by K. J. Parker
He shrugged. “He may do. But I doubt it. The leaders of the Republic don’t stroll about scattering coins to the mob or anything like that.”
“I don’t suppose they do.” Ducas thought for a moment, then said: “We haven’t got a spare horse for you to ride, so either we commandeer the first one we find, or else I’ll have to send a rider ahead to the nearest inn to hire one.”
“That’d be better. I don’t like walking.”
This time, Ducas laughed out loud. “I’m convinced,” he said. “You must be Boioannes, or one of that lot. As far as I’m concerned, your arrogance vouches for you better than any witness ever could.”
Ducas sent a rider ahead to the Patience Rewarded at Chora Vadanis for a horse, and settled down in the customs shed with the rest of his troop to await his return. Quite by merciful chance, he found a travelling castles board and pieces among the rubbish in one corner of the room. It was damaged but complete apart from the red angel; he carved a makeshift replacement out of a carrot. The downside was that none of his troopers knew how to play castles. Worse still, the prisoner did.
“Maybe we should have something on the next game,” Boioannes said with a smirk, as he tipped over Miel’s sun for the sixth time. “Make it a bit more interesting.”
Miel scowled. “I haven’t got any money.”
Boioannes laughed. “I have,” he said. “Well, not cash. Better than that.” He pulled off his boot and produced a chunky gold ring. Miel had no idea whether it was worth anything or not. “Bet you this against…” He frowned. “I don’t know. Your armour, perhaps, or your horse.”
Miel shook his head. “Not mine,” he said. “Government property.”
“Fair enough. So what have you got?”
For some reason, he wasn’t quite sure why himself, Miel laughed. “How about a manor house? I own dozens. Or the Tellwater estate: two thousand acres of prime upland grazing, or so they tell me; never actually been there myself, inherited it from an uncle. Or what about Middle Room? That’s a forest, about twelve hundred acres of mixed beech and chestnut coppice. Take your pick. I really do own them all, freehold in sergeantry from the Duke of Eremia, who might just possibly be me, by the way. Tell you what,” he added, with a rather disturbing smile, “I’ll bet you Tellwater and Middle Room against that ring of yours. We can toss for who starts, if you’ve got a coin.”
Boioannes shrugged. “It’s a bet,” he said. “And you can go first. I don’t find it makes all that much difference.”
They played and, after a long and hard-fought game, Miel won. He was surprised but (for some reason) absurdly pleased. Boioannes handed over the ring quite cheerfully and congratulated him on his closing gambit. “I don’t feel like playing any more, though,” Boioannes said. “Where did you learn to play like that, by the way?”
“My father taught me,” Miel replied. He was setting the pieces up again. “He loved the game but not many people used to play it in Eremia, so he didn’t get many opportunities. So he taught me.”
Boioannes nodded. “Did you beat him?”
“Once or twice.” He picked up a starburst and turned it round slowly with his fingertips.” I tried not to, though. Discreetly, of course.”
“You played to lose.”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Why?”
Miel thought for quite a long time before answering. “I guess I was afraid of how much I enjoyed beating him,” he replied.
Boioannes understood what he meant by that, apparently; he nodded and said, “We used to play it at school. We had proper tournaments and everything. I won for five years in a row.”
“Really.” Miel smiled. “What happened in the sixth year?”
“I left the school.”
Miel thought for a moment, then held out the hand with the ring in it across the board. “Not allowed to accept gifts from prisoners,” he said with a smile. “Besides, winning is its own reward, as they say.”
“Do they?” Boioannes took the ring from him. “Not where I come from. Winning is about what you get when you win.”
“I see. Hence the bet.”
“Exactly.”
Miel yawned. At the back of his mind, he was reviewing his calculations about how long it’d take for the rider to reach Chora Vadanis. “You realise all that stuff I promised you is useless. Nobody’d give me a copper double for the lot with the Aram Chantat in possession.”
Boioannes was looking away. “And if they decided to leave here and go home?”
