Evil for Evil

by K. J. Parker

  The thought of going back to his office was hateful. How long would it take the courier to reach Civitas Vadanis? She would be under orders to disguise her true intentions; presumably she’d go to Lonazep first, then up along the Cure Doce border, doing her stupid little business deals as normal, haggling a little extra small change out of provincial drapers and cutlers for run-of-the-mill Mezentine worsteds, brass buttons and table knives. Only then would she slip across the border into Eremia (with her safe conduct carefully hidden in the luggage, for use only in the direst of emergencies); buying now rather than selling, because the huddled pockets of Eremian refugees had no money. Gradually she’d work her way down the frontier, crossing into Vadani territory through one of the mountain passes, after which she could head straight to the capital without arousing suspicion. Two weeks? More likely three, and the same for the return trip. I can’t wait that long, he told himself urgently, I’ll fret myself to death in that time. Six weeks …

  The hell with it. He bolted down the stairs, across Little Cloister, short-cut through the mosaic portico, up the main stairs, arriving breathless and racked by stitches in the anteroom of Boioannes’ suite of offices.

  No chance whatsoever of getting in to see the man himself; not without an appointment, and you had to have had your name put down at birth for one of those. But eventually he talked his way into the presence of Boioannes’ chief assistant deputy clerk, a godlike man with a perfectly spherical head.

  “Lucao Psellus,” the clerk told him, and coming from such an authority, it had to be true. “How can I help?”

  Psellus explained. Urgent Guild business, a direct commission, approved by a unanimous vote of Necessary Evil … At this point the clerk stopped him with one upraised forefinger, and leafed through a bound folio of manuscript until he came to the minutes of the relevant meeting.

  “As you say,” he said, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Level seven authorization, no less. What can we do for you?”

  The letter, written, entrusted to a courier; on reflection, the usual channels far too slow; could the courier be stopped or called back, and the letter sent by express messenger instead?

  The clerk frowned. “Express messenger?”

  “Somebody fast,” Psellus explained. “Instead of going all round the houses. Like the way you send orders and dispatches to the front line.”

  The frown deepened. Set foot in that frown and you’d be sucked down into it; all they’d ever find of you would be your hat, floating on the top. “You mean the military post.” Long, thoughtful pause, as if the clerk was doing long division in his head. “Strictly speaking,” he said eventually, “your authorization does allow you to make use of the military post. That said, I can’t see how it’d help, in the circumstances. It would get your letter to Civitas Eremiae, say, in forty-eight hours. It couldn’t get it across the border, let alone into the hands of the enemy.” A sigh, full of sadness for the contrariness of the world. “No, they’d have to find you a covert messenger at Civitas Eremiae — one of those merchant women, they’re really the only line of communication we’ve got for cross-border work. In all honesty, I think it’d be quicker to use the normal channels.”

  Psellus could feel his jaw getting tense. “All right, then,” he said. “What about a diplomatic courier? A herald, or whatever you call them.”

  The clerk actually smiled; more than a hint of the Boioannes grin there. True what they say: after a while, dogs start to look like their masters. “First,” he said, “you don’t have authorization. Second, we aren’t sending any diplomatic representations to the Vadani for the foreseeable future.”

  Psellus took a deep breath. “Then arrange one,” he said. “Make something up. Pretend. Write to the Duke and tell him he’s got one last chance to surrender. Any pretext, so long as you can send a courier with my letter sewn inside his trouser leg, or whatever it is your people do.” He stopped, feeling ridiculous. It wasn’t appropriate for a member of Necessary Evil to beg a clerk to send a letter. “If you’d rather, we could go and ask Councillor Boioannes. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind being interrupted.”

  War, fiercer than anything that had taken place in Eremia, was raging behind the clerk’s eyes. Not hard to figure out what he was thinking. Just possibly, Psellus the forgotten man, the Republic’s leading nonentity, wasn’t bluffing and genuinely had authorization from Boioannes himself; in which case, hindering him would be a very dangerous course of action. “We can send your message,” the clerk said. “We’re a resourceful lot, we’ll think of something.”

