by K. J. Parker
'I hear what you're saying,' Stellachus replied cautiously. 'But it's the party politics that makes them do a lot of apparently pointless or inexplicable things-inexplicable to outsiders, who don't know the finer points of their infighting.'
There was a degree of truth in that, Valens conceded. 'Still,' he went on, 'it seems a strange way to carry on, because surely it's to their disadvantage to stamp on the Eremians too hard.'
'You mean the Cure Hardy,' Stellachus said.
'Exactly. They need Eremia as a buffer. That's why they helped broker the peace between us and the Eremians, because they need both of us as a first line of defence. Weaken the Eremians too much, or wipe them out completely, and that just leaves us between them and the people they're most afraid of. Now, how can that possibly make any sense?'
Stellachus got up, poured two cups of wine, put one in front of Valens, sat down again. Valens sipped his cup, to be polite. 'I don't know,' Stellachus said. 'All I can do is theorise. Would that help?'
Valens lifted his hands. 'Go ahead.'
'Well.' Stellachus took a long pull at his wine (I must watch that, Valens thought; I guess he's been under pressure recently). 'Two possibilities come to mind. First, it's like you say, something to do with Mezentine politics. Actually,' he added with a slight frown, 'make that three possibilities. As I was saying; Mezentine politics. There's a power struggle between two factions, and for some reason one of them wants a big war, to help with whatever their agenda may be. They're looking round for someone to hit; Eremia's the best target, because they're unpunished aggressors and they're small. That's the first possibility. Number two. Let's consider the size of this army of theirs.' He hesitated. 'Now we can't do that properly, because I haven't got you the full data yet; but we'll forgive me for that and move on. It's a very large army, costing them a lot of money, causing them all sorts of logistical problems which presumably they've figured out how to handle. Query: is this the biggest army Mezentia's ever put in the field? Don't know, but we'll find out. Anyway, it's big; and the Mezentine policy's always been to defend themselves with clever machines rather than big armies. A defensive strategy, in other words.'
Valens dipped his head in acknowledgement of a valid point. 'They've changed, then,' he said. 'From machines to men; from defensive to offensive.'
'It's a hypothesis,' Stellachus said, 'but no proof. Possibility two is that they've been taking a long-term approach to the Cure Hardy problem, and this invasion of Eremia's just a prelude to them taking the offensive against the Cure Hardy. Now why they'd want to do that is another issue; the Cure Hardy live a long way away and have never caused the Mezentines any bother-which isn't to say they wouldn't if they could, and through sheer force of numbers they're the only power we know of that could give the Mezentines a bad time. The way they think-if I'm right about that-a threat in being simply isn't acceptable. As long as the Cure Hardy exist, the Mezentines can't sleep at night. You'd have to look at all sorts of factors-economics, cash reserves, manpower levels-and see if there's a pattern that'd suggest that the Mezentines have been working toward this point for some time, where they're strong enough to go on the offensive against the Cure Hardy. If so, crushing Eremia might make sense as a preparatory move. Personally, in their shoes, I'd want them as allies-us, too-if I was considering something like that, but the Mezentines' minds work differently to ours. Quite possibly they'd see wiping out the Eremians as a necessary preliminary chore; clearing away the brushwood, if you like, before you start felling.'
Valens nodded again. 'And number three?'
'Number three,' Stellachus repeated. 'You said earlier that sometimes they do things because of reasons that go right down under the politics to something absolutely basic, something that's so deeply ingrained in their mindset that even they won't bicker and bitch about it. In which case,' he went on, 'I don't suppose they'd stop to consider the effects on the balance of power or regional stability; not if it's-well, a matter of principle. Actually, of the three this one fits best what we know about this business.'
'Which isn't as much as we should,' Valens said quietly.
'Granted.' Stellachus looked away. 'But we'll put that right, I promise. It seems to me, though, that the Mezentines have moved very quickly, very decisively, on this; by their standards, I mean. And what I'm getting at isn't what we've heard but what we haven't heard. I mean, normally we'd expect to be hearing reports and rumours about major ructions and debates in the Guilds long before any armies landed. Instead, practically the first thing we know about it is soldiers getting off ships. Therefore, I suggest, we've got a cause of war that doesn't need to be endlessly argued over and politicked about; and I think I know what it might be.'
