Devices and Desires

by K. J. Parker

  The story of Orsea’s hunt was told many times that evening in the stockyard inns, each containing a slight development on its predecessor. By the time it was recited in the Gold & Silver-men’s Hall, a large and popular inn on the edge of the assay court, both the Ducas and Vaatzes had been killed, though not before the Ducas had given the boar its death-wound with the shattered truncheon of his spear.

  One of Valens’ austringers left the Gold & Silver shortly after that and headed up the hill to the castle. He was aware that he’d had rather more to drink than he’d have liked, since his duty was to seek an immediate audience with the Duke himself. The news of the Mezentine exile’s death, however, shouldn’t really be left till morning, and besides, he knew a couple of other people who’d want to hear about it straight away. He had to tell the Duke first, of course, he realized that; but afterward, time would be of the essence with his other customers, who wouldn’t want to pay him if they’d already heard the news from someone else.

  “He’s dead,” Psellus announced at the general staff meeting. He paused, then added: “Apparently, he was killed by a pig.”

  There was an element of shock in the silence that followed; also the tension of strong, serious men trying not to laugh. Eventually, a senior officer of the Coppersmiths’ said, “A pig?”

  “A wild pig,” Psellus said. “It appears that he was invited to go hunting with the Duke and his courtiers. A wild pig killed him — apparently they are quite ferocious animals, capable of inflicting serious injury. One of the courtiers was killed also.”

  A different kind of silence; thoughtful, reticent. The Coppersmith broke it to say: “This changes nothing. But I am surprised to hear that he was invited to hunt with the Duke and his court. My understanding is that only persons of high social standing attend on these occasions.”

  Psellus nodded. “As participants,” he said. “But please bear in mind that the hunters are accompanied by a substantial number of assistants. There are men who look after the dogs, others who drive the animals out of hiding by making a noise, and of course there are porters, to carry equipment and the carcasses. My understanding is that the hunters usually hire casual labor for some of these tasks. It’s highly possible that he was there in that capacity, rather than as a guest.” Psellus hesitated. “Unfortunately, my sources — I must stress, these are preliminary reports only — my sources weren’t able to furnish any details, so the theory remains uncorroborated. Nevertheless…” He hesitated again. “If these reports are accurate, Vaatzes is dead. I think we can safely assume that, contrary to what my colleague has just said, the position has changed significantly. In fact, I would ask the commission to consider whether the war is still necessary.”

  “On what grounds?” Tropaeus, needless to say, defending the infant war as though it was his cub. “If there has been a change,” he went on, “it’s for the worse. Let us put your theory on one side for a moment and assume that Vaatzes was there as a guest. In that case, logic suggests that he was on good terms with the Eremian aristocracy — a Mezentine, a representative of the nation that wiped out the flower of their army. There can only be one explanation, just as Vaatzes had only one commodity to sell in order to buy their favor. In other words, we must conclude that Vaatzes had already betrayed the technical secrets entrusted to him by virtue of his position at the ordnance factory, or was preparing to do so.”

  Psellus coughed mildly. “Assuming,” he said, “the wretched man was there as a guest. If not, if he was simply a day-laborer, surely it implies the opposite; that he was destitute, or at least forced by necessity to take any work he could get, and therefore that either he made no attempt to sell our secrets, or he had tried and failed. I should add,” he went on before Tropaeus could interrupt, “that I have seen minutes of a meeting of the Eremian council at which an offer to introduce new skills and methods of metalworking were offered to the Duke by an unnamed Mezentine, and refused. Unless our security is even worse than we’ve been supposing, I can only assume that the man refused by the council must be Vaatzes.”

  “We’ve all seen that report,” someone objected — he was sitting too far back for Psellus to see his face; he thought the voice was familiar but he couldn’t put a name to it. “But you’re missing the point, both of you. It doesn’t matter. So Vaatzes is dead; so we have evidence to suggest that the Eremians refused to listen to him. What are you suggesting? Are you trying to argue that we shouldn’t go on with the invasion?”

