by K. J. Parker
“A man called Ulpianus Macer,” Valens replied. “He’s my private secretary, practically runs the country. He’ll be round to talk to you this evening, after dinner. Will that give you enough time?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent.” Valens thought for a moment. “You’ve already done the list, haven’t you?”
“I haven’t written it out yet.”
Valens looked at him for a moment. “Interesting,” he said, with a slight frown. “Tell me, are all Mezentines as scary as you, or is that why they threw you out in the first place?”
Vaatzes’ expression didn’t change. “I’m not exactly a typical Mezentine,” he said. “Not for want of trying, but nobody’s perfect. Is there anything else, or should I go now?”
Valens raised his hand. “Go,” he said. “Leave me to reflect on my own ignorance. It’s one of the few indulgences I have left these days. And thank you,” he added. “I have no idea what you’re really up to, but I appear to be considerably in your debt. That always makes me uncomfortable, so I hope you’ll forgive me if I sound a bit ungracious.”
Vaatzes grinned. “We don’t have graciousness where I come from,” he said.
After he’d gone, Valens sat down on the linen press and stared out of the window for a while. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he’d just done something momentous and important, but whether it was a great leap forward or a bad mistake, he couldn’t tell. So far, he believed, he’d coped reasonably well with having the Mezentines as his enemies. Having one as an ally, he felt, was likely to be rather more complicated. He thought about what Orsea had said about Vaatzes, how tirelessly he’d worked, his determination, his resourcefulness, his exceptional knowledge and skill. Thanks to Vaatzes, Orsea had said, for a while they’d honestly believed they had a chance of beating the Perpetual Republic and saving Eremia. Orsea liked him and respected him (he’d try not to hold that against him), and the man definitely had a knack for staying alive. There was also the fact that, nominally at least, he was the cause of the war.
Valens frowned. For a moment, earlier that day, he’d seriously considered turning Orsea over to the Mezentines as a way of saving his people. If the Mezentines were serious about why they’d started the war, perhaps there was someone else he could betray instead of Orsea. The same reasoning applied. If the Mezentines were sick of the waste and loss of prestige and would be prepared to go home in exchange for a way of saving face …
He got up and lay on the bed, staring at the tapestries on the opposite wall: the boar at bay, crowded in by the hounds, the hunters bearing down on him. He understood perfectly why he couldn’t hand Orsea over to the enemy. Vaatzes, on the other hand, was a stranger, a foreigner, an outsider; in the estimation of his own people (and, apparently, himself) a criminal. It was Vaatzes, not Orsea, who had brought about the slaughter of thousands of Mezentine troops, and inflicted on the Republic the worst defeat in its history. Valens was by no means sure what the Republic’s real reason for going to war had been. He most certainly didn’t care, so long as the war could be persuaded to go away and leave him and his people alone. A lot had changed, however, since the Mezentines invaded Eremia. He understood that wars grew and mutated, finding ways to stay alive; they hung on with the grim tenacity of a weed growing in a crack in a wall, feeding on whatever nutrients their roots and tendrils could find. The war might have started because one faction in the Mezentine government wanted the popularity of a quick, easy victory; that possibility had been extinguished, but the war had not only survived but put on a tremendous spurt of growth; its original sponsors didn’t dare end it without a redeeming victory, and other factions with other agendas were undoubtedly considering the opportunities it offered, one of which was surely the Vadani silver mines. Very well; he considered the implications. In all likelihood, the Mezentine opposition was making as much capital as it could out of the administration’s misfortunes, but it would be political suicide for them to propose out loud that the Republic should cut its losses and admit defeat. Instead, they would be eager to change the war, redefine its objectives, so that when they overthrew their opponents they’d be able to win a quick victory, make good the financial losses, and if possible turn a profit. The original stated objective — the extermination of the Eremian nation — had proved to be too awkward and expensive, but a loving and generous Providence had intervened by taking away the wits of the Vadani duke, prompting him to interfere in a quarrel that was none of his business. If the war stopped being about wiping out the Eremians and turned into a punitive crusade against the Vadani, all their troubles would be over. They could have their victory simply by killing the stupid arrogant duke and slaughtering his army and a substantial number of his people, and they would have the silver mines. Perfect.
