by K. J. Parker
Which reminded him. It wasn’t perfect, but it might do. He only had this moment, which wouldn’t come again. He bent the bow, pushing with his left arm and pulling with his right, and stared down the arrow.
Miel Ducas had run into a tree. It was an unspeakably stupid thing to do and until a moment ago he’d have sworn it wasn’t physically possible for a grown man with adequate eyesight not to notice a big, broad sweet chestnut dead ahead of him on a reasonably clear path. But he’d managed it, somehow.
After a dazed moment when he couldn’t remember anything, he picked himself up off the ground, yelled angrily at the pain in his shins and jaw, and tried to sell himself on the idea that it hadn’t happened. At least nobody had seen him.
One consequence of his deplorable lapse was that he’d lost the bloody boar. It had been there right in front of him, a black hairy bum heaving obscenely up and down on the edge of his vision, just slow enough that he could keep pace with it if he ran like a lunatic. Wasted effort that had turned out to be. He leaned against his enemy the tree and listened.
Not too far away, he could hear squealing, and the furious yelping of dogs. If he ran fast, he could probably catch up (except that he couldn’t run fast, because his leg hurt); or he could walk, or hobble, following the trail, and hear about the outcome from somebody else.
He decided his leg didn’t hurt so much after all, and started to run.
The pitch and intensity of the yelping had changed. Jarnac could’ve interpreted it without thinking; Miel wasn’t nearly as good, but he reckoned the dogs had caught up to the boar, but the boar hadn’t yet turned at bay. That was bad. A boar in that mood could easily gut or trample a dog, and God help any human who got in its way. What should’ve happened, if King Fashion had been running the show, was that the dogs should’ve chased the boar without catching up with it, until they were outside the forest and in the open. From the edge of the wood the ground fell away in a long, gentle slope all the way to the river. The boar would head for the river-bed, wade deep into the water and there turn at bay — a stupid thing to do, since it could be quickly and safely dispatched, but they all did it, bless them. That was how Jarnac had planned it, no question, but something must’ve gone wrong.
A very unpleasant picture formed in his mind: Orsea, with sword drawn, diving into the mêlée to rescue the dogs. It was one of the classic heroic deeds in boar-hunting. Jarnac had done it loads of times (but Jarnac knew what he was doing). If the opportunity presented itself, Orsea wouldn’t hesitate for an instant.
(Years ago, when he was a boy nagging to be allowed to go on his first hunt, Miel had been taken to see an old man who worked in the stables. The old man had opened his shirt and showed off a long pink scar that ran from his neck to his navel; to this day, they’d told him afterward, nobody could explain how the man had survived. He’d been the lucky one, that day.)
Perhaps, Miel told himself as he ran, perhaps someone with a cool head, common sense and a good eye will put an arrow in the stupid pig before Orsea gets there. Disappointing for poor Orsea, but at least he’ll still be alive this evening, and I won’t have to tell Veatriz.
Another sound: a man’s voice, high and very scared, yelling for help. Miel swore and tried to run faster, but this would be a very bad time to collide with another tree. He made himself slow down, just as his spear caught in a low branch and was ripped out of his hand.
Very bad, because he couldn’t stop and go back for it. He had his falchion, of course. He’d never killed a boar with a close sword, though he’d seen it done twice. Mostly when he went hunting, they didn’t find anything. Hell of a time for his luck to change.
He saw the dog first. It was almost but not quite dead, shivering. He managed to jump over it without slowing down, and that was when he saw the boar.
Now it had turned at bay, and he could see why. Some fool, some criminal incompetent, had contrived to stick an arrow in its hind leg. Worst possible thing you could do. The front leg, fine; a boar goes down like a sack of turnips if you nail its front leg, you can stroll up to it and kill it at your ease. An arrow in the back leg stops it running, so it has to turn at bay, but the motive force for its attack is the forequarters and chest. Whoever had shot that arrow had made the boar as dangerous as it could possibly get.
He might have known. Lying on his side, with nothing between him and the boar but a screen of twisting, snapping dogs, was the stupid bastard foreigner. He didn’t seem to be hurt, no blood; Miel had seen total blind panic often enough in circumstances like these to know he’d simply frozen. He’d done it himself, once. A bow, lying just out of arm’s reach, completed the evidence for the prosecution.
