Devices and Desires e-1

by K. J. Parker

  Chapter Six

  Duke Valens' letter rode with an official courier as far as Forza; there it was transferred to a pack-train carrying silver ingots and mountain-goat skins (half-tanned, for the luxury footwear trade), as far as Lonazep. It waited there a day or so until a shipment of copper and tin ore came in from the Cure Doce, and hitched a ride with the wagons to Mezentia. There it lay forgotten in a canvas satchel, along with reports from the Foundrymen's Guild's commercial resident in Doria-Voce and one side of a fractious correspondence about delivery dates and penalty clauses in the wholesale rope trade, until someone woke it up and carried it to the Guildhall, where it was opened in error by a clerk from the wrong department, sent on a long tour of the building, and finally washed up on the desk of the proper official like a beached whale.

  The proper official immediately convened an emergency meeting. This should have been held in the grand chamber; but the Social Benevolent Association had booked the chamber for the day and it was too short notice to cancel, so the committee was forced to cram itself into the smaller of the two chapter-houses, on the seventh floor.

  It was a beautiful room, needless to say. Perfectly circular, with a vaulted roof and gilded traces supported by twelve impossibly slender grey stone columns, it was decorated with frescos in the grand manner, briefly popular a hundred and twenty years earlier, when allegory was regarded as the height of sophisticated taste. Accordingly, the committee huddled, three men to a two-man bench, between the feet and in the shadows of vast, plump nude giants and giantesses, all delicately poised in attitudes of refined emotion-Authority, in a monstrous gold helmet like a cooper's bucket, accepted the world's sceptre from the hands of Wisdom and Obedience, while a flight of stocky angels, their heads all turned full-face in accordance with the prevailing convention, floated serenely by on dumplings of white cloud.

  At ground level, they were way past serenity. Lucao Psellus, chairman of the compliance directorate, had just read out the Vadanis' letter. For once, nobody appreciated the exquisite acoustics of the chapter-house; the wretched words rang out clear as bells and chased each other round and round the cupped belly of the dome, when they should have been whispered and quickly hushed away.

  'In fact,' Psellus concluded, 'it's hard to see how things could possibly be any worse. We take a man, a hard-working, loyal Guild officer who happens to have made one stupid mistake, and in trying to make an example of him, we coerce him into violence and murder, and drive him into the arms of our current worst enemy; a man whose technical knowledge and practical ability gives him the capability of betraying at least thirty-seven restricted techniques and scores of other trade secrets. Result: it's imperative that he's caught and disposed of as quickly as possible, but now he's in pretty much the hardest place in the world for us to winkle him out of. I'm not saying it can't be done-'

  'I don't see a problem,' someone interrupted. 'We know the Eremians've got him, surely that's more than half the battle. It's when you don't have a clue where to start looking that it's difficult to process a job. Meanwhile, I'm prepared to bet, after what's just happened I don't see this Duke Orsea giving us much trouble, provided we put the wind up him forcefully enough. He's just had a crash course in what happens to people who mess with us. And besides, what actual harm can he do? The Eremians are primitives; if Vaatzes was minded to betray Guild secrets, how's he going to go about it? They're in no position to exploit anything he tells them, they've got no manufacturing capacity, no infrastructure. They can barely make a horseshoe up there in the mountains; Vaatzes would have to teach them to start from scratch.'

  Psellus scowled in the direction the voice had come from; because of the annoying echo he couldn't quite place the voice, and the speaker's face had been lost against a background of primary colours and pale apricot. 'For a start,' he said, 'that's entirely beside the point. If we don't deal with this Vaatzes straight away, it sets a dangerous precedent. Troublemakers and malcontents will see that here's a man who broke the rules and got away with it. Furthermore, you know as well as I do, a trade secret is a negotiable commodity. The Eremians may not be able to use it, but there's nothing to stop them selling it on to someone who can. No, we have to face facts, this is a crisis and we've got to take it seriously. This is exactly the sort of situation we were put here for. The question is, how do we go about it?'

  There was a brief silence, just long enough for his words to come to rest in the vaulting, like bees settling in a tree full of blossom.

  'Well,' someone said, 'it's obviously not a job we can tackle ourselves, not directly. Any one of our people'd stick out a mile among the tribesmen. I say we put a tender out to the traders. It wouldn't be the first time, and they'll do anything for money.'

  That was simply stating the obvious, but at least they were getting somewhere; no small achievement, in a committee of political appointees. Psellus nodded. 'The Merchant Adventurers are clearly the place to start,' he said. 'We've got a reasonable network of contacts in place now; at the very least they can do the fieldwork and gather the necessary intelligence: where he is exactly, the sort of security measures we'll have to face, his daily routine, the attitude of the Duke and his people. As regards the actual capture, I'm not sure we can rely on people like that; but let's take it one step at a time. Now, who's in charge of running our contacts in the company?'

  Manuo Crisestem stood up; six feet of idiot in a purple brocaded gown. Psellus managed not to groan. 'I have the file here,' Crisestem said, brandishing a parchment folder. 'Anticipating this discussion,. I took the trouble to read it through before we convened. There is a problem.'

