by K. J. Parker
Again Sphrantzes paused; this time, Ziani could feel anger in the silence, and it made the muscles of his stomach bunch together.
'The prisoner has claimed,' Sphrantzes went on, 'that the abomination was not intended for sale, or even to be taken outside his own house; that it was built as a present for his daughter, on her birthday. We can dispose of this plea very quickly. Surely it is self-evident that once an object leaves its maker's hands, it passes out of his control. At some point in the future, when she is a grown woman perhaps, his daughter might give it away or sell it. At her death, if she retained it till then, it would be sold as an asset of her estate. Or if the prisoner were to default on his taxes or subscriptions, the contents of his house would be seized and auctioned; or it might be stolen from his house by a thief. It takes very little imagination to envisage a score of ways in which the abomination might come to be sold, and its maker's intentions made clear by a cursory examination of its mechanism. The law is absolutely clear, and rightly so. There need be no intention to sell or dispose of an abomination. The mere act of creating it is enough. Members of the committee, in the light of the facts and having in mind the special circumstances of the case-the gross and aggravated nature of the deviation, the deliberate challenge to Specification, above all the prisoner's rank inside the Guild and the high level of trust placed in him, which he has betrayed-I cannot in all conscience call for any lesser penalty than the extreme sanction of the law. It grieves me more than I can say to call for the death of a fellow man, a fellow Guildsman, but I have no choice. Your verdict must be guilty, and your sentence death.' The nondescript little man bowed respectfully to the bench, gathered the tails of his gown and sat down on his stool behind his desk. Ziani noticed that his feet didn't quite reach the floor, and dangled backwards and forwards, like a small child in a classroom. Somehow, that seemed an appropriate touch. Even now, here in the Guildhall with everybody staring at him, he couldn't help believing that it all had to be some kind of elaborate tease, like the jokes played on apprentices (go and fetch the left-handed screwdriver); an initiation ritual, before he was allowed to eat his dinner at the charge-hands' table.
Also at the back of his mind was another question, one that buzzed and buzzed and wouldn't go away: how had they known what he'd done, where to find it, what to look for? As far as he could remember (and he'd thought of little else the past month, in the darkness of his cell) he hadn't mentioned it to anybody, anybody at all. But the investigator had gone straight to his bench, to the box under it where he kept the finished bits of Moritsa's doll; he'd had his callipers and gauges ready, to take the necessary measurements. Ziani hadn't said a word about it at work-even he wasn't that stupid-or mentioned it to his friends or his family. Nobody had known; but here he was. It'd be annoying to die with a loose end like that not tidied away. Perhaps they'd tell him, before it was over.
The committee had stopped whispering; it hadn't taken them long to make up their minds. Ziani didn't know the man who stood up, but that was hardly surprising. Even the foreman of the ordnance factory didn't get to meet the great men of the Guild. The guard caught hold of Ziani's arm and pulled him to his feet. He couldn't look at the great man.
'Ziani Vaatzes,' he heard him say, 'this tribunal finds you guilty of abomination. In light of the gravity of your offence, we hereby sentence you to be strangled with the bowstring, and we decree that your head shall be displayed above the gates of the department of ordnance for thirty days, as a warning to others. These proceedings are concluded.'
As they led him back to the cells, he sensed something unusual in the way they reacted to him. It wasn't fear, but they were keeping their distance, touching him as little as possible. Disgust, maybe; but if that was what they were feeling, they hid it well. They'd been overtly hostile toward him before the trial, when they brought him his food and water. There wasn't any of that now. Compassion, possibly? No, definitely not.
He'd had his three guesses, it was annoying him, and a condemned man doesn't have to worry about getting into trouble if he annoys his warders. He stopped.
'Look,' he said. 'What is it? Have I just grown an extra head?'
They looked at each other. They weren't sure what to do. The older man, a northshoreman by the name of Bollo Curiopalates, who'd made a habit of accidentally-on-purpose kicking Ziani on the shins when he brought him his evening meal, pulled a wry face and shrugged.
