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  It was Riff who was right. Sinistral was still grinning when he came down.

  ‘You should go on up, Borkum,’ he said, ‘there’s a view and a half up there.’

  ‘What’s the view of?’ asked Slew.

  ‘And the half, what’s that?’ Riff wanted to know.

  They went up as the sun set, so on their side it was nearly dark. But as they reached the top, its pink rays came into their eyes and the wind caught them hard.

  ‘For Mirror’s sake!’ cursed Slew. ‘He could have warned us.’

  It wasn’t the wind he needed warning about, or the setting sun, nor even the view. It was the fact that the top was no more than three feet wide before it dropped away sheer down to another cove, smaller than their big one, bigger than their small one, both flooded with sun that made the sea bright.

  ‘Bastard!’ roared Slew, but Borkum laughed to see what they saw far below.

  It was the follower’s craft, set well and fair, bobbing and bright.

  On the shore was a fire, better than theirs, and on the sand was their follower, dancing with a lad. Well, he was trying to. He had a sailor’s gait and strength and was not made for the ballroom floor. But she held his hands and they swung about and the crew made music with a tuble and girdhe.

  ‘Might have known it would be her,’ grumbled Borkum, ‘might have known! My Lady Leetha likes her little surprises, always did. She’s the one was following.’

  He looked neither quite angry nor quite relieved but a good bit of both that she was there and alive.

  Slew, he noticed, looked as sick as a pig.

  ‘Who’s the lad she’s dancing with?’ he said through gritted teeth.

  By the Mirror, you look like Sinistral, Riff told himself, but he knew for a fact that the rumours weren’t true. Sinistral was never Slew’s father.

  ‘That lad is one of my sons,’ said Riff, ‘which is why he can follow me so close to the wind. Might have known Leetha would take him on to skipper. Best there is next to me. Maybe better these days.’

  Slew was still scowling and looked so angry that if he could have ripped a few big rocks off the cliff he might have thrown them down at her.

  ‘Why?’ asked Riff. ‘What you narked about? What’s she to you?’

  ‘The Lady Leetha,’ said Slew, ‘is my mother.’

  Riff nearly fell off the cliff in surprise.

  ‘Your mother!’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Well you better, Borkum Riff, because it’s true. And there she is doing what she never did with me: dancing with your son!’

  Riff stood dumbstruck a while before a smile came to his dark face and crinkles to his eyes.

  ‘Leetha’s your mother, Slew! Well, that explains a lot!’

  His face closed up again.

  ‘Explains what?’

  Borkum backed off but he was laughing too. My Lord Sinistral had steered them both into dangerous waters.

  ‘What?!’

  ‘Don’t matter.’

  ‘You know who my father is?’

  Borkum was never one to tell lies. He steered true because he was true.

  ‘I do,’ he said.

  ‘Tell me.’

  He shook his head and said, ‘That’s for her to explain, or Sinistral, not me.’

  They looked at Leetha far down in the cove, the dancing stopped, the crew making food, Borkum’s boy and she staring out to sea.

  ‘There’s something else you should know, and that I can tell you.’

  ‘What.’

  ‘That lad, my boy, old enough to be skippering now.’

  ‘What about him.’

  ‘He’s her boy too. He’s your half-brother.’

  This time it was Slew’s turn to nearly fall off the ridge. He swore into the wind, he shouted, he screamed like the gulls. Maybe he wept, maybe he did break up a few rocks, but he never hurled anything down.

  ‘You mean you and her . . . ?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Borkum staring him straight in the eye.

  Slew swore more, then he shook his head, then he cursed and kicked the rocks.

  ‘You’re laughing,’ said Slew.

  ‘Yes, I am. Your mother Leetha is the best you’ll ever get, and you can swear and curse if you like, but if you take my advice, and I’ve had time to think about it, you’ll laugh and be content.’

  Slew didn’t laugh.

  ‘Why should I?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Because you reap what you sow and a harvest of tears don’t make for friends.’

