Evil for Evil Page 13

  This was a plain wooden box, slightly larger than a man’s head. “Oh,” Ziani said. “You made it, then.”

  “Of course. And I knew you’d want to see it right away; hence my rather unorthodox approach to getting an appointment with you.”

  Ziani smiled. “It’s a good approach,” he said. “I use it myself.” He sat down on the bed, breathed in slowly and out again. “All right,” he said, “let’s see it.”

  The thin man rose and put the box down beside him, rather in the manner of a midwife introducing a mother to her newborn child. “The box is lemonwood,” he said, “with brass hinges and a six-lever lock.”

  Ziani knew that tone of voice. “All made by you, of course.”

  “I’d finished the main job and I had some time on my hands,” the thin man replied, wearing his modesty as a knight wears full plate armor. “Did I mention that cabinet-making —”

  “Yes.” Ziani held out his hand for the key. He had to admit, it was a beautiful piece of work in itself; stoned and buffed to a deep gloss, and decorated with neatly filed curlicues. He opened the box, trying to remember what it was he’d set the thin man to make for him.

  “A small portable winch,” the thin man said, right on cue. “To be suspended from a hook in a rafter, capable of lifting heavy sections of material, operated by the pressure of two fingers on the reciprocating crank here.”

  Ziani reached into the box and lifted it out. For a moment, he was confused; stunned, even. He’d spent his life making machines, designing them to do the jobs they were meant for as efficiently as possible. He understood function as well as a human being can understand anything. Beauty, however, tended to unsettle him. It was something he could recognize; he could even create it, if he had to. But he’d never understood it, maybe because he’d never been quite sure how it worked, and he’d never been able to bring himself to trust it, except once.

  The machine he took out of the box was beautiful. That was an absolute fact, not a matter of opinion or taste. The struts that held together the top and bottom plates of the frame had been turned to the most graceful contours imaginable. Each component was immaculately finished and decorated with restrained, elegant file-carving or shallow-relief engraving. The whole thing had been fire-colored a deep sea blue, from which a few twists of perfectly chaste gold inlay shone like watch-fires in the dark. Almost afraid to touch it, Ziani rested a finger on the crank and pressed, until he heard the smooth, soft, crisp click of the sear engaging the ratchet.

  “You made this?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  He closed his eyes and opened them again; it was still there. “Does it work?”

  “Yes.”

  He didn’t know what to do with it. The heads of the screws and pins, he noticed, were engraved with floral designs, alternating roses and cardoons, each pin-hole and slot surrounded by a border of acanthus-and-scroll work. He didn’t want to let go of it, not until he’d examined every component, figured out how it had been made and what it did, but somehow touching it made his flesh crawl. “You made this,” he repeated.

  “Most certainly,” he heard the thin man’s voice say. “With respect, it’s not the sort of thing I could simply have bought in the market; not even in Mezentia. And you specified the work yourself, so it can’t be something I bought somewhere else a long time ago. I also took the precaution of having a notary watch me file the ratchet teeth; I have a duly signed and sworn deposition to that effect here, which of course you are most welcome to have authenticated.”

  He couldn’t resist it; he had to lift it up to the light, so he could see the detail of the spindle bushes. “All right,” he said. “So where did you find a lathe in this godforsaken place?”

  “I didn’t. So I made one.”

  “You made one. And the milling?”

  “No milling. All hand work.”

  “All —” Ziani had to think how to breathe for a moment. “What, the flats on the spindles and everything? The dividing of the teeth on the main gear?”

  “Well …” The thin man sounded as though he was making a shameful confession. “I had to build a jig for that; a simple pair of centers, with a handle. But the flat work was just done by eye, checked against a square. I hadn’t got a square, so I —”

  “Made one.” It was as though he’d turned a corner in a busy street in broad daylight and met a unicorn, or a basilisk or a chimera, some mythical animal that quite definitely didn’t exist. He could just about believe that work like this — hand work, for crying out loud — was theoretically possible. But that this strange, bizarre clown could have made it …

  “I don’t know what you want from me, then,” he said. “I couldn’t do anything like this.”

