Evil for Evil

16

"It was a success, I grant you," Boioannes was saying, in that loud, carrying voice of his. "Twenty-seven confirmed dead, including the Chancellor. I concede that it was well planned and efficiently executed. What I'm asking, however, is whether it was a good idea or a bad one."

The meeting had already overrun by an hour. By the look of it, someone else had booked the cloister garden for a meeting or a reception; Psellus had seen a man's head bobbing round a pillar with a look of desperate impatience on his face-the establishments clerk, probably, too timid to dare interrupt Necessary Evil, but petrified that he'd be blamed for double-booking. The Republic's bureaucracy ran on the principle of symmetry; for every blunder, one responsible official. He sympathized, but found it hard to spare much compassion for someone else. Never wise to be too liberal with a scarce commodity you may well need for yourself.

"In order to assess success or failure," Boioannes went on, "it's always helpful to know what the object of the exercise actually was. Fortuitous incidental benefits are all very well, but it's my experience that every time you stoop to pick up a quarter in the street, a thaler falls out of your pocket. Bearing in mind what we stand to lose by this action, I feel we have a right to know what the precise objective was. If the intention was to assassinate Duke Valens, for example, we failed."

"That wasn't the primary target," someone said; Psellus couldn't see who, because Steuthes, the loaf-headed director of resources, was blocking his view. "The purpose of the mission was to kill the abominator, Vaatzes."

Boioannes hesitated, just for a moment. It was like watching a waterfall freeze for a split second. "Now we're getting somewhere," he went on. "And did we get him?"

"The reports are inconclusive." Whoever the speaker was, he didn't sound in the least intimidated by the full force of Boioannes' personality. Probably he could juggle white-hot ingots with his bare hands, too. "We're investigating, naturally, but our lines of communication are necessarily quite fragile, it doesn't do to push too hard. As soon as we get an answer, I promise you'll be the first to know."

Psellus frowned. He knew for a fact that that hadn't been the reason for the cavalry raid, because he'd been told about it, well in advance. It was inconceivable that he knew something Maris Boioannes didn't. And if he did, then why? The answer to that, he was sure, wouldn't be anything good.

"In any event," the hidden speaker continued, "as you said yourself just now, the exercise has fully justified the expenditure of resources. Just as we're about to launch a major offensive, the Vadani are confused, terrified, practically leaderless. They know we can strike them at will, in the very heart of their territory. They know that they have no friends. Thanks to their own acts of sabotage, they've lost their principal source of funding. The fact is, we're poised to win a victory that will end this war, quickly, cheaply, ostentatiously. Caviling over details is a pretty sterile exercise, in the circumstances."

Smelling politics, Psellus allowed his attention to drift. Had they really managed to kill Ziani Vaatzes? He doubted it, somehow. Something told him that if Vaatzes was dead, he'd have felt it by now. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking; because, he realized, he didn't want Vaatzes to die in a distant country, with all the answers to all the questions locked inside his head.

The thought made him want to smile, though long practice froze the muscles of his face. Here in the middle of the great affairs of the Republic-war, peace, increased prosperity or ruinous expense-all he was concerned about was scratching his own intellectual itches; and all because he was superfluous, a makeweight in Necessary Evil of whom nothing was demanded or expected. If I dropped dead tomorrow, he thought, it wouldn't make any difference to anybody. Which, in a very real sense, is true freedom.

"Assuming Vaatzes is still alive…" The phrase snagged his attention like a fisherman's lure, but he was too late to catch the rest of the sentence. Someone else's voice, but nobody he knew. Nearly a year now as a member of this committee, and still he only knew a handful of the members by sight. Each time he attended a meeting, most of the people were strangers.

"It's quite true to say that Vaatzes was the cause of the war," yet another unknown voice was saying; Psellus managed to locate its source, an improbably old man with thin, wispy white hair. "To say that he is still the reason for it, or even a significant factor, would be hopelessly oversimplistic. The war has moved on, as all living, growing things do. What's it about now? Well, the answer to that is: many things. It's about regaining the prestige and respect we squandered when our forces were slaughtered at Civitas Eremiae. It's about the silver deposits in Vadani territory; it's about finding some sort of exit from the miserable, draining occupation of Eremia; it's about the delicate balance between outgoings from Consolidated Fund and increased income for the Foundrymen and the other Guilds engaged in war work, as against those struggling to maintain productivity and output in general commerce. I put it to you that the main effect of this war is to exalt the Foundrymen at the expense of all the other Guilds, regardless of the overall effect on the well-being of the Republic; and unless this short-sighted, selfish agenda is abandoned at the earliest possible…"

More politics. It was almost disconcerting to listen to so much truth presented with so little conviction. Extraordinary, when you stopped to think about it. All these people knew the truth about the war; but, instead of trying to find some way to reverse or at least mitigate the disaster, they were cheerfully serving it, like keepers put in charge of some captive wild animal. There were good reasons for that, of course. To abandon the war, or even suggest that it should be abandoned, would be political suicide-because everybody in politics had to maintain at all costs the notion that the Republic was invincible, its resources inexhaustible, its doctrines irreproachable, even though they all knew (everybody knew) that none of these was true. It was a bit like the doctrine of Specification itself; the denial of any possibility of improvement, even though everybody knew that any design, however good, can always be bettered; even though the Guilds themselves made an explicit exception where armaments were concerned. What a wonderful magic politics is, Psellus thought; it can recognize the truth and still override it, providing you can get consensus among the people who matter.

Lofty stuff; way above his head. Instead, he went back to thinking about Falier, the foreman of the ordnance factory. The new foreman; except that he wasn't all that new anymore. By now, he'd be married to Vaatzes' wife. Would it advance the war effort, he wondered, to write to Ziani and let him know? By all accounts, by the evidence of the homemade book, Vaatzes had loved her very much. They had so few weapons that could reach him; love was one they hadn't tried yet, but it would be relatively easy, relatively cheap. Why send a squadron of cavalry if you can send a letter instead? For a moment, he pictured a tightly folded square of parchment being loaded onto the slider of a scorpion and aimed at the walls of Civitas Vadanis.

Careful; he'd almost allowed himself to smile.

"Councillor Psellus." Nightmare: someone was talking to him, and he hadn't been listening.

"I'm sorry," he said, jerking his head up and looking round. "Could you repeat that, please?"

It was Boioannes, and he was smiling. Nobody else he knew had ever reminded him more forcefully that the smile is fundamentally a baring of teeth. "I hadn't actually asked you anything yet," Boioannes said. "I can say it and then repeat it, if that would help."

