Evil for Evil

25

It was, ran the general consensus, one mystery too many. Why the Ducas, magnanimously reprieved by special order of the Duke himself (the messenger had been questioned and had vowed repeatedly that he'd delivered the reprieve to the Ducas personally), had seen fit to break out of the stockade, murdering a sentry in the process, nobody could say for sure. It stood to reason, however, that it must be something to do with the treason for which he had originally been condemned. It was remembered that, on the fall of Civitas Eremiae, he hadn't immediately joined his duke in exile, as was his duty, but had used the resistance as an excuse to stay away, safely out of the reach of justice. It could hardly be a coincidence that he had shown up immediately after the failed Mezentine attack, particularly since, by his own admission, he'd been with the Mezentine garrison at Sharra shortly before the raid took place. There was also the bizarre way in which he'd tried to have Daurenja, the savior of the rear echelon, arrested and condemned for some mysterious crime he was supposed to have committed years earlier. Duke Orsea's refusal to comment was simply aristocratic rank-closing. It did him credit, to a degree, that he was prepared to cover up for his friend, even though that friend had already betrayed him at least once (and wasn't there supposed to be something going on between the Ducas and Orsea's wife? Some business with a letter); in the circumstances, however, his attitude came across as a stubborn attempt to obstruct Valens' quite legitimate inquiries, and won Orsea no friends among the Vadani. The details were irrelevant, in any case. The Ducas had murdered a Vadani soldier in cold blood. Complex issues of jurisdiction no longer mattered. He was a criminal in the eyes of Vadani law, and would pay the penalty if and when he was caught-though that seemed unlikely if, as was generally believed, he'd returned to the safety of his Mezentine friends at Sharra. Meanwhile, the Vadani had other, more pressing concerns, and delaying the march on account of one fugitive renegade was, naturally, out of the question.

Four days after the change of course, he found the courage to talk to her.

They'd stopped for the night in a little combe, not much more than a dent in the hillside. He assumed it had been chosen because of the stand of tall, spindly birch trees, which masked them from sight. It was a dark, cold place; he was sure nothing lived there. She had climbed down from the coach, pleading cramp after a long day. Of course, they couldn't have a fire, for fear that the smoke would give away their position. She was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, squinting at her embroidery in the thin red light of sunset.

"Are you still doing that?" he asked.

She looked up. "Of course," she said. "It's nearly finished. I've put so much work into it, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving it behind."

He looked at it: a baldrick, the sort you hang a hunting horn from. A goshawk and a heron; the hawking livery of the Orseoli. She was making it for him, of course.

"It's very good," he said awkwardly. "Can I see?"

She held it up. "You've seen it before," she said. "I've been working on it for three months."

Implication: he should've recognized it. But one piece of cloth with patterns stitched on it looked very much like all the others; apart from their wedding day, he couldn't remember seeing her without some rag or other on her knees. It was, after all, what women did.

"Of course," he said, "I remember it now. It's coming on really well."

She sighed. "I've run out of green silk," she said. "So I can't finish the background-here, look, the patch of reeds the heron's supposed to be flying up out of. I've got some other green, but it's the wrong shade."

He frowned. "Couldn't you turn that bit into a bush or something?"

"I suppose so. But then it wouldn't look right."

"I won't mind."

She looked up at him, and he realized she wasn't making it for him. He was the pretext, at best; she had to embroider, and decency required that the fruit of her needle should be some useful object for her husband. Now, because of the Mezentines and the war, she couldn't finish the work, and it wouldn't be fitting for her to start something new until the baldrick was completed. Accordingly, here she sat, the workbasket on her knees, the baldrick spread out, but no needle in her hand; like a cow in a crush, waiting patiently because it had nowhere it could go.

"It'd look wrong," she said. "I'd have to put something else in the opposite corner to balance it, and that'd mean unpicking what's there already. Besides, I haven't got enough brown left."

He wanted to say: so fucking what? I'll never go hunting again, so I'll never use it. Put the stupid thing away and talk to me instead. What he said was, "Perhaps we'll run into one of those merchant women on the road. They sell embroidery silks. I remember, we met one a few days ago." (No; longer ago than that. But each day seemed to fuse with the others, like a good fire-weld.) "If I'd known, I could have asked her."

She shrugged. "I don't suppose she'd have had the right green," she said. "It's not a particularly common one. I got what I've been using from that woman who used to call at the palace, back in Civitas Eremiae. I don't know what the chances are of running into her again."

Orsea couldn't think of anything safe to say. He knew the merchant she was talking about. She must've been the one who delivered the letters-the letters Valens had written her, and her replies. Presumably the price of her couriership had been substantial sales of overpriced haberdashery. But there wouldn't be any more letters, just as there'd be no more cold, bright autumn days after partridges with the falcons. It occurred to him that everything he'd known all his life was gone forever, apart from her; and the irony was, he didn't know her at all.

