The Escapement

6

Two horsemen. For a long time they were black dots on a green and brown background. Then they grew vestigial arms, legs and heads. The sun helped, flashing obligingly off steel, to show they were probably soldiers, though that was more or less inevitable, in context. The colour of their horses came next (one chestnut, one grey), and after that the pointed profile of their helmets, which meant that they were almost certainly Aram Chantat. At four hundred yards, the hypothesis was confirmed by the length of their coats, reaching almost to their ankles.

Today the hunt would be bow and stable. He didn't mind that. It suited the nature of the quarry. Parforce against dangerous game was all very well if you had twelve couple of hounds, a small army of beaters and a dozen huntsmen to ward the angles, but for one man on his own it simply wasn't practical. Jarnac would've agreed with him, if he'd been there.

Quickly, now that they were closing, he chose the ground. Assuming they were following the road, as they'd been doing for the past hour, they would cross the little river at the ford and start to climb the winding path that led up to his vantage point among the granite outcrops. His choices, therefore, were up here among the rocks, or down at the ford itself, where the stream had scooped out an embankment just large enough for a man to crouch under, if he didn't mind getting soaked. He consulted his knowledge of the quarry species: wary, intelligent, quick to bolt and dangerous once engaged. They'd see the outcrops and be on their guard, reasoning that the great stones provided excellent cover. They'd assume that an attacker would choose that advantage over the very meagre concealment offered by the river bank. Therefore, as they entered the ford, their eyes and minds would be on the high ground, rather than their immediate environment. So, he'd engage them at the ford. No choice, really.

To get from the hilltop to the ford without breaking the skyline meant scrambling down the shale on the south-east side of the mountain, cutting across the dead ground under the lee of the reverse slope, then splashing up the river bed to the ford. The horsemen weren't in any hurry, but he was on foot. He'd have to run.

These days he was fast and nimble, in spite of the lingering bother with his right ankle (which would heal itself with a month's rest, but he had to hunt at least once a week or starve). He made good time down the shale, put on a spurt on the flat and forced himself through the water, which was chest-high in places, nearly sweeping him off his feet. Even so, he only just made it in time. As he stood on tiptoe to peer ever so cautiously over the lip of the embankment, the horsemen were less than thirty yards away. Cutting it very fine indeed.

He thought hard and quickly. Could he still abort and get away? Probably; if they saw him, they wouldn't be inclined to follow him up the river. Should he abort, or could he still make it? Yes, he could, provided the first shot was dead on target at twenty yards and he managed to renock smoothly without fumbling. Being in the river bed gave him the slight but deciding edge. A sensible rider wouldn't try and take his horse down into the water. Accordingly, if he missed one of them, he'd still have a better than half chance of making time and distance for a third shot, before the horseman could dismount to come after him.

The mental staff meeting had lasted five yards (a hunter learns to measure time in units of distance), so it had to be now. He drew the prongs of the nock over the string until he felt them engage, and pictured the target in his mind as he stood up. A nice touch, and one he'd figured out for himself; it wasn't in King Fashion or the Art and Practice.

His head cleared the top edge of the bank, and his mental image of an armoured horseman's chin and neck merged with the real thing. A quarter of a second saved at the point of target acquisition makes all the difference in the world. He'd begun the draw as he started to rise, combining the two movements so as to share effort; the straightening of his knees and back fed power into the draw as well as standing him upright. As soon as his spine straightened, he felt his right thumb brush the corner of his mouth, which told his three fingers to relax and allow the string to pull away. He must have taken aim, but he couldn't remember doing it.

This time, he actually saw the arrow bend. They said it wasn't possible, the movement was too quick for the human eye to catch. But he was sure he saw it (his hand was already drawing the next arrow out of his belt), the fishtailing of the arrow as it straightened out of the flex imparted to it by the violent impact of the string. When the arrow hit (inch perfect, just below the chin, the blade cutting the helmet strap before disappearing into the flesh), he'd got the nock of the second one between his fingertips and was feeling it on to the string.

The second horseman (the first no longer mattered) must have heard his danger before he saw it. His reactions were superb. He'd lifted his shield to cover his neck and upper body before he even started to turn his head, and by the time his comrade-in-arms hit the ground, he'd already pulled his horse round to face the attack, thus presenting a much smaller target.

As he pushed his left hand against the bow, he knew he wasn't going to make it. The shot would go home, but either the shield would blank it off or it'd hit armour and only wound instead of killing. Dangerous game with reflexes that quick wouldn't allow him enough margin for a reliable third shot. So, in the last fraction of a second before his thumb stroked his lip, he pulled the arrowhead down on to the forehead of the horse. As the arrow flew (he didn't see the flex this time), he assessed the consequences of the change. He'd lose the value of the horse, a third of his catch, but he'd survive. No option.

The arrow hit the horse in its right eye; not where he'd aimed, but the effect was better, since it had time to rear before it died. Instead of throwing its rider, therefore, it fell on top of him. There was a clearly audible crack as the rider's thigh broke. Suddenly, there was all the time in the world.

He walked three yards down the river bed to the ford, saving himself the effort of scrambling over the embankment, and stopped to look. No movement. The first rider lay on his face, the arrow shaft flat on the ground, at right angles; probably broken, which was a pity. His horse had run on a few paces and then stopped. It lifted its head to look at him, then stooped gracefully to feed. All he could see of the second rider was an arm sticking out from under the fallen horse, which was shuddering the way dead bodies do and living ones don't. The arm was completely still, suggesting it too was broken.