Psellus bowed his head like a submissive dog.

"We were wondering," Boioannes went on. "You're our resident expert on Ziani Vaatzes; you've made quite a study of him, I believe."

"That's right, yes."

"Your diligence is noted. Such attention to detail; for example, your repeated visits to his wife." Short pause, to allow time for dutiful snickering. "I trust your examinations there have been productive."

Psellus looked straight ahead, eyes fixed on a chip on the edge of the ornamental fountain. "I do believe I've made some progress, yes. However, I've run into some unexpected obstacles, which you might be able to help me with, since you've raised the subject. For instance, the prosecutor-"

"Write to me," Boioannes snapped; unusual flare of petulance, almost a minor victory. "To return to the topic we're currently discussing. Do you believe that Vaatzes would be prepared to negotiate for a free pardon, in return for helping us?"

The things I miss by not paying attention, Psellus thought bitterly. "I don't know," he said. "I think it would depend on what guarantees we're able to offer."

Someone laughed. "Obviously, nothing substantial," Boioannes replied, "since we naturally have no intention of honoring them. However; we must consider the fact that Vaatzes has already helped us, unasked, requesting no reward; presumably he's given us this help as an earnest of good faith, to persuade us to open negotiations. The implication must be that he is prepared to trust us, under certain circumstances and conditions. If we can use him, he could potentially be of service to us. Do you agree?"

Psellus nodded.

"Excellent." Boioannes beamed; all those strong white teeth simultaneously. "In that case, who better to conduct the negotiations than yourself? Assuming the committee agrees…"

Of course they did.

Later, back in his cold, safe office, Psellus read (for the fifth or sixth time) the dense, concise summary of instructions he'd received from Boioannes' clerks. Most of it was a tangled thicket of things he wasn't allowed to offer or agree to, not even on the strict understanding that he'd be lying through his teeth; there was always the risk that the letters might be intercepted, by the enemy or (even worse) by friends, and some maneuvers would be too painful to have to explain away. Most of the rest of the brief consisted of what the Republic wanted from its stray lamb-the Vadani, for instance; the heads of Duke Valens, Duke Orsea, their heirs, counselors, ministers, families, friends, acquaintances…

Well, that was the job he'd been given, the first real work he'd had since he joined Necessary Evil. Better than spending all day staring at the wall, or reading Vaatzes' atrocious poetry for the umpteenth time. More to the point, here was a beautiful kind of serendipity, such sweet timing. He picked up his pen, suddenly inspired, and started to write. Lucao Psellus to Ziani Vaatzes, greetings.

What a bizarre thing to be doing; writing a letter to the abominator, the arch-enemy, the man who'd slaughtered the Republic's army at Civitas Eremiae. It was like writing a letter to Death, or Evil; it was also, he felt with a stab of guilt, a bit like scraping acquaintance with someone you've always wanted to meet.

Allow me to introduce myself. I represent the standing committee on defense of the Perpetual Republic of Mezentia [inelegantly phrased; he was writing too fast in his enthusiasm] and I am authorized…

Pause. Nibble end of pen. Another sheet of paper. Lucao Psellus to Ziani Vaatzes, greetings.

I have never met you, although I suspect I know you better than anybody outside your immediate family-better, quite probably, than most of them. I work for the Guilds. That's all you need to know about me.

First, you ought to know that your wife-I mean your ex-wife-has married someone else. I'm sure you know the lucky man: Falier, your successor at the ordnance factory. Well, of course you do. Wasn't he your best friend?

I enclose a notarized copy of the marriage certificate. You know as well as I do that a Mezentine notary wouldn't falsify a certificate for anybody, not even the Guilds in supreme convocation. But if that's not good enough for you, ask for whatever proof you need and I'll try and get it for you.

So much for personal affairs: to business. I represent the standing committee on defense [there; that particular stylistic bear-trap neatly avoided] and they have authorized me to offer you a free pardon, in return for your help with the war. Of course, it's not quite as straightforward as that. We need to be able to trust you-rather a difficult proviso, in the circumstances. Likewise, you need to be able to trust us. This is what I have in mind…

Yes, Psellus thought; but what do I have in mind, precisely? He frowned, as though trying to squeeze inspiration out of his forehead by sheer clenching of the brow muscles. When it came, it was little short of horrifying. This is what I have in mind. I will come and meet you. I should make it clear straightaway that I am a person of no importance whatsoever. I don't know anything that would be helpful to the Vadani, so capturing and torturing me would be a waste of effort. Nor would the Guilds pay a ransom for me, or exchange prisoners for me. Ask anybody, assuming you can find someone who's heard of me.

I will meet you, face to face, at some place convenient to you within easy reach of the Eremian border. If you like, I'll bring with me any further proof you want of Ariessa's remarriage. When we meet, we can figure out between us what it'll take for us to trust each other. I'll come alone, of course. You'll know as soon as you see me that you're in no danger whatsoever of assassination or abduction. I couldn't hurt a fly if I wanted to; not a big fly, anyway.

If you decide you don't want anything to do with us, that's fine. If that's your decision we will, of course, have you killed, sooner or later. If we can reach some sort of agreement, on the other hand-think about that. Think about what you've already lost, permanently and beyond hope of recovery, and what you may still be able to salvage from the wreckage. I feel it's very important that we should be completely honest with each other right from the very start; talking of which, I really like your poetry. It's got a very basic simplicity which I found quite moving. Use the same courier to reply. I look forward very much to meeting you.

He had to try hard before he could get the pen back in the inkwell; his hand was shaking. But now he'd written it, there was no way back. Of course, Vaatzes might not reply…

He shut his eyes. Dying wouldn't be so terribly bad; but if they tortured him… He reached out for the letter, but stopped before his fingertips touched it. Of course, Boioannes might well forbid him to do it; a member of Necessary Evil, strolling alone and unarmed into Vadani territory. Boioannes would do no such thing. No risk whatsoever; you can't betray what you don't know. His orders would be: If they capture and torture you, here's the misinformation you're to feed to them, and make sure they believe you. Best not to put that idea into his mind.

Talking of minds, I must be out of…

Yes, he thought. Yes; but I really don't have any control over it, not now the letter's actually been written, not now that it exists, separate from me. It's a fixation, a compulsion, a need that overrides everything, even fear of pain and death. Quite possibly, being in love must be something like this; in which case, all the irrational, plain stupid things I've heard of lovers doing suddenly make sense. I want… No, I don't want, I need to meet him, to see his face and hear his voice, to share a space with him, to understand.

