The Escapement Page 17

  A search of the buildings and bodies revealed a pair of Vadani military boots and, even more significant, an Aram Chantat saddlecloth, apparently used as a bedspread in the main house. An elderly male, interrogated prior to execution, claimed to have no knowledge of hit-and-run raids against allied forces. Confronted with the boots and the saddlecloth, he was unable to account for their presence, asserting that he had never seen them before.

  Returning by the main farm track, the squadron rejoined the road and proceeded to cross the river at an established ford, with an abandoned border station. There they encountered a man and a woman who demanded to be taken to Duke Valens, claiming to have vital information about the war. In their possession was found a branded Aram Chantat horse, which they asserted they had found wandering loose near the river. The man claimed to be Miel Ducas, the former leader of the Eremian resistance. They were taken into custody and escorted back to the camp.

  Valens stared at him for a moment, then said, “Hello.”

  It was all Miel could do not to laugh. Fortunately, he was the Ducas, trained from birth not to register embarrassment. Really the only thing he’d ever learned worth knowing. “Thank you for seeing me,” he said.

  Valens nodded at the empty chair. Miel thought it didn’t look as though it’d bear his weight, but he took a leap of faith and sat in it. “That’s all right,” Valens said. “I was wondering only the other day what the hell had become of you.”

  He had to smile at that. “After you ordered my execution, you mean?”

  Valens nodded. “I seem to remember a guard got killed. I’m assuming that was nothing to do with you.”

  “Of course not.”

  “As I thought. Fine, we needn’t mention it again.” Valens frowned. “You look dreadful,” he said. “What’ve you been doing to yourself?”

  Miel grinned. “Living the simple life. I read about it in Pannones’ Pastoral Eclogues when I was a kid, and I thought I’d try it: the open air, the stars my ceiling, the meadow my pillow. You know the sort of thing.”

  “Actually, I quite like Pannones,” Valens said gently. “I’ve always taken his romanticised version of the rural idyll as an extended metaphor for the inner tranquillity that comes from the renunciation of worldly ambition in reformed Substantialist philosophy.” He frowned and sniffed. “I’m glad you didn’t bother getting all dressed up,” he said. “We’re informal here these days, it saves so much time and energy. Drink?”

  “Yes please,” Miel replied.

  Valens nodded at the jug on the flimsy-looking table. Miel stood up – something had happened to his knees, but he made it, just about – filled a cup and sat down again.

  “They told me you had some information for me.”

  Miel shook his head. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “That was just a little white lie, to keep your Aram Chantat from slitting my throat. The fact is, I’ve invited myself to stay. Mostly,” he added with a sheepish grin, “because I’ve got nowhere else to go. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Sure,” Valens replied casually, his eyes fixed on Miel’s face. “After all, you’re a hero of the Eremian resistance, you’re entitled. And we’ve agreed to forget all about that other business, so that’s fine. Who’s your girlfriend, by the way?”

  Miel smiled by way of parrying. “My girlfriend, actually,” he said. “Where is she, by the way? I asked the guard, but…”

  “I’ll tell them to let her go,” Valens said quickly. “Sorry. But you know how it is in a war, everybody gets so jumpy and serious about everything. They’d lock up their own grandmothers if they found them out without a pass.” He leaned back a little, carefully, almost as if he didn’t trust his chair. “I suppose I ought to try and explain to you about Orsea,” he said.

  “No, please don’t.”

  “Fine.”

  Miel looked back at him, a riposte in double time. “How’s Veatriz?”

  “She’s well. I had a letter from her two days ago, actually.”

  “She’s not here, then?”

  “No.” Slight crease of the forehead. Probably he didn’t realise he was doing it. “We decided it’d be better if she stayed in Civitas Vadanis for the time being. A bit too much war in these parts, and besides, the Aram Chantat don’t really approve of her.”

  Miel nodded. “Do please send her my best wishes.”

  “Of course. She’ll be glad to hear you’re all right.”