“I’m not actually sure,” Miel told him. “In theory, I suppose it’d all revert to me, but even if it did…” He shook his head. “I’ll say this for you Mezentines, you have a pretty uncluttered way of looking at the world. But I imagine it’s founded on you always being the winners. We see things differently, I guess. We find it hard to forget that we have to live with the same people, go on seeing them every day, which means that victory is sometimes a bit of a mixed blessing. We’d rather come to an understanding than win, if that makes any sense.”
“I see what you’re saying, but I don’t agree with it.” Boioannes slid the ring on to his finger. It was tight. “Fairly academic, though, isn’t it?” he said pleasantly. “After all, you must realise that as a nation you’re finished.”
Miel frowned, as if reproving a small, slight breach of good manners. “I grant you, rebuilding Eremia once the war’s over …”
“Not just Eremia. The Vadani too. The savages, the Aram Chantat, will swamp you. Within fifty years or so, you won’t exist any more. All this country from the desert to the sea will fill up with them.” He laughed abruptly. “Which is why I lost the game just now, when we started betting. I couldn’t get into it, because you haven’t got anything worth winning.”
The rider came back eventually, leading a sad-looking horse for Boioannes to ride. They didn’t cover much ground the rest of that day, owing to Boioannes’ lack of experience as a horseman. Although they kept the pace down to a brisk walk, he still contrived to fall off twice, though without suffering any injury. He was clearly terrified, and clung on to the pommel of the saddle with both hands.
It took them two full days to reach the Patience Rewarded. They arrived well after dark, and the night groom took their horses to the stable. He looked long and hard at Boioannes but didn’t say anything.
The innkeeper was expecting them, and asked Miel if he was Major Ducas.
“There was a messenger here looking for you,” he said. “Came in after your man there had gone back with the horse.”
“Looking for me?”
The innkeeper nodded. “Duke’s messenger,” he said, “showed me his badge so I could tell you the message is genuine. I’ve seen enough of those badges over the years to know what they look like. He said you’re to go back to Civitas Vadanis, soon as possible. Top priority, he told me, leave whatever you’re doing and go straight there. Apparently there’s riders out all over, looking for you.”
Miel didn’t know what to make of that. “Did he give any reasons?”
“Just said it was top secret and really important.”
“I see.” He shrugged. “Well, thank you. In that case, we’ll be leaving early in the morning. Could you see to it that the horses get a good feed of oats and barley, and put up two days’ rations for my men, so we don’t have to stop on the way?”
The innkeeper nodded, then said: “About the prisoner. I’ve got some empty pigsties out back, but there’s no bolt on the door or anything. You’ll have to post a guard.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Miel replied. “Give him a room. He’s a very important man.” He grinned. “If he hadn’t been a bit careless moving a pawn he’d be one of the biggest landowners in Eremia right now.”
In the morning, a stroke of luck: just as they were about to leave, two women in red dresses arrived at the inn in a chaise, accompanied by five outriders and an empty cart. Miel told his sergeant to make sure they didn’t go anywhere, then rode over to the mounting
block, where Boioannes was gazing wretchedly at the horse he was just about to get up on.
“Good news,” Miel said. “You don’t have to climb that thing.”
“Really?” Boioannes looked as though he’d been reprieved with the noose already around his neck.
“Really. Just give me that ring I won off you the other day.”
The women protested, of course; they said the chaise wasn’t for sale because they needed it in their work, and even if they were prepared to sell it, the ring wasn’t worth anything like enough. Miel replied that he wasn’t buying it, he was requisitioning it in the name of Duke Valens, and the ring was just a polite way of saying thank you.
The women looked at him. “Duke Valens,” one of them repeated. “Haven’t you heard?”
