Devices and Desires

Chapter Seven

The road to Civitas Eremiae, capital and only city of Eremia Montis, encircles the stony peg of mountain on which it sits in long, slow, regular loops, like a screw-thread. From the river valley, it looks as if the city can be reached in two hours at the very most; but it's a long day's climb, assuming you start at dawn; if not, you face the unattractive choice of camping overnight on the narrow ledge of road or walking up it in the dark. At the crown of the mountain, the road funnels through a low, narrow gate in the curtain-wall; three more turns of the thread brings it to the city wall proper, where it ducks through a gateway under two high, thin towers built on massive spurs of rock. From the city gate to the citadel is another eight turns, through streets wide enough for a donkey or an economically fed horse. Chastra Eremiae, the Duke's castle, was chiselled and scooped out of the yellow stone four hundred years ago, and is protected by an encircling ditch twenty-six feet deep and a thirty-foot wall studded with squat round towers; a third of the interior is derelict through neglect. The Eremians proudly boast that nobody has ever taken the citadel by storm. It's hard to imagine why anybody should want to.

Most of the population of the city turned out in the morning to see the remains of the army come home; by nightfall, however, when Orsea rode his weary horse through the gate, the crowd had long since given up and drifted away. That in itself was encouraging; maybe they weren't going to lynch him after all.

Miel Ducas was looking after all the important stuff; accommodation for the wounded and so forth. There was no good reason why Orsea shouldn't just go home and go to bed. It was what he wanted to do, more than anything else in the world. Tomorrow, of course, he'd have to do the things he'd been dreading all the way up the Butter Pass. At the very least, he'd have to convene the general council, tell them about the battle and everything that had happened-the extraordinary kindness of the Vadani; the Mezentine defector and his offer. Probably he ought to stand out on the balcony that overlooked the market square and address the people. That was only reasonable, and he knew he had to do it. Tomorrow.

He clattered through the citadel gate, and there was a group of people waiting for him: a doctor whom he recognised, some people whose names he knew, some strangers. The doctor pounced on him as soon as his feet hit the cobbles. He'd had a detailed letter from one of the Vadani medics, he explained, full details of the injury, description of treatment to date, prognosis, recommendations. It was imperative that the Duke get some rest as soon as possible. For once, Orsea didn't argue.

Remarkably soon he was in his bedroom on the fourth floor of the South Tower. He sat on the bed and tugged at his boots (if they were this tight, how had he ever managed to get them on?), gave up and flopped on his back with his hands behind his head. He was home; that made him one of the lucky ones. Tomorrow…

Tomorrow, he told himself, I'll deal with everything. First I'll have a meeting with Miel, he'll brief me on everything he's done, getting the army home, and everything that happened on the way. Then I'll have to go to the council, and make my speech on the balcony (he made a mental note: think of something to say). Right; I'll do that, and the rest of the day's your own.

Veatriz, he thought. I'll see her tomorrow. She's not here tonight because she knows I need to be alone, but tomorrow I'll see them both again, and that'll make things better. It occurred to him that he hadn't thought much about her over the last few days; he felt ashamed, because really she was everything, the whole world. But there'd be time for her tomorrow, and things could slowly start to get back to normal.

Things would never be normal again, he knew that really. But he was tired, and there wasn't anything he could do tonight; and besides, the doctor had told him, rest…

He fell asleep. Below in the castle yard, Miel Ducas was still trying to find billets for wounded men, water and fuel for cooking, hay and oats for horses, somewhere for the carts to turn so the road wouldn't get jammed, somewhere to put the Mezentine until he had time to deal with him. He didn't resent the fact that Orsea had left him with all the arrangements; he was too busy, standing out of the way by the stable door so that the stretcher-bearers could get in and out, and women with bedding. He was trying to carry on four conversations at once-the garrison captain, the chief steward, Orsea's doctor and a representative of the Merchant Adventurers, who was trying to gouge him over the price of twenty gross of plain wool bandages. He kept going because there wasn't anybody else. It would, of course, be just as bad tomorrow.

Ziani Vaatzes sat in a stationary cart for an hour, and then some men came. They didn't seem to know whether they were welcoming a guest or guarding a prisoner, but they made a fair job of hedging their bets. They took him up a long spiral staircase with no handrail-it was dark and the steps were worn smooth-to a landing with a thick black door. If there was anything he wanted, they said, all he had to do was ask. Then they opened the door for him and vanished, leaving him completely alone.

