Devices and Desires (8 page)

He thought for a while, lining up components and processes in his mind. Then he slid off the bench, washed his hands and face
in the slack-tub and headed across the yard to the office.

As he walked in, a clerk perched on a high stool turned to peer at him.

“Any work going?” Ziani asked.

The clerk looked at him. “Depends on what you can do,” he said.

“Not much. Well, I can fetch and carry, sweep floors and stuff.”

“Guild member?”

Ziani shook his head. “Left school when I was twelve,” he said.

The clerk grinned. “Good answer,” he said. “We’re all right for skilled men, but we can always use another porter.” He shook
his head. “Crazy, isn’t it? There’s Guildsmen sat at home idle for want of a place, and the likes of you can walk in off the
street and start immediately.”

“Good,” Ziani said. “What’s the pay?”

The clerk frowned. “Don’t push your luck,” he said.

Nice clear directions brought Ziani to the shipping bay. The factory made farm machinery — plows, chain and disk harrows,
seed drills — for export to the breadbasket countries in the far south. How they got there, very few people knew or cared;
the Mezentines sold them to dealers, who took delivery at Lonazep, on the mouth of the estuary. Ziani had never been to Lonazep,
but he knew it was outside the walls. After five hours lifting things onto carts, he was asked if he fancied volunteering
for carriage duty.

The answer to this question, in every factory in the world, is always no. Carriage duty means sitting on the box of a cart
bumping along rutted tracks in the savage wilderness outside the city. It pays time and a half, which isn’t nearly enough
for the trauma of being Outside; you sleep in a ditch or under the cart, and there are rumored to be spiders whose bite makes
your leg swell up like a pumpkin.

“Sure,” Ziani said.

(Because the sentries at the gates would be looking for a Guildsman on his own, not a driver’s mate on a cart in the long,
backed-up queue crawling out of town on the north road. When a particularly dangerous and resourceful fugitive — an abominator,
say, or a guard-killer — was on the run, they’d been known to pull the covers off every cart and scrabble about in the packing
straw in case there was anyone hiding in there, but they never bothered to look at the unskilled men on the box. Guild thinking.)

God bless the city ordinance that kept annoying heavy traffic off the streets during the day. By its blessed virtue, it was
dark when the long line of carts rolled out of the factory gate and merged with the foul-tempered glacier inching its way
toward the north gate. Heavy rain was the perfect finishing touch. It turned the streets into glue, but as far as Ziani was
concerned it was beautiful, because a sentry who has to stand at his post all night quite reasonably prefers to avoid getting
soaked to the skin, and accordingly stays in the guardhouse and peers out through the window. As it turned out, they showed
willing and made some sort of effort; a cart six places ahead in the line was pulled over, while the sentries climbed about
on it and crawled under it with lanterns. They didn’t find anything, of course; and, their point proved, they went back inside
in the dry. Ziani guessed the quota was one in ten. Sure enough, looking back over his shoulder once they were through the
arch and out the other side, he saw the third cart behind them slow to a halt, and lanterns swinging through the rain.

“You’re new, then,” said the driver next to him. He hadn’t spoken since they left the factory.

“That’s right,” Ziani said. “Actually, this is my first time out of town.”

The driver nodded. “It sucks,” he said. “The people smell and the food’s shit.”

“So I heard,” Ziani said.

“So why’d you volunteer?”

“I don’t know, really,” Ziani replied. “Suppose I always wondered if it’s really as bad as they say.”

“It is.”

“Well, now I know.”

The driver grinned. “Maybe next time you’ll listen when people tell you things.”

A mile out from the north gate the road forked. Half the traffic would stay on the main road, the other half would take the
turning that followed the river past the old quarries down to Lonazep. Ziani’s original plan had been to try and get himself
on a ship going south, maybe even all the way down to the Gulf, as far from the Eternal Republic as you could go without falling
off the edge of the world. Seeing the scrap of paper on the bench in the storeroom had changed all that. If he went south,
it’d mean he was never coming back. Instead, he waited till they stopped for the night at Seventh Milestone. The driver crawled
under the tarpaulin, pointing out that there was only room for one.

