He didn’t get as far as the name; he stopped, sat bolt upright and fell off the box. Not again, Bardas thought and grabbed for the reins, but they were still wrapped round the courier’s wrists. He was dragged along by them as the coach gradually slowed down. Somewhere on the rack behind him was a crossbow, service issue for post guards, but it wasn’t where it was meant to be. His scimitar was with the rest of the luggage, somewhere in the back. No point trying to fight, then; which left him with one option, retreat. He shuffled along the box seat and reached out for the reins, overbalanced and fell. The last thing he was aware of was the front offside wheel, rushing toward him -
Bardas?
‘Anax?’ he said.
Alexius. I just stopped off to say goodbye.
‘Oh,’ Bardas replied. ‘You’re leaving, then.’
At long last. Now she’s dead, it sort of rounds things off.
‘Who’s dead? You mean Iseutz, my niece?’
No. Someone else; I don’t know, you may not remember her. Vetriz Auzeil. She was involved, peripherally.
There was no way of knowing where this place was; it was dark, without noises or smells. ‘I seem to remember you telling me about her,’ he said. ‘And I met her and her brother a few times. They were friends of Athli Zeuxis.’ He was about to say something else, but didn’t.
Well, I know you’re a sceptic, so I won’t go into details. I believe she was a natural of sorts, but to what extent she played any significant part – although obviously she did have some bearing, or else her death wouldn’t be rounding off the chapter, so to speak. Anyway, that seems to be that.
‘Well, then.’ Bardas decided to ask after all. ‘Do you happen to know – what did become of Athli, in the end?’
In the end, I’m not sure. She had some part to play in the last defence of Shastel, but whether she escaped or not I never found out. There’s a passing reference to her in one of the discussions of the Colleon war, but it’s inconclusive; it could be either the First Colleon War, which was before the fall of Shastel-
‘So it wasn’t her,’ Bardas said, ‘above the gateway?’
Not the gateway in Ap’ Escatoy; I assume that’s the one you mean. No, the third head was someone called Eseutz Mesatges, and that was a case of mistaken identity – they confused her with your niece Iseutz, you see. And to be fair, it’s an unusual name.
‘Not someone I’ve heard of,’ Bardas replied. ‘Thank you. I feel a bit better for knowing Athli got away.’
Well… Anyway; I’ll be seeing you again, of course, but this is the last time you’ll see me as Alexius. I shouldn’t really be here now, but -
Bardas opened his eyes.
‘Thank the gods for that,’ Gorgas said. ‘I’ve been worried sick.’
Gorgas was kneeling over him, a bowl in one hand, a piece of wet rag in the other. The rag had been torn off his shirt; Bardas could see where he’d ripped it from the sleeve.
‘It’s all right,’ Gorgas went on. ‘You took one hell of a nasty bump on the head, but the swelling’s gone down and I don’t think it’s bleeding inside. Bardas? You do know who I am, don’t you?’
‘I think so,’ Bardas replied. ‘You’re my brother Gorgas, right?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Bardas tried to nod, but that turned out to be a very bad idea. ‘We built the tree-house together,’ he said. ‘In the big apple tree, before it blew down. There was a squirrel that used to walk right past the window.’
‘That’s it, you’ve got it,’ Gorgas said. ‘Now lie still, take it easy. Everything’s under control.’
‘Where’s Dad?’
Gorgas looked at him, then smiled. He had a big, warm smile. ‘He’s around somewhere,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, things are going to be just fine.’
Bardas tried to smile back, but his head hurt. ‘You’re not going anywhere, are you?’ he asked.
‘Of course not. I’ll be here. You take it easy.’
He closed his eyes again; and when he opened them, he remembered.
‘Gorgas?’ He tried to get up, but there wasn’t enough strength in his body. He was lying on the deck of a small ship, his head on a folded-up sail, under a heap of coats and blankets. The sun was bright, sharp, almost cruel; but there was a pleasantly cool breeze.
‘Bardas?’ The voice came from some way away, up the other end of the ship. ‘Hang on, I’ll be right there.’ Bardas couldn’t move, but he could place Gorgas exactly by the sound of his feet on the deck, the vibrations running through the planking; it was a skill he’d acquired in the galleries under Ap’ Escatoy.
‘You got bashed on the head, remember?’ Gorgas was saying (but Bardas couldn’t see him; he was above and behind, so that his shadow fell across Bardas’ face). ‘You fell off the post coach. Dammit, I should have guessed something like that might happen. It’s my own damn stupid fault. You could have been killed.’
Bardas took a deep breath, let it go. His mouth was dry, like hard leather. ‘You shot the coachman,’ he said.
‘Seventy yards, if it was a step. That bow you made for me, Bardas, it’s a honey. But I should have been more careful.’
Bardas frowned. ‘Why?’ he said.
‘Why what?’
‘Why did you kill the coachman?’
‘I had to stop the coach, idiot.’ Bardas could picture the smile; the big, warm smile. ‘Too open for a road-block, and the post doesn’t stop for stray fares. Would you like something to drink now?’
‘No. Yes,’ Bardas amended, because at that moment a drink was what he wanted most in the whole world.
‘Coming right up,’ Gorgas said. ‘You’ve no idea the fun and games I’ve had since then; you were out cold, I was convinced I’d killed you, I was wetting myself. So I got all that trash off the coach, got you back on, set off cross-country for where I’d left the ship; and then a bloody wheel came off-’
Bardas frowned. He seemed to remember a conversation he’d been having a few moments earlier; the whole point was, it wasn’t a wheel, it was a camshaft. But that didn’t make sense.
‘So after I dumped the coach,’ Gorgas was saying, ‘I had to carry you the last two miles – brother, you’ve put on weight since I used to carry you round the yard, though granted, you were only three then. And of course I was petrified about jogging you about, damaging something – head injuries are really sensitive things, you know, you can do all sorts of damage to someone’s head if you’re not careful. Dear gods; I’ll tell you, it was only when I got us both back on this ship that I even remembered to worry about anybody chasing after us. But there doesn’t seem to be anybody, luckily. And so,’ he added cheerfully, ‘here we are, on our way. You know, this is like old times.’
‘Why did you stop the coach?’ Bardas asked.
‘Oh, for… To rescue you, of course. You don’t think I was going to stand by and let them court-martial my brother, do you? You may have faith in Imperial justice, but I don’t.’
(Three heads over a gateway; it was a valid point.) ‘They weren’t going to court-martial me,’ Bardas said. ‘They’re sending me to a new posting. Hommyra,’ he remembered.
Gorgas laughed. ‘There’s no such place, you clown. Come on, you know the Empire by now; for every failure, one responsible officer. Hey, it’s just as well you’ve got your big brother to look out for you, you’re not fit to be out on your own.’
‘But the coachman, he’d heard of it. I think.’
‘Sure,’ Gorgas said. ‘Look, who’d you rather believe, the Empire or your own flesh and blood? No, here we are again. Only this time, it’s going to be different. Promise.’
Bardas’ head hurt. ‘We’re going home? The Mesoge?’
‘You mean you haven’t-?’ Gorgas’ voice became very soft. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news for you,’ he said. ‘It’s gone.’
‘Gone? It can’t have gone.’