In which case, he might as well say it.

"I need to talk to you," he said.

"Talk away." She sighed, turned the embroidery over and took a small blue-bladed knife with an ivory handle out of her basket. "You know, I think I will unpick this corner after all. I've still got plenty of light blue and white. I could do the sky reflected in a pool or something."

She was nicking the tiny loops of the stitches, like a giant cutting the throats of dwarves.

"I need to ask you…" He stopped. He'd never been particularly good with words anyway. Ideas that were sharp and clear in his mind disintegrated like sodden paper when he tried to express them. The only person he'd ever really been able to talk to was Miel Ducas.

"Sorry," she said, "I missed that. What did you want to speak to me about?"

"I need to know, Veatriz," he said, and stopped again. It sounded too pompous and melodramatic for words. "You and Valens. The letters."

She looked at him so blankly that for a moment it crossed his mind that the whole thing was a mistake; he'd completely misunderstood, and there never were any letters. "What about them?" she asked.

"Are you in love with him?"

"No." She was concentrating on the tip of the knife; a small, dainty thing, presumably Mezentine.

"Then why did you write to him?"

She shrugged. It wasn't an answer. He waited, but she didn't say anything.

"Can't you see how it looked?" he said. "You must have realized."

"I suppose so," she said, and between them there was a wall of iron, like the defenses bolted to the sides of the carts.

"Then why did you do it?"

"Does it matter anymore?" She lifted her head and looked at him.

"Do you still love me?"

"Yes," she said. "Do you still love me?"

"Yes, of course I do." He said the words like a mother answering a child's annoying question.

"Well, then." She sighed. "What do you think's happened to Miel?"

"Don't change the subject," he said, but he knew she hadn't done any such thing. That Miel Ducas should have taken away their sins, like some sacrificial animal, was somehow inevitable: the Ducas lives only to serve the state, and the state is the Duke. That, at least, had never been more true. Orsea had seen to that. He was all that was left of Eremia now; an irrelevant survival. Once, years ago, someone digging in the palace grounds had unearthed a big, crude-looking gold cup. He'd brought it, quite properly, to the Duke, who'd rewarded him suitably with twice its value by weight. Orsea could remember sitting holding it: an ugly thing, badly made, bent and slightly crumpled, valuable only as a curiosity, and because of the material it was made from. Presumably it was very old, made by someone who'd lived there a long time ago, for a rich patron whose name had been forgotten centuries before. There had been a city, with a ruler who employed craftsmen; probably he had a suitable household, faithful courtiers who lived only to serve, a code of honor. Presumably he'd tried to be a good duke, always do the right thing. Inevitably, he would have made mistakes. Now, all that was left of all that was one awkward, stupid-looking gold thing, precious only because of the universal convention by which gold is valuable. If the duke who commissioned the cup had had a wife who loved him once, that was irrelevant now as well. Orsea had given orders for the cup to be put in a safe place where he wouldn't have to look at it. He imagined the Mezentines had it now, or the fire had melted it.

The cup had survived, but that wasn't enough. So with love; even if it survives, it's not enough, shorn of context.

"I do love you," she said. An accusation; a reproach. He believed her. If he hadn't; if she'd said she loved Valens, he'd have given her up without a moment's hesitation (because he loved her; it would've been the right thing to do). He'd been prepared for that, even hoping for it, as a condemned man looks forward to execution as a final end to his misery. No such luck. Love still held them in their places, like the traces that bind the donkey to the treadmill. Love is duty. Miel Ducas could have confirmed that, if only he'd still been there.

As it was; she could say that to him, and all it did was brace the iron plate between them, tighter than Daurenja's three-quarter bolts. The fact was that he didn't deserve her. Valens, swooping down with his cavalry into the ruins of Civitas Eremiae, had snatched her away to safety, like the hawk striking the heron, and it was wrong, against nature, to deny the supremacy of the stronger, the absolute right of conquest. Keeping her (being allowed to keep her) was therefore an abomination; his fault and hers, for which they must inevitably pay a price.

I could explain all this so clearly, Orsea thought, if there was anybody in the world I could talk to.

"I love you too," he said, casually as a sleepy monk making his responses in the middle of the night. "I'm sorry I mentioned-"

"It's all right," she said. "Just, don't talk about it again. It's all my fault, all of this."

