by K. J. Parker
'Thank you so much.' Miel winced, as though he wanted to ride away in a huff but knew he wasn't allowed to, because it would be discourteous. 'Look, it's no big deal. If I can just get a few tangles straightened out, we can be on our way and it'll be fine. It'll be much quicker for me to deal with the problems myself than explain what they are so you can handle them. And,' he added, with the air of a general committing his last reserves in a final reckless charge, 'the doctor says you won't be fit to ride for another three days.'
Orsea made a remark about the doctor that was both vulgar and inaccurate. 'Besides,' he went on, 'if it's my health you're all worried about, you ought to realise that if I've got to spend another day alone in a cart brooding about what a fuck-up I've made of everything, it's absolutely guaranteed I'll die of guilt and frustration. So telling me what the doctor said isn't just annoying and high treason, it's counterproductive.'
Miel sighed melodramatically. 'Not up to me,' he said. 'If you want to risk a massive haematoma-'
'You mean haemorrhage,' Orsea pointed out. 'Haematoma is bruises. Trust me, all right? Now let's talk about something else. How's that cousin of yours getting on, Jarnac-'He stopped himself abruptly; Miel smiled.
'It's all right,' he said, 'Jarnac wasn't killed in the battle. In fact, he didn't join the army at all. Stayed at home.'
'Sensible chap.'
Miel frowned. 'No, actually. Cousin Jarnac doesn't approve of the war. He thinks it's wrong. And I don't mean wrong as in liable to end up a complete fiasco; wrong as in morally bad. All wars, not just this one.'
Orsea nodded. 'There's a word for that, isn't there?'
'I can think of several.'
'No, I mean it's a known-about thing, an ism. Pacifism.'
'Is that right?' Miel yawned. 'There's times when my cousin gets so far up my nose he's practically poking out of my ear. Why did you mention him, all of a sudden?'
'Don't know,' Orsea said. 'Or rather, yes I do. I was lying there awake in the early hours, and for some reason I was remembering that sparrowhawk he had when we were kids. Mad keen on falconry he was, back then.'
'Still is. Why, do you fancy going hawking when we get home? I'm sure he'd be glad of the excuse to show off.'
'It might be fun,' Orsea said. 'Though God knows, I shouldn't even be thinking of swanning about enjoying myself when there's so much work to be done. Besides, what would people think?'
'There goes the Duke, having a day off,' Miel replied: 'You aren't the first man in history who's lost a battle. And it wasn't your fault. No, really. You weren't to know about those scorpion things. If it hadn't been for them-'
'Which is like saying if it wasn't for the rain, it'd be a dry day' Orsea scowled. 'Sooner or later, you'll have to admit it, Miel. I screwed up. I led thousands of our people to their death.'
Miel sighed loudly. 'All right, yes. It's-very bad. And it's going to be very tense for a while back home, until people come to terms with it. But these things happen; and you know what? It's not you they're going to hate, it's the Mezentines, because they're the ones who killed our people. Now, do you want me to organise a day with the birds when we get home, or not?'
Orsea shook his head. 'Best not,' he said. 'At least, not for a while. Now, what can I do to help?'
Eventually, Miel let him organise the reconnaissance parties. That was all right, he was happy with that. They were, he knew, in sensitive territory. Not far away (nobody was entirely sure where; that was the problem) was the border between the two mountain dukedoms. He felt confident that the Vadani wouldn't make trouble unless they felt they were provoked. Straying inadvertently on to their land with an army, however, even if that army was a chewed-up remnant, would probably constitute provocation, particularly to some of the old-school Vadani commanders who were still having trouble coming to terms with the peace. Vital, therefore, to keep a sharp eye open for routine border patrols, and to keep well out of their way. The scout captains duly set off, and he settled down in the vanguard to wait for the first reports.