Just as well I’m here, Miel thought sadly.
“It was extraordinary,” Jarnac was saying. “Never seen anything like it in my life.”
Miel scowled at him. “It was bloody stupid,” he said, “that’s all. Half an inch out and you’d have brought me home hanging off a long stick, along with the boar.”
Jarnac shook his head. “Ignore him,” he said, “he’s being modest. When I say it was the neatest bit of work I’ve seen in the hunting field for ten years, you know I’m not exaggerating. It was bloody stupid as well, of course, but that’s Miel for you. Never could resist showing off.”
Miel tried to shift, but a sharp spike of pain stopped him. “How could I have been showing off?” he said. “I didn’t know you two were there watching. I thought it was just me and him, or else I’d have left it to you to deal with the stupid animal.”
“Where is he?” Veatriz interrupted. “The foreigner, I mean.”
Miel sighed. “Upstairs,” he said, “in the Oak Room. Well,” he went on unhappily, “I couldn’t very well leave him to fend for himself, when he’d just come that close to being ripped up. From what I gather, he lives on his own in that factory place of his, and he’s in no fit state to look after himself.”
“It was his own stupid fault,” Orsea put in, helping himself to another drink. “Would’ve served him right, at that. Jarnac, whatever possessed you to invite him in the first place?”
Jarnac shrugged. “He seemed to want to come,” he replied. “I mean, he spun this yarn about how he needed to see what hunting’s actually like if he was going to be making hunting armor; which is drivel, of course; Cantacusene and his father and his father before him have been fitting our family out every year for a century, and none of them ever came within a mile of a boar or a buck unless it was sausages. But he really did seem fearfully keen, and I couldn’t see any harm in it…”
Miel groaned. “Next time you’re inclined to yield to a generous impulse, resist,” he said. “I’m not made of ankles, you know.”
Veatriz laughed; he wasn’t looking at her, deliberately, but he could picture her face. Instead, he saw Orsea grin. Jarnac clicked his tongue and said: “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. You know the old saying: pain’s temporary, glory is forever, and the girls dig the scars. You’ll be fighting them off with a pitchfork once word gets around. Honestly,” he said to Veatriz, ignoring Miel’s miserable protests, “you should have seen him. He comes charging out of the bushes, sword in hand; he sees the foreigner lying there on the deck wetting himself, frozen stiff with fear; he sees the boar. He knows the dogs are getting tired, they can’t hold it back much longer. He’s still running flat out; he jumps, lands on the boar’s back if you please, launches himself off again, and in passing, damn near chops the boar’s head off with a downward backhand slash —”
“And lands in a clump of fuzz that turns out to be a coppiced stump and twists his stupid ankle,” Miel said. “Actually, Triz, you should’ve seen it. Must’ve been the most comical sight since the farmer chucked his dog down the well and threw a stick for the bucket.”
“You be quiet,” Jarnac said ferociously. “By your own admission you couldn’t see what was going on round you, so clearly you’re the last person to comment. Also, the self-deprecating modesty is just fishing f
or compliments. This isn’t the first time, you see,” he added, as Veatriz giggled. “When he was younger, with some girl in tow — there was always a girl in tow —”
“Look,” Miel protested.
“Used to be a positive menace,” Jarnac went on. “Very disruptive to the smooth running of the hunt, having someone forever committing acts of gratuitous valor every time the girl happened to be looking in his direction. I had to stop taking him along in the end. I should have known better, but I’d assumed he’d grown out of it.”
“True,” Orsea put in (traitor, Miel thought). “It got so that you couldn’t take a quiet stroll in the park if he’d got a girl along with him. I remember, there was a goat in a paddock. I swear he used to sneak out and kick this goat whenever he had the chance, just so it’d hate him and go for him on sight; and it was quite an elderly goat, not much of a threat to life and limb, but of course the girl wouldn’t know that —”
“Complete and utter lies,” Miel growled, though of course Orsea was telling the truth. Miel tried to remember if he’d ever taken Veatriz for a stroll past the goat’s paddock.