  Miel remembered he had a drink in his hand. It had been a long time since he’d tasted wine. He drank it, trying not to let Valens see how much he enjoyed it. “Well,” he said, “thank you very much for your time, and your hospitality. Is there anybody we should report to, or… ?”

  Valens grinned. “Tell the guard who brought you to take you to one of the guest tents. When you’ve decided what you want to do next, tell the duty officer and he’ll tell me. Anything within reason.”

  “I think I’d like to help with the war, if that’s all right,” Miel heard himself say. “I don’t know how many Eremians you’ve got with you still, but—”

  “Two full infantry regiments and a cavalry division,” Valens replied promptly, “and I’m sure they’ll be delighted to have you. And there’s a lot of your people with the engineers, too.”

  “Ah.” Miel tried to keep his face perfectly still. “I think I’d be happier serving with a field unit,” he said. “I haven’t had the happiest of experiences around engineers in the past.”

  “Of course.” Valens looked away. For some reason, that gave Miel tremendous satisfaction. “Well, it’s good to have you back with us. And if there’s anything you need, just tell the duty officer and he’ll see to it.”

  “Thank you.” Miel stood up. For some reason he felt an urgent need to confess, to tell Valens about the Vadani and Aram Chantat soldiers he’d hunted and killed for their skins, just to spoil the look on his face. But that would be an appalling breach of good manners, and therefore unthinkable. “You’ve been very kind, I appreciate it. I’m sorry to be a pest.”

  Valens’ expression said, that’s enough, I’ve got no quarrel with you but I’d like you to go away now. “That’s perfectly all right,” he said. “Now I expect you’d like to get settled in.”

  Which was a pleasant, affable way of putting it, Miel supposed. He nodded, turned and left the tent. It was only when he emerged into the light and air that he realised he was still holding the cup. He hesitated, but going back in and returning it would be faintly ridiculous. He’d give it to the duty officer later, explain. He looked for the guard.

  “The duke said to take me to the visitors’ tents,” he said.

  The guard had noticed the cup; he glanced at it once, then looked straight past it, the way guards, chamberlains, footmen and doorkeepers learn to do. “Very good,” he said. “This way, please.”

  Please, Miel noted, and for some reason he tried to call to mind the face of at least one of the Vadani soldiers he’d killed: the sentries when he’d escaped, the men he’d murdered for their shirts and boots. But he couldn’t. He was disappointed with himself for that. The Ducas should pay attention to his subordinates, make a habit of remembering their faces and their names.

  The visitors’ tents, a whole row like a street, were Aram Chantat by the look of them, spongy black felt an inch thick overlaying a sturdy square frame of poles. Inside, a small but efficient-looking brass stove, with a flue sticking up through a hole in the tent roof; Miel looked twice and saw that the flue pipes were designed to slide inside each other for compact storage and transportation. A heap of cushions; the floor completely covered by a plain dark green rug. A spindly-legged table, on which he found a tall brass jug and a brass plate of some kind of crisp white cakes. The jug turned out to contain water. Otherwise, not bad at all.

  The guard was leaving. Miel remembered something. “Just a moment,” he said. “My…” His what? Friend? Wife? Neither. “The woman who was with me when I arrived,” he said awkwardly. “The duke said to br
ing her here.”

  The guard nodded and withdrew. Fine. All words are conventions, more or less arbitrary compromises. No two people ever said I love you to each other and meant exactly the same thing by it. The Ducas especially; in the nobleman’s lexicon there were at least two dozen different subcategories of love, ranging from the over-riding love of duty and country down to the affection one naturally felt for one’s former nurse. All genuine, all perfectly valid, all quite different. It was not only possible but obligatory for the Ducas to love people he wouldn’t dream of having dinner with.

  Now then, he told himself, he had to report to the duty officer, who’d get him assigned to an Eremian unit.

  In any military community, finding the duty officer’s quarters is easy. Just spot someone walking briskly and follow him. “My name’s Miel Ducas,” he told the short, thin-on-top middle-aged Vadani sitting behind another of those rickety tables. “Duke Valens said I should see you.”

