‘Save your breath,’ the voice said. ‘You’ll just use up the air. I keep telling you, don’t worry about it. They’ll come and dig us out. They always do.’
That last remark was strange, but Temrai was too preoccupied to dwell on it. ‘Where do you think the air is coming from?’ he asked.
‘Search me. Just be grateful it’s coming from somewhere. And that you don’t have one of those irrational fears of confined spaces - though what’s irrational about being afraid of confined spaces I really don’t know. I remember once I was trapped down a tunnel with a man who was that way; gods know how, but he’d managed to keep it under control for years and years, and then when we had the roof cave in on us, it all seemed to burst out of him. He died, actually; he got so frightened his heart stopped beating. Sorry, that’s not a very cheerful anecdote; but it makes the point - the main thing is to stay calm. Can you smell anything?’
‘What? No. I mean, nothing unusual. What sort of thing?’
‘Garlic,’ the voice replied. ‘Probably just my imagination. Oh hell, my legs are going to sleep. Nothing like a few tons of spoil to cut off the flow of blood.’
Temrai could feel the muscles of his chest tiring from the effort of lifting the weight of the earth every time he breathed in. ‘Look, shall we just try shouting?’ he said. ‘I’d rather have a go and risk running out of air than just lie here.’
‘By all means,’ replied the voice indulgently. ‘After all, it might work. Forgive me if I don’t join you, though. I’m concentrating on my breathing and I don’t want to lose the rhythm.’
Temrai tried to shout; but the volume of sound he managed to produce was pitiful, more like a cat yowling, and dirt was getting in his mouth. He managed to spit most of it out and swallowed the rest. The effort involved was shattering.
‘I’d give it a rest if I were you,’ the voice advised him. ‘Either they’ll find us or they won’t; just for once, accept the fact that there’s nothing you can do. Relax. You could try meditating.’
‘Meditating?’
‘Seriously. A philosopher I used to know taught me how to do it. Basically it’s all about ignoring your body, making yourself forget it’s there. Of course, the philosopher reckoned it was all about merging your consciousness with the flow of the Principle, but you don’t have to bother with that stuff if you don’t want to. I use it to make myself go to sleep when I’m fidgety.’
‘All right,’ Temrai said dubiously. ‘But I don’t think going to sleep would be terribly clever right now. We might forget to breathe, something like that.’
‘You don’t have to go to sleep, that’s just one of the options. You can also use it to cope with pain, for example, like if you were laid up somewhere with a broken leg.’
‘All right,’ Temrai repeated. ‘How do you do it, then?’
The voice laughed. ‘It’s hard to explain,’ it said. ‘Easy enough to do when you know how, but hard to put into words. You’ve got to convince yourself that your body isn’t really there; bit by bit’s easiest. I usually start with my feet and work up.’
Temrai could remember thinking.
No, I don’t think I’ll bother with that
; and the next thing he felt was a surge of panic, flaring and quickly subsiding, when he realised that he didn’t seem to have a body any more. But the sensation was pleasant, exhilarating even; he was breathing, but he couldn’t feel the crushing weight of the earth or the pain in his chest. Nor did he have an oppressive sense of being in any one place (how tiresome that would be, to be in only one place at a time; he could vaguely remember what it had been like, and couldn’t imagine how he’d managed to cope with it all these years) -
‘Feeling better?’
‘Much,’ Temrai replied. ‘I must see if I can remember how to do this once we get out of here.’
‘How do you feel?’
‘Like a head,’ Temrai replied. ‘A head without a body. But it’s all right. In fact it’s better. Thank you.’
‘You’re welcome,’ the voice said. ‘It’s one of the more useful things I’ve picked up in the course of a somewhat adventurous life.’
‘Really?’ Temrai couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or shut. ‘I could get to like being just a head,’ he said.
The voice laughed; it was definitely familiar, almost disturbingly so. ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ it said. ‘You never know who’s listening. Favourite saying of my father’s, that was. He was a very superstitious man, in some respects. Not that it did him much good, of course, but that’s another story.’
Temrai had an unpleasant feeling that he knew whose the voice was; except that it wasn’t possible. At least, it was
possible
, but highly unlikely. ‘Excuse me asking,’ he said, ‘but who . . . ?’