(He stood up; far too restless to sit down.)

And it'll be out of the office; that'll be a pleasant change. I'll be staying in inns, always wondered what that'd be like, and eating food that hasn't come from the Buttery. All kinds of fascinating new experiences, that I don't actually want, that I've spent my whole life avoiding.

He folded the letter, sealed it; it'd be safe now, because nobody would dare open a letter sealed by Necessary Evil. Not even Lucao Psellus; especially him.

Lucao who? Oh, him. That clerk.

He shoved through the door, scuttled down the corridor and stopped the first clerk he met. As he gave the instructions-so fussy about the details, repeating them over and over again-he realized that his voice was high and squeaky with excitement, wondered if the clerk had noticed it too. He wished he'd made a copy of the letter, so he could read it again; he couldn't seem to remember what he'd written, but he was sure it was vilely phrased, clumsy, possibly illegible. Should've got a clerk to copy it out in fair hand. Too late now; it's sealed, and the clerk's taken it, it's gone.

The thought of going back to his office was hateful. How long would it take the courier to reach Civitas Vadanis? She would be under orders to disguise her true intentions; presumably she'd go to Lonazep first, then up along the Cure Doce border, doing her stupid little business deals as normal, haggling a little extra small change out of provincial drapers and cutlers for run-of-the-mill Mezentine worsteds, brass buttons and table knives. Only then would she slip across the border into Eremia (with her safe conduct carefully hidden in the luggage, for use only in the direst of emergencies); buying now rather than selling, because the huddled pockets of Eremian refugees had no money. Gradually she'd work her way down the frontier, crossing into Vadani territory through one of the mountain passes, after which she could head straight to the capital without arousing suspicion. Two weeks? More likely three, and the same for the return trip. I can't wait that long, he told himself urgently, I'll fret myself to death in that time. Six weeks…

The hell with it. He bolted down the stairs, across Little Cloister, short-cut through the mosaic portico, up the main stairs, arriving breathless and racked by stitches in the anteroom of Boioannes' suite of offices.

No chance whatsoever of getting in to see the man himself; not without an appointment, and you had to have had your name put down at birth for one of those. But eventually he talked his way into the presence of Boioannes' chief assistant deputy clerk, a godlike man with a perfectly spherical head.

"Lucao Psellus," the clerk told him, and coming from such an authority, it had to be true. "How can I help?"

Psellus explained. Urgent Guild business, a direct commission, approved by a unanimous vote of Necessary Evil… At this point the clerk stopped him with one upraised forefinger, and leafed through a bound folio of manuscript until he came to the minutes of the relevant meeting.

"As you say," he said, one eyebrow slightly raised. "Level seven authorization, no less. What can we do for you?"

The letter, written, entrusted to a courier; on reflection, the usual channels far too slow; could the courier be stopped or called back, and the letter sent by express messenger instead?

The clerk frowned. "Express messenger?"

"Somebody fast," Psellus explained. "Instead of going all round the houses. Like the way you send orders and dispatches to the front line."

The frown deepened. Set foot in that frown and you'd be sucked down into it; all they'd ever find of you would be your hat, floating on the top. "You mean the military post." Long, thoughtful pause, as if the clerk was doing long division in his head. "Strictly speaking," he said eventually, "your authorization does allow you to make use of the military post. That said, I can't see how it'd help, in the circumstances. It would get your letter to Civitas Eremiae, say, in forty-eight hours. It couldn't get it across the border, let alone into the hands of the enemy." A sigh, full of sadness for the contrariness of the world. "No, they'd have to find you a covert messenger at Civitas Eremiae-one of those merchant women, they're really the only line of communication we've got for cross-border work. In all honesty, I think it'd be quicker to use the normal channels."

Psellus could feel his jaw getting tense. "All right, then," he said. "What about a diplomatic courier? A herald, or whatever you call them."

The clerk actually smiled; more than a hint of the Boioannes grin there. True what they say: after a while, dogs start to look like their masters. "First," he said, "you don't have authorization. Second, we aren't sending any diplomatic representations to the Vadani for the foreseeable future."

Psellus took a deep breath. "Then arrange one," he said. "Make something up. Pretend. Write to the Duke and tell him he's got one last chance to surrender. Any pretext, so long as you can send a courier with my letter sewn inside his trouser leg, or whatever it is your people do." He stopped, feeling ridiculous. It wasn't appropriate for a member of Necessary Evil to beg a clerk to send a letter. "If you'd rather, we could go and ask Councillor Boioannes. I'm sure he wouldn't mind being interrupted."

War, fiercer than anything that had taken place in Eremia, was raging behind the clerk's eyes. Not hard to figure out what he was thinking. Just possibly, Psellus the forgotten man, the Republic's leading nonentity, wasn't bluffing and genuinely had authorization from Boioannes himself; in which case, hindering him would be a very dangerous course of action. "We can send your message," the clerk said. "We're a resourceful lot, we'll think of something."

A terrified man rode through the main gate of Civitas Vadanis. He was unarmed, dressed from head to foot in dusty white, and four heavy cavalrymen flanked him at the four cardinal points, as though shielding their fellow countrymen from all possibility of contagion.

Needless to say, everybody had stopped what they were doing to stare at him. Some, mostly mothers with young children, backed away; others pressed forward as if they were going to attack, and the four outriders had to guide their horses to shove them back into the crowd. A few objects, some stones but mostly fruit, were thrown, but with poor accuracy. A flying cordon of guards advanced in reverse chevron formation from the palace door, enveloping the five riders and whisking them inside.

The terrified man, who hadn't said a word since he rode up to the official border post at Perrhagia, looked round. He wasn't used to places like this: fountains, statues on plinths, cobbled yards glimpsed through archways. The nearest thing he'd ever seen was the Guildhall, but that was bigger but plainer. This place was small, busy and almost deliberately arrogant, as if making no secret of the fact that, in spite of its ornate extravagance, it was the house of just one man, and everybody else here was some degree of servant. The thought appalled him; he hadn't realized that people could actually live like that.

They stopped in front of a pair of tall wrought-iron gates; gilded but disappointingly crude by Mezentine standards. The escort dismounted-nobody spoke to him, but he guessed he was supposed to dismount too-and the gates opened. He didn't look round, because he'd seen enough Vadani soldiers already for one day.

