the middle of nowhere, and he just disappears. It doesn’t make sense.”
But just as the coach was about to move off, he appeared, trotting towards them out of the darkness, with the coachman following on behind him. They were wet through, which was some consolation.
“Where the hell were you?” Suidas yelled at him, but he was through the door and into the coach before either of them could stop him. The coachman climbed up on to the box, only to find there wasn’t room for him.
“You can damn well lead the horses,” Suidas snapped. “First, though, you can tell me where you and that arsehole went off to.”
But the coachman shook his head and climbed down. Suidas yelled at him some more, but it was too dark to see if he was taking any notice. The coach lurched forward; it was actually limping, as if it had feet rather than wheels, and each quarter-turn of the ludicrously improbable axle made the boards under Giraut’s feet shake.
It would, of course, have been quicker to walk. There was no way of telling how long it took, because there was nothing to gauge the passage of time by. Suidas claimed to be making some kind of scientific observation based on his extrapolation of the circumference of the wheels; but when they blundered into a deep pothole and he was nearly thrown off the box, he admitted he’d lost count, so his findings were necessarily flawed. After a very long time, however, he started making worried noises.
“We should be able to see the lights by now,” he said. “I mean, the damn place is right next to the road, and there’s only one road, so we can’t have taken a wrong turning, so it’s got to be there, and we’ve got to reach it soon. But we ought to be able to see the lights. They keep a big storm lantern burning all night, for the government couriers.”
“You’ve been here before.” Giraut found it hard to get the words out. He was wet and cold, so his teeth were chattering, and every bump of the four-lobed axle jarred his jaw.
“During the War. Of course, they didn’t show a light then, so you had to find it by dead reckoning.”
“That’s what you were doing.”
“Trying to,” Suidas said. “But it wasn’t my job back then, so I’ve never done it for real. I just know the general principle. It’s like how they did the military survey of the DMZ: a dozen men in raggedy old clothes, counting their paces under their breath. Amazingly accurate, as it turned out.”
More time passed, and Suidas said they’d better light the one remaining coach lamp (the other had got smashed while they were playing with the axle). “If we miss it and have to go back, she’ll go on about it for the rest of the trip, you can bet your life.”
Entirely believable; so they lit the lamp. It meant they could see the rain, each slanting line golden in the yellow light, like strands of hair, but not much else. It didn’t help them find C9.
“What the hell’s that?” Giraut heard Suidas call out; he was hauling on the reins with one hand and the brake with the other. The coach stopped. Giraut couldn’t see anything.
“There’s something blocking the road,” Suidas said. “If we’d run over it, it’d have snapped the springs, sure as eggs. What the hell does that clown of a carter think he’s playing at?”
He jumped down, and after a moment’s thought Giraut followed him. The obstacle proved to be a thick, square-section wooden beam, lying across the road. Suidas swore and lifted the lamp over his head, then started yelling, “Everybody out! Now!” It took Giraut rather longer than he’d have liked to admit to figure out that if you wanted to wreck a coach or a cart in the dark, presumably with a view to robbing it, you could do worse than lay a beam across the road.
The coach door opened. The political officer came scurrying out. He had a lantern of his own, a tiny little thing that gave out an extraordinary amount of light for its size. Behind him came Iseutz, then
But just as the coach was about to move off, he appeared, trotting towards them out of the darkness, with the coachman following on behind him. They were wet through, which was some consolation.
“Where the hell were you?” Suidas yelled at him, but he was through the door and into the coach before either of them could stop him. The coachman climbed up on to the box, only to find there wasn’t room for him.
“You can damn well lead the horses,” Suidas snapped. “First, though, you can tell me where you and that arsehole went off to.”
But the coachman shook his head and climbed down. Suidas yelled at him some more, but it was too dark to see if he was taking any notice. The coach lurched forward; it was actually limping, as if it had feet rather than wheels, and each quarter-turn of the ludicrously improbable axle made the boards under Giraut’s feet shake.
It would, of course, have been quicker to walk. There was no way of telling how long it took, because there was nothing to gauge the passage of time by. Suidas claimed to be making some kind of scientific observation based on his extrapolation of the circumference of the wheels; but when they blundered into a deep pothole and he was nearly thrown off the box, he admitted he’d lost count, so his findings were necessarily flawed. After a very long time, however, he started making worried noises.
“We should be able to see the lights by now,” he said. “I mean, the damn place is right next to the road, and there’s only one road, so we can’t have taken a wrong turning, so it’s got to be there, and we’ve got to reach it soon. But we ought to be able to see the lights. They keep a big storm lantern burning all night, for the government couriers.”
“You’ve been here before.” Giraut found it hard to get the words out. He was wet and cold, so his teeth were chattering, and every bump of the four-lobed axle jarred his jaw.
“During the War. Of course, they didn’t show a light then, so you had to find it by dead reckoning.”
“That’s what you were doing.”
“Trying to,” Suidas said. “But it wasn’t my job back then, so I’ve never done it for real. I just know the general principle. It’s like how they did the military survey of the DMZ: a dozen men in raggedy old clothes, counting their paces under their breath. Amazingly accurate, as it turned out.”
More time passed, and Suidas said they’d better light the one remaining coach lamp (the other had got smashed while they were playing with the axle). “If we miss it and have to go back, she’ll go on about it for the rest of the trip, you can bet your life.”
Entirely believable; so they lit the lamp. It meant they could see the rain, each slanting line golden in the yellow light, like strands of hair, but not much else. It didn’t help them find C9.
“What the hell’s that?” Giraut heard Suidas call out; he was hauling on the reins with one hand and the brake with the other. The coach stopped. Giraut couldn’t see anything.
“There’s something blocking the road,” Suidas said. “If we’d run over it, it’d have snapped the springs, sure as eggs. What the hell does that clown of a carter think he’s playing at?”
He jumped down, and after a moment’s thought Giraut followed him. The obstacle proved to be a thick, square-section wooden beam, lying across the road. Suidas swore and lifted the lamp over his head, then started yelling, “Everybody out! Now!” It took Giraut rather longer than he’d have liked to admit to figure out that if you wanted to wreck a coach or a cart in the dark, presumably with a view to robbing it, you could do worse than lay a beam across the road.
The coach door opened. The political officer came scurrying out. He had a lantern of his own, a tiny little thing that gave out an extraordinary amount of light for its size. Behind him came Iseutz, then
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