  “I know.” The thin man’s voice cut him like a jagged edge. “But,” he went on, his voice reverting to its usual tone, “when all is said and done, it’s just drilling and filing, primitive stuff. The Perpetual Republic knows better ways of doing things that make hand work irrelevant; better techniques, secrets.” He made the word sound obscene. “That’s what you can teach me; and in return, if my poor services …” He paused, obviously waiting for some expected reply. Ziani wasn’t in the mood.

  “All right,” he said; and as soon as he’d said it, he felt the little spurt of anger that comes with knowing you’ve walked into an obvious trap or fallen for the oldest trick in the book. But the machine in his hands was perfect.

  “Thank you,” the thin man said. “I promise you, you won’t regret it. Anything I can do for you, anything at all.”

  “Fine,” Ziani snapped. Talking to him was like stroking the fine hairs on the legs of a spider. “As it happens, I can use someone like you. I still can’t really see what you expect to get out of it, but if you really want a job, I can give you one.” He hesitated; the thin man either wasn’t listening, or else he wasn’t interested, to the extent that what he was saying was glancing off him, like arrows off fluted armor. “Obviously we need to discuss money —”

  “With respect.” The thin man cut him off. “As I think I may have mentioned at our first meeting, I have my own resources, and my position is tolerably comfortable. What I want …” He’d raised his voice, and immediately regretted it. “If and when you have the time to consider it,” he continued smoothly, “I’d be most grateful for any advice you may care to give me about a small project of my own. However,” he added quickly, “there is absolutely no hurry in that regard, it can wait for as long as necessary, until it’s entirely convenient.”

  “Really?” Ziani pulled a face. “You may have a pretty long wait, in that case, because the job the Duke’s given me is going to take up all my time; yours too, if you’re serious about wanting to work for me. If you’ve got a project of your own and the money to develop it with, you’d be far better off just getting on with it yourself. Still, it’s up to you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  If that was supposed to get rid of the thin man, it had failed. He was still there, tense and eager as a dog watching its master, so that Ziani felt an overpowering urge to throw a stick for him to fetch. He made an effort and resolved not to worry about him anymore. If he wanted to work for nothing, that was his problem.

  “Your first assignment,” Ziani said briskly, as he stood up and crossed to the door, where his coat hung from the coathook. He felt in the sleeve and pulled out a roll of paper. “This is a list of everything I think we’ll need to recruit and train fifty exiled Eremian craftsmen to do work to an acceptable standard. I want you to read it through, let me know if you think there’s anything I’ve missed out, then copy it out neatly and give it to the Duke’s secretary after dinner tonight.” He paused. “Where do you live?”

  “I have rooms in the ropewalk,” the thin man replied instantly. “A workshop; I sleep and eat there as well. I can be ready to move in less than an hour, if —”

  “No, that’s fine, I just need to know where to find you.”

  For some reason, the thin man f
rowned. “The best way is to leave a message for me with the innkeeper at the Patient Virtue. I have an arrangement with him,” he added awkwardly. “Any message you leave there will reach me within minutes.”

  “All right.” Ziani shrugged. “Meet me here in the morning, two hours after dawn.”

  “Certainly. I can get here earlier if you wish.”

  Ziani couldn’t be bothered to reply to that.

  The attack came during the salad course, and it took Valens completely by surprise. Thinking about it later, he could only assume it was because he was still preoccupied with what Vaatzes had said to him earlier. That didn’t make it any better.

  “Oh for crying out loud,” he complained hopelessly. “We’ve been into all this already.”

  “With respect.” There was no respect at all in Chancellor Carausius’ face; fear, yes, because all the high officers of state were afraid of him, with good reason. “We haven’t actually discussed the matter properly, as you well know. Not,” he added with feeling, “for want of trying. But you either change the subject or lose your temper; your prerogative, it goes without saying, but no substitute for a rational discussion.” Carausius paused and wiped butter off his chin. “If you have a good, reasoned argument against it, naturally I’ll be delighted to hear it.”

