by K. J. Parker
He sat down and waited. He had a pretty shrewd idea who’d be first. Sure enough, Orsea got to his feet. As usual, he looked nervous, as though he wasn’t quite sure whether he was allowed to speak, or whether he needed to ask for permission.
“For what it’s worth,” he said, “I agree with Valens. I think I can honestly say I know the Mezentines better than any of you. I ought to, after all. It was my stupidity that got us all into this situation in the first place, and as a direct result of what I did, I’ve had to watch them invade my country, burn my city and massacre my people. If it wasn’t for Valens here, I’d be dead. Now, because Valens rescued us, you’re facing the same danger. It’s my fault that you’ve got to make this decision, and all I can say is, I’m sorry. That’s no help, obviously.” He hesitated, and Valens looked away. It pained him to see a grown man making a fool of himself,particularly someone who was his responsibility. “The point is,” Orsea went on, “we mustn’t let what happened at Civitas Eremiae happen again here. It’s bad enough having to live with the destruction of my own people. If it happened to you as well —”
“Orsea,” Valens said quietly, “it’s all right. Sit down.”
Orsea hesitated, then did as he was told. The room was suddenly, completely quiet. I’d better do something, Valens thought. He looked round the room and picked a face at random.
“Carausius,” he said, “how soon do you think we could be ready?”
Was Carausius smirking slightly? Probably not. He stood up. “It depends on what we want to take with us, obviously,” he replied. “Assuming you only want the bare minimum — food, clothes, essential military supplies — we could be on the road inside a week.”
Valens smiled. “I don’t think the situation’s as desperate as all that,” he replied. “Let’s say a fortnight.”
Carausius nodded. “In that case,” he said, “the real limitation on what we can take is transport. I had a quick inventory made of all the available carts, wagons and horses, I’ll see to it you get a copy before the end of today. In a nutshell, a fortnight’s plenty of time to load up all our available transport capacity. Tell me when you want to leave, and what the priorities are.”
Valens nodded. “Another thing,” he said, and he fixed his eyes on the back wall, just above head height. “We’re agreed that one of the best ways of stopping the Mezentines is by being as expensive to kill as we possibly can. We aren’t going to get very far with that strategy if we let them get their hands on the silver mines.” He felt it as he spoke; a faint shiver, as though he’d brushed an open cut with his fingertips. “I’m prepared to bet that the war faction in the Guild assembly is selling this war to the skeptics on the basis that getting control of the mines will not only pay for slaughtering us, it’ll go a long way toward wiping out the losses incurred in conquering and occupying Eremia. As long as the mines are there and capable of being worked, they’ve got an incentive. Take that away …” He shrugged. “We need to give the opposition in the Assembly as much help as we can. So really, we haven’t got any choice in the matter. We’ve got to put the mines out of action, and we’ve got to do it in such a way that, if they finish the job on us, it won’t be worth their while financially to stick around and get them up and running again.”
He paused, to give them time to be suitably horrified and angry. To their credit, they hid it well. What he needed now, of course, was someone to stand up and disagree with him. He waited, but nobody obliged. He had them too well trained.
“Let’s think about it for a moment,” he went on. “It’s a question of the degree of sabotage, and the fundamental difference between them and us. They’re businessmen. They can only afford to do a thing if it makes money. If the cost of repairing the damage to the mines is too high, they won’t bother. We don’t have to live by those rules. The silver’s all we’ve got. And if we wreck the mines, the silver will still be there, until such time as we can rebuild and start mining again. If it takes us ten years and all our available manpower, so what? We can afford the time and effort, because our time and our work come cheap. They can’t. But if we leave the mines there for them to take — and let’s face it, we couldn’t defend them against an assault or a siege, any more than we could defend the city — it’s giving them a reason to keep going, even if we do manage to hurt them. It’s harsh, I know, but …” He paused again, shook his head and sat down.