Valens smiled. 'The defector,' he said.
Really, it was a shame to disappoint him, after he'd worked towards his grand finale so artfully. 'Yes,' Stellachus said, 'the one they wanted information about.'
'The one who's just died,' Valens pointed out.
'Indeed. Now we know how the Republic thinks about defectors; it's legendary, they're hunted down and killed, no messing. But this particular one, who was not only a defector but a murderer and possibly a political dissident as well; and a big wheel at one of their factories, so he must've known a lot of sensitive stuff about engineering-'
'Foreman at the ordnance factory,' Valens said. 'You should read your own reports.'
Stellachus didn't wince visibly; he was growing a thick hide, Valens noted with approval. 'This one's obviously worse than usual,' he said. 'And as soon as he escaped he headed straight for Eremia and Duke Orsea. Like, let's say, a homing pigeon.'
Valens smiled. 'Nicely put,' he said. 'So Orsea's implicated, in their minds at least. Hence open war rather than the usual covert assassination.'
'Mezentine defectors traditionally don't get very far,' Stellachus said. 'The price on their heads is too tempting, and of course a brown face is pretty hard to overlook. Nobody wants anything to do with them, because it's too dangerous. But this one-'
'Ziani Vaatzes.'
'Vaatzes,' Stellachus said, 'makes a clean getaway and goes straight to Duke Orsea, who takes him back to Eremia on his way home from having the shit kicked out of him by the Mezentine war engines. Vaatzes used to work in the factory where those engines were made. Now, some of it may be coincidence, but-'
Valens held up a hand. 'The Eremians couldn't make copies of the war engines,' he said. 'You'd have to start from scratch, build the machines that make the machines that make the special steel, and all that. It'd mean years of expensive investment. And besides,' he added, 'I happen to know, Vaatzes suggested it and Orsea turned him down. And if I know that, the Mezentines do too.'
'Doesn't signify,' Stellachus said emphatically. 'It creates a possibility, you see; something else besides the Cure Hardy for the Mezentines to lie awake worrying about. If I'm right, the moment Orsea and Vaatzes met, under those rather special circumstances, this invasion was inevitable. In which case,' he went on, 'it won't just be an invasion.'
For a moment, Valens was silent. 'That's a rather large undertaking,' he said.
'Hence,' Stellachus replied, 'the rather large army. We know they don't do things by halves. No skin off their noses, of course; that's the charm of using mercenaries. Every casualty's a saving on the wage bill rather than a dead citizen.'
It was Valens' turn to look away. 'Have you ever been to Civitas Eremiae? Me neither. But by all accounts it's the perfect defensive position, massively fortified-'
'War engines,' Stellachus said. 'Why send a man where you can send a large rock, or a big steel spike? Probably just the sort of technical challenge your red-blooded Mezentine engineer relishes.'
The Mezentines aren't savages, Valens reminded himself, but it didn't sound so reassuring this time. 'Storming Civitas Eremiae,' he said slowly, 'would be an impressive achievement.'
'The Cure Hardy'
'Quite.' Valens frowned. 'Assuming it's possible to impress them, or that the
y care. But I can see how the Mezentines would view it as a pleasant fringe benefit, to scare the wits out of the Cure Hardy'
'And it'd make a first-class frontier post,' Stellachus added, 'assuming they don't level it to the ground in the process. Anyway' he said briskly, 'that's three possibilities. There could well be others; those were just the first things that came to mind.'
Valens grinned. It'd be wise to keep an eye on Stellachus' drinking, and he was as lazy as a fat dog, but he was still most likely the best man for his job. 'Think about it some more,' he said. 'Meanwhile, I'll let you get back to your paperwork.'
Stellachus inclined his head, like a fencer admitting a touch. 'I'll have the stuff you need about the Mezentine army as soon as possible,' he said.
'Good. See you later, at the meeting.'
As he retraced his steps back to his reading room, Valens wondered how on earth he was going to reply to her letter now, with his mind full of what Stellachus had suggested.