  There was a grin behind his words. Crisestem (Tailors' and Clothiers') had only joined the committee a few months ago, replacing one of Psellus' fellow Foundrymen as controller of intelligence. If there was a problem, it'd be the Foundrymen's fault, and Crisestem would be only too delighted to make a full confession and abject apology on their behalf. 'I regret to have to inform this committee,' he said, 'that our resources in Eremia Montis are unsatisfactory. We have agents in the cheese, butter and leather trades and among the horse-breeders, but at relatively low levels. Furthermore, our resources are such that, after the recent incursion, they can no longer be relied on. It won't take the Duke long to figure out who gave us advance warning of his adventure; those agents will be exposed and presumably dealt with, and it will be exceedingly difficult to recruit replacements as a result. The fact is that all our people in Eremia have been used up-in a good cause, needless to say; but now that they're gone, we have nothing worth mentioning in reserve.'

  Muttering, slightly exaggerated, from the Stonemasons' and Wainwrights' delegates. Political committees. Psellus ground on: 'I take it you have something positive to propose.'

  'As a matter of fact, I have.' Crisestem smiled amiably. 'It seems to me that, since we cannot handle this matter directly, we must take a more oblique approach.' He opened his folder and took out a piece of paper, holding it close to his body, as if it was a candle in a stiff breeze. 'This came in today, from one of my observers in Forza. Apparently, Duke Valens has taken a hand in the Eremian crisis; he's sent significant aid to the survivors of Orsea's army-food, doctors, transport. It would appear that the alliance between Eremia and the Vadani is by no means as brittle as we had assumed.'

  Eyebrows were raised at that; typical of the Tailors to keep back genuinely important news just to gain a brief tactical advantage.

  'That's an interesting development,' Psellus said.

  'Certainly. Let's confine ourselves, however, to its relevance to the matter in hand. A closer relationship between the two duchies will inevitably lead to closer commercial ties. We have excellent resources inside the Vadani mercantile. I suggest we use them. We won't be needing them for anything else; the Vadani will never be a threat to us, they have too much sense. Furthermore, we can place our own people in the Vadani court, to supervise and co-ordinate operations. No doubt the foreign affairs directorate will be sendin
g diplomats to Duke Valens to find out what lies behind this remarkable display of neighbourly feeling. The actual transaction can be managed very well from Civitas Vadanis; if we manage to get Vaatzes out alive, it will be much simpler to bring him home from there. I imagine Valens will be eager to propitiate us, if he's up to something with his cousin, so we can be confident we won't be unduly hampered by interference from that quarter. It would appear to be the logical approach.'

  Psellus had, of course, hated the Tailors and Clothiers from birth; they were Consolidationists, the Foundrymen were Didactics, there could be no common ground, no compromise on anything, ever. Even if Manuo Crisestem had been a Foundryman, however, Psellus would still have loathed him with every cell, hair and drop of moisture in his body. 'Agreed,' he said. 'Do we need to take a formal vote on this? Objections from the floor? Very well, I propose that we minute that and move on to appropriations.' He gazed into Crisestem's unspeakably smug face and continued: 'When do you think you can let us have a draft budget for approval?'

  Crisestem hesitated; he was apprehensive, but didn't know why. Confused, presumably, by his easy victory-which was understandable, since the Foundrymen had beaten the Tailors to a pulp in every major confrontation that century. 'Depends on how much detail you want me to go into at this stage,' he replied. 'Obviously, since we've only just agreed this, I haven't done any proper costings; haven't got a plan I can cost yet, not till I sit down and work it all out.'

  'I think we can all appreciate that,' Psellus said-he knew Crisestem was floundering-'but it goes without saying, time is of the essence. If we reconvened here at, say, this time tomorrow, do you think you could have an outline plan of action with an appropriations schedule for us by then?'

  'I should think so,' Crisestem replied, at the very moment when both he and Psellus realised what had happened. It hadn't been intentional (if it had been, Crisestem told himself, I'd have seen it coming, read it in his weaselly little face), but it was a good, bold counterattack, what the fencers would call a riposte in straight time. Without formal proposal or debate, Manuo Crisestem had been put in charge of the whole wretched business. If he succeeded, nobody outside this room would ever know who deserved the credit. If he failed, he'd be finished in Guild politics.

  It took a little longer, maybe the time it takes to eat an apple, for the rest of the committee to realise what had just happened. Nobody said anything, of course. It wasn't the sort of thing you discussed, except in private, two or three close colleagues talking together behind locked doors. In politics, it's what isn't said that matters. The fencers say that you never see the move that kills you; in politics also. It appears out of nowhere, like goblins in a fairy-tale, but once it's happened you start to smell of failure. People who used to look at you and see the next director of finance or foreign affairs start turning their speculations elsewhere, and the brief hush when you enter a room has a different, rather more bitter flavour. Of course, Crisestem might succeed. It was more likely than not that he would. But until the job was done and the file was closed, he was a man marked by the possibility of failure, someone who might not be there any more in six months' time. In a game played so many moves ahead, someone like that was at best on suspension. He might succeed, at which time he'd be eligible to start again at the foot of the ladder. Meanwhile, he had to face life as a liability in waiting.

