Fighting. Well, we know where we are with that. At least it’s something I know how to do. Following up the slight momentum of the thrust he hauled himself the last step or so on to the crest of the rise, managing to step over the dead man who’d pulled the pike out of his hands with his stomach. As he lurched forward someone hit him across the shoulders (wasting his strength, trying to bash on the junction of pauldrons, backplate, gorget) but Bardas didn’t have the time or the energy to deal with him; he walked past as if ignoring a drunk in the street, and his whole body heaved as he drew in a breath – it caught in his throat, it was like trying to swallow a whole apple. Some fool was bouncing an axe off the top of his helmet; that one didn’t last long – all Bardas had to do was lift his arm and let it fall in its own weight, allow the mass of vambrace, cop, pauldron and gauntlet to force the sword blade down through bone and flesh, the armour doing all the work, the man inside having little to do with it. It’s happened, Bardas thought, as he wrenched his sword free from the severed collar-bone, the armour’s grown round me and sealed me in, like the rings of a tree; only the outside, the steel part of me, is alive.
They tried various tests – swords, spears, axes, even big stones and heavy clubs, but they couldn’t make the armour fail proof. They weren’t in the same league as Bollo and his big hammer when it came to crushing and bashing sheet metal. Their flesh and bone, on the other hand, was no good at all; the whole batch failed to pass, apart from a few pieces that were withdrawn from the test at the last moment. When the session was over, there was the big trash-heap he’d been seeing all along, the pile of arms and legs and heads and trunks and feet and hands that hadn’t succeeded in passing proof. Little wonder, now that he saw them close to; they were made of some material other than steel, which was crazy.
When the cavalry finally deigned to show up there was nothing left for them to do. It was clear they weren’t pleased about it, or about finding that they were now under the command of an outlander infantry sergeant. Their captain turned out to be a Perimadeian by the name of Olethrias Saravin. Bardas tried to turn over command to him, but to no avail. ‘Not bloody likely,’ Saravin said. ‘You made a hash of it the last time you fought these people, now’s your chance to put things right.’ There didn’t seem to be any point arguing with him, so Bardas let the matter drop and ordered him to take out three companies and scout ahead, this time (if at all possible) keeping an eye out for any substantial numbers of enemy archers that might be roaming about the place. Saravin galloped off with a very bad grace, and Bardas gave the order to pitch camp for the night.
They found Estar’s body and brought it to him. There wasn’t a mark on it, apart from a few footprints. By the looks of it he’d fallen off his horse and given himself a heart attack trying to get back up again, unassisted, in full armour.
‘We could try the Honour and Glory, I suppose,’ Eseutz Mesatges suggested. ‘Shouldn’t be too crowded at this time of day, and they do a passable fish soup.’
Vetriz nodded. She wasn’t particularly bothered where they sat down so long as they sat down; she’d made the mistake of wearing her new sandals (hard leather straps and two-inch heels, as required for the nomad-caravan look) before breaking them in properly, and the straps were cutting into her like a bowsaw.
The fish soup turned out to be mediocre, not helped by the fact that the cooks had left the mussels and oysters in their shells -
‘Which is supposed to denote freshness and back-to-essentials simplicity,’ Eseutz commented, ducking a floating mussel under the surface of her soup and watching it bob up again, ‘but as far as I’m concerned it means the cook thinks scraping shellfish out of their armour is a rotten job – a view I wholeheartedly share, let me tell you. The really sordid part is, you end up with a great big trash-heap of bits of discarded shell on the edge of your plate, which really isn’t the sort of thing you want to be looking at while you’re eating.’
Vetriz smiled distractedly; she had something of a headache, and she wasn’t really in the mood for Eseutz Mesatges. ‘Leave them, then,’ she said. ‘Just eat the soup.’
‘What, and waste stuff I’ve paid good money for? Not likely.’ Eseutz grimaced and ripped apart a mussel. ‘Worst of all is those little pink beetle-things, all curled up in a ball like a dead woodlouse. I defy anybody to prise one of those things open without a crowbar and a big hammer.’
Somebody Vetriz thought she knew had just walked in; she caught sight of the back of a bald head, a pair of broad shoulders. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I’m really not hungry. I think I’ll go home now.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly,’ Eseutz said. ‘Look, if you really don’t like the fish soup, we’ll order something else. What about the curried mutton?’
‘Really,’ Vetriz said, rather more loudly than she’d intended to, ‘I’m not hungry.’
Several people looked round, including the man with the bald head and the broad shoulders. He looked at her for a moment, grinned, and walked away towards the table under the window. Vetriz sat back in her chair, feeling rather sick.
‘It’s not the fish soup, is it?’ Eseutz said.
‘No,’ Vetriz replied. ‘It’s not the fish soup.’
Eseutz studied the retreating back for a moment. ‘It’s none of my business, right?’
‘You’re right,’ Vetriz said. ‘It’s none of your business.’
‘Fair enough. If you’re really not hungry, do you mind if I pinch your bread?’
Gorgas Loredan stopped and looked round until he saw what he was looking for. No mistaking those thin, hunched shoulders. He stepped up close and put his arm round them.
Iseutz Loredan squirmed like a fish, then saw who it was and relaxed a little, though not completely. ‘Uncle Gorgas,’ she said.
‘I got your letter,’ he said, straddling the bench and sitting down beside her. He looked too big in such an ordinary place. ‘In fact, it reached me just as I was setting off for a meeting here. So naturally, I thought I’d offer you a lift.’
Iseutz smiled at him. ‘That’s wonderful,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
‘My pleasure,’ he replied. ‘Really, I ought to have invited you over long before this, but I wasn’t sure how things stand with your mother and me. That soup looks good.’
‘You have it, then,’ Iseutz said. ‘It’s disgusting.’
Gorgas shrugged. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘is it true you nearly killed that soldier? Left-handed, too. You really do have a gift for this swordfighting stuff, don’t you?’
‘Must run in the family,’ she said, expressionless. ‘So you know all about that, do you?’
‘Mphm.’ Gorgas had his mouth full of soup. He opened his lips and fished out two mussel shells, which he dropped on to the table. ‘Dirty trick, if you ask me. You see, I’ve got something they want, but they don’t want to pay my price – stupid if you ask me, because they really need what I’ve got and what I want will cost them nothing, but there you are. I imagine you and your mother were going to be their counter-offer. It’s a sad thing when you can’t try to do business with people like the provincial office without having your family kidnapped and held to ransom. If it wasn’t for the fact that they’ve still got your mother, I’d scrub round the whole deal and let them go to hell.’ He picked up the soup-plate and tipped the rest of the soup into his mouth.
‘I know about the deal,’ Iseutz said. ‘I wasn’t sure we’d be worth that much to you.’