by K. J. Parker
Four days after the change of course, he found the courage to talk to her.
They'd stopped for the night in a little combe, not much more than a dent in the hillside. He assumed it had been chosen because of the stand of tall, spindly birch trees, which masked them from sight. It was a dark, cold place; he was sure nothing lived there. She had climbed down from the coach, pleading cramp after a long day. Of course, they couldn't have a fire, for fear that the smoke would give away their position. She was sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, squinting at her embroidery in the thin red light of sunset.
"Are you still doing that?" he asked.
She looked up. "Of course," she said. "It's nearly finished. I've put so much work into it, I couldn't bear the thought of leaving it behind."
He looked at it: a baldrick, the sort you hang a hunting horn from. A goshawk and a heron; the hawking livery of the Orseoli. She was making it for him, of course.
"It's very good," he said awkwardly. "Can I see?"
She held it up. "You've seen it before," she said. "I've been working on it for three months."
Implication: he should've recognized it. But one piece of cloth with patterns stitched on it looked very much like all the others; apart from their wedding day, he couldn't remember seeing her without some rag or other on her knees. It was, after all, what women did.
"Of course," he said, "I remember it now. It's coming on really well."
She sighed. "I've run out of green silk," she said. "So I can't finish the background-here, look, the patch of reeds the heron's supposed to be flying up out of. I've got some other green, but it's the wrong shade."
He frowned. "Couldn't you turn that bit into a bush or something?"
"I suppose so. But then it wouldn't look right."
"I won't mind."
She looked up at him, and he realized she wasn't making it for him. He was the pretext, at best; she had to embroider, and decency required that the fruit of her needle should be some useful object for her husband. Now, because of the Mezentines and the war, she couldn't finish the work, and it wouldn't be fitting for her to start something new until the baldrick was completed. Accordingly, here she sat, the workbasket on her knees, the baldrick spread out, but no needle in her hand; like a cow in a crush, waiting patiently because it had nowhere it could go.
"It'd look wrong," she said. "I'd have to put something else in the opposite corner to balance it, and that'd mean unpicking what's there already. Besides, I haven't got enough brown left."
He wanted to say: so fucking what? I'll never go hunting again, so I'll never use it. Put the stupid thing away and talk to me instead. What he said was, "Perhaps we'll run into one of those merchant women on the road. They sell embroidery silks. I remember, we met one a few days ago." (No; longer ago than that. But each day seemed to fuse with the others, like a good fire-weld.) "If I'd known, I could have asked her."
She shrugged. "I don't suppose she'd have had the right green," she said. "It's not a particularly common one. I got what I've been using from that woman who used to call at the palace, back in Civitas Eremiae. I don't know what the chances are of running into her again."
Orsea couldn't think of anything safe to say. He knew the merchant she was talking about. She must've been the one who delivered the letters-the letters Valens had written her, and her replies. Presumably the price of her couriership had been substantial sales of overpriced haberdashery. But there wouldn't be any more letters, just as there'd be no more cold, bright autumn days after partridges with the falcons. It occurred to him that everything he'd known all his life was gone forever, apart from her; and the irony was, he didn't know her at all.
In which case, he might as well say it.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
"Talk away." She sighed, turned the embroidery over and took a small blue-bladed knife with an ivory handle out of her basket. "You know, I think I will unpick this corner after all. I've still got plenty of light blue and white. I could do the sky reflected in a pool or something."
She was nicking the tiny loops of the stitches, like a giant cutting the throats of dwarves.
"I need to ask you…" He stopped. He'd never been particularly good with words anyway. Ideas that were sharp and clear in his mind disintegrated like sodden paper when he tried to express them. The only person he'd ever really been able to talk to was Miel Ducas.
"Sorry," she said, "I missed that. What did you want to speak to me about?"
"I need to know, Veatriz," he said, and stopped again. It sounded too pompous and melodramatic for words. "You and Valens. The letters."
She looked at him so blankly that for a moment it crossed his mind that the whole thing was a mistake; he'd completely misunderstood, and there never were any letters. "What about them?" she asked.
"Are you in love with him?"
"No." She was concentrating on the tip of the knife; a small, dainty thing, presumably Mezentine.
"Then why did you write to him?"
She shrugged. It wasn't an answer. He waited, but she didn't say anything.
"Can't you see how it looked?" he said. "You must have realized."
"I suppose so," she said, and between them there was a wall of iron, like the defenses bolted to the sides of the carts.
"Then why did you do it?"
"Does it matter anymore?" She lifted her head and looked at him.
"Do you still love me?"
"Yes," she said. "Do you still love me?"
"Yes, of course I do." He said the words like a mother answering a child's annoying question.
"Well, then." She sighed. "What do you think's happened to Miel?"
