Devices and Desires e-1 Read online

  'What the fuck was all that about?' someone asked.

  Later, sitting in the window of the main gallery recovering from a horrific bout of shaking and nausea, Vaatzes decided there couldn't have been a knife, because he'd felt the hunter's left hand grabbing at him on the stairs. That helped the world make sense again. He sent someone to fetch the man who'd answered his question. While he was waiting for him to arrive, he called half a dozen men off the bloom anvil and told them to form a half-circle facing him, about five yards back.

  When he saw the man again, he recognised him. He even knew his name-Fesia Manivola, second foreman in the grinding shop. A pity, because he was a good worker.

  'You wanted to see me?' Manivola was relaxed, inquisitive, friendly.

  Vaatzes nodded; it was the cue for the six bloom-hammerers to close in behind Manivola. 'You killed him, didn't you?' he said. 'He didn't fall on his own knife like you said. You stabbed him so he couldn't give you away'

  Manivola denied it, twice, and then one of the bloom-workers broke his neck. They dragged his body out into the yard, laid it next to the two assassins to wait for the arrival of the examining magistrate, who was needed for various formalities. Once they were over, the magistrate asked him the question he'd been asking himself: why did you have him killed straight away? For all you know, there could've been more than one.

  'I know,' he replied. 'But that was enough. If there's more, they'll know they're safe now, but it's too dangerous to try again.' He pulled a face. 'I've already lost one key worker and there's a war on. If I found out the foundry chief and the foreman of the tempering shop were in on it as well, I'd have to close down a shift.'

  Either the magistrate saw the logic in that or he knew better than to argue with the man who made the scorpions that had won the great victory. He wrote things in his little book and went away. Shortly after dark a cart came for the bodies; according to the magistrate, they'd be tipped down a disused drain, and nobody need ever know.

  In the middle of the first night shift, a messenger came to take him to see the Ducas. He'd been expecting that. He rode in a cart up to the shabby door of the Ducas house, and followed the messenger across courts, quadrangles and cloisters to a small room, by his calculations leading off the north-east corner of the great hall. He told Miel Ducas about Compliance, though he was fairly sure he knew the salient points already.

  'The only surprise,' he went on, 'is that they waited so long. Usual procedure is to kill a defector as soon as possible.'

  Miel Ducas nodded. 'How do you account for the delay?' he asked.

  'Not sure,' Vaatzes replied truthfully. 'My guess is, once they heard about the scorpions we shot up the wagon train with and realised they were home made, they knew they needed to put me out of action. But that doesn't explain why they haven't tried before.'

  The Ducas frowned. 'So that's it, then. It's a mystery.'

  'Yes.' Vaatzes smiled grimly. 'And I'm not complaining. But I was very lucky indeed. I don't know anything about hand-to-hand combat, or any of that stuff.'

  'Maybe you should learn,' the Ducas replied, as anticipated. Vaatzes acknowledged and moved on.

  'We'll need guards now, obviously,' he said. 'It'll slow up loading and unloading, and it won't actually do any good. If they had Manivola helping them-'

  'That's the accomplice?'

  Vaatzes nodded. 'Wouldn't have thought it of him,' he said. 'But we'll have guards anyway, just for the hell of it.'

  'All right. Do you want visitors searched for weapons?'

  'In a factory?' Vaatzes laughed. 'He could pick a tool off any bench that'd serve as well as any weapon; hammer, saw, whatever. And it'd take too much time. No, I was thinking of a different approach.'

  The Ducas waited, then said, 'Well?'

  Vaatzes said: 'Normally, I'd make my own, but there isn't time. Do you happen to have such a thing as a brigandine coat?'

  The Ducas dipped his head briskly. 'Several,' he said. About three dozen, actually. Mine wouldn't fit you, but I'm sure I had a short ancestor at some point in the last three centuries. Wonderful how much useless junk you inherit; and of course we never throw anything away, because everything we acquire is nothing but the best, far too good to part with. I'll have it sent round as soon as possible.'

  'Thank you,' Vaatzes said. 'And nobody must know, of course, or there'd be no point.'

