Evil for Evil

by K. J. Parker

  Orsea nodded. “We found out the hard way,” he said. “We assumed they’d be complete and utter carnivores, so we got in every kind of meat and poultry and game we could think of, as well as most of the booze in the duchy —”

  “Hold it.” Valens’ frown deepened into a scowl. “You aren’t about to tell me they don’t drink alcohol either.”

  Orsea looked away. “It was embarrassing,” he said. “Not the high point of my diplomatic career.” He stood up and walked to the window. “Though how I was supposed to have known about it …” He sighed. “Serves me right for jumping to conclusions. I thought that, just because they’re savages, they must eat flesh and drink themselves stupid three times a day. Apparently not.”

  “Well,” Valens said, “thanks for the warning. Nothing about it in any of the reports, and I confess, I’d made the same assumptions as you did.” He thought for a moment. “Presumably they must eat cheese and drink milk, or what do they keep cattle for?”

  Orsea didn’t seem inclined to offer an opinion on that. “When will they be arriving?” he asked.

  “Five days’ time,” Valens answered. “Assuming they aren’t held up in the mountains or anything like that. It’s odd,” he went on. “I’ve been fighting the Cure Hardy on and off for most of my adult life — raiding parties, that sort of thing; nothing big or political, just plain, unsophisticated robbery — and never in all that time have they ever wanted to come and talk to us. Now, just as we’re about to pack up and leave, they turn up on our doorstep asking for a meeting.”

  “You think they know something? About the evacuation, I mean.”

  “I doubt it,” Valens said, leaning back a little in his chair. “We’ve kept a pretty tight lid on our plans; besides, why would it interest them, one way or another? As far as they’re concerned, we’re just people to steal from when they’re tired of life. Still, if they want to talk to me, they’re welcome. I’ll talk to anybody, within reason.” He picked up a sheet of paper he’d put on the table earlier. “Talking of which,” he went on, “an off-relation of yours, Jarnac Ducas, wants to see me. Wrote me a memo asking for an appointment, which strikes me as a bit formal and businesslike. Any idea what he wants?”

  Orsea shrugged. “No idea, sorry.”

  “Ah well.” Valens nodded. He knew the answer, of course, because it was in the letter. “Jarnac Ducas,” he said. “Relation of the Miel Ducas who was your chief of staff.”

  Orsea didn’t turn round. “Cousin,” he replied.

  “Ah yes. He put up quite a show at Civitas Eremiae, didn’t he?”

  “Jarnac? Yes.” Orsea nodded. “I put him in charge of the defenses, at the end. He did a good job in a hopeless situation.”

  Obviously Orsea didn’t want to talk about the Ducas family. Still, it had to be done. “I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Valens went on. “Why did you dismiss Miel Ducas? From what I’ve gathered, he was perfectly competent.”

  “I made a mistake,” Orsea said.

  “Ah. Well, we all do that. Many thanks for the tip about the Cure Hardy,” he added, in his best polite you-can-go-away-now voice. “It’ll be interesting to find out what they want.”

  Orsea drifted away; not a moment too soon, as far as Valens was concerned. He was finding him increasingly difficult to tolerate, and the harder he found it, the harder he resolved to try.

  In order to give Orsea plenty of time to leave the North Tower before he sent for his next appointment, he picked up the dossier on Jarnac Ducas and read it through one more time. Head of the cadet branch of the powerful Ducas family; presently head of the family as a result of the disgrace of Miel Ducas; a competent, efficient and conscientious soldier, and the finest huntsman in Eremia before the war (Valens smiled at that); given the honorary rank of colonel in the heavy cavalry, currently on detached service with the Eremian guerrillas, commanding the Vadani volunteers fighting the Mezentine occupation. Fine; he knew all that. The reason for the interview was rather more intriguing. He rang the bell, and sent a page to fetch him.

  He’d seen him before, of course, and remembered him clearly. Jarnac Ducas wasn’t easily forgotten. Valens’ first impression had been that there was far too much of him. He loomed, and there was always the danger that he might tread on you by accident. Today, however, he was practically subdued. Valens told him to sit down, and asked him what was on his mind.

