K Parker: Devices and Desires

The commotion turned out to be his cousin Jarnac. By the look of it, he was trying to cut his way into a dense wedge of the enemy. There was a handful of Eremians with him, but they were hanging back-probably, Miel guessed, because they didn't want to get too close to Jarnac while he was swinging his poll-axe.

It was an extraordinary sight. Every inch of Jarnac was on the move; as he dodged a spear-thrust, he pivoted, sidestepped, simultaneously jabbing, fending, hooking, hammering. There was a Mezentine right in front of him; he reversed the poll-axe and thrust the butt-spike into the man's stomach-there was eighteen-gauge steel plate in the way, but Jarnac's spike punched through it like tree-bark-then skipped side-and-back like a dancer to avoid another one; he jerked the spike out of the fallen man and tucked the hook inside the knee of his replacement; down that one went,

Jarnac drove the spike through his helmet into his brain without bothering to look down, because his attention was fixed on another one, who got the axe-blade in his neck, in the gap between aventail and collar-bone; Jarnac had moved again, diagonally forward so as to step in for a thrust in time into the face of the next Mezentine; he converted the pull that freed the blade into a backward thrust, piercing the skull of the man who was trying to get behind him; then he pushed forward and swung the poll-axe in a circle round his head to strike with every scrap of his strength; Miel couldn't see the man who was on the wrong end of that, but he heard the ring, clear and sharp as a hammer on an anvil. Every movement of hand and arm was mirrored in a step, forward, sideways or back; each step was combined with a twist or a turn that tensioned the muscles for the next thrust or cut. The only reason the Mezentines stood in his way was because they were too closely jammed together to get away; it was like watching a man dance his way through a tangle of briars. What happened? Miel asked himself. What happened to turn my genial buffoon of a cousin into the angel of Death?

As he watched, a Mezentine slipped past Jarnac on the left, got behind him and stabbed him in the back with a spear. Miel could feel his own heart suddenly stop, as though someone had reached down inside his chest and grabbed hold of it. Jarnac was dead; apparently not, because the spear didn't seem to want to go in. The attacker couldn't believe it. He froze, completely bewildered, and Jarnac spun on his heel and crushed his head with a monstrous overhand blow. Miel heard bone failing, and he remembered that when he'd met Jarnac in the passageway, he'd been climbing into a brigandine coat.

The dance stopped abruptly. Jarnac had run out of Mezentines for the time being, and exhaustion had caught up with him. He staggered, steadied himself against the axe-shaft, and stood still.

'Jarnac,' Miel shouted. Jarnac lifted his head and frowned. A red wash from the rising sun bathed the side of his face, glittering off the splashed blood that coated his cheeks.

'Hello, Miel,' Jarnac said quietly, and he grinned. 'This is a fucking mess, isn't it?'

'Where's Orsea?' Miel asked.

Jarnac shook his head. 'Search me,' he said. 'I caught sight of him a minute or so back, but then this lot here'-he jabbed the butt-spike in the vague direction of a dead man-'bust through our line and I got distracted.' He frowned slightly. 'I wouldn't bother going and looking for him, if I were you.'

Miel shrugged. 'I think I'd better have a go at it,' he said.

'Bugger.' Jarnac sighed. 'Want me to come with you?'

'Thanks,' Miel said, 'but you'd better stay here. Someone's got to…' He couldn't say what he wanted to say. 'You're needed,' he went on, 'I'm not. See you later.'

'Take care,' Jarnac said; and then he was moving again, and Miel darted through a gap between two dazed-looking Mezentines into a clear space. He wished he'd got a brigandine coat like Jarnac's, or even just a mailshirt or a padded jack.

A few steps brought him close enough to see what was happening. He saw the backs of a thin line of Eremians. They looked like they were walking backwards, but they were being pushed, and every now and then one of them would trip and fall and be walked over. That, Miel realised, was all that was left of Orsea's gallant charge, the entire palace garrison. It was like watching a chick break out of an egg; the thin wall cracking, crumpling and breaking up, as something inside it flexed its strength to force its way out.

Never mind, Miel thought, and he lunged forward with his stupid halberd at some soldier or other who happened to be just inside his reach. The point slid off the man's gorget; he grabbed the shaft and pulled, ripping it out of Miel's hands, and threw it away. Miel let go and bundled sideways; collided awkwardly with someone he hadn't seen, tripped over his own feet and fell. His chin banged on the man's knee, jarring his neck and jaw. Too shocked to think, he dropped to the ground. A boot kicked his ribs-accident, not deliberate-and another slammed into the back of his head. Am I dead? he wondered, and then nothing.

All she could see was vague movement, like a river, or the swaying branches of trees. That moving thing, she knew, was the enemy, and it was coming closer. The logical conclusion was that the battle had been lost.

They wouldn't kill women though, would they? It stood to reason that Orsea was dead by now, but her mind was too preoccupied to consider the implications of that. They wouldn't kill women; why would they want to do a thing like that? She couldn't imagine a reason, but the same went for destroying a city. Why would anybody want to do such a thing?

No point in watching any more. She turned and came in off the balcony, and saw someone standing and looking at her.

'I know you,' she said. 'You're Ziani Vaatzes.'

Vaatzes nodded. He looked pathetically weary, and was wearing a heavy coat with big, bulging pockets. 'We met at the hunt,' he said awkwardly. The formality of it made her smile; it'd never do to be massacred in the company of a man to whom she hadn't been introduced. 'What's happening?' he asked.

'I don't know,' she said. 'Come and see for yourself if you like.'

'No thank you.' He was frowning. 'I think it might be a good idea if you were to leave now,' he said.

That made her laugh. 'Don't be silly,' she said, 'we can't leave. If we go out in the streets, we'll just get killed along with everybody else. There's no secret passages or anything like that.'

'Actually,' he said, and hesitated. 'Actually,' he repeated, 'there's a way that'll take us right outside the city. Same way as they got in,' he added.

There was something significant about that remark, but she couldn't spare the energy to figure out what it was. 'No there isn't,' she said. 'I was born in this building, I know-'

'The maintenance tunnels for the water system,' he interrupted. 'They came in through them, but they'll be long gone by now. They're all out there,' he said, pointing over her shoulder, 'fighting the battle.'

It occurred to her that he was quite right. She felt as though she'd just walked into a wall in the dark. Just when she'd made up her mind she was going to die, along came this funny little man with a viable alternative. 'But I don't know how to get in to them,' she said, her voice suddenly creased with panic. 'I've lived here all these years and-'

'I do,' Vaatzes said. 'You come with me and I'll show you. But I really think we should go now. It's quite a long way, and I'd rather we did the trip and got clear while the enemy's busy with other things, if you follow me.'

She knew it was wrong even to think about escaping, deserting, when Orsea was lying out there dead and the city was about to fall. On the other hand, there was absolutely no reason why she should be killed, if it could be avoided. She nodded. 'Give me a moment to change my shoes,' she said. 'I can't go running down maintenance tunnels in these things.'