by K. J. Parker
"It's not up to him," Valens snapped. "In fact, what your friend the Ducas thinks about anything is probably the most unimportant thing in the world right now. Anyway," he added, trying to restrain his temper, "what the hell do you care about what Daurenja may have done?"
"Actually, quite a lot. You may have forgotten, but he saved my wife's life, when the Mezentines ambushed your hunting party."
Rather like being stabbed by a small child with a sharp knife. Suddenly Valens didn't know what to say.
"I know," Orsea went on. "Being under an obligation to someone like that; it throws everything out of true. It's a bit like owing your life to a man who's been trying to seduce your wife. It beats me, I must admit. What would you do, in a situation like that?"
If you were half a man, Valens thought; if you were only very slightly less pathetic, I'd take her away from you tomorrow, even if it meant hiring murderers to cut your throat in the dark. I know: what about Daurenja? He would seem to have a knack for that sort of thing. Instead, he said: "That's an interesting one. I think what I'd do, if I was in your shoes, would be to get out of this tent while you're still capable of walking. Do you think you could manage that, or shall I get someone to help you?"
Orsea smiled blandly at him, and he thought: sore losers are bad enough, but a sore winner's insufferable. I don't think I'll ever be able to forgive him for that; for being completely at my mercy, and in the right. "So what about Miel Ducas?" Orsea said. "Are you going to let him go?"
"Only on the conditions stated," Valens replied. "Otherwise he can stay where he is until the Mezentines come and slaughter the lot of us."
"I see." Orsea turned to leave. "Thank you so much for your time."
"My pleasure. Please give my regards to your wife."
Which was, he reflected later, as he lay in the dark staring up, a bit like killing yourself to frame your enemy for murdering you; a sort of bleak satisfaction; looked at objectively, though, not terribly clever.
The right thing to do. He could see it clearly in his mind; it was practically blinding him as it glowed in the dark. Arrest Daurenja, let Ducas go, apologize to Orsea, never see or write to her again. The virtues and immediate reward of always doing the right thing, as exemplified by Orsea Orseoli, Duke of the Eremians, that nearly extinct nation.
(My father would have Daurenja in here like a rat up a conduit; he'd give him his own knife for the job, probably sharpen it himself, so as to be sure it was done properly. My father would have lost this war by now; except that he'd never have let himself get involved in it.)
He yawned. He felt tired, but in no way able to sleep. Let's just be grateful we've got the Mezentines, he thought. If I can play for time just a little bit longer, they'll exterminate us all and I won't have to do anything, right or wrong.
He turned over onto his side, and it occurred to him to remember that his wife was dead; killed by the Mezentines, because he'd been too stubborn and too proud to take her advice (which would have resulted in the deaths of about a fifth of his people; slightly more than the Mezentines had killed in the battle, but there was still plenty of time and scope to make up the difference). He knew he should be appalled by how little he cared about that. He thought: she couldn't possibly love me now, love what I've become because of all this. I've lost her as conclusively as though she'd been the one killed out there on the road, instead of that poor, overeducated savage woman, who only wanted what was best for all of us.
(Wonderful epitaph for a wasted life, but a little bit too long to fit on a tombstone.)
Well: her death had made one significant difference. With her dead, the alliance with the Cure Hardy was certainly gone for good; with it, the chance of escaping across the desert. No allies, no place to go; like Orsea, she'd been unbearable, hard done by and right. And, like Orsea, he'd destroyed his people. The realization hit him like an arrow; not just routine early-hours-of-the-morning depression, but a straight, clear look at the truth. They were finished. The clever idea hadn't worked, and they were screwed. And his biggest mistake: turning back on the hillside, instead of carrying on running away. It had been an easy mistake to make: looking at heaps of the slaughtered enemy, his own forces in possession of the field, and mistaking it for victory.
He flipped over onto his back and stretched out his arms. His father used to have a saying-something he'd heard somewhere, it was too clever for him to have made it up himself: giving up is a privilege only granted to the weak. Sometimes he assumed it was just garbage, like most of the old fool's pet maxims. At other times, like this one, it was the only truth that mattered. Ah, but he had so many things to give up on, spoiled for choice, wallowing in opportunities. I could give up on myself, he thought; then he realized, I've already done that. But I won't give up on the Vadani, and I won't give up on her. (Another thing the old man had said: screw doing your very best; succeed…)
He was still awake when the first spikes of light poked through the seams of the tent flap. He yawned, stretched and covered his face with both hands, running the tips of his fingers down the length of his nose. Another long day to look forward to.
