‘That’s the lot,’ sighed Habsurai, gang-boss of the logging contingent, as the last lumber wagon rolled to a halt. ‘I hereby certify that there’s nothing bigger than a dandelion left standing between here and the Pigeon River. And if you want us to go further out than that,’ he added, before Temrai could say anything, ‘you’re going to have to give us an armed escort, because from where we were felling yesterday we could see Loredan’s scouts fooling about on the other side of North Reach ford. If you want any more timber, you’re going to have to fight for it.’
Another hot day; there was a constant relay of weary-looking children struggling up and down the steep path with buckets, and the stonemasons had all but given up. Not that they were proper stonemasons; the clans didn’t have any, never having had a use for large blocks of stone before now. Anybody who didn’t have a hat was improvising furiously – a sack draped over the head and shoulders, secured with a piece of twine around the temples; the broad, flat wicker baskets the bakers carried their bread in; the gonfalon standard of the late City Prefect of Perimadeia, looted on general principles at the Fall and now at last coming in handy for something, wrapped round its new owner’s head like a turban. Temrai was wearing his arming cap, the detachable liner that had come with the fine and completely unwearable barbute helmet he’d bought from an Island merchant before the civil war. The cap was made of thick, matted grey felt and was the only part of the ensemble that even remotely fitted. He wiped sweat out of his eyes and shook his head. ‘Which would defeat the object of the exercise,’ he said. ‘Well, if that’s it, that’s it; we’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got. Thanks; you’ve done a good job.’
Habsurai’s men had brought in a lot of timber – the stacks of trimmed logs looked like a small city in their own right – but it probably wasn’t going to be enough. The lower and middle palisades were finished, the head of each stake dramatically sharpened to a point, and the swing-bridge, causeways and catwalks were nearly done, but the upper stockade wasn’t a practical proposition any more, not if they wanted any lumber for all the other works that still had to be done. Temrai sat down on an upturned bucket and tried to think of an alternative. A simple ditch and mound – well, it’d be better than nothing, but not good enough, not if Bardas Loredan had taken to heart the valuable lessons he’d been given in the sustained use of trebuchets against a fortified position. Without timber, they had a choice between turf and stone; both labour-intensive, time-consuming, inefficient. It would take a lot of people a long time to cut enough turves to build a wall high enough and thick enough to be of any defensive value, but at least there was enough turf for the job. Stone – well, there were a few outcrops of weatherbeaten granite dotted about, enough at a pinch for a few towers and gateways, but if they wanted more than that they were going to have to dig for it and quarry it out.
Sitting still wasn’t going to solve anything. He stood up (since when did my knees hurt so much? I’m getting old) and hobbled rather self-consciously across to the timber stack, where Habsurai’s people were hoisting up the last few logs on the big crane. For all his weary, jaundiced mood he couldn’t help stopping and gazing at the spectacle, a hundred-year-old oak trunk whisked up and flown through the air like a child’s toy. We can do this sort of thing now; how did we ever learn to do this? If only we had a future, what a future we’d have…
Then the crane broke. Later, when the engineers examined it, they found that the strut that supported the beam that the counterweight hung from had been cut from wet, star-shaken wood, and the stresses of the crane had torn it apart; a real novice’s mistake, if ever there was one. As the counterweight plummeted to the ground, the magnificent flying oak that Temrai had been admiring dropped sharply, slipped one of the two loops of its cradle and swung wildly, out of control on the remaining loop. It was coming straight at him and for some reason he was too astonished to move -
– Until someone jumped at him, like a cat pouncing, and pushed him off his feet just as the butt end of the log whirled above him, pushing aside the air in more or less the exact spot where he’d been standing. He tried to lift his head, but a hand thrust it down, grinding his nose into the dirt while the log lurched back again on its return swing; it crashed into the side of the crane, expending the last of its force.
‘Are you all right?’ The voice sounded anxious, and familiar. ‘Temrai? Are you all right?’
‘Mmm.’ Using his arms, Temrai pushed himself up off the ground. His mouth was full of mud. ‘Thank you,’ he said, just as he was in the act of remembering who the man was. ‘Dassascai? Is that you?’
‘Yes,’ Dassascai replied. ‘I think I’ve put my shoulder out. That’d be a real nuisance; I’ve got a couple of hunded ducks to kill and pluck.’
Very cautiously, Temrai stood up. There were people running towards him from all directions. ‘It’s all right,’ he told them, ‘no real harm done-’
‘Speak for yourself,’ Dassascai muttered.
Temrai held out a hand and helped him up. ‘That’s twice,’ he said. ‘You seem to have a knack of showing up just when I’m about to get myself killed.’
‘Really?’ Dassascai wriggled his shoulders and cried out in pain. ‘Well, you can show your appreciation by sending along a couple of men to kill my ducks. And a doctor wouldn’t come amiss, either. Sorry, did I just say something funny?’
Temrai shook his head. ‘You lived in Ap’ Escatoy for years, didn’t you?’
‘That’s right,’ Dassascai replied. ‘Most of my adult life, as it happens.’
‘Thought so. I think you might find your idea of a doctor isn’t the same as ours. I thought I’d better warn you, that’s all.’
Dassascai grunted. ‘Even your pig-ignorant medicine men ought to know how to put back a wrenched shoulder, ’ he said. ‘If they want to slit open a few ducks while they’re at it, it won’t bother me.’
‘That’s all right, then. Just so long as you know what you’re letting yourself in for.’
In the event, all it took was a sharp, controlled twist, enough to make Dassascai yell with pain but over in a moment. ‘You’ll live,’ the sawbones said cheerfully. ‘Get some rest if you can,’ and, to Temrai, ‘See to it he’s excused duty for a day or two. What does he do?’
‘Kills ducks,’ Temrai replied.
The doctor nodded. ‘Repetitive arm and shoulder movements, not a good idea. Put someone else on it, give this one a break.’
‘Certainly,’ Temrai replied. ‘It’s the least I can do.’
For some reason he found it difficult to raise a volunteer for duck-slaying duty; in the end he had to take a work detail off ditch-digging, and even then they complained about it. Then he went back to his tent, where he’d left Dassascai lying on the bed. (Tilden was away supervising the felt-makers). ‘How’s it now?’ he asked.
‘Evil,’ Dassascai replied with a grin. ‘Well, you wouldn’t expect me to say, it’s fine, really; not when I’ve got a chance of a lifetime to milk a genuine obligation on the part of the head of state.’
Temrai smiled. ‘Be my guest,’ he said. ‘Like I said, that’s twice now. Anybody’d think you were my guardian angel.’
‘Enlightened self-interest. How else was I going to get out of doing those goddamn ducks?’