arranged in order of colour, alloys running from grey to black.
‘May I recommend this one, Honoured Commander?’ she said, lifting a black snub-nosed specimen from the case. The grip was smooth, it would be moulded to the shape of Wa-Ka-Mo-Do’s hand should he choose it. ‘I supervised its construction myself. It is made of steel, obviously, but there is a version in red brass, should you prefer.’
‘No, thank you, Ging-Lan-Keralla. Do you have a shotgun?’
The armourer could not quite conceal her look of hurt surprise.
‘My apologies, Ging-Lan-Keralla. I did not mean any insult to your craft. But I think a shotgun would be the most suitable weapon within this city. Less lethal, for one thing. And easier to aim at close quarters.’
‘The commander is perhaps not used to firearms?’
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do gazed up at the armourer. There was no insult intended, he was sure.
‘I am competent, Ging-Lan-Keralla, however I prefer the blade. I would be most pleased if you would sharpen my sword, and the blades of my body.’
At that he extended the blades at his wrists and fingers. He caught the change in the electrical hum of the dressing woman nearest to him and noted how she immediately looked away from his naked form, blades extended. Ging-Lan-Keralla, however, gazed down at him with a look of approval that was entirely down to her craft.
‘It will be my pleasure, Honoured Commander. And I shall arrange for a shotgun to be delivered immediately.’
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do was a self-made robot, and his form caused a little confusion to the dressing women, but they worked efficiently enough. Despite the pressure he was under, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do allowed himself to relax: this was one of the arts of a warrior.
Eventually, he was cleaned and fixed and tuned. A dressing woman brought him the first of his panelling, freshly polished.
‘My mistake,’ he said, taking it from her. ‘I should have told you that I was dressing for the field, not the ballroom,’ and he showed her how to hold the gleaming scarlet-painted metal in the flame of the fire, blackening it. As he did so Ging-Lan-Keralla returned with a short, black shotgun.
‘Thank you,’ he said, admiring it. ‘But why the wooden stock? Surely that will make it harder to repair?’
‘It will. But the Commander of Sangrel is known as a poet as well as a warrior, and that is both a weapon and a thing of beauty.’
‘It is indeed,’ he replied, turning it in the light.
‘Excuse me, Honoured Commander,’ said the armourer, taking the gun. She fastened a long leather strap to it, and then slung the gun over his shoulder.
‘There. It suits you.’
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do looked at himself in a sheet of polished copper. It did.
‘Thank you, Ging-Lan-Keralla. You are a master of your craft.’
Her eyes glowed briefly.
His body oiled and humming sweetly beneath blackened panelling, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do stepped out into the midmorning daylight.
His company was waiting for him in the Street of Becoming, just beyond the Ice Gate.
Eighty robots, in red-brass bodies, their swords sheathed in wood at their left side, their rifles slung over their right shoulders. They were lined up in compact formation, each robot pressed against the robot in front, a mass of metal pushed together so that virtually no inch of space was anything but robot. Only their eyes moved, following him as he walked to meet them.
Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah was waiting, too.
‘Honoured Commander, I wish to be allowed to accompany you on this mission.’
‘No, Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah, I want you to remain here. I need you to watch La-Ver-Di-Arussah.’
Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah was visibly shocked.
‘But Honoured Commander, she is my superior!’
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do chose a different tack.
‘Forgive me, Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah. You understand I am a robot of the High Spires. I do not always express myself as well as robots such as yourself. What I meant to say was that La-Ver-Di-Arussah will find her attention drawn to many events. I wish you to maintain the peace whilst she is otherwise engaged, not to raise the tension.’
‘Surely you would be better placed to do so, Honoured Commander. Let me lead the troops instead.’
He was right, realized Wa-Ka-Mo-Do. But the Vestal Virgins had been most insistent that he leave. More than that, Wa-Ka-Mo-Do wanted to see what was happening outside the city.
‘No, Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah. A good commander should walk the extent of his command. Now, return to the Copper Master’s house. I will lead these robots.’
Ka-Lo-Re-Harballah saluted, obviously torn between what he believed to be right and what he believed to be his duty, then turned and made his way back up into the city.
‘Captain,’ called Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, and a captain detached himself from the crush of robots. He wore bronze flashes on his shoulders. ‘Get the robots ready to march.’
‘Commander.’
Wa-Ka-Mo-Do watched as the ranks of robots opened up like a bellows. Arms unfolding and legs shuffling free. The company expanded before him, filling the street. He took his place at the head, told the captain to give the order, and the company began to march.
Outside the Ice Gate, Lake Ochoa shone with the healthy blue of copper salts. Wa-Ka-Mo-Do turned his gaze away from the Mound of Eternity, imagining the eyes of the Vestal Virgins upon him. It was a fine day, lit by a yellow sun that warmed the metal of the robots moving busily back and forth around him. He heard the singing of the nearby rails: a train was approaching the station.
‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do! Wa-Ka-Mo-Do!’
The voice came from over towards the lake. A human was running towards him. Rachael. She was wrapping a piece of cloth around herself as she came, concealing the pink-white skin of her body.
‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do! Wait!’
Couldn’t she see that he was marching at the head of eighty armed robots? Didn’t she realize that he wasn’t going to bring the troops to a halt, just for her? It dawned on Wa-Ka-Mo-Do that she really didn’t. Humans didn’t seem to consider the Empire’s work as being important. It wasn’t even a considered insult; it was just a simple lack of awareness.
‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do! I know you can hear me!’
He remembered her father’s attitude the night before. He didn’t want to be seen to insult Rachael again, even unknowingly. Maybe in human terms it was just as wrong to ignore a young woman as it was to give her something to drink. Frustrated, he ordered the captain to call a halt. Beyond him he felt the discharge of electricity, heard the clank of metal as the soldiers stopped.
He turned and waited for Rachael as she ran past the red-brass robots, their bodies warming in the yellow sun.
‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do! You stopped! Thank you!
Rachael was in front of him, wrapping that strange piece of cloth over her body. It was almost transparent. Through it he could see the two dark strips of cloth she wore around her chest and the top of her thighs. She realized that he was looking at her, and she clutched the cloth tighter. Then she looked straight at him with those copper-blue eyes.
‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, I wanted to apologize.’
‘For what, Rachael?’
‘Wa-Ka-Mo-Do, what I did last night was wrong. Tricking you into giving me drinks. I was taking advantage and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.’
‘I accept your apology,’ said Wa-Ka-Mo-Do. He was uncomfortably aware of the captain standing by his side, gazing straight ahead.
‘I hope I haven’t got you into too much trouble?’
‘Trouble?’ said Wa-Ka-Mo-Do in surprise. ‘I’m the Commander of Sangrel.’
‘I know that,’ said Rachael. ‘Listen, I explained everything to my father. It should be okay.’
