Evil for Evil

28

At least the Aram Chantat weren't vegetarians, as the late Duke Orsea had believed. On the contrary, if it moved (but not fast enough to escape) they ate it. Sand-grouse and quail weren't too bad, but the funny little birds they served up spit-roasted on arrow shafts just tasted of gristle and grit. She reckoned they were thrushes, but he inclined to the view that they were too small for that. Some kind of starling, was his guess.

And a wonderful improvement on nothing at all, no question about that. To begin with, the gratitude was so thick in the air, walking through the camp was like swimming in mud. There was so much to be grateful for: the Aram Chantat had saved them from the Mezentines, fed them, given them warm blankets for the freezing-cold nights, brought up ox-carts for them to ride in so they wouldn't have to walk the rest of the way across the desert; they'd bound up and dressed their wounds, cured their heatstroke and dysentery with revolting little drinks in tiny clay beakers, even buried the dead in an efficient and respectful manner. The one thing they didn't do was talk, if it could possibly be avoided; but nobody seemed to mind that, at least to start with.

They made an exception in Valens' case. When the convoy reached the edge of the desert (at least, they assumed that was what it was, because of the arrow-straight, deeply rutted road they came to, and the fact that the stunted thorn bushes were slightly closer together), they were met by a coach; an extraordinarily, breathtakingly ornate coach, that looked as though it was on fire until you got close enough to see that every square inch of it was covered in gold leaf. Looking at it hurt the eyes, so instead you gazed at the eight immaculately perfect milk-white horses, or the twenty escort riders, covered like their horses from head to foot in gilded scale armor, apparently unaware of the murderous heat. Out of the burning carriage came a prodigiously tall young man in a pure white robe and gold slippers. He approached the head of the column and snapped at the captain of the Aram Chantat escort, who murmured something back in a voice so soft that none of the Vadani could make out what he'd said. But the vision in white must've understood enough, because he walked slowly and directly to Valens, ignoring the existence of everybody else, and dipped his head in the slightest of bows.

"Duke Valens," he said, in a perfect received-Mezentine accent. "Perhaps you would care to come with me."

It would have been a monstrous sin to deny this perfect creature anything. For some reason, none of the Vadani showed any inclination to go with him. Painfully aware of his filthy clothes and unshaven face, Valens nodded and followed, heading toward the glowing, blinding coach. When he was five yards away from it, two little girls in white smocks scuttled forward from the shadow of the wheels and unrolled a magnificent purple carpet, which the godlike man in white stepped on without looking down. A folding step evolved out of the side of the carriage; simultaneously, a cloth-of-gold awning leaned silently out over the coach door.

Well, Valens thought, I've seen worse. He put his foot on the step and climbed out of the penumbra of the gold fire into total darkness. He heard the door click precisely behind him.

"We have the honor of greeting our son-in-law," said a tiny voice.

Not pitch dark after all; a faint gleam of light leaked out through a gold gauze lampshade surrounding a single small oil lamp. By its meager glow Valens could see a tiny, shriveled little man, completely bald, smooth forehead, cheeks gaunt as a corpse, thin lips, no more than seven teeth, wrapped up like a baby in a massive swathe of heavy white wool blankets. There were figures on either side of the little man, but all he could see of them were dim, bulging shapes.

The little man was waiting for a reply, but Valens couldn't think of anything to say. Someone cleared his throat, a short, clipped sound.

"I take it I have the privilege of addressing Duke Valens Valentinianus," the little man said, in the most perfectly correct Mezentine accent Valens had ever heard. "Allow me to offer my heartiest greetings, despite the tragic circumstances of this meeting."

Son-in-law, he remembered. This exquisite maggot must be her father. He realized with a dull ache of horror that he couldn't remember her name.

"Pleased to meet you," he mumbled. "And thank you. I…"

Whatever he'd been intending to say, it didn't seem to want to clot into words. The little man raised a claw about an eighth of an inch. More would have been mere vulgar display.

"When your Major Nennius contacted our frontier patrol, they quite properly sent a messenger to inform us. He rode at top speed until his horse died under him; fortuitously, he was able to requisition another horse within a matter of minutes. He too died shortly after reaching us, but not before delivering his message. We came at once, not stopping to change our clothes or provision ourselves for the journey. We have driven without pause, stopping only to change horses. We are greatly relieved to have arrived here in time to greet you ourselves, instead of delegating such a momentous privilege to others. We are pleased that you have come, and await with trepidation your confirmation that our soldiers have served you adequately."

Valens blinked. He had no idea what the little man was trying to say.

"They saved our lives," he said. "I'm very grateful."

The claws came together in a silent clap. "Excellent," said the little man. "Words cannot express my delight. And now we must have some tea."

Something tinkled faintly, and from somewhere in the darkness a small gold tray appeared, held steady as a rock by two tiny pale hands. On it rested a little gold bowl, from which steam rose.

"For me?" Valens asked stupidly.

"If you would care for it," the little man said.

It burned his mouth and tasted of slightly stale water. As soon as he put the cup back on the tray, it disappeared completely.

"Please sit." Valens had forgotten he was standing. Pale hands, not the same ones that had produced the tea, put down a plain low white stool. It was made of bleached ivory, and proved to be as uncomfortable as it looked.

Deep breath. "I'm very sorry," Valens said, "about your daughter."

