Sitting still wasn’t going to solve anything. He stood up (
since when did my knees hurt so much? I’m getting old
) and hobbled rather self-consciously across to the timber stack, where Habsurai’s people were hoisting up the last few logs on the big crane. For all his weary, jaundiced mood he couldn’t help stopping and gazing at the spectacle, a hundred-year-old oak trunk whisked up and flown through the air like a child’s toy.
We can do this sort of thing now; how did we ever learn to do this? If only we had a future, what a future we’d have
. . .
Then the crane broke. Later, when the engineers examined it, they found that the strut that supported the beam that the counterweight hung from had been cut from wet, star-shaken wood, and the stresses of the crane had torn it apart; a real novice’s mistake, if ever there was one. As the counterweight plummeted to the ground, the magnificent flying oak that Temrai had been admiring dropped sharply, slipped one of the two loops of its cradle and swung wildly, out of control on the remaining loop. It was coming straight at him and for some reason he was too astonished to move -
- Until someone jumped at him, like a cat pouncing, and pushed him off his feet just as the butt end of the log whirled above him, pushing aside the air in more or less the exact spot where he’d been standing. He tried to lift his head, but a hand thrust it down, grinding his nose into the dirt while the log lurched back again on its return swing; it crashed into the side of the crane, expending the last of its force.
‘Are you all right?’ The voice sounded anxious, and familiar. ‘Temrai? Are you all right?’
‘Mmm.’ Using his arms, Temrai pushed himself up off the ground. His mouth was full of mud. ‘Thank you,’ he said, just as he was in the act of remembering who the man was. ‘Dassascai? Is that you?’
‘Yes,’ Dassascai replied. ‘I think I’ve put my shoulder out. That’d be a real nuisance; I’ve got a couple of hunded ducks to kill and pluck.’
Very cautiously, Temrai stood up. There were people running towards him from all directions. ‘It’s all right,’ he told them, ‘no real harm done—’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Dassascai muttered.
Temrai held out a hand and helped him up. ‘That’s twice,’ he said. ‘You seem to have a knack of showing up just when I’m about to get myself killed.’
‘Really?’ Dassascai wriggled his shoulders and cried out in pain. ‘Well, you can show your appreciation by sending along a couple of men to kill my ducks. And a doctor wouldn’t come amiss, either. Sorry, did I just say something funny?’
Temrai shook his head. ‘You lived in Ap’ Escatoy for years, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ Dassascai replied. ‘Most of my adult life, as it happens.’
‘Thought so. I think you might find your idea of a doctor isn’t the same as ours. I thought I’d better warn you, that’s all.’
Dassascai grunted. ‘Even your pig-ignorant medicine men ought to know how to put back a wrenched shoulder, ’ he said. ‘If they want to slit open a few ducks while they’re at it, it won’t bother me.’
‘That’s all right, then. Just so long as you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’
In the event, all it took was a sharp, controlled twist, enough to make Dassascai yell with pain but over in a moment. ‘You’ll live,’ the sawbones said cheerfully. ‘Get some rest if you can,’ and, to Temrai, ‘See to it he’s excused duty for a day or two. What does he do?’
‘Kills ducks,’ Temrai replied.
The doctor nodded. ‘Repetitive arm and shoulder movements, not a good idea. Put someone else on it, give this one a break.’
‘Certainly,’ Temrai replied. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
For some reason he found it difficult to raise a volunteer for duck-slaying duty; in the end he had to take a work detail off ditch-digging, and even then they complained about it. Then he went back to his tent, where he’d left Dassascai lying on the bed. (Tilden was away supervising the felt-makers). ‘How’s it now?’ he asked.
‘Evil,’ Dassascai replied with a grin. ‘Well, you wouldn’t expect me to say, it’s fine, really; not when I’ve got a chance of a lifetime to milk a genuine obligation on the part of the head of state.’
Temrai smiled. ‘Be my guest,’ he said. ‘Like I said, that’s twice now. Anybody’d think you were my guardian angel.’
‘Enlightened self-interest. How else was I going to get out of doing those goddamn ducks?’
It was cool and pleasant in the tent, and hot and unpleasant outside; and Temrai remembered that he hadn’t stopped for a rest for almost thirty-six hours. ‘Have a drink with me,’ he said. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
‘Oh yes?’
