Evil for Evil

7

Just because you own a place, it doesn't necessarily follow that you've ever been there.

Miel Ducas leaned forward in the saddle and rubbed dust out of his eyes, leaving behind a silt of dirt and tears. If that big gray thing over there was Sharra Top (and there wasn't much else it could be) and the river he'd just crossed was the Finewater, he was quite definitely on Ducas land. The Ducas owned everything from the Longstone, two combes beyond Sharra, to the Finewater. It was, of course, only an insignificant part of their possessions, always referred to as (he laughed out loud at the thought) that miserable little northeastern strip that's no good for anything.

Miserable, yes. Not so bloody little.

He'd never been north of the Peace and Benevolence at Waters-head in his life; possibly he'd seen this land, from the Watershead beacon perhaps, or the watchtower of his hunting lodge at Caput Finitis. If so, it would have been a gray smudge, a vague blurring of the definition of the border of sky and land. Nobody lived here; a few of his more desperate tenants drove sheep up here occasionally to nibble round the clumps of couch grass, but he couldn't see any sheep, or anything living at all. He'd lost count of the days and nights since he'd escaped from the scavengers.

Nice irony: to get this far, just so he could starve to death on his own property. It would spoil the delicacy of it all to bear in mind that, properly speaking, it all belonged to the Mezentines now, by unequivocal right of conquest.

The horse didn't seem unduly worried about anything; the horse could eat grass.

Miel made an effort and tried to think sensibly. If that really was Sharra Top, the Unswerving Loyalty at Cotton Cross was two and a bit days' ride (in his condition, make that three full days) northwest. He was starving. Theoretically, he could kill the horse and eat it, but then he'd have to walk to the Loyalty, and in the state he was in, that was out of the question. If he made it to Cotton Cross and got something to eat (no money, of course) and then carried on toward the ruins of Civitas Eremiae, he'd have the problem of being in regularly patrolled enemy territory, in a place where someone would be bound to recognize him, assuming the Mezentines had left anybody alive up there…

Pointless, the whole thing. Particularly galling was the fact that he'd slaughtered two men in order to make his escape, and absolutely nothing to show for it. That wasn't a tragedy, that was stupid. The death of the Ducas could quite legitimately be tragic, but stupidity was an unforgivable crime against the family's good name. Nobody would know. He would know; and the opinion of the Ducas is the only one that matters.

In the end, the factor that decided the issue for him was the thought of how much energy he'd have to scrounge up from somewhere just to get off the horse. If he carried on riding until he was too weary and famished to stay in the saddle, presumably he'd just keel over and flop down among the grass tussocks and die. No effort needed. Let's do that, then.

As a last gesture of Ducas steadfastness, he pointed the horse's head toward Sharra before closing his eyes. Then he yawned hugely and let his chin sink forward. Every step the horse took jolted his neck.

After a while, it seemed reasonable enough that Death should be riding beside him. No hurry (Death was an urbane, considerate fellow), take your time, if you'll excuse the pun. This is all perfectly natural. Everybody dies.

He lifted his head (he knew his eyes were shut and his chin was resting awkwardly on the junction of his collarbones) and glanced round for one last look at his country; this part of his country, or a part of this part.

I've served Eremia all my life, he said, and now it's killing me. That's nice.

Death didn't approve. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, you should be thankful that you had the opportunity to devote your life to the common good. Come along, now, this is a solemn moment, you'd do well to act accordingly. More gratitude and less attitude, so to speak.

Miel sighed. Oh, absolutely, he said. And look where it's got me.

Now then, said Death. You've lived a life of luxury and privilege, not like those two poor devils you murdered. You've had everything.

No, Miel replied. Most things. Everything that money can buy.

Death clicked his tongue. The mere fact that you're making that distinction proves how privileged you've been. How many people in this world can say they own the land they die on?

Miel laughed, though he couldn't hear himself. You know, he said, I don't think anybody can own land; not great big slices of geography like this. It's a bit like when you see a small man getting dragged along behind a great big dog. Who's walking who?

Death sighed. I'd love to stay here and chat, but you clearly aren't thinking straight. Shall we go?

Not yet. Miel narrowed his eyebrows, as though he was doing long multiplication. I'll tell you something I never had. And it's something that nearly everybody else gets.

Oh, you mean love, Death said. Don't worry about that.

That's easy for you to say, Miel replied irritably. But it's important, it's one of the really important things that matter a lot. You can't just wave a hand and say don't worry about it.

Really?

Yes, really. I missed out on it, and it's not fair. I can hardly remember my parents, so I missed out on that sort of love. No wife, no kids-

You were in love with Veatriz Sirupati, Death pointed out, until she married your friend Orsea.

Doesn't count. She never loved me back.

True, Death replied. Well, maybe when you were both kids, and everybody thought she was going to marry you, for sound political and dynastic reasons.

You can't call persuading yourself to make the best of a bad job love. I'm sorry, but you won't budge me on that one. Love is really, really important, and I missed out entirely. Unfair.

