Polystom (23 page)

‘I must say I didn’t know anything about this,’ said Polystom. This little conversation was happening in the early afternoon, and Stom had drunk a fair amount at lunch. ‘Uncle never mentioned anything to me about it.’

‘Oh, he wouldn’t,’ said the General, slapping away the batman with the back of his hand. ‘He wouldn’t. He respected confidentiality. A trustworthy man, your uncle.’

‘Join me, General,’ said Polystom, indicating a free seat at the table. The table had been laid for six, in the garden, in the rich autumnal afternoon light, although Polystom was actually lunching alone. ‘Some apple wine? It’s most refreshing.’

‘Thank you,’ said the General, seating himself. ‘No wine for me. I have to work, this afternoon, you know. Coffee.’ This last word, spoken more severely, was addressed to the hovering house servant.

‘I was meaning to ask you, General,’ said Polystom, emboldened by slight inebriation.

‘Ask away, my dear boy,’ said the General.

‘I was reading some of my uncle’s letters to the news-books. Their tone is quite anti-war, I’d say.’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, I’m not sure in my own mind whether my uncle was pro-war or anti. At the funeral the orations all stressed his belief in the war.’

‘Oh, Cleonicles believed in the war. He thought our tactics were skewed, that’s all. He thought he had a better way of winning.’

‘
Are
your tactics skewed?’ Polystom asked, with a slightly louche forwardness. The General smiled at him, as if to say,
I know you’re a little tipsy
and
we understand that you’ve been a little knocked off the rails by the shock of your uncle’s death
. But he didn’t say anything.

‘General,’ said Polystom. ‘Have you caught the assassins yet?’

‘Ah,’ said the General. ‘The coffee. Not yet, I’m afraid. We suspect that they are being harboured somewhere on the moon.’

‘What a frightening thought,’ said Polystom, languidly.

‘Isn’t it?’ said the General, lifting his glass of coffee to his lips. ‘One wants to trust one’s servants, but there are bad apples everywhere. Even on the best-run estates. Do you trust
your
servants, my dear boy?’

‘Let us say,’ said Polystom, feeling quite grown-up and sly, ‘I know which ones to trust. Who can say better?’

The General only smiled.

‘I’m foolish, I know,’ Stom went on. ‘But I still can’t understand what anybody could hope to gain by murdering my uncle. I’ve been trying to think it through, and I can’t see how it benefits anybody.’

‘Terrorists,’ said the General. ‘Extremely dangerous, dedicated men.’

‘Is it true they came all the way from Mudworld?’

‘Very likely.’

‘By hitching a ride on a skywhal?’

‘Stranger things,’ said the General, ‘have happened. My dear boy, we’re looking for certain papers of your uncle’s, a particular sheaf. They were stacked neatly in a green canvas box, with a C on the front. You wouldn’t happen to know where they might be?’

‘Sorry, General, I don’t recall ever having seen them.’

The General’s face was as unreadable as ever.

‘Are they important?’ Polystom asked with faux-innocence.

‘If you do see them,’ said the General, getting to his feet. ‘Let one of my aides know. Good day to you, my
dear
boy.’

‘Good day.’

Perhaps it was the presence of so many military people about the house. Or perhaps it was, as Polystom later told himself it was, a longer-standing yearning of his. The fact of the ongoing war on the Mudworld began to intrude itself into Polystom’s consciousness. He had always been aware of it, of course, but now it loomed large. Every time he saw one of the brightly uniformed staff officers coming or going about the house, or the estate, he thought to himself
you’ve been to the Mudworld, you’ve seen things and done things about which I have only imagined
. He realised, one morning, that he had never actually made up his mind about the war. He had never fashioned for himself strong feelings, pro or anti. The most he had done was soak up the prevailing atmosphere at whatever gathering he had been attending. Visiting his uncle, for example, he had assumed what he took to be his uncle’s position – which is to say, a generally conceived though nonetheless patriotic opposition to the campaign. Now he discovered that Cleonicles had been considered a hero of the war! That the old man had actually levied a platoon from amongst his own servants! And, in the bustling, elegantly purposeful atmosphere of the house as it now was, with each of the handsome officers strutting up the stairs or across the lawn, Polystom started, osmotically as it were, to soak up a different perspective on events. He fished out copies of Phanicles’
War Hymns
and Oenophanes’
War’s Glory
and read them.
Life’s but a sword’s length, at best
, said Phanicles. The great Phanicles, who had fought on Bohemia; wielded rifle and bayonet amongst the snow. A terrible thing, of course, but marvellous as well. He took both books out with him, and sat by the lake in the
whisky light of a late autumn day. He read a sonnet by Oenophanes about men marching in step, their marching pounding the ground, their hearts marching in step as well, their rhythmic pulses connected, their sensations heightened by the presence of glory. They marched over a bridge and shattered it to timbers with the sheer force of their coordinated marching.
A phenomenon
, the author observed in a tiny-print footnote at the bottom of the page,
which has often been observed by military leaders, and to prevent which men are trained to march out of step when crossing a bridge
. Polystom wasn’t so sure about that one. All the men in that poem ended up in the water. What was so glorious about that? But, turning the page, he found something more stirring:

