and souls of all the monasteries
he could raise his state coach above, using one horse. The Mythoclast accepted,
founded this castle and erected this tower with foreign loans, and using a highly
efficient pulley system powered by his prize stallion, winched the coach up
here during the Thirty Golden Days to claim every monastery in the land. He won
the bet and the resulting war, disestablished the Final Priesthood, paid off
his debts, and only perished because the groom in charge of the prize stallion
objected to the fact that the beast died of its exertions, and strangled him
with its blood and foam-flecked bridle... which, according to legend, is
immured within the base of the porcelain throne you're sitting on. So we're
told.' He looked at the other man and shrugged again.
Keiver
was aware that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. 'Ah, you know the
story.'
'No;
just a wild guess.'
Keiver
hesitated, then laughed loudly. 'By hell! You're a rum chap, Zakalwe!'
The
mercenary stirred the remains of the bloodwood chair with one heavily-booted
foot, and said nothing.
Keiver
was aware that he ought to do something, and so stood. He wandered to the
nearest window, drew back the drape and unlocked the interior shutters, levered
the external shutters aside and stood, arm against the stones, gazing out at
the view beyond.
The
Winter Palace, besieged.
Outside,
on the snow-strewn plain, amongst the fires and trenches, there were huge
wooden siege structures and missile launchers, heavy artillery and
rock-throwing catapults; juried field projectors and gas-powered-searchlights;
a heinous collection of blatant anachronisms, developmental paradoxes and
technological juxtapositions. And they called it progress.
'I
don't know,' Keiver breathed. 'Men fire guided missiles, from their mounts'
saddles; jets are shot down by guided arrows; throw-knives explode like
artillery shells, or like as not get turned back by ancestral armour backed by
these damned field projectors... where's it all to end, eh, Zakalwe?'
'Here,
in about three heartbeats, if you don't close those shutters or pull the
black-out drapes behind you.' He stabbed at the logs in the grate with a poker.
'Ha!'
Keiver withdrew rapidly from the window, half ducking as he pulled the lever to
close the external shutters. 'Quite!' He hauled the drape across the window,
dusting down his hands, watching the other man as he prodded at the logs in the
fire. 'Indeed!' He took his place on the porcelain throne again.
Of
course, Mr so-called War Minister Zakalwe liked to pretend he did have an idea
where it was all going to end; he claimed to have some sort of explanation for
it all, about outside forces, the balance of technology, and the erratic
escalation of military wizardry. He always seemed to be hinting at greater
themes and conflicts, beyond the mere here-and-now, forever trying to establish
some - frankly laughable - otherworldly superiority. As though that made any
difference to the fact that he was nothing more than a mercenary - a very lucky
mercenary - who'd happened to catch the ear of the Sacred Heirs and impress
them with a mixture of absurdly risky exploits and cowardly plans, while the
one he'd been paired with - him, Astil Tremerst Keiver the Eighth, deputy
regent-in-waiting, no less - had behind him a thousand years of breeding,
natural seniority and - indeed, for that was just the way things were, dammit -
superiority. After all, what sort of War Minister - even in these desperate
days - was so incapable of delegating that he had to sit out a watch up here,
waiting for an attack that would probably never come?
Keiver
glanced at the other man, sitting staring into the flames, and wondered what he
was thinking.
I blame Sma.
She got me into this crock of shit.
He
looked around the cluttered spaces of the room. What had he to do with idiots
like Keiver, with all this historical junk, with any of this? He didn't feel
part of it, could not identify with it, and
he could raise his state coach above, using one horse. The Mythoclast accepted,
founded this castle and erected this tower with foreign loans, and using a highly
efficient pulley system powered by his prize stallion, winched the coach up
here during the Thirty Golden Days to claim every monastery in the land. He won
the bet and the resulting war, disestablished the Final Priesthood, paid off
his debts, and only perished because the groom in charge of the prize stallion
objected to the fact that the beast died of its exertions, and strangled him
with its blood and foam-flecked bridle... which, according to legend, is
immured within the base of the porcelain throne you're sitting on. So we're
told.' He looked at the other man and shrugged again.
Keiver
was aware that his mouth was hanging open. He closed it. 'Ah, you know the
story.'
'No;
just a wild guess.'
Keiver
hesitated, then laughed loudly. 'By hell! You're a rum chap, Zakalwe!'
The
mercenary stirred the remains of the bloodwood chair with one heavily-booted
foot, and said nothing.
Keiver
was aware that he ought to do something, and so stood. He wandered to the
nearest window, drew back the drape and unlocked the interior shutters, levered
the external shutters aside and stood, arm against the stones, gazing out at
the view beyond.
The
Winter Palace, besieged.
Outside,
on the snow-strewn plain, amongst the fires and trenches, there were huge
wooden siege structures and missile launchers, heavy artillery and
rock-throwing catapults; juried field projectors and gas-powered-searchlights;
a heinous collection of blatant anachronisms, developmental paradoxes and
technological juxtapositions. And they called it progress.
'I
don't know,' Keiver breathed. 'Men fire guided missiles, from their mounts'
saddles; jets are shot down by guided arrows; throw-knives explode like
artillery shells, or like as not get turned back by ancestral armour backed by
these damned field projectors... where's it all to end, eh, Zakalwe?'
'Here,
in about three heartbeats, if you don't close those shutters or pull the
black-out drapes behind you.' He stabbed at the logs in the grate with a poker.
'Ha!'
Keiver withdrew rapidly from the window, half ducking as he pulled the lever to
close the external shutters. 'Quite!' He hauled the drape across the window,
dusting down his hands, watching the other man as he prodded at the logs in the
fire. 'Indeed!' He took his place on the porcelain throne again.
Of
course, Mr so-called War Minister Zakalwe liked to pretend he did have an idea
where it was all going to end; he claimed to have some sort of explanation for
it all, about outside forces, the balance of technology, and the erratic
escalation of military wizardry. He always seemed to be hinting at greater
themes and conflicts, beyond the mere here-and-now, forever trying to establish
some - frankly laughable - otherworldly superiority. As though that made any
difference to the fact that he was nothing more than a mercenary - a very lucky
mercenary - who'd happened to catch the ear of the Sacred Heirs and impress
them with a mixture of absurdly risky exploits and cowardly plans, while the
one he'd been paired with - him, Astil Tremerst Keiver the Eighth, deputy
regent-in-waiting, no less - had behind him a thousand years of breeding,
natural seniority and - indeed, for that was just the way things were, dammit -
superiority. After all, what sort of War Minister - even in these desperate
days - was so incapable of delegating that he had to sit out a watch up here,
waiting for an attack that would probably never come?
Keiver
glanced at the other man, sitting staring into the flames, and wondered what he
was thinking.
I blame Sma.
She got me into this crock of shit.
He
looked around the cluttered spaces of the room. What had he to do with idiots
like Keiver, with all this historical junk, with any of this? He didn't feel
part of it, could not identify with it, and
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