"Are you awake?"
He started, lost his balance and slid off the bed onto his knee. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, "I didn't mean to-"
"That's all right," he mumbled, "that's fine. What are you doing here?"
He scrambled into a sitting position, his back to the bed, and looked up at her. She was wrapped in an old blanket, so all he could see was her head and her feet. "I wanted to talk to you," she said. "If it's not a good time…"
"No, it's fine." Without turning his back on her, he slithered up against the bed until he was sitting on it. "There's a chair behind you. Sit down."
She already had. "I hope it's all right," she said. "Only…"
"Orsea sent you."
He didn't know why he'd said it, because obviously he'd done no such thing. "No, of course not," she said. "But he came back to our tent last night looking like death on legs. He wouldn't tell me where he'd been until I lost my temper with him." She was looking straight at him. "What did you say to him? He's practically suicidal."
Valens sighed. "I was as unpleasant to him as I could possibly be. False modesty aside, when it comes to being thoroughly obnoxious, I'm pretty much the state of the art. Oh, and I hit him. No, I tell a lie. It was the other one I hit, that Ducas fellow. They're pretty much interchangeable, anyhow."
"That's not true." Her voice was very calm. "Orsea said it was Miel you fell out over."
Valens laughed. "You could say that," he replied. "But it was just an excuse, as far as I was concerned. You don't need me to tell you why your husband and I don't get on well."
She nodded precisely; a small, sharp movement. "It was Miel I wanted to talk to you about."
"Really?" He shrugged. "Fire away."
"I want you to let him go."
"Fine. He can go."
"Without that ridiculous condition you wanted Orsea to agree to."
"Sure." He made a vague gesture of submission. "He's free to go and do whatever he likes. Hold on a moment and I'll put it in writing." He leaned across and drew the writing desk toward himself. "You can take it with you if you like."
"You're giving in, then? You've changed your mind?"
"Yes. What does it look like?"
"Why?"
He gave her a what-a-stupid-question smile. "Because you asked me to, of course."
She frowned. "Would you do anything I asked you to?"
"Yes." He said it without thinking. "Yes," he repeated firmly, "I'm pretty sure I would."
"If I asked you to leave me alone and never talk or write to me again?"
"Definitely." He looked at her. "Are you? Asking me that, I mean."
"No."
"Good." He looked past her. "So why are you so concerned about the Ducas' welfare?"
She shrugged. "I've known him for a long time; all my life, really. If my father hadn't died so suddenly, I'd almost cert
ainly have married Miel Ducas instead of Orsea."
"I see. Would you have liked that?"
She nodded. "It'd have been very comfortable," she said. "A bit like leaving home and moving into the house next door. I don't love him, of course."
"No," Valens said, "I don't suppose you do. So, if not him…"
"Orsea." She looked down at her feet. "You know that."
"Yes. Just Orsea?"
"No. But enough."
"How much is enough?"
"As much as it takes."
Valens nodded. "All right," he said. "Though I must confess, it beats me how anybody could love someone like him; not excluding his mother, his old nurse and his dog. He's an idiot."
"No." There wasn't any anger in her voice. "He isn't, actually."
"Oh really." Valens jumped up. "Here's a man who wakes up one morning. What'm I going to do today? he says. Here's an idea: why not invade the Perpetual Republic for no perceptible reason and start a war that fucks up the entire world?" He waved his hands, an exaggerated gesture. "If you say he's not an idiot, he's not one. Now all we've got to do is call in all the dictionaries in the world and change the definition of idiot to mean somebody with a fucking clue."
Now she was standing up as well. Her front foot was pointed toward the tent doorway, implying that she was about to leave. "Does that mean you've changed your mind about Miel Ducas?"
"No, of course not," he snapped. "And sit down, for crying out loud. I'm sorry," he added quietly. "All that was just showing off."
"I know." She sat down. "And you know you're wrong about Orsea. He's not stupid, just weak; and unbelievably unlucky. Though I've always tended to assume the two go together somehow."
Valens leaned forward, cupped his chin in his hands. "I think he makes his own bad luck."