  'Naturally. And you really should find time for some simple lessons: single sword, sword and buckler, bare hand and dagger. My cousin Jarnac's sergeant-at-arms is the man you need. I'll talk to Jarnac when I've got a moment.'

  'That'd be kind of you,' Vaatzes replied. He was looking hard for some sign in the Ducas' face, but what he saw there, in the eyes and the line of the mouth, could have been simple stress and fatigue from running a country at war. 'You've been doing things for me ever since I came here. I'm grateful.'

  The Ducas shrugged. 'It's thanks to you we've got a chance in this war,' he said. 'The scorpions…' He shook his head. 'A chance,' he repeated. 'I don't know.'

  Vaatzes studied him for a moment, and saw a man in two minds. Half of him knew that Civitas Eremiae would inevitably fall; the other half couldn't see how it possibly could. Mostly, though, he saw a man who'd been tired for so long he was getting used to it. 'The Republic's never lost a war,' he said, 'but there's always a first time. I think our best hope are the Potters and the Drapers; and the Foundrymen, of course.'

  It took the Ducas a moment to realise he was talking about Guilds. 'Go on,' he said.

  'The Foundrymen are more or less in the ascendant at the moment,' Vaatzes explained, 'or at least they were when I left. There's never a deep underlying reason why one Guild gets to dominate. It's about personalities and political skill rather than fundamental issues; mostly, I think, because there's virtually nothing we don't all agree about. But the Foundrymen have been on top for longer than usual, and the Potters and Drapers have been trying to put them down for a while, and they're annoyed and upset because so far they've failed. The Foundrymen will have wanted this war because victory always makes the government popular, and we always win. But if we don't win, or at least not straight away, so it's costing lots of money and interfering with business, there's a good chance it'll bring down the Foundrymen. The Drapers and Potters will therefore want to make out that any major reverse is a genuine defeat-they'll say the Republic's been beaten for the first time in history, and it's all the Foundrymen's fault, and we should never have gone to war in the first place. Meanwhile the Foundrymen will be unhappy because they'll be taking men off civilian work to increase the production in the ordnance factory, so that'll be costing them money; they'll want to get rid of the present leadership and end the war so as to limit the damage before the Drapers and Potters have a chance to overthrow them. Also, the Drapers and Potters will have a fair degree of support, because most of the Guilds do a lot of export business with the old country, where the mercenaries come from. If thousands of mercenaries are killed in the war, it'll be very bad for their trade over there. It's possible to win this war, provided you can do as much damage as possible; kill as many men as you can, destroy as much equipment, cost them as much money as possible. As long as they want to fight you, they'll never give up; but if you can make them decide that the war isn't worth the cost and effort, you're in with a chance. It's not like your war with the Vadani, where you hated each other. Hate doesn't come into it with the Republic, that's the key as far as you're concerned. They make war for their own reasons. It's always all to do with them, not really anything about you. You're like the quarry in a hunt, rather than a mortal enemy; you don't hate the animals you hunt, you do it for the meat and the glory. When you're not worth hunting any more, when you're more trouble than it's worth, they'll call it a day and go home.'

  Needless to say, the Ducas was as good as his word. The brigandine coat arrived the next morning, in a straw-filled barrel. The first thing Vaatzes looked for was a maker's mark, and he found it, in exactly t
he right place; the fifth rivet-head in from the armpit, right-hand side, second row down, was stamped with a tiny raised letter F, for Foundrymen. That meant it was Guild-made, and therefore complied exactly with the relevant specification.

  The specification for a brigandine coat consists of two thousand, seven hundred and forty-six small, thin plates of best hardening steel, drawn to a spring temper. The plates are sandwiched, overlapping each other, between two layers of strong canvas, held in place by one-sixteenth-inch copper rivets; they're also wired and riveted to each other to make sure they move perfectly with every action of the wearer's body, so that at no time is it possible to drive the point of an ordinary sewing needle between the joints. The jacket is covered on the outside with middle-weight hard-wearing velvet, and lined inside with six layers of linen stuffed with lambs-wool and quilted into one-inch diamonds. The finished coat contains ten thousand, nine hundred and eighty-four rivets, weighs six pounds four ounces, will turn a cavalryman's lance or an arrow from a hundred and twenty pound bow, should be as comfortable as a well-cut gentleman's doublet and shouldn't be noticeable when worn under an ordinary day-jacket. The Linen Armourers' Guild produces a hundred and twelve of them a year, of which ninety-six go for export.