There was a candle burning in the room-one candle-and a jug of water and a plate of bread and cheese on a table. It was a large room, though the darkness around the candle-flame made it look bigger than it really was. He found the fireplace; a basket of logs, some twigs and moss for kindling. He laid a fire, lit a spill (very carefully, so as not to snuff the candle out), found a small hand-bellows hanging on a nail in the wall. It hadn't occurred to him that the mountains would be so cold. The bed was huge, musty, slightly damp. He took his boots off but kept his clothes on. He couldn't sleep, needless to say; so he lay on his back staring at the extraordinarily high ceiling (he could just make out shapes of vaulting on the extreme edge of the disc of candlelight), and soon his mind was full of details as he worked on the mechanism that was gradually beginning to take shape. Somewhere below, a dog was barking, and he could hear heavily shod cartwheels grinding the cobbles, like a mill crushing wheat. For some reason it comforted him, like rain on the roof or the soft swish of the sea.

'This Mezentine.'

Zanferenc Iraclido (Orsea had always felt overawed by him; not by his intellect or his commanding presence or his strength of purpose, but by the sonorous beauty of his name) reached across the table and took the last honey-cake from the plate. He'd had six already. None of the other members of the council appeared to have noticed.

'His name's Vaatzes,' Miel Ducas said. 'I had a long talk with him on the way home, and I'm fairly sure he's genuine-not a spy or anything. But that's just my intuition.'

Iraclido made a gesture, a quick opening and closing of the hand. 'Let's say for the sake of argument that he is. Let's also assume he can actually deliver on this promise to teach us all the stuff he claims he knows. The question is, would it actually do us any good?'

Heads nodded, turned to look down the table. 'I think so,' Orsea said. 'But it'd be a huge step. What do you reckon, Ferenc?'

'Me?' Iraclido raised his eyebrows. 'Not up to me.'

'Yes, but suppose it was. What would you do?'

Iraclido paused before answering. 'On balance,' he said, 'I think I'd have his head cut off and stuck up on a pike in the market square, and I'll tell you why. Yes, it'd be just grand if we could learn how to build these spear-throwing machines-though I don't suppose you'd approve of the direction I'd be inclined to point them in once they were finished. But we won't go into that.'

'Good,' someone else said; mild ripple of laughter.

'It'd be just grand,' Iraclido repeated. 'And when this Mezentine says he knows how to build them, I believe him. But it's no good giving a shepherd a box of tools and a drawing and telling him to build you a clock, or a threshing machine. My point is, we can't make use of this knowledge, we aren't…' He waved his hands again. 'We aren't set up to start building machines. Might as well give a ninety-pound bow to a kid. It works, it's a bloody good weapon, but he's simply not strong enough to draw it. And you know what happens next. The kid can't use it so he puts it somewhere; then along comes his big brother, picks it up and shoots you with it. Not smart.'

'Slow down,' someone said. 'You just lost me.'

'Then use your brain,' Iraclido said. 'I said I'd have the Mezentine executed. Here's why We can't afford to let him live, not with all that stuff in his head; because we can't use it, we aren't strong enough. But we all know who is.'

Brief silence; then Miel said, 'Let me translate, since Ferenc here's decided to be all elliptical. He's afraid the Mezentine's knowledge would fall into the hands of the Vadani. They're no smarter than us, but they've got pots more money; they might be able to use the knowledge, presumably against us. Right?'

'More or less,' Iraclido said. 'So the only safe thing to do is get rid of the information. Now, while it's still in the box, so to speak.'

'It's a point of view,' Orsea said after a moment. 'Anyone like to comment?'

'Under normal circumstances,' (the voice came from the other end of the table; a thin elderly man Orsea didn't know particularly well; Simbulo or some name like that) 'I'd agree with the senator; we can't easily use this knowledge, and there's times when a head on a pike is worth two in the bush; we could make out he's a spy-which could be true, for all we know-and it'd go down well with the market crowd. But we have a problem. We've just had our guts ripped out by the Republic, like a cat on a fence; people need to see a miracle cure, or they're going to get nervous. Basically, we need a secret weapon.'

Iraclido leaned forward and glared down the table. 'So you want to build these machines?'