And then he could hear something overhead; he felt himself fall back into his body (his painful, awkward body) like a boy falling out of a tree. There were voices, muffled and far away, and the scrape of metal in dirt, a ringing noise as a shovel-blade fouled a stone. He tried to call out, and realised that his mouth was full of dirt and he couldn’t make a sound.
‘Temrai?’ someone said. ‘Yes, it’s him, over here. I think he’s dead.’
‘We’ll see about that. Gods, I could do without this fucking dust.’
They had to go slowly, for fear of cutting him up or breaking his bones with their picks and shovels. For a long time he wasn’t able to see anything, even though he was sure his eyes were open. He had the worst headache he’d ever had in his life.
‘It’s all right, he’s alive,’ someone called out; and a trebuchet shot pitched nearby, sending a tremor through the ground. ‘Gently now, he may have broken bones. Temrai, can you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ Temrai said, spitting out the words along with a lot of dirt. ‘And please don’t shout, my head’s splitting.’
They lugged him out and put him on a plank; he couldn’t control his arms or legs, and they flopped off and hung over the side. ‘Was there anybody with you?’ one of them asked.
Temrai tried to smile. ‘I don’t think so,’ he replied.
But he was wrong; before they took him away, he heard them shouting to each other -
over here, quick, yes he’s still alive
. ‘Who is it?’ he asked.
One of the stretcher-bearers called out the question. ‘It’s the spy,’ someone answered. ‘What’s his name? Dassascai. You know, the cook’s nephew.’
Temrai frowned. ‘What did he say?’ he asked.
‘Dassascai,’ the bearer replied. ‘You know—’
‘The spy, yes.’ Temrai sounded confused. ‘Well, if it hadn’t been for him—That’s odd, I could have sworn it was someone else.’
‘I thought you said there was nobody in there with you.’
‘I was mistaken,’ Temrai said. ‘Look, make sure they take care of him, all right?’
They took care of him, as was only proper with someone who’d apparently saved the King’s life (though how he’d managed to do this wasn’t immediately obvious). They dug him out and carried him back to his tent; there were no broken bones, he’d be up and about again in no time.
An oddity, which nobody commented on, was the fact that when they pulled him out he was holding an arrow (just an ordinary Imperial-issue bodkinhead), and when they tried to take it from him he clung on to it as if his life depended on it.
One ship; not an armada or a flotilla, not a horizon crammed with sails, just one small sloop (square-rigged, primitive, limping into the Drutz after a tussle with a seasonal squall) bringing the provincial office’s envoy to the Island.
There was something of a show of strength on the quay to meet him; a platoon of the newly recruited Civil Guard; another platoon from the Ship-Owners’ even more recently recruited National Security Association; and a mob of cut-throats, thieves and housebreakers (by definition) from the Merchant Seamen’s Guild. The three rival units stood still and quiet, staring at the incoming ship and each other with loathing and distrust, while First Citizen Venart Auzeil (in a floor-length red velvet gown and a big wide-brimmed red hat; he’d refused point blank to wear the almost-crown they’d made for him out of bent gold wire and a few scraps of salvaged rabbit fur) nervously picked at a loose thread in his cuff and wondered what was really going on. Flanking him were Ranvaut Votz (for the Ship-Owners’) and a certain Jeslin Perdut (for the Guild), both grimly eyes-front for fear of seeing the other and having to acknowledge their presence. Finally, there was a band - to be precise, two flautists, a fiddler, a rebec player and a girl with a triangle. Venart had no idea where they’d suddenly materialised from, but they looked so excited to be there that he hadn’t the heart to tell them to push off.
The ship nuzzled its way in, and a startled-looking man threw a rope across before scuttling away to the stern; something about the expression on his face suggested that the show of strength was working rather too well. Venart noticed this and, hoping to reassure the visitors, turned to the rebec player and muttered, ‘Play something.’ The band immediately launched into ‘Never More Will I See My True Love’ (the majority choice) and ‘The Sausage-Maker’s Dog’ (the favoured selection of the fiddler and the girl with the triangle) simultaneously. The resulting counterpoint was striking, but hardly calculated to reassure the apprehensive.
‘Oh, for pity’s sake,’ muttered Ranvaut Votz loudly, thereby reinforcing Venart’s suspicion that the band’s presence had something to do with the Guild. ‘Tell them to stop that awful noise before it constitutes an act of war.’
