well.
He thought about that, and felt ashamed.
There was still an hour’s light left when they gave up for the night, but everybody was too exhausted to carry on. There had
already been unnecessary accidents and injuries, and Miel had called a halt. Instead, men stumbled about on a sad excuse for
a plateau, struggling to pitch tents on the slope, wedging cartwheels with stones to stop them rolling; the whole tiresome
routine of unpacking and setting up, lighting fires without proper kindling, cooking too little food in too little water.
They pitched his tent first (were they doing it on purpose to show him up? No, of course they weren’t); the doctor came, looked,
prodded and failed to announce that the wound had miraculously healed and he’d be fit for duty in the morning. One by one
the survivors of his general staff dropped by. They were genuinely anxious about his health, but they didn’t want his orders
or even his advice. Finally, Miel Ducas came, slow and clumsy with fatigue, squatting on the floor rather than wait for someone
to fetch him a chair.
“Slow going,” he reported. “I’d sort of counted on making it to the hog’s back tonight, so we could get on the southwest road
by noon tomorrow. As it is, we might just get there by nightfall; depends on conditions. And if it decides to rain, of course,
we’re screwed.”
Orsea hadn’t even considered that. “Who said anything about rain?” he said. “It’s been blue skies all day.”
Miel nodded. “Talked to a couple of men who make the Butter run,” he said. “According to them, it’s the time of year for flash
storms. Clear sky one minute, and the next you’re up to your ankles in muck. That’s if you’re lucky and you aren’t swept away
in a mudslide. Cheerful bastards.”
Orsea couldn’t think of anything to say. “Let’s hope it stays dry, then.”
“Let’s hope.” Miel yawned. “Once we reach the hog’s back, of course,” he went on, “it’s all nice and easy till we get to the
river; which, needless to say, is probably in spate. I have absolutely no idea how we’re going to get across, so I’m relying
on inspiration, probably in the form of a dream. My ancestors were always being helped out of pots of shit by obliging and
informative dreams, and I’m hoping it runs in the family. How about your lot?”
Orsea smiled. “We don’t dream much. Or if we do, it’s being chased by bears, or having to give a speech with no clothes on.”
“Fascinating.” Miel closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Sorry,” he said. “Not respectful in the presence of my sovereign.
How’s the leg?”
“Oh, fine. It’s that miserable bloody doctor who’s making me lounge around like this.”
(Stupid thing to say, of course. The leg wasn’t fine; the doctor most likely hadn’t had more than a couple of hours’ sleep
since the battle; and of course the Ducas family received supernatural advice in their dreams, since they were genuine old
aristocracy, unlike the jumped-up parvenu Orseoli…)
“Do as he says,” Miel replied sternly. “Your trouble is, you don’t know a perfectly valid excuse when you see one. You were
the same when we were kids. You’d insist on dragging yourself into classes with a raging temperature, and then we’d all catch
it off you and be sick as dogs just in time for the recess. You will insist…” He hesitated. “Just for once, stay still and
make the most of it. We’re all going to have a high old time of it soon as we get home.”
Orsea looked away.
You will insist on doing the right thing, even if it’s guaranteed to result in misery and mayhem;
or something to that effect. “All right,” he said. “It’s just so bloody stupid. Getting shot with one of our own arrows.”
“At least our side got to draw blood,” Miel replied. “Hello, what’s all that fuss they’re making outside?”
Orsea hadn’t noticed; now Miel mentioned it, he
He thought about that, and felt ashamed.
There was still an hour’s light left when they gave up for the night, but everybody was too exhausted to carry on. There had
already been unnecessary accidents and injuries, and Miel had called a halt. Instead, men stumbled about on a sad excuse for
a plateau, struggling to pitch tents on the slope, wedging cartwheels with stones to stop them rolling; the whole tiresome
routine of unpacking and setting up, lighting fires without proper kindling, cooking too little food in too little water.
They pitched his tent first (were they doing it on purpose to show him up? No, of course they weren’t); the doctor came, looked,
prodded and failed to announce that the wound had miraculously healed and he’d be fit for duty in the morning. One by one
the survivors of his general staff dropped by. They were genuinely anxious about his health, but they didn’t want his orders
or even his advice. Finally, Miel Ducas came, slow and clumsy with fatigue, squatting on the floor rather than wait for someone
to fetch him a chair.
“Slow going,” he reported. “I’d sort of counted on making it to the hog’s back tonight, so we could get on the southwest road
by noon tomorrow. As it is, we might just get there by nightfall; depends on conditions. And if it decides to rain, of course,
we’re screwed.”
Orsea hadn’t even considered that. “Who said anything about rain?” he said. “It’s been blue skies all day.”
Miel nodded. “Talked to a couple of men who make the Butter run,” he said. “According to them, it’s the time of year for flash
storms. Clear sky one minute, and the next you’re up to your ankles in muck. That’s if you’re lucky and you aren’t swept away
in a mudslide. Cheerful bastards.”
Orsea couldn’t think of anything to say. “Let’s hope it stays dry, then.”
“Let’s hope.” Miel yawned. “Once we reach the hog’s back, of course,” he went on, “it’s all nice and easy till we get to the
river; which, needless to say, is probably in spate. I have absolutely no idea how we’re going to get across, so I’m relying
on inspiration, probably in the form of a dream. My ancestors were always being helped out of pots of shit by obliging and
informative dreams, and I’m hoping it runs in the family. How about your lot?”
Orsea smiled. “We don’t dream much. Or if we do, it’s being chased by bears, or having to give a speech with no clothes on.”
“Fascinating.” Miel closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Sorry,” he said. “Not respectful in the presence of my sovereign.
How’s the leg?”
“Oh, fine. It’s that miserable bloody doctor who’s making me lounge around like this.”
(Stupid thing to say, of course. The leg wasn’t fine; the doctor most likely hadn’t had more than a couple of hours’ sleep
since the battle; and of course the Ducas family received supernatural advice in their dreams, since they were genuine old
aristocracy, unlike the jumped-up parvenu Orseoli…)
“Do as he says,” Miel replied sternly. “Your trouble is, you don’t know a perfectly valid excuse when you see one. You were
the same when we were kids. You’d insist on dragging yourself into classes with a raging temperature, and then we’d all catch
it off you and be sick as dogs just in time for the recess. You will insist…” He hesitated. “Just for once, stay still and
make the most of it. We’re all going to have a high old time of it soon as we get home.”
Orsea looked away.
You will insist on doing the right thing, even if it’s guaranteed to result in misery and mayhem;
or something to that effect. “All right,” he said. “It’s just so bloody stupid. Getting shot with one of our own arrows.”
“At least our side got to draw blood,” Miel replied. “Hello, what’s all that fuss they’re making outside?”
Orsea hadn’t noticed; now Miel mentioned it, he
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