Valens dead: as he rode, his knees and spine aching, his head dizzy from the relentless swaying, he tried to make a calm, rational assessment of the implications – for the war, for the Alliance, for his people, for himself – but all he could think was, So she’s a widow again. It was a stupid thought and he was properly ashamed of it, but…
Instead, he made himself think: the Aram Chantat came into the war because Valens married their princess, the old chieftain’s only surviving heir. When the Mezentines killed her, the succession passed, under their law, to Valens, her husband. He tried to remember what someone had told him about Aram Chantat inheritance law – he hadn’t been listening properly, of course, at the time it seemed such a pointless, abstruse thing to be talking about. Under Aram Chantat law, when a man dies childless and without brothers or their issue, his widow inherits. In which case, she was now the heir to the kingdom of the savages; extraordinary thought, the girl he’d grown up with as ruler of a million barbarian nomads. As far as he could remember, she couldn’t be Duchess of Eremia, but any man she married would be the duke. As for the Vadani succession, he didn’t have a clue. Presumably Valens had cousins; everybody had cousins.
(His horse was getting tired, he could feel it in its pace and hear the tightness of its breathing. Give it another hour, then stop, and the hell with orders.)
Yes, now he came to think of it, Valens did have a cousin; just one, a child, six or seven years old. In which case – they’d made him learn all this stuff years ago, constitutional law of neighbouring countries, an hour a week wedged in between formal dancing and astronomy – in which case, there’d be a regency, and the duchess (dowager duchess, use the proper terms) would rule the duchy until the boy came of age. Which meant that she…
They’d make her marry, of course. It would be essential, a first priority. The savages would want her to marry one of them; but inevitably they’d have their own internal politics, especially since they’d been living with their own hideously fragile succession problem for a long time: there’d be factions, each one terrified in case the other snatched the prize. In such cases, they’d all prefer to see the heiress marry an outsider – that was why she’d married Orsea in the first place, because of the rivalry between the Phocas and the Ducas. As for what the Vadani or the Eremians thought, that hardly mattered. The Aram Chantat would want a compromise candidate, preferably someone from the least threatening, least significant element of the Alliance. He grinned; that could only mean an Eremian. In which case…
When they stopped, Boioannes climbed out of the chaise and came marching over to him, brisk as a woman complaining about faulty merchandise. “This isn’t the road to the camp,” he said.
“You’re right,” Miel replied. “We’re going to Civitas Vadanis instead.”
It wasn’t so much a reaction as the exact opposite, a slamming of the gate through which any indications of feeling might escape. “I see,” he said. “Sorry to have—”
“You knew, didn’t you?”
Boioannes was motionless, completely still, for about five heartbeats. “Yes,” he said. “At least, I’d heard a rumour, which I assume from your question is true. Duke Valens is dead.”
The way he said it made Miel feel angry, though he couldn’t really accuse Boioannes of any offence. He’d stated it as a fact of politics and diplomacy; fair enough. “So I’m told,” he said. “It’s what the merchant women back at the Patience were saying, and they’re generally well informed.”
“Indeed. I heard it from another merchant, in Mezentia.”
You might have told me earlier; but why should he? It was just a rumour; and besides, with a mind like his, perhaps it might have given him an edge in some negotiation. He certainly wasn’t the sort to go handing out information for free, and what did Miel have that he could possibly want to trade it for? “Well, I guess that’s a sort of corroboration,” he replied. “And it’d explain the sudden abrupt summons.” He didn’t say anything about her, naturally.
By the time they reached the hills above Civitas Vadanis, Boioannes was in a wretched state. He was convinced he’d caught some terrible disease, probably from drinking foul water. The Eremian cavalryman he explained his symptoms to just grinned.
“Dizzy,” the cavalryman said, “headache, and you feel like you want to puke all the time. Is that about right?”
“Yes,” Boioannes replied eagerly. “What is it? Mountain fever?”
The cavalryman shook his head. “Travel sickness,” he said. “Let me guess. You haven’t done much riding about in carriages before, right? Well, there you go, then. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine soon as we get there.”
Boioannes scowled. Either the man hadn’t been listening, or he was just plain stupid. “I’m sure it’s the early stages of mountain fever,” he repeated. “I need a doctor, right away. Where are we, exactly? We need to make for the nearest large town, where we can find a doctor. If I get sick and die just because you refused to help me, your government will hold you directly responsible.”
