by K. J. Parker
"Well of course." The tall man shrugged. "But that's by the bye. The thing is, the only point at which Psellus exceeded his authority was once he'd found out about the existence of this confounded secret way across the desert; and of course, he does the only possible thing he can do in the circumstances. He tries to have the Vadani column wiped out to the last man before they can reach the savages and tell them about it. Didn't work, as we know. In all probability, he was set up by Vaatzes, just as they say he was. Doesn't matter. Simple fact is, the only thing that could possibly have saved us was wiping out that column before they met up with the Cure Hardy; he tried to do it, gave it his best shot; give him his due, it nearly worked, only a day or so in it. At least he tried."
The short man smiled as he stirred his cup. "So you'll be supporting him in the ballot, then?"
"Not sure I'm prepared to go that far," the tall man replied thoughtfully. "To be honest with you, I'm not really sure what to do. No precedent; I mean, a ballot for chairmanship of Necessary Evil…"
"I don't see how we have any choice, frankly," the short man replied. "With the mess we're in, it's like the whole structure of politics in this town's melted away like ice in springtime. Boioannes gone, the Guilds actually talking to each other-actually listening to each other, which is more disturbing still, if you ask me. Nobody knows where the hell they are or who's running anything. Why not have a ballot? The state we're in, what harm could it actually do?"
The tall man sipped his drink, but it was still a little too hot for comfort. "Well, quite," he said. "And by the same token, why not Psellus? One thing you can say for him, he's guaranteed a hundred percent clean. Poor fellow was so obviously out of the loop at all times, stands to reason he can't have been in with one faction or the other. If it's compromise and conciliation we're after, we could do a lot worse. It's just a shame he's an idiot."
The short man sighed. "I don't think anyone's come out of this looking particularly smart," he said. "For a start, when it all came out about how Boioannes had been manipulating the war, and none of us had a clue what he'd really been up to-"
"Speak for yourself." The tall man smiled. "There were a few of us who had our suspicions, believe me."
"Easy to say after the event."
"True. Guaranteed bloody fatal to say before the event. Though whether it's better to be clever and a coward is a moot point, I suppose. Doesn't matter. Boioannes is out of the picture-did you hear, by the way, the Foundrymen've issued a formal notice of expulsion from the Guild?"
The short man (who was a Fuller and Dyer) chuckled. "I'm sure he'll be cut to the quick if he ever hears of it, wherever the hell he's gone. Last rumor I heard said he was back in the old country."
"Unlikely." The tall man shook his head. "Too many widows and orphans over there who'd like to discuss the conduct of the war with him. Personally, I think he's in Lonazep. In which case," he added, "let's hope Compliance live up to the standard they've set themselves recently and fail to find him. Last thing we need is Boioannes on trial and making trouble for everybody."
"Agreed."
Cool enough to drink by now; there was a brief pause. Then the short man said, "Do you really think we've had it this time, like everybody's saying?" As the tall man started to scowl, he added quickly, "I know, I wouldn't have raised the subject, except I happened to overhear them talking at the finance meeting this morning; they're offering the Jazyges five times the basic rate, but so far they've shown no interest at all."
"Is that right?"
The short man shrugged. "It's what they were saying."
"But the Jazyges are-well, if you ask me, they're no better than the Cure Hardy. In fact, we might as well be sending recruiters out there, try and get some of the other tribes to come in with us against the Aram Chantat. It'd make as much sense as-"
"I've heard they're considering that," the short man said.
That shut the tall man up for a long time.
"Well in that case," he said eventually, "yes, I think we're probably screwed. In fact, the only hope I can see for us is if we all vote for Psellus and he manages to persuade his friend Vaatzes to lead the entire Aram Chantat out into the desert and lose them there. Other than that…"
"Don't go saying things like that where anybody's likely to hear you," the short man replied grimly. "Otherwise, there's a real risk they might try it."
Both of them seemed to have lost their appetite for mead mulled with spices. They put their cups down on the little brass table and avoided each other's eye.
"It's a thought," the tall man said at last.
"Don't joke about it."
"I think we've reached the stage where black comedy's our likeliest source of inspiration," the tall man said. "There's a joke doing the rounds, don't know if you've heard it: what've common sense and Ziani Vaatzes got in common? Answer: they've both gone out the window. Puts it rather well, if you ask me. So yes; why the hell not? After all, Boioannes was prepared to negotiate with the man. If he can get us out of this…"
The short man pulled a sour face. "Everywhere I go," he said, "people are talking about Vaatzes as though he's some sort of supernatural entity, instead of a foreman who got caught playing with things he shouldn't have. What earthly reason do you have for supposing he could make the Aram Chantat suddenly disappear in a puff of smoke, even if he wanted to?"
"He made our army disappear."
The short man seemed unwilling to pursue that argument. "If I vote for Lucao Psellus," he said after a while, "and I'm not saying I'm going to; but if I do, it's because he's the man least likely to trust that arsehole Vaatzes ever again." He made a violent gesture, rocking the table and almost upsetting the cups. "I still find it impossible to believe that one individual could have such an effect on the safety of the Republic," he said. "In one of the savage countries maybe; they have kings and dukes, they positively invite that sort of thing. But one man-a foreman, for pity's sake. I just can't see it."
