Devices and Desires e-1 Read online

  Vaatzes frowned. 'I see,' he said. 'Honestly, I had no idea. Come to that, before I ran away from the City, I didn't even know you existed.'

  'Oh, your lot know we exist all right.' Miel sighed. 'Give you an example. My family, the Ducas, have been landowners and big fish in little ponds and selfless servants of the commonwealth for longer than even we can remember. We've done our bit for our fellow citizens, believe me. About a third of the men in the Ducas over the last five hundred years have died in war, either killed in a battle or gone down with dysentery or infected wounds. We pay more in tax than any other family. In our corner of the country we run the justice system, we're the land and probate registry; we say the magic words at the weddings of our tenants, we're godfathers to their children, we run schools and pay for doctors. We take the view that a tenant deserves to get more for his rent than just a strip of land and a side to be on when there's a feud. That's what I was talking about when I said we do our bit for our fellow citizens; and that's over and above stuff like fighting in wars and being chancellors and ambassadors and commissioners. Do you see what I'm driving at?'

  Vaatzes nodded. 'You're the government,' he said. 'But it's different in the City, of course. The big men who do all the top jobs in the Guilds are our government; but they get to make policy, not just carry it out. They can decide what's going to be done, and of course that means they have loads of opportunities to look out for their own Guilds, or their neighbours and families, or themselves. You can only do what the Duke tells you. You've got all the work, but without the privileges and perks.'

  'That's right,' Miel said. 'You've certainly got a grasp of politics.'

  'Like I said, I know how things work. A city or a country is just a kind of machine. It's got a mechanism. I can see mechanisms at a glance, like people who can dowse for water.'

  'That's quite a gift,' Miel said, frowning slightly. 'Anyway, the way we've always done things is for the landowning families to be the government, as you call it. But then along come your City people, investors, buying up land and flocks and slices of our lives; and of course, they don't take responsibility, the way we've been brought up to do. They don't think, how will such and such a decision affect the tenants and their shepherds, or the people of the village? They don't live here, and when they make a decision they're guided by what's best for their investment, what'll produce the best profit, or whatever it is that motivates them. So, when two tenants fall out over a boundary or grazing rights on a common or anything like that, they can't do what they've always done, go and see the boss up at the big house and make him sort it out for them. The boss isn't there; and even if they were to go all the way to Mezentia and ask to see the directors of the company, or whatever such people call themselves, and even if those directors could be bothered to see them and listen to them, it wouldn't do any good, because they wouldn't understand a thing about the situation. Not like we would, the Ducas or the Orphanotrophi or the Phocas. See, we're their boss, but we're also their neighbour. They can go out of their front door and look up the mountain and see our houses. You can't see Mezentia's Guildhall from anywhere in Eremia.'

  Vaatzes nodded. He seemed to be an intelligent man, and quite reasonable. Perhaps that was why they'd put him in prison, Miel decided. 'I guess it's a question of attitude,' he said. 'Perspective. We're concerned mostly with things-making them, selling them. You're concerned with people.'

  Miel smiled. 'That puts it very well,' he said. 'And maybe you can see why I don't like your City.'

  'I've gone off it rather myself,' Vaatzes said.

  'Fine.' Miel nodded. 'So perhaps you'd care to explain to me why you think it'd be a good idea to turn my country into a copy of it.'

  It was a neat piece of strategy, Miel couldn't help thinking. He'd have derived more satisfaction from it if he found it easier to dislike the Mezentine; but that was hard going, like running uphill, and the further he went, the harder it got. But he'd laid his trap and sprung it-there was one mechanism the Mezentine hadn't figured out at a glance-and sure enough, for a while Vaatzes seemed to be lost for words.

  'It's not quite like that,' he said eventually. 'Like I told you, I'm an engineer. I know about machines, things.' He frowned thoughtfully. 'Let's see,' he said. 'Suppose you come to me and ask me to build you a machine-a loom, say, so you can weave your wool into cloth instead of sending it down the mountain.'

