Evil for Evil

10

"Sulfur," Valens said with a scowl, dropping the paper on his desk and watching it roll itself back up into a scroll. "He'll be lucky. Where the hell am I supposed to get sulfur from in the middle of a war?"

Carausius didn't reply, which was sensible of him, and Valens took his silence in the spirit in which it was intended, as a mild and respectful rebuke. He made an effort and took a long, deep breath. "If by some miracle you can find a few barrels," he said, "get them shipped off, with my compliments. After all, we're stabbing the poor sod in the back, cutting off aid to the resistance. The least we can do is give him a nice retirement present."

"Sulfur," Carausius repeated, his voice carefully neutral. "I wonder if the salt woman might know where to find some. You know," he added, "the merchant Ziani Vaatzes teamed up with a while back."

Valens held still and quiet for a moment. Rather a leap, he thought, from salt to sulfur; not the sort of connection he'd have made himself. But someone who knew rather more about the salt woman's business affairs than he'd disclosed to his duke might be in a position to make that connection. He noted the possibility in his mind and moved on.

"Bad timing, really," Carausius was saying. "A week or so back, he could've had the stuff by the cartload; it's one of the by-products of the silver mines. But now Vaatzes has shut them all down, I guess he's out of luck."

The subject, Valens gathered, had been officially changed. "He's all done, is he?"

Carausius nodded. "The last shaft was sealed up two days ago, apparently, so that's that part of the job done. Whether the other part's come out all right we won't know till we try and open them up again."

Valens pulled a face. "Quite," he said. "Still, on balance I'd rather be remembered as the idiot who trashed his own mines for no reason than the idiot who let them fall into enemy hands. Ziani's on his way home again, presumably."

"Last I heard," Carausius confirmed. "Of course, it'll take him a while, with all that salvaged plant and equipment he's bringing back with him. Practically looted the place before he left, according to Superintendent Carnufex." He smiled. "Are you worried he won't get back in time for the wedding?"

"Absolutely," Valens said. "It wouldn't feel right, getting married without my senior engineering adviser there at my side. Actually, I was thinking about the move. It's not long now before we have to get that under way, and I've got some ideas which I think he might be able to help with. Don't look so sad," he added, "you haven't missed anything, they're just ideas, quite probably completely impractical. If anything comes of them, you'll be the first to know."

"No doubt." Carausius didn't want to talk about the move. "While we're on the subject of the wedding…"

Valens made a helpless gesture. "Now what, for crying out loud? Anybody'd think you're my mother."

"Fine, if you're determined not to take an interest. In which case, I'd be grateful if you'll refrain from yelling at me if it doesn't turn out the way you want."

Valens half rose from his chair, then sat down again. "I'm sure you're doing a marvelous job," he said, "and I wouldn't dream of interfering. Just let me know where I've got to be and when. If you could possibly arrange for it to be in the morning, that'd be good, because then I'd have the afternoon free to take the hawks out. Joke," he added quickly. "Honest."

With the baffled air of a predator cheated of its prey, Carausius gathered up his bits of paper and went away. After he'd gone, Valens sat perfectly still for a minute or so; then he opened the ivory casket on his desk and took out a small square of tightly folded parchment.

Well, he thought.

Holding it with the tips of his fingers, he turned it over a couple of times. Duke Orsea's seal, but not his handwriting. He took a closer look. Orsea's seal was a running stag glancing back over its shoulder. This impression had a small bump on the stag's neck, made by a tiny chip in the seal-stone. That bump was the only way you could tell Orsea's second-best seal, the one he used for private correspondence, from the official one he used for state business. Somehow, both of them had survived the fall of Civitas Eremiae; but it was the slightly chipped one that lived in Orsea's own writing desk, which he kept in his private chambers, unlocked. He'd seen that little bump many times before.

Courage was one of those virtues that Valens had but set little store by. As far as he was concerned, he was brave in the same way he was right-handed. By the same token, he treated fear like indigestion or a headache, just another annoyance that had to be overcome. He slid his finger under the flap and pressed gently upwards, until the wax cracked, splitting off the stag's head and crumbling its neck into fine red powder, like blood. Veatriz Sirupati to Valens Valentinianus, greetings.

Only myself to blame, he thought. Getting engaged to be married to someone else could only be construed as a hostile thing, an act of war. Besides, it's not as though we were ever…

Just letters. Nothing more.

And here was a letter, its integrity guaranteed by the flawed stag he'd just snapped in half. He thought, unexpectedly, of Miel Ducas, the sulfur enthusiast, disgraced by another of these small packets of thought and feeling. Our fault; my fault. If Miel Ducas had commanded the defense of Civitas Eremiae… Wouldn't have made any difference, since the city fell by treachery, and I'd still have done that one bloody stupid thing, which in turn led inevitably to the war, my desperate need for allies and manpower, a political marriage, this letter.

Courage is a virtue best not taken to excessive extremes; someone brave enough to stick his hand in a fire is an idiot by any criteria. I could leave this letter unread. Wouldn't have to destroy it; just put it back in the ivory box and turn the little silver key.