  Slew frowned and stayed silent a time.

  ‘What’s your boy’s name?’ he asked grudgingly.

  ‘Herde Deap,’ said Riff, ‘after the sound.’

  ‘Which sound?’

  Riff pointed across the water, way out west towards Englalond.

  ‘The great water out there, Herde Deap, we named him after that.’

  Slew stood silent a very long time.

  Borkum, as true and warm a hydden underneath as ever was, put a strong hand to his shoulder and said, ‘Learn to laugh, lad, and she’ll give you joy all your life as a mother, like she gave me as a lover. Don’t rail against a natural phenomenon like Leetha; you’ll never win. You go with the tides, and the wind and the moon and sun and you go with Lady Leetha. If she’s your mother, be proud. That’s what I told Herde the day he was born and ever since.’

  ‘But he’s got to see her from time to time . . .’

  Riff shook his head.

  ‘See them down there? This voyage is the first they’ve ever had. Dancing’s the first time. Standing staring at the sea’s the first time. Make it happen, Witold Slew. Let yourself laugh.’

  And Sinistral too was laughing when they got back down.

  ‘Have a nice time, gentlemen?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘My Lord,’ said Borkum Riff, ‘for the first and only time in my life I’m going to give you advice. Give us our food and then some more and say not a word – not a single word – until the sun comes up again.’

  Sinistral heeded the advice.

  But later, walking the shore, youth in his stride, they heard him laugh with the sea and the wind and the rising tide.

  He opened his mouth to speak when he got back but Riff shook his head, put a finger to his mouth and then called out, ‘Not a word, my Lord, if you want to live!’

  40

  THE HEART OF A CITY

  News of the fact that the new Emperor of the Hyddenworld had switched sides and was now in Brum electrified its citizens.

  His rescue from imprisonment with Arthur Foale from under the noses of the Fyrd made a great story, but it was his words after the War Council that really impressed. An edited version of these taken down verbatim by one of Festoon’s clerks was published as a broadsheet and disseminated throughout the city: The task is great, the struggle to win it will be a hard one, but that is what we must and we will do! Let us now begin!

  This helped shift the mood of anxiety and panic in the citizenry to one of purpose and determination.

  But Blut deliberately kept himself out of the public eye, working through Lord Festoon and Igor Brunte.

  ‘My own role, gentlemen, must remain in the background for now until I have earned your citizens’ acceptance’

  He was now insisting that the Council of War was in continuous session. But, he ruled, its meetings should be private and attended by only a very few, for fear that Fyrd spies would report back to Quatremayne what was afoot in the city they were about to invade.

  He moved quickly to reduce rancour between the civilian and military forces of the city, with Mister Pike in charge of the former and Meyor Feld the latter.

  It was a clever move by Blut.

  He had understood early on, because Jack had explained the fact, that the weakness in Brum had been the rivalry between the military and civilian forces. One saw itself as professional and the other amateur; the other saw one as arrogant and insensitive and itself as representative of the true
spirit of Brum.

  ‘That has to stop, and now, gentlemen. The roles of each must be defined and the objectives clearly stated. I am giving you an hour to sort that out. Now, to other matters: transport . . .’

  In this way Blut directed members of the Council to clarify their tasks and work one with the other. At the same time, he worked with Brunte in particular on the question of strategy in the early phase of the coming assault.

  ‘The Fyrd numbers are overwhelming, Brunte, and you cannot meet them equally and head-on.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Brunte. ‘We need to focus our defence where it will have most effect . . .’

  ‘You call it “defence”, Marshal; may I suggest you call it attack? That will foster proactivity from the first.’

  Brunte stayed silent, staring at the impassive face of Blut.

  It went hard on him that a non-military should see some things so clearly and state them so succinctly.

  ‘You are right,’ said Brunte finally.

  ‘You must understand that I have sat in innumerable War Council meetings in Bochum and been responsible for filing the reports of many more. In any case, war interests me as it did my Lord Emperor Sinistral . . .’