No big deal, Death insisted. Love is a confidence trick, that's all. It's Nature's way of suckering a mammal with a brain and a long, vulnerable gestation period into reproducing. Humans can think, so ordinary animal-grade maternal instinct wouldn't be enough to make human women go through all that, not if they stopped and thought about what's involved. So you have love. It's a substitute for rational thought; look at it that way, it's the complete antithesis of what being human's all about. Humans can make choices, it's what makes them unique. Love takes all your choices away, and there you suddenly are. Worse still, love inevitably leads to the worst pain of all, when you lose the people you love. You might as well be getting all uptight with me because you've never had diphtheria.

I'm not listening, Miel said.

You are, you know. Think how utterly lucky you are. You'll die, and nobody will suffer unspeakable pain because you're not around anymore. Nobody loves you, even your best friend had you thrown in jail. You can die knowing you won't be hurting anybody. Now that's a real privilege.

I don't think I'll die after all, Miel answered, and opened his eyes.

It was getting dark. He considered stopping for the night, in case the horse stumbled and fell, but decided against it. If he was going to reach Cotton Cross before the last dregs of nutrient drained out of his blood, he needed to keep going. I have decided to go on living, he realized, out of pique, just to be difficult. Well.

He could have been lucky, or perhaps the horse was really a fire-dragon or the spirit of one of his ancestors, briefly assuming equine shape in order to keep him alive. In any event, it didn't trip and stumble in the dark, and when the sun rose he was appreciably closer to Sharra Top. Not nearly close enough, though.

In a dip of dead ground was a pool. The water was brown, so dark it was almost black (peat water, seeping up out of the saturated ground at this time of year). The horse put its head down to drink, and he couldn't be bothered to pull it up. He quite fancied a drink himself, in fact he was desperate for one; but that would mean dismounting, and he knew that if he did that, he'd never be able to get back on the horse. The point was academic because he was going to die, but his stubborn streak had worn through onto the surface, like cheap silver plating on a copper dish. I shall die of thirst instead of hunger, he decided, and then all of you who betted on starvation will lose your money. Serves you right. Ghouls.

The horse was still noisily sucking up water. He pulled on the reins to drag its head up, but it jerked back, snatching them out of his hands. He swore, leaned forward to retrieve them, and felt himself slipping, forward and sideways, out of the saddle. He writhed, trying to pull himself back, but it was too late. He'd passed the balance point.

Hell of a stupid way to die, he thought, as he fell. It seemed to take him a very long time to travel the few feet, long enough for him to feel disgust at the ridiculously trivial way his life was ending, and then for the disgust to melt into amusement. If he fell in the water in his state, he probably wouldn't have the strength to swim. Drowning, now; nobody would've bet on that.

The water wasn't deep, but the pool bottom was spongy and soft. He tried to put his weight on his feet, but instead they sank down; he felt peat mud fill his boots, squidging between his toes. He was up to his waist before he stopped sinking. He laughed.

Would being swallowed up in a bog count as drowning, or was it something rarer and unlikelier still? Typical Ducas, got to be different from everyone else. Thorough, too. When the Ducas resolves to die, he's privileged to be provided with a redundancy of alternative causes. Surplus and excess in all things.

"Hold on, don't move." It was a voice, faint on the edge of his awareness. "No, you clown, I said don't move, you'll just go further in." Move? Come to think of it, the voice was right. He was still trampling aimlessly up and down, and each thrashing kick dragged him further into the mud. But a voice…

"Now listen to me." The voice was calm but urgent. He liked it. The voice of a good man. "I'm going to throw you a rope, and I want you to grab hold of it and hang on. Can you hear me?"

"Yes," Miel heard himself say. "Where are you? I can't see you."

"Directly behind you." Ah, that'd account for it. Of course, he couldn't turn round to look. He felt something flop against his neck, looked down at his chest and saw the knotted end of a thin, scruffy hemp rope drooping over his shoulder like a scarf. "Got it?"

Miel nodded. He carefully wrapped his right hand round the rope's end, so that the heel of his hand was jammed against the knot. He had no strength to hold on with, but he might be able to keep his hand gripped shut. As an afterthought he folded, his left hand round the rope as well.

"Good boy. Don't let go, for crying out loud."

A second or two; nothing happened. Then the rope tried to pull away. He felt its fibers rasping into the soft skin of his neck. He was being hauled backward; he couldn't balance and his knees hinged. He was sure he was going to fall back, but remembered he couldn't. The rope jerked his hands up until his clenched fists bashed the underside of his chin. It was like being punched by a very strong man; he swayed, his eyes suddenly cloudy, nearly let go of the rope-would've let go, except that the knot was jammed against his hand. He could feel himself being gradually, unnaturally pulled, like a bad tooth being drawn. It didn't feel right at all. At the last moment, he tried to save his boots by curling his toes upwards, but he was wasting his time. His feet were yanked out of the boots like onions being uprooted. Now he fell; his backside and thighs were in the muddy water. He twisted round a half-turn, and a big stone gouged his hip painfully. He realized he was lying on his side on the grass. The rope's end was still gripped in his right hand; he'd let go with his left when the rope burned it.

Not drowning or smothering in mud, then. The thought crossed his mind, vivid and shocking as forked lightning, that maybe he wasn't going to die after all.

