The Proof House (46 page)

The prefect sighed. ‘That’s intolerable, I agree.’

‘And that’s by no means the worst part of it,’ the administrator went on, fidgeting with a small brass dish he’d picked up off the table. ‘Temrai’s marching this way; what if he somehow manages to defeat our field army? How are we going to explain that?’

‘Ah.’ The prefect smiled. ‘It’s not as bad as that. Apparently he’s stopped dead in his tracks and is building a fortress. Remarkably impressive rate of progress, I have to admit. Really, they’re such an energetic people; quite unlike most nomadic tribes I’ve encountered. When this is over, I think I’d like to study them a little more closely. Part of the reason for having an Empire in the first place is to enjoy the strange people you come across, surely.’

‘With respect,’ said the administrator severely, ‘I think the wine-tasting can wait till after the vintage. I agree, if Temrai’s halted his advance it takes the pressure off us to a certain extent. But even so; if we’d been able to proceed according to the original schedule, they wouldn’t have got that far and we wouldn’t be facing the prospect of digging them out of this new model anthill they’re building. The plain fact is, these Islanders are going to cost us lives, money and time. We can’t afford to let that go by.’

The prefect sighed. ‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘Something has to be done, I agree.’ He closed his eyes as an aid to concentration. ‘It’s a nuisance that we can’t crew the ships ourselves. Relying on their crews is going to slow things down even further. Can’t we recruit sailors somewhere else?’

‘I’ve considered that,’ the adminstrator said. ‘Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. We might be able to find enough men to make up the numbers, but I couldn’t guarantee the quality. Typically, those Island ships are difficult to handle unless you know what you’re doing. I wouldn’t want to take the risk of using inexperienced crews.’

‘Really?’ The prefect opened his eyes. ‘It’s not a long journey, is it?’

‘I don’t profess to know anything at all about ships and sailing,’ the administrator said. ‘I can only go on what my experts tell me; and of course, they aren’t experts in this field, because the only people who really know about sailing Island-pattern ships are the Islanders. However—’

‘I take your point.’ The prefect stood up and looked out of the window. They were pruning the orange trees in the cloister below, and the symmetry of the pruners’ work intrigued him. ‘I think we may have to resign ourselves to a certain degree of delay,’ he said. ‘Or even a reassessment of our strategy. Fortunately, Temrai seems intent on making it possible for us to do just that.’ He steepled his fingers, like a chess-player contemplating the move after the move after next. ‘For now,’ he said, ‘I’ll assign the sixth and ninth battalions to Captain Loredan’s army; that’ll give him another thirty thousand men. How many do you suppose you’ll need?’

The administrator thought for a moment. ‘One battalion ought to be more than enough. In fact, five thousand men should be plenty. It won’t be a difficult job, provided you can let me have a half-decent commander.’

They were shaping the trees so that the pattern of branches formed a perfect sphere; quite an undertaking, considering the natural tendency of the trees to push out sideways. Art is the subversion of nature; discuss. ‘I was thinking of Colonel Ispel,’ the prefect said.

‘He’d be ideal. In fact, he’d be wasted on a job like this.’ The administrator frowned. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘if Ispel’s available, why don’t you give him the army against Temrai and assign this Loredan to me? It seems faintly ridiculous to have one of our best officers conducting a routine police action, while a major field army’s under the command of an outlander.’

The prefect shook his head. ‘Normally, I’d agree,’ he said. ‘But the plain fact is, Temrai wouldn’t be being so obliging if it wasn’t for Captain Loredan. It was Estar’s death and Loredan replacing him that frightened him so badly he abandoned his really quite sensible strategy of taking the war to us and made him start burrowing into the dirt like a groundhog. As a result, I need Loredan to stay where he is, and that means you can have Ispel. Assuming you do want him, that is. If you’d rather have someone else, please say so.’

‘On the contrary.’ The administrator seemed distinctly annoyed; probably, thought the prefect with a certain degree of malicious pleasure, because Ispel outranks him socially and he’ll have to treat him as equal-and-above when they appear in public together. That’ll be an interesting spectacle in itself.

