CHAPTER SEVEN

Congress

‘We need those ships, Phrades,’ announced First Minister Chonas, leaning forward in his chair as though to add some much needed emphasis to his words. He held up a fist to the dozen ministers assembled before him for this cabinet of war, and squeezed it until the knuckles turned white. ‘Our people must eat.’

Phrades, Minister of Ship Building, glanced sidelong to his son, where the pair sat together at the great oval table of the assembly chamber, amid their fellow ministers. Most of the faces there were dusted white to mark them as members of the Michinè class born and bred, although there were a few notable exceptions. Phrades could not speak aloud these days, due to a cancer of the throat they said. Instead he whispered drily to his son, the young man’s face in stark contrast to the pallid complexion of his father, being tanned and without make-up, as many of the Michinè youth favoured these days. The young man listened carefully with a tilt of his head, then cleared his throat and stood.

‘We understand, First Minister, and you must believe us when we say we bend our wills to this task like no other. All resources that can be diverted from other projects have been appropriated so as to speed up the completion of the ships. We have even contributed a portion of our own family fortune to this task, in organizing the importation of raw materials. It pains me – us – to confess that we can do no more than we are doing now. It will take us one month more to finish the remaining merchanters under construction at the Al-Khos dockyards. In the meantime we must rely on the private longtraders to continue picking up the slack. The people, I fear, must tighten their belts further.’

A stomach gurgled loudly in the room just then, causing a few heads to turn in that direction.

First Minister Chonas was not the kind of man to acknowledge such a distraction, nor was he inclined to take no for an immediate answer.

‘And what did the Pincho have to say to our requests?’ he asked, referring to the main assembly on Minos, the seat of Mercian democracy.

‘They, too, build as fast as they can, but they are still hard pressed to refit the fleets after the spring storms. The new vessels will not be with us until the beginning of autumn.’

‘At least,’ offered Minister Memès, sitting with his equally tanned face resting on his clasped hands, ‘our food reserves should be restored to satisfactory levels in time for winter.’ The voice of the wealthy gala exporter sounded restrained in the huge dimensions of the chamber, the speaker doubtless conscious of what he represented to these other men around him, his great wealth and political position having been gained despite being born of the lower classes – another reflection of the changing times.

‘That is easy enough to say,’ countered First Minister Chonas, ‘since few of us here in this room look as though we have been going hungry.’ Yet Chonas himself looked lean enough, as though he at times did indeed go hungry. The First Minister held up a palm to silence any protest at this accusation, before continuing in a voice flat with resignation. ‘No, they are right to put the fleets first. It is better that our people tighten their belts a little further,’ – he ranged around the room glaring from beneath enormous, bushy eyebrows – ‘than we should lose our naval supremacy, and thus lose all.’

‘General Creed, you have a request for us?’

At this, Bahn’s hungry stomach grumbled loudly once again. He pulled his gaze away from the banquet of food waiting close to the main door of the chamber, and sat up in his chair next to the general. They sat at one end of the table, facing those opposite, and behind them the great sun-fattened windows of the south gallery. No reply came from his superior, nor did Bahn sense any shift in the man’s posture.

Glancing sideways at the old warrior, he saw that General Creed, Lord Protector of Khos, was now staring out through the same windows at the pale blue sea of the Bay of Squalls. From here they could not see the cliffs on which the building of the Congress stood, let alone the slum-town of the Shoals, which sprawled along the foot of the cliffs, half submerged in seawater during storm tides. Instead the vista revealed was a pleasant one: the air was especially clear today, everything crisp in detail so hat landmarks appeared closer than they really were. A squadron of triple-masted men-of-war roamed the waters, bearing the Khosian flag. They ranged beyond reach of the heavy Mannian guns positioned on the far shore, seen from here as a coastline of russet hills made pale by the sunlight and dotted with grey fortifications. From here the forts could be seen to cluster most thickly around the dark smudge of the Pathian town of Nomarl where, within the harbour walls, the hulks of a Mannian fleet were reported to still lie abandoned in the water, charred and sea-rotted after being burned at anchor by a Khosian raid three years earlier – the last offensive action the Khosians had mounted with any success.

General Creed seemed to be eyeing the faint image of the fortress town. He looked like a man who wished to return to it.

Daydreaming again, Bahn reckoned, and he gently nudged the general’s foot with his own.

‘Yes, First Minister,’ Creed replied smoothly, as though he had been listening attentively all along. His chair scraped as he stood up to address the room, his burnished armour reflecting the sunlight. The general pressed his palms against the polished tiq wood of the table, as his gaze took in the assembled ministers one by one. He did not look impressed by what he saw.

‘My request is that we return to the issue of the coastal forts. And you may groan all you like, gentlemen, for I mean to have this issue decided upon here, this very day.’

‘General Creed. We have been over this many times. We are aware that our eastern forts are undermanned. Yet what is it you believe we can do?’