Although he didn’t want to be seen to be taking sides, Venart turned the suggestion into an order, backed up by the full majesty of his office and the frantic waggling of his hands. When the noise had ceased, an extraordinarily tall, thin Son of Heaven emerged from the sloop’s small cabin and walked slowly to the prow, where he stood looking impatient.
‘A plank, quick,’ Venart hissed. Someone brought up a plank - actually, it was a long board for gutting fish, but it was the nearest suitable object - and the envoy came ashore.
‘I’m Colonel Tejar,’ he announced, with a tiny nod in Venart’s direction. ‘I’m here on behalf of the prefect of Ap’ Escatoy. I’d like to talk to whoever’s in charge here.’
It took Venart a moment to realise that it was up to him to reply. He’d seen Sons of Heaven before, even spoken to a few of them, but never one quite this tall or angular or official-looking. ‘That’s me,’ he squeaked, bitterly regretting the big red hat, which was flopping down over his left eye. ‘Venart Auzeil. First Citizen,’ he added.
The Son of Heaven looked at him. ‘Thank you for being here to greet me,’ he said. ‘Can we make a start, please? We have a lot to get through.’
‘Of course,’ Venart said, and a moment later found himself trotting along in the envoy’s wake like (for example) the sausage-maker’s dog. Fortunately, the envoy seemed to know where he was going. Venart didn’t.
‘Do you speak for the Ship-Owners’ Association?’ asked the envoy over his shoulder.
‘Oh, yes,’ Venart assured him, taking a couple of skips to keep up. He’d never seen legs that long on a human before.
‘And the Merchant Seamen’s Guild?’
‘Um,’ Venart said. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good,’ said the envoy. ‘Then we won’t need to have their representatives present during the talks. I assume they’re aware of that?’
‘What? Oh, yes,’ Venart panted, and passed the message on to the relevant parties. Fortunately, since their legs were even shorter than his, he wasn’t able to hang around and listen to their reaction.
He still didn’t know where they were going, but it didn’t really seem appropriate to ask. It was vaguely disquieting to think that the enemy knew their way round the Island better than the First Citizen did, but the sensible way to handle that was to file it under significant information and call it up again the next time he felt the slightest inclination to underestimate these people.
They stopped. To be exact, the envoy stopped (outside the Four Blazons Of Virtue, which Venart hadn’t been in since he was a very young man; in fact, he had an uneasy feeling he’d been banned from there for life - or was he thinking of the Blameless Virtue in the Sheepwalk?) and waited for him to catch up.
‘I took the liberty of hiring a room,’ the envoy said, ‘through an intermediary, of course. I hope you find it acceptable.’
‘Fine,’ Venart replied breathlessly. ‘After you.’
The sight of a Son of Heaven in the public bar of the Four Blazons caused a considerable amount of alarm and despondency, which the presence of the First Citizen didn’t do much to assuage. But Colonel Tejar obviously knew the way; he walked straight through the bar, up a short staircase, across the landing and down a corridor. The door was open, and there was a tray with food and a wine-jug on the table.
Impressive
, Venart admitted to himself,
but a tactical error, surely. Why make a display of your strength unless you want to persuade me it’s greater than it is?
‘This looks fine,’ he said, and sat down in the more comfortable-looking of the two chairs.
‘Now,’ said Coloner Tejar, perching on the other chair and taking a writing tablet out of his sleeve. ‘Do you wish to start with a statement or any questions, or shall we pass straight on to our proposals?’
‘Go ahead,’ Venart replied; and he was thinking,
It may just be because he wanted to make sure we lost the other two, because he knows he can outsmart me, but he wasn’t sure about Votz or the Guild. Well, so long as I know that, I should be able to cope.
‘I’ve taken the liberty of drawing up a draft agreement, ’ the colonel continued, pulling a little brass tube out of his other sleeve. ‘If you’d care to spend a moment or so looking it over . . .’
Marvellous handwriting these people had, Venart couldn’t help thinking; and even for a thoroughly utilitarian document like this they’ve been to the trouble of illuminating the initial letter with three colours and just the tiniest touch of gold leaf.
- Item: the Island to be associated with the Empire as a protectorate.