Farlander hotw-1 Page 13

  General Creed seemed to be eyeing the faint image of the fortress town. He looked like a man who wished to return to it.

  Daydreaming again, Bahn reckoned, and he gently nudged the general's foot with his own.

  'Yes, First Minister,' Creed replied smoothly, as though he had been listening attentively all along. His chair scraped as he stood up to address the room, his burnished armour reflecting the sunlight. The general pressed his palms against the polished tiq wood of the table, as his gaze took in the assembled ministers one by one. He did not look impressed by what he saw.

  'My request is that we return to the issue of the coastal forts. And you may groan all you like, gentlemen, for I mean to have this issue decided upon here, this very day.'

  'General Creed. We have been over this many times. We are aware that our eastern forts are undermanned. Yet what is it you believe we can do?'

  'First Minister, the forts are not undermanned, as this council is so fond of suggesting. They are barely manned at all. That is my point: they contain skeleton crews merely to service and repair them, no more – certainly not enough to offer solid resistance. They have little blackpowder, even fewer cannon, for instead all has been drawn to the defence of Bar-Khos and our southern coastline. Therefore we still have no answer for a surprise attack on our eastern shores.'

  'That is to presume such a surprise attack would be possible, General. The third fleet has protected us thus far. We must pray it will continue to do so.'

  Creed waved that comment away. 'First Minister, that is a lot of sea for the third fleet to patrol. We have been lucky so far, that is all. Now that the insurrection on Lagos has finally been quelled and its great harbour secured, the Mannians have the perfect anchorage from which to strike against us. We can no longer rely on the navy for our protection. First Minister, we must man those forts.'

  First Minister Chonas, philosopher as well as politician, took this demand with his usual good grace. He nodded to his old friend and opponent. 'Truly, I understand, Marsalas. But we are overstretched as it is. You know as well as I, we have not the resources to equip and maintain more soldiery. Where can we find these extra fighters? You yourself have a solution, all of a sudden?'

  'We divide our reserves in two, and use one half to man the forts.'

  There was an outcry of protest from around the table at this suggestion.

  'That is hardly a solution, General,' spoke up one voice. It was Sinese, Minister of Defence, third most powerful man in all of Khos, who sat back with his legs folded and white-gloved hands resting on the ivory head of his walking cane. 'This cabinet will not allow our reserves to be diminished any further than they already are. Even if we were to man the forts fully, it is doubtful they could hold off a full invasion. There is nothing new in what you propose here.' He paused to turn in his seat and address the man next to him. 'Minister Eliph, you have more pressing news from the diplomatic corps, I understand?'

  'I do,' concurred Eliph, and avoided the general's sudden glare as he took a moment to gather his thoughts. 'Our ambassador in Zanzahar has arranged for further discussions with the Caliphate concerning their recent proposal. He believes they are sincere in their talk of extending the limit of their safe waters closer to us. There is real hope, it would seem.'

  His words drew the scorn of half the chamber, evident in a general hiss of breath and the shaking of heads. Many believed that this recent proposal of the Caliphate was nothing more than empty words, amounting to simply another manoeuvre in the Caliphate's latest trade dispute with Mann.

  'The Caliphate merely hopes to sustain this war for as long as it can,' said Chonas, as though speaking to a child. 'It profits too well in providing blackpowder to both sides.'

  Some rapped their knuckles on the table in agreement with this. Others protested vocally and asked to be heard.

  After that, the assembly broke down into a series of arguments. They could carry on this way for an hour or more, Bahn knew only too well.

  It was hot in the huge room, with its windows facing the sun. Despite the hand-pulled ceiling fans and the cool sea breeze from those windows which stood open, a smell of sweat permeated the chamber, not quite concealed by the scents of sickly sweet perfumes. After a while Bahn's interest faded to mere observance, and then shifted to other matters entirely.

  He had hoped today to hear of some resolution on their present food crisis, yet they could do nothing about that, it seemed. Food supplies to Khos had been reduced even further since they had lost a grain fleet on its return from Zanzahar. In theory Khos could sustain itself without these imports, being the breadbasket of Mercia after all. But with a steady influx of refugees into the Free Ports over the last decade, which the Mercians had finally welcomed, after heavy losses suffered in the first few years of the war – deciding they needed these desperate people after all – Khos had long ago ceased to produce enough to feed the other islands. With their summer harvest of wheat still in the fields, and a large proportion of their imports needed elsewhere, rations had become even more meagre than before.

  Upon noticing the jutting bones on his son's body and even in his wife, Bahn had chosen to abstain from consuming any of his family's weekly rations, in the pretence that he could eat when he was serving at the walls or inside the Ministry. But even the soldiers there were suffering as everyone else, and received hardly enough to sustain a man.

  A fist crashed against the tabletop next to his arm, jerking him from his thoughts. Bahn stared at it as though it had fallen from the sky.

  'Enough of this,' the general rumbled to the gathered ministers, stopping their scattered debate in its tracks. He drew himself tall, not looking at the First Minister but at the others around the table instead, and with a firmness in his voice he said, 'We were discussing the forts, and I still have this to say on the matter. If you choose not to defend the forts, we must defend ourselves by other means. We must stop sitting here on our arses behind our high walls. We must attack, and take the fight to the enemy.'

