Evil for Evil Page 29

  The name made Valens look up. “Really?” he said.

  “Absolutely. Their strength was their artillery; we attacked their artillery with ours. Our weakness was being pinned down in one place, where they could use their machines against us; we let them come right up to the city, exactly what they wanted to do. I still believe we’d have beaten them if someone hadn’t betrayed us. We’d beaten them where they were strong, you see; we’d let them do exactly what they wanted, and then turned round and slaughtered them.”

  Valens looked at him for a moment. “You know,” he said, “I’m sure I must have read that book, but obviously I didn’t get nearly as much out of it as you did. What’s your idea?”

  Ziani straightened his face until it was completely at rest. “What they’ll want to do is attack your wagons. I say, let them. Don’t be obvious about it, of course. Send out your cavalry, have them do everything they can to keep my people away from the wagons. But expect them to fail.”

  Valens breathed out slowly through his nose. “With you so far,” he said. “Then what?”

  Ziani was getting visibly more animated; Valens could have sworn he was swelling, like a bullfrog. “Ask yourself: if my people were in your position, what would they do? Facing the danger of being engaged out in the open by enemy cavalry?”

  “I imagine they’d dream up some ingenious machine or other.”

  “Exactly. Which is what I’ve done.” Ziani was smiling, pleased with himself. “Not machines as such, because anything too complex would take too long to build, and we haven’t got enough plant and machinery, or enough skilled people. No, what I had in mind was this.” He reached in his pocket. “Here’re some sketches that ought to give you the general idea. Of course they aren’t to scale or anything.”

  Valens frowned, and looked at them. “Carts,” he said.

  “Ordinary carts, yes. That’s an important point, because of the time pressure. We need to be able to modify what we’ve already got, rather than building from scratch.”

  “Carts with …” Valens paused, looking at the sketches. “This is all a bit far-fetched, isn’t it?”

  The flicker of annoyance on Ziani’s face came and went very quickly. “I don’t think so,” he said. “What do you do if you want to protect a man from weapons? You put him in armor. Sixteen-gauge wrought-iron sheet; that’s about a sixteenth of an inch. You know what level of protection you can expect from it, that’s what your helmet and your breastplate and all that are made out of. It’ll turn arrows at anything but short range, it’ll stop cuts from swords and axes. It’s not exactly light, but when you’re wearing your armor it’s not so heavy you can’t move almost as easily as you can without it. Look, we can’t carry stone ramparts around with us, or palisades of tree trunks; what we can do is use the wagons themselves as walls. Each wagon has an iron sheet bolted to one side; half of them on the left, the other half on the right. Think of it as each wagon carrying a shield. When the enemy attacks, they do what infantry do: line up, form a shield wall. Instant fortifications. Your cavalry opponents lose all their advantages of mobility and impetus; suddenly they’re reduced to being foot soldiers trying to storm a fortress, except they haven’t got any siege equipment — no battering rams or scaling ladders or pavises. They can run up and try and climb over, if they’re keen enough, but I don’t suppose they’ll be stupid enough to try it twice. Then, once you’ve driven them off, you span the horses in again and carry on with your journey as though nothing had happened.”

  Valens sat and stared at the sketches for a long time. “We’re talking about every cart in the duchy,” he said at last. “There’s not enough sheet iron in the whole world.”

  Ziani laughed. “Please,” he said, “trust me to understand about material procurement. I used to run a factory, remember. That’s the real beauty of the whole scheme. Sheet iron is just iron you heat up and bash until it’s spread out flat and thin. You don’t need trained smiths or engineers, just a lot of strong men with hammers.”

  “The miners,” Valens murmured.

  “Strong men used to hammering.” Ziani nodded. “And badly in need of something to do. As for iron; well, even simple rustic folk like yourselves use iron for practically everything. You build a dozen big furnaces, say — bricks and clay, nothing complex or time-consuming — and you cook up all the iron tools and furniture and fittings and stuff you don’t actually need to take with you on the journey — all the things you were planning on abandoning for the Mezentines to loot, basically; you melt it and pour it into great big puddles, what we call blooms, and then your ex-miners and your soldiers and anybody who can swing a hammer bashes it out into sheets. I’ll need a few competent men to cut the sheets and fit them, of course, but that’s about it as far as skilled tradesmen go. As for how long it’ll take; that’ll depend on how many people we can get on it.”