"Is this him?" A young man with a meager, thin face and hair the color of rust was talking to the escort leader, who must have nodded, because rust-head turned and walked into the building. The four escorts edged toward him, like drovers crowding a pig into a pen. He did his best to ignore them, and followed rust-head through the doorway, across a covered way and into a cloister garden. It was pretty enough, if you liked flowers and that sort of thing. In the middle was a small round walnut table-again, shoddy work once you got close enough to see-behind which sat a single man.

He'd been briefed before he left Mezentia, needless to say. They'd told him that Valens, the Vadani duke, was a young man, slightly built, shorter than most Vadani, with hair the color of dead leaves. The description fitted the man behind the table, just about. He looked tired, worried, angry about something. "This him?" he said.

"We searched him at the border," the escort leader said.

"He doesn't look particularly murderous," the man who might be Valens replied. "You're Mezentine, aren't you?" he added, without shifting his head, so that it took the terrified man a moment to realize he was being spoken to. "I mean, a real Mezentine, not one of the overseas mercenaries."

"Yes," the terrified man said, wondering whether he was supposed to add sir or your highness. Too late to do that now, so he'd better work on the assumption that a citizen of the Republic refuses to acknowledge the superiority of any man, even by way of formal greeting. "My name is Lexao Cannanus, permanent secretary to the-"

"I'm Valens. Sit down." Valens frowned. "No, don't do that, wait till someone fetches a chair. I do apologize for my household's inexcusable lack of manners. If I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times: accredited diplomats are not to be expected to sit on the grass."

All this humor, Cannanus assumed, was for the servants' benefit rather than his, though he could see it would have the additional benefit of making him feel uncomfortable. An efficient man, then, the Vadani duke; capable of making one operation do two jobs. If he was Mezentine, he'd probably be a Foundryman. Someone brought a chair-a silly thing, too fussily carved and not very sturdy-and he sat on it. The four soldiers were looming over his shoulder, but he did his best to pretend they weren't there.

"Apparently you've got a message for me," Valens said. "Or would you like something to eat or drink first? Now I'm the one forgetting his manners."

"No, that's fine," Cannanus said stiffly. "I'm sure you're a busy man, and I'd like to do my job and go home as soon as possible."

"Of course." Just a hint of a grin on Valens' face? He's making me think I'm sounding pompous and stupid, Cannanus realized. Clever man. "Well in your own time, then."

For a horrible moment, Cannanus couldn't remember what he was supposed to say…

"Greetings," he recited, in a flat, dead voice, "from the convocation of Guilds of the Mezentine Republic. This is to inform you that unless you accede forthwith to the Republic's legitimate demands, a state of war will exist between yourself and-"

"Just a moment," Valens interrupted. "What demands?"

Cannanus blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"What demands? I don't know what you're referring to. We haven't had any demands, have we, Mezentius?"

The rusty-haired man, who'd joined them at some point, shrugged. "Not that I'm aware of."

Valens sighed. "Which isn't to say there haven't been any," he said. "The trouble is, this sort of thing's the province of my chancellor, and unfortunately he was killed only a few days ago. As a result we're still in a bit of a tangle, not quite back up to speed. Would you be very kind and just run through them for me? The demands," he added, as Cannanus goggled at him. "Just to jog my memory, really. For all I know, we might be able to clear all this business up here and now."

Nightmare, Cannanus thought. There'll be a war that could have been avoided, and it'll all be my fault. "I'm sorry," he said. "I don't know. I'm just a messenger."

"Oh." Big frown. "That's a nuisance. Mezentius, do you think you could quickly go and scout through the papers on Carausius' desk, just in case they're there?" The rusty-haired man nodded and stomped away. "Won't be long," Valens said coolly. "Now, would you like a drink while you're waiting? I'm having one."

Infuriating. "Yes, thank you." If he can be polite, so can I; we'll see who crumbles first.

"Splendid." Valens nodded, and someone appeared at once with a tall, plain earthenware jug and two silver mugs. They at least were Mezentine, though ordinary trade quality. "Well, what shall we talk about? It's not often I get a chance to talk to a real Mezentine these days."

A cue, if ever there was one. "Is that right? I was under the impression you had a Mezentine living here at your court."

"A real Mezentine, I said." Valens grinned. "If you're thinking of my friend Ziani Vaatzes, I tend to think of him as one of us now, rather than one of you."

"Talking of him." Too good to be true, surely. The Duke was suspicious, hence the slightly forced lead. It wasn't fair, he reflected bitterly, to send a clerk to play at top-level diplomacy. A trained diplomat would be able to interpret all these subtleties. Instead, he had the feeling he usually only felt in dreams: playing chess against a master, and suddenly realizing he didn't know the rules of the game. Nevertheless, he was here now and there was nobody else. "I take it you can confirm he's still alive."

Valens tilted his head slightly on one side, like a dog. "So that's what the ambush was all about, was it? To kill poor old Ziani. In which case, yes, you wasted your time. Pity, really. A bit of a disaster all round."

"I wouldn't know," Cannanus replied. "I'm afraid the standing committee doesn't discuss policy with the likes of me."

"But they want to know the answer," Valens said, smiling. "It was one of the instructions you were given: find out if Vaatzes is still alive."

That question clearly didn't need an answer. "I wonder," Cannanus said, "if it'd be possible for me to talk to him. Just for a moment."

At least he'd contrived to take Valens by surprise. There was a short pause before he said, "Now why would you want to do that? I assume," he went on, recovering a little of his previous assurance, "that you aren't going to try and murder the poor chap."

"I have a message for him from the council."

Valens raised both eyebrows, then laughed. If Cannanus didn't know better, he'd have believed the amusement was genuine. "I'm very sorry," Valens said, "but I really don't think that'd be a terribly good idea. Will it spoil your trip terribly if I refuse?"

Cannanus shrugged. "To be honest with you," he said, "it wasn't part of my mission at all. I was just curious."

"Curious?"

"I wanted to see what he looks like."

"Oh." It was clear from his face that the very perversity of the idea appealed to Valens on some level Cannanus probably wouldn't be able to understand. "No, sorry. The wretched fellow's got enough on his plate without becoming a tourist attraction."

"I understand." He tried to put just the right hint of resentment into his reply, while keeping it diplomatically polite. "I'm sorry if the request was out of line."

"Think nothing of it," Valens answered. "Now, if it'd been me you'd wanted to see, I'd have had no problem with it. Probably have charged you two quarters for admission, but that's all. Now, where's Mezentius got to with those documents? He's a fine soldier, but not at his best with paperwork."

As if he'd been waiting behind a pillar for his cue, the rust-haired man came back, scowling and slightly short of breath. "I couldn't see anything on his desk," he said. "It could be anywhere in the files, of course, but it'd take days to go through all that lot."