  Attack? Bahn was suddenly all attention.

  A chair fell to the floor as old Phrades clambered to his feet, mouthing words no one could hear. Other ministers stood and added their own more substantial voices to his protests. Bahn pressed back in his chair, seeking anonymity from the suddenly angry Michine. He blinked at the powder-white faces ranged around the great table. These men had been taught from youth to show emotion only when it was most required of them. It was said that they daubed their faces white so as to hide the merest hint of a blush. Now, in their hostile expressions, he saw the blood of their ancestors finally flooding to the surface, darkening the pallor of their dusted complexions. It was the same blood as ran through the veins of their great-greatgrandfathers and uncles, those wealthy patricians who had deposed the first and only High King of all Mercia, and had done so backed only by a rabble army inflamed to action by the king's plans of foreign conquest – for such imperialistic ambitions had not sat well with the people of the Free Ports.

  'Attack with what?' enquired Minister Sinese, shaking his walking stick in the air.

  'With our reserves, damn it. Yes, that again. We have men enough to launch an offensive against Nomarl – there, you can see it right before your eyes, man, close enough you could almost reach out that stick of yours and touch it.' Creed gestured with one hand as he spoke, pointing to the windows at first, then further east so he was gesturing at a wall of the chamber instead – as though he could see through it to the entire coastline of the mainland. 'First we seize Nomarl. Then, with the reserves of Minos and the other islands, we can capture further harbour towns along the Pathian coast. We establish beachheads, gain a toehold on the mainland, and by this means we open up a new front. We give ourselves options. What good are reserves if all we do is shelter behind our walls with our hopes fading? While those men remain inactive, they are merely more mouths to feed, gaining us nothing but peace of mind. Well, gentlemen, I tell you now' – and his hard gaze roamed the room, t
aking the measure of them once more – 'we are long beyond peace of mind. It is time for us to act.'

  The general had said nothing of such a proposal to Bahn before this meeting began, and yet Bahn was his closest aide. He knew, however, that the old veteran could be as calculating as he could be spontaneous. Perhaps he had broached the subject of the forts again, knowing full well they would dismiss it, merely with the intention of then demanding what he really desired: a renewed offensive against the Empire. Or perhaps, simply sitting here in this chamber, staring out across the narrow stretch of water to the enemy town, had invoked in him some passion or instinct for action, and now he was riding on the wings of it.

  Sinese, Minister of Defence, quietened the room with a raised hand while he twisted the tip of his cane into the floor.

  'General Creed, I have already stated our position on the reserves, both here today and in previous sessions of this cabinet. We will not leave ourselves exposed, without reinforcements, should another large-scale Mannian offensive take place against the Shield. And since, as you are so fond of reminding us, we are so vulnerable on our eastern coastline, as well, that gives even further reason for our reserves to remain intact, for at least then we do have something to respond with, should the Empire ever attempt such a manoeuvre. General, we are hardly in a position now to resume offensive operations against the Mannians. Across the Free Ports we produce modern cannon, rifles, ships as fast as we are able. More so now than ever before. We go hungry because we must give as much to Zanzahar for its black-powder as we do for its grain. Yet still, we barely hold our own.'

  'Hold our own, you say? For ten years now they have been slowly pushing us back. As I speak, Kharnost's Wall is ready to fall apart at the seams. This is not a stalemate, and you must dissuade yourself of that notion, if that is what you now believe. No, it is a slow but certain execution. If we do not change course, then all of us are dead already.'

  The First Minister cleared his throat, and met Creed's eyes with an intelligent stare projected from beneath the overhang of his bushy eyebrows.

  'You are the reformer as ever, General. All that matters to you is victory. You would change the world if that meant it would save us. You would strip us of our only reserves of men in some mad dash for glory. Yet, for any gains we might make, think of all we could lose.'

  And Bahn found himself agreeing with this sentiment, though he would never have admitted it in front of his superior. He thought: Yes, we have lost too much already.

  'You are cuckolds to your caution,' Creed announced in a surprisingly quiet voice, again not addressing the First Minister but all the others in the room. 'Every one of you. What is this thing you harbour, this timidity? I understand it in boys, but not in grown men. We must be rid of it.'

  'You have spoken, General, and we have listened. Do you now wish to call a vote?'

  A snort of air from Creed's nostrils. The general's boots scuffed the floor as he turned and strode away from the table. Bahn stared after his superior for the length of a single shallow breath. What's got into him? he wondered.

  Bahn remembered himself and started after the older man.

  'Damned fools,' Creed said, loud enough for all to hear him. He stopped as he neared the door, turning to the table of rations and watered wines laid out for this session. It was simple food, and there was not so much of it, but to Bahn's eyes it held the glamour of a feast.

  'Here,' the general snapped, and Bahn simply blinked as Creed shoved a wooden bowl of fruit into his arms, and dumped a roll of sweetmeat on top of that, and said, 'You look bloody starved, man,' and with that he swept out through the doors.