"My great-granddaughter." The voice was small and precise as the point of a needle. "All my children and grandchildren are dead. Your wife was, indeed, the last of my family. Accordingly, her loss is more than usually unfortunate." He could have said inconvenient just as easily. "I must confess that when I heard the news of her death, I was greatly distressed. However, the circumstances under which the news reached me have done much to reconcile me to her loss." The pitch of the voice changed very slightly, but enough to make Valens' flesh crawl. "Is it really true? Did you cross the desert in nine days?"

Valens nodded.

For a moment, the little man's eyes seemed to flare, like embers blasted by the bellows. "You must tell me all about it," he said. "The circumstances of her death, and your remarkable journey."

For the next hour, Valens did just that; and if the little man found his imprecision and woeful carelessness in observing details annoying, he masked it behind a tiny fixed smile, except when he was asking one of his innumerable, razor-sharp questions. Every few minutes, someone he couldn't see would mutter something; each interruption must have registered with the little man, because he would acknowledge it with a flicker of his little finger; a full crook of the top joint apparently showing approval, a waggle indicating irrelevance or stupidity. All the time, his eyes stayed fixed on Valens' face, and if he blinked once, Valens must have missed it.

"Thank you," he said, when Valens had answered his last question. "It comforts me to know the truth." A tiny sniff. "Now you must be very tired." (An order more than an observation.) "A suitable coach will be at your disposal very soon. We will convey you and your followers"-an infinity of contempt in that word-"to our camp, where you can rest and recover your strength before we speak again. I am most grateful to you for talking to me. If there is anything at all that you or your people require, please tell one of my officers, and the matter will be dealt with immediately."

Behind him, the coach door opened, flooding the world with painful scorching light. Someone covered the little man's head with a lace cloth. A finger, pressed very gently on Valens' shoulder, told him it was time for him to leave.

Outside, the sun was unbelievably bright. The immaculate young man in white led him to another coach, just as blinding but silvered rather than gilded. The carpet, step and awning appeared by the same magic. Valens followed the man in white like a sheep being led into a crush. There was one seat in the coach, and the blinds were drawn. As soon as the door clicked behind him, the coach started to move.

He could have lifted the blind, of course, but he knew he wasn't meant to; so he sat in the dark for an indeterminate period, somewhere between hours and days. The coach stopped twice; each time, the door opened just enough to admit a little silver tray (one silver cup of the hot dishwater and three tiny, rock-hard cakes) and a spotlessly clean silver chamber-pot, exquisitely decorated with scroll-and-foliage engraving. The coach's suspension was so perfect that pissing in the chamber-pot at the gallop was simplicity itself. Curiously, it wasn't removed at the second stop; but not a drop had been spilled, so that was presumably all right.

He was asleep when the coach stopped for the third time, and ferocious light woke him up out of a half-dream in which he was talking to the little man but couldn't hear a word either of them was saying. The door was open, and a different tall young man in white was beckoning to him. His back and legs ached unbearably, and the light was like nails driven into both sides of his head at once.

The first thing he noticed was tents; an ocean of them, all brilliant white, like a bumper crop of absurdly large mushrooms. Then he realized that there weren't any other coaches apart from his and the little man's golden miracle.

"Where are…?" he started to say. The young man smiled.

"They are being taken care of," he said. "Please follow me."

He had to walk a whole ten yards, five of them on the dusty, gravelly soil rather than carpet. He could feel the young man's embarrassment, but obviously there was nothing he could do about that. The tent he was led into was about the size of an average farm barn, brilliant white on the outside, dark as a bag inside. These people, he decided, must regard light the way the Vadani felt about mud; there's a lot of it about, but the better sort of people take reasonable steps to avoid getting covered in it. He sat down on a heap of cushions, which were the only visible artifacts in the tent, apart from a solid gold chamber-pot the size of a rain bucket. He was alone again.

Presumably he must have fallen asleep when the tent flap opened and yet another tall young man in white brought him a tray of food. This time, it wasn't a sparse little snack of cakes; in fact, he was amazed that someone so slight-looking could carry that much weight, let alone put it down so effortlessly, without grunting. It was all, needless to say, lean roast meat. He guzzled as much of it as he could bear, and washed it down with the thimbleful and a half of water that came with it, in a dear little silver bottle.

Nobody could stay awake for very long after that. He woke up some time later, tortured with indigestion and dry as parchment, in the dark. No trace of light seeped through the heavy fabric of the tent, which suggested it was night. He lay on his back, too uncomfortable to sleep. The likeliest explanation was that at some point he'd died without noticing it, and this was the afterlife they promised you in the old stories; whether it was one reserved for the very good or the very bad he wasn't quite sure.

Dawn came painfully slowly, gradually building up a glow in the tent walls. He couldn't hear anything at all-he had to prove to himself that he hadn't gone deaf by dropping the silver bottle onto the tray. While he was doing that, he noticed that his filthy clothes had somehow turned into spotlessly clean white robes, like the ones worn by the tall young men, and his boots had evolved into ridiculous little silver-thread slippers with pointy toes and no backs. It was that which helped him clarify his newly found religious faith. This had to be the very bad people's place.

After a thousand years or so, the tent flap opened again. Not a tall, slim young man in white this time; an older man, in a plain robe of sort-of-gray woolen cloth, wearing sensible boots that Valens would have traded his duchy for. The man looked at him for a moment as if he was something regrettable that couldn't reasonably be avoided, and said, "This way."

This way proved to be the five yards or so to the tent next door, across a red, blue and purple carpet. Inside, the tent was pitch black; a clue, he decided, to the identity of his host.

"You have rested." Not a question. "Please sit down. You must try the orange and cinnamon tea; it's stronger, but one needs a little stimulation in the morning."

