by K. J. Parker
(Invade Mezentia, they’d told him; clever men who’d chafed at the old Duke’s timid caution, because they knew that the longer the job was left, the harder it would be. Attack them now, while there’s still time. It’s us or them; not aggression but simple, last-ditch self-defense. The old Duke had had the perfect excuse: the long, bitter, unwinnable war against their neighbors, which drained away every spare penny and every fit man. But that war was over now. They’d had to grin and bear painfully humiliating terms — land and water-rights and grazing-rights on the eastern mountains given away instead of fought over to the death — but it had been worth it because it made possible the preemptive strike against the real enemy, and thanks to the last fifty years of relentless campaigning and slaughter they had an army of hardened veterans who’d drive the Mezentine mercenaries into the sea. The alternative, biding still and quiet while the Republic strangled them to death at their leisure, was simply unthinkable. Besides, with an army of twenty-five thousand, how could he possibly lose?)
They were taking the Butter Pass up the mountain. Not through choice. They’d come down into the plain, five days ago, by way of the main cart-road, a relatively gentle gradient and firm going for the horses. But they were a whole day east, thanks to the fear of the Mezentine cavalry, and they didn’t have enough water left to go round the foot of the mountain. The Butter Pass was a different proposition altogether. It was adequate for its purpose; once a month, hundreds of hill-farmers’ sons trudged down it with yokes on their shoulders, each carrying a hundredweight of butter and cheese to the cluster of tents where the Mezentine buyers were waiting for them. Going back up the mountain, they had a much lighter load: a few copper pennies or a roll of cotton cloth (third or fourth quality), at most a keg of nails or a rake and a hoe. Taking an army up the Butter Pass was the sort of stupid thing you only did if you had to. It was slow going. To get the carts up without smashing wheels or shearing axles, they had to stop every fifty yards or so to shift boulders, fill in potholes, cut away the rock or improvise embankments to widen the path. Boulders too big to lever aside had to be split, with hammers and wedges or by lighting a fire to heat them up and then quenching them with buckets of precious, scarce water. It was a vast, thankless expenditure of effort and ingenuity — no praise or glory, just a sigh when the obstacle was circumvented and a grim shrug as the next one was addressed — and all Orsea could do was watch, as his bearers lowered him to the ground, glad of the excuse for a rest. It was all wrong; he should be paying off his debt by leading the way. In his mind’s eye he saw himself, dusty and bathed in sweat, leaning on a crowbar or swinging a big hammer, exhausted but cheerful, first man to the job and last man off it, and everyone feeling better for knowing he was there with them — instead, he watched, as if this was all a demonstration by the corps of engineers, and he was sitting in a grandstand, waiting to award prizes. Miel Ducas was doing his job for him, and doing it very well. He thought about that, and felt ashamed.
There was still an hour’s light left when they gave up for the night, but everybody was too exhausted to carry on. There had already been unnecessary accidents and injuries, and Miel had called a halt. Instead, men stumbled about on a sad excuse for a plateau, struggling to pitch tents on the slope, wedging cartwheels with stones to stop them rolling; the whole tiresome routine of unpacking and setting up, lighting fires without proper kindling, cooking too little food in too little water. They pitched his tent first (were they doing it on purpose to show him up? No, of course they weren’t); the doctor came, looked, prodded and failed to announce that the wound had miraculously healed and he’d be fit for duty in the morning. One by one the survivors of his general staff dropped by. They were genuinely anxious about his health, but they didn’t want his orders or even his advice. Finally, Miel Ducas came, slow and clumsy with fatigue, squatting on the floor rather than wait for someone to fetch him a chair.
“Slow going,” he reported. “I’d sort of counted on making it to the hog’s back tonight, so we could get on the southwest road by noon tomorrow. As it is, we might just get there by nightfall; depends on conditions. And if it decides to rain, of course, we’re screwed.”
Orsea hadn’t even considered that. “Who said anything about rain?” he said. “It’s been blue skies all day.”
Miel nodded. “Talked to a couple of men who make the Butter run,” he said. “According to them, it’s the time of year for flash storms. Clear sky one minute, and the next you’re up to your ankles in muck. That’s if you’re lucky and you aren’t swept away in a mudslide. Cheerful bastards.”
Orsea couldn’t think of anything to say. “Let’s hope it stays dry, then.”
“Let’s hope.” Miel yawned. “Once we reach the hog’s back, of course,” he went on, “it’s all nice and easy till we get to the river; which, needless to say, is probably in spate. I have absolutely no idea how we’re going to get across, so I’m relying on inspiration, probably in the form of a dream. My ancestors were always being helped out of pots of shit by obliging and informative dreams, and I’m hoping it runs in the family. How about your lot?”
Orsea smiled. “We don’t dream much. Or if we do, it’s being chased by bears, or having to give a speech with no clothes on.”
“Fascinating.” Miel closed his eyes, then opened them again. “Sorry,” he said. “Not respectful in the presence of my sovereign. How’s the leg?”