"It's all right," the voice was saying, "stay there, I'm coming." Miel grinned for pure joy and, quite unexpectedly, sneezed. The whole thing reminded him, for some reason, of a time when he'd seen a calf being born, hauled out of its wretched mother's arse on the end of a rope. So maybe I did die after all, he thought; maybe I died, and was reborn. As a cow.

The rope was tugging at him again. "Let go," the voice said, "it's all right." Miel wondered about that, realized that the owner of the voice wanted his rope back. Well, indeed; what with the price of rope and everything, why not? He let go.

"Right, let's have a look at you." He'd closed his eyes; he opened them, and saw a pair of boots. Old, fine quality, carefully waxed. He turned his head and looked up.

The voice's owner, his savior, was not quite as tall as his cousin Jarnac and not nearly as broad across the shoulders and chest. He was somewhere between forty and fifty years old, if the proportion of gray in his hair was anything to go by; his face was long, intelligent and somehow weak-looking. His hands were small and slender, and there was a big, shiny red scar running the length of his left forefinger; a civilian scar, Miel's instincts told him, rather than a military one. That came as something of a surprise. As well as the fine boots, he was wearing a short riding-coat (shiny and worn around the shoulders, suggesting that the man was in the habit of carrying heavy loads), breeches to match and long leather gaiters. The clothes could have come from Miel's own wardrobe. Correction; they were the sort of clothes he used to give to his grooms and his falconers, old but still perfectly good.

"I'm Tropea Framain," the man said. "Who're you?"

Miel hesitated before speaking. "Thanks," he said. "You saved my life there."

"I know. What did you say your name was?"

"I'm trying to get to Cotton Cross, but I lost my way. Do you think you could possibly…?"

"What?" Framain looked like he'd just remembered something important and obvious. "Oh, right. When did you last have anything to eat and drink?"

Miel shrugged. "Not sure."

"That bad. It's all right," Framain went on, "my place isn't far. If I help you up, do you think you could stay on your horse for half an hour?"

Framain's own horse turned out to be a fine-looking bay mare. The other end of the miraculous rope was tied to its girth, which explained how Miel had been pulled from the bog. For some reason he felt painfully guilty about not telling Framain his name when asked to do so. It was a perfectly civil request, and Framain had done the proper thing by disclosing his own identity first. For the Ducas, bad manners are one of the few unforgivable crimes.

They rode for a little less than the half-hour Framain had specified across an open, stony moor, with no trace of a building of any sort to be seen. The house appeared as though by magic; quite suddenly it was there, as if it had been lying down in the heather and had stood up when it heard its master approaching. In fact, it was concealed in a deceptively shallow saucer of dead ground. There was a big farmhouse, a long barn, a clump of stables, byres and other outbuildings, including one that looked like a giant beehive with a tall brick chimney; a covered well and a sheep-fold, large and empty. No sign of any livestock, unless you counted half a dozen thin-necked chickens pecking about in the yard. This man, Miel realized, isn't a farmer. In which case, what is he? He noticed that the thatch on the farmhouse roof was gray with age and neglect, but the barn roof was bright gold with new, unweathered reed.

"You'll have to excuse the state the place is in," Framain said (he hadn't spoken since they'd started to ride). "I'm on my own here, and there's a lot to do."

Miel muttered something polite. They rode down into the yard, which was open and unfenced. Framain dismounted, tied his horse to the fold rail, and helped Miel down. To his shame, Miel found he didn't have any strength left in his legs; he slithered off his horse, and Framain had to catch him.

"In here," Framain said, and helped him to the farmhouse door. It was open. Miel remembered that when they'd passed it, the barn door was shut; he'd noticed three heavy iron bars and padlocks.

The house was a mess: one long room, mostly filled with an enormous oak table, thick with dust. The windows were unshuttered and empty-no glass or parchment-and as they came in, two crows erupted from the middle of the table, where they'd been picking over a carcass on a broad pewter plate. They flew up and pitched in the rafters for a moment, cawing and shrieking angrily, then swooped low and sailed out through the nearest window. Framain didn't seem to have noticed them. The walls were paneled in the old style, but the wood was gray and open-grained, and in places the damp had warped and split it away from the masonry, leaving behind nails rusted into the stone like arrowheads snapped off in a wound. The floor was dusty and crunched as they walked on it. There were rat and mouse droppings on practically every surface, and the smell was a confused blend of every imaginable kind of decay. Ashes and clinker from the blackened fireplace had spread onto the floor like lava from a volcano, but a thin, straight plume of gray smoke rose up out of an extravagant heap of charcoal in the middle, and there was a full charcoal bucket nearby, next to a small table on which stood a fat, fresh loaf and a grimy earthenware jug. So somebody baked here, and kept the fire banked up, and fetched in the water.

"Like I said," Framain muttered, "it's just me. Sit down, I'll get you something to eat."

He hacked a massive plank of bread off the loaf with an edged tool that Miel couldn't identify but which was never meant for the purpose; then he stood for a moment, frowning and indecisive, before reaching up into the rafters and pulling down the dustiest side of bacon Miel had ever seen. He wiped it with his sleeve before slicing off a chunk the size of his hand. Putting it on top of the bread, he handed it to Miel. "There's water," he said, "or wine." He picked up the jug and peered into it, then poured some into a horn mug he found on the floor. "Better start with water if you're parched," he said. The water was gray and muddy with dust. Miel didn't mind that, or the muddy taste of the bacon, although it was as tough as saddle-leather and he hardly had enough strength in his jaws to chew it. The bread was fine.

