Devices and Desires

Chapter Twenty-Four

Miel Ducas had, remarkably enough, fallen asleep. He hadn't thought he'd be able to sleep, with Vaatzes' words rattling round inside his head like stones in a bucket. Nevertheless, when the guard captain burst in, he was flopped in his chair, eyes closed.

The captain was yelling at him. At first he thought, he's come to kill me, but it soon occurred to him that that wouldn't call for panic-stricken shouting, so he listened to what the man was saying.

'They're on the wall,' he said, which didn't make sense. 'We can't hold them. Come on, get out.'

Get out he understood. 'Hold on,' he mumbled, 'I'll get my things.' But the captain grabbed him by the elbow and dragged him towards the door. He was too sleepy to resist.

'Head for the palace,' the captain was saying, and that didn't make sense either.

'What's going on?' Miel asked.

'The Mezentines,' the captain snapped back at him. 'They're inside the city, and up on the wall. They'll be here any moment now. Head for the palace.'

Still didn't make sense. We've won the war, how come there's Mezentines in the city? Miel knew better than to argue, however. The captain let go of his elbow and ran off, leaving him standing in the little courtyard. Well, Miel thought, I suppose I'm free.

If there really were Mezentines… He found it impossible to believe. How could they have got in? Surely there'd have been an alert, trumpets blasting and men shouting, war noises. Ridiculous. Even so; head for the palace. He could do that.

Someone jumped out in front of him. At first he thought it must be Vaatzes, because of his dark skin. Then he realised: Mezentine. Immediately he felt bloated with panic. The Mezentine soldier was coming at him, holding some kind of polearm, and he himself was empty-handed and defenceless. Oh well, he thought, but he sidestepped anyway, at the very last moment, and was pleasantly surprised as the soldier blundered past him, lunging ferociously at the patch of empty air he'd just left behind.

The drill he'd learned when he was twelve said that the sidestep is combined with a counterattack in time, either both hands round the throat or a stamping kick to the back of the knee. Miel, however, turned and ran.

Head for the palace. The courtyard archway opened into Coopers' Street; uphill, second left was Fourways, leading to Drapers' Lane, leading to Middle Walk. There he met the guards, running flat out; he flattened himself against a wall to let them pass. Up Middle Walk (he'd been cooped up in small rooms far too long, his legs were stiff and painful) to the Review Grounds, across the Horsefair and down the little alley that led to Fivesprings. Halfway down the alley was a narrow stair up the side of a house, which led to a passageway inside the palace wall, which let you in to the Ducas' private entrance; assuming you had the key, which he didn't.

But the door was open; and the reason for that unexpected stroke of luck was Jarnac Ducas, struggling to do up the buckles on his brigandine coat left-handed as he pulled the key out of the lock with his right.

'Miel?' he said. 'What are you doing here?'

Stupid question, as both of them realised as soon as he'd said it. 'What's going on, Jarnac?' Miel asked. 'They said the Mezentines are in the city, and I met-'

But Jarnac nodded. 'Don't ask me how,' he said. 'Seems like they came in through the gate, and now they've secured the walls, by the sound of it. We're falling back on the palace and the inner yards; if we can regroup, maybe we can push them back, I don't know. You coming?'

Another stupid question. Up on to the palace wall-they arrived at the same time as the guards, who told them that Duke Orsea was down below trying to drive the invaders out of the Horsefair. 'Not going well when we left,' one of the guards said. 'He made a good start, but they came in from Long Lane and Halfacre, took him in flank. That's all I know.'

Jarnac swore, and scrambled down the stairs into the palace. Miel followed; but by the time he made it to the long gallery that ran the length of the top floor, Jarnac had disappeared down one of the side-passages. Miel stopped, leaned against the wall and caught his breath. This was ridiculous, he decided; I won't be any good to anybody, lost and out of breath.

He closed his eyes for a moment and thought. Something to fight with would be a good start, and then he supposed he ought to go and look for Orsea. There weren't any armouries or guard stations on this floor, but there was a trophy of arms on the wall of the small reception chamber, fancy decorative stuff tastefully arranged in a sort of seashell pattern. He couldn't reach any of the swords or shields, but by standing on a chair he was able to pull down a finely engraved gilded halberd, which was going to have to do. Armour was out of the question, of course, and besides, he didn't have time to put it on.

Down five flights of stairs; people coming in both directions. Most of them gave him a startled look as he passed them, but nobody stopped or said anything. The front gate of the palace was open, though there was a platoon of guards standing by to close it as soon as the Duke managed to disengage and pull back. Assuming he was still alive.

As Miel ran through the gateway, the significance of what Jarnac had told him began to sink in. If Orsea had initially pushed through into the Horsefair, and then enemy units had come out from the alleys on either side, it was more than likely he'd been cut off, quite possibly encircled, depending on the numbers. It was exactly the sort of mess Orsea would get himself into (impulsive, brave, very stupid Orsea), and of course it was the hereditary duty of the Ducas to get him out of it.

That's right, he thought bitterly-the cobbles hurt his feet through his thin-soled slippers as he ran-me in my shirtsleeves, with this stupid toy halberd. This would be a good time to be excused duty, on grounds of having been imprisoned for high treason (can't get more excused than that). But he remembered, he was innocent. So that was no use.

North Parade was crowded with soldiers, some running forwards towards the arch that led into the Horsefair, others scrambling through them, headed for the palace. The men coming back in had a dazed, bewildered look about them. Many were bloody, some were dragging wounded men along with them. One of them tried to grab his arm; he was shouting, go back, get away, they're coming through. Miel dodged him and kept going, but it didn't sound encouraging. All in all, it was a bad situation, he felt. Death in the defence of Duke and city was, naturally, a fitting and entirely acceptable end for the Ducas, but it was understood that somebody would be watching, taking notes, appreciating what he was doing with a view to making an appropriate entry in the family history. Death by massacre, blunder and shambles wasn't quite the same thing, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.

North Parade Arch was blocked by a crush of soldiers, filling the opening with their compressed bodies and limbs for want of anything better. No chance of getting through that; so he ran back along the wall, kicked open a doorway (side door of the Nicephorus house; he was sure they wouldn't mind) into a garden. The Nicephorus had their own private door opening into Horsefair-handy for the kitchenmaids going to market for spices and walnut oil. Assuming the enemy didn't know about it (they didn't, because the Nicephorus garden wasn't full of soldiers) he could use it to nip out into the battle, privileged to the last.

