by K. J. Parker
"Well." Vaatzes hovered for a moment, then rested his back awkwardly against one of the bed pillars. Not someone, Valens decided, who thinks well standing up. "Everybody knows how you collapse a mine. You stuff the weight-bearing gallery full of brushwood and charcoal, soak it down with gallons of lamp oil, set light to it and run like hell. You might need to set up a few big double-action bellows at the outlets of the ventilation shafts, but in most cases the fire'll draw enough air on its own to do the job. Anyhow, you light your big fire, which burns out the prop shafts, and down comes the roof. Entirely effective, but if you want to open the mine up again, it'd be easier to dig new shafts than try and clear out the old ones."
Valens nodded. "Everybody knows that, do they? That's encouraging. Sorry, carry on."
Vaatzes shifted his back a little. "My idea," he went on, "is to build a reinforced chamber, sort of like a cage, about a hundred yards down the main gallery. Instead of wooden props, you use iron, and you have a big, thick iron fire door to close it off. You burn out the first hundred yards in the usual way, but because the reinforced chamber's got iron props, they won't burn out, and the fire door'll stop the fire spreading past the chamber and damaging the gallery beyond. So long as the enemy don't know about it, they'll assume you caved in the gallery and the mine's useless. Once they've gone home, you'll have to excavate the first hundred yards, but the rest of the mine ought to be intact." He paused, then went on, "It's fairly simple and straightforward, but it'd have to be done right. The ironwork needs to be pretty massive, and it'll have to be prefabricated above ground, carried down the mine and assembled down there in the dark, so you'd need precise measurements and close, fine work." He hesitated, though Valens was fairly sure it was mostly for effect. "To be honest," he went on, "I'm not entirely sure you've got enough skilled workers available to do the job."
Valens smiled at him. "Except, of course," he said, "I've got you."
"Me." Vaatzes smiled. "I'm flattered, but I don't think I'd be quite enough, somehow. I've done a few rough calculations, and I reckon you'd need a dozen good blacksmiths, plus strikers and men to work the bellows, so that's three dozen; then you'll need carpenters, masons, carters…"
"Fine." Valens shrugged. "I'll have them recruited. We do have skilled artisans in this country, you know."
"Actually," Vaatzes frowned, "you don't. Not what I'd call skilled, anyhow. No disrespect intended, it's simply a fact. You've got men who can make horseshoes and door hinges, but that's not the same thing."
Valens looked up at him. "Is that right?" he said.
"I'm afraid so. I've been wandering around the city over the last few weeks," Vaatzes went on, "poking my nose in, that sort of thing. I've visited pretty well every smithy in town, but I haven't seen anybody I'd give a job to. It's perfectly simple," he added. "The Vadani are a nation of shepherds who suddenly came into money about a century ago, when the silver mines were opened. Since then, you haven't needed home-grown craftsmen; you've got the money, so it's easier to buy stuff from abroad than make it here. You go into any barn or workshop and look around, you'll find most of the tools that aren't a hundred years old were made in Mezentia. Mass-produced good-quality hardware, everything from nails to scythes and plowshares. The Republic trades with your merchants, finished goods for silver; the merchants sell the stuff to the pedlars, who go round the villages and farms and take payment for what they sell in wool, cheese, flour, whatever. It's actually a pretty advanced way of running an economy-you concentrate on doing what you do best, and leave manufacturing to specialists. The problem comes when you're cut off from your supplier-or when you suddenly need home-grown craftsmen, as you do now. Has it occurred to you that every time one of your archers shoots an arrow, you can't replace the arrowhead? All imported, from the people you're currently at war with. Same goes for armor; I've been taking a professional interest, so to speak, and all your guards' kit was made in the Republic. Best-quality munitions-grade equipment, but there's no more where that came from. I'm sorry," he added, "I'd have thought you'd have been aware of that."
Valens was quiet for a moment. "Apparently not," he said. "You know," he went on, "it's a bit hard. I've never had many illusions about myself, but I've always kidded myself that I'm not a complete idiot. Oh well. I guess it's better to find out now rather than later." He sighed, and stood up. "I don't suppose there's anything I can do about it, is there?"