Even so. Instead of walking straight up to it, he circled, to get a clearer view. He didn't have to go far. The rider was still alive, but he wasn't even trying to move. His eyes blinked and squinted, implying that his vision was blurred. Safe enough, then, to close the distance to five yards before taking the third shot.

Plenty of time for a careful, deliberate aim; so, of course, he missed, by a handspan, pulling left and burying the arrow deep in the crupper of the saddle. That made him swear out loud. Half the value of the saddle wasted. He nocked his fourth and last arrow. If he missed again, he'd have to make the dispatch with a stone or a weapon taken from one of the bodies, and there was always a chance that arm wasn't really broken after all.

But the fourth shot, though not perfect, was close enough; it hit the forehead just under the rim of the helmet, slightly gashing the steel (but two minutes with a file and a bit of brick would see to that) before the taper of the arrow blade fed it into the skull. Job done.

Now, of course, the panic started. First, catch and secure the horse. Mercifully it held still and let him grab the reins; he found a heavy stone, wrapped the reins round it three times and put it on the ground. Next, strip the first body, because the second was going to be miserably complicated by the dead horse, and he might have to abandon it and run if he caught sight of anyone coming on the road. Boots first; he had the knack of the twist and jerk that frees a boot easily from a dead man's foot. Next the helmet (damaged strap; easy to replace), then the mailshirt. A bit like skinning a deer; you start at the knees and work it up over the neck (a foot on the chest helps with leverage) before the final tug to free the sleeves from the elbows, taking care not to fall over backwards when it finally comes away. Similar procedure for the padded arming doublet: trousers just a straight pull, after you've lifted the body and put a big stone under the small of the back. One ring, bronze, on the left hand. Then the trousers go inside the helmet, which rolls up inside the arming doublet, which in turn rolls up in the mailshirt, secure into a bundle with the belt, which forms a handy carrying strap. Load it on to the horse, along with the sword, bow, quiver, spear and shield. Everything else is waste; leave it for the crows and foxes to clear up for you.

Number two was going to be a real pain. At first he thought he was going to have to saw the arrow out of the skull, but miraculously it came away on the third tug, without even breaking the shaft. It was a good arrow, numbered seven out of the original sheaf of twelve. He wiped it on the grass, and turned his attention to the problem of shifting the dead horse off the body. Just grabbing a leg and hauling didn't get him anywhere, and he gave up when his back started to give notice. Then he realised he was being stupid. He stripped off the dead horse's bridle, unbuckled the reins, tied them together. Not long enough. After a minute of painful indecision, he decided to risk it and took the living horse's reins off as well. Just as well the horse was docile and good-natured; it stayed where it was, happily munching the coarse, fat river bank grass as he tied one end of the improvised rope to its girth. Then he led it by its throatstrap over to where the dead horse lay, and tied the other end to the outstretched back nearside hoof.

Problem solved, but it all took time; as did putting the reins back on the good horse and securing them with a stone, as before. When you're in a hurry, of course, inanimate objects start picking on you. The mailshirt simply didn't want to come, and he ended up having to cut the laces at the neck. By the time he'd wrestled off the arming doublet he was starting to get uncomfortably nervous, so he decided to abandon the dead horse's saddle (damaged, anyway) Then, just to be awkward, the piled-up stuff wouldn't sit right on the horse. He'd only gone five yards when half of it slithered off on to the ground, which meant unloading the whole lot and stowing it all again, this time using the spare reins and the uncut mailshirt laces to tie it down.

With all the delays, no wonder it was pitch dark by the time he got home. He led the horse into the stable, took off the bundled gear, dumped it in the feed bin and covered it over with hay, not that that was going to fool anybody if they came looking; then unsaddled, hid the harness, gave the horse its hay net and bucket of water, stuck his bow and quiver up in the rafters and stomped back through the muddy yard to the house.

As he opened the door, she called out, "Miel, is that you?"

"For crying out loud," he sighed. "Who else would it be?"

"Any luck?"

Her choice of words made him smile. Fifteen years ago, his mother always asked him the same question when he came back from the hunt, exhausted, his clothes ruined, usually dripping blood from some alarming-looking cut or other. What she meant was, "Did anybody die, have you been disfigured or maimed for life, am I going to have to think up endless ways for the kitchens to deal with mountains of perishable dead animals and birds, and do try not to track blood across the carpets." The same words; but now they meant, you'd better have got something this time, or I don't know what we're going to do.

"Yes," he said, stepping out of his boots and checking them for splashes of blood. "Is there anything to eat? I'm starving."

"Not unless you brought it with you."

Good point. He hadn't checked the saddlebags. "Just a moment," he called out, and squirmed his feet back into his boots. Easier to get a dead foot out of a boot than a living foot into it.

It was noticeably darker now, and he had to grope around in the feed bin till he found a saddle. A quick fumble with the saddlebag straps. Yes!

Back in the house, in the light, he examined his trophy. Oh well, he thought, better than nothing. By all accounts the savages thrived on it.

"Well?" she said.

She had a blanket, Vadani military issue, over her shoulders, her hair tucked in under it. Her eyes were red from the smoke of the peat-fed fire and its thoroughly inadequate chimney. She couldn't understand why he kept making excuses instead of fixing it. He was ashamed to admit he was scared to death of fooling about up ladders,

"Cheese and smoked meat," he said cheerfully. A sort of truth.

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh," she said. "The savages again."