Valens shrugged. "Well," he said, "since the alternative is war with the Republic, what's a few days scrabbling about in the dust? Get some clerks to help you." He turned and frowned politely at Cannanus. "You're not in a tearing hurry to get back, are you? Or will they dispatch a million cavalry if you're not home by this time tomorrow?"

"I don't think so," Cannanus replied. He didn't like the thought of hanging around in the Vadani capital for a moment longer than necessary. It made his flesh crawl; not fear, in fact, but disapproval. "But I think it'd be better if I went back and explained that the previous correspondence has been…" He scrabbled for the right word. "Mislaid. Otherwise," he added, with what he was sure was overdone ingenuousness, "they might just assume you're playing for time."

"Of course." Valens nodded firmly. "You do that, then. If you could possibly do your best to persuade them not to invade us till the copies have arrived, that'd be really kind." Valens stood up, an unambiguous indication that his ordeal was over. "Mezentius, would you mind showing our guest out? Unless he'd like to stay to dinner? No? Well, maybe next time, when you come back with the copy of the terms, I'll look forward to it. You'd better get a fresh horse for him," Valens went on. "Find him a good one, nothing but the best for our friends in the Republic."

The rusty-haired man started to walk away, and Cannanus hurried to follow him. The four guards came forward, as though to follow, but rust-head waved them away; the dreaded Mezentine apparently wasn't such a threat after all.

They walked about ten yards down the cloister, rust-head leading at a brisk pace that Cannanus found it irksome to match. Then he stopped dead and dropped a couple of documents. Looking down, Cannanus saw they were blank sheets of paper.

"I thought you hadn't seen my signal," Cannanus said.

"Quiet," rust-head snapped, not looking up. "Keep your voice down. Quick, look like you're helping me with these papers."

Cannanus knelt down beside him and picked up one of the blank sheets. "Sorry about not giving you any notice," he said quietly. "But it's an emergency, no time to warn you in advance."

"I'd gathered. And yes, I saw your signal, thank you very much. It's supposed to be a subtle hand-gesture. The way you were carrying on, you could've put someone's eye out."

Just stress and irritation talking; besides, there wasn't time.

"I've got a letter," Cannanus said. "For the abominator, Vaatzes. Make sure he's alone when he gets it, all right?"

"I'm not completely stupid. Well, where is it, then?"

"In my shoe."

"Oh for crying out loud."

"Well," Cannanus muttered, fumbling with his shoe-buckle, "I knew I'd be searched at the frontier. You want to upgrade your security procedures. If it'd been a Mezentine checkpoint, inside the shoe's the first place we'd have looked."

"What minds you people must have." Rust-head took the small, square packet from him and tucked it firmly into his sleeve. "Now let's get you out of here before anything goes wrong," he said. "And next time…"

"I know. We're sorry."

Rust-head sighed and stood up. "It's going to be much harder for me from now on," he said. "Chances are I'm going to be promoted, now that there's so many jobs that need filling, so I'll have to be that much more careful. Whose idea was that, by the way? The sneak attack, I mean."

Cannanus shrugged. "They don't tell me stuff like that."

"No, I suppose not. Anyway, you tell them from me. Next time I want plenty of advance warning, or the deal's off. Can you do that? They know I'm far too valuable to piss off."

"I'll be sure to mention it," Cannanus said.

"Do that." Rust-head glanced up and down the cloister. "And while you're at it, you can tell them that the evacuation's been brought forward again, in spite of the attack. And your abominator's been keeping very busy indeed, bashing out great big iron sheets. Nobody knows what it's all in aid of; rumor has it they're mass-producing armor, since they can't buy ready-made off your lot anymore, but it's not true. I'll try and find out from Valens what's going on, ready for when you come back."

"It probably won't be me on the return trip…" Cannanus tried to tell him, but he'd started walking again. Meeting over.

The horse they'd given him was beautiful, a Vadani mountain thoroughbred, intended to make him feel guilty and in their debt. He felt the guilt in spite of himself, but not the gratitude; it'd be impounded by the messengers' office as soon as he got back and given to some colonel in the mercenary cavalry. Just as well; it wouldn't be right to keep something the enemy had given him.

The fine, handsome, morally questionable thoroughbred cast a shoe almost as soon as he crossed the Eremian border, a few miles after his Vadani escort had turned back and left him on his own. That, he couldn't help thinking, was probably a judgment on him for his ingratitude, or else for being tempted to keep the horse. It gave him a certain amount to think about as he walked, leading the gift-horse by its reins, along the dusty, stony track that passed for the main road to Civitas Eremiae.

Other concerns, too; less high-minded and abstruse, rather more immediate. One of them was the fact that he'd forgotten to fill his water bottle back at Valens' palace; rather, he'd assumed that one of the Duke's countless servants would have done it for him while he was busy with the meeting. Another was the emptiness of his ration sack: the scrag end of a Mezentine munitions loaf, turned stale by the dry mountain air, a bit of cheese-rind and a single small onion.

He could, of course, ride the horse; but that would lame it, maybe cripple it for good on these horrible stony roads, and it was such a very fine horse, with its small, graceful head, arched neck and slim, brittle legs… Walking it lame would be as bad as damaging government property, for which he was personally responsible. That, he reckoned, was the Vadani for you: they bred exquisite horses, but their farriers couldn't nail a shoe on properly.

As if on purpose, the track started to climb steeply. Being a highly trained courier, Cannanus wasn't used to walking, and it wasn't long before he felt an ominous tightness in the back of his calves. He tried to picture in his mind the maps of the Eremian border country that he'd glanced at before he started out. The big stony thing he was struggling up was tall enough to count as a mountain, worth marking on a map and giving a name to; but there were so many mountains in Eremia that that was no great help. He gave up and started looking about him, but all he could see on the plain below was empty, patchy green blemished here and there with outcrops and bogs. Not a comfortable environment for a city boy at the best of times.

The thought that he could die out there, stupidly, through carelessness, took a while to form in his mind, but once he'd acknowledged it, he found it hard to silence. People died, lost in the mountains (but he wasn't lost, he was on the main road), particularly if they had no water and only a few crumbs of food (but Eremia was Mezentine territory now; there'd be patrols, hunting down the resistance or keeping out insurgents). He remembered passing an inn at some point. He'd only caught a glimpse of it as he galloped past (he'd been making up time after being held up crossing some river-a whole river full of water, unimaginable excess). He could remember the name from the map-the Unswerving Loyalty at Sharra Top-but he couldn't place it in this disorganized mess of landscape; could be an hour away, or a day's march on foot. Nothing for it; he was going to have to ride the stupid horse. After all, deliberately allowing a courier of the Republic to die of thirst in the desert was surely a worse crime against the state than crippling some overbred animal. Reluctantly, almost trembling with guilt, he ran down the stirrup, put his foot in it and lifted himself into the saddle.