The Vadani, he thought; that's probably what made me think about falcons, and Jarnac Ducas. It had been years since he'd seen his cousin Valens; the last time, come to think of it, was before he-before either of them-had come to the throne; before his wedding, even. He tried to picture Valens in his mind, and saw a thin, sharp-nosed, sullen boy who never spoke first. He remembered feeling sorry for him, watching him riding to the hunt with his outrageous father. It had been a cold, miserable occasion; a state visit, reception and grand battue to celebrate a truce in the unending, insoluble war. It was obvious that nobody on either side believed in the truce-they were all proved right a few months later, when it collapsed into bloody shambles-and hardly anybody made any effort to mask his scepticism; but they'd attended the reception, watched the dancers, listened to the musicians, gone through the motions with fixed smiles, and then that dreadful day's hunting, in the cold mist, everybody getting muddled about the directions, not hearing the horns, getting to their pegs too early or too late; the old Duke in a raging temper because the beaters had gone in before they were supposed to, and the deer had been flushed and had gone on long before the guests were in position. Not that any of the Eremian contingent cared a damn; but the Duke did, because he actually cared whether they caught anything or not-some of the Eremians reckoned the visit and the whole truce business was just a pretext he'd cooked up for a full-scale battue at the beginning of the season. As a result, the Duke spent the day charging backwards and forwards across the field yelling at huntsmen and line-captains, and young Valens had charged with him, grimly wretched but keeping up, so as not to get lost and add to the day's problems. It was painfully obvious that he didn't want to be there; obvious that his father knew it, and didn't care. He took his son with him the way you'd wear a brooch or a belt you hated, but which a relative had given you, so you had to wear it so as not to hurt their feelings. That day, he'd felt very sorry for Valens, and it was still the mental image his mind defaulted to, when his, advisers debated the Vadani question in council, or when his wife talked about Valens to him. It's hard to hate someone who, in your mind, is forever a sad twelve-year-old, soaking wet on a horse far too big for him. Orsea, of course, made a point of never hating anybody unless it was absolutely unavoidable.
The first party of scouts hadn't seen anything. The second party reported a body of horsemen, apparently shadowing the army on the other side of a hog's back; somewhere between seventy-five and a hundred and twenty of them, a third- or half-squadron, therefore quite possibly a routine patrol. The third party were late, and when they came in they had a shamefaced look about them; they'd been intercepted by Vadani cavalry who'd apparently materialised out of thin air in front of them on the road, and given them a message to take back. Duke Valens sent his greetings and sympathy on their unfortunate experience. It occurred to him that the army might be short of food, clothes, doctors, whatever. If there was anything they needed, anything the Vadani could do to help (except, of course, military action of any kind), all they had to do was ask.
Orsea's first instinct was to refuse. While he was trying to come up with a sufficiently polite form of words, he found himself wondering why; true, it would be galling to be in Valens' debt, but food, at least a dozen more doctors, best of all a guide or two to show them the easiest way-that could be enough to save lives. He sent a reply thanking Valens very much indeed, and listing everything he could think of. The offer wasn't kindly meant, he had no illusions on that score, but he was in no position to take account of intentions.
The Vadani doctors came with the supply-wagons, perched among sacks and barrels and wearing bemused, scared expressions, like helpless peasants abducted by the fairies. Maybe the Vadani told the same sort of stories about the Eremians as Orsea had heard about them, during the war-they can't be trusted, don't take prisoners, they string you up by the ankles and use you for javelin practice; at any rate, they seemed anxious to help and please, and the Vadani had always had a
good reputation for medicine. Orsea amused himself by wondering where they'd been press-ganged from; they'd arrived so fast, they could hardly have been given time to grab their boots and their bags. They asked permission to take some of the worst cases away with them (these men need proper care in a hospital, and so forth), but he couldn't allow that. If there was one thing the Vadani were better at than curing people, it was taking hostages.
Once or twice as the day wore on, he caught himself thinking about the Mezentine fugitive, and his extraordinary offer. But that would have to wait until he got home; the decision would have to be taken in the proper way, with the opinions of the council guiding him. Better, therefore, that he kept his mind open and didn't think about it at all until then.