"Most of it must've been luck," the tall man replied soothingly. "Finding out about the way across the desert; sheer luck. Even we can't legislate for that sort of fluke." He stood up. "I'd better be making tracks," he said. "I don't want to be late for my afternoon meeting. Something tells me that the dear old leisurely ways of doing things may well prove to be yet more casualties of the massacre in the desert."
Hardly the most important meeting of the year; no more than the monthly review of performance and production at the ordnance factory. As always the manager, deputy manager, department heads, supervisory managers and their staffs were there waiting for him; the man he was rather looking forward to meeting again, however, was the new foreman-new; Falier had already taken over the job by the time he'd first met him, but everybody still called him the new foreman; as though time had somehow stopped running; as though everybody was subconsciously waiting for Ziani Vaatzes to come back. It was Vaatzes, of course, he wanted to discuss with Falier, in the light of his discussion at lunch…
His footsteps in the porch; the scrape as he dragged his boots off without bothering to untie the laces. It was a silly, childish habit, and bound to spoil good, expensive boots in the long run.
"I'm home," he called out. That annoyed her too. She knew he was home as soon as she heard the area gate creak. From there to the front door, always exactly nine seconds; precise as a machine.
She didn't bother to answer, as she scraped burned milk off the bottom of the pan with the back of a wooden spoon. "I said I'm home," he called out. "Where are you?"
"In the kitchen."
He bustled through, grimy-handed, brushing against the doorframe. "Hell of a flap at work today," he said. "You know that government bloke who kept on dragging you in to talk about-well, you know. Apparently, he's been put on trial, for treason or something."
If she'd been a cat, she'd have given herself away by putting her ears back. "Serves him right," she mumbled. "Sit down, dinner's nearly ready."
"It gets better," he continue
d-she had her back to him and didn't know if he was looking at her or not. "Apparently he was convicted, and then they let him off."
"Pity."
"And now," he went on, "they're talking about making him something high up in the Guilds; and you'll never guess why."
"Because he's horrible?"
"Because while he was doing some secret mission or other, he actually met Ziani. Right there in the heart of enemy territory. Met him and talked to him."
The pan handle was too hot, but she couldn't seem to let go of it. "So he's still alive, then. The last I heard, he was meant to be dead."
"Honey." He sounded upset about something.
"Well, that's what I heard. They sent a cavalry army or something specially to get him. Don't say they made a mess of that too."
"Apparently." She could feel him willing her to turn round.
Instead she rested the pan carefully on the stove top and let go. "Honey, you aren't worried about anything, are you?"
"Of course I'm worried, if that horrible man Psellus is going to be running the Guilds," she snapped. "He's strange, I don't like him. He wants something from me and I don't know what it is."
"Fine." Now he was going to lose his temper. "So what am I supposed to do about it? Challenge him to a duel or something?" He paused; when he spoke again, his voice was colder. "Are you thinking, that's what Ziani would've done, if someone was bothering me like that? Well, maybe you're right. As we both know, he was crazy in the head."
"I really don't want to talk about him," she said, loud and quick. She scooped the beans out of the pan, added them to his plate and stabbed the fire with the poker as if it had been Lucao Psellus.
"All right," he said. "I just thought you'd be interested."
"Well I'm not."
That night, when he'd gone to bed, she opened the triangular cupboard in the corner of the kitchen and took out a packet of cardamom seeds, which she emptied into a bowl. Then, with a small peeling knife, she carefully slit the edges of the packet and smoothed the coarse parchment out into a sheet. It was a bit too shiny, so she took a minute or so to smooth it down with the kitchen pumice, until the surface was dull. From his study she took the brass inkwell and a new goose quill-he'd miss it, but that couldn't be helped; he was always losing things, so it wouldn't be too much of a problem. She sharpened the quill with her peeling knife, taking care to scoop up all the shavings and put them on the fire. As a final precaution, she wedged the door with the kitchen chair.
It was a while before she could nerve herself to start. She hadn't written anything for years now. Did he know she even could? The question had never arisen. Probably he assumed she couldn't; it wasn't a highly valued accomplishment among women of their class. She smiled, remembering Ziani's stupid book, which he'd left lying about in his study because he had no idea she could read it. Not that it had been worth reading.
Slowly and carefully she wrote the address. Important not to get ink on her fingers; you had to pumice them to the bone before you could get rid of the stain, and he wouldn't believe her if she said it was soot. She winced at the unfamiliar pressure of the quill against the side of her knuckle. People who did a lot of writing got used to it, presumably, but it had always struck her as an uncomfortable tool to use. My husband says…
A clumsy way to start; still, she'd written it now. My husband says Psellus is going to be the new head of necessary evil…
(Should that have been capital N and capital E? Not that it mattered.)
…and I'm worried. Is it true? If he starts asking questions again, what should I tell him? If he's going to be in charge of everything, sooner or later he's going to find out something bad. You promised at the start nothing bad was going to happen to me. You never come and see me anymore…
She lifted her hand away so she could read the last few words. Shouldn't have written that. It was what they all said, sooner or later; the women she'd always pitied, promising herself she'd never be one of them. She thought for a moment; inspiration struck.