(She's got no right, in any event. She was the one who got married in the first place, not me. I, on the other hand, am paying the price for saving her life.) Veatriz Sirupati to Valens Valentinianus, greetings.

I guess congratulations are in order.

It's none of my business, in any case. Orsea explained it all to me; apparently, it's mostly to do with light cavalry, and the Mezentines being scared stiff of the Cure Hardy, because there're so many of them. He feels guilty, by the way, because he says he told you they're all vegetarians, and they turned out not to be. It was, of course, exactly the sort of mistake he would make. The ones he met were, you see, so he was sure that what he told you was true. He was trying to be helpful. He told me once, there's nothing causes more harm in the world than men like him trying to do the right thing. He knows it's true, but he can't understand why. I think that's probably why I still love him.

Sorry; the L word. This is neither the time nor the place. Let's talk about something else. Read any good books?

I haven't. I do a lot of embroidery instead. I know you have a wonderful library full of books I'd give anything to read, but I can't, because they're yours. I used to be really jealous that you had so many books; I resented that, and you writing to me telling me things out of them. I also knew that reading the books for myself wouldn't be the same as having you quote from them in a letter. Maybe at some point I got you and your library mixed up in my mind; what's the word, I identified them with you. A bit like the way you identify a country with its ruler; you say, the Vadani did this and that when you mean the Duke did it, and the other way around. For instance, the Mezentines could say the Vadani declared war on them by attacking, when you came for me.

I have no idea what I'm saying, so excuse me. I think it's just that I'm out of practice. It seems ever such a long time since I wrote a letter.

As well as embroidery, I daydream; which is silly. I have this fantasy about a girl who writes a letter to a prince. It's pointless, because he's married; but it's all right really, they're just letters. She has an idea he doesn't really care much for his wife. The trouble is, she gets to depend on the letters; she sits waiting for them to come-and they do, but she can't help wondering what it'd be like if they stopped coming, and she was stuck out there in the middle of nowhere, stranded in a tower embroidering cushion covers for the rest of her life. Sometimes I try and talk to her; I shout, but she can't hear. I try and tell her it's a very bad idea, and if I were in her shoes I wouldn't do such a dangerously stupid thing.

The other day, I went for a walk. I don't think I'm supposed to, but there's only so much cross-stitch a woman can do before her brain boils out through her ears. I walked down some stairs and across a courtyard and up another flight of stairs and down a passage, and in through an open door. There was a maid in the room, cleaning something; as soon as she saw me, she ran away, which was a bit disconcerting. The point is, I remembered the room. It used to be my room when I first came here; you remember, when I was a hostage, during the peace talks. It was pretty much as I remembered it: same furniture, even the same mirror hanging over the fireplace. I looked in the mirror and you'll never guess who I saw there. At first I was a bit taken aback-I'd heard she was dead, or had gone away. But then it occurred to me that she must've been there all this time.

No offense, but I don't think the barbarian girl is quite right for you. She's got a nice figure if you like them springy, but you could cut yourself on that mouth. Not that I'm feeling catty or anything. Still, who needs love when you can have cavalry?

I'm sorry, that was deliberate, not just an unfortunate slip of the pen. Who needs that thing that starts with L? Not me. You see, I'm married to a dear, good man who used to love me very much, though it's rather slipped his mind lately, because of everything he's had to contend with. You don't; or maybe you do, but you can't have it if it interferes with work. You're identified with your country, remember, and countries can't go around falling in love. Imagine what'd happen if Lonazep suddenly fell madly in love with the Eivar peninsula, and Lower Madeia got jealous and died of a broken heart. There'd be chaos, they'd have to redraw all the maps.

So, there we are. Eremia sends her best wishes, what's left of her. He took a moment to fold the letter up neatly, like a man putting away a map in a high wind. He dropped it into the ivory box, turned the key and lolled back in his chair. For a little while, he stared at the tapestry on the opposite wall; the usual stag at bay, confronting the usual hounds. It was so familiar that he scarcely ever saw it these days; once it had hung in his father's bedchamber, and he'd come to know it well while he was waiting for his father to die. One of the first things he'd done when he became duke was have it brought up here.

Well, he thought, so there it is. Mind you, if this is being in love, I don't think much of it.

He glanced at the clock-beautiful, huge, Mezentine; the craftsmen of the Republic excelled at clockwork, not just timepieces but automata, gadgets, mechanical toys. In three-quarters of an hour he had to go and see his future wife. Someone had made an appointment for them to take a stroll in the herb garden. It would be at its best at this time of the evening, stinking of lavender, bay and night-scented stock. At their last encounter they'd talked quite civilly for some considerable time about sparrowhawks; a day's falconry was being arranged, or would be as soon as Jarnac Ducas came back from the wars (sulfur; why?), he being recognized as the finest falconer, apart from Valens himself, in the duchy. It was a treat he was looking forward to intensely; and once it was over, he planned on making a public announcement about leaving the city for the duration of the war.

