K. Parker - The Proof House

‘Do you? That’s – well, each to his own, I suppose. Mind you, in my line of business, you pretty well live and die by your sense of smell.’

‘That must be strange,’ Bardas said.

‘Oh, it is. I find it remarkable how most people just take it for granted. It’s definitely the laziest of the five senses, though that’s nothing a little training won’t cure. My name’s Iasbar, by the way.’

‘Bardas Loredan.’

‘Loredan, Loredan – I’ve heard that name, you know. Isn’t there a bank with that name somewhere in the – out your way somewhere?’

‘I believe so.’

‘Ah, well, that explains it. Does everybody have two names where you come from?’

‘It’s quite common,’ Bardas replied. ‘Does everybody where you come from have just one?’

The woman laughed. ‘Oh, it’s a bit more complicated than that,’ she said. ‘Let me see, now. If I was a man I’d be Iasbar Hulyan Ap’ Daic – Iasbar for me, Hulyan for my father, Ap’ Daic for where my mother was born. Because I’m a woman, I’m plain Iasbar Ap’ Cander; the same idea, but Ap’ Cander because that’s where my husband was born. If I’d never been married, I’d still be Hulyan Iasbar Ap’ Escatoy, which was where I was born. Don’t worry if it sounds confusing,’ she added, ‘it takes foreigners a lifetime to get used to the nuances.’

‘You were born in Ap’ Escatoy?’ Bardas asked.

‘Yes indeed, while my father still had his shop there. I kept meaning to go back, you know, but now of course it’s too late. It was a strange place to grow up in.’

‘Really,’ Bardas said.

‘Oh, yes. They had an absolutely incredible thick soup made with lentils and sour cream; we used to go down to the market with one of those big curvy seashells and get it filled up for a half-quarter, then we’d sit on the steps of the market hall and drink it while it was hot. There was something about it, some special secret ingredient, and I’ve never been able to figure out what it was. Of course, if only I’d thought to ask my mother I’d know what it was, but it never occurred to me. Well it doesn’t, does it, when you’re that age?’

Bardas fell asleep while she was still talking. When he woke up, she wasn’t there any more and the coach was just pulling away from the first stage of the day. She’d left him half a slice of the sticky cake, still in its vine-leaf wrapping; but the jolting of the carriage had knocked it down on to the floor, and it was covered in dust.

‘Temrai?’

He came back in a hurry and opened his eyes. ‘What?’

‘You were dreaming.’

‘I know.’ He sat up. ‘You woke me up just to tell me I was dreaming?’

His wife looked at him. ‘It can’t have been a very nice dream,’ she said. ‘You were wriggling about and making sort of whimpering noises.’

Temrai yawned. ‘It’s about time I was getting up,’ he said. ‘Kurrai and the others’ll be here soon, and I always feel such a fool climbing into that lot with people watching.’

Tilden giggled. ‘It’s quite a performance,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why you bother, really.’

‘It’s to keep me from getting killed,’ Temrai replied, frowning. ‘I don’t wear armour for fun, you know.’ He swung his legs off the bed and hopped across the floor of the tent to the armour-stand.

‘People never used to bother with it,’ Tilden pointed out, ‘not before we came here. Not all that paraphernalia, anyway.’

Temrai sighed. He loathed wearing the stuff at the best of times; it made his movements slow and awkward, and that made him feel stupid. He was convinced he made more mistakes these days just because he was buried under all that metalwork. ‘I don’t know about you,’ he said, pulling on the padded shirt that formed the first layer of his cocoon, ‘but anything that increases my chances of not getting killed is just fine with me. Now, are you going to help me, or do I have to do it all by myself?’

‘All right,’ Tilden said. ‘You know, I’d find it easier to take it seriously if it didn’t all have such silly names.’

Temrai smiled. ‘Now there I agree with you,’ he said. ‘I’m still not sure I know what all the bits are called, either. According to the man who sold it to me, this thing’s a besegew, but everybody else calls it a gorget. Is there a difference, I ask myself, and if so, what is it?’

‘I imagine a besegew’s more expensive,’ Tilden said. ‘And why not call it a collar? That’s all it is, really, it’s just that it’s made of metal. Here, hold still. Why they can’t put bigger buckles on these straps I just don’t know.’

The besegew – or gorget – made it quite hard to breathe. ‘It wouldn’t kill them,’ Tilden observed, ‘to put longer straps on.’ Temrai could have pointed out that if it wasn’t a tight fit there wasn’t much point in wearing it, but decided not to. Eventually he’d be able to take the wretched thing off again, and that would be nice.

Kurrai, the chief of staff, and his fresh-faced young men arrived just as he was putting on his boots (‘But you mustn’t call them that, they’re sabatons’). Kurrai wore his armour as if he never wore anything else; which, Temrai reflected, might well be true.

‘They’re still there,’ Kurrai said. ‘As far as we can tell, they haven’t moved at all.’

Temrai frowned. ‘I still reckon it’s too good to be true,’ he said.

Kurrai shrugged. ‘I guess they’re just refreshingly stupid,’ he replied. ‘Honestly, if it is all a wonderfully cunning ruse, I can’t for the life of me see what it is. They’re in the middle of a plain with no cover, nowhere they can have hidden a couple of squadrons of heavy cavalry or anything else that’s going to put us off our stroke. As far as I can see, they’re just sitting there waiting for us to come and get them.’ He sat down on a chair, which creaked ominously. ‘There’s such a thing as being too cautious, you know.’

Temrai shrugged. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying to figure out what I’d do if I was in their shoes, and I admit, I couldn’t come up with anything clever. Mind you, I hope I’d never have got myself into that position in the first place.’

‘They believe in personal bravery,’ Kurrai said, scratching his nose, ‘and the justice of their cause. We’ll slaughter them, you’ll see.’

Temrai smiled weakly. Somehow, he found it hard to get excited about slaughtering a small band of people who had, until a few years ago, been as much a part of the plains federation as he was. They’d been there with him when he burned Perimadeia; they’d helped build the torsion engines, lost their share of friends and family when Bardas Loredan poured liquid fire on them from the walls. He still didn’t really understand why they’d chosen to turn against him. For all he knew, they were right about whatever it was, and he was wrong. Like so many other things, it had changed once they’d burned the city and settled down on the comfortable pastures opposite the ruins; so it was his fault, when all was said and done. Somehow, that made the prospect of an easy victory rather unpleasant. The bit about the just cause bothered him a little, too; he’d won a great and famous victory a few years ago, and at the time he’d believed he had a just cause. Since then, he’d come to wonder if there was such a thing, and if so, if it had ever been known to prevail.

‘Don’t let’s get cocky,’ he said, standing up and feeling the weight of his armour across his shoulders. ‘The worst words a general can ever utter are, How the hell did that ever happen? ’

Kurrai smiled dutifully. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Between over-cautious and cocky, how do people ever manage to win battles?’