No, he couldn't have that. "Oh, right," he said. "It's your fault we're both here, alive, instead of being killed when they took the city. Well, that's what would've happened, if Valens hadn't rescued us, because of the letters." He smiled, cold as breath condensing on steel. "I really wish there was some way I could thank him, given I owe him my life, but I can't; how could I? You know what? I should've stayed in the city and been killed; I'd have been out of the way then. You and Valens-"

"Please don't." She was right, of course. Just melodrama, a big speech, with no audience. Even a duke can't make speeches if there's nobody left to listen to them. "I'm sorry," he said, and pulled a face that was almost comic in its intensity. "I shouldn't-"

He stopped short; someone was coming. An officer and two soldiers, walking briskly, on their way somewhere, with important business to see to. He stepped aside to let them go past, but they stopped. Apparently they had something to say to him.

"Duke Orsea." A statement rather than an inquiry.

"That's right."

"My name is Major Nennius. I have to tell you that you're under arrest."

While they waited, they talked about silver; better and more efficient ways of mining it, smelting the ore, refining the bloom to leach out traces of copper and other impurities. The Mezentines, he said, were capable of producing silver that was ninety-five parts in a hundred pure, although the specification allowed an additional margin of three parts for export work, five for domestic consumption. When the war was over and they opened the mines up again, he'd teach the superintendents how to improve purity and increase production by means of a few simple procedures, which could be incorporated into the mines' established working practices without the need for significant investment or extensive retraining. Valens replied that he would appreciate any help that Ziani could give them; once the war was over, the cost of reconstruction and making good would inevitably be high, and a quick, efficient recommencement of silver production would make all the difference. Fortuitously, given that nearly all the mine-owners and representatives of the major cartels had been killed, either in the wedding-day raid or the recent battle, obstruction from vested interests ought not to be as much of a problem as it would have been before the war.

The tent flap opened. Ziani recognized the newcomer, though he couldn't recall his name; a busy young man who'd been doing rather well during the emergency. He made a mental note to find out more about him, in case he could be made useful.

"Duke Orsea," the young officer said.

He stood back to let the escort bring Orsea in. Ziani made himself keep perfectly still, and it was probably just as well that Orsea didn't look at him as he came into the tent.

"Valens?" he asked mildly. The two soldiers weren't touching him, but they flanked him on either side, with the officer blocking the doorway to cut off his escape. "What's going on?"

There wasn't the faintest trace of expression on Valens' face; but he said, "Oh, I think you can probably guess. Sit down, please."

But there wasn't a chair; so the officer (Nennius, Ziani remembered. Recently promoted) had to fetch a folding chair from the back of the tent and set it up. "I'm sorry," Orsea was saying, "but I really don't have a clue. Is this something to do with Miel Ducas? I've been meaning to talk to you about that, but you've been so busy."

Valens was scowling. "Fine," he said. "I'm all for proper procedure. That way, everybody knows where they stand."

"You're sounding very official. Is something wrong?" Orsea glanced over his shoulder; he seemed surprised to find that Nennius and the two guards were still there.

"I have reason to believe…" Valens hesitated, then went on: "I have reason to believe that you've been in contact with the enemy. I'd like to hear what you've got to say about that."

Orsea looked so utterly bewildered that for a moment Ziani held his breath. Then Orsea said: "Contact with the enemy? You mean, in the battle?"

"Before the battle," Valens said quietly. "That's rather the point." He opened the wooden box that stood on the folding table in front of him, and took out a small square of folded parchment. "I'm afraid I've been reading your mail," he said.

Orsea frowned. "That's a letter, is it? For me?"

"Yes." His hand was resting on it. "I can't let you have it, I'm afraid; evidence and all that. Major Nennius, would you please read the letter out loud? Admirably clear handwriting," he added. "I hate it when people scrawl."

Nennius stepped forward, and Valens handed him the letter. Nennius opened it and cleared his throat; that made Valens smile, just briefly. Lucao Psellus to Orsea Orseoli, greetings.

Everything's been arranged as we agreed. The only change of plan is that we can't send a whole division; there simply isn't enough time. I'm sure it won't make any difference, since we'll have an overwhelming advantage of surprise.

Concerning your own personal safety. Naturally, it's got to look right. I've briefed the expedition commander, and he'll see to it that all his officers will know what to expect. To begin with, stay in your coach. As soon as the fighting reaches you, come straight out and give yourself up. Say, in a loud, clear voice, "I am Duke Orsea, I surrender." You have my solemn undertaking that you will not be harmed. You'll be taken straight to a Mezentine officer. Give him this letter. He'll recognize the seal. I'll be there at the Unswerving Loyalty to meet you after the battle and escort you back to Mezentia; from there you'll go directly to your new estate at Lonazep, where you can start your new life. Unfortunately, it won't be possible for your wife to accompany you; but rest assured that our men will have strict instructions not to harm her; she'll be separated out from the rest of the prisoners and sent to join you as quickly as possible. I know this may sound unduly haphazard, but I assure you that you can rely on us; I've arranged for a substantial bounty to be paid to the men who secure your wife and yourself, alive and unharmed. That's the joy of mercenaries; motivating them is never a problem if you've got the money.

