by K. J. Parker
The Chancellor sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you do. Listen. You’re nineteen, so in law you’re still a minor. That means a three-year regency. So, who’ve we got? There’s rules about this sort of thing, obviously, but the fact is that they don’t count for all that much when power’s at stake. All it takes is a little bit of panic, and all hell’s going to break loose.”
While he was still talking, Valens’ mind had jumped ahead. It wasn’t something he’d ever considered — because Father would live forever, naturally — but now that the concept had been planted so violently in his mind, he was bright enough to see the implications. If there was a free-for-all power struggle in the Duchy, there were three obvious contenders: his cousin Count Licinius, commander of the Guards; his step-uncle Vetranio, commissioner of the mines, generally acknowledged as the main representative of the mining lobby; his cousin Count Torquatus, after Father the biggest landowner in the Duchy. Licinius had an army, but he was a cautious, unimaginative man, unlikely to take drastic action unless he felt himself threatened. Torquatus and Vetranio loathed each other, both on a personal level and as representatives of the wool trade and the mines; as such, either of them would be prepared to do whatever was necessary to stop the other getting power, and the easiest way of doing that would of course be to assume it themselves. If Vetranio won the race, Valens wouldn’t give much for his chances of seeing his twentieth birthday. Vetranio was third in line of succession after his own nephew Domenicus, a seven-year-old boy that nobody would ever miss. With him and Valens out of the way, Vetranio would be Duke by right. He had thirty thousand silver-miners at his disposal, as against Licinius’ six hundred Guards; Torquatus could maybe raise ten thousand men from the mountain pastures, but by the time they were mustered it’d be all over.
“What about you?” Valens asked. “Would you do it? Please?”
The Chancellor looked at him through a curtain of rain. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” Valens stepped forward. He was shorter by a head than the older man, and as he looked up the rain stung his eyes. “If Father appoints you as regent before he dies, you’ll be able to command the Guards. You can replace Licinius, arrest Vetranio, before they’ve even heard about this. With both of them out of the game, Torquatus will bide quiet and we’ll be home and dry.”
“I don’t know,” the Chancellor said. “I’d be taking a hell of a risk. And besides, what if he won’t do it? Appoint me, I mean. Or supposing he doesn’t wake up —”
“Listen.” Valens caught him by the arm; it was thin and flabby under the heavy wool robe. “You and I go in to see him, with the doctor and a couple of your people you can trust. We come out a minute or so later and make the announcement.” I shouldn’t have to explain all this, he thought; he’s supposed to be the politician. “The doctor and your clerks will be the witnesses. It doesn’t matter a damn what actually happens, if we’re the only ones who know.”
The Chancellor looked away. Valens could see he was on the point of panic, like someone who’s afraid of heights stuck up a ladder. Too frightened, he might well decide he’d be safer giving his support to someone with rather more power than a nineteen-year-old kid. “It’s all right,” Valens said firmly. “This is something that’s just got to be done, that’s all. If we’re quick and firm, there won’t be any trouble. Go on; it’ll all be fine.”
There was a long moment. Valens could see the Chancellor was past thinking rationally; he was waiting to fall, or be pushed, into a decision. “Here’s the doctor coming out,” Valens said. “Get him, and two of your clerks. Go on now.”
The Chancellor nodded and did as he was told. Valens watched him talk to the doctor, saw him nod his agreement — and only then did it occur to Valens to wonder whether the doctor had any news, whether his father was alive, dead or dying. He pushed the thought out of his mind (because there was nothing he could do about that particular issue, but the succession had to be dealt with, and there wasn’t anybody else to do it) and watched the Chancellor beckon over a couple of men — Valens knew them by sight, didn’t know their names — and whisper to them. One of them looked worried, the other showed nothing. He went to join them.
“Ready?” he said.
The Chancellor nodded; the doctor tried to say something, but nobody was listening. Valens led the way into the tent.
His father was lying on a table; the clever folding table they took out for the after-hunt dinner, on which they laid out the best joints of newly butchered meat. From the doorway he looked like he was asleep; a step or so closer and Valens could see blood, the splintered ends of bones sticking out through incredible red gashes. For just a moment he had to fight to stay in there, with that mess.