Of course she had every right to complain. Mares'-milk cheese and wind-cured smoked horsemeat; you wouldn't feed it to a dog, and if you did, the dog would just look at you. But it was the way she said it, and the look on her face. "I can't help it," he snapped (the Ducas is always courteous and polite, especially to ladies). "I was lucky to find anything at all, and even luckier to get away with it. I can't just send a runner down to the market and tell them to send me up a colonel's wife and a couple of merchants."

"It's all right," she said, meaning the exact opposite. "Get any horses?"

"One."

She didn't sniff, but the effort cost her dear. "It's not branded, is it? You did check."

Of course he hadn't, and he should have. The savages branded their horses, quite a complex vocabulary of dots, dashes and squig-gles. Nobody would dare buy a branded horse, not even for the bones and hide. "I didn't have time," he replied lamely. "It wasn't exactly straightforward."

Her expression told him she was in no mood for hunting stories. Needless to say, Cousin Jarnac wouldn't have taken any notice. If he really wanted to tell you, nothing short of feigning a stroke would get you off the hook. "Oh well," she said. "We'll get something for the boots, at any rate."

They ate the mares' cheese and horsemeat in solemn silence, apart from the grimly resigned sound of chewing. One good thing about horse jerky: it left the jaws too weary for talking afterwards. When he went out to fetch more fuel for the fire, he noticed the peat stack was getting low again. Another of his favourite jobs to look forward to.

That night, in bed, she said: "We can't go on like this much longer."

He'd be hard put to it to disagree with that, on several levels. "Got any better ideas?"

She appeared not to have heard him. "It's five days before the buyer's due back again, assuming he's still coming. He said last time it wasn't really worth his while coming out this far."

"That's just bargaining talk."

"And quite apart from that, there's the risk. He said he can talk his way round Eremians, and Vadani take bribes, but if he gets stopped by the savages, he doesn't want to think what'd happen. And fairly soon, of course, the war's going to start up again and then the market'll be flooded. And if it's true the Cure Doce have sided with the Mezentines, will their buyers still be able to cross the border? And if they close off the Lonazep road-"

"All right," Miel grunted, "you've made your point. There's no future in it, I entirely agree. But what the hell else am I supposed to do?"

"I'm not blaming you, I'm just saying." That flat tone of voice, more corrosive than any reproaches. "We aren't making ends meet now, and it's only going to get worse. That's all."

"I'm not doing this because I enjoy it, you know. It's bloody hard work, and most of the time I'm scared out of my wits. I'd love to do something else, it's just that there isn't anything. Well, is there?"

Silence. If such a thing were possible, her silences were worse than anything she could find to say. Well, fine, he thought. If that's the end of the discussion, I'll go to sleep now.

"By the way," she said, "I think I'm pregnant."

The Ducas is always positive, upbeat and optimistic. Even when he has personal misgivings, he's under an obligation to uphold the morale of those around him and put the best possible interpretation on any given turn of events.

"Well? Aren't you going to say anything?"

"Are you sure?"

"Not yet." A slight sharpening of the voice, as she added: "But I thought I'd better let you know there's a distinct possibility. Just in case you give a damn."

The Ducas is always positive; the Ducas is always courteous; the Ducas is always considerate of the feelings of his household and inferiors. "Of course I give a damn," he snapped. "It's just… well, I don't know what to say. I wasn't expecting anything like this."

"Really?" Now it was a voice he could've shaved with. "You surprise me. I'd have thought at some point someone would've briefed you on where little aristocrats come from. I thought it was such a big deal, ensuring the succession."

Mere vulgar chiding; he was under no obligation to reply to that. He lay still in the dark, trying to think. Correction: trying to care.

"We could go to the Vadani," she said.

He was too tired to be angry. "No we can't."

"We can. It's the only-"

"For crying out loud, they were going to kill us."

Patient sigh. He found her patience almost unendurable. "First, they won't remember me. Second, things are different now. The duke's married her." Pause. "Your girlfriend."

"She was never-"

"You were going to marry her. You were best friends when you were kids. You got arrested because you hid that letter, for her sake. She's not going to let him have you killed." Another pause. Perfect timing, like a great actor. "We'd be safe," she said. "You wouldn't have to stay with me if you don't want to."

"It's not like that, of course I want to stay with you, that's not the point…"

She ignored him. "If we stay out here, we're going to starve to death. Or one day a soldier's going to kill you, instead of the other way round. Or the savages will catch us with a branded horse. There's loads of ways it could all go wrong. But if we go to Duke Valens, at the very least he'll feed us, he'll give us a place to sleep, even if it's in a prison. It's got to be better."

He felt like he was choking on feathers. "I can't go to the Vadani," he said. "For God's sake, I've been murdering their soldiers for the last four months."

"They don't know that."

"Maybe not, but what if one of the buyers shows up and recognises me? I don't suppose Duke Valens is going to be very impressed, do you?"

"That's hardly likely, is it?" He felt her move beside him. "And even if it did happen, she could protect you. She could, I'm sure of it. Think about it, will you? He had her husband killed, that's got to be a really serious issue between them. You were her husband's best friend, you and she were going to get married, it was because of that bloody letter he wrote that you nearly got killed then. If you deny it, say you never killed any soldiers and it's all a mistake, he'll have to pretend to believe you, for her sake." Even in the dark, he could feel her tears coming. When she started crying, all he wanted to do was hit her. "If you're going to let your stupid pride stand between us and our only chance of staying alive…"

"All right," he said. "All right, I'll think about it."

"I know what that means. It means no."

"No it doesn't. I'll think about it. There may be another way, something else we could-"

"No there isn't. You said there isn't. You said so yourself."

