by K. J. Parker
Quite, he thought.
She was riding alongside the hastily improvised travois they’d rigged up for Orsea and his ferocious bodyguard whose name Valens had already forgotten. A travois was better than tying him onto a horse’s back, but that was the best you could say for it. Every rut and pothole jarred him; he winced, cried, yelled with pain, while she watched and said nothing. The other one, the big, tall man, had passed out as soon as his head touched the cloth. He bumped and shifted and carried on sleeping, still and quiet as dead game carried home on a pole from the hunt. Behind the travois the little Mezentine trotted, clinging with both hands to the pommel of his saddle while a compassionate sergeant led his horse on a leading-rein. How exactly he’d come to acquire this oddity, Valens wasn’t entirely sure. He’d trailed after Veatriz like a stray dog following you home from the market, and Valens couldn’t see any particular reason to send him away. Besides, he was the man who’d built all those clever war engines, the ones that had slaughtered the Mezentines by the tens of thousands and still failed to preserve the city. Someone like that might come in useful if things went badly with the Perpetual Republic, as Valens was fairly sure they would.
There was an old story about a great conqueror who laid siege to a mighty city for ten years. Finally he took it by some cunning stratagem, burst in, looted everything worth taking, set fire to the buildings and withdrew. He had an army of fifty thousand men as he started the journey home; less than two hundred eventually crawled across the border, the only survivors of the plague they’d contracted from the rotting corpses of their enemies, unburied because their starved and emaciated countrymen lacked the strength. He’d remembered the story as a fine allegory of the hateful futility of war, destructive to losers and victors alike. Wouldn’t catch me doing something stupid like that, the pompous voice of his thirteen-year-old self brayed inside his memory; it can’t really be a true story, because nobody’d be that clueless.
She hadn’t said more than a few words to him since they rode out of the gateway, but he’d made a point of keeping his distance (and besides, he had an army to lead, and they weren’t out of danger yet, not by a long way); he was afraid of what she’d say to him, now that they were face to face at last and in this ghastly, impossible situation of his own making. Everything between them would be ruined, he knew that — that was another thing about the old stories, the ones where the knight-errant rescued the beautiful princess from the dragon or the ogre or the murderous stepfather; there was always a bland presumption of love, happiness-ever-after, which was plainly absurd if you had even the slightest understanding of human nature. The next time Veatriz looked him in the eyes, she’d see the man who’d risked his life and the lives of his entire people to save her; if he hadn’t done this stupid, insane thing, she’d be dead; she’d see his love for her, and in it the ruin of his duchy and the disastrous end of their friendship, which had been the best thing in her life. I’ve spoiled everything, Valens realized, because I was too weak to bear the thought of losing her; and now, of course, I’ve done exactly that. He smiled; ride out to confront your worst fear, as Orsea had done against the Mezentines, and you can be sure you’ll make it come true.
So; he wouldn’t talk to her yet. Instead, he nudged his horse along and fell in beside the Mezentine, who was still clinging desperately to his saddle and muttering. Valens took the leading-rein from the sergeant and nodded to him to rejoin his troop.
“You’re Vaatzes, right?” he said.
The Mezentine opened his eyes, saw the ground (too far away), let go, wobbled alarmingly, nearly fell off, grabbed the saddle again and said, “Yes.”
Valens grinned. “The knack,” he said, “is to sit up straight and grip with your knees. All you’re doing at the moment is loosening the saddle. Carry on like that, it’ll slip over one side and you’ll land on your head.”
The Mezentine whimpered, but he knew how to follow instructions. “Like this?” he said.
“Better,” Valens replied. “Try and keep the ball of your foot on the stirrup-iron, with your heels pointing down. And stop jerking on the reins, they’re not handles for clinging on to.”
“Right,” the Mezentine said doubtfully. “Where I come from, we don’t go in for horses much. Sometimes we ride in carts, but mostly we walk.”
Valens looked at him. “Maybe you should’ve stayed there,” he said.