Perhaps she didn't know there was going to be a war; perhaps Orsea didn't know… He lifted his head and stared blankly out of the window, at the billowing curtain of thin, slanted rain. If the defector was dead, surely the problem had solved itself; no Vaatzes, no risk to the Republic, no war. Somehow, he knew it wouldn't work like that.
I'm not in control of this situation, he told himself suddenly. I wonder who is.
He sat down, laid his sheet of parchment flat on the table-top, looked at it. At that moment it put him in mind of the very best tempered steel armour; warranted impossible to make a mark on it, no matter how hard you tried. Valens Valentinianus to Veatriz Sirupati, greetings.
He put the pen down, lined it up carefully with the edge of the desk. Precision in all things, like a Mezentine.
(I'll have to tell her, he thought. Maybe, if I can make her understand, I can get her to promise; as soon as the Mezentines get too close, she'll come here-she can bring him too, if she likes, just so long as she's safe, here, with me…)
He closed his eyes. I might as well soak the palace in lamp-oil and set light to it, he told himself. I've just been thinking how stupid Orsea is, and I've proved I'm worse than him. To bring the war here; unforgivable. I shouldn't even think it, in case they can read minds; they seem to be able to do pretty much everything else.
He sighed. No point hating the Mezentines; you might as well hate the winter, or lightning, or disease, or death. As far as he knew-he actually paused and thought about it for a moment-he didn't hate anybody; not even Orsea, though at times he came quite close. Hate, like love, was an indulgence he didn't need and refused to waste lifespan on-
(Correction, he admitted; I hated Father sometimes. But that was inevitable, and besides, I should be proud of myself for the elegant economy of effort. Hatred and love only once, and both for the same person.)
In any event; hate and anger wouldn't make anything better. His fencing instructor had taught him that; they make the hand shake, they spoil your concentration. The most you can ever feel for your opponent, if you want to defeat and kill him, is a certain mild dislike.
He picked the pen up. You never got my last letter, [he wrote]. So that settles that, and we needn't discuss it.
I don't know where the wet oak leaves business comes from; can't have been anything I said. As a matter of fact, I despise getting wet, particularly in the morning. The smell of damp cloth drying out depresses me and gives me a headache. I like bright sunlight, cool breezes, tidy blue skies without piles of cloud left scattered about, moonlit nights-I like to be able to see for miles in every direction. Not quite sure where I stand on the issue of forests; I like them because that's where the quarry tends to be, and every bush could be hiding the record buck or the boar the farmers have been telling me about for weeks. But I don't like the tangle, or the obstruction. You can't go fast in a forest, and you can't see. I like to flush my quarry out into the open. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work like that.
Veatriz, I need to ask you something. Do you think there's going to be a war? I don't know how much Orsea's told you, or even how much he knows himself; but the Mezentines have raised a large army, and it looks horribly like they mean to use it against Eremia. I'd like to say don't be scared, but I can't. If you haven't talked to Orsea about it, maybe you should. And-I'm going to have to be obnoxious for a bit, so bite your tongue and don't yell at me-the truth is, I have my doubts about how Orsea's likely to handle this. I think Orsea is a good man, from what I've heard about him. He's brave, and conscientious, he cares very much about doing his job and not letting his people down. That's why I'm worried. You see, I believe that if the Mezentines invade, Orsea would rather die than run away and desert his people; which is all very well, and I'd like to think I'd do the same in his shoes, though I wouldn't bet money on it. I'm not a good, noble man, like he is. If I'd been good and noble, I'd be dead by now.
I'm still writing this letter; you haven't read it yet; so the waves of furious anger and resentment I can feel coming back at me off the paper must just he my imagination. Yes, I know. How dare I criticise Orsea, or suggest… We both know what you're thinking. But listen to me, please. Your place is at your husband's side, yes, right. But
Valens stopped writing. He knew that if he finished the sentence, he could be condemning the Vadani to war and death. Why would he want to do something like that? I want you to know that, if things go badly-you don't know the Mezentines like I do, once they start something, they don't give up-if things go badly, I can protect you, both of you, if you come here. I don't know how, exactly, but you can leave that to me. I can do it, and I will. Piece of cake.
