Colours in the Steel (52 page)

‘We’re staying,’ Temrai said quietly. ‘We’re carrying on until we win. That’s all.’

‘Temrai.’ His aunt Lanaten, seventy years old and nearly blind, knelt painfully beside him. ‘There’s no need. You’ve done your best, nobody will blame you for not doing what isn’t possible. Perimadeia can’t be taken, it’s protected by magic. You can’t fight the gods.’

‘Magic be damned,’ Temrai grunted, his eyes closed. ‘That wasn’t magic, it was a recipe out of an old book. I read the book myself. But they weren’t making the stuff while I was there, of that I’m certain.’

‘A book?’ someone queried. ‘You mean it’s something people can make, not magic at all?’

‘Of course,’ Temrai said. ‘It’s just naphtha, pitch and sulphur. Why do you think I’ve been buying up every jar of the filthy mess I could lay my hands on?’

Uncle Anakai’s eyebrows shot up. ‘You think
you
can produce this fire-oil?’ he said.

‘Of course. Anybody can make anything if they’ve got the knowledge and the tools. It’s just a matter of trial and error till we get the proportions exactly right.’

‘So we could use it against them,’ said someone else. ‘Are we going to?’

Temrai nodded. ‘Yes, eventually,’ he said. ‘When we get to that stage. More to the point, I know how we can protect ourselves against it in future rather more effectively than we did today. It’s only a matter of time.’

‘Temrai, fourteen hundred people
died
today.’ That was Ceuscai, sounding angry; he’s starting to presume a bit too much, Temrai said to himself. ‘That’s more than die in a year under normal circumstances.’

‘We’re at war, Ceuscai. People get killed in a war, it happens.’

‘Not like that they don’t.’ Ceuscai was definitely angry now. Temrai remembered that he’d been in charge of the archers, he’d have had a first-class view of what happened on the rafts. Even so, he was speaking out of turn. ‘Temrai, I don’t care if it wasn’t witchcraft, people
believe
it was witchcraft and you’re not going to be able to change their minds. You’ll lose them, Temrai. It’s not something they can be expected to do, take on the gods, everything they believe in. For pity’s sake, man, you ought to be able to see that for yourself.’

Temrai stood up. ‘This council is dismissed,’ he said abruptly. ‘And now I’ve got work to do, and so have all of you.’

When they’d gone he sank down onto the bed, his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped round them, his eyes wide open. He felt like a man who’s stared directly into a bright sun; there were flashes and splodges of hot colour on the surface of his eyes, even when he closed them. The effect of staring at the sun fades sooner or later; but these colours came from the light of the burning rafts, and he doubted that he would ever be rid of them.

Thinking about them brought to mind other flames, other people wearing coats of fire; strong images in his mind of people running between the rows of tents, clothes and hair burning, terror and unbearable pain in their faces and voices, while horsemen rode backwards and forwards propagating the fire, deliberately making things worse instead of trying to help, the way a normal human being would surely do. He remembered seeing such things from underneath a wagon; it was burning too, but it was the only place where the horsemen might not notice him, and he’d far rather have burnt than had to endure the sheer malevolence of those men in their black armour.

Above all he remembered the face of a man illuminated in the glow of fire, the horseman who’d stopped and sat watching, easy and relaxed like someone who was at home in the saddle, one hand lightly resting on the reins while the other held a blazing torch. He hadn’t been there for more than a minute, but that minute had lasted a long time; quite possibly it still wasn’t over. It was so clear in Temrai’s mind, the absolute horror that filled him as he lay on his stomach watching the horseman, praying he wouldn’t turn his head and notice him, while the heat from the fire overhead roasted the skin on his back and his tears poured down his face in just the same way the rain had done this morning.

It was strange, after all these years, to be able to put a name to that well-remembered face; Colonel Bardas Loredan, currently in command of the Perimadeian army.

Put the steel into the fire and watch it change colour; straw to orange to brown to purple to blue to green to black. According to some smiths he’d talked to, there’s a certain point at which something happens to heated steel. Make it hot enough and the flexibility changes to cutting hardness, at which point the skill lies in tempering it, quenching the heat with skill and care in such a way that the steel stays hard without becoming brittle. It’s a delicate business, the perfect balance of fire and water; although there are some smiths who prefer to temper in some kind of oil, and others who use blood. Blood, they say, puts something into the steel at that crucial moment of tempering, an extra touch of hardness on the outside of the metal that doesn’t effect the flexibility and resilience of the core.