“Dad?” he said softly.
“He can’t hear you.” The doctor’s voice, very nervous and strained. “He passed out from the pain a few minutes ago. I don’t know if he’ll wake up again.”
Valens closed his eyes for a moment. “What’s the damage?” he said.
The doctor came a little closer. “For a start,” he said, “broken skull, collarbone, three ribs, left forearm; but that’s not the real problem. He’s bleeding heavily, inside, and he’s paralyzed, from the neck down. There’s several possible causes for that, but I don’t yet know which it is.”
“You don’t know?” Valens repeated.
“I’m sorry.” The doctor was afraid, that was it. Understandable; but it would only get in the way. “Until I can do a proper examination…”
“I understand,” Valens said. “And I know you’re doing everything you can. Meanwhile, we need your help.” He turned to look at the Chancellor. “Does he know what he’s got to do?”
The Chancellor dipped his head slightly. “They all do,” he said.
“Right.” Valens looked away from the body on the table. “Then let’s get on with it.”
In the event, there was no trouble at all. Count Licinius was in bed when a platoon of his own Guards brought him the letter and escorted him, gently but firmly, to a guest-room in the castle; it was perfectly pleasant, but it was on the sixth floor of the tower, and two men stood guard outside it all night. Vetranio made a bit of a fuss when the Guards came for him at his villa on the outskirts of the city. He had guards of his own, and there was an ugly moment when they started to intervene. A sword was drawn, there was a minor scuffle; Vetranio lost his nerve and came quietly, ending up in the room next to Licinius, though neither of them knew it until they were released a week later. By then, the doctors were pleased to be able to announce that the Duke had come through the dangerous phase of his injuries and was conscious again.
For Valens, that week was the longest of his life. Once Licinius and Vetranio were safely locked up and everything was quiet, he forced himself to go back down to the courtyard and into the tent. He freely admitted to himself that he didn’t want to go. He had no wish to look at the horrible thing his father had turned into, the disgusting shambles of broken and damaged parts — if it was a cart or a plow, you wouldn’t bother trying to mend it, you’d dump it in the hedge and build a new one.
There were many times during his vigil in the tent when he wished his father would die and be done with it. It’d be better for everyone, now that the political situation had been sorted out. He knew, as he sat and stared at his father’s closed eyes, that the Duke didn’t want to live; somewhere, deep down in his mind, he’d know what had happened to him, the extent of the damage. He’d never hunt again, never walk, never stand up, feed himself; for the rest of his life, he’d shit into a nappy, like a baby. He’d fought more than his share of wars, seen the terror in the eyes of men he’d reduced to nothing as they knelt before him; he’d far rather die than give them this satisfaction. In fact, Valens recognized, he could think of only one person in the world who wanted him not to die, and his reasons were just sentiment, nothing that would survive the brutal interrogation of logic. At some point in the first twenty-four hours he’d fallen asleep in his chair; he’d had a dr
eam, in which he saw Death standing over the table, asking his permission to take his father’s life away, like clearing away the dishes after dinner. It seemed such a reasonable request, and refusing it was a foolish, immature thing to do. You know I’m right, Death’s voice said softly inside his head, it’s the right thing to do and you’re being a nuisance. He’d felt guilty when he ordered Death to go away, ashamed of his own petulance; and meanwhile, outside the door, he could hear Licinius and Vetranio and Torquatus and the Chancellor and everybody else in the Duchy muttering about him, how if he couldn’t even take a simple decision like this without coming all to pieces, how on earth did he imagine he would ever be fit to govern a country? He felt the leash in his hand, the thin line of rope that tethered his father’s life to the tangled mess of bones and wounds on the table. If he let go, it’d all be just fine, it’d be over. He was only hanging on to it out of perversity, contrariness; they should come in, take it away from him and give it to a grown-up…
When he woke up, his father’s eyes were open; not looking at him, but out through the tent doorway, at the sunlight. Valens sat up, stifled a yawn; Father’s eyes moved and met his, and then he looked away.