  Valens said nothing for a long time. “Fuel,” he said at last. “You’ll need a hell of a lot of coal or charcoal or whatever it is you use.”

  “All of which you’ve got,” Ziani pointed out, with more than a touch of smugness. “Stockpiled, at the mines. I’ve taken the liberty of having an inventory made of the supplies you’ve got available. I think there’ll be plenty. Even if the whole idea is a complete failure, at the very least that’s one more resource the Mezentines won’t be able to load up and take home with them.”

  That made Valens smile. “Business thinking,” he said.

  “I’m a Mezentine,” Ziani replied. “Cost out everything before you start, know where your supplies are coming from so you aren’t taken short halfway through the job, and try not to waste anything. Oddly enough, there’s nothing about that sort of thing in your art-of-war book. Maybe that’s because you really do think of it as an art, rather than a trade; you expect it to be financed by wealthy amateur patrons, instead of running to a budget.”

  Valens laughed. As he did so, he realized that the man he was facing was essentially a stranger, someone he hadn’t talked to before. Maybe, he thought, it’s simply the confidence of an expert in his element; but that wasn’t all of it, by any means. The other thing the Mezentines were famous for, he remembered: they were reckoned to be born salesmen.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll give it a go. Now, you see, I’ve been learning from you as well. Build me some prototypes, so I can see for myself if any of this’ll work. Build me a shielded wagon, and a scrap-iron furnace. If I give you full cooperation, how long will you need?”

  Ziani took a deep breath, as if this was the moment he hadn’t been looking forward to. “I’ll need to build the furnace in order to make the material for the wagon,” he said. “Ten days?”

  “You’re serious? Ten days?”

  “We don’t have much time before the evacuation, you said,” Ziani replied. “While I’m making these prototypes, I can be training the men who’ll be my foremen once we’re doing it for real. Yes, ten days.”

  “Fine,” Valens said, frowning. “Ten days. You’ll be wanting to start right away, so don’t let me keep you. I’ll have Carausius write you a general commission; that’ll authorize you to make all the requisitions you want, men and supplies. Good luck.”

  “Thank you.” Ziani stood up to leave. Valens let him get as far as the door, then said, “One other thing.”

  “Yes.”

  “I had a rather strange conversation with Jarnac Ducas a while ago,” Valens said. “You know, Miel Ducas’ cousin. Presumably you came across him at Civitas Eremiae.”

  “I know who you mean,” Ziani said.

  “Thought you might.” Valens paused for a moment, leaving Ziani standing in the doorway, his hand on the latch. “Anyway, Jarnac Ducas told me a rather curious story about you.” He smiled. “I’m not sure how to phrase this without sounding hopelessly melodramatic. The gist of it was, you’re supposed to have cooked up some kind of plot to get Miel Ducas disgraced. Something to do with the Duchess, and a letter.”

  “Oh, that.” Zian
i looked at him; it was the way the feeding deer looks up at a slight noise from the hunter; not fear, but more than curiosity. “Well, I can’t blame the Ducas for being angry about it, but he only had himself to blame. A man in his position …” He shrugged. “What exactly did he say I’d done?”

  “I can’t remember, to be honest with you,” Valens said smoothly. “I prefer not to listen to personal quarrels, unless they’re getting in the way. But I’d be interested to hear what it was actually all about.”

  Ziani’s face closed like a door. “The Duchess lost one of your letters,” he said, “or it was intercepted, or something like that. The Ducas got hold of it, and kept it instead of taking it to Duke Orsea. I assume he was going to blackmail her with it, or else he had some scheme going on for getting rid of Orsea and taking the throne. I think he was always a bit resentful about Orsea marrying the Sirupati heiress; that’s the impression I got from what people were saying, anyhow. They were more or less engaged at one time, I understand.”

