The Two of Swords: Part 10 Read Online Free PDF

neither was plausibly argued optimism; probably best to leave him alone and let him sweat it out, and if he did decide to sit down on the verge and die, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. There had to be coaches or horses or mules or donkeys still, somewhere on earth, it was just a matter of plodding on until he found them, and then getting a real move on to make up the time he’d lost, which was another thing he didn’t particularly want to think about.
    He remembered the name of the way station, Bes Cyroia, just as it came in sight on the top of the rise, as they trudged up out of the dip that had hidden it. All the stations west of Rasch look the same – square, flat-roofed red-brick boxes, with three rectangular sheds out back. He quickened his pace, which reminded him of how much the calves of his legs hurt. The driver lagged behind, the hub of the broken wheel cradled in his arms like a refugee’s baby.
    The door was open and there was nobody home. The inside was neat, tidy and clean, as though the station crew weren’t sure whether it was an invasion or a proctors’ inspection. They’d taken the food, but not much else. Oida was in and out before the driver caught up; he shook his head, then hurried across the paved yard to the furthest shed: forge, wheelwright’s shop and stores. There was a big military-issue padlock on the door – a good sign, but military padlocks and hasps are the best that taxpayers’ money can buy.
    “We need a sledgehammer,” Oida said. “And an axe.”
    A way station ought to have plenty of both. They’d be in the stores.
    So; no hammer and no axe. What they did have was time, and the driver’s muscle and Oida’s patient ingenuity. After various experiments with stone slabs, crowbars and a bit and brace they found in the stables, Oida hit on the idea of clambering up on the roof and smashing their way in through the slates. There was no rope anywhere, but they found six pairs of decommissioned reins in the stables, dismantled them and knotted them together. Oida volunteered to be lowered down through the hole. The improvised rope was almost long enough.
    Once inside, Oida had the pleasure of being vindicated. There were rows and rows of coach wheels, new and brightly painted, racked up between rails, the iron tres still clammy with grease. They tried hauling one up through the hole in the roof, which broke the improvised rope; so Oida passed up a cold chisel and a big hammer, then sat down for a much-needed rest while the driver took out his feelings on the padlock. He used the time to reflect on the pattern of dereliction and abandonment he’d observed along the road; he had the feeling of a shape, which wasn’t the shape he’d expected but which had a sort of internal logic of its own. If his hypothesis proved to be right, the West was in even deeper trouble than he’d assumed it to be; they hadn’t been taken by surprise by Senza’s onslaught, they’d seen it coming and abandoned huge swaths of the inner empire as indefensible – a strategy of defence in depth based on letting Senza reach the capital unopposed, in the hope of mauling him a bit on his way back. It was a strategy they taught in military academies, suitable for situations where you can’t possibly hope to win, but there’s still an outside chance that the enemy might be induced to lose. It was also the equivalent of cutting twelve-foot letters into a chalk hillside reading FORZA IS DEAD. He thought about that, but couldn’t make up his mind.
    Once they’d got the wheel outside, they offered it up against the remains they’d brought with them and were pleased to find it was an exact match. That was good; not so good was the weight of the thing. The driver could lift it and stagger a few yards before he had to put it down again, but that was about as much as he could do. They tried rolling it along the road, but it kept veering off and falling over. Then Oida hit on the idea of passing a long pole