  “I have a favor to ask,” Jarnac replied. He was sitting — no, perching, like a falcon on the wrist of a novice, awkward and unsteady. It was as though he was trying to act normal-sized.

  “You want two squadrons of light cavalry for a raid into northern Eremia,” Valens said. “I know, it was in your letter.” He put on his stern expression. “There’s no reason why you should’ve heard, but I’ve decided to scale down our involvement with the guerrillas. The plain fact is, they’re doing a good job, but I can’t afford the manpower. Any day now, you’ll be getting recall orders telling you to get your men out of Eremia. Obviously you’re entirely at liberty to go back if you want to; after all, you’re an Eremian, I’ve got no right to tell you to stop fighting for your country. But the Vadani troops under your command are a different matter entirely.”

  When he’d finished, Jarnac waited for a moment or so, then said: “Understood. But if I can just explain …”

  “Go on.”

  Jarnac opened and closed his left hand. “When I filed the request for the two squadrons,” he said, “I didn’t mean I wanted them as general reinforcements for the resistance. The fact is, I want them for one specific operation.”

  He seemed to have run out of words, but Valens decided not to prompt him. Eventually, Jarnac went on: “It’s quite simple, actually. I’ve heard reports that my cousin Miel’s been taken prisoner, and I want to get him out of there.”

  Valens nodded. “That’s different,” he said. “What’s the position?”

  Jarnac closed his eyes, just for a second. He was afraid I’d say no, Valens thought, and I don’t suppose fear is something he’s had much experience with. He doesn’t handle it well.

  “As far as I can make out,” Jarnac said, “he was picked up by a party of looters. Apparently they’re Eremian renegades, I’m sorry to say. They go round robbing the dead after battles, stealing equipment, that sort of thing; and if they find survivors, they hold them to ransom. When Miel went missing after a skirmish a few days ago, I had my people try and find out what had become of him. One of my men knows a trader who buys from these people, and he told me they’ve got Miel and they’re about to open negotiations with the Mezentines. Obviously, we can’t have that. Quite apart from the strategic implications — I mean, Miel knows everything there is to know about how the resistance is set up —”

  Valens nodded. “Fine,” he said. “Go ahead. Will two squadrons be enough?”

  “Oh, plenty,” Jarnac said quickly. “I don’t think these characters are fighters, it’ll be more about speed and surprise than weight of numbers.”

  “Go ahead then, by all means.” Valens frowned. “There’s just one thing,” he added. “I don’t know much about the background, but I get the impression there’s bad blood between your cousin and Duke Orsea. Presumably once you’ve rescued him, you’ll be bringing him back here. Is there anything I should know about, or is it strictly a private matter?”

  Jarnac kept perfectly still for a moment, but his eyes were wide open. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I assumed …”

  “That doesn’t sound very good,” Valens said. “Perhaps you ought to tell me about it.”

  Jarnac wriggled a little, and Valens felt a moment of anxiety for the chair he was sitting in. “I assumed you’d have known,” he said. “Orsea had Miel arrested for treason.”

  “I see,” Valens said. “I’m assuming he was wrong about that.”

  It was almost painful to watch. “I suppose it depends on how you define treason,” Jarnac said. “You see, Orsea found out that Miel had got hold of a letter he shouldn’t ha
ve had.”

  Valens didn’t move, not even to breathe. “A letter.”

  “Yes.” Jarnac was looking at him. He had bright blue eyes. “I can’t remember offhand whether it was a letter from you to Duchess Veatriz or the other way about …”

  “I see.”

  “Anyway,” Jarnac went on, speaking quickly, practically mumbling, “Orsea seemed to feel that as soon as Miel got hold of the letter, he should’ve given it to him straightaway, and hanging on to it like that was an unforgivable breach of trust. Which, I suppose, it was, in a way; but Miel’s been crazy about Veatriz ever since they were both kids, it was always sort of understood that they’d marry each other, but then Veatriz became the heiress to the duchy, which nobody had been expecting, and everyone thought it’d be quite wrong politically for the Ducas to succeed to the duchy, because it’d mess up the balance of power.” He froze for a moment; Valens nodded, very slightly. “Anyhow,” Jarnac went on, “Miel couldn’t bring himself to give her away, partly for her sake, partly because he knew how upset Orsea would be if he knew …” Jarnac shut his eyes. Not his forte, this sort of thing. “So yes, I suppose it was treason, strictly speaking, and I understand why Orsea had to do what he did. But in my opinion, for what it’s worth, I don’t think Miel did anything wrong. Frankly, if only Orsea hadn’t found out it would probably all have blown over.” He looked up. There was a kicked-spaniel look on his face that made Valens want to burst out laughing. “That’s it,” he said, “more or less. So yes, it might be awkward if Miel came here. Does that change anything?”