I suppose I ought to say something, he thought; but he couldn’t think of anything.
(Instead, he thought about his prisoners, Licinius and Vetranio, locked up like dogs shut in on a rainy day. Were they pacing up and down, or lying resigned and still on the bed? Had anybody thought to bring them something to read?)
He was still trying to find some words when the doctor came in; and he carried on trying to find them for the next four years, until his father died, in the middle of the night, on the eve of Valens’ twenty-third birthday. But all that time Valens never said a word, so that the last thing he told his father was a lie: I won’t go up to the round wood with you this afternoon, I’ve got a splitting headache coming on. Not that it mattered; if he’d been there, his father would still have ridden ahead after the boar, the outcome would have been the same in all material respects.
Someone had thought to have the boar flayed and the hide made into a rug; they draped it over the coffin when they carried it down to the chapel for burial. It was, Valens thought, a loathsome gesture, but Father would’ve appreciated it.
Valens was duly acclaimed Duke by the representatives of the district assemblies. There was a ceremony in the great hall, followed by a banquet. The Chancellor (Count Licinius, restored to favor; his predecessor had died of a sad combination of ambition and carelessness the previous spring) took him aside for a quiet word before they joined the guests. Now that Valens was officially in charge of the Duchy, there were a few niceties of foreign policy to go through.
“Now?”
“Now,” Licinius replied emphatically. “Things are a bit complicated at the moment. There’s things you should be aware of, before you go in there and start talking to people.”
Badly phrased; Licinius was an intelligent man with a fool’s tongue. But Valens was used to that. “You didn’t want me to have to bother my pretty little head about them yesterday, I suppose?”
Licinius shrugged. “The situation’s been building up gradually for a long time. When it all started, you were still — well, indisposed. By the time you started taking an interest again, it was too involved to explain. You know how it is.”
“Sure.” Valens nodded. “So now you’re going to have to explain it all in five minutes before I go down to dinner.”
Licinius waited for a moment, in case Valens wanted to develop this theme. The pause made Valens feel petty. “Go on,” he said.
So Licinius told him all about it. Count Sirupat, he said, had kept strictly to the letter of the peace treaty that had been signed when Valens was sixteen. There hadn’t been any trouble on the borders, and there was no reason to suppose he wasn’t entirely sincere about wanting peace. But things weren’t all wine and honey-cakes; Sirupat had seven daughters —
“I know,” Valens interrupted, a little abruptly. “I met one of them once; it was when the treaty was signed, she was here as a hostage.”
Licinius nodded. “That was the fifth daughter, Veatriz. Anyway, shortly after your father had his accident, my predecessor made a formal approach to Sirupat for a marriage alliance. In his reply, Sirupat —”
“Just a moment,” Valens interrupted. “Marriage alliance. Who was supposed to be marrying who?”
Licinius had the grace to look away. “One of Sirupat’s daughters. And you, obviously.”
“Fine.” Valens frowned. “Which one?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Which one of Sirupat’s daughters?”
Licinius frowned, as if this fascination with trivial details perplexed him. “The fifth or the sixth,” he said. “The older four had already been married off, and there’s some interesting implications there, because —”
“The fifth or the sixth.”
“They’re both pleasant enough, so I’ve heard. Anyway, Sirupat gave his agreement in principle, as you’d expect, because it’s the obvious logical move. Before anybody had made any definite proposals, I took over as Chancellor; which shouldn’t have made the slightest bit of difference, obviously, but suddenly Sirupat wasn’t answering my letters. Next thing we hear, he’s negotiating a marriage with his sister’s eldest son, Orsea.”
“Orsea,” Valens repeated. “You don’t mean my cousin Orsea, from Scandea?”
“Him,” Licinius said. “Well, you can imagine, we were a bit stunned. We all assumed it was just tactical, trying to get us to up our offer, so we decided to take no notice. I mean —”
“I remember when he came to stay, when I was a kid,” Valens said. “I suppose he was a hostage too, come to think of it. I just assumed he was here because he’s an off-relation. But we got on really well together. I’ve often wondered what became of him.”
