Devices and Desires e-1

by K. J. Parker

  The sentry on duty knew him by sight, of course. Officially the passage wasn't there, so the soldier looked straight through him, as though he didn't exist either. At this time of night, he knew he'd have this stretch of rampart to himself. It was a valuable privilege, one of many, and naturally he knew better than to abuse it by overuse. He turned his back on the castle, leaned his forearms on the battlements and stared out over the city toward the mountains. All he could see of them was a ridge of shadow against the paler darkness of the night sky, but he knew they were there.

  He heard someone behind him; a boot-heel scuffing the stone. Whoever it was seemed not to have noticed him, standing still in the dark. The steps moved away, then stopped. Not the sentry, then. He stepped away from the battlement.

  'Jarnac?'

  The voice was easily recognised. Duke Orsea had always had a tendency to be a little high-pitched when he was surprised or nervous. Understandable that he should be slightly apprehensive, coming across someone lurking in the shadows on a wall where nobody was supposed to be. Of course he knew about the nonexistent secret passage; he'd been led down it when he was an unimportant boy, a tag-along, allowed to join in because he was cousin Miel's friend. Now, however, Jarnac considered protocol. 'My lord' would be inappropriate here, since they were alone and Orsea had greeted him by his private name.

  'Hello, Orsea,' he replied. 'Sorry, did I make you jump?'

  Orsea came a step closer; still wary, like a dog approaching an unidentified object. When he was close enough for his face to be visible, Jarnac saw the worried frown relax, though not completely.

  'Came up for a breath of air,' Jarnac explained. 'Hope you don't mind.'

  'No, of course not.' Orsea had never been more than a moderately competent liar at best. 'It's just that I wasn't expecting anybody to be up here, that's all.'

  'Me too,' Jarnac replied with a grin. 'So, looking forward to tomorrow?'

  Orsea smiled. 'I expect you've got something special lined up.'

  'You can't line up wild animals,' Jarnac replied. 'All you can do is hope they'll be there. No promises, but we'll see.'

  Orsea nodded gravely. 'Thanks for arranging it all,' he said. 'Veatriz has been keeping on about me needing a day in the fresh air.'

  'Quite right,' Jarnac said. 'You're looking a bit peaky. Too many council meetings and state receptions and not enough healthy exercise.' He saw Orsea stiffen slightly, and remembered that he'd always been quick to take offence. Probably, too, he was thinking about a certain occasion fifteen years ago when Jarnac and Juifrez Phocas had pushed him into the old disused cesspit behind the Lesser Phocas stables. Offhand Jarnac couldn't recall the reason, but he was sure there'd been one.

  'That's right,' Orsea said, maintaining his smile with a degree of effort. 'It's what comes of getting mixed up in politics, you know.'

  Jarnac nodded. 'Glad I stayed clear of it, then,' he said. 'Always struck me as a mug's game. Glad to leave it to you and cousin Miel. He's coming tomorrow, isn't he? Only I hadn't heard back from him.'

  'Oh yes, he's coming.' Orsea reinforced the statement with a brisk nod, just to clear up any ambiguity. 'And Ferens Bardanes and your cousin Erec, apparently. I haven't seen either of them for ages.'

  Now Orsea mentioned it, Ferens had also been present during the cesspit incident. Not Erec, though; he'd been off snogging with Sospiria Miletas out behind the old lime-kilns. Orsea had been rather keen on Sospiria round about that time, he fancied; wasting his time, of course.

  'If Miel's coming we'll be a field of thirty,' Jarnac said. 'No, scrub that, thirty-one. I invited that Mezentine, the blacksmith. He kept dropping hints, so I thought, why not?'

  Orsea shrugged.

  'I believe you've met him,' Jarnac went on.

  'A couple of times, yes.'

  'Strange man,' Jarnac said. 'Very much the oily tradesman one minute, cold as a snake the next. That's Mezentines for you, I suppose. How's Veatriz?'

  'What? Oh, she's fine.'

  'Is she coming?'

  'No.'

  'Didn't think she would be,' Jarnac said. 'Not really her thing. I remember, she did come out with us once, years ago.' That would be when everybody expected her to marry Miel, of course; not long after she came back from playing hostage with the Vadani.

  'Oh,' Orsea said.