The assault had failed, he admitted that. He could force them to hide under the parapet with his stones and arrows, just as he’d hidden once upon a time, but he couldn’t cross the water because of the fire. He could pitch in fire of his own, so that their houses would burn and their women and children would be made to wear fire on their backs and in their hair, but if he did that, there wouldn’t be horsemen; and what would be the point of fire without horsemen? If a thing’s worth doing, after all, it’s worth doing properly.

So they’d just have to sit there under the walls, waiting for something to turn up. Meanwhile, the people inside the city, and in particular Colonel Bardas Loredan, would have a very long minute of their own to keep still for. In fact, he reflected, bearing in mind how long that minute’s already been going on for, there’s no real reason why it should ever end.

 

On his way to the gatehouse, Loredan stopped off at the kitchens, waited till nobody was looking, and sneaked an empty flour sack under his coat. It proved to be plenty large enough to hold the contents of his sleeping quarters (one shirt, bloodstained and torn, only fit for polishing-rags; one pair of boots; one blanket, property of the state, rather less ancient and threadbare than his own; a writing tablet, bottle of ink, various papers; a set of plain brass reckoning counters; a cheap bone comb with seven teeth missing; a roll of bandage, frequently washed). He slung the now-full sack over his shoulder and left the gatehouse, heading for the Patriarch’s lodgings.

‘He’s ill,’ said the clerk, in reply to his request to see Alexius. ‘Much too ill to see visitors. I’ll tell him you were here.’

‘That’s all right, I’ll tell him myself. Which way did you say it was?’

The clerk blocked his way. ‘You can’t go in there,’ he said. ‘It’s restricted. State security. Patriarch Alexius is busy with important work for the Security Council.’

Loredan looked the clerk up and down, then eased him gently out of the way. ‘You did your best,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Now get out of my way before I break your arm.’

I shall have to get out of the habit of being obeyed
, he told himself, before I get to be really obnoxious. The poor lad was only trying to make sure Alexius gets some sleep.

In fact, the Patriarch had been awake for half an hour or so by the time Loredan found his door and knocked on it.

‘You don’t mind me dropping in like this, do you?’ he asked. ‘Only, there’s something I wanted to tell you.’

The Patriarch welcomed him in. ‘Please excuse my not getting up, but I’m feeling a bit fragile after all the excitement. There’s wine in the jug and some rolls in that basket there; a bit stale, I’m afraid, but...’

‘Good heavens above!’ Loredan exclaimed. ‘Food. I remember food; we used to eat it when I was young. Want some?’ he added with his mouth full.

‘No, no. You carry on. When was the last time you had a proper meal, anyway?’

Loredan shrugged. ‘You sound just like my mother. How are you feeling, anyway? Nothing serious, I hope.’

Alexius shook his head. ‘Just worn out,’ he said. ‘When I got back from the Council meeting, that old woman of a clerk put me straight to bed, as if I were a five year old with a temperature. And then,’ he admitted, ‘I fell asleep. You look like you could do with some rest yourself.’

‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Fortunately, I’m now a civilian again, so I can sleep as late as I want. They fired me,’ he explained, ‘for my mishandling of the defences. Nicest thing the government of this city’s ever done for me,’ he added, picking up another roll and tearing it in half. ‘Good bread, this. Obviously the word stale means something quite other when you’re this high up the hill.’

‘Do you mean to say you’ve been relieved of your command? This is outrageous.’ Alexius started to swing his legs out of the bed. ‘I shall go and see the Prefect immediately. Of all the—’

‘Please.’ Loredan raised a hand until he’d swallowed a mouthful. ‘Do no such thing. If that’s the power and the glory, they’re welcome to it.’