‘First Minister, the forts are not undermanned, as this council is so fond of suggesting. They are barely manned at all. That is my point: they contain skeleton crews merely to service and repair them, no more – certainly not enough to offer solid resistance. They have little blackpowder, even fewer cannon, for instead all has been drawn to the defence of Bar-Khos and our southern coastline. Therefore we still have no answer for a surprise attack on our eastern shores.’

‘That is to presume such a surprise attack would be possible, General. The third fleet has protected us thus far. We must pray it will continue to do so.’

Creed waved that comment away. ‘First Minister, that is a lot of sea for the third fleet to patrol. We have been lucky so far, that is all. Now that the insurrection on Lagos has finally been quelled and its great harbour secured, the Mannians have the perfect anchorage from which to strike against us. We can no longer rely on the navy for our protection. First Minister, we must man those forts.’

First Minister Chonas, philosopher as well as politician, took this demand with his usual good grace. He nodded to his old friend and opponent. ‘Truly, I understand, Marsalas. But we are overstretched as it is. You know as well as I, we have not the resources to equip and maintain more soldiery. Where can we find these extra fighters? You yourself have a solution, all of a sudden?’

‘We divide our reserves in two, and use one half to man the forts.’

There was an outcry of protest from around the table at this suggestion.

‘That is hardly a solution, General,’ spoke up one voice. It was Sinese, Minister of Defence, third most powerful man in all of Khos, who sat back with his legs folded and white-gloved hands resting on the ivory head of his walking cane. ‘This cabinet will not allow our reserves to be diminished any further than they already are. Even if we were to man the forts fully, it is doubtful they could hold off a full invasion. There is nothing new in what you propose here.’ He paused to turn in his seat and address the man next to him. ‘Minister Eliph, you have more pressing news from the diplomatic corps, I understand?’

‘I do,’ concurred Eliph, and avoided the general’s sudden glare as he took a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘Our ambassador in Zanzahar has arranged for further discussions with the Caliphate concerning their recent proposal. He believes they are sincere in their talk of extending the limit of their safe waters closer to us. There is real hope, it would seem.’

His words drew the scorn of half the chamber, evident in a general hiss of breath and the shaking of heads. Many believed that this recent proposal of the Caliphate was nothing more than empty words, amounting to simply another manoeuvre in the Caliphate’s latest trade dispute with Mann.

‘The Caliphate merely hopes to sustain this war for as long as it can,’ said Chonas, as though speaking to a child. ‘It profits too well in providing blackpowder to both sides.’

Some rapped their knuckles on the table in agreement with this. Others protested vocally and asked to be heard.

After that, the assembly broke down into a series of arguments. They could carry on this way for an hour or more, Bahn knew only too well.

It was hot in the huge room, with its windows facing the sun. Despite the hand-pulled ceiling fans and the cool sea breeze from those windows which stood open, a smell of sweat permeated the chamber, not quite concealed by the scents of sickly sweet perfumes. After a while Bahn’s interest faded to mere observance, and then shifted to other matters entirely.

He had hoped today to hear of some resolution on their present food crisis, yet they could do nothing about that, it seemed. Food supplies to Khos had been reduced even further since they had lost a grain fleet on its return from Zanzahar. In theory Khos could sustain itself without these imports, being the breadbasket of Mercia after all. But with a steady influx of refugees into the Free Ports over the last decade, which the Mercians had finally welcomed, after heavy losses suffered in the first few years of the war – deciding they needed these desperate people after all – Khos had long ago ceased to produce enough to feed the other islands. With their summer harvest of wheat still in the fields, and a large proportion of their imports needed elsewhere, rations had become even more meagre than before.

Upon noticing the jutting bones on his son’s body and even in his wife, Bahn had chosen to abstain from consuming any of his family’s weekly rations, in the pretence that he could eat when he was serving at the walls or inside the Ministry. But even the soldiers there were suffering as everyone else, and received hardly enough to sustain a man.

A fist crashed against the tabletop next to his arm, jerking him from his thoughts. Bahn stared at it as though it had fallen from the sky.

‘Enough of this,’ the general rumbled to the gathered ministers, stopping their scattered debate in its tracks. He drew himself tall, not looking at the First Minister but at the others around the table instead, and with a firmness in his voice he said, ‘We were discussing the forts, and I still have this to say on the matter. If you choose not to defend the forts, we must defend ourselves by other means. We must stop sitting here on our arses behind our high walls. We must attack, and take the fight to the enemy.’

Attack? Bahn was suddenly all attention.

A chair fell to the floor as old Phrades clambered to his feet, mouthing words no one could hear. Other ministers stood and added their own more substantial voices to his protests. Bahn pressed back in his chair, seeking anonymity from the suddenly angry Michinè. He blinked at the powder-white faces ranged around the great table. These men had been taught from youth to show emotion only when it was most required of them. It was said that they daubed their faces white so as to hide the merest hint of a blush. Now, in their hostile expressions, he saw the blood of their ancestors finally flooding to the surface, darkening the pallor of their dusted complexions. It was the same blood as ran through the veins of their great-greatgrandfathers and uncles, those wealthy patricians who had deposed the first and only High King of all Mercia, and had done so backed only by a rabble army inflamed to action by the king’s plans of foreign conquest – for such imperialistic ambitions had not sat well with the people of the Free Ports.

