by K. J. Parker
He had no idea what they were supposed to do.
Neither (small consolation) did the general, if he'd been telling the truth; at least, the general said he'd never seen one, since they were Engineer Vaatzes' invention, completely new, and that they'd been designed specifically to breach the banks of the flooded ditch, so the water could drain away along the trenches. All well and good; but, quite apart from how they worked, he couldn't see how they were going to get them into position. They were big-smaller than a trebuchet but bigger than a mangonel or an onager-and it'd take a team of twelve oxen to draw them. You'd never get oxen down in the trench; and besides, he couldn't see any fixings to attach booms and yokes to, just one massive steel ring riveted to the front at axle height. Surely Vaatzes wasn't expecting the sappers to haul it down there with ropes?
He reminded himself that the engineer was an inventive, resourceful man with an eye for detail. It was inconceivable that he could have overlooked something as crudely fundamental as how the machines were to be moved about. He considered Engineer Vaatzes for a moment, taking the machines he'd designed and built as a model. On the outside, plain and closed; on the inside, systems so complex that he would never be able to understand them properly, let alone aspire to emulate them. Admirable; but it should nevertheless be borne in mind that the purpose for which they'd been created was violence-in his case, violence directed against his own kind for the benefit of strangers, which was something the liaison was very glad he couldn't begin to understand. A mind that could create something like that must be so utterly hateful that looking into it would surely damage you for ever.
As he approached his own tent, he saw a crowd of people standing about outside it. Their clothes told him they were Vadani soldiers (cavalrymen, to be precise, wearing the thick, comical-looking horsehair-stuffed jerkins that went under the heavy Vadani armour); there was also a woman with them, and a man in what looked like a nightgown, sitting in a chair. They stopped talking before he could get close enough to hear what they were saying, and stared at him. But it was the woman who spoke.
"Are you the Aram Chantat liaison officer?" she asked.
He nodded. "I'm afraid I don't-"
"My name is Veatriz Sirupati," the woman said. "I'd have thought you'd have recognised my husband."
The man in the chair turned his head, and he saw the wound, which he'd heard and read so much about. The man behind the wound-it was the only possible way to think of him-smiled bleakly and said, "I need to see General Daurenja."
"That's not possible right now," he heard himself reply. "If I'd known-"
"That's what the duty officer said," the duke interrupted. "And the guard captain, and the sentries. Not possible. I find that hard to believe."
The liaison was suddenly aware that the Vadani soldiers had moved. They were standing round him, closing in a step at a time when he wasn't looking, like inquisitive bullocks mobbing a stranger. "I'll tell the general you'd like to see him," he said. "Perhaps tomorrow, if there's-"
"I think I'd rather see him straight away," the duke said quietly. "You'll come with us, and then there won't be any fuss."
Well, he thought; the general wants to be useful, so he can start with sorting out this situation before there's any bloodshed. But he couldn't put his duty out of his mind, so he said: "I think you should know that we have decided to retain the general as commander-in-chief until the end of the present campaign. We feel that in the interests of continuity and…"
He tailed off. The silence was far worse than any shouting would have been. Duty done, he told himself. Now it's up to the general. "I'll take you to him straight away," he said, his voice strained but brisk. "If you'd care to follow me."
"We know the way," said one of the soldiers.
They'd folded in on him; he had to be careful where he put his feet to avoid treading on the heels of the man walking in front of him, and all he could see was shoulders and necks. Then they stopped, and he was gently squeezed through the group until he emerged to find himself back outside the general's tent, face to face with two extremely worried guards.
"It's all right," he said (clearly it was very far from all right, but the truth was the last thing any of them needed right now). "These gentlemen have urgent business with the general, so if you'd just step aside…"
"Very sorry, sir." The guard's voice was so high it was almost funny. "The general's not to be disturbed right now. Direct orders."
"I'm relieving the general of command." Valens: he moved through the group like the prow of a ship. "It's only polite to tell him, don't you think?"
