Devices and Desires e-1

by K. J. Parker

  The Chancellor nodded; the doctor tried to say something, but nobody was listening. Valens led the way into the tent.

  His father was lying on a table; the clever folding table they took out for the after-hunt dinner, on which they laid out the best joints of newly butchered meat. From the doorway he looked like he was asleep; a step or so closer and Valens could see blood, the splintered ends of bones sticking out through incredible red gashes. For just a moment he had to fight to stay in there, with that mess.

  'Dad?' he said softly.

  'He can't hear you.' The doctor's voice, very nervous and strained. 'He passed out from the pain a few minutes ago. I don't know if he'll wake up again.'

  Valens closed his eyes for a moment. 'What's the damage?' he said.

  The doctor came a little closer. 'For a start,' he said, 'broken skull, collar-bone, three ribs, left forearm; but that's not the real problem. He's bleeding heavily, inside, and he's paralysed, from the neck down. There's several possible causes for that, but I don't yet know which it is.'

  'You don't know?' Valens repeated.

  'I'm sorry.' The doctor was afraid, that was it. Understandable; but it would only get in the way. 'Until I can do a proper examination.'

  'I understand,' Valens said. 'And I know you're doing everything you can. Meanwhile, we need your help.' He turned to look at the Chancellor. 'Does he know what he's got to do?'

  The Chancellor dipped his head slightly. 'They all do,' he said.

  'Right.' Valens looked away from the body on the table. 'Then let's get on with it.'

  In the event, there was no trouble at all. Count Licinius was in bed when a platoon of his own Guards brought him the letter and escorted him, gently but firmly, to a guestroom in the castle; it was perfectly pleasant, but it was on the sixth floor of the tower, and two men stood guard outside it all night. Vetranio made a bit of a fuss when the Guards came for him at his villa on the outskirts of the city. He had guards of his own, and there was an ugly moment when they started to intervene. A sword was drawn, there was a minor scuffle; Vetranio lost his nerve and came quietly, ending up in the room next to Licinius, though neither of them knew it until they were released a week later. By then, the doctors were pleased to be able to announce that the Duke had come through the dangerous phase of his injuries and was conscious again.

  For Valens, that week was the longest of his life. Once Licinius and Vetranio were safely locked up and everything was quiet, he forced himself to go back down to the courtyard and into the tent. He freely admitted to himself that he didn't want to go. He had no wish to look at the horrible thing his father had turned into, the disgusting shambles of broken and damaged parts-if it was a cart or a plough, you wouldn't bother trying to mend it, you'd dump it in the hedge and build a new one.

  There were many times during his vigil in the tent when he wished his father would die and be done with it. It'd be better for everyone, now that the political situation had been sorted out. He knew, as he sat and stared at his father's closed eyes, that the Duke didn't want to live; somewhere, deep down in his mind, he'd know what had happened to him, the extent of the damage. He'd never hunt again, never walk, never stand up, feed himself; for the rest of his life, he'd shit into a nappy, like a baby. He'd fought more than his share of wars, seen the terror in the eyes of men he'd reduced to nothing as they knelt before him; he'd far rather die than give them this satisfaction. In fact, Valens recognised, he could think of only one person in the world who wanted him not to die, and his reasons were just sentiment, nothing that would survive the brutal interrogation of logic. At some point in the first twenty-four hours he'd fallen asleep in his chair; he'd had a dream, in which he saw Death standing over the table, asking his permission to take his father's life away, like clearing away the dishes after dinner. It seemed such a reasonable request, and refusing it was a foolish, immature thing to do. You know I'm right, Death's voice said softly inside his head, it's the right thing to do and you're being a nuisance. He'd felt guilty when he ordered Death to go away, ashamed of his own petulance; and meanwhile, outside the door, he could near Licinius and Vetranio and Torquatus and the Chancellor and everybody else in the Duchy muttering about him, how if he couldn't even take a simple decision like this without coming all to pieces, how on earth did he imagine he would ever be fit to govern a country? He felt the leash in his hand, the thin line of rope that tethered his father's life to the tangled mess of bones and wounds on the table. If he let go, it'd all be just fine, it'd be over. He was only hanging on to it out of perversity, contrariness; they should come in, take it away from him and give it to a grown-up…

  When he woke up, his father's eyes were open; not looking at him, but out through the tent doorway, at the sunlight. Valens sat up, stifled a yawn; Father's eyes moved and met his, and then he looked away.