  A terrified man rode through the main gate of Civitas Vadanis. He was unarmed, dressed from head to foot in dusty white, and four heavy cavalrymen flanked him at the four cardinal points, as though shielding their fellow countrymen from all possibility of contagion.

  Needless to say, everybody had stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Some, mostly mothers with young children, backed away; others pressed forward as if they were going to attack, and the four outriders had to guide their horses to shove them back into the crowd. A few objects, some stones but mostly fruit, were thrown, but with poor accuracy. A flying cordon of guards advanced in reverse chevron formation from the palace door, enveloping the five riders and whisking them inside.

  The terrified man, who hadn’t said a word since he rode up to the official border post at Perrhagia, looked round. He wasn’t used to places like this: fountains, statues on plinths, cobbled yards glimpsed through archways. The nearest thing he’d ever seen was the Guildhall, but that was bigger but plainer. This place was small, busy and almost deliberately arrogant, as if making no secret of the fact that, in spite of its ornate extravagance, it was the house of just one man, and everybody else here was some degree of servant. The thought appalled him; he hadn’t realized that people could actually live like that.

  They stopped in front of a pair of tall wrought-iron gates; gilded but disappointingly crude by Mezentine standards. The escort dismounted — nobody spoke to him, but he guessed he was supposed to dismount too — and the gates opened. He didn’t look round, because he’d seen enough Vadani soldiers already for one day.

  “Is this him?” A young man with a meager, thin face and hair the color of rust was talking to the escort leader, who must have nodded, because rust-head turned and walked into the building. The four escorts edged toward him, like drovers crowding a pig into a pen. He did his best to ignore them, and followed rust-head through the doorway, across a covered way and into a cloister garden. It was pretty enough, if you liked flowers and that sort of thing. In the middle was a small round walnut table — again, shoddy work once you got close enough to see — behind which sat a single man.

  He’d been briefed before he left Mezentia, needless to say. They’d told him that Valens, the Vadani duke, was a young man, slightly built, shorter than most Vadani, with hair the color of dead leaves. The description fitted the man behind the table, just about. He looked tired, worried, angry about something. “This him?” he said.

  “We searched him at the border,” the escort leader said.

  “He doesn’t look particularly murderous,” the man who might be Valens replied. “You’re Mezentine, aren’t you?” he added, without shifting his head, so that it took the terrified man a moment to realize he was being spoken to. “I mean, a real Mezentine, not one of the overseas mercenaries.”

  “Yes,” the terrified man said, wondering whether he was supposed to add sir or your highness. Too late to do that now, so he’d better work on the assumption that a citizen of the Republic refuses to acknowledge the superiority of any man, even by way of formal greeting. “My name is Lexao Cannanus, permanent secretary to the —”

  “I’m Valens. Sit down.” Valens frowned. “No, don’t do that, wait till someone fetches a chair. I do apologize for my household’s inexcusable lack of manners. If I’ve told them once, I’ve told them a thousand times: accredited diplomats are not to be expected to sit on the grass.”

  All
this humor, Cannanus assumed, was for the servants’ benefit rather than his, though he could see it would have the additional benefit of making him feel uncomfortable. An efficient man, then, the Vadani duke; capable of making one operation do two jobs. If he was Mezentine, he’d probably be a Foundryman. Someone brought a chair — a silly thing, too fussily carved and not very sturdy — and he sat on it. The four soldiers were looming over his shoulder, but he did his best to pretend they weren’t there.

  “Apparently you’ve got a message for me,” Valens said. “Or would you like something to eat or drink first? Now I’m the one forgetting his manners.”

  “No, that’s fine,” Cannanus said stiffly. “I’m sure you’re a busy man, and I’d like to do my job and go home as soon as possible.”

  “Of course.” Just a hint of a grin on Valens’ face? He’s making me think I’m sounding pompous and stupid, Cannanus realized. Clever man. “Well in your own time, then.”

  For a horrible moment, Cannanus couldn’t remember what he was supposed to say …

  “Greetings,” he recited, in a flat, dead voice, “from the convocation of Guilds of the Mezentine Republic. This is to inform you that unless you accede forthwith to the Republic’s legitimate demands, a state of war will exist between yourself and —”

  “Just a moment,” Valens interrupted. “What demands?”