  ‘That is the third time I have heard you refer to him as “my Lord Emperor”,’ said Brunte.

  It was Blut’s turn to be silent.

  Brunte smiled that canny, warm, avuncular smile of his.

  ‘There is more to this abdication and your accession than meets the eye,’ he said.

  ‘Is there?’ said Blut softly.

  ‘There is, Emperor.’

  Blut flushed slightly, a rare occurrence.

  Brunte had seen something others had not.

  Their respect for each other was mutual.

  ‘Marshal,’ said Blut finally, ‘I have a suggestion. I will keep silent about my contribution to your military thinking if you will keep your thoughts to yourself about the basis on which I hold this office. Agreed?’

  ‘Agreed.’

  ‘When the time is right, you will be the first to know the truth. So, now . . . I can tell you what Quatremayne, who has been the most successful field officer in our time, would do in your situation. He would gain as much intelligence as he could about the opposing strategy. Well, that you now have in its entirety. He would realize at once that militarily his position was hopeless.’

  Brunte nodded and said, ‘That I now concede.’

  ‘He would then deploy his best forces in one or two places where they would do most damage and behave as if he thought he was going to win. The blow would not be a knockout one, but it would give time for other things.’

  ‘The fullest evacuation possible?’

  ‘Yes. But you already have that in train?’

  ‘We have. We have chosen two sites, to the north and west, both easily reachable for different forms of transport, both easily defensible, both with good stockpiles of supplies.’

  Blut said nothing.

  ‘Have those evacuations started?’

  ‘In part, but not fast enough.’

  ‘From which areas?’

  Brunte told him.

  ‘Wrong ones,’ said Blut, ‘given where the Fyrd trains are going to be arriving with troops. And you need four if not five places to send people. Let me explain . . .’

  So the work had begun with the military, and the emphasis on initial attack, but rapidly moved onto Mister Pike’s stavermen, who were the very heart and spirit of Brum’s later defence.

  Blut did not doubt they would be doughty and courageous; the questions he asked were what their objectives were and, from that, how effective might they be. Only those who had seen the Fyrd attacks at work knew how devastatingly powerful and destructive they were.

  ‘Tell me, Pike, how are the stavermen organized? Centrally, locally or not at all?’

  Pike had been in charge of the stavermen for twenty years, after he emerged as the city’s finest fighter with an ironclad, or metal-hooped stave. He had defeated all comers without much trouble, including in back-alley contests and rough ginnel fights for money, which in the old days were illegal bouts against willing Fyrd fighters.

  He had won time and again and had earned that combination of respect and fear which a good staverman needs if he is to control the rougher elements of Brum society.

  He was a stolid, grizzled sort of hydden, no-nonsense but good-natured. He had been a particular friend of the late Master Brief and, as such, a protector and supporter of Bedwyn Stort, whom he regarded with affection and awe. He could never quite understand how the thin, freckly youth, as he had first known him, and the abstracted, innocent and obviously harmless adult he had become, had the courage to get himself into the scrapes he did, and the wit to get himself back out of them.

  One way and another, Pike was respected and liked by all and there was no better hydden in peacetime to keep the peace.

  Blut’s skill in handling a hydden like Pike was such that, in a matter of an hour or two, he had made him understand that, in war, things could be very different indeed. The old enmities with Brunte’s force must cease forthwith. The organization must be tighter. The tasks given must be clearly defined.

  Hence his sharp and pointed questions.

  ‘The stavermen are in what they call chapters, sir, which reflect kinships, streets and where they were schooled . . .’

  ‘Meaning that one chapter may well consider itself a rival to another by family, by locale and by education?’

  Pike, like Brunte, fell silent before such inquisition. He considered what Blut implied and saw its truth.

  They talked around the problems for some little time.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ said Pike eventually.

  Blut shook his head.