  Psellus stiffened. “I don’t recall proposing that,” he said. “And I fully accept the argument that we need to make sure there’s no possibility of leakage of restricted Guild knowledge.”

  “Which means the Eremians must be wiped out,” the unseen man broke in. “We’ve discussed all this. So, unless you’re saying we should reopen that decision — which, personally, I’m not inclined to do unless you can produce some pretty strong new arguments that we haven’t considered previously — I don’t see what difference Vaatzes’ death makes to anything. We’ve got the soldiers, right here, kicking their heels and waiting to go. I won’t remind you how much they’re costing us per day. I’m not aware of any significant strategic or tactical considerations which would keep us from launching the invasion immediately. Gentlemen, we’re wasting time and money. Let’s get on and do what we’ve already agreed has to be done.”

  Loud rumble of approval. Very unwillingly, Psellus got to his feet once more. “I’m not opposing that view,” he said, “or arguing against the invasion. All I’m trying to ask is whether it’s quite so urgent now that Vaatzes himself is dead —”

  “If he is dead,” someone else put in. “A moment ago you said it was unconfirmed.”

  “It is,” Psellus said raggedly. “But let’s assume it’s right. If Vaatzes is dead, he won’t be giving away any more secrets. We know from the Eremian council minutes that they turned him down. So we’re left with any secrets he passed on to someone else, private citizens rather than the Eremian government, before his death. And I can’t help wondering —”

  “It changes nothing,” said another voice, off to his left. “Even if Vaatzes said nothing, or nobody listened to him, it’s all beside the point. We’ve got to be sure; and the only way we can be sure is to invade. It’s how we’ve managed to keep our total monopoly for well over a hundred years; and if it means we have to go to war, then we’ve got to do it. I propose that Commissioner Psellus receive our thanks for updating us on these new developments; I further propose that we set a definite date for the launch of the invasion, namely ten days from now. Do I have a seconder for that?”

  Motion carried; orders issued to the commander in chief, requisitions to the Treasurer’s office and other parties concerned; vote of thanks to Commissioner Psellus, as minuted.

  What was I doing, Psellus asked himself, as he climbed the stairs back to his office; was I trying to stop the war? Somebody thought so, and now we’ve got a firm date. I didn’t think that was what I was trying to do. I don’t know anymore. It’s as though this war’s alive now. It’s crawled in from wherever wars come from, like bees getting in through a thin place in the thatch, and already it’s too big and too clever to be stopped.

  The sooner it starts, the sooner it’ll be over and I won’t have to think about it anymore.

  “Where the hell have you been?” Cantacusene said, as Ziani limped through the factory gate. He’d been measuring out timber for the scorpion frames; a boxwood rule in one hand, a nail in the other. “They’ve been saying you’re dead.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” Ziani replied, and Cantacusene wondered what’d made him so cheerful. “If you think a wild pig could succeed where the Guild tribunal and the compliance directorate failed, you’re a bigger fool than I took you for. How’s it going? Did they get that problem with the sear-plate bolts sorted out?”

  Cantacusene nodded. “We’re ahead of the book,” he said, with more than a hint of pride. “You said run four shifts, so I’ve been keeping them g
oing flat out. Haven’t been home since you’ve been away.”

  “Fine. Good.” Ziani wished he’d put a bit more sincerity into that, but too late now. “The good news is, the Duke has just doubled the order. He wants a hundred.”

  “That’s all right,” Cantacusene said. “At this rate, he can have them in a week.”

  “At this rate maybe,” Ziani said, and he set off for the long gallery. Cantacusene dropped the rule and dashed after him. “But this rate’s too bloody slow. Day after tomorrow at the very latest, he’ll be back asking for two hundred in a fortnight. I’m planning for two hundred and fifty in ten days.”

  Cantacusene stopped. He had a stitch and he was out of breath. “Impossible.”

  “No.” Ziani hadn’t stopped. Cantacusene set off again. “Perfectly possible. We just need more men. I stopped off at Calaphates’ place and told him to get his men out recruiting. Also, he’s seeing to materials; we’re all right for timber, but we’ll need more quarter-inch iron plate. It can be done, you’ll see.”