They stopped for the night an hour before sunset, a long way short of where they'd hoped they'd reach. This journey was taking for ever. Orsea was tired but not exhausted, and his wound hadn't burst like everybody had said it would; there was a little blood showing through the bandage, but nothing spectacular. A Vadani doctor came to examine and dress it; a short, stout man with a fringe of straight white hair round a glowing bald head, very quiet, as though each word was costing him thirty shillings. Orsea guessed that it was the first time he'd had anything to do with the effects of a battle. Some people reacted like that, shutting the doors and windows of their minds to keep the intrusive information out. He said the wound was knitting very well, tutted to himself at the cack-handed Eremian way of winding a bandage, and left quickly. When he'd gone, Orsea poured himself a small drink and opened the book he'd brought along to read, and hadn't yet looked at-Pescennia Alastro's sonnets, the latest rescension, an anniversary present from his wife. He opened it at the first page, laid it carefully face down on his knee, and burst into tears.
Chapter Five
Unlike his father, the young Duke hunted three days a week, always following the same pattern. On Tuesdays he rode parforce, with the full pack, drawing the upland coverts for roe (in season), boar, bear and wolf. On Thursdays the hunt was bow-and-stable, the hunters on foot and stationary while the pack flushed the valley plantations and the moors on the forest perimeter. Saturday was for hawking, unless the weather was too wet and cold, in which case they'd work the warrens with terriers, or try their luck walking up rabbits around the orchards. The great battues were a thing of the past now; the young Duke didn't hold with the disturbance they caused, or the scattering of game from their regular beats.
Duke Valens took the hunt very seriously. The rule was, no business on a hunt day unless it's a genuine emergency; and even then, the court knew better than to expect him to be good-tempered about it. Accordingly, Chancellor Delmatius was in two minds, possibly three, about passing on the message from the north-eastern frontier. He spent a couple of tormented hours contemplating the true meaning of the words genuine emergency, evaluated the risks to a hair's weight, and was just in time to intercept Valens before he left for the stables.
'It's probably nothing,' he said, pausing to catch his breath. 'I thought I'd mention it, but I don't think we need do anything about it.'
Valens wasn't looking at him; he was scowling at a square of blue sky beyond the window. 'Shit,' he said (Valens very rarely swore). 'And I was hoping we'd work through the long drive this morning. Pranno reckons there's a twelve-pointer just moved in there.'
Delmatius didn't sigh with relief, but only because he'd learned how not to. 'Do you want to see the messengers first, or should I call the council?'
'I suppose I'd better see the messengers,' Valens answered, looking thoughtfully at the gloves in his hand. 'I don't need you to sit in, I'll get Strepho to take notes for you. You get on and call the meeting. We'll use the side-chamber off the east hall'
Delmatius scuttled away like a mouse who's left half his tail in the cat's mouth; as soon as he'd gone, Valens relaxed his scowl and perched on the edge of the table. It was a pity; if there really was a twelve-pointer in the narrow wood, it'd be long gone by next week, most likely heading downhill towards the lusher grass. Either the Natho clan would get it, or some poacher who'd take the meat and bury the rest, and that superb trophy would go to waste.
Even a twelve-pointer, however, didn't justify spitting in the face of opportunity. He'd already heard about the battle itself, of course. The scouts (his personal unit, not the regulars who reported to the chiefs of staff) had brought him the news a fraction less than twenty-four hours after the last scorpion-bolt pitched. By the time the joint chiefs and the council knew about it, Valens had already read the casualty reports (both sides' versions, naturally). Predictably, they were split into two irreconcilable factions: attack now, kill them all, worry about the treaty later; or leave well alone and hope the wolves tidy up the stragglers.
Instead, Valens had given orders for a modest relief column: food, blankets, doctors of course. The council were used to him adopting the one course of action they were sure he wouldn't take, and listened meekly to their assignments. As usual when he gave an incomprehensible order, Valens didn't stop to explain the rationale behind it. The most favoured theory was that he wanted the doctors to bring him back extremely detailed reports of what state the Eremians were in, the exact strength of the vanguard and rearguard, so he could make the attack, when it came, as effective as possible. Other theories included an unannounced illness, a sudden conversion to some new religion that preached nonviolence, or that old catch-all, lulling the enemy into a false sense of security.
