by K. J. Parker
"That's good," Valens said. "It's always good to have something in common with your in-laws. I suppose I'd better see him."
Mezentius shook his head. "I've told him you're fragile as an egg and not to be disturbed for at least a week," he said. "Only way I could keep him from bursting in here and waking you up."
Valens nodded. "Who is he, by the way? I've been talking to him all this time, but nobody's actually told me where he fits in."
"Oh." Mezentius frowned. "He's sort of the grand vizier, prime minister, the head man's chief adviser. He reckons he pretty much runs the show, though I don't know whether the rest of them would agree. Anyway, he's pretty high-powered; and he's really pissed off about the uncles getting killed. Probably some background there I wasn't briefed on."
"It'll keep, I expect," Valens said with a yawn.
They discussed other things-a new civil authority, which posts could be filled by co-option and which would have to wait for formal elections; suitable candidates for offices, the balance of power between the old families and the mining companies; the effect recent events (Valens smiled to himself; call them recent events and you cauterize the wound?) would have on the marriage alliance, plans for the evacuation, the war. Exhaustion came up on him suddenly, like an ambush. He stopped Mezentius in the middle of a sentence and said, "You'd better go now, I'm tired." Mezentius nodded.
"I'll send the doctor in," he said.
"No, I just want to get some sleep," Valens mumbled. His eyes were already closing. He heard the sounds of movement, someone standing up, the legs of a chair grating on a stone floor. He felt cold, but couldn't be bothered to do anything about it. He listened to his own breathing for a moment or so, and realized that he was back on the edge of the marsh, watching the ducks flying in. It had been a disaster, a wretched mess, all because of that fool Orsea. Standing next to him, King Fashion and Queen Reason were talking about the day's hawking. He was surprised to hear the King say that it hadn't been too bad after all: three dozen mallard, a few teal, three brace of moorhens, but it was a shame they hadn't managed to pull down the heron. Perhaps they should have flown lanners instead of sakers. As they talked, they were watching the sky, waiting for the hawks to come back. They didn't seem worried, but Valens knew that the hawks were gone for good; dead or scattered, not that it mattered a great deal. After a long silence, the King shrugged, and called to his master falconer to make up the bag. They were laying them out on the ground, in pairs, a male and a female; Sillius Vacuo and his wife, Lollius Pertinax and Syra Terentia, Carausius and the eldest Fabella girl, a hen to every cock-bird. He counted them: eighteen brace, just as the King had said. He almost expected to see himself among them as the falconers passed loops round their necks and hung them in their pairings from the top rail of the fence; but of course, he wasn't there, the heron had got away.
Queen Reason was talking to him. She was asking him if he was awake.
"Don't be silly," he said. "I'm dreaming, of course I'm not awake."
He realized that he'd spoken the words aloud, and that he wasn't asleep anymore. He opened his eyes.
"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
He blinked, just in case. She was still there.
"I was just dozing," he said. He was struggling to remember which one she was; whose duchess, his or Orsea's. But then it all came back to him; he remembered now. There had been some sort of ghastly mix-up, and he'd married the wrong one, and this was the fool's wife he was talking to: Veatriz, who used to write him letters.
"Are you all right?" he said.
She nodded. "How about you?"
"Oh, I'm fine," he said. "Just skiving, so someone else has got to clear up the mess. Soon as everything's been sorted out, I'll make a miraculous recovery."
She smiled: thin, like lines scribed on brass with a needle. "I thought I ought to thank you," she said. "It's becoming a habit with you."
Something about the way she'd said that. "You wrote to me," he said. "You wanted to talk."
"Yes, but that was before the wedding." She hesitated. Not fair to bully a sick man. "It was very brave of you…" she started to say. She made it sound like an accusation. He didn't want to hear the rest of it.
"It sort of rounded off a perfect day," he grunted.
"Not quite the honeymoon you'd have chosen?"
"I hadn't thought of it like that," he said. "But, since you mention it, better than the one I had planned."
She frowned. "I should go," she said. "Shall I let your wife know you're awake and receiving visitors?"
