‘Really? So what would you suggest?’
Venart stood up and turned to look out of the window. ‘Leaving,’ he said. ‘Packing up everything we can move, setting sail and putting as much sea between us and them as we possibly can.’
Votz glared at him. ‘You’re joking,’ he said.
Venart shook his head. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘I think it’s an inspired idea. We aren’t farmers or manufacturers, we’re traders; most of us spend as much time on our ships or abroad as we do at home. If ever there was a – a nation that could afford to up sticks and sail away, it’s us. If the worst comes to the worst, we could simply live on the ships, keep moving about like nomads.’
Votz grinned unpleasantly. ‘Like King Temrai’s lot, you mean. Oh, yes, guaranteed absolute safety, no need to worry ever again.’
‘That’s on land. It’s the ships that make it different.’
‘Until they start building ships of their own.’ Votz stood up too. ‘Running away isn’t going to solve anything; we’ve got to make a stand and fight. And if we’re going to fight, where better than here? We’ve got a superb natural fortress, even better than Perimadeia was. We’ve got a fleet of ships, which they haven’t.’ He grabbed Venart by the shoulder and turned him round. ‘We can win this,’ he said.
‘I don’t think so,’ Venart replied. ‘And since you’ve just made me the head of state-’
‘That’s the thing about heads, they can come off.’
At first Venart looked startled; then he giggled. ‘Oh, come on, Ran,’ he said, ‘don’t be so bloody melodramatic. Government, army, civil war and palace coup, and we haven’t even told anybody else about it yet.’ He pulled away and grinned. ‘Just think what fun we could have if there were three of us playing.’
There was a brisk cool wind, which was a mercy; Bardas remembered all too well how quickly the midday heat of the plains could drag a man down before he even realised it. Fortunately the army of the Sons of Heaven had been recruited in many places, most of them far away, nearly all of them hotter than this. At the point where he collapsed in a sweaty heap, at least half his men would still be snuggling into their cloaks and blowing on their hands.
The sun had already whisked up a fine heat-haze out of the river, smudging the sharp edges of the fortress until it looked vague and ill-defined, like the background in a painting. The sunlight burned on the water like some kind of incendiary; he could still see the red glare when he closed his eyes.
‘All done?’ he asked. The engineer nodded. ‘Very well.’ He positioned himself behind the cocked arm of the trebuchet and looked over it at the distant fortress. It was all very still and quiet, as if the world was waiting for him to make a speech. ‘I hereby declare this war open for business,’ he said. ‘In your own time.’
The engineer nodded, once to him and once to the artilleryman with his hand on the slip. The artilleryman jerked hard on the rope and the arm reared up into the air like a man suddenly woken up in the middle of a dream; the long square-section beam bowed under the inertia, straightened and stopped hard as it reached the point of equilibrium, the counterweight lurching wildly on its cradle beneath. With a crack like a slingshot, the rope net gave the stone roundshot a final, crucial flick and fell away -
(‘Here goes nothing,’ muttered the engineer.)
– While the projectile rushed with absurd speed up into the air, dwindled into a black dot, slowed to a stop, hung in the air for a moment and started to come down -
(‘Let’s see what they make of that,’ said the chief bombardier, grinning. ‘If they’ve got any sense, they’ll ask if they can move their fort a hundred yards back.’)
– And pitched, with a sound like a child’s face being slapped, in the river. The dazzling white fire was punctured, like a sheet of steel shot through with an arrow.
‘Told you it’d drop short,’ sighed the bombardier. ‘All right, up five and try again.’
Upgrading the counterweights had been Bardas’ idea; after all, Temrai had done the same thing, building trebuchets that outranged their counterparts on the City wall. Now he had at least fifty yards of clear ground over his enemy (his counterpart; himself in a previous revolution of the wheel); he could hit them and they couldn’t hit him back. The further along the rack you travel, the greater the stress; the greater, too, the mechanical advantage.
‘Number-two engine, elevation up five,’ the engineer called out. ‘Make ready.’
An artilleryman turned a handwheel, a ratchet strained and clicked. ‘Ready.’
‘Loose,’ the engineer said; and the arm bent, straightened and threw. ‘Damn,’ the engineer added, as the shot scuffed a cloud of dirt out of the bare rock of the slope, ‘now the windage is off. Number-three engine, elevation up four, bring her across left two. Make ready.’
At this distance, of course, it was an exercise in skill, the scientific application of force to a precise spot on a virgin plate. One tap to begin with, to start off the bowl; start at the edges, work your way round the outside, gradually move inwards to the point where the dishing needs to be deepest; that’s the way to force stress into the workpiece.
‘On the money,’ said the chief bombardier. ‘All right, let’s keep them there or thereabouts; that’s -’ he laid his knife alongside the lead screw; like all good artillerymen’s knives, it had a precisely calibrated scale engraved on the blade ‘- let’s see, that’s twelve up from zero, six across left. Each of you loose three, mark your pitches and adjust for zero.’
When each trebuchet had shot three times, and the bombardiers had made the necessary corrections to compensate for the slight differences in cast and line of their respective engines, the bombardment fell into a pattern. Bardas recognised this phase; it was the stage when the hammer bounced off the work, up and down in its own weight (like a trebuchet, weight and counterweight), with the craftsman’s left hand moving the workpiece into position under the hammer. One blow doesn’t impart the desired stress; many blows, a controlled, continuous hammering and pounding, are needed to impact the material into strength. ‘It’s a shame there’s all that dust,’ the chief bombardier lamented, ‘I can’t see a damn thing. For all I know, we could be dropping them all in the same hole.’
‘Good point,’ Bardas said. ‘But let’s keep it up a while longer. I want them to feel the pressure.’
So this is what it was like, Temrai said to himself, waiting for the next shot to fall. Well, now I know.
The shot landed, a heartbeat late, making the ground shake. Because of the dust-cloud, he couldn’t see where it had pitched or whether it had done any damage; it was as bad as being in the dark. But he could hear shouting, implying an emergency – someone was giving orders, someone else was contradicting him; there was an edge of raw urgency to their voices that didn’t inspire confidence. Should have anticipated this, he thought. Didn’t. My fault, ultimately.
He counted down from twelve, and the next shot pitched. He could feel where that one went (when you’re in the dark, the other senses adapt quickly) – presumably an overshot, strictly speaking a miss, but it felt like it had landed on one of the stores. I’d rather it was the biscuits than the arrows; we can eat broken biscuits if we have to. He started counting again.
‘Temrai?’
Damnation, lost count. ‘Over here,’ he called out. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Me. Sildocai. Where are you? I can’t see a thing.’
‘Follow my voice, and keep your head down; one’s due any second now.’
Another overshot; no prizes for guessing where it had gone either, as it sprayed sharp-edged chips of rock across the catwalk. ‘Their settings must be shaking loose,’ he observed. ‘They can’t see the pitches, so they don’t know they’re going high.’