by K. J. Parker
Like a sculptor with an important commission, Framain scooped and molded the wet brown clay all round the bottle-trickles of brown water squeezed back over the webs between his fingers, and down the back of his hands to his wrists-until it was completely covered. "Mustn't let any of the vapor get out," he explained. "The book doesn't say why, but for all I know it could be deadly poison. It's wise to assume that anything with quicksilver in it is out to get you. Blow the fire, would you?"
Miel worked the bellows until Framain said, "Fine, that's enough"; then he put the clay-covered mess down on the steel grille over the fire. "Once the clay's dry, we've got to blow up a good heat. Apparently we've got to listen out for a cracking noise, which means the sulfur's combining with the quicksilver. When the noise stops, it should be ready." He pulled a face. "Let's hope so, anyway."
"The last time we did this, it came out a disgusting brown sludge," she said. "And the bottle cracked."
"We let it get too hot," Framain said mildly.
(Outside, it had started to rain, a tapping on the thatch, blending with the hiss of the fire; every few seconds a soft plink, as a drip from the roof hit a tin plate on the bench. Miel had to make an effort not to wait for the next one.)
"It was the wrong sulfur," she replied. "It says in the book there're three kinds, doesn't it?"
"The book isn't always reliable," Framain said with a sigh. "But it's the only one we've got, so we just soldier on." He bent down to peer at the clay mess. "Open the vent a touch, will you? The fire's starting to run away a bit."
Nothing much could be done while the clay was drying. Framain went back to the bench, leafed through the book, fetched a couple of jars but didn't open them, went back and checked the fire, put one of the jars back and got out two more, looked something else up in the book, scraped rust off a spoon with the back of a chisel. "He's always nervous," she said, as though he wasn't standing only a few yards away, "ever since he let a crucible get too hot and it shattered. Burning pitch everywhere. I got burned-look, you can still see, on the back of my arm here-and some embers got in the underside of the thatch, we nearly lost the roof and-"
"Accidents happen," Framain said to a sealed jar. "Only to be expected, since we don't really have a clue what we're doing. Because, of course, if anybody'd done it before, there'd be no point doing it again. That's what discovery means."
Miel took a step back out of instinct. He had a feeling this conversation, or others just like it, had been going on for many, many years. Two people talking at each other with intent to wound, like overcautious fencers probing each other's flawless guards. Just another manifestation of love, he decided. He'd seen the same sort of thing with married couples. For something to do, he went and looked at the fire.
"If we can produce a true vermilion," Framain told the jar, as if explaining his scheme to a crowd of skeptical investors, "we stand a chance of being able to make the soft white for backgrounds; it's a mix of the white lead tarnish cooked yellow, vermilion and ordinary flake-white, with green-earth to balance out impurities. We need to get the background right before we can start on the colors themselves, of course, because otherwise we won't know how the colors will react with the background. For example, viridian-"
"It's ready," she interrupted.
"Are you sure? If we give it the full heat before it's thoroughly dried-"
"Look for yourself."
And yet, what closer bond of love could there be than between a father and his daughter? Miel had been watching closely for some time now; everything one of them did seemed to irritate the other beyond measure. There'd been days when both of them had talked to him, as if to an interpreter, rather than acknowledge the other one was actually there in the room. He wondered about the mysterious business partner, the one who'd absconded or been thrown out. Had they talked through him this way? If so, no wonder the poor man left.
"Ready." Framain's voice was unusually tense. "Blow up the fire a bit, will you? More coal."
A drip hit the tin plate, making Miel jump. Was it his imagination, or was something about to happen? Probably just the atmosphere between Framain and his daughter, making him nervous. He dug the scoop into the charcoal scuttle.
"We're running low on fuel," she said. "And when that's gone, with the war and everything…"
Framain didn't bother to reply; he shushed her. They were supposed to be listening out for a cracking noise, Miel remembered. He could smell damp, a hint of moldy straw. I'm just in the way here, he thought, they don't need me for anything. For no real reason, he drifted over to the bench and glanced down at the book, remembering the first time he'd seen it.
