Memory (60 page)

Instead, Monach reflected bitterly, we're all going to be killed; and some other bugger, someone who hasn't had to put up with Spenno and Galand Dev and all the mind-meltingly annoying
politics
they go in for in this horrible place, is going to get all the glory and be a footnote in the appendix at the back of the history of the world. And—

And I wouldn't have let down my friends. That's the worst – no (he decided firmly as he dragged on his wet boots), no, dying's going to be the worst thing, but failing Cordo, and Xipho, when they trusted me – the Earwig, they'll say, give him a simple job to do, and a weapon that sneezes hellfire and lightning to do it with, and he screws up, all because of a little spot of rain. Should've known better than to trust—

‘Are you coming or not?' someone was yelling. ‘They're coming up the east road. There's bloody
thousands
of them.'

And why are wet boots so much harder to get your feet into than dry ones? That said, a man in charge, commander of the garrison of the most vital strategic point in the world, ought surely to be entitled to more than one pair of fucking boots—

Monach stumbled out of the drawing office, trying to find the right hole in his sword belt by feel alone and failing, and splashed through the puddles on his way to the watchtower stair. People everywhere, of course; most of them foundrymen, standing about looking miserable, muttering, not showing any inclination to make themselves useful – damn it, better that they should be trying to open the gates and let the enemy in than just standing about getting under hard-working soldiers' feet. If they were actively hostile, we could massacre the whole useless lot of them, and then we'd only have the enemy to put up with—

Wet boots on the wet wooden stairs, squelch. Rain gets in your eyes, makes them blurry, stings. Up to the top of the stairs, up to the rampart – people getting out of his way, that's more like it – and look over, and – never seen so many people all together in one place before in my life. Not a parade in Sansory, or Torcea hiring fair, or Formal Service at the Chapel Royal, when everybody who's anybody piles into the great courtyard, pushing and shoving and trampling each other underfoot to get a seat and hear the Chaplain in Ordinary's sermon (Cordo, shooting his mouth off in front of all those people; must be a sight to make a pig laugh). Yes; you measure scenes like that by the thousand, but this is tens of thousands, a huge army—

The enemy, coming to get us, the defending garrison. Shit.

Never wanted to be a soldier. Not cut out for soldiering, let alone being in charge. Perfectly happy doing research in the library, teaching school, running murderous little errands for Father Tutor, rolling out of bed at three in the morning for the first office of the day. Leading armies, preparing defences, no. We must've done defending small wooden fortresses against overwhelming odds in sixth year, but maybe I was off sick that day, or I had a music lesson.

‘Right.' The loudness of his own voice shocked Monach. But ‘right' was always a reasonable place to start. ‘I want five, seven and eight companies here on the front elevation. Two, three and four on the other three sides. One, six and nine in reserve in the yard, ten's going to be a flying reserve on the walls – I want you to stand by, wherever the action is, get yourselves there soonest. There's a fucking lot of them, but the only way they're getting in is through the gate or over the wall, and it's like my old gran used to say, doesn't matter how big the bottle is if it's only got a little tiny spout. Now, unless they're incredibly stupid, they won't try and burn us out with all this volcano dust on the premises, so that's one less thing to piss ourselves about—'

‘Sir,' someone said (someone really insignificant, because of the half-hearted attempt at respect), ‘the Flutes. Aren't we going to use the Flutes?'

Monach rolled his eyes; theatrical gesture, helps relieve the pent-up fury. ‘Don't be so stupid,' he growled, ‘it's
raining
. The Flutes don't work in the wet, remember? That's why we haven't even tested them yet.'

‘Actually.' Another interruption; painfully familiar voice. Meanwhile, the front line of the enemy is now so close, we can see the buckles on their belts. ‘Actually,' Spenno whined, ‘so long as we take care not to let the wet get into the volcano dust or the touch-holes—'

‘Fuck you, Spenno, you told me they wouldn't work.'