A little stuffy, Oenophanes, but stirring stuff. Rather old-fashioned now, and nothing compared to the fragile beauties of Phanicles’ verse, but it made the pulse hurry a little.
Life’s but a sword’s length, at best!
That was true, surely. How could a man
be
a man unless he had tested himself in the crucible of battle?

The following day, Polystom came across one of General Demus’ two aides. ‘Have you found the sheaf of papers you were looking for?’ he asked.

A slightly suspicious flutter passed over the man’s face, but then he smiled again. ‘We’ve found a great deal that will be of use to the war effort, sir,’ he said. ‘I wonder if it would be convenient for you to lunch with the general today?’

‘I’d be delighted,’ said Polystom.

The two of them walked inside together. There was a
chill in the air, more characteristically autumnal than the weather had been in the previous few weeks, and lunch was being taken indoors. As they walked together, Stom asked the aide, ‘Tell me, have you been in action yourself? On the Mudworld, I mean?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Really!’

‘It’s hard fighting down there, sir,’ said the aide, although his smile seemed to undermine his words rather. ‘Hard fighting.’

‘But – you know,’ said Stom. ‘Glorious?’

‘Of course.’

The General was already at table, his other aide beside him. Polystom settled into a chair beside him, and filled his own glass with apple wine, whilst a servant portioned apple-and-salmon pate onto a plate.

‘My dear Polystom,’ said the General. ‘How are you?’

‘Bearing up, General,’ said Polystom. ‘I have something to ask you. It’s more, I suppose, that I’m asking your advice. Or your blessing.’

‘And I have something to ask you. But you go first, dear boy.’

Polystom, smiling, looked straight into the General’s eyes. His face was broad, friendly-looking, almost babyish, with ink-blue eyes and pale bristly hair. Well-formed, except for the wormy bruise-red ridge of an old scar, running down the right side of his face, wriggling like a live thing when the general smiled. ‘You told me about my uncle raising a platoon from his own estate.’

‘I did, my boy.’

‘I’d like to do the same. From my estate, on Enting. Would that be of use to the war?’

‘Indeed it would. What an excellent notion.’

‘My estate is rather larger than my uncle’s. I don’t see why I couldn’t manage say – fifty men.’

‘Tremendous.’

‘You’ll pardon my ignorance . . . I don’t know how these things work. These would be servants, of course. Officers would . . .?’

‘Would come from one of the academies on Kaspian or Berthing. I could introduce you to the lieutenants personally – over dinner. That might be pleasant.’

‘Let’s say,’ said Stom, feeling increasingly nervy and gauche, holding his wine glass by its stem like a flower and angling the cup to watch the light reflecting from its surface. ‘Let us say that I were interested in leading my own men. Would that be . . .?’ He fizzled out.

‘That would be an act,’ said the General, beaming at him, his scar curling, ‘of patriotism and bravery. Splendid! Splendid! I can see the same blood runs in your veins as ran in your uncle’s.’

‘Is that – a done thing?’

‘It is indeed. Some people prefer not to become personally involved. Your uncle, for instance, went so far as to insist upon anonymity. And there is, as you know, a degree of danger involved. But that’s the glory of it.’

