Evil for Evil e-2 Read online

  If he hadn't already known what they'd been doing all day, he'd have had no trouble at all figuring it out from the smell they brought in on their clothes and boots. He'd done many things in his time, but no digging. He'd always drawn the line at it, even in the kind of military crisis where rank and status were unaffordable luxuries, and even the Ducas was no more than another pair of hands. Digging, in his mind, was about as low as you could sink; miserable hard work, exhausting, tedious, repetitive, the epitome of his old morbid fears of poverty and destitution. Digging graves for strangers in the thin, stony soil of the northeastern hillsides would, by that reasoning, have to be the worst job in the world, and he was fairly sure he wouldn't be able to do it. Half an hour at the most and his soft, aristocratic hands would be a squishy mess of blisters, his back would be agony, and everybody would be jeering at him. He'd rather face a platoon of Mezentine heavy cavalry on his own than dig a hole. He watched them sitting, slowly unlacing boots, resting their forearms on their knees and their backs against the barn wall, their minds empty, their bodies finally at rest. If they had cares and troubles beyond aches and fatigue, they gave no sign of it. Whatever else they might be, they were firmly anchored in the present, with nothing more or less than the people and possessions within easy reach of their seats. It would be so very easy to envy them, Miel realized.

  Food and drink went round: cheese, an old store apple each, half a dense, gritty loaf. Miel knew all about that kind of bread. It was made from flour ground from the last of the previous year's grain, the two or three inches left over in the bottom of the bins when they had to be cleared out to make way for this year's newly threshed corn. Perfectly wholesome, of course; but because it was dredged off the bin floor, it was inevitably full of dust, grit, shreds of stalk and husk. Sensible estate managers bought it cheap for poultry feed and to make bread for the seasonal casual workers. You could break a tooth on it; the old joke said it was better than a stone for sharpening scythe-blades. The Ducas, of course, had outlawed its use on his estate, and made a point of giving away the bin-end grain to the poor (outcasts, beggars, men who dug for a living). The silly thing was that, apart from the grit, it didn't taste too bad at all.

  He glanced across at Phrastus Gyges. Stratiotes was there talking to him, keeping his voice down, like a man at market buying his neighbor's sheep. They're talking about me, Miel thought. Half an hour and I'll have to make a move. A pity, but what can you do?

  When he got up, he stood for a moment or so and yawned. Nobody was looking at him; he wasn't important enough to merit anybody's limited reserves of attention. He stretched. No need to fake the cramp in his legs. He walked slowly toward the door, the very picture of a man reluctantly compelled to make the effort to stagger outside for a piss. It was only as he smelled the night air outside that he realized there were two men behind him.

  Oh well, he thought.

  He followed the outside of the barn, past the usual place. Someone called out: "Where do you think you're going?"

  He paused, didn't turn his head as he replied, "Need a leak."

  "What's wrong with here?"

  "I don't like the smell."

  "Is that right?"

  He carried on until his way was blocked. One man behind him, following; the other had gone round the other way to cut him off. He looked at the man in front of him, trying to feign irritation. "Do you mind?" he said.

  "You carry on," the man replied. "Never seen a toff piss before."

  Miel laughed. "You haven't lived," he said. "Pay close attention, you might learn something."

  He could just make out the frown on the man's face as he turned to face the wall, his left hand reaching for his fly, his right hand apparently resting on the eaves just above his head. Not there; and the horrible thought crossed his mind that someone might have found it and guessed why it had been put there. Then his finger traced something cold and smooth. He explored a little further and found the junction of the grip and the stirrup-guard. He straightened up, the way you do, and used the movement to pull the hilt of the sword out far enough to get his hand round the grip.

  Maybe it was moonlight glinting on the blade as it pulled out of the thatch, or it could have been some slight carelessness in the way he lifted his arm that sent a danger signal. "Just a minute," the man to his right said. Miel took a long step back to give himself the right distance, and held the sword out in front of him in a loose approximation to the middle guard. "Sorry," he said.

  The man on his left got the message. The other one didn't. Either he hadn't seen the sword or else he had the mistaken idea that toffs couldn't fight worth spit; he took a stride forward and reached for Miel's arm, quickly and confidently, like a stockman roping a steer.

