Devices and Desires Read online

  “The prisoner, Ziani Vaatzes,” the advocate went on, “admits to having created an abomination. He admitted as much to the investigator who inspected it. He signed a deposition confessing that the thing was made by him, and agreeing in detail the departures from Specification. In this court, he has acknowledged his signature on that deposition, and conceded that he said those words to that investigator. But he stands to his defense. He pleads not guilty. His defense…” Advocate Sphrantzes paused to shake his head. “His defense is that his admitted abomination was only a little one, a minor deviation. It was, he tells us, a slight modification, an improvement.”

  A little buzz of murmuring went round the semicircle of the public gallery, like half a ripple from a stone dropped in water. Sphrantzes let it run its course before he went on.

  “Very well then,” he said. “Let us consider the details. As regards the construction of automata and mechanical toys, Specification states that the lifting mechanism for the arms shall be powered by a clock-spring seven feet six inches long, one quarter of an inch wide and fifteen thousandths of an inch thick, with a generous permitted tolerance of three percent for length and width, and fifteen percent for thickness. Furthermore, it states that the gear train conveying motive power from the spring to the shoulder assemblies shall comprise five cogs of ratios forty, thirty, twenty-five, twelve and six to one. Furthermore, it lays down that the thickness of such cogs shall be three eighths of an inch, and that each cog shall ride on a brass bushing. I ask the clerk to verify that my summary of Specification is correct.”

  The clerk stood up, nodded and sat down again.

  “So much, then,” Phrantzes went on, “for Specification. Let us now turn to the investigator’s report concerning the abomination created by the prisoner. Investigator Manin, as you have heard for yourselves, discovered that the spring used by the prisoner was nine feet three inches long, five sixteenths of an inch wide and ten thousandths of an inch thick; that the gear train contained not five but six cogs, the sixth being in ratio of four to one; that the said cogs were seven sixteenths of an inch thick, and their bushings were not brass but bronze. In short, we have unequivocal proof of not one but three distinct and deliberate deviations from Specification.”

  Advocate Sphrantzes paused for a moment to stare ferociously at the dock; then he continued. “Three distinct deviations; so much, I think we can safely say, for the argument that it was only a little abomination, a trivial departure. Now, if the prisoner had argued that he is an inept metalworker, incapable of observing a tolerance, that might be easier to accept — except, of course, that we know he is no such thing. On the contrary; we know that he holds the rank of supervisor in the Foundrymen’s and Machinists’ Guild, that he has passed all twelve of the prescribed trade tests and holds no fewer than eleven certificates for exemplary work, one of them for hand-filing a perfect circle to a tolerance of one thousandth of an inch. But he makes no such claim in his defense. No; he admits the work, and accepts the report. He accepts that each deviation bears directly on the others; that the longer, thinner spring affords more power to the gears, in consequence of which a sixth gear is added and the width of the cogs is increased to augment bearing surface, with harder-wearing bushes to handle the additional wear. All this, he claims, he did in order to make a mechanical toy that could raise its arms above its head; in order, members of the committee, to improve on Specification.”

  No murmurs this time. Absolute silence.

  “To improve,” Sphrantzes repeated slowly, “on Specification. May I invite you to consider for a moment the implications of that intention.