  'Right,' Miel said.

  'So I build the machine,' Vaatzes went on, 'and I deliver it and I get paid. That's my side of the bargain. What you do with it, how you use it and how the use you put it to affects your life and your neighbours'; that's your business. Not my business, and not my fault. It'd be the same if you asked me to build you a scorpion, an arrow-thrower. Once you've taken it from me, it's up to you who you point it at. You can use it to defend your country and your way of life against your worst enemy, or you can set it up on the turret of your castle and shoot your neighbours. All I want to do,' he went on, 'is make a new life for myself, now the old one's been taken away from me. Now I'm lucky, because I know a secret. It's like I can turn lead into gold. If I can do that, it'd be pretty silly of me to get a job mucking out pigs. From your point of view, I can give you the secrets that make the Mezentines stronger than you are. With that power, you've got a chance of making sure you don't have to go through another horrible disaster, like the one you've just suffered. Now,' he went on, stopping for a moment to catch his breath, 'if I were to sell you a scorpion without telling you how it works, or how to use it safely without hurting yourself, that'd be no good. But that's not the case. You seem to understand just fine what's wrong with the City and how it works. I can give you the secret, and you know enough not to hurt yourself with it, or spoil all the good things about your way of life. Does that make any sense to you?'

  It was a long time before Miel answered. 'Yes, actually, it does,' he said. 'And that's why I'm glad it's not my decision whether we take you up on your offer. If it was up to me, I'd probably say yes, now we've had this conversation, and I have a feeling that'd be a bad thing.'

  'Oh,' Vaatzes said. 'Why?'

  'Ah, now, if I knew that I'd be all right.' Miel smiled suddenly. 'I'd be safe, see. But it's all academic, since it's not up to me.'

  Vaatzes scratched his head. 'I don't know,' he said. 'You're a senior officer of state, if you went to the Duke and said, for God's sake don't let that Mezentine start teaching us his diabolical tricks, he'd listen to you, wouldn't he?'

  'You were there when I told him to have you hanged,' Miel replied cheerfully. And here you still are.'

  'Yes, but you didn't press the point. I was there, remember. It's not like you made any effort to use your influence; and when he said no, let's not, you didn't argue.' He lifted his eyes and looked at Miel. 'Are you sorry you didn't?'

  'Like I said, it wasn't my decision. It never is.'

  'Would you like it to be?'

  Miel shivered, as though he'd just touched a plate he hadn't realised was hot. 'We're falling behind,' he said. 'Come on, don't dawdle.'

  They walked quickly, past men supporting their wounded friends on their shoulders, others hauling ropes or pushing the wheels of carts over the rims of potholes. 'Of course,' Miel said abruptly, 'if he decides to let you teach us, common courtesy requires that we teach you something in return.'

  'Does it?'

  'Oh yes. Reciprocity is courtesy, that's an old family rule of the Ducas. We pay our debts in kind.'

  'Really. We've got money for that.'

  Miel shook his head. 'That's wages,' he said. 'And wages are a political statement. If I pay you, that makes you my servant, it's a different sort of relationship. Between gentlemen, it's a gift for a gift and a favour for a favour.'

  'I see,' Vaatzes said. 'So if you teach me something in return, that's instead of money.'

  'Of course not, you're missing the point. I'm a nobleman and you're a whatever you said, foreman. Therefore, courtesy demands that I give more than I get.' />
  Vaatzes thought about that. 'To show you're better than me.'

  'That's it. That's what nobility's all about. If you want to be better than someone socially, you've got to be better than them in real terms too; more generous, more forbearing, whatever. Otherwise all the transaction between us proves is that I'm more powerful than you, and that wouldn't say anything about me. Hence the need for me to give more than I get. Simple, really.'

  There was a pause while Vaatzes thought that one through. 'So I get the money and something else?'

  'Yes.'

  'In that case, fine. You have to teach me something.'

  'That's right.'

