That prompted Bardas to ask a question that hadn’t occurred to him before: how old was the Empire, and where did it start?
The courier looked at him as if he was simple. ‘The Empire is one hundred thousand years old,’ he said, ‘and it started in the Kingdom of Heaven.’
‘Ah,’ Bardas said. ‘Thank you.’
From Ap’ Reac to Seshan (wherever Seshan was), the road went up a steep mountain and down into a deep canyon, with cliffs on either side. It looked for all the world as if the earth had been pulled apart; the road followed the bed of a long-dead river, which had cut the canyon and then dried up. Still thinking about the mines as they rumbled along under the shadow of the cliffs, Bardas couldn’t help being reminded of the galleries, the main thoroughfares of the underground city under Ap’ Escatoy. That city, with its complex grid of painfully cut roads and alleys, was all gone now; ruined and lost, like Ap’ Reac or Perimadeia, except in his memory, where it was still vivid, more real than this improbable and unconvincing place he was in now, which smelt of rosemary and roses and was soaked right through with light.
Absolutely ideal place for an ambush, Bardas reflected. Just as well we’re deep inside the Empire; you’d get twitchy in here otherwise.
Up above somewhere, the sun was high and hot. Under the eaves of the cliffs, it was dark and cool. The road seemed to stretch on for ever. There was next to no wind to take away the smell of roses. In a way, it was like being in the mines. In a way, everything would always be like being there.
The coach had stopped. Bardas hauled himself up and peered over the luggage.
‘Is this Melrun?’ he asked.
‘No,’ the courier replied.
They were in the ravine. The road ahead was empty. ‘So why’ve we stopped?’ Bardas asked.
‘This isn’t right,’ the courier replied, standing up on the box.
‘I don’t understand,’ Bardas said. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
The courier frowned. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said; at which point an arrow hit him just below the ear. He fell sideways off the box and hit the ground with a thump.
Oh, for pity’s sake. Bardas dropped down, landing awkwardly among the packing-cases. The heart of the Empire; slap-bang in the middle of the shadow of the Children of Heaven, where (as everybody knew) you could leave a cartload of diamonds unattended all night in the market square and be sure nobody would steal them.
Whoever the unseen archer was, he was a cautious, methodical type, content to wait until he was sure the coast was clear before giving away his position. Bardas found this degree of professionalism highly aggravating; he was crouched down in a murderously uncomfortable position, from which he dared not move for fear of giving himself away and getting an arrow in his own neck. This is ludicrous, he thought. It’s not as if I’m likely to lift a finger to stop the Imperial post being looted; they can have the lot, and welcome, if only I could move my feet. The thought of dying, from an arrow or thirst, or being fried by the savage heat of the sun, for the sake of twelve crates of rose essence and the Imperial mail was little short of insulting.
Nothing happened. He tried thinking it through. When was the next coach due? He ought to know how often they ran along this road. Someone had told him, but he couldn’t remember. Presumably the cautious man up in the rocks knew the timetable, he didn’t seem the sort to be slapdash about important stuff like that. He’d have to allow enough time to get the coach unloaded and haul off the stuff he wanted, that’d take time (unless he was planning to drive the coach to the end of the ravine, he was going to have to haul it up the sides with ropes). How many friends and relations did he have with him? Most important (and unfathomable) of all, did he/they know he was here, or was a long wait-and-see standard operating procedure when robbing the post?
Just as he was sure he couldn’t stand the cramp in his legs any more, he heard the sound of someone scrambling about on loose rocks. Daren’t look up, of course, so he couldn’t see what was going on, but at least something was happening. No weapons, of course, except a short knife stuck down the side of his boot, as in the mines. Been in worse scrapes than this. Really? Name three.
‘All right.’ A man’s voice, badly out of breath. ‘You two, start unloading. Gylus, hold the horses. Azes, where’s your damn brother with those hooks?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ replied a child’s voice, with the eternal put-upon whine of the younger brother.
‘Don’t be cheeky. Gylus, lend me your knife. Bassa, for crying out loud be careful with that, it’s fragile.’
The family business, obviously. Families that loot together take root together. ‘It’s not fair,’ said another childish voice. ‘You said it was my turn to have the boots.’
‘You’ve already got a pair of boots. Why can’t you do as you’re told, just for once?’
– And there he was, standing on top of the luggage, his back to Bardas, directing his obstreperous workforce. All Bardas could see was the back of a bald head, wreathed with a few wisps of greying hair, and a shabby military-issue coat with a suspicious-looking hole, scrupulously darned, between the shoulders. Go away, Bardas thought, but the man didn’t seem to be in any sort of a hurry. ‘Bassa! Bassa! Put it down, you’ll cut yourself and then I’ll have your mother on at me. Oh, for-’
He’s seen me.
The man stood and stared for a full heartbeat, then groped for the hilt of the cavalry scimitar that dangled incongruously from his shoulder on an excessively long belt. Damn, Bardas thought; his legs were too cramped for sudden, energetic movement, else he’d have run away; but that option wasn’t available. The man had found his sword-hilt (round, jowly, harassed face; used to know a man who looked quite like him, had a stall selling candles in the Chandlers’ quarter) and was struggling to draw it, hampered by the long belt and his own extreme terror. The knife was in Bardas’ hand (here we go again), its pommel finding its own place in the hollow of his palm, his thumb pressing down on the middle of the handle, feeling for the slight groove that marked the right spot, the fingertips resting lightly on the quillons; arm back behind the ear, cock the wrist back and flick as the arm comes forward, to keep the knife upright as it leaves the hand, so that the shifting weight of the hilt guides it and powers it – you have to do this instinctively, if you think about it you’ll miss, or the knife’ll hit side-on. It’s second nature or it’s impossible (it had always come naturally to him in the mines, throwing his knife at a noise in the dark, knowing where to find it again).
A good solid hit; not the ten, but cutting the edge of the nine, slicing into the adam’s apple and severing the windpipe, so that there wasn’t any air available for the curse or the famous last words or whatever it was the man was about to say; but his mouth opened and closed and nothing came out, and then his feet slipped from under him and he went crashing down on to a crate (marked fragile, inevitably) which burst dramatically open, drenching Bardas in the scent of dawn-plucked roses. A moment later, the dead man’s boot skidded past his ear.
‘Dad?’ No time for anything now; Bardas reached awkwardly over the body with his left hand and fished out the cavalry sword (horrible, evilly balanced things, the pommel nips your wrist and you’d have to be a triple-jointed contortionist to thrust effectively), then used his left hand to push himself up on to his feet – left foot still numb, pins and needles in the right, what a stupid reason for getting killed…