They'd bolted it, as they always did at night, but they hadn't locked it with the key. He shot the bolt, opened the door a crack and looked out. He could see people running, a bit of open space, and a big crowd on the north side, which presumably was the battle. Taking care to close the gate behind him, he slipped through.

Nobody took any notice of him, unless they were running and he got in their way, in which case they dodged round him or shoved him aside. It was still too dark to make out anything more than silhouettes and moving shadows in the distance, over on the north side of the Horsefair, where the fighting appeared to be. He walked rather than ran-why run to your death? he asked himself, it'll probably still be there in a minute or two. For the first time in a long while he was fully alert and focused. He knew what his job was to save Orsea-and that it was most likely impossible, and that he'd die trying. Under other circumstances he'd be out of his mind with panic, but there didn't seem any call for that. As far as he could judge, the city was lost. Even if they managed to save it, his life as the Ducas was ruined, gone for ever. Orsea, his best friend and his Duke, hated him as a traitor. There didn't seem to be much point in a life where everything he was had been taken away from him. If he couldn't be Miel Ducas any more, he didn't want to play.

As he got closer to the fighting, he could hear the usual noises: shouts, yells, screams, thumps, scrapes, clangs, the shearing noise of cut meat. Take fear away and it was just noise; he approached it slowly and calmly, like a farmer walking up to a bull.

Something was going on directly in front of him; there was a commotion, and the movement seemed particularly intense. Remembering the silly gilded halberd he had in his hands, he quickened his pace a little. He had no idea where Orsea might be, assuming he was still alive, but here was as good a place to start as any.

The commotion turned out to be his cousin Jarnac. By the look of it, he was trying to cut his way into a dense wedge of the enemy. There was a handful of Eremians with him, but they were hanging back-probably, Miel guessed, because they didn't want to get too close to Jarnac while he was swinging his poll-axe.

It was an extraordinary sight. Every inch of Jarnac was on the move; as he dodged a spear-thrust, he pivoted, sidestepped, simultaneously jabbing, fending, hooking, hammering. There was a Mezentine right in front of him; he reversed the poll-axe and thrust the butt-spike into the man's stomach-there was eighteen-gauge steel plate in the way, but Jarnac's spike punched through it like tree-bark-then skipped side-and-back like a dancer to avoid another one; he jerked the spike out of the fallen man and tucked the hook inside the knee of his replacement; down that one went,

Jarnac drove the spike through his helmet into his brain without bothering to look down, because his attention was fixed on another one, who got the axe-blade in his neck, in the gap between aventail and collar-bone; Jarnac had moved again, diagonally forward so as to step in for a thrust in time into the face of the next Mezentine; he converted the pull that freed the blade into a backward thrust, piercing the skull of the man who was trying to get behind him; then he pushed forward and swung the poll-axe in a circle round his head to strike with every scrap of his strength; Miel couldn't see the man who was on the wrong end of that, but he heard the ring, clear and sharp as a hammer on an anvil. Every movement of hand and arm was mirrored in a step, forward, sideways or back; each step was combined with a twist or a turn that tensioned the muscles for the next thrust or cut. The only reason the Mezentines stood in his way was because they were too closely jammed together to get away; it was like watching a man dance his way through a tangle of briars. What happened? Miel asked himself. What happened to turn my genial buffoon of a cousin into the angel of Death?

As he watched, a Mezentine slipped past Jarnac on the left, got behind him and stabbed him in the back with a spear. Miel could feel his own heart suddenly stop, as though someone had reached down inside his chest and grabbed hold of it. Jarnac was dead; apparently not, because the spear didn't seem to want to go in. The attacker couldn't believe it. He froze, completely bewildered, and Jarnac spun on his heel and crushed his head with a monstrous overhand blow. Miel heard bone failing, and he remembered that when he'd met Jarnac in the passageway, he'd been climbing into a brigandine coat.

The dance stopped abruptly. Jarnac had run out of Mezentines for the time being, and exhaustion had caught up with him. He staggered, steadied himself against the axe-shaft, and stood still.

'Jarnac,' Miel shouted. Jarnac lifted his head and frowned. A red wash from the rising sun bathed the side of his face, glittering off the splashed blood that coated his cheeks.

'Hello, Miel,' Jarnac said quietly, and he grinned. 'This is a fucking mess, isn't it?'

'Where's Orsea?' Miel asked.

Jarnac shook his head. 'Search me,' he said. 'I caught sight of him a minute or so back, but then this lot here'-he jabbed the butt-spike in the vague direction of a dead man-'bust through our line and I got distracted.' He frowned slightly. 'I wouldn't bother going and looking for him, if I were you.'

Miel shrugged. 'I think I'd better have a go at it,' he said.

'Bugger.' Jarnac sighed. 'Want me to come with you?'

'Thanks,' Miel said, 'but you'd better stay here. Someone's got to…' He couldn't say what he wanted to say. 'You're needed,' he went on, 'I'm not. See you later.'

'Take care,' Jarnac said; and then he was moving again, and Miel darted through a gap between two dazed-looking Mezentines into a clear space. He wished he'd got a brigandine coat like Jarnac's, or even just a mailshirt or a padded jack.

A few steps brought him close enough to see what was happening. He saw the backs of a thin line of Eremians. They looked like they were walking backwards, but they were being pushed, and every now and then one of them would trip and fall and be walked over. That, Miel realised, was all that was left of Orsea's gallant charge, the entire palace garrison. It was like watching a chick break out of an egg; the thin wall cracking, crumpling and breaking up, as something inside it flexed its strength to force its way out.

Never mind, Miel thought, and he lunged forward with his stupid halberd at some soldier or other who happened to be just inside his reach. The point slid off the man's gorget; he grabbed the shaft and pulled, ripping it out of Miel's hands, and threw it away. Miel let go and bundled sideways; collided awkwardly with someone he hadn't seen, tripped over his own feet and fell. His chin banged on the man's knee, jarring his neck and jaw. Too shocked to think, he dropped to the ground. A boot kicked his ribs-accident, not deliberate-and another slammed into the back of his head. Am I dead? he wondered, and then nothing.

All she could see was vague movement, like a river, or the swaying branches of trees. That moving thing, she knew, was the enemy, and it was coming closer. The logical conclusion was that the battle had been lost.

They wouldn't kill women though, would they? It stood to reason that Orsea was dead by now, but her mind was too preoccupied to consider the implications of that. They wouldn't kill women; why would they want to do a thing like that? She couldn't imagine a reason, but the same went for destroying a city. Why would anybody want to do such a thing?

No point in watching any more. She turned and came in off the balcony, and saw someone standing and looking at her.