  The middle guard is a good, solid basis for defense, but it lacks flexibility. Against a threat coming in front and high, it can only be developed into a thrust in straight time.

  Miel didn't see the point go in. No need; he knew what the inevitable outcome would be, and he needed to give all his attention to the other vector of threat. The other man, the one on his left who'd stopped dead in his tracks, had time and distance on him, making him an intolerable risk. Without hesitating to look at him, Miel took a half-step back and sideways, using the pivoting movement to power the cut. The technique uses only the first half-inch of the sword-blade to cut the jugular vein. Miel had been practicing it once a week for twenty-five years, but this was the first time he'd ever used it in live play. It worked just fine.

  The second man was dead before the first man hit the ground, and Miel was still moving (a half-turn and step away, to avoid the thick spray of blood from the severed artery). When he stopped, he found his right arm had swung up into a high hanging guard, to ward off a possible counterattack in second. He froze, thinking, What do I do now, I've forgotten; then he remembered. The fight was over, he'd won. Marvelous.

  They lay perfectly still, one on his face, the other twisted half sideways, like clothes dropped on the floor by a drunk undressing. Miel closed his eyes, opened them again, and lowered the sword, keeping the blade well away from him, as if it was some disgusting thing he'd just found. Just marvelous, he thought; and a voice in the back of his head was yelling at him for standing like an idiot when he should be stealing the horse and getting away from there. It was their fault, he tried to tell the voice (which wasn't listening and didn't care); they should have let me go, they should have realized, they were stupid. The voice replied: Well, what can you expect from people like that? No, Miel told the voice, but he couldn't get it to listen. There was no point even trying to make it understand. Get the fucking horse, it kept on saying, and Miel knew it wouldn't shut up until he did as he was told. He stepped backward, knowing that once he took his eye off them it'd be over and everything would change. You fool, the voice explained to him; any moment now they'll wonder what's taking so long, more of them'll come out, do you want to have to kill the whole bloody lot of them? That made him angry, but he knew he couldn't fault the logic. He turned his back on them and stumbled (don't run, you bloody fool; tripping and turning your ankle at this point would be the supreme humiliation) toward the stable.

  He knew, of course, how to put a bridle on a horse. The stupid animal lifted its head and scowled at him, ears back. He put down the sword, lifted the bridle off its hook and stepped forward. The horse backed away. It can smell the blood, Miel thought, they're sensitive to things like that. He swore at it, then clicked his tongue and chirruped, "Wooze, horse," the way all the grooms he'd ever known had always done. It lifted its head and kept still as he guided the bit into its mouth and fumbled its ears through the headband. Noseband and throat-lash-the straps were swollen and greasy with saddle soap and wouldn't fit through the loops. Saddle; no, you clown, don't stop to check the girths or shorten the stirrups. What with the shouting of the voice and the blur behind his eyes, he could hardly think; just as well this sort of thing was second nature, or he'd be screwed. He mounted awkwardly, dropped th
e reins and had to lean forward to gather them. He'd forgotten the sword; well, he'd just have to do without. No, couldn't risk it. He dismounted, grabbed the stupid thing in his left hand, nearly cut himself to the bone on it as he remounted. Finally ready, like a woman going to a dance. He kicked the horse much harder than he needed to, and nearly forgot to duck as they went sailing out through the stable door.

  Warm night air; he had to work hard to remember where the path was. Light was spilling out of the barn doorway, he heard a voice but not what it was saying. He kicked the horse again, then smacked it spitefully with the flat of the sword. That got its attention. He made no effort to steer; it knew the area far better than he did. He realized that he didn't have a clue where he was heading for; not that it mattered. The horse was too tired to do anything more than a grudging trot. Its back was uncomfortably wide and the stirrups far too short. All in all, Miel thought, I've had better days.

  He made the horse keep up its pace for as long as he could, then slumped into the saddle and let it amble. He noticed that he was still holding the sword; its weight was hurting his elbow, so he tucked it between his left thigh and the saddle. The voice was telling him to use the stars to find north. He ignored it. For the first time in his life, he felt totally, abjectly ashamed.

  Well, he told himself, at least now you can say you've met the common people. A decent enough bunch, in their way, and they certainly hadn't done anything to deserve the likes of you.

  5

  "Vegetarians?" Valens frowned. "Are you sure?"