In which case, Valens concluded, it was essential that the current Mezentine government didn’t fall; because they must be well aware that their only chance of survival lay in achieving something that could be made to look like the accomplishment of their original objective in the brief space of time remaining to them before their political enemies brought them down. The pretext for the war had been Vaatzes’ defection; if they had Vaatzes, and could point to the blackened ruins of Civitas Eremiae, they stood a chance of persuading their constituents that they had done what they had set out to do. Handing over Orsea might just achieve the same result; giving them Orsea and Vaatzes would almost certainly do the trick. Vaatzes on his own — well, what mattered to Valens wasn’t saving the Mezentine government but striking a deal that would satisfy them. What mattered wasn’t whether Vaatzes’ head would be enough to rescue them, but persuading them that it might be. Could he do that? He considered his own abilities, and decided that he probably could. At the very least, it was worth a try.
Well, then; problem solved.
He poured himself a glass of wine, looked at it and poured it back into the jug. Wherever you went in the castle, there were jugs and decanters, glasses, cups and mugs; wine, both domestic and imported, mead, cider, perry; the simple fact was that he didn’t like the stuff and never had. He didn’t like the way it tasted, and he hated the way it fogged up his mind. His father had always said he couldn’t think without a few drinks inside him, and that was probably true.
Problem solved, indeed. He sat down again and thought about Vaatzes’ visit. Sealing up the mines would deprive the Mezentine opposition of their motive for taking over the war (assuming that they knew about it, and of course they would, if their spies were earning their pay). Understandable, therefore, that Vaatzes should want to see to it that the job was done properly, which meant doing it himself. Vadani engineers, given the job of half sealing the mines, might well err on the side of caution, with the result that the resourceful Mezentines would be able to get past their attempts at sabotage. On that level, Vaatzes’ offer of help was reasonable enough. It was, of course, also just a pretext. It had been enough to get him an audience with the gullible Vadani duke (a clever fellow, but not nearly as clever as he thought he was) and an opportunity to make himself indispensable by pointing out the inadequacy of the duchy’s materiel resources and taking responsibility for putting matters in order. Basically the same as he’d done in Eremia: giving the Republic’s enemies the technological secrets they’d gone to war to keep control of. Once the Vadani accepted Vaatzes’ help, simply handing Vaatzes back would no longer be good enough, since the damage would’ve been done. Clever man; problem not solved.
In which case, it was just as well that Valens had figured out what Vaatzes was up to before it was too late. All the more reason, therefore, to make a deal and hand him over now, while there was still time.
He thought about his reaction to that. Long ago, one of his father’s huntsmen had taught him that the one thing a hunter should never do is get angry with the quarry. It would be inexcusable to blame a living thing for doing anything it possibly could to avoid being caught and killed. Feeling angry, or hurt or betrayed, because Vaatzes was trying
to manipulate him was therefore out of the question. Instead, when you recognize the trick the quarry is playing on you, the proper reaction is to be glad of the insight you’ve gained into the way its mind works, because of course you can’t hope to hunt something successfully unless you understand it first; and understanding comes from forgiveness, just as forgiveness comes from love.
Problem, then, still solved. What he should do now was write two letters: one to the Mezentines, proposing the deal, one to the guard captain, ordering Vaatzes’ immediate arrest. Two letters to save his people from the consequences of his own stupidity. He ought to do it. He ought to do it right away.
Instead, he refilled the wine glass, pulled a face and drank the sour, dusty-tasting stuff down like medicine. It didn’t make him feel any better, but he acknowledged the slight fuzziness it produced in his mind. Lots of things wrong with alcohol, but it has one redeeming virtue; it makes you stupid, and there are times when you need to be too stupid to do the intelligent thing.
