Evil for Evil

20

She hadn't spoken to him for two days; not since they'd climbed to the top of the ridge that overlooked the city. He wondered if he'd offended her, though he couldn't imagine how.

As the coach stumbled over the potholes in the road, he looked sideways at her, considering her as though she was some ornament or work of art he'd bought in a rash moment of enthusiasm. Seen in profile, her nose was long and almost unnaturally straight; in profile, of course, you didn't notice how thin it was. There was a slight upward curve to her top lip that he couldn't help but find appealing. The weakness of her chin, on the other hand…

Her eyes flicked sideways and he turned away, embarrassed at having been caught staring. No reason, of course, why a man shouldn't look at his own wife. Even so; he'd got the impression she didn't like it. He concentrated on the road ahead, but that was simply distressing.

Of course, he thought, I could try talking to her, rather than waiting for her to talk to me. A radical enough notion, but it couldn't do any harm. Could it?

"I guess you must be used to this sort of thing," he said.

She turned full-face and looked at him. "Excuse me?"

"Traveling in carts," he explained. "I mean, your people being nomadic."

"I see." She paused, thinking through her answer, like a conscientious witness in court. "Yes, we travel extensively," she said. "However, our vehicles are more comfortable, and much better designed for long journeys. For example, I would normally travel reclining on a three-quarter-length couch, rather than sitting on a bench. Also, because of their superior suspension, our vehicles travel appreciably faster, which gives us scope for longer and more frequent stops for rest and exercise. Our horses have been bred specifically for stamina over many centuries."

"I'm sorry," Valens mumbled.

"What for?"

"The discomfort. The coach not being up to what you're used to. We don't do much of this sort of thing, you see."

"I know. I've made allowances. However, it's-considerate," a slight stumble over the word, "of you to be concerned. Besides, I've traveled in worse."

You could cut shield-leather with those eyes. More than ever she reminded him of a bird of prey; he wished he had a hood he could fasten over her face, to stop her looking at him. "We had to organize all this at very short notice," he went on. "Perhaps, when we're settled again, you could give our coachbuilders a few tips."

She frowned. "I'm not really competent to advise on technical matters," she said. "However, I'm sure I could arrange for some of our coachbuilders to be seconded to you for a while."

Valens nodded, and went back to staring at the road ahead. Sooner or later, he told himself, I'm going to have to sleep with this woman. Won't that be fun.

Try again. "The reason we're going so slowly isn't just because our wagons are a bit primitive," he said. "Bear in mind, we're carrying all this armor plate. We've got to be a bit careful, in case the extra weight busts the axles when we go over holes in the road."

"Our suspension systems would help in that regard," she said. "Instead of steel springs, we use a laminate of horn, wood and sinew, similar to the material we make our bows from. We find that steel tends to fatigue and crack with heavy use; the composite springs hold up much better. Of course they're costlier and harder to make, but we find it worth the effort and expense in the long term. A broken spring can hold up an entire caravan for days."

"Horn and sinew," Valens repeated, trying to sound interested. "That's clever."

She nodded. "It's an efficient design," she said. "The horn is ideally suited to absorb shock, while the sinew offers almost unlimited flexibility. The wood is simply a core. The weakest component is, of course, the glue that holds the layers together. We use a compound made up of equal parts of sinew and rawhide offcuts…"

More about making springs than anybody could possibly want to know, ever. At another time, in another context, explained by someone else, it might have been mildly interesting, to somebody who actually gave a damn. Vaatzes? No, he'd have a fit. The Mezentines made cart-springs from steel, so anything else would be a (what was the word?) an abomination. He'd probably spend the rest of the trip trying to convince her steel springs were better.

(Talking of which, where was Vaatzes? Couldn't remember having seen him for a while.)

She'd stopped talking. "Well," he said, "that's fascinating. We'll definitely have to give these composite springs a try sometime."

"Advisable," she said. "The best sinew for the purpose is the back-strap of a cow or horse; ordinary cowhorn suffices for the inner layer. For wood we prefer maple, though ash makes an acceptable substitute where maple's not available."

"Not much maple in these parts," Valens heard himself say. "Presumably birch'd be too brittle."

"Yes."

Really, she was like a bear-trap or a pitfall; words just dropped into her to curl up and starve to death. Tremendously well-informed, of course; she'd be a real asset, if only he could get past her unfortunate manner. Regrettably, he found himself passionately not wanting to know anything she could teach him. Not like him at all-he thought of the hundreds of books, presumably still on the shelves of his library, waiting patiently for the Mezentines to steal or burn them. Irresponsible to reject a potentially useful resource simply because of a clash of personality.