The thin man shook his head. 'I want to tell the people we're going to build these machines,' he said, 'and I want to parade this Mezentine in front of them and say, here, look what we've found, here's a Mezentine traitor who's going to show us how to build them, and a whole lot of other Stuff too. Now,' he went on with a shrug, 'whether we actually build any machines, now or at some indeterminate point in the future, is a subject fox another day. What concerns me is what we're going to do tomorrow.' He paused, as though inviting interruptions. There were none, so he went on: 'Same goes for our friends and allies over the mountain. We won't get started on all that now; but I don't suppose I'm the only one who'd love to know what all that loving-kindness stuff was really in aid of. I'd also like to know who the genius was who thought it'd be a good idea to take the army home over the Butter Pass, right under Valens' nose. The fact we got away with it doesn't mean it wasn't a bloody stupid thing to do.'

Orsea saw Miel take a deep breath and say nothing. He was proud of his friend.

'But anyway,' the thin man went on. 'Valens has made his point; he had us in the palm of his hand, and for reasons best known to himself he let us go. Fact remains, we've just lost a big slice of our military capability; if Valens wants to break the treaty, as things stand we can't give him a good game. In other words, we're at his mercy; and I don't know about you gentlemen, but that makes my teeth ache. I'd feel a whole lot happier if Valens was under the impression we had the secret of the spear-throwing machines.'

'It'd give him something to think about,' someone said.

'Too right,' Iraclido said. 'And if I was in his shoes and I heard that we were planning on arming ourselves with those things, I know what I'd do. I'd invade straight away, before we had a chance to build them.'

'What about that, though?' A short, round man with curly hair; Bassamontis, from the west valleys. 'What do you think he's playing at?'

'Good question,' Miel said. 'And I don't think we can reasonably make any decisions about this or anything else until we know the answer.'

'You were there,' the thin man said. 'What did you make of it?'

'Beats me,' Miel admitted. 'They just appeared out of nowhere and started helping. No explanations, they weren't even patronising about it. Just got on with it, and a bloody good job they made of it too.' He frowned. 'One thing that did strike me,' he said, 'was how very well prepared they were: food, blankets, medical stuff, it all just sort of materialised, like it was magic. Either Valens has got them very well organised indeed, or they had some idea what'd be needed well in advance.' He shook his head. 'Which still doesn't make any sense,' he added. 'It's a puzzle all right.'

'Like the Ducas says,' said the thin man, 'it's a puzzle. And, like he says, I don't think we can make a decision until we've got some idea what actually happened there. The problem is, how do we find out?'

Silence. Then Miel said: 'We could ask them.'

Puzzled frowns. 'I don't follow,' someone said.

'I suggest we send a delegation,' Miel said. 'To say thank you very much for helping us. Only polite, after all. While they're there, if they keep their ears open and their mouths shut-'

'That's not a bad idea,' Bassamontis said. 'The Ducas is right, we owe them a bread-and-butter letter; we might as well combine it with a fishing trip.'

'And what do we tell them,' Iraclido interrupted, 'about the Mezentine? We've got to assume they know about him already.'

'Nothing,' the thin man said firmly. 'Let them fret about it for a while, it'll do them good.'

'If Valens wanted to attack us,' someone else said, 'he had his chance. I can't see how it benefits him, lulling us into a true sense of security.'

'We don't know what kind of issues he's involved with,'

Bassamontis said. 'We're not the only ones with borders, or neighbours. Which is why I'd like to get some sort of idea of what's going on over there; and the best way to find out is to go and see for ourselves.'

'Well?' Miel turned to look at Iraclido. 'Are you still in favour of putting the Mezentine's head up on a pike?'

Iraclido smiled. 'I never expected you'd go along with that,' he said. 'I was just telling you my opinion. By all means go ahead, send the delegation. As you say, it's simple good manners. And on balance, I'm inclined to agree with Simbulo here; we can't really do anything until we've got some idea of what's going on next door. So, for the time being, we'll just have to keep the Mezentine on a short leash and see what happens.'

'Wouldn't do any harm,' someone suggested, 'to start finding out what he can do for us; assuming we decide to go down that road, I mean. So far, we've had some big promises. I propose we see the Mezentine for ourselves.'

'Orsea?' Miel said.

Orsea nodded. 'By all means,' he said. 'I've told you the gist of what he told me, but I'm no engineer, I don't know if what he said's possible, or what it'd involve. The trouble is, there's not many of us who do. We need some experts of our own to listen to this man.'