"For pity's sake," he groaned, "have we got to do this now, when I'm completely exhausted? You always do this, start on me when I've had enough, when I'm too tired to think."

She laughed. "The only time I ever see you is when you're worn out," she said. "The rest of the time you're out, hunting soldiers. God almighty," she added, "will you just listen to that? Out hunting soldiers, what a bloody ridiculous way to make a living. All right, my husband used to go round battlefields robbing bodies, but at least they were already dead. And look what happened. They caught him and cut his head off for it. You're killing live soldiers just to get their boots, and you're saying we can't go to the Vadani because it's too dangerous."

Tears any second now; anything rather than that. "You don't understand," he said. "It's…"

"It's what? Well? Are you going to try and tell me you're scared? Like, more scared than picking off soldiers, two, three, four against one? No, it's that bloody pride of yours, the whole idiotic Ducas thing. You'd rather be lynched as a highwayman than dishonoured as an aristocrat. That's it, isn't it?"

Well, of course, he thought. Of course it is, and if you weren't a stupid, ignorant low-class woman you'd understand that; because if a soldier kills me or I'm caught and hanged, all they kill is a body. But if I go to Veatriz like you want me to, it's the real me that'll die; the real me that you could never possibly hope to understand.

And, of course; in the last resort, where necessary, it's the duty of the Ducas to die for his people; his household, his inferiors. People like you.

"Fine," he said. "If that's what you want, we'll go to Duke Valens. Just don't…"

Pause. "Don't what?"

He sighed. "It doesn't matter. We'll do it because…" He couldn't think of a reason, not one he could say out loud. "Because of the baby. Because I love you."

Silence; then she said, "I love you too." Yet another attack on a routine patrol, the third in as many weeks; it couldn't be allowed to continue, the Aram Chantat liaison insisted, something had to be done about it, particularly since the insurgents had once again singled out Aram Chantat rather than Vadani as their targets. Examination of the bodies suggested the work of a band or bands of light, mobile snipers. It was well known that the Cure Doce trained as archers and hunted extensively with the bow. Most likely this was their way of striking back after the destruction of their sneak attack on the allied camp. At the moment it was only a nuisance, but it had to be stopped before it escalated into a significant annoyance. The liaison also felt constrained to point out that by sparing and releasing on parole the prisoners taken during the night attack, the duke would appear to have given the Cure Doce an unfortunate impression of leniency bordering on weakness.

Duke Valens replied that he accepted the points so ably raised by the liaison, and in the circumstances he felt it appropriate that the Aram Chantat should take such action as they saw fit. There was no need to keep him informed. He had every confidence in their capabilities.

The very next day, therefore, a squadron of Aram Chantat (ten lancers and thirty mounted archers) crossed the river at dawn and rode over the crest of the moor into Cure Doce territory. Reports said that the villages nearest the border had been abandoned after the night raid as a precaution, but a substantial farm only twelve miles from the river was still occupied.

Following the scouts' directions, the squadron's two outriders picked up the farm track where it left the road, until the ground levelled out and they were in danger of being seen. Taking their bearings from the helpful column of chimney smoke that rose calmly into the still morning air, they drew a wide circle under the lip of the surrounding hills, in doing so encountering a substantial brook which they assumed to be the farm's water supply. This brook ran down through a deep, narrow combe, lightly wooded with rowan, ash and willow coppice, showing signs of carefully managed cutting. Venturing a little way down the combe, the outriders decided that it would afford the necessary cover for the approach, and reported back to their captain, who agreed.

The outriders' assessment proved to be correct. With the smoke column to guide them, the squadron followed the brook down, satisfied that they were adequately concealed and would therefore have the element of surprise. When they eventually cleared the coppice, they found themselves barely two hundred yards from the fences of the home pastures, with the farm buildings directly ahead of them.

The captain made his dispositions quickly, sending five archers out on each flank to encircle the building and act as stops. He deployed the remaining twenty archers to ring the pastures and work inwards, and himself led the lancers in a dash for the main yard around which the buildings were grouped.

The plan worked efficiently. Four hours after dawn, the farm inhabitants had finished the early chores and gone indoors for breakfast. The alarm was, therefore, only raised when the lancers rode into the yard. Four men dismounted and broke into the smallest of the three houses whose chimneys were smoking. They killed the people they found there, two men, five women and a boy, lit torches from the hearth and came back outside. The screams drew out the remaining inhabitants, of whom approximately half were immediately cut down, the rest running out into the pastures or heading for barns and outbuildings. As soon as the firing party had remounted, the lancers set about kindling the thatches, by which time the twenty archers of the inner encirclement had drawn the pastures and arrived in time to shoot down the fugitives trying to escape in the open. The rest either were shot as they tried to flee the burning buildings, or perished in the flames. Fifty-seven bodies were recovered, twenty-five males and thirty-two females, with an estimated twelve additional males burnt in the buildings. Aram Chantat casualties were limited to one arrow wound, superficial, friendly fire, and a small number of inconsequential burns and bruises.

A search of the buildings and bodies revealed a pair of Vadani military boots and, even more significant, an Aram Chantat saddlecloth, apparently used as a bedspread in the main house. An elderly male, interrogated prior to execution, claimed to have no knowledge of hit-and-run raids against allied forces. Confronted with the boots and the saddlecloth, he was unable to account for their presence, asserting that he had never seen them before.

Returning by the main farm track, the squadron rejoined the road and proceeded to cross the river at an established ford, with an abandoned border station. There they encountered a man and a woman who demanded to be taken to Duke Valens, claiming to have vital information about the war. In their possession was found a branded Aram Chantat horse, which they asserted they had found wandering loose near the river. The man claimed to be Miel Ducas, the former leader of the Eremian resistance. They were taken into custody and escorted back to the camp. Valens stared at him for a moment, then said, "Hello."

