasn’t getting the most out of what should have been a thoroughly desirable assignment - out of the camp, left to his own devices, no officers and no fighting, in a village where they had booze and (presumably, though he hadn’t seen any) women. Somehow, unfortunately, he couldn’t see it in that light.
He walked to the top of the hill that overlooked the village and stared out in the direction of Shastel. There was a taller hill between him and the Citadel, which was probably just as well for his peace of mind, but he had a good view of the only road in these parts, along which any intercepting force would have to come if it didn’t want to scramble through bogs and rocky outcrops. From sheer force of habit he planned a defence; his twelve archers, six on either side of the road in among those trees directly below where he was standing, the local levy (big joke!) blocking the road behind a barricade of carts and barrels, with a reserve force halfway up the slope behind those rocks, where they’d be out of sight and nicely placed for a quick uninterrupted sprint down onto the enemy’s rear to conclude the engagement. If he’d been fabricating a battlefield on the barrack-room floor, with rolled-up blankets for the hills, water bottles for the trees and a stretched-out sword-belt for the road, he couldn’t have designed anything much more favourable for a defence against superior numbers.
He frowned, and shuddered; bad luck, wishing a fight on himself and his men. If he had the sense he was born with, he’d be more concerned with his lines of retreat, the fastest way back to the inlet where their ship was waiting. Fortunately, that was pretty straightforward, too. Provided they had enough advance notice, they could double back round the edge of the far hill and down the path they’d come up in the first place long before the enemy even reached the village. Sergeant Bar shook his head. It’d be as well to post a sentry up here, and place another man in the village to watch for a signal. If he did that, there was nothing to worry about. Safe as houses.
Archers Venin and Bool weren’t overjoyed at their assignment; but once Bar had explained that he’d chosen them for the job because he didn’t like them very much and didn’t see why they should lay around villages relaxing when they could be sitting on hillsides, they saw the logic behind it and took their lookout positions. Bar went back to his bench outside the inn and checked on the progress of the meeting, which was still going round in the same dreary, reassuring circle. Bar yawned. He didn’t really know what he was supposed to do at this point; his mission was to organise the resistance in Shantein, issue the warlike partisans with twenty slightly sub-standard ash flatbows and a less than generous allocation of arrows, teach them the arts of archery and war, inspire them with courage and the will to win, and then come home. At a guess, he was somewhere in phase one and (he suspected) running a little behind schedule.
The morning drifted into noon and the combination of warm sun and tolerable cider lapped him gradually into sleep. He was snuggling his cheek into the crook of his elbow and dreaming comfortably when he heard his name and looked up.
‘Bool?’ he mumbled. ‘I thought I told you—’
‘They’re coming,’ Bool interrupted. ‘Forty men, just come into sight on the road.’
It took Bar a second or so to work out what Bool was talking about. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘That’s all right. Signal Venin to get back here. I’ll get the men fell in and we’ll be on our way.’
Venin arrived, out of breath and dusty, and Bar jerked his head towards the far hill and gave the order to move out; at which point he noticed that the meeting had fallen silent and everybody was looking at him.
‘They’re coming, aren’t they?’ someone said.
Bar felt a little uncomfortable. ‘That’s right,’ he said.
‘And you’re leaving.’
Bar frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’re leaving.’
The man who’d been talking the closest approximation to sense jumped up and came over, blocking his way. He looked angry and scared. ‘You can’t just go,’ he said. ‘They’ll kill us all. We won’t stand a chance.’
Bar thought for a moment. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘But it’s too late now. You should’ve done what I asked four hours ago, instead of sitting around gabbing.’
Four or five other villagers had joined the first speaker. ‘You can’t just walk out on us,’ one of them protested. ‘Now you’ve got us into this mess, you damn well get us out again.’
‘Forget it,’ another one replied. ‘Just suppose he did stick around, and just suppose he managed to give ’em a good hiding, though I can’t say I see it myself. Then he goes home, and tomorrow another lot comes down the road and we still get killed. I say we head up into the mountains while there’s time.’