There was a short silence, as if he'd said something embarrassing. Then Iraclido said: 'All due respect, but isn't that the point? We don't have any experts of our own. If we'd got anybody who could understand what the hell the Mezentine's talking about, we wouldn't need the Mezentine.'

Miel lifted his head sharply. 'I don't think it's as black and white as all that,' he said; and Orsea thought: actually, Iraclido's right and Miel knows it, but he's upset with him for being clever at my expense, and he's too well-mannered to say so. 'My father used to say,' Miel went on, 'that so long as you've got ears and a tongue, you can learn anything. What'd be helpful is if we had someone who's halfway there.'

Iraclido looked at him. 'You mean like a blacksmith, or a wheelwright?'

'Yes, why not?' Orsea winced; he knew how much Miel disliked being wrong, and how stubborn he could be when circumstances had betrayed him into being wrong in public. 'A bright man with an enquiring mind, that's what we need. That can't be impossible, surely.'

'Maybe they were all killed in the war,' someone muttered, down the far end of the table. Orsea was glad he hadn't seen who said it.

'Well.' Iraclido was enjoying himself, in a languid sort of way. 'If the Ducas can find someone who fits the bill, I suppose it can't do any harm. As for bringing the Mezentine before this council, I'm afraid I can't see what useful purpose that would serve. But if anyone else has strong feelings on the subject-'

'Boca Cantacusene,' Orsea said briskly. Several heads turned to stare blankly at him; under other circumstances, he'd have found the looks on their faces amusing. 'The armourer,' he explained. 'Come on, some of you must have heard of him, he's the warrant-holder. I gather he runs the best-equipped workshop in town. I don't suppose it's a patch on anything they've got in Mezentia, but at least he ought to be able to tell us if the Mezentine's genuine, or whether he's just making stuff up out of his head to con us out of money.'

Iraclido shrugged. 'Fine,' he said. 'By all means have your blacksmith interview the Mezentine, I'd be interested to hear what he thinks. Meanwhile, we need to agree a course of action in respect of Duke Valens.'

'With respect…' (Orsea looked round; Miel was only this polite and soft-spoken when he was furiously angry.) 'With respect, I suggest we need rather more to go on before we decide anything in that regard. All we have to go on is a magnificent, though possibly uncharacteristic, act of generosity. I say a little research-'

'Absolutely,' Orsea broke in, mainly to head off his friend before he lost his temper. 'We need some reliable information about what's going on, what Valens and the Vadani are up to.'

Someone down the table stifled a yawn. 'In that case,' whoever it was said, 'how about the Merchant Adventurers? They're good at intuition, picking up trends; got to be able to sense which way the wind's blowing in business.'

Mumbled approval all round the table; predictably, Orsea decided, since it was precisely the sort of compromise that satisfied committees and nobody else: if you can't reach a decision, find a pretext for postponing it. 'You can never have too much information,' he said. 'It's highly unlikely we'd get a straight answer through normal diplomatic channels. Who's got a tame merchant who owes him a favour?'

Two ducal summonses, neatly written on crisp new parchment (the first of the new batch, from the slaughter of the winter sheep) in oak-apple ink. One to Boca Cantacusene at his workshop in the lower town, requiring him to call on Count Ducas at his earliest convenience; one in similar terms to Belha Severina of the Weavers' Company.

Of course, Miel Ducas had met Boca Cantacusene before; had been measured by him-across the shoulders, under the armpits, from armpit to thigh-bone, thigh to knee, knee to ankle, an anatomy so complete that you could have built a perfect replica of the Ducas with nothing to go on except the armourer's notes and drawings. Miel tried to remember if he'd paid the man's latest bill.

Cantacusene arrived in his best clothes, stiffer and more unnatural-looking on him than any suit of armour. He was a short man of around fifty, with massive forearms tapering down into thin wrists and small, short-fingered hands. He was nervous and bumped into furniture.

'Do you think you could help?' Miel said, after he'd explained the situation and extracted a dreadful oath of discretion. 'I mean, I. wouldn't understand a word he said, it'd be like a foreign language.'

Cantacusene frowned, as if trying to picture a thirty-second of an inch in abstract. 'It'd take a long time,' he said. 'I'd have to get him to explain a whole lot of things before I started understanding, if you see what I mean.'

'Of course,' Miel said. 'But you'd at least be able to understand the explanations.'