  I suppose I ought to say something, he thought; but he couldn't think of anything.

  (Instead, he thought about his prisoners, Licinius and Vetranio, locked up like dogs shut in on a rainy day. Were they pacing up and down, or lying resigned and still on the bed? Had anybody thought to bring them something to read?)

  He was still trying to find some words when the doctor came in; and he carried on trying to find them for the next four years, until his father died, in the middle of the night, on the eve of Valens' twenty-third birthday. But all that time Valens never said a word, so that the last thing he told his father was a lie: I won't go up to the round wood with you this afternoon, I've got a splitting headache coming on. Not that it mattered; if he'd been there, his father would still have ridden ahead after the boar, the outcome would have been the same in all material respects.

  Someone had thought to have the boar flayed and the hide made into a rug; they draped it over the coffin when they carried it down to the chapel for burial. It was, Valens thought, a loathsome gesture, but Father would've appreciated it.

  Valens was duly acclaimed Duke by the representatives of the district assemblies. There was a ceremony in the great hall, followed by a banquet. The Chancellor (Count Licinius, restored to favour; his predecessor had died of a sad combination of ambition and carelessness the previous spring) took him aside for a quiet word before they joined the guests. Now that Valens was officially in charge of the Duchy, there were a few niceties of foreign policy to go through.

  'Now?'

  'Now,' Licinius replied emphatically. 'Things are a bit complicated at the moment. There's things you should be aware of, before you go in there and start talking to people.'

  Badly phrased; Licinius was an intelligent man with a fool's tongue. But Valens was used to that. 'You didn't want me to have to bother my pretty little head about them yesterday, I suppose?'

  Licinius shrugged. 'The situation's been building up gradually for a long time. When it all started, you were still-well, indisposed. By the time you started taking an interest again, it was too involved to explain. You know how it is.'

  'Sure.' Valens nodded. 'So now you're going to have to explain it all in five minutes before I go down to dinner.'

  Licinius waited for a moment, in case Valens wanted to develop this theme. The pause made Valens feel petty. 'Go on,' he said.

  So Licinius told him all about it. Count Sirupat, he said, had kept strictly to the letter of the peace treaty that had been signed when Valens was sixteen. There hadn't been any trouble on the borders, and there was no reason to suppose he wasn't entirely sincere about wanting peace. But things weren't all wine and honey-cakes; Sirupat had seven daughters-

  'I know,' Valens interrupted, a little abruptly. 'I met one of them once; it was when the treaty was signed, she was here as a hostage.'

  Licinius nodded. 'That was the fifth daughter, Veatriz. Anyway, shortly after your father had his accident, my predecessor made a formal approach to Sirupat for a marriage alliance. In his reply, Sirupat-'

  'Just a moment,' Valens interrupted. 'Marriage alliance. Who was supposed to be marrying who?'

 
; Licinius had the grace to look away. 'One of Sirupat's daughters. And you, obviously.'

  'Fine.' Valens frowned. 'Which one?'

  'I'm sorry?'

  'Which one of Sirupat's daughters?'

  Licinius frowned, as if this fascination with trivial details perplexed him. 'The fifth or the sixth,' he said. 'The older four had already been married off, and there's some interesting implications there, because-'

  'The fifth or the sixth.'

  'They're both pleasant enough, so I've heard. Anyway, Sirupat gave his agreement in principle, as you'd expect, because it's the obvious logical move. Before anybody had made any definite proposals, I took over as Chancellor; which shouldn't have made the slightest bit of difference, obviously, but suddenly Sirupat wasn't answering my letters. Next thing we hear, he's negotiating a marriage with his sister's eldest son, Orsea.'

  'Orsea,' Valens repeated. 'You don't mean my cousin Orsea, from Scandea?'

  'Him,' Licinius said. 'Well, you can imagine, we were a bit stunned. We all assumed it was just tactical, trying to get us to up our offer, so we decided to take no notice. I mean-'

  'I remember when he came to stay, when I was a kid,' Valens said. 'I suppose he was a hostage too, come to think of it. I just assumed he was here because he's an off-relation. But we got on really well together. I've often wondered what became of him.'