“You know, I think you’re right. Still, too late now. I’m sorry,” he went on, “but I don’t know who you are.”
“I guessed that. My name’s Valens.”
“Ah.” The Mezentine nodded. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Ziani Vaatzes.”
“I know.” In spite of himself, Valens was grinning. “I get the impression you don’t go in much for formality in Mezentia either.”
Vaatzes shrugged. “Forgive me,” he said. “If you mean deferential language and conventional expressions of respect, no we don’t. In theory, every Guildsman’s as good as every other; so we don’t learn all the right words, and foreigners think we’re revoltingly arrogant. Which we are, but not the way you think. Maybe somebody could teach me the right things to say, and then I won’t give offense.”
“The Eremians didn’t mind, then?”
“I expect they did, but nobody said anything, so I never got the opportunity to learn.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Valens said. “Stuff like that annoys me, actually, it tends to get in the way, and that wastes time and effort and leads to confusion. By the sound of it, you plan on coming home with us.”
Vaatzes dipped his head. “I was hoping to talk to somebody about that. Simple fact is, I haven’t got anywhere else to go.”
“You’re straightforward, I’ll say that for you. But you’re bad luck, aren’t you? Look what happened to the last lot who took you in.”
Again, Vaatzes shrugged. “If you care to look at it from my point of view, I nearly saved them from the consequences of their own stupidity; I built war engines for them, and when I went to bed last night, we’d just won the war. Obviously something happened that I don’t know about.”
“Don’t ask me,” Valens replied. “We set out as soon as we heard the city was being assaulted. If you won the war —”
“We beat them back,” Vaatzes said. “We killed thousands of them, mostly thanks to my engines, if the truth be known. How they got in and unblocked the gate I have no idea. That doesn’t alter the fact that we beat the shit out of them.”
Valens smiled. “Thanks to you.”
“Thanks to me,” Vaatzes said. “And if the Duke had listened to me when I first met him, and we’d started building war engines straight away instead of having to do it all in a desperate rush at the last minute, I’m prepared to bet we’d have seen them off for good. Still, it’s too late now. You ask the Duchess, or Duke Orsea. They’ll tell you.”
“I will,” Valens said. “So, you’re a valuable asset. How much will you cost me?”
“That’s up to you,” Vaatzes said. “Assuming you can use me. But I believe you’ll decide you can, after what’s happened.”
“After what’s happened.” Valens yawned; it was all starting to catch up with him. “After what I’ve gone and done, you mean.”
“Yes. I won’t ask you what you did it for…”
“Very sensible.” Valens frowned. “Tell you what,” he said. “When we get home and I’ve had a chance to calm down and get a grip on things, you come and tell me what you think you’ve got to offer, and I’ll hear you out. Reasonable?”
“Entirely,” Vaatzes said. “And I promise you, you won’t regret it.”
In due course, General Melancton presented himself before an extraordinary session of the Guilds council. In a prepared statement, which he read out in a clear, steady voice, he officially notified the assembly of the capture and destruction of Civitas Eremiae and the elimination of its inhabitants, pursuant to the requirements of council resolution composite 50773.
Before starting his accou
nt of the war, he drew the assembly’s attention to the fact that he was deliberately omitting a certain amount of detail, since such matters would be heard separately in committee. He outlined the early stages of the campaign, including the unfortunate ambush of the artillery column that resulted in a substantial number of scorpion-class mobile war engines falling into the hands of the enemy. It was to these captured engines that he chiefly attributed the unexpectedly successful resistance mounted by the Eremians; however, there were other factors, in particular his own failure to make proper use of the long-range war engines with which he had been supplied, for which failure he was prepared to take full responsibility.
In the event, however, the setback had proved temporary. Factional strife inside the city had led one party to betray to him a means of entering the city by stealth. This approach proved entirely successful; the infiltration party were able to unblock the gateway and admit the bulk of the army, and the defenders were taken entirely by surprise and quickly suppressed. At the last moment, the conclusion of the assault was hindered by an unexpected and unprovoked attack by cavalry forces identified as belonging to Duke Valens of the Vadani. These aggressors were, however, quickly driven off and the final stage of the operation, the securing and burning of the city and the execution of surviving enemy military and civilian personnel, was successfully carried out without further hindrance.