  Vaatzes lifted it out of the barrel, brushed away the straw, and held it out at arm's length. He'd never actually seen one before, although he knew the specification by heart. It was strange, here in this barbarous and unsatisfactory place, finally to find himself in the presence of perfection; as though a prophet or visionary had spent his whole life searching in the wilderness for enlightenment, only to find it, having abandoned the search, in a grubby market town, sitting on a toilet.

  He laid it flat on the workbench in front of him, and ran his fingertips over the velvet before slowly unfastening the seventeen brass buttons. For one horrible moment, as he drew it across his shoulders, he was afraid it wouldn't fit. Once he was inside it, however, it closed in around him like water engulfing a diver. He could just feel a slight weight on his shoulders and chest, and a very gentle hug as he buttoned it up; just enough to let him know that he was now as perfectly safe as it's possible to be in an imperfect world, his body's security guaranteed by the absolute wisdom and skill of the Perpetual Republic. He'd heard someone say once that a Guild coat would even turn a scorpion bolt; that was, of course, impossible, but there was a part of him deep down that was inclined to believe it. It wasn't the steel or the skill with which the rivets had been closed; it was the specification, the pattern that drew the thousands of plates together and made them move as one unbroken, unbreakable whole, like the City that had made them. The coat wouldn't protect him against scorpions, because even though the steel stayed unpierced, the shock would smash his bones to splinters and pulp his internal organs. That didn't matter, however, because it would be him that had failed rather than the coat. His own frailty in no way invalidated the consummate virtue of Specification; just as the death of one citizen doesn't kill a city.

  He smiled. The irony was exact, precise, fitting as closely as the coat. His safety guaranteed by the City that was trying to kill him, he could now carry on unhindered with his design to bring that City to ruin, and all perfection with it. All he needed now was to be taught to kill by the Ducas family, and the symmetry would be complete.

  Chapter Twenty

  Since the first army had unaccountably been exterminated, it was just as well that the second army arrived earlier than anticipated, thanks to an unusually strong tailwind. If it hadn't been for the defeat and the massacre, their arrival would have been a logistical disaster. There wouldn't have been nearly enough food, blankets, tents or equipment for twelve thousand men arriving a week ahead of schedule; there'd have been chaos, and the whole venture would've teetered on the edge of failure.

  Thanks, however, to the Eremians and their home-made scorpions, the stores and magazines held ample supplies for seven thousand men who weren't going to be needing them after all. To the clerks and administrators of the Treasury and Necessary Evil, it was a source of quiet satisfaction that the crisis was averted and all that expensive food, clothing and equipment wouldn't go to waste after all. In the event, the only problem posed by the early arrival of the second army that didn't effectively solve itself was transport, and that was no big deal. Unlike other shipments of imported goods, mercenaries can transport themselves. They have legs, and can walk.

  The commanding officer of the new army, Major-General Sthoe Melancton, didn't see it quite like that. He'd been promised ox-carts to shift his men and their gear from Lonazep to the City. It was in the contract, he pointed out, so it was his right; also, his men were in prime condition, ready for the long march up the mountains. An unscheduled route march to the capital would inevitably result in wear and tear on footwear, vehicles and equipment that had not been allowed for in the original agreement. Further, it would mean an extra four days' service, for which he wanted time and a half. The Republic replied by pointing out that by arriving early, he was in fundamental breach of contract, time inevitably being of the essence in any contract for services, and that the failure to provide the agreed transport was entirely the result of his own breach, therefore not the Republic's fault. If anybody had a right to compensation and damages, in fact, it was the Republic; however, they were prepared to waive their claim in the interests of friendly co-operation. General Melancton rejoined by pleading that the tailwind was an unpredictable outside agency, not party to the contract, and therefore not his responsibility or his fault. The Republic countered by citing precedents from mercantile and shipping case-law. Melancton refused to accept Mezentine precedents, arguing that the contract had been finalised in his own country, whose law therefore applied to it. That argument was easily defeated by reference to the document itself, which clearly stated that the agreement was governed by Mezentine law. Melancton gave way with a certain degree of grace. The soldiers marched.