Vaatzes smiled. "As a matter of fact," he said, "there is."
"Really?" Valens turned and looked at him. "Oh, sit down, for crying out loud, instead of hopping about on one foot like a jackdaw. Go on then. Tell me."
Vaatzes looked round, found a chair and sat on it. "The Eremians," he said. "Because they've never had the advantages your people have had, they're used to making the things they need. Not to Mezentine standards, obviously, but their craftsmen know the basics, and they can be taught. I found that out when I was working for Duke Orsea. Now, thanks to the war, there's a fair number of Eremian refugees who've been forced out of their villages by the Mezentines. As I understand it, you've been cautious-understandably-about letting them cross the border. Fair enough; you've got enough problems as it is without several thousand extra hungry mouths to feed. But as I understand it, every Eremian village had its own smith, carpenter and so on. You don't need that many; a couple of hundred, that's all. They'll do your skilled work for you, and they'll train up your own artisans while they're at it. It's not going to happen overnight, particularly since we're evacuating, so everything'll have to be done in tents or off the backs of carts. Fortunately, making arrowheads isn't all that difficult, your people can learn it quickly enough."
Valens nodded. "All right," he said. "What about armor? Can you teach them to make that?"
Vaatzes shook his head. "That takes time," he said. "Also, there's more to it. You don't just need armorers, you've got to have furnaces to smelt iron ore; mills, preferably, for rolling pig iron into sheet, but that's rather a big leap forward; in the meanwhile, you need a lot of strong men with big hammers. In the short term, I'd recommend killing as many Mezentines as you can and robbing their corpses."
"Funny you should mention that." Valens shook his head. "All right," he went on. "Point taken. Congratulations on your appointment as controller of ordnance. Make a list of everything you need and I'll see you get it as a priority." He paused. "That's why you came to see me, I take it."
"Yes."
"Then I'm obliged to you," Valens said briskly. "My father always used to say, it doesn't matter if you're ignorant so long as you can find people to know stuff for you. Stupidity is staying ignorant when you don't have to. He said a lot of sensible things, my father; it's a shame he never acted on them." He looked up and grinned. "Why are you still here? Suddenly you're the busiest man in the duchy, you'd better get a move on."
"The mine project," Vaatzes said gently. "My idea about using reinforced sections. Do you want me to make a start on that?"
"Yes, if you can. Can you?"
"I expect so," Vaatzes said. "I'll need to get accurate measurements of the shafts of the mines you want blocked off. Who should I see about that?"
"They'll come and see you," Valens replied. "You're too busy to go traipsing about visiting people. Oh," he added, "while I think about it. Presumably if you're going to be doing all this important work, you'll want paying for it."
Vaatzes raised his eyebrows. "That'd be nice," he said mildly. "I hadn't given it any thought, to be honest with you."
Valens frowned. "You know what," he said, "I believe you haven't. That's curious. Is it a burning desire to help the beleaguered Vadani people, or are you just bored with sitting around all day with nothing to do?"
"Something like that," Vaatzes said. "But I'm happy to leave all that up to you."
"Really?" Valens said. "Well, the way things are at the moment, money wouldn't be a lot of use to you; there won't be an awful lot you can buy with it, and when we're all living out of wagons and wheelbar
rows, carting it around with you is likely to be a nuisance. You'll just have to trust me to make it up to you if and when life gets back to normal."
Vaatzes shrugged. "Fine," he said. "Right, I'll go and make the list of things I need. When I've done that, who should I see?"
"A man called Ulpianus Macer," Valens replied. "He's my private secretary, practically runs the country. He'll be round to talk to you this evening, after dinner. Will that give you enough time?"
"Yes."
"Excellent." Valens thought for a moment. "You've already done the list, haven't you?"
"I haven't written it out yet."
Valens looked at him for a moment. "Interesting," he said, with a slight frown. "Tell me, are all Mezentines as scary as you, or is that why they threw you out in the first place?"