Stimulation; the little man sounded so frail that Valens reckoned anything more stimulating than slow, shallow breathing would probably kill him. "Thank you," he said.

The cup was put into his hand.

"I must apologize," the little man's voice went on, "about the rather dim light. I'm afraid that my eyes are rather sensitive. Direct sunlight gives me a headache."

"That's quite all right," Valens mumbled.

"In fact," the voice continued, quite matter-of-fact, "practically everything in my life hurts me these days-breathing, eating, drinking, sleeping, waking up, moving, keeping still, every kind and description of bodily function brings with it a different and complementary pain. I had hoped," he added wistfully, "to have died earlier this year, but regrettably I realized that I could not permit myself to do so. My last surviving son, you see; quite suddenly, my doctors tell me it was his heart. With only my great-granddaughter left-you can appreciate the problem, I feel sure. At the best of times, a line of succession is such a slender thing, a single strand of spider's web, and our enemies are so strong, so unrelenting." A short pause, no doubt to gather strength. "The Rosinholet and the Bela Razo made a joint attack on us earlier this year; not just a cattle raid, but a concerted attempt to wipe us out. My son undertook the defense, but he had turned into an old man; too weak to ride a horse, too confused to manage all the intricacies of a serious war. I had to relieve him of command in the end. We saw them off, eventually, but I knew then that something had to be done. They will return, I feel certain of it; with them, I expect, they will bring the Aram no Vei and the Luzir Soleth. The simple fact is, there are too many of us; the Cure Hardy, I mean. We have bred too many cattle and too many children, and the pasture will not support us all. Some nations have tried sitting down-staying in one place all the time, I mean, as you do-but we simply can't live like that. The only logical solution is for one of the nations of the confederacy to go away, or else be wiped out."

Silence; not expecting a reply or a comment, just a pause for breath and reflection. Nevertheless, Valens said, "You want to cross the desert and settle there?"

"Precisely." The little man sounded pleased that he wasn't going to have to explain. "We heard about the annihilation of the Eremian people by the Perpetual Republic of Mezentia. Most regrettable, of course; but it stands to reason that if a nation is wiped out, their lands fall empty."

"But Eremia's not big enough, surely," Valens said without thinking.

"No, of course not," the old man sighed. "We should need the entire territory between the mountains and the sea. But if the Eremians have disappeared, and we allied ourselves with you, that would only leave the Mezentines to be disposed of-assuming," he added, with the ghost of a chuckle, "that we could get across the desert without losing more than half our number of effective fighting men. That was the question that remained unanswered when my great-granddaughter left here to marry you." He sighed again, a long, thin noise like the last exhalation of a dying animal. "And now you have brought us a safe, quick path across the desert; now, I need only live long enough to see Mezentia got rid of, and my duty will at last be done. My people will have a safe home, I will have my successor, and you…" A laugh like dry twigs snapping. "I assume you would like to be revenged on the murderers of your wife. Personally, I've never been able to see the merit in revenge, except as a deterrent to further offense, but my people think very highly of it. My great-granddaughter's death will be all the pretext they need, without the prospect of a new home." Pause. "I take it you would wish to see the Mezentines destroyed?"

One thing you couldn't do to the voice was lie to it. "Yes," Valens said. "I'd like to see them butchered to the last man, woman and child. I'd like to stand and watch, when I get too tired to take part myself. But not if it means risking the lives of what's left of my people. I'd rather let the Mezentines get away with what they've done completely unscathed."

Two hands too weak to clap patted each other. "Splendid answer," the voice said. "Exactly what my successor should have said; and I have no doubts at all about your sincerity, let me stress that. Everything I have heard of you leads me to believe that you are a good king, like your father before you. Which is why," he went on, "I shall have to live long enough to do the taking of revenge myself. I told you I don't believe in it; I don't believe in our gods, either, but my people do. On balance, it seems far more likely that they are right than I am. We will wipe out the Mezentines for you; you won't have to make that choice. If you prefer, you are welcome to stay here and wait until the job is done and our army returns. You may regard it as a belated wedding present, if you wish. As reciprocation for the wonderful gift you've given us-the safe way across the desert-it is, I fear, wholly inadequate. Tell me," and the voice quickened just a little, "how did you find out about it? There have been rumors, of course. Many of my people have claimed there was such a thing, over the years. Only recently a foolish young man called Skeddanlothi-a cousin of mine, unfortunately too distant to be able to succeed me-declared that he had found it and would prove his assertion by going there himself. Of course, he never came back, so presumably he was misinformed."

"A merchant," Valens heard himself say. "A trader from my country found it, apparently. He came here several times to buy salt; when he died, he left a diary, and a map. One of my…" He couldn't think of a word to describe Vaatzes. "One of my people found the map, and when the Mezentines were closing in on us, we took a chance and followed it; and here we are."

The noise that greeted these words didn't sound at all like laughter, but what else could it be? "Remarkable," the voice said eventually. "And salt, of all things. Well; I don't suppose it matters how the way was found, so long as it really exists. Tell me about the oases; will they water an army of two hundred thousand, do you think? Of course, I have sent surveyors, men who know about that sort of thing; I shall know for sure soon enough. But I'm impatient. What do you think? Will there be enough water?"

Valens heard a voice saying, "Yes," and realized it was his own. "And water won't be a problem once you reach the mountains on the other side; it's how to transport the quantities of food you'll need…"

"Oh, don't worry about that." The voice sounded almost cheerfully dismissive. "We have vastly more experience in that sort of thing than you do, by all accounts."