‘What about their ship?’ someone else put in. ‘Why don’t we go to Scona? Hey, you, how many of us can get on your ship?’
Bar raised his hand for silence but didn’t get any; so he slapped the face of the man nearest to him, making him overbalance and topple over backwards. That worked just fine.
‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Nobody’s going on any ship. Doesn’t matter to me what you do, fight, give in or run away. We’re leaving, so you’d better do what you think is right. Best of luck,’ he added, remembering the diplomatic aspect of his mission.
There was a moment’s silence; then the first speaker folded his arms. ‘We’ll fight,’ he said. ‘Tell us what you want us to do.’
‘Get out of my way,’ Bar replied. ‘I won’t ask you again.’
For some reason, that had the reverse effect to the one he’d intended; there was a ring of villagers round them now, all angry, scowling, shouting, waving their arms.
Well now
, said a small, wicked voice at the back of his mind,
that’s phase one. What was phase two again?
‘All right,’ he heard himself say. ‘All right, we’re staying, now back off before my men get nervous and hurt somebody.’ The ring of angry people loosened up a little; they were looking at him, hanging on his every word. Even so, forty halberdiers against a dozen archers and these fools. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘All right,’ he said again. ‘First things first, weapons. How many of you have got any?’ He waited. Nobody moved. ‘Right. Well, get anything sharp or heavy or pointed. Hurry, you’ve got two minutes. Go.’
At least that dispersed them. Bar turned to his platoon. ‘Now listen to me,’ he said. ‘This lot’s worse than useless, so mostly it’ll be up to us. The odds are crap, but we’ve got surprise and a good position. Venin, you remember where you were just now? All right, take five men with you, wait for my signal before you start shooting. Bool, follow on behind but take the trees on this side of the road. You’ll get three, maybe four shots each, and that’ll be it, your only chance to end this and get out in one piece, so for gods’ sakes concentrate, we’ve got to take down at least half of them in those first three volleys. You can do it easy, it’s well within your capabilities. Right. Go.’
They moved out without a word, leaving him standing on his own in the middle of the village.
Wonderful
, he said angrily to himself,
now we’re in a war. Should’ve been more careful what you wished for. Still, you’ll never get a better position, so why the hell not?
He reviewed his remaining forces. There were twenty-six of them, comprising seven felling axes, one genuine Shastel military halberd, twelve hayforks - there had been no more formidable weapon in the world when he was thirteen years old and running away from one with a dozen freshly stolen onions down the front of his shirt - six mattocks and a spade.
Put ’em together and what d’you get? A massacre, most likely. But we’ll see.
‘The axes, the halberd and you, the big man with the fork. You know where I had my sentry? A hundred yards beyond that and further down the slope there’s a pile of rocks. Can you get yourselves there quick without being seen from the road?’
One of the axes nodded. ‘No problem,’ he said.
Bar nodded. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘In that case, you’re in charge. Now, when I give the signal and
only
then, you get yourselves down the slope quick as you can and take the enemy in the rear. The signal will be three short blasts on this horn,’ he went on, patting the small copper bugle at his belt. ‘Stay awake and remember, don’t move a hair till you hear the signal and we ought to be all right.’
The assault party (
my picked men. Oh, gods
) set off briskly, leaving Bar with the eighteen remaining peasants. There were three boys no more than seventeen and four old men with grey hair or no hair at all (but he had the idea they were probably the pick of the bunch). The rest of them were that indeterminate age that only peasants ever attain, the stage in their life-cycle where childhood and courtship are over and there’s nothing left to do but work and die. They were tough, strong, determined men, and no match in a million years for trained armoured halberdiers. Oh, well. They were only there for decoration, bait to draw the halberdiers into enfilading fire from a dozen Scona archers shooting at between seventy-five yards and point-blank. With any luck, a canteen of hot soup taken off the fire just before the start of this action should still be palatably warm by the time his victorious forces came back again.