"How about where you come from? Much maple there?"

"No. We have to trade for it with the Luzir Soleth, who know how much we value it and demand an extortionate price. For that reason, we use it very sparingly."

Another thing he'd heard about these people; they respected truth above all things. The perfect education, they said with pride, consisted of horsemanship, archery and telling the truth. He could believe that. She answered all his questions as though she was on oath.

"I'm hoping we'll reach the Sow's Back by nightfall," he said. "It's the last range of hills before the long plain."

"The Sow's…?"

"It looks like a pig's back," he said. "A bit. The trouble is, it's pretty close to the Eremian border, and the Mezentines have been sending patrols across; just to be annoying, I think, but we don't want to be seen, obviously. After that-"

"Where are we going?" she asked him.

"I just said, the Sow's Back. If we can get clear of that, it ought to be a straight run."

"In the end," she said. "Where are you taking them?"

The truth above all things. "I haven't decided yet," he said. "It's more a case of traveling hopefully; just keeping on the move. The nomadic life, you might say."

"That's…" She frowned. "That's a drastic change, for a sedentary people."

He laughed, which annoyed her. "I don't think we've got a choice," he said. "If we go somewhere and stop, unload the carts, build houses, sooner or later the Mezentines will find us and attack. That'd be the end of us. They took Civitas Eremiae, which was the strongest fortified city in the world, apart from Mezentia itself. Nothing we could build would be likely to hold them up for long."

"Eremia fell through treachery, not direct assault."

"Yes." He sighed. He didn't like discussing things he already knew about. "But it was just a matter of time. They'd have modified their siege engines, trebled the size of their army. The problem with them is, beating them just makes them more determined to win."

She raised a thin, high-arched eyebrow. "In that case…"

"In that case," he said, "the only way we'll get out of this is not to fight. If we fight, either we'll lose, which'd be bad, or we'll win-unlikely, and just as bad. But if we can avoid fighting for long enough, there's a chance they'll give up and go home. Their internal politics-"

"I've made a study of the subject," she said. "Councillor Mezentius has been most helpful. You're hoping they'll lose the political will to continue, once the cost of the war begins to affect their economy."

"Exactly." If she'd known all along, why had she made him explain? But she hadn't, of course. "So my idea is, we keep going. I haven't worked out a detailed itinerary because it's essential we keep our movements random; if there's a set plan, they might find out about it. It's pretty clear from what happened in Eremia that they've got good spies. No; I've got a list in my head of places where we can get supplies, and the distances between them. That's as organized as it gets, for the time being."

She was still frowning. "And the iron plates?" she said.

"We're going to be attacked, at some point," Valens replied. "So I'm hoping to turn that to our advantage. The only way they'll be able to engage us is by sending out cavalry detachments, to look for us when we have to come down from the mountains for supplies. I'm hoping that they will attack us, and that all this ironmongery will give us the advantage, against cavalry."

"You want to fight them and win. But you said-"

Irritating bloody woman. "Yes, but beating off cavalry attacks isn't the same thing as beating them in a pitched battle. It's…" He searched for an analogy. "Losing a few dozen cavalrymen would come out of income rather than capital. It'd be annoying rather than a dishonor that could only be purged in blood. It's more likely to persuade them we aren't worth the effort and expense."

She nodded, and he felt as though he'd just passed a test.

"Anyway," he went on, "that's the general idea. It's not brilliant, but it's the best we could come up with. Let's just hope it works."

She looked at him. "There is an alternative," she said.

"Really?" He tried not to sound impatient, but he was fairly sure he failed.

"If your people are resigned to a nomadic life, as you put it, you could join with my people."

For a moment, Valens wondered who the hell was sitting next to him. She was all sorts of things, he'd assumed up till now, but definitely not stupid.

"That's a really kind thought," he heard himself say, "but I don't think it'd be practical."

"On the contrary." She was lecturing him; he felt an urge to take notes. "My people are used to life on the move. It's not nearly as simple as you seem to think. There are many hazards and complications which you have probably not considered; understandably, since you have no experience. I can advise you, but it takes more than knowledge. You will need resources which you most likely have made no provision for. If you join with us, we will take care of you." She paused, studied him for a moment. "If you're concerned that I don't have the authority to make this offer, I can reassure you that I do. My family-"

"It's not that," Valens said, a bit too quickly. "Well, for one thing, there's the desert. It can't be crossed, simple as that."