‘Attack with what?’ enquired Minister Sinese, shaking his walking stick in the air.

‘With our reserves, damn it. Yes, that again. We have men enough to launch an offensive against Nomarl – there, you can see it right before your eyes, man, close enough you could almost reach out that stick of yours and touch it.’ Creed gestured with one hand as he spoke, pointing to the windows at first, then further east so he was gesturing at a wall of the chamber instead – as though he could see through it to the entire coastline of the mainland. ‘First we seize Nomarl. Then, with the reserves of Minos and the other islands, we can capture further harbour towns along the Pathian coast. We establish beachheads, gain a toehold on the mainland, and by this means we open up a new front. We give ourselves options. What good are reserves if all we do is shelter behind our walls with our hopes fading? While those men remain inactive, they are merely more mouths to feed, gaining us nothing but peace of mind. Well, gentlemen, I tell you now’ – and his hard gaze roamed the room, taking the measure of them once more – ‘we are long beyond peace of mind. It is time for us to act.’

The general had said nothing of such a proposal to Bahn before this meeting began, and yet Bahn was his closest aide. He knew, however, that the old veteran could be as calculating as he could be spontaneous. Perhaps he had broached the subject of the forts again, knowing full well they would dismiss it, merely with the intention of then demanding what he really desired: a renewed offensive against the Empire. Or perhaps, simply sitting here in this chamber, staring out across the narrow stretch of water to the enemy town, had invoked in him some passion or instinct for action, and now he was riding on the wings of it.

Sinese, Minister of Defence, quietened the room with a raised hand while he twisted the tip of his cane into the floor.

‘General Creed, I have already stated our position on the reserves, both here today and in previous sessions of this cabinet. We will not leave ourselves exposed, without reinforcements, should another large-scale Mannian offensive take place against the Shield. And since, as you are so fond of reminding us, we are so vulnerable on our eastern coastline, as well, that gives even further reason for our reserves to remain intact, for at least then we do have something to respond with, should the Empire ever attempt such a manoeuvre. General, we are hardly in a position now to resume offensive operations against the Mannians. Across the Free Ports we produce modern cannon, rifles, ships as fast as we are able. More so now than ever before. We go hungry because we must give as much to Zanzahar for its black-powder as we do for its grain. Yet still, we barely hold our own.’

‘Hold our own, you say? For ten years now they have been slowly pushing us back. As I speak, Kharnost’s Wall is ready to fall apart at the seams. This is not a stalemate, and you must dissuade yourself of that notion, if that is what you now believe. No, it is a slow but certain execution. If we do not change course, then all of us are dead already.’

The First Minister cleared his throat, and met Creed’s eyes with an intelligent stare projected from beneath the overhang of his bushy eyebrows.

‘You are the reformer as ever, General. All that matters to you is victory. You would change the world if that meant it would save us. You would strip us of our only reserves of men in some mad dash for glory. Yet, for any gains we might make, think of all we could lose.’

And Bahn found himself agreeing with this sentiment, though he would never have admitted it in front of his superior. He thought: Yes, we have lost too much already.

‘You are cuckolds to your caution,’ Creed announced in a surprisingly quiet voice, again not addressing the First Minister but all the others in the room. ‘Every one of you. What is this thing you harbour, this timidity? I understand it in boys, but not in grown men. We must be rid of it.’

‘You have spoken, General, and we have listened. Do you now wish to call a vote?’

A snort of air from Creed’s nostrils. The general’s boots scuffed the floor as he turned and strode away from the table. Bahn stared after his superior for the length of a single shallow breath. What’s got into him? he wondered.

Bahn remembered himself and started after the older man.

‘Damned fools,’ Creed said, loud enough for all to hear him. He stopped as he neared the door, turning to the table of rations and watered wines laid out for this session. It was simple food, and there was not so much of it, but to Bahn’s eyes it held the glamour of a feast.

‘Here,’ the general snapped, and Bahn simply blinked as Creed shoved a wooden bowl of fruit into his arms, and dumped a roll of sweetmeat on top of that, and said, ‘You look bloody starved, man,’ and with that he swept out through the doors.

Bahn hesitated for a moment. He glanced back at the gathered assembly, all watching him now. It was the food that drew his attention, though. In particular a round of blue-veined white cheese that he could smell from several feet away. It might well keep until his daughter’s naming ceremony, he thought, even as he inched forwards and gently lifted it into the cradle of his arms.

Before he left, he bowed as best he could to the assembly, holding the stance for the count of three.

Their pale faces turned away from him, as one.