The Mezentines would burn it to the ground, of course. Presumably they would loot it scrupulously clean first; in which case, his father's tapestry would be taken away and sold, which at least meant it would survive. He'd very nearly made up his mind to take it with him, but space on the carts was going to be very tight indeed and it'd set a bad example. He smiled; he'd seen it in passing for most of his life, but he'd never actually looked at it. That was as bad as continually dipping into a book but never actually sitting down and reading it from beginning to end; or like being in love with someone since he was seventeen but never admitting it, even to himself, until it was finally, definitively, too late to do anything about it.

But so what? You heard all sorts of good, positive things about love; they wanted you to believe that you couldn't be happy without it. That was plain stupid, like saying you could never know true happiness unless you learned to play the flute. In any event, he knew all about love. He'd learned it like a school lesson, irregular verbs or dates of coronations, when he'd sat in his father's room staring at the tapestry because he couldn't bear to look at the man lying on the bed.

So, he thought, the hell with it. He still had forty minutes.

He jumped up, opened the long triangular cupboard in the corner of the room and took out a case of practice rapiers (Mezentine, a little too heavy, with three-ring hilts and bated points). Then he clattered down the stairs into the courtyard, wondering who would be unlucky enough to be the first to meet him.

There was a special pleasure in the irony; Orsea was sitting on the stone bench, watching the sunset.

"Hello," Valens called out cheerfully. "I hoped I might find you. Any good at fencing?"

Orsea turned his head, saw him and stood up. Excellent manners. "What, you mean swordfighting with rapiers?"

"Yes."

Orsea shook his head. "Pretty hopeless, actually. Of course, they tried to teach me when I was a kid, but I never had the-"

"Fine. Catch." Valens threw him one of the foils; he grabbed at it, knocked it up in the air and managed to catch it on the second bounce. "Come over to the old stable with me, we'll have half an hour's sparring."

Orsea frowned. "No, really," he said. "I'm dreadful at it."

"I'll teach you," Valens replied. "I'm a pretty good instructor, though I do say so myself."

By rights they should have worn face-masks, padded jackets and heavy left-hand gloves with the palms reinforced with chain-mail. But it would have taken time to fetch them, and there was no need. Valens was too good a fencer to get hit, or to hit his opponent dangerously. So they fought in shirtsleeves, like men trying to kill one another. Valens demonstrated the lunge, the pass, the stromazone (a flick across the enemy's face with the point of your sword, designed to cause painful superficial cuts). Orsea turned out to be every bit as bad as he'd said he was, and Valens poked him in the ribs, slapped him about with the flat, tripped him, knocked the foil out of his hand, drew blood from his ear and lower lip with little wrist-flips, and loosened one of his teeth by punching him in the face with the knuckle-bow of his hilt. There was no reason to it apart from the sheer joy of hurting and humiliating him, showing him up for the clown he was, goading him into losing his temper and thereby laying himself even more open to attack. In the last objective, Valens failed. The more he was hit, the more guilty Orsea seemed to get, the more painfully ashamed of his lack of skill and ability. At last, having knocked his foil out of his hand and across the stable ("That's called the beat in narrow measure," he explained helpfully) and kicked his knees out from under him so that he was left kneeling on precisely the spot where Valens had had to learn the four wards as a boy-it had to be that place and no other; it took him a full minute to herd Orsea onto it-he lowered his foil, held out his other hand and pulled Orsea to his feet.

"You're getting there," he said encouragingly, "but there's still quite a way to go. We can make this a regular thing, if you like; once a week, or twice even, if you'd rather."

"It's very good of you to offer," Orsea said, wiping blood out of his fringe, "but I know how busy you must be right now with other-"

He yelped; Valens had just stung the edge of his cheek with another flick. "Steady on," he shouted. "I haven't got my sword."

"So you haven't," Valens replied. "I'd go and fetch it if I were you."

Orsea backed away a couple of steps, then turned his back as he crossed the stable and retrieved the sword. I could do it now, Valens thought; I could put the tip of my sword under my boot and snap off the button and stab him through the neck. There's nobody to see, everybody would believe it was a horrible accident. There'd have to be at least a month of formal mourning; we'd postpone the wedding, and then maybe there'd be a hitch; and she'd be a widow…

"Ready?" he called out.

Orsea turned to face him. He looked very pale and rather scared, and he was holding the foil all wrong. "Ready," he said.

"Right. Now," Valens went on, lowering his foil until the tip rested on the flagstones, "I want you to lunge at me. Straight at my face'd be best. There's an old saying in fencing; the way to a man's heart-"

Orsea lunged. At least, he took a giant stride forward at the same time as he stuck his arm out in front of him, but his foot caught in a crack where the damp had forced up a flagstone, and he stumbled forward, off balance, all his weight in front, windmilling both arms to keep from going over. Valens took the regulation step back and left, preparing for the volte he'd been planning, but Orsea's wildly swishing foil came out of nowhere, and the tip smacked on the flagstones, knocking off the button, before hitting him in the mouth. Valens felt the jagged edge of the broken foil slice along the length of his bottom lip like a knife.