Vaatzes' expression didn't change. "I'm not exactly a typical Mezentine," he said. "Not for want of trying, but nobody's perfect. Is there anything else, or should I go now?"
Valens raised his hand. "Go," he said. "Leave me to reflect on my own ignorance. It's one of the few indulgences I have left these days. And thank you," he added. "I have no idea what you're really up to, but I appear to be considerably in your debt. That always makes me uncomfortable, so I hope you'll forgive me if I sound a bit ungracious."
Vaatzes grinned. "We don't have graciousness where I come from," he said.
After he'd gone, Valens sat down on the linen press and stared out of the window for a while. He had an uncomfortable feeling that he'd just done something momentous and important, but whether it was a great leap forward or a bad mistake, he couldn't tell. So far, he believed, he'd coped reasonably well with having the Mezentines as his enemies. Having one as an ally, he felt, was likely to be rather more complicated. He thought about what Orsea had said about Vaatzes, how tirelessly he'd worked, his determination, his resourcefulness, his exceptional knowledge and skill. Thanks to Vaatzes, Orsea had said, for a while they'd honestly believed they had a chance of beating the Perpetual Republic and saving Eremia. Orsea liked him and respected him (he'd try not to hold that against him), and the man definitely had a knack for staying alive. There was also the fact that, nominally at least, he was the cause of the war.
Valens frowned. For a moment, earlier that day, he'd seriously considered turning Orsea over to the Mezentines as a way of saving his people. If the Mezentines were serious about why they'd started the war, perhaps there was someone else he could betray instead of Orsea. The same reasoning applied. If the Mezentines were sick of the waste and loss of prestige and would be prepared to go home in exchange for a way of saving face…
He got up and lay on the bed, staring at the tapestries on the opposite wall: the boar at bay, crowded in by the hounds, the hunters bearing down on him. He understood perfectly why he couldn't hand Orsea over to the enemy. Vaatzes, on the other hand, was a stranger, a foreigner, an outsider; in the estimation of his own people (and, apparently, himself) a criminal. It was Vaatzes, not Orsea, who had brought about the slaughter of thousands of Mezentine troops, and inflicted on the Republic the worst defeat in its history. Valens was by no means sure what the Republic's real reason for going to war had been. He most certainly didn't care, so long as the war could be persuaded to go away and leave him and his people alone. A lot had changed, however, since the Mezentines invaded Eremia. He understood that wars grew and mutated, finding ways to stay alive; they hung on with the grim tenacity of a weed growing in a crack in a wall, feeding on whatever nutrients their roots and tendrils could find. The war might have started because one faction in the Mezentine government wanted the popularity of a quick, easy victory; that possibility had been extinguished, but the war had not only survived but put on a tremendous spurt of growth; its original sponsors didn't dare end it without a redeeming victory, and other factions with other agendas were undoubtedly considering the opportunities it offered, one of which was surely the Vadani silver mines. Very well; he considered the implications. In all likelihood, the Mezentine opposition was making as much capital as it could out of the administration's misfortunes, but it would be political suicide for them to propose out loud that the Republic should cut its losses and admit defeat. Instead, they would be eager to change the war, redefine its objectives, so that when they overthrew their opponents they'd be able to win a quick victory, make good the financial losses, and if possible turn a profit. The original stated objective-the extermination of the Eremian nation-had proved to be too awkward and expensive, but a loving and generous Providence had intervened by taking away the wits of the Vadani duke, prompting him to interfere in a quarrel that was none of his business. If the war stopped being about wiping out the Eremians and turned into a punitive crusade against the Vadani, all their troubles would be over. They could have their victory simply by killing the stupid arrogant duke and slaughtering his army and a substantial number of his people, and they would have the silver mines. Perfect.
