by K. J. Parker
As he showed her out and closed the door behind her, Miel was left with the depressing feeling of having done a bad job. Not that it mattered; he was paying money for a service to a professional specialist, there was no requirement that she should like him. Even so-I guess I've got used to being able to make people like me; it makes things easier, and they try harder. I'll have to think about that.
He yawned. What he wanted to do most in all the world was to go home to his fine house on the east face, send down to the cellars for a few bottles of something better than usual, and spend an hour or two after dinner relaxing; a few games of chess, some music. Instead, he had reports to read, letters to write, meetings to prepare for. There was a big marble pillar in the middle cloister of the Ducas house, on which were inscribed the various public offices held by members of the family over the past two and a half centuries. His father had four inches, narrowly beating his grandfather (three and two thirds). As a boy, when Father had been away from home so often, he'd sat on the neatly trimmed grass and stared up at the pillar, wondering what the unfamiliar words meant: six times elected Excubitor of the Chamber. Was that a good thing to be? What did an Excubitor do? Was Dad never at home because he was away somewhere Excubiting? For years he'd played secret, violent games in which he'd been Orphanotrophus Ducas, Grand Excubitor, fighting two dragons simultaneously or facing down a hundred Cure Hardy armed only with a garden rake. Six months ago, when Heleret Phocas had died and Orsea had given him his old job, he'd not been able to keep from bursting out laughing when he heard what the job title was. (No dragons so far, and no Cure Hardy; the Excubitor of the Chamber, Grand or just plain ordinary, was nominally in charge of the castle laundry.) Now he already had two inches of his own on the pillar; gradually, day by day and step by painful step, he was turning into somebody else.
Reports, letters, minutes, agendas; he left the South Tower, where the interview rooms were, and headed across the middle cloister to the north wing and his office. The quickest route took him past the mews, and he noticed that the door was open. He paused; at this time of day, there'd be hawks loose, the door should be kept shut. He frowned, and went to close it, but there was a woman sitting in the outer list. He didn't recognise her till she turned her head and smiled at him.
'Hello, Miel,' she said.
'Veatriz.' He relaxed slightly. 'You left the door open.'
'It's all right,' she replied, 'Hanno's put the birds away early. I've been watching him fly the new tiercel.'
'Ah, right. What new tiercel?'
She laughed. 'The one you gave Orsea, silly. The peregrine.'
'Yes, of course.' She was right, of course; it had been Orsea's birthday present. His cousin had chosen it, since Miel didn't really know about hawks; it had been expensive, a passager from the Cure Doce country. It'd been that word new that had thrown him, because Orsea's birthday had been a month ago, just before they set off for the war, and anything that had happened back then belonged to a time so remote as to be practically legendary. 'Is it any good?' he asked.
'Hanno thinks so,' she said. 'He says it'll be ready for the start of the season, whenever that is. It'll do Orsea good to get out and enjoy himself, after everything that's happened.'
'We were talking about going out with the hawks just the other day. Is that a new brooch you're wearing?'
'Do you like it?'
'Yes,' he lied. 'Lonazep?'
She shook her head. 'Vadani. I got it from a merchant. Fancy you noticing, though. Men aren't supposed to notice jewellery and things.'
She had a box on the bench beside her; a small, flat rosewood case. He recognised it as something he'd given her; a writing set. Her wedding present from the Ducas. 'I know,' he said. 'That's why I've trained myself in observation. Women think I'm sensitive and considerate.'
She was looking at his face. 'You look tired,' she said.
'Too many late nights,' he said. 'And tomorrow I've got to take the Mezentine to see a blacksmith.'
'What?'
'Doesn't matter.' He yawned again. 'Do excuse me,' he said. 'I'd better be getting on. Would you tell Orsea I've seen the Severina woman? He knows what it's about.'
'Severina. Do you mean the trader? I think I've met her.' She nodded. 'Yes, all right. What did you need to see her about, then?'
Miel grinned. 'Sand.'
'Sand?'
He nodded. 'Green sand, to be precise.'
