K. Parker - The Proof House

‘Well, you know how it is,’ Bardas said. ‘Wars seem to follow me about, whenever I get myself settled. So I thought this time I’d go and find one, before it found me.’

The prefect looked at him as if he hadn’t quite understood. ‘An interesting perspective,’ he said. ‘In any event, your service in the siege of Ap’ Escatoy certainly merits a tangible reward, and the provincial office knows the importance of looking after its own. It ought to be possible to find a situation that will prove rewarding to you and which makes rather better use of your talents than the mines.’ He glanced back at the paper in front of him. ‘I see you have practical experience in manufacturing,’ he said.

‘I used to make bows,’ Bardas replied.

‘You were good at it?’

‘Fairly good,’ Bardas said. ‘A lot depends on getting the right materials.’

The prefect frowned, then nodded. ‘Quite right,’ he said. ‘Our procurement office takes particular care to ensure that all our specifications are properly met. And of course,’ he went on, ‘we’re equally thorough when it comes to quality control. Which is why the proof house is such an important part of our manufacturing procedure.’

‘Proof house,’ Bardas repeated. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.’

For some reason, that seemed to amuse the prefect. ‘There’s no reason why you should,’ he said. ‘It’s a rather specialised department. Essentially, the proof house is where we test the armour we issue to our soldiers. It’s a subdivision of the district armoury at Ap’ Calick, although we test samples from provinces all over the western Empire.’ The prefect drummed his fingers on the desktop in a quick, orderly rhythm. ‘There’s a vacancy for a deputy inspector at Ap’ Calick. The post is equivalent in rank to sergeant-of-fifty, so it would represent a significant promotion; obviously it’s not a combat assignment, but I venture to suggest that after such a protracted tour of front-line duty, the change would not be unwelcome. Mostly, though, the combination of proven administrative skills and considerable first-hand combat experience that your record suggests make you a thoroughly logical choice for this duty. Provided,’ the prefect added, with a smile, ‘it meets with your approval.’

Bardas looked up. ‘Oh, absolutely,’ he said. ‘Anything that doesn’t involve killing people down dark tunnels will do me just fine. Thank you.’

The prefect looked at him, his head slightly on one side, with the air of a man reluctantly giving up on an insoluble problem. ‘My pleasure,’ he said. ‘If you’d care to call back tomorrow, any time after midday, my clerk should have your certificate and transit documents ready. You can use the post to get there; not that there’s any immediate hurry, but it can be an awkward journey by conventional means.’ The prefect stood up, indicating that the interview was over. Bardas followed suit. ‘Good luck, Sergeant Loredan. I’m sure you’ll do an excellent job in Ap’ Calick.’

‘I’ll do my best,’ Bardas replied. He opened the door, then hesitated. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘just one quick question. How do you go about testing armour?’

The prefect spread his hands. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said. ‘I assume by simulating the sort of strain and damage it’s likely to undergo in actual combat.’

Bardas nodded. ‘Bashing it with swords,’ he said. ‘That sort of thing. Should be fun. Thank you.’ He closed the door behind him before the prefect could say anything else.

Of course, Bardas knew all about the post. Everyone in the Empire had come across it at some time, usually in the context of scurrying out of its way. The post-horses, as everybody knew, stopped for nothing; they were explicitly allowed to ride down anybody who couldn’t get out of the road quickly enough, and the post-riders seemed to delight in taking every opportunity they could to exercise this privilege.

‘Three stops a day to change horses,’ the master courier told him cheerfully, ‘and two more at night; we take our food and water with us, and if you want a pee, you do it over the side of the coach. This all the stuff you’re taking?’

Bardas nodded. ‘Just the kitbag,’ he said.

‘No armour?’

‘Sapper,’ Bardas explained. ‘We never bothered with it in the mines.’

The courier shrugged and signalled to the outriders to mount up. ‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘Just for once there’s a bit of space on the coach; nothing much going up the line today. You can sit on the box with me, or lie down in the back if you can find room; your choice.’

Bardas climbed up, stepping on the horizontal spoke of the front wheel as he’d seen the courier do. ‘I’ll ride up front to start with,’ he said, ‘it’ll give me a chance to admire the scenery.’

The courier laughed. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘Hope you like rocks, ’cos that’s all you’ll see till we’re past Tollambec.’

The coach was a wonderful piece of work; wide and low at the front, enormous back wheels with thick iron tyres fitted front and back with sheaves of steel springs the size and thickness of crossbow limbs to float the chassis off the axles. ‘Corners a treat,’ the courier told him. ‘Next best thing to impossible to turn it over, unless you’re really trying hard. Built to last, too,’ he added, giving the side of the box a meaty slap with the side of his hand. ‘Well, they need to be, the amount of work they do. Bloodstream of the Empire, they call us.’

Bardas nodded. In the back he could see jars of wine with fancy designs on the seals, bales of various expensive-looking fabrics, some pieces of furniture vaguely recognisable under the cloth they were wrapped in, one barrel of civilian-made arrows and three or four sealed wooden chests. ‘Essential supplies, that sort of thing,’ he said. ‘I can see the need for a system like this.’

Once they’d cleared the camp, the courier whipped the horses up into a swift canter, which soon made the coach too noisy and uncomfortable for anything except sitting still and quiet. The scenery was, as promised, an endless array of rock faces. Just occasionally the coach would hurtle past groups of men and donkeys ostentatiously pulled in to passing places; they looked away and tried to flatten themelves against the rock as the coach went by, like sappers laid up in the mines.

‘You’re the hero, right?’ the courier shouted.

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘What? I can’t hear you.’

‘Yes,’ Bardas yelled. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Ah, well. Each to his own, I suppose,’ the courier roared, and the rocks bounced his voice backwards and forwards like children playing catch. ‘Wouldn’t suit me, all that crawling about in the dark.’

‘Nor me.’

‘What?’

‘I said it didn’t suit me either,’ Bardas shouted. ‘Not my idea of fun.’

The courier pulled a face. ‘You’re not supposed to say that,’ he roared. ‘You’re a bloody hero.’

Bardas didn’t have the energy to rise to that. ‘I think I’ll lie down in the back,’ he shouted.

‘Suit yourself.’

It was delicate work, edging down from the box and crawling across the cargo until he found a man-sized niche he could crawl into. Amazingly, in spite of the noise and the jarring movement of the coach, it wasn’t long before he was fast asleep.

When he woke up, the courier was standing over him, grinning. ‘Wake up,’ he said. ‘First change. I’d stretch your legs if I were you; long haul, the next stage.’

Bardas grunted and tried to stand up, something that proved to be harder than he’d expected. By the time he’d got back enough feeling in his legs to scramble down off the coach, the stagekeepers had already out-spanned the old horses and were spanning in the replacements, identical-looking animals with nondescript dun coats, their manes and tails docked short. Each one was branded with the provincial office’s mark and a serial number, large enough to be legible from some way off.