Now she was thinking he was stupid. "We crossed it," she said, "on our way here."

"Yes, but most of your party died," he snapped.

"Some of our party," she said, as though correcting his arithmetic. "And, naturally, some of your people wouldn't survive the crossing. At a guess, I would say between a third and a half. But in the course of three or four generations, you would make up the loss."

"That's-"

"Unacceptable." She sighed. "Whereas you're prepared to risk the decimation or annihilation of your people in the plan you've just outlined to me."

Valens didn't reply. Better not to.

"I should point out," she went on, "based on my experience of migratory life, that even if there were no enemies searching for you, it's quite likely that you will lose at least a third of your people in the first year, given your lack of experience and preparation. Spoiled or stolen food reserves; rivers in flood; mountain roads blocked by landslides or washed away by heavy rain; have you considered these contingencies and made allowances?"

Much better, Valens decided, when she'd just sat there and not said anything. "Of course I have," he exaggerated. "And we've got people who know the country. It's not like we're in hostile territory…"

"The presence of the enemy," she went on, as though he hadn't spoken, "greatly increases the risks. You say you're relying on reserves of supplies at specific locations. It's inevitable that the enemy will find out about at least some of these. If just one supply dump turns out not to be there when you reach it, you face disaster. Will you have enough left to get you to the next one? And what if that one's gone too?"

"We can live off the land to a certain extent," he replied, trying to stay reasonable. "There's plenty of game we can hunt."

She smiled. "There speaks an enthusiast," she said, insufferably. "You imagine that your hobby can become a means of survival. Hunting is an essential part of my people's lives, but we know from experience that it's not enough. You'll have to do better than that, I'm afraid. Compared with the risks you face by staying in your own country, the losses from crossing the desert seem moderate, if anything. And fighting the Mezentines…" She shook her head. "You should come to us," she said. "It's the only sensible course open to you."

But I'm not going to, because I'm not going to let you turn my people into savages. It took rather more effort not to say that than he'd have thought. "I'll have to think about it," he said.

"If you must. It shouldn't take you long to decide."

Back to silent sitting. When Valens realized he couldn't take the silence any longer, he leaned forward and told the driver to stop the coach. An escort trooper rode up to see what the matter was.

"Get my horse," Valens told him. "I'm going to go and inspect something."

"May I ask…?"

"No."

Something at the other end of the column, as far away from her as I can get. As soon as his horse was brought up, he mounted and waved the coach on, then sat still for a while, watching the carts go by. The mountain in the distance, the crown of the Sow's Back, was only vaguely familiar to him. When was the last time he'd been out here? He wasn't sure; quite possibly, when his father was still alive. They'd come up here one summer after mountain goats and chamois-a complete waste of time, they'd misjudged the onset of the breeding season, the she-goats had all been in kid and were therefore out of bounds, and there was no point hunting he-goats in the rut. His father had sulked and picked fights with everybody who got in his way. Not a place with happy memories. So; if that was Maornina, and that spur to the west was the Shepherd's Crook, then the range he could just see on the horizon was Sharra, over in Eremia. Too close, he decided. Not a good idea to hang about here any longer than they could help.

A harassed-looking junior officer cantered up to him, to tell him there was a problem. Six carts in the middle detail were breaking up; the weight of the armor had cracked the front-side frames, and they'd had to pull off the road before the cracks sheared right through. The problem seemed to be a result of the way the armor had been mounted-a three-quarter-inch bolt hole drilled through a load-bearing timber, weakening it and allowing too much weight to rest on an unsupported member. With all the potholes…

Valens made an effort not to groan aloud. "It sounds serious," he said. "Are many other carts likely to have the same problem?"

The officer nodded. "It's the half-lock carts and the bow wagons," he said. "The high-sided carts are all right, there's enough strength in the frames to take the stress. But when they were drilling the holes for mounting the armor, they only had the one set of jigs. If we carry on much further without fixing it, there's a danger we'll lose about a fifth of the carts."

"All right." Valens stole another look at the mountains; Sharra peering over their shoulders, like a nosy old woman spying on her neighbors. "Get up to the front and call a general halt; find someone to organize a survey, find all the carts likely to have the problem, have them fallen out so they can be worked on. Get three squadrons of cavalry back here to guard them when the rest of the column moves on. And find Vaatzes, and that sidekick of his, Daurenja; I want a fix for the buggered-up wagons, top priority. I'll be back at my coach."