I appreciate that this has all been very difficult for you, and I may say that your misgivings do you credit. It can't have been an easy decision to take. However, believe me when I tell you that you're doing precisely the right thing. The only hope, for your people and yourself, is to end the war before the Vadani contrive to inflict serious losses on the Republic. As for Duke Valens: by seducing your wife he has betrayed you in a manner that is beyond all forgiveness. A man like that can have no claim on your loyalties; and, by your own admission, your duty to your people overrides all personal obligations.

I look forward to meeting you in person at last, when all this is over. During the long silence that followed, Ziani forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the patch of ground directly in front of him. The last thing he wanted was to catch Valens' eye, or Orsea's. It had all been beautifully clear in his mind when he was giving Psellus his instructions back in the deserted city; he'd seen it in his mind's eye as a splendid piece of geometry, a work of clear lines and simple design-a tumbler under pressure from a spring, retained by a sear tripped by a lever. This close, all he could see was tool-marks and burred edges.

"The letter was found," Valens said eventually, in a perfectly flat voice, "on the body of a merchant woman. Pure chance, as far as I can tell; by the looks of it, she was thrown by her horse and broke her neck tumbling down a rocky slope. Fortuitously, she was discovered by the miners coming up to meet us from Boatta. Ziani Vaatzes searched the body and found the letter, and showed it to me. He's identified the seal. Apparently it's rather special. Ziani, what was it again?"

His cue. "The Republic's defense committee," he said. "Commonly known as Necessary Evil. My understanding is that they're the ones running the war. I vaguely remember there was a Lucao Psellus on the committee, though I never had anything to do with anybody that high up the hierarchy."

Another long silence; then Orsea said, "You don't actually believe any of this, do you?" He sounded so bewildered, it was almost endearing.

"You were seen meeting with a merchant," Valens went on, "shortly after the expedition left the city. You were seen taking delivery of something from her: a basket, or a package. You spoke to her briefly. She had asked for you earlier by name. The witnesses have identified the body as the woman you spoke to. I can have them brought here if you like, or we can wait for the formal hearing. Though I suppose I should tell you," Valens added with the unquiet ghost of a grin, "that the hearing'll be a formality, going briskly through the motions. The last thing I need right now is to get bogged down in jurisdictions and immunities and acts of state. So, if you've got anything to say, you'd better say it now."

A long silence. Orsea was peering at him with his face screwed up, as if it was too dark to see properly.

"This is all complete drivel," he said eventually. "For pity's sake, Valens. I haven't got the faintest idea what's going on-nobody ever tells me anything, and why should they? But if this is something to do with you and Veatriz-"

Valens broke eye contact for a moment. "You're not helping yourself," he said.

"But…" Orsea nodded, as if acknowledging that the rules had changed halfway through the game. "All right," he said. "Yes, I remember that merchant woman. She turned up in a stupid little chaise-with a red parasol, I think. Anyway, she handed me some potpourri, which Veatriz had ordered from her some time before we left Civitas-"

"Potpourri?" Valens interrupted.

"Yes. You know, bits of minced-up dried flowers, lavender and stuff. You put it in little saucers to make the room smell nice."

"You're saying she tracked you down in the wilderness, when nobody except me knew where we were headed, just to sell you dried flowers?"

"No, of course not." As close to anger as Valens had ever seen him. All the more likely, in that case, to be synthetic. "She was on her way from Calva to White Cross; she happened to stop off at the Loyalty, and heard we were nearby. She'd got this unfilled order for the potpourri stuff, must've had it with her, and I suppose she'd got a tidy mind or something. Look, there was a cavalry officer who saw her arrive. Maybe he overheard what she said to me."

Valens nodded. "Captain Vesanio. I've spoken to him. She asked for you by name, and quite by chance you were standing by, only a few yards away. He heard what you said to her, and he saw you take a package from her."

"Exactly," Orsea said. "The dried flowers. I took them, and I gave them to Veatriz. Call her here and ask her yourself. She'll tell you, she ordered it before we left. She probably knows the stupid woman's name and everything."

Valens smiled. "Was that meant to be a defense?" he said. "I guess my attention must've wandered, and I missed it. Seems to me you're just agreeing with what I've told you."

"But that's what happened." He could see Orsea starting to go red in the face; please don't let him cry, he thought. "That's all that happened. Really."