"I'd rather you didn't," he sighed. The pillow was suddenly uncomfortable, and his arm itched. "I heard about Daurenja," he said.
"Who?"
"The man who saved your life. And Orsea's too," he added maliciously. "How is he, by the way?"
"In bed. They were worried about the bang he got on his head, but they think he'll be all right now."
"Ah. So that's all right, then." He looked away, up at the ceiling. "Daurenja's the long, spindly man with the ponytail who rescued both of you. Maybe you should look in on him too."
"I will. He was very brave." He wasn't looking at her, so he couldn't see the expression on her face. "Isn't he something to do with Vaatzes, the engineer?"
"That's right." His head was starting to hurt, making it a painful effort to think. Nothing came to mind: no bright, interesting observations to found a conversation on. He'd prefer it, in fact, if she went away. (Interesting, he thought; does this mean love is dead? He couldn't decide.)
"I'm sorry Orsea spoiled your hunt," she was saying. "He didn't want to come. I think he was afraid he'd show himself up, one way or another. But he reckoned it'd have been rude to refuse the invitation."
"Oh well," Valens replied. "As things turned out, it wasn't the end of the world."
"The people who were killed." She sounded as though every word was an effort, like lifting heavy blocks of stone. "Were they…?"
"Most of the government," he said. "My friends. People I grew up with. It's going to be very strange getting used to the idea that they won't be around anymore. I mean, so many of them, and so sudden." He paused, reflecting. "But you'd know all about that, of course," he said. "At least they didn't burn down my home."
She laughed, brittle as ice. "I never liked it much anyway," she said.
"Is it better here?"
"No, not much." A pause. It seemed to go on for a ridiculously long time. "The thing is," she said, "I've been shunted about like a chess piece ever since I was fourteen years old; you know, move to this square here, then back, then sideways to cover the white knight. After a while, places just don't matter very much anymore. And it's not like I've ever done anything. At least," she added, "I've caused a lot of trouble for thousands of people, but I never asked anybody to do any of that. Unless you count writing letters about poetry and things I could see from my window."
Valens shrugged. "I think if I'd had to live your life, I'd have gone mad, or run away. Haven't you got a sister who's a merchant?"
"Yes. She's a horrible cow and I haven't seen her for years. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. I never had any brothers or sisters. What's it like?"
"Noisy. There's always someone slamming doors in a huff. Why the sudden interest?"
"I was just making conversation. It's something we never got around to discussing, and it was always on my mind to ask you about it."
She stood up. "Some other time, maybe," she said. "I really ought to go. You look tired."
He yawned. "I was born tired," he said. "Rest just spoils my concentration." She turned and walked away; reached the door and hesitated.
"Should I ask the doctor to come in?" she said.
"I'd rather you didn't."
"Goodbye, then."
"Goodbye. I'm sorry," he added.
"Are you? What for?"
He closed his eyes, just to make her go away.
"Everybody's dead," the woman in the red dress complained bitt
erly. "Which is hell for business. I've got a hundred yards of silk damask, beautiful sort of bluey-green, and I can't shift it. No customers. All the money in the duchy's tied up in probate, and what there is has all gone on estate sales, all the heirs selling up at the same time. It's a bugger for luxury goods. I should've stuck to bulk commodities, like my old mother told me to. You could kill off every bloody aristocrat this side of the mountains, and people'll still want quality lumber."
Ziani nodded. "For coffins," he said, "if nothing else."
She sighed; not in the mood for comedy. "And what's going to become of the marriage alliance, that's what I'd like to know. If that goes out the window, that's our venture in the salt trade well and truly stuffed." She tilted the jug, but it was empty. "Bastard thing," she said, a trifle unfairly in Ziani's opinion, since she'd been the one who'd emptied it. "And I don't know what you're being so fucking calm and superior about. It's your money as well, remember."
Ziani shook his head. "It's not going to muck up the alliance," he said soothingly. "Quite the opposite. From what I can gather, the Cure Hardy are fighting mad, because of the uncles getting killed. Blood vengeance is a big thing with them, so I've heard."