This time he got what he’d been hoping for. Licinius, senior partner of the Blue Crown mine, and the nephew of the first man Valens had ever had put to death. He was frowning as he stood up, as though he was in two minds about raising a matter of marginal interest.
“I take your point,” he said. “And in principle, I agree. What I’m a bit concerned about is the practicalities. With respect; it’s all very well to say we should sabotage the mines to the point where the Mezentines can’t get them running again. The fact is, though, I don’t think it’d be physically possible — not in the time available, with the men and resources we could spare. We build our mines to last, after all.”
Valens relaxed a little. He couldn’t have asked for a better objection. “You’re the expert, Licinius,” he said, “so obviously I’m happy to listen to what you’ve got to say. But I think you may be worrying unduly. I’ve read up on this a bit, and I’ve talked to some engineers who know far more about this stuff than I do.” He noticed Vaatzes out of the corner of his eye, completely expressionless, like a stone goblin. “As I understand it, what you do is fill the ventilation chambers at the ends of the primary access tunnels — am I getting the technical terms right? I’m sure you know what I mean — you fill them with nice dry logs soaked in lamp oil, set a fuse, light it and run. The fire draws its own draft down the ventilation shafts, so you get a really good heat very quickly; more than enough, at any rate, to burn out all the props in the gallery and cave in not just the chamber but the tunnels as well. Once that lot’s come down, it’d be quicker to start all over again with new shafts rather than trying to dig out the mess in the old ones. Which, of course, is what we’ll have to do, when the war’s over and the Mezentines have all gone home. But we’ve already been into that. As far as what you were saying goes,Licinius, I don’t see that there’s an insuperable problem.”
All Licinius could do was nod politely to concede the point. Valens nodded back, to show that all was forgiven. He’d been bluffing, of course. All he knew about the subject was what he’d read in a standard textbook on siege techniques, and the method he’d described was how they undermined the walls of cities, not the roofs of silver mines. Licinius had just confirmed that the method would work equally well in the mines, which was good of him, even if he didn’t know he’d done it. Valens made a mental note to look into the matter in proper detail, when he had the time.
“Right,” he said, “I think we’re all agreed, then. I’m going to have to ask all of you to help out with the planning; I’ll let you know what I need from you over the next couple of days. Orsea, if you could spare me a moment.”
That was the cue for the rest of them to leave. He could feel their relief, and also their resignation. But it was his job to make decisions; and if he didn’t, who would?
Orsea stood up. The rest of them left without looking at him, as though he was some kind of monstrosity. Years ago, hadn’t people believed that if you looked a leper in the eyes, you could catch the disease that way? Maybe they still had the same belief about humiliation.
“I’m sorry,” Orsea said. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.”
Valens shrugged, and perched on the edge of the table. “It’s all right,” he said, “you didn’t do anybody else any harm.”
He could feel the jab go home. It had only been slight, but Orsea felt the least touch these days. Understandably. He had a lot to feel vulnerable about. “I wanted to explain,” Valens said, in as gentle a voice as he could manage, “why I don’t want you to come to the council meetings anymore.”
Orsea turned his h
ead and looked at him. The expression on his face was familiar: the deer at bay, with nowhere left to run to. The difference was, Valens hunted deer because he wanted them; the meat, the hide, the trophy. Hunting was about reducing a wild thing into possession. He’d never wanted Orsea for anything at all.
“Because I make a fool of myself,” Orsea said. “Understood.”
“No.” Valens sighed. “I was thinking of you, actually. And Veatriz.” He paused. He hadn’t meant to come so close to the truth. “Look, it’s obvious. It’s tearing you apart, even hearing news about the war. There’s no need for you to put yourself through that. I’ll see to it you’re kept in the loop, and anything you’ve got to say, about policy, you can say to me direct.” He stood up and walked across, until he was within arm’s length. “If you want to keep coming to the meetings, then fine. I just thought you’d prefer not to.”
