Evil for Evil Page 3

  This is only a suggestion; but I understand you’ve got another Ducas there with you in the city, Jarac or Jarnac or some such. If it turns out we really have lost Miel, would you consider sending him here? The Ducas name means a lot to these people, and I guess your specimen’s now the head of the family.

  Things we need: food, of course, and boots and blankets; a few barrels of arrows would be nice, but I imagine you’d rather keep them for yourself. A good surveyor would have made a hell of a difference a week ago. If you can spare a couple of field surgeons, we could probably find something for them to do.

  According to some people who came in last week, the Mezentine seventh infantry have left the city, headed north. If it’s true I can’t account for it. I don’t trust the people who told me this, but I have no reason to believe they’re lying.

  Trust again. As Orsea had said, that old thing. Valens reached across the table for the ink bottle and wrote a requisition for food, boots, blankets; he hesitated, then added ten barrels of arrows and two surgeons. Wasteful, because if Miel Ducas really was dead, quite soon there’d be no resistance to feed or arm, Anser was quite right about that. Even so; he sealed the requisition and put it on the pile for the clerks to collect. He wondered if he ought to have Anser’s letter copied to Orsea, but decided against it.

  He picked up another sheet of paper, and wrote on it:

  Valens to Anser, greetings.

  Make finding out about the Ducas your first priority. I can’t send you Jarnac Ducas, he’s too useful to me here; at last I’ve found an Eremian who’s good for something other than causing me problems. I’m sending you what you asked for, but there won’t be any more. I think it’s time to cut our losses, even if the Ducas is still alive. Once you’ve found out about that, disentangle yourself and come home; we’ve had a change of plans here, and I need you to do something for me. I’m sorry for wasting your time …

  Valens hesitated, then picked up the pumice and rubbed out the last line. He wrote instead:

  I hope you’ve enjoyed your holiday (I know how much you like travel and meeting new people). One last thing; if any of your people there have heard any rumors — anything at all — about who sold out Civitas Eremiae to the Mezentines, I want to know about it. Until I know the answer to that question, I’m wasting my time here trying to plan any kind of strategy.

  He lifted his head and looked out of the window. It had stopped raining. Too late now, of course. As far as he was concerned, the day was a dead loss.

  Well, he was in the library, he might as well read a book. There were plenty to choose from. His father (his father used to say that reading was like taking a bath; sometimes you had to do it) had bought a hundredweight of books (various) from a trader. He had had the books unpacked, and shelves put up in the old game larder to store them on. When Valens was fifteen, he’d told him he could choose five books for his own; the rest would be burned. Valens had read them all, desperately, in a hurry, and made his choice. Varro’s On Statecraft, Yonec’s Art of War, the Suda Encyclopedia, Statianus on revenues and currency, and the Standard Digest of Laws & Statutes; five books, Valens reckoned, that between them contained the bare minimum of knowledge and wisdom a prince needed in order to do his job properly. When he announced that he’d made his choice, his father had had the five books burned and spared the rest; books should be a man’s servant, he declared, not his master. Valens wasn’t quite sure he saw the point, but he’d learned the lesson, though not perhaps the one his father had intended to convey: that to value anything is to give it an unacceptable degree of power over you, and to choose a thing is to lose it.

  Most of what survived the bonfire was garbage: inaccurate books with pretty pictures, elegant and insipid belles-lettres, genteel pornography. When his father died, Valens sold most of them back to the same trader and started building a real library. There were three sections: technical and reference, literature, and the finest collection of hunting manuals in the world.

  He stood up, faced the shelves like a general addressing his troops on the eve of battle, and made a choice.