But Vaatzes, it seemed, was nowhere to be found, and neither was Daurenja. That evening, another equally harassed-looking junior officer reported that he'd made inquiries, and nobody could remember having seen either of them since the column left the city. Meanwhile, an ad hoc committee of carpenters and wain-wrights had been considering the problem. Their advice-far from unanimous-was to nail on big slabs of batten across the cracks on the already damaged carts and see what happened. If that worked, they could fix any further casualties the same way. If it didn't work, it was their unanimous considered professional opinion that the whole column was screwed.

Valens had sent Mezentius off to supervise the cavalry screen, and the rest of the general staff had more than enough to do; that just left him. He'd always prided himself on his ability to delegate, but it had one serious disadvantage. It meant he was stuck in the coach, alone with his wife; nobody to talk to.

"Why have we stopped?" she asked.

He explained.

"I warned you," she said. "Your vehicles aren't designed for this kind of work; and the armor just makes things worse. You'd be better off removing it, before it wrecks all your wagons."

The thought had crossed his mind. "We can't do that," he said. "I thought I'd explained all that, about how-"

"Yes. But if the armor is breaking up the wagons, you have to remove it. You have no choice."

Vaatzes, he thought bitterly; I hate the fact that I need him. Of course, if he was the engineering genius he's cracked up to be, he wouldn't have drilled all those holes in the wrong places, and we wouldn't be having this problem. (At the back of his mind he had a vague recollection of a memo from Vaatzes complaining that the short-frame jigs were behind schedule because the jig-makers had buggered them up somehow, and quite possibly they wouldn't be ready on time. He ignored it.) If and when he turned up… But perhaps he wasn't going to turn up. Desertion, assassination, or maybe just forgotten about in the rush to leave and left behind; and his odious associate as well, which wasn't promising. The thought that Vaatzes might change sides, betray them all to the Mezentines, hadn't really seemed worth considering before. The Mezentines would never forgive him; his only chance of survival lay in sticking close to the Vadani, making himself indispensable. He'd done that. He should be here, when he was needed.

Odd, then, that he wasn't.

Too big and unsettling a problem to tackle now; better to hide from it behind all the lesser, more immediate problems, and hope it'd go away. He climbed out of the coach, stopped the first officer he saw, and ordered him to round up the carpenters and joiners. Shouting at them would take his mind off the ghastliness of the mess he was in, and might goad them into doing something useful.

No such luck. They looked away, shook their heads, tutted, sighed; can't patch up splintered frames, got to cut out the busted timber and replace it with a new one. Could try letting in a patch, but that'd take time; could try wrapping the split in rawhide, but couldn't promise anything; nailing on battens would be as good as anything; bolting them on would be better; could try it, but it probably wouldn't work. Could've told you this'd happen if you go boring holes in frames. No help at all.

His father would have had them all strung up, as an example to all tradesmen who failed to work miracles on demand. Instead, he thanked them for their time and told them he was sure they'd do their best. Then he went to look for Mezentius.

"We can't stay here," Mezentius told him. "Far too close to the border. They've been sending patrols out along the river valleys below Sharra for some time; quite likely they've got watchers on the Sow's Back by now. Maybe they already know we're here. If we stay put, you can make that a certainty."

Infuriating to hear your own depressing thoughts echoed by someone else. "I don't think it's as bad as all that," Valens lied to himself. "Even if they've seen us already, they've got to report back, gather their forces…"

"There's a full squadron stationed at the Unswerving Loyalty, last I heard. Probably double that by now."

"Well, we can handle two squadrons. And it'd take them two days to get here." Mezentius' frown expressed entirely justified skepticism, which Valens ignored. Am I turning into Orsea? He panicked for a moment. "And suppose they do come? I don't know about you, but I'd have no worries at all about fighting off a cavalry attack here, on a rocky hillside. They couldn't ride, they'd have to dismount and fight as infantry. In fact, I've half a mind to stay here and see if they do come. The sooner we start this war…"

Mezentius was staring at him. He closed his eyes, as if trying to wash the image out of them.

"That bad?" he asked.

"It's understandable," Mezentius replied; he could hear the restraint in his voice. "The strain's getting to all of us, and now this stupid thing with the carts…" He shook his head. "If you want my considered opinion, I would prefer not to engage the enemy right now."

Valens took a deep breath. "Agreed," he said. "Not now, or ever. But certainly not now." He stood up. "I'll go and plead with the carpenters a bit more, see if I can fire up their imaginations. And please, ignore what I said just now. I've been talking to my wife. It's not good for me."