  Valens sighed. “Well,” he said, “for one thing, this is hardly the time. We’re at war with the Mezentines, we’re about to evacuate the city and go lumbering round the countryside in wagons, we’re going to collapse all the silver mines, so we won’t have any money at all for the foreseeable future. Be reasonable, will you? This really isn’t the best moment to be thinking about weddings.”

  Carausius shook his head slowly, and the napkin tucked into his collar billowed a little as he moved. “On the contrary,” he said. “At a time of national emergency such as this, what could possibly be more important than the succession? I mean it,” he added, with a faint quaver in his voice that caught Valens’ attention. “Face the facts. As you say, we’re at war. You have no heir. If you die, if you’re killed in the fighting or — I don’t know, if you’re swept away while crossing a river with the wagons, or if you fall off your horse when you’re out hunting and break your stubborn neck, nobody knows who’s to be the next duke. You don’t need to be told why this is an unacceptable state of affairs.”

  Valens looked at him. It wasn’t like Carausius to be brave unless he was in severe danger of being found out about something, and for once he had every right to a clear conscience. The only explanation, therefore, was that he was sincere. “All right,” he said gently, “maybe you’ve got a point. But you know the reason as well as I do. There’s no suitable candidates. I can’t just go marrying some girl with a nice smile. We’ve got to find someone who’s got something we need. Right now, that’s either money or high-quality heavy infantry. If you can give me three names right now, I promise I’ll listen.”

  A split second of silence, and Valens knew he’d walked into a snare.

  “Not three,” Carausius said; he’d taken the risk and won, and he was enjoying the moment. “Just one, I’m afraid. But, given the urgency …”

  Valens put down his knife and folded his arms. “I’m listening,” he said.

  Carausius composed himself. “Her name,” he said, then he smiled. It wasn’t something he did very often, sensibly enough. “Actually,” he said, “I can’t pronounce her name. However, I understand that it translates as White Falcon Soaring.”

  Just as well Valens had put his knife down, or he’d have stabbed himself in the knee. “You’re joking,” he said. “No, really, you can’t be serious.”

  “I think it’s a charming name.”

  “You know perfectly well …” Valens breathed out slowly. He was determined he wouldn’t play the straight man to Carausius, even if he had walked into a painfully obvious trap. “A name like that’s obviously Cure Hardy,” he said. “Presumably this female of yours is something to do with the delegation we’re meeting. And no, not even if it means we win the war and conquer Mezentia and ascend bodily to heaven on the backs of eagles. Not Cure Hardy.”

  Carausius took a moment to butter a scone. “In your own words,” he said, “money or soldiers. The Cure Hardy have both.”

  “I said heavy infantry,” Valens pointed out. It was a bit like trying to sink a warship with a slingshot, but he was determined to fight to the last. “And the Cure Hardy don’t even use money.”

  “They have gold and silver, which amounts to the same thing. Also, I don’t agree that we necessarily need heavy infantry. Light cavalry, which is the Cure Hardy’s traditional strength —”

  “We’ve got the best cavalry in the world.”

  “Acknowledged,” Carausius said through his scone. “Heavy cavalry, and not nearly enough. The Cure Hardy are faster, more mobile, better suited for informal and irregular campaigning; most of all,” he added, “they’re one thing our men most certainly aren’t. They’re expendable.”

  Valens sighed. What he really wanted to do was run away. “For pity’s sake,” he said peevishly. “They don’t even live in proper houses. Do you really see me with a wife who insists on camping out in a tent in the pear orchard?”