  Regentius’ Calendar of Hawks and Ladies had been one of the original hundredweight. It was a big, fat book with lurid pictures of birds of prey and couples having sex, apparently drawn by a scribe who’d never seen either, but there was one chapter that justified keeping it. The woman is a heron who feeds alone on the marshes; the man is the wild falcon who hunts her and is himself hunted by the austringers, who wish to break him and sell him to the king. To catch the hawk, the austringers first snare the heron with lime and stake her out under a cage-trap. The falcon knows something is wrong, because no heron ever stood still for so long under a tree; but although he knows it’s a trap, he can’t deny his nature and eventually he swoops to the kill and triggers the snare; the cage drops down around him and he is caught. An allegory, the sort of thing that was considered the height of sophistication two hundred years ago; just in case the reader fails to make the obvious interpretation, there are brightly colored vignettes of men and women in the margin to point him in the right direction.

  The point being: the falcon cannot deny its nature, even though it can see the cage hanging from the branches on a rope. The poet is too busy with his stylish double entendres to develop the theme properly, but it’s there nevertheless, like a large rock in the middle of a road.

  Valens read it (he knew it by heart already), and found that he’d picked up a sheet of paper and his pen without knowing it. He frowned, then began to write.

  Suppose that, as the cage fell, it broke the falcon’s wing. It’d be worthless then, and if the austringers were humane men, they’d break its neck. The heron is of value because it can be eaten, but a dead falcon is just bones and feathers. The hunters want to catch it so that it can hunt; it needs to hunt (and therefore destroys itself in their trap, and becomes worthless) because that is its nature. Since the heron is the only element in the story that is valuable in itself, wouldn’t it have been more sensible to catch and eat the heron and leave the falcon in peace?

  Besides, the falcon wouldn’t stoop to a tethered bird. It’d be invisible. A falcon can’t strike a stationary target, they can only see movement.

  He closed the book, folded the paper and dropped it in the pile of spills beside the fireplace (because when you come to rely on the written word, it’s time to light the fire with it). He glanced out of the window again, and pulled his collar up round his ears before leaving the room. It had started raining again.

  2

  He opened his eyes expecting to see the kingdom of Heaven, but instead it was a dirty, gray-haired man with a big mustache, who frowned.

  “Live one here,” the man said. Miel assumed the man wasn’t talking to him. Still, it was reassuring to have an impartial opinion on the subject, even though the man’s tone of voice suggested that it was a largely academic issue.

  Miel tried to remember where his sword had fallen, but he couldn’t. The man was kneeling down, and there was a knife in his hand. Oh well, Miel thought.

  “Easy,” the man said. “Where’s it hurt?”

  He put the knife away in a sheath on his belt. Next to him, Miel noticed a large sack on the ground. It was full of boots. There was one particularly fine specimen sticking out of the top. Miel recognized it. That explained why his feet were cold.

  “Well?” the man said. “Can’t you talk?”

  “I don’t know,” Miel said. His head was splitting, which made it hard to sort out awkward, uncooperative things like words. “What’s wrong with me, I mean.”

  “Can’t hurt too bad, then,” the man said. “Try getting up.”

  Behind the man, Miel could see more like him. They were plodding slowly up and down, heads bent, like workers in a cabbage field. Some of them had sacks too; others held swords, spears, bows, bundled up with string like faggots of wood, or sheaves of corn. Harvesters, he thought. Of a kind.

  “I can’t,” he discovered. “Knee doesn’t work.”


  “Right.” The man bent over him and unbuckled the straps of his chausse. “No bloody wonder,” he said. “Swelled up like a puffball. Got a right old scat on it, didn’t you?”

  He made it sound like deliberate mischief, and Miel felt an urge to apologize. “I can’t remember,” he said. “I was in the fighting …” He paused. Something had just occurred to him. “Did we win?”

  The man shrugged. “Search me,” he said. “Get a hold of my arm, come on.”

  The man hoisted him up and caught him before he could fall down again. “This way,” he said. “Get you on a cart, you’ll be all right.”

  “Thank you,” Miel said. The man grinned.

  It was only a dozen yards or so to the cart, which was heavily laden with more stuffed sacks and sheaves of weapons. The man helped Miel to sit up on the tailgate. “You bide there,” he said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Miel watched him walk away; the slow, measured stride of a man at work. After a while he couldn’t tell him apart from the others.