  They were met just outside the City by the artillery train. It was at this point that Melancton found out what had become of his compatriots in the first army. Afterwards, it was generally agreed that he took the news better than had been expected. After a long moment of silent reflection, he told the representatives of Necessary Evil who'd broken the news to him that he was a man of his word and a professional, and he would do his job or else (here he was observed to dab a drop of sweat away from the side of his nose) die trying. He then asked a large number of detailed questions about the level of artillery support he could expect to receive, all of which the Mezentines were able to answer to his satisfaction. He thanked them politely and withdrew to confer with his senior staff.

  In accordance with the ancient and honourable traditions of their craft, the merchants stayed in Civitas Eremiae until almost the last moment; and when they left, they took with them substantial quantities of small, high-value goods which the more pessimistic citizens had been only too pleased to exchange at a loss for hard cash. The general feeling was that it was better, on balance, that the merchants had them for a song than to keep them for the looters to prise out of their dead fingers.

  All but one of the merchant caravans headed for the Vadani border by the shortest possible road. The exception, however, turned in a quite unexpected direction, on a course that seemed likely to leave her stranded and dying of thirst in the great desert that formed the civilised world's only defence against the Cure Hardy. What became of her, nobody knew or cared much. It was assumed that she was headed that way because the Mezentines wouldn't be taking that road in a hurry. Those sufficiently curious to speculate about the subject guessed that she had a retreat somewhere on the edge of the desert, where she planned to hole up until the war was over and it was safe to come out. The last recorded sighting of her was, curiously enough, by a column of Cure Hardy light cavalry, heading north to offer their services to the Mezentines in the coming war. How they came to be there, nobody knew and nobody liked to ask. The official explanation was that they'd come the long wa
y round, enduring months of hardship and privation threading their way through the mountain passes that would have defeated an army of significant size-they were, after all, only one squadron of two hundred men. If it occurred to anybody that if that were the case they'd had to have set off long before the Guild Assembly had even considered the possibility of a war, they kept their hypotheses to themselves.

  The arrival of outriders from the Cure Hardy squadron was like rain on parched fields to Melancton and his liaison committee from Necessary Evil. Negotiations had broken down and been patched up over and over again, always foundering on the vexed issue of skirmishers. Melancton hadn't brought any with him, because the contract hadn't specified them; there had been an ample contingent with the first army, so there was no need. With the threat of a scorpion ambush hanging over him, he absolutely refused to move across the border without an advance guard of light, fast, expendable scouts, which the Mezentines were not in a position to provide. The Cure Hardy were perfectly suited to the role. They came as the answer to a prayer; which was why asking them how they came to be available at such short notice wasn't considered, or else was dismissed with pointed references to gift horses' teeth.

  To those who could be bothered to ask, the newcomers declared that they were a privateer war-band from the Doce Votz, under the command of one Pierh Leal, an obscure off-relation of the ruling family. They were perfectly willing to ride ahead of the advancing army, keeping an eye out for scorpion emplacements (it was highly unlikely they had any idea what a scorpion looked like, but it was assumed they'd find out the hard way soon enough) and declared that their speed and agility would preserve them from anything the war machines could throw at them. Perhaps some of the members of the liaison committee felt a slight degree of unease at the speed with which the outriders returned with the rest of the squadron; it argued that the Cure Hardy were adept at moving very quickly through even the most hostile terrain. But their arrival meant that the second expeditionary force could at last set out, and that came as a relief in the City, particularly to the officials of the Treasury. Melancton gave the Cure Hardy a day's start, then followed.