  Cannanus blinked. “I’m sorry?”

  “What demands? I don’t know what you’re referring to. We haven’t had any demands, have we, Mezentius?”

  The rusty-haired man, who’d joined them at some point, shrugged. “Not that I’m aware of.”

  Valens sighed. “Which isn’t to say there haven’t been any,” he said. “The trouble is, this sort of thing’s the province of my chancellor, and unfortunately he was killed only a few days ago. As a result we’re still in a bit of a tangle, not quite back up to speed. Would you be very kind and just run through them for me? The demands,” he added, as Cannanus goggled at him. “Just to jog my memory, really. For all I know, we might be able to clear all this business up here and now.”

  Nightmare, Cannanus thought. There’ll be a war that could have been avoided, and it’ll all be my fault. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t know. I’m just a messenger.”

  “Oh.” Big frown. “That’s a nuisance. Mezentius, do you think you could quickly go and scout through the papers on Carausius’ desk, just in case they’re there?” The rusty-haired man nodded and stomped away. “Won’t be long,” Valens said coolly. “Now, would you like a drink while you’re waiting? I’m having one.”

  Infuriating. “Yes, thank you.” If he can be polite, so can I; we’ll see who crumbles first.

  “Splendid.” Valens nodded, and someone appeared at once with a tall, plain earthenware jug and two silver mugs. They at least were Mezentine, though ordinary trade quality. “Well, what shall we talk about? It’s not often I get a chance to talk to a real Mezentine these days.”

  A cue, if ever there was one. “Is that right? I was under the impression you had a Mezentine living here at your court.”

  “A real Mezentine, I said.” Valens grinned. “If you’re thinking of my friend Ziani Vaatzes, I tend to think of him as one of us now, rather than one of you.”

  “Talking of him.” Too good to be true, surely. The Duke was suspicious, hence the slightly forced lead. It wasn’t fair, he reflected bitterly, to send a clerk to play at top-level diplomacy. A trained diplomat would be able to interpret all these subtleties. Instead, he had the feeling he usually only felt in dreams: playing chess against a master, and suddenly realizing he didn’t know the rules of the game. Nevertheless, he was here now and there was nobody else. “I take it you can confirm he’s still alive.”

  Valens tilted his head slightly on one side, like a dog. “So that’s what the ambush was all about, was it? To kill poor old Ziani. In which case, yes, you wasted your time. Pity, really. A bit of a disaster all round.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Cannanus replied. “I’m afraid the standing committee doesn’t discuss policy with the likes of me.”

  “But they want to know the answer,” Valens said, smiling. “It was one of the instructions you were given: find out if Vaatzes is still alive.”

  That question clearly didn’t need an answer. “I wonder,” Cannanus said, “if it’d be possible for me to talk to him. Just for a moment.”

  At least he’d contrived to take Valens by surprise. There was a short pause before he said, “Now why would you want to do that? I assume,” he went on, recovering a little of his previous assurance, “that you aren’t going to try and murder the poor chap.”

  “I have a message for him from the council.”

  Valens raised both eyebrows, then laughed. If Cannanus didn’t know better, he’d have believed the amusement was genuine. “I’m very sorry,” Valens said, “but I really don’t think that’d be a terribly good idea. Will it spoil your trip terribly if I refuse?”

  Cannanus shrugged. “To be honest with you,” he said, “it wasn’t part of my mission at all. I was just curious.”

  “Curious?”

  “I wanted to see what he looks like.”

  “Oh.” It was clear from his face that the very perversity of the idea appealed to Valens on some level Cannanus probably wouldn’t be able to understand. “No, sorry. The wretched fellow’s got enough on his plate without becoming a tourist attraction.”

  “I understand.” He tried to put just the right hint of resentment into his reply, while keeping it diplomatically polite. “I’m sorry if the request was out of line.”

  “Think nothing of it,” Valens answered. “Now, if it’d been me you’d wanted to see, I’d have had no problem with it. Probably have charged you two quarters for admission, but that’s all. Now, where’s Mezentius got to with those documents? He’s a fine soldier, but not at his best with paperwork.”