The most annoying man in the world shook his supremely irritating head. ‘That's not quite what I said. I said we ought to hold off testing till it stopped pissing it down, because they
might
not work in the wet and you really do want optimum conditions for scientific testing of a prototype. They may work. They may not.' You evil bastard, Spenno, I ought to have you stuffed down the throat of a Flute and farted up into the biggest cloud in the sky. ‘Got to be worth a try, though, surely.'

‘No.' Monach surprised himself by the amount of pleasure he got from just that one word. ‘Use your common sense, why can't you? They know we've got the Flutes, they're expecting us to use them. Means they'll be holding back, expecting us to lure them into a trap, with the Flutes as the spring; us not using them'll confuse the hell out of the bastards. We try and set them off and they don't go, we'll lose the only advantage we've got.' Not bad, Monach had to admit, for the spur of the moment, when I'm still three parts asleep, not bad at all. ‘We do this the old-fashioned way, like I tell you to, or we might as well open the gates now and have done with it. Now, is anybody else going to waste my time making me
explain
things, or can we get on with the job?'

Moment's embarrassed silence – confidence-inspiring generals don't throw temper tantrums – followed by wholesale scurrying about. Monach paused, standing still while everybody else was moving, and spared a moment to review the dispositions he'd just made. Again, not bad at all. The three best companies, full strength, best morale, haven't yet realised about the hiding-to-nothing aspect or don't care, to maintain the point of maximum impact; three companies in the yard, standing by or holding ready if they burst straight in through the gate. Flying reserve: where did that idea pop up from? Must've read about it in some book. Monach peered out to see if there were battering rams, scaling ladders or siege towers anywhere among the advancing multitudes, but all he could see was rain and more rain. Fucking arsehole-of-the-universe Tulice.

For what seemed like a very long time, they seemed to be moving very slowly – until they were very close, and then it became apparent that they were in fact moving very fast.
I've forgotten something, I've bloody forgotten something
shrieked a voice in Monach's head as the soldiers of five, seven and eight company bunched up against the rampart palings, trying to make themselves as small as possible under helmets, behind stakes.
There must be something I've forgotten to do, because I haven't really done very much, just these men here, those men over there; surely a general ought to be studying maps, sending runners, busy, busy, busy. He shouldn't just be standing here waiting for stuff to happen—

The enemy had stopped. Monach hadn't seen them stop, he'd been kneeling down trying to get his toes the last three-quarters of an inch into his boots, and when he'd looked up again, there the bastards were, standing still in the rain, getting wet, not moving.
Why're they doing that? What're they up to? Shit, I wish we had something nasty we could throw at them or shoot at them.
He leaned out as far as he dared (not very far) hoping to see something significant, but all he got was two eyefuls of cold water.

Do something, please, don't just stand there.
But there was something; the front the-gods-only-knew-how-many ranks were standing still, but behind them there were large, rain-mist-shrouded contingents of men moving about; the enemy taking up his position, skilful chess moves that a competent general ought to have been able to read like a book, but Monach couldn't; all he could see was vague grey shapes shifting about through a curtain of flying wet. Calm down, he told himself, let's think about this. They're out there, we're up here, exactly how much scope is there for tactical genius? Still only got two options, you bastards: through the gate, or over the walls. And they're both covered (assuming I haven't forgotten something).

They're waiting
. No sweat, we can wait too.
They're waiting, because they're expecting to be blasted at by the Flutes. Can they see them?
Good point; no, dammit, they can't, because I had the smart idea of masking them with shutters. They don't know where the danger is.
They don't know what to do next.

Monach could hardly keep from laughing.
Bastards
, he thought.
Call themselves soldiers, don't know what to do. Serve them all right if I suddenly whisked the shutters away and thundered them all into bloody shit. Only I can't, because it's—

Rain trickled down his forehead, down his face, over his lip into his mouth, as he suddenly realised.
Yes, but it's not raining in the animal-fodder store.
Namely, the long rectangular wooden building whose longest side was directly parallel to the gate, at a distance no greater than thirty yards. Good, weathertight slate roof; of course, we'd have to tear down the lath-and-plaster wall – would that bring the roof down? Fuck, it'd really help if I knew how buildings work, or if there was a book you could look stuff up in. But assuming not: we drag down the shutters and prop them up in front of the Flutes; they force the gates, and when they're pouring in, jammed tight in the gateway like a turd in a constipated bum, we give fire—

Brilliant
, Monach thought.
Never learned that at school, can't teach stuff like that, it comes from inside.
Of course, it'd mean having to move the Flutes . . .