  Orsea nodded. "We found out the hard way," he said. "We assumed they'd be complete and utter carnivores, so we got in every kind of meat and poultry and game we could think of, as well as most of the booze in the duchy-"

  "Hold it." Valens' frown deepened into a scowl. "You aren't about to tell me they don't drink alcohol either."

  Orsea looked away. "It was embarrassing," he said. "Not the high point of my diplomatic career." He stood up and walked to the window. "Though how I was supposed to have known about it…" He sighed. "Serves me right for jumping to conclusions. I thought that, just because they're savages, they must eat flesh and drink themselves stupid three times a day. Apparently not."

  "Well," Valens said, "thanks for the warning. Nothing about it in any of the reports, and I confess, I'd made the same assumptions as you did." He thought for a moment. "Presumably they must eat cheese and drink milk, or what do they keep cattle for?"

  Orsea didn't seem inclined to offer an opinion on that. "When will they be arriving?" he asked.

  "Five days' time," Valens answered. "Assuming they aren't held up in the mountains or anything like that. It's odd," he went on. "I've been fighting the Cure Hardy on and off for most of my adult life-raiding parties, that sort of thing; nothing big or political, just plain, unsophisticated robbery-and never in all that time have they ever wanted to come and talk to us. Now, just as we're about to pack up and leave, they turn up on our doorstep asking for a meeting."

  "You think they know something? About the evacuation, I mean."

  "I doubt it," Valens said, leaning back a little in his chair. "We've kept a pretty tight lid on our plans; besides, why would it interest them, one way or another? As far as they're concerned, we're just people to steal from when they're tired of life. Still, if they want to talk to me, they're welcome. I'll talk to anybody, within reason." He picked up a sheet of paper he'd put on the table earlier. "Talking of which," he went on, "an off-relation of yours, Jarnac Ducas, wants to see me. Wrote me a memo asking for an appointment, which strikes me as a bit formal and businesslike. Any idea what he wants?"

  Orsea shrugged. "No idea, sorry."

  "Ah well." Valens nodded. He knew the answer, of course, because it was in the letter. "Jarnac Ducas," he said. "Relation of the Miel Ducas who was your chief of staff."

  Orsea didn't turn round. "Cousin," he replied.

  "Ah yes. He put up quite a show at Civitas Eremiae, didn't he?"

  "Jarnac? Yes." Orsea nodded. "I put him in charge of the defenses, at the end. He did a good job in a hopeless situation."

  Obviously Orsea didn't want to talk about the Ducas family. Still, it had to be done. "I've been meaning to ask you," Valens went on. "Why did you dismiss Miel Ducas? From what I've gathered, he was perfectly competent."

  "I made a mistake," Orsea said.

  "Ah. Well, we all do that. Many thanks for the tip about the Cure Hardy," he added, in his best polite you-can-go-away-now voice. "It'll be interesting to find out what they want."

  Orsea drifted away; not a moment too soon, as far as Valens was concerned. He was finding him increasingly difficult to tolerate, and the harder he found it, the harder he resolved to try.

  In order to give Orsea plenty of time to leave the North Tower before he sent for his next appointment, he picked up the dossier on Jarnac Ducas and read it through one more time. Head of the cadet branch of the powerful Ducas family; presently head of the family as a result of the disgrace of Miel Ducas; a competent, efficient and conscientious soldier, and the finest huntsman in Eremia before the war (Valens smiled at that); given the honorary rank of colonel in the heavy cavalry, currently on detached service with the Eremian guerrillas, commanding the Vadani volunteers fighting the Mezentine occupation. Fine; he knew all that. The reason for the interview was rather more intriguing. He rang the bell, and sent a page to fetch him.

  He'd seen him before, of course, and remembered him clearly. Jarnac Ducas wasn't easily forgotten. Valens' first impression had been that there was far too much of him. He loomed, and there was always the danger that he might tread on you by accident. Today, however, he was practically subdued. Valens told him to sit down, and asked him what was on his mind.

  "I have a favor to ask," Jarnac replied. He was sitting-no, perching, like a falcon on the wrist of a novice, awkward and unsteady. It was as though he was trying to act normal-sized.