Temrai nodded as he unstoppered the jug. ‘Pancakes, ’ he said. ‘You haven’t inherited your uncle’s recipe, by any chance?’
Dassascai laughed. ‘Oh, the recipe’s plain enough - eggs, flour, water and a little goose-fat to lubricate the pan. He told me so himself, many times. Problem is, he never actually followed it himself.’
‘Oh.’
‘He was that sort of man,’ Dassascai went on, taking the cup from Temrai’s hand. ‘He never could bear the thought of anybody being able to do the one thing he was better at than anybody else. Can’t say I blame him, really; if you’re the undisputed master of a popular skill, what reason would you ever have for teaching people how to replace you?’
‘I suppose so,’ Temrai said. ‘But if I’d been him, I wouldn’t have wanted my discovery to die with me.’
‘That’s because you’re not my uncle,’ Dassascai replied. ‘I’m sure that’s exactly what he wanted, so that in years to come people would shake their heads and say, Nobody makes pancakes like the ones Dondai the fletcher used to make. People tend to remember things like that, you see; it’s a shot at immortality, like being a great poet, only more so. After all, how many people really care about poetry, as against the number who really care about pancakes?’
‘I see,’ Temrai said gravely. ‘So if I want to be remembered for ever, instead of conquering Perimadeia I should have learned to fry batter.’
Dassascai yawned. ‘Quite possibly. For one thing, it’s far less uncertain. No offence, but it’s quite possible that you’ll be remembered as the man who got comprehensively beaten by Bardas Loredan and the Empire; that’s immortality, but not a very nice sort. Whereas if they remember you for your pancakes, it’ll only be because they were the best there ever were.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Is that what you want?’ he asked. ‘To be immortal? ’
‘Not really,’ Temrai replied. ‘Oh, I’m not saying the thought hasn’t crossed my mind; like it did just now, when I was watching people working. If a hundred years from now people remember me as the man who turned our nation into craftsmen and engineers, that’d be quite pleasing, if I were here to see it. But I won’t be, of course. I’ll be dead, and past caring.’
Dassascai yawned again, and winced. ‘Very sensible attitude,’ he said, ‘in the circumstances. I wonder if Bardas Loredan thinks the same way. At the moment, he’s down as the man who lost Perimadeia; do you think he’s hell-bent on fixing that, or doesn’t he care, either?’
‘That’s twice you’ve mentioned him,’ Temrai said calmly. ‘Why?’
‘No reason.’
Temrai scratched the back of his neck. ‘You’re not trying to needle me, or anything like that?’
‘Why should I want to do that?’
‘No idea,’ Temrai replied. ‘Well, I suppose you could be probing me for weak spots, or trying to find out if I turn pale and shiver at the mention of his name - that’s the sort of thing a spy might be interested in.’
‘Not really.’ Dassascai held out his cup for a refill. ‘As far as I know, and I’m speculating here, all spies want are hard facts - you know, troop movements, disposition of forces, ground plans of the city defences, where the blind spots are in the field of fire. I can’t see that the getting-to-know-you stuff ever won any battles.’
‘That’s all right, then. Are you a spy, by the way? Really?’
‘No.’>
‘Fair enough. I’ll take your word for it.’
Dassascai dipped his head. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Just out of interest, have you got any spies in the enemy army?’
‘Not really,’ Temrai replied.
‘And if you did, you wouldn’t tell me. In case I mention it in my next report.’
‘Precisely. My turn: what made you come here, after Ap’ Escatoy? It’s obvious you don’t fit in here.’
‘Only because people won’t accept me, because they think I’m a spy.’
Temrai pursed his lips. ‘That’s partly it,’ he said. ‘But it’s true, you don’t act like you belong here. You could have gone anywhere - the Island, Colleon, Ausira; you could’ve gone east, or stayed around Ap’ Escatoy until they rebuild it. Wouldn’t you have found a city a bit more congenial?’
Dassascai laughed. ‘I don’t know where you get this could-have-gone-anywhere notion from. For a start, I lost everything in the fall of Ap’ Escatoy. I spent my last few quarters getting here, and even then I had a long walk because I couldn’t afford the fare for the last leg of the journey.’