…To make flake-white, place sheets of lead beaten thin in a wooden box, cover with vinegar mixed equally with urine, leave for a month. To convert flake-white to red lead, grind fine and heat in a new pot. To make Mezentine green, place thin copper foil…
"The book," he heard himself say. "Where did you get it from?"
"It belonged to my former partner," Framain said, not looking round. "He had quite a library."
"Half the things in that book simply don't work," she put in. "Whoever wrote it must've made them up and stuck them in just to fill it out."
"It's the only book we've got," Framain said wearily. "And some of it-"
"There's a perfectly ridiculous thing in there," she went on, ignoring him, "about hardening chisels by quenching them in the urine of a red-headed boy; or, if you don't happen to have one handy, goats' wee filtered through dry bracken will do almost as well. For all we know, the whole book could be a spoof; you know, a parody, in-jokes for colormen and engineers. And here we are, following it religiously as if it's gospel."
"Quiet." Miel had heard it too, a sharp click, like twigs snapping.
"In fact…" She'd raised her voice, and it was higher, too. "In fact, whoever wrote it seems to have had a thing about urine, because he tells you to use it in practically everything, the way the Vadani use parsley in cooking. Makes you wonder what-"
"Quiet." Framain lifted his hand. More cracking, syncopated with the patter of the rain, the growl of the fire and the tap of the drip on the tin plate. It was getting dark; rain-clouds outside,
Miel supposed, covering up the sun. But it was hard, somehow, to believe in the existence of the outside world, as he stood by the bench waiting for the cracking noise to stop. It seemed unnecessary elaboration, like crowded detail in the background of a painting that distracts your attention from what's going on in the foreground; sloppy composition.
"I think it's stopped," Framain said, just before the loudest crack so far.
"Are you sure that's not just the bottle getting too hot?"
Framain was counting under his breath.
"All it'd take would be one drip from the roof onto the bottle, and it'd shatter right in our faces, like that other time." Her voice sounded absurdly loud. "We really ought to do something about the leaks, but he's afraid of ladders."
"It's ready." Framain had a pair of tongs in his hand; he took a long stride forward and closed them around the clay-caked bottle. "Right," he said, in a tight, cramped voice. "Let's open it up and see what we've got. Chisel."
"Let it cool down first. He's always in such a hurry, it leads to mistakes."
At the end of the bench was a two-inch-thick slab of polished slate. Framain put the bottle down on it, carefully opening the tongs with both hands. "Chisel, please," he repeated, and Miel realized he was being spoken to. There was a rack of chisels on the wall, two dozen of them, all different shapes and sizes and contours. He chose one at random, hoping it'd do. At least he had the sense not to ask which one Framain wanted.
"Thank you." Framain took it from him without looking. He had a beech mallet in the other hand, and tapped the chisel lightly against the clay.
"Careful," she said, as he tapped again, flaking off a shard of clay.
He breathed hard through his nose but said nothing. Another tap, and the clay webbed with cracks. He paused to
flick off a few loose flakes.
"There's somebody outside," she said.
Framain looked up, frowning.
"There is," she said urgently. "Listen."
Muttering, Framain carefully put the bottle down and stood up, looking round. Miel guessed he was searching for something he could use as a weapon-the adze, perhaps, or the sledgehammer. "Shall I go and take a look?" Miel suggested. Both of them thought about that for a moment, then Framain nodded.
"Are you sure you heard…?" Framain mumbled.
"Yes."
Miel noticed that the door was bolted on the inside. He slid the bolt back, slow and careful; took a step back from the door before opening it, to give himself distance just in case there was trouble outside. Not that there would be…
The door swung open. He waited a couple of heartbeats and slid through, not opening it further than he needed to.
Outside the air was sweet with the smell of rain. He stood at the top of the steps and looked up and down the yard. Nobody there, of course. She'd imagined everything…
Except the gate at the top was always shut, tied with a bit of old hemp rope because the latch and keeper were no longer on speaking terms; but now it stood a yard open, the rope hanging limp from one of the bars. Of course, old rope half rotted through could easily break of its own accord, if a high wind got behind the gate and pushed. But there'd been no wind, only rain.