"No." She was correcting him, like a teacher. "Not all the time. Besides, all his mistakes and his errors of judgment stem from one piece of really bad luck that simply wasn't his fault."
"Really? What was that?"
She smiled weakly. "Marrying me." She shifted her head slightly, asking him not to interrupt. "If he hadn't married me, he wouldn't have become the duke. It's only because of me that he's been in a position to make the mistakes. If he'd married anybody else in the world, he'd have gone through life perfectly happy as a minor nobleman, getting things more or less right, and there'd never have been a war or anything. Besides," she added, "I should never have married him; only I didn't know him well enough at the time to realize what a mistake I was making."
Valens frowned. "I thought you said-"
"I love him? Yes, I do. Practically at first sight. But he's never really loved me; or at least, he loves me because I'm there, if you see what I mean. Because I'm his wife, and he knows that loving your wife is the right thing to do." She grinned. "What I mean is, if he was married to someone else, he wouldn't leave her and run off with me. He wouldn't-what's the quotation? You're the one who knows these things. He wouldn't count the world well lost for my sake."
Valens looked at her. "Actually," he said, "I don't know quotations. I have to look them up."
"Oh. I assumed…" She shrugged. "Anyway, you see what I mean. If it was a choice between me and doing the right thing, I wouldn't stand a chance."
"I see." He frowned. "And that's your definition of true love?"
"I suppose so. Like, for example…" She was looking over his shoulder. "Like doing something really bad and terrible, because you realize you simply don't have a choice: leaving your husband, for instance. Or starting a war. Sorry," she added. "Did I just make a joke or something?"
Valens shook his head. "I was just reminded of something I read recently. Actually it was that bloody stupid deposition the Ducas made me look at; you heard about that? It's something that Daurenja's supposed to have said, in his confession. He said: love has always been my undoing."
She looked at him. "He's supposed to be a murderer, isn't he?"
"I'm sure he is," Valens replied. "And a very useful engineer. I'm just picturing him standing up in court and saying: I did something really bad and terrible, but I realized I simply didn't have a choice. So: fine, I say, case dismissed. Is that how it should be?"
"I don't know," she replied. "I've never done anything like that."
He breathed out slowly. "Really?" he said. "What about writing to me? Wasn't that bad enough, considering how it ended?"
"No." Her eyes were cold and bright. "I can't be blamed because somebody turned me into a weapon." She studied him for a moment, then said: "You can't blame me for the war."
Valens winced, as though she'd hit him. "Well, no," he said. "Personally, I tend to think the Mezentines-"
"You know what I mean."
"So I should just have sat quietly at home and let them kill you?" He shook his head, as though conceding that he was deliberately dodging the point. "That's what Orsea would have done, of course."
"Yes," she said. "Because Orsea would never be in love with someone else's wife."
He shook his head again. "Come on," he said, "you can do better than that. What did you say just now? The world well lost for love? Actually," he added, "I do know that one. Pasier, the fifth Eclogue. But only because they made me read it when I was a kid."
"You don't like Pasier?"
"Too soppy. His heroines sit around waiting to be rescued, you can practically see them tapping their feet impatiently, wondering where the hero's got to. And then the hero dies tragically, and they're all upset and miserable. Anybody with half a brain could've seen it'd all end in tears; and all the heroine need have done was pack a few things in a bag, wait till dark and slip out through the back door, instead of making some poor fool of a hero come and fetch her. Besides, how could a hero give a damn about somebody so completely insipid?"
She looked at him. "You don't like Pasier."
"No. I think his heroines are bitches and his heroes deserve everything they get. Which explains," he added, "why I don't go in much for self-pity, either. I have no sympathy for stupid people."
What was she thinking? The writer of the letters whose words he knew by heart had told him everything about herself. He had explored her mind like a scholar, like a pilgrim. The girl he'd spoken to once when he was seventeen was so well known to him that he could have told you without having to think what she would be likely to do or say in any possible circumstance. The woman sitting in front of him was different. He hardly knew her.
"You're wrong," she said. "It's from the seventh Eclogue, and the line is the world well lost for her sake. Your version couldn't possibly be right, it wouldn't scan. Whatever you think about Pasier's heroes and heroines, his scansion's always impeccable."