Despite the dark, Valens' eyes felt tired. He rubbed them before saying: "Can you really field an army of two hundred thousand?"

The strange sound again, equivalent to laughter. "An expeditionary force of two hundred thousand light cavalry and lancers, followed by the heavy cavalry and dragoons-say three hundred and fifty thousand-would probably be adequate for the task and still leave a sufficient reserve here in case of further attacks from our enemies." Short pause. "I should, of course, be asking your opinion, not purporting to state a fact. Do you think five hundred and fifty thousand cavalry would be enough to deal with the Mezentines? I understand that their field army is made up entirely of foreigners serving for money; a mixed blessing, at best, I should imagine. We could send a larger force, but my experience is that once you pass a certain point, a large army is more of a hindrance than a help."

This time it was Valens who paused before speaking. "How many of you are there?" he said.

Laughter again; a different sound, like the barking of a very small dog. "How delightful, that you feel sufficiently at ease already to ask such a direct question!" Then the pitch of the voice changed again; lower, quite businesslike. "I regret to say that I don't have an up-to-date census to hand; five months ago, however, when we held the usual muster and games to celebrate my birthday, on the fifth day all the men of military age fit for active service paraded on the plain beside the Swallow River. As each regiment marched past its commander-in-chief, each man placed an arrow on a pile. When the parade was over, the arrows were gathered up into barrels, each holding one thousand. We filled seven hundred barrels, with a few hundred arrows left over. If you ask me what proportion of our people are fit for military service, I would estimate somewhere between an eighth and a tenth. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes." Valens thought for a moment, then said, "As far as I know, the total population of Mezentia is something around eight hundred thousand; it could be less, I'm pretty sure it's not much more. So yes, I think half a million men would probably be enough."

"You think so? I wonder." The voice was very faint. "Allow me to confess my ignorance. I have never seen a city. Come to that, I have never seen a stone-built house. Only a tiny handful of my people have seen anything of the kind. I admit to finding the whole concept both repellent and strangely fascinating; to live your entire life in a box, to see the same view every morning when you wake up; remarkable. But I understand that Mezentia has the highest, thickest walls in the world, with massive gates and high towers, and extraordinary machines that hurl rocks and spears to defend them. I am told that when an enemy shuts himself up in such a very strong box, the only way to deal with him is to keep him there until he starves, and either comes out or dies." A click of the tongue, faint but perfectly clear. "I assume that this process takes time, and I think I have explained why I am in something of a hurry. Yes, I believe that five hundred thousand cavalry could shut the Mezentines up in their box, for a little while, until they themselves began to feel hungry and so were obliged to move on. Do you think the Mezentines' city can be taken? I really don't know enough about these things to form a sensible opinion."

Valens thought: I wonder who made the decision to start the war. I wonder what passed through his mind, just before the scales tipped slightly more one way than the other. He said: "I think it's possible. You see, I have a man…"

"Ziani Vaatzes."

"Yes, him. He nearly managed to defend Civitas Eremiae against them. I've come to know him, a little. I think, give him a long enough crowbar and he can pull apart any box on earth."

"I know a little about him," the voice said softly. "And I would tend to agree." Another pause, and Valens wished there was enough light to show him the little man's face. "I must confess, I'm given rather to flights of fancy. I picture things in my mind that I have never seen; picture them the way they should be, if you follow me, rather than how they are. I have a very clear picture in my mind of Ziani Vaatzes. At some point, I suppose, I shall see him in the flesh, and be vastly disappointed. Of course, I have never seen a Mezentine. I understand that their skins are brown. I shall ask my soldiers to bring me some dead bodies from the oasis. Did you know that the Rosinholet are experts at curing and preserving dead bodies? When a particularly famous and valuable man dies, they cure his skin and stuff it with wool bound tight on a wooden frame, to simulate the bones. Sometimes they mount their illustrious dead on horses, or sit them on the boxes of their wagons. I shall see if we have any Rosinholet embalmers among our slaves, who could manufacture a dozen or so Mezentines for me. It would be appropriate, don't you think? The Mezentines are wonderful makers of things, so I don't see why they shouldn't be made into things themselves. Perhaps, given his rather special skills, Ziani Vaatzes could build appropriate mechanisms to go inside them, so that they can do more or less everything they could do when they were alive. Who knows, maybe we could improve on the design a little in some respects, unless Foreman Vaatzes considers that would constitute an abomination." A soft, dry sound, like a dusty carpet being beaten. "Forgive me, I wander off sometimes. Here's an idea. Let's send for Foreman Vaatzes and ask him for his professional opinion. What do you think of that?"

"There you are," Daurenja said, materializing suddenly in the doorway of the tent.

Ziani looked up and scowled. "Not now," he said. "I'm busy."

"Are you?" Daurenja ducked, his ridiculously long neck bending like a drawn bow, and stepped inside the tent, blotting out the light for a moment or so as he came. "Doing what?"

"Resting. Go away."

Daurenja folded his legs and back and sat down on the ground next to him. "Really," he said cheerfully. "That's no way to talk to your business partner."

"I haven't got one."

"Yes you have." He was sitting unpleasantly close, his back to the tent's center pole. His hair was wet and hung loose down his back in rat-tails. He was wearing a pristine white robe, like the ones the Aram Chantat nobles wore, and on his feet were a pair of curly-toed red velvet slippers. "That's one of the things I wanted to talk to you about. Not the main thing, though. Mostly, I wanted a few quiet minutes to tell you how brilliant you are."

