by K. J. Parker
“No.”
He could see Daurenja frowning. “I think you did,” he said. “It’s the sort of bold, radical approach that hallmarks your work; also the way you make one process further several different functions. For example: you needed to draw the Vadani into the war. I’m guessing you assumed that Orsea and Veatriz would seek asylum with Valens; I don’t imagine you actually predicted Valens’ big, romantic gesture, that was really just a massive bonus. Still, no shame in being lucky; and a beautiful design like yours sort of encourages luck to happen; you attract it, like decoying geese.” He stopped, then said, “Anything you’d like to add before we move on? No? Oh, I wish you’d share with me. I’d love to know how you went about figuring it all out, it’d be a master class in design. Oh well.” He waited hopefully a little longer, then went on: “The other function was controlling Valens himself, through his thwarted love for Orsea’s wife. Very clever. What Valens secretly wants more than anything is to snatch Veatriz out of the jaws of death and have her fall into his arms; but just when he thinks he’s getting there, he finds himself lumbered with Orsea as well.Obviously, that’s an intolerable position to be in — which is exactly what you want, since you need to break Valens down — gradually, at a carefully controlled rate of decay — to the point where he’s weak enough for you to manipulate him directly. The love-triangle thing does that perfectly, and I’m guessing that that’s the real reason Civitas Eremiae had to fall. You’d never get Orsea away from his city unless it was burned to the ground, and you’d never get Veatriz to Valens’ court without Orsea. On reflection, I bet you were expecting the rescue or something like it; not banking on it, of course, but quietly confident it’d happen. There, you see; decoying luck, like I said a moment ago.”
Ziani tried to speak, but he hadn’t got enough breath back yet.
“Talking of luck,” Daurenja went on, “I’m going to stick my neck out and say that the hidden way across the desert was the major breakthrough. Sorry, but there’s no way you could have known about that until you reached Civitas Vadanis. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure you’d already resolved on bringing about the marriage alliance with the Cure Hardy. That must’ve come at a very early stage, because of course that’s what everything’s been about: bringing the Cure Hardy into the war, since they’re the only power on earth that could beat the Republic. You must’ve decided to involve them, I’m assuming through the marriage-alliance mechanism, right back in the very early stages, probably before you first met Orsea. In which case, I insist on you answering this one, you must’ve just left a gap in the design — a big hole marked Find a way of getting Valens to marry a Cure Hardy princess — and worked round it until you heard about Skeddanlothi’s raid — was that before or after you arrived in Civitas Vadanis? — and realized there must be a secret way across the desert out there somewhere, waiting to be rediscovered. Am I right?”
“No,” Ziani said. Daurenja kicked him again. He retched violently, but nothing came out.
“I think I’m right,” Daurenja went on. “I have to say, it’s a privilege to study a mind like yours in action. All right, there was that crucial slice of luck; just like the thing between Valens and Veatriz was a slice of luck. What matters is how you used it; and that’s where this fantastic attention to detail comes in. As soon as you’ve realized the significance of Skeddanlothi, you ferret around until you find the trader’s widow and the map. Not just more luck; you found it because you had a pretty good idea of where to look. What, you asked yourself, could the Vadani possibly want from the Cure Hardy that’d make it worth someone’s while finding out about the oasis route? Answer: salt, of course. Once you’ve got salt, you can target salt traders past and present, and sooner or later you’ll find what you’re after. I always think luck’s a bit like splitting a log. You’re much more likely to succeed if you read the grain and look for flaw-lines.”
Ziani made a monstrous effort and spasmed his back into a sharp contraction, enough to get him onto his hands and knees. It took time; and when he’d finally made it, Daurenja kicked him hard, just under the left nipple, and landed him back more or less where he’d started.
“The way you made use of the marriage alliance,” Daurenja went on. “You know what I think? I believe you were the one who put the idea in Chancellor Carausius’ head to start with. Did you?”