  “When our Guild was first established, fought for by our ancestors and paid for with their very blood, it was agreed that in order to maintain the reputation for excellence enjoyed by our work throughout the world, it was essential that we draw up and rigidly adhere to an agreed specification for everything we make. That specification, represented by the Guild’s mark stamped on each piece, has for three hundred years served as an unimpeachable guarantee of quality. It means that anybody who buys Guild work can be categorically assured that the piece is made strictly in accordance with the best possible design, from the best possible materials, using the best possible practices and procedures by the finest craftsmen in the world. It is that guarantee that has made our Guild and our fellow Guilds throughout Mezentia the unrivaled masters of industry and by default given us a monopoly of mass-produced manufactured goods throughout the known world. That, members of the committee, is not a trivial matter. On the contrary, it is the life blood of our city and our people, and any offense against it, anything that calls it into question, is an act of treason. There can be no exceptions. Even an unwitting slip of the hammer or the file is an abomination and punishable under the law. How much worse, then, is a deliberate and premeditated assault on Specification, such as we have seen in this case? To claim, as the prisoner Vaatzes has done, that his abomination represents an improvement is to assert that Specification is susceptible to being improved upon; that it is fallible, imperfect; that the Guilds and the Eternal Republic are capable of producing and offering for sale imperfect goods. Members of the committee, I tell you that there can be no defense of such a wicked act.”

  Again Sphrantzes paused; this time, Ziani could feel anger in the silence, and it made the muscles of his stomach bunch together.

  “The prisoner has claimed,” Sphrantzes went on, “that the abomination was not intended for sale, or even to be taken outside his own house; that it was built as a present for his daughter, on her birthday. We can dispose of this plea very quickly. Surely it is self-evident that once an object leaves its maker’s hands, it passes out of his control. At some point in the future, when she is a grown woman perhaps, his daughter might give it away or sell it. At her death, if she retained it till then, it would be sold as an asset of her estate. Or if the prisoner were to default on his taxes or subscriptions, the contents of his house would be seized and auctioned; or it might be stolen from his house by a thief. It takes very little imagination to envisage a score of ways in which the abomination might come to be sold, and its maker’s intentions made clear by a cursory examination of its mechanism. The law is absolutely clear, and rightly so. There need be no intention to sell or dispose of an abomination. The mere act of creating it is enough. Members of the committee, in the light of the facts and having in mind the special circumstances of the case — the gross and aggravated nature of the deviation, the deliberate challenge to Specification, above all the prisoner’s rank inside the Guild and the high level of trust placed in him, which he has betrayed — I cannot in all conscience call for any lesser penalty than the extreme sanction of the law. It grieves me more than I can say to call for the death of a fellow man, a fellow Guildsman, but I have no choice. Your verdict must be guilty, and your sentence death.”

  The nondescript little man bowed respectfully to the bench, gathered the tails of his gown and sat down on his stool behind his desk. Ziani noticed that his feet didn’t quite reach the floor, and dangled backward and forward, like a small child in a classroom. Somehow, that seemed an appropriate touch. Even now, here in the Guildhall with everybody staring at him, he couldn’t help believing that it all had to be some kind of elaborate tease, like the jokes played on apprentices (go and fetch the left-handed screwdriver); an initiation ritual, before he was allowed to eat his dinner at the chargehands’ table.

  Also at the back of his mind was another question, one that buzzed and buzzed and wouldn’t go away: how had they known what he’d done, where to find it, what to look for? As far as he could remember (and he’d thought of little else the past month, in the darkness of his cell) he hadn’t mentioned it to anybody, anybody at all. But the investigator had gone straight to his bench, to the box under it where he kept the finished bits of Moritsa’s doll; he’d had his callipers and gauges ready, to take the necessary measurements. Ziani hadn’t said a word about it at work — even he wasn’t that stupid —
or mentioned it to his friends or his family. Nobody had known; but here he was. It’d be annoying to die with a loose end like that not tidied away. Perhaps they’d tell him, before it was over.

  The committee had stopped whispering; it hadn’t taken them long to make up their minds. Ziani didn’t know the man who stood up, but that was hardly surprising. Even the foreman of the ordnance factory didn’t get to meet the great men of the Guild. The guard caught hold of Ziani’s arm and pulled him to his feet. He couldn’t look at the great man.

  “Ziani Vaatzes,” he heard him say, “this tribunal finds you guilty of abomination. In light of the gravity of your offense, we hereby sentence you to be strangled with the bowstring, and we decree that your head shall be displayed above the gates of the department of ordnance for thirty days, as a warning to others. These proceedings are concluded.”