Having thus achieved all the primary objectives set out in composite 50773, General Melancton had the honor to surrender his commission and return command of the armed forces of the Republic to the council, pending demobilization and repatriation.
Later, in a closed session of the select committee on security and defense, the general put his overall losses at twenty-three thousand killed, eleven thousand wounded to the point of permanent or temporary incapacitation. He had retrieved all the captured scorpions, together with almost three hundred of the copies made by the Eremians; the former had been restored to the Guilds, the latter destroyed.
With the city demolished and its people dead — questioned, he gave his opinion that the number of Eremians who were able to escape from the city before its destruction did not, at the worst possible estimate, exceed one hundred — the central district of Eremia was secure. In fact, it was deserted. The country people had left their homes before the city fell and had escaped into the mountains. Some of them remained there, carrying out a vigorous campaign of guerrilla activity against the Republic’s forces of occupation; the rest had crossed the border, mostly into Vadani territory. Strenuous efforts would be required to dislodge them, and accordingly the general recommended that not only should the current army be retained, but substantial reinforcements recruited to supplement them. As to the whereabouts of Duke Orsea and the abominator Vaatzes, the general had no reliable information. Their bodies had not been recovered before the city was burned down; a search had been made, but given the situation, it had necessarily been perfunctory. A number of eye-witnesses reported that the Vadani cavalry had taken a number of Eremians with them, and it was entirely possible that Orsea and Vaatzes had been among them. Accordingly, Melancton concluded, the main objectives of the exercise had not been met, and for this shortcoming he held himself entirely responsible. Asked for his recommendations for further action, he advised that the first priority should be to secure the mountain regions and the Vadani border, since unless this was done it would be impossible to control the country in any meaningful sense. However, he noted, it was entirely possible that this would prove to be a lengthy and expensive process.
After the select committee’s report had been received and considered by the council, it was resolved that the mercenary forces presently in the country should be retained temporarily to secure the borders and deal with insurgent activity in the few remaining pockets of resistance. Meanwhile, the council authorized the dispatch of ambassadors to the Vadani to demand the surrender of Duke Orsea, the abominator Vaatzes and Duke Valens — the last named to stand trial in respect of an unprovoked and illegal act of war against the Republic. Should these demands not be met within seven days, a formal declaration of war would be made, and preparations for the dispatch of an expeditionary force would be expedited.
In a closed meeting, a joint subcommittee of the Compliance and Security directorates interviewed Falier Zenonis of the ordnance factory and commended him for his part in bringing the operation against Civitas Eremiae to a satisfactory conclusion. The subcommittee pointed out that it was not possible for his contribution to be officially recognized; however, a formal commendation would be entered on his personnel record, and the subcommittee felt it was extremely likely that he would reap a tangible reward for his actions in due course. Closely questioned by Commissioner Psellus, Falier Zenonis stated that, in spite of his long acquaintance with the traitor Vaatzes, he could provide no convincing explanation for Vaatzes’ conduct in the matter of the betrayal of the city; in his personal opinion, Zenonis added, Vaatzes acted as a result of deep-seated mental instability exacerbated by feelings of guilt resulting from the high level of casualties inflicted by the weapons he had made for the Eremians. Asked if he believed that Vaatzes was still alive, Zenonis replied that he was sure of it.
The Vadani refused to comply with the Republic’s demands, as expressed in resolution composite 50979. Accordingly, a written declaration of war was drawn up and delivered to Duke Valens by special messenger.
She heard him; the click of the latch, the sigh of the curtain behind the door that kept out the draft, his boot-heel on the flagstones. She caught her breath for a moment.
“Falier?” she said.
“I’m home.”