‘Spenno!' Hadn't meant to yell that loud; but here he was, little black tendrils of sodden hair crawling down onto his forehead. ‘The Flutes. Got to get them off the tower, into the fodder shed. Mustn't let the enemy see what we're about. Can you do it?'

Spenno stared at him, swearing silently under his breath. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘But I'll need—'

Monach grinned like a lunatic. ‘Help yourself. Take command. You're in charge, and give me a shout when you're done, or if the fuckers attack in the meantime. Otherwise I'm going to the drawing office for something to eat. All right?'

Spenno nodded. ‘Fine,' he said, his mind a long, long way away from inanities such as military hierarchies, chains of command. Then he started calling out names, cursing and swearing aloud, waving his arms. Monach smiled. Someone was in charge at last, and they wouldn't be needing him for quite some time. Fine.

He reached the drawing office unmolested. No food anywhere to be seen, nobody to send out to fetch some; so he lay down on his bed in the corner of the main room, and (just for five minutes) closed his eyes—

‘Xipho,' he says.
(And who was he?)
‘You're looking very well. Your condition suits you.' He makes it sound like vampirism or lycanthropy; but she's used to him after all those years, and smiles him down like a man whistling to a boisterous dog.

‘Ciartan.' She in turn makes his name sound like a criticism, a familiar complaint, wantonly unheeded, just this side of nagging. ‘Wonderful that you could spare the time.'

(And he, himself, the mere Earwig is there too, sitting in the corner of the room – no, it's high up in a tower, circular, no corners; but anywhere the Earwig happens to sit is a corner, by definition. Strange, to see himself through Ciartan's eyes, even though it's only a dream—)

‘Always got time for you, Xipho, you know that.' A reproach, and a point scored. Reckoning back seven years to the start of their duel, that makes the score fifteen thousand, four hundred and ninety-seven to Ciartan, fifteen thousand, four hundred and eighty-one to Xipho. ‘So, when's it due?'

So calm, her smile. ‘Winter solstice,' she says promptly, ‘give or take a day or so. Talking of which,' she goes on, just a hint of mischief showing in the cracks under her voice, ‘we were meaning to ask, would you like to be godfather?'

Ciartan can feel the pressure on the perimeter of his circle: a hostile intention, if ever there was one. But he doesn't want to fight on this ground quite yet, so he makes a show of turning to Rethman, as though noticing him for the first time. ‘Hello, Rethman, how's tricks?' he asks; a question that expects and requires no answer. Then he turns his face back towards Xipho, drawn like a lodestone. ‘I'd be absolutely delighted, of course,' he says. ‘Though I've never been a godfather before. What'll I have to do?'

‘Oh, nothing much.' Ciartan realises she's got something in her hands –
embroidery
, by God, Xipho Dorunoxy is sitting there with a belly on her like a beached whale, and she's doing embroidery. Ciartan can't help shooting a very swift glance at Rethman;
what in hell's name have you done to her, you bastard?
‘You hold him up while Father Tutor says the magic words, then you say “Yes” or something equally incisive—'

‘Father Tutor?' He isn't surprised, or if he is he doesn't give a damn; but he's trying to make it sound like an enormous issue. ‘Since when has Father Tutor lowered himself to doing the births, marriages and deaths stuff?'

Xipho shrugs. ‘Since I asked him, actually. He seemed quite pleased to be involved.'

‘Bloody hell.' Ciartan can't help being impressed; it's as if she'd just told him that she was paying some god five quarters a week to do her laundry. ‘Well, in that case I'd be honoured – thanks.' He needs a moment to adjust his guard and settle himself on his feet after an unexpected backwards jump out of danger. ‘So, Rethman, how are things in the charcoal business?'