Another frown; a nod. 'Yes, I think I could do that.'

'Splendid.' Miel was fidgeting with his hands, something he didn't usually do. 'At this stage,' he said, 'all we really need to know is whether he's really a high-class Mezentine engineer, or whether he's just pretending to be one-because he's a spy, or just a vagrant looking to cheat us out of money. You could ask him questions, I suppose; like a quiz. Metalworking stuff.'

Cantacusene shook his head. 'I don't think that would help a lot,' he said. 'Me testing him, it'd be like testing a doctor on surgery by asking him how to cut toenails. But I think I can see my way, if you know what I mean.'

'Of course,' Miel said. 'You're the expert, I'll leave it up to you how to proceed.' He paused, looked away. 'One other thing,' he said. 'I haven't discussed this with the Duke, but I thought I'd sound you out first. It was him who suggested you, by the way.'

'Honoured,' Cantacusene said.

'Well.' Miel stopped, as if he'd forgotten what he was going to say. 'If we do decide to go along with this, try and set up factories and such, like they've got in Mezentia, obviously we're going to need skilled men for the Mezentine to teach his stuff to; and then they'll go away and run the factories.'

'Like foremen,' Gantacusene said.

'Exactly, that's right. Well, since the Duke himself suggested you, I guess you're at the top of my list of candidates.'

'I see.' Cantacusene had a knack of saying things with no perceptible intonation; completely neutral, like clean water.

'Would you want to do that?'

Another pause for thought. 'Yes,' Cantacusene replied.

'Good. I mean,' Miel went on, 'it's all hypothetical, assuming we decide to go ahead-and obviously, to a certain extent that'll depend on what you make of the man when you see him. But I thought I'd mention it.'

'I see.'

This time, Miel stood up. 'Excellent,' he said, in a slightly strained voice. 'Well, in that case we'll send for you when we're ready for the interview with the Mezentine, and we'll take it from there. Meanwhile, thank you for your time.'

Cantacusene nodded politely, got up and left. Why was that so difficult? Miel asked himself; then he rang the bell and told the usher he was ready for the merchant.

She was younger than he'd expected; a year or so either side of forty, thin-faced, sharp-chinned, dressed in a tent of red velvet with seed-pearl trim, her hair short and staked down with combs and gold filigree pins. He had an idea she was some sort of off-relation-the Severinus was distantly connected to the Philargyrus, who trailed in and out of the Ducas family tree like ivy.

(He'd seen a remarkable thing once; an oak sapling had tried to grow next to a vigorous, bushy willow, on the warm southern slopes of the Ducas winter grazing; but the willow grew quicker, and it had twined its withies through the young oak's branches for ten years or so, and then put on a spurt in its trunk, gradually ripping it out of the ground, until its dead roots drooped in mid-air like a hung man's feet. He'd come back with men and axes, because the Ducas had always stood for justice on their lands, but he hadn't been able to find the place again.)

She'd listened carefully as he explained, rather awkwardly, what he wanted her to do. She didn't seem surprised at all. 'Do you think you can help us?' he'd asked.

'It should be possible,' she replied. 'My sister Teano's just joined a consortium with a contract for green sand-'

'I'm sorry,' Miel interrupted. 'Green sand?'

'Casting sand.' She almost smiled. 'For making moulds,' she said. 'You know, melting metal and casting. You need a special kind of sand, very fine and even. The Vadani used to get it from the Lonazep cartels, who got it from the Cure Hardy; so obviously, it wasn't cheap. But Teano's consortium have found a deposit of the stuff in the Red River valley. They can undercut Lonazep by a third and still clear three hundred per cent.'

'Good heavens,' said Miel, assuming it was expected of him. 'So, your sister's likely to be going back and forth across the mountains quite a bit from now on?'

She nodded; actually it was more of a peck, like a woodpecker in a dead tree. 'The contract is with the Vadani silver board. That'll put Teano right in the centre of the Vadani government. It oughtn't to be impossible to get the information you want.'

'But it won't be cheap,' Miel said. 'Will it?'

There was a trace of disapproval in her expression. 'No,' she said. 'At least, Teano will want a lot of money-if they figure out what she's up to, the very best she can hope for is losing a very lucrative deal. She'll want an indemnity in case that happens, and a substantial retainer; and then there's my fee, of course.'

Miel pursed his lips. 'I see.'