Orsea, balance regained, was staring at him. "I'm so sorry," he was saying. "I think I tripped on something, I didn't mean…"

Valens stepped back a pace-force of habit, to maintain a wide distance-and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "Perfectly all right," he muttered. "In fact, I'd have been filled with admiration if you'd done it on purpose." But you couldn't have, he didn't add. "That's the stromazone, by the way, what I was telling you about earlier. Nothing like a bit of pain to break the other man's concentration."

Orsea lowered his sword. "Maybe we should…"

"What, when you're just starting to get the hang of it?" Valens lunged; a slow, lazy move, slovenly, better signposted than the main road to Mezentia, but Orsea didn't move or parry or do anything. The button hit him in the hollow between the collarbones, the softest and surest target of all on an unarmored man; the blade, being a foil, bent like a bow. "On the other hand," Valens said, moving the sword away, "that's probably enough for one day. If you fence when you're starting to get tired, accidents can happen."

He sucked his lip until his mouth was full of blood, then spat. It was surprising how much it hurt, a little scratch like that. "Are you all right?" Orsea was saying. He nodded.

"Which isn't to say," he said, "that it won't be awkward, so close to the wedding. Don't suppose I'll be getting much kissing done with a mouth full of stitches."

If a man could die of embarrassment… Then Orsea would be dead, and no need to murder him. Valens started to smile, but the pain checked him. Snap off the button and stab him through the neck; well. Accidents can happen.

"I really am sorry," Orsea was bleating. "I did tell you, I'm absolute rubbish at fencing."

"You were," Valens amended. "Now you're slightly better at it." He reached out and pulled the damaged foil from Orsea's hand. "Might as well ditch the pair of them," he said. "This one's not worth mending, and the other one on its own's no good. I never liked them much anyway."

Orsea opened his mouth; he didn't need to speak, it was obvious what he'd been going to say. His first impulse had been to offer to pay for a replacement pair, but then he'd remembered that he hadn't got any money, apart from the allowance Valens made him. Buying a man something with his own money would be a uniquely empty gesture. "It can't be fixed, then?" he said instead.

Valens shook his head. "You'd need to re-temper the whole blade," he said. "Forget about it. One less piece of junk to agonize over leaving behind."

(As he said that, he tried to remember if Orsea knew about the evacuation. But yes, he did; he'd been at the staff meeting. Of course, there was no guarantee that he'd been paying attention.)

"Suppose I'd better go and get cleaned up," he said. "I'm supposed to be meeting the princess in about ten minutes."

He walked out of the stable, not noticing whether Orsea followed him or not. As he crossed the yard, he realized he was still holding his foil. He stuck it point downward in a stone urn full of small pink flowers and made his way into the main hall. Ten minutes; he sent someone to find the surgeon, and sat down on a bench.

"Don't ask," he said, when the surgeon arrived.

"I wasn't going to. Was it clean?"

Valens nodded. "Hurry up," he said, "I've got a date with a girl."

"This is going to hurt a lot," the surgeon said, threading his needle. "Don't bother being brave just for my benefit."

"I won't," Valens said.

He managed not to scream, even so (the Duke is always brave, always for his own exclusive benefit). The surgeon snipped off the end of the thread with a little silver knife. "Taking them out won't be much fun either," he said. "But there shouldn't be much of a scar. Be more careful next time."

His clothes were covered in blood, of course. He dragged himself back up to the tower room, changed and slumped down again. He was late for his appointment (whatever the right word was for half an hour of diplomatically mandated flirtation) and the cut was hurting like buggery. Still, it'd be a good way to get the conversation going.

"You've hurt your mouth," she said, as soon as she saw him. It was practically an accusation.

"Yes," he replied. "My own silly fault."

"What happened?"

He shrugged. "I got careless handling the goshawk you gave me, and she swiped me."

She frowned. "You should bathe the cut in distilled wine," she said, "to stop it getting infected. I'm surprised, though. I had hoped I'd trained her better than that."

"Not her fault," Valens said. "I'm just lucky she didn't strike for the eyes."

"That would have been very bad," she said. "You should have her killed."

"Certainly not," Valens said. "She's a very fine hawk."

"Yes. Even so."

He smiled. It hurt to smile at her, not entirely because of the stitches. "Besides," he said, "that'd be a poor way to treat a wedding present."

She frowned again. She seemed to be finding him rather hard going. "The hawk isn't my wedding present to you," she said. "My official present is two divisions of light cavalry, and my personal gift will be a suit of lightweight scale armor, a riding sword and a warhorse."

"Oh," Valens said. "You've spoiled the surprise."

She looked at him as though he was talking a language she didn't know. "The gifts are specified in the marriage contract," she said. "I'm sorry, I assumed you'd have read it."

"That's right, I remember now." He could still taste blood in his mouth. It made him feel hungry. "Anyway, let's talk about something else. This is the herb garden."

"I know."

"Of course you do. That one over there's mint; that's rosemary, and oregano."

"Basil."