Staying exactly where he was, he concentrated furiously on what he could see of the rope. It hadn't been untied, because he could see the knot still in it. More than anything in the world, he wanted to know whether the dangling end of the rope was ragged and frayed or squarely cut through. To find that out, however, he'd have to go down the steps and walk at least ten paces up the yard. The Ducas is no coward, but neither is he recklessly stupid. He stayed where he was, looking for secondary evidence.
"Well?" her voice hissed from behind the door.
Yes, when he'd last looked at it the rope had been rotten and slimy. But it was also thick; if three strands had worn and moldered through, that still left two or three more, plenty to hold the gate shut, particularly in no wind. A stranger wanting to get into the yard might not have the patience to wrestle with the slippery, nail-tearing knot. He'd cut the rope.
"Is there anybody there or isn't-"
"Ssh." The house windows were shuttered tight, as always, but he couldn't see the back door from where he was standing. A stranger would try the house first; a harmless traveler, lost on the moors, desperate for a drink and a bit of food; or someone else. He heard a horse, that unmistakable sound they make by blowing through closed lips. Framain's horses were out in the paddock, weren't they? Or had he brought them in, in case it rained?
One thing he could be absolutely sure of: standing motionless at the top of the barn steps was hardly sound tactics. An archer stooped down behind the pigsty wall, or lurking under the woodshed eaves, would have a beautifully clear shot. Even if there was no archer, he was advertising his position and his apprehension with alarming clarity, and getting no useful information in return. "Stay inside," he hissed, then jumped down off the steps and walked briskly toward the house.
First, see if there was anybody there. If there wasn't, nip inside and get the hunting sword, the one he'd stolen from the looters. Probably not much use, if the place really was under attack, but holding it in his hand would make him feel slightly better.
He'd forgotten that the back door creaked. Inside the house was perfectly still and quiet, but it didn't feel right. Stupid, he told himself, that's just you being nervous. He went straight to the pile of rugs where he'd last seen the sword; there it was, just where he'd left it. He grabbed at it like a drowning man reaching for the hand of a rescuer.
Ridiculous, he thought. There's nobody here.
The house didn't take long to search. Nobody there, no unaccountable marks in the dust, no door open that he'd left shut. Looking out through the front door at the curtain of rain, he felt himself relax. Just possibly, a man, maybe even two, could be hiding in the yard somewhere. But if unwelcome guests had come to visit, they'd have come on horseback; from where he was standing, he had a clear view of everywhere a horse could be tethered. No horse; no intruder. Therefore, the breeze or simple entropy must've broken the gate rope, and there was nothing to be afraid of.
To prove it to himself once and for all, he strode briskly up the yard and inspected the ends of the rope. Cut through.
Well, that cleared things up. No more dithering; he had to get back to the barn, warn them, organize a safe, swift evacuation to a defensible stronghold. By now, stealth was pointless. He ran.
Up the steps, through the door; he drew a breath to deliver his warning. Then something slammed between his shoulder blades. He stumbled, heard the sword go bump on the floor, saw the floorboards rushing up at him. He landed on his elbows, and saw a pair of boots.
"That him?" someone said.
He was grabbed and hauled upright. "Well?" the voice said.
"Yes."
Her voice. He turned his head and saw a dark brown face just behind his shoulder; then his left arm was wrenched behind his back and twisted.
There were two more Mezentines, besides the one holding him. One of them stepped out from the shadows behind the bench. The other was the owner of the boots. He said, "Miel Ducas."
"That's me," Miel said.
The Mezentine didn't seem interested in talking to him. "Bring the other two as well," he said. He was wrapping a bit of rag round a stick. Why would he be doing that?
"All right, you've got your man," Framain was saying. "Now why don't you…?"
The Mezentine shoved his wrapped stick in the furnace fire, waited for it to catch. Framain was saying something, but Miel didn't get a chance to hear it; he was being hauled out of the barn and down the steps. He heard a shriek; possibly a man's voice, probably a woman's. Dutifully he considered trying to fight, but a twist on his forearm excused him.