'Ten per cent,' she went on. 'Paid by the customer.'

'You make it sound like, I don't know, a lawyer's bill or something. Broken down into items, and each one with a fancy name.'

'Quite,' she said, unmoved. 'Professional expenses. If you're in business, you have to be businesslike.'

'Fine. So what does an indemnity plus a retainer plus a fee come to? In round numbers?'

'Does it matter?' She was frowning slightly. 'You need this information. I don't imagine Duke Orsea has given you a specific budget.'

'No. He leaves things like that to me.' Miel shrugged. 'We won't quibble about it now.'

'I should think not.' She was scolding him, he thought. 'The security of the Duchy is at stake. And, as I hope I've made clear, my sister will be running a substantial risk.'

The Ducas charm didn't seem to be working as well as it usually did-the scar, Miel thought, maybe it's as simple as that. If so, it's a damned nuisance. You get used to having your own way on the strength of a smile and a softly spoken word. If the charm's gone, I suppose I'll have to learn some new skills; eloquence, or maybe even sincerity. 'Quite,' he said. 'Well, I think we've covered everything. I'll look forward to getting your first report in due course. Thank you very much for your time.'

As he showed her out and closed the door behind her, Miel was left with the depressing feeling of having done a bad job. Not that it mattered; he was paying money for a service to a professional specialist, there was no requirement that she should like him. Even so-I guess I've got used to being able to make people like me; it makes things easier, and they try harder. I'll have to think about that.

He yawned. What he wanted to do most in all the world was to go home to his fine house on the east face, send down to the cellars for a few bottles of something better than usual, and spend an hour or two after dinner relaxing; a few games of chess, some music. Instead, he had reports to read, letters to write, meetings to prepare for. There was a big marble pillar in the middle cloister of the Ducas house, on which were inscribed the various public offices held by members of the family over the past two and a half centuries. His father had four inches, narrowly beating his grandfather (three and two thirds). As a boy, when Father had been away from home so often, he'd sat on the neatly trimmed grass and stared up at the pillar, wondering what the unfamiliar words meant: six times elected Excubitor of the Chamber. Was that a good thing to be? What did an Excubitor do? Was Dad never at home because he was away somewhere Excubiting? For years he'd played secret, violent games in which he'd been Orphanotrophus Ducas, Grand Excubitor, fighting two dragons simultaneously or facing down a hundred Cure Hardy armed only with a garden rake. Six months ago, when Heleret Phocas had died and Orsea had given him his old job, he'd not been able to keep from bursting out laughing when he heard what the job title was. (No dragons so far, and no Cure Hardy; the Excubitor of the Chamber, Grand or just plain ordinary, was nominally in charge of the castle laundry.) Now he already had two inches of his own on the pillar; gradually, day by day and step by painful step, he was turning into somebody else.

Reports, letters, minutes, agendas; he left the South Tower, where the interview rooms were, and headed across the middle cloister to the north wing and his office. The quickest route took him past the mews, and he noticed that the door was open. He paused; at this time of day, there'd be hawks loose, the door should be kept shut. He frowned, and went to close it, but there was a woman sitting in the outer list. He didn't recognise her till she turned her head and smiled at him.

'Hello, Miel,' she said.

'Veatriz.' He relaxed slightly. 'You left the door open.'

'It's all right,' she replied, 'Hanno's put the birds away early. I've been watching him fly the new tiercel.'

'Ah, right. What new tiercel?'

She laughed. 'The one you gave Orsea, silly. The peregrine.'

'Yes, of course.' She was right, of course; it had been Orsea's birthday present. His cousin had chosen it, since Miel didn't really know about hawks; it had been expensive, a passager from the Cure Doce country. It'd been that word new that had thrown him, because Orsea's birthday had been a month ago, just before they set off for the war, and anything that had happened back then belonged to a time so remote as to be practically legendary. 'Is it any good?' he asked.

'Hanno thinks so,' she said. 'He says it'll be ready for the start of the season, whenever that is. It'll do Orsea good to get out and enjoy himself, after everything that's happened.'

'We were talking about going out with the hawks just the other day. Is that a new brooch you're wearing?'

'Do you like it?'

'Yes,' he lied. 'Lonazep?'

She shook her head. 'Vadani. I got it from a merchant. Fancy you noticing, though. Men aren't supposed to notice jewellery and things.'

