but he reckoned the pain in his chest was a sufficient antidote. Another of Moisa’s pet sayings was that when a battle’s going well, it’s like a symphony made visible. Here are the main themes, the variations; the theme passes from one group of instruments to another, but the melody is unmistakable. A bit fanciful, he’d always thought – Moisa said some fine, resonant things in his time but he’d never been much of a general; on this occasion, however, he could see what the old boy had been getting at. A ripple on the strings as the auxiliary cavalry swept down out of nowhere; lots of noise from the brass as the archers came out of the dead ground, stopped and loosed three volleys that more or less disintegrated Forza’s mobile reserve. Then the big theme rolling out right across the orchestra, as Forza’s men turn and discover they’ve been caught like fish in a net.
Well, maybe not. Too many fish, too small a net. Reluctantly he conceded to himself that it wasn’t going to be today; another bloody stalemate, withdraw, regroup, try again later. He tried not to think about how close he’d been, closer than since they were kids, practically. If only one of his hits had gone home – Senza shook his head. Dad had always said Forza had a mean streak, under that sweet surface. Don’t ever get in a fight with him, son, he doesn’t know when to stop.
He’d lost interest in the battle now he knew how it was going to come out. He had to stay and watch, there was still so much he needed to take care of, but he let his mind drift a little. Did Forza really know where Lysao was, or was that just him being spiteful? Forza’s wife seemed like a nice woman. The thought suddenly struck him: the archers didn’t shoot because Forza knew she was in the tent.
Hell.
If he’d realised that, he could have had ten more seconds; maybe just possibly long enough—
Too late now, no point beating himself up about it. A man like Forza didn’t deserve a nice wife like that. Probably he’d only married her for politics, and the legendary grand romance was all just publicity. She’d find out about him soon enough. They all did eventually, poor devils. Not for the first time, he cursed the wretched fact of his destiny – yes, someone’s got to deal with Forza, otherwise the world’s not safe, but why did it have to be
him
?
Suddenly he remembered Lysao, that exquisite image of her combing her hair; clever Forza, to have put it into his mind, knowing it’d be there for days, spoiling everything. She always gave the impression of being overwhelmed by her hair, as if it was some monster that lived on top of her head and needed to be contained, lest it escape and cause havoc among the civilian population. He remembered how it got in the way – ouch, you’re pulling my hair – at the most inconvenient moments possible, how she loved and hated it, a glory and a burden and a dreadful tiresome responsibility, as though she was doomed to lug around a life-size statue by Teromachus everywhere she went. Once she’d threatened to give it to the nation, so it’d be up to the government, not her, to maintain it. And the combing ritual – dear God, every night, an hour and a quarter, like some religious ceremony. It’s my duty, she’d say, and he’d think, yes, and Forza’s mine. My duty and my fault.
He watched the last stages of the battle, but it was like reading a book you’ve read six times before. When he’d had as much as he could take, he called over a guardsman and sent him down with a message: that’s enough, fall back, give them room to withdraw; and get a sedan chair or something up here, quick as you like.
The chair came quite quickly, and they were helping him into it when he glanced back one last time at the battle and saw something. “Just a second,” he said and looked again. Something wasn’t quite right about the way Forza’s men were drawing out. He leaned on a guardsman’s shoulder and superimposed
Well, maybe not. Too many fish, too small a net. Reluctantly he conceded to himself that it wasn’t going to be today; another bloody stalemate, withdraw, regroup, try again later. He tried not to think about how close he’d been, closer than since they were kids, practically. If only one of his hits had gone home – Senza shook his head. Dad had always said Forza had a mean streak, under that sweet surface. Don’t ever get in a fight with him, son, he doesn’t know when to stop.
He’d lost interest in the battle now he knew how it was going to come out. He had to stay and watch, there was still so much he needed to take care of, but he let his mind drift a little. Did Forza really know where Lysao was, or was that just him being spiteful? Forza’s wife seemed like a nice woman. The thought suddenly struck him: the archers didn’t shoot because Forza knew she was in the tent.
Hell.
If he’d realised that, he could have had ten more seconds; maybe just possibly long enough—
Too late now, no point beating himself up about it. A man like Forza didn’t deserve a nice wife like that. Probably he’d only married her for politics, and the legendary grand romance was all just publicity. She’d find out about him soon enough. They all did eventually, poor devils. Not for the first time, he cursed the wretched fact of his destiny – yes, someone’s got to deal with Forza, otherwise the world’s not safe, but why did it have to be
him
?
Suddenly he remembered Lysao, that exquisite image of her combing her hair; clever Forza, to have put it into his mind, knowing it’d be there for days, spoiling everything. She always gave the impression of being overwhelmed by her hair, as if it was some monster that lived on top of her head and needed to be contained, lest it escape and cause havoc among the civilian population. He remembered how it got in the way – ouch, you’re pulling my hair – at the most inconvenient moments possible, how she loved and hated it, a glory and a burden and a dreadful tiresome responsibility, as though she was doomed to lug around a life-size statue by Teromachus everywhere she went. Once she’d threatened to give it to the nation, so it’d be up to the government, not her, to maintain it. And the combing ritual – dear God, every night, an hour and a quarter, like some religious ceremony. It’s my duty, she’d say, and he’d think, yes, and Forza’s mine. My duty and my fault.
He watched the last stages of the battle, but it was like reading a book you’ve read six times before. When he’d had as much as he could take, he called over a guardsman and sent him down with a message: that’s enough, fall back, give them room to withdraw; and get a sedan chair or something up here, quick as you like.
The chair came quite quickly, and they were helping him into it when he glanced back one last time at the battle and saw something. “Just a second,” he said and looked again. Something wasn’t quite right about the way Forza’s men were drawing out. He leaned on a guardsman’s shoulder and superimposed
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