  “I see,” Valens replied. “And so when you found out about the letter …”

  “I wish I hadn’t,” Ziani said. “The plain fact is, Miel Ducas was a much more competent soldier than Orsea, he’d have made a much better duke. But it wasn’t my choice to make; I wasn’t even an Eremian citizen, I was Orsea’s guest. When I found evidence that pointed to the Ducas plotting against him, I didn’t really have any option. Of course,” he went on, “there’s no hard evidence to prove that the Ducas had anything to do with the city being betrayed to the Mezentines, it’s all circumstantial. On the other hand …”

  “You think the Ducas handed over the city to your people?”

  Ziani shook his head. “Really, it’s none of my business. Yes, the Ducas seems to be the only man with a strong motive who was actually in a position to do it. That’s evidence, but it’s not proof. So, if you’re asking me if I blame myself for the betrayal of Civitas Eremiae, I’d have to say no. I may have influenced matters to a degree, but at the end of the day I know it wasn’t my fault. Why, how do you see it?”

  Valens smiled wryly. “Well,” he said, “naturally I don’t like the thought that the man who opened the gates of Civitas Eremiae could be here, in my city, prepared to do the same again or something similar if he feels his personal agenda requires it. Do you think I ought to do something about Miel Ducas?”

  “He’s not here, though,” Ziani replied. “Isn’t he still in Eremia, leading the resistance?”

  “So he is. Mind you, the resistance has more or less run out of steam now. I’ve stopped supplying them, they’re not a good investment. So, presumably, Miel Ducas will be coming here sooner or later. What do you think I should do with him when he arrives?”

  Ziani shook his head. “Not up to me, I’m delighted to say,” he said. “I don’t think I could do that; make decisions about other people’s lives, I mean. You’d have to be so very sure you were doing the right thing, or else how could you live with yourself ?”

  “Oh, you manage,” Valens said casually. “After a while, you get the knack of being able to forget they’re people, and you start seeing them as pieces in a game, or components in a machine. I’m not saying it’s something to be proud of, but you can train yourself to do it easily enough.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Ziani said. “It’s not something I’d like to find out by experience.”

  Ziani left the Duke’s tower and walked quickly across the yard, as though he was afraid someone would come after him. Valens, he decided, reminded him of what his old supervisor used to say about the vertical mill. The most useful machine in the shop is usually also the most dangerous.

  Ten days; had he really said that? Crazy. Even so; if Valens had brought the wedding date forward, as he’d just said, ten days was about all the time he had.

  He went back to his room. There was a letter waiting for him; an invitation from the Lord Chamberlain to attend the royal wedding. He read it quickly, looking for the important part. There was a timetable; early morning reception, the wedding itself, then the wedding breakfast, another reception, followed by an afternoon’s falconry, in honor of the bride and her guests. By implication he was invited to that, too. He smiled.

  Enough of that. Just enough time, before collecting his commission from the Chancery, to see to the other chores. He put on his coat and hurried out of the castle, into town.

  “I was beginning to wonder about you,” the woman said, as he walked through the door into the back room of the Selfless Devotion. “We’re supposed to be partners; and then you vanish up to the castle for weeks on end, and I don’t hear a word out of you.”

  “Been busy,” Ziani replied, trying not to stare. The dress she was wearing this time was the worst yet; a gushing, flowing mess of crimson velvet that made her look as though she was drowning in blood. “I’ve got the money,” he went on, “or at least, I’ll have it for you this evening, without fail.”

  “That’s a big or at least,” she grumbled, but he knew he was safe. “Cash?”

  “Draft,” Ziani replied. “Royal draft,” he added, as her face tightened, “drawn direct on the Chancery, and no questions asked. My man’ll bring it down to you before the ink’s dry.”

  “Whatever.” She was doing her best not to be impressed; on balance, succeeding. “That’ll save me a trip, then. When he brings me the money, I’ll give him the map.”