In fact, he was allowing himself the luxury of savouring the moment. It had been a long time coming; but now, at last, his proper enemy and natural prey had made the mistake of bolting from cover at the first horn-call, so to speak. It'd be fatally easy to take the obvious course of action and lay into them, kill as many as possible and scatter the rest. Any fool could do that. Valens, on the other hand, knew the value of waiting just a little longer and doing a proper job. He'd heard a saying once; maybe it was from a Mezentine diplomat, boasting insufferably about how wonderful his people were at making things. The easiest way to do something is properly. When he'd heard it first, he'd been unable to make up his mind whether it was terribly profound or utterly banal. The moment of revelation had been when he realised it was both.
He knew what the people said about him, of course; he was the best Duke in living memory, he was a bastard but a clever bastard, he was ten times the ruler his father had been.
Well, he knew the third one was lies. The second one he was prepared to acknowledge, if put to it. The first one he dismissed as unlikely. It was good that they said it, however. If they admired him, they were likely to do as they were told,' just so long as he stayed successful. But there was no reason why he shouldn't. If the hunt had taught him anything, it was the inestimable value of thinking in three dimensions. To hunt successfully, you must know your ground, your pack and your quarry. You must learn, by fieldwork and reconnaissance, where the quarry is likely to be and what it's liable to do once disturbed. You must know the capacities and weaknesses of the resources-men, dogs, equipment-at your disposal. You must be able to visualise at all times where everybody is, once you've sent them to their stations to do their assigned tasks. You must be aware of the interplay of time and distance, so you can be sure that the stops and the beaters are in position when you loose the pack. You must be able to judge allowances-the angle to offset a drive so as to head off the quarry from its customary line of escape, how far ahead of a running stag to shoot so as to pitch your arrow where it's going, not where it's just been. Above all, at all times you must be in perfect control, regardless of whether things are going well or badly. A brilliant mind is not required; nor is genius, intuition, inspiration. Clarity and concentration are helpful; but the main thing is vision, the ability to draw invisible lines with the mind's eye, to see round corners and through walls. It's a knack that can be learned fairly readily; slightly harder than swimming, rather easier than juggling or playing the flute.
Well; if he wasn't
going to hunt today, he'd better go to the council meeting. Nothing useful would be achieved there-he would do all the work himself, it'd take him just under half an hour-but it was necessary in order to keep his leading men, his pack, alert and obedient. He'd been at pains to train them over the last few years, encouraging, rewarding, culling as needed, and they were shaping well; but time had to be spent with them, or they'd grow restive and wilful. He swung his legs off the table on to the ground, a brisk, almost boyish movement that he certainly wouldn't have made had anybody been watching, and walked quickly across the yard, composing the agenda for the meeting as he went. On the stairs he met the master cutler, who told him the new case of rapiers had finally arrived from the City. He thanked the man and told him to bring them along to his study an hour after dinner.
The meeting lived down to his expectations. The council had wanted to debate whether or not to launch an attack on the Eremians while they were vulnerable and desperate. When he told them he'd already sent food and doctors, they had nothing left to say; they hadn't thought ahead, and so the buck had slipped through the cordon and left them standing. As it should be; it was easier to tell people what to do if they didn't interrupt. He delegated to them the simple, unimportant matters that he hadn't already provided for, and sent them away with a sense of bewildered purpose.
To his study next, where he had a map of the mountains. It was big, covering the whole of the north wall (there was a hole for the window in the middle of the Horsehead Ridge, but that didn't matter; the ridge was sheer rock capped with snow, and you needed ropes and winches to get there); it was a tapestry, so that he could mark positions with pins and tapes if he chose to, but that was rarely necessary. He fixed his eye on the place where Orsea's army had last been seen, and calculated where they were likely to be now.