Framain let him eat for a while; then he cleared his throat and said, "You're Miel Ducas."

Miel nodded. "You know me from somewhere."

Framain shook his head. "I've never seen you before," he said, "but it's not hard to figure out. You said you were heading for Cotton Cross when you got lost, but you'd never have heard the name unless you knew the area, and if you knew the area you wouldn't have got lost. I can tell from your voice that you're an Eremian of good family. When I asked you who you were you didn't answer, and you looked sheepish, so you're anxious to keep your identity a secret but you haven't had much practice at telling lies or pretending to be someone else. All this area used to be Ducas land, and it's common knowledge that the Ducas himself is leading the resistance. It wasn't terribly difficult to put it together."

Miel thought about the sword; the hanger he'd stolen from the scavengers and used to kill the two men with. He didn't have it with him, so either it was hanging by its hilt-bow from his saddle-hook or he must have dropped it somewhere; in any case, even if he had the strength to fight, it was too far away to be any use to him. He couldn't see any weapons in the room, apart from the cutting thing (a thatcher's spar-hook, he realized) that Framain had sliced the bread and bacon with. Forget it, he told himself; if Framain wanted to hand him over to the Eremians, there was precious little he could do about it until he'd got his strength back.

"That's me, then," he said. "I'm sorry I didn't answer you earlier, it was very bad manners."

"Understandable." Framain wasn't eating or drinking. "In case you're worried, I'm not-let's say, I'm not political. I like to stay out of everybody's way myself."

"I see," Miel said.

Framain laughed. "It's not what you're thinking," he said. "I'm not a criminal or anything, I just like a little privacy. Especially these days, with the Mezentines charging about, and refugees, not to mention your lot, the resistance. No offense, but I tend to regard the whole human race as just a lot of different subspecies of pest."

Miel smiled cautiously. "In that case," he said, "I apologize for intruding. And of course I'm really grateful-"

Apparently Framain wasn't interested in gratitude. "Anyway," he interrupted briskly, "you can stay here and feed yourself up until you're ready to move on, no problem there. You can call it repayment for arrears of rent, I suppose, since technically I'm a trespasser on your property. If you've finished your water, you might like a drop of the wine. You'll like it, it comes out of sealed bottles."

Miel laughed awkwardly, and Framain knelt down and scrabbled about under the table for a while, finally emerging with a glass bottle wound round with swathes of filthy black cobweb. It turned out to be very good wine indeed.

"Wasted on me," Framain said. "Actually, it's stuff my father laid down, about forty years ago. There were a dozen cases or so left when I came here, and I brought them with me. I don't tend to drink the stuff myself. I don't like the taste much, and it gives me heartburn."

Miel smiled politely, wondering how Framain's clothes came to be clean and respectable when he lived in such squalor. Then he remembered the barn, newly thatched and carefully locked.

"Can I ask what you do here?" he said.

"Can you ask?" Framain laughed. "No, you can't. Here, have some more of this stuff. They tell me it doesn't keep once it's been opened."

"I'm sorry," Miel said. "I didn't mean to cause offense."

"Of course you didn't, and you haven't." He stood up. "Now, if you'll excuse me, time's getting on and I'd better get started. Help yourself to anything you want," he added, gesturing vaguely at the surrounding squalor. "Feel free to roam around the place if you want to stretch your legs. I'd stay put here for a day or so if I were you, but if you're in a desperate hurry to get somewhere, carry on. I'll see you this evening, if you're still here."

Miel nodded. "Thank you again," he said. "If you hadn't come along when you did-"

"Well, there you go," Framain snapped, "generous impulses and so forth. Tell you what: when the Mezentines have been driven out and you get your land and your money back, you can make it up to me. All right?"

He left, and a little later Miel caught sight of him through the window that looked out onto the yard; he was standing at the top of the barn steps, opening the massive padlocks with keys he carried on a chain round his neck. Miel looked away, in case Framain noticed him watching. The Ducas does his best to avoid information that he shouldn't have, and forgets it straightaway if he stumbles across it accidentally.

The food and the wine (he finished off the bottle, as instructed) made him feel sleepy, and he woke up with his head cradled on his arms on the table. As he stirred, he startled a rat, which scuttled away into a castle of abandoned, heaped-up sacks and boxes. To his mild surprise, he felt a little stronger, though his neck hurt and his knees were cramped. Feel free to roam about the place; well, it might ease the cramp.

He stood up, wobbled and grabbed the edge of the table. When he released it again, his hands were grimy with black dust, which didn't brush off easily. He made an effort and went exploring.

In the far corner of the room was a staircase, narrow and twisted into a tight spiral, so that Miel had to climb part of the way on his hands and knees. Upstairs there was only one small room, about the size of a hayloft. Apart from dust, and a carpet of crisp brown beech leaves, it was empty. The only other room in the house was back downstairs, at the opposite end of the main room: a pantry with a stone-flagged sunken floor, presumably used for storing root vegetables in the cool. It was empty too; there was a small pool of black water at the far end, where the floor wasn't level. Evidently, then, Framain didn't sleep in the house, unless he curled up under the table like a dog, and Miel couldn't picture him doing that.