"Sorry, basil, you're quite right. You know your herbs, then."

She nodded. "I read a book about them. We don't use herbs much at home, they're too hard to get hold of. Most of our meat is salted to preserve it, or smoked or dried. As well as common salt, we use wild honey and saltpeter, both of which are fairly abundant in our territory."

"I see," Valens said. "Interesting," he lied. "You must find the meat here pretty bland, in that case."

"Yes," she said.

"Tell me…" He racked his brain for something to ask her about. "Tell me what sort of food you eat in your country."

She raised her thin, long eyebrows. "Well," she said, "we are, as you know, a nomadic society. Accordingly, most of our food is provided by our livestock. We eat beef and mutton, cheese and other dairy products, and game, of course."

"How about bread? Vegetables?"

"We gather a wide variety of fruit," she went on, as though he hadn't interrupted, "and wild honey, which we use for a great many things besides preserving. We get a certain amount of flour from the Mezentines in trade, but it's still very much a luxury; for one thing, it's heavy and bulky to carry in any quantity. Nuts and berries-"

"And what you mostly trade with is salt," he broke in. "That's right, isn't it?"

She paused, as though his interruption had made her lose her place. "Salt, some hides and furs," she said. "But salt mostly."

"That's…" Valens couldn't think of a suitable word, so he shook his head. "Changing the subject rather," he went on, "there's one thing I'm a bit curious about. How did you actually find out about us, in the first place, I mean? Because, to be honest, I'd never heard of your people, except as a name."

Disapproval all over her face; clearly not diplomatic. "You'd have to ask my uncles," she said. "Similarly, I'd never heard of the Vadani until I was told I was to marry you. However, I trust I have now made amends for my ignorance. I have put a considerable amount of effort into my studies."

"I can see that," Valens said. "And you've done really well."

"Thank you." She hesitated, then said: "Now there are three things I should like to ask you about, if that would be in order."

Valens shrugged. "Go ahead."

"Very well." The way she paused reminded Valens of several experienced public speakers he'd listened to over the years. "If any of these questions strike you as offensive or impertinent, please say so. First, I should like to know why, at your age and in your position, you are still unmarried. Second, given that you are the absolute ruler of this country, why are you allowing your advisers to pressure you into a marriage that clearly holds little attraction for you. Third, I would be most interested to know your reasons for going to war with the Mezentine Republic."

Valens shut his eyes for a moment. What the hell, he thought.

"Tell you what," he said. "Would you like to hear the truth?"

She looked at him.

"Fine. Look, can we sit down for a moment?"

She nodded. "The pain from your injury is fatiguing you," she said.

"Yes." He sat down on the arm of a stone bench. She settled next to him like a bird pitching on a branch.

"The goshawk didn't attack you, did it?" she said.

He laughed. "No. I made that up, sorry. No disrespect intended to your hawk."

Her mouth tightened a little; if we were already married, he thought, I don't suppose I'd be getting off so lightly. "Very well," she said. "What did happen?"

"I got carved up a little by a jealous husband."

"I see. I take it the man in question will be punished."

"Not necessary."

She scowled. "He drew the blood of his ruler," she said firmly. "There can be no clemency in such a case."

"Let's not talk about it," Valens said.

"If you wish. You were about to answer my questions."

"So I was." He looked away, took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "When I was seventeen, I saw a girl. She was a guest here. I fell in love with her, but not long afterward she married someone else. After that-I don't know, there wasn't anything conscious about it. I stopped thinking about her as soon as I heard about her marriage. My father had just died, I had a lot of other things on my mind. I suppose I was glad of an excuse not to have to concern myself with all that stuff."

"That seems plausible enough," she acknowledged. "My second question…"

"Why now, you mean? Well, various reasons, really. Mostly, to be frank, we need this alliance. We've-I'm sorry, I've got the country into a pretty awful mess, and it looks as though you're our way out. Also…" He shivered. "It's been a long time since I was a seventeen-year-old kid. Everybody grows up eventually."

She was looking at him again. "I don't think I understand what you mean," she said.

"Don't you? Well." He smiled. "Not entirely sure I know myself. Let's just say it's taken me a long time to come to terms with it, but I got there in the end."

She shrugged. "And the war?" she said.

"A mistake," he replied. "A very big, bad, stupid mistake. I thought it'd make the Republic leave us alone, but it had the exact opposite effect. Silly me."

The frown was back. "That seems rather unlikely," she said. "We've been studying your career, and the major decisions you've taken since you became duke. Before your intervention at Civitas Eremiae, your political judgment was flawless. I find it hard to believe that such a wise and resourceful man as yourself would have done something so rash and dangerous without a very good reason."

"There you go," Valens said with a grin (which pulled on the stitches and squeezed out a large drop of blood). "It just goes to show, nobody's perfect. There are times when I surprise myself."

She clicked her tongue. "I gather you're not prepared to answer that question," she said.

"No."

"I see." Her voice was cold; polite anger. "Obviously you're entirely at liberty to keep secrets from me, but I trust you understand the nature of the relationship you're proposing to enter into with my family. A marriage alliance is a very serious business, as far as we're concerned."