"Not quite." Valens' voice was getting softer. "You came looking for me, with a message. A warning, rather; you warned me that the Mezentines were at the inn and knew where we were. I believed you. We packed up and moved on, straight into the ambush. Yes, I remember that very well."

"But…" Orsea's eyes were wide. "The woman said she'd been told where we were by someone at the Loyalty. I thought you ought to know, because if they knew about us at the inn, and the Mezentines were there too, then we were in danger. Which was true," he added desperately. "It must have been true, because the Mezentines found us, didn't they?"

"Quite. They knew exactly where we were; after I'd heard your message and acted on it." Valens shook his head. "As defenses go," he said, "this one's a pretty poor specimen. Disagree with me about something, for crying out loud, even if it's only the color of her hat."

Orsea didn't say anything. He was staring, his mouth slightly open, like a man who's just seen something he knows is impossible.

"There's the letter," Valens said wearily. "It pretty much speaks for itself. There's your own admission that you were seen talking to the bearer of the letter on at least one occasion; also, you admit that you and your wife had had previous dealings with her, before we left Civitas Vadanis. You also admit giving me the message that caused me to lead the expedition to the place where we were attacked." He frowned. "All right," he said, "you've heard the interpretation I'm putting on these facts we all agree are true. Maybe you could give me yours, and we'll see if it makes better sense."

Orsea looked round, as if he expected help to arrive. "I don't know, do I?" he said. "I suppose-well, I suppose somebody's trying to make it look like I'm a traitor, and I betrayed us all to the Mezentines. But-"

"But who would want to do that?" Valens interrupted. "Good question. Whoever it was, he was able to procure a letter from an authentic Mezentine official-a pretty high-ranking one at that; so the enemy were in on it as well. Are you going to argue that the Mezentines are plotting to discredit you?"

"I don't know." Orsea rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, as if he was trying to wake himself up. "I suppose it's possible, yes."

"I can't see it myself," Valens replied gently. "To be perfectly frank, why on earth would they bother? Well? Can you give me a reason? Can you tell me why you matter to them anymore?"

Silence. "No," Orsea said.

"Nor me," Valens replied. "Come to think of it, I can't come up with anybody who'd want to frame you for treason, or anything else, except for one person; the only man who's got any sort of motive for trying to get you into trouble, get rid of you."

Orsea looked at him. "You."

"That's right." Valens acknowledged him with a slight gesture of his left hand. "Me. I have a motive for getting you out of the way. What I don't have is the influence to get Commissioner Lucao Psellus of the defense committee to write an incriminating letter." He paused, then added: "And I don't really see me arranging for the Mezentines to ambush my own convoy, slaughter my people and near as damn it kill me in the process. I'm not the nicest man in the world, but I'm not the most stupid, either. I think I'd have found an easier way of getting shot of you-poison, an accident, all sorts of things spring readily to mind." A smile flashed across his face. "So, if it wasn't the Republic and it wasn't me; who else have you been pissing off, Orsea? You're such a mild, inoffensive fellow, always so anxious to do the right thing. Your friend Miel Ducas, maybe? The man you condemned for treason for hiding a letter? We haven't talked about him yet. Do you think the Ducas might be behind all this?"

Orsea breathed in, then out again. "No," he said.

"You don't? I'd have considered him myself, but if you say not, I'm happy to be guided by you. So, forget the Ducas; anybody else?" He spread his fingers on the top of the folding table. "You're really going to have to come up with somebody or something, if you want me to take your denials seriously. Come on, Orsea, help me out. I've been making all the running so far. Suggest something, if only for my sake. Otherwise…" He shrugged. "Well, what would you do, in my position?"

"I can't." Orsea was looking straight at him. "Do you want me to make something up? I can't think of any explanation, any reason. It's just not true, that's all."

Valens sighed, then shifted in his chair, leaning forward a little.

"The legal position," he said, in a rather forced tone of voice, "is complicated. A case could be made for saying that I have no jurisdiction over you, since you are the head of state of a foreign country-one that doesn't exist anymore, but the law can be funny about that sort of thing. If we were to have a proper trial, with lawyers and everything, I can see us getting well and truly laid up on that one. To be honest with you, I haven't got the time or the patience; and something like that, dragging on and on, isn't likely to do my people's morale any good, either. In fact, I'd prefer it if they didn't know that someone I'd trusted had sold us out to the Mezentines. I wouldn't particularly want them to know his motive for doing it-I'm quite satisfied in my mind what that motive was, by the way. I noticed that note of high moral indignation in your friend Psellus' letter-seducing another man's wife, completely unforgivable. For what it's worth, Orsea, I never did anything of the sort. We wrote letters to each other, that's all. Before I came and pulled you both out of Civitas Eremiae, the last time I set eyes on her I was seventeen. Now, maybe what I did was-well, bad manners, let's say, or worse than that, a breach of protocol and bad form generally. For that, I apologize. What you did…" He shrugged. "I've never seen the point of getting angry," he said. "Far better to deal with problems as efficiently as possible, which is much easier to do with a cool head. I'm sorry, but I know what's got to be done."

