by K. J. Parker
Then it was a matter of drawing, measuring, calculating, solving the inevitable small problems of application and fit; and for a while, the total concentration the process demanded acted as a kind of absolution. Let the hole be threaded and the shaft screw-cut; the disc, however, must float, therefore bore it five thousandths oversize. How thick is an arrow shaft? He could only guess; three eighths external diameter, so five sixteenths internal; five sixteenths decimal is three hundred and fifteen thousandths, therefore let the spread of the fingers at rest be two nine five to allow clearance; for strength, the fingers must be seventy thousandths thick; double seventy is a hundred forty, a hundred forty from two nine five is one five five, therefore let the shaft be one two five, an eighth, threaded standard Mezentine fine, forty-five turns to the inch; let the hole in the middle of the fingers be reinforced to one two five to keep it from stripping; spring steel throughout, tempered dark blue; a simple ratchet at the handle end, to maintain the tension; no time for that. Let the length of the fingers be eight seven five…
It was as though someone had crept up behind him and hit him over the head. For a moment, he couldn’t think at all; then, instead of pain or fear, he was flooded with clarity. Numbers, he thought; numbers make up a specification, specifications define. That was the core of being Mezentine. A set of numbers encapsulates perfection in every circumstance where perfection is possible, and every such circumstance was reduced to numbers long ago, so that no progress or innovation is needed or possible. The only exception to the rule was war, and that anomaly had always puzzled him. It was clearly an important issue, this one exception; until now, he’d always assumed it was mere cynical expediency, but Boioannes, of all people, had shown him the true reason. You can be the military governor, he’d said, the king, anything at all, just so long as I can be the chairman of Necessary Evil, like I used to be. Isn’t that what you really want, after all? It was highly unlikely that he’d meant anything profound by it, but that didn’t matter. As soon as his mouth had shaped the words, Ziani realised, he’d understood, from that simple accidental juxtaposition: chairman of Necessary Evil, like I used to be; isn’t that what you really want?
Presumably it had been intended as a small, sharp joke; an affectionate-derogatory nickname for the seat of true power, to which they all aspired. Necessary evil; in Mezentine terms, that could only mean the permitted degree of error allowed for in the specification, the tolerance. That was implicit in the paradox, necessary evil. Good and evil, perfect and imperfect, the simple gauge used in every process to check whether a component is the right size; either it fits or it doesn’t. Between the component and the edge of the gauge lies the infinite space of necessary evil (because nothing is perfect, nothing ever measures exactly five thousandths; the limitations of the measuring tool are necessary evil), and the truth of the matter, the point he’d never grasped before but which shone in his face now like a glaring light, was what Boioannes had said. If anything is to be made, necessary evil must span the gap between specification and reality, one foot on the numbers, the other in tolerance, forming a bridge between the work and the edge of the gauge. For Boioannes and himself, for Valens and his duchess, even for Daurenja, in love with the weapon of his dreams, war was the necessary evil, the evil necessary in order to put right something that should never have been, something that violated the numbers, some abomination. To be what I used to be is all I really want; but abomination distorted the specification beyond tolerance, and so evil is necessary to put it right again. The arrow in the duke’s head, the unimaginable pain, were clear breaches of specification; in order to pull out the arrow, here he was engaged in an act of pure abomination, designing and building an artefact for which no numbers existed, arrogating to himself the power of creation, which was vested in the Convention of Guilds. For every wrong crying out to be put right, there was a necessary evil. The mistake he’d been making had been to grieve for it, resent it, when he should have been accepting it as a fact.
Well; now he understood. Curious, that saving a life should help him to see the true justification for taking, wasting, wiping out lives in incomprehensible numbers. Let the dead Mezentines be thirty thousand; let the dead Eremians be a quarter million, Vadani twenty thousand, Aram Chantat forty thousand, Cure Doce… Not that it mattered. To make anything, take the solid material and cut away the waste. Let the waste be what it needs to be, so long as the finished work is perfect. Necessary evil.