There; now you see what I mean about getting the quarry out in the open. You do it by bursting in, making a noise, waving your arms, yelling, making a complete exhibition of yourself, being as loud and as scary as you possibly can. This is going very badly. I'm not thinking. For a start, even if you're prepared to do as I say, how are you going to persuade Orsea? He doesn't know you and I are (Valens hesitated for a very long time.) friends; so why on earth would he want to come here, to the lair of his traditional enemy and all that? I can see him, he's looking at you as though you've gone soft in the head. He's asking himself, why's she saying this, what on earth makes her think we'd be safer with the bloody Vadani than we are here? And besides, I couldn't ever do that, it'd be betraying my people.
Veatriz, I'm worried. I'm scared, and I can't make the fear go away. Please, at least think about it. The Mezentines aren't savages, but they're very different from us, they think in a completely different way.
I have no right to make this sort of proposition to you; it's worse than making a pass at you, in some ways. Most ways, actually. But if you think I've been wicked and hateful and manipulative, you just wait and see what I'm going to say next. Namely: I know you love Orsea, and your place is with him, and you'd never do anything to hurt him. But which do you think is the better option: Orsea good and brave and keeping faith with his people and dead, or Orsea ashamed, dishonoured and alive? I'm your friend. I want to keep you safe. If, when, if the Mezentines get to Palicuro (in case you don't know it, it's a small village on the main east-west road, about seventeen miles from Civitas; inn, smithy, little village square with an old almond tree in the middle), I want to ask you to think very carefully about what I've suggested. It's the only thing I'll ever ask you to do for me. Please.
A short, round woman whose red dress didn't suit her complexion at all was half-killing her elderly grey palfrey, making it lug her not insignificant weight all the way up the long uphill road to Civitas Eremiae. She'd come to sell perfumes, flower essences and herbal remedies to the Duchess at extortionate prices. She came away smirking.
In the heel of her shoe was a little piece of folded parchment. It was sharp-edged and it chafed like hell, but she didn't mind; she was riding rather than walking, and besides, it would make it possible for her to sell perfumes, flower essences and herbal remedies to the Duke of the Vadani for an absurdly large s
um of money. Her feet hurt anyway, because of the corns.
The Duchess had asked her to wait while she wrote the reply, and she'd been expecting to be kept hanging about for a long time; she'd made a little nest of cushions for herself in the handsome window-seat in the small gallery (such a good view down across the valley) and she'd brought a book-The Garden of Love in Idleness; very hard to get hold of a copy, especially one with quality pictures-but she'd hardly had time to open it when the Duchess came back again. She'd looked tense and unhappy, but that was her business.
The woman in the red dress didn't take her shoe off until she reached the inn at Palicuro (miserable little place, and some clown had cut down the almond tree). She was a thoughtful woman, careful and attentive to detail, so she packed her shoes with lavender overnight. The Vadani Duke was reckoned to be a good mark and a cash customer; he wouldn't want his letter smelling of hot feet.
An hour or so after the woman in the red dress reached the bottom of the mountain, a team of carpenters, stonemasons and guardsmen set about installing the first batch of the new war engines on the ramparts of Civitas Eremiae.
It was a bitch of a job. The stupid things were heavy, but their wooden frames weren't robust enough to allow them to be hauled about on ropes and cranes (the little Mezentine had been very fussy about that) so they had to be manhandled up the stairs, and they were an awkward shape. There wasn't anywhere you could hold on to them easily, and unless you shuffled along a few inches at a time, you barked your shins on the legs of the stand. It was the general consensus of opinion that if the little Mezentine had had to install the things himself, he'd have given a bit more thought to stuff like that; also, that the engines themselves were a complete waste of public money, since nobody in their right mind would ever dream of attacking Civitas,' which was universally acknowledged to be impregnable; and only a born idiot like Duke Orsea would've been gullible enough to buy such a load of old junk in the first place. Still, what could you expect from someone who spent all his time pig-hunting when he should be running the country?