  As they led him back to the cells, he sensed something unusual in the way they reacted to him. It wasn’t fear, but they were keeping their distance, touching him as little as possible. Disgust, maybe; but if that was what they were feeling, they hid it well. They’d been overtly hostile toward him before the trial, when they brought him his food and water. There wasn’t any of that now. Compassion, possibly? No, definitely not.

  He’d had his three guesses, it was annoying him, and a condemned man doesn’t have to worry about getting into trouble if he annoys his warders. He stopped.

  “Look,” he said. “What is it? Have I just grown an extra head?”

  They looked at each other. They weren’t sure what to do. The older man, a northshoreman by the name of Bollo Curiopalates, who’d made a habit of accidentally-on-purpose kicking Ziani on the shins when he brought him his evening meal, pulled a wry face and shrugged.

  “No offense, right?” he said. “Just, we never met one of your lot before.”

  “My lot?”

  “Abominators.” Bollo shrugged. “It’s not like murderers and thieves,” he went on, “it’s different. Can’t understand it, really; what’d make someone do a thing like that.”

  Curiosity, then; and the diffidence that goes with it, when you’re staring at someone and they stare back. He could try and explain, but what would be the point? A man with a cause, now, a true abominator, would seize this chance of converting one last disciple, possibly lighting a candle that would never go out. Ziani had no cause, so he said, “Evil.”

  The warders looked startled. “You what?”

  “Evil,” Ziani replied, as blandly as he could. “I was in the market one day, years ago now, and there was this man selling lamps. They were cheap and I needed one, so I bought one. Got it home, unscrewed the cap to fill it up with oil, and this thing came out of it. Like a puff of white smoke, it was. Well, I must’ve passed out, because the next thing I remember was waking up, and it was pitch dark outside the window; and ever since then I get these terrible uncontrollable urges to do really bad, wicked things. Absolutely nothing I can do about it, can’t control it, just have to go with the flow. And look where I’ve ended up.” He sighed. “My life ruined, just like that. Only goes to show, you can’t be too careful.”

  The warders looked at him for rather a long time; then Bollo said, “All right, move along,” in a soft, strained voice. At the cell door, he said, “That was all just a joke, right? You were just being funny.”

  Ziani frowned. “Don’t be stupid,” he said. “I’m going to die in an hour or so, why the hell would I lie about a thing like that?”

  They closed the door on him, and he sat down on the floor. It had been a valid question: what on earth had possessed him to do such a reckless, stupid thing? Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of an answer, and he’d been searching for one ever since they arrested him. If they bothered marking the graves of abominators, his headstone would have to read:

  SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA AT THE TIME

  Wonderful epitaph for a wasted life.

  In an hour or so, it wouldn’t matter anymore. He’d be out of it; the story would go on, but he wouldn’t be in it anymore. He’d be a sad memory in the minds of those who loved him, a wound for time to heal, and of course they’d never mention him to strangers, rarely to each other. A new man would take his place at work, and it’d be pretty uncomfortable there for a week or so until he’d settled in and there was no longer any need for his replacement to ask how the other bloke had done this or that, or where he kept his day-books, or what this funny little shorthand squiggle was supposed to mean. The world would get over him, the way we get over our first ever broken heart, or a bad stomach upset. Somehow, the idea didn’t scare him or fill him with rage. It would probably be worse to be remembered and mourned for a long time. There’d be sympathy and condolences, tearing the wound open every time it started to scab over. That was always Ziani’s chair; do you remember the time Ziani got his sleeve caught in the lathe chuck; Ziani lent this to me and I never had a chance to give it back.

  If it had been a sudden illness, say, or a freak accident; if he’d been stabbed in the street or killed in a war; you could get angry about that, the stuff of tragedy. But to find yourself in the cells waiting to be strangled to death, all on account of a few measurements; it was so bewildering, so impossible to understand, that he could only feel numb. He simply hadn’t seen it coming. It was like being beaten at chess by a four-year-old.