"I'll bear that in mind," Valens said gravely. "And you don't need to remind me what a serious business this all is." He sucked the blood and spit into the back of his mouth and spat it out onto the grass, then wiped his mouth gingerly on the back of his hand. "Well, this has been quite delightful, but I think we ought to be getting back to the others, or they'll think we've eloped."

As soon as he'd handed her back to her uncles (the bald man wasn't there; off discussing the minutiae of the contract with Carausius, presumably), he hurried back to his tower room and threw up violently into the washbasin. He felt better for it, but not much. That set his lip bleeding again, which didn't help. He sat down at his desk, staring out of the window, then drew a sheet of paper toward him, dipped a pen in ink and started to write. Valens Valentinianus to Veatriz Sirupati, greetings.

This is stupid. My whole life has gone septic; everything hurts at the slightest pressure.

Isn't love supposed to be the most wonderful thing that can happen to you? I don't think so. I think it's a nasty, miserable thing that brings out the worst in people; if you don't believe me, ask Orsea how he got all those cuts and bruises.

Losing you to Orsea all those years ago was bad enough. Now, apparently, I've got to lose myself as well. I've got no choice: we need the alliance if we're going to stand any sort of chance of scaring off the Mezentines; otherwise we're all dead. Have you met her? No, I don't suppose you have. She's inhuman. She might as well be one of Ziani Vaatzes' mechanical statues. Her loathsome family have taken her apart and made her into an artifact. I'd be desperately sorry for her if I thought she could still feel anything. Anyway, that's what I've got to marry. Count yourself lucky; you got an idiot who goes around wrecking everything he touches and then tearing himself to bits out of guilt. I'm getting a machine. What the hell did either of us ever do to deserve this?

When my father died, I knew my life was over too. I realized I could never be myself again. To begin with, I tried to be him, but I couldn't do it. Strange how sometimes you only get to know someone once they're not there anymore. I couldn't be him because I can't bring myself to be deliberately stupid. He was a stupid man. Instead, I became what he should have been. The best joke about me is that everything I hate doing I do really well. At least I could be proud of what I'd done for this country. I kept the peace, nobody was starving, people could leave their houses and families in the morning and be fairly sure they'd still be there when they came back at night. Then Orsea started his war, you were in danger and I threw it all away.

I have to have something to live for. It used to be your letters. Now you don't write to me anymore, and I'm going to be married to that thing. I've been thinking about my options. I thought about getting up very early one morning, taking a horse from the stable and riding until I reached somewhere nobody's ever heard of me. I wish it was that simple.

I can't do it, Veatriz. My father used to say, there's no such word as can't. If you can't do it, all it means is you aren't trying hard enough. That used to make me so angry-quiet, speechless-with-resentment anger-that I'd find a way to do any damn thing, just so as not to give him the satisfaction of being disappointed in me-and then he'd nod and say, told you so, I knew you could do it if you just applied yourself. I know that deep down he believed I wasn't up to the job of running this country. I showed him, didn't I? But that doesn't work anymore. I can't make myself do what I've got to do just so I can score points off my stupid, dead father. Maybe he was right all along. Take away the hate I used to feel for him, and what've I got left?

I think love and hate are really the same thing. They're what you feel when someone matters more to you than anything else; more than yourself, even. I know you can love someone and hate them at the same time. My father was always the most important person in my life. I loved him and hated him, and there wasn't room for anybody or anything else. Then he cheated by dying. He left before I could get the better of him, and I've been trapped by his death ever since. I think what's shaped my life is the fact that I lost you and him so close together. Now I think about it, I realize I'm still the seventeen-year-old boy whose father died unexpectedly. I'm pinned to that moment, like a man whose horse has fallen on him.

Well, that's me about finished. For the first time since he died I don't know what to say, I don't know what to do. I shall be very grateful indeed for any suggestions.

He put the pen back in the inkwell, knowing that if he started to read what he'd just written, he'd tear it up and burn the pieces.

Instead, he folded the paper up small into a packet, melted wax and sealed it, tucked it up his sleeve and left the room.

It took him a long time to find the person he needed: a woman in a red dress, who curtseyed very politely, offered him some mead spiced with cinnamon and pepper (he refused) and asked him to sit down.

"It's been quite a while since you needed me," she said. "I was beginning to think-"

"Please," he interrupted, "don't waste my time or try my patience. You're to deliver this to her personally when she's alone. I suggest you do exactly as I say, because if you don't I'll have you killed. You know me well enough to realize I don't make empty threats."

She blinked. "I see," she said. "Can I refuse?"

"I'm afraid not, no."

"Very well then." She took a deep breath, and smiled. "Can we talk about money now, please?"

"A hundred silver thalers when you come back and tell me you've delivered it," Valens said. "All right?"

She thought about that for a moment. "That'll be fine," she said. "Also, I'd quite like a border pass, open, no dates, and there's a silly misunderstanding about an excise license which I'd like sorted out, if that's no trouble."

