by K. J. Parker
“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.”
7
After an uneventful ride, Ziani arrived back at Civitas Vadanis shortly before sunset and went straight to the factory. Daurenja was there, of course, in his office, sitting in his chair, checking through materials requisitions. It was a job Ziani particularly hated, and he usually made stupid, time-wasting mistakes. Daurenja always did them flawlessly in half the time.
“You’re back,” Daurenja said, jumping up out of the chair. “Excellent. Good trip?”
Ziani closed the distance but Daurenja didn’t move. “What the hell were you playing at?” Ziani shouted, squeezing his voice to make it louder. “You must be out of your mind. I had to beg the duke not to have you strung up.”
Daurenja looked back at him solemnly. “I know, he told me,” he said. “I owe you my life. I promise you I won’t ever forget—”
“Shut up, you bloody lunatic.” Shouting at Daurenja was like trying to swat flies in the dark. “I’ve heard some stupid things in my time, but someone going absent without leave to join a battle is just perverse. What were you trying to achieve, for God’s sake?”
He wanted to build up and maintain a good head of anger, to gain the advantage. But all the time Daurenja was watching him; bright, sharp eyes, missing nothing. “I’ve learned my lesson,” was all he said, “and no harm done. But I’m sorry if I disappointed you. You know I have the deepest admiration—”
Ziani winced, as though he’d lashed out at Daurenja, missed and barked his knuckles on the wall. “Be quiet,” he said. “And tell me what’s been happening here while I’ve been away.”
Immediately Daurenja changed, from humble penitent to invaluable assistant. “Steady progress,” he said. “Shop seven have finished the torsion capstan bearings, I’ve got the night shift fettling and assembling the completed mechanisms. The lumber for the crossbars came in early, so shop five are shaping, planing and cutting tenons. Shop three, we found out what the glitch was with the rope-winding loom, so it ought to be up and running in time for the swing shift.” He gulped down more air, like a frog swallowing a fly, then continued, “Shop two’s standing by waiting for material for the stone-turning mill, so I took the liberty of putting them on preparing for a test of that theory of mine I mentioned a while back, coating the balls. You remember?”
Ziani frowned. “No.”
“Ah.” Daurenja’s eyebrows flickered. “Well, the idea is, a smooth, uniformly round ball will fly faster and straighter than an irregular one, because it slips through the air easier. Turning the balls perfectly spherical takes too long with the men and machines we’ve got, so I thought, if we rough-cut the balls and then coat them with clay or, better still, lead, we can get much closer to a perfect sphere and save time in the process. I’ve arranged a test-firing from the prototype five-inch engine, noon tomorrow, if you can spare the time. I hope that’s all right.”
Good idea, Ziani thought; a very good idea, which I should’ve thought of myself. “Fine,” he grunted. “If it works, we’ll need to add another process line. Use the spare corner of shop eight, you can borrow time on the forge for melting the lead. There should be enough—”
“Eight hundredweight, in number nine shed,” Daurenja interrupted promptly. “We got it in for making slingbolts for the staff-slings, but they got cancelled and we’re stuck with it. Actually, I was wondering about casting round shot out of solid lead for the modified Type Three scorpions. It’d mean sparing a couple of the best masons to carve soapstone moulds, but it’d be one less calibre to turn, which’d save time in shop two. With your permission…”
“Yes, fine. Let me know how you get on.” Ziani sat down in the chair. “Now, listen. I promised the duke we’d have sixty Type Two scorpions for him in six days. He wants to set up fixed artillery positions on the Lonazep road, in case they try and get it open again. Can we do that?”
Daurenja thought for a moment, a perfect study in concentration. “I believe we can,” he said. “If you can let me have an extra two dozen unskilled for packing and loading. I’d rather not take skilled men off the lines.”
“Use soldiers,” Ziani said with a faint grin. “There’s enough of them hanging about, and they must be good for something. Right. Anything else?”
Suddenly Daurenja smiled. “One other thing,” he said. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Then what are you grinning for?”
The smile widened into a grin. “The prototype of the Class Six heavy bombard,” he said. “They got it finished.”
