‘I wasn’t saying either of those,’ the man called Avert replied. ‘I was just pointing out something you’ve got to address if you want to believe in magic.’
‘Which you don’t, presumably.’
‘I try and keep an open mind, actually.’
(If he calls me a witch one more time, someone said, I’ll smack his head, even if I’m not really here.
Niessa Loredan, Alexius whispered. Machaera shuddered a little. It’s all right, Alexius went on, for some reason we’re all very polite here, nobody tries to stab anybody else or bully them into betraying secrets. It’s quite the nicest, friendliest war you ever heard of. Isn’t that right, Gannadius? For instance, Gannadius and I are on opposite sides.
Oh, Machaera said. Isn’t that awkward? I thought you were friends.
We are, Gannadius said. But we aren’t really here, so it doesn’t matter.
Speak for yourself, interrupted the voice that had said, ‘Hush!’ a while back. I’m Vetriz Auzeil, by the way. And I’m definitely here.
Excuse me, Machaera said. But does any of you know, if we’re here, why we’re here?)
Sten Mogre suddenly yawned and stretched. ‘That’s enough of that for tonight,’ he said. ‘We’ll finish this discussion tomorrow, in Scona Town. Everybody clear about what they’re doing?’
‘Actually-’ someone replied.
(I think we just decided the result of the war. Gannadius said. Any idea who won?)
– And found himself sitting upright in bed, with a pain in his temples that made him cry out loud. For some reason he felt cold and frightened, as if he’d just seen some horrible accident in the street. ‘Machaera?’ he said aloud, not really knowing why.
He climbed slowly out of bed and looked out of the window; still pitch dark outside, and the night-light was only just over half gone. He flopped down into his chair and reached for the wine jug.
Magic, he thought, someone’s been making me do magic. For some reason, he felt sick. He swallowed three mouthfuls of wine, stood up again and washed his face and hands thoroughly in the big stone bowl by his bed. He felt an urgent need for light; he had three candles and an oil-lamp in the room as well as the night-light, and he lit them all. It helped a little.
There was a knock at the door. He opened it.
‘Machaera?’ he said. ‘What’s the matter?’
She looked up at him with those terribly young, rather gormless eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I had a dream-’
Gannadius stepped out into the passage and looked both ways. Middle-aged teachers weren’t encouraged to receive young female students in their quarters in the small hours of the morning. ‘I know,’ he said, drawing her inside and closing the door. ‘Can you remember what it was?’
She nodded. ‘I think so,’ she added, picking at the edges of her fingernails. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘Oh, sit down, for pity’s sake.’ Gannadius found his slippers and eased his feet into them, then slouched down opposite her and poured himself another drink. He didn’t offer her one. ‘All I can remember is waking up hearing you asking a question,’ he said. ‘By the way, does your head hurt?’
She nodded. ‘A bit,’ she said.
‘A bit. Fine. Tell me what you remember about your dream.’
She told him. When she’d finished, she saw that he had his eyes shut, his face turned away. ‘Is something the matter?’ she said.
‘I think so,’ he replied. ‘I think we’ve just sent hundreds of men to their deaths, and I don’t even know who.’
There was still an hour to go before the first cracks of light would appear in the sky. Gorgas Loredan, who’d always had exceptional night vision, couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. He’d estimated the distance once they’d passed the wood by counting his own footsteps. There was every chance he’d got it wrong. He knew where he wanted to be, but he hadn’t the faintest idea where he actually was.
One hell of a way to choose the site for the most important battle of the war, he reflected. It would be a sad thing if Scona fell because he’d underestimated the length of his own stride.
‘All right,’ he said, hoping someone was close enough to hear him, ‘fan out and dress your ranks. And let’s all hope we’re facing in the right direction.’
My decision, he kept telling himself, mine and mine alone. Niessa doesn’t want me here. I assume the people I’m doing this for are relying on me, but I don’t know that; for all I really know, they’re welcoming the halberdiers as liberators. The only thing I’ve relied on in making my decision is my sense of what’s right. My sense, for gods’ sakes. That’s comedy.
He closed his eyes. For Bardas; for Niessa; for Luha and little Niessa; for Iseutz and Heris; for them, whether they wanted his help or not. For us and what’s ours, right or wrong. Never, not once, have I ever regretted anything I’ve done, I stand by it all, and I suppose this is where it all gets put to the test. Victory will be vindication of what I once did and all I’ve done since. Well. We shall see.
And then the sun rose on Sten Mogre’s army.
At first light, Bardas Loredan embarked on the next stage of the project.
All through the night before, he’d drawn down the sun-dried tendons and pounded them on an oak board with a hide mallet until the sinew began to disintegrate into its component fibres; these he’d slowly and painstakingly drawn off with a purpose-made ivory comb, sorting the coarse, translucent yellow fibres into bundles of roughly matching length and laying them out on the bench in order of size so that they’d be handy when he came to use them. Now all that remained by way of preparation was to clean the ribs and make up the glue.
The bone was slippery with its own grease, so he scoured each section with lye and boiling water, paying particular attention to the insides of the splices, and set them aside to cool down while he made the different sorts of glue that would be needed for what was to follow.
He made the sizing glue by mixing congealed blood with sawdust, and the main fixing glue by boiling scrapings of rawhide and the waste sinew in water vigorously for an hour, skimming off the chaff as it rose to the surface and stirring from time to time. He separated off the first pouring, which would make the strongest join, and put the residue back to simmer for the rest of the day. The smell was disgusting, but he scarcely noticed it.
With the blood glue he carefully sized both the bone and the wood to seal them, and put them to one side, delicately balanced on wooden blocks where the sunlight poured in through the window. While the size hardened, he pounded more sinew into fibre and made a wooden jig for winding gut into a bowstring. Finally he stretched pieces of soaked rawhide to make the outside wrapping.
(‘Of course I’d like to help,’ young Luha had said, ‘if it’s for the war. What do you want me to do?’
‘Oh, fairly basic things, nothing difficult. I wouldn’t bother you, only I’ve got so used to having an apprentice, and I don’t know anybody else who’d be able to help.’
Luha had smiled. ‘I’ve always wanted to learn a trade,’ he’d said. ‘Something with my hands, that is, not just bookwork or fighting. Making things. I’ve always wanted to make things.’
‘It must run in the family,’ he’d replied encouragingly. ‘Well, you and I, we’ll make the best bow ever seen outside the Mesoge, you can bet your life on it.’
Luha’s smiled had widened; like so many apparently sullen and withdrawn children, he had a nice smile. ‘Father will be so pleased,’ he’d said.
‘Let’s hope so,’ he’d replied.)