It was all Miel could do not to laugh. Fortunately, he was the Ducas, trained from birth not to register embarrassment. Really the only thing he'd ever learned worth knowing. "Thank you for seeing me," he said.

Valens nodded at the empty chair. Miel thought it didn't look as though it'd bear his weight, but he took a leap of faith and sat in it. "That's all right," Valens said. "I was wondering only the other day what the hell had become of you."

He had to smile at that. "After you ordered my execution, you mean?"

Valens nodded. "I seem to remember a guard got killed. I'm assuming that was nothing to do with you."

"Of course not."

"As I thought. Fine, we needn't mention it again." Valens frowned. "You look dreadful," he said. "What've you been doing to yourself?"

Miel grinned. "Living the simple life. I read about it in Pannones' Pastoral Eclogues when I was a kid, and I thought I'd try it: the open air, the stars my ceiling, the meadow my pillow. You know the sort of thing."

"Actually, I quite like Pannones," Valens said gently. "I've always taken his romanticised version of the rural idyll as an extended metaphor for the inner tranquillity that comes from the renunciation of worldly ambition in reformed Substantialist philosophy." He frowned and sniffed. "I'm glad you didn't bother getting all dressed up," he said. "We're informal here these days, it saves so much time and energy. Drink?"

"Yes please," Miel replied.

Valens nodded at the jug on the flimsy-looking table. Miel stood up-something had happened to his knees, but he made it, just about-filled a cup and sat down again.

"They told me you had some information for me."

Miel shook his head. "I'm afraid not," he said. "That was just a little white lie, to keep your Aram Chantat from slitting my throat. The fact is, I've invited myself to stay. Mostly," he added with a sheepish grin, "because I've got nowhere else to go. I hope that's all right."

"Sure," Valens replied casually, his eyes fixed on Miel's face. "After all, you're a hero of the Eremian resistance, you're entitled. And we've agreed to forget all about that other business, so that's fine. Who's your girlfriend, by the way?"

Miel smiled by way of parrying. "My girlfriend, actually," he said. "Where is she, by the way? I asked the guard, but…"

"I'll tell them to let her go," Valens said quickly. "Sorry. But you know how it is in a war, everybody gets so jumpy and serious about everything. They'd lock up their own grandmothers if they found them out without a pass." He leaned back a little, carefully, almost as if he didn't trust his chair. "I suppose I ought to try and explain to you about Orsea," he said.

"No, please don't."

"Fine."

Miel looked back at him, a riposte in double time. "How's Veatriz?"

"She's well. I had a letter from her two days ago, actually."

"She's not here, then?"

"No." Slight crease of the forehead. Probably he didn't realise he was doing it. "We decided it'd be better if she stayed in Civitas Vadanis for the time being. A bit too much war in these parts, and besides, the Aram Chantat don't really approve of her."

Miel nodded. "Do please send her my best wishes."

"Of course. She'll be glad to hear you're all right."

Miel remembered he had a drink in his hand. It had been a long time since he'd tasted wine. He drank it, trying not to let Valens see how much he enjoyed it. "Well," he said, "thank you very much for your time, and your hospitality. Is there anybody we should report to, or…?"

Valens grinned. "Tell the guard who brought you to take you to one of the guest tents. When you've decided what you want to do next, tell the duty officer and he'll tell me. Anything within reason."

"I think I'd like to help with the war, if that's all right," Miel heard himself say. "I don't know how many Eremians you've got with you still, but-"

"Two full infantry regiments and a cavalry division," Valens replied promptly, "and I'm sure they'll be delighted to have you. And there's a lot of your people with the engineers, too."

"Ah." Miel tried to keep his face perfectly still. "I think I'd be happier serving with a field unit," he said. "I haven't had the happiest of experiences around engineers in the past."

"Of course." Valens looked away. For some reason, that gave Miel tremendous satisfaction. "Well, it's good to have you back with us. And if there's anything you need, just tell the duty officer and he'll see to it."

"Thank you." Miel stood up. For some reason he felt an urgent need to confess, to tell Valens about the Vadani and Aram Chantat soldiers he'd hunted and killed for their skins, just to spoil the look on his face. But that would be an appalling breach of good manners, and therefore unthinkable. "You've been very kind, I appreciate it. I'm sorry to be a pest."

Valens' expression said, that's enough, I've got no quarrel with you but I'd like you to go away now. "That's perfectly all right," he said. "Now I expect you'd like to get settled in."

Which was a pleasant, affable way of putting it, Miel supposed. He nodded, turned and left the tent. It was only when he emerged into the light and air that he realised he was still holding the cup. He hesitated, but going back in and returning it would be faintly ridiculous. He'd give it to the duty officer later, explain. He looked for the guard.

"The duke said to take me to the visitors' tents," he said.

The guard had noticed the cup; he glanced at it once, then looked straight past it, the way guards, chamberlains, footmen and doorkeepers learn to do. "Very good," he said. "This way, please."

Please, Miel noted, and for some reason he tried to call to mind the face of at least one of the Vadani soldiers he'd killed: the sentries when he'd escaped, the men he'd murdered for their shirts and boots. But he couldn't. He was disappointed with himself for that. The Ducas should pay attention to his subordinates, make a habit of remembering their faces and their names.