‘I wasn’t thinking of you,’ Alexius replied. ‘I was thinking of the city. Who’s going to do your job? If that fool of a Prefect imagines for one moment—’

Loredan grinned. ‘I think appointing my replacement was the last thing on his mind,’ he interrupted. ‘The poor man was fighting for his political survival.’ He told Alexius what had happened, including the Prefect’s firm assumption that the fire-oil had been witchcraft. ‘Which is why I thought I’d better mention it to you,’ he added. ‘If his enemies are using this public outcry thing they’ve cooked up to persecute him with, he might well try and pass it off on you as well as me. I get the impression he believes that aggravation isn’t something you hoard, it’s something you share.’

Alexius made a rude noise, quite inappropriate for a man in his exalted position. ‘I’m afraid you could well be right,’ he said. ‘Well, let him. I’ve been telling people we don’t do magic for twenty-five years, and I’ll carry on telling them that, because it’s true. Besides, there’s no such thing as the criminal offence of witchcraft in Perimadeian law; that’s right, isn’t it? You’re a lawyer, you know these things.’

Loredan shook his head. ‘My clerk knows the law,’ he replied, ‘I just kill people. Or I used to. But as far as I know, you’re right; at least, in my ten years in the racket I never heard of anything like that. I didn’t tell the Prefect that, of course, because if I had he’d have gone away and thought up something else to charge me with.’ He slid back in his chair, trying to ignore the pain of exhaustion in his knees and calves. ‘I’m not worried about him and his damned lawsuits,’ he went on. ‘In fact, I’m not really worried about anything any more. I’m too tired, for one thing.’

Alexius lay back and stared at the mosaics for a while. ‘You think the danger’s passed, then?’ he said. ‘They’ve given up the idea of a direct assault.’

Loredan nodded. ‘For the time being,’ he replied. ‘They’d have to build more equipment before they could have another go; ladders and rams and engines and the like. Also, they’re going to have to think of some way of protecting themselves against the fire-oil.’ He grinned. ‘Assuming we don’t tell them we’ve outlawed its use, of course,’ he added. ‘And as far as I know, there isn’t anything you can do about the stuff. Well, that’s not strictly true. You can use big rawhide canopies to keep it from actually landing on your head, but I suspect that sounds better in theory than in practice. Imagine trying to climb a scaling ladder holding a burning umbrella over your head.’

‘So what do you think their next move will be?’

‘I don’t know,’ Loredan admitted. ‘In their shoes, I’d probably try and find someone inside the city who’d open the gates in return for a large sum of money. Except I’d have tried that first, instead of fooling about with rafts and building all those catapults.’

Alexius yawned. ‘The thing I still don’t understand is why they’re doing this. True, they have a legitimate grudge against us, but it’s over ten years old. Why wait so long?’

Loredan didn’t reply to that; instead, he finished off the last of the rolls and washed it down with the dregs of the wine. ‘I think I’ll go home now,’ he said. ‘And tomorrow I’d better see whether I’ve still got a business to run. With luck, in a fortnight’s time all this will seem like a horrible dream.’

 

Venart stood on the quay, looking at his ship and not saying anything.

‘It could have been worse,’ his sister said, for the tenth time that morning. ‘They might have sailed off in it, and then we’d have no cargo, no ship and no way of getting home. As it is—’

‘As it is,’ Venart replied bitterly, ‘we’ve still got the ship. And all my beautiful rope’s somewhere at the bottom of the harbour.’

‘You can’t blame them really,’ Vetriz said. ‘If you thought your city was about to be sacked by a merciless and fanatical enemy, and there happened to be a ship standing by in the harbour that could get you to safety—’

‘The ship’s insured,’ Venart said. ‘The cargo wasn’t. And even if they were going to steal my ship, there wasn’t any call to go throwing the cargo over the side. It wouldn’t have taken them that long to unload it onto the dock.’

‘Oh, well, it’s done now. And we’re still alive, and we can go home. Really, there’s no earthly reason why we should hang about here any longer.’

Venart kicked a stone into the water. ‘Somebody’s going to have to pay me compensation,’ he said at last, ‘even if I’ve got to take them to law to get it.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘How’d it be if I had a word with Bardas Loredan? I’m sure he’d see that we can’t be expected to bear the loss ourselves. After all, the only reason we were here was to bring in desperately needed supplies—’

‘Ven.’

‘Don’t you Ven me. It’s your money as much as mine.’ A promising new approach occurred to him. ‘If it was just my money I could afford to be philosophical about it, but where your capital’s concerned I have a duty as your trustee—’