The horse reared.

High-strung, temperamental thoroughbred, he thought, as his nose hit the horse's neck and his balance shifted just too far. He hung in the air for a moment, realizing objectively that he wasn't going to be able to sit this one out, and watched the sky as he fell.

Not as bad, actually, as some of the falls he'd had in the past; he'd been expecting worse, he told himself, as the pain subsided enough to allow his mind to clear. He opened his eyes, tried to move, found out that everything still worked. Stupid bloody horse, he thought, and dragged himself up, feeling the inevitable embarrassment of the seasoned rider decked by a mere animal; won't let it get away with that, or it'll think it's the boss. He looked round for it. Not there.

The rush of panic blotted out thought for a moment. He recovered, hobbled a little way to a tall rock, scrambled up and looked round. There was the horse; off the track, heading down the steep, rocky slope at a determined canter, obviously unaware of the desperate risk to its fragile, expensive legs. Served it right if it broke them all.

It took at least two heartbeats before he realized that it had gone too far-just too far, but enough-for him to have any hope of catching it, unless it stopped of its own accord, to rest or graze (graze? Graze on what?). No horse, no transport; and, needless to say, his few crumbs of food were in the ration sack, just behind the saddle roll.

Fear came next. He felt its onset, recognized it from a distance, as it were; but when it overtook him, there was nothing he could do about it. He was going to die; he was going to die very slowly, his throat and mouth completely dried out, like beans hung in the sun; it was all his own fault that he was going to die so unpleasantly, and there was no hope at all. He felt his knees weaken, his stomach tighten, his bladder twitch, he was shaking and sobbing. For crying out loud, he tried to tell himself, this is ridiculous; you haven't broken a leg, you're fit and healthy and it can't be far to that inn, but the forced hopes turned like arrows on proof armor. He dropped to the ground in a huddle, and shook all over like a fever case.

Fear came and went, taking most of him with it. He stood up; he was talking to himself, either out loud or in his head, he couldn't tell. You're not thinking straight, he said, you're going to pieces, that's not going to help; and you're missing something really important.

That stopped him. He looked round, like a man who's just realized he's dropped his keys somewhere. Something important that he'd seen just a few moments ago, before the fear set in and wiped his mind. Something…

It came back to him, and he thought, idiot. It had been there all the time, he'd probably been looking straight at it while he was crouching there quivering and blubbing. It had been a silvery flash; sunlight on the surface of a bog-pool, down below in the valley.

Some of his intelligence was starting to creep back. He looked for patches of darker, lusher green, and soon enough he caught sight of that flash again. He tried to gauge the distance-hard in such open country, but no more than two miles away, probably less, and all downhill. Now he thought about it, the horse had gone that way; there was a chance he'd find it again, drinking peacefully. Two miles downhill; he could do that, and then he'd have water. Not water to spare-the water bottle was with the ration sack, on the saddle of the stupid fucking horse-but enough to keep him alive, give him a chance to calm down and get a grip. He heard someone laugh, high, braying, almost hysterical; it took him a moment to realize he was listening to himself, but now he thought about it, he could see the joke.

To begin with he tried to hurry, but a couple of trips and sprawls made it clear that haste could kill him, if he fell awkwardly and twisted something. He'd been careless twice already that day. He slackened his pace to an amble, as though he was strolling home from work. All the way, he kept his eye fixed on the spot where he'd seen the silver flash, just in case it turned sneaky on him and crept away.

When he got there… It wasn't beautiful, even to a man who'd killed himself with anticipated thirst only an hour earlier. It was a brown hole surrounded by black peaty mud, sprinkled with white stones and fringed with clumps of coarse green reeds, a very few' clumps of dry heather, here and there a tuft of bog-cotton. He slowed down as he approached it; wading into the mud and getting stuck would be careless too, and he was through with carelessness for good. From now on, every action he committed himself to would be exquisitely designed, planned and executed with all proper Mezentine precision, a work of art and craft that anybody would be proud to acknowledge.

In accordance with this resolution, he crept forward, taking care to test the ground with his heel before committing his weight. It soon struck him that he was wasting his time; the mud was slimy and stank, but the most his boot sank in it was an inch or so. He quickened his pace; he could see the water now, and smell it too. Nothing to be afraid of…

He stopped. In front of him, unmistakable as a Guild hallmark, was the print of a horse's hoof. He frowned. So the horse had been this way-the print was fresh, he could tell by the sharpness of the indentation's edge, the deeper pits left by the nail-heads. Maybe it was still somewhere close, in which case at least some of his troubles could well be over. He swung his head, looking round, and saw another print, identical, and then another, at just the right interval. He'd found the wretched animal's tracks, so he could follow it until he caught up with it, and…

The fourth print he found was of an unshod hoof. Definitely his horse, then.

He hurried along the trail of prints. As he'd anticipated, it was heading straight for the water. Logical: horses get thirsty too. He wondered how much of a head start it'd have on him by now. Not too much, he hoped. The miserable creature would just be ambling along, grazing as it went, in no particular hurry. And it shouldn't be too hard to spot in this open, flat country.

He stopped. He'd reached the edge of the pond, a black beach of glittering mud, with two hoofprints in it; the water beyond, like a silver inlay in rusted steel. For a moment he forgot about the horse. It was only when he thought, And now I'll be able to fill my water bottle, too, that it occurred to him to wonder where the horse had gone from there. No hoofprints leading back the other way, after all. It looked for all the world as though the stupid animal had swum out into the middle of the pond…

Horses do swim, of course; but not unless they're made to. The horse had come this way, arrived here, but not gone back. There was no sign of it to be seen anywhere. Therefore, it had to be here still, somewhere.

Fear again. Not something he wanted to go through a second time in one day, but it swooped and caught him up before he could ward it off with deliberate thought. As he struggled to breathe, he shouted at himself, It's all right, all you've got to do is go back exactly the way you came, you know that's all firm footing. The very thought made him lose his balance. He staggered, as though drunk, and when his misplaced foot touched down there was nothing under it to take its weight, nothing at all, like standing in slow, thick water. He jerked his foot back, felt something sucking on his boot, but the seal broke and he wobbled helplessly on one foot, a ludicrous object, hanging in the balance between life and death. For two long seconds he knew he had no control over his body or his destiny; it was all to be decided by subtle and accidental forces of leverage and balance. His foot touched down, sank a heart-stopping two inches, and found a firm place.