'I know you,' she said. 'You're Ziani Vaatzes.'

Vaatzes nodded. He looked pathetically weary, and was wearing a heavy coat with big, bulging pockets. 'We met at the hunt,' he said awkwardly. The formality of it made her smile; it'd never do to be massacred in the company of a man to whom she hadn't been introduced. 'What's happening?' he asked.

'I don't know,' she said. 'Come and see for yourself if you like.'

'No thank you.' He was frowning. 'I think it might be a good idea if you were to leave now,' he said.

That made her laugh. 'Don't be silly,' she said, 'we can't leave. If we go out in the streets, we'll just get killed along with everybody else. There's no secret passages or anything like that.'

'Actually,' he said, and hesitated. 'Actually,' he repeated, 'there's a way that'll take us right outside the city. Same way as they got in,' he added.

There was something significant about that remark, but she couldn't spare the energy to figure out what it was. 'No there isn't,' she said. 'I was born in this building, I know-'

'The maintenance tunnels for the water system,' he interrupted. 'They came in through them, but they'll be long gone by now. They're all out there,' he said, pointing over her shoulder, 'fighting the battle.'

It occurred to her that he was quite right. She felt as though she'd just walked into a wall in the dark. Just when she'd made up her mind she was going to die, along came this funny little man with a viable alternative. 'But I don't know how to get in to them,' she said, her voice suddenly creased with panic. 'I've lived here all these years and-'

'I do,' Vaatzes said. 'You come with me and I'll show you. But I really think we should go now. It's quite a long way, and I'd rather we did the trip and got clear while the enemy's busy with other things, if you follow me.'

She knew it was wrong even to think about escaping, deserting, when Orsea was lying out there dead and the city was about to fall. On the other hand, there was absolutely no reason why she should be killed, if it could be avoided. She nodded. 'Give me a moment to change my shoes,' she said. 'I can't go running down maintenance tunnels in these things.'

As she followed him, it did occur to her to ask why he'd come to save her. Everybody else seemed to have forgotten about her-her maids, her ladies-in-waiting, the guards, the chamberlains, the flower of Eremian nobility, theoretically sworn to defend her to the last drop of blood. They'd gone to the battle, or run off to hide, or simply melted away as though they'd never actually existed in the first place. Only this strange little brown-skinned man had thought of her, and by some lucky chance, he was also the only person in the city who'd thought of escaping through the water tunnels. Only a foreigner would've seen the possibility, she supposed; or something along those lines.

He'd already prised up a trapdoor in the little yard behind the cloister garden with the fountain. 'I knew there'd be one around here somewhere,' he said, with a faint smile. 'Fountain-water.'

'Yes, of course,' she said. She'd never have thought of that.

'I'll go first, if you like,' he said. He opened his coat and drew a sword. It looked ridiculous in his hand, somehow. 'Give me a moment or so, then follow me.'

'All right,' she said. For some reason she trusted him completely. He took a deep breath, then walked down the steps, picking his way delicately like a still-wobbly foal. A few seconds later his head reappeared. 'Seems to be all right,' he said. He'd got a smear of cobweb in his hair, which made him look comical.

She should have been prepared for the darkness, once she was down in the tunnel, but she wasn't. The dark, the silence and the cold put her in mind of a grave. She couldn't see, and all she could hear was the soft patter of Vaatzes' feet somewhere up ahead of her. This is ridiculous, she thought; I'm leaving my husband and my home and running out into the night in my third-best dinner gown; I've got no money and nothing to eat, and even if we survive and get outside the city, what the hell are we supposed to do then? Walk to-

Walk to Civitas Vadani; the name slipped into her mind as neatly and unostentatiously as a cat jumping up on her lap on a winter evening. If Orsea was… She shied away from that; but if her old life was over, where else was there to go? Yes, she accused herself, but now that I have thought of it, I want to go; because-

'Stop.' He'd said the word so softly she almost missed it, even in that dead silence. 'Stay there.'

There was an edge in that quiet voice that frightened her. She froze, with a half-drawn breath. Vaatzes hadn't been afraid earlier, she remembered, but now apparently that had changed. She had a feeling that anything capable of scaring him was likely to be very bad news indeed.

Then he was there, very close to her in the dark. 'We can't go this way,' he whispered intimately (she could feel his breath on her face). 'I didn't think there'd be any of them down here, but-' He stopped. 'I'm sorry,' he said, and the apology in his voice, the admission of failure, left her weak with fear. 'We'll have to go back and think of something else.'

Of course; they'd go back, he'd think of something else. She still couldn't imagine why he'd apparently taken responsibility for her safety, but he had, and she still trusted him. 'Keep still,' he went on, 'I'll go past.' She felt him brush past her, a tiny contact with the back of her hand, the faintest brush of a sleeve against her cheek. Once he was past, she followed, until they were back where they'd started. The sun was nearly up now, and on the cloister lawn, grossly incongruous in that green, formal space, lay the dead body of a man.

Vaatzes noticed it and frowned slightly, as if it was a loose bolt or a worn bearing. 'Looks like they've been through here,' he said. The dead man was an Eremian, a civilian; she didn't recognise him. 'I'm not sure,' Vaatzes continued. 'Probably our best bet would be to go down the hill-against the flow, so to speak. Less likely to bump into them if we go where they've already been.'

That was stupid, though; they were too conspicuous-him because of his dark face, her because of her aristocratic gown. 'I don't think that'd be such a good idea,' she said. It came out sounding different from what she'd intended.

'What did you have in mind?' he asked.

'I don't know,' she mumbled. 'I wish I knew what was happening.'

To her surprise, he reacted as though she'd just said something very profound. 'That's an idea,' he said. 'Probably best if we got up high-in one of the towers, maybe, except I'd rather not run into them on one of those narrow staircases. How about the Ducas house? Isn't there supposed to be a private entrance?'

She nodded. 'But I don't know where it is.'

'Forget that, then.' He was shifting restlessly, as though the floor was painfully hot. 'All I was thinking was, if we can get out into the Horsefair, and then straight down to the city gate; if the fighting's all done, there shouldn't be anybody much about right now. Or we could try hiding somewhere, if you can think of some place they wouldn't be likely to come looking.'

Being offered a choice shocked her. It suggested that Vaatzes didn't have another plan to replace the one that had, apparently, failed; otherwise he'd simply have told her instead of asking her opinion.

'Well,' she said, 'it's probably best if we don't stay here.'

Vaatzes laughed at what she assumed was a private joke. 'That's true enough,' he said. 'All right, we'll make for the Horsefair and see if we can get as far as the city gate. We'll just have to take it slow and steady, that's all.'