“Oh, fine. It’s that miserable bloody doctor who’s making me lounge around like this.”
(Stupid thing to say, of course. The leg wasn’t fine; the doctor most likely hadn’t had more than a couple of hours’ sleep since the battle; and of course the Ducas family received supernatural advice in their dreams, since they were genuine old aristocracy, unlike the jumped-up parvenu Orseoli…)
“Do as he says,” Miel replied sternly. “Your trouble is, you don’t know a perfectly valid excuse when you see one. You were the same when we were kids. You’d insist on dragging yourself into classes with a raging temperature, and then we’d all catch it off you and be sick as dogs just in time for the recess. You will insist…” He hesitated. “Just for once, stay still and make the most of it. We’re all going to have a high old time of it soon as we get home.”
Orsea looked away. You will insist on doing the right thing, even if it’s guaranteed to result in misery and mayhem; or something to that effect. “All right,” he said. “It’s just so bloody stupid. Getting shot with one of our own arrows.”
“At least our side got to draw blood,” Miel replied. “Hello, what’s all that fuss they’re making outside?”
Orsea hadn’t noticed; now Miel mentioned it, he could hear shouting. “They’ve attacked,” he said.
“Don’t think so, or they’d be doing more than just yelling. Hold still, I’ll go and see.”
He came back again a moment later, grinning. “Would you believe it,” he said, “they caught a spy.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not. I saw him. Genuine Mezentine spy, brown face and everything. I told them to string him up.”
Orsea frowned. “No, don’t do that,” he said. “I want to know why they’re so interested in us. Maybe they didn’t know about this path before. If they’re looking for a back way up the mountain, that could be very bad.”
Miel shrugged. “It’s your treehouse. I’ll have him brought in, you can play with him.”
The prisoner was a Mezentine, no question about that; with his dark skin and high cheekbones, he couldn’t be anything else. But that raised a question in itself. Mezentine officers commanded the army, but the men they gave orders to were all mercenaries; southerners, usually, or people from overseas.
Besides, it was hard to see how a member of the victorious Mezentine expedition, which hadn’t come within bowshot or lost a single man as far as Orsea was aware, could have got in such a deplorable state. He could barely stand; the two guards were holding him up rather than restraining him. He had only one shoe; his h
air was filthy and full of dust; he had several days’ growth of beard (the Mezentines were obsessive about shaving their faces) and he smelled disgusting.
Orsea had never interrogated a prisoner before; of all things, he felt shy. “Name,” he snapped, because it was as good a starting-point as any.
The man lifted his head, as though his name was the last thing he’d been expecting to be asked. “Ziani Vaatzes,” he said, in a feeble whisper.
That didn’t need expert interpretation. “Get this man some water,” Orsea said, then realized that for once there weren’t any attendants or professional bustlers-about on hand. Miel gave him a rather startled, what-me expression, then went outside, returning a little later with a jug and a horn cup, which the prisoner grabbed with both hands. He spilled most of it down his front.
Orsea had thought of another question. “What unit are you with?”
The prisoner had to think about that one. “I’m not a soldier,” he said.
“No, you’re a spy.”
“No, I’m not.” The prisoner sounded almost amused. “Is that what you think?”
Miel shifted impatiently. “You sure you want to bother with him?” he asked.
Orsea didn’t reply, though he noticed the effect Miel’s words had on the prisoner. “Really,” the man said. “I’m not a soldier, or a spy or anything.” He stopped, looking very unhappy.
“Right,” Orsea said. “You’re a Mezentine, but you’re nothing to do with the army out there on the plain. Excuse me, but your people aren’t known for going sightseeing.”
“I’m an escaped prisoner,” the man said; he made it sound like a profession. “I promise you, it’s true. They were going to kill me; I ran away.”
Miel laughed. “This one’s a comedian,” he said. “He’s broken out of jail, so naturally he tags along behind the army. Last place they’d look for you, I guess.”
The look on the man’s face; fear, and disbelief, and sheer fury at not being believed. Any moment now, Orsea thought, he’s going to demand to see the manager.
“You must be the enemy, then,” the man said.
This time, Miel burst out laughing. “You could say that,” he said.
“All right.” Orsea was having trouble keeping a straight face. “Yes, we’re the enemy. Do you know who we are?”
The man shook his head. “Not a clue, sorry. I don’t know where this is or what the hell’s going on. I didn’t even know there’s a war on.”
“The army,” Miel said softly. “Wasn’t that a pretty broad hint?”
Now the man looked embarrassed. “To be honest,” he said, “I assumed they were after me.”
Orsea looked at him. “Really.”
The man nodded. “I thought it was a bit over the top myself,” he said. “But we take renegades very seriously. I assumed —”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Miel interrupted. “But your army out there’s been fighting us.”
“Oh, right.” The man frowned. “Who won?”
“You did.”
“I’m sorry.” Now he looked more bewildered than ever. “Excuse me, but who are you?”