“No problem,” Ziani said. “I’ll be all right under the cart.”

As soon as he was satisfied the driver was asleep, Ziani emerged and started to walk. Geography wasn’t his strong suit, but
as soon as the sun came up he’d be able to see the mountains across the plain, due west. Going west meant he’d be away for
a while, maybe a very long time, but sooner or later he’d be back.

As soon as Duke Orsea realized he’d lost the battle, the war and his country’s only hope of survival, he ordered a general
retreat. It was the only sensible thing he’d done all day.

One hour had made all the difference. An hour ago, when he’d led the attack, the world had been a very different place. He’d
had an army of twenty-five thousand men, one tenth of the population of the Duchy of Eremia. He had a commanding position,
a fully loaded supplies and equipment train, a carefully prepared battle plan, the element of surprise, the love and trust
of his people, and hope. Now, as the horns blared and the ragged lines crumpled and dissolved into swarms of running dots,
he had the miserable job of getting as many as he could of the fourteen thousand stunned, bewildered and resentful survivors
away from the enemy cavalry and back to the relative safety of the mountains. One hour to change the world; not many men could
have done such a thorough job. It took a particular genius to destroy one’s life so comprehensively in so short a time.

A captain of archers, unrecognizable from a face-wound, ran past him, shouting something he didn’t catch. More bad news, or
just confirmation of what he already knew; or maybe simple abuse; it didn’t greatly matter, because now that he’d given the
order, there was precious little he could do about anything. If the soldiers got as far as the thorn-scrub on the edge of
the marshes, and if they stopped there and re-formed instead of running blindly into the bog, and if they were still gullible
enough to obey his orders after everything he’d let them in for, he might still be relevant. Right now, he was nothing more
than a target, and a conspicuous one at that, perched on a stupid white horse and wearing stupid fancy armor.

It hurt him, worse than the blade of the broken-off arrow wedged in his thigh, to turn his back on the dead bodies of his
men, scattered on the flat moor like a spoiled child’s toys. Once he reined in his horse, turned and rode away, he acknowledged,
he’d be breaking a link between himself and his people that he’d never be able to repair. But that was self-indulgence, he
knew. He’d forgone the luxury of guilt when he bent his neck to the bait and tripped the snare. The uttermost mortification;
his state of mind, his agonized feelings, didn’t matter anymore. It was his duty to save himself, and thereby reduce the casualty
list by one. He nudged the horse with his heels.

The quickest way to the thorn-hedge was across the place where the center of his line had been. His horse was a dainty stepper,
neatly avoiding the tumbled bodies, the carelessly discarded weapons that could cut a delicate hoof to the quick. He saw wounded
men, some screaming, some dragging themselves along by their hands, some struggling to draw a few more breaths, as though
there was any point. He could get off the stupid white horse, load a wounded man into the saddle and take his chances on foot.
Possibly, if there’d only been one, he’d have done it. But there wasn’t just one, there were
thousands;
and that made it impossible, for some reason.

Orsea had seen tragedy before, and death. He’d even seen mess, great open slashed wounds, clogged with mud and dust, where
a boar had caught a sluggish huntsman, or a careless forester had misjudged the fall of a tree. He’d been there once when
a granary had collapsed with fifteen men inside; he’d been one of the first to scrabble through the smashed beams and fallen
stone blocks, and he’d pulled two men out of there with his own hands, saved their lives. He’d done it because he couldn’t
do otherwise; he couldn’t turn his back on pain and injury, any more than he could stick his hand in a fire and keep it there.
An hour ago, he’d been that kind of man.

A horseman came thundering up behind him. His first thought was that the enemy cavalry was on to him, but the rider slowed
and called out his name; his name and his stupid title.

He recognized the voice. “Miel?” he yelled back.

Miel Ducas; he’d never have recognized him. Ten years ago he’d have traded everything he had for Miel Ducas’ face, which seemed
to have such an irresistible effect on pretty young girls. Now, though, he couldn’t see Miel’s nose and mouth through a thick
splatter of dirt and blood.