Slow and steady was a nightmare. As Vaatzes had predicted, the streets where the enemy had already been were deserted, unless dead people counted as population, in which case they were crowded. Once they were out of the palace grounds, most of the bodies were Eremian soldiers, but there were civilians too, women and children as well as men. 'They won't start setting fires till they've pulled out,' Vaatzes said at one point. She hadn't even considered that possibility.

Very strange indeed to see the Horsefair so quiet. This time of day, it should've been packed-country people setting up stalls, staff from the big houses coming out to buy things for that evening's meal, horse-traders and merchants already doing business. She stepped over a man she knew slightly; she recognised him as a guardsman who often stood outside the palace gate. He'd been cut nearly in half by something, and the scowl on his face was pure anger.

'There's still a chance,' Vaatzes was saying, 'that we could duck down into the water tunnels somewhere else. To be honest, if we're going to play hide-and-seek, we'd stand a better chance in the dark than up here in the open.'

She was about to say that she didn't really like that idea when she noticed he'd stopped. He was looking at something in the distance, on the far side of the fair. She looked, and saw men running, but she couldn't make out who they were, Mezentines or Eremians.

'I wonder what's got them so worked up,' Vaatzes said.

A moment later he got an answer to his mystery. Through the archway came a party of horsemen, moving fast. In front of them, Mezentines were scattering, like poultry in a run when the fox has broken in. She saw, she could just about make out, a horseman riding one of them down. The rider came up behind the runner at a slow, contained canter, and she saw the runner throw up his arms and drop to the ground. More horsemen were spilling out now, a great many of them; as if in response, a large number of Mezentines coalesced, like bees forming into a swarm, from the edges and the walls. They were trying to get into some sort of formation, but it seemed as though they'd misjudged something, or left it too late. The horsemen rode through them while they were still scrambling about, and once the cavalry line had gone by, there didn't look to be any of them still standing.

'Who's that?' she heard herself ask. 'They can't be ours, all our horses are stabled on the west side.'

Still more horsemen came in through the arch. A pattern was becoming visible. They were forming up to charge, in the direction of the palace. She looked round, and saw that Vaatzes was smiling, almost as though he'd been proved right about something.

'Excellent,' he said. 'Thank God for romance.'

That was a very strange thing to say, as the unidentified cavalry-several hundred of them by now-burst into a fast canter, followed by a gallop, heading very close to where they were both standing. Vaatzes swore and grabbed her arm, pulling her behind him as he turned and ran. It took her a moment to understand; whoever they were, standing in their way wouldn't be a good idea.

They ran a short distance and stopped, and the cavalry flowed by like a lava stream; they were close enough to be more than just shapes now, and she made out men in armour, their faces visored, on tall, powerful horses. They didn't look like Eremians; she had no idea what Mezentian cavalry were supposed to look like. 'Who are they?' she asked again, but the clatter of hoofs drowned her out.

Footsoldiers had appeared from somewhere-she hadn't been paying attention, so she didn't know where-and the cavalry ploughed into them, so hard she could feel the impact through the soles of her feet. She tried to pull away and run, but Vaatzes was holding on to her, his fingers tight on her arm. She didn't know what to make of that; it felt like he wanted to keep her, as if she was some valuable thing he was determined to take with him. Now he came very close, and shouted in her ear, 'Can you see him? I don't know what he looks like.'

She shouted back, 'Who?'

'Duke Valens.'

She thought she'd misheard him; then she realised, as though she'd just been told the answer to a silly riddle a child could've guessed, who the horsemen were. Valens had come to rescue her.

It was a complete shambles, of course. Dead bodies everywhere, both the enemy and the Eremians scattered all over the place; he'd come expecting to fight a hopeless battle against ridiculous odds, but instead he'd turned up late, when it was all over; picked a fight with the Perpetual Republic, and all for nothing.

A footsoldier made the mistake of being in front of him. Valens twitched his left rein, urged his horse on with his heels and held his sword out just a little as he passed. No need to strike or anything like that; the sword's edge touched the man's neck, and momentum did the rest. Elegant; but he'd wanted to let off steam by hitting something hard.

All around him, his men were slaughtering the enemy like sheep, which wasn't what he was here for. Instead, he needed to find someone he could talk to; he needed to find her, and the fool Orsea, and then get out again as quickly as possible. Anything else he did here, such as killing Mezentines, was just making a bad situation worse.

Pull yourself together, he thought, this is getting out of hand. In front of him-while he'd been agonising, the battle had overtaken him, proving once again that War has deplorable manners-his colour squadron had surrounded a large unit of Mezentine infantry, jamming them close together so that they could hardly move, let alone fight back. He watched his men drive their horses tight up against the Mezentines' bodies, barging them back, while their riders hacked resignedly at heads and arms showing above an arbitrary line; it was like watching tired men cutting back a hedge, their hooks turning blunt, their dexterity worn down into mere flailing and bashing. It was a disgusting sight, and it had come about because the Vadani Duke was a hopeless romantic, who couldn't resist the thought of snatching his beloved out of the jaws of death. Busy as he was, and preoccupied with more practical matters, he had to stop and consider that. From the ugliness of his life he'd sought escape and redemption in pure and selfless love, and the upshot was lacerated flesh, cut and smashed bone, and the weariness of men worn out with the sheer hard work of killing.

Then he pulled himself together, as previously resolved, and forced himself to become the efficient, dispassionate professional. Thanks to surprise and his enemy's lack of imagination, he'd carried the field, for the time being. Such Mezentines as remained alive inside the Horsefair were penned up and harmless, but reinforcements would already be on their way from other parts of the city; his cavalry were good at attacking but not at being attacked, he lacked archers and infantry support, and he could expect no help from the shattered fragments of the Eremian forces. At best he had a quarter of an hour, in which he had to find her, and Orsea as well if possible. After that, he had to leave or face extermination. Fine.

It stood to reason she'd be in the palace; Orsea too, if he had any sense (but of course he hadn't). He could see the palace dead ahead of him, but he hadn't paid enough attention to the fine detail of how you got there from here. The map of Civitas Eremiae he'd studied earlier marked streets, gates and arches, but so far it had proved less than entirely reliable (should've known better than to trust a map he'd bought from a woman in a red dress). If, as he feared, there were narrow streets and alleys between here and the palace, it'd be a stupid risk to take horsemen in there. All in all, he was beginning to wish he'd stayed at home.