Two more Mezentines appeared in the yard. One was holding a horse. The other put a loop of rope round his neck, then held his stirrup for him as he mounted. That let him off trying to ride them down and escape; just as well, because he'd have had to come back and try to rescue Framain and the girl, which would almost certainly have been suicide. He saw smoke filtering out in plumes from under the eaves of the barn, but no sign of Framain or his daughter being led out. One of the Mezentines had grabbed his hands and was tying them behind his back. Redundant, since they had the noose round his neck to dissuade him from being annoying. Presumably they'd be left inside the barn while it burned down. Excessively harsh, he thought, until he remembered that that was standard operating procedure when mopping up Eremian settlements. Part of him wanted to feel furiously angry about that; the rest of him felt the shame of no longer being capable of anger, only the quiet acceptance of the unspeakably weary, the dreadful acknowledgment of the truth that it really doesn't matter, at the very end.
(Once he'd seen condemned prisoners digging their own graves; and at the time he'd thought, that's ridiculous, you wouldn't do that, not when you knew they were going to kill you anyway. You'd drop the spade and stand there, tell them, You dig the bloody hole. Now, though; if they pulled him off the horse and handed him a shovel, he'd start digging, wouldn't even need to be told. At the very end, nothing matters enough to be worth making a fuss about.)
They hadn't come out; but neither had the other two Mezentines. Suddenly, it mattered a lot.
"What's going on?" he heard himself say. Apparently, nobody heard him.
He started thinking, making calculations. The rope round his neck; if he could grab it with his tied-together hands and keep a hold of it as the horse started forward, might he be able to pull it out of the man's grip before it strangled him? He'd be prepared to risk it if the odds were, say, four to one; but how did you calculate risk in a situation like this?
The thatch was burning on the outside, so inside it must be thick with smoke
; still the Mezentines hadn't come out. The others didn't seem concerned. They were standing patiently, like well-trained tethered horses, as though they ceased to exist between orders. Keeping still while the last minute or so wasted away; clearly it was the Ducas' responsibility to do something. It all turned on the timing of catching hold of the rope…
The barn door flew open. Framain led the way, his arms full of bottles and jars. She followed him, clutching the book, and the glass bottle still caked in its clay. The Mezentines brought up the rear, not in any particular hurry. One of them carried a large wooden box, familiar; Framain kept it under the bench, got anxious if Miel took too much interest in it.
"Get the horses," the boss Mezentine said. "And two more for these. Stable's round the back."
So that was all right, Miel told himself. No action needed. He let the calculations-timings, angles, distances-slip from his mind. I don't care what happens to me so long as it happens later.
There was just one Mezentine now, standing back from him, holding the rope. The others had gone off to get the horses, presumably. Now that he had the time, he speculated: Framain had told them he had a secret, something that'd be worth a fortune, an opportunity the Mezentines couldn't risk ignoring just for the sake of a quiet life. In which case, it was unlikely that they'd betrayed him, so it had to be the courier, the man he'd pulled out of the bog. That disappointed him, but he couldn't bring himself to feel angry about it. He couldn't have left a man, enemy or not, to sink into the black mud. You could fill a book-someone probably had-with the selflessly heroic deaths of the Ducas. Dying of thirst in the mountains, the Ducas gives the last mouthful of water to the rebel leader he's captured and is taking back to face justice; awestruck by the example, the rebel carries on to the city and meekly surrenders to his executioners. Fighting a duel to the death with the enemy captain, the Ducas gets an unfair advantage when the enemy slips and falls; to forbear to strike is to give the enemy a clear shot, which he's obligated to accept since he too is fighting for the lives of his people; the Ducas holds back and allows himself to be killed, since duty to an enemy overrides his duty to his own kind. In such a book, there'd be pages of notes and commentaries at the end, explaining the complex nuances of the degrees of obligation-nuances which the Ducas understood and calculated in a split second, needless to say. If there had been such a book, it would have curled and turned to ash in the burning of Civitas Eremiae, and nobody would add a supplement recording Miel Ducas and the Mezentine in the quagmire. Did that matter? If not for the paradox, it should have been the perfect exemplar to round off the lesson: the Ducas makes the sacrifice, knowing there will be no page for him in the book…