“No, of course not.”
“I think you did. And the way you handled Carausius after that; leading him along, step by patient step, and I’ll bet he never even realized he was being guided. And of course, you had to be so careful; even the slightest hint that you were playing games with Valens and he’d have shied and ruined the whole thing. Very risky, of course, since you were already working Valens over on two other fronts at the same time: the armored wagon idea, which you needed so as to get him out of the city and into the open, where you could manipulate him pretty much at will; and also the business with the mines — quite brilliant, by the way, as a little self-contained mechanism serving two functions: you get Valens’ confidence and a reputation as an engineering miracle worker, which you need in order to build your ascendancy over him, and at the same time you’re in a perfect position to give the silver mines practically intact to the Mezentines at the critical moment, to make sure they’ve got enough money to keep them in the war. The economy and efficiency of that arrangement — well, purely in engineering terms, in my opinion it’s actually one of the best things you’ve ever done; either that, or the way you set up Orsea, at the end. Though,” Daurenja went on after a brief pause for reflection, “the Orsea thing runs it fairly close, in terms of two birds and one stone — you get rid of a minor but appreciable threat to yourself, you use Orsea to build up your credibility and bargaining position with the Republic, and of course you finally destroy Valens by making him murder Veatriz’s husband, thereby ruining his chances of getting the girl forever. You leave him more or less pulped, just when you need to have him at his most docile and suggestible — so you can get him to change course and head across the desert.” Daurenja shook his head and smiled. “I really wish you’d let me in on the technical details; like, for example, at what stage you finalized each part of the design. For instance, was getting rid of Orsea a major component right from the beginning? I’d be inclined to believe it must have been, because it’s such a beautiful little assembly for achieving so many key objectives at just the right time. But if it wasn’t, and it just sort of came to you on the fly; and I do wish you’d put your hostility aside for a moment and take me through the way you got Carausius hooked on a Cure Hardy alliance … Well,” he added, more in disappointment than resentment, “I guess I can’t expect a Mezentine to betray Guild secrets, can I? Maybe later you’ll tell me. I’d really like that, if you could possibly see your way to it.”
Ziani rolled onto one elbow. His ribs ached so much he could hardly breathe. “What do you want?” he asked.
“You know perfectly well what I want,” Daurenja replied. “I’ve told you often enough. I want to be your student, your apprentice, your assistant, your partner and your friend. Thanks to you, I’ve established myself here with the Vadani. I’m rock-solid, as that tiresome affair with my former partner Framain demonstrated. It’s been so frustrating for me in the past; just when I’m getting somewhere, making progress, building an environment where I can work and start achieving something, some peccadillo or other comes home to roost and I have to clear out in a hurry. I’ve left enough notebooks and folios of drawings behind me to furnish a library; the distilled results of years of work, abandoned, while I run for my life. Now at last — thanks to you — I’m valuable enough to the Duke that he’s prepared to overlook my little ways. On its own, that’d justify all the hard work I’ve put in since I first met you.”
“Glad to have been of service,” Ziani grunted.
“You aren’t now,” Daurenja replied pleasantly, “but you will be, when the time comes. And that’s another thing. I’m more or less certain that yo
ur wonderful grand design really will work; it’ll all come out the way you want it to, you’ll get to be the conqueror of Mezentia, you’ll ride in triumph through the shattered gates and set up your throne room in the Guildhall, as the Cure Hardy’s trusted governor and commander of the army of occupation. At which point,” Daurenja went on cheerfully, “there’ll be a vacancy for the job of chief military engineer to the Aram Chantat empire, and no prizes for guessing who’ll take over. As soon as you get what you want, I’ll get what I want; what I deserve. Then, with the resources of the new empire to back me up, and no more infuriating rules and restrictions to interfere with how I choose to live my life, I’ll finally be able to fulfill my true potential. Thanks to you.”
Ziani glanced away. He found Daurenja uncomfortable to look at; like a reflection in a curved sheet of polished steel, a distorting mirror.