He paused, as if inviting Orsea to say something. Silence.

"Fine," Valens went on. "As I see it, there're two courses of action open to me. One of them-well, you can guess. The alternative is to send you over to your Mezentine friends, let them have the bother and expense of feeding and clothing you. The risk in that is what you could tell them, things they'd like to know about troop numbers, supplies, future movements. Now, I don't actually believe you know very much; quite likely you've already told them everything you can. Sending you to them wouldn't be too much of a risk, in my opinion. On the other hand, I'm not sure it's what I want to do. Have you got any strong feelings on the issue, one way or another?"

But Orsea shook his head. "I can't believe you really think I'd do something like that," he said. "So all I can think of is, you want me out of the way so-" He stopped, as though he didn't know the word for what he was trying to say. "If that's it," he said, "you're making a very bad mistake."

Valens frowned a little, like a parent rebuking a child's untimely frivolity.

"If you-" Again Orsea stopped short. "If anything happens to me because of you," he said, "she'll never speak to you again. You'll lose any chance you might've had-"

"I know." Valens' face was set, but his eyes were wide and bright. "That can't be helped," he said briskly. "And you aren't helping me make up my mind. Who's going to get you, the Mezentines or the crows?"

"You can't send me to the Mezentines. They'd kill me."

"Orsea." Exasperation; a patient man reaching the end of his tether. "Haven't you been listening? I'm sorry, but you've gone too far, and I don't have any choice." He turned his head to look at Nennius. "Change of plan," he said. "There won't be a formal hearing, I want this business settled straightaway. Please deal with it; now, as quickly as possible. I'll need a report-nothing long-winded, just a note with the date, time, names of three witnesses." He hesitated, then added, "Be reasonably discreet about it, will you? I don't want the whole camp knowing about it; not yet, anyway."

If Nennius hesitated, it was only for a fraction of a second; then he nodded to the two guards, who closed in around Orsea like the jaws of a pair of tongs. Orsea looked at them; he was still sitting in his chair, his hands on his knees.

"Orsea," Valens said. The tone of voice would have suited a man reprimanding a disobedient dog.

"No," Orsea said, and his voice was high and weak. "Valens, this is stupid. You can't honestly believe-"

"All right," Valens said (a gentle man pushed too far). "I wasn't going to mention it, because-believe it or not-I'm really not enjoying this. But so what; it wasn't the first time, was it?"

Orsea's mouth and throat moved several times before he managed to speak. "I don't understand."

"The first attack," Valens said wearily. "On my wedding day. Yes, I wondered about that; I gave it quite a lot of thought at the time, and then other stuff came along and got in the way. The Mezentine cavalry didn't just turn up out of the blue, on the off chance they'd catch us all out in the open. Someone told them where we were likely to be. It had to be someone who knew the plan for the day: which coverts we were going to draw, where the birds were, roughly how long we'd take over each drive. I've been trying to remember who I discussed the plan with; well, the falconers, obviously, but I ruled them out, they didn't have any way of passing on a message. I suppose they could have been reporting back to someone else, but I doubt it. I've known most of them all my life, and the rest are from families that've been in our service for generations. No, the only person I could remember going over the program with in detail was Jarnac Ducas; and for the life of me, I couldn't see him as a traitor, not under any circumstances. Then I found out my friend Mezentius had been spying for the Mezentines, so I assumed it was him; but he wasn't even there, he was away on the frontier. I know, because I wanted him to be at the wedding, but he couldn't make it back in time. Then it struck me, left me wondering how I could've been so dim. You got the details of the plan from Jarnac-you asked him, making out you were interested; he'd have assumed there was no harm in telling you. Then you scribbled a few lines to your friend Psellus-"

"You're out of your mind, Valens." Anger, but too weak with shock to rise above petulance. "I was nearly killed. That weird engineer, Daurenja, he rescued me. Ask him."

Valens tapped the letter on his desk with his forefinger. "Presumably you had an arrangement with Psellus to make it look convincing, just like in this letter here. I'm not going to discuss it with you, Orsea, this isn't a trial. I'd more or less figured out it was you before we left the city, but I was too weak and scared of-well, what you said just now. I forgave you; I reckoned you'd have learned your lesson, you wouldn't try anything so stupid again. Then, when this last lot happened, I tried to put you at the back of my mind, until Vaatzes' people found the woman's body and the letter. Even then, I wasn't going to do anything, because of her. I suppose I was fooling myself, thinking-well, no point in saying it, we both know what I'm talking about. But then she came to see me, about that fool Miel Ducas, and we talked about various things."