…so I can't ask you face to face what's going on. It scares me, not knowing, I'm afraid I'll get something wrong. I don't want to make things bad for either of us. I know you can't come and see me any time soon, because of what's happened, but you must have friends who could bring a message. I…
She stopped just in time. She'd been about to write I miss you or I want you. That was the trouble with writing; so easy to get carried away and put down something without thinking. I know what a difficult time this must be for you and how hard it'll be to find someone to bring me a letter, but please try. For both our sakes. You know I wouldn't pester you like this if I wasn't really scared.
Best to leave it at that. She laid the quill carefully on the side of the table, the nib hanging over the edge so as not to stain the wood, then put the lid back on the inkwell. She didn't have any sand to blot with, and she wasn't sure if you could use flour instead; better to leave it to dry off in its own time. That, of course, meant waiting around, since she couldn't very well leave it lying there while she put the inkwell back in his study. She considered replacing the quill as well as the inkwell, since they cost good money, but it wasn't worth the risk. She picked it up carefully, just in case there was still ink on it, and flipped it into the fire, her nose crawling at the foul smell of burning feather. While the ink was drying she put some beans in water to soak overnight and scrubbed out tonight's pan with a thorn twig.
Once she was sure the letter wouldn't smudge, she folded it; once lengthways in the middle, then three times sideways. A drop of tallow from the candle was all she had to seal it with; and while the tallow blob was still soft, she pressed the letter A into it with her fingernail. Then she got the long-necked stone bottle she collected the beer in and wedged it in the top, with just a corner sticking out. To be on the safe side, she put the bottle away in the cupboard and closed the door. The last chore was finding ajar to store the cardamoms whose packet she'd cut up.
He was asleep when she climbed the ladder to the upstairs room; lying on his side. She sighed quietly. When he slept on his back he snored, so he made an effort to lie sideways, but clearly he hadn't got the hang of it yet; his left arm was trapped under his body, which meant he'd wake up with pins and needles in the morning and make a fuss. As she climbed in next to him, he grunted and twitched away. It wasn't like she hated him or anything, but there were times she wished she hadn't had to marry him. It had made sense at the time, of course, when he'd explained it to her.
For various reasons she didn't sleep well; and, as is so often the case, when she finally did fall asleep, it was only an hour or so before dawn, which meant she woke up late, after he'd already left for work. Infuriating; she had to dress in a hurry (she hated leaving the house with her hair in a mess) and dash down to the market with the beer bottle so as to hand the letter over in time. The courier (she didn't even know his name) leered at her annoyingly as he stooped to pick up the scrap of paper she'd apparently let fall from her pocket. His hand brushed hers as he mimed handing the paper back, which made her feel slightly sick. It wasn't a deliberate try-on, she knew that; probably he wasn't even aware he was doing it. She hated men, sometimes.
Once he was safely out of sight, she sat down on one of the stone ledges beside the market-house wall. Her hands were aching, and when she looked down she realized the knuckles were white. Deliberately she relaxed; hands, then arms and shoulders, then her back and legs. It made her wonder how people who lied for a living managed it. Presumably they got used to it, like slaughtermen or butchers, or soldiers after their first few battles.
With a click of her tongue she got up again. She hated running late. She'd have to rush to get Moritsa to school (was today the spinning test, or was it tomorrow?), and after that, all the usual chores to cram in before he came home again. Some days she had no idea where the time went.
The door was open when she got back. She was cursing herself for not shutting it properly on her way out when she realized
there was someone in the house: two men in military uniform, light armor but no weapons. She felt all the energy drain out of her.
"Ariessa Falier?"
She nodded. "You didn't have to bash the door down," she said. "You could've waited outside till I got home. I was only gone a few minutes."
The soldier looked past her at the door, which wasn't the least bit bashed in (they had little wire hooks, she remembered, for lifting latches from the outside). "Very sorry," he said, "orders. While we're on the subject, where have you been? You don't usually leave the house till it's time for the kid to go to school."
If she hadn't had so much practice with people like him, that would've thrown her. Instead, there was no perceptible delay before she answered, "I went to get the beer for this evening. There's a special sort Falier likes, but you've got to get there early or it's all sold."
The soldier nodded very slightly, as if complimenting her on her facility. It helped, of course, that it was true about the beer. Did the soldier know about Falier's exacting taste? She wouldn't be at all surprised.
"The bottle's empty," he said quietly.
"I didn't get there early enough."
This time he smiled. "Wasted trip, then."
"Yes. Looks like it's going to be one of those days."
He stared at her face for a second or two, then said: "It'd be appreciated if you could spare the time to come up to the Guildhall. There's a few questions…"
"I can't. I've got to take Moritsa to school."
"Already been done." The smile sharpened into a slight grin. "We'll collect her as well, if you're not back in time. She can come and wait at the guard lodge until you've finished."
For a moment she wished she was a man. She'd have liked to have been Ziani, killing the two guards in the stable, the day he escaped from the Guildhall. Instead she had to stay still and quiet and wait to hear what was coming next.