  'Not much,' Licinius said. 'He may be related to our lot and their lot, but really he's nothing more than a small-time country squire; spends his time counting his sheep and checking the boundary fences. But if he were to marry Sirupat's daughter, that'd make him the heir presumptive, when Sirupat goes on-'

  'Would it? Why?'

  Licinius pulled a face. 'It's complicated. Actually, I'm not entirely sure why; I think it's because the first three weren't born in the purple, and the fourth came along while the marriage was still nominally morganatic. Anyhow, there's a damn good reason. So in practice, Sirupat was practically appointing him as his successor.'

  'Assuming the marriage goes ahead,' Valens pointed out. And if it's just a bargaining ploy…'

  'Which is what we'd assumed,' Licinius said. 'But apparently we were wrong. They were married last week.'

  For a moment, Valens felt as though he'd lost his memory. Where he was, what he was supposed to be doing, what he was talking about; all of them on the tip of his tongue but he couldn't quite remember. 'Last week,' he repeated.

  'Bolt out of the blue, literally,' Licinius said. 'No warning, no demands, nothing. Just a report from our ambassador, not even formal notification from the Court-which we're entitled to, incidentally, under the terms of the treaty.'

  'Which daughter?' Valens said.

  'What? Oh, right. I'm not absolutely sure. I think it was number five; which'd make sense, because they've got rules over there about the order princesses get married in. But if it was number six, the effect'd still be the same. Now I'm not saying it was meant as a deliberate provocation or an act of war, but-'

  'Can you find out?' Valens said. 'Which one it was, I mean.'

  'Yes, all right. But like I said, it's not really important. What matters is, Sirupat has effectively rejected our claim-some might say the treaty itself-in favour of some nobody who just happens to be a poor relation. In basic diplomatic terms-'

  'Find out which one,' Valens cut him off. 'Quickly as possible, please.'

  He could see Licinius getting flustered, thinking he hadn't got across the true magnitude of the political situation. 'I will, yes. But if you're thinking that's all right, I'll just marry number six, I've got to tell you that'd be a grave miscalculation. You see, under their constitution-'

  'Find out,' Valens said, raising his voice just a little, 'and as soon as you hear, let me know. All right?'

  'I've already said yes.'

  'That's splendid.' Valens took a deep breath. 'That'll have to do as far as the briefing goes, we can't keep all the guests waiting.'

  Licinius had his answer within the hour. Yes, it was the fifth daughter, Veatriz, who'd married Count Orsea. Licinius' scribbled note reached Valens at the dinner-table, where he was sandwiched in between the Patriarchal legate (a serene old man who dribbled soup) and a high-ranking Mezentine commercial attache. Consequently, he read the note quickly, tucked it into his sleeve and carried on talking to the legate about the best way to blanch chicory.

  The next day, for the first time since his father's accident, he announced a hunt. Since everybody was unprepared and out of practice, it would be a simple, perfunctory affair. They would draw the home coverts in the morning, and drive down the mill-stream in the afternoon. The announcement caused some surprise-people had got the impression from somewhere that the new Duke wasn't keen on hunting-and a great deal of anxious preparation and last-minute dashing about in stables, kennels and tack rooms. Any annoyance, however, was easily outweighed by relief that things were getting back to normal.

  Chapter Two

  'The prisoner has suggested,' the advocate said, 'that his offence is trivial. Let us examine his claim. Let us reflect on what is trivial and what is serious, and see if we can come to a better understanding of these concepts.'

  He was a nondescript man, by any standards; a little under medium height, bald, with tufts of white hair over each ear; a round man, sedentary, with bright brown eyes. Ziani had known him for years, from committees and receptions and factory visits, had met his wife twice and his daughter once. From those meetings he'd carried away a mental image of a loud, high voice, someone brisk and busy but polite enough, an important man who knew the strategic value of being pleasant to subordinate colleagues. He knew he was some kind of high Guild official, but today was the first time he'd found out what Lodoico Sphrantzes actually did.

  'The prisoner, Ziani Vaatzes,' the advocate went on, 'admits to having created an abomination. He admitted as much to the investigator who inspected it. He signed a deposition confessing that the thing was made by him, and agreeing in detail the departures from Specification. In this court, he has acknowledged his signature on that deposition, and conceded that he said those words to that investigator. But he stands to his defence. He pleads not guilty. His defence…' Advocate Sphrantzes paused to shake his head. 'His defence is that his admitted abomination was only a little one, a minor deviation. It was, he tells us, a slight modification, an improvement.'