“Travel sickness,” the cavalryman said cheerfully. “Just stick your head out the window and have a good long puke. You’ll be right as rain.”
Civitas Vadanis. His first sight of it was a grey blur glimpsed through a dense veil of low cloud as they picked their way slowly down the long road from the top of the hills. When the midday sun finally burnt off the mist, the city proved to be disconcertingly small. Not a fortress perched in a superb defensive position on a mountaintop, like Civitas Eremiae. Instead it slumped in a valley, spread out on either side of a slow, fat river like jam around the mouth of a messy child. The surrounding landscape – wide, thick-hedged pastures spattered with dozens of small clumps of woodland; unimproved marshes, drainable but undrained fen – clearly demonstrated that the rulers of this country had always been more concerned about hunting than profitability per acre. Just as well for them that they had the silver mines. On the other hand, meagre and ramshackle as it undoubtedly was, it must house at least one competent doctor…
The strange thing was, as soon as they slowed down and the carriage stopped swaying about, he began to feel better. Not that he minded that, of course, but he couldn’t understand how mountain fever could clear up so rapidly. The reports he’d read clearly stated that, unless properly treated, the patient grew steadily worse for three days and usually died on the fourth.
He’d expected people to stare at him, and the fact that he was riding in a carriage, with the cavalry troop apparently his escort, made it considerably worse. Presumably they thought he was an ambassador, come to sue for peace. Mostly they cheered, though a few shouted, and a few stones whistled past, too high or wide to cause concern. He felt an urge to wave, but resisted it. All in all, it was a strange way to arrive at the capital city of the enemy, escorted by misunderstanding and comedy. As he looked about him, taking note of the poverty of the architecture, the narrow streets, low buildings, miserably rutted and filthy roadways, he was appalled at the thought that something so wretched, so low-class, must now inevitably prevail over the Republic he’d served so proudly all his life. Still, he reminded himself, it was necessary, and he had no choice.
The confusion as to his status continue
d. Ducas was collected and whisked away by a party of grave-looking men (mostly Aram Chantat, he observed), and presumably didn’t have time to explain properly who the man in the carriage was. A guard officer, quite junior, was hurriedly assigned to take charge of him, but presumably he either wasn’t told the true position or hadn’t taken it in; accordingly, he must have resolved to play safe and treat this unexpected black man as an honoured guest rather than a prisoner. It was “If you’d care to step this way” rather than “You, follow me”, and the room he eventually ended up in, after an extended forced march through courtyards, up and down stairs, along passageways and cloisters, was really quite good for such an unsophisticated society. There was furniture – mostly crude local copies of Mezentine types, but a couple of genuine pieces – and an adequate-looking bed; a water jug and basin, towels; the piss-pot was a quite respectable copy of a Type Seventeen, though one handle had been broken off and wired back on.
“If you wouldn’t mind waiting here,” the officer said. “Someone’ll be along to see you directly.”
Directly: a vague term, in his experience, anything between fifteen minutes and five days. Still, it was better than the dungeon he’d been expecting, and a great improvement on the disused stable he’d been calling home for so long. He nodded and introduced the subject of food. The officer promised to take care of it, then fled. Boioannes counted up to fifty, then opened the door a crack. There was a soldier standing outside the door. Well.
He sat down on the bed, remembering that he was ill. It had slipped his mind. Still, when the food came, he’d send for a doctor. If it really was mountain fever…
There was a knock at the door. The food: wheat bread, cheese, salt pork, an apple, better than he’d been used to recently. A terrified-looking woman brought it.
“I need a doctor,” he said, slowly and clearly. “Fetch one immediately.”
Her eyes widened; she dropped an awkward curtsey and scampered away. He sighed, and started to eat, faintly ashamed at himself for being so hungry. The salt pork made him thirsty, and the water in the jug tasted strange. Nothing particularly sinister in that, however. People who’d been abroad on diplomatic missions had told him that foreign water always took some getting used to.