He found that he had something in his hand, and looked down at it. Just a pair of brass callipers, Mezentine, Type Two. He stared at them for a long time, trying to remember what they were for, how they’d come to be there. Something made in the City had no place here.
Spring steel, seventy thousandths thick. He could draw down a piece of bar stock on the forge, but that would take too long. Instead, he opened the drawer under the bench, where the valuable tools were kept, and found a six-inch rule, also Mezentine; therefore made of the finest-quality hardening steel. He measured the thickness, though he didn’t need to. A Type One rule would always be seventy thousandths thick. He frowned, but it was necessary and expedient.
A few cranks of the bellows handle and the forge woke up, blades of orange flame piercing the crust of the fire like arrowheads. Gripping the rule in fine tongs, he poked it under the crust and drew the bellows handle smoothly up and down half a dozen times, then waited. When the steel was yellow-hot, he laid it on the anvil and rough-cut a strip about the right size with the hot chisel. It was, of course, an act of murder; he’d drawn the perfect temper of the steel, hacked off the length he needed and discarded the rest as waste. He could feel the weight of the sin, but it didn’t matter, because it was necessary. He left the steel to cool slowly, while he found an eighth-fine nut to weld in the middle of the strip.
Then it was just bench work: filing to shape, threading the rod, cleaning up, before the last step, hardening and tempering. He worked calmly, having perfect confidence in the specification he’d made and the adequacy of his own skill. When the blue-hot steel dipped into oil for the last time, whipping up a brief tantrum of flames that subsided immediately, he smiled. Every perfect work is born in fire, just as every human being is born in blood and pain, but the evil is necessary. As simple as that.
He wiped the oil off the finished fingers with a bit of rag, and tenderly compressed them, feeling their gentle, confident resistance. Then he screwed the rod into the nut; it spun freely, spreading the leaves as it went down, until, when it bottomed out, they were stretched wide under full tension, close to their breaking point but in no danger at all. He remembered the truth about spring steel: a spring bent is nine tenths broken, but if it’s tempered right it’ll stay that way for a hundred years. Sad, really. He’d been making springs all his life, and never understood them till now.
There, he thought, that’s that done. He knocked the handle off a file and wedged it on to the end of the rod, to give the doctors something to hold on to. They’d have to burn the stub end of the arrow shaft out of the socket with a white-hot skewer, which would have to go up inside the wound channel; but that was all right, since the heat would help cauterise the wound. Then they’d be able to introduce the tool he’d just made, and everything would be fine. As for the pain, that couldn’t be helped. You can only hurt, after all, if you’re still alive.
Finished. Really, he ought to get the tool to the doctors as quickly as possible, but he felt curiously lazy, unwilling to stir himself. He realised it was a desire to prolong the moment, to savour it. Partly it was pride, satisfaction with his work, but those were trivial things, feelings he could easily over-ride. What kept him there was the sense of peace, as the last component of the design he’d begun so long ago slid gently into place, fitted and locked; the mechanism that delivered the power of the drive to the assemblies that would achieve the desired result; the escapement. Foolish (he smiled indulgently at his own stupidity): he’d been searching frantically for it, and here it had been all the time,
wedged inside his head like Valens’ arrow, only needing a simple mechanism to draw it out, with the attendant necessary fire and pain.
The duke, they said, had been wounded by an arrow in an unprovoked attack by the Cure Doce. Following a successful operation by his doctors, he remained in a serious but stable condition, and the prognosis was extremely hopeful. Throughout the long and painful operation, they lied, the duke remained calm and stoical, never once crying out. The success of the operation was due in no small part to special apparatus designed and personally manufactured by the duke’s director of military engineering, Ziani Vaatzes.