Valens sighed. "It's a point of honor with you people, isn't it? Taking a mile."

She laughed. "My mother told me, never accept anything you're offered, always insist on one little thing more. Of course, I'm in no position to bargain."

"Deal," Valens said. "If you can get it done today, there'll be an extra fifty thalers."

"So sorry." She shook her head. "Can't be done. Not even for fifty thalers. I have to apply to the senior lady-in-waiting for an appointment. A bribe will get me one, but she always makes me wait a full day. If I insist on seeing the Duchess today, it'd look suspicious, the lady-in-waiting will get frightened and tell Duke Orsea, and-well, I don't need to tell you what that'd lead to."

Valens frowned. "Double the bribe," he suggested. "I'll pay."

"That'd just make things worse," she replied sadly. "There's a very strict protocol about bribing court officers. If you mess about with it, there'll be trouble. And please don't tell me how to conduct my business. I happen to be very good at it."

Valens held up his hands. "Heaven forbid," he said. "Thanks. I'll see myself out."

After leaving her he walked down through the town to the river. People stopped and stared but nobody spoke to him or came near him. It was well known in Givitas Vadanis that when the Duke came into town on his own, without guards or secretaries, he wanted to be left alone. It was, of course, a tribute to the way he ran his country that he could walk about the city on his own whenever he wanted to. Like all the best privileges, of course, it had to be used sparingly.

He stopped at a saddler's stall down by the west gate; a rather fine set of jesses and a hood, in dark tan leather, embossed with ivy leaves. A nice, considerate present for his wife-to-be, whose name he couldn't pronounce even if he could remember it. The stallholder noticed him looking at them and moved across.

"How much?" he asked.

"One thaler the set," the stallholder replied. "Genuine Mezentine."

That was a lie, of course; about the only thing the Mezentines didn't make was falconry accessories. "You mean Cure Doce," Valens said.

"All right, genuine Cure Doce. You want them, or what?"

Valens nodded, looked round for someone who wasn't there. He frowned, and felt in his pockets, which were, of course, empty.

"No money," he said.

The stallholder looked at him. "Is that right?"

"It's all right," Valens said. "Hold on to them for me, I'll send someone."

"Will you now?"

A little spurt of anger fired in Valens' mind. "You don't know who I am."

The corners of the stallholder's mouth tightened a little. "That's very true, I don't."

"Forget it." Valens walked away. He could feel the stallholder's eyes on the back of his head. Of course, in a few weeks that man would be out of business for good, on the decision of his duke, who he hadn't even recognized. There was something wrong with the way the world was run, Valens thought. He had half a mind to write to somebody about it.

Four stalls down from the saddler there was a cutler. As Valens passed, the man looked up and saw him; his eyes seemed to double in size and his mouth dropped open. He gave the boy standing next to him a vicious nudge in the ribs, and pointed with his chin. The boy grunted and carried on polishing something.

Oh well, Valens thought. "Good morning," he said.

The cutler seemed to flicker, like a candle-flame in a draft. "Your majesty," he said. "Yes, what beautiful weather, for the time of year."

Depends on your idea of beauty, Valens thought. Nothing on the man's stall had caught his eye, but he was snared now, as though he'd put his foot in a wire. He stepped up to the cutler's table and looked round for something to admire.

There was a hanger; a plain thing, two feet of curved blade, lightly and crudely fullered, with a brass knuckle-bow and back-strap and a stagshorn grip. Valens picked it up, one hand on the hilt, the other near the tip, and flexed the blade. It felt adequate.

"Nice piece," he exaggerated.

"Thank you," the cutler said. "Genuine Mezentine, of course. You can see the armory mark there on the ricasso."

Sure enough, someone had scratched a little animal on the squared-off section just below the hilt. Unfortunately, the Mezentine stamp was a lion, and the scratched mark was quite definitely a cow. "You're right," Valens said, "so it is." He sighed. It was good, sturdy, munitions-grade stuff, functional enough to cut briars with. One of the assistant huntsmen would be pleased to have it.

"How much will you take for it?" he asked.

The cutler swelled like a bullfrog. "Oh no, I couldn't," he said. "Please, take it. As a mark of…"

He didn't seem able to make up his mind what it was a mark of, but the general idea was clear enough. "Don't be silly, man," Valens said, "you're a businessman, not the poor relief." He estimated how much it was really worth, then doubled it. "Two thalers."

"No, really." The man was close to tears. "I'd be honored if you'd take it." He hesitated, then lowered his voice. "My eldest son was at Cynosoura," he said. "It'd be for him."

"Right," Valens said, trying to remember what the hell had happened at Cynosoura. "Well, in that case, I'll be pleased to have it. Thank you."

"Thank you," the cutler said. "There's a scabbard with it, of course." He looked round; there were no scabbards of any kind to be seen anywhere. "Thraso, you idiot, where's the scabbard for this hanger, it was here just now…" He nudged the boy again, who scowled at Valens and crawled under the table. "I'm really sorry about this," the cutler said, "it's my son, he moves things when my back's turned, and I never know-ah, here we are." He pulled a sad-looking scabbard out of a wooden box by his feet; softwood with thin black leather pasted on, by the look of it. "I'll just find some silk to wrap it in, please bear with me a moment."