And then, unexpectedly, he saw her. She was quite close to him, no more than twenty yards away; there was a man with her, a brown-skinned man, therefore by implication a Mezentine or one of their mercenaries. He wasn't in armour, which suggested he was a diplomat or other civilian; not that it mattered. It was her, unmistakable, just the same as she'd been the one time they'd met, ten years ago.

He yanked his horse's head round and dug his heels in. Some fool of a footsoldier darted across his line of sight; probably only trying to get away, but for half a second he was inside Valens' reach, and that was the end of him. Valens didn't notice anything about him, wasn't entirely sure where the cut had landed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw him go down and his experience in such matters assured him that living men don't drop down at that angle. He felt a mild tingle of pain in his sword-arm, just above the elbow, where he'd abused the tendon.

She saw him approaching; froze for a moment in panic, then looked round for somewhere to run to. The fool with her had pulled out a sword (a short, single-edged huntsman's falchion, he noticed automatically; loot, presumably, and much good it'd do him) and was trying to get between her and the presumed approaching danger. No time for that sort of thing; Valens swerved left, leaned forward a little, smacked the falchion out of his hand with the flat of his sword, and completed the engagement with a short, stiff thrust to the heart.

He noticed in passing that the thrust was turned and didn't penetrate, but that was of no concern. The fool had fallen over, and didn't matter any more. She was standing quite still, her mouth open in horror and no sound coming out. 'It's all right,' he yelled, 'it's me.'

Of course, she didn't recognise him, even with his bevor up. Why should she? It was ten years ago, and they'd only chatted for a few minutes. 'It's me,' he howled, 'it's Valens. I'm come to save you.' Melodrama, he thought; what a crass thing to say. 'Please, stay still, it's all right.'

She was staring at him as though he had wings and a tail. She said something but he couldn't hear. The hell with it, he thought, and slid off his horse. He landed awkwardly, turning his ankle over, and swore.

'Valens?' He heard her this time. 'What are you-?'

Explanations; for crying out loud, no time. 'Soon as I heard about the assault,' he said. He was lying; it had taken him a day, a night and a morning before the pain had got too much for him to bear and he'd ordered out the cavalry. 'I came to get you. And Orsea,' he added, wishing it hadn't sounded such an obvious afterthought. 'Where is he?'

She just looked at him. Oh, he thought, and he had enough conscience left to hate the part of him that added, Well, never mind. 'We can't hang around,' he said, then remembered he'd forgotten something; his manners. 'Will you come with me?' he asked.

She didn't say anything for a very long time, maybe as long as a third of a second. Then she nodded.

'Here, you take my horse,' he said. He held out the reins. She was looking at the horse; how am I supposed to get up there? He winced; he really wasn't handling this very well, but seeing her made him feel seventeen and mortally awkward again. 'Give you a leg-up,' he said.

Her foot in his hand; a sharp stab of pain, as her weight aggravated the strained tendon. Then she was reaching down for the reins, as two of his captains rode up fast. Their faces told him they'd been looking for him, expecting not to find him alive. He turned to the nearest of them. 'You,' he said, 'find me a horse. You, with me.'

She was saying something, and he couldn't hear; the helmet-padding, probably. 'What?' he asked.

'Orsea,' she shouted back. 'He led the counterattack, but I don't know what happened. You've got to-'

Valens knew perfectly well what he'd got to do without having to be told. 'I know,' he said. 'Can you take me to where-?'

She shook her head; and then a voice somewhere behind him and to the right said, 'I can.' he looked round and saw the little brown-faced man, the one he hadn't managed to kill a moment ago. 'I know where he fell,' this incongruous man said, 'I was watching from the tower. Before I came to find you,' he added, to her. 'I can show him.'

She nodded rapidly and said, 'Please'; and for a moment, Valens felt violently jealous. For pity's sake, he told himself. 'All right,' he said-the captain had come back with a riderless horse; quick service, he'd have to remember that-'you can take us there.' He hopped into the saddle and grabbed the reins. And then we really do have to leave,' he shouted to her.

The little man looked up at him and sort of waved his hands-what about me?-at which the captain, clearly a man of initiative, reached down, grabbed him round the waist and pulled him up behind him on his horse. The other captain closed in behind them as they rode off, following the little man's pointing finger. If he's lying, Valens promised himself, I'll have him gutted alive.

It was delicate work, picking a way through the dead bodies. The horses didn't really want to tread on them, and stepped tentatively, like ladies in good shoes on a muddy track. Before they got to where the Mezentine was taking them, he sent the other captain to call off the attack and regroup the men, ready to leave as soon as they were through with looking for Orsea.

'Around here,' the little man was saying-he wasn't used to riding; he was pointing with one hand and clinging grimly to the captain in front of him with the other. 'I know I saw him go down; he was wearing a helmet with a white horsehair crest-'

'That's right,' she said.

Valens was listening, but he was also looking at a big, tall man standing a few yards away. He'd been leaning on a poll-axe, a picture of complete exhaustion. There was so much blood on him that he glistened like a fish, and he appeared to be bewildered, almost in a daydream. He must have heard the horses' hoofs; he snapped upright and levelled the poll-axe in a high first guard; as he did so, a panel of his ruined brigandine flopped sideways and hung out at right-angles.

She screamed; she was calling out a name, which he didn't catch.

'Is that him?' he shouted.

'It's-' The name was Jar-something, Jarno or Jarnac. She urged her horse forward; the blood-covered man dropped his axe, stumbled and caught a handful of mane to hang from. 'Jarnac, where is he?' she was yelling in his face. 'Orsea; do you know-?'

The man said, 'He's here,' in a loud, clear voice. 'He's alive.'

Out of the corner of his eye, Valens noticed that there were a lot of dead men on the ground, all Mezentines, all horribly smashed and cut about. For some reason he thought of the boar at bay, and of the hound that won't leave its injured master. 'Fine,' he said loudly. 'Let's get him and go home. Him too,' he added, nodding at the man called Jarnac; because, by the look of it, he was too useful to waste. 'Horses over here, quick.'

She half-turned in the saddle to look at him. She didn't smile. He hadn't expected her to, it wasn't the time or the place for smiling; but the expression on her face said, It never even crossed my mind that you'd come for me, but I understand why you did; and yes, I accept the gift for what it is. In that moment, Valens felt something he couldn't begin to identify, but which he'd never felt before, and he knew that it justified what he'd done, no matter how devastating and evil the consequences might be. Then she turned away from him. She was watching as two of his men lifted a bloody mess of a man's body on to a horse. He thought about that, too, and realised he couldn't lie to himself. He wished that Orsea had been dead when they found him, and he hoped he'd die, now or very soon, and he knew that he'd do everything in his power to keep him alive.