  Valens sighed and shook his head. “For what it’s worth,” he said, “the one and only time I met Veatriz — before the fall of Civitas Eremiae, I mean — was years ago, when I was a sixteen-year-old kid. Yes, we wrote letters to each other. It had been going on for about eighteen months. Did you happen to see the letter that your cousin intercepted?”

  Jarnac shook his head.

  “Fine,” Valens said. “Well, you’ll have to take my word for it. They were all …” He paused. Even talking about it felt like a grotesque breach of trust. “They were all perfectly innocent; just chat, I guess. What we’d been reading, things we’d seen that happened to snag our interest.” He sighed again. “I’m sorry,” he said, “you really don’t want to know anything about it, and I don’t blame you. The fact remains that the blame for your cousin’s disgrace ultimately rests with me, and it’s because of it that he was out there in the first place, so naturally I have an obligation to do whatever’s necessary to rescue him. The one thing I can’t do is let the Mezentines get hold of him just because having him here would be embarrassing, either to Duke Orsea or myself. However,” he went on, “if there’s any way of keeping him out of Orsea’s way once you’ve rescued him, I’d take it as a personal favor. Is that clear?”

  Jarnac nodded. “Perfectly,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Valens smiled thinly. “My pleasure,” he said. “You have complete discretion over the details, and your choice of whatever forces and materiel you might need. I’ll have a warrant ready for you by morning; you can pick it up from the clerk’s office. Was there anything else?”

  Jarnac stood up, back straight as a spear-shaft. “No,” he said. “And thank you for your time.”

  “That’s all right.” Valens turned his head just a little so he wasn’t looking straight at him anymore. “When you get back,” he said, “perhaps you’d care to join me for a day with the falcons. I seem to remember hearing somewhere that you used to keep a few birds yourself.”

  A split second, before Jarnac realized it was meant as a joke. “One or two,” he said. “Thank you, I’d be delighted. I haven’t had a day out in the field — well, since the war started.”

  “I know,” Valens replied. “That’s the rotten thing about a war, it cuts into your free time.”

  Pause; then Jarnac laughed. “Till then,” he said. “And thank you.”

  He left, and once he’d gone the room felt much bigger. Valens took a series of deep breaths, as if he’d been running. Well, he thought, after all that I know something I didn’t know before, so it can’t have been a complete disaster. He let his hands drop open and his forearms flop onto his knees. Irony, he thought. First I rescue her husband, and now her childhood sweetheart.

  At the back of his mind a couple of unexplained details were nagging at him like the first faint twinges of toothache. He acknowledged their existence but resolved to ignore them for the time being. For the time being, he had other things to think about.

  Obviously, then, Orsea knew about the letters. That explained a great deal about the way he’d been behaving ever since he’d arrived in Civitas Vadanis. Methodically Valens drew down the implications, the alternative courses of action open to him and their consequences. Logically — logically, it was perfectly straightforward, one move on a chessboard that would resolve everything. If Orsea was taken by the Mezentines …

  He allowed himself the luxury of developing the idea. The Mezentines are sick and tired of the war in Eremia, which has dragged on long after the supposedly quick, clean victory at Civitas Eremiae. By the same token, they don’t want to have to fight us, but I can’t be allowed to get away with interfering as I did. A simple note, therefore, to the Mezentine commander, suggesting that he demand the surrender of Duke Orsea as the price of peace. He makes the demand; I refuse, naturally; Orsea immediately offers himself as a sacrifice — no, too melodramatic. Of course; as soon as he hears about the demand, Orsea quietly slips out of the palace and hands himself over to the enemy. Outcome: Orsea finds redemption from his intolerable guilt; my people are saved from a war we can’t win; she becomes a widow.