“About time.”
Daurenja nodded. “The thing is,” he said, “the project captain was so pleased at getting it done at last, he couldn’t wait till you or I got back to test it, so he did it himself. Only,” he went on, “he doesn’t seem to have understood how the recoil dampers are supposed to work, because he didn’t bother to tighten them right up before setting the thing off. As a result, when he pulled the lever…”
“Oh for crying out loud.”
Daurenja nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “The damper threads stripped, the cradle went right back against the stop, and so, of course, instead of shooting out at an optimum forty-five degrees, the ball flew straight up in the air.” He paused. “According to the captain, it went up a good four hundred yards, which is very encouraging. But then, of course, it came straight down again. Nobody hurt, I’m delighted to say, but the machine’s firewood.”
Ziani was silent for a moment. “You know,” he said, “I’m sorry I missed seeing that.”
“Me too,” Daurenja said. “I imagine it was quite a sight. Anyway, we’ll have another prototype assembled by the morning. And at least we know the torsion spring’s up to scratch. Four hundred yards straight up; that’s better than I was expecting.”
“Quite,” Ziani said. “You’d better put the captain on report, though. Teach him not to play with things.”
“Actually, I’ve already dealt with it,” Daurenja said. “He was no good anyway.”
Ziani froze. Daurenja was tidying up the papers on the desk, putting the stopper back in the ink bottle. “You dealt with it?”
Daurenja nodded. “I had him flogged and branded and discharged,” he said. “There’s a report in the personnel file. As a replacement, I was thinking, there’s that Eremian in shop eight, he’s showing a lot of promise. I’ll send him up to see you when his shift ends, or I can see to it if you’re busy.”
Ziani let him go. It was easier; and, after all, the captain had been responsible for the destruction of a valuable piece of equipment…
(I’m afraid of him, Ziani thought. Every time I’m in the same room with him, I can’t help watching him, following everything he does. I could’ve been rid of him so easily; Valens was furious, he didn’t care about the volcano dust, but I said no, we need him. And we do. I do.)
It was dark, and the lamp was burning down; the flame struggled as it starved and died, flicking yellow light around the walls. Ziani let it go out. There was more oil in a bottle somewhere, but he couldn’t be bothered. Besides, in the dark he could see more clearly.
He traced out the lines, as though drawing a sketch. For each function, a mechanism. For eac
h process, an assembly of components working together within the constraints of a frame. He labelled them in his mind: Eremians, Vadani, Cure Hardy; Valens, Orsea, Ducas, Veatriz; an unwieldy, unsatisfactory but functional sub-array designated Psellus; a system of belts, gears and shafts to drive them all from the power source. A group of functions economically combined in the ingenious component Daurenja, which he hadn’t designed himself but rather cannibalised from an existing, damaged machine. He considered issues of tolerance and stress, with particular reference to bearings and strength of materials. He thought briefly about the disgraced project captain, tied to a door, flogged bloody and burned with a white-hot iron; about the shot fired straight up in the air, because a part of the mechanism hadn’t been properly understood.
I have no right to do this, he thought.
He got up, groped around in the dark, found the bottle of oil and refilled the lamp. He had a genuine Mezentine flint-and-wheel tinderbox, a Type Sixteen. The light burned away the shape of the machine, like a sheet of paper turning to ash.
They had no right. They were going to kill me; and all I want is what was mine anyway. The stories about heroes who came back; Ducas understood. You can’t run away, go somewhere else, settle down and get a job like nothing has happened. It’s like tensing a spring and just leaving it cocked. The steel has a memory. It has no choice.
But he didn’t really believe it; because of course they had the right. Abomination can’t go unpunished, or the stone flies straight up and smashes the machine. Daurenja understood that (but in that case, why did he run off and play at being a hero, when he knew that offences must be punished? Simple; because he’s the crime and the punishment all rolled into one, a complex assembly performing many functions simultaneously. Leave him out of it).
The stone flies straight up, and when it lands it smashes the machine that launched it. Well of course, Ziani thought, as he trimmed the wick. That’s what it’s supposed to do. No choice.