"Don't change the subject," he said, but he knew she hadn't done any such thing. That Miel Ducas should have taken away their sins, like some sacrificial animal, was somehow inevitable: the Ducas lives only to serve the state, and the state is the Duke. That, at least, had never been more true. Orsea had seen to that. He was all that was left of Eremia now; an irrelevant survival. Once, years ago, someone digging in the palace grounds had unearthed a big, crude-looking gold cup. He'd brought it, quite properly, to the Duke, who'd rewarded him suitably with twice its value by weight. Orsea could remember sitting holding it: an ugly thing, badly made, bent and slightly crumpled, valuable only as a curiosity, and because of the material it was made from. Presumably it was very old, made by someone who'd lived there a long time ago, for a rich patron whose name had been forgotten centuries before. There had been a city, with a ruler who employed craftsmen; probably he had a suitable household, faithful courtiers who lived only to serve, a code of honor. Presumably he'd tried to be a good duke, always do the right thing. Inevitably, he would have made mistakes. Now, all that was left of all that was one awkward, stupid-looking gold thing, precious only because of the universal convention by which gold is valuable. If the duke who commissioned the cup had had a wife who loved him once, that was irrelevant now as well. Orsea had given orders for the cup to be put in a safe place where he wouldn't have to look at it. He imagined the Mezentines had it now, or the fire had melted it.
The cup had survived, but that wasn't enough. So with love; even if it survives, it's not enough, shorn of context.
"I do love you," she said. An accusation; a reproach. He believed her. If he hadn't; if she'd said she loved Valens, he'd have given her up without a moment's hesitation (because he loved her; it would've been the right thing to do). He'd been prepared for that, even hoping for it, as a condemned man looks forward to execution as a final end to his misery. No such luck. Love still held them in their places, like the traces that bind the donkey to the treadmill. Love is duty. Miel Ducas could have confirmed that, if only he'd still been there.
As it was; she could say that to him, and all it did was brace the iron plate between them, tighter than Daurenja's three-quarter bolts. The fact was that he didn't deserve her. Valens, swooping down with his cavalry into the ruins of Civitas Eremiae, had snatched her away to s
afety, like the hawk striking the heron, and it was wrong, against nature, to deny the supremacy of the stronger, the absolute right of conquest. Keeping her (being allowed to keep her) was therefore an abomination; his fault and hers, for which they must inevitably pay a price.
I could explain all this so clearly, Orsea thought, if there was anybody in the world I could talk to.
"I love you too," he said, casually as a sleepy monk making his responses in the middle of the night. "I'm sorry I mentioned-"
"It's all right," she said. "Just, don't talk about it again. It's all my fault, all of this."
No, he couldn't have that. "Oh, right," he said. "It's your fault we're both here, alive, instead of being killed when they took the city. Well, that's what would've happened, if Valens hadn't rescued us, because of the letters." He smiled, cold as breath condensing on steel. "I really wish there was some way I could thank him, given I owe him my life, but I can't; how could I? You know what? I should've stayed in the city and been killed; I'd have been out of the way then. You and Valens-"
"Please don't." She was right, of course. Just melodrama, a big speech, with no audience. Even a duke can't make speeches if there's nobody left to listen to them. "I'm sorry," he said, and pulled a face that was almost comic in its intensity. "I shouldn't-"
He stopped short; someone was coming. An officer and two soldiers, walking briskly, on their way somewhere, with important business to see to. He stepped aside to let them go past, but they stopped. Apparently they had something to say to him.
"Duke Orsea." A statement rather than an inquiry.
"That's right."
"My name is Major Nennius. I have to tell you that you're under arrest."
While they waited, they talked about silver; better and more efficient ways of mining it, smelting the ore, refining the bloom to leach out traces of copper and other impurities. The Mezentines, he said, were capable of producing silver that was ninety-five parts in a hundred pure, although the specification allowed an additional margin of three parts for export work, five for domestic consumption. When the war was over and they opened the mines up again, he'd teach the superintendents how to improve purity and increase production by means of a few simple procedures, which could be incorporated into the mines' established working practices without the need for significant investment or extensive retraining. Valens replied that he would appreciate any help that Ziani could give them; once the war was over, the cost of reconstruction and making good would inevitably be high, and a quick, efficient recommencement of silver production would make all the difference. Fortuitously, given that nearly all the mine-owners and representatives of the major cartels had been killed, either in the wedding-day raid or the recent battle, obstruction from vested interests ought not to be as much of a problem as it would have been before the war.
The tent flap opened. Ziani recognized the newcomer, though he couldn't recall his name; a busy young man who'd been doing rather well during the emergency. He made a mental note to find out more about him, in case he could be made useful.
"Duke Orsea," the young officer said.
He stood back to let the escort bring Orsea in. Ziani made himself keep perfectly still, and it was probably just as well that Orsea didn't look at him as he came into the tent.
"Valens?" he asked mildly. The two soldiers weren't touching him, but they flanked him on either side, with the officer blocking the doorway to cut off his escape. "What's going on?"
There wasn't the faintest trace of expression on Valens' face; but he said, "Oh, I think you can probably guess. Sit down, please."
