K Parker - Colours in the Steel

Gorgas Loredan drew a deep breath and started to run, not towards the harbour but up the hill. If he ran fast he might get there first, be in time to intercept his brother; it’s all over, I’ve got a ship waiting . A moment for the message to sink in; another moment, and, How did you know? Why’ve you got a ship waiting? Well, he’d deal with that when the moment came.

Behind him as he ran, more shouting on the walls; not city voices, not bewildered requests for information but signals and confirmations, anxiously waited for. An arrow hit the flagstones beside him and skipped, its movement like that of an eager dog at his heels. Irrelevant; no arrow was going to hit Gorgas Loredan tonight, because Gorgas Loredan has important things to do, he can’t be spared to make up the quota of first casualties. As he ran, his temples throbbed; what a time to have a headache , he said to himself, and tried to ignore it.

Someone grabbed Loredan by the shoulder and he woke up.

‘Come on !’ hissed the voice from behind the lantern. ‘They’re here. Some bastard opened the gate.’

Loredan blinked. His head was still full of sleep, and it hurt. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’ he mumbled. ‘Who…?’

‘The savages ,’ the voice replied. ‘Come on, will you?’ They’re swarming all over the wall.’

Loredan stumbled off his bed and groped for his boots. ‘How did they get in?’ he asked. ‘Did you say-?’

‘Someone opened the gate. A traitor . There’s half a company of guards holding them at the pottery market, and that’s it.’

His feet didn’t want to go in the boots; his left heel was stuck about halfway down, and he couldn’t remember what you were supposed to do when that happened. He pulled the boot off and started again.

‘Has anyone called out the reserve?’ he asked. ‘And what about the district garrisons? Surely-’

‘I don’t know, do I? I’ve just come from the gate – I was about to go on duty.’ Whoever it was handed him his helmet.

‘No, mailshirt first,’ Loredan snapped.

‘Where is it?’

‘There, in the corner.’ Someone had opened the gate; someone from the city had deliberately opened the gate.

There must be some mistake…

Fumbling for the straps of his mailshirt, he tried to think clearly about what had to be done. Alert the reserve and the district garrisons; each unit had an area of deployment assigned to it for this sort of emergency, he’d seen to it that everybody would know where to go and what to do. He’d need messengers-

‘Leave that,’ he said, ‘and go and find the Couriers’ Office. There should be at least ten runners there, standing by. I want them in the courtyard here in the next two minutes. Go on, run. And leave the lantern-’

The last part came too late; whoever it was had run off, taking the light with him. Loredan swore and located his helmet and sword by feel. The sword was, of course, the Guelan broadsword-’

Sure, I believe in coincidences. But this isn’t one .

What else would he need? Wax tablets and a stylus; but he didn’t have any here. Maps and plans, and they were all in the departmental chief clerk’s office, being copied. The chiefs of staff, then; had anybody told them what was happening? He couldn’t assume that, but they’d have to wait until he’d found more runners; raising the reserve and the garrison were the first priority. And still more runners, to bring him an accurate report of what was actually happening. Damn it, when he’d set up the Couriers’ Office he’d assumed for some reason that ten would be enough. That’s your trouble, Bardas, you never think .

What next? He racked his brains as he stumbled into the courtyard. When the runners showed up, he gave them their destinations and watched them dashing away into the darkness. Fortunately, the sound of voices and running attracted a few passers-by, clerks from the Department of Supply for the most part. He co-opted them as messengers and sent them running for the chiefs of staff, too fazed to question the messages they were carrying.

If they’re on the wall already, what’s to stop them forcing a way through all the way round? It depended on how many of them there were, and whether they were coming up on two fronts or only one. If they met no resistance at ground level, they could get across to the next staircase along and take on any defenders from both directions. I should have made specific plans for something like this; but then, who’d ever imagine someone would actually open the gates?

The various chiefs of staff staggered and bumped their way into the courtyard; the Chief Engineer first, accompanied by his first officer, both with their helmets and mailcoats on over long, old-fashioned nightgowns; the Chief of Archers, properly equipped and armed, with his four deputies; the four captains of infantry – guards, garrison, reserves and auxiliaries – in and out of armour, with and without staff; the Chief Clerk from Works and the Quartermaster. Supply was vacant at the moment, because the previous Chief Clerk had been promoted to customs, and it was a political appointment… Second from last the Prefect. Last of all the Lord Lieutenant, his magnificent parade armour still tacky with storage grease, so that dust and fallen leaves stuck to his shins and ankles.

Quickly, Loredan explained, gave his orders. Nobody argued, most of them seemed to know what to do. He put the Prefect in charge of the wall, left the Lord Lieutenant to organise the defence of the second city, and at last was free to go. As he reached the long, broad downhill sweep of the Grand Avenue, he broke into a run. As it happened, he left the gatehouse at more or less the same time as Gorgas reached it. In the darkness and confusion, neither recognised the other.

Metrias Corodin was a maker of scientific instruments, and a good one too. By day he worked in a small but adequate shop on the second level of the western balcony of the instrument-makers’ courtyard, torturing his eyes as he marked out the tiny calibrations on the scales and barrels of the instruments and scorching his fingers over the soldering lamp. In the evenings, he was the sergeant of his watch district; it was a social function as much as anything else, an honour bestowed on him by his neighbours in recognition of a useful and industrious life. He enjoyed the duty; a few hours a week of drill, a little paperwork, a good excuse to hold meetings that people could linger after to talk shop and share news and a jug or two of cider. The drill wasn’t particularly irksome; as a young man he’d been something of an athlete, and he wasn’t so much out of condition that half an hour’s square-bashing or a morning at the butts was a problem for him, even if the straps had had to be let out a few times since the shirt was new.

Now he was standing in front of a line of bleary-eyed nervous men drawn up across the entrance to the coopers’ square. His small company was wedged in between the coopers and the nailmakers, two substantial detachments, each with several sergeants. By a quirk of seniority and guild etiquette, however, he found himself in overall command of the defence of the lower city.

Until the real soldiers get here , he reassured himself, which must be soon, surely . Somewhere ahead, an indeterminate distance away, there were unnerving noises, shouts and yells and sporadic clashes of metal on metal. Something was coming this way, and he had a nasty feeling it was the war.

He tried to remember his basic theory; Ninas Elius’ Art of Urban Defence , required reading for watch officials for the last hundred and twenty years. Defensive actions in a confined space against an oncoming enemy – he could remember swotting up on the section for his lance-corporal’s examination twenty years ago – are to be conducted in two phases, comprising the disruptive use of archery and the obstructive effect of an infantry line . He’d learnt it, yes, but never stopped to think what it might mean. Shoot the buggers first and then hit them, he guessed. It seemed to be the sensible thing to do.