Ziani sighed and started to get up. A hand with a grip like a bench-vise grabbed his shoulder and pulled him down, so fast and so smooth that he had no chance to resist. "Please stay and listen," Daurenja said. "Surely you can spare a few moments to hear a few nice things about yourself."

Ziani picked the hand off his shoulder; touching it was like drawing the guts out of dead poultry after it's hung for a week. "If they're nice," he said, "they probably aren't true. I've never gone much on fiction."

"Don't worry on that score," Daurenja said with a mild giggle. "Everything I'm about to say is perfectly true. Well, you can be the judge of that."

Ziani tried to get up again, but his knees were too weak. "I don't want to talk to you," he said.

"In a minute you will." Daurenja yawned. "Where's the best place to start? Shall we begin with the Duke's wedding day, when you betrayed the hunting party to the Mezentines?"

Ziani felt cold, and all his joints appeared to have seized. "That's bullshit," he said. "And you know as well as I do, it was Duke Orsea who-"

"Ah. Poor Duke Orsea. But I think we'll come to him later. Actually, on reflection, I think we ought to start at the beginning, or as close to it as makes no odds. Tell me; after you ran away from the city, were you actually heading for the Eremian camp, or was running into them a fat slice of sheer good luck?"

This time, Ziani lashed out. He was aiming for Daurenja's chin, but when his fist reached the place where the target should have been, it met nothing but air. Almost simultaneously, something very hard and fast hit Ziani just above the right ear. More surprised than anything else, he folded his arms and legs, like a spider killed suddenly on its web, and dropped to the floor.

"As I was saying." Daurenja's voice, blurred and distant, reached him through the pain like a far-off light glimpsed through mist. "Did you deliberately set out to find Orsea from the start? I suppose what I'm asking is, was the plan already more or less complete in your mind at that early stage, or were you still making it up as you went along?"

Ziani felt sick and dizzy; it was like being very drunk and having the hangover at the same time. He tried to gauge the distance between Daurenja's legs and himself, but it was too much effort.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbled.

"By all means lie if you want to," Daurenja said pleasantly. "It doesn't matter to me, because I know the truth. And yes, I know it's true. The plan's there for anybody to see, if he's got the wit to know what he's looking at. I've been studying it for months now, piecing it together. It's been an education, and an honor. I was only able to figure it out because we're so very much alike, you and me." He shifted a little, moving slightly sideways, slightly back. There was some fencing move or other where you did that. "Ever since I saw it for what it is, I've been trying to take it apart, bit by bit, to figure out how it works. You know, you really are a clever man, Ziani. It's the combination of imaginative flair and scrupulous attention to detail that does it. It's odd, really; I mean, the Mezentine tradition hardly encourages innovative design, does it? There's a set specification, you copy it exactly or they string you up. Really, when you think of a talent like yours being neglected like that, it's a crying shame."

Ziani saw movement out of the corner of his eye, then felt the impact of a powerful blow; a kick in the ribs, which squeezed all the air put of his body.

"Now I'm pretty clear in my mind about what happened up to the fall of Eremia," Daurenja went on. "By arming the Eremians with scorpions, you made sure that the war escalated out of control, making the Republic commit itself far more deeply than it wanted to. The sideshow with Duke Valens and Orsea's wife; clearly you didn't set any of that up, but you did ensure that Orsea found out about it; that suggests you were planning a long way ahead by that point, so I'm assuming that most of the main elements were already clearly established in your mind." He paused, as though waiting for a reply or some sort of comment. There was disappointment in his voice when he resumed. "Now I'm going to have to press you for an answer here," he said, "because obviously the next bit is crucial to a clear understanding of the mechanism. Was it you who opened the gates and let the Mezentines in to Civitas Eremiae?"

"No."

He could see Daurenja frowning. "I think you did," he said. "It's the sort of bold, radical approach that hallmarks your work; also the way you make one process further several different functions. For example: you needed to draw the Vadani into the war. I'm guessing you assumed that Orsea and Veatriz would seek asylum with Valens; I don't imagine you actually predicted Valens' big, romantic gesture, that was really just a massive bonus. Still, no shame in being lucky; and a beautiful design like yours sort of encourages luck to happen; you attract it, like decoying geese." He stopped, then said, "Anything you'd like to add before we move on? No? Oh, I wish you'd share with me. I'd love to know how you went about figuring it all out, it'd be a master class in design. Oh well." He waited hopefully a little longer, then went on: "The other function was controlling Valens himself, through his thwarted love for Orsea's wife. Very clever. What Valens secretly wants more than anything is to snatch Veatriz out of the jaws of death and have her fall into his arms; but just when he thinks he's getting there, he finds himself lumbered with Orsea as well. Obviously, that's an intolerable position to be in-which is exactly what you want, since you need to break Valens down-gradually, at a carefully controlled rate of decay-to the point where he's weak enough for you to manipulate him directly. The love-triangle thing does that perfectly, and I'm guessing that that's the real reason Civitas Eremiae had to fall. You'd never get Orsea away from his city unless it was burned to the ground, and you'd never get Veatriz to Valens' court without Orsea. On reflection, I bet you were expecting the rescue or something like it; not banking on it, of course, but quietly confident it'd happen. There, you see; decoying luck, like I said a moment ago."

Ziani tried to speak, but he hadn't got enough breath back yet.