Mezentius laughed, but nervously. "Understood," he said. "Good luck with the carpenters. Did you find out where that bloody Mezentine's got to, by the way?"

When he reached the broken wagons, he found the carpenters standing round looking sad. They explained that they'd thought about it some more, and they were pretty sure that nailing on battens wasn't going to work, so there didn't seem much point in starting.

Valens swallowed his anger. He was getting used to the taste of it. "Try it anyway," he said.

They explained how the damage should be repaired, by removing the entire damaged timber and replacing it. They could more or less guarantee that that would work; however, it would probably take several days, even if they had suitable material, which they didn't. They could go up the mountain and look for ash trees of the right size and width, though ash didn't usually grow well in this soil; that wouldn't really help, however, since green timber would be far too weak, and they'd be wasting their time. But if that was what Valens wanted them to do…

He smiled. "Let's try the battens," he said.

They nodded silently. He could tell they were waiting for him to go away, so they could carry on standing about looking miserable. "I'll stay and watch, if I won't be in the way," he said. "I like watching craftsmen at work."

It didn't take them long. They unshipped lengths of batten, cut pieces to size and nailed them on. The horses were brought up and backed into the shafts. The wagons began to move. The sound of the battens cracking was audible ten yards away.

"Oh well," Valens said. "We tried."

The carpenters explained that they'd been pretty sure it wasn't going to work. However, they would give it some thought and try to come up with something else.

Some junior officer he didn't know brought him the inventory he'd asked for. Over a third of the column were bow-waisted or half-lock. He gave up the idea of abandoning them and trying to distribute their loads among the rest of the carts. He thanked the officer and went back to the coach.

"Have you solved the problem?" she asked.

"No."

She nodded. "How many…?"

"About a third."

The interruption didn't seem to have bothered her. "In that case, you have only one option. You must remove the armor from the affected vehicles. Of course, this will seriously compromise your plan for using the carts as a mobile fortress. You can, of course, put some of the undefended carts in the middle of the formation and so shield them from attack, but-"

"Not all of them," Valens said. "Which means there'll be a great big weak patch somewhere in the wall, which we'll have to defend some other way. We could concentrate the cavalry and men-at-arms-"

"To some extent." In other words, forget it. He wondered if she was enjoying his failure, but it didn't seem likely. Any sort of pleasure seemed beyond her completely. "You would be better advised to move out as quickly as possible, and head directly for my people's territory. At least you can be sure that the Mezentines won't follow you into the desert."

"We aren't going anywhere near the desert."

"You have no choice."

He left without replying. Outside, he stood for a moment and looked at the line of halted wagons. People were standing about in groups, talking quietly or not at all. Horsemen rode up and down the line, carrying messages, inspecting, relaying orders. They were worried, but it was all under control; they knew he could be trusted to sort things out. To be trusted, relied on, even loved; he felt the pain of it deep inside, the way a man with an arrowhead buried too deep inside to be extracted feels it every time he moves. I've killed them, he thought, just like Orsea killed the Eremians: for duty, for love.

"Is there anything I can do?"

He turned his head, and just then, in his mind, it was like looking into a mirror. "Orsea," he said. "I'm sorry, I was miles away."

"I gather there's some problem with the carts," Orsea said. He had that stupid, sad look on his face, that preemptive admission of guilt that made Valens want to say, It's all right, this time it's not your fault. That would be a lie, of course, since it was Orsea's fault they were here; Orsea's sense of duty, compounded by Valens' love. "Can't Vaatzes suggest anything? It should be right up his street, this sort of thing."

"Vaatzes isn't here." Valens didn't want to snap, but he couldn't help it. Orsea had been born to be shouted at. He was wearing the fashionable long-toed riding boots that were useless for walking in; they made him look like some rare breed of marshland bird. "He's disappeared, and so's his assistant. But we're working on it." He scowled. "You don't happen to know anything about woodwork, do you?"

"No."

"Of course not. Me neither. Useless, aren't we?" He laughed. "Oh, we know lots of stuff: how to train hawks, how to run a council meeting, the correct way to address an ambassador, how to use archers to cover an infantry advance. Pity that a few bits of broken wood can screw us up completely. I don't know." He turned away; the sight of Orsea's face made him want to lash out. "Maybe we should just jump on our horses and ride away, leave the rest of them to sort it all out for themselves. They couldn't be worse off without us than they are already."