“I remember,” Jarnac butted in. “It was on a chain, so it couldn’t actually get at him if he judged the distance right; but then one day the goat charged him so ferociously that the chain broke —”
Veatriz burst out laughing; Miel winced, jarred his ankle, and yelped with pain. He wished they’d shut up now. The joke was wearing thin, as far as he was concerned.
“Anyway,” Veatriz said, “it was very brave of you, Miel, and I’m sure that this time your motives were impeccable.” She was teasing him, he didn’t like that. He almost wanted to explain what his true motive had been; to get there, at all costs, before Orsea could do what he was being accused of, because if Orsea had tried a stunt like that he’d have been killed, and then there wouldn’t be all this merriment. He managed to keep that sentiment where it belonged, though.
“I think it’s time you all pushed off and let me get some rest,” he said. “It’s not fair, picking on me when I can’t move.”
Jarnac frowned, and Miel realized there was something bothering him, which he hadn’t told them about. Knowing Jarnac, it’d be some aspect of the hunt, some transgression of the rules on his part that he felt bad about, though nobody else would be inclined to make a fuss about it. “Let’s leave him alone with his glory, then,” Jarnac said, and he stood up to leave. “I suppose I’d better look in on the foreigner before I go.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” Miel said, with a touch of bitterness. “Unless you want to yell at him for managing to prick the boar in the back leg like that. But I don’t suppose he’d understand the significance of it, so there wouldn’t be much point.”
“Actually,” Orsea said, “I need to talk to him myself — not about this,” he added, with a slight nod in Miel’s direction. “Business.”
Miel remembered. He’d been thinking of the foreigner as simply an embarrassing fool who’d done a stupid thing; he’d forgotten who the man actually was. He nodded back. “That’s right,” he said. “Don’t worry, he’s not really damaged, just a bit shaken. He’ll be up and about again in the morning.”
“Good,” Orsea said. “But I still need to talk to him. Don’t worry about that now, Miel. You keep still and let that ankle heal. I’ll deal with the other business.”
“What other business?” Jarnac asked, as he and Orsea climbed the stairs. “I hadn’t realized you knew the man.”
Orsea pulled a wry grin. “Oh yes,” he said. “He’s the Mezentine we picked up on the way back from — well, you remember, I’m sure.”
Jarnac frowned. “The one who wanted to turn us all into little pseudo-Mezentines, working in factories,” he said. “I thought you’d said no to all that.”
“I did. But he talked the Calaphates into putting up the money for this factory.”
“Ah, right. They make good armor, I’ll say that for them, and sensibly priced, too.”
“It’s not just armor,” Orsea said quietly. “Anyhow, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but — is this the room here?”
“The Oak Room.” Jarnac nodded. “Would you like me to wait outside?”
“I’ll find my own way back,” Orsea replied.
Jarnac nodded and went away; Orsea could hear the firm clump of his boots on the stairs. Nobody could call Jarnac clumsy, but his enormous size made the staircase shake all the way up to the landing. He raised his hand to knock, then remembered who he was and lifted the latch.
The foreigner was lying on the bed, arms by his side, staring up at the ceiling; he sat up as Orsea walked in. “It’s all right,” Orsea said, as he started to get to his feet. “You stay where you are. How are you feeling?”
“Stupid,” Vaatzes replied.
Orsea nodded. “Quite right,” he said. “But of course, you didn’t know. Or else you’re a rotten shot. Neither of them’s a criminal offense in this country.”
Vaatzes shook his head. “I shouldn’t even have been there,” he said. “I suppose I hadn’t realized what sort of occasion it’d be. Did I ruin everything?”
Orsea thought before answering. “Depends,” he said. “You caused a very nasty incident which could’ve got somebody killed. On the other hand, you gave Miel Ducas an opportunity to be terribly brave and clever, so he’s happy; propped up on pillows downstairs pretending he’s not loving every bit of the attention, he’s like that. So he’s happy, and he’s my oldest friend, so I’m happy too. Jarnac Ducas is going to have the boar’s tusks mounted in a gorget for him, with a little silver plate inscribed, For saving the life of another. In a year’s time, everybody’ll remember it as the hunt where the Ducas pulled off the most amazing flying cut, and you’ll be bored sick of telling people the story when they ask you. Jarnac’s the only one who’s really upset, because three of his dogs were killed. He wouldn’t dream of showing it, but he’s heartbroken. Still, all in all, not a complete disaster.”