'No offence, right?' he said. 'Just, we never met one of your lot before.'
'My lot?'
'Abominators.' Bollo shrugged. 'It's not like murderers and thieves,' he went on, 'it's different. Can't understand it, really; what'd make someone do a thing like that.'
Curiosity, then; and the diffidence that goes with it, when you're staring at someone and they stare back. He could try and explain, but what would be the point? A man with a cause, now, a true abominator, would seize this chance of converting one last disciple, possibly lighting a candle that would never go out. Ziani had no cause, so he said, 'Evil.'
The warders looked startled. 'You what?'
'Evil,' Ziani replied, as blandly as he could. 'I was in the market one day, years ago now, and there was this man selling lamps. They were cheap and I needed one, so I bought one. Got it home, unscrewed the cap to fill it up with oil, and this thing came out of it. Like a puff of white smoke, it was. Well, I must've passed out, because the next thing I remember was waking up, and it was pitch dark outside the window; and ever since then I get these terrible uncontrollable urges to do really bad, wicked things. Absolutely nothing I can do about it, can't control it, just have to go with the flow. And look where I've ended up.' He sighed. 'My life ruined, just like that. Only goes to show, you can't be too careful.'
The warders looked at him for rather a long time; then Bollo said, 'All right, move along,' in a soft, strained voice. At the cell door, he said, 'That was all just a joke, right? You were just being funny.'
Ziani frowned. 'Don't be stupid,' he said. 'I'm going to die in an hour or so, why the hell would I lie about a thing like that?'
They closed the door on him, and he sat down on the floor. It had been a valid question: what on earth had possessed him to do such a reckless, stupid thing? Unfortunately, he couldn't think of an answer, and he'd been searching for one ever since they arrested him. If they bothered marking the graves of abominators, his headstone would have to read:
SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME
Wonderful epitaph for a wasted life.
In an hour or so, it wouldn't matter any more. He'd be out of it; the story would go on, but he wouldn't be in it any more. He'd be a sad memory in the minds of those who loved him, a wound for time to heal, and of course they'd never mention him to strangers, rarely to each other. A new man would take his place at work, and it'd be pretty uncomfortable there for a week or so until he'd settled in and there was no longer any need for his replacement to ask how the other bloke had done this or that, or where he kept his day-books, or what this funny little shorthand squiggle was supposed to mean. The world would get over him, the way we get over our first ever broken heart, or a bad stomach upset. Somehow, the idea didn't scare him or fill him with rage. It would probably be worse to be remembered and mourned for a long time. There'd be sympathy and condolences, tearing the wound open every time it started to scab over. That was always Ziani's chair; do you remember the time Ziani got his sleeve caught in the lathe chuck; Ziani lent this to me and I never had a chance to give it back.
If it had been a sudden illness, say, or a freak accident; if he'd been stabbed in the street or killed in a war; you could get angry about that, the stuff of tragedy. But to find yourself in the cells waiting to be strangled to death, all on account of a few measurements; it was so bewildering, so impossible to understand, that he could only feel numb. He simply hadn't seen it coming. It was like being beaten at chess by a four-year-old.
The door started to open, and immediately he thought, here it is. But when Bollo came
in (still looking decidedly thoughtful), he didn't usher in the man in the black hood, the ends of the bowstring doubled round his gloved hands. The man who was with him was no stranger.
Ziani looked up. 'Falier?' he said.
'Me,' Falier answered. Bollo glanced at him, nodded, left the cell and bolted the door behind him. 'I came…'
'To say goodbye,' Ziani helped him out. 'It's all right, I'm being really calm about it. Sort of stunned, really. With any luck, by the time the truth hits me I'll have been dead for an hour. Sit down.'
His friend looked round. 'What on?'
'The floor.'
'All right.' Falier folded his long legs and rested his bottom tentatively on the flagstones. 'It's bloody cold in here, Ziani. You want to ask to see the manager.'