  A little buzz of murmuring went round the semicircle of the public gallery, like half a ripple from a stone dropped in water. Sphrantzes let it run its course before he went-on.

  'Very well then,' he said. 'Let us consider the details. As regards the construction of automata and mechanical toys, Specification states that the lifting mechanism for the. arms shall be powered by a clock-spring seven feet six inches long, one quarter of an inch wide and fifteen thousandths of an inch thick, with a generous permitted tolerance of three per cent for length and width, and fifteen per cent for thickness. Furthermore, it states that the gear train conveying motive power from the spring to the shoulder assemblies shall comprise five cogs of ratios forty, thirty, twenty-five, twelve and six to one. Furthermore, it lays down that the thickness of such cogs shall be three eighths of an inch, and that each cog shall ride on a brass bushing. I ask the clerk to verify that my summary of Specification is correct.'

  The clerk stood up, nodded and sat down again.

  'So much, then,' Sphrantzes went on, 'for Specification. Let us now turn to the investigator's report concerning the abomination created by the prisoner. Investigator Manin, as you have heard for yourselves, discovered that the spring used by the prisoner was nine feet three inches long, five sixteenths of an inch wide and ten thousandths of an inch thick; that the gear train contained not five but six cogs, the sixth being in ratio of four to one; that the said cogs were seven sixteenths of an inch thick, and their bushings were not brass but bronze. In short, we have unequivocal proof of not one but three distinct and deliberate deviations from Specification.'

  Advocate Sphrantz
es paused for a moment to stare ferociously at the dock; then he continued. 'Three distinct deviations; so much, I think we can safely say, for the argument that it was only a little abomination, a trivial departure. Now, if the prisoner had argued that he is an inept metalworker, incapable of observing a tolerance, that might be easier to accept-except, of course, that we know he is no such thing. On the contrary; we know that he holds the rank of supervisor in the Foundrymen's and Machinists' Guild, that he has passed all twelve of the prescribed trade tests and holds no fewer than eleven certificates for exemplary work, one of them for hand-filing a perfect circle to a tolerance of one thousandth of an inch. But he makes no such claim in his defence. No; he admits the work, and accepts the report. He accepts that each deviation bears directly on the others; that the longer, thinner spring affords more power to the gears, in consequence of which a sixth gear is added and the width of the cogs is increased to augment bearing surface, with harder-wearing bushes to handle the additional wear. All this, he claims, he did in order to make a mechanical toy that could raise its arms above its head; in order, members of the committee, to improve on Specification.'

  No murmurs this time. Absolute silence.

  'To improve,' Sphrantzes repeated slowly, 'on Specification. May I invite you to consider for a moment the implications of that intention.

  'When our Guild was first established, fought for by our ancestors and paid for with their very blood, it was agreed that in order to maintain the reputation for excellence enjoyed by our work throughout the world, it was essential that we draw up and rigidly adhere to an agreed specification for every thing we make.' That specification, represented by the Guild's mark stamped on each piece, has for three hundred years served as an unimpeachable guarantee of quality. It means that anybody who buys Guild work can be categorically assured that the piece is made strictly in accordance with the best possible design, from the best possible materials, using the best possible practices and procedures by the finest craftsmen in the world. It is that guarantee that has made our Guild and our fellow Guilds throughout Mezentia the unrivalled masters of industry and by default given us a monopoly of mass-produced manufactured goods throughout the known world. That, members of the committee, is not a trivial matter. On the contrary, it is the life blood of our city and our people, and any offence against it, anything that calls it into question, is an act of treason. There can be no exceptions. Even an unwitting slip of the hammer or the file is an abomination and punishable under the law. How much worse, then, is a deliberate and premeditated assault on Specification, such as we have seen in this case? To claim, as the prisoner Vaatzes has done, that his abomination represents an improvement is to assert that Specification is susceptible to being improved upon; that it is fallible, imperfect; that the Guilds and the Eternal Republic are capable of producing and offering for sale imperfect goods. Members of the committee, I tell you that there can be no defence of such a wicked act.'