She shook her head. "You're getting them confused with the Flos Gaia," she told him. "They're the ones who carry on blood feuds for sixteen generations. In fact, it's a miracle there's any of the buggers left. This lot are pretty sensible about that sort of thing, for savages."
"Not where royalty's concerned," Ziani replied. "And don't forget, there's a whole lot of young braves back home who'd love a chance to have a crack at the Republic, as a change from cattle-raiding against the other tribes. It'll be fine, you'll see. Blessing in disguise, even."
She scowled, tried to get up to fetch a bottle from the cupboard, gave that up as too much effort. "That's not going to help me get shot of my silk damask, though, is it? Genuine Mezentine, cost me two thalers a yard and I had to fight like a lunatic to beat them down to that. I'd been hoping to shift it for clothes for the wedding, but it didn't get here in time, what with having to come the long way round to stay out of trouble. This bloody war'll be the ruin of us all, you'll see."
Ziani smiled. "You want to hang on to that cloth," he said. "Take the long-term view. Once the savages are coming here all the time, money in their pockets from the salt deals, there'll be a demand for prestige goods, and who else is going to be carrying any stock to sell them?"
She opened her mouth to say something, then closed it again and thought for a moment; slow but sure, like a cart drawn by oxen. "That's a thought," she said. "All the rest of 'em will be getting out of luxuries and buying into staples; and you're right about the savages, they won't want to go home empty-handed."
Ziani stood up. "You've got the idea," he said. "If I were you, once your colleagues start selling out their fine ware at sacrifice, you want to be in there buying. After all," he added, "you know something they don't. Only," he added, "for crying out loud be a bit discreet about it. We don't want anybody putting two and two together."
He left her to her long thoughts and the unopened bottle, and walked back up the hill. People were staring at him as he went by; not just because of the color of his skin, now that he was the hero of the hour, the man who'd raised the alarm and saved the Duke's life. The thought made him smile.
He heard the foundry half a mile before he reached it. There were all sorts of rumors about what was going on there. The favorite, for the time being, was that all that steel sheet was for making armor, to equip the thousands of cavalrymen the Cure Hardy would be sending to help avenge the massacre. The proponents of this theory weren't having it all their own way; they couldn't explain to those awkward-minded cynics who wanted to argue the point how all these notional soldiers were going to get from the Cure Hardy homelands to Civitas Vadanis, given that there was a huge, impassable desert in the way. That uncomfortable fact was very much in people's minds; had been ever since the news of the marriage alliance had broken. It was all very well making friends with a nation that had endless resources of warlike manpower, but what help was that likely to be if it was going to take them six months to get here? (Six months was the figure usually quoted; pure conjecture, since nobody really knew how big the desert was or how you got round it.) The same point had exercised the minds of most of the Duke's court; but Carausius had been quite adamant that the problem was by no means insoluble, and since he hadn't been prepared to discuss the matter, his assurance had been generally taken on trust. Hooray for autocratic government.
That thought made Ziani smile too, as he banged on the massive gates of the foundry and waited for the porter to let him in. It had cost him a good deal of effort and ingenuity to find a way of sharing the secret of the salt road across the desert with Carausius, since the late Chancellor had taken a dislike to him from the start. In the end, he'd had to plant in his business partner's mind the idea of selling Carausius' wife twenty yards of best hard linen at practically cost, and hanging around to chat after the deal had been made. He'd explained that if the marriage alliance went ahead, there'd be a need for regular traffic between the Cure Hardy and the Vadani; which meant convoys of troops, which meant free escorts for the shipments of salt they'd be taking across the desert, and quite possibly free fodder for the horses, someone else to carry the water, all sorts of fringe benefits. Thanks to his gentle, patient suggestions, Carausius had learned about the secret road across the desert, firmly believing he'd found out about it by happy chance rather than being force-fed it by someone he regarded as a threat to national security. In his apparent monopoly of the secret, he'd seen a wonderful opportunity to consolidate and maintain his grip on power. As far as Ziani could find out, he hadn't even shared it with Valens himself; and now, of course, Carausius was dead. The Cure Hardy still believed that in order to get to Civitas Vadanis, they had to struggle across the desert the hard way, and that way was very hard indeed: the bride's escort had consisted of the wedding party, fifty horses to carry water and supplies and their drivers. Twenty men and thirty-seven horses had died in the crossing, quietly and without complaint; these losses were rather lower than had been anticipated when the party set out. The Cure Hardy were serious about the alliance. How pleased they would be, therefore, when they saw the map Ziani had hidden under a floorboard in the cramped back room at the foundry that he used as an office.