A mystery, then; but the world is full of mysteries. Generous impulses, Framain had said; someone who pulled strangers out of quagmires and gave them food and water (albeit mixed with dust) couldn't be a total misanthropist. True, he'd figured out who Miel was with depressing ease, but he wouldn't have known that when he made the decision to rescue him, so it was unlikely that his actions had been prompted by hope of ransom, as the scavengers' had been. The bottom line was that Miel was probably safe, for now, provided that he kept to the rules and didn't go poking about and annoying his host. Small price to pay. That said, he found the place depressing and vaguely revolting. It would be nice to leave and go somewhere else.

That reminded him; he dragged himself out into the fresh air. It was just starting to get dark. The barn door was shut up and locked again, all three padlocks in place in their hasps. Beyond it, he saw a thick column of black smoke rising from the chimney of the overgrown-beehive building he'd noticed earlier. Conceivably it could be a smokehouse, for curing hams and bacon and sausage. Perhaps that was what Framain did for a living. Perhaps.

His horse wasn't where he'd left it; after a rather draining search (still a very long way from a full recovery, then) he found it in a stable, along with the horse Framain had been riding and two others. The stable was much cleaner and tidier than the house: fresh straw, full mangers, clean water in the drinking troughs. His saddle and bridle had been hung neatly on a rack at the far end. The hanger was there too.

That was a comfort; he still had transport and defense, which implied that Framain was sincere about letting him go if and when he wanted to. Not, he realized, that he'd be likely to get very far if he saddled up and left immediately. Quite apart from his sad lack of strength, he had no food and nothing to carry water in. Maybe Framain would provide them, too, but that remained to be seen. Until the issue was resolved, their absence would keep him here just as effectively as a shackle and chain.

Suddenly realizing how weak he was feeling, he stumbled back into the house and flopped awkwardly onto the bench, banging his knee hard on the edge of the table in the process. It took him a while to recover from the strain of his excursion, and when he was alert enough to take an interest in his surroundings, he saw that the light was fading fast. He hadn't seen anything in the way of lamps, candles or tapers, but more or less anything could be buried in among the trash on the table. Gritting his teeth, he reached out and explored, mostly by feel. To his relief, he found a candle, or at least the stub of one; then he looked at the fireplace and saw that at some point the fire had gone out, so he had no means of lighting it. He sighed wearily, and realized that his right hand was resting on something flat and rectangular that felt as though it could almost be a book.

It was a book. Miel felt almost absurdly pleased; something to read-not tonight, obviously, but tomorrow, when he'd be spending the whole day in this horrible room. He turned in his seat and held the book up, so that the last rays of the sun glowed on its spine. Nothing to see there, however, so he opened it at random.

It was written in a proper clerk's hand, so it wasn't just some homemade effort, but the letters were painfully, frustratingly small. He wriggled round a little further, screwed his eyes up, and read: To make green. Take thin sheet copper, soak in warm vinegar in an oak box, allow to stand for two weeks, remove and scrape when dry. To make vermilion…

Oh well, Miel thought, and decided that on balance it could wait until the morning, when he could steep himself in it without torturing his eyes. Vermilion, he thought; wasn't that some kind of fancy word for red? Maybe the reclusive and mysterious Framain would turn out to be nothing but a painter, a churner-out of court scenes and hunting scenes on limewood panels or a prettifier of manuscripts. He heard himself laugh; it took him a moment to identify the sound.

Maybe he closed his eyes, just for a moment. When he opened them again, it was broad daylight. No sign of Framain, but someone had left another bottle of the good wine and a plate of bread and rawhide-pretending-to-be-bacon next to him on the table. Thankfully, no birds or rodents this time. He yawned and stretched. He was feeling much better. Good.

He ate his breakfast. Chewing up the bacon should've counted as a full day's work for a healthy man, but Miel managed to do it with only three breaks for rest. That, he reckoned, was a sign that he was well on the road to recovery; in which case, he was fit enough to get out of this strange place and be on his way, wherever that was. There remained, however, the matter of provisions for his journey, and containers to carry them in. He looked round. Yesterday's empty wine bottle was still where he'd left it, and there was a full one to go with it. The remains of the loaf stood on the small table. The bacon was presumably back up in the rafters, but as far as he was concerned it could stay there. He rummaged for a while through the trash on the table, but about the only thing he didn't find there was anything capable of holding water. He took another look at the room and decided to risk it. He didn't feel comfortable here.

Manners demanded that he say thank you and goodbye to his host, but he'd got the impression that his host really wouldn't mind if he neglected that duty. He picked up the empty bottle and walked out into the blissfully clean, fresh air, heading for the well.

Bright morning; the damp grass and the smell of wet foliage told him it had rained earlier, while he was still asleep. He found the well easily enough. It hadn't been there very long, if the color of the mortar between the stones was anything to go by. He wound down the bucket; it took a long time for it to reach the water.