"That's fine, really," Valens said, "please don't bother." He smiled as best he could. "I only live just up the hill there, so I haven't got far to go."

The cutler stared at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, as though that was the funniest thing he'd ever heard in his life. "Of course, that's right," he said, and slid the hanger into the scabbard. It stuck, about halfway down, and had to be taken out and put back in again. Valens managed not to notice. "There you are, then, your majesty, and I hope it brings you all the good luck in the world. Thank you," he added, just in case there was still any doubt about the matter.

"Thank you," Valens replied, and fled.

All the good luck in the world, he thought, as he walked back up the hill. A fine example of the lesser irony there; because of who he was, he couldn't buy what he wanted but he was obliged to accept a free gift he had no real use for. (That made him think about Veatriz and the other girl, the one whose name escaped him.) He carried the hanger low at his left side, hoping nobody would see him with it.

"Where did you get to?" Carausius demanded, pouncing on him as he crossed the courtyard in front of the Great Hall. "You were supposed to be meeting the uncles to talk about the marriage settlement."

Valens frowned. Not in the mood. "You covered for me."

"Yes, of course, but that's not the point. I could tell they weren't happy."

Valens stopped. "It's obvious, surely. I'm a young man of great sensibility, very much in love. The last thing I want to talk about is crass financial settlements. Right?"

Carausius sighed audibly. "So you went shopping instead."

"What? Oh, this." He glanced down at the object in his left hand, as though wondering how it had got there. "That reminds me. What happened at Cynosoura?"

"Where?"

"Cynosoura. Look it up. I want a detailed account on my desk in half an hour."

Carausius gave him his business nod, meaning that it would, of course, be done. "Where are you going now?" he said. "Only there's a reception…"

"I know, in the knot garden," he replied, remembering. "Forty minutes."

"It starts in a quarter of an hour."

"Then I'll be late. Cynosoura," he repeated, and walked away.

To the stables. Nobody about at this time of day. He walked in, shut the door firmly and looked around for something substantial to bash on. Just the thing: there was a solid oak mounting-block. He remembered it from childhood; he'd got in trouble when he was eight for hacking chunks out of it with a billhook he'd liberated from the groom's shed. Offhand he couldn't remember why he'd done that, but no doubt he'd had his reasons.

In the corner was a good, sturdy manger. He lifted the block onto it and tested it with his hand to make sure it wouldn't wobble about or fall down. Then he drew the hanger, took a step forward and slashed at the block as hard as he could. The blade bit in a good inch and vibrated like a hooked fish thrashing on the end of a line. The point where the knuckle-bow met the pommel pinched his little finger. He had to lift the block down again and put his foot on it before he could get the blade out, but when he held it up to the light it was still perfectly straight, and the cutting edge wasn't chipped or curled. Not bad, at that.

He put the block back on the manger, breathed in, and smacked the flat of the blade viciously against the thick oak six times, three smacks on each side. That was the proper way to proof a sword-blade, preferably someone else's. There was now a red blood-blister on the side of his little finger, but the hanger had survived more or less intact; blade still straight, hilt still in one piece, no cracks in the brazed joints, no rattle of loosened parts when he shook it. That was really quite impressive, for cheap local work. Once more for luck; he stepped back and took another almighty heave at the block-no fencing, just the desire to damage something, the block or the sword, not bothered which. The cut went in properly on the slant, gouging out a fat chip of wood from the edge. As the shock ran up his arm and tweaked his tendons, it occurred to him to imagine that the cut had been against bone rather than wood, and he winced. Of course it was a hunting sword, not a weapon of war; even so.

Got myself a bargain there, then, he told himself; also, all the good luck in the world. Genuine Mezentine. Doesn't anybody but me remember we're at war with the fucking Mezentines?

The report was there on his desk when he got back to the tower room, needless to say. Nothing much had happened at Cynosoura, which turned out to be a very small village in the northern mountains. A routine cavalry patrol consisting of a platoon of the Seventeenth Regiment had stumbled across a Cure Hardy raiding party. Recognizing that they were outnumbered and in no fit state to engage, they'd withdrawn and raised the alarm, whereupon Duke Valens and two squadrons of the Nineteenth had ridden out (I remember now), engaged and defeated the enemy and captured their leader, one Skeddanlothi, who provided the Duke with valuable intelligence about the Cure Hardy before dying under interrogation. As for the encounter at Cynosoura, there was only one casualty, a cavalry trooper shot in the back at extreme range as the patrol was withdrawing; he died later, of gangrene.

Valens read the report, nodded, and left it on the side of his desk for filing. He took the hanger out of its scabbard and wiped it on his sleeve-oak sap leaves a blue stain on steel, unless it's cleaned promptly-before sheathing it and propping it up in the corner of the room. Then he went to the reception to be polite to the Cure Hardy.