“The Grand Army of Eremia, what’s left of it,” Orsea replied. “So, if you’re not a soldier or a spy, and you didn’t know about the war, why were you following the army?”
“I reckoned they must have water,” he said. “Or at least they’d lead me to a river or something. I’ve only been following them for a day. I tried to steal some food, but the sentries spotted me and I had to run. When I stopped running, I realized I was lost. Then I saw your lot, and thought I’d try my luck. Nothing to lose. It was that or lie down and die somewhere. Just my luck I had to run into a war.”
Brief silence; then Miel said, “If he’s lying, he’s very good at it.”
“I’m not, I’m telling the truth.”
“Cocky with it,” Orsea said. “So, you’re an escaped convict. What did you do?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Indulge me.”
The man looked at him. “I killed a couple of prison warders,” he said. “And maybe the secretary of the tribunal, I’m not sure.”
Miel leaned over the man’s shoulder. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be a spy?” he said. “I don’t know what they tell you about us in the City, but murder’s against the law out here, too.”
“Leave him alone, Miel, this is interesting. So,” Orsea went on, “if you killed a couple of warders, you were in prison already, yes?”
The man nodded. “I’d just been tried. But I got away and the warders caught me.”
“So you’d done something else before you killed the warders?” “Yes.” The man hesitated.
“What?”
“It’s complicated.”
Orsea raised an eyebrow. Whatever it was, this strange, scruffy man seemed to think it was worse than killing prison officers; he was afraid to say what it was. “I’m game if you are,” he said.
The man took a deep breath. “I was charged with mechanical innovation,” he said. “It’s very serious, in the City.”
“Worse than killing people?”
“I suppose so.”
“Were you guilty?”
The man nodded. “Apparently,” he said.
Miel stood up. “Now can we hang him?” he said. “I mean, he’s just confessed to murder.”
Orsea frowned. “You still reckon he’s a spy?”
“To be honest, I don’t care much.” Miel yawned. “What it boils down to is we can’t very well let him go if he’s really a convicted murderer, and I really can’t be bothered making the arrangements to send him back. Also, he’s seen the Butter Pass, and maybe he’s thinking he could do a deal for the information. Either that, or I’m right and he’s a spy. No offense, Orsea, but he’s running out of play value. Let’s pull his neck and get on with what we’re supposed to be doing.”
That didn’t sound much like Miel, Orsea thought; so this must be a ploy to get the prisoner scared and make him confess. On the other hand, the poor devil was unquestionably a Mezentine; lynching one would probably do wonders for the army’s morale. Maybe that was why Miel was making such uncharacteristically brutal noises.
He made up his mind, suddenly, without being aware of having thought it through. If Miel was reminding him of his duty toward the army and the country, fine; he still wasn’t prepared to string up someone who looked so unspeakably sad. In spite of the battle and the iron pins from the sky and his own unforgivable mistakes, Orsea still had faith in the world; he believed it might still be possible to make it work, somehow or other. The Mezentine, on the other hand, clearly felt that the world was a cruel, nasty place where bad things always happened. Lynching him would only serve to prove him right, and that would be a betrayal; and if Orsea believed in anything, it was loyalty.
“He’s not a spy,” he said. “And if he’s committed crimes in Mezentia, that’s really none of our business. I can’t go hanging civilians without a trial, in any event. Find him a meal and somewhere to sleep, and in the morning give him three days’ rations and a pair of shoes, and let him go. All right?”
Miel nodded. He didn’t seem at all put out about having his advice ignored. “I’ll get the duty officer to see to it,” he said, and went out.
Orsea was about to tell the guards to take the prisoner somewhere else when a thought struck him. He looked at the man and frowned. “Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.”
“In the battle today,” Orsea said, “we did really badly. Your lot slaughtered us, and we never got close enough to see their faces. One minute we were advancing in good order, and then the sky was full of sharp steel bolts, about so long and so thick, and that was that. I was wondering,” Orsea went on. “Can you tell me anything about that?”
The man looked at him. “You mean, what sort of weapon was it?”
Orsea nodded. “Obviously it must be a deadly secret; at any rate, it was a complete surprise to us. S
o I imagine you’d get in all sorts of trouble for disclosing restricted information to the enemy. On the other hand…”
The man smiled. “It’s a simple mechanical device. Well,” he added, “fairly simple. A powerful steel leaf-spring is drawn back by a ratchet. There’s a steel cable fastened to the ends of the spring, just like the string of a conventional bow. When the sear is tripped, the force of the spring acting on the cable shoots the bolt up a groove in the bed. It’s called a scorpion.”
Orsea raised an eyebrow. “You know a lot about it.”
“I should,” the man replied. “I used to make them.”
There was a long pause. “Is that right?” Orsea said.
“I was the foreman of the machine shop at the ordnance factory,” the man said. “I was in charge of production. We’ve got a building about a hundred yards long by thirty, just for the scorpions. On average we turn out a dozen a day; eighteen if we work three shifts.” He looked Orsea in the eye. “Are you going to have me killed now?”