"Who the hell are you?" A woman's voice, right behind him. He turned and saw a tall, slim woman wearing man's clothes (linen shirt, cord breeches, gaiters; almost identical to those Framain had been wearing). She had dark hair, pulled back tight into a bun. He guessed she was his own age or a few years younger, but it was hard to tell because her face was so dirty.

Soot, he realized; there were pale rings round her eyes, and white patches on her cheeks and the tip of her nose. The rest was dull matt black, like a well-leaded stove. Her hands were filthy too, though the cuffs of her shirt were merely grimy. She was scowling at him, as though he was a servant she'd caught stealing cheese from the larder.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, before he'd had time to figure out what he was apologizing for. "My name's Miel Ducas." Obviously that didn't mean anything to her. "The, um…" (Couldn't remember the wretched man's name.) "Tropea Framain let me stay here last night. Actually, he saved my life; I'd got stuck in a quagmire up on the-"

Clearly she wasn't interested in anything like that. "He didn't say anything about guests," she said.

"Oh." Come on, Miel chided himself, you're a trained diplomat, you've negotiated trade agreements with the Cure Doce and extradition treaties with the Vadani, you can do better than oh. "Well, I'm sure if you were to ask him…"

"He's busy." Statements didn't come more absolute than that. "What're you doing?"

He held out the bottle. "I was just getting some water from the well."

"What for?"

"Well, my journey," he said. "Actually, I'm just leaving."

Her scowl deepened. "What're you doing round here?"

"I got lost," he said. "I was heading for the inn at Cotton Cross, but I must've-"

"Where were you coming from?"

Now that, he had to concede, was a very good question. He had no idea, beyond the fact that the scavengers lived there.

"Merebarton," he said, in desperation. (It had been the name of one of the fields behind the house when he was growing up at the Ducas country seat at Staeca. Why it should've been the first name to come into his head, he had no idea.)

"Never heard of it."

"Small place," Miel said casually. "Just a farmhouse and a few outbuildings in the middle of nowhere, really. About a day and a half's ride the other side of the Finewater."

"You were heading from the Finewater toward Cotton Cross and you got lost?"

"Lousy sense of direction."

"You just head straight for Sharra Top. It's the only mountain on the moor. You'd have to be blind-"

"My mother always said I wasn't fit to be let out on my own," he said wearily. "But it's all right, Framain's given me clear directions. Just head straight for the mountain, like you said."

She was still frowning at him. "You won't get much water in there," she said.

"It was all I could find."

"You should've asked Father. He'd have given you a water-bottle or a jug."

"He went out before I woke up," Miel said. "And I didn't want to bother him."

She thought about that; weighed it and found it didn't balance. "What were you doing in-what was that place you said?"

"Merebarton." He trawled his brains, even toyed with telling her the whole truth. "Visiting relatives," he said.

"I see." Without thinking or not caring, she dragged the back of her hand across her forehead, plowing white furrows in the soot. Miel (trained diplomat) kept a straight face. "Well, if you're leaving, don't let me stop you."

Miel dipped his head in a formal bow, cursory-polite. Someone familiar with Eremian court protocol would have recognized it at once as the proper way to acknowledge a statement or reply from a person of considerably inferior social standing. It was (he trusted) completely lost on her, but it just about constituted honorable revenge. "Nice to have met you," he said, and he concentrated his mind on the job of filling the wine bottle from the bucket. But the edge of the well surround was narrow, and he obviously wasn't concentrating enough, because the bucket toppled out of control and slopped nearly all its contents down the front of his trousers.

There was a snigger somewhere behind him, but he didn't turn round. Still enough water in the bucket to fill the bottle, provided he could just balance…

He swore. It was at least a second and a half before he heard the splash that told him his bottle was now at the bottom of the well.

"Don't you hate it when that happens?" said the voice he was rapidly coming to loathe.

He considered the feasibility of crossing the moor with nothing to drink except one bottle of fine vintage red wine, and reluctantly dismissed it. "Do you think your father would let me have a bottle or a jug?" he said plaintively.

"I expect so."

"Could you possibly tell me where he is, so I can ask him?"

"He's busy."

"Then maybe you could be terribly kind and ask him for me."

"All right. Or I expect I could find you something."

"Thanks," Miel said. "I'd really appreciate that."

She'd turned, and was walking back toward the house. "What did you say your name was?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Miel Ducas."

The back of her head nodded. "Anything to do with the big landowning family?"

"Yes."

"Nice for you." Her shoulders expressed a total and overriding disdain for the Ducas and all their works. "And you were out in the middle of nowhere at-sorry, it's gone again, the place you just came from…"

"Merebarton."

"Merebarton," she repeated carefully, "visiting relatives. Big family."

"Very big, yes."

She spun round, with the deliberate poise of a fencer performing the volte. "Miel Ducas is the leader of the resistance," she said, and all the melodrama didn't alter the fact that she was very angry. "If the Mezentines come here, or your people, or the Vadani-anyone-it'll ruin everything. My father's given everything for this, I've been here helping him my entire life. How dare you come here and jeopardize everything we've worked for?"

Miel took a step back, but only from force of habit. Nobody in a furious rage uses words like jeopardize. He looked her in the eyes, ignoring the pink smudges on her cheeks and nose; it was like facing down a merchant over a big deal. "You want something from me," he said pleasantly. "Why don't you just tell me what it is?"