‘That’s settled, then.’ The prefect turned his head and consulted the large, exquisite glass water-clock that stood in the corner of the room. As transparent as the water it contained, the fabric of the walls was the next best thing to invisible, with only the calibrations etched on the two vessels betraying the fact that it was there at all. A gift from a wealthy manufacturer, angling after a contract to supply the army; he hadn’t got the contract, but he hadn’t asked for his clock back, so presumably he didn’t mind. ‘Shall we walk down to the Arcades?’ he said. ‘We can talk on the way. I make a point of going down myself these days; there’s nothing like a controlled distraction to help maintain the concentration.’

The administrator smiled - genuine pleasure, the prefect noted, and was glad to see it. ‘I was hoping I’d be able to find the time to drop by when the fresh stuff comes in,’ the administrator said. ‘But I’ve been so busy lately—’

‘Really,’ the prefect admonished him, ‘nobody’s too busy for really fresh bread. I make it a rule never to trust a man who can’t make time to do his own shopping.’

The portico was busy, as was to be expected at this time of day. The booksellers and stationers had already set up their stalls, and the number of people walking along reading and therefore not looking where they were going made for slow, cautious progress. ‘Remind me,’ the prefect said, ‘to call in at the flower market on the way back. I’m not at all satisfied with the roses they’ve been sending up lately, and there’s few things as dismal to look at as half-dead roses.’

The administrator made a sympathetic noise. ‘I’ve been saying for some time that we ought to look into buying the flowers for all the departments centrally, from just the one reliable supplier. As it is, quality’s pretty much hit-and-miss. A few days ago our consignment at the State Office was white with mildew, and by then it was far too late in the day to get anything to replace them with.’

‘That’s a very sensible suggestion,’ the prefect said, in a tone of voice the administrator couldn’t quite interpret. ‘You go ahead and let me know how you get on.’

Once they were past the portico itself, the crowds thinned out and it was possible to walk at a more comfortable pace. ‘You’d never think that most of this was only ten years old,’ the administrator went on. ‘Tell me, has there been any word from the marshal’s office about their plans for redevelopment? As far as I know, they haven’t even confirmed that they’re going to keep the administration here, now that the siege is over.’

The prefect smiled, acknowledging the skill (fairly minimal, in his opinion) with which the administrator had angled the conversation round to the topic he really wanted to discuss. ‘I can confirm that the bulk of the administration for this prefecture will be staying here,’ he said, watching his colleague out of the corner of his eye to see if he’d react. ‘It was felt that since during the course of the siege we’d effectively built a small town of our own here - and done it pretty well, too - it’d be wasteful to up sticks and move away. As to whether they’re going to rebuild Ap’ Escatoy itself, they’ve referred that decision back to me.’ He looked straight in front and waited for the administrator to respond; but he’d underestimated the man’s patience. They were almost at the gate of the Arcades before the administrator spoke again.

‘And have you reached a decision yet? I don’t suppose you have, or you’d have mentioned it.’

The prefect stopped to examine a passing cart with an unusual arrangement for attaching the brake to the axle. Most of the time the administrator found his superior’s ability to take an interest in virtually anything a harmless, even praiseworthy attribute; there were occasions, however, when it made him want to hit him.

‘It all depends, doesn’t it,’ the prefect said, ‘on what happens with Temrai and the war. If we can take possession of the old Perimadeia site fairly soon, with a view to getting major construction under way before the beginning of winter, then obviously I’d prefer to build there; it’s a far better position and much better situated for communications and the like for when we begin the westward expansion. On the other hand, if we can’t get in there in time to make a start in this fiscal year, I shall have to build here in Ap’ Escatoy or else lose the provincial office funding I had to work so hard to get in the first place; it’s a term of the grant that I commit to a scheme of works before the year end, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about that. If I lose the grant - quite apart from the frustration, after all I had to go through to get it in the first place - I’ll have to finance the building work out of revenue income and plunder, which means I’ll end up having to make a lot of compromises I’d really rather avoid if I can. You can see how awkward my position is.’

A glimmer of light began to shine in the administrator’s mind. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘if you had a fairly cast-iron expectation of a substantial lump-sum receipt from revenues and plunder, it’d give you a degree more flexibility in your planning.’