She had a box on the bench beside her; a small, flat rosewood case. He recognised it as something he'd given her; a writing set. Her wedding present from the Ducas. 'I know,' he said. 'That's why I've trained myself in observation. Women think I'm sensitive and considerate.'

She was looking at his face. 'You look tired,' she said.

'Too many late nights,' he said. 'And tomorrow I've got to take the Mezentine to see a blacksmith.'

'What?'

'Doesn't matter.' He yawned again. 'Do excuse me,' he said. 'I'd better be getting on. Would you tell Orsea I've seen the Severina woman? He knows what it's about.'

'Severina. Do you mean the trader? I think I've met her.' She nodded. 'Yes, all right. What did you need to see her about, then?'

Miel grinned. 'Sand.'

'Sand?'

He nodded. 'Green sand, to be precise.'

'Serves me right for asking.'

As he climbed the stairs to the North Tower, he wondered why Veatriz would take her writing set with her when she went to see the falcons. Not that it mattered. That was the trouble with noticing things; you got cluttered up, like a hedgehog in dry leaves.

Meetings. He made a note in his day-book about Belha Severina, not that there was a great deal to say; agreed to arrange enquiries through her sister; terms unspecified. Was that all? He pondered for a while, but couldn't think of anything else to add.

It was close; the shape, the structure. He could almost see it, but not quite.

Once, not long after he married Ariessa, he'd designed a clock. He had no idea why he'd done it; it was something he wanted to do, because a clock is a challenge. There's the problem of turning linear into rotary movement. There are issues of gearing, timing, calibration. Anything that diverts or dissipates the energy transmitted from the power source to the components is an open wound. Those in themselves were vast issues; but they'd been settled long ago by the Clockmakers'

Guild, and their triumph was frozen for ever in the Seventy-Third Specification. There'd be no point torturing himself, two hundred components moving in his mind like maggots, unless he could add something, unless he could improve on the perfection the Specification represented. He'd done it in the end; he'd redefined the concept of the escapement, leaping over perfection like a chessboard knight; he'd reduced the friction on the bearing surfaces by a quarter, using lines and angles that only he could see. Slowly and with infinite care, he'd drawn out his design, working late at night when there was no risk of being discovered, until he had a complete set of working drawings, perfectly to scale and annotated with all the relevant data, from the gauge of the brass plate from which the parts were to be cut, to the pitch and major and minor diameters of the screw-threads. When it was complete, perfect, he'd laid the sheets of crisp, hard drawing paper out on the cellar floor and checked them through thoroughly, just in case he'd missed something. Then he'd set light to them and watched them shrivel up into light-grey ash, curled like the petals of a rose.

Now he was designing without pens, dividers, straight edge, square, callipers or books of tables. It would be his finest work, even though the objective, the job this machine would be built to do, was so simple as to be utterly mundane. It was like damming a river to run a flywheel to drive a gear-train to operate a camshaft to move a piston to power a reciprocating blade to sharpen a pencil. Ridiculous, to go to such absurd lengths, needing such ingenuity, such a desperate and destructive use of resources, for something he ought to be able to do empty-handed with his eyes shut. But he couldn't. Misguided but powerful men wouldn't let him do it the easy way, and so he was forced to this ludicrously elaborate expedient. It was like having to move the earth in order to slide the table close enough to reach a hairbrush, because he was forbidden to stand up and walk across the room.

I didn't start it, he reminded himself They did that. All I can do is finish it.

He had no idea, even with the shape coming into existence in his mind, how many components the machine would have, in the end: thousands, hundreds of thousands-someone probably had the resources to calculate the exact figure; he didn't, but it wasn't necessary.

He stood up. It was taking him a long time to come to terms with this room. If it was a prison, it was pointlessly elegant. Looking at the fit of the panelling, the depth of relief of the carved friezes, all he could see was the infinity of work and care that had gone into making them. You wouldn't waste that sort of time and effort on a prison cell. If it was a guest room in a fine house, on the other hand, the door would open when he tried the handle, and there wouldn't be guards on the other side of it. The room chafed him like a tight shoe; every moment he spent in it was uncomfortable, because it wasn't right. It wasn't suited to the purpose for which it was being used. That, surely, was an abomination.

I hate these people, he thought. They work by eye and feel, there's no precision here.