“We got the arrowhead out, eventually,” Ziani told them. “It took an hour, just waggling the bloody thing from side to side like a loose tooth until it finally came away. They doped him up with henbane tea and slapped on hemlock poultices, but I guess the pain was too much; he started yelling and thrashing about, and the doctors weren’t having that, they said that if he moved while they were working they could nick a major vein and kill him. So they tied him to the bed and got the strongest man they could find in the palace guard to sit on his chest and hold his head absolutely still. When they finally got the arrow out, they washed the mess they’d made with white wine and stuffed up the hole with bog cotton soaked in salt water, which I gather is supposed to make him better. Anyhow, that’s all I know. If you want details, you’d better ask the doctors.”
There was a long silence. Then the oldest Aram Chantat cleared his throat.
“You should tell your doctor to mix bread sops, barley meal and honey into a smooth paste,” he said. “We find it a most effective salve for deep internal wounds. The pain can be eased with a simple infusion of poppies.” He gave Ziani a long, disapproving look, and added, “I confess to a certain degree of surprise that you are unaware of these basic remedies. Is this how you treat arrow wounds in Mezentia?”
Ziani smiled. “We don’t have the problem,” he said. “We pay other people to fight our wars, so Mezentines never get shot.”
“That, of course, is no longer the case,” the Aram Chantat said severely. “Still, if the duke is likely to survive, it is of no consequence. However, we must face the fact that he is in no condition to supervise the conduct of the siege.” Beside him, the other Aram Chantat nodded gravely, while the Vadani representatives suddenly looked thoughtful. “We ourselves have no experience of this kind of warfare. Accordingly, we must have another commander, at least until the duke is well again.”
A long, awkward silence. Then a Vadani cleared his throat and said: “Unfortunately, the duke’s second in command, Nennius, was killed in the same ambush…”
A different Aram Chantat clicked his tongue. “So we gather,” he said. “We would question the wisdom of permitting the commander-in-chief and his second to cross dangerous territory together without sufficient escort.”
“What about the Eremian, Miel Ducas?” An elderly Vadani he’d seen before but couldn’t put a name to. “He conducted the defence of Civitas Eremiae for a time, so presumably he knows about sieges. And a non-Vadani would mean there’d be no squabbling between factions.”
The elder Aram Chantat sighed, as if the Vadani had said something embarrassing. “Major Ducas is not acceptable,” he said. “His political record…”
“Excuse me.” Ziani paused and looked round. He had their attention. “Sorry to interrupt, but it strikes me, for the siege itself you really need an engineer more than a soldier. I mean, once the army’s in position and we start digging trenches …”
The looks they were giving him would have soured fresh milk. “You are proposing yourself, I take it.”
Ziani laughed, then shook his head vigorously. “Absolutely not,” he said. “I wouldn’t have a clue.”
“In that case—”
“But,” he went on, speaking soft and low so they’d have to be quiet in order to hear him, “I have an assistant, Gace Daurenja. He’s a first-rate engineer, and he’s had military experience. With the right support…”
The Aram Chantat’s eyes widened. “We have heard of Major Daurenja,” he said thoughtfully. “We understand he took command of the raid against the Mezentines’ communications, after the Vadani commander had allowed himself to be lured into a trap. He displayed great resourcefulness and personal courage.” He frowned: a man who thought he knew everything, suddenly confronted with a new idea. “You believe the captain has a sufficient grasp of siege techniques?”
Ziani nodded briskly. “We’re none of us experts on this level of siege engineering,” he said. “It’s a forgotten skill; basically, we’re learning it out of books, and we think the Mezentines are doing the same thing. Daurenja’s ingenious and imaginative, and a quick learner. Like you said yourself, he’s proved he can lead soldiers.” Slight pause; then, “He’d need guidance, of course. But that’s where you come in. An advisory commission of your best officers, to help him with logistics, administration, basic stuff like that. That way, he’d be free to concentrate on the engineering side, but there’d still be one man in overall command.”