The visitors' tents, a whole row like a street, were Aram Chantat by the look of them, spongy black felt an inch thick overlaying a sturdy square frame of poles. Inside, a small but efficient-looking brass stove, with a flue sticking up through a hole in the tent roof; Miel looked twice and saw that the flue pipes were designed to slide inside each other for compact storage and transportation. A heap of cushions; the floor completely covered by a plain dark green rug. A spindly-legged table, on which he found a tall brass jug and a brass plate of some kind of crisp white cakes. The jug turned out to contain water. Otherwise, not bad at all.

The guard was leaving. Miel remembered something. "Just a moment," he said. "My…" His what? Friend? Wife? Neither. "The woman who was with me when I arrived," he said awkwardly. "The duke said to bring her here."

The guard nodded and withdrew. Fine. All words are conventions, more or less arbitrary compromises. No two people ever said I love you to each other and meant exactly the same thing by it. The Ducas especially; in the nobleman's lexicon there were at least two dozen different subcategories of love, ranging from the over-riding love of duty and country down to the affection one naturally felt for one's former nurse. All genuine, all perfectly valid, all quite different. It was not only possible but obligatory for the Ducas to love people he wouldn't dream of having dinner with.

Now then, he told himself, he had to report to the duty officer, who'd get him assigned to an Eremian unit.

In any military community, finding the duty officer's quarters is easy. Just spot someone walking briskly and follow him. "My name's Miel Ducas," he told the short, thin-on-top middle-aged Vadani sitting behind another of those rickety tables. "Duke Valens said I should see you."

The duty officer pursed his lips. "I see," he said. "What about?"

"Assignment," he replied. "With one of the Free Eremian units."

Something clicked into place in the duty officer's memory. "Ducas," he said. "You were the leader of the resistance."

"That's right." He frowned slightly. "I've been on sabbatical, as you might say, but now I'm back. I don't want to be anybody important, I just want a job of some kind. Can you arrange that?"

Dubious nod. "It may be a bit sensitive," the duty officer said. "What I mean is, the senior staff might feel uncomfortable giving orders to their former leader. And weren't you high up in the government, before the…?"

That called for a smile. "Before I was attainted for treason, yes. But that doesn't matter, does it? I mean, the city's gone, tens of thousands of us have been slaughtered, I think those of us who're left can afford to take a few liberties with strict-form protocol."

The duty officer didn't look convinced. "You wouldn't prefer a Vadani unit?"

"No."

"Leave it with me," the duty officer said sadly. "I'll talk to the Eremian colonel-in-chief. You'll be…?"

"Guest tents," Miel said. "I'll stay there till I hear from you, shall I?"

"Probably best if you did."

Well, quite, he thought, as he left the tent, aware but not particularly concerned that he'd just ruined someone's day. Thoughtless of me to still be alive, but there. Some people have no consideration.

Finding the duty officer had been easy. Finding his way back to the guest tents, on the other hand…

The Ducas, unlike lesser men, isn't embarrassed to ask for directions. He stopped two Vadani, who didn't know, and an Aram Ghantat, who looked straight past him and walked on. A third Vadani gave him directions, but talked so quickly he couldn't follow them; he smiled, thanked him politely, waited till he'd gone and tried again. An extremely polite and courteous Aram Chantat gave him clear and concise instructions, which he followed exactly, and found himself on the far edge of the camp, standing outside a latrine.

The hell with it, he thought; I'm a trained military officer, formerly commander-in-chief of the Eremian cavalry and a distinguished guerrilla fighter. I ought to be able to find a tent in a field.

He took a step back for a better overview of the camp's street-plan, and accidentally barged into someone coming out of the latrine. He was already apologising before he realised who he was talking to.

"My fault," the familiar face said. "I wasn't looking where I was going." Hesitation; recognition.

Miel nodded. "Yes," he said, "it's me. Hello, Vaatzes." For a disturbingly long time he had no idea what to do or say. Luckily, Ducas didn't seem to be about to attack him; if he had, there wouldn't have been anything he could have done about it. Since he could neither move nor speak, he waited to see what happened next.

"I don't suppose you know the way back to the guest tents, do you?" Ducas said. "I know it's silly, but I'm lost."

"Follow me," he heard himself reply. "I'm going that way myself." A grin. "You're a guest too, are you? That's lucky. Right, lead on. I'll be right behind you."

Of course he would. Ziani led the way, quickly dismissing any thought of trying to lose him in the maze of tented streets Even if he managed it, he couldn't simply steal a horse and gallop away. He had to stay here. No choice.

"Ah," the Ducas said, just behind his shoulder, "I recognise this bit."

"That's the guest tents, just behind the sergeants' mess," he replied, pointing. It was a pathetic attempt. Ducas was right behind him, only moving when he moved, like a shadow.

"Are you terribly busy right now? Only if you aren't, I'd like to talk to you."

No choice there, either. "Come to my tent and have a drink," Ziani said.

"Thanks. I'd like that."

Absurd; a parody of friendship. He waved Ducas into the chair, and sat on a cushion on the floor. "Help yourself to wine," he said. "The jug's on the table."

Ducas smiled and poured. "You having one?"

"Not right now."

He watched Ducas drink. He seemed to be enjoying it. Judging by his appearance, he'd been living rough for a while. "It sounds dreadful, but wine's one of the things I've missed most," Ducas said. "I don't mean getting blasted; just the taste. Sure you won't join me?"

"Quite sure."

"Suit yourself." Ducas poured a refill, slowly. Wine-drinkers did that, Ziani remembered. Something to do with not disturbing the sediment at the bottom. "Right," Ducas said. "I imagine you're surprised to see me."