“Not much,” Licinius said. “He may be related to our lot and their lot, but really he’s nothing more than a small-time country squire; spends his time counting his sheep and checking the boundary fences. But if he were to marry Sirupat’s daughter, that’d make him the heir presumptive, when Sirupat goes on —”
“Would it? Why?”
Licinius pulled a face. “It’s complicated. Actually, I’m not entirely sure why; I think it’s because the first three weren’t born in the purple, and the fourth came along while the marriage was still nominally morganatic. Anyhow, there’s a damn good reason. So in practice, Sirupat was practically appointing him as his successor.”
“Assuming the marriage goes ahead,” Valens pointed out. “And if it’s just a bargaining ploy…”
“Which is what we’d assumed,” Licinius said. “But apparently we were wrong. They were married last week.”
For a moment, Valens felt as though he’d lost his memory. Where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, what he was talking about; all of them on the tip of his tongue but he couldn’t quite remember. “Last week,” he repeated.
“Bolt out of the blue, literally,” Licinius said. “No warning, no demands, nothing. Just a report from our ambassador, not even formal notification from the Court — which we’re entitled to, incidentally, under the terms of the treaty.”
“Which daughter?” Valens said.
“What? Oh, right. I’m not absolutely sure. I think it was number five; which’d make sense, because they’ve got rules over there about the order princesses get married in. But if it was number six, the effect’d still be the same. Now I’m not saying it was meant as a deliberate provocation or an act of war, but —”
“Can you find out?” Valens said. “Which one it was, I mean.”
“Yes, all right. But like I said, it’s not really important. What matters is, Sirupat has effectively rejected our claim — some might say the treaty itself — in favor of some nobody who just happens to be a poor relation. In basic diplomatic terms —”
“Find out which one,” Valens cut him off. “Quickly as possible, please.�
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He could see Licinius getting flustered, thinking he hadn’t got across the true magnitude of the political situation. “I will, yes. But if you’re thinking that’s all right, I’ll just marry number six, I’ve got to tell you that’d be a grave miscalculation. You see, under their constitution —”
“Find out,” Valens said, raising his voice just a little, “and as soon as you hear, let me know. All right?”
“I’ve already said yes.”
“That’s splendid.” Valens took a deep breath. “That’ll have to do as far as the briefing goes, we can’t keep all the guests waiting.”
Licinius had his answer within the hour. Yes, it was the fifth daughter, Veatriz, who’d married Count Orsea. Licinius’ scribbled note reached Valens at the dinner-table, where he was sandwiched in between the Patriarchal legate (a serene old man who dribbled soup) and a high-ranking Mezentine commercial attaché. Consequently, he read the note quickly, tucked it into his sleeve and carried on talking to the legate about the best way to blanch chicory.
The next day, for the first time since his father’s accident, he announced a hunt. Since everybody was unprepared and out of practice, it would be a simple, perfunctory affair. They would draw the home coverts in the morning, and drive down the millstream in the afternoon. The announcement caused some surprise — people had got the impression from somewhere that the new Duke wasn’t keen on hunting — and a great deal of anxious preparation and last-minute dashing about in stables, kennels and tack rooms. Any annoyance, however, was easily outweighed by relief that things were getting back to normal.
2
“The prisoner has suggested,” the advocate said, “that his offense is trivial. Let us examine his claim. Let us reflect on what is trivial and what is serious, and see if we can come to a better understanding of these concepts.”
He was a nondescript man, by any standards; a little under medium height, bald, with tufts of white hair over each ear; a round man, sedentary, with bright brown eyes. Ziani had known him for years, from committees and receptions and factory visits, had met his wife twice and his daughter once. From those meetings he’d carried away a mental image of a loud, high voice, someone brisk and busy but polite enough, an important man who knew the strategic value of being pleasant to subordinate colleagues. He knew he was some kind of high Guild official, but today was the first time he’d found out what Lodoico Sphrantzes actually did.