"That's not true," Orsea said; he sounded bewildered, like a child who sees his parents arguing. "You're good at this. You can deal with it."

If it had come from anybody else, he might have tried to believe it. "My wife thinks we should dump the armor and make a run for it, head for her territory, the Cure Hardy." He stopped, as though there was something wrong with his mouth. "She thinks we'd be safe there. A lot of us would die trying to cross the desert, but not nearly as many as we'd lose if we carried on with the original plan." He turned sharply and looked Orsea in the eye. "What do you think? Is that what you'd do, in my place?"

Orsea seemed to shrink back, as though Valens had hit him. "I'm the last person-"

"Yes, but I'm asking you. What do you think?"

"I don't know."

Valens felt the energy seep out of himself. "Well of course you don't, you haven't got all the facts. I'm sorry. I just don't feel like making a decision like that."

"I can understand," Orsea said.

You more than anybody. "In fact," Valens said, "we're not going to do anything of the sort. Which is stupid, because I have an unpleasant feeling it's the right thing to do; but I'm too weak to make the decision, so we aren't going to do it." He looked past Orsea, at the line of carts. "I'm going to send on the carts that don't have the problem, and keep the damaged ones here until they can be fixed properly, by cutting out the broken bits and fitting in new ones. I'm told it could take a day or so to find suitable timber and as long again to do the job, but that can't be helped. We can't afford to abandon that many wagons, so they'll have to be fixed, and we'll have to try and protect them in the meantime." He breathed in, as though he was making a speech. "It'll mean dividing the army, and there's not enough to defend both units, so I'll split the archers and foot soldiers up between the two parts of the convoy, and send the cavalry out to look for the enemy. If they come for us, the cavalry can engage them in the open, try and stop them getting here. If we get away with it, we'll all meet up somewhere and carry on as before. How does that sound?"

"Excellent," Orsea said; and the sad thing was, he meant it. Just the sort of thing he'd have done himself, which was why the maps of Eremia weren't accurate anymore, showing a city that had ceased to exist. I've made the wrong choice, Valens told himself; I know it, and I don't seem to care. I think we've lost this war.

As soon as Valens let him go, Orsea hurried away to continue his search for a bush. Not an easy thing to find on a barren, rocky hillside; but his rank and his natural diffidence made it impossible for him to pee with the whole Vadani nation watching him.

No bushes, as far as the eye could see. A few stunted thorn trees, but their trunks were too thin to stand behind. In the end, he had to settle for a large rock, which only screened his lower half. His relief was spoiled by the fact that a sharp wind had got up while he was talking to Valens. It blew piss back onto his trouser leg. One of those days.

Alfresco urination was one of the things he hated most about traveling with a large number of people. It had bothered him when he led the Eremian army, casting a huge, disproportionate shadow over each day. He knew why: he was sure the men would laugh at him. Pathetic.

He'd finished, and was lacing up the front of his trousers, when he heard voices behind him. He panicked until he was quite sure it was nothing to do with him.

A small, two-wheeled cart-a chaise, he decided, mildly ashamed of his precision in trivia-was rolling down the slope, passing along the line of the halted convoy as though such sights were too commonplace to be worth noticing. A ridiculous, fussy little cart, with thin, spindly wheel-spokes like crane-fly legs, and a brightly colored parasol perched over the box; on which sat a huge man and a tiny blond woman in a red dress. Orsea stared for the best part of two minutes, the ends of his trouser-laces still in his hands. It wasn't just the incongruity that stunned him. Somehow, perhaps by the confident way she perched, with a large carpet bag clutched in her lap, she gave the impression that she was normal, and it was the Vadani nation who were making a spectacle of themselves. He couldn't begin to understand why the stupid little cart's wheels didn't crumple up and blow away in the wind like chaff every time they rolled into a pothole.

A cavalry officer in full armor, red campaign cloak, tall black boots gray with dust, shuffled forward to meet her. Too far away to see the look on his face, but Orsea could guess. The sort of look a twelve-year-old boy would wear if his mother showed up while he was playing with his friends. The woman in the red dress leaned down to ask him something. He looked round for a while, then suddenly pointed. It was a moment before Orsea realized the man was pointing at him.

He remembered, and dropped the laces. Probably too late. The woman was climbing down from her seat-the officer's arm was stretched out for her to steady herself by; you can't beat the cavalry for manners, no matter how bizarre or desperate the situation. Orsea watched as she came bustling straight at him; he looked over his shoulder, but there was nobody standing behind him.