  'She didn't like it much,' Jarnac said. 'Well, it was a foul day, lashed down with rain; we didn't find all morning, lunch went to the wrong place so she didn't get anything to eat, and then we had a long, hard chase in the afternoon, and I think she was with the party that went the wrong way. Don't blame her for thinking it's an over-rated pastime, really'

  Orsea laughed, a sound like the last drops gurgling out of a bottle. 'She thought about coming, actually,' he said. 'But she decided she'd rather stay at home and catch up with writing letters or something.' He looked away. Something bothering him, Jarnac thought. Just for a split second, he caught himself remembering Veatriz Sirupati as she'd been when she was sixteen; definitely worth stopping to look at back then, though in his opinion she'd gone off quite a bit since she married Orsea. Not that he'd ever looked too closely, since she'd always been earmarked for Miel. They'd have gone well together, he'd always thought, Miel and Veatriz Sirupati, if it hadn't been for the politics.

  He decided it'd be a good idea to change the subject. 'So,' he said, 'do you think there's going to be a war?'

  Orsea looked at him as though he'd let slip a deadly secret. 'I hope not,' he said. 'We're still picking up the pieces after the last one. And the one before that.'

  Jarnac shrugged. 'Some of us were talking about it the other day' he said. 'About Duke Valens just happening to be there on his side of the Butter Pass when you were on your way back from Mezentia. Bit of a coincidence, we thought.'

  For a moment, Orsea looked like he didn't follow, and Jarnac realised he'd misunderstood; he'd been thinking about a possible war right enough, but not against the Vadani. Well, that was interesting in itself. 'I think that's all it was,' Orsea said, sounding a little bit awkward. 'And very lucky for us, the way things turned out.'

  'Oh, quite right. And they helped us out, no question about it.' Jarnac paused. Probably not a good idea to be harping on about the disastrous Mezentia expedition, given that he hadn't been there. The stupid part of it was, he'd really wanted to go, he'd been furious about missing it. But people got funny about that sort of thing, after a disaster. 'Well, I'm glad to hear you don't think there's a danger,' Jarnac said. 'We could do without any major excitements for a while.'

  'I think I'll go and get some sleep,' Orsea said, 'if I'm getting up early in the morning. First light, I think Miel said, in the stable yard.'

  'A bit before, if you can manage it,' Jarnac corrected him. 'I want to be up on the mountain while the dew's still on the grass.'

  'Right,' Orsea said, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. 'Bright and early. I'll say goodnight, then.'

  'Sleep well,' Jarnac replied. 'Wish I could. But I get a bit wound up before a big day.'

  Back down the secret passage into the long corridor; halfway down the circular stair, Jarnac remembered that it hadn't been Sospiria Miletas that Erec was with that time, but Sospiria Poliorcetes. Not that it made any odds; Orsea had fancied her, too.

  He didn't bother going to bed; instead, he called for a lamp and sat alone in the great hall, under Uncle Dara's record wolf, with a big cup of hot milk and cinnamon and a copy of Isoitz's The Complete Record of the Hunt, where there was something about mid-season three-year-old boars and how you could track them on stony ground, except that he couldn't recall offhand where it came in the book. He found what he was looking for two hours before dawn, when the first light blue stain was starting to soak through, but it was just the same old stuff out of Varrano rehashed. He stood up, yawned and stretched. It was tomorrow already, and his big day had begun.

  Ziani rolled off his mattress, got up and ate the crust of the stale bread. Not, he decided, a civilised hour
of the morning. But he'd feel stronger once he'd washed his face and put on a fresh shirt.

  He hadn't slept well. Partly nerves; partly because a bad dream had woken him up in the small hours, and he'd found it hard to get back to sleep again; or he'd been afraid to, because he always reacted badly to nightmares.