  Another smile. Carausius was indulging himself. “The princess — her name, I believe, begins with an A — has spent the last four years being educated in Tannasep; I believe she’s been studying music, astronomy, poetry, needlework and constitutional and civil law. Presumably while she was there, she slept in a bed and learned how to use a knife and spoon. I gather she’s also interested in —”

  “I couldn’t care less what the bloody woman does in her spare time,” Valens snapped. “I don’t want to get married, and I most definitely don’t want to get married to a savage, thank you all the same. Maybe when the war’s over, or at least once we’re settled somewhere …”

  Carausius teased his napkin out of his collar and folded it precisely. “Logically,” he said, “given our immediate plans, a wife who’s used to living under canvas has to be a most suitable choice.”

  Valens closed his eyes. When Carausius started making jokes, it was time to assert his authority. “Thank you for raising the issue with me,” he said, “and I shall give it careful thought. Meanwhile, if that’s the only reason why these Cure Hardy are coming here, maybe it’d be better if you saw them instead of me. I’m sure you can handle the diplomatic stuff, and I have rather a lot of work to do.”

  “That would be unfortunate,” Carausius said smugly. “Perhaps I forgot to mention it, but among the gifts they’re bringing with them are four hundred mounted archers. Not a loan,” he added firmly. “To keep, for our very own. Just for meeting you. I imagine that if they’re fobbed off with a substitute, they may think better of their generosity.”

  Valens opened his eyes wide. “They’re serious, then,” he said.

  “I believe so.” Carausius had had his moment of revenge. His voice was back to normal, soft, businesslike and anxious to please. “My understanding is that they’re very keen indeed to make an alliance with a settled nation. Their chieftain is something of a visionary. He believes that the nomadic life is all very well, but it’s time his people bettered themselves. In the long term, I imagine he wants to cross the desert and settle on this side; the tragic fate of the Eremians means that there’s now empty land for the taking. Naturally he needs an ally, but his choices are clearly limited. Not the Mezentines, for obvious reasons; similarly, not the Eremians. That means the Cure Doce — but they’re too far away from the land he’s got his eye on — or us. If you care to consider what that could mean to us: a powerful, friendly neighbor with practically unlimited manpower …”

  Valens nodded. “All right,” he said. “And thank you, you’ve done well. But all the same; marrying one …”

  “It’s their principal means of securing alliances,” Carausius said firmly. “Without a marriage, as far as they’re concerned it’s not a proper treaty; once it’s done, it means we
can rely on them absolutely. They take it very seriously. It’s not like the political alliances we’re used to. I’m not sure they even have politics where they come from, or at least not in any sense we’d understand.” He leaned forward a little, lowered his voice. “They aren’t complete barbarians,” he went on, “they understand that strategic and dynastic marriages aren’t necessarily the perfect union of heart and mind. If you hate the girl that much, you won’t have to see her more than absolutely necessary, she’ll understand that. If that’s the reason —”

  Valens frowned. “I hope you know me better than that,” he said. “I understand how things are. I’m just a bit concerned about ending up with a wife who dresses in animal bones and feathers. Which,” he added quickly, before Carausius could say anything, “I’d be perfectly prepared to do if I was sure it’d help the war or put our economy straight. But I’m not; so either come up with some better arguments or drop the whole thing.”

  Carausius looked at him. He knows me too well, Valens reflected. “There’s something else,” Carausius said.

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” Carausius frowned. “Can I ask what it is?”

  “No.” As soon as he said the word, he knew he’d lost. “But I will meet these savages of yours, and yes, I’ll be civil to them, so don’t nag.” He shrugged, rather more floridly than usual. “Four hundred cavalry, just for being hospitable. I think I can handle that. Tell me, did the offer come from them, or did you have to haggle?”

  “Their idea,” Carausius said. “I don’t think the Cure Hardy understand bargaining in quite the same way as we do. I don’t know if it’s true, but someone told me once that their word for trade literally means ‘to steal by purchase.’ I gather they’re a fascinating people, once you get to know them.”

  “I’m sure,” Valens said. “Now, by rights I ought to threaten you with awful retribution if you ever ambush me with something like that again. But I don’t need to do that, do I?”