  He knew that this sort of thing happened, of course, but he’d never actually seen it before. Once a battle was over, he left; pursuing in victory, withdrawing in defeat. What became of the battlefield after that had never really been any business of his. He knew that people like this existed, companies of men who went round stripping the dead. As a member of the ruling classes, he understood why they were tolerated. There was a convention, unwritten but mostly observed, that in return for the harvest they buried the dead, tidied up, made good generally. They put the badly wounded out of their misery, and — that would explain it — salvaged those likely to recover and returned them to their own people in exchange for money. It was, he’d heard, strictly a commercial decision as to who they recovered and who they didn’t bother with. Apparently, a damaged knee meant he was still viable. So that was all right.

  He made an effort, told himself to stay still. Before he closed his eyes (how long ago was that? He sniffed; not too long, the dead hadn’t started to smell yet), everything had mattered so much. The battle; the desperate, ferocious last stand. If they’d won, the Mezentine Fifth Light Cavalry presumably no longer existed. If they’d lost, there was nothing standing between the enemy and the four defenseless villages of the Rosh valley. Last time he’d looked, it was important enough to kill and die for; but the man with the mustache didn’t know and didn’t seem to care, so perhaps it hadn’t mattered so very much after all.

  An unsettling thought occurred to him. If they’d lost, the resistance was over and done with. In that case, they wouldn’t be there anymore to redeem their wounded. But the Mezentines would pay good money for him, if these people found out who he was. On balance, it was just as well the man with the mustache had appropriated his expensive boots. The armor wasn’t a problem, since it was captured Mezentine. Jewelry; it took him a moment to remember. All his life, as the head of the Ducas, he’d been festooned with rings and brooches and things on chains round his neck, till he no longer noticed they were there. Luckily (he remembered) he’d sold them all to raise money for the cause. There was still his accent, of course, and the outside chance that someone might recognize him, but he knew he was a lousy actor. Trying to pretend to be a poor but honest peasant lad would just draw attention.

  Still, it would have been nice to find out what had happened. It had always struck him as unfair that the men who died in a battle never got to know the result; whether they died for a victory or a defeat. If anything mattered at the point of their death, surely that would. He reassured himself that he’d find out eventually, and in the meantime there was nothing he could do. Well, there was something. He could take his armor off, and save his preservers a job.

  Force of habit made him stack it neatly. Not too much damage; he was glad about that, in a way. They had, after all, saved him from dying painfully of hunger and exposure on a hillside covered with dead bodies, so he felt obligated to them, and the Ducas feels uncomfortable while in another’s debt. He balanced a vambrace on top of the pile. He hadn’t really looked at it before. The clips, he noticed, were brass, and the rivets holding them on were neatly and uniformly peened over. Say what you like about the Mezentines, they made nice things. And at a sensible price, too.

  He looked up at the sky. Still an hour or so to go before sunset. He frowned; should’ve thought of it before. The battle had started just before dawn, and he’d left it and gone to sleep about an hour and a half later, so he’d been out for quite a while. His head still hurt, but it was getting better quickly. It wasn’t the first time he’d been knocked out in a battle, but on those previous occasions he’d always woken up in a tent, with clean pillows and people leaning over him looking worried, because the Ducas, even unconscious, isn’t someone you leave lying about for just anybody to find. On the other hand, the headache had been worse, all those other times. On balance, things weren’t as bad as they could be.

  The men were heading back to the cart, leaning forward against the weight of the burdens they were carrying. He remembered when he was a boy, and they’d ridden out to the fields to watch the hay-making; he’d sat under the awning and seen the laborers trudging backward and forward to and from the wains with impossibly big balls of hay spiked on their pitchforks, and thought how splendid they were, how noble, like fine horses steadily drawing a heavy carriage in a procession. Men at work.