Orsea grinned at him, like a dying animal baring its teeth. "She turned you down."

Valens smiled; empty, like a flayed skin. "She made me realize I'd been acting like a bloody fool for quite long enough; that I should never have interfered at Civitas Eremiae, and that it was time I cut my losses and started behaving like a grown-up with responsibilities. I'm very sorry," he went on, looking away, "but I can't risk a third time, not even for you. Nennius, if you'd be so kind."

The guards caught hold of Orsea's wrists; they sort of flicked him up out of the chair and onto his feet; so accomplished at holding and controlling a man that it was impossible to tell whether Orsea was trying to struggle or not. They turned him round (no ostentatious use of force; small movements are the most efficient) and propelled him out of the tent. Nennius saluted formally and followed them. The tent flap fell back into place.

Ziani looked up, trying to see Valens' face without being too obvious about it, but his head was turned and in shadow. He waited for Valens to say something.

"Well," Valens said. "That's another rotten job I can cross off my list. My father always used to say, when you've got a load of shitty jobs to get done, do two or three a day for a week and it's not so bad." For a moment he let his chin sink onto his chest, and then he looked up again. "Silver mines," he said. "We were talking about air pumps for underground galleries."

"Were we?" Ziani shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said, "I can't remember."

Valens clicked his tongue. "You were saying that a big double-action bellows was all right for relatively shallow shafts, but for deeper work there's some way of using fires to suck air down into the tunnels. Sounded a bit dubious to me, but you're the engineer." Ziani took a deep breath. "What's going to happen to him?"

"What do you think?" Valens laughed. "You Mezentines may be streets ahead of us in everything else, but when it comes to judicial murder, we've got you beat every time. You won't find any condemned traitors getting away from us by jumping out of windows or carving up sentries. Count yourself lucky on that score that you didn't have us to contend with. No, they'll probably take him round behind one of the big supply wagons and do it there. It's where the butchers go to slaughter chickens, out of sight of the horses so they don't spook. It's amazing, the way horses freak out if they see something getting killed; though not people, oddly enough, only other animals. Though we did have a few of the wagon horses go crazy during the battle; smashed up their traces and bolted, miserable bloody creatures. It makes you ask yourself: why can't anything in this world ever hold still?" He paused, then shrugged his shoulders. "It was justice, that's all. I can see why you probably don't like the look of it, you having had such a close call yourself. Can't blame you; but it's got to be done."

"What about the Duchess?" Ziani asked. "Will she understand?"

Valens scowled, then said: "No, of course not. I've screwed that up, for good. But that's no bad thing. It was a distraction; all very fine and splendid when there's nothing serious going on, but when you're facing the annihilation of your people, you need to keep a clear head. If we're going to get across the desert, I'll need to be able to concentrate. Hence the clearing up of odds and ends." He shifted suddenly in his seat, then became still again. "That Nennius is a competent man. Still a bit young, but he has the rare and valuable virtue of doing what he's told." He yawned; genuinely tired, as far as Ziani could judge. "Do you think I should've sent him back to the Mezentines?"

"No," Ziani said.

Valens nodded. "It did seem like a fair compromise," he said, "but I thought, what the hell, let's just for once do something properly, instead of fudging the issue just in case we've misjudged it. My father always used to say, never ever give anybody a second chance. I always used to think he was a vicious bastard. Well, he was, but I'm beginning to understand why. Didn't somebody say once that the tragedy of mankind is that as they get older, sons gradually turn into their fathers? Probably a young man, the one who said that. I wish I'd had the chance to know my father when I was a bit older. He died when I was at that rebellious stage, and so I've always been torn between hating and despising everything he stood for, and trying to be his deputy, so to speak, doing the things he'd have done if he'd lived. Of course, he'd never have gone to Civitas Eremiae; which rather puts me in my place, don't you think?"

Ziani stood up. "If that's everything you wanted to see me about…" he said.

Outside, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. They were carrying hay on pitchforks to feed the horses, or rolling barrels, or searching for strayed children, or arguing with the sentries about some camp regulation or other. Obviously Nennius had done a properly discreet job; not a good idea to spook the rest of the flock by slaughtering a duke where people could see. Well; the news would circulate quickly enough. Built into Ziani's calculations was the assumption that Orsea's death would be a popular move among the Vadani; they'd all sleep better at night knowing that the traitor who'd brought the Mezentines down on them was dead, and Valens would be respected for not allowing the malefactor's exalted rank to save him. He paused to remember Orsea as he'd first encountered him-wounded in the disastrous battle, confused, tearing himself apart with guilt, still able to find a little compassion for the misfortunes of a stranger. Well; like a true nobleman, he'd lived to serve. In death he'd been useful. By now, he was just a carcass, inedible meat. One more, among so very many.