  “Why two hundred and fifty?”

  “Because that’s what it’ll take to defend this city,” Ziani replied, as though it was perfectly obvious. “Two hunded and fifty is the minimum number, we should have seventy-five more but I’ve got an idea about that. If only we’d had time to build a rolling mill, I wouldn’t be relying on bloody merchants for my quarter plate.” He shook his head. “Everything’s going quite well,” he said. “You never know, we might just get there.”

  He left Cantacusene at the gallery door, and headed straight for the forge, where the springs were being tempered. It was the stage in the process where things were most likely to go wrong, he knew perfectly well; ideally, that was where he needed to be for the next week or so, judging each spring by eye as it lifted orange off the fire. The lead-baths took all the skill out of drawing the temper, but he was still obliged to trust Eremians for the hardening pass. The thought of that worried and annoyed him, but he had no choice.

  The heat in the forge was overwhelming. As instructed, they’d laid in an extra half-dozen double-action bellows, which meant ten fires were running on a hearth designed for five. There was water all over the floor, and a pall of black smoke from the tempering oil wreathed the roof-beams like summer morning mist in a forest. He watched them for quarter of an hour; one man on each fire worked the bellows, another splashed water from a ladle around the hearth-bed and tue-iron to keep them from overheating, while the third used tongs to draw the spring slowly backward and forward through the tunnel of ash and clinker that covered the roaring red heart of the fire. When the orange heat had soaked all the way through the whole spring, so that it seemed to glow from the inside, the tong-worker fished it out like an angler landing a fish and dipped it full-length in the upright oil-filled pipe. The oil lit, raising a sheet of flame as long as a man’s arm, and almost immediately put itself out; as soon as the oil had stopped bubbling, out it came; a rod up through the middle of the coil to carry it by, and across the room it went to the great iron trough full of molten lead, where another man picked it off the rod with tongs and dunked it under the scum of the lead-bath to temper.

  Not bad, Ziani thought, though he was a little concerned that the oil in the quenching tubes was running a bit too hot. He watched a man pause to wipe his face on his sleeve, dragging a white furrow through the smear of wet soot. Sweating near the lead-bath was asking for trouble; a spot of water on the molten lead would make it spit, enough to blind you if your luck was out. They were learning quickly, which was what he needed. Another man was coughing through the quench-smoke. One of the bellows had a slight leak, and whistled as it drew. It wasn’t the ordnance factory, of course; it resembled the real thing like a child’s drawing. But all he needed was two hundred and fifty scorpions by the time the Mezentines arrived. That was all. Anything else would be mere finish and ornament. They were going to make it; which meant that the design had moved on from here, and now everything depended on his colleague and dear friend Falier back in Mezentia; so far away, so hard to control at such distance, so fragile and governed by so tenuous a connection. But he knew Falier, in ways he could never know the Eremians; he trusted him to do the job he’d given him. After that, the weight of the design would pull everything into shape, just as it is its own weight that brings down a felled tree, and all the woodsmen do with their ropes and wedges is guide the lie.

  He left the forge and headed for the fitting room, to see the fitting of the lockplates into the frames. So he was dead, was he? If only. He thought of the boar, dragging the dogs along with it. He remembered Miel Ducas stooping in mid-leap to slash a hinge in its spine with his falchion. It had been, he recognized, a moment of glorious, extraordinary grace, forced on an unwilling and unlikely man by honor, fear, courage and duty. That was Ducas’ problem: his life was too complicated, and all his actions were stained with a contradictory mixture of motives. If only he’d had a simple job to do, he could’ve been a productive and efficient man, for an Eremian. As it was, he’d be useful, and that was all that mattered. Ziani considered for a moment the slender connecting rod that joined the Ducas and Falier and Duke Orsea and his Duchess and all the other little parts of the mechanism, and smiled to think that so many disparate people had something so vital in common. Almost he wished he could tell them; but that, of course…