"Yes."

"I'll bet." Ducas drank, and put the cup down carefully on the ground at his feet. "Last time we met, you were good enough to explain exactly how you betrayed me. Made Orsea think I was a traitor."

"So I did," Ziani said.

"And then," Ducas went on, "the city conveniently fell. You escaped, went off with Duke Valens. I stayed behind, you may have heard. Had a sort of half-hearted go at carrying on the war. Didn't make much of a job of it. Wandered around for a bit," he went on, when Ziani didn't react. "Lost interest, I suppose, for a while. Joined up with Valens-our paths didn't cross, but I'm sure you heard about it. Got in trouble, needless to say. But it seems like that's all forgiven and forgotten, and now here I am. Here we are." His eyes were suddenly fixed and still. "All friends together, I dare say."

He was waiting for a reply, but Ziani couldn't think of one. Ducas drank a little more, then went on: "I guess you could make out a case for saying that none of it matters a damn any more. I mean, Orsea's dead. Veatriz is married to Valens. Civitas Eremia's gone, of course, in fact so's the whole country. I mean, it's still there, but for all the good it'll do, it might as well have fallen through a bloody great crack in the ground and disappeared. They're saying the price for the Aram Chantat helping Valens wipe out your lot is Eremia, for them to settle in afterwards. Is that right? I'm a bit out of touch."

"Yes," Ziani said.

Ducas nodded. "Don't suppose they'll be satisfied with just Eremia," he said. "Not nearly enough pasture for a whole nation of nomads. They'll want the Mezentine plain as well, and probably a fair old slice of the Vadani country. Which won't be any bother to anybody, given how many Vadani have died in this war so far. Plenty of empty land, so that's all right." He put his cup back on the floor and refilled it. "Really," he said, "everything's changed so much, it'd be pointless harping on about the past. It's become-what's the word?-obsolete. No longer relevant. Wouldn't you say?"

"No."

That made him smile. "I don't think so, either. But, changing the subject, there's something I'd like your opinion about, if you wouldn't mind. Not in any tearing hurry, are you?"

"No."

Ducas nodded. "A bit silly," he said, "but it's one of those things that's been nagging away at my mind all this time, like the words of a song, where you know the verse and the chorus but not the middle bit. Nobody to ask, though, because they weren't there. Apart from you. So," he added, straightening up a bit and resting his hands on the arms of the chair, "what I've been trying to figure out is, who opened the gates of Civitas Eremiae that night and let the Mezentines in? You see, until we know the answer to that one, I really can't see how we can dismiss it all from our minds and move on to the next item on the agenda."

"I take your point," Ziani said.

"Thought you might." He reached down towards the cup, stopped, left it where it was. "There's theories, of course. I mean, at some point Valens seemed to believe Orsea had something to do with it. Don't know if he still thinks that, but I reckon we can forget about it as a hypothesis, because it's clearly not true. Same as the school of thought that says I did it." Faint smile. "Slightly more of a possible motive, but of course I was in prison at the time, so I propose we dismiss the charges against me. Agreed?"

"Yes."

"Very good. So then I thought, how about simple bribery and corruption? Always a possibility. One of my ancestors used to say, no city is impregnable, no matter how well fortified, if a man can get inside it carrying a shitload of money. So that's one we need to consider, even though I can't see how our traitor or traitors planned on getting out alive. No point being rich for ten minutes and then getting your head stoved in along with everybody else."

"There's that," Ziani said.

"Of course." Suddenly Ducas laughed; something between a bark and a growl. "Look at me," he said, "a couple of drinks and I'm starting to go all to pieces. Comes of drinking nothing but water for God knows how long. You'll have to forgive me if I don't make much sense. Anyway, where were we? Ah yes, the big question, who opened the gates? I've thought about it a lot, you know, and I keep coming back to the same wretched difficult problem. Whoever it was, how could he do it and get away with it? I mean, the moment the gates opened, in came the Mezentines, killing everybody they could find, I mean, they weren't stopping to ask names. So whoever the traitor was, he was running a really terrible risk, because how the hell were the Mezentines supposed to tell him apart from the others? You know, soldiers, civilians, people who just happened to be passing." Ducas paused and looked at him. "You got any ideas? I'm sure you must've thought about it too."

Ziani shrugged. "There must have been some kind of signal arranged in advance," he said. "Or else whoever it was simply didn't care."

Ducas nodded gravely. "Someone who hated his own people so much he was prepared to be killed along with them just so long as they died too. I thought about that, and it's a possibility. I mean, there's always someone, isn't there? Could well be. But another possibility did occur to me. Like to hear it?"

"Why not?"

Ducas smiled. "This is just a theory, mind," he said. "No proof, no evidence. But it strikes me that there was one man in Civitas Eremiae that night who looked completely different from everybody else; so much so that a Mezentine soldier who'd never seen him before in his life, never even been given a description, would know who he was straight away, the moment he set eyes on him. And why, you ask? Well, because his skin was a different colour. You know, brown, like theirs. A Mezentine, in fact. The only one in the city." He paused, perfectly still. "That's right, isn't it? You were the only Mezentine in the city?"

Ziani nodded. "I was. But your theory's a bit far-fetched, if you ask me."

"Of course it is. Just a wild notion, you might say. Because, after all, why the hell would you do such a thing, you of all people? I mean, the whole war was about you. You'd been condemned to death by your own government, I expect the soldiers'd have had orders to kill you on sight just for that, let alone the fact that you built the engines that shot down thousands of the poor devils. I expect they'd all been given orders to find you, top priority, a hundred thousand gold pieces to the man who brings me the head of Ziani Vaatzes. Don't you think?"