  'Thanks,' Vaatzes said. 'Thanks very much. So, what do you know that you could teach me?'

  'Ah.' Miel grinned. 'That's a slight problem. Let's see, what do I know? Another thing about nobility,' he continued, 'is that you don't actually know many things, you just know a few things very well indeed. I could teach you statesmanship.'

  'Meaning what?'

  'How to debate in High Council,' Miel said. 'How to budget, and cost a project, how to forecast future revenues. Negotiation with foreign ambassadors. Court protocol. That sort of thing.'

  Vaatzes frowned. 'Not a lot of use to me, really'

  'I suppose not. So what does that leave? Estate management; no, not particularly relevant. I think we're just left with horsemanship, falconry and fencing.'

  'Right,' Vaatzes said. 'All three of which I know nothing about. Which would you say is easiest?'

  'None of them.'

  'In that case, falconry or fencing. Horses give me a rash.'

  Miel laughed. 'Maybe I'll teach you both,' he said. 'But it'll all depend on what Orsea decides.'

  Vaatzes nodded. 'You've known him a long time, I think.'

  'All my life. We grew up together, twenty or so of us, hanging round the court. Back then, of course, he was just the Orseoli and I was the Ducas, but we always got on well nonetheless-surprising, since my father was right up the top of the tree and the Orseoli were sort of clinging frantically to the lower branches. But then Orsea married the Countess Sirupati, and she's got no brothers and her sisters aren't eligible for some technical reason, so they got married off outside the duchy; as a result, Orsea was suddenly the heir apparent. Count Sirupat dies, Orsea becomes Duke. Couldn't have happened to a nicer fellow, either.'

  'So you didn't mind?'

  'Mind? Of course not. Oh, I see, you're thinking I might've been resentful because he got to be the Duke. Not a bit of it. The Sirupati would never marry the Ducas.'

  Vaatzes looked puzzled. 'But I thought your family were high-ranking aristocrats.'

  'We are. Which is the reason. Quite simple, really. The great houses aren't allowed to marry into the ruling family. Otherwise there'd be no end of God-awful power struggles, with all of us trying to get the throne. So we're all excluded; stops us getting dangerous ideas. If the Duke's only got daughters, he has to find his heir from the lesser nobility, people like the Orseoli. It's a good system. But you should've figured that out for yourself, if you've got a special intuition for how things work.'

  'Well, I know now,' Vaatzes said. 'I guess I didn't figure it out for myself because it's a good idea, and those don't seem to happen much in politics. Who made the rule, anyhow?'

  That struck Miel as a strange question. 'We all did,' he said. 'Gradually, over time. I don't think anybody ever sat down with a piece of paper and wrote the rules out, just so. They grew because everybody could see it made sense.'

  'An intuitive feel for how things work,' Vaatzes said. 'Maybe there's hope for you people after all.'

  That night, they camped in a small valley under a false peak. They didn't start pitching tents until sunset, and most of the work was done by torchlight; tired men doing things they knew by heart, co-operating smoothly and without thinking, like the components of a properly run-in machine. It was probably a good sign that Ziani was given a guest tent all to himself; a small one, with a plain camp bed, a lamp and an old iron brazier, but he didn't have to share and they put it up for him rather than telling him where it was and leaving him to do it. When he was alone, he sat on the bed-he ached all over from the exhaustion of walking uphill all day; his heels and soles were covered in torn blisters and his new shoes were smudged inside with blood-and stared at the boundary where the circle of yellow light touched the white canvas background. Having that sort of mind, he drew up a schedule of resources, a list of materials and components.