"They'll be pleased to see you," the porter told him mournfully as he swung open the gate. "They're having problems with the drop-hammers."
Ziani closed his eyes, but only for a moment. There had been a short, happy interval when he'd actually come to believe that Vadani workmen could be trusted with mechanisms more complicated than a pair of tongs, but that was some time ago. "Where's Daurenja?" he heard himself say. "Couldn't he have sorted it out?"
"They were looking for him," the porter replied, "but he's off somewhere. They're having to do the blooms by hand."
Patience, Ziani ordered himself. The idiots'll be beating the sheets out to any old thickness, and quite probably cracking and splitting them as well; a day's production, only fit to go back in the melt. "Wonderful," he said, and he quickened his pace. He always seemed to be rushing about these days; not good for someone who didn't really like walking, let alone running.
Nothing wrong with the drop-hammers that a blindfolded idiot couldn't have fixed in five minutes; but the Vadani foundrymen were standing around looking sad, still and patient as horses in a paddock. He put the problem right-a chain had jumped a pulley and mangled a couple of gear-wheels, but there were spares in the box-shouted at the men whose names he could remember, and scampered off to get on with some real work.
He was building a punch, to cut mounting holes in the plates, to save having to drill each one. It was nothing more complicated than a long lever bearing on cams, bolted down for stability to a massive oak log, but he was having a little trouble with the alignment of the bottom plate, and the sheets were coming out distorted after the h
oles had been punched. All it needed was shims, but that meant laboriously hacksawing, drilling and filing each one by hand, since such basic necessities of life as a lathe and a mill were unknown in this godforsaken country. He clamped a stub of two-inch-round bar in the vise, picked up the saw and set to work, pausing after every fifty strokes to spit into the slot for lubrication. He was three-quarters of the way through when he heard footsteps behind him, a pattern he recognized without having to turn and look.
"Daurenja?" he called out.
Immediately he was there: long, tense, attentive, unsatisfactory in every way. Today he had his ponytail tied back with a twist of packing wire, and there was something yellow under his fingernails.
"Where the hell did you wander off to?" Ziani asked.
"I had some errands to run," Daurenja answered. "I'm very sorry. I gather there was some bother with the-"
"Yes. Two hours lost. You should've been here to deal with it."
Being angry with Daurenja was like pouring water into sand; he absorbed it, stifling the healthy flow of emotion.
"You know we're in a hurry," Ziani went on. The default had been trivial enough; two hours' lost production wasn't the end of the world, or even a serious inconvenience. If it hadn't been for Daurenja's energy, initiative and enthusiasm, the whole project would probably have stalled by now and be in jeopardy. "You know you can't leave these clowns on their own for ten minutes, but you bugger off somewhere without a word to me; they could have trashed the place, wrecked all the machinery, blown the furnace…"
"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
Ziani put the hacksaw down on the bench and wiped sweat and filings from his hands. "It's not bloody well good enough, Daurenja," he said, and the thin man's pale eyes seemed to glow at him as Ziani took a step forward, balling his right fist. "I never asked you for help; you came to me, remember. You came begging me for a job."
"I know. And I'm grateful, believe me."
"Yes, you are." Ziani grabbed the front of Daurenja's shirt with his left hand and pulled, forcing Daurenja to come close. "You're always so very grateful, and then when my back's turned…"