"There you are." He looked round and saw Daurenja loping toward him like a big, friendly dog. "I've been looking for you, but nobody seemed to know where you'd got to."

Not now, Ziani thought. "I've been busy," he said. "The Duke…"

"Won't take a moment." Daurenja fell in beside him, matching his pace exactly. "I've been thinking," he said. "You remember I talked to you a while back, about this pet project of mine. The exploding sulfur compound, and making a tube to use it in."

"Oh, that." Ziani frowned. "I haven't given it any thought, I'm afraid."

"That's all right," Daurenja said magnanimously. "You've had other things on your mind. But I've been thinking about it-what you said, about forging the tube rather than casting it. Great idea, and I can see the sense in it, but there's a few small details I'd like your opinion on. For a start-"

"Not now," Ziani said.

"Oh, just while we're walking," Daurenja replied cheerfully. "I'm sure it's me being thick, and you can explain what I've been missing in just a few words. Let's see, now. You were talking about staves, like making a barrel; presumably you're thinking about butt-welding them around a mandrel. But-"

"You don't want to take any of that too seriously," Ziani said irritably. "I was just thinking aloud. On reflection, I'm fairly sure it wouldn't work."

"Oh, I don't agree. I think you've cracked it. But were you thinking about welding all the staves in turn, a separate heat for each one, or trying to do the whole lot in one heat? Only there's distortion to think about if you're doing them piecemeal, but if you're going for simultaneous, you'd need to rotate the mandrel, which'd mean-"

Ziani stopped. "Why don't you listen?" he said. "I'm not interested in helping you with this ridiculous idea of yours. I've heard about what happened to your last business partner." Daurenja pulled what he guessed was supposed to be an appeasing face, but he ignored it. "If I were you," he went on, "I'd clear out now, while you still can. Piss off back to the Cure Doce, or Lonazep. Or the Mezentines, if you really admire them so much-if you're Cure Doce by birth, that makes you a neutral, they've got no quarrel with your people. Go away, and leave me alone."

"I don't think so." Daurenja looked faintly disappointed, maybe a little hurt. "Thanks to you, I've made myself very useful here. They need me. I'm afraid you can't just chuck me out if and when you feel like it, I'm working directly for the Duke these days. Besides," he added, "things have changed rather a lot in the last half-hour, haven't they?"

"What do you mean?"

Daurenja sighed. "I happened to see my friend Major Nennius just now," he said. "I don't think he saw me; he was preoccupied, a job he was doing. Not," he added quickly, "that I blame you. Had to be done, I can see that quite clearly; you had no choice. But I don't think Duke Valens would be very happy if he knew about how it had come about, if you get my meaning."

It was that kind of fear that chills you to the bone; not the heart-stopping kind that forces all the breath out of you, or the immediate physical danger that loosens the bowels and the bladder. In spite of it, Ziani found he could keep quite calm. "I don't understand," he said.

"Of course you do," Daurenja said indulgently. "And I appreciate it's not something you feel like discussing, especially out here in the open where people might be eavesdropping. We'll have a nice long chat about it some time, when we're both of us not quite so busy. I will say this, though: you're a clever man. False modesty aside, I've always reckoned I'm quite smart, a cut above everybody else I've ever come across-you've got to believe that, haven't you, or how can you justify doing the difficult, nasty stuff? But I can see, compared to you I'm crude and ignorant. You could say, I am to you as the Vadani are to the Mezentines. Uncouth, you could call it. Unsophisticated." He smiled warmly. "I knew you were the right man for me to tag along with; I knew it when I first heard about you. A man after my own heart, I thought. I mean, look at what you've achieved, and practically nothing to work with. And look at you now. Leading the Vadani to join up with the Cure Hardy and change the entire world; and all so you can go home. Quite apart from the skill of it, the sheer scope of your vision is magnificent." He shook his head. "I know this sounds corny as hell, but I'm really proud to know you, Ziani Vaatzes. Today of all days; when it all started to come together, I mean." He shrugged. "Look," he went on, "I can tell you're not really in the mood for talking about lap-welds and expansion coefficients; we'll leave it for another time. I hope you don't mind me saying my piece, by the way. Only, my principle's always been, be open with people, tell them what you think. That's got to be the right way, hasn't it?"

He smiled again and walked away.