  First, he had his life. In the Guildhall, and after that on the road, in the plain, on the terrifying outskirts of the battle, he'd recognised the inevitability of his own death without finding any way to reconcile himself to it. For many reasons (but one primarily) he couldn't accept it; death was a part that didn't fit, something that had no place in the scheme of things as they should be; an abomination. He had no illusions about his escape. He didn't believe in destiny, any more than he believed in goblins; if the iron ore was destined to end up as finished products, there'd be no need for an engineer. There had been a certain amount of resourcefulness and clever thinking involved, but mostly it was luck, particularly once he was away from people and under the impersonal, inhuman sky (he'd always hated Nature; it was a machine too big for him to take in, too specialised for him to repair). But he had his life, the essential starting-point. Can't get anything done if you're dead.

  Next, he had his knowledge and his trade. Many years ago, he'd come to accept the fact that he was completely and exclusively defined by what he did. Other men were tall or short, strong or weak, kind or cruel, clever or stupid; they were funny, popular, reliable, feckless, miserable; they were lovers or runners or storytellers, bores, growers of prize roses, readers, collectors of antique candlesticks; they were friends, neighbours, enemies, evil bastards, compassionate, selfish, generous. Ziani Vaatzes was an engineer; everything he was, all he was. When he came home in the evening…

  Ah yes. Finally, he had his motivation. He had, of course, lied to the Duke and the Duke's pleasant, slow-witted courtier. If it hadn't been for his motivation, he'd have stayed in the prison cell, or curled up in a ball on the moors and died; he certainly wouldn't have killed two men, and he certainly wouldn't be getting ready to betray his City's most precious secrets to the barbarians. He'd considered setting the motivation down in the list of problems and obstacles, since it was such an incredible burden, limiting his actions in so many ways. But in spite of that, it was an asset, and the best facility at his disposal. He saw it, in the blueprint in his mind, as the engine that would power his machine. Certainly nothing else could.

  As for that list of problems and obstacles; in the end, it did him a service by putting him to sleep, because it stretched on endlessly, like the sheep you're supposed to count jumping over the gap in the wall. There were so many of them it was almost a relief; so many he didn't have to bother listing them, it couldn't be done. The way to cross a vast, flat plain when you're aching, starving and exhausted is not to resolve to get to the other side, because that's out of the question. You don't look to the mountains, a little grey blip on the bottom edge of the sky. You look ahead and make a bet with yourself: I bet you I'll get as far as that little outcrop of boulders, or that single thorn tree, before I fall over and die. If you win that bet, you double up on the next one, and so on until at last you can't trick yourself into taking another step; at which point, a defeated enemy army which just happens to be passing picks you up and rescues you. Piece of cake, really.

  Similarly, he made a point of not looking at the end result he needed to achieve. It was too far away, and there were too many obstacles, he'd never live to reach it. But he might just make it as far as the first step in his design, the second, possibly even the third. Same as a big project in the factory; you know you'll never get it all done in one day, so you plan it out: today we'll cut the material, tomorrow we'll face off and mark out, the next day we'll turn the diameter, cut the threads, and so on. It complicat
ed things a little that his motivation and his objective were so closely linked, because they were so simple (but it's good design to make one part carry out two functions); if he couldn't let himself believe in it, he couldn't very well rely on it to drive him forward across the heather and the tussocks of couch-grass. Fortunately, he found he could turn a blind eye to the inconsistency. The motivation was strong enough to keep him going, even though the objective was so ridiculously far-fetched. All he had to do-it was so simple, to a man who lived by and for complexities-all he had to do was close his eyes and think of her, and he was like the flywheel driven by the belt, whether it likes it or not.

  The next day was all uphill, and Miel was needed to supervise the carts, and the wounded, and various other things that had got slightly worse overnight. It didn't help that Orsea was insisting he was strong enough to ride; it wasn't fair on the doctor, for one thing. The wretched man had enough to do with several hundred critical cases (who weren't dukes, but who did what they were told) without having to stay within earshot of His. Highness in case the partially healed wound burst and the idiot needed to be seen to straight away before he bled to death.

  'I can manage, really,' Miel told his oldest friend.

  'I know that,' Orsea replied, shifting painfully in his saddle, 'but you shouldn't have to. This is my responsibility. You look like death warmed up.'