  The duty officer pursed his lips. “I see,” he said. “What about?”

  “Assignment,” he replied. “With one of the Free Eremian units.”

  Something clicked into place in the duty officer’s memory. “Ducas,” he said. “You were the leader of the resistance.”

  “That’s right.” He frowned slightly. “I’ve been on sabbatical, as you might say, but now I’m back. I don’t want to be anybody important, I just want a job of some kind. Can you arrange that?”

  Dubious nod. “It may be a bit sensitive,” the duty officer said. “What I mean is, the senior staff might feel uncomfortable giving orders to their former leader. And weren’t you high up in the government, before the… ?”

  That called for a smile. “Before I was attainted for treason, yes. But that doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, the city’s gone, tens of thousands of us have been slaughtered, I think those of us who’re left can afford to take a few liberties with strict-form protocol.”

  The duty officer didn’t look convinced. “You wouldn’t prefer a Vadani unit?”

  “No.”

  “Leave it with me,” the duty officer said sadly. “I’ll talk to the Eremian colonel-in-chief. You’ll be… ?”

  “Guest tents,” Miel said. “I’ll stay there till I hear from you, shall I?”

  “Probably best if you did.”

  Well, quite, he thought, as he left the tent, aware but not particularly concerned that he’d just ruined someone’s day. Thoughtless of me to still be alive, but there. Some people have no consideration.

  Finding the duty officer had been easy. Finding his way back to the guest tents, on the other hand…

  The Ducas, unlike lesser men, isn’t embarrassed to ask for directions. He stopped two Vadani, who didn’t know, and an Aram Chantat, who looked straight past him and walked on. A third Vadani gave him directions, but talked so quickly he couldn’t follow them; he smiled, thanked him politely, waited till he’d gone and tried again. An extremely polite and courteous Aram Chantat gave him clear and concise instructions, which he followed exactly, and found himself on the far edge of the camp, standing outside a latrine.

  The hell with it, he thought; I’m a trained military officer, formerly commander-in-chief of the Eremian cavalry and a distinguished guerrilla fighter. I ought to be able to find a tent in a field.

  He took a step back for a better overview of the camp’s street-plan, and accidentally barged into someone coming out of the latrine. He was already apologising before he realised who he was talking to.

  “My fault,” the familiar face said. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” Hesitation; recognition.

  Miel nodded. “Yes,” he said, “it’s me. Hello, Vaatzes.”

  For a disturbingly long time he had no idea what to do or say. Luckily, Ducas didn’t seem to be about to attack him; if he had, there wouldn’t have been anything he could have done about it. Since he could neither move nor speak, he waited to see what happened next.

  “I don’t suppose you know the way back to the guest tents, do you?” Ducas said. “I know it’s silly, but I’m lost.”

  “Follow me,” he heard himself reply. “I’m going that way myself.”

  A grin. “You’re a guest too, are you? That’s lucky. Right, lead on. I’ll be right behind you.”

  Of course he would. Ziani led the way, quickly dismissing any thought of trying to lose him in the maze of tented streets Even if he managed it, he couldn’t simply steal a horse and gallop away. He had to stay here. No choice.

  “Ah,” the Ducas said, just behind his shoulder, “I recognise this bit.”

  “That’s the guest tents, just behind the sergeants’ mess,” he replied, pointing. It was a pathetic attempt. Ducas was right behind him, only moving when he moved, like a shadow.

  “Are you terribly busy right now? Only if you aren’t, I’d like to talk to you.”

  No choice there, either. “Come to my tent and have a drink,” Ziani said.

  “Thanks. I’d like that.”

  Absurd; a parody of friendship. He waved Ducas into the chair, and sat on a cushion on the floor. “Help yourself to wine,” he said. “The jug’s on the table.”

  Ducas smiled and poured. “You having one?”

  “Not right now.”