"Are you Duke Orsea?" Her voice was high and sharp; someone who never needed to shout, even in a high wind.

"That's right. I'm sorry, I don't think I-"

She reached in her bag and pulled out a small linen pouch, about the size of an apple. "Your wife ordered some potpourri," she said, pointing the pouch at him as if it was some kind of weapon. "It's all right," she added, "it's paid for."

He stared at her for a count of five before saying, "You came all the way out here to deliver that?"

She laughed; a sound like a fox barking. "No, of course not. I'm on my way from Calva to the sheep-fair at White Cross. But they told me at the Unswerving Loyalty that the Vadani court was on a progress, or going camping or something. I guessed you'd be with them, so here I am."

Potpourri. Dried flowers and leaves and bits of lavender and stuff. As he dug in his pocket for money for a tip, he could hardly believe what he was hearing. Surely, when the world came to an end, and the Vadani were facing certain death, things like that simply ceased to exist. It wasn't possible for the world to contain war and potpourri at the same time.

"Thanks," he heard himself say. "She'll be really pleased."

"No trouble," she chirruped back. "Do you think they'll be able to spare me some hay and a bucket of oats for my horse? I've probably got enough to get me as far as the Modesty and Prudence, but better safe than sorry."

"Try the ostlers," he was saying, when the significance of what she'd told him hit him like a hammer. "Excuse me," he muttered, and broke into a run. She called out something, but he didn't catch what she was saying.

There are times when it's better to run frantically, headless-chicken fashion, than to arrive. When finally he found Valens' carriage-he felt like he'd run five miles, up and down the middle of the convoy-he pulled up and froze, realizing as he panted like a thirsty dog that he was in no fit state to tell anybody about anything, not if he expected to be taken seriously. He dragged air into his burning lungs and tried to find a form of words. Then he balled his left fist and rapped it against the carriage door.

No answer. His mind blanked. Clearly, the carriage was empty; in which case, Valens wasn't here; consequently, he could be anywhere. Orsea felt his chest tighten again, this time with panic rather than fatigue. His discovery was obviously so important that it couldn't wait, but searching the entire convoy…Just in case, he knocked again, much harder. This time, the door opened.

"Who are you?"

He recognized her, of course; the only female Cure Hardy he'd ever seen. "I'm Orsea," he said, realizing as he said it how inadequate his reply was. "I need to see Valens, urgently. Do you know where…?"

"No." She was looking at him as though she'd just noticed him on the sole of a brand-new shoe. "What do you want?"

"It's very important," Orsea said. She made him feel about nine years old; but while he was standing there babbling, the Mezentines could be moving into position, ready to attack. "Can you give me any idea where he's likely to be? The whole convoy's in danger."

She frowned. "Have you told the duty officer?"

Pop, like a bubble bursting. "No," Orsea admitted. "No, that's a good idea. I'll do that."

She closed the carriage door; not actually in his face, but close enough for him to feel the breeze on his cheek. Something told him he hadn't made a good impression. The least of his problems.

Even Orsea knew how to find the duty officer; dead center of the convoy, look for a tented wagon with plenty of staff officers coming and going. Mercifully, one of them was an Eremian, who escorted him, in the manner of a respectful child put in charge of an elderly, senile relative, up the foldaway steps into the wagon.

Orsea had nearly finished telling his story when he realized that the duty officer, a small, neat, bald Vadani, didn't believe him. It was the lack of expression on his face; not bewilderment or shock, but a face kept deliberately blank to conceal what he was thinking. "I see," he said, when Orsea had finished. "I'll make sure the Duke gets your message."

"Will you?"

"Of course." Orsea could see him getting tense, afraid there'd be a scene, that he'd be forced into being rude to the known idiot who technically ranked equal with Valens himself. "As soon as I see him."

"When's that likely to be?"

"Soon." Pause. The officer was trying to hold out behind his blank face, like a city under siege. "I expect he'll send for me at some point today, and when he does-"

"Don't you think you should send someone to find him?"

Orsea couldn't help being reminded of a fight he'd seen once, in the streets of Civitas Eremiae. A huge, broad-shouldered man was being trailed by a tiny, elderly drunk, who kept trying to hit him with a stick. Over and over again the big man swatted the stick away, like a fly, but eventually the drunk slipped a blow past his guard and hit him in the middle of the forehead. A lucky strike; the big man staggered, and while he was off guard, the drunk hit him again, three or four times on the side of the head. Realizing that he could be killed if he didn't do something, the big man tried to grab the stick, and got slashed across the knuckles and then beaten hard just above the ear. He swung his arm wildly but with force; the back of his hand hit the drunk in the mouth, dislocating his jaw and slamming him against a wall; he slid down and lay in a heap. With that picture in his mind's eye, Orsea looked down at the duty officer, sitting very upright in his straight-backed chair. If I goad this man again, he thought, he's going to have to strike back; but I've got no choice.