'Serves me right for asking.'
As he climbed the stairs to the North Tower, he wondered why Veatriz would take her writing set with her when she went to see the falcons. Not that it mattered. That was the trouble with noticing things; you got cluttered up, like a hedgehog in dry leaves.
Meetings. He made a note in his day-book about Belha Severina, not that there was a great deal to say; agreed to arrange enquiries through her sister; terms unspecified. Was that all? He pondered for a while, but couldn't think of anything else to add.
It was close; the shape, the structure. He could almost see it, but not quite.
Once, not long after he married Ariessa, he'd designed a clock. He had no idea why he'd done it; it was something he wanted to do, because a clock is a challenge. There's the problem of turning linear into rotary movement. There are issues of gearing, timing, calibration. Anything that diverts or dissipates the energy transmitted from the power source to the components is an open wound. Those in themselves were vast issues; but they'd been settled long ago by the Clockmakers'
Guild, and their triumph was frozen for ever in the Seventy-Third Specification. There'd be no point torturing himself, two hundred components moving in his mind like maggots, unless he could add something, unless he could improve on the perfection the Specification represented. He'd done it in the end; he'd redefined the concept of the escapement, leaping over perfection like a chessboard knight; he'd reduced the friction on the bearing surfaces by a quarter, using lines and angles that only he could see. Slowly and with infinite care, he'd drawn out his design, working late at night when there was no risk of being discovered, until he had a complete set of working drawings, perfectly to scale and annotated with all the relevant data, from the gauge of the brass plate from which the parts were to be cut, to the pitch and major and minor diameters of the screw-threads. When it was complete, perfect, he'd laid the sheets of crisp, hard drawing paper out on the cellar floor and checked them through thoroughly, just in case he'd missed something. Then he'd set light to them and watched them shrivel up into light-grey ash, curled like the petals of a rose.
Now he was designing without pens, dividers, straight edge, square, callipers or books of tables. It would be his finest work, even though the objective, the job this machine would be built to do, was so simple as to be utterly mundane. It was like damming a river to run a flywheel to drive a gear-train to operate a camshaft to move a piston to power a reciprocating blade to sharpen a pencil. Ridiculous, to go to such absurd lengths, needing such ingenuity, such a desperate and destructive use of resources, for something he ought to be able to do empty-handed with his eyes shut. But he couldn't. Misguided but powerful men wouldn't let him do it the easy way, and so he was forced to this ludicrously elaborate expedient. It was like having to move the earth in order to slide the table close enough to reach a hairbrush, because he was forbidden to stand up and walk across the room.
I didn't start it, he reminded himself They did that. All I can do is finish it.
He had no idea, even with the shape coming into existence in his mind, how many components the machine would have, in the end: thousands, hundreds of thousands-someone probably had the resources to calculate the exact figure; he didn't, but it wasn't necessary.
He stood up. It was taking him a long time to come to terms with this room. If it was a prison, it was pointlessly elegant. Looking at the fit of the panelling, the depth of relief of the carved friezes, all he could see was the infinity of work and care that had gone into making them. You wouldn't waste that sort of time and effor
t on a prison cell. If it was a guest room in a fine house, on the other hand, the door would open when he tried the handle, and there wouldn't be guards on the other side of it. The room chafed him like a tight shoe; every moment he spent in it was uncomfortable, because it wasn't right. It wasn't suited to the purpose for which it was being used. That, surely, was an abomination.
I hate these people, he thought. They work by eye and feel, there's no precision here.
Decisively, as though closing a big folio of drawings, he put the design away in the back of his mind, and turned his attention to domestic trivia. There was water in the jug; it tasted odd, probably because it was pure, not like the partly filtered sewage they drank at home. Not long ago they'd brought him food on a tray. He'd eaten it because he was hungry and he needed to keep his strength up, but he missed the taste of grit. With every second that passed, it became more and more likely that they'd let him live. At least he had that.