“There’s another wing,” Miel was saying; it took Orsea a heartbeat or so to realize he was talking about the battle. “Another
wing of fucking cavalry; reserve, like they need it. They’re looping out on the far left, I guess they’re planning on cutting
us off from the road. I’ve still got six companies of lancers, but even if we get there in time we won’t hold them long, and
they’ll chew us to buggery.”

Orsea sighed. He wanted to shrug his shoulders and ride on — he actually wanted to do that; his own callous indifference shocked
him. “Leave it,” he heard himself say. “Those lancers are worth more to us than a regiment of infantry. Keep them out of harm’s
way, and get them off the field as quick as you can.”

Miel didn’t answer, just pulled his horse’s head round and stumbled away. Orsea watched him till he was out of sight over
the horizon. It’d be nice to think that over there somewhere, screened by the line of stunted thorns, was that other world
of an hour ago, and that Miel would arrive there to find the army, pristine and unbutchered, in time to turn them back.

Orsea still wasn’t quite sure what had happened. Last night, camped in the middle of the flat plain, he’d sent out his observers.
They started to come back around midnight. The enemy, they said, was more or less where they were supposed to be. At most
there were sixteen thousand of them; four thousand cavalry, perched on the wings; between them, ten thousand infantry, and
the artillery. The observers knew their trade, what to look for, how to assess numbers by counting camp fires, and as each
one reported in, Orsea made a note on his map. Gradually he built up the picture. The units he was most worried about, the
Ceftuines and the southern heavy infantry (the whole Mezentine army was made up of foreign mercenaries, apart from the artillery),
were camped right in the middle, just as he’d hoped. His plan was to leave them till last; break up the negligible Maderi
infantry and light cavalry on either side of the center, forcing the Mezentines to commit their heavy cavalry to a long, grueling
charge across the flat, right down the throats of his eight thousand archers. That’d be the end of them, the Bareng heavy
dragoons and the lancers. If a tenth of them made it through the arrow-storm, they’d be doing outstandingly well; and then
Orsea’s own lancers would take them in the flank, drive them back on their own lines as the wholesale roll-up started. In
would come the horse-archers from the extreme ends of the line, shepherding the Mezentines in on their own center, where the
Ceftuines would’ve been standing helplessly, watching the world collapse all around them. By the time the fighting reached
them, they’d be hemmed in on all sides by their own defeated, outflanked, surrounded comrades. The lancers would close the
box, and the grand finale would be a long, one-sided massacre.

It had been that, all right.

A deep, low hum far away to his left; Orsea stood up in his stirrups, trying to get a better view, but all he could see was
dust. He couldn’t even remember which of his units was over that way now. Every part of his meticulously composed line was
out of place. When the disaster struck, he’d tried to fight back, pulling men out of what he thought was the killing zone,
only to find he’d sent them somewhere even worse. He didn’t understand; that was what made him want to sob with anger. He
still didn’t know how they were doing it, how the bloody things
worked;
all he’d seen was the effects, the clouds and swarms of steel bolts, three feet long and half an inch thick, shot so fast
they flew flat, not looped like an ordinary arrow. He’d been there when a volley struck the seventh lancers. First, a low
whistling, like a flock of starlings; next, a black cloud resolving itself into a skyful of tiny needles, hanging in the air
for a heartbeat before swooping, following a trajectory that made no sense, broke all the known rules of flight; then pitching,
growing bigger so horribly fast (like the savage wild animals that chase you in dreams), then dropping like hailstones all
around him; and the shambles, the noise, the suddenness of it all. So many extraordinary images, like a vast painting crammed
with incredible detail: a man nailed to the ground by a bolt that hit him in the groin, drove straight through his horse and
into the ground, fixing them both so firmly they couldn’t even squirm; two men riveted together by the same bolt; a man hit
by three bolts simultaneously, each one punched clean through his armor, and still incredibly alive; a great swath of men
and horses stamped into the ground, like a careless footstep on a flowerbed full of young seedlings. Just enough time for
him to catch fleeting glimpses of these unbelievable sights, and then the next volley fell, two minutes of angle to the left,
flattening another section of the line. He couldn’t even see where the bolts were coming from, they didn’t seem to rise from
the surface of the earth, they just materialized or condensed in mid-air, like snow.