  It wasn't a new dream, by any means. Originally, it had been his grandfather's fault, because the old fool was one of those people who believed that children enjoy being scared out of their wits. Accordingly, when Ziani was six or seven, he'd told him the legend of the storm-hunt, and the horrible thing had lodged in the back of his mind ever since. Easy enough to guess why it had come back out of the shadows tonight, when his mind was stuffed with King Fashion and the Mirror and similar garbage, all that stuff about hounds and lymers and brachets, the baying of the pack and the horn-calls. In Grandad's story, of course, the hounds were red-eyed and black as coal, the horns were blown by dead men riding on dead horses, and the hunt was led by King Utan the Terrible, who'd rode away to hounds five hundred years before and never came back, except on dark nights, when the wind was high and the wild geese were flying low. Ever since then, in his dream, King Utan had worn a deep black hood and ridden a huge black horse; and sometimes Ziani had been running away from him, and sometimes he'd been riding beside him, so close that the cloak's hem flicked his face, and he could smell the rain-soaked cloth. The end was always the same: horns blowing wildly, rain stinging in his eyes, the hounds pressing round in a circle over something lying on the ground, while the King reached up with his old, swollen hands and started to lift the cowl away from his face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Ducas rides to the hunt on a white palfrey. He wears a quilted pourpoint of white or grey silk over a white linen shirt, cord breeches and arming boots with points for his sabatons; the only weapon he carries is a slightly curved, single-edged hanger as long as his arm from shoulder to fingertips. He may wear a hat if rain is actually falling. He is followed by four huntsmen on barbs or jennets, who carry his armour, his great spear, his light spears, his bow and his close sword, which can be either a falchion or a tuck, depending on the likely quarry. A page on an ambler or a mule follows with the wet-weather gear-a hooded mantle, a surcoat, chaps and spats-and the horn.

  On arriving at the meet, the Ducas dismounts, and is accomplished for the hunt in the following order, which differs slightly from the proper order for war: first the sabatons, laced tightly at the toes and under the instep; next the greaves, followed by the leg-harness of demi-greaves, poleyns and cuisses (gamboised cuisses are considered excessive except where the quarry is exclusively bear or wolf)-these are secured by points to the hem of the pourpoint, and the usual straps and buckles around the thigh, the calf and the inside of the knee. Since the cuirass and placket are not worn for the hunt, the upper points are secured to the kidney-belt, after which the faulds are added to protect the buttocks, thighs and groin. The arm-harness is fitted next; in the hunting harness, the vambraces close on the outside of the forearm with buckles, and the half-rerebrace is worn, secured at the shoulder with a single point. Spaudlers are preferred to pauldrons for the protection of the shoulder, and a simple one-lame gorget suffices for the neck. Finally, the Ducas puts on his gauntlets (the finger type is preferred to the clamshell or mitten varieties) and his baldric, from which hang his close sword and his horn. He carries his great spear in his right hand. The four huntsmen carry the rest of the gear between them; the page stays behind at the meet to hold the horses.

  Miel couldn't stop yawning. He'd gone to bed early and slept well; in spite of which, he'd woken up with a slight headache (in his temples, just behind his eyes). If it hadn't been for the fact that this was Orsea's special treat and Veatriz had asked him to go, he'd have stayed in bed.

  The sky was black with a few silver cracks and he could smell rain in the air. The Ducas never takes any notice of the weather, in the same way as a king can decline to recognise a government of which he doesn't approve; accordingly, he was bare-headed, and the damp made his head throb. A day or so before, Jarnac had muttered something about working down the high pastures in the hope of flushing a good boar in the open; that meant a lot of walking, most of it uphill. What joy.

  Long practice made it possible for him to greet his fellow hunters with a reasonable show of affability, in spite of the pain behind his eyes. Jarnac hadn't arrived yet, of course; neither had Orsea, who had to make his entrance immediately after his host. Miel looked round for unfamiliar faces: a thin, spotty young man with the unfortunate Poliorcetes nose (two possible candidates, Gacher or Dester; he hadn't seen either of them for five years); a stout, flat-faced man in the Phocas livery (he'd heard someone say that old Eston had retired and his son had taken over as whipper-in for the Phocas pack); everyone else he knew. Including-he frowned-a dark-skinned man, shorter than everyone else, unarmoured and carrying a long cloth bag made of sacking.

  'Hello,' Miel said, squeezing out a little more affability from somewhere. 'I'd forgotten, Jarnac mentioned you were coming along today.'

  Ziani Vaatzes turned his head and looked at him for a heartbeat before answering. 'I'm afraid I sort of bullied him into inviting me,' he said. 'Only, I've never seen anything like this before.'

  Miel smiled. 'Anybody who can bully Jarnac has my sincere admiration,' he said. 'I'd have thought it couldn't be done. So, what do you make of it all?'