"Talking of luck," Daurenja went on, "I'm going to stick my neck out and say that the hidden way across the desert was the major breakthrough. Sorry, but there's no way you could have known about that until you reached Civitas Vadanis. On the other hand, I'm pretty sure you'd already resolved on bringing about the marriage alliance with the Cure Hardy. That must've come at a very early stage, because of course that's what everything's been about: bringing the Cure Hardy into the war, since they're the only power on earth that could beat the Republic. You must've decided to involve them, I'm assuming through the marriage-alliance mechanism, right back in the very early stages, probably before you first met Orsea. In which case, I insist on you answering this one, you must've just left a gap in the design-a big hole marked Find a way of getting Valens to marry a Cure Hardy princess-and worked round it until you heard about Skeddanlothi's raid-was that before or after you arrived in Civitas Vadanis? — and realized there must be a secret way across the desert out there somewhere, waiting to be rediscovered. Am I right?"

"No," Ziani said. Daurenja kicked him again. He retched violently, but nothing came out.

"I think I'm right," Daurenja went on. "I have to say, it's a privilege to study a mind like yours in action. All right, there was that crucial slice of luck; just like the thing between Valens and Veatriz was a slice of luck. What matters is how you used it; and that's where this fantastic attention to detail comes in. As soon as you've realized the significance of Skeddanlothi, you ferret around until you find the trader's widow and the map. Not just more luck; you found it because you had a pretty good idea of where to look. What, you asked yourself, could the Vadani possibly want from the Cure Hardy that'd make it worth someone's while finding out about the oasis route? Answer: salt, of course. Once you've got salt, you can target salt traders past and present, and sooner or later you'll find what you're after. I always think luck's a bit like splitting a log. You're much more likely to succeed if you read the grain and look for flaw-lines."

Ziani made a monstrous effort and spasmed his back into a sharp contraction, enough to get him onto his hands and knees. It took time; and when he'd finally made it, Daurenja kicked him hard, just under the left nipple, and landed him back more or less where he'd started.

"The way you made use of the marriage alliance," Daurenja went on. "You know what I think? I believe you were the one who put the idea in Chancellor Carausius' head to start with. Did you?"

"No, of course not."

"I think you did. And the way you handled Carausius after that; leading him along, step by patient step, and I'll bet he never even realized he was being guided. And of course, you had to be so careful; even the slightest hint that you were playing games with Valens and he'd have shied and ruined the whole thing. Very risky, of course, since you were already working Valens over on two other fronts at the same time: the armored wagon idea, which you needed so as to get him out of the city and into the open, where you could manipulate him pretty much at will; and also the business with the mines-quite brilliant, by the way, as a little self-contained mechanism serving two functions: you get Valens' confidence and a reputation as an engineering miracle worker, which you need in order to build your ascendancy over him, and at the same time you're in a perfect position to give the silver mines practically intact to the Mezentines at the critical moment, to make sure they've got enough money to keep them in the war. The economy and efficiency of that arrangement-well, purely in engineering terms, in my opinion it's actually one of the best things you've ever done; either that, or the way you set up Orsea, at the end. Though," Daurenja went on after a brief pause for reflection, "the Orsea thing runs it fairly close, in terms of two birds and one stone-you get rid of a minor but appreciable threat to yourself, you use Orsea to build up your credibility and bargaining position with the Republic, and of course you finally destroy Valens by making him murder Veatriz's husband, thereby ruining his chances of getting the girl forever. You leave him more or less pulped, just when you need to have him at his most docile and suggestible-so you can get him to change course and head across the desert." Daurenja shook his head and smiled. "I really wish you'd let me in on the technical details; like, for example, at what stage you finalized each part of the design. For instance, was getting rid of Orsea a major component right from the beginning? I'd be inclined to believe it must have been, because it's such a beautiful little assembly for achieving so many key objectives at just the right time. But if it wasn't, and it just sort of came to you on the fly; and I do wish you'd put your hostility aside for a moment and take me through the way you got Carausius hooked on a Cure Hardy alliance… Well," he added, more in disappointment than resentment, "I guess I can't expect a Mezentine to betray Guild secrets, can I? Maybe later you'll tell me. I'd really like that, if you could possibly see your way to it."

Ziani rolled onto one elbow. His ribs ached so much he could hardly breathe. "What do you want?" he asked.

"You know perfectly well what I want," Daurenja replied. "I've told you often enough. I want to be your student, your apprentice, your assistant, your partner and your friend. Thanks to you, I've established myself here with the Vadani. I'm rock-solid, as that tiresome affair with my former partner Framain demonstrated. It's been so frustrating for me in the past; just when I'm getting somewhere, making progress, building an environment where I can work and start achieving something, some peccadillo or other comes home to roost and I have to clear out in a hurry. I've left enough notebooks and folios of drawings behind me to furnish a library; the distilled results of years of work, abandoned, while I run for my life. Now at last-thanks to you-I'm valuable enough to the Duke that he's prepared to overlook my little ways. On its own, that'd justify all the hard work I've put in since I first met you."

"Glad to have been of service," Ziani grunted.

"You aren't now," Daurenja replied pleasantly, "but you will be, when the time comes. And that's another thing. I'm more or less certain that your wonderful grand design really will work; it'll all come out the way you want it to, you'll get to be the conqueror of Mezentia, you'll ride in triumph through the shattered gates and set up your throne room in the Guildhall, as the Cure Hardy's trusted governor and commander of the army of occupation. At which point," Daurenja went on cheerfully, "there'll be a vacancy for the job of chief military engineer to the Aram Chantat empire, and no prizes for guessing who'll take over. As soon as you get what you want, I'll get what I want; what I deserve. Then, with the resources of the new empire to back me up, and no more infuriating rules and restrictions to interfere with how I choose to live my life, I'll finally be able to fulfill my true potential. Thanks to you."