Vaatzes drew in a deep breath. “You’re all being extremely kind,” he said. “Which makes me feel terrible. I’m sorry.”
“Forget it,” Orsea said. “And promise me, if anybody invites you to go hunting again, refuse.”
“I promise.”
“Fine. Now,” Orsea went on, “I need to talk to you about the scorpions.”
17
On the morning after the Duke’s hunt, a tall stocky middle-aged woman whose florid complexion matched her loud red dress left Civitas Eremiae by the east gate, riding a light-boned skewbald horse in the middle of a caravan. With her were her escort, nine riders in armor who doubtless made up for in experience what they lacked in youth; three muleteers on elderly dog’s-meat palfreys; a pale, thin young woman with a bad cold; and twenty-seven well-laden mules.
It was necessarily slow going down the mountain. The thin young woman looked nervous as she leaned back in the saddle, as if she expected to vanish backward over the horse’s tail at any moment. Her aunt, the woman in the red dress, spread her ample seat comfortably, as though her knees were stitched tight to the girths. She yawned once or twice, not bothering to cover her mouth.
At the crossroads the party turned east along the rutted, dusty track that followed the top of the ridge until it joined the Edge-way, which in turn led to the Butter Pass. The guards, riding in front and somewhat close together, talked for a while about cockfighting, horse-racing and the chances of war with Mezentia, which they decided was most unlikely. The muleteers were busy keeping the mules moving. The merchant and her niece rode side by side most of the time, but didn’t talk to each other. They rested for an hour at noon, in the shade of a knot of canted, scrubby thorn trees that marked the point where the Butter Pass began. They picked the pace up gradually in the afternoon, and by nightfall they were close enough to the border to see the lights of the Vadani frontier post. Shortly after midnight they crossed into Vadani territory, following a narrow path along the bed of a steep-sided gully that kept them well out of sight
of the border guards. It would have been an awkward ride in the dark, except that they and their horses knew the way very well indeed, and didn’t need to see the hazards in order to avoid them.
At some point in the small hours they rejoined the road, a little way beyond a village by the name of Gueritz, and spent the rest of the night there, recovering from the stresses of their prosaic little adventure. At first light they rode on as far as Schantz, where they stopped at the inn for breakfast, and to have one of the guards’ horses reshod. Two of the muleteers entertained the Schantz ostlers and grooms with an account of Duke Orsea’s hunt, which they’d heard from one of Jarnac’s men in an inn in Civitas Eremiae the night before they left. Such parts of the account as were not invented were greatly exaggerated: Miel Ducas had been savagely mauled by the boar and it was uncertain whether he’d recover; the Mezentine exile Vaatzes was also hovering at death’s door, having been picked up bodily on the boar’s snout and hurled down a rock-lined goyle into a riverbed; the Ducas had killed the boar that mangled him, after wrestling it to the ground and cutting its throat with his short knife.
The road from Schantz to Pasador was broad, flat and easy; they had the river on their right all the way, and they stopped several times to water the horses. Even so, they made Pasador by noon and sat in out of the heat in a ruined barn, while two muleteers who wanted to stretch their legs walked into the village and bought bread, cheese, figs and white wheat beer for the midday meal. When the edge had gone off the sun, they carried on briskly and peacefully as far as the crossroads, where they picked up the Silver Pass, leading direct to Civitas Vadanis. It was only the delay caused by having the guard’s horse shod that stopped them reaching the city gate before dark; as it was, they had to ride the last hour and a half by moonlight, which was no great hardship. In fact, they were happy to enter the city in the dark, since it made them less conspicuous. Since the sheep-driving season was over for the year, they were able to pen the mules in a small paddock in the main stockyard, handy for the inns. The guards and the muleteers limped off to go drinking; the merchant and her niece washed up in the back yard of the Convention before setting off for Duke Valens’ castle, in the northeast corner of the city.