  'Impressive,' Vaatzes replied; not that it mattered, since Miel wasn't particularly interested in the truth. 'I had no idea it'd be so formal. I expect I look ridiculous.'

  'Not at all,' Miel said (it wasn't a good day for truth generally). 'What've you got there, in the bag?'

  Vaatzes looked sheepish. 'I didn't know what to bring, so I fetched along my bow. I hope that's all right.'

  'Very good,' Miel said. 'Is it one you made yourself?' he added, as a way of filling the silence.

  Vaatzes nodded, loosed the knot and pulled something out of the bag. It would have looked quite like a bow if it hadn't been made of metal. He was holding it out for Miel to examine, like a cat that insists on bringing small dead birds into the house.

  'Steel?' Miel guessed. Actually, he was impressed. It was very light and thin, but extremely stiff. Hard to guess the draw weight while it was unstrung, but Miel figured something around eighty to eighty-five pounds.

  Vaatzes nodded again, as Miel noticed the groove stamped down the middle. Clever; it added strength while conserving mass, like the fuller in a sword-blade. 'I've never seen a bow like this before,' Miel said. Vaatzes shrugged. 'It's the standard pattern back home,' he said. Miel guessed from a slight trace of colour in his voice that he was lying, but he couldn't imagine why.

  A clatter of hoofs and the yapping of dogs announced the arrival of Jarnac. He looked tired, tense, if possible even larger than usual. As Master, he was wearing his surcoat over his armour, so that everybody would be able to recognise him even at a distance. Today (only today) he could wear the Ducas arms proper, free from the quarterings of the cadet branch. Somehow they seemed to sit more naturally on Jarnac's massive chest than they'd ever done on Miel. Life is crammed with little ironies, if you know where to look. It was probably Miel's imagination, but he thought he noticed Vaatzes flinch a little when he saw Jarnac on his horse, and maybe he relaxed a bit when he dismounted.

  To business straight away. On his own ground, Jarnac could explain a complicated plan of action clearly and quickly. The basic idea was to get up on the high pasture to the west of the big wood, approaching downwind from the east while the dew was still on the grass, in hopes of putting up one of a group of four particularly fine mature boars that had been consistently sighted in the area over the last ten days. Normally they'd stay in the wood during the hours of daylight, but there was a chance of catching them out at this time of year, when dawn came early and the wet, lush grass was particularly tempting. Being realistic, they had precious little chance of bringing a boar to bay in the pasture, ev
en if they put one up there; they'd have to follow it into the wood and drive it out the other side-down into the river, ideally-but at least there would be a clear scent for the dogs to follow, which would save the uncertainty and frustration of crashing about in the underwood hoping they'd be lucky enough to tread on one's tail, which was the only sure way of finding a boar in deep cover. If they drew a blank in the pasture, they'd have to fall back on that anyway; but the result as far as the standing party was concerned would be more or less the same. Wherever they found it, Jarnac and the hounds would be looking to drive the boar through the wood east-west, down the hill, aiming to bring it to bay either in the river or in the furze on the far bank. The standing party, accordingly, should make its way up the old carters' drove until they drew level with the lower edge of the wood; they should then follow the edge round, making as little noise as possible, and line out in a circle on the south-western side, twenty-five yards inside the wood, ten yards apart. No shots to be taken eastwards, of course, for fear of an arrow skipping on a branch and hitting the beaters or the dogs; one horn-call meant the boar was in sight, two if it was on the move, three for at bay, four for the death, five to signal mortal peril requiring immediate assistance, and had everybody brought a horn?

  Miel nudged Ziani in the ribs. 'No,' Ziani said (his voice rather squeaky). 'Sorry, I didn't realise…'

  Someone handed him one. 'Do you know how to sound it?' Jarnac asked. 'In that case, you'd better have a practice now. Doesn't matter a damn if it sounds like a mule farting, but it's essential everybody knows where everybody else is, otherwise things can go wrong very quickly.'

  That was exactly what it sounded like; but after four tries Jarnac nodded and said, 'That'll do,' and Ziani was able to sink back into the obscurity of the circle. The huntsmen were starting to collect the dogs, while the pages led the horses away to wooden mangers filled with oats. Ziani remembered that he'd forgotten to bring the last pieces of armour, but either Jarnac had forgotten too or he had other things on his mind.