'It'll be a damn sight colder where I'm going,' Ziani replied. 'Isn't that what they say? Abominators and traitors go to the great ice pool, stand up to their necks in freezing cold water for all eternity?'
Falier frowned. 'You believe that?'
'Absolutely,' Ziani said. 'A chaplain told me, so it must be true.' He closed his eyes for a moment. 'Gallows humour, you see,' he said. 'It means I'm either incredibly brave in the face of death, or so hopelessly corrupt I don't even take eternal damnation seriously.'
'Right,' Falier said, looking at him. 'Sorry,' he said, 'I haven't got a clue what to say.'
'Don't worry about it. After all, if you really piss me off and I hold a grudge for the rest of my life, that's-what, three-quarters of an hour? You can handle it.'
Falier shook his head. 'You always were a kidder, Ziani,' he said. 'Always Laughing Boy. It was bloody annoying in a foreman, but you make a good martyr.'
'Martyr!' Ziani opened his eyes and laughed. 'Fine. If someone'd do me a favour and let me know what I'm dying for, I'll try and do it justice.'
'Oh, they'll come up with something,' Falier said. 'Well, I guess this is the bit where I ask you if you've got any messages. For Ariessa, and Moritsa. Sorry,' he added.
Ziani shrugged. 'Think of something for me, you're good with words. Anything I could come up with would be way short of the mark: I love you, I miss you, I wish this hadn't happened. They deserve better than that.'
Actually' Falier sounded like he was the condemned man. 'It's Ariessa and Moritsa I wanted to talk to you about. I'm really sorry to have to bring this up, but it's got to be done. Ziani, you do realise what's going to happen to them, don't you?'
For the first time, a little worm of fear wriggled in Ziani's stomach. 'I don't know what you mean,' he said.
Falier took a deep breath. 'Your pension, Ziani, from the Guild. You're a condemned man, an enemy of the state.'
'Yes, but they haven't done anything wrong.' The worm was running up his spine now.
'Neither have you, but that doesn't mean…' Falier dried up for a moment. 'It's the law, Ziani,' he said. 'They don't get the pension. Look, obviously I'll do what I can, and the lads at the factory, I'm sure they'll want to help. But-'
'What do you mean, it's the law? I never heard of anything like that.'
'I'm sorry,' Falier replied, 'but it's true. I checked. It's terrible, really wicked if you ask me. I don't know how they can be so cruel.'
'But hang on a moment.' Ziani tried to rally his scattered thoughts, but they wouldn't come when he called. 'Falier, what are they going to do? What're they going to live on, for God's sake?'
Falier looked grave. 'Ariessa says she'll try and get work,' he said. 'But that's not going to be easy; not for the widow of-' He stopped. 'I don't think I ought to have told you,' he said. 'Dying with something like this on your mind. But I was thinking.'
Ziani looked up. He knew that tone of voice. 'What? There's something I can do, isn't there?'
'You could make a deal,' he said.
That made no sense at all. 'How? I don't understand.'
'You could ask to see the investigator. There's still time. You could say, if they let Ariessa keep your pension, you'll tell them who your accomplices are.'
Accomplices. He knew what the word meant, but it made no sense in this context. 'No I can't,' he said. 'There weren't any. I didn't tell anybody about it, even, it was just me.'
'They don't know that.' Falier paused for a moment, then went on: 'It's politics, you see, Ziani. People they don't like, people they'd love an excuse to get rid of. And it wouldn't take much imagination to figure out who they'd be likely to be. If you said the right names, they'd be prepared to listen. In return for a signed deposition-'
'I couldn't do that,' Ziani said. 'They'd be killed, it'd be murder.'
'I know.' Falier frowned a little. 'But Ariessa, and Moritsa-'
Ziani was silent for a moment. It'd be murder; fine. He could regret it for the rest of his life. But if it meant his wife and daughter would get his pension, what did a few murders matter? Besides, the men he'd be murdering would all be high officials in the Guild… The thought of revenge had never even crossed his mind before.