The guards had had enough. They looked at each other, and then they simply weren't there any more. Valens' hand attached itself to the liaison's wrist, and he felt himself being drawn forward, into the tent.
Daurenja was sitting in his chair with his feet up on the small charcoal stove. He had a cup in one hand and a book in the other. Spharizus' Eclogues, Valens couldn't help noticing; typical Mannerist pastoral poetry, the amorous shepherd to his love. He'd been told to read it when he was fifteen, but had never managed to get further than the author's preface. Without thinking, he said, "You read Spharizus?"
"Yes." Daurenja frowned at him. "I maintain you can't begin to appreciate the later Mannerist movement unless you're fully grounded in its neo-classical origins. What the hell do you mean, you're relieving me of command?" He turned his head very slightly, like an artilleryman adjusting for windage, and stared at the liaison. "I assume he's brought you here by force," he said. "I take it you'd like him restrained and placed under arrest."
Valens grinned. "Well?" he said, relaxing his grip. "Is that what you'd like?"
"I have no authority," the liaison said. It came out as somewhere between a bark and a whimper. Daurenja frowned, and Valens laughed. "I need to consult the war council and get their instructions. This is not-"
"Let's not bother them right now." Daurenja stood up; it was like watching liquid being poured into a glass vessel. He's got no joints, Valens thought, he just extends, like a worm crawling. He remembered a legend he'd heard many years ago, about the fox demons: country people believed that once they left their bodies, they took on whatever shape the person looking at them expected to see. "I have a commission from the Aram Chantat high council to conduct this war on their behalf. As I understand it, that commission was confirmed a short while ago by this officer here." (Maybe the liaison was a fox demon too; he was trying very hard to look like someone who wasn't even there.) "But you're the Vadani duke, and you're going to tell me you don't recognise the high council's authority, because you're the leader of this alliance. Well?"
"Yes," Valens said.
"You realise what'll happen?" Daurenja was growing taller before his very eyes, he was sure of it. Not broader; if anything, he was losing breadth as he gained height. "The Aram Chantat will stand by their appointment, because to back down would shame them. Your people, who don't like the savages-that's what you call them, isn't it?-they'll back you, and pretty soon we'll be treating the Mezentines to the pretty spectacle of their enemies fighting each other; it'll confuse them half to death, but I'm sure they'll enjoy it, even so. Is that what you want?"
Valens shook his head. "I don't see any need for that," he said. Veatriz was beside him, tugging at his sleeve. He ignored her. "The way I see it, I got myself shot, and you very kindly took over running the siege while I was sick. I'm better now, and I'm relieving you of command. I'm sure you'll be happier without the responsibility. You'll be able to get back to your pet project, which Vaatzes tells me is very important to the war effort. After all, you're not a soldier, are you? In fact, I'm not really sure what you are."
For a moment, Daurenja stared at him, his face white with anger. Then he smiled. "I'm a gentleman," he said. "I'm a man of good birth and breeding, a scholar, a soldier and a scientist. I flatter myself that everything I do, I do extremely well. I imagine you'd describe yourself in the same terms, so really, there's not a great de
al to choose between us, as far as qualifications go. Wouldn't you agree?"
I know what he's going to do, Valens thought suddenly; I know what he is. He's a fox demon with a mirror. "Not really," he replied pleasantly. "I think you're a sinister, dangerous creature who lives in a world of his own and believes that none of the rules applies to him. Everywhere you go, you hurt people and make trouble; you'd have been put down years ago, except you're cunning and talented enough to escape." (This is what he wants me to say, Valens realised, but I have no choice.) "I think it's high time you were put in your place, and I suppose it's up to me to do it. I wish it didn't have to be now, but that's my own stupid fault for letting you burrow your way in deep, like a maggot."