  ‘You know the issues now, as you know your strengths and weaknesses as a fighter. It is for you to find a solution.’

  Pike frowned and scratched his chin.

  Then his rough, scarred face broke into a grin.

  ‘Mix the buggers up into units of fifteen. Appoint new, younger leaders of each. Set ’em tasks for a bit of friendly rivalry. Tell ’em it’s demotion or a fight with me if they play the fool with Brunte’s boys. And . . .’

  Blut held up a hand.

  ‘The fight with you is not a good idea.’

  ‘With Jack then.’

  ‘That’s better. And . . . you were going to say . . . ?’

  The grin broadened.

  ‘Blame it all on you, sir. Say I’m just following orders.’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Blut. ‘I’m used to being unpopular!’

  Pike nodded and stood up. He could relate to that.

  Before he left, he turned and fixed Blut with an appraising eye and said, ‘You’re not doing a bad job, if I may be so bold, Emperor. Don’t forget to get some sleep.’

  Blut nodded and said he would.

  ‘And after that . . . if I may be bold again.’

  ‘Yes, Pike?’

  ‘The fighting’s going to get dirty and it’s going to be street to street, humble to humble. No one knows Brum’s ins and outs better than my stavermen. We’ll get as many of our people to remain when the Fyrd move in as we possibly can, while the Marshal’s forces hold up the advance. Then we’ll come back in and fight in ways the Fyrd never dreamed of in their foulest nightmares.’

  Blut nodded and remembered Brunte’s personal file.

  Warsaw.

  A city fight like no other.

  The resistance there nearly broke Quatremayne.

  No wonder he was so savage afterwards.

  ‘I suggest you talk to the Marshal about street fighting. He knows more about it than you might think.’

  Pike left – and he left Blut thinking.

  In a few short sentences Mister Pike had stated more clearly than anyone else what their overall strategy was going to be.

  The thinking was over.

  The action must begin.

  One last thing to sort out. He rose
, stretched, and looked at his chronometer. He had suggested a break in proceedings two hours before. The interviews since had been one on one. He had ten minutes left and no one to see, no one to talk to.

  He got up and ambled through the High Ealdor’s offices to the main foyer.

  The place hummed with activity.

  Hydden came and went continuously.

  The mood was one of purposeful excitement, nervous but no longer panic-stricken.

  He went to the front doors, which were open to the day, and the Square was busy too, with traders, news vendors and folk bustling. That was a clever front devised by Festoon to keep any spies around thinking that the city had not woken up to reality yet. The more amateur Quatremayne believed the defence of Brum would be, the better. As for the notion it might go onto the attack . . . Blut wanted to convey the idea that that was inconceivable.

  The guards were under strict instructions not to identify him to others. As he went to go outside and down the steps one came over and said quietly, ‘My Lord, would you like one of us to go with you . . . for your safety?’

  Blut shook his head and thanked him.

  He went on down the steps and wandered anonymously among the citizens of Brum. He heard his name mentioned. He saw people reading his words on the broadsheet. He began to feel the true spirit of the famous city.

  You’re not doing a bad job . . .

  He walked on slowly until he saw a crowd of pilgrims in the centre of the Square and strolled over.

  They were crowding round a star of different coloured cobbles that seemed to form the cardinal points of a compass.

  A guide was talking to them.

  It seemed that even at a time like that, business went on as usual in Brum.

  ‘This star of cobbles, ladies and gennelmen, was made in olden times. You might think it marks the centre of our great city, you’d be wrong. Or maybe the centre of Englalond, wrong again!’

  ‘The Earth?’ someone called out.

  The guide laughed and stepped onto the star.

  ‘This star was personally laid, I am given to understand, by one of the greatest hydden who ever lived. Anyone know his name?’

  ‘Lord Festoon!’ shouted someone.

  ‘Mister Bedwyn Stort,’ cried another.

  ‘Not even close and, anyway, they’re both alive and kicking and that personage who settled in these cobblestones is dead and gone.’