'You think they'd go for that?'
'It's got to be worth a try,' Falier said. 'Face it, Ziani, what else can you do for them, in here, in the time you've got left?'
He considered the idea. A few minutes ago, he'd been clinging to the thought that it didn't matter, any of it. He'd practically erased himself, every trace, from the world. But leaving behind something like this-poverty, misery, destitution-was quite different. The only thing that mattered was Ariessa and Moritsa; if it meant they'd be all right, he would cheerfully burn down the world.
'What's the plan?' he said.
Falier smiled. 'Leave it to me,' he said. 'I can get in to see the secretary of the expediencies committee-'
'How?'
'I got in here, didn't I? Obviously there's not a lot of time. I'd better go.'
All right.'
Falier moved to the door, paused. 'It's the right thing to do, Ziani,' he said. 'This whole thing's a bloody mess, but at least there's still something you can do. That's got to be good.'
'I suppose.'
'I'll be back in an hour.' Falier knocked on the door; it opened and he left. Remarkable, Ziani thought; I've known Falier most of my life and I never knew he had magic powers. Always thought he was just ordinary, like me. But he can walk through doors, and I can't.
Hard to measure time in a cell, where you can't see the sunlight. Pulse; each heartbeat is more or less a second. But counting-sixty sixties is three thousand six hundred-would be too much effort and a waste of his rapidly dwindling supply of life. Ziani looked round; he was an abominator, apparently, but still an engineer. He thought for a moment, then grinned and pulled off his boot, then his sock. With his teeth, he nibbled a small hole; then he scooped a handful of the grimy grey sand off the floor and persuaded it into the sock. That done, he hung the sock from a splinter of wood in the doorframe, with his empty drinking-cup directly underneath. Then he found his pulse, and counted while the sand trickled through the hole in the sock into the cup. When it had all run through, he stopped counting-two hundred and fifty-eight, near as made no odds four minutes. He drew a line in the dirt beside him, and refilled the sock. There; he'd made himself a clock.
Eight fours are thirty-two; half an hour later, the door opened again. Falier was back. He looked excited, and pleased with himself.
'All set up,' he said. 'The secretary wants to see you in his office.' He frowned. 'For crying out loud, Ziani, put your boots on.'
Ziani smiled. 'Are you coming too?' he said.
'No.' Falier knocked on the door. 'Best of luck, Ziani; but it should be all right. He was definitely intrigued. Have you got a list of good names?'
Ziani nodded. 'I'm not too well up in politics, mind,' he said. Any suggestions?'
Falier fired off a dozen or so names, all of whom Ziani had already thought of, as the sand dribbled through into the cup. 'That'll probably do,' he went on, 'but have half a dozen more up your sleeve just in case.' The door opened; different warders this time. 'Well, so long,' Fa
lier said. 'It'll be all right, you'll see.'
Not all, Ziani thought; but he didn't want to sound ungrateful. 'So long,' he repeated, and the warders led him out into the corridor.
Three flights of winding stairs brought him to a narrow passage, with heavy oak doors at irregular intervals; quite like the cells, he thought. Outside one of these, the warders stopped and knocked. Someone called out, 'Yes, come in.' A warder went in first; Ziani followed, and the other warder came in behind him.
He didn't know the secretary's name, or his face; but he was looking at a broad, fat man with huge hands resting on top of a wide, well-polished desk. 'This him?' the man asked, and one of the warders nodded.
'Fine.' The warder pulled out a chair, and Ziani sat in it. 'All right,' the man went on, 'you two get out. Don't go far, though.'
It wasn't easy to make out the man's face; he was sitting with his back to a window, and Ziani had been out of the light for some time. He had a bushy moustache but no beard, and round his neck was a silver chain with a big Guild star hanging from it. 'Ziani Vaatzes,' he said. 'I know all about you. Seventeen years in the ordnance factory, foreman for six of them. Commendations for exceptional work.' He yawned. 'So, why does a solid type like you go to the bad?'