He looked at the empty glass, then reached for an apple to take the taste away. In five days’ time he’d be up to his eyes in savages; pleasant thought. The Cure Hardy; last time he’d had any dealings with them, he’d spent a certain degree of time and effort trying to understand them a little better. He’d ground a few insights out of them before having them killed, which he’d had to do because they were raiding his territory and harming his people. Now, here they were again. He had no idea what they wanted. He yawned.
Someone knocked at the door, and he groaned. He had the option, of course, of simply not being there. Let them knock until their knuckles started to ache, and then they’d go away again.
“Come in,” he said.
As it turned out, it was only Macer, with some letters for him to sign. He nodded, and Macer put them down in front of him. The tradition was that letters needing a signature came in on a half-inch-thick sheet of glass; something flat to rest on in an uncertain world. “Do I need to read any of these?” he asked.
Macer shook his head. “Requisitions, mostly,” he said. “And you’re authorizing payments to a couple of merchants — hay, oats, stuff for the carthorses — and there’s a warrant for some character called Jarnac Ducas.”
“Oh, him.” Valens nodded. “Wasn’t life so much simpler when the Eremians were our enemies? You’d think that now there’re so many fewer of them, they’d be less of a nuisance. Other way about, apparently.” He signed a letter and Macer took it from him for sanding and blotting. “While I think of it,” he went on, “the Mezentine, Ziani Vaatzes. I want you to go and see him, directly after dinner.”
“Right,” Macer said. “What about?”
Suddenly, Valens grinned. “Good question,” he replied. “You’re either going to make sure he gets anything he wants in the whole wide world, or you’re going to have him arrested. Maybe both, and in no particular order, I haven’t decided yet.” He noticed Macer noticing the used wine glass; that obvious, then. He pulled himself together a little. “Vaatzes will hand you a list,” he said. “All sorts of expensive things we haven’t got; most of them you won’t even have heard of, probably. Find out what they are, where you get them from and how much they cost. Then see me. If Vaatzes tells you to do anything for him, tell him yes, you’ll see to it right away, then report back to me. Also, I want details of everywhere he goes and everyone he talks to.”
“Understood,” Macer said. “Actually, I’ve been doing that for the last couple of weeks. I’ve got a list right here, if it’s of any use to you.”
“Really?” Valens frowned. “Well done. All right, let’s see it.”
Macer never went anywhere without a battered pigskin folder stuffed with tatty scraps of paper. He opened it, leafed through, took out a scruffy little corner of four-times-erased parchment. Macer’s family had been government clerks for six generations.
“Thanks,” Valens said, as he glanced at the list. “Who the hell is Henida Eiconodoulus?”
“Merchant Adventurer,” Macer replied immediately. “Big woman, wears a red dress. Used to be in the salt business. There’s nothing against her.”
Valens shrugged. “Maybe he just likes big women,” he replied. “This is quite a list. Macer, you annoying bastard, why do you have to write everything so bloody small?”
“Saves on paper.”
“Of course.” Valens squinted. “Let me guess,” he said. “Milo Calceus and Naeus Faber are blacksmiths, right?”
“He’s been to see all the blacksmiths in the city,” Macer replied. “Most of them before I started making the list.”
“Figures. Hello.” Valens’ frown deepened. “Some familiar names here.”
“Quite. And before you ask, he met with them outside the castle, on their own time. Of course, he could just have been finding out about protocol and etiquette and so forth; which knife to use for which course, and who you’re supposed to stand up for when they walk into a room.”
“That’s possible, certainly.” Valens stopped. “This one here,” he said. “You sure?”
“Yes,” Macer said, his tone of voice perfectly neutral. “Actually, that’s why I started keeping the list.”
Valens put the paper down. “It says here he’s met her several times.”
“That’s right. First time was in the street, about six weeks ago; he walked with her across town, apparently showing her the way to a draper’s shop. After that, twice in the castle, the other time in the park.”