Daurenja's smile told him everything he needed to know. "I have to disagree," Daurenja said. "And really, you've gone too far, saying all that in front of these people. It's ridiculous, but you brought it on both of us. You do see, don't you, there's only one way we can resolve this. Otherwise…" He looked round, and the liaison seemed to reappear, like a genie summoned by a charm. "I'm very sorry," he said. "You must be wondering what sort of people you've allied yourselves with. But this gentleman and I have got to fight each other now. He's insulted me, so either I challenge him or else I insult him right back, which means he'll have to challenge me." He frowned. "No, wait, I'm forgetting. He's a duke, and you aren't supposed to challenge your social inferiors, you've got to make them challenge you." He looked back at Valens; the smile on his face was practically friendly. "Isn't that right?" he said. "You're the expert, of course, but…"
"You do what you like," Valens replied.
As Daurenja's smile split open into a grin, Veatriz pushed in front of Valens, so he couldn't see past her. "This is stupid," she said, angry and pleading at the same time. "For a start, you're in no fit state-"
"I'm the best fencer in the duchy." It was a weary statement of fact, practically an admission of a shameful and inconvenient truth. "He thinks he's being clever and manipulating me, but he's made a mistake. I'd be stupid not to take advantage of it." He reached out and, gently but very firmly, moved her out of the way. She stared at him in horror, then looked away.
"Splendid," Daurenja said. "And another insult for good measure."
He cleared his throat; brisk, businesslike, calling the meeting to order. "As the challenged party, you have the choice of weapons. Of course we're limited by what's available, but I do happen to have a case of rather fine rapiers-Mezentine, first export quality…"
Valens smiled. "I bet you do."
"That's settled, then." He dropped on to his hands and knees, a remarkable movement, like putting away a folding chair, and fished out a long rosewood box from under his camp bed. "The man I bought them from said they're plunder from Civitas Eremiae. There's a monogram on the escutcheon on the lid-look, there, you can just make it out. That's the Phocas, isn't it?"
Valens reached out his foot and gently kicked the lid open. "Buying plunder," he said. "That's just about your level. And that's the Erylas, not the Phocas."
"Of course, you're quite right," Daurenja replied smoothly. He picked the two swords out of the box and presented Valens with the hilts. Valens snatched the nearest one, not bothering to look at it. "That's the splendid thing about Mezentine rapiers," Daurenja said. "Since they're all identical, you don't have to worry about finding one with the right balance. I see you favour placing the middle finger in front of the cross. Unfashionable these days, but if it was good enough for Ferro…"
Valens sighed, an oh-for-pity's-sake noise, and left the tent. As Daurenja started to follow him, Veatriz moved quickly to block his way. "If you hurt him…"
Daurenja smiled. "I wasn't planning to," he said mildly. "But really, it's up to him. I'm afraid I can't undertake to let myself get killed for your sake. Let's both of us hope his injuries have slowed him down."
(She thought: if he really loved me…)
She said: "You manipulated him. You've been planning this. You want-"
"You can have absolutely no idea what I want", and it was as if someone totally different had spoken, a man standing behind him she hadn't seen before. "Listen," he added gently, so very gently; you could imagine the owner of that voice tapping a cranefly in his hands, so careful not to break its fragile wings. "The Alliance needs its best general, and unfortunately, that happens to be me. Your husband is the duke, and of course he has my loyalty and my service, but right now I can only do my duty, to him and the Alliance, by replacing him, until the siege is over and the war has been won. After that, I'll go away, I promise you. I won't be needed here any more and I have other things to do. But until then…" He smiled, and she had to fight not to trust him. "I'll do my very best not to hurt him," he said kindly. "You have my word of honour."
She looked at him, and saw something completely artificial, something like Ziani Vaatzes' mechanical doll, except that this one, this unique type, had built itself. She understood, then. Daurenja was the better general, the best the Alliance had. He would take the City, succeeding where Valens would most likely fail, because he needed to, in order to move on to the next stage of his development. Therefore the monster had to be stopped, right now, before he could grow and spread. At the same time, she recognised that Valens had left her, putting his duty ahead of her, as a good duke should. When he came back from the fight with the monster's blood on his hands, he'd try and make her believe he still loved her exactly the same way, that nothing had changed, but neither of them would ever believe it. It would be as if he hadn't ridden to Civitas Eremiae to save her and drag his people into the war; he'd be absolved of that by renunciation and sacrifice, which was of course the right path for the duke to follow. But the man who'd loved her would never come back from the duel.