‘Indeed,’ the prefect replied, his expression unchanged. ‘In which case, I think I’d be even more likely to rebuild Perimadeia. After all, traditionally it’s been the centre of gravity for this entire region; people naturally look to the City as their economic and cultural point of reference. It’ll make the job of restructuring in the west that degree smoother if we can make it seem as if we’re carrying on where they left off; restoring things to how they were, even.’ He bent down, still apparently fascinated by the cart. ‘But it’d still be preferable, I feel, if we could find a way to get the war back on schedule. This possible cash windfall is all very well, but wouldn’t it be better to have the grant and the windfall as well?’ He straightened up. ‘In a sense,’ he went on, ‘Captain Loredan’s already done what I needed him to do; we can have Perimadeia, with vacant possession, just as soon as we can land enough men there to hold it. Which makes this Island business,’ he added, frowning a little, ‘even more annoying. I do hope you’ll be able to get it sorted out quickly. It’d be infuriating to miss a rather splendid opportunity because of some trivial obstruction.’

The smell of fresh bread, exquisite and unique, loaded the air with value, and the two men instinctively looked up. ‘Our fault for dawdling,’ said the prefect. ‘And I refuse to be seen trotting through the streets like a runaway donkey. We’ll just have to accept that we’ve missed the best of the day.’

They quickened their pace; but by the time they reached the bakers’ arcade, the pyramids of warm, pristine loaves were already looking battered and worn, like the walls of a city bombarded by heavy engines. ‘When we rebuild Perimadeia,’ muttered the administrator, scowling, ‘we’ll have at least five bakers’ arcades, all baking at different times. That way, we won’t have to be so very critical in our timing.’

The prefect grinned. ‘But if you do that,’ he said, ‘you’ll spoil the whole experience. If you guarantee satisfaction, you deprive yourself of the joy of uncertain attainment.’

‘If you say so,’ the administrator said, sounding less than convinced. ‘Personally, all I want is to be sure of getting really fresh bread.’

‘Of course. What on earth could be more important than that?’

 

The post-coach was running late; an extraordinary thing, only partly accounted for by the increased volume of traffic on the road caused by the war. In the back among the luggage, and feeling remarkably like a sack of turnips, Niessa Loredan nursed a bad headache.

She neither knew nor cared where she was. It was far too hot, the coach had managed to find every last pothole and rut with a diligence that would have been admirable in some other context, and her bladder was making her feel distinctly uncomfortable. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she was cursed with a travelling companion who simply wouldn’t stop talking, or rather shouting. It was enough to make her wish she’d stayed in Scona and taken her chances with the halberdiers.

The annoying woman had managed to get the impression, gods know where from, that Niessa wanted to know her name. ‘You may find this rather complicated, ’ she was saying, ‘being an outlander. 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.’

Niessa grunted and turned her head, trying to give the impression that she found the view (sandhills topped wth scruffy tussocks of dry white grass) unbearably fascinating. The annoying woman didn’t seem to have noticed.

‘Now I expect you’re wondering,’ she went on, ‘what I’m doing hitching a ride on the post-coach; well, it’s the last thing I ever imagined I’d do, but ever since my son - that’s my middle son; my eldest is at home, of course, he inherited the estate when my husband died and he’s a musician, people are beginning to think quite highly of him, and my youngest son’s in the army, still quite junior, of course, he’s
aide de camp
to this Colonel Ispel everybody’s talking about as the new commander-in-chief in the west; but my middle son, Poriset, he’s the chief administrator of the arms factory at Ap’ Calick - not a particularly interesting job, as he’s the first to admit, but he’s the youngest man ever to be appointed to a position of such seniority so I suppose it’s quite a feather in his cap, and if he does well there, increases output or cuts costs or whatever you’re supposed to do if you run a factory, he did explain it to me once but I’m such a scatterbrain - and so of course he can arrange for me to ride on the post-coach whenever I go to visit him and his wife - did I mention he’s only just got married? Quite a nice girl, though I don’t really think he’s ideally suited to someone that quiet; still, it was his choice and he’s such a serious young man, I’m sure he gave it an awful lot of thought and weighed up the pros and cons—’