“Now you’re thinking,” Daurenja went on, “that I must be a prize idiot, letting you know how much I’ve figured out about you. You’re thinking, I can’t allow this fool to live, I’ve got to get him out of the way as soon as possible. Knowing you, I expect you’ve already thought of a way; several ways, and all of them mechanically perfect. But you won’t do it, and you know why? Because you need me. Honestly, you do; and why? Because there’s another great big hole in your schematic, and this one’s marked Find a way of breaking through the defenses of Mezentia. Correct me if I’m wrong, but you haven’t really given it any thought. You know that the Aram Chantat don’t know spit about siege warfare; the Vadani aren’t much better. You know the city’s got the highest, thickest walls in the world, laid out so as to give the artillery on the walls the optimum fields of fire. You know that unless you come up with a stunning innovation, the Mezentines will slaughter the Aram Chantat in much the same way as you slaughtered the Mezentines at Civitas Eremiae. Well,” Daurenja said, and the smugness in his voice was as thick and waxy as goose dripping, “I can fill that hole for you, if you’ll help me build my explosive-powder machine; my life’s work, the one thing I want more than anything else. Plain and simple: we need each other so much. We’re like the ideal married couple; so much in common, and such differences as we have make us complement each other perfectly. My strengths balance out your weaknesses, and vice versa. We depend on each other absolutely, like the two parts of a dovetail joint. Or,” he added with a smile, “like lovers. Or like lovers should be, but so rarely are, in my wide and varied experience. But then, it’s always love that drives us, isn’t it? Men like you and me.” He sighed, like a man waking up out of a beautiful dream. “One of the things I value most in our relationship is the affinity of minds. I think you’re probably the only man I’ve ever met who’s got the intelligence and the depth of character to understand me. As we get closer, I think you will come to understand me, eventually. I hope you’ll make the effort; you’ll find it worth your while if you do. Isn’t it perfect? I can give you what you want, you can give me what I want, and the same operation will fulfill both our desires. Just like lovers, really. How are you feeling, by the way? Not in any pain, I trust.”
“I think you’ve broken one of my ribs.”
“I doubt it,” Daurenja replied. “I think you’ll find I know my own strength to within a pretty tight margin of error. I studied anatomy in Lonazep, you know. A good working knowledge of anatomy is very useful if you’re going to have to beat people up now and again. After all, the human body’s just a machine. If you’re going to use it — yours or someone else’s — it helps if you know how it works, and what kind of stresses and strains it’ll take.” He paused, as if considering what he’d just said. “Actually,” he went on, “that wasn’t meant as a threat, but since it makes quite a good one, feel free to interpret it as such. Of course, going whining to Valens won’t do you any good. The most he’ll do is lecture us on playing rough games and tell us to make friends and be nice to each other. And I know so much about you that Valens doesn’t need to hear. I really do need your help, to build the tube for turning my explosive powder into a weapon; but if the worst comes to the worst and you make more trouble than you’re worth to me and I have to sacrifice you for the good of the project, I suppose I’ll have to muddle through on my own. Or maybe we can capture another red-hot Mezentine engineer, and I can persuade him to help me. You see, I’ve got options; you — well, let’s not dwell on it. I’d far, far rather work with you. I like you; and that counts for a lot in any partnership. I never liked Framain; not my sort of person.” Suddenly he laughed. “This is a bit of fun though, isn’t it? You’ve come all this way, achieved so much, fitted so many other people into your design; and now you’re the key component in mine. Isn’t it a relief, when all’s said and done, to know that now, at last, you’re finally not alone anymore?”
They woke him up in the middle of the night and bundled him politely into a carriage; not the shiny silver one, just a plain old wooden thing with a hide canopy and a bench seat. The windows were covered, and he’d lost track of time completely. It came as a surprise, therefore, when the coach stopped and they opened the door and it was daylight outside.
