When the meeting ended, Ziani left the Aram Chantat to organise their own people into shifts, and went to brief the artillery. He sent the Vadani out to gather stones and rubble, and assigned the Eremians to patching up the machines. Then he called in the battery captains. They told him how many machines were still working, how many could be fixed, how many trained crew were available, how much finished ammunition they still had. He was particularly interested in the onagers and the scorpions, and when they pointed out that there were more usable machines than trained men to work them, he told them to take men off the long-range weapons, the trebuchets and mangonels, to ensure that all the short-range engines were fully manned. Then he dismissed his staff and went to talk to Duke Valens; just a courtesy call, he said, to put him in the picture and make sure he didn't intend to interfere with the arrangements.
Observers he'd sent forward directly after the war council closed came back with the news that the Mezentine batteries were now fully manned; they were winching huge quantities of ammunition up to the wall with giant cranes, as well as brand-new machines, presumably straight off the production lines. The estimates they gave him suggested that the Mezentines had the edge in numbers of engines, though their long-range capacity was significantly less: two thirds of their machines were scorpions, while most of their trebuchets had been smashed up in earlier engagements and didn't appear to have been replaced. Ziani received the news with a distracted nod of the head, and went back to examining ammunition inventories.
Two hours after the war council, Aram Chantat staff officers reported that the first shift was ready, with the other four shifts standing by. As ordered, every man had a spade, a pick or a shovel instead of his usual equipment, they'd taken off their armour and they were ready to go.
"All right," Ziani said. "Get them moving. You know where to go."
An officer frowned at him. "With respect," he said, "shouldn't you start the bombardment first? Otherwise-"
"We start shooting when they start," Ziani snapped back. "Not before."
He watched as the first shift marched out into the empty plain: seventy-five thousand men, according to the roster. Five shifts of seventy-five thousand men, shifting five square feet of dirt each; you could change a country out of all recognition in a week. He shook his head. So much effort, so great an effect, all to accomplish such a simple objective. But it was too late to change anything now. The escapement was running, and very soon it'd all be over. He beckoned to one of his aides (didn't know the man's name; didn't care).
"Take this letter to Duke Valens," he said. Valens read the letter, screwed it up into a ball and threw it on to the little charcoal brazier. "I'm just going out for a while," he said.
She looked at him. "Where are you going?" she asked.
"It's all right," he said. He was looking round for something. "You haven't seen that hanger, have you?"
"I don't know," she replied. "What's a hanger?"
"Shortish sword, with a sort of curved bit on the hilt. I put it down somewhere, but…"
"What do you need a sword for?"
He shrugged. "Not properly dressed without one," he replied. "Ah, here it is. It's lucky," he added, smiling bleakly. "At least, that's the theory. Hasn't actually brought me much luck so far, but there's still time."
She caught her breath. "Is something going on?" she said. "I thought you said you were out of it now."
"I am," he replied, not looking at her. "That bastard Vaatzes is in charge now, and welcome."
"What did he want to talk to you about?"
"Oh, nothing much." He was having trouble with the buckle of his sword-belt; not like him at all. Usually, all his movements were so precise.
"Was it about the war?" she asked.
"Everything's about the war," he said; and she thought, he doesn't really mean that.
The tent-flap opened, and she saw Miel Ducas standing in the light. "Are you ready?" he asked. He didn't seem to have noticed she was there.
"As I'll ever be," Valens replied. "All set?"
"Yes."
Valens took a step forward, then turned back to face her. "I won't be long," he said. "And then there'll be some things we'll need to talk about."
She shrugged. "I'll be here," she replied. "Sewing something, probably," she added.
He nodded, no expression at all on his face. Then he left and the flap dropped back, shuttering out the daylight.
Miel had brought a horse for him, and held his stirrup as he mounted. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"Of course," he answered irritably. "I'm not a cripple or anything."
"You heard about Daurenja."
"Yes." Valens picked up the reins. "You know," he said, "I've been in charge of everything around me practically all my life. It's nice to have someone else running things for a change."
Miel shrugged. "You say that now," he said.
Valens laughed. "Hardly matters what I say," he said. "And what about you? Are you going to use the title? Only, Duke Ducas is a bit of a mouthful."
"People can call me what they like," Miel replied.
They rode together in silence for a while; then Miel said, "Are you really going to accept this?"
"Yes," Valens said. "For now, anyway. Things may change later, of course. But right now, it's the only realistic course open to me."
Miel nodded; but he said, "I really don't want to do this."
"It's no big deal," Valens replied.
Then they discussed technical matters: positions, tactics, co-ordination of movements, concealment of intentions and the element of surprise. As they rode over the top of the ridge and looked down, Valens reined in his horse and sat still for a moment.
"There aren't enough of us," he said.
"No," Miel agreed. "But that's all there is, so it'll have to do."
But he hadn't meant it; because the sight of the Vadani cavalry, twenty thousand men-at-arms, standing in formation with lances at rest, was a glorious illusion, and he wanted to enjoy it for as long as he could. It made him think of his father, who believed in all this sort of thing, just as he believed in the hunt, and the concept of the good duke and the contract between ruler and people. Besides, he told himself, as they rode down to take their places at the head of the formation, Ziani Vaatzes thinks there's enough of us, and he knows best.
"He'll send a rider," Miel was saying. "Till then, we just stay here still and quiet." There was a mild stir, a gentle buzz, as the artillerymen realised that Chairman Psellus had come up on to the wall. It hadn't escaped anybody's notice that he hadn't been there when the enemy blew up the embankment and slaughtered all those people. It was curious: nobody really believed he'd gone away because he was afraid, or anything like that. He'd gone, they knew, because he'd been called away to deal with something more important; so if he was here now, it meant that whatever happened next mattered…
"We think it's a work party," someone was telling him. "We sent a few scouts down; apparently they're not armed, they've got digging tools. We put the number at somewhere between eighty and a hundred-"
"Yes, thank you," Psellus said mildly. "I believe I know what's happening." Someone brought up a chair, and he sat down. "Their artillery."
"A lot of activity," whoever it was replied. "All the signs are, they're getting ready to launch a massive bombardment, though oddly enough they've taken men off the trebuchets and put them on the-"
"Indeed." Psellus wiped his nose, which was running. "Our artillery is ready, I take it?"
"As ordered," the man replied briskly; a slight, anxious hesitation, then: "I take it you do know we've stood down the long-range engines and-"
"Yes, thank you." He was looking straight ahead, at the huge square shape moving toward the city, and beyond it, to the enemy artillery. "You've done very well. Please make sure we're ready to start shooting as soon as I give the order. Not before, under any circumstances. Is that quite clear?"