She stood up quickly and tucked the letter she’d been reading behind a cushion. He’d be tired after his journey; she could retrieve it once he’d gone to bed. She stirred the fire with the poker; it was dying down and the charcoal scuttle was empty.
“Come through and sit down,” she said. “You must be worn out.”
The door of the cramped back room opened, and he came in. He looked terrible. Exhaustion didn’t suit him at all. He smiled wanly at her and dropped into the chair, still holding his hat in his left hand.
“Moritsa’s asleep,” she said. “She wanted to wait up for you but I said no, she’s got school tomorrow.”
He nodded. “We got held up on the road,” he said.
“I thought that was what must’ve happened,” she replied. “Can I get you anything?”
He pulled a face. “I’m too tired to eat,” he said with a yawn.
“Get an early night,” she said. “You can tell me all about it in the morning.”
He yawned again. “I’ll just sit here for a bit,” he said. Then he added, “He got away.”
She frowned. “Oh.”
“We’re pretty sure of it, anyway,” he said. He paused. On the way home he’d made up his mind not to say anything about the letter, even to her. “The likeliest thing is that he escaped over the border.”
“Good,” she said. “It’ll be better for us.”
“Oh, they’ll keep going after him,” Falier said. “Still, there’s nothing we can do about it, so the hell with it for now.” He grinned lopsidedly. “Miss me?”
“Of course I missed you,” she said. “Was it very bad?”
He nodded. “I hope I’m home for good now. There’s going to be a lot of work on at the factory, they’re going to need me here.”
He’d started to mumble, and his chin was down on his chest; any moment now he’d slide into sleep, right on top of that stupid letter. She promised herself: first thing in the morning after he’d left for work, she’d put it on the fire, along with all the rest of them. It’d only cause trouble, no end of it, if he happened to find them. Besides, by now she knew all the good bits by heart, and she wouldn’t miss the rest. Especially, she thought, the poetry.
From the sound of his breathing he was asleep. She sat down in the window-seat and looked at him for a while. Then she got slowly to he
r feet and raked the fire.
Acknowledgments
Much as I enjoy doing all my own stunts, I draw the line at picking fights with large, dangerous animals. I’m profoundly grateful, therefore, to Geoff Williams and Ian Farrington, for their insights into hunting the boar the hard way. My thanks are also due to Ken Funnell, for teaching me everything I know about machining; Tom Holt, for a crash course in cuir bouilli; and Tom Jennings and Ray Mullet, for the makings of the brigandine.
extras
meet the author
K. J. Parker is a pseudonym. Find more about the author at
www.kjparker.com.
interview
Without giving too much away, can you give us some background to The Engineer Trilogy?
Basically, it’s a love story, which is why tens of thousands die, cities are torched, nations overthrown, and everybody betrays everybody else at least once. It’s also a story about a very ordinary man who’s forced, through no real fault of his own, to do extraordinary things in order to achieve a very simple, everyday objective. Furthermore, it’s an exploration of the nature of manufacture, artifice, and fabrication — the things we make, the reasons we make them, the ambivalence of everything we create, and the effects on other people of what we make. Ambitious, or what?
Your protagonist in Devices and Desires, Ziani Vaatzes, is not a typical fantasy hero in the traditional sense, is he? Was it a deliberate attempt to distance yourself from the default post-Tolkien fantasy formula that led you to choose an engineer rather than, say, a soldier?
I don’t think so. Vaatzes couldn’t be a traditional fantasy hero, because his motivation is completely mundane and unheroic; it’s the lengths he has to go to in order to achieve it that both give him extraordinary stature and rob him of his humanity. I chose an engineer because I needed a catalyst figure, someone who sets in motion a mechanism that involves everybody around him. The man who designs and builds a space shuttle or a nuclear warhead isn’t primarily an explorer or a mass murderer; he’s an engineer. It’s the use to which his artifact is put, usually by other people, that makes the difference. Vaatzes is both the maker of the machine and the man who uses it, and yet he’s just a very ordinary man who’s caught up in other mechanisms, not of his own making, that he can’t control.