  Not such a bad day after all, Psellus thought.

  Any other business; no other business. He confirmed tomorrow's meeting-they'd be back in the great hall, where they belonged-and closed. The committee stood up slowly, like the audience at the end of a particularly powerful and moving play, taking time to adjust to being back in the real world. Crisestem indulged in the luxury of one swift, ferocious stare. Psellus returned it with a gentle smile, and returned to his chambers.

  Back in his favourite chair, facing the wall with the tarnished but glorious mosaic (Mezentine Destiny as a knight in armour riding down the twin evils of Chaos and Doubt), he reflected on the changed state of play. A fool would still be able to turn this fortuitous victory into a total defeat. A fool would try and take advantage by sabotaging the operation, in the hope of guaranteeing Crisestem's downfall. It was a sore temptation-he was almost certain it could be done, efficiently and dicreetly, one hundred per cent success-but it was also the only way he could lose, and losing in this instance would mean disaster. The obvious alternative was to be as helpful and supportive as possible and trust Crisestem to destroy himself. Psellus thought about that. If he had true faith, in the Foundrymen, in the Didactic movement itself, he wouldn't doubt for a moment that Crisestem would fail (because Didacticism was right, Consolidation was wrong, and good always triumphs over evil). It'd be easy to glide down into that belief; Crisestem was an idiot, no question about that. But he was cunning; his clever encircling manoeuvre had demonstrated that, even if he had turned his victory into a desperate wire for his own feet.

  Psellus yawned. So what if Crisestem did succeed? He'd get no thanks for it outside the committee because nobody would know it had been him. Inside-well, you never could tell. Psellus was more inclined to believe that they'd remember him walking blithely into the pitfall long after he'd dug his way out clutching a fistful of rubies, but you couldn't build a policy on a vague intuition. Instead, he considered the worst likely outcome. Crisestem succeeded, thereby increasing his personal prestige inside the committee out of all recognition. So what? Just so long as Psellus kept his nerve and played his moves on the merits rather than through anger or fear, the position at the end would still be pretty much the same as it was right now. Psellus would still have the actual, procedural authority; he'd still see the minutes in draft before each meeting, and be able to make subtle, deft changes to key words under the pretext of proof-reading. As for Crisestem, the higher he rose, the further he had to come down when finally he did make a mistake. Tranquillity, serenity and patience.

  To take his mind off the problem, Psellus reached for his copy of Vaatzes' dossier. Age: thirty-four. Guild: Foundrymen's and Machinists' (Psellus sighed; one in every barrel). Physical description: he read the details, tried to compile a mental image, but failed. Nondescript, then (except for his height; a tall man, six feet three inches, so among the hill-tribes he'd be a giant). Family: neither parent living-father had been a convener at the bloom mills for thirty years; a wife, Ariessa, age twenty-four, and a daughter, Moritsa, age six-so assuming she was seventeen when they married, he'd have been, what, ten years older. Psellus frowned. Was there a story behind that? He turned back to the wife's details. Father, Taudor Connenus, a toolmaker in the ordnance factory. Psellus compared his works number with Vaatzes' service history. Connenus had worked on Vaatzes' floor at the time of the marriage, therefore had been his subordinate. And Connenus was no longer a toolmaker but a junior supervisor; likewise Zan Connenus, the wife's brother, promoted at the same time as his father.

  Psellus closed his eyes and thought about that. A hundred and fifty years ago, yes; it had been quite common back then for men to marry girls much younger than themselves, particularly where the marriage was part of some greater chain of transactions. There had been trouble-he struggled to remember his ancient history-there had been trouble in the Tinsmiths' Guild over a marriage and the practice had been disapproved (not denounced; it was still perfectly legal, but you weren't supposed to do it). There had been thirty years or so of compliance, a reaction, a counter-reaction, and then it had ceased to be an issue. At best, then, it was an eccentricity. He made a note to interview the two Conneni, and returned to the dossier.

  Details of the offence: he read the technical data-straightforward enough-and the investigating officer's notes. The background was pathetic, really; a man wanted to make a nice present for his daughter and allowed his own cleverness to tempt him into disaster. The rest of the section was unremarkable enough, except for one thing that made Psellus raise his eyebrows in surprise.

  Next in the dossier were copies of supervisors' an
nual assessment reports, going back twenty years. Psellus sighed, poured himself a small glass of brandy, and made himself concentrate. The picture that began to emerge was of a willing, serious apprentice, a reliable and careful machinist, a good supervisor; resourceful (and look where that had got him), intelligent, a planner; content to do his work to the best of his ability; a quiet man, a family man-rarely took part in social activities except where his status required it; a man who worked late when it was necessary, but preferred to go home on time. There had been no petty thefts of offcuts of material or discarded tools, no reports of private work done on the side; respected by his equals and his subordinates, few friends but no enemies-all those years as a supervisor and nobody hated him; now that was really rather remarkable. A mild man, but he'd married a subordinate's daughter when she was little more than a child, and promotions had followed. Query: do quiet and mild always necessarily mean the same thing?