  When he had time, after he’d done his rounds and made sure everything was running smoothly, he took a quarter of an hour to do a few calculations, see how close his estimate would be. The variables were, of course, only rough reckonings, in some cases little more than guesses; nevertheless, he felt reasonably sure that by the time the Mezentines arrived to assault the city, he should have enough scorpions available to allow them to be placed at sixteen-yard intervals right along the city wall; that meant he could put just under twenty thousand bolts in the air every hour (ordinary fence-palings and vine-props with a folded sheet-iron tip; all in hand). Only a third of what the Eremians had faced in the battle, but precisely the right number for his purposes.

  He smiled to himself, and thought of Falier.

  He’d had to buy two tablecloths, two sets of matching napkins, two dozen pillowcases embroidered with songbirds, a dozen tapestry cushions and a rug. He hated them all at first sight, and as soon as she’d gone, he sent for his chamberlain and ordered him to take them away.

  “Give them to somebody,” he said.

  “Very good,” the chamberlain replied. “Who?”

  Valens considered. “Who don’t you like?”

  “Sir?”

  “Think of somebody you hate very much.”

  The chamberlain’s turn to consider. “My wife’s mother’s sister,” he said. “She’s got a small white dog she’s trained to walk on its hind legs. It’s got its own little silver drinking bowl and everything.”

  “Perfect,” Valens said, with grim satisfaction. “Tell her they’re from me, and hint I may be coming to dinner.”

  He’d never seen his chamberlain grin before. Well, it was good to make somebody happy.

  It was nearly mid-morning. The sun had burned the last of the dew off the grass, but the wind was rising. It would’ve been a good day to fly the goshawks, or try for duck on the long lake. He had something else to do, however, and he wanted to make the most of it.

  Each time he opened a letter from her, he was afraid, in case it was the last. I can’t write to you anymore — he’d seen those words in his mind’s eye a thousand times, he knew the shape of the letters by heart. When the day came and he saw them traced for real on parchment, it’d be like coming back to a familiar place; a runaway slave recaptured and dragged home, a criminal brought to the town gallows. This time he was stiff with fear, because it’d been so long since she’d written, because she’d missed a letter. Staring at the small, squat packet in the exact center of his reading table, he felt like he was walking up to a wounded boar in dense briars, waiting for it to charge. He thought of all the risks he chose to take
, in the hunt, in war, knowing that the worst that could happen was that he’d be killed. There are circumstances where staying alive could be worse than that.

  With the tips of his forefingers, he prised apart the fold until the seal split neatly down the middle. A few crumbs of broken wax fell away as he bent the stiff parchment back on itself (like the unmaking of the quarry, he thought). Her handwriting was even smaller than usual, and for a moment he wasn’t sure he’d be able to read it — now that would be a devilish refinement of torture, worthy of the stories of the punishments reserved for damned souls in hell, to have a letter from her and not to be able to make out what it said.

  Veatriz Sirupati to Valens Valentinianus, greetings.

  Well, he’d found; the wolf, the bear, the boar were here, ready for him. It’d be churlish to keep them waiting.

  You never replied to my last letter.

  He frowned. “Yes I did,” he said aloud. “You’re the one who didn’t write back.”

  I suppose there could be several different reasons. I offended you; I was putting pressure on you, breaking the rules of our friendship; I brought Orsea into it, when this has always been just you and me. Or perhaps you’re just tired of me and bored by my letters. If it’s any one of those, I’d understand.

  For a moment he felt as if he’d lost his balance and was about to fall. Then he realized: fear had made him stupid, and it was perfectly obvious what had happened. His letter to her, or her reply, had gone astray. Somebody, some fat woman in a red dress, had lost it or forgotten about it or used it to start a fire or pad a shoe where it rubbed her heel. For a moment he wanted to do something about that; send his guard to arrest every woman in a red dress in the country and have them all thrown in a snake-pit, to teach them respect. But I haven’t got a snake-pit, he reminded himself, and it’d take too long to build one and collect enough snakes to fill it.