In which case, Valens concluded, it was essential that the current Mezentine government didn't fall; because they must be well aware that their only chance of survival lay in achieving something that could be made to look like the accomplishment of their original objective in the brief space of time remaining to them before their political enemies brought them down. The pretext for the war had been Vaatzes' defection; if they had Vaatzes, and could point to the blackened ruins of Civitas Eremiae, they stood a chance of persuading their constituents that they had done what they had set out to do. Handing over Orsea might just achieve the same result; giving them Orsea and Vaatzes would almost certainly do the trick. Vaatzes on his own-well, what mattered to Valens wasn't saving the Mezentine government but striking a deal that would satisfy them. What mattered wasn't whether Vaatzes' head would be enough to rescue them, but persuading them that it might be. Could he do that? He considered his own abilities, and decided that he probably could. At the very least, it was worth a try.
Well, then; problem solved.
He poured himself a glass of wine, looked at it and poured it back into the jug. Wherever you went in the castle, there were jugs and decanters, glasses, cups and mugs; wine, both domestic and imported, mead, cider, perry; the simple fact was that he didn't like the stuff and never had. He didn't like the way it tasted, and he hated the way it fogged up his mind. His father had always said he couldn't think without a few drinks inside him, and that was probably true.
Problem solved, indeed. He sat down again and thought about Vaatzes' visit. Sealing up the mines would deprive the Mezentine opposition of their motive for taking over the war (assuming that they knew about it, and of course they would, if their spies were earning their pay). Understandable, therefore, that Vaatzes should want to see to it that the job was done properly, which meant doing it himself. Vadani engineers, given the job of half sealing the mines, might well err on the side of caution, with the result that the resourceful Mezentines would be able to get past their attempts at sabotage. On that level, Vaatzes' offer of help was reasonable enough. It was, of course, also just a pretext. It had been enough to get him an audience with the gullible Vadani duke (a clever fellow, but not nearly as clever as he thought he was) and an opportunity to make himself indispensable by pointing out the inadequacy of the duchy's materiel resources and taking responsibility for putting matters in order. Basically the same as he'd done in Eremia: giving the Republic's enemies the technological secrets they'd gone to war to keep control of. Once the Vadani accepted Vaatzes' help, simply handing Vaatzes back would no longer be good enough, since the damage would've been done. Clever man; problem not solved.
In which case, it was just as well that Valens had figured out what Vaatzes was up to before it was too late. All the more reason, therefore, to make a deal and hand him over now, while there was still time.
He thought about his reaction to that. Long ago, one of his father's huntsmen had taught him that the one thing a hunter should never do is get angry with the quarry. It would be inexcusable to blame a living thin
g for doing anything it possibly could to avoid being caught and killed. Feeling angry, or hurt or betrayed, because Vaatzes was trying to manipulate him was therefore out of the question. Instead, when you recognize the trick the quarry is playing on you, the proper reaction is to be glad of the insight you've gained into the way its mind works, because of course you can't hope to hunt something successfully unless you understand it first; and understanding comes from forgiveness, just as forgiveness comes from love.
Problem, then, still solved. What he should do now was write two letters: one to the Mezentines, proposing the deal, one to the guard captain, ordering Vaatzes' immediate arrest. Two letters to save his people from the consequences of his own stupidity. He ought to do it. He ought to do it right away.
Instead, he refilled the wine glass, pulled a face and drank the sour, dusty-tasting stuff down like medicine. It didn't make him feel any better, but he acknowledged the slight fuzziness it produced in his mind. Lots of things wrong with alcohol, but it has one redeeming virtue; it makes you stupid, and there are times when you need to be too stupid to do the intelligent thing.
He looked at the empty glass, then reached for an apple to take the taste away. In five days' time he'd be up to his eyes in savages; pleasant thought. The Cure Hardy; last time he'd had any dealings with them, he'd spent a certain degree of time and effort trying to understand them a little better. He'd ground a few insights out of them before having them killed, which he'd had to do because they were raiding his territory and harming his people. Now, here they were again. He had no idea what they wanted. He yawned.
Someone knocked at the door, and he groaned. He had the option, of course, of simply not being there. Let them knock until their knuckles started to ache, and then they'd go away again.
"Come in," he said.
As it turned out, it was only Macer, with some letters for him to sign. He nodded, and Macer put them down in front of him. The tradition was that letters needing a signature came in on a half-inch-thick sheet of glass; something flat to rest on in an uncertain world. "Do I need to read any of these?" he asked.