  Someone was saying to the others: “Right, let’s call it a day. Have to come back in the morning to do the burying.” A short, thin, bald man walked past him without looking at him, but said, “Best get on the cart, son, we’re going now.” Not an order or a threat. Miel leaned back and hauled his damaged leg in after him, and the thin man closed the tailgate and dropped the latches.

  The sacks of clothing made an adequate nest. Miel put a sack under the crook of his bad knee, which helped reduce the pain whenever the cart rolled over a pothole. The driver seemed to have forgotten about him, or maybe he wasn’t in the habit of talking to the stock-in-trade. Miel leaned back and watched the light drain out of the sky.

  He wouldn’t have thought it was possible to go to sleep in an unsprung cart on those roads; but he woke up with a cricked neck to see darkness, torchlight and human shapes moving backward and forward around him. “Come on,” someone was saying, “out you get.” It was the tone of voice shepherds used at roundup; fair enough. He edged along the floor of the cart and put his good leg to the ground.

  “Need a hand?”

  “Yes,” he replied into the darkness, and someone put an arm round him and took his weight. He hobbled for a bit and was put down carefully next to a fire. “You stay there,” said the voice that came with the arm; so he did.

  It wasn’t much of a fire — peat, by the smell — and the circle of light it threw showed him his own bare feet and not much else. Well, they hadn’t tied him up, but of course they wouldn’t need to. He had nowhere to go, and only one functioning leg. If they were going to kill him they’d have done it by now. Miel realized that, for once in his life, he didn’t have to take thought, look ahead, make plans for other people or even himself. His place was to sit still and quiet until called for, and leave the decisions to someone else. To his surprise, he found that thought comforting. He sat, and let his mind drift.

  He supposed he ought to be worrying about the resistance, but the concept of it seemed to be thinning and dissipating, like the smoke from the fire. He considered it from his new perspective. He had been using every resource of body and mind left to him to fight the Mezentine occupation; what about that? Until today, he’d managed to make himself believe that he was doing a reasonable job. He’d won his battles; he counted them: seventeen. At least, looking at each encounter as a contest, he’d done better than the enemy. His ratio of men lost to enemies killed was more than acceptable. He’d disrupted their supply lines, wrecked carts and slaughtered carthorses and oxen, broken down bridges, blocked narrow passes. For every village they’d burned, he’d made them pay an uneconomic
price in men, time and materiel. A panel of impartial referees, called in to judge who had made a better job of it, him or his opponent, would show him significantly ahead on points. But winning … Winning, now he came to think of it, meant driving the Mezentine armies out of Eremia, and he understood (remarkably, for the first time) that that was never going to be possible. He might be winning, but his people weren’t. They didn’t stand a chance.

  But they weren’t alone, of course. Silly of him to have forgotten that: the Vadani were helping him, or rather the other way about. His job (the Vadani agent had explained all this) was to keep up the pressure, make a nuisance of himself, cost the enemy money. The purpose of this was to undermine the enemy’s political will, to give the Mezentine opposition a chance to bring down the government. Excellent strategy, and the only way to beat the Perpetual Republic. So, you see, we can still do it, and it doesn’t really matter how many villages get burned or how many people get killed; we’re just one part of someone else’s greater design …

  He frowned. The smoke was stinging his eyes. That morning, he’d been able to see the design quite clearly, as though it was a blueprint unrolled on a table. Since then, he’d been bashed on the knee and left for dead, and somehow that had made a difference. It was almost as though a ship had sailed away and left him behind. He’d heard stories about men who’d been stranded on islands or remote headlands. A simple thing, the unfurling of sails, the raising of an anchor; a few minutes either way, the difference between boarding a ship and not making it. In his case, a bash on the knee and another one on the head. In the stories, the castaways accepted that the world had suddenly changed; they’d built huts on the beach, hunted wild goats and cured their hides for clothing, until the world happened to come by again, pick them up and take them home. Those were the ones you heard about, of course. The ones who were never rescued by passing ships, or who simply lay on the beach and waited to die, were never heard from again and therefore ceased to exist.