He scowled. "Agreed. He obeys all the rules. I think that's why he's a bit dull for my liking. He always does the right thing; makes him sort of predictable. Same with his characters; they always do the right thing. It means you can always figure out well in advance what's going to happen in the end. They always die horribly, but with their honor intact, leaving the world a better place. Which is pretty much true to life, if you think about it. I mean, the world can't help but be a better place if there's one less dick-headed idealist cluttering it up."
She took a deep breath. "I know I haven't said this before," she said, "but what you did-saving Orsea and me when the city fell-it was the most wonderful-"
"Mistake," he interrupted. "Stupidest thing I ever did. It was a Pasier moment; exactly the sort of thing one of his boneheads in shining armor would've done. Probably, subconsciously, that's what I was thinking of when I made the decision. Self-image, I think that's the expression I'm looking for. I got this mental picture of myself as a romance hero, and it appealed to me. The world well lost for love. No, I should've stayed at home and read a good book."
"But you didn't."
"No. I didn't have that option. And if I could've foreseen what was going to happen… If I'd had a vision of this moment, so I could've seen exactly what a complete
and utter fuck-up I was going to make, with dead civilians heaped up like cords for the winter log-pile and basically no chance at all of getting out of this in one piece, I'd still have done it. I'd do it again tomorrow." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Would you care to hazard a guess why? And you sit there, cold as last night's roast mutton, and tell me you love Orsea, final, nonnegotiable."
"I do."
"Well, fine." Valens jumped up and turned his back on her. "That's your privilege. I take it you're like me, don't suffer fools gladly. And since we're both agreed that I'm the biggest idiot still living, I quite understand your choice. Orsea may be a clown and a source of trouble and sorrow for everybody in the known world, but he's a harmless genius compared to me. You haven't got a spare copy of Pasier with you, by any chance? I feel in the mood for reading him again, but I left my copy back in the city, along with everything else I used to own."
"I'm sorry." He couldn't see the expression on her face, and her tone of voice was flat, almost dead. "You were the only real friend I ever had. I used to live for your letters. I think you're the only person I've ever known who's tried to understand me."
"But you love Orsea."
"Yes."
"There you are, then. Tell you what, why not get him to write to you? Dear Veatriz: how are you? The weather has been nice again today, though tomorrow it might rain. He could probably manage that, if he stuck at it for a while."
"I really am very sorry," she said, and, for the first time since his father died, Valens allowed himself to admit defeat; to recognize it, as if it was some foreign government whose existence he could no longer credibly ignore. "It's all right," he said. "Funny, really. I used to think you brought out the best in me, and now it turns out you have the opposite effect. Shows how much I really know you. After all, it's different in letters: you can be who you wish you were, instead of who you actually are."
"That's not true," she said. "I know who you really are. It's-well, it's a waste, really."
"Did you know my wife's dead?" he asked suddenly, almost spitting the information out. "The Mezentines killed her. I really wish I could feel heartbroken about it, or sorry, or even angry. Instead-you know how I feel? Like when I was a kid, and my father had arranged a big hunt, and then it pissed down with rain and we couldn't go out. But when he died, I felt so bad about that. He loved it so much, and I hated it. I started going out with the hounds again to punish myself, I guess. Now, when I go out, it's the only time I feel at peace with myself. Even reading your letters never made me feel that way. You know what I used to do? As soon as I got a letter from you, I'd cancel all my appointments, I'd read it over and over again-taking notes, for crying out loud-and then I'd spend a whole day, two or three sometimes, writing the reply. You can't begin to imagine how hard I worked, how I concentrated; there'd be books heaped up everywhere so I could chase up obscure facts and apposite quotations. First I'd write a general outline, in note form, with headings; then a separate sheet of paper for each heading, little diagrams to help me figure out the structure. Then I'd copy out a first draft, leaving plenty of space between the lines so I could write bits in over the top; then a second and third draft, often a fourth. If I'd have worked a tenth as hard on politics, I'd have conquered the Mezentines by now and be getting ready to invade the Cure Hardy." He laughed. "Bet you thought I just scribbled down the first thing that came into my head. I wrote them so that's what you'd think-like we were talking, and everything came spontaneously from my vast erudition and sparkling, quicksilver mind. I spent a whole day on one sentence once. I couldn't decide whether it'd sound more natural and impromptu if the relative clause came at the beginning or the end. Actually, it was a bloody masterpiece of precision engineering, though I do say so myself. And the irony is, you never realized. If you'd realized, it'd have meant I'd failed."