At least it explained what had become of the horse. He sucked in air, although his lungs felt sealed; the battering of his heart shook him, as though someone behind him was nudging him repeatedly in the back. The insides of both his legs were wet and warm, and he spared a little attention for the momentary feeling of revulsion.

Well, he thought. I can't move. Under no circumstances am I going to move my feet, ever again.

As if they'd heard him and wanted to tease him, his knees had gone weak, to the point where they were endangering his balance. He knew what he had to do. Very slowly, keeping his back perfectly straight, he folded himself at the waist, bent his knees and squatted, stretching out his left hand as far as it could be forced to go so as to test the mud directly in front of him with his fingertips. Only when he was absolutely sure of it did he finally drop forward and kneel. That, he reckoned, was about the best he'd be able to do.

He looked up. There was the water, a thousand million gallons or so, but impossible to reach under any circumstances. He knelt and stared at it, almost as though he believed he might be able to train it to come when he whistled; but it didn't move, not even a ripple or a spread of circles where a water-fly had landed on its face. He laughed, a sound like his mind grating as its gears slipped their train. He was out of the mud, but he was completely and irrecoverably stuck. Big difference.

A certain amount of time passed. Mezentine precision could calibrate a scale to measure most things, but not time spent in terror, despair and that particular sort of shame. Once or twice he almost managed to nerve himself to move, only to fail when he made the actual attempt. He noticed that the water had a strange, colored sheen to it, and that one of the stones near his hand was crusted with yellow crystals. He thought: I shall spend the rest of my life here, and nobody will ever know what became of me. Maybe the horse had the right idea, after all. What would it feel like, drowning in mud? You'd try and breathe in, but nothing would come, the reverse of holding your breath. There'd be panic and spasm, but surely not for very long. Does pain actually matter if you don't survive it?

Something was different. He was aware of the change long before he realized what it was, probably because it was so mundane, among all the melodrama. Nothing but the light fading (and how long could he hope to survive once it was dark and he couldn't see the danger?). He was tired, he realized, more tired than he'd ever felt in his life, now that the panic had turned to terrified resignation. No chance at all that he'd manage to stay awake. Sleep would come for him, quiet as a poacher; he'd slide or roll into the mud, and…

The water turned red as the sky thickened; sunset brought a sharp chill that finally gave him a legitimate reason to tremble. Mosquitoes were buzzing a lullaby all round him. In spite of everything, it was impossible to believe that when the sun came up again, he wouldn't see it. He'd been in a battle, a tangled skirmish at the very end of the Eremian war; his horse had been shot under him and he'd ended up lying on the ground, trapped beneath its dead weight. All around him there'd been dying men, Mezentines and Eremians jumbled together, too damaged or too weak to move. He'd listened to them for three hours, shouting, screaming for help or yelling abuse, groaning, begging, sniveling, praying. He'd heard their voices fade one by one as the long wait came to an end. That he'd been able to understand; this-a healthy, strong man, uninjured, not yet starved or parched enough to be more than inconvenienced-was too arbitrary to be credible, because people don't just die, for no reason. He fought sleep as it laid siege to him; at first ferociously, as the Eremians had fought the investment of their city; then desperately, a scampering withdrawal in bad order to inadequately fortified positions; then aimlessly, because there really wasn't any point, but one has to do one's best. On his knees, supporting his weight with hands flat on the ground and fingers splayed, he let his head wilt forward and closed his eyes, allowing the equity of redemption to drain away. No point in keeping his eyes open when it was dark and there was nothing to see. Could you drown in your sleep, without ever waking up? If so it was a mercy, and it would be churlish to…

He was dreaming, and in his dream a man was standing over him, prodding him spitefully with a stick. It was an unusually vivid dream, because the prods hurt almost as much as the real thing would have done, had he been awake. The man began to shout. He dreamed that he opened his eyes and saw thin, gray light, the sort you get just before dawn; he saw the man with the stick, and for some reason he was straw-haired and fishbelly-skinned. Curious, almost perverse. Why, in his last dream before death, should his mind have conjured up an Eremian?

"Fucking wake up," the man yelled, and stabbed him with the stick, catching him on the edge of the collarbone. You can't hurt like that and still be asleep.

He saw the man's face. It was smooth, unlined, but horribly spoiled by a long, shiny pink scar. "If you don't wake up now," the man was bawling, "I'm bloody well leaving you here, all right?" He raised the stick again for another jab. Instinctively, Cannanus began to flinch away, remembering just in time not to move.

"I'm awake, for crying out loud," he gabbled; and as he said it, it occurred to him that there was a man, a fellow human being, there with him in the bog. "How did you get here?" he demanded. "It's a bog, you'll be eaten…"

The man looked startled, as though a friendly dog had snarled at him. "Oh," he said, relaxing a little, "I see what you… It's all right," he said, "I know the path, so long as we stay on it we'll be fine." Something must have occurred to him; he asked, "How long have you been there?"

"All night," Cannanus replied. "Can you get me out of this? Please? I'll do anything…"

"Just keep still and don't thrash about, or we'll both be in trouble." The man's voice had something about it, unfamiliar yet acting directly on him, as though the words didn't really matter. Authority, he supposed, but not the stern, brutal voice of a man giving orders. Rather, it was someone who naturally and reasonably expected to be obeyed when he told you what to do; it reminded him a lot of Duke Valens, but without the edge.

"It's perfectly simple," the man was saying. "We just go back the way I came. You can see my footprints, look. Easiest thing would be if you followed them exactly, put your feet on them. Oh, and don't let me leave without my sack."

For a moment, Cannanus didn't recognize the word. "Sack?"

"Sack. Come on, you know what a sack is."

Sure enough, there was a sack; two-thirds empty, but the man grunted as he lifted it onto his shoulder. "Mineral samples," he explained, unasked. "Sulfur. That's what I came here for, though it's pretty well picked clean now. One of the few places you can still find clean, pure sulfur crystals; I got some mined stuff the other day, loads of it, but it turned out to be filthy, full of crud, no use at all." He paused to let Cannanus catch up; he was racing ahead, as though there was no danger. "I expect you're wondering," he went on, in a cheerful voice, "why an Eremian should risk his neck to fish a Mezentine out of a bog."

Cannanus hadn't, as it happened. He'd had other things on his mind.