"I wouldn't be surprised," Ziani said.

"Quite. So it was really pretty remarkable, you managing to escape. Extraordinary. How did you manage it, by the way?"

"Luck," Ziani said.

"Well, indeed. But what kind of luck? I mean, did you just head for the gate and keep walking, or did you give luck a bit of a helping hand? I don't know. I mean, in your shoes, I'd probably have tried to pass myself off as a Mezentine soldier, except of course they'd all have been in armour and uniform. Maybe you found a dead one and took his kit off him. Was that it?"

Ziani shook his head. "If you must know, I found a way out through the underground cisterns."

Ducas nodded approvingly. "Not a bad idea. Still, you were pretty lucky, finding a way out that way. I never went down there much, no call to, but I seem to remember it was a fair old maze. And you a stranger to the city. Very lucky indeed."

"I had the duchess with me."

"Ah, right. Only I wouldn't have thought she'd have known her way around the cisterns. Hardly a suitable place for the duchess to take her daily exercise."

"It must have been luck, then," Ziani said. "And once we were outside, of course, we ran into Duke Valens' men. I don't suppose we'd have lasted very long otherwise."

"Ah well." Ducas yawned. "The strangest things happen in battles and sieges. And like you said, you had absolutely no reason at all to want to open the gates, so it can't possibly have been you, could it? I did wonder, you see, if maybe you'd done a deal with your people, given them the city in return for a free pardon or something like that. But here you still are, no pardon, helping the Vadani and the savages to build more engines to smash down the City walls, so that rules that out. Unless, of course, they double-crossed you, I wouldn't put that past them for a second. But then," he went on, his eyelids starting to droop, "you'd have gone straight to them after the city fell and said, here I am, I want my free pardon, and they'd have laughed in your face and chopped your head off. So no, it can't possibly have been you, could it?"

"That's right," Ziani said. "It couldn't have been me."

"So there we are." Ducas groped for his cup on the floor, knocked it over, tutted, picked it up and emptied the jug into it. "Of course, I still owe you for getting me arrested and disgraced. I know there's no point bearing a grudge now everything's changed so completely, but I'm afraid that's not the way my mind works. It's an honour thing, you see. Generations of ancestors looking over my shoulder and all that. All accounts to be settled in full, like it's a point of honour always to pay tradesmen, if you've got the money."

"I see," Ziani said. "So what do you propose doing about it?"

"Right now?" Ducas smiled wearily. "Nothing at all. If I killed you, Valens'd have me strung up like a flag; and besides, you're needed, for wiping the Mezentines off the face of the earth. Bloody fool I'd look if I killed you and then we couldn't take the City. No, it'll just have to wait, that's all. One of those things I'll get round to one of these days, when conditions permit. Assuming I live that long, of course. Dangerous times, these, what with the war and everything. But I don't need to tell you that, do I?"

Ziani shrugged. "You didn't have to tell me anything," he said.

"True. Anyway, I won't keep you any longer, I'm sure you must be very busy. Thanks for listening. You know, it's quite strange talking about the old days. I can barely remember what it was like, everything's changed so much. Me too, I suppose. And if you do happen to have any ideas about, well, what we've been talking about, I'd love to hear them. Any theory from an intelligent chap like you's bound to be worth hearing. And I'd love to know what really happened. Wouldn't you?"

"Naturally," Ziani said. "But here's a thought for you. If Civitas Eremiae hadn't been betrayed and hadn't fallen when it did, I wonder what would've happened to you. Would Duke Orsea have had you killed for treason, do you think? Or would he just have left you in prison until the Mezentines eventually broke in and killed everybody? Strange as it may sound, perhaps whoever it was did you a favour, after all." He stood up. "Like you said, I really am very busy. And maybe you shouldn't think too much about all that stuff. It'll only upset you."

Ducas looked up at him. "Perhaps not," he said. "But it's not like I've got anything else to do. I have this depressing feeling of being left over, like a cold chicken after a banquet; like I've been killed, and plucked and stuffed and cooked and served up on a plate, and then nobody's got around to eating me, and I'm sent back to the kitchen for the dogs."

Ziani took a couple of steps towards the door, extending the distance like a fencer. "I take your point," he said. "But revenge; it always struck me as pointless, somehow. Back home we have all these legends and stories about the great heroes of the old country. Princes, mostly, and when they're kids their fathers are killed by wicked uncles and they only just manage to escape into exile, so they spend years plotting vengeance and contriving a way to bring it about; and when they finally manage it, things still always end really badly, and everybody dies tragically so there's nobody left alive at the end. I always thought it'd have made much more sense all round if the dispossessed princes had stayed in exile, learned a useful trade and settled down. When you come right down to it, after all, what actual use is a dead body to anyone? Can't eat it or skin it or boil the bones down for glue. All you can do is bury it, or leave it lying around for someone else to clear up. Maybe I'm just a bit stupid, but I really don't see the point."

Ducas smiled at him. "Settle down and get a job?" he said.

Ziani nodded. "Like I did. Like I'm trying to do now."

"Really?" Ducas frowned. "I wonder what your fellow citizens in the Republic would say about that."

This time, Ziani smiled. "I can't help it if my trade's making weapons," he said. "I'm good at it, and it pays well. I mean, look at me. From humble factory foreman to chief engineer to the Vadani coalition. If the folks back home hadn't tried to kill me, I'd still be slogging my guts out for twenty quarters a week."