  He watched Ducas drink. He seemed to be enjoying it. Judging by his appearance, he’d been living rough for a while. “It sounds dreadful, but wine’s one of the things I’ve missed most,” Ducas said. “I don’t mean getting blasted; just the taste. Sure you won’t join me?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Suit yourself.” Ducas poured a refill, slowly. Wine-drinkers did that, Ziani remembered. Something to do with not disturbing the sediment at the bottom. “Right,” Ducas said. “I imagine you’re surprised to see me.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll bet.” Ducas drank, and put the cup down carefully on the ground at his feet. “Last time we met, you were good enough to explain exactly how you betrayed me. Made Orsea think I was a traitor.”

  “So I did,” Ziani said.

  “And then,” Ducas went on, “the city conveniently fell. You escaped, went off with Duke Valens. I stayed behind, you may have heard. Had a sort of half-hearted go at carrying on the war. Didn’t make much of a job of it. Wandered around for a bit,” he went on, when Ziani didn’t react. “Lost interest, I suppose, for a while. Joined up with Valens – our paths didn’t cross, but I’m sure you heard about it. Got in trouble, needless to say. But it seems like that’s all forgiven and forgotten, and now here I am. Here we are.” His eyes were suddenly fixed and still. “All friends together, I dare say.”

  He was waiting for a reply, but Ziani couldn’t think of one. Ducas drank a little more, then went on: “I guess you could make out a case for saying that none of it matters a damn any more. I mean, Orsea’s dead. Veatriz is married to Valens. Civitas Eremia’s gone, of course, in fact so’s the whole country. I mean, it’s still there, but for all the good it’ll do, it might as well have fallen through a bloody great crack in the ground and disappeared. They’re saying the price for the Aram Chantat helping Valens wipe out your lot is Eremia, for them to settle in afterwards. Is that right? I’m a bit out of touch.”

  “Yes,” Ziani said.

  Ducas nodded. “Don’t suppose they’ll be satisfied with just Eremia,” he said. “Not nearly enough pasture for a whole nation of nomads. They’ll want the Mezentine plain as well, and probably a fair old slice of the Vadani country. Which won’t be any bother to anybody, given how many Vadani have died in this war so far. Plenty of empty land, so that’s all right.” He put his cup back on the floor and refilled it. “Really,” he said, “everything’s changed so much, it’d be pointless harping on about the past. It’s become – what’s the word? – obsolete. No longer relevant. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “No.”

  That made him smile. “I don’t think so, either. But, changing the subject, there’s something I’d like your opinion about, if you wouldn’t mind. N
ot in any tearing hurry, are you?”

  “No.”

  Ducas nodded. “A bit silly,” he said, “but it’s one of those things that’s been nagging away at my mind all this time, like the words of a song, where you know the verse and the chorus but not the middle bit. Nobody to ask, though, because they weren’t there. Apart from you. So,” he added, straightening up a bit and resting his hands on the arms of the chair, “what I’ve been trying to figure out is, who opened the gates of Civitas Eremiae that night and let the Mezentines in? You see, until we know the answer to that one, I really can’t see how we can dismiss it all from our minds and move on to the next item on the agenda.”

  “I take your point,” Ziani said.

  “Thought you might.” He reached down towards the cup, stopped, left it where it was. “There’s theories, of course. I mean, at some point Valens seemed to believe Orsea had something to do with it. Don’t know if he still thinks that, but I reckon we can forget about it as a hypothesis, because it’s clearly not true. Same as the school of thought that says I did it.” Faint smile. “Slightly more of a possible motive, but of course I was in prison at the time, so I propose we dismiss the charges against me. Agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very good. So then I thought, how about simple bribery and corruption? Always a possibility. One of my ancestors used to say, no city is impregnable, no matter how well fortified, if a man can get inside it carrying a shitload of money. So that’s one we need to consider, even though I can’t see how our traitor or traitors planned on getting out alive. No point being rich for ten minutes and then getting your head stoved in along with everybody else.”