‘How would it work? Practically, I mean?’

‘Well,’ said the General, raising his own glass. ‘First, a toast.’ The two glasses kissed, with an icy little
tink
, and Polystom took a long draught of wine. He felt more nervous now than he had done before. ‘Well,’ the General said again. ‘The practicalities are that it’s usually best to leave the nitty-gritty of command to your lieutenants. They’ll order the men directly, enforce discipline, that sort of thing. It’s better that way, my dear boy: they’re specifically trained for battlefield command.’

‘I quite see that,’ said Stom. His heart was pumping. Was it too late to back out? Or would a change of mind at this stage effectively brand him a coward?

‘But your presence would be an enormous benefit. For one thing, your men know and love you. That makes for a very healthy command dynamic. The men can hate the
lieutenants, for punishing them, for ordering them into lethal situations. But because they love you, they don’t hate command as such. It works very well. Respect for authority is the key to military success, you see.’

‘Would I have to be trained myself? Military training, I mean?’

The General pursed his lips and shook his head genially. ‘If you like, dear boy, but it’s not essential. Not essential at all. You know how to fire a gun? Of course you do. There’s not much else to it. This is an
excellent
decision you’ve made.’

‘It is?’

‘Certainly it is.’

Stom smiled, goofily. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased, General.’

‘I am. Fifty men, did you say? That’s a marvellous contribution to the war effort. It really is. And you’ll be getting
in
before it’s over,’ the General added with enormous gusto. ‘Think of the honour! Think how jealous other people will be when the war’s finished, when you have a distinguished record and they don’t!’

This was an altogether more appealing perspective on things. Stom took another slug of wine. His belly was warming. ‘I’ll fly back tomorrow, and gather my men together.’

‘Good idea. My aide here will have you sign the commission papers before you go. He can also take you through the hoops, as it were, so you know what to do.’

‘Thank you, General.’

‘Don’t mention it, my dear boy. Thank
you!
Now, there was just
one
thing I wanted to ask you.’ He poked at his as yet uneaten lunch with the back of his fork. ‘Come to think of it, it may involve you staying on the moon, here, for a few days more.’

‘Ask away, General.’ There was a slightly manic elation inside Stom now. He had taken the step. He was, essentially, a soldier now. He was on a level, now, with his eminent lunch partner. A petty pride swelled in his breast. He would
prove himself worthy! He would open himself to new experiences. He would gather glory to himself. The General was looking more serious now.

‘It’s to do,’ he said, ‘with your father’s assassins.’

‘My uncle’s,’ Stom corrected, automatically, but the mood had instantly shifted, chilled.

‘Yes, yes, I do beg your pardon. Your uncle’s assassins.’

‘Have you caught them?’

The General’s smile had a slightly forced look about it, as if Stom had said something indelicate. ‘Not yet. We’ll find them, to be sure. They must be hiding with somebody, somewhere on the moon. We’ll deal with them soon, don’t worry. But it’s important for morale, for authority you know, that we make an exhibition. That justice is seen to be done, and quickly. You do understand?’

‘Of course,’ said Stom, not understanding at all.

‘I think it best in a case like this to use the skin-frame.’

‘The skin-frame,’ Stom repeated, the words cooling his heart.

‘A bit gruesome, I know, but it’s imperative we send out a signal that the whole System can hear. Now, we’ve – this is hush-hush, naturally – but we’ve pulled over a couple of prisoners from the Mudworld. Dangerous men, criminals of the worst sort. We’ve flown them over in secret, and now they’re in a cellar under the house.’

‘From the Mudworld?’

‘Yes. The general population of the moon, the servants you know, don’t know what the assassins actually looked like. Only that there were three of them.’

‘I’ve heard some servants say there were four of them.’

‘Two, three, four. If the stories continued circulating, dear boy, there would be a hundred of them by month’s end. We’ll say there were three. We’ll disseminate the news that we caught all three of them on the Speckled Mountains, hiding in a cave. Then we’ll say that one of them was shot resisting his arrest, and that the other two were
captured. Then we’ll bring out our two Mudworlders, execute them by skin-frame . . . oh, shall we say, the day after tomorrow?’