His elbow twinged. He rubbed it with the palm of his other hand until both patches of skin were warm. The elbow, the whole arm were excellent machines, and so wickedly versatile; you could brush a cheek or swing a hammer or push in a knife, using a wide redundancy of different approaches and techniques. So many different things a man can do…
I could stay here and make myself useful. I could teach these people, who are no better than children, how to improve themselves. A man could be happy doing that. Instead…
There's so many things I could have done, if I'd been allowed.
The door opened, and the man he'd started to get to know-names, names; Miel Ducas-came in. Ziani noticed he was looking tired. Here's someone who's a great lord among these people, he thought, but he chases around running errands for his master like a servant. Using the wrong tool for the job, he thought; they don't know anything.
'How are you settling in?' Ducas said.
It was, of course, an absurd question. Fine, except I'm not allowed to leave this horrible room. 'Fine,' Ziani said. 'The room's very comfortable.'
'Good.' Ducas looked guilty; he was thinking, we don't know yet if this man's a prisoner or a guest, so we're hedging our bets. No wonder the poor man was embarrassed. 'I thought I'd better drop in, see how you're getting on.'
Ziani nodded. 'Has the Duke decided yet if he wants to accept my offer?'
'That's what I wanted to talk to you about.' Ducas hesitated before he sat down; maybe he's wondering whether he ought to ask me first, since if I'm a guest that would be the polite thing to do. 'The thing is,' he went on, 'we can't really make that decision, because none of us really understands what it'd mean. So we'd like you to explain a bit more, to one of our experts. He'd be better placed to advise than me, for instance.'
'That's fine by me,' Ziani replied. 'I'm happy to co-operate, any way I can.'
'Thank you,' Ducas said. 'That'll be a great help. You see, this expert knows what we're capable of, from a technical point of view. He can tell me if we'd actually be able to make use of what you've got to offer, how much it'd cost, how long it'd take; that sort of thing. You must appreciate, things are difficult for us right now, because of the war and everything. And it'd be a huge step for us, obviously'
'I quite understand,' Ziani said. 'Actually, I've been thinking a lot about what would have to be done. It'd be a long haul, no doubt about that, but I'm absolutely certain it'd be worth it in the end.'
Ducas looked even more uncomfortable, if that was possible; clearly he didn't want to get caught up in a discussion. He's a simple man, Ziani thought, and he's had to learn to be versatile. Like using the back of a wrench as a hammer.
'Sorry we've had to leave you cooped up like this,' Ducas went on. 'Only we've all been very busy, as you'll appreciate. I expect you could do with a bit of fresh air and exercise.'
No, not really. 'Yes, that'd be good,' Ziani said. 'But I don't want to put you to any trouble on my account.'
'That's all right,' Ducas said. 'Anyway, I'd better be going. I'll call for you tomorrow morning, and we'll go and see the expert.'
'I'll look forward to it,' Ziani said gravely, though he wanted to laugh. 'Thank you for stopping by.'
Ducas went away, and Ziani sat down on the bed, frowning. This man Ducas; how versatile could he be? What was he exactly: a spring, a gearwheel, a lever, a cam, a sear? It would be delightfully efficient if he could be made to be all of them, but as yet he couldn't be sure of the qualities of his material-tensile strength, shearing point, ductility, brittleness. How much load could he bear, and how far could he distort before he broke? (But all these people are so fragile, he thought; even I can't do good work with rubbish.)
In the event, he slept reasonably well. Happiness, beauty, love, the usual bad dreams came to visit him, like dutiful children paying their respects, but on this occasion there was no development, merely the same again-he was back home, it had all been a dreadful mistake, he'd committed no crimes, killed nobody. After his favourite dinner and an hour beside the lamp with an interesting book, he'd gone to bed, to sleep, and woken up to find his wife lying next to him, dead, shrunken, her skin like coarse parchment, her hair white cobwebs, her fingernails curled and brittle, her body as light as rotten wood, her eyes dried up into pebbles, her lips shrivelled away from her teeth, one hand (the bones standing out through the skin like the veins of a leaf) closed tenderly on his arm.