But there wasn't a chair; so the officer (Nennius, Ziani remembered. Recently promoted) had to fetch a folding chair from the back of the tent and set it up. "I'm sorry," Orsea was saying, "but I really don't have a clue. Is this something to do with Miel Ducas? I've been meaning to talk to you about that, but you've been so busy."
Valens was scowling. "Fine," he said. "I'm all for proper procedure. That way, everybody knows where they stand."
"You're sounding very official. Is something wrong?" Orsea glanced over his shoulder; he seemed surprised to find that Nennius and the two guards were still there.
"I have reason to believe…" Valens hesitated, then went on: "I have reason to believe that you've been in contact with the enemy. I'd like to hear what you've got to say about that."
Orsea looked so utterly bewildered that for a moment Ziani held his breath. Then Orsea said: "Contact with the enemy? You mean, in the battle?"
"Before the battle," Valens said quietly. "That's rather the point." He opened the wooden box that stood on the folding table in front of him, and took out a small square of folded parchment. "I'm afraid I've been reading your mail," he said.
Orsea frowned. "That's a letter, is it? For me?"
"Yes." His hand was resting on it. "I can't let you have it, I'm afraid; evidence and all that. Major Nennius, would you please read the letter out loud? Admirably clear handwriting," he added. "I hate it when people scrawl."
Nennius stepped forward, and Valens handed him the letter. Nennius opened it and cleared his throat; that made Valens smile, just briefly. Lucao Psellus to Orsea Orseoli, greetings.
Everything's been arranged as we agreed. The only change of plan is that we can't send a whole division; there simply isn't enough time. I'm sure it won't make any difference, since we'll have an overwhelming advantage of surprise.
Concerning your own personal safety. Naturally, it's got to look right. I've briefed the expedition commander, and he'll see to it that all his officers will know what to expect. To begin with, stay in your coach. As soon as the fighting reaches you, come straight out and give yourself up. Say, in a loud, clear voice, "I am Duke Orsea, I surrender." You have my solemn undertaking that you will not be harmed. You'll be taken straight to a Mezentine officer. Give him this letter. He'll recognize the seal. I'll be there at the Unswerving Loyalty to meet you after the battle and escort you back to Mezentia; from there you'll go directly to your new estate at Lonazep, where you can start your new life. Unfortunately, it won't be possible for your wife to accompany you; but rest assured that our men will have strict instructions not to harm her; she'll be separated out from the rest of the prisoners and sent to join you as quickly as possible. I know this may sound unduly haphazard, but I assure you that you can rely on us; I've arranged for a substantial bounty to be paid to the men who secure your wife and yourself, alive and unharmed. That's the joy of mercenaries; motivating them is never a problem if you've got the money.
I appreciate that this has all been very difficult for you, and I may say that your misgivings do you credit. It can't have been an easy decision to take. However, believe me when I tell you that you're doing precisely the right thing. The only hope, for your people and yourself, is to end the war before the Vadani contrive to inflict serious losses on the Republic. As for Duke Valens: by seducing your wife he has betrayed you in a manner that is beyond all forgiveness. A man like that can have no claim on your loyalties; and, by your own admission, your duty to your people overrides all personal obligations.
I look forward to meeting you in person at last, when all this is over. During the long silence that followed, Ziani forced himself to keep his eyes fixed on the patch of ground directly in front of him. The last thing he wanted was to catch Valens' eye, or Orsea's. It had all been beautifully clear in his mind when he was giving Psellus his instructions back in the deserted city; he'd seen it in his mind's eye as a splendid piece of geometry, a work of clear lines and simple design-a tumbler under pressure from a spring, retained by a sear tripped by a lever. This close, all he could see was tool-marks and burred edges.
"The letter was found," Valens said eventually, in a perfectly flat voice, "on the body of a merchant woman. Pure chance, as far as I can tell; by the looks of it, she was thrown by her horse and broke her neck tumbling down a rocky slope. Fortuitously, she was discovered by the miners coming up to meet us from Boatta. Ziani
Vaatzes searched the body and found the letter, and showed it to me. He's identified the seal. Apparently it's rather special. Ziani, what was it again?"
His cue. "The Republic's defense committee," he said. "Commonly known as Necessary Evil. My understanding is that they're the ones running the war. I vaguely remember there was a Lucao Psellus on the committee, though I never had anything to do with anybody that high up the hierarchy."
Another long silence; then Orsea said, "You don't actually believe any of this, do you?" He sounded so bewildered, it was almost endearing.
"You were seen meeting with a merchant," Valens went on, "shortly after the expedition left the city. You were seen taking delivery of something from her: a basket, or a package. You spoke to her briefly. She had asked for you earlier by name. The witnesses have identified the body as the woman you spoke to. I can have them brought here if you like, or we can wait for the formal hearing. Though I suppose I should tell you," Valens added with the unquiet ghost of a grin, "that the hearing'll be a formality, going briskly through the motions. The last thing I need right now is to get bogged down in jurisdictions and immunities and acts of state. So, if you've got anything to say, you'd better say it now."