Decisively, as though closing a big folio of drawings, he put the design away in the back of his mind, and turned his attention to domestic trivia. There was water in the jug; it tasted odd, probably because it was pure, not like the partly filtered sewage they drank at home. Not long ago they'd brought him food on a tray. He'd eaten it because he was hungry and he needed to keep his strength up, but he missed the taste of grit. With every second that passed, it became more and more likely that they'd let him live. At least he had that.

His elbow twinged. He rubbed it with the palm of his other hand until both patches of skin were warm. The elbow, the whole arm were excellent machines, and so wickedly versatile; you could brush a cheek or swing a hammer or push in a knife, using a wide redundancy of different approaches and techniques. So many different things a man can do…

I could stay here and make myself useful. I could teach these people, who are no better than children, how to improve themselves. A man could be happy doing that. Instead…

There's so many things I could have done, if I'd been allowed.

The door opened, and the man he'd started to get to know-names, names; Miel Ducas-came in. Ziani noticed he was looking tired. Here's someone who's a great lord among these people, he thought, but he chases around running errands for his master like a servant. Using the wrong tool for the job, he thought; they don't know anything.

'How are you settling in?' Ducas said.

It was, of course, an absurd question. Fine, except I'm not allowed to leave this horrible room. 'Fine,' Ziani said. 'The room's very comfortable.'

'Good.' Ducas looked guilty; he was thinking, we don't know yet if this man's a prisoner or a guest, so we're hedging our bets. No wonder the poor man was embarrassed. 'I thought I'd better drop in, see how you're getting on.'

Ziani nodded. 'Has the Duke decided yet if he wants to accept my offer?'

'That's what I wanted to talk to you about.' Ducas hesitated before he sat down; maybe he's wondering whether he ought to ask me first, since if I'm a guest that would be the polite thing to do. 'The thing is,' he went on, 'we can't really make that decision, because none of us really understands what it'd mean. So we'd like you to explain a bit more, to one of our experts. He'd be better placed to advise than me, for instance.'

'That's fine by me,' Ziani replied. 'I'm happy to co-operate, any way I can.'

'Thank you,' Ducas said. 'That'll be a great help. You see, this expert knows what we're capable of, from a technical point of view. He can tell me if we'd actually be able to make use of what you've got to offer, how much it'd cost, how long it'd take; that sort of thing. You must appreciate, things are difficult for us right now, because of the war and everything. And it'd be a huge step for us, obviously'

'I quite understand,' Ziani said. 'Actually, I've been thinking a lot about what would have to be done. It'd be a long haul, no doubt about that, but I'm absolutely certain it'd be worth it in the end.'

Ducas looked even more uncomfortable, if that was possible; clearly he didn't want to get caught up in a discussion. He's a simple man, Ziani thought, and he's had to learn to be versatile. Like using the back of a wrench as a hammer.

'Sorry we've had to leave you cooped up like this,' Ducas went on. 'Only we've all been very busy, as you'll appreciate. I expect you could do with a bit of fresh air and exercise.'

No, not really. 'Yes, that'd be good,' Ziani said. 'But I don't want to put you to any trouble on my account.'

'That's all right,' Ducas said. 'Anyway, I'd better be going. I'll call for you tomorrow morning, and we'll go and see the expert.'

'I'll look forward to it,' Ziani said gravely, though he wanted to laugh. 'Thank you for stopping by.'

Ducas went away, and Ziani sat down on the bed, frowning. This man Ducas; how versatile could he be? What was he exactly: a spring, a gearwheel, a lever, a cam, a sear? It would be delightfully efficient if he could be made to be all of them, but as yet he couldn't be sure of the qualities of his material-tensile strength, shearing point, ductility, brittleness. How much load could he bear, and how far could he distort before he broke? (But all these people are so fragile, he thought; even I can't do good work with rubbish.)

In the event, he slept reasonably well. Happiness, beauty, love, the usual bad dreams came to visit him, like dutiful children paying their respects, but on this occasion there was no development, merely the same again-he was back home, it had all been a dreadful mistake, he'd committed no crimes, killed nobody. After his favourite dinner and an hour beside the lamp with an interesting book, he'd gone to bed, to sleep, and woken up to find his wife lying next to him, dead, shrunken, her skin like coarse parchment, her hair white cobwebs, her fingernails curled and brittle, her body as light as rotten wood, her eyes dried up into pebbles, her lips shrivelled away from her teeth, one hand (the bones standing out through the skin like the veins of a leaf) closed tenderly on his arm.