nothing but supposition, intuition and uncorroborated rumour—”
“Yes?”
“He’s dead,” the hooded man said. “He got a bad bump on the head, never came out of the coma. Which means Senza Belot has got to go. Don’t ask me why the war’s still going on, he should’ve had it wrapped up with a ribbon on it by now, even with no money and no men. I can only conclude he still believes his brother is alive, and he daren’t do anything in case Forza swoops down on his neck with an incredibly smug grin on his face. But the fact that Senza’s done nothing at all suggests to me that he can’t be sure, therefore he doesn’t know any more about it than we do. Less, probably. I hope so, anyway. That’s beside the point. If Forza’s dead, Senza has to be put down. Who’ll get that job I simply don’t know. I should think you’re fairly safe, since your future’s mapped out in great detail for at least the next three months, and I’m sure they’ll want to act before then. That said, if you were thinking of having an accident and breaking a leg, this might well be a good time.” He smiled. “Subject closed. What a lot of weather we’ve been having lately.”
The hooded man dumped him at a way station in the middle of the Great Southern Marsh, in the early hours of the morning. Fortunately it was a clear night and the moon was almost full, so he managed to find the door. He bashed on it for a while, and the porter came and let him in. The next coach was due at noon the next day. Until then, he was welcome to use the hospitality suite—
Which turned out to be a redundant charcoal cellar, swept out (more or less) and fitted with a bedstead made from old rafters, a corn sack for a pillow and one blanket. The trumpet woke him two hours before dawn, and he slouched across the yard to the mess hall, where he was issued with military porridge and grey bread. Nobody spoke to him or seemed to realise who he was.
The mail arrived exactly on time, and he was pleased to see he had the coach to himself, at least as far as Malestan. He took the opportunity to plan ahead, with no danger of interruptions.
The military staging post at Malestan was one of the biggest supply depots in the West. The upland wheat arrived in gigantic wagons and was stored in towering stone silos. Cattle and hogs came in along the Military Droves. They were herded into the vast stockyards on the north side of the camp, where they stayed until they were driven to the slaughterhouse, reputedly the biggest in both empires. The salting and drying sheds alone covered eleven acres; the tannery was three miles upwind of the station perimeter, for obvious reasons. The textile factory, vehicle maintenance sheds and munitions plant were inside the wall, which was really a high bank topped with a palisade and surrounded by a deep flooded ditch. There was also a ceramics and glass works, said to be the most advanced in the world, barns, charcoal sheds, an acre of stables, three watermills, two enormous ponds (dug in the fond hope of farming carp; they all died, poisoned by the run-off from the slaughterhouse; the ponds were stagnant now, and nourished millions of mosquitos in the warm weather), the inevitable parade grounds and drill yards for the garrison, barracks for the soldiers, rather smaller quarters for the civilian workers, various administrative buildings and the Prefecture, a modest Third Kingdom manor house in the local stone which was the only building that was standing when the station was first built. The station had its own internal messenger relay – two dozen experienced riders mounted on fast ponies doing nothing but carry messages within the station precinct – as well as a temple, a lodge house and a theatre, used once a year for Empire Day.
That was Malestan when Oida saw it last, about four months ago.
The driver was as surprised as he was. They both got down from the coach, neither of them saying a word, and walked up to where the
“Yes?”
“He’s dead,” the hooded man said. “He got a bad bump on the head, never came out of the coma. Which means Senza Belot has got to go. Don’t ask me why the war’s still going on, he should’ve had it wrapped up with a ribbon on it by now, even with no money and no men. I can only conclude he still believes his brother is alive, and he daren’t do anything in case Forza swoops down on his neck with an incredibly smug grin on his face. But the fact that Senza’s done nothing at all suggests to me that he can’t be sure, therefore he doesn’t know any more about it than we do. Less, probably. I hope so, anyway. That’s beside the point. If Forza’s dead, Senza has to be put down. Who’ll get that job I simply don’t know. I should think you’re fairly safe, since your future’s mapped out in great detail for at least the next three months, and I’m sure they’ll want to act before then. That said, if you were thinking of having an accident and breaking a leg, this might well be a good time.” He smiled. “Subject closed. What a lot of weather we’ve been having lately.”
The hooded man dumped him at a way station in the middle of the Great Southern Marsh, in the early hours of the morning. Fortunately it was a clear night and the moon was almost full, so he managed to find the door. He bashed on it for a while, and the porter came and let him in. The next coach was due at noon the next day. Until then, he was welcome to use the hospitality suite—
Which turned out to be a redundant charcoal cellar, swept out (more or less) and fitted with a bedstead made from old rafters, a corn sack for a pillow and one blanket. The trumpet woke him two hours before dawn, and he slouched across the yard to the mess hall, where he was issued with military porridge and grey bread. Nobody spoke to him or seemed to realise who he was.
The mail arrived exactly on time, and he was pleased to see he had the coach to himself, at least as far as Malestan. He took the opportunity to plan ahead, with no danger of interruptions.
The military staging post at Malestan was one of the biggest supply depots in the West. The upland wheat arrived in gigantic wagons and was stored in towering stone silos. Cattle and hogs came in along the Military Droves. They were herded into the vast stockyards on the north side of the camp, where they stayed until they were driven to the slaughterhouse, reputedly the biggest in both empires. The salting and drying sheds alone covered eleven acres; the tannery was three miles upwind of the station perimeter, for obvious reasons. The textile factory, vehicle maintenance sheds and munitions plant were inside the wall, which was really a high bank topped with a palisade and surrounded by a deep flooded ditch. There was also a ceramics and glass works, said to be the most advanced in the world, barns, charcoal sheds, an acre of stables, three watermills, two enormous ponds (dug in the fond hope of farming carp; they all died, poisoned by the run-off from the slaughterhouse; the ponds were stagnant now, and nourished millions of mosquitos in the warm weather), the inevitable parade grounds and drill yards for the garrison, barracks for the soldiers, rather smaller quarters for the civilian workers, various administrative buildings and the Prefecture, a modest Third Kingdom manor house in the local stone which was the only building that was standing when the station was first built. The station had its own internal messenger relay – two dozen experienced riders mounted on fast ponies doing nothing but carry messages within the station precinct – as well as a temple, a lodge house and a theatre, used once a year for Empire Day.
That was Malestan when Oida saw it last, about four months ago.
The driver was as surprised as he was. They both got down from the coach, neither of them saying a word, and walked up to where the
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