  Bahn hesitated for a moment. He glanced back at the gathered assembly, all watching him now. It was the food that drew his attention, though. In particular a round of blue-veined white cheese that he could smell from several feet away. It might well keep until his daughter's naming ceremony, he thought, even as he inched forwards and gently lifted it into the cradle of his arms.

  Before he left, he bowed as best he could to the assembly, holding the stance for the count of three.

  Their pale faces turned away from him, as one.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Cheem The Heart of the World was calm that morning, and as blue and empty as the sky that curved over it like a great vault of reflective sapphire, hemming it on all sides with the barest of horizons save to the west, where mountains hung amidst throngs of clouds. Sunlight fell upon the calm surface of the sea, bouncing back on itself in waves of heat. Birds wheeled ghostly and bright. From the south a lean breeze drew across the water's surface, ruffling the odd white-cap from the languid swell.

  A chohpra, the crew of the Falcon called it. A perfect day.

  The Falcon flew low above the peaceful waters of the Miders, like a seabird skimming the waves, though perhaps a bird that had too long been subjected to the elements and was glad to be reaching journey's end. Ragged as its appearance might be, it had made good time on its crossing; though now, as it edged closer to its island destination, it was slowing as it approached the harbour of Cheem Port.

  Gulls followed it in, catching lumps of keesh thrown into the air by the dark-skinned man standing at the prow of the ship. Ash was drawing the attention of a few bandaged crewmen currently at rest on the weather deck, shaking their heads as they watched and muttered words of mockery to each other. They thought of gulls as the rats of the sea, and why feed them, the old fool?

  The old fool didn't seem to notice their scorn. Neither did Nico, who was standing beside him. He was half watching the attentive humour on Ash's face as he played with the swooping birds, half watching the nearing harbour and the many ships riding at anchor. Beyond them, the sprawling city rose into foothills, which in turn were dwarfed by black, snow-capped mountains as far as the eye could see.

  This was the only city and deep-water anchorage on the entire mountainous island of Cheem. It was a large port, too, though not quite the size of Bar-Khos. It was also a place of infamy, and for once this infamy mirrored reality.

  Nico had been raised, as were all Mercian children, on tales of the Cheem reavers. Amongst the Free Ports it was common practice for parents to warn ill-behaved children about how the reavers kidnapped young ones for their slaves. Parents painted them as monsters, crafting elaborate stories of how they would leave a wooden toy ship by the bed of a bad child they were planning on kidnapping soon. If that warning was not enough to inspire better behaviour, a toy ship would appear overnight beside the child's bed, to be seen with alarm when he or she awakened. Only the most unruly would fail to be chastened by such a portent.

  Such fears only worsened when that child reached adulthood to discover that the reavers not only captured children as their slaves, but grown men and women too.

  It was because of this that Nico's relief at having made the crossing intact was now diluted by a fresh apprehension. In fact he would have preferred that they were landing anywhere else but here.

  Today's breeze was warm, laden with all the sharp scents of the sea and, whenever it paused for breath, a pungent aroma of melting tar rose from the decks of the ship. The wind blew in their favour, too, though the tubes were burning hot as they approached the port. They soared over the harbour's outer wall, and saw the narrow entrance channel leading through it: a passageway flanked by slimy stone walls, supporting squat forts of the new rounded design that was said to be effective in deflecting cannon shot. Looking down, Nico could see guns poking out from the forts, and older-style ballistae positioned on their flat rooftops, while soldiers in pale cloaks leant on their spears as they looked up at the skyship sailing over their heads, trailing green flags to indicate its neutrality.

  Now that Ash had run out of keesh to throw them, the gulls screeched in protest. The ship turned, its crew scurrying to readjust the scull sails, and headed towards a beach on the southern edge of the harbour, where a windsock flew from a high tower mounted on the rocks. Mooring masts were fixed along the shore, and a
rotting skyship lay on the sand, without its envelope.

  'Stay close,' Ash instructed Nico. 'We will be stopping in the city for only a few hours, but the tales you may have heard of this place are not without truth. Cheem Port is a den of dogs. We will be safe enough in daylight, but even so, do not stray from my side.'

  'And after that, how long will our journey into the mountains take us?'

  'Long enough, but it is good country, if you know the trails. Peaceful, too. Few people live in the interior, save for religious orders in their hermitages.'

  'And schools of assassins?'

  Ash stiffened by his side. 'We are not entirely assassins, boy.'

  Puffs of grey smoke erupted along the ship's right side. Anchors were dropped, dragging through the water and then up on to the beach, with clumps of seaweed now snared in them. Lines followed, and men on the beach grabbed hold of them and ran them to the mooring masts. Skittish in the vagrant breezes, the Falcon descended slowly.

  Trench approached as his men vaulted overboard to secure the lines, his kerido hanging from his neck. The captain still walked with a limp gained in the battle.

  'I got you home,' he said to Ash.

  'Yes. My thanks.'

  Trench shook Ash's hand, then Nico's. On his shoulder the kerido chattered its own farewell. Berl was not there to say goodbye, unfortunately. The boy was confined below, sweating feverishly in his bunk. He had lost a foot in the action.