Chapter Eight
To his surprise, Valens was curious. He'd expected to feel scared, horrified or revolted, as though he was getting ready to meet an embassy of goblins. Maybe I don't scare so easily these days, he thought; but he knew he was missing the point.
'Well,' he said, 'we'd better not keep them waiting.'
He nudged his horse forward; it started to move, its head still down, its mouth full of fat green spring grass. It was a singularly graceless, slovenly animal, but it had a wonderful turn of speed.
'I've never met one before, what are they like?' Young Gabbaeus on his left, trying to look calm; Valens noticed that he was wearing a heavy wool cloak over his armour, and the sleeves of a double-weight gambeson poked out from under the steel vambraces on his forearms. Curious, since Gabbaeus had always insisted he despised the heat; then Valens realised he'd dressed up extra warm to make sure he wouldn't shiver.
'I don't know,' Valens replied, 'it's hard to say, really. I guess the key word is different.'
'Different,' Gabbaeus repeated. 'Different in what way?'
'Pretty much every way, I suppose,' Valens replied. 'They don't look anything like us. Their clothes are nothing like ours. Their horses-either bloody great big things you'd happily plough with, or little thin ponies. Like everything; you expect one thing, you get another. The difficulty is, there's so many of them-different tribes and sects and splinter-groups and all-you can't generalise till you know exactly which lot you're dealing with.'
'I see,' Gabbaeus said nervously. 'So you can't really know what to expect when they come at you.'
Valens grinned. 'Trouble,' he said. 'That's a constant. It's the details that vary.'
According to the herald, Skeddanlothi and his raiding party were waiting for them on the edge of the wood, where the river vanished into the trees. Valens knew very little about the enemy leader; little more than what he'd learned from a couple of stragglers his scouts had brought in the day before. According to them, Skeddanlothi was the second or third son of the High King's elder brother. He'd brought a raiding-party into Vadani territory in order to get plunder; he wanted to marry, apparently, and his half of the takings was to be the dowry. The men with him presumably had similar motives. If they were offered enough money, they'd probably go away without the need for bloodshed.
'Beats me,' Gabbaeus went on, 'how they got here at all. I thought it was impossible to get across the desert. No water.'
Valens nodded. 'That's the story,' he said. 'And fortunately for us, most of the Cure Hardy believe it; with good reason, because raiding parties go out every few years, and none of them ever come bac
k. They assume, naturally enough, that the raiders die in the desert.' He yawned; it was a habit of his when he was nervous. 'But there is a way. Some clown of a trader found it a few years ago. Being a trader, of course, she didn't tell anybody, apart from the people in her company; then one of their caravans got itself intercepted by one of the Cure Hardy sects.'
'Wonderful,' Gabbaeus said.
'Actually, not as bad as all that.' Valens yawned again. It was a mannerism he made no effort to rid himself of, since it made him look fearless. 'The Cure Hardy are worse than the traders for keeping secrets from each other. I think it was the Lauzeta who first got hold of it; they'd rather be buried alive in ant-hills than share a good thing with the Auzeil or the Flos Glaia. Even within a particular sect, they don't talk to each other. Something like a safe way across the desert is an opportunity for one faction to get rich and powerful at the expense of the others. Sooner or later, of course, the High King or one of his loathsome relations will get hold of it, and then we'll be in real trouble. Meanwhile, we have to deal with minor infestations, like this one. It's never much fun, but it could be worse; sort of like the difference between a wasps' nest in the roof and a plague of locusts.'
Gabbaeus had gone quiet. Valens made an effort not to smile. A first encounter with the Cure Hardy was rather like your first time after boar on foot in the woods. Most people survived it, but some didn't.
Valens had done it before, six or seven times; so he wasn't too disconcerted when their escort turned up. How they did it he had no idea; they seemed to materialise out of thin air. One moment the Vadani had been alone on a flat moor; the next, they were surrounded by armoured horsemen. Valens made no effort to stifle a third yawn. He knew from experience that it impressed the Cure Hardy, too.