  The door started to open, and immediately he thought, here it is. But when Bollo came in (still looking decidedly thoughtful), he didn’t usher in the man in the black hood, the ends of the bowstring doubled round his gloved hands. The man who was with him was no stranger.

  Ziani looked up. “Falier?” he said.

  “Me,” Falier answered. Bollo glanced at him, nodded, left the cell and bolted the door behind him. “I came…”

  “To say goodbye,” Ziani helped him out. “It’s all right, I’m being really calm about it. Sort of stunned, really. With any luck, by the time the truth hits me I’ll have been dead for an hour. Sit down.”

  His friend looked round. “What on?”

  “The floor.”

  “All right.” Falier folded his long legs and rested his bottom tentatively on the flagstones. “It’s bloody cold in here, Ziani. You want to ask to see the manager.”

  “It’ll be a damn sight colder where I’m going,” Ziani replied. “Isn’t that what they say? Abominators and traitors go to the great ice pool, stand up to their necks in freezing cold water for all eternity?”

  Falier frowned. “You believe that?”

  “Absolutely,” Ziani said. “A chaplain told me, so it must be true.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Gallows humor, you see,” he said. “It means I’m either incredibly brave in the face of death, or so hopelessly corrupt I don’t even take eternal damnation seriously.”

  “Right,” Falier said, looking at him. “Sorry,” he said, “I haven’t got a clue what to say.”

  “Don’t worry about it. After all, if you really piss me off and I hold a grudge for the rest of my life, that’s — what, three-quarters of an hour? You can handle it.”

  Falier shook his head. “You always were a kidder, Ziani,” he said. “Always Laughing Boy. It was bloody annoying in a foreman, but you make a good martyr.”

  “Martyr!” Ziani opened his eyes and laughed. “Fine. If someone’d do me a favor and let me know what I’m dying for, I’ll try and do it justice.”

  “Oh, they’ll come up with something,” Falier said. “Well, I guess this is the bit where I ask you if you’ve got any messages. For Ariessa, and Moritsa. Sorry,” he added.

  Ziani shrugged. “Think of something for me, you’re good with words. Anything I could come up with would be way short of the mark: I love you, I miss you, I wish this hadn’t happened. They deserve better than that.”

  “Actually.” Falier sounded like he was the condemned man. “It’s Ariessa and Moritsa I wanted to talk to you about. I’m really sorry to have to bring this up, but it’s got to be done. Ziani, you do realize what’s
going to happen to them, don’t you?”

  For the first time, a little worm of fear wriggled in Ziani’s stomach. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

  Falier took a deep breath. “Your pension, Ziani, from the Guild. You’re a condemned man, an enemy of the state.”

  “Yes, but they haven’t done anything wrong.” The worm was running up his spine now.

  “Neither have you, but that doesn’t mean…” Falier dried up for a moment. “It’s the law, Ziani,” he said. “They don’t get the pension. Look, obviously I’ll do what I can, and the lads at the factory, I’m sure they’ll want to help. But —”

  “What do you mean, it’s the law? I never heard of anything like that.”

  “I’m sorry,” Falier replied, “but it’s true. I checked. It’s terrible, really wicked if you ask me. I don’t know how they can be so cruel.”

  “But hang on a moment.” Ziani tried to rally his scattered thoughts, but they wouldn’t come when he called. “Falier, what are they going to do? What’re they going to live on, for God’s sake?”

  Falier looked grave. “Ariessa says she’ll try and get work,” he said. “But that’s not going to be easy; not for the widow of —” He stopped. “I don’t think I ought to have told you,” he said. “Dying with something like this on your mind. But I was thinking.”

  Ziani looked up. He knew that tone of voice. “What? There’s something I can do, isn’t there?”

  “You could make a deal,” he said.