Ziani glanced away. He found Daurenja uncomfortable to look at; like a reflection in a curved sheet of polished steel, a distorting mirror.

"Now you're thinking," Daurenja went on, "that I must be a prize idiot, letting you know how much I've figured out about you. You're thinking, I can't allow this fool to live, I've got to get him out of the way as soon as possible. Knowing you, I expect you've already thought of a way; several ways, and all of them mechanically perfect. But you won't do it, and you know why? Because you need me. Honestly, you do; and why? Because there's another great big hole in your schematic, and this one's marked Find a way of breaking through the defenses of Mezentia. Correct me if I'm wrong, but you haven't really given it any thought. You know that the Aram Chantat don't know spit about siege warfare; the Vadani aren't much better. You know the city's got the highest, thickest walls in the world, laid out so as to give the artillery on the walls the optimum fields of fire. You know that unless you come up with a stunning innovation, the Mezentines will slaughter the Aram Chantat in much the same way as you slaughtered the Mezentines at Civitas Eremiae. Well," Daurenja said, and the smugness in his voice was as thick and waxy as goose dripping, "I can fill that hole for you, if you'll help me build my explosive-powder machine; my life's work, the one thing I want more than anything else. Plain and simple: we need each other so much. We're like the ideal married couple; so much in common, and such differences as we have make us complement each other perfectly. My strengths balance out your weaknesses, and vice versa. We depend on each other absolutely, like the two parts of a dovetail joint. Or," he added with a smile, "like lovers. Or like lovers should be, but so rarely are, in my wide and varied experience. But then, it's always love that drives us, isn't it? Men like you and me." He sighed, like a man waking up out of a beautiful dream. "One of the things I value most in our relationship is the affinity of minds. I think you're probably the only man I've ever met who's got the intelligence and the depth of character to understand me. As we get closer, I think you will come to understand me, eventually. I hope you'll make the effort; you'll find it worth your while if you do. Isn't it perfect? I can give you what you want, you can give me what I want, and the same operation will fulfill both our desires. Just like lovers, really. How are you feeling, by the way? Not in any pain, I trust."

"I think you've broken one of my ribs."

"I doubt it," Daurenja replied. "I think you'll find I know my own strength to within a pretty tight margin of error. I studied anatomy in Lonazep, you know. A good working knowledge of anatomy is very useful if you're going to have to beat people up now and again. After all, the human body's just a machine. If you're going to use it-yours or someone else's-it helps if you know how it works, and what kind of stresses and strains it'll take." He paused, as if considering what he'd just said. "Actually," he went on, "that wasn't meant as a threat, but since it makes quite a good one, feel free to interpret it as such. Of course, going whining to Valens won't do you any good. The most he'll do is lecture us on playing rough games and tell us to make friends and be nice to each other. And I know so much about you that Valens doesn't need to hear. I really do need your help, to build the tube for turning my explosive powder into a weapon; but if the worst comes to the worst and you make more trouble than you're worth to me and I have to sacrifice you for the good of the project, I suppose I'll have to muddle through on my own. Or maybe we can capture another red-hot Mezentine engineer, and I can persuade him to help me. You see, I've got options; you-well, let's not dwell on it. I'd far, far rather work with you. I like you; and that counts for a lot in any partnership. I never liked Framain; not my sort of person." Suddenly he laughed. "This is a bit of fun though, isn't it? You've come all this way, achieved so much, fitted so many other people into your design; and now you're the key component in mine. Isn't it a relief, when all's said and done, to know that now, at last, you're finally not alone anymore?"

They woke him up in the middle of the night and bundled him politely into a carriage; not the shiny silver one, just a plain old wooden thing with a hide canopy and a bench seat. The windows were covered, and he'd lost track of time completely. It came as a surprise, therefore, when the coach stopped and they opened the door and it was daylight outside.

He was back at the frontier post. He was unsteady on his feet as he scrambled down out of the coach. The Vadani, what was left of them, were sprawled across an open plain, littered untidily, like things spilled out of a box. Beautiful white tents were scattered about; people were sitting outside them, cooking over fires from which thin white smoke rose straight up into the still air. Heads turned to stare at him, but nobody moved at first. An Aram Chantat soldier nodded toward a tent.

"Mine?" Valens asked stupidly. The soldier turned and walked back to the coach, which rattled away as soon as he was inside.

In the tent was a plain camp bed, with a frame of willow branches mortised and dowelled together, and split withes stretched across it for suspension. It was comfortable, almost luxurious. He lay down and closed his eyes. In the disputed territory between awake and asleep, he heard her voice, and opened his eyes.

For once, she was actually there.

"You've come back, then. We were worried."

He thought for a moment; then replied: "I think I just met their king. My father-in-law. Actually, he's something like my great-grandfather-in-law, not that it matters. All his family predeceased him, which just goes to show, if you live long enough, eventually you get lucky. Do you happen to know where Ziani Vaatzes is? I need to talk to him."

She shook her head. "Are you all right?"

"Depends." He made an effort and sat up. "For savages, they're pretty damned sophisticated. It takes us about a million dead geese to make a bed this comfortable."

"They fold away, too," she said. "I imagine everything here's got to be portable and collapsible."