'Right,' he said. 'Now let's get out of here.'

Miel Ducas lifted his head. He was alone.

He could see out of his left eye. His right eye was blurred and it stung. He closed it and wiped it with his right hand; just blood, that was all. Then the pain in his left arm started, or he noticed it for the first time. Under other circumstances it'd have monopolised his attention, but he couldn't afford the luxury. He was alive, for now, but everything else was pretty bad.

He was alone in the Horsefair, with a lot of dead people. His left arm was broken, and something bad had happened which had left a wet red patch on the left side of his shirt, hand-sized, just above his waist. He could hear hoofs clattering in one direction, and men yelling in another. Clearly not out of the woods yet, then.

He remembered. Orsea; he'd set out to find Orsea, death, or both. Instead, he'd been hit, fallen over his feet, blacked out. The city had fallen to the enemy, and presumably a massacre was in progress. All bad stuff; but for some reason he'd been left over, as though Death had declined to accept him. He grinned. For the first time in his life, the Ducas was apparently of no importance, finally-at the end of the world-relieved of duty.

I will no longer try and do anything beyond my capabilities. Other people's excessive expectations of me brought me to this pass, and I've had enough of them. Instead, let's see if I can stand up.

There'd be no commemorative fresco in the cloister of the Ducas house to celebrate it-would there still be a Ducas house, this time tomorrow?-but he achieved it, nonetheless; he pushed with his knees and straightened his back, and he was on his feet. He swayed dangerously, took a step forward to catch his balance. Let the word go out to every corner of the duchy. The Ducas was standing up.

Nobody seemed to have noticed, which was no bad thing. He staggered a couple of paces and stopped to rest. He couldn't bring himself to feel any sense of urgency, even though he knew time was short. Something had happened while he'd been lying on the ground, dead to the world; something important, and he'd missed it. Whatever it was, it had emptied the Horsefair of Mezentines, but he had a shrewd idea they'd be back soon enough. It would be nice to be somewhere else by then.

(Where? He had nowhere in the world to go. He thought about that. It also meant there was nowhere he had to go, no appointments made for him or obligations requiring him to be present anywhere. That was a very strange feeling indeed.)

There was a horse. It was standing about twenty yards away, its head neither up nor down, its reins tangled around its front nearside hoof. As he stared at it (come on, haven't you ever seen a horse before?), something snagged its attention and it started to walk away; but the movement tightened the rein and, being a well-schooled horse, it stopped. Miel grinned. Allegory, he thought; even at this late stage, the world puts on a moral fable for my benefit. A horse, on the other hand, could take him places, always assuming he could get up on its back.

Big assumption. Still, he wasn't busy. A yard at a time, nice and slow, conserving his meagre strength and not startling the horse with sudden movements (an elegant economy of motivations), he approached it, until he was close enough to bend forward-that hurt surprisingly much-and tweak at the reins. Obligingly, the horse lifted its foot, releasing the tangle. Of course, it hadn't known to do it for itself. A fellow slave of duty.

He looked up at the saddle. Might as well ask him to climb a mountain on his knees. What he needed, of course, was a mounting block. He thought about that. He was in the Horsefair, which was called that for a reason. Over on the far east side there was a row of three dozen mounting blocks. If he could get there, he might be able to scramble up on to this horse's back and ride away, possibly even to the nebulous and unimaginable environment known as Safety. At the very least he could try. After all, if the world had wanted him to die here, it wouldn't have issued him with the horse.

A third of the way there his knees gave up. He hung for a quarter of a minute from the reins and a handful of the horse's mane, grabbed together in his right hand. He was too weak to pull himself upright by them, too contrary to let go and slide to the ground. In theory, he could call on rugged determination and force of character to spur him on to that last spurt of effort. Not in practice, though. The mane hairs were cutting into the side of his hand, and his bodyweight was pulling the curl out of his fingers. He knew that if he slumped to the ground, he wouldn't be able to get up again. It was a quiet, low-key way for the Ducas to fail. He was almost prepared to accept it.

At the last possible moment, the horse grunted, raised its head a few degrees and started to amble forward. It was only a very slight movement, but it was enough. The horse dragged him along, the toes of his slippers trailing on the ground; it had spotted the hay-nets that hung on the east wall, behind the row of mounting blocks.

On the neck of the pass that overlooked the road to Civitas Eremiae, Valens halted his men and looked back. Smoke was drifting up into the still air. It was mid-morning on a bright, warm day.

'What's happening?' asked one of his captains.

Valens narrowed his eyes against the glare. 'They're burning the city,' he said.

The captain thought about that. 'Didn't take them long to evacuate the civilians,' he said.

'I don't think they bothered with that,' Valens replied.

It took the captain a moment to grasp what he'd heard. 'So what are we going to do?' he said.

'Us?' Valens sighed. 'We're going to go home, of course. We've done what we came for.'

'I thought we came to save the Eremians.'

'No.' Valens shortened his reins into his left hand. 'No, that'd be a mistake. Let's get moving.' He was glad to get over the pass, back on to the road that led to the border, where he couldn't see the smoke. He was pleased when they brought him the casualty report-twelve dead, seventeen injured, mostly minor cuts and grazes; his men had acquitted themselves extremely well under difficult circumstances. He could be proud of them. In fact, the only man who'd done badly in his small army, failed in his duty and brought disaster down on his comrades-in-arms and the entire Vadani people was himself. My prerogative, he thought; and he cast his mind back to when he'd first heard about Duke Orsea's insane idea of a pre-emptive strike against the Mezentines. Deliberately picking a fight with the most powerful, most ruthless nation on earth, people who never forgave, never forgot, took quiet pride in the total extermination of their enemies… Ordinary stupidity wouldn't be enough, you'd have to be actually deranged to do something like that.

Quite, he thought.

She was riding alongside the hastily improvised travois they'd rigged up for Orsea and his ferocious bodyguard whose name Valens had already forgotten. A travois was better than tying him on to a horse's back, but that was the best you could say for it. Every rut and pothole jarred him; he winced, cried, yelled with pain, while she watched and said nothing. The other one, the big, tall man, had passed out as soon as his head touched the cloth. He bumped and shifted and carried on sleeping, still and quiet as dead game carried home on a pole from the hunt. Behind the travois the little Mezentine trotted, clinging with both hands to the pommel of his saddle while a compassionate sergeant led his horse on a leading-rein. How exactly he'd come to acquire this oddity, Valens wasn't entirely sure. He'd trailed after Veatriz like a stray dog following you home from the market, and Valens couldn't see any particular reason to send him away. Besides, he was the man who'd built all those clever war engines, the ones that had slaughtered the Mezentines by the tens of thousands and still failed to preserve the city. Someone like that might come in useful if things went badly with the Perpetual Republic, as Valens was fairly sure they would.