Orsea stayed where he was. The hunted animal runs away. The fencer steps back as his opponent advances, to maintain the safe distance between them. “Thanks,” he said. “To be honest, there’s nothing useful I could contribute anyway. I mean, it’s not like I made a particularly good job of defending my country against the Mezentines, so I’m hardly likely to do any better with yours.”
Valens looked away. “You can believe that if you want to,” he said. “It’s not true, of course. You beat off a direct assault, which nobody’s ever done before —”
“That was Vaatzes,” Orsea interrupted, “not me.”
“Yes, but you chose him. That’s what leaders do, they choose the right people.”
“Like Miel Ducas.” Orsea laughed. “He was very good indeed. But of course, I relieved him of command and had him locked up, just when we needed him most.”
Valens froze, as though he’d just put his foot in a snare. “That’s beside the point.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” Orsea sat down. “None of it’s important. What matters is that I started the war in the first place. Nobody else but me. And now it’s come here. You know what? I think the war follows me around, like a butcher’s dog.”
Valens stifled a yawn. This was mere pointless activity, but it was his duty as a good host to carry on to the end. “You didn’t start my war, Orsea,” he said. “I did that.”
“Because of me.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
(In his mind, he was phrasing another question for a letter: Suppose you were fencing with a man who wanted to get killed, but if you kill him, you lose the game. How would you go about it?)
“Valens.” Orsea was looking at him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
Orsea turned his head. Valens had seen people do something similar before; squeamish men who had to put a wounded animal out of its misery. “You know why I had Miel Ducas arrested?”
“I heard something about it.”
“What happened was,” Orsea said slowly, “I found out that he had a letter. It was something he shouldn’t have had. What I mean is, as soon as it came into his possession he should’ve brought it to me, but he didn’t.” He lifted his head; he was looking into the corner of the room. “Apparently that’s treason,” he said. “I looked it up.”
“You couldn’t trust him anymore. Well, that’s fair enough.”
“Trust,” Orsea repeated. “That old thing. You know,” he went on, “I’ve been thinking a lot about trust recently.”
“Understandably,” Valens murmured. “Someone betrayed your city to the enemy.”
“Several people, actually,” Orsea replied briskly, “including me. But that’s not what’s been bothering me. I’ve been thinking — look, can you spare the time for all this? Listening to me rambling on, I mean. It’s really self-indulgent of me, and you’re a busy man.”
“It’s raining,” Valens said. “I’ve got plenty of time.”
“Trust.” Orsea jumped up, still looking away. “Trust’s important, because if you can’t trust someone, there’s a risk he’ll do something to hurt you. So you take steps, if you’re a prudent man. You take steps to make sure he can’t hurt you, assuming he wants to. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there you go. But it’s not as simple as that.” He seemed to be nerving himself to do something, and failing. “It’s not something you can predict, like the workings of a machine. I mean, it’s not simple cause and effect. Sometimes, someone you thought was your friend does something to breach your trust, but he’s still your friend really, in things that matter. And sometimes your enemy, the man you’ve never trusted, pops up out of nowhere and saves your life.” Now he turned, and looked Valens in the eye. “Stuff like that,” he said, “it sort of makes nonsense out of it all, doesn’t it?”
Valens found that he’d taken a step back. Force of habit again. “I’ve always found,” he said quietly, “that if I can’t understand something, it’s because I don’t know all the facts.”
“Ah well.” Orsea suddenly smiled. “That’s the difference between us, I guess. When I can’t understand something, it’s generally because I’m too stupid to get my head round it.”
“You can believe that,” Valens replied, “if you want to.”
Orsea nodded. “Did you know?” he said. “About Miel Ducas, and the letter?”
“I knew there was a letter involved in it,” Valens said. “But not the details.”
“Not all the facts, then.”
Valens shrugged. “It was none of my business,” he said, “so I didn’t bother finding out.”
(Valens thought: my father always told me that what’s wrong with lying is that it’s an admission of weakness. If you’re the strongest, you can afford to tell the truth.)
“Good attitude,” Orsea said. “Wouldn’t you like to hear the inside story?”