He'd watched men working in a foundry once, and seen them draw the plug from the bottom of the cupola, when the furnace had reached full heat and the melt was ready to pour. The white-hot iron had flooded out, dazzling bright, rushed toward him like a tide, so that he'd jumped back; but as it surged it slowed, and he could see it take the cold, fading from white to yellow. Her eyes were cold like the cooling iron as it grew solid in the bloom.

"What makes you think-" she started to say, but he frowned and cut her off.

"If it's something I'm physically capable of doing," he said, "I'll do it. I owe your father my life. Just tell me what it is."

She frowned. "I don't trust you," she said.

"Oh well." He shrugged. "We'll just have to go slowly, then. Right now, all I want out of life is an empty bottle. This makes me an unusually straightforward person. How about you? What do you want?"

She looked at him for a long time. "Sulfur," she said.

It wasn't what he'd been expecting her to say. "Sulfur," he repeated.

"That's right. You do know what sulfur is, don't you?"

Miel raised his eyebrows. "I think so," he said. "It's a sort of yellow powdery stuff you find in cracks in the rocks sometimes. People use it to fumigate their houses during the plague, and I think you can mix it with other stuff to make slow-burning torches. Is that right, or am I thinking of something completely different?"

"That's sulfur," she said. "We need some. Can you get it for us?"

Miel frowned. "I really don't know," he said. "I mean, yes, before the war; I expect the housekeeper or the head gardener would've had some, somewhere. Now, though, I haven't a clue. Is it hard to come by?"

"Not in a city, where there're traders," she replied quickly. "You'd be able to get it in Civitas Vadanis."

"But I'm not-" He stopped; he'd said the wrong thing. "Anywhere else?"

"Well, the Mezentines've probably got barrels of it, but I don't like the idea of asking them."

"I mean," he said patiently, "is there anywhere you can go and dig it out for yourself, rather than buying it?"

She laughed. "Good question," she said. "There used to be a deposit on the east side of Sharra. That's where Father had been, I suppose, when he came across you. But it's all gone now. Used up. We need to find another supply. You're the bloody Ducas," she said, with a sudden, unexpected spurt of anger, "you've got soldiers and horses and God knows what else, you could arrange for a couple of wagonloads of sulfur, if you wanted to."

He sighed. "I said I'd do anything you wanted, if I can. How urgently…?"

"Now. As soon as possible."

He thought for a moment. "Well," he said, "it'll take me, what, three days to reach Cotton Cross; then, if I take the main road, assuming I don't get caught by the Mezentines or run into some other kind of trouble, I should reach Merveilh inside a week. Would they have any there, do you think?"

"Merveilh? No. Tried that. It's just a stupid little frontier post, and the merchants don't go that way because they don't like paying border tolls."

"Fine. Merveilh to Civitas Vadanis-I don't know how long that'd take," he confessed. "I've never gone there that way. Five days?"

"Something like that."

"Then allow a full day to get the sulfur, and however long it takes to get back again." He smiled. "That's my best offer," he said. "Any use to you?"

She looked at him. "That wasn't what I had in mind," she said.

"Oh. What…?"

"I thought you could go back to your army and send some of your men."

He grinned, like a crack in a beam or a tear in cloth. "No good," he said. "I don't even know if there is a resistance anymore, and if there is, I'm through with it."

(And all because his hand had slipped on a bottle, and it had fallen into a well. If he'd managed to keep hold of the stupid thing, he'd be on his way by now, free and clear and heading for a life entirely without purpose or meaning.)

"You don't expect me to believe that."

"Why not?"

"You're a patriot. You fight for the freedom of Eremia. You couldn't just turn your back on it and walk away."

"I was rather hoping to try."

She shook her head. "Someone like you," she said, "if you're not leading people or in charge of something, you'd just sort of fade away. You'd be like the air inside a bag without the bag."

For some reason, he didn't like her saying that. "Do you want your sulfur, or don't you?"

"Of course I want it, or I wouldn't have mentioned it." She grinned sardonically at him through her covering of soot. "But the chances of you getting it for me…" She shrugged. "Like I said," she went on, "we keep ourselves to ourselves here, we don't want anybody dropping in. Go away, don't come back, and forget us completely, and that'll do fine. Wait here, I'll get you your bottle."

She came back a few minutes later, holding a two-gallon earthenware jar in a snug wicker jacket. It was corked, and from the way she leaned against its weight as she carried it, full. "Keep it," she said, reaching in her pocket, "don't bother bringing it back, even if you just happen to be passing. And in here there's a pound of cheese and some oatcakes, they'll be better than bread, they won't go stale. You know where the stable is, presumably."

As soon as he'd taken the water and the cloth bag containing the food she walked away. He saw her go into the house, and knew she'd gone there because he'd be watching, not because she had any business there. He shook his head. Sulfur, he thought. It would've been something to do.