He was back at the frontier post. He was unsteady on his feet as he scrambled down out of the coach. The Vadani, what was left of them, were sprawled across an open plain, littered untidily, like things spilled out of a box. Beautiful white tents were scattered about; people were sitting outside them, cooking over fires from which thin white smoke rose straight up into the still air. Heads turned to stare at him, but nobody moved at first. An Aram Chantat soldier nodded toward a tent.
“Mine?” Valens asked stupidly. The soldier turned and walked back to the coach, which rattled away as soon as he was inside.
In the tent was a plain camp bed, with a frame of willow branches mortised and dowelled together, and split withes stretched across it for suspension. It was comfortable, almost luxurious. He lay down and closed his eyes. In the disputed territory between awake and asleep, he heard her voice, and opened his eyes.
For once, she was actually there.
“You’ve come back, then. We were worried.”
He thought for a moment; then replied: “I think I just met their king. My father-in-law. Actually, he’s something like my great-grandfather-in-law, not that it matters. All his family predeceased him, which just goes to show, if you live long enough, eventually you get lucky. Do you happen to know where Ziani Vaatzes is? I need to talk to him.”
She shook her head. “Are you all right?”
“Depends.” He made an effort and sat up. “For savages, they’re pretty damned sophisticated. It takes us about a million dead geese to make a bed this comfortable.”
“They fold away, too,” she said. “I imagine everything here’s got to be portable and collapsible.”
He yawned. “I had a long talk with their head man,” he said. “Apparently they’re going to wipe the Mezentines off the face of the earth for me. I said not to bother on my account, but they reckoned it was no trouble.” He tried to stand up, but his knees weren’t prepared to take responsibility for his weight. “To be honest, I haven’t got the faintest idea what’s going to happen next, or how we fit in, or how much of it’s going to be my fault. I just wish I’d died out there in the desert.”
She looked at him. “You’ve got to learn,” she said. “There’s things you could have put in a letter that you can’t say face to face. Not unless you mean them.”
“I wish I’d died in the desert,” he said. “The only good thing about still being here is knowing you’re safe. I don’t really care about anything else anymore.”
She looked away. “Define safe,” she replied.
“No thank you.” He yawned again. “Sorry,” he added. “I guess the last few weeks are catching up with me. Oh, I forgot. The king of the savages is extremely old, and when he dies, I’m supposed to succeed him.”
She frowned. “Do you want to?”
“No.”
“Have you got a choice?”
“Not
really.” He shook his head like a wet dog. “Do you know what I really want most of all right now, more than anything else in the whole wide world?”
“No. Tell me.”
He grinned. “I want a pack of dogs and a bloody great big spear, and I want to find something edible with four legs and kill it.”
It was in the place he’d told her it would be; in the top of the broken crock where the poultryman left the eggs, under the cracked roof tile. It was a little square packet of parchment. Any of her neighbors would have assumed it was a dose of powdered willow-bark from the woman who sold medicines.
She’d noticed it early in the morning, when she collected the eggs; but he was there, so she didn’t dare pick it up. She left it, hoping he’d go out, but for some reason he didn’t go in to work. Instead he sat in the study all day, staring at a big sheaf of drawings. When she came in to ask if he wanted anything, he tried to hide them with his sleeve.
All day she waited. Three or four times she almost managed to persuade herself that it’d be safe to get the letter and read it, but she resisted the temptation. As it happened, she would’ve been quite safe. Falier only left the study once all morning, to go to the outhouse …
Of course. How stupid of her.
As she hurried toward the front door, he came out of the study. “Where are you off to?” he asked her.
“To put the money out for the egg man,” she replied.
He frowned. “What money? You haven’t asked me for any money.”
Stupid; careless. “No,” she replied.
He sighed. “How much?”
“Three turners.”
He fumbled in his pocket. “Three turners for a dozen eggs,” he said. “Couldn’t you get them cheaper in the market?”
