Her frown deepened; it was as if he was insisting that two and two made five. "But they're savages," she said.
"Yes. And savages are better at fighting than we are. We've always tended to see that as evidence that we're superior to them. I'd like to believe that's true, but I'm beginning to have my doubts. Now, will you do what I asked you?"
She nodded. "I don't have a choice, do I?"
"Not really," he said. When it was all over, the Ducas reported to General Daurenja, who nodded and smiled at him. "Thank you," he said. "You've done well."
The Ducas made some formal gesture, which the general assumed was an Eremian military salute. "Just doing my duty," he said.
"Carry on," the general replied.
Miel left him and walked slowly back towards the ditch. The Mezentine dead were piled up like grain sacks waiting to be loaded, a great wealth of commodities. He paused, stooped and turned over a body at random. Then he searched it, taking a bronze cloak-pin, a finger-ring, a linen handkerchief and twelve dollars cash.
An Eremian soldier was watching him. He straightened up, dropping the goods he'd taken into his pocket, and nodded affably. The soldier saluted.
"We made them pay for what they did to us, didn't we, sir?" the soldier said.
Miel raised his eyebrows. "I suppose so, yes," he replied.
He walked down the steep slope formed by the collapse of the embankment, concentrating to keep his balance. Around him he was aware of men calling out (the wounded, too badly hurt to move; it reminded him of the bleating of sheep), and thought of the expression the scavengers used: live one here. Of course, they made a point of salvaging any wounded men who could be expected to recover, and putting the others out of their misery. He envied them their humanity, but reflected that it had done them no good in the long run. If they hadn't spared him, they'd probably still be alive now.
The ditch was easy to cross now; they'd brought up planks and laid them on top of the rubble and dead bodies, making a road wide enough to drive a cart over. He noticed the silence, and realised that the Mezentines had given up shooting from the wall batteries. It made sense, of course, to conserve their ammunition. He thought about the hail of scorpion bolts that had wiped out Orsea's wretched attempt at an invasion. Now it was the other way around, like a reflection in a mirror; a different angle, but the same thing.
He remembered saving Daurenja's life, when Framain and his daughter had wanted to kill him. It had been the act of a humane man. He couldn't imagine those circumstances arising now. He wouldn't have got involved in the first place.
He crossed the ditch and walked slowly up the trench, labouring through the mud, working out in his mind how to approach the task of clearing up the mess. Burial details: first, of course, the dead would have to be stripped, the recovered goods sorted into piles: military equipment in one heap, personal items in another. Carts to haul away the armour, weapons, bales of clothing, footwear; sacks for the rest. As he understood it, the correct procedure was to appoint a factor to take charge of the salvage, notify the principal dealers and organise a series of auctions. The proceeds of sale of the military equipment went back into consolidated funds, while the private property of the dead went into a separate fund, to be divided up between the soldiers who'd taken part in the relevant action. The important thing was to make sure that everything was visibly fair and equitable. The factor, if he remembered correctly, took five per cent of the gross. He was sure the general would give him the job, if he asked politely.
He stepped aside to let a wagon go by. The carter leaned down and called to him. "What's it like up ahead?"
"Not so bad," he replied. "The trench is a bit sticky still, but the slope's pretty gentle. You'll get across the ditch all right, but you won't get much further. Too steep."
The carter nodded. "You know where I can find whoever's in charge?" he said. "Sounds like I'll need men to haul this lot up to the wall."
"You've found him," Miel replied pleasantly. "I'll send a couple of platoons, if you think that'll be enough."
The carter thanked him. "Special delivery for the general," he explained. "Top priority, is what I was told."
"Ah, well then," Miel said. "I won't hold you up any longer."
True to his word, he sent on the two platoons before he started rostering the burial and recovery details-he was, after all, still first and foremost a soldier, and his duty must take precedence. The men he'd dispatched squelched up the trench at the double, anxious not to keep the general waiting. So far they'd had nothing to do, and it looked as though the preliminary assault was now as good as over. If they were lucky, they'd be on the spot for the attack on the City itself, and first in meant the best pickings. Everybody knew the general had a special trick up his sleeve for busting down the gates, so that wouldn't be any problem.
They overtook the cart just as it was about to cross the ditch. The sergeant went ahead, to make sure the planks were firmly seated, and shouted back that it was all as firm as a rock. Later he told anybody who'd listen that it was the carter's fault, for not driving straight. Also, the boards were slippery with mud, and he hadn't realised the load was so heavy. The offside back wheel slid off the boards and went over, cracking the axle, and the shifting of the cart's weight skewed it sideways. The boom twisted and snapped, and the cart turned over, rolling its cargo off the improvised road and into the deep, wet mud.
The general was furious. He came scrambling down from the gate as soon as he heard what had happened, screaming at the carter and the soldiers, threatening them with court martial, torment and eventual death, and plunged into the mud up to his knees, wading like some rare marshland bird towards the tarpaulin-wrapped bundle half sunk into the mud. He yelled for ropes and long poles, attached the ropes himself, got behind the lump with a lever to work it loose from the grip of the suction. The heavy cylinder came out without too much trouble, considering its weight, and likewise the oak barrel; but two of the stone shot sank without trace in the mud and had to be abandoned.
"It's all right," he panted at Ziani, "we can get by with three. In fact, we can get by with one. Don't worry," he added with a brilliant smile, "it's going to be fine. It'll take more than a bit of mud to stop me now."
"I believe you," Ziani said.
With the ropes and levers, they dragged the cylinder up the bank, ploughing furrows in the loose dirt with their feet. Glancing up, Ziani saw movement behind the gatehouse rampart; he shouted for pavises, a shield trolley, archers to cover them and keep the enemy's heads down. But nothing happened, and he saw that Daurenja was gently shaking his head. "Don't worry," he was saying, "it'll be just fine, we don't need them. We'll be under the lee of the wall soon, where they can't reach us." He doesn't want witnesses, Ziani realised; he wants to keep the secret to himself, right up to the very last moment; and he knew intuitively that the soldiers hauling so energetically on the ropes wouldn't be living much longer. They'd be right at the front in the next action, or there'd be some horrible accident. Not for him, though. Daurenja would never do anything to harm him, because he trusted him implicitly.
(The good leader, he thought; he's got all the qualities of the good duke, everything Orsea tried so hard to copy and failed. Certainly, he couldn't think of anybody else who'd be able to hold the alliance together, or who'd have got this far…)
A few arrows pitched around him, but they were harmless, out of shot, and he ignored them. The only effect they had was to encourage the men to pull harder. They were a good three yards under the overhang of the wall by now. A man would have to lean right out over the parapet to see them, and then he'd be too cramped up to draw a bow. But they were still far enough away from the foot of the wall to be safe from bricks and rubble dropped on them. In which case…