“Not particularly.”
“Well.” Orsea relaxed a little, as if a fight he’d been expecting had been called off. “Like I said, you’re a busy man. No time for things that don’t concern you.”
“Quite.”
Orsea sighed. “And you’re right, of course,” he said. “There’s no point in me coming to meetings anymore, and you’re right, they do upset me. I felt I ought to keep coming along, just in case I could be useful. But since I can’t, there’s no point.”
“No.”
“Thanks.” Orsea took a few steps toward the door. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “I really am very grateful for everything you’ve done for me.”
Valens let him go without saying anything else. When he’d gone, he sat down, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Unearned gratitude, he thought, just what I always wanted. More cheating, of course. I wonder: do I like the hunt so much because it’s the one thing I do where it isn’t possible to cheat?
He went back to the tower, changed out of his pretty clothes and put on something comfortable. Another thing his father had always told him: If you cheat, sooner or later you’ll be punished for it. That was no lie. Of course, to begin with they were just letters. It was only when he’d become dependent on them that the dishonesty began. It was perfectly simple. She was married — to Orsea, of all people, Duke of Eremia, his people’s traditional enemy. But because he knew they could never be together, there could never be anything except letters between them, he’d carried on writing and reading them, until he’d reached the point where he was little more than a foreign correspondent reporting back on his own life to a readership living far away, in a country he could never go to. And — of course — now she was here, never more than a hundred yards away from him, and he couldn’t write to her anymore, let alone speak to her. He’d taken his country to war in order to rescue her, and thereby lost her forever.
He grinned. And Orsea thought he was stupid.
She’d be at dinner tonight. By way of exquisitely honed masochism, Valens had ordered the seating plan so that she always sat in the same place she’d been in the first time he’d seen her, seven years ago, when she
’d come here as a hostage during the final peace negotiations. That reminded him of something Orsea had said about the war. Orsea had been wrong about that, but the phrase he’d used was nicely appropriate. Irony, Valens thought; irony follows me everywhere. When I was seventeen and she was here the first time, I wanted the negotiations to fail and the war to carry on, because as soon as there was peace I knew she’d go away and I’d never see her again. Now, war has brought her back to me again, like a cynical go-between. Pleasant thought: war wants us to be together so much, it’ll do anything to make it happen. I never knew war and love were so close.
If my mind were a falcon, he thought, this is the point where there’d be the biggest risk of it not coming back to the lure. He pulled his shoes on and went back down the stairs to the library. It was time for the day’s reports; at least he still got some letters, but these days they were all from spies and traitors.
Anser, reporting on the Eremian resistance. He frowned as he broke the seal. He’d sent Anser out of guilt, mostly. The purpose of the mission was to infiltrate the resistance and report back on its activities, but while he was there he’d undoubtedly be making himself useful, if only to help pass the time, and when it came to violence, Anser could be very useful indeed.
Anser to Duke Valens, greetings.
Things aren’t going well, but they could be worse. Yesterday we attacked the supply convoy for the main expeditionary force. We did a good job. It was the fifth convoy in a row that we stopped from getting through, which by my calculations means that fairly soon they’ll have to turn around and go back to the city or starve. Unfortunately, we got beaten up pretty badly in the process; over a hundred killed, half as many driven off and scattered, quite possibly caught by the cavalry patrols. The Mezentines have hired some new light cavalry; I haven’t a clue who they are or where they’re from, but they’re obviously used to operating in the mountains, and they’re proving to be a real nuisance. The bad news is, Miel Ducas is missing. If he was dead and they’d found the body, I think we’d have heard about it by now, it’d be the break the Mezentines have been waiting for. We’ve been trying to keep the fact that he’s missing quiet, but it won’t be long before it gets out. When that happens, it’ll probably be the end of effective resistance. It’s annoying, because we were holding our own, if not making any real progress. Meanwhile, I’m not sure who’s in charge here, though I have an unpleasant feeling it’s probably me.