"Well, if you aren't, I certainly am." The man turned back and grinned at him, twisting the scar into a thin, angry line. "I don't know, really. Well, the fact is, it's not long since a passing stranger risked his neck to drag me out of one of these wretched bog-pools-not this one, another one a couple of miles further on. When I saw your tracks, I guessed you might be in trouble. It was only after I'd figured out a safe way in-you can see it, if you've been shown what to look for, it's a certain way the light shines off the mud; pretty metaphysical stuff, though I guess there's a perfectly reasonable explanation. Anyhow, I'd already done all the waiting around for the light to come up so I could see those special reflections, and then the dodgy part, charging in and finding out if I'd read the signs right, before I realized you're actually one of the enemy; and by then it seemed a bit silly, really, to turn round and walk away. The fact is, the bloke who rescued me had every reason to leave me there, but he didn't; so I guess I'm under a sort of obligation to repay the favor vicariously, if you follow me; even if you are a Mezentine. Stupid, really; if we'd met in a battle rather than a bog-pit, I'd have done everything I possibly could to kill you. Just goes to show how arbitrary the rules we make for ourselves really are."

The man certainly liked the sound of his own voice, although Cannanus charitably decided it was part of the rescue, keeping him distracted with cheerful chatter so he wouldn't suddenly panic and trip into the mud; a wise, resourceful man who thought of everything. He prattled about minerals and where to find them, their properties, the difficulties that lay in refining them, the time and labor… One thing he said, however, was very interesting. "My name's Miel, by the way. Miel Ducas." Pause. "Quite likely you've heard of me."

Cannanus said nothing, though that in itself constituted a clear admission.

"Fine," Ducas said. "You know who I am. I don't suppose there's any point telling you I'm through with the resistance-well, the resistance is more or less done for anyway, it's just that I chucked it in before it withered away and died, and I don't think that was cause and effect, either. Truth is, I was in one fight too many. Oddly enough, I only realized that was the reason after I'd decided to give up. I got separated from them-well, lost, actually; the irony is, all this used to be my land, though I'd never even been out this far before. Well, I had my chance to hurry back and carry on with the noble struggle, but instead I thought, the hell with it, I'll stay here. Now I'm in business with…" Just the slightest hesitation as he considered his choice of words. "With some people, and I'm doing something useful for once. Crazy, really. I spent most of my life ignoring all the good things I was born to, pursuing what I believed to be my duty to my country and my people. Plain fact is, when it really mattered I only ever did them more harm than good. Now I've lost everything, but found something I actually want to do-for myself, I mean, not because it's expected of me. And no, I don't know why I'm telling you all this, except maybe because you're a complete stranger, and sometimes you need to talk to someone."

Suddenly he stopped. Cannanus froze in his tracks, terrified that Ducas had come the wrong way, led them both into horrible danger. Instead, he turned round and said, "Well, here we are. Safe from here on; you can run up and down like an overexcited dog if you want to and you won't suddenly disappear into a bog-pool. Which means," he added, breathing in deeply, "that if you want to carry on going, get back to the Republic and tell your intelligence people you've found where the rebel leader's hiding out, now's as good a time as any. Just keep straight on up that mountain-Sharra, it's called-and you'll come to an inn, about a day and a half's walk from here. Last I heard, your people don't come out to the inn; too far for them to patrol and still be back in camp by nightfall. Even so, you ought to be able to send word to the nearest garrison camp to come and fetch you. If that's what you want to do, I mean."

Cannanus could hear his own breathing. "You won't…" Ducas laughed. "Now that really would be silly," he said. "I risk my life to save you, and then risk it again killing you. No, the hell with it. You're bigger than me, I don't suppose I could subdue you by force and drag you back to our place. If anything, it'd be the other way round, you'd take me to the Mezentines. So, let's avoid the issue, shall we? If you want to go, go."

Cannanus remembered something: practicalities. Not so long ago, he'd been resigned to a miserable death, and that was before he'd wandered into the bog. "I can't," he said. "I've got no water, or food."

"I told you," Ducas replied, with maybe a hint of impatience for feebleness. "Day and a half straight up the mountain, you'll come to the Unswerving Loyalty. Basic home cooking and they won't give you water, you'll have to make do with beer, but it'll keep you alive."

"I'd get lost," Cannanus said wretchedly.

"Probably you wouldn't."

"Possibly I might." As he heard himself say the words, he understood for the first time just how terrified he'd been, ever since the horse threw him and he became aware of how dangerous the world was for a mere pedestrian. In a way, it was a bit like what Ducas had said, about losing all his wealth and power, only in reverse. When he'd still had a horse, he could have done anything. It was all the horse's fault-stupid Vadani thoroughbred-and it had got no less than it deserved.

Ducas scowled. "If I take you back with me," he said, "my partners are going to be so angry."

It hadn't occurred to him that Ducas didn't want him. He'd assumed… Unreasonable assumption, that just because someone rescues you, he's prepared to put himself out even further on your behalf. "Straight up the mountain, you say."

"Follow your nose, you can't miss it." Ducas was bending over his sack, taking something from it. "Here," he said, holding up a two-pint leather bottle. "If you're so worried. I'll have to tell them I dropped it somewhere. Hardware doesn't grow on trees, you know." He lobbed the bottle; Cannanus caught it clumsily on the second attempt, terrified it'd fall on the stones and split.

"I can get home without a drink, assuming I don't trip and do my ankle or something stupid. No food, I'm afraid, but you'll last out, you don't look exactly emaciated to me. Of course," he added slowly, "a good man, someone with a bit of something about him, wouldn't tell the authorities where he got that bottle from; who gave it to him, I mean. He'd feel a sort of obligation. At least, he would where I come from. I don't know how duty works in the Republic."

Cannanus didn't say anything.

"Well, anyway." Suddenly Ducas seemed in a hurry. "Straight up the mountain. If you hit a road you've gone too far west, but don't worry, just follow it and go easy on the water, it gets you there eventually. If you go too far east you'll come to a river, so that's all right." He grinned, as if at some private joke. "If I'd known that a few months ago, I'd be in Civitas Vadanis right now, with my cousin, paying off a few old scores of my own. Duty, you see. Horrible thing, but they tell you it's important when you're a kid, and like a fool you believe them. That was the motto of our family, you know: Masters of North Eremia, Slaves of Duty. Fifty generations of idiots, and then came me." He turned and started to walk away.

Cannanus hesitated; Miel Ducas, the rebel leader, his savior. "Thank you," he said.

"My pleasure," Ducas said, without looking back.