"I'm not sure that'd be appropriate," the duty officer said. "But I assure you, as soon as I see him-"

"Haven't you been listening to me?" Orsea could hear the shrill, petulant anger in his own voice; it revolted him. "As soon as you see him could be too late. If the innkeeper at Sharra knows we're here and there's a Mezentine patrol stationed there-"

"Assuming," the duty officer interrupted quietly, "that what this woman told you is true."

I must try and make him understand. "She found me, didn't she?" he said. "She heard we were here from someone; she told me it was the innkeeper who told her. I can't imagine why she'd want to lie about it. Think about it, can't you? There's this merchant with a delivery for my wife. Here, look." He thrust the little cloth sack at the officer's face, like a fencer testing the distance. "Now, if she wasn't told where I was likely to be, how do you think she found me? Just wandering around at random on the off chance she'd run into me?"

The officer leaned back a little, putting space between himself and the smell of the bag. "You may like to bear in mind that we're on a road," he said, voice flat and featureless. "People travel up and down roads, on their way to wherever they happen to be going. It seems more likely to me that she fortuitously came across this column while following the road than that she heard about us at Sharra and made her way here across country, in a ladies' chaise, just to deliver a bag of dried flowers."

Orsea pulled in a deep breath. "I don't agree," he said. "And I'm asking you to send someone to find Valens, right now. Are you going to do it?"

The officer's eyes were sad as well as hostile. "I'm afraid I can't," he said.

"Fine." Orsea swung round, traversing like a siege engine on its carriage, to face the Eremian officer who'd led him there. "All right," he said, "you do it."

The Eremian was only a young man, embarrassed and ashamed. "I'm sorry," he began to say.

"You heard what I just told him?"

The Eremian nodded wretchedly.

"Good. I'm telling you to find Duke Valens and pass the message on."

Such a reproachful look in the young man's eyes. "Actually, I'm supposed to be taking a note to-"

"Never mind about that." Orsea couldn't help thinking about the drunk with the stick. "It can wait. Do you understand what I want you to do?"

The young man was looking past him, at the duty officer. Orsea couldn't see what he saw, but the young man nodded slightly. "Of course," he said. "Straightaway." He left quickly, grateful to get away, leaving Orsea and the duty officer facing each other, like the big man and the little drunk. I won, Orsea thought, I got my way. Shouldn't that make me the big man, not the other way round?

The carpenters weren't happy. Valens found that hard to take, since he was merely telling them to do what they'd told him was the only way. But apparently there wasn't enough good seasoned timber to do the job; they could use green wood, but-

"I know," Valens snapped. "You told me."

Dignified silence. They were good at dignified silence. "Do the best you can," he growled at them, and left with what little remained of his temper.

Heading back to his coach, he met a sad-looking ensign; an Eremian, he noticed from his insignia. He looked weary and ground down, as though he'd been given an important job he didn't know how to do.

"I've got a message for you," the sad ensign said. "From Duke Orsea."

One damn thing after another. "Go on, I'm listening."

He listened, and when the ensign had finished, he said, "Orsea told you that? Himself?"

The ensign nodded. "He reported it to the duty officer-"

Valens wasn't interested in any of that. "All right," he said, "here's what I want you to do."

He fired off a list of instructions, detailed and in order of priority. He could see the ensign forcing himself to remember each step, his eyes terrified. Fear of failure; must be an Eremian characteristic. "Have you got that?"

"Yes."

"Repeat it all back to me and then get on with it."

It all came back at him like an echo; it sounded very impressive, as though Duke Valens was on top of the situation. It'd be nice if he was, since the lives of everybody in the column depended on him. If only the warning hadn't come from Orsea; anybody else, a soldier, a half-blind crippled shepherd, a twelve-year-old boy, and he'd be comfortable with it. But no, it had to be Orsea. Still, the risk was too great. If he ignored it, and the Mezentines came…

The ensign darted away, swift as a deer pursued by hounds, born to be hunted, inured to it. Valens stopped to take a deep breath and clear his mind, then went to find the duty officer.