Nobody spoke. The Vadani were staring at him as if he’d gone mad. The Aram Chantat were frowning, nodding. A good time, he reckoned, to say nothing.
“We will consider the proposal,” the elder Aram Chantat said suddenly. “But we approve of Major Daurenja. From what we know of him, we believe he has the necessary qualities of courage, leadership, resourcefulness and determination; and, in the absence of any obvious alternative, and given that the duke’s indisposition is temporary…” He fell silent, scowled, then shook his head. “You may inform the captain that we are giving serious thought to his nomination. We will need to speak to him ourselves, so ensure that he is available.”
The meeting broke up. For a moment, Ziani was sure the Vadani were going to lynch him, once the savages were safely out of sight. But after a lot of intense staring, they walked away without saying anything, leaving him alone in the room. He sat down on the nearest chair, resting his face in his cupped hands. Well, he thought; the delivery mechanism, the escapement. It was there all along.
He sat there for a long time; then he got up and walked briskly across the courtyard and climbed the stairs to the duke’s apartment. He met one of the doctors in the corridor.
“Well?” he asked.
“Better,” the doctor replied. He looked like someone recently rescued from the desert: drawn, brittle and exhausted. “Sat up about an hour ago and drank some water. No sign of infection, thank God.”
Ziani nodded. “For what it’s worth,” he said, and told him the Aram Chantat recipe for wound salve. The doctor shrugged.
“Actually,” he said, “they’re surprisingly good at treating wounds. Talked to one of their medics a while back; apparently they bank on saving one in three serious cases, which is a damn sight better than we can do. And I’ve heard stranger suggestions. There was some woman up here, don’t know how the guards came to let her through, some Eremian; she said we should pack the wound with mouldy bread, of all things. Traditional remedy in her mother’s family, apparently. It’s a miracle the Eremians survived as long as they did, if you ask me.”
Ziani smiled. “He also said something about poppy juice to soothe the pain,” he said.
“Oh, we know about that,” the doctor replied blandly. “Only you may have noticed, it’s not poppy season, and I don’t think the duke can wait that long. Henbane and hemlock, trust me, marvellous stuff. But you go poking a hot wire in an open wound, doesn’t matter what kind of jollop you give him, it’s still going to hurt.”
She was there with him, of course. She smiled as he came in, which troubled him. “Is he awake?” he asked softly.
“Yes.” Valens’ voice; thin, as if watered down, six parts to one, but instantly recognisable. “No, it’s all right. I want to talk to him. Two minutes won’t kill me.”
She stood up, and gave Ziani a ferocious glare. “Two minutes,” she repeated. “I can’t trust him, so I’m relying on you.”
“Actually, I think you should stay,” Ziani said. “You can make sure I don’t wear him out, and I think you ought to hear this.”
That worried her, but she sat down again. Ziani came a little closer, until he could make out Valens’ face in the dim glow of the single candle.
He’d have preferred not to. Valens’ face was a monstrous thing. There was a hole in it, plugged with coarse wispy cotton, the surrounding area hugely swollen, dark red. The swelling pushed his cheek up so far that it nearly closed his eye, and dragged down the corner of his mouth in an idiotic simper. He looked drunk or stupid, an idiot frozen in the moment of making a bad, crude joke. It was a nauseating sight, the sort that makes you feel guilty just for looking at it.
“I’ve come from the meeting,” Ziani said. “With the Aram Chantat, and our chiefs of staff.”
“Meeting,” Valens repeated. “What meeting?”
“You didn’t know.” He said it without emphasis or inflection. “Well, the Aram Chantat called it. They’re concerned about the conduct of the war, now that you’re—”
“Not going to die,” Valens said crisply. “Still, it’s a fair point. What happened?”
When it came to it, he found it very difficult to say. “They’ve appointed Daurenja as interim commander-in-chief,” was what eventually came out of his mouth. He wasn’t happy with it, but there didn’t seem any point in trying to wrap it up.