‘All right,’ Temrai conceded. ‘But since by your reckoning getting anywhere at all was a real achievement, couldn’t you have made your way - overcoming difficulties of heroic proportions, granted - to a city; somewhere you could get a bath and a shave without having had to carry the water in a goatskin bag for two days’ march across the wilderness? What I mean is, you had to pass by several perfectly good cities to get from there to here. What was the big attraction?’
‘Ducks,’ Dassascai replied. ‘All my life I’ve secretly yearned to spend my days up to the elbows in duckshit and blood.’
Temrai nodded gravely. ‘That I can understand,’ he said. ‘This is no good. I should be out there working, setting an example. But it’s too hot.’
‘Take it easy while you’ve got the chance,’ Dassascai agreed. ‘But since you raised the subject, you should understand, because you made the same choice.’
‘Did I?’
‘Of course. You lived and worked in Perimadeia for a while; don’t tell me you hated every minute of it and couldn’t wait to finish the job and get out of there, because I don’t believe you. I mean, if you’d hated it, how come you’ve spent so much time and effort since then trying to turn our people into replica Perimadeians?’
Temrai sat still and quiet for a while before answering. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I’m not sure. To begin with, it was just a side-effect - we had to learn how to build siege engines in order to take the City, so we taught ourselves the basics. Once we’d done that, though, it seemed a pity to stop there and go back to chivvying goats across the plains. And no, you’re right; I didn’t hate my time in the City, far from it. I enjoyed it, and by and large I liked the City people a lot.’
‘And then you wiped them out? No offence, just asking.’
‘It’s a fair point. I suppose it’s inevitable; if you want to harm your enemies, you’ll always end up harming your friends as well. You can’t keep war and destruction stoppered up in a little bottle, like vitriol or nitre; if you want to use them, you’ve got to slop them about.’
Dassascai shifted slightly and lay on his back. ‘True enough,’ he said. ‘But this business of imitating the people you destroyed, what about that? Is it guilt, do you think? Or did you supplant them because you wanted to take their place?’
Temrai frowned. ‘I don’t think it was anything so deliberate,’ he said. ‘I think it’s just the way things are; the more you hate an enemy, the more you come to resemble him. It’s an extremely intimate relationship, hatred; it makes you very close to the person you hate. I sometimes think you can’t really hate somebody unless you really understand them. Harming, yes; killing, even - you can do that with detachment, cold-bloodedly. But you don’t hate ducks, quite likely you don’t understand them.’
Dassascai smiled. ‘What’s to understand?’
‘Ah, well, there you are. Now, when I was a kid and my father and uncle took me out hunting the first time, they told me that a true hunter has to understand what he kills; and I honestly believe that they
loved
the deer and the boar we used to hunt. When they used to talk about them, it was all affection, as if they were talking about family. I suppose it’s because they’d studied and observed them for so long they’d grown attached to them. They always made a point of saying thank you to anything we killed. Once when I was quite small, I asked my father if it bothered him, killing animals like that; and he said yes, it bothered him a lot, because every time he felt he’d just lost a friend. Now I never could make any sense out of that until I went to live in the City; I still can’t explain it, but now at least I know what he meant.’
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ Dassascai said. ‘But then, neither does friendship, or love for that matter. I suppose it must be like those terrible family feuds that you hear about from time to time; they couldn’t hate each other so much if they didn’t love each other too. Like the Loredan brothers, for example.’
‘Three times.’
‘What? Oh, yes, sorry. But it’s a good example.’
‘You’re right,’ Temrai said, ‘it is. Now there was a time when I hated Bardas Loredan, more than anybody else in the world. I can’t say the same now. Maybe that’s because he’s hunting me, rather than the other way round.’
Dassascai looked at him. ‘If he does kill you, will you forgive him?’
Temrai smiled. ‘I already have.’
The first they knew of it was after breakfast, when they went out to do business; and even then, it took some time for them to notice.
There were Imperial soldiers in the streets; half-platoons standing about on street corners looking embarrassed more than anything else, like young men stood up by their girls. Venart was aware that something was different, but it was too early in the morning for him to consider the implications. Besides, groups of people standing aimlessly on street corners were a common enough sight on the Island. There was bound to be a simple, rational explanation; at least, Venart was prepared to take it on trust that there was one.