Later, he couldn't remember saddling the horse and riding out of the hidden combe. He was thinking about itineraries, carters, women in red dresses who could get things you wanted if you had the money, which of course he didn't, not anymore. When it was too dark to see his way, he dismounted and sat on the ground, holding the horse's reins, still thinking, but not about sulfur or trade routes or who he knew in Civitas Vadanis who might lend him some money. The daylight woke him and he carried on, making excellent time; he'd abandoned the road and was cutting straight up the side of the hill. The horse wheezed and resented the exercise, but he kept a tight rein; not really his horse, after all, so it didn't matter what state it was in when he got there, just so long as he made it quickly. When night fell a second time he curled up behind an outcrop, out of the wind, and waited for dawn without falling asleep. Shortly after noon the next day, he saw smoke rising from the double chimneys of the Unswerving Loyalty and realized-the thought startled him-that somehow he'd made it and he was still alive.

No money, of course. He grinned. He'd have to sell the horse, and then what?

As he came close enough to hear, he could make out voices, a great many of them. He wondered about that. Mezentines; no, they'd have burned the place to the ground. His men, perhaps; unlikely. All right, then, who else would be roaming about this godforsaken moor in a large party? All he could think of was a big caravan of merchants; possible, if they were being forced to go all round the houses these days to avoid the war.

But it wasn't merchants. The horses he saw as he rode into the yard were too big and too fine, and there were bows and quivers hanging from their saddles, and boots to rest spear-butts attached to the stirrups. Very fine horses indeed; and the Loyalty's ostlers and grooms were looking after them with a degree of enthusiasm he wouldn't have expected to see if they belonged to the invaders. Besides, he knew enough about horses to recognize the coveted, valuable Vadani bloodline. He grinned as he passed under the fold gate. Can't go anywhere in Eremia these days without bumping into the Vadani cavalry.

There were two dozen or so men milling about in the yard, but the one he noticed straightaway had his back to him. He was talking to a short man in a leather apron-a farrier, quite possibly, not that he cared worth a damn. The man with his back to him was extremely tall and broad-shouldered, and there was something achingly familiar about the way the presumed farrier was edging away backward, uncomfortable about being loomed over in such an intrusive way.

The troopers stooped talking and stared at him as he rode past them; maybe some of them knew who he was. One of them called out a name as he passed. The tall, broad man looked round and stared at him, and his face exploded into a huge, happy grin.

Miel reined in his horse, dismounted, reached the ground clumsily, nearly fell over. He smiled at the tall man.

"Hello, Jarnac," he said.

Miel Ducas had never really cared much for beer: too sweet, too full of itself, and the taste stayed with you for hours afterward. After Framain's vintage wine and dusty water, it tasted heavenly.

"We'd given up on you," Jarnac said for the fifth time, tilting the jug in spite of Miel's protests. "No trace of you at the scavengers' camp; they swore blind they'd never seen you, we knew they were lying, we assumed they'd cut your throat or sold you to the Mezentines. Anyhow, they won't be bothering anybody anymore." He opened his face and filled it with beer, best part of a mugful. Alcohol had never affected Jarnac at all, except to magnify him still further. "Should've known you'd be able to take care of yourself, of course. Bunch of thieves and corpse-robbers weren't going to keep hold of you for long."

Miel made a point of not asking what had happened to the scavengers. Instead, "Jarnac," he said.

"Yes?"

"Do you think you could lay your hands on three wagonloads of sulfur?"

Jarnac lowered his mug and put it down on the table, like a chess-player executing a perfect endgame. "Sulfur," he repeated. "What the hell do you want with that?"

"I need some to give to somebody."

Jarnac shrugged. You could practically see doubt and confusion being shaken away, like a horse bucking a troublesome rider. "Should be able to get some from somewhere," he said. "Merchants sell it, don't they? Or we could probably requisition some from Valens' lot. Theoretically, I've still got an open ticket with the Vadani quartermaster's office."

Miel frowned. "It'd probably be better if we bought it," he said. "Talking of which, have you got any money?"

Big, Jarnac-sized laugh. "I'll be honest with you," he said, "I really don't know. Ever since I've been with Valens' lot, I haven't actually needed any. But I'm a serving officer in the Vadani cavalry, so I guess they're paying me. Not a problem," he went on, before Miel could interrupt. "Three wagonloads of sulfur, as soon as we get back to headquarters. Anyhow," he went on, "the war. Well, I'm not quite sure where to start. Strikes me, the more battles we win, the further we retreat, which I suppose is probably sensible since it's strictly a hiding to nothing, but it makes it a bit hard to keep score, if you know what I mean. To cut a long story short, though; no easy way to say this, Valens is cutting you loose. No more support for the resistance-which is short-sighted of him if you ask me, because…"

Miel kept nodding, but he wasn't interested. He was thinking, not for the first time, about the book he'd found on Framain's table, and a beehive-shaped building with a chimney, a woman with soot all over her face, and sulfur. It was a strange mash of thoughts to have crammed inside his head, but as he turned it over and over again, he realized that it had grown to fill all the available space, driving out everything else-the war, Eremia, the Ducas, honor, duty, loyalty, Orsea, Veatriz…

He looked up. Jarnac was wiping beer foam out of his mustache and talking earnestly about the weaknesses in the Mezentine supply lines. Behind his head, the paneling was gray and open-grained, and smoke curled into the room from a clogged fireplace.

Surely not, Miel thought; not in the middle of all this, with the world coming to an end.