  “Fine.” Ziani dropped into a chair, trying to look casual, his legs suddenly weak. “Now, let’s talk about quantities.”

  “Thought you’d say that.” She grinned at him, pleased to have read his mind so easily. “Obviously, given the overheads on each caravan, each consignment’s got to be big enough to give us our margin; say a minimum of seven tons a time.”

  “Oh,” Ziani said. “I was thinking a minimum of ten.”

  She gave him a pitying look. “You got any idea how many mules it takes to shift ten tons of salt?”

  “Mules,” Ziani repeated. “Why mules? Why not carts?”

  She sighed. “It’s not just the run from here to the border,” she said. “You’ll see when you get the map. You avoid the desert, sure, but you’ve still got to get across the mountains before you reach the salt pans. Which means carts are out; it’s all got to go on mules.”

  Ziani nodded. “I appreciate that,” he said. “But you can take a train of carts up as far as the foothills, can’t you?”

  “Well, yes. But what good’s that?”

  Panic over; Ziani breathed out slowly. “Well, couldn’t you take the stuff down the mountain on mules and then load it onto carts once you’re back on the flat?”

  She laughed, making her many chins dance. “Shows how much you know about the haulage business. Do that and you’ll have to hire one team for the mule-train and another team for the wagons. Double your wage bill for an extra three tons. Not worth it.”

  “I see,” Ziani said, “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Obviously. Just as well you’ve got me to hold your hand for you. No, seven tons is your maximum, each trip. The idea is to get in as many trips as possible while the weather’s good. By late autumn you’ve got the rains in the mountains, the rivers flood, can’t be crossed, you’re screwed. Ideally you want two mule-teams, one going and one coming back, all the time. But then you run into production difficulties, meaning the bloody idle savages in the mines. Oh, they’ll promise you fifteen tons on the nail, swear blind they’ll deliver bang on time; but when you get there, it’s nine tons if you’re lucky, and if you’re not, you’re stuck out there in the desert waiting for them to get around to doing some work. Honest truth, they don’t understand the meaning of time like we do. Today means tomorrow or three weeks or three months, and if you lose your rag and start yelling at them they stare at you like they can’t understand what all the fuss is about. Doing business with people like that …” She made a wide gesture with her hands, half compassion, half contempt. “And then people whine about salt being expensi
ve. Bloody hard way to earn a living, if you ask me.”

  Ziani grinned. “You’d better not let the Duke catch you talking like that about his future in-laws,” he said.

  “Out of his tiny mind,” the woman replied sadly. “If he knew those people like I do, he’d steer well clear of them, and I don’t care what promises they’re making. The thought of one of them as duchess; it’s just as well his father’s not alive to see it, it’d break his heart.”

  “Really? I’d sort of got the impression he didn’t have one.”

  She scowled at him. “That’s his son you’re thinking of,” she said. “Actually, it’s her I feel sorry for; the savage woman. Of course, I don’t believe all the stuff you hear about him not being the marrying kind, if you follow me, but even so …”

  Back up the hill, as soon as he could get away. The commission was ready for him, the ink still glistening, the seal still warm.

  “That,” Carausius said, as he handed it over, “makes you the second most powerful man in the duchy.”

  Ziani frowned. “I hadn’t looked at it in that light,” he said.

  “Of course,” Carausius went on, “you’ll be keeping detailed accounts.”

  “Naturally,” Ziani replied, without looking up from the document.

  “I strongly suggest you take great care over them,” Carausius said. “The Duke instructs me that you’re accountable directly to him, which means he’ll be going over them himself. In other words, you’ll have an auditor who can have your head cut off and stuck up on a pike just by giving the order. You may care to reflect on that before you start writing out drafts.”

  Ziani looked up and smiled pleasantly. “The sad thing is,” he said, “that’s the least of my worries.”

  Daurenja was waiting for him when he reached the room he’d been assigned as an office. The day before, it had been a long-disused tack room, and it still reeked of saddle-soap, wet blankets and mold. “Get this place cleaned up, will you?” he snapped without thinking. Daurenja nodded and said, “Of course.”