“You thought I ought to know about that?”
“Yes.”
Valens sighed. “Macer,” he said, “you’re a clever man. Also very brave.”
“Do you want me to pour you another drink?”
“Actually, that’s the last thing I want. Does Orsea know?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Try and see to it that it stays that way.” He scowled. “Is there anything in it?”
“My opinion?” Macer shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I think she’s bored and he’s an interesting man. She seems to like the company of interesting people.”
Valens looked at him in silence for a long time. “I think that’s everything for now,” he said.
6
Ziani had, of course, lied to the Duke. He’d written out the list of things and people he needed a long time ago; just after he’d first met the salt-dealer’s widow, in fact. The four closely written sides of charter paper curled into a roll and hidden in the sleeve of the gown hanging up behind his bedroom door was in fact the third revision of that particular document. Accordingly, he was in no particular hurry as he left the Duke’s tower. He walked slowly down the stairs into the east cloister, and sat down on a bench opposite the arch that led to the mews. After a minute or so, he stood up again and retraced his steps as far as the rather splendid marble memorial to Valentius IV, Valens’ great-grandfather. Needless to say, the seventeenth duke was commemorated with a fine equestrian statue, about two-thirds lifesize, showing him in the act of leveling his spear against an enormous boar. Ziani knelt down beside the boar’s flank and coughed politely.
“Breathing,” he said.
Slowly, a man uncoiled himself from the small nook between the boar and the horse’s legs.
“I could hear you from right over there,” Ziani explained. “Worse than my uncle Ziepe’s snoring.”
The man stood up straight and scowled at him. “Right,” he said. “I’ll know better next time.”
Ziani shook his head. “There won’t be a next time,” he said. “Because if I see you skulking about after me again, I’ll assume you’re an assassin hired by the Republic to kill me. I’ll feel really bad when I find out you were actually one of the Duke’s men, but that won’t help you very much. Or I may never find out,” he added with a mild grin. “I don’t suppose the Duke’ll be in any hurry to admit he set one of his men to spy on a guest under his roof.”
The man took a step back, but the marble flank of Valentius’
horse was blocking his retreat. “Just doing my job,” he said.
“Of course.” Ziani nodded. “You carry on. Just stay in plain sight, where I can see you. Understood?”
“Understood.” The man looked at him, then turned his head away. “No problem,” he said.
“Splendid.” Ziani smiled. “Now,” he went on, “I’m just going to sit here peacefully for a while. I promise I won’t wander off or do anything treasonable. And since I’ll be staying put for a bit, it seems to me you might well want to take this opportunity to get something to eat or take a leak. Come back in half an hour and I’ll know it’s you, not a Mezentine spy.”
The man hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked quickly away. Ziani watched him leave the cloister by the west door, then marched briskly to the arch that led to the mews. Instead of carrying on as far as the mews green, however, he turned right down the tiny snicket that led to the steps that came out on top of the inner keep wall. His luck was in: no sentry, so he was able to slip into the guardhouse and use its staircase to come out in the far corner of the middle keep yard, next to the back door of the kennels. For a man with a generally poor sense of direction, he told himself, he’d got the geography of the place pretty well fixed in his mind.
From the middle keep to the guest wing, where his room was, piece of cake. He ran up the last staircase two steps at a time, wondering how long it would take his shadow to figure out where he’d gone and resume his miserable task. He was, therefore, more than a little disconcerted when he opened his bedroom door and found someone sitting in the chair in front of the fireplace.
It wasn’t his shadow, however. Instead, it was a thin man, with a flat face and a slightly pointed head, like an onion.
“You again,” Ziani said.
The thin man smiled. “Yes indeed,” he said.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
The thin man’s smile didn’t fade at all. “I told the porter I had an appointment to see you, and it was secret government business. He didn’t believe me to begin with,” the man added with a frown, “but when I showed him this, he changed his tune pretty quickly.”
