"Eek! Zakalwe!" Keiver heard himself say, and threw the cloak over his head. (Damn!)
When Keiver brought the cloak down again — with, he felt, all the not inconsiderable dignity he could muster — the mercenary was already rising from the debris of the little desk, taking a quick look round the room, and switching off the plasma weapon.
Keiver was, naturally, immediately aware of the hateful similarity of their positions, and so stood up quickly.
"Ah. Zakalwe. I beg your pardon. Did I wake you?"
The man scowled, glanced down at the remains of the escritoire, slammed shut the door of the state coach, and said, "No; just a bad dream."
"Ah. Good." Keiver fiddled with the ornamental pommel of his gun, wishing that Zakalwe didn't make him feel — so unjustifiably, dammit — inferior, and crossed in front of the fireplace to sit (carefully, this time) on a preposterous porcelain throne stationed to one side of the hearth.
He watched the mercenary sit down on the hearth-stone, leaving the plasma cannon on the floor in front of him and stretching. "Well, a half watch's sleep will have to suffice."
"Hmm," Keiver said, feeling awkward. He glanced at the ceremonial coach the other man had been sleeping in, and so recently vacated. "Ah." Keiver drew the roquelaure about him, and smiled. "I don't suppose you know the story behind that old carriage, do you?"
The mercenary — the so-called (Ha!) War Minister — shrugged. "Well," he said. "The version I heard was that in the Interregnum, the Archpresbyter told the Mythoclast he could have the tribute, income and souls of all the monasteries he could raise his state coach above, using one horse. The Mythoclast accepted, founded this castle and erected this tower with foreign loans, and using a highly efficient pulley system powered by his prize stallion, winched the coach up here during the Thirty Golden Days to claim every monastery in the land. He won the bet and the resulting war, disestablished the Final Priesthood, paid off his debts, and only perished because the groom in charge of the prize stallion objected to the fact that the beast died of its exertions, and strangled him with its blood and foam-flecked bridle… which, according to legend, is immured within the base of the porcelain throne you're sitting on. So we're told." He looked at the other man and shrugged again.
Keiver was aware that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. "Ah, you know the story."
"No; just a wild guess."
Keiver hesitated, then laughed loudly. "By hell! You're a rum chap, Zakalwe!"
The mercenary stirred the remains of the bloodwood chair with one heavily-booted foot, and said nothing.
Keiver was aware that he ought to do something, and so stood. He wandered to the nearest window, drew back the drape and unlocked the interior shutters, levered the external shutters aside and stood, arm against the stones, gazing out at the view beyond.
The Winter Palace, besieged.
Outside, on the snow-strewn plain, amongst the fires and trenches, there were huge wooden siege structures and missile launchers, heavy artillery and rock-throwing catapults; juried field projectors and gas-powered-searchlights; a heinous collection of blatant anachronisms, developmental paradoxes and technological juxtapositions. And they called it progress.
"I don't know," Keiver breathed. "Men fire guided missiles, from their mounts" saddles; jets are shot down by guided arrows; throw-knives explode like artillery shells, or like as not get turned back by ancestral armour backed by these damned field projectors… where's it all to end, eh, Zakalwe?"
"Here, in about three heartbeats, if you don't close those shutters or pull the black-out drapes behind you." He stabbed at the logs in the grate with a poker.
"Ha!" Keiver withdrew rapidly from the window, half ducking as he pulled the lever to close the external shutters. "Quite!" He hauled the drape across the window, dusting down his hands, watching the other man as he prodded at the logs in the fire. "Indeed!" He took his place on the porcelain throne again.
Of course, Mr so-called War Minister Zakalwe liked to pretend he did have an idea where it was all going to end; he claimed to have some sort of explanation for it all, about outside forces, the balance of technology, and the erratic escalation of military wizardry. He always seemed to be hinting at greater themes and conflicts, beyond the mere here-and-now, forever trying to establish some — frankly laughable — otherworldly superiority. As though that made any difference to the fact that he was nothing more than a mercenary — a very lucky mercenary — who'd happened to catch the ear of the Sacred Heirs and impress them with a mixture of absurdly risky exploits and cowardly plans, while the one he'd been paired with — him, Astil Tremerst Keiver the Eighth, deputy regent-in-waiting, no less — had behind him a thousand years of breeding, natural seniority and — indeed, for that was just the way things were, dammit — superiority. After all, what sort of War Minister — even in these desperate days — was so incapable of delegating that he had to sit out a watch up here, waiting for an attack that would probably never come?
Keiver glanced at the other man, sitting staring into the flames, and wondered what he was thinking.
I blame Sma. She got me into this crock of shit.
He looked around the cluttered spaces of the room. What had he to do with idiots like Keiver, with all this historical junk, with any of this? He didn't feel part of it, could not identify with it, and he did not entirely blame them for not listening to him. He supposed he did have the satisfaction of knowing that he had warned the fools, but that was little enough to warm yourself with, on a cold and closing night like this.
He'd fought; put his life at risk for them, won a few desperate rear-guard actions, and he had tried to tell them what they ought to do; but they'd listened too late, and given him some limited power only after the war was already more or less lost. But that was just the way they were; they were the bosses, and if their whole way of life vanished because it was a tenet of that way that people like them automatically knew how to make war better than even the most experienced commoners or outsiders, then that was not unjust; everything came level in the end. And if it meant their deaths, let them all die.
In the meantime, while supplies held out, what could be more pleasant? No more long cold marches, no boggy excuses for camps, no outside latrines, no scorched earth to try and scrape a meal from. Not much action, and maybe he would get itchy feet eventually, but that was more than compensated for by being able to satisfy the more highly-placed itches of some of the noble ladies also trapped in the castle.
Anyway, he knew in his heart that there was a relief in not being listened to, sometimes. Power meant responsibility. Advice unacted upon almost always might have been right, and in the working out of whatever plan was followed, there was anyway always blood; better it was on their hands. The good soldier did as he was told, and if he had any sense at all volunteered for nothing, especially promotion.
"Ha," Keiver said, rocking in the china chair. "We found more grass seed today."
"Oh, good."
"Indeed."
Most of the courtyards, gardens and patios were already given over to pasture; they'd torn the roofs off some of the less architecturally important halls and planted there as well. If they weren't blown to bits in the meantime, they might — in theory — feed a quarter of the castle's garrison indefinitely.
Keiver shivered, and wrapped the cloak more tightly about his legs. "But this is a cold old place, Zakalwe, isn't it?"