He yawned. "I had a long talk with their head man," he said. "Apparently they're going to wipe the Mezentines off the face of the earth for me. I said not to bother on my account, but they reckoned it was no trouble." He tried to stand up, but his knees weren't prepared to take responsibility for his weight. "To be honest, I haven't got the faintest idea what's going to happen next, or how we fit in, or how much of it's going to be my fault. I just wish I'd died out there in the desert."

She looked at him. "You've got to learn," she said. "There's things you could have put in a letter that you can't say face to face. Not unless you mean them."

"I wish I'd died in the desert," he said. "The only good thing about still being here is knowing you're safe. I don't really care about anything else anymore."

She looked away. "Define safe," she replied.

"No thank you." He yawned again. "Sorry," he added. "I guess the last few weeks are catching up with me. Oh, I forgot. The king of the savages is extremely old, and when he dies, I'm supposed to succeed him."

She frowned. "Do you want to?"

"No."

"Have you got a choice?"

"Not really." He shook his head like a wet dog. "Do you know what I really want most of all right now, more than anything else in the whole wide world?"

"No. Tell me."

He grinned. "I want a pack of dogs and a bloody great big spear, and I want to find something edible with four legs and kill it."

It was in the place he'd told her it would be; in the top of the broken crock where the poultryman left the eggs, under the cracked roof tile. It was a little square packet of parchment. Any of her neighbors would have assumed it was a dose of powdered willow-bark from the woman who sold medicines.

She'd noticed it early in the morning, when she collected the eggs; but he was there, so she didn't dare pick it up. She left it, hoping he'd go out, but for some reason he didn't go in to work. Instead he sat in the study all day, staring at a big sheaf of drawings. When she came in to ask if he wanted anything, he tried to hide them with his sleeve.

All day she waited. Three or four times she almost managed to persuade herself that it'd be safe to get the letter and read it, but she resisted the temptation. As it happened, she would've been quite safe. Falier only left the study once all morning, to go to the outhouse…

Of course. How stupid of her.

As she hurried toward the front door, he came out of the study. "Where are you off to?" he asked her.

"To put the money out for the egg man," she replied.

He frowned. "What money? You haven't asked me for any money."

Stupid; careless. "No," she replied.

He sighed. "How much?"

"Three turners."

He fumbled in his pocket. "Three turners for a dozen eggs," he said. "Couldn't you get them cheaper in the market?"

"His eggs are always fresh."

He gave her three small coins. "There's a man at work whose mother keeps hens," he said. "I'll ask him if there's ever any spare. We're not made of money, you know."

"That's a good idea," she said meekly. "Can I get you anything?"

"What? No. Have you seen my small penknife? The little one with the black handle?"

She nodded. "In the kitchen," she said. "I used it to dress the fish."

"Oh for-" She could see him making an effort not to be annoyed. "Next time, couldn't you use something else? That's my special knife for sharpening pens."

"All the kitchen knives are blunt. You said you'd sharpen them."

"Yes, all right, when I've got five minutes."

You said that last week, she didn't reply. "It's in the drawer," she said. "I washed it up carefully."

"Right, yes, thanks." He stomped out into the kitchen; she bolted through the front door and shut it behind her.

First, she put the money in the bottom of the crock. Only then did she look to see if it was still there. Seeing it was like a miracle. She palmed it quickly, squeezing her hand around it without closing her fingers. Then she crossed the yard, opened the outhouse door, sat down on the edge of the earthenware pot, shut the door and bolted it. Today, the bolt had to be stiff (he'd promised he'd see to that, too). She broke a nail working it into its keeper. My darling…

She shut her eyes as the muscles of her stomach tightened. My darling,

I know you must be very worried and upset. It hurts me terribly to think of you, not knowing what's going on, or whether you're in danger. I think about you all the time.

I'm safe. That's all I can tell you for now. I'll come for you as soon as I can, but that may not be for a while. The people I'm with are going to look after me, but…

She skipped a couple of lines. I'm sorry I can't tell you any more, but I've got to be so careful. Trust me, my darling. I promise you, everything's under control. I'll be coming home, and it'll be soon. I don't care what it takes or what I have to do. The only thing that matters to me is being with you.

I love you.

She folded the parchment up again, putting him back into his little packet.

"What the hell happened to you?" Valens hissed, as they brushed through the tent flap together into the darkness. "You look like you've been in a fight or something."

"Doesn't matter," Ziani muttered back. "What's…?"

"Ziani Vaatzes." The thin, fragile voice startled him. He couldn't see where it was coming from. "I am delighted and honored to meet you. The hero of Civitas Eremiae; and the armored wagons. Such a simple yet ingenious idea, but of course it was overtaken by circumstances. And a Mezentine; I think I shall indulge my curiosity and have some light."

Only a brief nicker, lasting hardly longer than a flash of lightning; a very old man, completely bald.

"Thank you," said the voice. "So it really is true; there are men in the world with brown faces. Remarkable. My apologies for staring at you so blatantly; but at my age, to see something new is such a rare thing. And the man who discovered the way across the desert. What a long way you've come, Foreman Vaatzes."

"Thank you," Ziani said, for want of anything else to say.

He could hear Valens breathing beside him; fast, nervous, like a man waiting for his bride's veil to be lifted. As for himself, he could almost have wished that this moment would last forever. Almost.

"Duke Valens thinks most highly of you," the voice went on. "He believes that you might be able to find a way to bring down the walls of Mezentia. With the very greatest respect; do you really think you could do that?"

(And Daurenja's hand on his shoulder, forcing him to his knees…)

"Yes," Ziani said.