  "You want two squadrons of light cavalry for a raid into northern Eremia," Valens said. "I know, it was in your letter." He put on his stern expression. "There's no reason why you should've heard, but I've decided to scale down our involvement with the guerrillas. The plain fact is, they're doing a good job, but I can't afford the manpower. Any day now, you'll be getting recall orders telling you to get your men out of Eremia. Obviously you're entirely at liberty to go back if you want to; after all, you're an Eremian, I've got no right to tell you to stop fighting for your country. But the Vadani troops under your command are a different matter entirely."

  When he'd finished, Jarnac waited for a moment or so, then said: "Understood. But if I can just explain…"

  "Go on."

  Jarnac opened and closed his left hand. "When I filed the request for the two squadrons," he said, "I didn't mean I wanted them as general reinforcements for the resistance. The fact is, I want them for one specific operation."

  He seemed to have run out of words, but Valens decided not to prompt him. Eventually, Jarnac went on: "It's quite simple, actually. I've heard reports that my cousin Miel's been taken prisoner, and I want to get him out of there."

  Valens nodded. "That's different," he said. "What's the position?"

  Jarnac closed his eyes, just for a second. He was afraid I'd say no, Valens thought, and I don't suppose fear is something he's had much experience with. He doesn't handle it well.

  "As far as I can make out," Jarnac said, "he was picked up by a party of looters. Apparently they're Eremian renegades, I'm sorry to say. They go round robbing the dead after battles, stealing equipment, that sort of thing; and if they find survivors, they hold them to ransom. When Miel went missing after a skirmish a few days ago, I had my people try and find out what had become of him. One of my men knows a trader who buys from these people, and he told me they've got Miel and they're about to open negotiations with the Mezentines. Obviously, we can't have that. Quite apart from the strategic implications-I mean, Miel knows everything there is to know about how the resistance is set up-"<
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  Valens nodded. "Fine," he said. "Go ahead. Will two squadrons be enough?"

  "Oh, plenty," Jarnac said quickly. "I don't think these characters are fighters, it'll be more about speed and surprise than weight of numbers."

  "Go ahead then, by all means." Valens frowned. "There's just one thing," he added. "I don't know much about the background, but I get the impression there's bad blood between your cousin and Duke Orsea. Presumably once you've rescued him, you'll be bringing him back here. Is there anything I should know about, or is it strictly a private matter?"

  Jarnac kept perfectly still for a moment, but his eyes were wide open. "I'm sorry," he said. "I assumed…"

  "That doesn't sound very good," Valens said. "Perhaps you ought to tell me about it."

  Jarnac wriggled a little, and Valens felt a moment of anxiety for the chair he was sitting in. "I assumed you'd have known," he said. "Orsea had Miel arrested for treason."

  "I see," Valens said. "I'm assuming he was wrong about that."

  It was almost painful to watch. "I suppose it depends on how you define treason," Jarnac said. "You see, Orsea found out that Miel had got hold of a letter he shouldn't have had."

  Valens didn't move, not even to breathe. "A letter."

  "Yes." Jarnac was looking at him. He had bright blue eyes. "I can't remember offhand whether it was a letter from you to Duchess Veatriz or the other way about…"

  "I see."

  "Anyway," Jarnac went on, speaking quickly, practically mumbling, "Orsea seemed to feel that as soon as Miel got hold of the letter, he should've given it to him straightaway, and hanging on to it like that was an unforgivable breach of trust. Which, I suppose, it was, in a way; but Miel's been crazy about Veatriz ever since they were both kids, it was always sort of understood that they'd marry each other, but then Veatriz became the heiress to the duchy, which nobody had been expecting, and everyone thought it'd be quite wrong politically for the Ducas to succeed to the duchy, because it'd mess up the balance of power." He froze for a moment; Valens nodded, very slightly. "Anyhow," Jarnac went on, "Miel couldn't bring himself to give her away, partly for her sake, partly because he knew how upset Orsea would be if he knew…" Jarnac shut his eyes. Not his forte, this sort of thing. "So yes, I suppose it was treason, strictly speaking, and I understand why Orsea had to do what he did. But in my opinion, for what it's worth, I don't think Miel did anything wrong. Frankly, if only Orsea hadn't found out it would probably all have blown over." He looked up. There was a kicked-spaniel look on his face that made Valens want to burst out laughing. "That's it," he said, "more or less. So yes, it might be awkward if Miel came here. Does that change anything?"