  As if he’d been waiting behind a pillar for his cue, the rust-haired man came back, scowling and slightly short of breath. “I couldn’t see anything on his desk,” he said. “It could be anywhere in the files, of course, but it’d take days to go through all that lot.”

  Valens shrugged. “Well,” he said, “since the alternative is war with the Republic, what’s a few days scrabbling about in the dust? Get some clerks to help you.” He turned and frowned politely at Cannanus. “You’re not in a tearing hurry to get back, are you? Or will they dispatch a million cavalry if you’re not home by this time tomorrow?”

  “I don’t think so,” Cannanus replied. He didn’t like the thought of hanging around in the Vadani capital for a moment longer than necessary. It made his flesh crawl; not fear, in fact, but disapproval. “But I think it’d be better if I went back and explained that the previous correspondence has been …” He scrabbled for the right word. “Mislaid. Otherwise,” he added, with what he was sure was overdone ingenuousness, “they might just assume you’re playing for time.”

  “Of course.” Valens nodded firmly. “You do that, then. If you could possibly do your best to persuade them not to invade us till the copies have arrived, that’d be really kind.” Valens stood up, an unambiguous indication that his ordeal was over. “Mezentius, would you mind showing our guest out? Unless he’d like to stay to dinner? No? Well, maybe next time, when you come back with the copy of the terms, I’ll look forward to it. You’d better get a fresh horse for him,” Valens went on. “Find him a good one, nothing but the best for our friends in the Republic.”

  The rusty-haired man started to walk away, and Cannanus hurried to follow him. The four guards came forward, as though to follow, but rust-head waved them away; the dreaded Mezentine apparently wasn’t such a threat after all.

  They walked about ten yards down the cloister, rust-head leading at a brisk pace that Cannanus found it irksome to match. Then he stopped dead and dropped a couple of documents. Looking down, Cannanus saw they were blank sheets of paper.

  “I thought you hadn’t seen my
signal,” Cannanus said.

  “Quiet,” rust-head snapped, not looking up. “Keep your voice down. Quick, look like you’re helping me with these papers.”

  Cannanus knelt down beside him and picked up one of the blank sheets. “Sorry about not giving you any notice,” he said quietly. “But it’s an emergency, no time to warn you in advance.”

  “I’d gathered. And yes, I saw your signal, thank you very much. It’s supposed to be a subtle hand-gesture. The way you were carrying on, you could’ve put someone’s eye out.”

  Just stress and irritation talking; besides, there wasn’t time. “I’ve got a letter,” Cannanus said. “For the abominator, Vaatzes. Make sure he’s alone when he gets it, all right?”

  “I’m not completely stupid. Well, where is it, then?”

  “In my shoe.”

  “Oh for crying out loud.”

  “Well,” Cannanus muttered, fumbling with his shoe-buckle, “I knew I’d be searched at the frontier. You want to upgrade your security procedures. If it’d been a Mezentine checkpoint, inside the shoe’s the first place we’d have looked.”

  “What minds you people must have.” Rust-head took the small, square packet from him and tucked it firmly into his sleeve. “Now let’s get you out of here before anything goes wrong,” he said. “And next time …”

  “I know. We’re sorry.”

  Rust-head sighed and stood up. “It’s going to be much harder for me from now on,” he said. “Chances are I’m going to be promoted, now that there’s so many jobs that need filling, so I’ll have to be that much more careful. Whose idea was that, by the way? The sneak attack, I mean.”

  Cannanus shrugged. “They don’t tell me stuff like that.”

  “No, I suppose not. Anyway, you tell them from me. Next time I want plenty of advance warning, or the deal’s off. Can you do that? They know I’m far too valuable to piss off.”

  “I’ll be sure to mention it,” Cannanus said.

  “Do that.” Rust-head glanced up and down the cloister. “And while you’re at it, you can tell them that the evacuation’s been brought forward again, in spite of the attack. And your abominator’s been keeping very busy indeed, bashing out great big iron sheets. Nobody knows what it’s all in aid of; rumor has it they’re mass-producing armor, since they can’t buy ready-made off your lot anymore, but it’s not true. I’ll try and find out from Valens what’s going on, ready for when you come back.”