"I hope he kills you," she said calmly.
"Of course you do," he replied. "Nobody can blame you for that. And now you'll have to excuse me. I mustn't keep them all waiting any longer."
He left the tent. She stayed where she was. It was her duty to be there, watching the fight; Valens needed his witness, regardless of the outcome. But she stayed where she was. "There you are," Valens said, as the tent-flap parted. "I was starting to wonder where you'd got to."
Daurenja took a few steps forward, the crowd of bewildered onlookers shrinking away from him as he moved. Then he stopped, like a ship dropping anchor. Valens noticed he'd shifted his grip on the rapier: two fingers in front of the cross now, instead of just one. He wants to be me, he thought, right down to the smallest detail.
"I suppose we'd better get started," Daurenja said. "Do you want to bother with seconds and marshals? Strictly speaking-"
Valens lunged. As he committed his body to the movement, he knew he'd got it wrong; he could hear the sergeant click his tongue, too much left shoulder, but of course he was out of time. Daurenja raised an eyebrow as he sidestepped, not bothering to raise his sword, though Valens had left himself open to a lethal riposte. He recovered to the back guard as quickly as he could, but it was a scramble, open and shameful.
"No seconds, then," Daurenja said pleasantly. "That's fine."
Immediately, he changed shape; there was no perceptible movement. Now he was straight-backed, his feet just under a shoulders' width apart, right foot pointing at Valens, left foot behind and at ninety degrees; his sword-arm held out at shoulder height, very slightly bent at the elbow. He was a fencing-manual illustration of the circular fight, unbreachable defence, every attack countered in time, with two dimensions of distance.. The sergeant hadn't even tried to teach him the circular fight; it was far too difficult to learn, unless the student was really committed. Instead, he'd been taught the linear fight-low right hand, all major developments in double time, a debate rather than a conflict of inflexible assertions. Suddenly, without fear but with depressing certainty, Valens realised he'd made a very bad misjudgement. The only way you could win against the circular fight was if your enemy made a mistake.
Daurenja smiled at
him, and he felt a furious urge to lunge again. That, of course, was what Daurenja wanted him to do. As he lunged, pursuing the straight line, Daurenja would take a small step, not back but sideways, his feet following the invisible circle, and as he stepped and Valens' sword punctured the empty air where he'd just been, all he'd need to do was poke gently, and Valens' own momentum would drive him on to the sword-point, a plank hammering itself against a nail. So, he couldn't attack, and Daurenja wouldn't attack, because the circular fight is all defence and reaction; all he could do was stand in the back guard (which you can't do for very long before cramp sets in, and a fencer with cramp is as good as dead), hesitating, unable to do anything, ridiculous, a joke…
He felt his back twinge. Weeks lying in bed; even when he was in the peak of condition, he couldn't have held this contorted stance for very long. He knew what he had to do: relax his hand, let the sword drop from it like an apple from a tree, then take two steps back and apologise, because there was no way he could carry on with the fight, let alone win it. The only other choice was to lunge, keep on lunging until Daurenja stuck him and he died, and that was no choice at all. He scrabbled through the archives of his mind, every exhibition bout he'd ever seen, every stupid book he'd ever read, for some ploy or trick that could beat the circular fight: all the special plays, for the advanced class only, the volte, the pass in single time, the boar's thrust. Absolutely nothing.
Oh well, he thought; and he leaned forward a little, bending his right knee, extending his arm, edging himself forward into distance, until the needle tip of Daurenja's sword was so close to his face that it blurred. It was ridiculous, but it was the only thing he could come up with: tempt him beyond endurance until he attacked, and then, in the thousandth of a second available, try and think of something. He saw his face, reflected, distorted, in the polished cup guard of Daurenja's sword. So much distortion, he could barely see the grotesque red swelling around the wound: lies that rectify, two wrongs making a right, necessary-