  He smiled. The frustrating thing about it was that if he sent for Orsea and asked his permission to do it, Orsea would almost certainly give it.

  Instead, he was going to have to think of something else; annoying and difficult, because it’s always harder to find a satisfactory answer to a problem when you already know the right answer but aren’t allowed to use it. And it was the right answer; he could see that quite clearly. Further irony, that the right answer should also be cheating.

  Instead …

  Instead, he would have to go the long way round, and nobody would be happy, and thousands of innocent people would have to die. Query (hypothetical, therefore fatuous; another indulgence): would the answer have been different if Orsea hadn’t known about the letters? He thought about that for a moment, but failed to reach a clear decision.

  He pulled a sheet of paper toward him across the table, picked up his pen and wrote out Jarnac Ducas’ warrant: afford him all possible cooperation, one of those nice old-fashioned phrases you only ever get to use in official documents. He frowned, tore it up, and started again.

  Valens Valentinianus to Ulpianus Macer, greetings.

  An Eremian called Jarnac Ducas will show up in the front office tomorrow morning asking for soldiers and supplies. Give him everything he wants.

  He folded the paper and added it to the pile. His knees ached from too much sitting. Somewhere in the building, she was … He frowned, trying to think where she was likely to be and what she’d be doing. Needlework, probably. She hated needlework; a pointless, fatuous, demeaning exercise, a waste of her mind, her life and good linen. She was tolerably competent at it, but not good enough to earn a living as a seamstress. There had been five — no, six references in the letters to how much she despised it. In her mother’s room, she’d told him, there was a huge oak chest, with massive iron hinges. As soon as she finished a piece of work — an embroidered cushion, a sampler, a pair of gloves with the Sirupati arms on the back — it was put away in the chest and never taken out again; the day after her mother died, the chest was taken away and put somewhere, and she had no idea what had become of it. In his reply, Valens had told her about how he’d loathed hunting, right up to the day his father died. It’s different for you, she’d written back, you’re a man. It was one of the few times she’d misse
d the point completely.

  Needlework, he thought. When we abandon the city and take to the wagons, I guess we’ll have to take her work boxes and embroidery frames and her spinning-wheel and God only knows what else with us. And Orsea, of course, and my falcons and my hounds and the boar spears.

  Suddenly he couldn’t bear sitting down any longer. He jumped up, scowled, hesitated for a moment and walked quickly out of the library, down the stairs and across the hall to the ascham. He grabbed the first bow that came to hand and the quiver of odds-and-ends arrows, the ones that wouldn’t matter if he lost them, and took the back passageway out into the lists. The sally port was still unlocked, and he scrambled down the rampart (he was still wearing his stupid poulaines, he realized, but he couldn’t be bothered to go back and change into boots) and ran across the port-meadow into the wood. As he crept and stumbled down the path he could hear ducks squabbling down on the river at the bottom of the hill. It was still three weeks until the start of the season, but the ducks didn’t seem to know that. They’d come in early; he’d watched them arrive one evening, a week or so back. It would be cheating, but for once he didn’t care. Besides, nobody would be about at this time of day, so the guilt would be his alone. The wet leaves were soft and treacherous under his smooth-soled feet; wild garlic, long since gone over.

  As soon as he could see the river through the trees he stopped and made himself calm down. His best chance of a shot would be a drake right on the edge of the water; they liked to sit out after feeding at this time of day, to catch the last warmth of the evening sun. The problem, as usual, would be getting close enough. Twenty yards would be pushing it; fifteen for a proper job. The screen of coppiced willow that edged the bank would cover him, but it would most likely obstruct the shot as well. He ran the odds, and decided that the best bet would be to assume that there’d be at least one pair of ducks on the shingle spit that stuck out into the water a few yards on from where the main path came down to the water’s edge. If he left the path and worked his way down to the point where the big oak leaned out from the bank, he could use it as cover and get a clear sight across to the spit; closer to twenty yards than fifteen, but just about in range.