There was an old story about a great conqueror who laid siege to a mighty city for ten years. Finally he took it by some cunning stratagem, burst in, looted everything worth taking, set fire to the buildings and withdrew. He had an army of fifty thousand men as he started the journey home; less than two hundred eventually crawled across the border, the only survivors of the plague they'd contracted from the rotting corpses of their enemies, unburied because their starved and emaciated countrymen lacked the strength. He'd remembered the story as a fine allegory of the hateful futility of war, destructive to losers and victors alike. Wouldn't catch me doing something stupid like that, the pompous voice of his thirteen-year-old self brayed inside his memory; it can't really be a true story, because nobody'd be that clueless.

She hadn't said more than a few words to him since they rode out of the gateway, but he'd made a point of keeping his distance (and besides, he had an army to lead, and they weren't out of danger yet, not by a long way); he was afraid of what she'd say to him, now that they were face to face at last and in this ghastly, impossible situation of his own making. Everything between them would be ruined, he knew that-that was another thing about the old stories, the ones where the knight-errant rescued the beautiful princess from the dragon or the ogre or the murderous stepfather; there was always a bland presumption of love, happiness-ever-after, which was plainly absurd if you had even the slightest understanding of human nature. The next time Veatriz looked him in the eyes, she'd see the man who'd risked his life and the lives of his entire people to save her; if he hadn't done this stupid, insane thing, she'd be dead; she'd see his love for her, and in it the ruin of his duchy and the disastrous end of their friendship, which had been the best thing in her life. I've spoiled everything, Valens realised, because I was too weak to bear the thought of losing her; and now, of course, I've done exactly that. He smiled; ride out to confront your worst fear, as Orsea had done against the Mezentines, and you can be sure you'll make it come true.

So; he wouldn't talk to her yet. Instead, he nudged his horse along and fell in beside the Mezentine, who was still clinging desperately to his saddle and muttering. Valens took the leading-rein from the sergeant and nodded to him to rejoin his troop.

'You're Vaatzes, right?' he said.

The Mezentine opened his eyes, saw the ground (too far away), let go, wobbled alarmingly, nearly fell off, grabbed the saddle again and said, 'Yes.'

Valens grinned. 'The knack,' he said, 'is to sit up straight and grip with your knees. All you're doing at the moment is loosening the saddle. Carry on like that, it'll slip over one side and you'll land on your head.'

The Mezentine whimpered, but he knew how to follow instructions. 'Like this?' he said.

'Better,' Valens replied. 'Try and keep the ball of your foot on the stirrup-iron, with your heels pointing down. And stop jerking on the reins, they're not handles for clinging on to.'

'Right,' the Mezentine said doubtfully. 'Where I come from, we don't go in for horses much. Sometimes we ride in carts, but mostly we walk.'

Valens looked at him. 'Maybe you should've stayed there,' he said.

'You know, I think you're right. Still, too late now. I'm sorry,' he went on, 'but I don't know who you are.'

'I guessed that. My name's Valens.'

'Ah.' The Mezentine nodded. 'Pleased to meet you. I'm Ziani Vaatzes.'

'I know.' In spite of himself, Valens was grinning. 'I get the impression you don't go in much for formality in Mezentia either.'

Vaatzes shrugged. 'Forgive me,' he said. 'If you mean deferential language and conventional expressions of respect, no we don't. In theory, every Guildsman's as good as every other; so we don't learn all the right words, and foreigners think we're revoltingly arrogant. Which we are, but not the way you think. Maybe somebody could teach me the right things to say, and then I won't give offence.'

'The Eremians didn't mind, then?'

'I expect they did, but nobody said anything, so I never got the opportunity to learn.'

'It doesn't matter,' Valens said. 'Stuff like that annoys me, actually, it tends to get in the way, and that wastes time and effort and leads to confusion. By the sound of it, you plan on coming home with us.'

Vaatzes dipped his head. 'I was hoping to talk to somebody about that. Simple fact is, I haven't got anywhere else to go.'

'You're straightforward, I'll say that for you. But you're bad luck, aren't you? Look what happened to the last lot who took you in.'

Again, Vaatzes shrugged. 'If you care to look at it from my point of view, I nearly saved them from the consequences of their own stupidity; I built war engines for them, and when I went to bed last night, we'd just won the war. Obviously something happened that I don't know about.'

'Don't ask me,' Valens replied. 'We set out as soon as we heard the city was being assaulted. If you won the war-'

'We beat them back,' Vaatzes said. 'We killed thousands of them, mostly thanks to my engines, if the truth be known. How they got in and unblocked the gate I have no idea. That doesn't alter the fact that we beat the shit out of them.'

Valens smiled. 'Thanks to you.'

'Thanks to me,' Vaatzes said. 'And if the Duke had listened to me when I first met him, and we'd started building war engines straight away instead of having to do it all in a desperate rush at the last minute, I'm prepared to bet we'd have seen them off for good. Still, it's too late now. You ask the Duchess, or Duke Orsea. They'll tell you.'

'I will,' Valens said. 'So, you're a valuable asset. How much will you cost me?'

'That's up to you,' Vaatzes said. 'Assuming you can use me. But I believe you'll decide you can, after what's happened.'

'After what's happened.' Valens yawned; it was all starting to catch up with him. 'After what I've gone and done, you mean.'

'Yes. I won't ask you what you did it for.'

'Very sensible.' Valens frowned. 'Tell you what,' he said. 'When we get home and I've had a chance to calm down and get a grip on things, you come and tell me what you think you've got to offer, and I'll hear you out. Reasonable?'

'Entirely,' Vaatzes said. 'And I promise you, you won't regret it.'

In due course, General Melancton presented himself before an extraordinary session of the Guilds council. In a prepared statement, which he read out in a clear, steady voice, he officially notified the assembly of the capture and destruction of Civitas Eremiae and the elimination of its inhabitants, pursuant to the requirements of council resolution composite 50773.

Before starting his account of the war, he drew the assembly's attention to the fact that he was deliberately omitting a certain amount of detail, since such matters would be heard separately in committee. He outlined the early stages of the campaign, including the unfortunate ambush of the artillery column that resulted in a substantial number of scorpion-class mobile war engines falling into the hands of the enemy. It was to these captured engines that he chiefly attributed the unexpectedly successful resistance mounted by the Eremians; however, there were other factors, in particular his own failure to make proper use of the long-range war engines with which he had been supplied, for which failure he was prepared to take full responsibility.

In the event, however, the setback had proved temporary. Factional strife inside the city had led one party to betray to him a means of entering the city by stealth. This approach proved entirely successful; the infiltration party were able to unblock the gateway and admit the bulk of the army, and the defenders were taken entirely by surprise and quickly suppressed. At the last moment, the conclusion of the assault was hindered by an unexpected and unprovoked attack by cavalry forces identified as belonging to Duke Valens of the Vadani. These aggressors were, however, quickly driven off and the final stage of the operation, the securing and burning of the city and the execution of surviving enemy military and civilian personnel, was successfully carried out without further hindrance.

Having thus achieved all the primary objectives set out in composite 50773, General Melancton had the honour to surrender his commission and return command of the armed forces of the Republic to the council, pending demobilisation and repatriation.

Later, in a closed session of the select committee on security and defence, the general put his overall losses at twenty-three thousand killed, eleven thousand wounded to the point of permanent or temporary incapacitation. He had retrieved all the captured scorpions, together with almost three hundred of the copies made by the Eremians; the former had been restored to the Guilds, the latter destroyed.

With the city demolished and its people dead-questioned, he gave his opinion that the number of Eremians who were able to escape from the city before its destruction did not, at the worst possible estimate, exceed one hundred-the central district of Eremia was secure. In fact, it was deserted. The country people had left their homes before the city fell and had escaped into the mountains. Some of them remained there, carrying out a vigorous campaign of guerrilla activity against the Republic's forces of occupation; the rest had crossed the border, mostly into Vadani territory. Strenuous efforts would be required to dislodge them, and accordingly the general recommended that not only should the current army be retained, but substantial reinforcements recruited to supplement them. As to the whereabouts of Duke Orsea and the abominator Vaatzes, the general had no reliable information. Their bodies had not been recovered before the city was burnt down; a search had been made, but given the situation, it had necessarily been perfunctory. A number of eye-witnesses reported that the Vadani cavalry had taken a number of Eremians with them, and it was entirely possible that Orsea and Vaatzes had been among them. Accordingly, Melancton concluded, the main objectives of the exercise had not been met, and for this shortcoming he held himself entirely responsible. Asked for his recommendations for further action, he advised that the first priority should be to secure the mountain regions and the Vadani border, since unless this was done it would be impossible to control the country in any meaningful sense. However, he noted, it was entirely possible that this would prove to be a lengthy and expensive process.

After the select committee's report had been received and considered by the council, it was resolved that the mercenary forces presently in the country should be retained temporarily to secure the borders and deal with insurgent activity in the few remaining pockets of resistance. Meanwhile, the council authorised the dispatch of ambassadors to the Vadani to demand the surrender of Duke Orsea, the abominator Vaatzes and Duke Valens-the last named to stand trial in respect of an unprovoked and illegal act of war against the Republic. Should these demands not be met within seven days, a formal declaration of war would be made, and preparations for the dispatch of an expeditionary force would be expedited.

In a closed meeting, a joint subcommittee of the Compliance and Security directorates interviewed Falier Zenonis of the ordnance factory and commended him for his part in bringing the operation against Civitas Eremiae to a satisfactory conclusion. The subcommittee pointed out that it was not possible for his contribution to be officially recognised; however, a formal commendation would be entered on his personnel record, and the subcommittee felt it was extremely likely that he would reap a tangible reward for his actions in due course. Closely questioned by Commissioner Psellus, Falier Zenonis stated that, in spite of his long acquaintance with the traitor Vaatzes, he could provide no convincing explanation for Vaatzes' conduct in the matter of the betrayal of the city; in his personal opinion, Zenonis added, Vaatzes acted as a result of deep-seated mental instability exacerbated by feelings of guilt resulting from the high level of casualties inflicted by the weapons he had made for the Eremians. Asked if he believed that Vaatzes was still alive, Zenonis replied that he was sure of it.

The Vadani refused to comply with the Republic's demands, as expressed in resolution composite 50979. Accordingly, a written declaration of war was drawn up and delivered to Duke Valens by special messenger.

She heard him; the click of the latch, the sigh of the curtain behind the door that kept out the draught, his boot-heel on the flagstones. She caught her breath for a moment.

'Falier?' she said.

'I'm home.'

She stood up quickly and tucked the letter she'd been reading behind a cushion. He'd be tired after his journey; she could retrieve it once he'd gone to bed. She stirred the fire with the poker; it was dying down and the charcoal scuttle was empty.

'Come through and sit down,' she said. 'You must be worn out.'

The door of the cramped back room opened, and he came in. He looked terrible. Exhaustion didn't suit him at all. He smiled wanly at her and dropped into the chair, still holding his hat in his left hand.

'Moritsa's asleep,' she said. 'She wanted to wait up for you but I said no, she's got school tomorrow.'

He nodded. 'We got held up on the road,' he said.

'I thought that was what must've happened,' she replied. 'Can I get you anything?'

He pulled a face. 'I'm too tired to eat,' he said with a yawn.

'Get an early night,' she said. 'You can tell me all about it in the morning.'

He yawned again. 'I'll just sit here for a bit,' he said. Then he added, 'He got away'

She frowned. 'Oh.'

'We're pretty sure of it, anyway,' he said. He paused. On the way home he'd made up his mind not to say anything about the letter, even to her. 'The likeliest thing is that he escaped over the border.'

'Good,' she said. 'It'll be better for us.'

'Oh, they'll keep going after him,' Falier said. 'Still, there's nothing we can do about it, so the hell with it for now.' He grinned lopsidedly. 'Miss me?'

'Of course I missed you,' she said. 'Was it very bad?'

He nodded. 'I hope I'm home for good now. There's going to be a lot of work on at the factory, they're going to need me here.'

He'd started to mumble, and his chin was down on his chest; any moment now he'd slide into sleep, right on top of that stupid letter. She promised herself: first thing in the morning after he'd left for work, she'd put it on the fire, along with all the rest of them. It'd only cause trouble, no end of it, if he happened to find them. Besides, by now she knew all the good bits by heart, and she wouldn't miss the rest. Especially, she thought, the poetry.

From the sound of his breathing he was asleep. She sat down in the window-seat and looked at him for a while. Then she got slowly to her feet and raked the fire.